The Mask and Mirror

It don't make no difference, escaping one last time
It's easier to believeIn this sweet madness, oh this glorious sadness
That brings me to my knees

(Sarah McLachlan, Arms of An Angel)

Chapter 3

Even in light of the demanding rehearsals when part of the Ballet Corps, the following six months were the busiest Christine had ever known. She had never dreamed that a wedding could take such preparation. Though to give him his due, Raoul had assured her that she need not worry about any of the arrangements, as everything was under control. He had thrown himself into the preparations with an eagerness that was almost frenzy, which surprised her. He was driven by a furious need to put the past behind them. It was clear he felt too much time had been taken from them already.

Raoul was now a daily caller at the Giry's flat. Meg Giry was always ready to greet him with an arch smile; even her mother had mellowed considerably towards him. They had even accepted his invitations to the chateau – although this kindness had a subliminal ulterior motive for the benefit of Madame Giry, to fully confirm that in marrying him, Christine would want for nothing. Raoul also saw to it that Christine herself would understand anything she wished for was hers for the asking. Taken around Paris shopping, trips to its famous sites, picnics in the park, dinners at the chateau, for Christine, the weeks flew by in a whirlwind of fever and excitement that hardly left her time to breathe. In those times, the laughing, eager, caring Raoul was the one she knew and had fallen for so many years ago. Yet something had altered from the easy familiarity of childhood, the sense of amiable camaraderie and sweet innocence of the days when they had lain together hand in hand, building castles in Spain, needing nothing more than dreams and joy and laughter. Now Christine would tremble if he touched her, her nerves heightened at his proximity. His blue eyes would darken as they met hers with an unspoken longing that made her heart shudder with some secret delight. This newly awakened spark of sensuality intensified as the weeks turned into months and their moments alone were becoming increasingly heightened, the engagement that seemed at first a blessing now feeling more like a frustration as it delayed the inevitable.

Yes, there was no longer any doubt in her mind or heart that she loved Raoul ardently, devotedly, desperately. How easy it was for her to lose herself in those sea-blue, sea-deep eyes, to find herself breathless at the warm smile that broke like a ray of sunlight across his noble, proud, determined face. Every passing day deepened her adoration for him. No one could be kinder, gentler or more compassionate than Raoul.

However, there were some clouds that darkened those months of sheer bliss. Christine found herself becoming annoyed and soon alarmed at his lavishness towards her. It seemed he would spare no expense catering to her slightest whim, even something mentioned offhand in conversation that she had never given a second thought to. Soon Christine was careful not to mention anything she might want in his presence, knowing that if she did so, she would arrive home to find a package delivered, signed with all my love – Raoul.

She found it hard in her heart to condemn him, for she knew this generosity was not a case of Raoul's being careless about money. Indeed, he managed his finances scrupulously, but being of a generous nature, brought up with an older brother and his sisters now married, he had never had anyone to spend his money on. It filled him with a sense of happiness to think of Christine's face lighting up when she opened the parcels he sent her. She had been brought up in poverty, then in the dormitories of the Opera House, she had never known a time of true safety or security. Even in their earliest years, he had always been uncomfortably aware of the difference in their stations that stemmed not from snobbery, but rather a sincere wish to give her the comforts and luxuries he thought she deserved. From childhood she had deserved riches and jewels worthy of a queen; instead all she had were shells, a battered violin and a faded red scarf.

"What do you mean?" he said, rather confusedly when she finally dared broach the subject of his generosity. "I thought you liked my gifts. Those gowns last week – are they not to your taste? I can always have them altered or return them."

Christine sighed. It had never occurred to her before that, being born into such wealth, Raoul would find it impossible to conceive that anyone might not want to live in equal lavishness. "It isn't that at all, Raoul. Your presents have been wonderful, I cannot tell you how grateful I am –"

"Then where is the problem? You needn't worry that I can't afford them. I have told you that money is not a concern."

