Chapter 38

It's going to be a long night!

-Rigoletto, Act III

It all happened in an instant.

In a flash, Erik had sprung forward, seized the Vicomte by the arm, pivoted, and flipped him neatly over his shoulder with dazzling agility.

At the same time, there came a sharp crack. The revolver.

Christine screamed.

The Vicomte landed sprawled on his back with a thud that shook the floorboards. For a split second he lay there, the breath knocked out of him, helpless. The gun flew out of his hand and skittered into a corner.

Erik paused only to gaze at Christine for a moment, with a look she couldn't fathom, and then disappeared through the mirror, leaving no trace.

Christine snatched up the revolver. As long as she could keep hold of it, Raoul couldn't use it (in case Erik came back; at this moment there was no foolish action Christine did not think him capable of). But of course he would never suspect that was her reason. Later, she would reflect that it was her only action that evening that she was proud of.

For a moment, there was a tense, breathless silence.

As the past few moments slowly sank in, the sobs came over Christine without warning.

"Did you shoot him?" she screamed. "Dear God, what has happened?"

"Yes… but Christine…"

"You shot him! You might have killed him! Why… he might be…" Her eyes fell on a spot on the floor. "There is blood… What have you done?" Erik… My Erik…

Still winded, Raoul eased himself up onto one elbow. "Christine, forgive me… I… I only meant to take him to the police… I never meant for… I did not think he would be so stupid as to attack me! My God."

She was seized with a sudden desire to kick him. But just in time she remembered that, in the version of events Raoul had just experienced, he had just saved her from a dangerous madman and she ought to be grateful. "Are you hurt?" she therefore said instead, making an effort to restrain her rage.

She couldn't bring herself to help him up, but she managed to produce a convincing look of concern. In fact, she realized, that was not acting - if Erik had injured the Vicomte de Chagny, his life would be over.

If it was not over already, she thought in horror.

"No," Raoul managed, slowly sitting up.

"Thank God," she said, and she meant it. Perhaps Erik had been being careful; perhaps he had been thinking. Assuredly, he could have wounded the man if he had wanted to, instead of using a principled art like jiujitsu on him.

"Only a bruised rib, I think," he said.

Well, that is something, at least, she thought acidly.

"What an evening this has turned out to be." Wincing, Raoul stood up.

"I cannot believe it," Christine moaned, trying to stifle her tears and failing miserably. "This is horrible!"

"Christine," Raoul said, "I know this was not pleasant, but-"

"-Not pleasant?" she shrieked.

"Christine, do you not understand? That man… forgive me… he came here to make an attempt on your virtue! He would have-"

"-That is a horrible thing to say!" she cried.

"Forgive me, but it is true."

Shaking her head miserably, she looked away.

Raoul put a hand on her arm. She tried not to shrink away.

"Christine," he said, "I know you must feel sorry for him, and I suppose it does you credit. He was a pitiable creature. I would not be surprised to learn he has had an unhappy life."

You don't know anything of it! Christine wanted to scream.

"But that cannot excuse his actions," Raoul went on. "He brought this upon himself. He has no-one and nothing to blame but his own foolishness."

No, it is my fault, Christine thought miserably. She turned her head away and wept bitterly. Erik, what has become of you?

"Christine," Raoul said fretfully. "You are shaking. You are not well. What may I do? You must have something to drink. Is there any brandy here?"

She looked up. "No - I do not keep spirits in my dressing-room," she said impatiently. "I cannot have anything to drink when I am performing."

"Very well," he said, surprised by her tone. Then, after a pause, "I must search the room. Did you see where he went?"

"No. Out the window, I presume? Or the door?"

"That is the curious thing," Raoul said, narrowing his eyes in thought. "I did not see him leave. Did you?"

"No."

Raoul's eyes widened with alarm, and he ran behind the dressing-screen, the only possible hiding place in the room. "No," he said after a moment. "He is not here." And then, "Ah! But it appears our clever friend has left his hat."

Christine's blood ran cold. She cursed whatever eccentricity of Erik's made him wear his hat even to go through the tunnels. She had always found it adorably eccentric - she supposed to him going through the tunnels was like going outside.

Now, however, it had come back to bite him.

Raoul emerged with the hat in his hands. Christine's skin crawled. She wanted to snatch it away from him.

Raoul peered inside at the band. "That is peculiar. No initials. Just the forename. Erik."

