Upon awakening the next morning, Christine vanquished any lingering thoughts of her nightmare and almost immediately made her way to Mamma Valérius' room. The call to hear her guardian's voice again was like a fervent pounding in her head and she could no longer prolong their reunion. She had only just wrapped her hand around the handle to her room, however, when she was met with the sight of two women hurrying towards her—one of whom she recognised to be Mme Martin—with basins and cloths gathered in their hands. Christine had not managed three steps before she was practically pushed out of the way and back against the wall before the door had opened and then slammed in her face. She could do no more than stand there and gape for a moment before finally finding her resolve, dressing for the day and going downstairs to enquire about breakfast.

But it was as if she had not lived here at all. She had begun to feel like a stranger among the 'true' inhabitants of this home, these nurses, whose cold eyes would follow her every move, speculating, judging, and Christine knew they would whisper about her behind her back. Not about her age or her lack of experience, but of her character and the scandal involving le Fantôme. Having socialised with and worked alongside her fellow thespians, Christine was not adversed to gossip, but nor was she completely tolerable of it. Naïve as she was, a fool she was not. And though not party to it herself, she knew of the falsities and the truths behind the Opéra's most intimate displays of debauchery.

But rumours—it was all these degenerate women knew. They knew nothing of the truth surrounding herself!

And despite their attempts to restrict her interventions, they allowed her the menial task of taking up her guardian's meals. A small, insignificant task, but one that Christine devoted herself to with the utmost sincerity. Though she had been barred from entering that morning, Christine had been able to see her that very afternoon, a warm broth situated in her hands.

"Mamma?" she whispered once she walked into the room. On seeing that she was still asleep, Christine quietly walked over to the bedside table and placed the bowl and napkin down on top of it, waiting patiently for her to wake up.

Mme Martin had told her that she should be prepared for a change since the illness had taken its toll and just by looking at her, Christine knew that she had been right.

Watching for any signs of discomfort, she carefully reached down and pushed a few thick strands of hair away from her sickly face, smiling down at her now stirring features and twitching hands.

Mamma Valérius' pale eyes squinted as she tried to adjust to the sunlight streaming in through her open window. Craning her neck forward slightly, she looked at the young woman curiously, an unfamiliar glint in her eye. "Amelie? Is it time already for luncheon?"

The sound of her voice, ragged and gruff, yet still managing to retain its elderly softness, would haunt Christine to the end of her days.

Reaching for her cold hand, Christine tried not to be alarmed by the lack of recognition. "No, Mamma. It's Christine."

"Oh," she said in a single melancholy exhale, but as a smile slowly spread across her face, a small amount of vigour was restored to her and Christine could almost imagine that nothing was indeed the matter with her. With one unsteady hand, Mamma Valérius reached up and cupped her ward's cheek, lightly stroking the skin with her thumb. How beautiful she was, she thought. "My dear child. My dear Christine. When did you get here?"

"I arrived last night," she explained, smiling down at her. "I wished to see you immediately but Mme Martin insisted that I let you rest."

"Hmm, yes, Marie can be very insistent about such things," she said bitterly. "Oh, Christine, forgive me for not recognising you. I cannot see so well these days, it must be my old age."

Christine quickly caught her hand as she was about to pull it away from her. "You are not old, Mamma."

Frowning, she cast her ward a look of feigned annoyance, another smile trembling along her mouth. "Yes, I am."

A sigh escaped Christine's lips as she stared down at their joined hands. "Oh, Mamma. Why did you not tell me?"

The old woman studied her ward extensively before a deep cough claimed her, causing her body to curl inwards and shake. Alarmed, Christine stood and clutched desperately at her, running her hand up and down her convulsing back, waiting until she had calmed before returning to her sitting position.

"I have brought you some broth," Christine whispered, pointing to the bowl next to her. "Would you like me to help you at all?"

The mere look in those bloodshot eyes was enough to scorn Christine's very soul. "I may require medical attention, child, but I am not an invalid. Do not talk to me as if I were one."

She lowered her head and grimaced, embarrassment and regret fuelling her actions. "I am sorry. I only meant to... I was only trying..."

"Oh, do not linger on it," Mamma Valérius lightly chided with a dismissive wave of her fingers. "I know that you meant well, but, for the love of God, do not worry so. I know that this must be difficult for you, but—"

"What?" she asked, almost breathless with disbelief. "How could you even say that to me? I am not the one confined to my bed. I am not the one suffering here. Why would you even consider my situation when you will not look at your own?"

Christine watched her lay back even further, her hand slowly slipping back down onto the sheets as she stared at her, her brow furrowed. "I never thought I would say this, but at this time, my dear, I believe you to be too selfless."

"And what does that mean exactly?"

"It means... It means exactly how it sounds. Child, do not worry yourself over me. You have your whole life ahead of you."

Reluctantly nodding her head, Christine turned her attention towards the bowl. "Would you still like the broth?"