"I don't want you to feel obliged to buy me anything. I am perfectly happy as I am. I love you, Raoul, not diamond encrusted chokers."

Before he could respond, someone entered with a request about flower arrangements, and Raoul was called away, leaving Christine with the helpless feeling that she had achieved nothing at all.

One evening, they paid a visit to both of Raoul's sisters. Unlike the bright, airy, vivacious Meg who would have relished such an opportunity, for the shy Christine, it was something rather to dread than anticipate, as she harboured secret fears of snobbery, knowing she could hardly be considered an ideal match for the Vicomte de Chagny. Had she but known it, she need not have had any cause for concern. Raoul was the youngest of his family and had spent his life being indulged by his two elder sisters. Indeed, it struck them as thrillingly romantic that he had been swept off his feet – by an actress, no less! It was exciting enough to add a dashing, impulsive streak to his character without fear of a scandal tainting their reputation. They adored their brother, though thinking him rather dull, if sweet boy. This news was enough to make him interesting again.

For Christine, humiliation came from another quarter. Raoul, despite having no qualms about her modest attire when they were alone together, said that company required something a little more fitting and had requested that she wear the finest gown she now owned. Consequently, that evening, Christine stared at herself in the mirror, thinking she looked like a dressed up doll. She felt lost amidst ruffles and flounces; the brightly coloured silks and velvets were in her opinion gaudy and overdone. Additionally, the dress was low cut enough to make her modest nature balk slightly at wearing it. La Carlotta might be able to carry off such an ensemble with aplomb, but she, Christine Daae felt merely foolish. Adding insult to injury, one of the maids powdered her face, added colour to her lips and piled her hair in a heavy, perfumed, decorated mass above her head until the reflection that gazed back at her was barely recognisable as her own. She thanked heaven Madame Giry could not see her. Even Meg had raised a delicately plucked brow at her appearance.

The appreciation in Raoul's eyes changed to faint bewilderment when he saw how solemn and distant Christine was when she appeared. The expression was one uncharacteristically adult on her sweet, gentle face. She made no mention of the cause of her discomfort, determined to get the formality over with. Both women were perfectly kind, paying her every kind of delicate compliment. They thought her 'a darling', 'sweet' and 'adorable'. It only merely added to her embarrassment and the conviction she was being made a pet of. She wondered if this was what she was to expect, being the wife of the Vicomte de Chagny. It had never – foolishly she now realised – occurred to her before. It all seemed so horribly… superficial. She shook away the horribly ungrateful thought. She was marrying Raoul because she loved him. That was enough. But a small part of her wondered that, while she was ready to become the wife of Raoul, was she really ready to become the Vicomtesse de Chagny?

To Christine, the highlight of those busy, frustrating, endearing months was a three-week trip they took to Perros-Guirec. She was beginning to feel stifled in Paris and found herself yearning for the that place of childhood memories in a way she did not understand.

Her dreams had turned almost unvaryingly to the sea. In those dreams she lay amid high-crested waves as great plumes crashed and tumbled around her. Her dark hair streamed around her like tangled seaweed. The gale drenched her with foam and crystal and grist, driftwood buffeted her between the roar of the waves, the bells and drums and birds that wheeled and soared between the white-tipped caps. The wild melodies lulled her, soothed her, and above her floating form the sky opened and poured down salt rain. The storm passed overhead, great rolling clouds of blue and green and black and silver. The waves rose higher still, the towering depths vast and endless, threatening the swallow her whole. The water was cold as ice and something lurked in the subterranean depths, something that would rise from the deeps and devour her.

And then she would awake.

Raoul was only too eager to comply with her request to visit Perros. He had harboured private concerns, noting Christine's healthy complexion had begun to pale and realised the stress of preparing a wedding must be taking its toll on her. The thought of briefly escaping the engagements at home was not an entirely unappealing prospect for him, either. He was starting to realise just how much Philippe had had to cope with, running the de Chagny estate. To take a trip away where he need not worry about such responsibilities for a time came as a welcome relief.

