A/N: Dear readers... Please forgive me! *sad writer face* I am SO sorry. I meant to finish this so many times, but I have been unspeakably lazy for the longest time. I have no excuse. If there is anyone still reading this, I am so grateful. :)

Warning: Mentions of child abuse. I just wanted to let my readers know so you'll be expecting it. It's not horribly graphic and awful (I could never write something like that) but I wanted to get it out there.

Please enjoy this (incredibly late) installment of Constant Angel!

The next morning, the sound of the doorbell caused Juliet to scramble out of bed. She ran out of her temporary room, tying a dressing gown around her waist as she did so. It was the doctor; who else could it be at this hour? Pushing her hair away from her face, she opened the door.

Her thought was confirmed; it was the doctor. "Good morning, Mademoiselle Leroux," he said.

"Good morning, Monsieur," she replied, politely inclining her head. "Any news on Erik's condition?"

He was about to answer when Juliet's father came up behind her and poked his head out the door. He too was wearing a dressing gown and a sleepy expression. "Might I inquire your business at this early hour?"

A confused expression crossed the doctor's face. Juliet's attempts to thwart a response from him failed when he said, "I thought you knew. Monsieur Destler is in the hospital being treated for—"

Her father interrupted, moving into the doorway fully and shifting Juliet out of the way. She became acutely aware that her ribs had been bruised when Gaston snatched her from the back of the horse. "Monsieur Destler?" he asked sharply. "He has been, regrettably, taken by a band of gypsies. We are in the process of freeing him, but—"

The doctor made an insert into the conversation of his own. "Oh, you did not know? The mademoiselle and a friend of hers, Monsieur Durand, I believe his name was, rescued him last night."

She cringed as her father whirled on her, an unreadable emotion in his eyes. "You did what?" he hissed. "And against my express wishes no less?"

"Papa, how many times must we go through this?" she asked angrily, shooting an apologetic look in the doctor's direction. "I'm not your responsibility anymore. Tristan offered to help me and we were able to achieve what we set out to do. Neither of us were hurt and Gaston, the man who was after Erik and me, is in prison. I fail to see where you may find conflict." Her cheeks flushed with heat as they came to an impasse, glaring at each other. Neither one was willing to back down and admit fault.

"Monsieur Destler is doing a little better," said the doctor, pushing his voice between the two stubborn people, "come to the hospital when it's convenient for you. Someone will show you to his room." Sensing his presence was no longer necessary and might be considered intrusive at this point, he closed the door and made his retreat.

"You could have been seriously hurt or even killed!" her father growled, stalking back into his home. "That was foolish. I hope you realize just how much you've let this... this man, cloud your decisions."

She did not miss his near-slip and glared daggers at him. "This what, papa?" she asked bitterly. "Clearly, you were not initially inclined to call him a man. Yes, I know I could have been hurt. But I wasn't. Is it not enough for you to leave it at that?"

"No, it is not!" he cried, throwing his hands in the air in frustration. "If Erik had one enemy who wanted nothing more than to kill him for some wrong he committed, do you not think there will be more? He may have multiple enemies for all you know!" He paused, breathing as heavily as he would be if he had run a great distance. Before he could continue in his tirade, however, a quiet voice interrupted him from the stairwell.

"It's true, Monsieur, that Erik has had many enemies," said Nadir, his voice a whisper that only carried as far as their ears. Rather than approach them, he remained with a hand on the railing. "I will not deny that fact, and nor will he if you feel inclined to ask. However, the majority of them believe him to be dead, have no knowledge whatsoever of his whereabouts, or are indeed dead themselves."

Juliet's father glared at him. For the first time since he had met Erik, he truly seemed to be lost for words on the subject of the man. She could almost see his brain whirring in useless circles, looking for something he could use as a reply.

Nadir still had a few more words he wished to impart. "It is also true that Erik's past is far from what one might call clean," he said, his voice soft and free of any hostile emotion. "This, I suspect, is not due to a desire to be secretive, but a desire to move on. A future free of the past which has haunted for many years is what he wants, I think. Juliet is doing a wonderful job of helping him achieve that." Without further comment, he swept past them and into the kitchen.

After a long moment of standing still enough that she might be mistaken for a statue, Juliet followed the Persian. She found him standing at the stove, putting a kettle on to boil. I don't know what to say, she realized. What can I say? He managed to say exactly what she and Erik had been trying to say for so long. And he was able to do it in such a way that he could find no room for argument. Juliet supposed she should say thank you, but it sounded empty in contrast.

"Monsieur Nadir—" she began, walking across the room to touch his elbow to alert him to her presence. He turned to her with a gentle smile on his face.

