The next week passed for Cecily as an exhausting blur of rehearsals and adjustments. The scheduled production of Rigoletto was still going on stage for the weekend, in addition to the rehearsals for Don Juan. Even after Rigoletto finished, Don Juan rehearsals were going horribly. No one could seem to get the melodies quite right. Christine was doing well enough, but that was to be expected. After all, the composer had been her vocal instructor.

There was no customary day of rest after a performance well-done, and rehearsals started fairly early. The entire staff was beyond fatigued, but they worked on, more out of fear of another of the Phantom's "accidents" than out of any true regard for the show. Sitting in the front row and watching rehearsal, Cecily flinched nearly every time she was forced to watch Christine and Piangi attempt to sing "Past the Point of No Return." Piangi never could get the notes right, and his pronunciation was atrocious. Not to mention his pawing around with Christine. It was supposed to be seductive, not repulsive. She felt bad for the young Christine, who was doing her best to maintain composure at the same time as she was helping Piangi along.

Cecily let her mind wander, remembering the time when Erik had written the song. It had all been so different then, so much happier. But even then, Erik was already on his path to obsession with Christine. It just hadn't been so apparent.

The days passed much the same for the next week. A desperate M. Reyer attempted to get all of the chorus members to sing their parts correctly, a feat in itself, as well as organizing the orchestra after Erik's notes regarding the status of bassoon and trombone players. The players strutted across the stage, filling in where they thought necessary only to be corrected due to Erik's extensive choreography instructions. Half-finished costumes turned out to be the full thing, and the lack of fabric astounded even Cecily at times. She put her foot down when it came to Meg's costume, though. The few scraps of fabric would do almost nothing. "Tell the Phantom it's my fault if he'll be so upset," she told the nervous costumers, who did as they were told. Erik never said a word.

"Mademoiselle! The Phantom is not going to jump down out of the rafters to snatch you away, I can quite assure you! Perform the dance, and not the jerking movements you are currently occupied with!" The poor dancer who had gotten the end of Cecily's nervous wrath glanced anxiously at the ceiling, but did her best to loosen up her movements.

"You certainly need to get out of the opera house, my dear," whispered Nicholai into her ear, startling her.

"Yes, but that is certainly nothing new. But of course, with this bloody opera we've got to perform, everyone's going haywire, even me."

He rubbed her shoulders lightly. "I can't do much for the others, but you're coming with me."

"When?" she demanded lazily, relaxing into his hands.

"Now. We're going to an art exhibition. A friend of the Count's is hosting of few of the "Impressionist" painters. You know, Pissarro, Guillaumin, Morisot, Degas, although you probably already know him."

She scrunched her face, a signal to those who knew her that she was thinking. "Yes, yes, Edgar Degas. Comes by to paint the girls a lot, but I hear his works of the rest of the opera are workable."

"Incredible from what I've heard. So go get ready! Go on now!" He pushed her a bit up out of her chair. "I'll be waiting for you when you're done."

Smiling, she used her cane to push open the door. He had perfect timing that one. A night of an art other than opera would be most beneficial.

---

"Amazing! The one painting simply made me feel like flying!" Cecily spun in a small circle, but lost her balance and tumbled into Nicholai, laughing hysterically.

"My dear, I think you may have had a little much of the champagne at the Countess's apartment. You had better be off to bed…"

"I'll take it myself from here, thank you, monsieur," she said seriously. "Don't want a repeat of the last time you escorted me to my room!"

Kissing her, he smiled wickedly, "You could let me in then."

It took all of her willpower to push him away. "Or I could bid you a goodnight here and walk myself to my room."

"But you wouldn't want to do that…" He kissed her again, making her resolve slip a little.

The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs made her pull away. "Go! Before I hate you tomorrow morning."

"Not possible," he murmured.

"It will be if you don't leave this instant." Her voice was deadly serious, and he assented, disappearing into the shadows by the door into the early morning light.

Sighing, Cecily made to return to her own room. She rounded the corner and saw a man carrying a young woman, and, not wanting to butt into business that she wanted nothing to do with, began to turn away. It was only then that her slightly drunken brain realized that it was Raoul and a crying Christine. She rushed over. "Are you all right? What happened?"

"Nothing," muttered Raoul tersely.

"No," came Christine's breaking voice. "No, Raoul, she needs to know. And for the last time, put me down!" Once on her feet, Christine began. "Today is the anniversary of my father's death, so I went to his grave, like I always do on this day. I wanted to be alone, and I knew Raoul would insist on going with me, so I slipped out alone." She looked guiltily at Raoul, who was obviously incredibly upset about the whole matter.

"And? What happened? How did he find you?"

"He was there. One moment I was alone, and then he was singing, and that voice, it could only belong to an angel, I thought my father…" her voice cracked.

"You know that that monster is not your father," admonished Raoul.

"Yes, I do, Raoul! Thank you for reminding me!" Her eyes hinted at spending too much time with Erik, and Cecily was surprised that even such an innocent girl could take on such bottled fury. "Raoul came, thankfully," she spat. "And then, then there was a fight."

