"Christine!"

"Papa!"

Christine practically tumbled off the train's steps and onto the platform as she saw her father emerge from the crowd. She flung herself into his outstretched arms and closed her eyes, reveling in the airy feeling as he spun her around in a sweeping circle. They broke off with a laugh, and he kissed her lightly on the forehead.

"How was Paris?" he asked. His mouth was quirked in an open smile.

"Wonderful," she said, lightheaded and cheerful.

Christine began to chatter about the events of her trip, expanding upon certain details and omitting others as they left the platform. On the main street, her father hailed down a hansom cab.

Looking around the city, it was odd, but she felt… not exactly "glad" to be back, but rather eased? Comforted? Everything was familiar. Safe.

Somehow Vienna had become a kind of home without her realizing, just as Paris had slowly replaced Sweden all those years ago. Another thing she had gained while losing something in return.

Christine shook head. Regardless, she was simply relieved that she had made it back without any other unexpected encounters. Up until the moment the first train had finally departed Paris, Christine had been convinced that something was bound to go terribly wrong, that there'd be some manufactured delay to trap her within the city. A problem with the train engine perhaps. Or a death at the station. She wouldn't have put it past him.

But no. There'd been no encounters with either Charles Renaud or the equally suspicious Nadir Khan. Her train had left on schedule and had maintained it all through its route.

The cab ride passed quickly. Christine continued to ramble on about the various teachers at the Parisian school and the latest Giry escapades as she made her way up the cobbled path to the front door, giddy at the thought of renewed normalcy.

Only Frau Schultz was able to exercise some control over her, practically shoving Christine into the dining room to get a bit of decent supper in her belly.

Even then Christine attempted to talk between the spoonfuls. She was deciding whether or not to tell her father about sneaking in to see Renaud's opera after all - he'd eventually get a letter from Madame Giry who'd be sure to mention it and then he'd get suspicious as to why Christine hadn't mentioned it - when she paused.

Nadir Khan was responsible for her father's treatment. That meant he was responsible for getting them this house as well.

It was a fact she'd known before, but it took on an entirely different implication when coupled with his relationship to Renaud.

Christine put her spoon down, the metal harshly clinking against the porcelain, and looked around the dining room with new eyes.

It was small and practical, just as it'd always been. Not the sort of room built to entertain a number of guests. However, that didn't mean it was plain. Far from it. The lighting fixtures, the table, the chairs, the silverware… everything was expensive. Crafted. Elegant.

She suddenly felt just a tad bit queasy, not the best in the middle of a meal. Her food briefly threatened to come back up. She forced it down again.

The dining room was nothing though. He wouldn't have cared about the dining room. Not really. Not when there was another room… a far more important room… her favorite in fact…

Imagine that.

"Christine?" Her father had paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth. Concern creased his already well-worn face as he started lowering it slowly down to his plate.

Christine abruptly pushed her chair back and left the dining room. Her feet took her straight to the grandest room in the entire house. The room that'd already been there, staring her in the face.

She flung open the door and stood in the archway, taking it all in. The luxurious furniture and even more luxurious carpets… both wood and woven threads basked in the darker, richer side of the spectrum, not overly gothic but not the definition of cheery either. The built-in shelves were stacked with countless books on music and composition, and - come to think of it - a sad lack of light fiction. In the center of the room the grand piano loomed, as it always did, like a dark maelstrom, sucking all attention towards it. An instrument that probably cost more than their entire cottage in Perros-Guirec.

And then there'd been those pens…

Christine dove through the various drawers of the writing desk, her hands practically scrapping against their insides in their quest to find one. To her eternal frustration, there were a lot more bare ones than she remembered. She found yet another and held it up to the light only to see nothing reflected against its smooth surface. She discarded it, like so many others before it, onto the Persian rug by her feet.

"Christine?" she heard her father ask from the door. She didn't acknowledge him, only mildly guilty at her decision not to. "What's wrong? Why are you…? Your supper… Is something…"

At last her fingers closed around a pen with rough markings embossed on the sides. She pulled it out, simultaneously triumphant and dreading what she was about to see.

The initials "CR" blazed out against the black in darkened silver.

What little there'd been left of her short-lived relief fully evaporated.

It had happened again. It'd happened again and she hadn't even known it. This entire time, she thought that she'd been finally free. That she'd been making her own way in the world. That she'd actually had a choice.

"Christine?"

She dropped the pen as if it were a flaming poker, and looked around the room in a detached sort of horror.