How dare you say his name? Christine wanted to scream. You are not worthy to look him in the eye!

"Curious," Raoul said. "Not French, I assume."

"Prussian?" Christine suggested in a helpful voice.

Raoul scoffed. "He would be a Prussian. Those damned Huns." He stared furiously downward, lost in thought. Suddenly his brow furrowed. "Wait."

"What is it?" Christine asked.

"The drops of blood…" He looked up. "They go up to the mirror… but then they stop."

Christine's mind reeled. She must keep her wits about her; she must not give in to panic. Erik's life might depend upon it. "Perhaps he clutched his wound."

"But why would he have run toward the mirror in the first place?" Suddenly Raoul's eyes widened. He seized an umbrella from out of the stand by the door. Swinging it like a club, he slammed it repeatedly into the glass.

"What are you doing?" Christine cried.

As she watched, cracks spiderwebbed across the surface. Panic lanced through her.

But the blows were not hard enough to break through all the way.

At last Raoul stopped, winded. "Forgive me," he said, shaking his head. "That was necessary."

"I don't understand."

"You have heard of the passage built by the Communards during the war?"

"Yes, but…"

"It is said to be behind the dressing-rooms. I thought perhaps…" Raoul stopped. "No matter. We can make a better investigation later. We had better go. We have wasted too much time here as it is."

"Pardon?" Christine said.

"We must go to the police at once."

Christine racked her brains for a way to avoid this, and realized there was none. Her heart sank. "Yes… You are right… Ah, may I stop to send a telegram to Mère Giry telling her what has happened?" Someone needed to warn Erik.

"As a matter of fact, I think that an excellent idea," Raoul said. "That will allow me to inform the police that we are coming. And Madame Giry can keep you company." He had recovered his composure - and with it a new air of command. He must have the Arctic to thank for that, Christine thought.

She didn't like it.

"Christine," he said, "This monster will soon be behind bars. My father has friends in the police Commissariat." That was the district where the Opéra was. "They will spare no effort to help us."

Christine did not doubt it. An icy hand seemed to grab hold of her heart. What have I done?

For a moment, she was ready to give up and tell him the whole truth about tonight. The thought of how he might react frightened her, but at least...

But she recollected just in time that that wouldn't clear Erik of the blackmail charges - or of attacking the Vicomte.

She had made the sensible choice.

But as she gathered her coat and gloves and followed mutely after Raoul, helpless to change the course of fate, she felt like she was the one who had been shot through the heart. Denying Erik, denying everything they had together, letting Raoul think he was a monster, had been agony. How would she continue to keep up this hideous charade?

In the carriage - Raoul had told his driver to come back for him fifteen minutes after he arrived, presumably because he had been expecting a hasty assent to his proposal, and the poor man had apparently been sitting there all this time- she tried not to be sick. If they caught Erik it would be the guillotine for him.

They made a stop at a telegraph office staffed by a furious-looking, moustached man slurping coffee and smoking a cigar. To Christine's annoyance, Raoul hovered nearby while she composed her message. She could not think of any plausible reason to shoo him off.

Composing the telegram under those circumstances was difficult. She had to be careful that the words would convey everything she needed to Madame Giry to know without giving anything away to the Vicomte.

As a result, it was oddly worded and lengthy, by far the longest she had ever sent. The average length of a telegram in France was said to be fourteen words, and hers was eighty, not including the address. Inwardly she envisioned it burning through her spending money for the next three weeks.

Mère -

Emergency STOP Vicomte paid unexpected visit at my dressing-room tonight made proposal of marriage STOP Masked man appeared in dressing-room out of nowhere said he loved me threatened Vicomte STOP Vicomte shot him STOP Masked man fled bleeding badly don't know where he is or if alive STOP V will post guard at my dressing room and appartement but afraid masked man may come to yours STOP Will be at Chausée D'Antin commissariat STOP Christine

She felt foolish, as though she had bought something obnoxiously extravagant at a shop. The telegraph man smirked at her and kept asking if she wanted to cut out words. ("Must it say masked man?")

But fortunately, the Vicomte wouldn't realize the peculiarity of it. He had never had to think about the length of a telegram in his life. He grew more and more annoyed by the interruptions.

"It is no concern of yours what Mademoiselle chooses to include in her communications," he snapped at last.

It was the only thing he had done that evening that she liked.

The police commissariat was not far, a handsome Haussmanian building three-quarters of a mile away on Rue de Parme.

