Immediately I return home, I don work clothes and proceed to completely obliterate the passageway whereby Christine betrayed my home to her lover. I will neither rest nor eat until it's seen to. Yes; my very life does depend upon it.

I have no time to think of Christine until I wake from exhausted slumber. The fragrance of her hair lingers on the pillowcase. I remember everything: the day she came to the opera, a frightened little orphan; the day I first spoke to her; her first touch, tiny fingers burning me through my gloves. The funny little dimple which appears over her left brow when she is irritated; the way she coos at the sight of an especially luscious chocolate; the unqualified thrill of singing with her onstage; the taste of her tears. I take the pillow into my arms as if it was my precious Christine and weep.

I spend the day wracked with guilt for allowing my pride and rage to get the better of me and abandoning Christine to that sniveling, perfumed fop. I will spend the rest of my life making it up to her, but first I must rescue her yet again. I hope she has not come to grief–I have lost track of time somewhat, but I believe it has been two days since I left her.

At dusk I venture above with my sword, a short Persian dagger which I find handy in a pinch, and my lasso. My intention is to carry Christine off without being discovered, but in any case, I will carry her off if I have to rouse and kill the entire household.

On the ride to Chagny, I meditate on my fury at the hospital. I wonder if my temper is getting worse as I age, or if it is just this tiresome man-child that sends me round the bend. Sometimes all I do is think of him, and I feel myself losing control. If I didn't know better, I'd suspect my sanity had deserted me. Still, I must do better than I have done of late; after all, I'm a husband now, I must consider Christine.

They are just finishing dinner when I arrive at Chagny. I make a quick reconnaissance of the house and wait for things to settle down for the night. The place is posh, I must admit, but nowhere near the earthly paradise that our home will be once it's complete. I make a mental note to take up the subject of our new home with Christine again soon. No doubt she'll be disconcerted after this second rescue, but once she realizes she's safe with her loving husband she'll soon be herself again. Then we can begin plans for our new life in earnest.

The house is darkening, particularly downstairs. Another quick pass around the house reveals two sets of windows on the second floor that I must explore. Fortunately, Chagny is an ornate chateau and will be easily scaled. I feel like D'Artagnan from Dumas' book, oozing gallantry. I pull myself up to the window and crouch relatively comfortably on some gingerbread. I peer into the window and almost cry out for my luck. I see some of Christine's clothing inside the wardrobe across the room. I am about to climb down and wait for her light to go out, when I hear her voice.

"Yes?"

"Christine, may I come in?"

"No, Raoul. Go away!" That's my precious bride.

"I just want to talk," he whines. Liar!

"I remember the last time we talked in my room. No."

"Christine, I won't do anything you–"

"No, you won't! I'm married now, Raoul."

"Christine, let me in!" he demands hotly. "He left you, Christine! You nearly threw yourself out the window after him, and he was completely unmoved by your cries! Christine!"

"No! Don't say that!" He's made her cry. I begin to tremble with rage.

"You promised me, Christine, remember? You promised that you'd come back to me if I helped you. Well, I did, and now you're here. Christine, you've got to put him behind you–for good, this time."

"I didn't promise you," she sobs. "I promised you I'd think about it!"

"He's a madman. I can't let you leave here and just give yourself to a madman, Christine!"

"He's my husband before God, Raoul. Please, stop saying he's a madman. He would never hurt me!"

"No doubt you thought he'd never leave you, either, until the other day! What happens when you're trapped in that…sewer with him and he finally goes completely mad and attacks you?"

"Oh, Raoul, I'm so tired! Please let me be," she pleads.

"Christine, just let me hold you."

"No, no! Go away! Please, please go away!" Her weeping turns muffled. In my mind's eye I can see her collapsing onto the bed.

I hear him thump–his fist, likely, against the door. Then quiet, except for my little Christine's tears. I long to go to her now, but best I wait and execute my original plans. There is nothing for it but to wait until the small hours. I slip down the façade, into the garden, and secrete myself in a hedgerow for a nap.

When I wake, I suspect it is about 3, judging by the moon. I glide silently into the front door and up the stairs. First thing upstairs, I look in on my angel. She is sleeping peacefully. I will let her be for a few minutes; just one thing to see to first.

I locate Chagny's room and leave him a note on the pillow where he wishes Christine's head would lay.

Dear Comte,

I have been and gone tonight. I stood at your bedside and watched you, peaceful and beautiful in sleep. I could have strangled the life from you as you slept. If you never see her again, you will live a long and healthy life. If you trouble her in any way, I will visit you again as you sleep; only this time, I shall not pass over.

The Angel of Death

I return to the room where my bride sleeps. I pack as much of her clothing as I can in the carpet bag I find at the bottom of the wardrobe. I move to the bed and look down at her. Her skin is luminous in the moonlight. For a fleeting moment, I think of leaving her here: in this beautiful house, in this beautiful bed, to have a beautiful life with the beautiful boy. But no…I shall give her a more beautiful life, and more love than he ever could. I press my lips to her forehead reverently.

"Christine…" I whisper in her ear.

She comes awake slowly. As her eyes adjust to the moonglow, she gasps and begins to cry softly against my neck. "No; I'm dreaming," she sighs.

"Ssshhh, my Dear. Erik is here to bring you home. It is no dream," I comfort her. I wrap her cloak around her and bear her silently from the house. She is weightless as a doll, nestled against me on the ride back to the city. She dozes off in my arms, and never wakes, even as I move through the caverns. As I remove her cloak and tuck her into our own welcoming bed, she stirs slightly, and her precious brows knit in irritation. "Don't touch me, Raoul. I dreamed of Erik; he's coming for me."

"Angel, it is your own Erik; you are safe at home."

"Erik," she sighs dreamily. "I'm safe at home." She enfolds my neck, refusing to let me go. Achingly slowly, I manage to stretch out, fully clothed, beside her. Finally, neck, back and legs knotted and cramped, I drift off to blessed sleep.