She hadn't escaped from Paris at all. Not from Paris. Not from the Palais Garnier. Vienna was just another part of his eternal net.

Oh God. This was his house.

A slightly hysterical giggle escaped her at that. Her angel… her phantom… He'd left behind the opera house cellar and had acquired a charming two-story cottage on the edge of Vienna complete with a flower garden in the backyard.

Her mind stuck on the flowers. Even more than his strange, new face, she suddenly imagined him waltzing through rows of orchids and peonies in the summer and then just… couldn't.

"Christine," her father repeated. "Is there… is there something the matter? I swear I'll listen if there is."

That snapped her somewhat back into reality. Her head continued to hurt though.

"I… I think I'm more exhausted from my trip than I thought I was," she said tightly, trying to regain some sense of control over the emotional tornado ripping through her. "I need some rest."

"Are you sure?"

Christine was about to protest that she was and force her way past him, when something in his expression made her pause.

She hadn't been fair to Meg, she hadn't been fair to Madame Giry, and more than anything she hadn't been fair to him.

When she'd been trying to save her father's life, she made the excuse that she knew more than he did. That he'd dismiss her if she told him the truth. That every decision she made was for the greater good and that - because of that - she was somehow above everyone else.

True, it had worked. She'd gotten him to listen to her and see a doctor, but only barely. And it'd come with its own costs.

If Christine was to maintain people's trust in her - and her own sanity - she had to start telling the truth wherever she could. Or, at least, facets of it.

She glanced at her father briefly and then turned her gaze away.

"While I was in Paris," she began, not knowing exactly how to phrase what she was going to say next. "I met Nadir Khan, you know, the man who's sponsoring your treatments? And then I also met his friend briefly… I think… I think this is his house."

"Alright," her father said slowly. Clearly not understanding how her current behavior was related to this knowledge. "Why should that matter? Is he an unpleasant man?"

"I… I don't know."

"A criminal of some kind?"

Yes! she wanted to scream.

"No," she said instead. She took a deep breath. "It just… shocked me. He acted as though he didn't know me, but this is his house. We've been living here for months. He pretended like he knew nothing about me, even though he clearly did. Why? What did he want?!"

She'd started calm, but the latter half had tumbled out beyond her control.

Her father was silent. Christine tried to analyze what was going on behind his stoic face but quickly gave up.

"It makes sense for you to be confused," he eventually said. "But some people truly prefer that their acts of kindness to be completely anonymous. Perhaps he was only doing this for M. Khan as a favor. Perhaps Khan is paying him for use of this house. Either way, he has perfectly good reasons for not wanting to involve himself."

"But…" Christine bit her lip. If she was sure of anything, it was that Renaud most certainly wanted to involve himself. But she was unsure of how to tell her father that without revealing certain motivations that she wouldn't be able to explain. She sighed in defeat. "I suppose you're right."

She tried to excuse herself upstairs, but her father steered her straight back towards her dinner. She ate it in silence, her mind buzzing. Thankfully her father didn't press her for additional conversation. After her last spoonful, she went up to her room… no, his room, and slowly unpacked her things.

Every piece of furniture, every wall hanging… they all had new meanings now. She stared at the various objects, trying to decipher some sort of hidden message behind it all, but she only managed to give herself a headache.

After a rather long nap that she personally blamed on the travel, Christine snuck back downstairs to practice on the black piano. Her fingers slammed down harder than usual on the keys, turning every note on her sheet music into a forte marcato, regardless of what was actually written, until her father burst in at last and sharply scolded her for abusing such an expensive instrument.

Christine grudgingly softened the dynamic levels, but she kept the marcato.

The autumn quickly bled into winter. Soon the Vienna streets were laden with snow and bells and carolers. Storefronts were packed to the brim with toys and other holiday offerings.

Christine was finding it rather difficult to enjoy most of festive atmosphere that seemed to be infecting everyone else with little resistance. She was getting incrementally better at the piano, but increments weren't nearly fast enough.

Her school was to hold its annual Christmas concert, showcasing its most talented students. Numerous important people would attend: admissions officers to the more illustrious academies and conservatories, casting directors for local operas, older noblemen looking for the next great virtuoso to patron…

Christine had not been selected to perform. She tried not to be bitter about that.

It was only logical. After all, she'd spent most of her life in the chorus. In the background. Surely she was used to that. She'd always been satisfied with it before. Not to mention she'd only been playing the piano for six months. If she'd been picked, it would be unfair to the students who'd been playing longer, who'd dedicated themselves more.