"All I did was repeat what Erik has told me you've been saying for months," he said. "No thanks are necessary. Sometimes all that's needed is a new voice to say it. Now, we'll have breakfast, you can get dressed for the day, and if you'd like, I can walk you to the hospital. I'd like to visit Erik as well."

A wide smile broke across her face. "That sounds lovely, Monsieur," she said.

He shook his head. "I consider you to be as close to me as Erik has so very slowly come to be. You don't need to call me Monsieur. Now, what have you got in this kitchen?"

Together, they made a plate of crepes and two cups of tea. She hadn't expected him to be proficient in the kitchen and was pleasantly surprised when he showed ability. He wasn't quite as good as Erik, but she guessed Erik had had to be more self-sufficient than the Persian man had. Halfway through their breakfast, Madame Giry came in.

"Good morning," she said, rubbing Juliet's shoulder in a comforting way. She seemed concerned for her and Juliet was confused as to why until she remembered Madame Giry hadn't been present when Erik's rescue was announced.

"Good morning, Madame Giry," she replied, getting to her feet to prepare a plate for the once-ballet mistress and her daughter. "How is Meg feeling?"

"Better than yesterday," she replied, "but she's still feeling quite a lot of pain from her arm." Her head remained bowed as she worked, not looking Juliet in the eye. She must have been thinking the young woman was incredibly distressed.

"Madame Giry, I was just about to go visit Erik in the hospital," she said, pushing her half-eaten breakfast aside. Food would have to wait until she was absolutely certain Erik was going to be all right. "You're welcome to come along if you'd like."

The older woman paused for a long while, the plate in her hands slowly descending to the table. When it reached the surface with a muffled clatter, she looked up with a rapidity that surprised all involved. "What?" she asked, seemingly not daring to believe what her ears were telling her.

Another smile crossed Juliet's features. This was the most she'd smiled in a long time, she realized. "He's all right, Madame Giry. He's safe," she said.

"But how—" she started, but Juliet interrupted. She didn't want to tell the story again. Her ribs twinged for a second time, a reminder of how close she had come to potentially losing her life.

"—It's not important. I had a bit of help... Actually, I had a lot of help," she said. "But, more importantly, Erik is safe and Gaston shouldn't be a problem to anyone for a long, long time."

"Well, then I say thank goodness," she said, gathering up the plate again. "I'll pass the news along to Meg. I may be along to visit today." She disappeared from the room.

Juliet picked up her dishes, depositing them in the sink. She, not wanting to disturb Meg, was forced to dig through the clothing in the closet of the guest bedroom. Any clothing she or her father had very little sue for but had not gotten around to getting rid of ended up in there. Most of it appeared to be her father's and she sifted through it, piling most of it on the floor.

Halfway through the piles she stopped, a gasp drawing through her lips. A handful of old sweaters tumbled from her hands.

There, gleaming amongst some careworn dresses she knew had belonged to her mother at some point, was a length of white satin. Her mother's wedding dress.

Picking it up gently, as though it would possibly vaporize in her hands, she unfolded it. It tumbled toward the floor in flowing lengths. She remembered seeing her parents' wedding photograph and knew how lovely her mother had looked in it. Like an angel, her father told her once. There had been a gleam in his eye that looked quite a bit like a tear.

She felt a tear of her own begin to well up. Some days, he could be crusty and temperamental at best. At worst, he was nigh insufferable. But he was still her father. It was difficult for her to feel angry with him. With a sigh, she set the dress on the bed with delicate hands.

Knowing from previous experience that she was around the same size as her mother had been—her father had given her a dress that had belonged to her before she went to Paris—she pulled a deep red dress from the closet and put it on. The sleeves were somewhat too long and the shoulders were a little too loose, but it worked.

Her boots still stood in the corner of her room and because she had no other footwear, she slid her feet into them. Truthfully, they were warmer than her other shoes and it was still rather cold. She doubted she would feel the cold today. Her mind was on something else.

As she exited the room and searched for her coat, she called, "Monsieur Nadir, are you ready?"

He appeared around the doorway to the kitchen, wearing his coat. "Yes, shall we?"

Juliet realized as they stepped out the door together that she hadn't seen one particular member of the guests currently residing in her home. Where on Earth had Tristan gone? "Monsieur Nadir, have you seen Tristan this morning?" she inquired.

He offered his arm to her and she slipped her own through it. "Just Nadir, thank you," he corrected her with a gently rebuking smile. "I did, yes, shortly after I got up. He was leaving. When I asked, he said he should get back before the man he's apprenticed to became cross with his absence. I think, too, that he felt as though he had overstayed his welcome."

"Yes, I suppose he might've," Juliet murmured, more to herself than to her walking companion.