It was much less grand inside than out, falling into the state of disrepair that characterized most of this Empire's accomplishments.

By the entrance, a tired-looking constable slumped behind a tired-looking desk. "Bon soir," he said tepidly, barely looking up when they came in.

"The Vicomte de Chagny," Raoul said. "I cabled earlier."

The young man sat up straighter. He tapped on a bell on the desk, and instantly three more policemen swarmed into the room.

Christine tried not to roll her eyes. Raoul might simply have had his watch stolen for all they knew, and they were behaving like someone had blown up the Arc de Triomphe.

"Auguste Mifroid, Commissaire de Police," the oldest one introduced himself. Christine had seen him occasionally before, at the Opéra. He was in his mid-fifties, tall and powerfully built, with a square beard and trim moustache beneath alert brown eyes. His air was one of decided intelligence and efficiency. "What has happened?"

"The Vicomte de Chagny," Raoul introduced himself again. "You received my cable?"

"Yes, but would you mind explaining again? I am not sure I quite understood." Mifroid looked tired and rather disbelieving, and though it was difficult to say, Christine thought she sensed that he rather resented this callow young man's authority over him. That would work in Erik's favor, she hoped.

Raoul told the whole story, or at least, his version of it.

Naturally, he exaggerated Erik's deformity. From what he remembered, he had no hair - how Raoul had imagined that, she could not comprehend - his eyes were sunken and yellow, and his nose was missing. This was not true; his nose was malformed, but he did have one, or he would never have been able to sing.

However, Christine did not try to correct him, as much as it pained her. It would make it that much harder for them to find him.

To her relief, he said that Christine had seemed 'obviously afraid' of the masked intruder. No part of him, it seemed, suspected the truth.

When he had finished, there was silence in the room.

"I am sorry to ask this, Monsieur," the Commissaire said at last, "but are you trying to make a fool of the law?"

Raoul gaped at him in helpless fury. Christine hid a smile.

Another silence.

Could this be her way out? Christine wondered.

Then she realized, no. No, it could not. Raoul would know something was the matter if she said the whole thing was false.

Besides, even if this station threw him out, he would find his way to someone higher-ranking and would only come back better-equipped than ever.

"Monsieur le Vicomte's story is true," she said.

Mifroid nodded uncertainly.

"He left his hat," Raoul said obstinately, pushing it toward the Commissaire. "Monsieur, I am convinced this is the same man who has been terrorizing the Opéra. The owners encouraged you to disregard those incidents, but I think you and I both know that was only done for political expediency."

"Yes, I remember them," Mifroid said with obvious disdain.

"Now we have a reason to reopen the investigation," Raoul said. "There is a very real danger here."

At last Mifroid sighed. "Yes. We must inquire into this. We shall take a statement from you, Mademoiselle, ah-?"

"-Is it necessary for her name to be dragged into this?" Raoul said.

Just then a bright-eyed young constable - rather innocent-looking for a policeman, Christine thought, though looks could be deceiving; perhaps it worked to his advantage to have criminals underestimate him - popped up as suddenly as though he had come through a trapdoor.

"Hugo," Mifroid said, "see if the interview room is open and take a statement from this young lady-"

"-Christine Daae!" Hugo cried.

Marvelous, Christine thought.

"What?" Mifroid said.

"The singer!" Hugo said, good-naturedly exasperated by his ignorance. "Haven't you seen her in the papers? Mademoiselle, my young lady is a great admirer of yours. She adored you as the Countess in Il Muto! You-"

"-Never mind that," Mifroid said. "Hugo, may I remind you that you are a constable of the Chausée D'Antin Police Force. And this young lady has had a very trying evening... it appears."

The insinuation was not lost on Christine. Mifroid, at least, suspected something.

Hugo duly clamped his mouth shut, and meekly led Christine to an interview room.

"Now for the hat. It appears to be a size fifty-eight," she heard Mifroid say as she walked away. "Indicative of superior cranial capacity, though from what Monsieur le Vicomte tells me of his physiognomy, the structure of the skull would indicate a malformed cerebrum… consequently, his deranged nature is to be expected... This will likely be a man with pronounced criminal tendencies..."

She dug her fingernails into her palm. No wonder poor Erik thought of himself as vile and wicked, with that sort of vicious nonsense so widely believed.

It was a relief when Hugo shut the door to the interview room and blocked out the noise.

