Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the opera, or Corpse Bride. I down the mad joy at finally getting this chapter done.

Well, here it is – the chapter I've been waiting for, nearly two years of my life. The denouement. The revelation. The confrontation. And, yes, leading on to that inevitable death Erik was talking about a few chapters back. (Dang, I'm just like J.K. Rowling, aren't I?)

Plus, a really big homage to Phantom in general, which I really think no phantom fan-fiction should be without.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then, after the warning, we'll begin. And yes, this is a warning. Bizarre, really, but there you are. I don't want to get flamed by people for not having warned them in advance, so I'm taking the initiative and staking out my territory while I have the chance. I don't like being told I'm sick. I know I can be just a little morbid, sometimes; I don't need people telling me as if I didn't know. Okay, thanks. Read on.

Warning: This chapter contains some 'potentially' distressing material. I do truly apologise in advance for any offence that might be caused while reading this.

'Mr Wraxall, I can tell you this one little tale, and no more – not any more. You must not ask anything when I have done. In my grandfather's time – that is, ninety-two years ago – there were two men who said: "The Count is dead; we do not care for him. We will go tonight and have a free hunt in his wood"…Well, those that hear them say this, they said: "No, do not go; we are sure you will meet with persons walking who should not be walking. They should be resting, not walking."

Count Magnus, by M.R. James.

Of all bad deeds that, under cover of darkness, had been committed within wide London's bounds since night hung over it, that was the worst. Of all the horrors that rose with an ill scent upon the morning air, that was the foulest and most cruel.

Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens

Chorus: Why do you cry out thus, unless at some vision of horror?

Cassandra: The house reeks of death and dripping blood.

Chorus: How so? 'Tis but the odour of the altar sacrifice.

Cassandra: The stench is like a breath from the tomb.

Aeschylus's Agamemnon

The Uninvited

The ball room could not possibly look more different from the dances held there only a few nights before. Then everything had been rich and vibrant and decadent; bright colours and dark drapes had reigned supreme. But now everything was dominated by soft, gentle colours; the normal red velvet drapes had been replaced with light blue ones, and there were flowers simply everywhere; by the doors, leading up the sides in the gap left between the many chairs she would walk between to reach the dais at the far end of the hall, adorning the chairs themselves, hung from the walls. The servants had done a masterful job – the ball room looked now almost like a meadow.

A meadow filled with well bred cattle, come to graze and gaze as a young heifer was added to their herd.Christine had never before seen the room look so quiet when it was so full – but then, she doubted it had been used for such an occasion as this, either. Dancing was often high on the list of entertainments when invited to stay at this particular mansion – weddings were far less frequent.

"This is not proper," Carlotta muttered behind her, as she pulled her shawl tighter about her. "The ceremony should be taking place in a place of worship, not a room for dancing and flirting. What is the Comte thinking of?"

"This is his house, and his grandson he's marrying off – I should think that what he says goes," Meg said cheerfully. She was obviously brightening up at the prospect of entering the great room – thanks to the soft colours in abundance it looked even larger than normal, and there were no mirrors anywhere in the room either before or after its unique decoration.

Christine kept very quiet. It would be best if she did not speak. She felt so nervous now, and yet so excited at the same time, she wouldn't have known what to say anyway. This was it. Comte Philippe would escort her up the aisle, or what passed for the aisle, in only a few minutes, and she would walk back down it a married woman, with her husband at her side. Oh, she was so scared! But so, so eager as well!

She would think of nothing now, and nothing else, except her wedding. Peeping around the edge of the doors, she could already see Raoul standing on the raised platform, clad in a military uniform even though he had only spent a year or so in the army – and thank God it had not crushed his dear spirit - his hair shining in the sunlight, his face tired but (she could just see) smiling widely. Oh, she would happily spend the rest of her life with that man…

But what about after life?

She banished that thought, and all thoughts that accorded with it. This was her wedding day, and there was no more fear to be had now. Her childhood was over; this was the beginning of the golden years of her life.

She smiled at Cecile, even though she was unsure if the maid could actually see her smile; her veil was very thick, after all. But she felt a little guilty on behalf of her maid. While Meg and Carlotta after following her up the aisle as bridesmaids would sit at the very front, on two chairs set aside for them and not part of the main audience, Cecile would have to remain at the back of the ballroom with mot of the other servants of the household, who the Comtes were generously allowing to watch the ceremony. She felt it was very hard – after all, it was partly thanks to Cecile that she was standing here now – but what could she say that would warrant her maid sitting with the nobility? Nothing that would be of any use. But Cecile returned her smile, which cheered her. Truth be told, she had grown very fond of Cecile indeed. It would be as hard to leave her behind as it would be her other friends; she would most likely stay with Meg after the marriage, and she would hire a new maid, or several new maids.

She felt a squeeze on her arm, and looked around into Meg's smiling face. She hoped that Meg might want to finish off what she had started to tell her, but such was not the case. "Here comes the Comte. This is it, Christine!"

Christine turned to smile as Comte Philippe limped closer, and graciously offered her his arm. She was going to be married, and oddly, she had never felt so joyous and so sad in all her eighteen years.

The room was beautiful, even if Renée agreed with Carlotta's views stated earily in the day, that the ceremony should be held in a church, according to social decorum. But then again, she knew why that would never happen…

Christine looked truly wonderful as she made her way down the aisle, passing numerous nobles dressed in varying stages of pastels in the case of the women and black wedding suits in the case of the men. Even behind the veil she held herself tall and straight, though she could do little to challenge the Comte's height, even with his limp.

