Disclaimer: I don't own either Phantom or Corpse Bride. If I did, I would surely be rich. But I'm not. So nuts.

Moonjava: Thanks for the review!

musicallover: True. I don't think I'd be afraid so much as having a screaming fit, or something. I don't think Christine's so very wussy – she's just woken up, she's in an underground lair (though at least she doesn't have Doctor Evil from Austin Powers in there with her) and now she sees a guy walking around, perfectly normal, but with a great big slit in his throat. Nadir does kick ass – then again, he has every right to do so. And Erik is, indeed, doing something. Whee to everything! Here is the next chapter.

MetalMyersJason: I am inclined to think it was murder. Well I would, I'm writing the thing after all. Nice of you to offer to do that, though – though it wouldn't do much good now. I mean, since he's already dead and all. Does he keep her? We shall have to see, won't we? It all depends on the characters themselves. Nice muses. Everyone has muses! Why don't I get a muse? I want a muse! Wasn't the trailer so good? Victor is good looking, and he does look like Johnny Depp – but why did he have to have black lips? He could look like Erik, though, you know! Good thinking! Another reason for me doing this!

Morianerulz: No problemo! Doesn't matter – even with a spell checker, I still spell things wrong a lot of the time! Darn computer crashes! You like my Christine? Yay! (More confetti.) I shall definitely look out for a copy. I can cope with long books, I think – I managed to read War and Peace. I hope Hriviel's offer is still going! If not, I could always try and send you a copy of mine – if I can figure out how to do it. I hope your muses both had a nice holiday. Thanks for the Christine back – even though I don't need her at the moment. I like Nadir's point of view – a stronghold in this whirling sea of strangeness. Here is more for you to enjoy!

Voldivoice: Good to know about the subconscious evil. Everyone wants to rule the world, I find – don't know why. In my opinion, it's not much of a world in some places. Erik is indeed cool. No problem about the clovers – there's loads of them at a waterfall in a great big valley near our house over there. We have everything there, don't we? Maybe they will indeed work. (Crosses fingers and hopes fervently.)

Polly Moopers: Poor Nadir! I don't think Erik is cruel to him – I just think he doesn't want Christine to faint anymore. See, he's nice, if not exactly fuzzy. A hysterical Resurrection scene makes a change to one where Raoul gets hit over the head or something. I'm going! And I'm coming back, to write more for you!

Willow Rose: Ooo, ooo, ooo! I went to Scotland once! It's so nice there, even though I didn't get to see the Loch Ness monster, and I nearly slipped on a jelly fish! Ahem. Let me explain. We were staying at a hotel by the sea, and one morning after a rather rainy night I went walking out on the quay, and suddenly I nearly slipped on something, and when I looked down I saw I'd trodden in…urgh. Thank goodness I was wearing trainers, that's all I can say. But Scotland is still lovely. My sister is going to university there. Tut tut, naughty not to update! But at least you're doing it now. And enjoy this update as well! (I'm going to have to find another word other than 'enjoy', aren't I?) Blessed be to you, my faithful mostly Scottish reader.

Zillah666: Doh! I should have realised that ! I worry about my French GCSE, I really do. Thanks for pointing it out, I promise to alter it. Thanks for the review!

Chantilly xx Lace: Thank you very much! You know, I thought of that as well. I found another website, a little while ago; it's got some very good original Phantom paintings, including a special one…take a look at http: (slash, slash) muse-gallery (dot) com (slash) rosywood (Slash.) There are some really beautiful pictures, which I'm sure you'll like.

SimplyElymas(I assume this is you): I'm sure I'd know how you'd react. I think that is Nadir's role in Erik's life, actually – that he has someone to annoy. I love Chicago; whenever I play it I always sing along to 'He had it coming'. One of the best songs of all time. Good for you; I hope he adores you too. You certainly deserve his love, you are so devoted. One of the best stories on the site? Oh, I thank you, my faithful reviewer! (Dances in the rain – of which there is a lot at the moment.)

Rikku Ree: I don't see much anime – I don't get much time for television these days – but I'll take your word for it. I see your dilemma, so I shall help you out. Before he got resurrected, so to speak, Erik looked fairly normal – or as normal as he could look. That is to say, he looked like himself normally, with his mask, his dress clothes which he was wearing to go to his mortal wedding, and with a great big gash in his side, the cause of his death. This is also just why Nadir goes around with a big gash in his throat – when someone dies, in my phic, their spirit keeps the shape they had while they died. Meanwhile, up above, Erik's body, lying in its grave in the woods, was being subjected to decay and stuff – I am aware that if the body had been in the earth for only a little while, he'd have lost a lot more than the flesh off his arm and leg; but I'm using artistic licence here – but now that he's been reunited with said body, his morphic state of sorts is trying to work with having the body; and isn't doing very well at it so far. Also, since he has, in effect, cheated death, he's gotten much more powerful, since he now knows that he's not just confined to the Land of the Dead anymore. Nadir is still stuck as just a spirit, since he can't get his body back, so he's not as powerful, not having as much solidity. Cute anime! Glad you agree. The sun is indeed evil! When I was only about eight, we were told all about it causing skin cancer, and shown pictures…which is not the nicest thing to show an eight year old who has previously gotten lots of sunburn. Shudder. Here is your update!