He beamed at her. "Mademoiselle, ah, do forgive me, but might I trouble you for an autograph?" He took a notepad from a table before them and tore off a sheet. "For my Dorothée. She would be beside herself!-"

Christine hid a sigh. "I should be very glad. But please, do not tell her of the circumstances. Tell her you met me at the stage door, or something like that."

If Hugo deduced from this that the polite thing to do would have been for Dorothée to buy a ticket and come to the stage door herself like everyone else, he did not remark upon it. "Of course," he said eagerly. "I am bound to confidentiality."

Christine was not sure she trusted him, but she obliged. For Dorothée, she wrote out, thank you for your support, your friend, Christine Daae, and then was obliged to swiftly pass the note under the table to Hugo, for just then they were joined by a menacing-looking inspector.

In a few minutes, they had taken her statement. According to her, she had been practicing in her dressing-room - yes, she often practiced there until late into the night, she didn't have a key; a cleaning woman had let her in earlier that day, no, she couldn't remember who - when Monsieur le Vicomte had shown up. He had made her a proposal of marriage - yes, it was a very great honor, especially for a humble chorus-girl like her, and a foreigner, no less! No, she had not accepted, but it certainly was not out of any lack of appreciation of Monsieur le Vicomte's many admirable personal qualities. The masked man had appeared from out of nowhere. No, she had no idea where he had gone. It was all very frightening, of course.

The questioning did not take as long as she had expected. Granted, she told as little as she possibly could without arousing suspicion. But even so, they did what she felt was a remarkably sparse job with their questions. They were more focused on the attack on Raoul than on the fact that there had been a masked man hiding in an unsuspecting woman's dressing-room. That was the way of the world.

She reminded herself of this again and again - this was out of her hands now; even if she disclosed that she knew Erik, that he had not been an intruder, that she had invited him there, he would still be wanted for attacking the Vicomte. The die was cast. She could not undo any of this.

As she emerged from the interview room, there came a commotion from outside.

"Mademoiselle Daae," came Madame Giry's voice. "I must speak with her-"

"-Who wants to see her?" a constable demanded.

"I am her mother," Madame Giry said. There was no time for long-winded explanations, and it was close enough to the truth. She shoved her way into the room. "What has happened, Christine?" she said.

Again the Vicomte explained.

"May we have a moment?" Madame Giry said to him when he had finished.

He nodded, and she pulled Christine a few feet away.

"Is what he says true?" she whispered. "I saw your telegram - it was cleverly written, by-the-way; I see what you were doing there - but I couldn't-"

Christine threw her arms around her and buried her face in her shoulder. "-Yes, that was the general idea," she whispered. "Mère, he shot Erik!"

Madame Giry gasped. "Good Heavens-"

"-What are you doing here, Mère?" Christine said. "I thought you would understand I didn't really want you to come - you should be looking for Erik. He needs to be warned about this- and he may need medical attention - I fear he may be badly hurt- oh!" She stifled a sob.

Mère held her tighter. "It would look strange to the Vicomte if I did not come," she said gently. "And I daresay Erik knows he will be making a report. Besides, I could not find him."

"Did you go to his lair?" Christine asked.

"No. It wouldn't be safe. The thread is gone."

Christine pulled away. "Then I must go," she said, so eager that she scarcely remembered to keep her voice down. "I must leave here at once."

"Christine, you would never be able to find your way there! You would become lost! It is dangerous!"

"But he may be in very great danger!"

"We must think of your safety as well."

"There is another way in. I shall use that." Christine had to choke back another sob. "I fear this is all my fault. Mère, did I do wrong by denying knowledge of him?"

"Certainly not!"

"But… but… at least if I had told the truth, de Chagny would not have shot him." Christine began to sob.

"Oh, don't, my dear," Madame Giry said. "He might not have believed you anyway. (Didn't you say he accused Erik of threatening you?) Erik must know that." She winced with irritation. "The fool! He has behaved idiotically. I knew he could be stupid, but this is beyond everything. The blame is entirely in his hands."

"But… the way he looked at me… He thought I had betrayed him. He really thought I was renouncing him." Christine choked back another sob. "It was horrible. I fear he does not love me anymore. He may never forgive me. Even if he is all right."

Madame Giry smiled sadly. "He loves you, I assure you. Of that you may be certain."

"I must find him and warn him," Christine said again.

"It is not safe," Madame Giry said.