She felt so much pride as she watched her surrogate daughter reach the dais that had been erected near the far end of the room, where she stood along with Genevieve and Celandine. She was glad that Christine's father and mother had placed their trust in her. Truly, she was gladder than she would ever be able to say.

But there was a pang at her heart as she watched her own little Meg and poor Carlotta walk after her. Carlotta looked worse than ever; her cheeks looked almost sunken, and her hair was lank even with a maid's attention. And Meg's smiles could not hide the latent fear in her eyes.

My little Meg…

There was no sense in pining, when there was nothing she could do. She had told Meg all that she should know, and she could only wish that she had passed the knowledge onto Christine. She hoped fervently that such was the case; and prayed that Defarge, the priest which they all spoke so highly of, almost as a friend, would have found a solution.

She watched the Comte hand Christine up onto the dais, to stand opposite Raoul, who look extremely handsome in his black velvet, smiling despite the weariness she now knew he was plagued by. She watched as his grandfather went and stood by his grandson on the far side of the room. Philippe the Younger turned to look at him, and then his eyes looked beyond the elder Comte, right at-

Hurriedly she tore her eyes away, looking once more at the two figures, one black, one white, both deeply in love. She could not help sighing, as Defarge bade the congregation be seated – save the servants watching at the back. When was the last time she had been to a wedding, and smiled at the sight of a husband and wife to be? It had been too long. Certainly not since Georges had passed away. She sighed again, this time in sadness.

"Madame Giry? Is anything the matter?" Genevieve was looking at her with quiet concern, while Celandine stared fixedly ahead, biting her lip. She shook her head with a smile, for the ceremony was already beginning.

Defarge spoke for some time. Renée had forgotten much of the marriage ceremony, and it was all relatively new to her. She found herself paying little attention, no matter how hard she forced herself to try. Then it was Raoul's turn to speak. As he began, she was pleasantly surprised. Over the last week he had definitely improved in his diction and his remembrance. He recited from heart, a small smile on his lips as he spoke. Then again, after what he had experience, she would not expect anything other from the one who had recited the words necessary to release Christine. It was still hard for the more rational side of her mind to believe it, but it was true. She could just see Christine's smile as well, behind her veil.

But as Raoul finished speaking, there was a sudden, sharp noise from beside her. She looked around in alarm, as Celandine suddenly put a hand to her stomach, then both hands. She bit her lip, and the she gasped again. "Ah!"

"Celandine? What is it?" Already Genevieve was leaning over towards her sister, putting her ear to Celandine's mouth. From what she could see of her face, it changed dramatically at whatever Celandine said. At once she stood up, attracting the attention of all, not just those (herself included) who had watched curiously while Celandine apparently suffered in silence.

"My apologies," she barked out to the startled ensemble, including Raoul and Christine, who had turned slightly to see what was going on, bemusement clear on Raoul's face and certainly present in Christine, even if it was unseen. "My sister is in discomfort. We must leave."

As she stared, Genevieve pulled her sister up ungraciously and led her hurriedly towards a side door leading off the ball room; one of the maids from the back of the hall, probably Celandine's, hurrying forward from her place to run after them. Genevieve pushed the door open when she reached it and almost dragged her sister through, the maid following swiftly behind them. The door banged shut as the audience began to mutter amongst themselves, wondering at this sudden exodus on the part of the sisters.

Renée, turning around in her seat, saw the two Philippes' sitting side by side, and looking as confused as everyone else. She was too slow to avoid the younger Comte's eye as he abruptly looked over in her direction again, and only stared at him proudly, before turning back at Defarge's cough, attempting to continue with the interrupted ceremony.

As Christine began to speak in her turn, her voice sweet and sincere, she shivered inside her fine dress.

Why is it suddenly so cold in here?

Celandine collapsed in Genevieve's arms only a little way down the hallway, pulling at her and dragging her down with her. Both of them hit the floor hard, knocking the breath out of her, and Celandine gasped in pain and lay flat, sobbing and panting like a beaten dog, a scolded child. The maid, giving a frightened squeak, attempted to pull Genevieve upright, but she smacked her away, all her attention on her poor little sister as she keened in agony.

"Genevieve, help me, oh God, please!"

"We can't stop here, Celandine!" she whispered, forcing herself onto her hands and knees, her elaborate dress hindering her movement. "We have to get you to a bed, quickly!"

"No! Please, please, help me!" Celandine reached out and grasped her wrist. "Genevieve, please, just…my legs…" She gestured helplessly to her billowing skirts. Genevieve looked properly at the woman lying in agony on her side, and for the first time saw the beginning of a dark stain emerging on the front of her dress.

No.

The maid had run away by now, obviously trying to find someone who could help the writhing mistress, though thankfully not back into the ball room in her panic. Genevieve crawled over to her, pulled up the outer skirts, and her fingers met wet cloth. Celandine's petticoats were drenched with dark red, and there was a deep iron smell, like the tang of courses but even more so. Celandine gasped again as another spasm twisted her trembling frame; her eyes, meeting Genevieve's, were wide with pain and fear.

It was the last thing she wanted to do, but what choice did she have? She fumbled with the sodden bloomers, saying words no noblewoman should know under her breath, pulling and actually tearing the soaked cloth in her frenzy; and at last they yielded to her efforts and Celandine's legs and everything above them were laid bare, streaming with dark blood. The smell by this time was more than that of the river of life; it was the stink of clotted death. Blood poured over her fingers, but it was still too liquid to be any true sign of what was happening within her sister's traumatised body.