Lydiby: Aw, poor you! I'm sorry for rubbing it in your face that I'm going places, even if I didn't mean to! That was so mean of me! Chin up, you may get to go to exciting places someday. I've only been out of Europe once. But then again, I've been a lot of places in Europe…somehow, I don't think I'm helping, so I'll just stop. WHY! I don't know. Bear with it, and one day you will succeed. Killer Zebras? I've heard of killer squirrels, killer racoons – but killer zebras are a first. I like Buffy the vampire slayer, it makes my laugh, but I don't take it seriously. There are apparently statues somewhere in the world that 'weep blood' at times of strife, namely ones of the Virgin Mary. Thanks for the not calling me a wuss. It makes me feel much better. Anything for a fellow reviewer, heh heh! I hope I don't cry too much blood, otherwise I'll be all shrivelled up, as if I'd been attacked by a vampire! Virginia Woolf was the one who wrote Orlando, right? I haven't read the book yet, but I've the film version with Tilda Swinton, and I thought it was good. I don't know about it either, so we can all start from scratch. Wouldn't it be so cool if, years from now, we could say we belonged to the 'Sexy Librarian's Guild'? I hope we do not follow the fates of the originals, though. Wicked and occasionally gruesome senses of humour? That should certainly be an invitation to rise to the occasion, don't you think?

Ripper de la Blackstaff: Hi! The French have better ways of saying everything. French is such a lovely language – pity I'm not that good at it! We've had bad experiences with birds in our household too – Dad hates the magpies that live in a tree outside our house, since they always use his car for 'target practise'. They're getting quite good at it too. What really annoys him is that my mum and sister's cars escape from the slaughter. I haven't read the Anita Blake series myself, but I have heard about them. Lots of vampires and werewolves and necromancy and cool stuff. Aw, to make up for it, I shall give you some lovely E/C chapters later on, to make up for your lost Christmas. I don't think free will is so very overrated. If Erik didn't really love Christine, then perhaps he would make her into a submissive thing, but since he does love her, he wants her to love him for himself, and not because he forces her to. Sweet, innit? How Nadir had his throat cut? Well, it's very simple really; someone got him from behind and slashed a knife across his throat and severed his jugular vein and all his blood spurted out in a very pretty fountain…not what you were looking for, am I right? Don't let SimplyElymas get near you, otherwise she might kill you. I know, it's a nice gesture, even though it probably wouldn't hurt the violin – but since he's such a fine musician, he'd take real good care of his instruments. I thought resurrection was funny – gave chance for jibes. Interesting idea for wedding night – I'll give that due consideration. True, it is fair – but then again, in a way, it isn't. And, though I know I'm biased 'cause she's my character, I think she has a right to abstain from wanting to sleep with Erik – apart from the whole being kidnapped and him being a corpse thing, she is already engaged. But then again, supposedly she is married to Erik, in a sense. I've really not made it easy for her, have I? And before you go on about Raoul, it's a moral problem instead of just being engaged to a fop. Wow, a long answer! Hope you're happy!

Well, it had to happen – we've left off from Erik and Christine in the lair, and are back up in the house. But not with Meg, she's asleep; and not with Raoul either, since he is sleeping soundly as well, although there is a hint of innocent worry about Christine. Time to meet a new character, everybody; please welcome Celandine. (And yes, I am aware that some of you might think that's a daft name – but, if you think about it, so is Wendy (no offence to anyone who is called Wendy!) or really any name when you say it a few times over. All words sound strange when you say them again and again, I find. Anyway, I like this name, so it sticks.)

He had had a moment of clarity about how life should be lived: not as a child or as a woman. They were the two worst things to be.

The Lovely Bones

The sickness within

The bottle sat snugly in the palm of her hand, warming to the erstwhile heat of her skin, as she sat on the edge of the bed. In the sparse light of the moon that managed to edge its way between her closed curtains, the liquid inside looked almost black to her eyes; like bile.