Those weeks later held an almost dreamlike quality to them. Perros was one of those wonderful places that had been untouched since their childhood, and still held an elusive, haunting enchantment of youth that time had done little to dispel. They passed the days walking along the shoreline and sat amongst the dunes at sunset engaged in a series of 'do you remembers'.

"Do you remember when we secretly took the flat into the sea and it capsized?"

"Do you remember when Papa told us that if you follow the path the moon makes along the water, it leads to a door, and beyond, marble halls with adamant pillars and diamond floors?"

"Do you remember the day you cried when your fiddle broke, so we tried to fashion a new one from rushes and driftwood?"

The visit was more healing to Christine than any of the shopping trips and trivial pursuits in Paris. That last night came all too quickly for her. They stole away to the beach at twilight, and found it uncommonly deserted as the brooding atmosphere promised of a storm to come. They were left alone with nature and each other.

Christine stood still, unwilling to move in case by doing so, the spell and beauty of the evening would be lost. The stinging spray settled itself over her hair and she turned her face to it, inhaling the salty tang. The sea was beating against the shore, the white crests of waves visible a brief instant before exploding in frothy plumes. The crash of water against the rocks that led into crystalline caves was raw, thunderous, untamed. Raoul had always preferred the beach in its calmer moods, when they were able to go right into the sea as children and afterwards lay out on the sand, dripping wet to dry in the sun. But Christine loved something about the storm – the clash and the violence and the struggle – almost persuaded that she could hear the evocative notes of her father's violin lingering between the pounding waves and the wild, wild wind. At night, she and her father would curl up, listening to the tempest, and he would calm her fears but sitting the little girl on his lap and telling her stories. There was no need to fear the storm, for it would not stop the Angel coming, he once said. In fact, the Angel of Music loved the storm, for he would use the crashing waves as his symbols, the wailing wind as his flute; his melodies were clearly audible to those who would listen. Ever since then, Christine had been entranced by the sea in its wilder moods, and had never feared it since.

The sky loomed dark and sullen overhead, the sea swirling and violent in a myriad of foreboding colours. Sharp cragged rocks rose out of the unplumbed depths, and she recalled with a shiver the stories that had thrilled them through the long nights when the elements beat furiously against the shutters; of mariners and mermaids, of smugglers and sirens and albatrosses and angels. Brine coated her face and neck in a mist as she stood motionless, captivated by the wild. Past and present blurred, entwined, inescapable.

Raoul glanced sidelong and saw the wind had whipped colour into Christine's white skin; her hair was blowing wildly. The sight of it caught his breath. Her eyes were closed; she seemed to be listening intently for some rhythm he could not hear beyond the heavy roaring of the sea, the rush of eddying waves against the shingle, blurred through a mist of spray. He was suddenly almost fearful to disturb her; she appeared to have forgotten his presence, bound by some past dream or reverie.

He laid a tentative hand on her shoulder, turning her slowly to face him. He tasted coral and the salt of the sea on her lips, felt himself drowning in the rolling waves of her hair. Christine, lost in his arms, clung to him and wished this present could last an eternity. That they need never return to Paris, the Chateau and the world of society and convention. That they need not be the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Chagny, but simply Raoul and Christine. If only those days could return and they could hold onto them forever. Here, she could feel the old ways around her, her father's haunting melodies enduring across the seas. This was the one place where she could utterly capture the past, before grief, before doubt, before fear.

Before Erik.

Christine looked around the quiet and spacious hallway, its pillars of ribbed wood, white interlaced with blue. Moonlight spilled in through one of the upper windows, casting dappled silver splashes across the marbled floor. The sounds of conversation and refined laughter drifted in from the drawing room and Raoul closed the door quietly so they would not be disturbed. The silence between them was tense, expectant somehow. She pulled her shawl more tightly around her; after the warmth and light of the drawing room, the hall was cool and dark, almost Gothic in atmosphere.