She crawled up to her sister's head where it lay on the floor. Her blood-stained hand found Celandine's and let itself be squeezed until it lost feeling, and her free arm curled around Celandine's quivering shoulders, holding her up, otherwise she might fall into a pool of her own blood, and heaved her into her own lap and let her back rest against her breast. She could feel the dampness of her sister's skin and her rapidly unravelling hair against her cheek, she was dripping with sweat.

"It hurts." Celandine whispered, as another ripping cramp tore through her, making them both shudder.

"I know, love. I know. But it will be over soon."

Her only reply was a moan as Celandine's nails dug into her soft, sweating palm. She squeezed back and bit her lip and blinked the moisture out of her eyes, and waited for the inevitable emergence of something more than blood from between her sister's heaving, shaking legs. The servants had lit the lamps in this room, but there were shadows encroaching around them, no matter how hard she blinked; and most of all, impossibly, they clustered around Celandine, as if waiting hungrily for whatever would spew out of her.

They did not have to wait long; it was very quick, in the end. Celandine rasped and panted as if she was dying of thirst, and then she suddenly squealed like a gutted pig, and then she squealed again. With a great rush Genevieve saw something huge and dark and wet and solid tear itself out of her and fall on the already swimming marble floor. She was dimly pleased to see that it was not as she had feared and been haunted by in her nightmares, not a recognisable form that stared up with baleful, lifeless eyes at its murderers, but simply a black mess of blood more solid than the fluid around it, the ruined contents of a now empty womb.

It is over. Thank God, it is finally over.

As if those two squeals had robbed Celandine of her speech, she was silent now, not even gulping for air. She was silent as Genevieve stolidly pulled off her ruined bloomers and gently packed strips of untouched petticoat between her legs to stop the bleeding, and she said nothing when she carefully pulled down her skirts again, making certain that she was fully decent once more. She said nothing when Genevieve put her hands under her arms and dragged her steadily backwards, to lean against the opposite wall further down the hall, away from what had spilled out of her, leaving a trail of blood which marked their progress across the floor like the mucus of a gigantic snail. She said nothing when Genevieve pulled her own shawl, which she had lost when they had first collapsed, tight around her and fastened it with her breast pin. She said nothing when Genevieve left her for a moment and padded back across the floor, her shoes soaked, to regard the dark mess upon the marble, still faintly warm from its mother's body.

She had thought that she could perhaps - break it up with something, anything, giving the impression that it was simply darker blood; but now the very idea was far more repulsive to her than what lay before her. It was itself revolting enough, to but actually touch it, to mangle it – she could not do that, would not do it. She thought that she could actually see it squirming, in a grim parody of life, but she convinced herself that it was simply her extremely overactive imagination, wound to breaking point at this moment. She contented herself with placing Celandine's discarded, partially soaked shawl over it, hiding it from the sight of Celandine and anyone who would come to see what had caused her outcry.

Wearily she made her sticky way back to her sister. As she crouched down beside her, skirts billowing up, she saw that Celandine had closed her eyes and her head was bent low. She feared that she might have fainted from exhaustion; but then as she reached out to her Celandine finally spoke.

"Genevieve? Is it…dead?"

"Yes. Yes, it is." Of course she did not add what was nevertheless going through her head at these absurd words: Of course it's dead, what did you expect? And then she felt ashamed, since she had feared the same thing herself; a living, half-formed being that expired in front of them, mutely cursing them for its death.

Celandine nodded dumbly before she began to cry; not the choking sobs of pain and fear that were half gasps of agony and half desperate gulps for air, but the near silent tears of absolute grief. Water leaked from the corners of her eyes and ran down her blood smeared cheeks, and she brought her stained hands up to her face and rocked to and fro slightly, breathing deeply and crying all the while.

Genevieve longed to put her arms around her little sister to comfort her, but she knew that now was not the time. The last thing Celandine would want now was to be touched or held when she had lost something that she had carried for a precious time, whether she had cared for it or not. Their own mother had miscarried again and again before she had finally managed to come into her time of fertility by bearing Philippe, and she had learned that the young comtess had locked herself away in her room for days at a time when her hopes had been washed away in blood. How very ironic, then, that her daughters should in the end have come to this.

"Celandine, you have nothing to weep for. You made your decision, in the end, and you kept to it," she said quietly, trying to calm her sister with words rather than with touch. "Celandine, do not weep like a frightened girl. You are braver than that. You are fearless in a way that I shall never know."

"I am not." Celandine raised her tear-streaked face from her hands, her eyes already red and swollen with her weeping. "I am not brave. How can I be brave? How can I, when…" She closed her eyes, and choked.

"But you took the drink I gave you, after all you said…oh, Celandine, why did you have to take it now, now, of all times? Could you not have waited longer?"

"I didn't!" Celandine shook her head violently, her eyes still closed, as if refusing to open them and look at the stain soaking through the shawl that hid the horrible mess under it. "Genevieve, that's what I've been trying to say. I didn't take it. I didn't. How could I? How could I do that? I didn't have the courage or the will."

The news was so abrupt that she could do nothing more than stare at Celandine, until she managed a whisper. "Celandine, what…are you sure?"

"Do you think I would be unsure about this?!" Celandine spat savagely, her eyes flashing open for an instant and glaring at her, before shutting again in exhaustion.

"But then…how…" The shadows were growing, as was this whole horrible nightmare.