The two fell into companionable silence for several minutes. Juliet had retreated into her thoughts and suspected the Persian man had done the same. She realized she would likely be receiving word from the Opera House soon on whether she had been accepted into the chorus. The managers would also be wondering where their most favored music teacher had gone. Perhaps a visit there after she visited Erik wouldn't be amiss. His students, when he wasn't being harsh for their own benefit, apparently adored him. It puzzled him to no end but it was no mystery to Juliet. He wore a mask and could be short and snappish if something was repeatedly not done to his standards, but he allowed his students to branch out and discover their creativity. He could also be quite kind and compassionate, especially if a student was truly confused and frustrated.

The hospital was in sight when something small propelled itself into Juliet's skirts and clung on. She stumbled with the unexpected force and clutched at Nadir's arm. "What on Earth was..." she trailed off, looking down. Almost drowned in the folds of her skirt was a mop of curly black hair. Given the height... she sorted through her memories quickly, trying to place why the head of hair looked so familiar. That little boy, the student of Erik's... Corbett?

She crouched own in the road, putting her hands gently on both of his shoulders. Small though her hands were, they nearly engulfed his tiny frame. "Corbett?" she asked, rubbing his shoulders and trying to coax him out of looking down. The miniscule mop nodded weakly, the curls bouncing. "Can you please look at me?"

When he did, she narrowly reigned in a gasp. A bright, reddish-purple welt swelled beneath his left eye. A deeper bruise was spreading at his collarbone and if she had to guess, the way he flinched at her touch indicated there were more injuries on his thin body. "Mon dieu, mon petit ami, what happened?" she whispered, stroking his hair away from his forehead.

His lower lip wobbled treacherously before he burst into heartbreaking sobs. Juliet quickly pulled the boy into her arms, holding him in a protective embrace. She rubbed his back in slow, gentle circles. A warm, wet patch began to grow on her shoulder where his head rested. Tears of her own began to well up in her eyes.

Nadir's hand touched her arm and she heard him crouch down beside her. "Juliet, who is this?" he murmured. She turned her head to see him watching the boy with concerned eyes.

"He's a student of Erik's," she replied. "His name is Corbett. I've seen him from time to time when I'm out on my errands, but he's never—I don't—" Words failed her as she rocked the child back and forth in a steady rhythm.

After a minute or two, his sobs began to slow. Tentatively, Juliet tried to talk to him again. "Corbett? What's wrong? What happened?"

He sniffled, pushing away from her enough so the hideous bruise was on display again. "I—I was naughty a-and she said she w-would send m-me away because she doesn't love m-me anymore," he whimpered.

"Who said that to you?" she asked, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had a feeling she knew where this was going. He mumbled something unclear. "Could you repeat that for me, please?"

"My mother," he repeated, tears standing in his red, puffy eyes. "I didn't get up on t-time and was too s-slow eating my b-breakfast. She said she h-had errands t-to run and I m-made her late and she w-would be happier without m-me." A sob left him once again.

Before Juliet could say anything more a bellowing voice sounded in her ears. "Corbett Valois! Come here, you insolent little child!" She looked up to see Corbett shuffling toward a tall woman with an arrogant face twisted by fury. As soon as the thin child was in reach, she grasped his wrist hard enough to make him cry out. Juliet leapt to her feet in anger.

"How dare you treat your child like that?" Nadir cried, beating Juliet to it. "He's covered in injuries and he trembles like a leaf. Perhaps you should take him to an orphanage. At least there he would have a chance at finding a family that will treat him properly." Inclining his head sharply to indicate he had no further comments on the subject, he turned on his heel. Juliet hurried after him, slipping an arm through his once again.

"What brought that on?" she asked as soon as they were out of earshot. She glanced up at him in time to see him brush at one of his eyes quickly.

"Before I knew Erik, I had a family," he said as they walked. Seeing her expression, he hastened to add, "he was not the cause of the loss. My wife, Rookheeya, died in childbirth with our son, Reza. For several years, all was fin with him. He was vivacious and full of life." His voice quavered momentarily. "It had started before Erik came, but he was the one to recognize what it was. Slowly, he was losing his sight, his power of speech, and his ability to walk. The doctors told me it was a simple illness and he would heal quickly. But he continued to decline."

"How awful," said Juliet, sympathy for the Persian man radiating through her.

"When Erik came to Persia, he immediately told me Reza was suffering from a degenerative disease for which there was no cure. He was with us until my son breathed his last and helped to bring at least a small measure of happiness to his life," Nadir said, finishing his story as they walked through the doors to the hospital. "He may have hurried the process along, but I have come to realize, years later, that it was for the best."

"You are a man with a truly big heart, Nadir," she told him as they approached the secretary. He merely smiled and shook his head.

