Despite the sharp, hot pain that pulsated through her whole body—although it was especially concentrated in her ribs, eye, and jaw—Christine found herself very comfortable in Erik's arms. His gait was so amazingly smooth and soundless she felt like they were floating. He smelled like a mixture of things—ink, leather, cinnamon, and some other musty aroma she couldn't name. It was very soothing. His arms, as bony as they were, proved quite cozy. As they continued on their journey he began to hum a sweet little melody, and she could feel the vibrations in his chest as he purred.

They encountered only one lonely scene-shifter, as Erik had taken a more reclusive route. Erik sensed the the worker before Christine, and had ducked into a shadowy corner and waited for him to pass. The scene-shifter waltzed by ignorantly, whistling a merry tune to himself and they got by unseen. He was a very good ghost.

She only wondered how he had found out she was in trouble. She decided that would be a good question for another time, she did not want him getting angry and abandoning her weak and unattended. Additionally, she was unsure if she really wanted to know the answer…

Despite what had happened minutes earlier, Christine was able to find some happiness. After not seeing Erik for more or less a month, his return quelled her fears of him being sick or even dead. He seemed very much the same, if not more subdued. She knew she had scared him away after that kiss and it would take a while for things to be the same as they had been before—if they ever returned to that level of ease around each other. But here she was, resting in his arms. That was definitely a step.

She was almost glad for Raoul's fit, for it had brought her friend back to her.

Almost.

She knew now that she could not marry him. No matter how much he apologized—which he was bound to do once he recovered his senses, as he was a gentelemn and wouldn't want to breaka off an engagement—she simply could not marry him. She refused to live with a man who had abused her. No matter how sweet he was to her nothing could ever take that fear of him hurting her from her mind.

She did not want to move on, she did not want to start over. It seemed he had always been in her life. He had been a playmate through her childhood and a lover through her young adulthood. She would miss him or, rather, the old him. She realized that she had been missing the old him for a while…the old romantic, carefree Raoul…But she had to leave him.

But she was glad that she got out of such an abusive relationship now, rather than being stuck with him for the rest of her life.

And she found out that she was not terribly sad, not terribly devastated, but she was not happy at the same time. She realized that no, she did not love the Vicomte. She had only been infatuated with the side of his character he had let her see, or she had let herself see, his kindness and charm. But he was also a violent man, obsessed with his standing, and with low esteem for the value of family. They had nothing in common, really. They were passionate about the opposite things.

She felt like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She could see clearly now, she was not partially blinded to what she should have seen plainly had she let herself. She could live, breathe freely…she could sing. She could enjoy life. Now she wouldn't have to retire until old age or sickness forced her to do so, and she prayed that would be a long while from now.

Perhaps marriage wasn't for her. She could be content as a single woman for the rest of her life, in love with music not a man. She would sing at the Garnier or any opera that would take her until she was too old and then she would teach; she would love to share her passion. It sounded wonderful to her, being free from the bonds of a marriage and being able to sing and enjoy music for the rest of her life.

She had been so lost in her thoughts that she did not notice Erik looking down at her quizzically.

"You seem to be in unreasoningly good spirits," he remarked, ceasing to hum.

She smiled weakly. "I suppose I should be crying hysterically or something of the sort."

Erik laughed, and she felt the deep vibrations through the thin shirtsleeves that separated them. "That's what I would expect, yes. But refrain if you can, for I fear I would be no help at comforting you."

"Oh, that's not true," she protested. "You are doing so well now!"

He snorted derisively. "By remaining impolitely quiet as I stumble through the halls, almost dropping you on too many occasions?"

"No," she began softly. "By respecting my wish to think and by…by humming," as she said this last bit she felt her cheeks redden at the childishness of it.

He chuckled. "We will be there in a matter of minutes and then I will tend to your eye and jaw—are those your only wounds?"

"No, I think I might have broken a rib as well," Christine admitted, feeling embarrassed. She did not like feeling so fragile.

Erik sighed and studied her face for a moment more. "I am afraid it might be a while until you are able to perform."

"Amelie Jardin will take my place, no doubt," Christine grumbled. "And then I will be a chorus girl once again."

Erik smiled slightly. "No, I do not think so. Mlle. Jardin has most unfortunately lost her voice, and I do not think she will recover it very soon. It is quite a shame."

"Oh, what happened to her?"

Erik tilted his head to the side; he would have shrugged nonchalantly had his arms not been otherwise employed. "Perhaps a month or two…maybe a year…or a lifetime…"

Christine looked at him skeptically. "You didn't have anything to do with this, did you?"

Erik's lips tilted upwards. "Of course not. That wouldn't be playing fair." But he let his expression show that he was clearly not telling the truth.

Christine smiled slightly. "Well that's a relief. If she had replaced me it most likely would have been permanent, but I think that the girl who will take my place might only hold it temporarily."

Erik nodded. "You hold the heart of Paris in your hands. The managers are not stupid enough to replace you and loose half of their income."

"Everyone is replaceable," Christine said sensibly.

Erik looked like he wanted to disagree but only replied with a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

They arrived at his home not long after. Christine noticed that it was messier than normal. It suited him, as a genius of many talents and arts he didn't have time to spare for cleaning.