And yet Christine couldn't let go of the kernel of jealously she felt when she saw so many other names on the announcement sheet posted by the third floor offices.

If it'd just been older student, she would've been able to rationalize it. However, a couple girls her age had been picked as well. Girls in the vocal tract. Girls she knew she could easily outrank if she had her old voice, her true voice…

It was no use thinking about that. She didn't have her true voice and she wasn't willing to go through what she knew she'd have to to get it back. She was better off forgetting all about that and focusing her efforts on the piano.

Just how successful she was at doing so remained to be seen.

Her one consolation was that she'd seen neither hide nor hair of either M. Khan or M. Renaud since their run-in in Paris. If Renaud did have some sort of scheme to trap her into singing for him again, it didn't seem as though he planned to enact it anytime soon.

That said, Christine didn't completely let down her guard. Last time he'd seemingly vanished for six entire months only to unexpectedly terrorize them all. And as the personification of death no less. She'd been equally terrified with the rest of the theatre troupe at the time, but mildly scoffed at the overblown theatrics the more she actually thought about it.

The point was however, her paranoia then had ultimately been justified, so she felt no shame in continuing to be paranoid now.

Meanwhile her father was not helping her personal feelings of inadequacy. He was nose deep in his own musical issues, practicing day and night for his own winter concert, so she didn't confide in him her frustrations. Even if she did, Christine knew he'd only echo back all the depressingly logical reasons she'd already reasoned out.

He was extremely unhelpful one night, granted indirectly, when Oskar Bernstein visited for dinner and triumphantly announced that Gustave's concert had sold out. When Frau Schultz brought out the dessert, Christine ate hers in tiny bites, the sweetness of the chocolate at odds with the bitter feeling in her stomach.

Christine was dressed in her best clothes. Unlike her past childhood, or even just a year ago, she was now the proud owner of two quality evening dresses. Her father had gained quite a following of admirers from his Vienna concerts and the combined adoration - and subsequent generosity - had inevitability tricked down to her benefit.

She'd slightly protested the use of funds, but only slightly.

Oskar Bernstein had invited her to watch the night's performance in a private box of his with a number of other important, wealthy people, but Christine had managed to politely decline. She was currently seated in her usual place backstage, watching her father silently from the wings. No level of audience extravagance could compete with that.

Even so, her father was expected to socialize afterwards. The two normally went straight home after his concerts as it was difficult for him to really interact with his German fans - as broken as his French was, his German was even more so. However Bernstein had insisted just this once. The spirit of the Christmas season or some other sort of reasoning. And so after giving her father a standing ovation from stage left, Christine helped him put his violin away, and together they made their way to the world of the front lobby.

"Ah! Herr Daae! There you are! Man of the evening," Bernstein called out from the crowd before they'd taken even twenty paces. "I have some people here that you simply must meet!"

For the most part Christine studied the lobby's fancy light fixtures as her father was introduced to person after person, snapping out of her inattention to give small curtsies whenever she heard her name said. A couple of the patrons managed to start short discussions of rudimentary musical theory, but a majority were satisfied with simply praising her father to heaven and back.

They all spoke German, making extended conversations with her father difficult. Bernstein had to step in and help translate a fair amount. However her father responded to them all with genuine enthusiasm.

As Christine traced the detail of a particularly intricate chandelier in the far corner of the hall, she tried once again to tell herself that she wasn't jealous. She was still a child forging ahead. Her father had over twenty years of experience on her. He'd always been more talented than her. More illustrious.

Daae? Curious name. Any relation to the violinist?

She pursed her lips at the memory.

Yes, her father's fame was only natural. Still… more than not these days she found herself wanting to slam them all backwards with a high Eb.

"Oh yes. There he is," she heard Bernstein saying. He wildly gestured at someone from across the room. "I had hoped the two of you would finally meet. You're contemporaries you know. As you've taken Vienna by storm, he just so happens to be doing the same in Paris."

Christine sighed and resumed her study of the chandelier. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Her legs were starting to get tired. Hopefully they'd be done with this and be able to go home soon.

"I'm honored to finally meet you, Monsieur Daae," a familiar voice said in flawless French. Christine flinched as chills shot up her spine. "I've heard such wonderful things about you."

She stood there, completely frozen. Her mind raced to catch up with the world around her.

No, she'd expected this. She'd been expecting this for the past three months. Christine knew he wouldn't have stayed away forever. It was just a matter of time…

Christine kept her attention on the chandelier. If she wasn't part of the conversation, she wasn't going to do anything to change that.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her father's face lighting up in relief at finally being able to use, if not his native tongue, at least a language he could more easily communicate in.