"Genevieve, don't you see?" her little sister groaned, wracked with more than physical pain. "Somebody else gave it to me without my knowing, somehow. Somebody knew. They knew about me, they knew about the drink, they knew where I kept it; they found it and they gave it to me without me knowing. They knew. Somehow, somehow, they knew."

The horror in Genevieve's mind was building steadily at the meaning of this; soon her mind would begin to howl. "Heaven help us," she muttered. "What do we do now?"

"What do we do? What can I do? You said it's over, and it is!" Celandine clasped her arms around her belly, and sobbed out loud. When she spoke again, her voice was more quiet, but harsh with grief bordering on sheer insanity. "They've won, we've lost. I've lost. And they…they killed my baby. They killed it. My baby…"

And then Celandine opened her eyes, and threw back her head, and she screamed and screamed and screamed.

Far away, she could hear a woman wailing. The poor creature sounded as if she were in agony, agony that ripped her apart, piece by piece. It was horrible to hear. She longed to get away from it. She longed to feel her belly full again, not from eating but from the weight of a being she could love and who would love her back. She longed to be warm again, and not warm from the wetness on her face and her hands and body.

Mother, mother, you have murdered me!

She wanted it back. She wanted to take it all back. But she couldn't. She could never, ever take it back, and she knew that it was all over, that nothing would ever help her again, that she would be alone forever, because she had lost her baby.

The woman went on shrieking from far away, and it took a while for her to realise that the wetness on her face was tears mixed with blood, and the screams were coming from her own mouth.

Blood called them forth. Blood and injustice, and a woman's shrieks.

The dam burst.

When the screams abruptly began Defarge almost dropped his prayer book in shock, and more than one lady in the audience gave a little shriek of her own as the wails unfolded throughout the great room. They tore through Christine's ears, stopping her speech in her mouth, making her shiver as she turned slightly to see where those awful sounds were coming from. Those cries, they couldn't possibly be from a human throat, so wild and howling like a dog in agony, like a vixen screeching and caught in a trap. They were filled with such pain and loss that they deeply frightened her; the demented wails of a heart broken and gone insane.

But if they made her shudder, then they struck Raoul like a blow; out of the corner of her clouded vision she saw him take a step backwards and his face suddenly crease in pure horror.

"Celandine!" the Vicomte hissed, his eyes so wide the whites melted into the white of her own veil. "No! Celandine!"

He made to step forward and off the dais, disregarding the ceremony utterly. She turned in alarm to watch him go, as the knowledge he had just imparted in such a striking way sank in; and in doing so she saw something that made her want to scream as well. She would have screamed, she would have screamed until she was sick to her gut, if she had been able to make any sound louder than a strangled creak.

How can this be? How can it? This isn't true. It isn't true…

But no matter how many times she repeated the mantra to herself it didn't change the fact that there was someone sitting in the seat that Raoul had so recently vacated. A certain someone wearing slightly decayed black dress clothes and a black cloak lined with what had once been white silk, long turned yellow. Someone whose white porcelain mask gleamed in the light, and whose yellow eyes glowed with a hidden fire as he stared back at her in admiring fascination, stripping away everything in its path, distance and veil and flesh and bone included, leaving her bare and shaking before his gaze.

She did not even know that her bouquet had slipped through her ignorant fingers until she heard the gentle thud as it softly hit the floor.

Those eyes had haunted her in her dreams, both waking and sleeping, and she could do no more than to murmur the name of their owner. "Erik…"

Raoul shouldn't have heard her. But he did hear her, and he stopped and turned to see what her hidden face was looking at; and he hissed again, a savage noise, full of anger and violence and hatred. The assembled guests began to mutter at the intrusion of this unexpected guest, and then gasped as one as Raoul pulled a pistol out from under his jacket oh God where did he get that? and pointed it directly at Erik, ready to fire. One man who loved her ready and willing to shoot another who loved her; her heart hammered with the terror she felt pouring through her body. She put her hand on her silk covered breast to try to make it beat slower.

She saw Erik's lips curl in a smile as he reclined easily in the chair, one leg tucked gracefully behind the other, his head leaning on his sable clad hand. How could this be? Not only was he here, but he looked almost living, as if he had never died and gone through hell at all. His cheeks bloomed with colour and health, and his yellow eyes shone like flames in lamps, twinkling with dark amusement at her surprise and the horror and shock around him.

"Good morning, Christine," he said abruptly, and all the whisperings and mutterings stopped as the inhabitants of the hall fell silent to listen in wonder to an angel's voice upon earth. "I would reason that you are pleased to see me, judging by the delightful accompaniment your heartbeat makes to your breathing."

She had no chance to reply, as Raoul took a step forward, his eyes narrowed. "You demon! You devil! You dare to come here, here, after you…what have you done to Celandine, Erik?! What have you done to my sister?!"

Erik finally took his eyes off her, to her intense relief, and instead gazed coolly upon Raoul, which brought her terror again. What would her demon lover do to her fiancée, her Vicomte? "I did nothing to your sister, Vicomte de Chagny. Perhaps you should ask someone nearer to home about what has happened to poor, dear Celandine. However, what is done is done." He made a movement forward, as if he would get up; but Raoul aimed the gun right at his face, his hand completely steady and his face hard.

"No, Erik. Stay where you are. Don't come any closer, or by God I'll put your glowing yellow eyes out for you!"

"Raoul!" The cry came unbidden, unexpected. "Raoul, please, please don't shoot!" She stretched out a hand, as if he still might be saved. If he did not fire that gun he would remain pure, her own dearest beloved; but if he fired and spilled Erik's undead blood, then that blood would be on him forever more, she just knew it.