"… I hope you weren't offended," Raoul was saying. "The Dauphine does tend to speak rather freely of such things. She spends too much time with her notorious brother. I could tell you stories about him that even Madame Giry would blush at."

Christine laughed a little, trying to keep her voice light. "I spent enough time at the Opera Populaire to have a certain idea." She opened her eyes innocently. "Is he so very bad?"

"A most infamous rake," said Raoul solemnly. "Someone who has thrown away all sense of propriety and modesty, doing as he pleases, acting only on the impulses of his passions and desires…"

All of a sudden, she felt as weak as a child under his penetrating gaze. "And do you condemn him for that?"

His thumb was tracing a line along her bottom lip. "At the present moment," he said softly. "I can quite understand it…"

Christine shivered as his cool fingers cupped her chin. "I know the feeling."

His kiss was like coming up for air after drowning, wonderfully complete, yet somehow not enough. Christine knew they both felt it; that their feelings had gone beyond the point of a chaste kiss here and there. It was no longer enough. They needed more, more than the limbo of their engagement could offer in its frustratingly unfulfilled state, together and yet not together. The fingers that had been gently resting on her chin tightened their hold, deepening the kiss. Christine could dimly hear the thudding of her heart but it was drowned out by the roaring in the ears and the sound of his mouth moving over hers, soft yet all-consuming. Her arms were around his neck, her hands tangling in his hair that felt soft and fine as silk beneath her fingers.

"Christine –" His soft exhalation against her mouth caused a shudder to pass through her. She clung to him more tightly still as the distant voices, the cold hall, fled far away, and there was only this moment, Raoul's hands on her, his muttered whispers, the shaking intensity breaking over her like waves on a beach -

At last, and with a visible effort, he pulled away, stepping back a couple of paces. Christine swayed on her feet, breathing hard. She swallowed half-nervously and looked up at Raoul. His blue eyes had darkened several shades, an expression she had never before seen glowing within their lighted depths. "My guests…" His voice was hoarse.

"I know." Christine sighed, suddenly very lonely and cold outside the circle of his arms.

Raoul cleared his throat, and she could visibly see the effort it took for him to speak calmly. A low, thrilling pulse began to beat at the thought that she could have such an effect on him, a moment later marred by the realisation that such thoughts were sinfully immodest. She had known only one man who lived so flagrantly outside the laws of propriety, and he was –

No. Her feelings for Raoul had no affinity with such base and profane urges as Erik had felt towards her. She had no cause to feel any shame.

"My carriage will pick you up tomorrow around ten," Raoul said. He sounded a little wistful. There were a lot of hours to wait before ten o'clock the next morning.

Christine nodded, and moved reluctantly towards the door, but in a swift movement, he pulled her towards him again. Firm arms wound around her waist. She looked up into his face and was struck by a longing so intense it was almost physical pain. They were both finding it harder and harder to say goodbye at the end of each night.

"I hate you having to leave," he murmured, echoing her thoughts.

"So do I," she admitted. Her trembling hands smoothed down the material of his velvet jacket. "A week until the wedding… it feels like such a long time."

His eyes reflected the cool blue lights of the hall. It was like looking into the bottom of the ocean. The silver moonlight streaming in through the lattice highlighted his smooth features. In the wavering half-light, his face came to her as though like a reflection in water. The strong chin, the determined curve of the jaw, his firm, sensible mouth that betrayed just a hint of stubbornness. His skin was a few shades paler in the dimly lit hall, crescent moon shadows beneath his eyes. He was so handsome it almost hurt to look at him.

"Why do love me?" she said, suddenly.

Raoul started. "I – what?"

"Why do you love me?" she repeated.

He looked at her narrowly. His eyes were brilliant and clear, like cut glass. "Why do you ask?"