"Me?" her father asked. "Or my music?"

"Both, in fact. And Miss Daae. What a pleasure it is running into you again."

Christine bit down on her lip to keep herself from betraying any other sort of emotion. There was no avoiding him now that he'd directly dragged into the conversation. She reluctantly tore her eyes from the chandelier and faced the newest member of their circle.

He was smiling thinly at her; Christine couldn't decide whether the smile reached his eyes or not. He still had the same sleeked back hair, the same unsettling nose…

She smiled despite the queasiness in her stomach.

"Monsieur Renaud," she said, lowering into another curtesy. "The feeling is mutual."

Christine could've kicked herself for her choice in words. The feeling is mutual? What kind of casual response was that for an eleven year old?

She was far too tense. She felt a slight slickness on her brow. Was she sweating? She couldn't be sweating. She couldn't afford to sweat. She needed to relax. Act natural. She could do this.

"Oh?" Bernstein said, eyes widening in pleasant surprise. "You two are already acquainted?"

Christine opened her mouth to reply with… something, but Renaud beat her to it.

"Not as such. Miss Daae and I… our paths have only crossed the once. At one of my operas in Paris."

"I see! So you've experienced his artistry first hand then. What did you think?"

Why did everyone keep asking her that?

"it was beautiful," she said, feeling a bit like a dim-witted parrot on the subject but still not wanting to exactly elaborate.

"Undoubtably," Bernstein said, nodding. "Undoubtably."

Christine's head entered a kind of fog as she watched her angel of music introduce himself to her father. Watched as he began casually conversing with her father.

Perhaps she had been dreaming this entire time after all. Perhaps her real self was still sleeping in Madam Giry's apartment. Yes, it would've been an abnormally real, abnormally long and imaginative and drawn out dream, but surely that made more sense than the situation currently unfolding before her eyes.

"A shame that we must wait so long to hear you play again," Renaud was saying. "Of course," he added with a quick glance towards Christine. "One's health should always come first. We have a duty to those who care about us the most."

"Yes, well, Christine certainly does care," her father said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "She thinks I'm pushing it as it is. She'd probably lock me up if I tried to fit even more into my schedule than I already have."

Renaud smiled. This time it did reach his eyes. "As she should."

Christine briefly forgot her endeavors to avoid him and their eyes met briefly. His eyes… despite everything else his eyes had remained exactly the same.

Then she remembered where she was and quickly glanced away again.

"Just because a formal concert is out of consideration doesn't mean the man is completely unapproachable," Bernstein said. His face lit up and he glanced back and forth between them. "Say, the two of you should both come to my New Year's party. Well, three when we include the young lady here. It's just a small get together… unless you already have other plans? I've already invited you Daae, although I must say, I haven't gotten your response yet."

"My apologies," her father said. "I've just been so focused on the concert these past weeks. Ultimately though, I have to defer to the true master of the house. Christine, what do you think? Shall we attend Herr Bernstein's party?"

If she was one for physical violence, she would've slapped him.

All three men had their full attention on her now. Their eyes prodded her, jostling her carefully constructed masks until they fell away one by one. There was no way to deny the invitation without looking suspicious.

"I suppose one night is reasonable enough," she eventually said with a mocking sort of haughtiness, the ever-vigilant keeper of her father.

Bernstein chuckled. "And you Renaud?"

"There are a number of matters that require my persistent attention," he said disdainfully, and Christine dared to hope… "However as the lady stated, I suppose sacrificing one night for mindless revelries is reasonable enough."

Her heart sunk.

"Wonderful!" Bernstein said, clapping his hands in glee. "Then I shall see you both there."

Christine braced herself for further interaction, but Renaud simply bowed and took his leave. Bernstein continued to make introductions to various patrons until at last the crowd began to depart.

Her father was released from his socializing duties, and he and Christine made their way backstage again. Christine bundled herself up in her winter coat in silence, nodding whenever her father began talking about the people they'd met. When he glanced over, she made sure to yawn. Let him think her reluctance to talk was a mixture of boredom and sleepiness. Though in all honesty she had nothing to say about the majority of the people they'd met and - in regards the one she did - she didn't want to.

As they crunched through the snow to their carriage, Christine scuffed her boots through the powder, scattering it into miniature flurries. She huffed and brooded all the way home.

What had she gotten herself into this time?

Her smile felt incredibly plastered onto her face. The muscles around her lips were beginning to hurt with the strain.