"She wouldn't let me kill him, end this forever." Raoul leaned heavily against the wall, the anger blocking his throat.

Cecily looked at Christine, half-grateful, half-disbelievingly angry. "You would rather see him shot during his own opera? A more fitting tribute?" Christine opened her mouth mutely, gaping at her. "Never thought of that. I admit, it is more than I would want as a choice," she consoled lightly, touching Christine's face comfortingly.

"A choice? The man is a monster! A murderer!"

"And so? A murderer is still a man. Whose choice is it but God's who lives and who dies?"

"And the men whose lives were taken?" Raoul was livid, raised to his full height in front of Cecily.

Cecily met his fiery gaze with one of ice. "Do not speak to me about the evils of murder and death when you are so ready to deal the same out. You were ready to destroy a man at the end of your sword not a few hours ago. You would have been a murderer."

"I would have been justified!"

"And he was not, you are sure?"

"What had Buquet done? Other than be in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

Cecily closed her eyes. Oh God, Buquet. The second murder she was responsible for, although she had not committed it with her own hands. She opened them and leveled her glare on Raoul. "I can assure you, Raoul, that Buquet was no innocent. Was my killing justified, or am I another monster? If you think I had cause to kill that wretch who should have been my father, then the death of Joseph Buquet was justified. Do you understand yet? Or do you still think that you have a God-given right to destroy those you think are in the wrong?"

Raoul stared, the rage dropping from his look. "I, I never thought…"

"No you didn't. I will not speak one way or the other any longer. So there was a fight, you were victorious, and the Phantom is not dead."

"He is wounded," piped in a frightened Christine. "Raoul slashed his arm rather badly at the end of the fight I think."

Cecily bowed her head. "Congratulations. I do believe that the two of you should get some rest before the day truly begins. We have work to do."

She didn't wait for them to leave, but slipped into her room and locked the door. Opening the door to the passage, she moved swiftly through the packages, using her cane to feel her way in the absence of a candle. Sliding down into the lair, she searched quietly for him. She found him in a room empty except for a coffin, in which he slept. She shuddered at the creepiness of it, but brought herself to move closer on seeing the blood on his arm.

"Erik," she called softly from a safe distance. Even wounded, she knew Erik could be dangerous. "Erik, it's Cecily."

"What are you doing here? Go away!"

She stepped closer, helping him to sit up. He moved as she urged, despite his displeasure with her presence. She triaged the wound quickly. Not too deep, just enough to lose some blood. "Sit up straight, please," she chided. "You know how slouching is horrible for the voice. Besides I need to remove the shirt." She didn't wait for his permission, and began to peel it away.

"No! You foolish woman, leave!" She sat back on her heels, looking him in the eye. It was only then that she noticed his mask was crooked. He seemed to also, and clutched at it, putting it back into place. He blessed his earlier exhaustion, for it had caused him to simply fall into the coffin rather than take the time to remove his mask. At least she hadn't seen that.

"I'm not leaving, Erik. Not until I've fixed up that arm of yours."

"How did you find out about it?"

"I saw Raoul. Now, up!" She took advantage of his momentary lapse at the mention of Raoul to lift his shirt up. He hissed and sank back down into the coffin.

"I told you to leave!"

"And I told you I wasn't going to! Now sit up before I have to drag you into sitting position!"

"Cecily…" Too late. She had already taken hold of his shoulder blade and meant to push him up. Her finger ran over one bump, and then another. Erik drew a sharp breath. "I told you not to," he whispered, defeated.

Terrible realization dawned on her. "Oh, Erik…" She traced a finger down the line from his shoulder blade to the small of his back. "Who did this to you?"

He shook his head. "They're too horrible. I'm too horrible." She squeezed his good shoulder to stop him, then moved in front of him and began to undo the top of her dress. "What are you doing?"

She turned away from him and let the back of her dress fall open, gasping as the cold air hit her. Erik stared. In every direction on her back ran the same sort of lines that covered Erik's own skin. He reached out a hand, but withdrew it. "Who…?" He couldn't finish the question.

"In prison," was all she said before closing up her dress. "There. Now will you let me take care of that arm?"

Erik let her go about her work, silent as he contemplated what he had just seen. She was just putting the last layer of bandage around his arm when he spoke. "Why do you always come back?" She didn't speak, just continued wrapping. "I was sorry to hear about your sister." She flashed a bitter smile, but didn't respond. "I wished there was something I could have done."

She nodded, her jaw clenched tight. "Yes, I'm sure you did. It's a kind gesture, after all. Although I am surprised you had enough time to hear about my little problem, what with all the planning you must be doing for Don Juan. And Christine. Barely enough time to listen in on other peoples problems, much less care about them. I am honored." Her voice was laced with pain and bitterness, and it lanced out at Erik.

"Of course I am more concerned with Christine, she has never lashed out!"

"Of course not! She can barely think for herself without considering what Erik or Raoul will think of it!" She tied the last knot of the bandage a little too tightly, making him gasp. Leaving all but her cane, she hurried into the passage and closed the door. He didn't even try to follow.