Disclaimer: Don't own. I've gotten over it by now tolerably well.

So, yes, this chapter is a Raoul one. And it will be fairly long; I've been doing short chapters for too long.

Ye who have waited for Raoul, rejoice.

Ye who do not like him…read it anyway, because there are some bits that you're going to need to know to understand other things later on, all right?

Enjoy.

Excerpt from 'The Mistletoe Bough'

The Baron beheld with a father's pride

His beautiful child, Lord Lovell's bride.

And she, with her bright eyes seemed to be

The star of that goodly company.

Oh, the mistletoe bough.

Oh, the mistletoe bough.

"I'm weary of dancing, now," she cried;

"Here, tarry a moment, I'll hide, I'll hide,

And, Lovell, be sure you're the first to trace

The clue to my secret hiding place."

Away she ran, and her friends began

Each tower to search and each nook to scan.

And young Lovell cried, "Oh, where do you hide?

I'm lonesome without you, my own fair bride."

Oh, the mistletoe bough.

Oh, the mistletoe bough…

Thomas Haynes Bayley (1884)

(Needless to say, this poem does not have a nice ending...well, coming from me, you wouldn't really expect anything else, would you?)

Fragile love

Walk down the stairs. Open the door. Meet Buquet.

He concentrated on the tasks, trying not to think, anything but thinking. If he didn't think, he didn't have to think about Christine ohGodohGodohGodohGodoh-

Stop it. Don't think. Just get to the door.

The grain of the wood upon his fingertips came as a surprise, and he had to quickly pull himself together before he could open it.

At once the cold wind blew in his face, waking him up a little; he narrowed his eyes but could still see Buquet, standing in the doorway, wrapped in his grounds keeper coat.

Raoul didn't know what to say. What should he hope for? That she had been found, of course! But, failing that? Traces of any sort? Or was no news good news?

"Anything?" was all that he managed to get out.

Buquet shook his head.

He felt everything sinking down inside him.

"We'll keep on looking, sir. I assure you."

"Yes. Yes, you do that, Buquet. Keep on looking."

"Are you feeling all right, sir?" the older man ventured. Raoul looked blankly at him, while his mind screamed.

You bloody idiot! How can I possibly be feeling 'all right'? My fiancée has disappeared without a trace, without even a note, without even telling me where she was going! She's been gone all night! Out there, in the cold! She could be kidnapped! She could be dead – oh, oh God, oh God, oh God...

"I think so," was all he said.

Buquet looked at him shrewdly, but then sighed and nodded. "Don't worry, Raoul. She probably stayed over at Pastor Defarge's house. I sent one of the lads to check. I'm sure she'll be back soon."

Certain to be back, Raoul thought, as he watched Buquet tramp away into the snow before shutting the door. Probably stayed at the Pastor's for the night. Probably will come with him. She'll be all right. She'll be all right…

He had to grip the banister for support, as he made his way back up the stairs. She'll be fine. She'll be back. She'll be fine. She'll be back. He had heard those assurances, in so many different forms, so many times that he couldn't help thinking of them, over and over again.

She will be all right. She should be. She has to be. She can't be…

He knew that something was wrong, and it wasn't just the situation. It was him. It was himself. Ever since he had heard the dreadful, terrible news, that Christine was gone, had been missing for a whole night, he felt as if something had cracked and shattered inside him, the shards stabbing him inside like panes of glass, making it hurt for him to breathe, to think without pain. The girls saw it, and so did Buquet, and now they were all treating him like something made of fragile porcelain, that could fall and smash at the merest voice raised too loud.

There was a pounding in his head. It had been going on for quite some time, and was getting worse and worse with ever breath he attempted to take, every thought he strived to process. It was clawing at his eyes and the back of his throat, and making swallowing painful and strained. His ears were buzzing with the silence, as he made his slow way along the corridor…

…but it wasn't just the silence anymore. There were voices, chattering, jabbering, clamouring ahead of him. He paused, focused. His feet had taken him to one of the landing-balconies overlooking the entrance hall, into which were pouring all manner of people; gentleman doffing their hats, ladies decked in jewels and furs, all being greeted by Philippe and Grandpére and Louis and Bernard greeted them. Their noisy chatter filled the echoing room.