A surprisingly light chuckle resonated from her throat and Christine looked back around, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Yes, but in a little while. And I will be capable of feeding myself. I would very much like to talk with you some more and..."

Those pale eyes squinted again, much like they had done when she had first stirred, and Christine saw her frail fingers slide under her left hand to draw it closer to her face. The ring. Erik's ring. No. Her ring. She had quite forgotten that it had remained upon her finger. Her life now seemed to be divided into two: the days she spent with Erik, and those she spent without him, and, at that moment, they felt like two completely different worlds to her. When in one, she would forget the other.

"Hmm. My, my, my," Mamma Valérius mused as she turned and twisted the hand, trying to view the sparkling object from all angles. "It is rather extravagant, dear."

"Oh." A smirk teased her mouth as her fingers gently ran over the jewelled surface. "Yes, I suppose it is."

"Am I given to understand then that you have finally wed this mysterious man you came to me all those months ago about?"

"No, Mamma. We..." she paused suddenly, realising she was about to be trapped within another lie. "We... have not yet exchanged vows." At least that was not a lie.

"Oh, thank Heavens. I was afraid that I had missed your wedding. I intend to be there by your side, when the day comes. You will look so beautiful, Christine, so very beautiful standing there next to your husband." She beamed with pride. "A vision, you will be. I can see it now and I will be there, my child. I promise."

"Of course you will, Mamma," Christine replied encouragingly, masking the fear of the inevitable in her voice. "Of course you will."

"Yes, I—"

A second fit of deep coughs then cut off her words, forcing her to splutter and grip her bedsheets tightly. Having sat up quickly, she drew her knees up, covering her mouth with her hand to capture the blood.

Blood? No, no, no.

Christine whirled around until she faced the broth and all but ripped the napkin out from under it, not caring as the bowl fell and shattered against the floor, hot liquid and sharp pieces of china splashing onto her dress. Swallowing her fear, she quickly turned back towards Mamma Valérius only to see little red flecks on her sleeve, the colour slowly spreading on her white gown.

"No, no," Christine mumbled, all but yanking the woman's arm away from her mouth. "Here, Mamma, here. Use this." She cradled the back of her guardian's head whilst giving her the napkin, eyeing her all the while.

Christine stood there for a few moments, staring aimlessly, as Mamma Valérius' wheezy breathing took hold of her, causing more blood to spill from her mouth. It wasn't until Christine heard the floor creak beneath her feet that she realised that she had started to back away. The metallic aroma had now filled the air, the pungent smell filling her nose and making her head spin. In an attempt to block out the smell, Christine brought her arm up to her face only for her cheek to be met with something wet. Her eyes widened and she pulled her arm back enough to see a few specks of blood. Mamma's blood. With her chest heaving, her hand fiercely flew to her face, rubbing at it, and she felt her stomach churn as she pulled her fingers away to reveal more blood on her palm.

A small, strangled cry escaped her mouth before she screamed for help.

Mme Rousseau, the woman whom Mamma Valérius had mistaken Christine for, suddenly burst into the room with vigorous determination and stopped in her tracks at the scene before her. "What is it, Mademoiselle—oh!" she exclaimed, seeing her patient spluttering from across the room, before rushing over and supporting her body. "Marie!" she called out. "Bring towels and the sedatives! Lord above..." Christine merely continued her steady retreat towards the open door as she watched Mme Rousseau tend to her guardian as she could not. "Mademoiselle, I suggest you clean yourself up and leave us to care for her." When she did not move, Mme Rousseau turned her head towards her and cried, "Go on, girl! Get! Ah, Marie, will you put those supplies down there?"

Christine's back hit the door frame and she breathed deeply, staring at the scene in horror as the two women fluttered about manically. "I'm sorry," she whispered, knowing very well that no one heard her. "Mamma... I am sorry."

She took one last look before running back to her bedchamber, mumbling the apology repeatedly. Slamming the door behind her, Christine pressed her back up against it as she felt her legs begin to weaken. She allowed her body to gradually slide to the floor in a pathetic heap, her arms laying limply at her sides as she glared at the smeared blood.

"Christine Daaé," she sobbed to herself. "What a coward you've become."

o0o

Without his beloved, it all seemed so meaningless, so trivial. When she smiled, she would not only light up a room, she would also lighten his heart. That single inconsequential gesture; that quiver at the side of her gentile mouth, was all it took to chase away the darkness of his mind. But without her, he could feel it creeping back to him, itching at his back like a rash he could not escape.

Without company, without her smiles, without her, the blackness would tease him as it once had. He tried so very hard to ignore its taunts, its painful reminders of the past, but the silence was deafening. And so he would shut down his defences, keeping the memory of her alive in his head when he would compose and speak to her, as if she were really in the room with him.

But even as the organ infiltrated the empty air with its loud discourse, Erik could still hear the echo of his beloved's voice drifting down the halls. How long had it been since she left him now? A day? A week? Time had seemed to stop, to lose all meaning, and Erik wasted the hours away in bitter solitude, thinking only of her.

