A/N: Thank you to those still reading and who have stuck with this story—Your support is really appreciated!

The road to a healthy recovery would be a long and arduous one, Christine knew this, as did Erik, but what lay at the end for them was a mystery they would find out together—this was an absolute certainty. Never again would they be made to face the cruel world alone, yet Erik could scarcely believe it. His dream of having a wife and a home, was so vivid, so in reach, that he found himself gazing at his betrothed when she was busying herself with even the most mundane of tasks, sometimes expecting her to simply vanish into thin air. Memories flickered at the back of his mind—even as her hand would brush against his in passing—of drug induced hallucinations, of faces and figures that were not truly there, but were still haunting reminders of his melancholy life. He had not touched the horrid stuff in years, however, and a relapse was the least of his worries at present.

Christine remained blissfully ignorant of the knowledge infesting the corners of Erik's mind. Like a tamed beast, he lay in wait, his muscles flexing and his fingers coiling around his lasso in preparation to pounce. And yet such an attack did not come from him. It would not come from him. As much as he did not wish to admit it, the Daroga had been right. Erik was not foolish enough to endanger his life, or Christine's, and certainly not at this precious time in their engagement.

Engagement. At one time, Erik had despised the word and its involvement in bringing Christine and the Vicomte together in secrecy. But now? Now, it held the most wondrous of possibilities and promises and Erik's heart could not help but turn to the word, even in the wake of their looming threat. For a while, however, he was able to forget this and focus on filling Christine's days with whatever she wanted or needed.

One night, after Mme Dumas had left and Christine had announced she would adjourn to the parlour, Erik left her to her own devices and only once did he check on her. The hour was late and he grew concerned that the day's events had tired her out, but as he neared the parlour door, he began to soften his footfalls, his head tilting to the side as he heard her voice from within.

She was not calling to him, nor to anyone it seemed, for her words were of a whispered and murmured nature. Yet, with his interest piqued, Erik stealthily stood at the threshold and carefully looked into the room. The sight nearly made him weep.

With head bowed and hands clasped together, Christine knelt by the hearth; the words, which she ushered from her mouth softly, were as natural as the air she breathed. A beaded necklace dangled from between her palms. Erik sucked in a shaky breath before disappearing into the dark corridor, his head leaning against the wall as he found himself smiling. Smiling! And at the prospect of such a ridiculous thing as religion! But for all the trouble he had caused her, for all his unnecessary grief and the ridicule he had cast down upon her, he was glad this one good thing had come of it all.

She felt guilty—she had told him one evening, however—that she should smile when draped in sombre clothing. This did not deter Erik and his endeavours to make her as happy as she would allow herself to be never ceased. Not even when she announced that she would venture outside again to a luncheon with Meg at the Café de la Paix. Despite his grievances, Christine reassured him that she would not allow herself to be belittled by the masses this time. A meeting with Meg was dearly needed.

Christine raised a gloved hand to her hair to ascertain everything was in its rightful place as the hansom moved her along at a leisurely pace. It was peaceful to travel by herself again and knowing that Erik would be there when she returned sent her heart aflutter. She leaned her head forward to catch the fair breeze blowing past and to happily watch the men and women going about their separate ways. Laughter reached her ears and smiles reached her eyes; adolescents, betrothed couples, misbehaving children, young babes—Paris was full of life. No matter how dark the sky appeared to be, there was always beauty to be found.

Peering in front of her as she was taken down the Rue de la Paix, she was suddenly struck by the terrifying grandeur of the Opéra de Paris. Next to the building, Christine was small and insignificant, but oh, how she had been swept up in its beauty! And how quickly she learned just how deceiving appearances can be.

Thanking the driver as the hansom rolled to a stop, she stepped out and unconsciously pulled her jacket closer to her neck as she all but ran to the Café. It would have been lovely to have sat and talked outside, to have seen the buds begin to grow on the trees that lined the pavement, but alas, the wind forbade such a setting. Stepping into the warm and sombre building, Christine glanced around for her friend and saw the dancer looking quite perturbed in one far corner of the room.

Taking her gloves off, Christine sauntered across to her and sat down, briefly glancing at the tea and small pastry Meg was nursing.

"You are late," she said, raising the brim of the cup to her lips before staring at Christine with mock indifference. "Was I expected to wait here all day? The very nerve!"