"Never argue with a lady, Vicomte. They're always right." Erik straightened and stood, his cloak rustling about him. "Besides, do you really think that that little toy could hurt me?"

Raoul continued to glare, as he moved to step in front of her, his free arm gently urging her backwards. "I don't know, but I'm willing to try it. Keep away from us, Erik. I won't let you hurt us any more."

She couldn't let this happen. Erik would soon stop playing and unsheathe his claws, if this went on. Swiftly she evaded Raoul's grasp and hurried forward, ignoring his desperate touch upon her wrist, and walked slowly up to Erik, stopping a few paces away from him. She only hoped that he could not see her eyes through her veil as she spoke.

"How did you get here, Erik?"

"That…is not for you to know, my angel." For the first time, he looked pained, almost ashamed. "For now, simply know that I am here."

"Have you come to take me back? If so, you must know that I won't go with you. I cannot. Do you understand that?" She spoke bravely, but in truth she knew there was very little to stop him from taking her. Raoul could fire that gun all he wanted, it would make no difference. The only hope they had was if she were able to calm Erik down, which might take more time that she had. Hurt and pain were swimming in his yellow eyes, but then, astonishingly, he chuckled.

"I understand completely, Christine. After all, what woman could possibly wish to marry a dead man?" Erik took a step forward, and for the first time the spectators could see what now truly set him apart from other men, as his skeletal foot echoed upon the marble floor and his bony hand emerged from the folds of his cloak. There was no gasp of disgust, no horrified murmur at this new revelation. The audience had been hypnotised into utter silence at this impossible, improbable display; even Raoul appeared to have been rendered speechless at his first proper view of his rival's true form. As far as she could tell he made no attempt to stop Erik when he reached out, and the very tips of the bones of his fingers lightly brushed her veil, making her shiver under her silken dress – from what, she did not know, or dared not guess.

"Have you come to wish me well?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady as his fingers traced the shadow of her chin upon the simply piece of lace that kept her from him.

"Perhaps," he murmured, as he drew closer and his foot brushed her wide skirts, making her back away a little, still cautious. He appeared not to notice her subtle retreat. "But I was more inclined to come here to put a halt to this ridiculous façade."

"Just you try it," Raoul growled from behind her, suddenly so close behind her she backed up against his chest, aiming the pistol once more over her very shoulder, making Erik frown darkly and draw back. "You don't have any power over her anymore."

"And you will have to settle with us, first." Meg and Carlotta had both stood up from their front row seats, Meg's fists clenched and Carlotta's shawl falling off, disregarded by its owner. The faces of the young women were set and determined, Christine saw with a sinking heart. Meg, after all, seemed to have seen far worse things in mirrors than Erik, and Carlotta was too proud to let her fear and dread show.

Erik, to her surprise, looked vaguely sympathetic as he gazed at the two girls. "I am truly sorry for the both of you. You didn't deserve this. But I cannot be too sorry, for you alone brought your fates upon yourselves."

"What are you talking about?" Meg demanded angrily, starting forward, but Carlotta's anger fled from her face as she simply stared at Erik. Abruptly, to Christine's shock, she clasped a hand over her mouth, but not before she had coughed and a trickle of something dark erupted from between her lips, to trail down her chin.

No. Oh, please, not this! Never this!

All stared at Carlotta as again she coughed and again and again; those horrendous co-acks which they had all come to dread, only stronger and more violent than ever before, as if she were choking up her stomach, her lungs, everything inside her. She doubled over, slipping through Meg's hands which had shot out to support her, and landed hard on her hands and knees. Without her hand to cover her mouth something dark and red spattered onto the floor, and more and more came as she coughed and hacked, and couched and coughed and coughed.

"Co-ack! Co-ack! Co-ack! Co-ack! CO-ACK!"

"Carlotta!" Meg cried, crouching down beside the girl vomiting more dark fluid, glaring up at Erik. "What did you do to her, you beast?!"

Erik laughed. That laugh was enough to make Raoul grab hold of her and pull her back, away from him, lest he turn wild and strike out. She clutched at Raoul's arm, hardly believing what she was seeing; why was Erik doing this? Why was he hurting so many people, people she loved? How could he?

"Erik! Stop it! Please, leave Carlotta alone! She hasn't done anything wrong! If you must punish anyone, punish me!"

He stopped laughing, to blink at her in surprise. "I haven't come here to punish anyone, Christine. I bear no one here any ill will. Those who came with me, however…" His shoulders rose and fell elegantly. "That, I am afraid, is an entirely different matter."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Raoul asked savagely.

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed? You, who snatched Christine back from the underworld? Pathetic." Erik gestured upwards, while nodding towards the still retching Carlotta. "Behold! She is singing to bring down the chandelier!"

As one, the assembled wedding guests turned their heads to look up at the ceiling, where the great crystal chandelier hung from a strong cord suspended from the ceiling. Christine doubted that those who had not had a supernatural experience cold see the dark shapes swarming around the support; like black, writhing snakes. How did they get there? she thought dizzily. For all the world, they reminded her of the 'waters' in the river that encroached on Erik's layer; and with a sickening pang she realised that was just what they were. Erik had not come alone from the Land of the Dead, however he had done it. And she could tell – or rather feel, as she could no longer feel touch – that these spirits were hungry.

She wanted to yell a warning to the clueless masses below the crystal death-trap. But it was a voice from the back of the ball room who screamed first.

