Chapter Two

Christine stared at his cloak covered back which faced her as he gathered money and other such important documents, tucking them securely into the folds of his garments. She could swear she saw the glint of a dagger as well.

More killing?

Christine had no idea of the hour, though she figured the dead of the night, as she had fallen into a hollow, deep sleep after some time of laying upon the stone ground. It was the most blessed slumber she'd ever experience, offering her a blessed, emotionless break from the bleak reality.

She stubbornly refused to allow herself to think of Raoul, or any of the rest of the previous day for that matter. She simply could not let herself realize that she now dwelled with a killer. Of course she'd known of Erik's previous sins, but she'd failed to see the deep seriousness of it all. She'd only understood far too late, when his murderous hand affected her in a most unwelcome way.

The logical part of her mind had taken charge over her emotions. Her body understood she couldn't take the brunt of the emotional trauma at the moment, and instead her thoughts consisted of the mob, and what they'd done with Raoul's body, and what they'd made of Erik's home and their simultaneous disappearance. Where there search parties? Was the news now public? It chilled her how objectively these thoughts entered her mind, and the cold logic she used to decipher the open questions.

When she spoke she could barely recognize her voice. Once so warm and light, now cold, ragged, and sullen. Her voice expressed the emotions she would not allow herself to feel. "What time is it?"

He actually started, though at the sound of her voice, or that she was actually speaking, Christine was not sure. She could almost laugh; Erik, always moving so gracefully and silently, was always the one to startle her. His keen ears and sharp alertness made it near impossible to enter a room without him knowing.

"Four o'clock, I surmise." He had a terrible, fierce urge to apologize to her, spill his tears and allow her to see how pained and regretful he was for ruining her, to beg for her forgiveness. But he did not. No, he remained stiff and unmoving, mechanically supplying his person with all they'd need for a flee from Paris.

Based on what he had seen in a brief sojourn from their stone chamber to collect the money and necessary papers from his bedroom, the mob had more or less raided his home and taken Chagny's body to the authorities. Erik thanked the gods that they'd overlooked the miniature casket filled with precious jewels and coins which easily could have made each of them a substantially rich man. No doubt religious wariness of the occult, or perhaps a bit of pure superstition, had kept them away from the curiously disguised safe.

Erik had no doubt they'd left minds filled with incorrect theories of his and Christine's whereabouts, as they'd left no clues, save the boy's body. By morning the whole of the city would know of them, however, and be on the look-out. Which was why...

"We must leave now, Christine."

"Now?"

"Yes. Any later, we'll be in danger.

Her first impulse was to ask what sort of danger, but it came to her instantly and she was glad she'd held her tongue. Raoul's body. Of course. Likely, the entire city would soon think that she'd been an accomplice to Erik in his murder, or worse, that she'd committed the crime single-handedly.

Her and Raoul's engagement had been, of course, largely kept under wraps. It would not have done well for his siblings if the public had known Raoul was seriously courting a mere chorus girl, and not simply employing her to satisfy momentary pleasures, in similar practice as Phillipe. The public would have been positively baffled to know that within six months, Le Vicomte Raoul de Chagny had fully intended on marrying one Christine Daae, opera singer and daughter of a violinist.

But Christine couldn't help lamenting.

If only they knew!

Then there would be no inkling that she'd had anything to do with Raoul's death...yet in a way, she supposed she did. But she simply could not bear to think such things now.

She rose to her feet unsteadily, her legs shaky from emotional drain and several hours unmoving against cold stone. Instinctively she brushed her skirt off and smoothed her curls, realizing with no small amount of displeasure how low cut and revealing Erik had designed the wedding dress.

Lascivious beast.

A part of her took comfort in calling him such things, if only in her mind, yet another part felt deeply remorseful and disrespecting -- a part of her hated him, with the most scarlet, passionate hate she'd felt through her entire eighteen years, and yet another part still saw him as her strict, didactic. awe-inspiring mentor who'd taught her all he knew of music. Well, almost all of it. She was quite certain she'd never be able to grasp how one could pour such emotion and ardor into a piece of music.

Christine grew angry with herself. How could she think of this man's capacity for musical talent and his teaching abilities when he'd just killed the only person on earth who ever made her feel safe?

Her rage rose once more and she found she could treat him with a cold detachment. "Lead the way," she implored curtly.

Never could he fathom how a voice once so warm could flood ice into his heart.