She frowned, trying to find the right words. What she wanted to say was very important, very serious. She set her jaw. "I just – I love you so much that it hurts to breathe if you are not with me. And you've been through so much for my sake, I cannot understand why, I feel like I don't deserve –"

Raoul leaned forward and kissed her, kissed her so thoroughly and completely that she could think of nothing else but the tiny pulses of sensation sparking across her skin, the feel of his crushed velvet jacket caught in her clenched fists, his hands curling around the corseted waistline of her gown and drawing her closer to him. She could feel his body pressed against every inch of her, and she was no longer anxious, only aware of a distant falling sensation. Without knowing how it happened, she found her back against the wall, the chill stone causing a shiver to pass through her body. Raoul's hands tightened on her waist as he kissed her with increased urgency, and Christine closed her eyes, feeling as though she were drowning in the chill blue lights of the hall printed in an afterimage against her closed lids. Her nerves sang. She leaned fully into him, trusting only to his hold, and the firm grip of his hands was the only solid thing in this dizzying, falling world –

When he finally released her, Christine had to cling to the lapels of his coat to remain upright. His face was slightly flushed, but his expression was intent, serious.

"Now do you have any doubts?"

Christine felt light-headed. "I… I've forgotten…"

"Good," he said, gently. "Because there is nothing to doubt, I promise you that." His hand reached out and stroked her hair with a gesture that was meant to be entirely affectionate, but caused every pulse in her body to jump. "Tomorrow then?"

"Tomorrow," she said.

"Raoul, it's freezing!" Christine gave an unsteady laugh, clutching her shawl tighter around her neck as she stood on one of the chateau's many balconies, overlooking the darkened gardens. A week before their wedding, the all too brief summer months had been left behind, and now in November, winter was creeping into the grounds. Through the chilly mist, the view outside wavered before her eyes like a dream that begins to fade on waking, or a painting left half abandoned. The scene was washed with faded greys and whites; the only colour was the silver birch that dazzled in the pale moonlight. But the tree was dead, its leaves frail and shrivelled on the frost dusted path. Everything was dead. Or dying.

She turned away from the view, back to Raoul. The sight of dead things unsettled her, bringing the cemetery of her father all too clearly into her thoughts.

At the sound of the sweet, girlish laugh coming from Christine's lips, Raoul smiled. "I've been meaning to give you this for some time now." She found a small box being pressed into her cold hands.

Christine sighed and said gently, "Raoul, I told you there is no need to buy me –"

"Just open it. Please."

She unclasped the metal fastening on the box and lifted the lid. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of a glittering white pendant ring nestling in the folds of paper. Her fingers took hold of the silver band, lifting it from the box. The gem's many faceted edges flashed in the moonlight, sending out icy rays, beautiful and blinding in their intensity. Christine however, found her gaze drawn upwards into the bluest eyes she had ever encountered.

"I was hoping you would wear it at the wedding." Raoul's voice was very soft.

"Oh Raoul, it's beautiful." She was unable to say anything else, overcome with emotion. But the sincerity, the shining expression in her eyes, must have spoken eloquently for her.

"I felt you should have something to wear, after what happened to the – the other one."

A strangely awkward silence fell between them. Erik's name had barely been mentioned between them these past few months. Christine toyed with the band, while Raoul stared across the balcony for some moments. He drummed his fingers against the balustrade, the muscles of his face rigid with a sudden tension.

"Christine… can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"Why did you give it to him?"

"The what?"

"The ring."

She hesitated. "I don't know. I didn't really think. It all happened so fast."

His voice was light and careless, but his hands gripping the balustrade were trembling. "But, darling, why the ring?"

"I felt sorry for him. I wanted him to know that I forgave him. That we could both move on without bitterness."

"Now it was deliberate, before you didn't think about it." Raoul hated himself for the flash of jealousy that uncoiled, snakelike, in the pit of his stomach but he could not prevent it; nor could he prevent the snide, self-righteous manner in which he spoke. However, it was too late to take the words back.

Christine had faltered an instant. She was on the brink of telling Raoul everything: how she had wanted to hate Erik, how she despised herself for this weakness that even now made a part of her cling to his memory – but Raoul's harsh tone, the priggish accusation in his voice immediately riled her. So instead, she retorted stiffly: "Why this sudden cross examination? I pitied him. That's all. And if you knew what his life was, you would not judge him so harshly."