"Fire! Fire! Run! It's all burning! Run, run or you'll burn!"

That was enough to start practically everyone screaming or howling with fear, as an instant later they saw the chandelier began to quiver, then – oh, so slowly, as if it were truly light as a feather – slip free of its support, eaten away by the spirits who were hungry for human life, and drift so softly down towards the floor, ready to burst into razor sharp death and scorching flames.

At once everyone was on their feet, and racing for the doors. For once the servants were more privileged than their masters; being so near the doors to the great room, they were the first to fight their way out, escaping that chamber of death. Aristocrats screamed and kicked and jostled, no longer men and women of highest breeding but almost animals clad in fine clothes, animals that wished to escape a fiery or sharp demise. Only Meg remained where she was, dragging a choking Carlotta desperately out of the way, gasping with fear; and Cecile Jammes stood quite still despite those who rushed around her, seeking a free exit, still screaming her shrill warning like a peacock.

Christine wanted to run to help her friends, but Raoul grasped her by the arm and instead pushed her urgently in the direction of yet another side door as yet unnoticed by the fleeing wedding guests. "Run, Christine!" he whispered. "Get out of here, now!"

"But, Raoul! I can't, what about-"

"Christine, I won't let him take you back, no matter what his tactics are! Get out of here, love, it's not safe!" And he pushed her away again, already turning to make for Erik who stood quite calmly, apparently enjoying the display and Raoul's challenge.

She would have said something else, but her fear overtook her at last. She did not want to be present when that chandelier hit the ground, nor yet when someone came walking through the flames, looking intently for her. She picked up folds of her skirts and ran for the doorway, her outfit rustling irritatingly all the way.

She had just reached the door way when the crash made her turn around, to watch in utter dismay. The chandelier, in its impact, had scattered razor sharp crystal pieces all across the floor; the flowers and the chairs which had scattered along with the crystal were already alight. Great pools of oil from the lamps had spilled everywhere; even as she stared flames billowed up right in front of her, driving her backwards through the doorway.

"Raoul!" she screamed into the inferno. "Raoul! Meg! Carlotta! Cecile! Raoul!"

But through the veil and through the smoke of the flames, she could see nothing. She tore the veil from her head, her eyes already watering with tears, throwing it into the fire in a wild moment as if to feed it. "Raoul!" she screamed again, stepping forward, so close she could feel the heat wash harshly over her face.

But it was not Raoul who answered her. She could see things moving between the flames, but they certainly did not look human either in their aspects or in their movement. What was happening? Where were her friends? She would have ignored the flames and marched straight back in, were it not for the fact that one particular shape suddenly turned and looked directly at her. Yellow eyes flashed in the fire light.

At once everything else vanished. She had to run, away from the one who owned those eyes.

So she ran.

Cecile slumped back against the wall, shivering in terror. She did not think that she had ever been so frightened in all her life. All that fire, it had been like hell itself. Cecile had had a glimpse, just the merest glimpse, of what lay at the end of that tunnel Raoul had created in the mirror, the terrible night when they had gotten Mademoiselle Christine back. She had no desire to be sucked into it. There was a hell just beyond those doors, and she felt so afraid she could hardly even think. This was worse than candles or fire places; this was fear incarnate.

She managed to look over at Meg and Carlotta, without breaking out into gibbers, which she thought was quite calm and controlled. Truly, she didn't know how she had managed to dash the length of the hall to grab hold of Carlotta's other arm and help Meg to pull her into one of the numerous fortunate side chambers the ball room contained. Had she been the sort of girl to boast, she would have sworn that she had run right under the falling chandelier, so close that she could feel the draught of it pass over her head. That part, along with this whole terrible sordid affair, she would much prefer to forget, otherwise it would cause her to wake up screaming every night of her life, should she live to sleep again.

But they were all sprawled on the floor so that the smoke wafting through the closed doors would not reach them, and Meg said that the fire would burn itself out soon – there was not much to burn in there, after all. She was less than sure about this, but she was so scared that she was willing to go along with whatever anyone else said, so long as there was the possibility they might get out of this alive.

Meg was, for the moment, ignoring her, as she tended to Carlotta, who had thankfully stopped making those dreadful co-ack sounds and was even now wiping her chin free of the blood that was not blood after all. This was making Meg very angry indeed; far more angry than scared, which Cecile felt she should by all rights well be by now, considering the room on the other side of the door was bordering on a fiery inferno.

"You mean it was just wine, after all?" she exclaimed, clutching her forehead in pent up emotion. "Good grief, Carlotta, you had me terrified! I thought you were dying!I thought Erik was killing you to summon more spirits!"

"You think that I enjoyed bringing it up?" Carlotta retorted, wiping her mouth. "Far from the truth, Meg."

Despite herself and everything that was happening around her, she was curious. "Mademoiselle Carlotta," she began, crawling over towards the two, doing her best to ignore the fact that she was crawling nearer to where the fire was, "why did you bring up the wine? I thought that you could still drink?"

"I think that I can, Cecile," Carlotta said rapidly, sitting up straighter. Even when recovering from escaping from a blazing chandelier, Carlotta still had the grace of a queen. "It was not the wine, I do not think. It was something, something in the wine. Something bad."

"Bad? How?"

The Spanish girl shook her head. "I am not certain. It was merely the smallest hint, but it was there, and I think that my body knew that it had to get it out of me, even if it was not meant for me. You see, I felt – I know this is strange, but I felt as if I tasted death that was not meant for me, but for someone else."