Sighing, Christine called a waiter to attention and ordered her own drink before smoothing her gloves out on the table. "I see it was foolish to think becoming a Baroness would go to your head," she quipped, her mouth curling up in one corner.

"I am glad you have seen the error of your ways," Meg said with the utmost dignity before chortling behind her hand. "Oh, dear," she whined before giggling again. "I thought I was capable of keeping up the charade for longer."

"You were never a very good actress, Meg," she teased. "It is sheer luck that your profession lays elsewhere."

Delighting in their familiar exchange, Meg embraced her with one arm before leaning back in her chair. Christine thanked the waiter as he returned with her own cup of tea and cautiously sipped at it, her gaze flitting about the Café. An artist of some kind sat alone at one table, his sketch pad resting on his crossed knee as he raised his head every so often at some unseen muse. A group of women beyond him alternated between drinking from their glasses, eating from their plates and cackling at something the other had whispered to them.

"It is not the type of establishment I would have expected a Baroness dine at," Christine joked. Although, it was partially empty on this afternoon, the loud voices on the other side of the room still managed to fool her into thinking it was crowded.

"I'll be damned before anyone says I cannot! I am not a Baroness yet," was Meg's reply, making her friend look around shyly to see if anyone had heard her outcry. "Do not look so shocked, Christine. People will think you have committed a crime."

Letting out a nervous laugh, Christine fiddled with her cup and asked, "So what has kept you busy so much that you have not seen fit to see me?"

Tracing the indents in the wooden table, Meg kept her gaze firmly on her finger. "I'm sorry. I should have come to see you when... it happened. I should have come after the funeral. I... I somehow thought you would want some time to yourself."

Christine moved her hand to Meg's arm, stilling her troubled fidgeting and drawing her eyes up to her face. "You did the right thing, I believe; I was not myself after the funeral. But tell me, how have you fared?"

Nodding graciously, Meg covered Christine's hand and squeezed her fingers, amazed at how quick she had been to understand. It was just in her nature, Meg supposed. "I did not fully comprehend how agonising it would be to wait for a wedding," she began. "I have tried to reason with my soon-to-be mother in law, but oh, that woman is frightful! Every time she looks at me, I feel a chill. I do not tell a lie. She belongs in a penny dreadful, not an estate!"

Pressing her palm to her mouth, Christine attempted—unsuccessfully—to stifle her laughter, and eventually began to chuckle as loudly as the women on the other side of the room. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks as she then spotted the artist peering curiously over at her and she wished that she had a fan to shield her face.

"I cannot fathom how a great singer can shrink at drawing attention to herself sometimes," Meg observed, noticing the exchange between her friend and the man, who was once again absorbed in his work. "You have a gift, Christine. Even your laugh is melodic! You should not shy away from such a thing."

Waving her hand in a lazy dismissal, Christine brought her cup again to her mouth. "That is quite enough talk about me. I believe we were discussing your monster of a mother in law?"

Meg grinned and gave a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. "It's very droll, isn't it? Almost preordained. She dislikes me, of course. I have tried to gain her favour, but I am afraid she will never warm to the idea of a dancer marrying her only son."

"Will you continue to dance?" The question had been troubling her for some time now.

"I am not entirely sure," she replied as she pursed her lips in thought. "I would hate to give it up completely, and though the idea of becoming a mother myself is lovely, I do not believe I will ever be fully integrated in that society."

"It has happened before," Christine reminded her, earning her a frown.

"So Maman tells me."

Twirling the cup around and around in her hands, causing the dwindling contents to slosh gently, Meg sighed and turned her attention to her half eaten pastry. Christine watched her friend's fiddling before the soft downpour of rain caught her attention and she looked over at the windows. Paris, more of a painting than a city, was changing yet again as its colours bled and the figures who had not the foresight to bring an umbrella with them jumped and raced to shelter.

"Will you ever return to it? The Opéra, I mean." Tilting her head as she tried to spy the great building through the chaos of the busy streets, Meg missed how her friend's expression darkened considerably.

"It does not matter how much I would like to return, I know I will not be taken back."

"Perhaps outside of Paris?" offered Meg, smiling in the hopes to brighten her mood.

"Perhaps."