"Won't you try to help me?" she pled.

The conversation was growing long enough to draw questioning looks from the Vicomte.

At last Madame Giry turned to hin. "We both must rise early tomorrow, Monsieur le Vicomte. Thank you so much for all you have done. Do you need anything more from Christine, or may she go?"

The Vicomte glanced at Mifroid, who looked as though he wanted to ask more questions, but shrugged helplessly, knowing he was outranked.

"Thank you both," Madame Giry said without further preamble, and bundled Christine toward the exit. "She has had a most difficult evening. You know where to find her."

"I shall accompany you," Raoul proclaimed, following them. "I shall return directly. We must look into this matter tonight."

Christine saw Mifroid, almost imperceptibly, roll his eyes. Under other circumstances, she reflected, she would have liked him.

"Monsieur le Commissaire, are you going to charge this man, this 'Erik'?" she asked.

"We will keep you apprised of any developments," Mifroid said.

This was not very encouraging. Christine shivered as she walked outside.

They emerged into a cold, still night.

"You must stay with Madame Giry tonight," the Vicomte proclaimed. "Martin will take you home. I told him to wait in the street."

"You will be needing your carriage - we can take a cab," Christine said hastily. She didn't want his driver reporting to him about where she'd been.

The Vicomte looked at her in alarm. "It is not safe."

"We shall be quite well," she said.

"Two women traveling alone at night?" he said uneasily.

Christine forced a smile. "You have already done so much this evening." Too much…

At last he sighed, relenting. "Take my revolver."

"Shall you be safe?" Christine asked, feigning a look of concern, though she swiftly pocketed the weapon before he could change his mind. She hated the feel of its weight in her pocket, but it was much better for it to be in her hands than his.

"You are more important," he said."

"Thank you," she replied awkwardly.

"Of course."

"Well," she said. "Good night."

But he did not go.

She had been planning to go straight back to the Opéra, but he stood there and waited while they hailed a cab.

Hang it all! she thought furiously.

A hansom drove by. Christine held up her hand.

"It is a cold night. Wouldn't you rather wait for a closed one?" Raoul asked.

"No, this will do," Christine said hastily. There was not telling how long it would take to get another.

Madame Giry gave the driver her address, and the Vicomte handed her into the carriage and bid them good night. Christine hastily shut the heavy leather curtain in the front of the cab - she couldn't bear to look at his face a moment longer - and the cab began to travel down the street.

Christine reached up to open the window and tell the driver to turn round.

Madame Giry put a hand on her arm. "Wait til we are a little further away," she said, giving her a knowing glance.

Christine grinned.

Madame Giry winked. "I gave a few lovers the slip in my day, you know, dear girl."

"The Vicomte is most certainly not my lover," Christine said, but nonetheless she smiled.

A few blocks clip-clopped by with maddening slowness.

At last, Madame Giry nodded.

Christine opened the fare window. "Stop, if you please," she called to the driver in a thin, quavering voice. "I do not want to go to Clichy yet."

The man laughed. "Pull one over on that aristo beau of yours, did ya? I like that. What are you really up to, then?"

"Never mind that," Christine said somewhat tersely. "I would like to go to the Opéra, please."

"The Opéra!" he cried. "You've gotta be joking. That's not even half the fare."

"My mother will be going home afterwards, so you will still get the whole fare, plus more."

She could practically hear him squinting, so obvious was his confusion and suspicion. "What do you want at the Opéra this time of night?"

"I work there," Christine half-explained. "I left something important behind and I didn't want him to know about it." This was true, albeit somewhat misleading. "Now, please, I must get there as quickly as possible."

"Right," he grumbled at last, and swung the carriage round.

Soon they arrived at the Opéra.

Given the roundabout nature of the journey, she was obliged to give the man a large tip, which made her cringe given that it had taken mere moments to get here. Really, when I find Erik, I am going to make him pay me back for all of this nonsense.

If I find him…

"Be safe, my dear," Madame Giry said as she descended to the street. For some reason, these kind words only made her feel even more alone once the cab had rolled away.

It was the first time she had been by herself since this debacle begin. She had to fight to keep the horror of the night's events from overwhelming her.

The passage behind her dressing-room was slightly less confusing than the one on Rue Scribe, so she decided to go inside. Shaking, she climbed the steps to the employees' entrance, using the 'spare' key Erik had given her to let herself in.