She sat, her toes digging into the expensive carpet at the side of her bed, her eyes still crusty with the sleep that nevertheless would not come, and had only just been coming when queasiness had suddenly arrived instead. Doubtless everyone else in the house was asleep, even her brothers, even Grandpére, even Louis; her husband not in her bed, thank goodness for that, but stationed in another room; doubtless near the one La Sorelli would be occupying on the morrow.

Everyone weighed down by dinner.

Except her.

Except me.

What dinner? She had hardly eaten anything. She had hardly been inspired to; for one she had little appetite these days in any case, and for another she knew anything she did eat was going to come up again sooner or later, which she had certainly been right about.

She looked at the bottle and its contents, and thought about cruelty; how cruel the world could be. How a life could be poisoned, not by harsh blows or wounds or fierce weapons, but by little trickles and rivulets of hate; poured into a defenceless mind drop by drop, until they all but choked the person who suffered; made them unable to give or receive love, because all they could do now was look at what lay around them, and despise it; could only look at themselves and wish they were dead to end this suffering; see those who caused their never ending plight and abhor them, with all that was left of their heart and mind and soul.

She thought of Louis. Of his treatment of her; but not in the way that people thought. People looked at her with pity because of all the mistresses he kept; but that was basically true with many men in France, and especially in Paris; inevitable. Louis's true cruelty was not in his infidelities, but in his neglect. He did not flaunt his whores in her face; that was just it. He did not care what she thought about him and his affairs; about how the world saw him. He did not care at all.

People said that there was so much beauty in the world; that it was God's miracle. Once, she had wanted the whole world, could have held it all within her heart. Now, if she had the world, with all the souls within it, and all the so-called beauty it contained, she would have given it all away, all of it, for love; any love, any understanding, any hope.

But the world was not hers, she knew that by now. It all belonged to men; everything belonged to men. Her fingers closed around the bottle, her flesh crushed against the glass. Why should it be so? Why should Grandpére and Louis have so much power, and she so little? Why should they be allowed to have as many mistresses as they liked, as she had heard the former probably had had and the latter she was certain of, and their wives had to remain chaste? Why should they be allowed to get away with it?

I can't.

The foul taste increased, as she recognised the warning signs; swiftly she shoved the bottle onto the counterpane as she slid onto her knees and leant over the bowl she had placed there in preparation.

And then there was nothing but a dry, agonized spell of retching; of feeling the little that she had eaten come straight back up and bringing stomach acid with it; burning her throat and her mouth and her tongue; her eyes screwed shut, so that she would not have to see what was spewing out of her. She thought she would choke on the vile flood; and secretly hoped she might, so that the nightmare would finally be over.

But that was not to be; eventually the flow ebbed, and then finally ceased, leaving only the burning in her mouth and the vile sickly smell in the air. She slowly straightened, shivering violently; she could feel the sweat on her already beginning to cool everywhere; on her head, between and under her breasts under her nightgown; on her stomach…

Like the stuff in the bottle, the contents of the bowl looked almost black in the moonlight. But for the smell, one might think, not looking at it too carefully, that it were her life's blood that had come spilling out of her; or something rather more solid, and from a place lower down than her stomach.

Wiping the leftovers from her mouth, and still shaking, she pulled herself back up onto her seat on the bed, and once again picked up the bottle, to look at once again. An obsession with such a little thing; but which held enough power within it to take so much away from a person. The power to take away life itself.

And once again she simply looked at it. Didn't put it away, didn't finally give in and simply drink the stuff. Just looked. But she didn't see the bottle.

Instead, in her mind, she relived again that morning, about two weeks ago now, when she had finally given in and forced herself to admit the truth; and also to send for Genevieve and admit to her.

"I have something to tell you," she could recall as if it were this morning. "I am very certain I am with child." She had felt just as sick then as she had just now, if not more so – for this time she knew what had been coming, having had to endure it a number of times; but then she was on the brink of uncertainty.

"Pregnant? But Celandine, that's so wonderful!" Her sister had, of course, been delighted. "When are you going to tell Louis?"

"Not now; and I'm not sure if I will."

"Why not? This is your chance to prove yourself in his eyes! If it looks as if you're about to give him an heir, surely he will stop taking mistresses!"

Poor, silly Genevieve; you really have no idea about your brother-in-law.

"Because I'm not sure it's his."

"What-" She still recalled Genevive's face, with no effort, as her sister had suddenly understood. She hadn't been angry, she hadn't been shocked or upset; her face had just been…blank. Devoid of anything; staring into nothing, as if she could no longer see her. She had made to rise and go.

"Wait!" Pulling her down again, she had been desperate to make her story known.