He could still feel her presence here, lurking in the corridors, in his music and in his heart. Nothing had yet succeeded in drowning her out of his senses. Nothing, until the siren's call had rung through the walls and had forced him out of his subdued state.

Slinking away from the organ, which he had hardly left since her departure, Erik went to meet the intruder today, poised and ready. To his annoyance, he was regrettably made to put away his noose at the sound of three weary words, "Good morning, Erik."

The Daroga pushed his way past his grumbling acquaintance and stared in bemused disgust at the state of his surroundings. The air was damp, lending a staleness to the atmosphere, and on the ground lay discarded boxes and sheets of paper. He had not seen his friend in such a disorganised state since... a time he wished to forget.

Treading carefully through the papers—which on closer inspection proved to be unfinished compositions—and finding himself a spot to perch upon, Nadir folded his arms, surveying the mess with an incredulous eye. "I see you have been keeping yourself busy."

Ignoring his quip, Erik brushed past him and returned to his place at the organ, his demeanour brooding and his shoulders hunched. "People will become suspicious if you keep coming down here, old man," he muttered as he agitatedly ran his fingertips over the keys, briefly wondering whether he should press down and let their blaring cries drown out the bothersome drones of the Persian.

"Someone has to check up on you," he called over to him.

"I am still alive and I am breathing and you can leave now," Erik snapped, whirling around to face the other man with a rage flaring in his black eyes. "You could have been followed. Did you even stop to comprehend that?"

"You know that I am able to travel at my own discretion," Nadir said as he watched Erik rise to his feet. "I am a cautious man, but there has been no suspicious activity of that nature. A year has almost passed, after all. People are starting to forget."

"It will never be over," Erik mumbled, bracing himself against the wall. "It is only a matter of time."

Throughout the years, Nadir had learnt to ignore Erik's more cryptic musings for he would never receive an answer dare he ask what they meant. Glancing about the room instead, he suddenly noted the absence of a light soprano voice. "Where is Mademoiselle Daaé?" he asked, getting to his feet and peering down a nearby, but seemingly empty, hallway.

"Gone," Erik explained almost immediately and since he kept his gaze trained to the uneven textures of the wall, he did not see the look of utter surprise spread across Nadir's face. "She is staying with her surrogate mother for the time being."

Running a hand through his greying hair, Nadir released a huff and found himself staring at the rigid black-clad back in disbelief. "I am impressed you allowed her to leave," and truly, he was for he had never known Erik to completely relinquish his grip on something once he had claimed it as his own. It was not in his strange nature to be so... merciful. "What has changed that you would allow her to live elsewhere?"

"That is none of your business," Erik growled, making Nadir wonder what the cause of his sudden change was. What exactly had transpired between them? "Besides, I am capable of living apart from her," he muttered before pushing himself away from the wall and staring at the ground beneath him, almost wishing it would open up and swallow him whole.

"So it would seem," Nadir replied dryly.

He would have been content with that answer; after all, it was a miracle that the girl had managed to obtain her freedom. But he knew his friend, he knew of his weakness when it came to the girl, and of his reluctance to acknowledge it. Erik's lies spoke volumes, as did his current living conditions. Nadir did not know what it was, but something did not appear right... and then he spotted it—that familiar little case, whose edge was poking so innocently out from underneath an empty leather binder.

Like a bird in flight, Nadir flew over to the object, his head tilting in dreaded curiosity as his dark wings swept aside the folder. "Erik." His words came out as a hoarse whisper, his throat struggling as fear began to constrict it. "Please tell me that this is not what I think it is. You cannot be using... not again."

Erik did not need to see what it was that Nadir was referring to, but he turned anyway, his limbs moving solemnly, looking as though they were manoeuvring through deep water rather than air. "No," he said, much to Nadir's relief, "but the temptation is greater every day she is not here."

"Why do you still have it? Do you not remember what happened the last time?"

"Of course I do," Erik snapped, his mind raging against the memories of his withdrawal as though a strong current was sweeping him away. "It isn't something that I would like to repeat."

"If you are not taking it again then why do you even still have it?"

A shrug rolled off his shoulders. "A reminder, perhaps, not to tempt fate."

"Do you wish for me to take—"

"No!" he cried, a little too passionately for Nadir's liking. "No, it is better if it stays here. I know where it is, that way. But she must never know. I cannot have her finding out. It would be too much for her. Oh, I have led her to believe that she is safe from harm with me, but that is far from the truth! It was dangerous for her to live down here, just as it is still dangerous for me. It had been the safest place for us, but Christine is unaware of the dangers I now face by staying here. It is better that she is living elsewhere. Yes, much better."

"Dangers?" Rising from his crouching position, Nadir felt a chill run down his spine at Erik's rambles. "What are you not telling me, my friend? This is not just about the dangers you pose to her, is it?"

"You have wondered why I am so suddenly concerned with your being followed," he said, sounding distant, as if lost in a daydream, but when he turned his mask towards Nadir, he saw the colour drain from his face. "Someone has been trying to get through my defences."