What's going on? he thought for an instant, before he remembered something beyond the present time, and his concentration. Of course, the guests for the masquerade. He supposed that this at least was to their advantage, since the older adults would be distracted by so many people, and less ready to realise that Meg and Carlotta were cloistering themselves away, or notice Christine's absence.

He watched dully as a fairly young and attractive woman, wrapped in pale furs, was bowed in by the footmen, and at once was being attended to by Louis, who was kissing her hand, and looking even from this distance as if he would like to kiss other parts of her. That was his 'La Sorelli', then. Unconsciously he found himself scanning the crowd for the green velvet that Meg said she had gone out in, even though it was improbable that she would come in through the front door in such a manner…but there was always hope…

She's not going to be there. She's gone.

And so should he. He didn't want to attract his family's attention, and be roped into greeting people he didn't know, welcoming them into his home when he didn't want them there.

He turned and continued to walk along the landing, to the door at the end. Please don't see me, please don't see me, please don't see me, he thought fervently. Grandpére's eyes might be old, but they were still sharp, and he had an idea the old man was aware of his presence.

But luck seemed to be with him, and he passed through the door at the end of the landing into the Long Gallery without being checked by any voice from down the staircase. He was glad, or as glad as he could be. He didn't want to see anyone.

He looked to his left as he paced along – this route was the quickest back to his own room – down into the great ballroom below. The servants were setting out the tables for the food that would be heaped upon them, and decorating them with greenery. Raoul felt calmer for watching them working briskly and busily, unaffected by what was happening to him and the girls…and to Christine.

The tapping of his feet echoed around him, as he walked the length of the gallery. He could remember the nights he had spent with Christine here, watching dancers at balls waltz the night away. Christine had so loved seeing the pretty ladies dance…

…and now he was thinking about her as if she had actually died-

Oh God no!

He dug his finger nails into his palms, and bit his lip, and reached the door at the end. He couldn't think like that. He couldn't. So he shouldn't think at all.

At least, not here.

He managed to focus on nothing but his footsteps, until he reached the door of his room. Once it closed behind him, closed him away from the world, he allowed himself to let go. It was as if his legs were slipping out from under him, and his stomach was reaching up his throat to burst forth from his lips. He barely managed to make it to his bathroom before he was suddenly bent over on the floor, retching, even though he couldn't remember eating anything since last night and didn't have anything left to throw up, meaning he was left with an agonizing spell of dry coughing which set his throat on fire.

Afterwards, he sat with his back to the bath, hugging his knees, the cloth of his trousers brushing his sticky chin. His throat burned, and his eyes burned, and everything in his head seemed to be on fire with the acid from his stomach. He felt as weak and stupid as if he was roaring drunk, but at the same time he had never felt more serious in his life. It was as if everything he had learnt was weighing down upon him, and twisting his very insides, and grabbing hold of his heart and yanking it out of his mouth, and squeezing all the while…

…and what made it worse was that it was Christine who was doing it. His beloved Christine, whom he knew he loved more than anyone else in his life. Christine, whom he had adored as a boy and grown to adore as a young man, and who despite all his faults seemed to love him back with just as much adoration.

But if she loves me so, why would she do this to me? Why would she go away? Why would she stay away?

His head fell back, and hit the edge of the tub hard, but the pain was distant and far away. He wished he could count back the seconds and minutes in blows, back to last afternoon, back to when Christine was still in the house, so that he could go to her, talk to her, ask her for God's sake why, why, why…

Does it please you to do this to me, Christine? Does it please you to torment me so?

With difficulty he got up, and made his slow, painful way back to his bedroom, skirting around the relatively small patch of not quite vomit on the tiled floor. He could easily have called for a servant to clean it up, but he didn't want anyone in here. Not now.