Cecile did not understand this at all. This was all too strange, and she protested. "I am certain there was nothing wrong with the wine when the Comte Philippe the Elder bade me take it to you. He put all the glasses on the tray in order, in my sight."

There was a hissing intake of breath from Meg, who had been silent for the past while. Both of them turned around to look at her, and Cecile was startled by the look on her face. It was more than anger, and she had seen Meg angry more than once…this was pure fury.

"Celandine," she said softly, dangerously. "Celandine was taken ill, just before Erik appeared. Erik needed blood to come here, if not to stay here." She turned to look at Carlotta's the light from the other side of the door shone in her blue eyes, lending them a red, almost demonic tint. "Her glass was next to yours, wasn't it, Carlotta? He did something to her. He put something in the wine. That utter, utter bastard."

She gawped in shock at the young Giry, but before she could say anything, make an inquiry, as what on earth was going on, yet another voice spoke from above them.

"Now is not the time, I think, Mademoiselle Giry, to sit and swear, is it?"

She herself could do nothing more than stare mutely, but she could see that Carlotta smiled grimly up at the dark, familiar shape that paid no attention to the smoke drifting about his head.

"Buenas dias, Señor Persian. What do you propose that we do now?"

Christine stopped to lean against a wall, panting and sweating inside her gorgeous, torturous gown. She longed to tear it off, but then it would simply leave hints for her pursuer to follow, like a silken trail of breadcrumbs leading to the prize. Now that she had time to think without seeing those yellow eyes, she thought that it was not so sensible for Raoul to have sent her off on her own, since Erik could slip past him like a shadow, and come in pursuit of the runaway bride.

She knew that he was following her. Why should he not? The oldest game in the world; the woman running and the man following to catch her, perhaps to kiss her, perhaps to tumble her, perhaps to do something else altogether. But she did not want to be caught. With all her life, she did not want to be caught; and so she pounded down the corridors in her silken slippers, clutching at the stitch in her side with one hand, holding her skirts out of the way of her feet with the other, trying not to breathe too loudly or make too much noise by sweet, sweet living. Every noise carried, and she knew all too well that Erik had better hearing now he was dead than he had ever had when he was alive.

Where on earth was she now? She recognised the corridor she was in vaguely as being quite near the Louis-Philippe room, which was a long way away from the ballroom indeed. Had she really run that far in such a short space of time, climbing stairs in the process? It felt as if she had been running for an eternity-

"Christine."

That, that voice made her start horribly, but she was not so alarmed as not to notice that it carried an echo to it – inaudible to any untrained ear, but she knew that it meant that Erik was casting his voice. Likewise it also meant that, firstly, he was not near her, and secondly he had no definite idea of where she was. If both of the two were true the voice would be much clearer, and also delivered directly into her ear rather than into the air around her.

This knowledge gave her hope, not least because it reminded her of the lessons he had given her, not dreaming that she could turn her new gifts upon her teacher.

"Christine," his voice persisted. "Why do you run? Do you think that I would harm you?"

She might have a chance, if she used what he had unwittingly given her. She, too, could make her voice carry; not enough to rival Erik's skill, but enough to potentially deceive him. I can project my voice to different places; make him think he's catching up with me! I can trick him! Even if he can hear my heart-beat, I can confuse him! I can do it! She prepared herself, remembering his own lectures upon the arts she was about to use against him.

"Perhaps not that. But I fear what you might do instead." She projected her voice several feet down the hallway, softly but clearly, though unable to hide her own much more tell-tale echo. There was a pause, as if Erik was genuinely surprised, and then Erik's chuckle came rolling back in reply, shaking with mirth.

"Very cunning, Christine. Very cunning indeed. But do you believe that this will confuse me for as long as you wish?"

"Believe? No," she admitted as she crept along, keeping close to the wall and trying not to make her dress rustle too much. "But I hope that it will keep you unaware of where I am, until you have to return to whence you came."

"I doubt it will, Christine. I sincerely doubt it will. But I will indulge in this game of hide and seek, if you so desire."

She made no reply, passing the closed doors to the Louis-Philippe room. She would not risk speaking unless he spoke, so that she could tell how near or far away he was, though she would have a hard time indeed in working that out. Her heart was beating more calmly now, now that she knew she had some control, rather than simply fleeing before a dark predator.

"You left me, without even a goodbye, Christine." Now Erik's voice was soft, smooth, enchanting, as if commanding her to turn around and run into his arms and beg for forgiveness. But she had never begged for anything in her life, save for death when she was a girl and did not know how to live, and she would not start pleading for mercy now.

"I know. I wish it had not been so, but it had to be." She projected her voice this time into the room she had just passed, hoping to potentially disorientate her stalker. "What else could I have done, Erik?"

"Not a great deal. I know that you overheard Nadir and I speaking. He is more cunning than I gave him credit for." Abruptly his voice shifted; now it seemed to be speaking right out of the wall she was pressed up against. It took all her resolve not to leap away in fear. Perhaps he was only making a guess. Perhaps. "And your little Vicomte is more resourceful than I gave him credit for as well. I must say, I am impressed that he went through so much for you. Then again, the idea that he would endure any suffering for your love is not surprising at all. Not that this makes him any better in my eyes, of course."

"You gate-crash my wedding day," she muttered, as she rounded a corner, turning away from where Erik's voice was at that moment projected, leaving her own voice to go left, "you threaten my friends, you terrorise everyone in the vicinity, whatever you brought with you sets the place on fire, and now you insult my fiancée yet again? You are a cold man, Erik."