"That doesn't absolve him," returned Raoul immediately, white faced and tight lipped.

"I would have thought you at least, Raoul, would be able to show some pity, you who can afford to."

"Pity! – to that? He's a madman, a murderer. You should hate him, Christine. For God's sake, anyone else in your situation would!"

"Then you know nothing about me!" she cried, angry colour suffusing her cheeks.

Raoul curled his fingers into white-knuckled fists at his sides and made a visible effort to compose himself. Remember what sort of nightmare she underwent. Some allowances had to be made. "Please. I don't mean to be insensitive. Of course you've been through a terrible ordeal," he said, the sympathy evident in the sincerity of his voice. Her expression softened. "It is impossible to come out of any such experience entirely unscathed. Naturally, after everything that you endured, you must have been affected… damaged."

Christine's eyes flashed at once. "Damaged?"

An expression flickered across his face for an instant: haggard, fierce, despairing. It almost made her feel sorry for him, but the white-hot ripples of anger running through her body were dispelling the last tattered remnants of her patience. "So I'm incapable of thinking rationally, is that it?"

Raoul passed his hands through his hair in a helpless gesture. Why on earth had he started this argument? He reached out an imploring hand but Christine snatched herself away, glaring out over the balcony. He closed his eyes, aware of a crushing sense of guilt and frustration. When he finally spoke, he sounded tired, terribly so. "I'm just saying I think your feelings for him are clouding your judgment, preventing you from seeing what he really is."

His words had an unprecedented effect on her; she whirled round to face him accusingly. "Feelings? Feelings? I cannot believe this! I cannot believe you are actually jealous of him! This petty rivalry is beneath you, Raoul."

"I think I have some cause to be jealous." His bitter voice cut through her more sharply than the surrounding frost. "For three months – three months, Christine! – you locked yourself away! Are you telling me in all that time you never once felt anything for him?"

Her voice wavered, catching painfully in her throat. "I have never lied to you, Raoul. Never. I have always tried to be honest with you."

"Then tell me this – honestly." His painful resolve to remain calm was fast crumbling away in the desperate need to know, once and for all. "Do you love him?"

"How can you even ask me that?"

His heart seemed to be caving in on itself. That wasn't a denial. "Do you?"

Christine fought the urge to burst into tears. She had broken down too many times already; she refused to do so again. "If you really need to ask me that now, after everything we've been through, then it won't make any difference whatever I tell you! We are to be married within a week, Raoul! Is that not answer enough? But since you need more proof, then consider this. Why did I agree, at great personal risk, to betray him? Why was I living in fear throughout that time? Why was I paralysed with dread at the thought he might be driven to kill you in a jealous rage?"

"Christine, you told me all you wanted was to be free of him, but the moment I had a chance to kill him in the cemetery, you prevented me. Why?" It sounded as though he had wanted to ask this question for months.

"Because that would make you as bad as him!" she returned, her voice high-pitched and desperate. "Nothing more than a murderer. And I cannot believe I am having to justify my actions to you. I have given you everything, Raoul! What more could you possibly want from me?"

"I want to be sure, Christine! Believe me, I am trying to see your point of view here, but I just can't."

"Well if that's what you want, then maybe you should find yourself someone a little less damaged!" She turned and fled back indoors, making sure the door behind her was closed before she gave way to the pent-up storm of furious tears.

Raoul made a hesitant movement towards her retreating figure, but the slamming door settled the matter. After several numbed minutes, he finally went indoors and made his way towards a seat, pale and shaken by their argument. His trembling hand reached towards the decanter of red wine on the table, indifferent whether or not a servant came in to see. He had been subject to enough gossip since February, by now he didn't even care what people said about him. He was preoccupied with other, more depressing thoughts.