"Say, why not take a little impromptu visit to the Opéra?" With a grin, Meg took rather a large bite and looked to her companion expectantly. "It is not a minute away and you can even show me what it is like five cellars below. I have never been brave enough to see for myself."

"No, Meg," Christine said, shaking her head. "Erik will not let me go below these days, for reasons I do not know. I presume it's because I could stumble upon a trap or become lost in the darkness."

Meg frowned at this but concluded that her explanation was reasonable. "Is it truly so dangerous?"

"Yes," here, a smile began to play at her lips, "but I am about to embark on a much more dangerous journey, and a much more thrilling one." When Meg did nothing but gesture for her to continue, Christine's fingers sought out the ring on her hand. "Meg, I am to be married."

Although Christine had not been expecting a fanfare of congratulations, the blank look on Meg's face was enough to make her forgo her moment of happiness and wonder why she had felt the need to bring the subject up in the first place. Almost immediately, however, she raised her chin high and dispelled any such timidity and shame she had been made to feel over her engagement.

"No doubt you are shocked, Meg, but I will not be made to feel guilty about what has come to pass between Erik and myself."

"But the Vicomte," Meg argued weakly, her eyes drifting to the nearest occupied table to ascertain whether their conversation would be overheard. Bringing her attention back to her friend, Meg surveyed her face with afflicting curiosity. "Maman says you have reconciled."

Sighing, Christine leaned back and looked down at her slightly damp jacket. "Your mother is right up to a point, but she is very much mistaken if she thought anything beyond the rekindling of friendship occurred. We have not been engaged for many months, almost an entire year." Here, she paused and peered across at Meg. "Do not look so glum. Can you not be happy for me?"

"I do not know," she admitted, tapping her fingernail atop the table. "I know I wished you well on your birthday and that you would be able to figure everything out, but I never expected... this."

"Please, Meg," Christine whispered, "your support is something I would dearly love to have. I feel as though I am being pulled apart, tempted to tear myself in two so that everyone in my life may feel satisfied. I should not feel this way, I know, but is it wrong to want just one friend who will side with me on this decision?" She reached for her hand. "I want Raoul in my life, I cannot deny that, but I will not bow to what is expected of me and accept him again."

As Christine finished, Meg simultaneously squeezed her friend's fingers and opened her mouth to gape for a few moments. Upon correcting herself, she once again glanced out conspiratorially at the other customers and in a voice low and hushed asked, "Again? You mean to say he has asked you to marry him... again?"

"Yes," she confirmed, picking up her gloves and twisting them vigorously in her hands. "He still loves me," she confessed with a nervous laugh that faded almost instantly. "You mustn't tell that to anyone, though, Meg. Promise me."

Nodding slightly, she agreed, but could not shake the lingering concern at the back of her mind. How could anyone give up a life with a Vicomte for a murderer? Christine was many things, and Meg had always thought her sensible in her choices, but giving her hand in marriage to the Opera Ghost was perhaps the most reckless thing she had ever done. The smile Meg gave her now succeeded in calming her, but that forced happiness did not reach her eyes. Putting on a front was maybe the best thing for Meg to do and she did not want to lie to her friend, nor cause an argument.

"If you will not take me down below then what say you to filling our bellies and then a stroll across the boulevard?"

Christine nodded her thanks at Meg's efforts but chuckled at her impetuousness. "I think we should at least wait for this rain to pass, don't you?"

o0o

Leaning back against her finely covered chaise longue, with one long arm draped over the edge, La Sorelli hummed her delight as her lover buried his face into her neck. His lips teased her skin, lazily kissing and nipping and stopping every so often to breathe in the fragrance he had purchased for her. It was delectable and irresistible—just like the woman who wore it.

One stocking clad leg stretched above the entwined bodies and Sorelli smiled, pointing her toes before lowering it to wrap around Philippe de Chagny's lower back. Slowly, her calf rubbed against his clothed hip and drew a moan from him, as enticingly masculine as it was vulnerable.

It had only taken a matter of months for the couple to learn what drove the other to that tantalising oblivion, and it was a mixture of vain pride and domineering curiosity that had caused Sorelli to cross the boundaries of their relationship and make it so that he was loathe to leave her arms. She was not a fool, she knew how her lithe body had captured his attention and how she had henceforth used it to keep him.