The book was lying on the bed. Meg had given it to him just before she and Carlotta had gently shooed him out of the room – oh, so gently; as if even with brushing him with a finger, a nail, they would bruise him, damage him even further – that Christine had found this for him in the library, as a pre-wedding present, so that he could learn the poetry in it and find it easier to learn his vows.

And she thinks this will not harm me? he thought dully, as he sat down heavily on his bed, his fingers brushing the red leather.

He could hardly bear to look at it, knowing what lay just under its cover. But again he was drawn back to it, again he picked it up, again he opened it to the front page to read the message – not the first one, but the one written beneath it. And yes, there was Christine's by now familiar copper plate handwriting:

My dear,

As a gift to you, I give you melodies from your family's heart

To awaken the melody that I know lies hidden in your own.

With love for ever and ever,

from your beloved

Christine.

Raoul's fingers tightened on the book so hard, the pages began to crinkle, disrupting the words. It almost seemed as if his eyes were becoming blurry with tears, so he quickly released his hold and let the book fall onto his lap. He leant over, clasped his hands on his knees, and tried to breathe without choking.

Why did she write this? What was she thinking while she wrote the words? Was she writing from her heart, or from some other place? And was she sincere? Oh Lord, has she run away after all? Why else would she instruct Meg not to tell me where she was until now?

Because she could not trust me, could not talk to me; that is why.

Oh, Christine, why? Where did you go? What did you do?

Where are you, Christine? Are you…

Raoul didn't know which scenario was worse at this moment; the possibility that Christine was…he didn't even dare think the word for fear of tempting fate…or that she was perfectly safe and well, but she had left on purpose willingly, leaving him behind, because she had found that she didn't love him after all.

I'm sorry, Christine. I'm so sorry…

There was a dry feeling in his throat again, but he knew that this time it had come because of the tears that seemed to be welling up inside him, threatening to burst out of his eyes. But he couldn't' cry. He was a de Chagny, and de Chagnys did not cry. Subsequent scolding at both his parent's funerals had taught him this, as well as most of his life.

So he bent his head and squeezed his eyes shut so the tears would not escape, and instead prayed to the One whom he had invoked so many times in the last few hours, holding the book Christine had meant for him to have like a book of psalms clamped between his fingers; bent in prayer as he rarely had since his mother's funeral, and his family's apparent scorning of the church.

Please, dear God, let Christine be safe. Let her be safe and well. Let her come back, in no danger. Let her be safe. Let her be found, safe and unharmed. Please, Father, let her come back. Let her come back to me, safe and well and unharmed and alive.

And please, Father…please let her still love me.

I love you, Christine. I love you so much!

Please come back to me.

Please.

Please.

If you think to mock Raoul for being so emotional, and sneer, and call him a 'wimpy fop' (I'm not saying you will, of course – just that you might) please pause to consider. After all, he loves Christine, as you will obviously have guessed, very much indeed; and now she's missing, and she could be dead, for all he knows. So there's nothing he can do except hope and pray that she's safe – and, yes, I admit, throw up to a certain degree from extended shock and stress, and fight back the tears. Would you do any different? As a certain film, the title of which I'm not going to tell you in case you give me funny looks, included in the script, and I quote: 'Being away from someone you love is one of the hardest things in the world.' Knowing – or rather fearing – that they ran away from you because they didn't love you enough ,or were afraid of your love, is probably even worse.

Incidentally, one bit in this chapter was inspired by Raoul's thoughts in the book at one point, but I think you'll have to read quite hard and be quite dedicated and read between the lines to actually find it.

No, I'm not going to tell you what it is. Easter egg hunt! Easter egg hunt!

And yes, potentially boring chapter, apart from the angst – but some bits will be important later on. What bits? Ah, I'm not going to say!

And, finally, yes, we will be going back underground next chapter. Lots of people seem to like that place, don't they? Then again, the Underworld was much more exciting in the film than 'upstairs'.

Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!