"May I help you?" the young woman at the desk inquired.

"Yes, we're here to see Monsieur Erik Destler," said Juliet. Her heart fluttered in her chest enough that she was surprised it didn't echo in the hollow building.

"Of course, I'll show you to his room," the woman nodded, getting up from her seat and gesturing for them to follow her.

She led them down a narrow hallway that smelled strongly enough of disinfectant to make her nose sting. It seemed to be covering up another smell, one that made her stomach turn and a feeling halfway between sickened and somber rise up in her. Juliet stuck close to Nadir, eager to be out of the lonely hallways as soon as possible.

Eventually, they stopped at a door that read: room 42. "This is his room," the secretary told them. "He's likely sleeping now, but feel free to stay as long as you'd like. Visiting hours end at six this evening."

The pair nodded their understanding and thanks and opened the door. Everything in the room was white and cold. The room felt as though it contained no life, which caused Juliet to scurry forward to the bed which sat in the middle of the room.

Erik was lying on his front, a likely attempt the doctors had made to keep pressure off of his bandaged wounds. Said bandages were thick and heavily plastered across his entire back and shoulders. A thin white sheet was draped across his lower half. The hospital staff had thoughtfully fashioned a makeshift mask for him out of a spare bit of cloth. His breathing was steady and slow; he was sleeping.

With a choked noise of relief, Juliet sank to her knees next to Erik's bed. His eyes roamed beneath his eyelids. At peace for the first time in a long time, he was dreaming without nightmares. She took one of his hands in hers, tracing her thumb over each finger slowly. Erik was on his way to healing. She kissed his forehead.

"You're good for him," Nadir commented, taking a seat on one of the uncomfortable chairs in the room.

"Am I?" she asked.

"Of course. He's never been so focused on being the best person he could be for anyone in the time I've known him."

"What about Christine?" Juliet couldn't help it; the lurking suspicion that she was a replacement for the beautiful, talented soprano was mostly gone, but it surfaced from time to time. When it did, it made her stomach churn.

Nadir shook his head no, frowning at the idea. "His feelings for her were explosive, brought on largely by the affect the morphine was having on his mind coupled with too much time alone, and they're completely gone now." His tone was firm.

They were silent for a long time before Nadir spoke again. "I may wire Darius to request he and my material comforts are on the earliest available train to Normandy," he said in a thoughtful way. "Do you know of any places I should look for a flat to lease?"

Juliet jumped at the sudden question, narrowly avoiding jarring Erik. "What's brought on this idea, Nadir?" she asked. "I thought you were content in Paris."

"Well—" Nadir began, but a familiar and much-welcomed voice interrupted.

"—It was only a matter of time before my self-proclaimed handler came running after me." Erik's dry, weak voice cut through the air.

Nadir attempted to disguise the utter joy and relief that had lit up his face by wrinkling his nose in distaste. "I am not your handler," he proclaimed. "Woe unto he or she who takes on that regrettable task."

"Yes," Juliet gently teased, blinking away the tears of happiness that had appeared in her eyes. "Woe unto me." She could see Erik roll his eyes in jest. She pressed a gentle kiss to his lips and whispered, "don't you ever do that to me again." Her forehead rested against his.

"I will try my best not to," he whispered in return, "so long as you promise to avoid the attentions of any more psychopathic male singers."

A quiet laugh escaped her. "Deal."

A short time later, after Erik had fallen asleep again, the Persian man adopted a pensive look. "I wonder whether that repulsive woman actually took Corbett to an orphanage."

Juliet frowned in confusion at the abrupt comment, but said, "a friend of mine, Bridgette, runs one of the local orphanages. I could ask her about it. Why?"

"Well, I believe he deserves a better family than the woman who has the audacity to call herself his mother," he said, "and..."

"And?" Juliet prompted.

"And perhaps I could do that for him."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Gaston awoke with a grunt, his entire body stiff and painful. As his eyes adjusted, he realized where he was.

A cell. A cell in prison. He growled and slammed his fist against the wall, wincing only marginally when the skin on his knuckles split.

Details of the night before filtered into his brain and his anger increased. Everything had been going exactly to plan and in one move that should have been in his power to stop, it all went in the opposite direction from his initial plan.

In the midst of stewing in his fury, a different thought occurred to him. What he had needed formulate a proper plan which had few to no flaws was time. That was exactly what he had now.

The prison guards who walked past Gaston Rosseau's cell all wondered why the man had a wide, twisted smirk marring his face.

A/N: In case it has not become otherwise blatantly obvious, I HATE hospitals. They give me (and this is clearly an official term) the heebie-jeebies. I don't know why.

Tell me what you thought! I promise I will try to get another chapter up MUCH sooner. I will seriously try.