She had never, however, expected to care for him as fiercely as she did now.

"Philippe?" she murmured in her husky droll as he sighed against her and ceased his ministrations. Staring up at the ceiling, she combed her fingers through his thick hair as his hand toyed with the sleeve of her chemise. Today, a moment was all they were allowed to share with one another and though she wanted nothing more than for him to slide that material down her arm, she was content to just lay in his embrace.

Settling his weight onto the chaise longue, Philippe propped himself up on his elbow and caught her hand, his fingers flirting with hers as he paused in thought. "Do you find me heartless?" he asked at last, earning him not ridicule but a pull of her alluring lips.

"I find you distracted, not heartless," she answered in a jest, lightly grasping his chin.

Tilting his head away from her touch, he looked down at her with a grave expression. "You know I care for you, don't you?"

It felt almost like a plea to be heard, to be understood, and Sorelli nodded her head, her heart hammering in the wake of his affection. "And I you." Dragging her fingers along his cheek, she pulled him into a deep kiss, satisfied when he held the back of her neck fervently. But no sooner had he melted in her arms than his lips left hers. Huffing in annoyance, Sorelli attempted to sit up, laying her head back against the slope and her right arm on the sculpted edge. "Philippe, I wish you would tell me what is going on inside that head of yours."

"Something that Raoul said to me has haunted my mind ever since. I haven't been able to forget it." He stared at the pattern on her dressing room drapes as wrinkles appeared between his eyebrows. "He said that I didn't understand love."

Sorelli fought against the urge to roll her eyes at him. "Is that what you were worrying about? Pish, Philippe!" she exclaimed, to which he let out a hearty chuckle. "Do not laugh, I speak seriously!"

Through his sudden joy, he continued to do exactly that, even as he kissed her nose. "How did I ever deserve you?"

"I am sure you prayed very hard every night." Taking his head in her hands, she then eyed him with a steely look. "Do not take to heart what your brother has said. He speaks false accusations through his sadness. Trust me, Philippe." While not taking her eyes off of his face, she reached for his hand, kissed his fingers and pressed his palm over her heart. "This cannot be false," she whispered, moving her own hand towards him so that it mirrored his. "Nor this."

Surging forward, Philippe claimed her lips as tenderly and with as much ardour as he had the first time he had kissed her. His palm slid up her neck to her warm cheek as he deepened the kiss, skilfully manoeuvring the woman so he could feel the weight of her slender body on top of him.

"I have to return soon," she rasped between kisses, "my rehearsal..."

"It cannot be helped if you were detained," he grinned, swallowing her moan just as his hands traced her hips and trailed downward to her thighs.

"Philippe, no," she asserted, sitting up but refusing to untangle herself from him. With a quirk of her eyebrow, she glided her hands down his chest at a cruel pace before travelling lower to his hips. She looked up at him to see his lust hazed eyes and she took guilty pleasure in the way his mouth parted under her stare.

Sighing, she lifted her hands from him and Philippe was startled to see his pocket watch now swinging from between her fingers. He chuckled, lifting one hand to his face as Sorelli calmly peered down at the little clock and tutted. "And I thought you so strict on punctuality, my dear Comte."

"Very well," he said, smirking, "if you want rid of me that badly, I shall leave you... but not before I kiss you again." Before Sorelli could bound but a few steps away from his clutches, Philippe had caught her in his arms in a fit of giggles. He held her close as she raised herself up onto her toes so that she could wrap her arms around him in turn.

She looked at him in adoration and kissed him sweetly, his hands tightening on her briefly before sadly allowing her to slip away from him. Smiling, Sorelli trod across the floor and swept her white shawl up and over her shoulders.

"Speak with him," she urged wisely, walking him to the door with a guiding hand. "I do not pretend to know the minds of men but I know many a difference can be solved through gentle discussion."

Sighing, the Comte nodded, knowing only too well he would not escape the woman's wondrous wrath if he did not do as she suggested. There was little to be lost from a simple conversation, after all. Replacing his hat atop his head, he picked up his walking stick that had been perched beside the door and began to twirl it in his fingers.

"Shall I see you this evening?" he asked, raising his head to see her perched on her dressing table, her eyes critically appraising her appearance.