A "small" gathering Bernstein had said. The old man's sole mission in life was to connect people. Christine really should've known that they'd have different definitions of the word "small." There were at least thirty people in the small parlor by her later approximate head count.

The one blessing in all of it was that thirty people made it somewhat easier for Christine to avoid him without it coming across as overly suspicious.

Her father and Renaud were apparently the two stars of the evening. It seemed, from snatches of gossip she'd been able to pick up, that the spindly composer was just as much of mysterious recluse without a mask as he'd been with one. For him to willingly appear at a social event was a quite rare occurrence indeed. As such, he was a commodity, and every time it seemed as though he looked to approach her, another new person would drag him into an unexpected conversation.

God was truly merciful.

As a second layer of defense, Christine quickly joined a circle of entirely older women who had enough pearls around their necks to accidentally hang themselves if they ever got them caught on anything. She let them fawn over her cute curls and adorable dress, stroking and cooing lightly as they did. Even if Renaud did manage to permanently extract himself from his admirers (she stifled a giggle at the thought), it would be entertaining indeed to see him attempt to intrude upon her personal haven of surrogate grandmothers.

It was odd, she thought to herself as another old lady reached out to examine the detailed lace of her collar, the ways one ultimately managed to find protection.

All too soon though, a servant announced the call for dinner and her delicately balanced peace was toppled.

Christine held her breath as seating arrangements got themselves sorted out. For a brief terrifying moment, it seemed as though her father and Renaud were to be seated next to each other. However Bernstein commanded - albeit jovially - that the two men sit on opposite ends in order to stretch their combined fame across as much as the table as possible.

She was never happier to orbit in her father's shadow.

It was one of the longest tables she'd ever eaten at, if not the longest. At this distance they might as well have been two completely separate tables. Christine took her seat with renewed cheer, one eye casually on Renaud as he did the same, and half-listened in on her father's conversations as the first appetizer was brought out.

"Ah, stuffed mushrooms," a gruffly warm voice said next to her. "Excellent."

Christine whipped her head to the left to see Nadir Khan nonchalantly sitting next to her.

She watched as he lifted his napkin from the table and began to unfold it. How had he… When had he… She'd been so fixed on Renaud that she hadn't even noticed…

She glanced at her father. He was entirely engaged with the old man sitting across from him. That made things somewhat simpler. She turned her attention back to Khan.

"You weren't here earlier," Christine said simply, thinking of the crowd in the parlor room.

"No, I wasn't. I happen to be friends with the valet. Figured I'd catch up with him before dinner while everyone else was exchanging pleasantries. Very nice man. Two children. Younger is about your age I think."

Christine raised her eyebrow suspiciously. "You weren't at my father's concert either," she said.

"Oh? Should I have been?"

"Renaud was there," she said, slicing a bit of mushroom off with her fork and popping it in her mouth.

"So he was."

If the man had anything further to say about his strange relationship with Renaud, he wasn't divulging it. She continued eating.

"You just seem rather close," Christine said after another bite. "That's all."

Khan seemed to considered this. He stroked his short beard with his free hand. "I suppose we are," he said at last. "Although I certainly hope that that doesn't require being permanently bonded to the man with no respite whatsoever."

"You say that as though he's terrible company," she said, fighting back a small smile.

"Not at all. Although, he can be… hmm… difficult."

Christine nearly spat back up the piece she'd just swallowed. If that wasn't the understatement of the year…

"Are you alright?" Khan asked as she coughed, fighting to regain control over her own lungs.

Her eyes shot towards Renaud. No, no, no. He was looking at her. Christine hastily averted her eyes, reached for her water glass, and downed half its contents. Breathing deeply at last, she nodded.

"I swallowed too big of a piece," she lied.

He didn't press her on it.

In fact, to her immense relief, the conversation steered towards much safer grounds. Khan asked how her current lessons were going, about the various differences she'd encountered between living in Germany versus France, and then - traveling back even further - about the brief years she'd spent in her native Sweden.

Christine even managed to ask him a few questions of her own as the next couple courses came and went.

Nadir Khan originally hailed from Persia just like his cousin, Doctor Ahmadi. He used to have a wife and son, both now deceased. Christine apologized for bringing the subject up; he brushed her apologies away with a sorrowful smile that didn't make her feel any better about it. For most of his life he'd been a sort of policeman, but thanks to a series of wise investments now lived a life of - if not extravagant luxury - pleasant stability and comfort.

"How did you meet Renaud?" she found herself asking.