By God… whatever had possessed him to start such a confrontation within days of their wedding? He was a damned fool, consumed by his own jealousy. He stared out of the window. The stars and moon glittered in the dark sky, hard and cold. Christine had been nothing but sweetness and kindness throughout their engagement. But then why this evasiveness about Erik? Why could she not seem to shake off his cursed influence? She hadn't admitted she loved him, but she hadn't exactly denied it, either. Was she still possessed by this magnetism, this compelling force that had always drawn her to him? He had heard the power of that voice in Don Juan. Had stood by helpless, having to trust only to Christine's professed loyalty that she would carry out what needed to be done. Once they had left the lair of that fiend, he had thought the hideous chapter in their lives was finished. So why, after nine months, was it returning to haunt them?

Anger and incredulity had driven Christine to the streets of Paris, the twisting streets following her turbulent state of mind. Her cheeks were burning with colour in contrast to the icy temperature of the November night. Snow swirled around her in dizzying, blinding flurries. Christine closed her eyes, wishing it would bury her in cold and enveloping silence. She was unable to face the thought of returning to the Girys', not until she had recovered her composure. She knew Madame Giry would immediately be able to tell something was wrong, and she could not bring herself to divulge a confession, not yet. Maman would raise her eyebrows knowingly, and immediately give some pithy, hard-hitting piece of advice. The thought of Meg's emphatic bewilderment was equally unbearable. Right now, she wished them both a thousand miles away. And as for Raoul…

She felt numbed with disbelief at this quarrel that had erupted so quickly between them. Whatever had happened to those former days in which they had been in easy accordance with everything? They had had minor disagreements before, but nothing like this. Which of us has changed, she thought in bewilderment, and in Heaven's name, why? She couldn't believe it had come to this. She had really thought they could move beyond Erik's influence, but what if they couldn't? Clearly, too much had been left unsaid throughout their engagement. She could sense, throughout their argument, the resentment that had been brewing beneath the surface all this time. It had been almost a relief to finally give vent to her feelings.

Was it her fault? She had thought Raoul incredibly selfish, stubbornly refusing to understand her feelings. She had forgotten how infuriating he could sometimes be. At his best, he was gallant and charming, and in those times she loved him more than anything in the world. But at his worst, he could be nothing more than a pompous, self-righteous prig. His jealousy had come as the greatest shock to her. She had encountered jealousy in Erik, of course – murderous jealously – but to have it from Raoul, who was normally so generous, good natured and understanding… perhaps it was some irredeemable fault of her own that had reduced him to this. All she had ever tried to do was be honest with him. And this is where it had left her. Alone, unprotected, in the cold streets of Paris. The realisation was a sobering one. She began to feel uneasy. There were only certain types of women who ventured out unchaperoned at this time of night. It attracted the wrong sort of attention.

Her fears appeared to be confirmed when a carriage drew up alongside the pavement. Christine pulled her shawl over her face and began walking faster, but the chaise continued to follow her quite deliberately. However, when she glanced back and caught sight of the white horse driving it, she felt a wave of relief. She recognised the beast from the stable as belonging to one of the drivers at the chateau, having fed it apples on many an occasion.

"François," she said softly, with a reluctant smile.

She hurried toward the carriage, eager to get in from the cold, booted feet leaving crusted imprints on the snowy pavement. She was touched that Raoul had been concerned enough to send a brougham after her and half annoyed at his presumption. However, it was too late to direct the cab back to the Chateau. There was nothing to do but return to the Giry's flat and talk to Raoul in the morning. The driver leapt down from the horse, heavily cloaked and hooded in the chilly November night. "It's quite alright, François," she called out. "I can let myself in."