Sorelli smirked, unknowingly causing Philippe to want to cast off his hat and jacket and return to her arms. "That depends." She peered over her shoulder at him. "If all goes well with the Vicomte."

Grasping the ornate knob of the stick, Philippe nodded and leaned against the wall. "I shall send for you after your performance."

A little grunt reached his ears and he saw that Sorelli had placed her hands on her hips. Her eyes, dark and piercing, found his reflection. "You are too presumptuous, Monsieur," she said haughtily, though Philippe could easily see through her façade. "Your brother might not be so eager to speak to you and I might tire myself out on the stage tonight."

"I have never known you to tire before," he murmured, watching in satisfaction as her arms dropped to her sides and a rare blush crept up her neck. "Adieu, then, my sweet," he continued, smiling fondly. "I wish you luck for your performance."

Before he had the chance to open the door, Sorelli flew to his side, pressing her lips swiftly to his in a chaste kiss. "You are a good man, Philippe." Her fingertip trailed along his cheek before returning to her shawl. "Remember that."

The street outside was dark and damp and Philippe shrugged his jacket as he peered up incredulously at the sky. Through thunderous clouds of grey shone a few rays of sunshine and he strode forward to his carriage with a spring in his step that had not been present before his visit to the Opéra. He weaved his way through the crowd of visibly rattled men and women, who nearly all wore a displeased expression on their faces for the surprising turn the weather had taken. Closed, but still wet umbrellas swayed in gloved hands and Philippe thought himself lucky to not have been caught in that.

Entering his carriage, he quickly rapped on the top to signal his driver to begin the journey. Resting his hands on the silver knob of his walking stick, he smiled as the last remnants of fog began to clear from his mind, the memory of Sorelli's voice and mouth still potent even as they faded and gave way to more pressing matters—Raoul. Philippe's mouth twisted in thought. Sorelli often had an overwhelming way of creeping under his skin and making him listen to the simplest of whispers. It was something he both resented and admired in her, this surge of attractive power. But, the fact of the matter was that she was right. A conversation needed to take place between him and his brother.

His journey back to the estate took him down the Boulevard des Italiens, where he leaned his head against the chilled window and observed the throng of the elite. More sunlight began to break through the heavy clouds above and soon it poured its warmth onto the ground below, causing more than a few heads to turn up in pleasant surprise. One such head belonged to a young woman, whose passing face did not register in Philippe's mind until moments after the carriage had rolled on by... It was Christine.

Rubbing the back of his neck distractedly, he truly believed himself a hypocrite. It was out of love and a want for his happiness that Philippe had tried to sway Raoul's attentions away from the singer, but alas, the poor boy was stricken. But he was also a flighty lad, and Philippe had thought that the right woman would be able to capture him, to make him set both feet on the ground.

Philippe was not unsympathetic, however, for he understood his brother's plight better than he allowed himself to know. He, too, kept company with a performer, after all. Shaking his head, he shortly came to a decision that would hopefully appease Raoul. He could only pray that he would listen.

Swiftly depositing his outdoor wear to his valet as he entered the doors of the de Chagny estate, Philippe strode with purpose into the parlour only to find the very person he needed to see. Stopping very briefly to stare at his brother lounging in his armchair, Philippe walked over to the decanter resting on the cabinet on the far side of the room, his hand reaching towards the glass before thinking better of it. He turned on the spot, leaning against the wood as he folded his arms and waited impatiently for Raoul to speak. But he did not.

"Come, brother," Philippe began, pushing himself away from the cabinet to stand in front of the armchair, "there is a reason for your presence here. You were awaiting my return and here I am, so let me hear what it is you most assuredly have waited to say."

Raoul peered up at him with a look of displeasure before he haughtily turned his head away. "You have returned, haven't you?"

Exasperated already, Philippe answered in a rather stern tone, "Yes, I have. I am clearly standing before you. Now would you be so kind as to tell me what is on your mind?"

"You were at the Opéra, weren't you? You went to see your dancer." Raoul did not need to look at his brother to know how his shoulders then slumped in acceptance of his guilt. The silence he was met with only reaffirmed his suspicions. "How can you sit there and pass judgement on my feelings for Christine when you are in the middle of a romance with one of her own? I do not understand how you think you can get away with believing that I have lowered myself somehow when you should say the same for yourself!"