"I am sorry for the mess," he murmured, setting her down on a sofa. "I haven't had the opportunity to clean recently," he apologized, raking a hand through his dark hair. "I will get some tea and my supplies. Is here anything else you need at the moment?" he asked.

She replied with the negative that there wasn't, thank you, and that she was very much obliged to him.

"I will be back shortly. Excuse me."

The initial pain of her injuries had worn off during the trek down to the cellars, but a different kind of pain began to ensue. This type was dull and throbbing, it would rise and fall like waves washing in on the shore of the beach. This was a lasting type of pain that she knew she would not be relieved of for a while. It hurt with each intake of breath as her lungs pushed against her damaged and irritated ribs. She could not sing while her ribs were still healing; if shallow breaths were painful then the deep, gulping pants she took while singing would be even more so. She hoped Erik's help may shorten that time.

He returned in a minute or two, one hand gracefully balancing a tea tray and the other carrying a black medicine bag. He set the tray on the table in front of her and she gratefully took a sip from one of the steaming cups.

He began to rifle through his bag, pulling out various ointments and tools.

"Where did you learn medicine?" Christine asked, surveying the foreign looking objects that he could not have obtained from France.

"Here and there," he said vaguely. "Most of my knowledge came from the Gypsies."

She wondered what other hidden talents the man behind the mask secretly possessed. Madame Giry had once said that he was also a master architect, illusionist and ventriloquist. She wondered what he couldn't do.

"Pardon me," he murmured. "but may I…?" he asked, lifting his hand to her jaw. She bobbed her head yes and tilted my head back slightly so that he could treat her wounds better from where he kneeled on the floor.

His hand slowly rose to where it hovered millimeters away from her discoloring jawline. Then hesitantly, his fingertips brushed against her skin.

She jumped from the shock that surged through her body.

Erik pulled away instantly, ashamed. His eyes bore holes into the carpet as he was determined not to look her in the eye.

"Perhaps," he began but his broke off. "Perhaps you should administer these to yourself."

"No," she insisted. "No. Please…" and she took hold of his cold hand and gently brought it to her chin.

He held his hand there for a moment before exploring her bruised flesh with two fingertips. He began asking questions about the wound, while alternately prodding at it and rummaging through his bag.

"I am going to put some of this on," he said decidedly, holding up a small bottle. "It is just a bruise—although quite nasty one at that—but your jaw is still intact. It should be discolored for a little over a week."

She nodded obediently.

"As for your eye…look at me." She stared into the golden eyes that lay behind the mask. "Now turn your head slightly…and maintain my gaze…" he gently tilted her chin away. He sighed. "A subconjunctival hemorrhage."

She looked at him quizzically.

"You popped a blood vessel in your eye," he said in simpler terms. "If your eye starts to feel dry, which it most likely will, take these," he said, handing her a small bottle. "They are eye drops. Two should do it. As for the bruising around it, use this. It is made specifically for such delicate areas as the eye. Now did you say your ribs are…?"

"Yes. I—I hit the wall and I heard a crack and felt a sharp pain. It seems to be one of the lowest ones," she said.

"I am afraid that I cannot look at that," he said regretfully with a hint of uneasiness as he began to pack up his bag. "Are you suggesting that one of the broke?"

She nodded. "My dress is thin—you can feel it through the fabric." She picked up his hand again and led it to her ribcage. "This one," she said "is the one that I think I might have broken."

Erik pushed it, testing it in different places, asking her when and where she felt pain. He watched her chest rise and fall and listened to her breathing. "I cannot say for sure," he said. "but I'm fairly positive it is fractured. There is not much you can do but let it heal in time. It will not fully heal for over six weeks, but you will be able to move around sooner than then. Lie on the injured side and take deep breaths, even though it will be painful; it prevents pneumonia. Use these bandages to wrap around the area to support it, but to not wrap too tightly. I will give you something to help soothe the pain."

"Thank you," she said, trying to convey every ounce of her gratitude into those two little words. "I don't know what would have become of me if you hadn't found me."

He made a noise in the back of his throat to say this it was no major inconvenience. She gathered her bottles and medications and rose to leave, wincing at the sharp pain that stung in her side as she did so. Erik leapt to his feet and took a hold of her arm.

"You are in no state to travel to your flat," he said seriously. "I would suggest staying down here,"

"I don't want to impose on you—"

He gave her a look. "And I don't want you fainting in the street on the way to your apartment," he said frankly, easing the conversation with a smirk.

He took the bottles from her and escorted her into the familiar bedroom. He arranged them on her bedside table and looked at her concernedly. "Is there anything else I can do?" he asked.

"No," she assured him. "I don't believe I can ever thank you enough."

He nodded concisely and stalked out of the room, ducking through the low doorframe.

She pulled off her dress with great difficulty and slipped into a lush robe hanging neglected in the closet. She took some of the pain medication left thoughtfully on her bedside table, tried to crawl into bed with as little movement as possible, and laid on her side as Erik had prescribed.

Her room looked the exact same as she had seen it last, except everything was covered in a thick filmy layer of dust. She wondered if Erik had even ventured into the room in the previous four years.

She was very tired and her eyes were fighting the urge to stay open. She put the kerosene lamp out and tried to get some sleep, and despite the millions of thoughts crowding her head she nodded off very quickly.