And it had all come out – the trip into Paris, when Louis had undoubtedly met La Sorelli; the dinner party when she had met Pierre; the way he had seemed to understand her pain, her loss, so completely; a few nights later when he had invited her to his house when Louis had been out on business – no doubt to meet with a woman – and the brief passion that had followed – but not brief enough not to leave a large reminder.

"He was kind to me – gentle. You have to have as little as I have to understand just what that means."

And how would Genevive have understood? With her fairytale life, her loving husband, the favour of Grandpére? What would she understand of suffering? Of dreading her husband taking her, because she knew it would hurt? Of desiring passionate embraces, silken caresses, that would never come?

And when her story had been finished, the elder had said nothing for a moment; then gotten up and walked to the door; when desperately challenged, she had said only, "I will not tell Louis – or anyone else. I will be back."

And she had given her this; heaven – or somewhere else – only knew where she had gotten it from. Her gaze focused again upon the bottle; but really on what lay inside it.

"If you drink this, it will get rid of it."

"That's all?"

"Oh, there will certainly be pangs, and some blood – as if you were having your courses. But you had better do it soon, if you are going to do it; otherwise it will just make you sick – and then everyone will know anyway."

"Why are you doing this for me?"

"Because you got yourself into this mess. I would reason that it is my job to help you get out of it – if you want get out of it." She had glared at her; not like the elder sister she knew, but as another, harsher woman altogether. "The choice, in the end, is up to you, Celandine. It's always up to you."

And in saying that, and doing that, she had quietly slipped a dagger into her heart, much more deeply and sharply and painfully than if she had simply ordered her to take it when she gave it to her. She might have been able to do that; might have been able to in that situation. She was so used to doing as she was told, after all.

But in giving her a choice…a choice between life and death…oh, that was cruel. That was devious beyond imagining.

Her fingers tightened on the bottle.

I hate you, she thought.

And she was no longer quite sure who that thought was directed at; at Grandpére for making her marry Louis; at Louis for his cruelty and neglect; at Genevieve for punishing her for her deed in such an appalling way, for presenting her with two sins, between which she must choose; or at herself, for letting all this come about; or even at the unborn child, sometimes, for causing her such agony.

But not for too long. No, it was not the child's fault; not its fault that it had been conceived in such a way.

Whose is it, then?

The liquid beneath the glass glugged. It was so simple, really, if she thought about it; all she had to do was drink, and then wait for the pain and the blood, and it would all be over. No more worry; no more fears of being denounced as an adulteress, no shame brought upon the family.

Only the memories. And the guilt.

But could she live with that? Could she live with the knowledge that she had destroyed a little life?

This little life…

And she got up, walked over to her wardrobe, and placed the bottle back from where she had brought it earlier that night, from its hiding place among her dresses. To be gotten out for another day or night of contemplation. And another. And another…

The night air blew chill about her as she placed the bowl, with its horrid contents, in her bathroom, and then got into bed again. Unconsciously, her hands went to the place where, even now, her secret was growing, and preparing to ruin her life when discovered.

She gazed up at the ceiling, at the canopy above her bed. Her empty, cold bed…

If she did not do it soon, it would be too late…

I was too gutless to stand up to Louis; and now I'm too much of a coward to free myself.

Geraldine should have brought me poison instead.

But even then, I'd be too afraid to die.

On instinct, she curled up, like a child in the womb herself, her knees up to her chin, her arms wrapped around her legs; her whole body almost cradling her child to be. Almost as if praying…but she had not said her prayers in a long, long time, and there seemed no point now. It was as if God had abandoned her.

She fell asleep listening to her heart beating, fancying that somewhere she could hear – or rather feel – the tiny fluttering of another, miniscule heartbeat; perhaps the tiniest little source of comfort in her vast, cold, empty bed; around which there was nothing but an ocean of fear.

I'm aware that, being only pregnant for a few months, the child's heart wouldn't be beating yet – although I'm not sure. I'm not exactly an expert on the subject. It's just a fancy on her part.

I'm rather more certain about certain herbal remedies. In looking up information for my story, 'You shall yet know', I discovered a whole host of natural substances i.e. herbs and the like which cause miscarriages. There are far too many to all list here, but here are some; Mugwort, Rue, Mistletoe (which you shouldn't be eating in any case, since it's poisonous and is what druids in Celtic times used to drug the human sacrifices just before they 'sacrificed' them, to stop them struggling), Parsley, wild carrot seeds, Motherwort, Wood Sorrel, Fennel…the list goes on and on. In my opinion, expectant mothers should just avoid herbs in the beginning months altogether, just to be on the safe side. Isn't it fun what you can find on the internet these days?

Not much to do with Phantom in this chapter, I know. Oh well. Review for the half Irish seamstress anyway!