The driver continued to come nearer, offering her a hand, but some immediate and inexplicable instinct warned her that this was not the driver from the Chateau.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed quickly, backing away slightly. "I made a mistake. I thought –"

Suddenly, his gloved hand descended over her mouth, while an arm wrapped around her waist, bearing her indomitably towards the carriage. Fear – heart stopping fear – slammed against her ribs. Christine attempted to scream, but the hand pressed more firmly against her mouth with a force that was painful, and no more sound escaped her than a terrified moan. She was not so petrified as to lose herself entirely however, and struggled with every ounce of energy she possessed. But the assailant was too strong for her, lifting her off her feet, seemingly impervious to the desperate blows she attempted to inflict with her hands and feet. He – for the strength in his arms and the width of the shoulders under the cloak told her it must be a man – wrenched the door open, and set her down on a seat, surprisingly gently. He had not struck her once, despite her struggles. Christine took advantage of the momentary tenderness to catch his foot with her hands and pull it from behind him and he stumbled. Seeking to grasp a hold, he caught at her arm and both fell onto the floor of the coach.

They fought properly then, or at least she did, possessed by blind animal panic. Her fingernails may have dashed against something, for there was a sharp intake of breath, but her feet were entangled in heavy folds of material – either her dress or his cloak – and she could not move them. Struggling, fighting, her hands caught his face for an instant, but then he had rolled her onto her side, and pinned between his body and the seat of the coach, she was trapped. He had caught her beneath his weight; she trying to strain away from him, unable to cry out, for the fall had winded her. She lay still then, her heart thundering against her ribcage, eyes closed and waiting for the worst. He leaned over her, breathing heavily in the darkness of the carriage's interior. Several agonising seconds passed in which Christine hardly dared move. When she finally ventured to open her eyes, it was to realise that the man had gone – and the door to the brougham was closed.

Fingers gingerly feeling her bruised side, she crawled slowly to her feet, only to almost lose her balance once more as the carriage lurched forward. The brougham was swaying from side to side; she could hear the clatter of wheels against the cobblestones, the hoof beats of the horse. He was driving her, driving her away – where? Desperate now, she threw herself against the door, beating at the window with her bare fists. Breathing was painful still but she tried to scream, screaming until her throat was raw, but for all the sound that came out she need not have wasted her energies. But someone surely, must hear her? Someone, anyone, please –

Her hands were numb with cold, but in the dark she could see her knuckles were bleeding from the pounding they had received. She pressed her face against the window, her unsteady breath misting the glass. How had this happened? She had seen that horse before, but not, she realised suddenly with an overwhelming sense of horror and terrible inevitability, from the Chateau, but as one of the beasts used in the Opera's production of the Profeta –

The Parisian streets were deserted, and still the carriage bore her unremittingly onward. Finally, shaken and exhausted, she slid onto the seat and lay unmoving. A jolting pain throbbed along her waist at the vehicle's erratic motion. Her fingers were sticky with blood. A dull ache had taken possession of her, and Christine closed her eyes, caring little what became of her. She slid in and out of oblivion.

The cold night air stung her face.

The sudden shock acted as a stimulant, bringing the conscious world back to her slowly. Christine opened her eyes, catching a fleeting glimpse of moonlight on the frosted ground, and – more curiously still – playing across the surface of water. It was then she realised she was being carried in someone's arms. Full memory rushed back into her mind, full sensation flooded through her limbs. She stiffened and opened her mouth to shout, call for help. The man must have sensed this abrupt change in her formerly apathetic form, for he set her down on the ground, one hand still maintaining a firm hold of her waist.

"You need not call for help," he said coolly, voice muffled against the voluminous folds of his hood. "We are quite alone. I have no wish to hurt you."

Christine was about to disregard this piece of information and scream and scream, when a wad of material was pressed against her face. Her first panic stricken thought was that he would attempt to gag her, but the moment she inhaled, a feeling of light-headedness overwhelmed her, she seemed to be falling… drugged! she thought dimly, struggling in helpless fury against this drowsiness stealing through her body, clouding her senses. Her captor was drifting out of focus. He was speaking to her, soft words that were becoming more and more indistinct. She could no longer feel her body, nor move, nor speak. With her remaining energy, her lips formed one vague word.

Erik.

Then an enveloping wave of darkness came upon her and she was lost.