Clenching his jaw, but sinking down into his own armchair with slow grace, Philippe threaded his fingers together and stared levelly at Raoul. "Are you quite done?"

At his dismissive reply, Raoul glared at him. "Do you not have anything to say for yourself?"

Releasing a steady breath, Philippe asked, "Where is this leading?"

Almost instantly did his eyes dart to the floor, his boyish flare more apparent in this moment than it had been for weeks. "A fortnight ago, I saw Christine, and I know what you will say, but Philippe, hear me. You cannot ask me to give her up. I cannot abandon her at this time in her life."

Despite his grievances and worry for him, Philippe found himself smiling at the wilful youth. "She refused your proposal, did she not?" he asked, wary of his reaction, but when all he saw was surrender on his brother's face, he frowned.

"She did, but I care not. If her heart has changed then so be it, I will be happy for her whatever she chooses." Here, he gave a slight grimace that went unnoticed by Philippe. Although it was the truth he spoke, he could not shake his mind clear of the fact that she had fallen in love with the Opera Ghost. The man had stolen her heart away to his grave, and what was Christine to do now? "You may continue to cast endless strings of women at me, Philippe, but nothing that you do or say will ever change the way I feel about her. If a friend is all I can be to her, then I am content if it will serve for her happiness."

A surge of admiration filled Philippe's heart at the tender way his brother spoke. Such a young man, he was, and yet he held the courage and wisdom of one twice his age. A want to right the wrong he had committed in Raoul's eyes strove Philippe to rise, repositioning himself in front of the hearth, his eyes flickering between the portrait of their dearly departed mother and father above him and his brother. Peering into the dark, hard stare of the late Comte, Philippe recalled how determined he had been to show himself as a worthy heir and son in his eyes. Now, he found himself harbouring that same determination, to prove to Raoul and to Sorelli that he was indeed a good man.

"I will withdraw the warrant, Raoul, if that is what you wish," he said at last, tearing his eyes away from the portrait. "I cannot say for certain whether I believe Mademoiselle Daaé, but I do believe you. You are not a liar and you are not a fool. If nothing is reported to me come the end of the week, then the matter will be dropped and the men paid off."

Raoul stared at him for a moment, his mind devoid of thought or opinion or any words that he could have said to convey his surprise. "Oh, Philippe, that is a relief to hear. My conscience can now be clear when I see Christine next and I do not have to worry myself over deceiving her. You shall soon see that she spoke truthfully, Philippe," he grinned, "and I shall accept your apology come the following Sunday."

Philippe said nothing, setting his mouth into a thin line, but prided himself over Raoul's reaction. "I shall also cease with trying to marry you off," he added, allowing himself to smile at his companion's widening eyes. "You have been patient and diligent, greeting every eligible woman I and our sisters, have thrown at you, but enough is enough. You are old enough to make your own way."

A sudden need to stand and embrace him overcame Raoul and it took all of his will power to remain seated for the present. This change of heart suited him well and Raoul began to wonder the cause of it—perhaps his visitations to the Opéra's Prima Ballerina's dressing room were not simple dalliances as he had first thought. But what had begun as a sense of pride and brotherly love quickly transcended into a realm of guilt.

"I did not mean what I said before, Philippe," he began, sheepishly and with head bowed. "To say that you didn't understand... that you couldn't... Well, it was thoughtless and unprovoked."

A half smile touched Philippe's lips as he gazed at the face of the mantel clock. "I care for her, Raoul," he finally admitted, a frown reaching his brow at this realisation that had dawned on him all too late. "I dote on her, in fact, more than she knows."

"Philippe, I—" His words fell silent as he saw the shake of Philippe's head. "I still should not have made the claim."

Clearing his throat, Philippe turned on him with a purpose to clear the air between them and cease all this talk. A knowing look passed from one brother to the other, an awkward yet mutual understanding that had their sisters been there, they would have sought to never let either of them forget this conversation.

"Will you join me in a glass of port?" Philippe asked, laughing with ease over the young man's docile grin.

Rising to his feet, Raoul clapped his hand onto Philippe's shoulder and nodded. "Although that is not the most enticing proposal to come out of your mouth today, Philippe, I shall gladly join you."