The journey to her dressing-room seemed interminable, but at last she reached it. It felt desolate - an utterly different world from how it had been when she and Erik had been in each other's arms just a few hours before.

She had feared the mirror might not open now that Raoul had shattered it. If so, she would be obliged to go in by the Rue Scribe gate after all, which would be dangerous.

But after some coaxing, it slid open. Sending a prayer of thanks Heavenward, she carefully stepped through. In the corridor beyond, it was cold, and the darkness was complete. She struck a match before closing the mirror behind her.

The corridor was just as she had remembered, lonely and bleak. She journeyed on in the flickering orange light for some time.

Downward she traveled, and eventually the lake shore came into view. Erik's boat was moored there, to her delight, and with a cry of joy she ran eagerly toward it.

Suddenly, her foot snagged on something- a rope, stretched taught a few inches above the floor. A whooshing noise from above startled her and she looked up. Faster than she could blink, a net swooped down, engulfing her and lifting her from the ground. She heard a cry of fear and realized it had come from her mouth.

The match she had lit fell from her hand and went out. Darkness swallowed her.

Instinctively, she thrashed and flailed her limbs about; the net entangled her further and soon the ropes were digging into her arms and legs.

This was getting her nowhere. She tried to breathe evenly and quell her pounding heart.

There is no time to panic, Christine! Think, girl, think! For Heaven's sake, your foremothers were Viking maidens!

Suppressing every instinct to fight, she forced herself to hold still. Moving her arm gradually, inch by inch, she managed to wrestle the Vicomte's revolver out of her handbag. It had caused so much trouble this evening, it might as well help her.

She had emptied the chamber on the journey here. She cursed herself now for that precaution; it would make things more difficult now.

Her hands were constrained by the ropes, but after several attempts, she managed to load it with a single bullet.

She selected a rope that seemed important to the structure of the net. It could be a nasty fall - she couldn't tell how far she was in the air - but she couldn't stay like this.

Cocking the pistol carefully, she pressed the muzzle against the rope and took a shot. A sharp crack echoed through the tunnel, reminding her horribly of what had happened earlier.

The net lurched sickeningly and the mesh contracted, the ropes closing tighter around her and cutting off the circulation in her leg. She felt as though a giant hand were squeezing her.

She should have known better, she thought miserably. Erik was too clever for something like that.

She didn't dare try again.

This time panic truly overwhelmed her.

What would happen when Madame Giry sent the police after her tomorrow? Or what if Raoul put the pieces together - it wouldn't take long for him to find the passage - and found her here? How would she explain her presence here? No-one would believe she would be stupid and foolhardy enough to hunt the Phantom alone - they would realize she was involved in something sinister.

And the thought of giving the only possible excuse - that Erik had kidnapped her and knowingly trapped her here like this - was unthinkable, sickening. She could not deny him again, could not let people believe something so hideous about him.

What was to become of her?

She thought wistfully of the few months of unspoiled happiness she and Erik had had. Why had he thrown it away?

Had he wanted to get rid of her?

That must be the reason. He had been so reluctant to marry her, always coming up with some excuse.

No. No. She must not think like that right now. She must concentrate on surviving, on freeing herself.

But what to do? What to do?

At last she gave in and cried out for help.

She knew it was risky - and it would ravage her vocal folds, though perhaps that did not matter, since once word of this scandal got out she might very well lose her place at the Opéra - but she couldn't help it. She was too cold and frightened to be rational.

Perhaps someone from the street would hear her. She doubted Erik was here, or he would have noticed her presence right now; he seemed to have a sixth sense for these things. Or perhaps he knew she was here, and did not want to help her.

She wouldn't blame him, she thought despairingly.

She called again and again, but there was no answer.

It was bitterly cold here, a cold tinged with damp and mold. The air burned her throat; her voice was fading already.

She could feel the warmth leaching out of her; her hands had gone numb beneath her gloves and her lips were stiff with cold. Would she even survive til tomorrow?

Bitter tears began to trail down her cheeks, swiftly turning chill, stinging her skin.

She hung there, weeping, alone in the cold and the darkness.

End of Chapter 38. Happy holidays!

Thank you so much to afaiths21, anyaromanov2074 (love the name!), Lady Myth, Lilly, pinkdynamite, Marzz, Pandere, Erinunu, Ana, WraithSnakeZenith, ForeverReading1, and the guests for your reviews. They truly mean the world to me. And as usual thank you to Olive for your continued support!