"That is a trait we might well share, Christine." His voice was suddenly right in front of her, making her back track down the corridor before she convinced herself that she would not let herself be driven back into his arms, wherever they were at this moment. "You force yourself to be colder and harder than you might otherwise be, not for yourself but for those around you, because you cannot be seen as anything but demure, you cannot deviate from the mask you built up for yourself. You force yourself to keep your true, deep emotions bottled up inside you, along with those touching memories of your father."

She felt her cheeks burn, not with embarrassment but with fury. How dare he? "This coming from the one who nearly encased his whole lair with ice at the memory of his mother? The one who hates Raoul's family so very passionately?"

"Touché." Erik's voice was now to her right again, and to her dismay it was keeping pace with her, even when she began to hurry more and more, forgetting her vow not to make too much noise in her haste to get away. "But you still don't know the full story of what they did to me, Christine – though you shall, in time."

"I will not!" she hissed rapidly, making a sharp turn left. "Your words are poison, Erik!"

To her dismay, she found that she had entered into a corridor lined with mirrors, which echoed even more than was the wont with these particularly glamorous corridors she had been fleeing through. Several brides clad in white silk made their timid way along the corridor, nervously glancing to her as she glanced at them, their fear and trepidation repeated again and again. She dared not speak again; it might at once give Erik a clue as to where she was.

"Shall I tell you something else, then, Christine?"

God, his voice was everywhere; it was all around her, surrounding her like an ocean of sound. Panicking by now she made for the exit, grabbing hold of her skirts, not caring now whether they rustled for all they were worth.

"You can run, Christine, but you can't hide from me here. You see, I built this place." She halted at this revelation, staring at her wide eyed reflections, her mouth open but no words, projected or otherwise, finding their way out. "Oh yes. This place was my masterpiece, or one of my masterpieces at least; and I still know it like the back of my hand. So, no matter where you go in this place, I know where you are, and I will find you. After all, this house…no, rather a palace…"

She hardly dared move, but she had to. She could not allow herself to give in to terror, and the exhilaration that came with terror. She moved again, cautiously, towards the end of this horrible corridor,

"…you…"

His voice was far away again, moving ahead of her. Perhaps he thought she had already gone on, and that his voice was keeping pace with her once more? She wasn't about to shatter the illusion.

"…in the end, my dear Christine, both the prizes of the de Chagny's are truly mine."

As the final word met her ear, once again close to it, she darted sideways, and her back met something tall and solid and cool, that wrapped two strong arms around her before she could breathe.

"Mine," cool lips whispered into her ear again, as that voice poured into her soul like intoxicating nectar, stilling her moan of despair and defeat, "mine…"

This chapter was one of the hardest for me to write, concerning Celandine. I do wish it hadn't had to come to that, but it had to. It just did. I feel so sad.

Also, I'm probably going to that fan-fiction purgatory that is reserved for those who cause their characters to have very messy miscarriages.

Oh well. It could be worse. At least I didn't have her wait until the baby was a toddler, then have her cook it in a pie and eat it.

When I told Mum what the basis of this chapter was, her face fell, and she told me that she really wished I'd write about nice things for a change. I told her that you can only do that for a while before it gets boring. That's why everybody reads Paradise Lost and The Divine Comedy. I hate to say it, but nasty things are much more interesting than nice things at times.

And no, I don't support abortion. Thanks to my fairly tranquil upbringing I believe everyone should have the right to choice in their life (just not choice that involves blowing up mums and toddlers on trains with bread pudding bombs) and I'm not saying that people who have abortions are wrong. A woman has the right to control what goes on inside her body as much as a man does. But that doesn't mean I am a fan of it, by any means.

And as for causing a woman to have a miscarriage by slipping her a special drink on the sly, well, that's just plain evil. My, but I think up some nasty actions. Again, I do truly apologise if anyone was offended by that passage (why, no, I wasn't hyping up my chapter in the least, I assure you!). I also apologise if I described Celandine's miscarriage erroneously, having never actually been present at a miscarriage, but what I've read of them gave me the material I needed, and my extremely sick imagination did the rest.

Yes, strictly speaking, a marriage ceremony is supposed to take place in a church (unless you're not a Christian, or an atheist, or can't afford it and get married in a registry office instead) and not in a ball room. However, in this case, it does. Or rather, should have done. You'll find out about why that is soon, I promise you. No, I didn't bother to research any marriage ceremonies for this. Not because I was lazy, just because I don't think many people wanted to sit there reading loads of vows and yawning, wanting to get to the good stuff (not that I'm saying a marriage ceremony is not a highly sacred and important tradition – but from what little I can remember of it, especially if you're sitting at the back and can hardly hear, it gets pretty boring after a while) and anyway, all those vows Victor says in Corpse Bride isn't exactly used in the real world.

Also, squee for Erik's ventriloquist skills, and to a lesser extent Christine's. Could you really do this in real life? Who knows? Who cares? I think that if I were Christine, I'd get Erik to teach me to do that first of all(and not leap on him and take him wildly against the pipe organ, as others might). Who needs to sing like an angel (not that it wouldn't be nice, mind you) when you can scare someone senseless by whispering in their ear when you're in the next room, or making them think whatever they're holding at the moment has come to evil life, like a cursed doll, or, dum dum dum, an egg whisk?

Moo ha ha.

Please, review this meagre offering from the half-Irish seamstress? And wipe your feet as you leave.