"Mmm, Renaud," he said ponderously. "Now that's a long tale. Far too long for any dinner table to give it justice I'm afraid."

Christine frowned. In the past several years, she'd become well adapted to the art of avoidance. Nothing was too long for a dinner table. Especially this one.

She started to press but was interrupted by her father.

"I see you've made a new friend," he said, finally free from the other guests around him. "Would you care to introduce us?"

"Oh," Christine said, glancing between the two of them as Khan looked on quite jovially. "I, umm… well, you see… This is Nadir Khan. Nadir Khan, this is my father, Gustave Daae."

Her father's cheerful face morphed into one of puzzlement. It was clear that he recognized the name, but didn't remember from where. Christine wondered whether to tell him or let him slowly work it out. Then his eyes grew wide.

He stood up suddenly, nearly knocking his chair over in the process. The clatter brought all thirty pairs of eyes directly towards them. Christine was entirely too conscious of Renaud's among them. He peered at her inquisitively, just as he'd used to after any particularly egregious mistake of hers, as though it was unfathomable that she'd choose to sing such a flat note in his presence.

Christine stealthy tugged on father's tailcoat, urging him back down. Even after he was seated though, an awkward hush continued to permeate.

"Now Wörner! You can't possibly stop there!" Bernstein called out to a rather decrepit man who's mustache threatened to swallow the rest of his face. "After your sister got trapped in the pig pen, what happened next?"

Slowly their host pulled the table back into their individual discourses. A couple eyes lingered on her father and then, growing bored, moved on to their original preoccupations.

"Monsieur Renaud," her father said when they had a semblance of privacy again. "I can't begin to thank you enough for what you've-"

"No need. No need at all," Khan said with a smile and dismissing wave. To Christine, he added, "I see the oak tree doesn't differ too much from the acorn."

Christine blushed, not knowing exactly how to respond to, well, what certainly seemed like a complement.

Her father and Khan began to exchange pleasantries, and the main course passed without any further incident. Plates were just getting cleared away for dessert when Christine heard slight commotion in the main hall. Seconds later the doors opened and yet another unexpected, unwanted face appeared.

"Ilsa Reinhardt," a servant announced.

Oskar Bernstein stood up and walked over to greet her as the older girl apologized profusely for her tardiness.

"You simply won't believe the night I've had so far!" she exclaimed as Bernstein took her pro-offered hand and led her to the table. With a small amount of difficulty, an extra chair was squeezed in and the party resumed.

"What's she doing here?" Christine muttered, not taking her eyes off the blonde girl as she effortlessly steeped herself in the various discussions around her.

"Entertainment for the new year, I suppose," Khan said next to her. "From what I've gathered, Bernstein's far too polite to ask your father to play so soon after his concert, and despite what he says otherwise, he'll always be far too intimidated to ask Erik."

Christine turned to face the Persian at that, blinking in confusion.

"Erik?"

Khan paused as though he hadn't even realized what he'd said.

"Forgive me," he said. "His middle name, that in truth he prefers to his birth one." Khan gave her a conspiratorial wink. "You won't let him know that I let it slip, will you?"

Christine didn't need to ask who "he" was.

"Why is it a secret?" she asked instead.

"Why is anything anything around him?" Khan said with a shrug. "For most people, I ask questions, but with him it is often easier to simply accept things as they are."

Christine more than identified with the feeling. She wanted to tell Khan as much, but that was what ultimately made the man so dangerous.

With Renaud, despite continuously feeling like a rabbit caught in a snare, she knew where she stood. She kept her guard up and their distance to a maximum. In contrast, Khan was so friendly, so seemingly genuine and relatable, that she felt herself slipping.

Christine still didn't know anything about how much Khan knew or what his relationship to everything was. If she said the wrong thing, if Khan found out about her memories and then told Renaud… Erik Renaud… Charles Renaud…

It made no difference what his name was. As soon as he found out she remembered too, she'd never get rid of him.

And then what if he found Raoul as a boy? She'd thought about it before and she thought about it again now. True, he wasn't a threat at his current age, but what if Renaud decided the easiest way to win her heart was to eliminate any and all potential threats before they blossomed? If Raoul was murdered…

Even if Christine shouted his guilt to the Parisian rooftops, no one would believe her. There'd be no proof. No motive. Or rather none that existed yet.

At last the dinner ended and they were all ushered into the music room to hear Ilsa sing. Christine clung to her father, half-hoping to bury herself in the folds of his jacket and never emerge.

The night was far from over.

A/N: Sorry for the slight delay in chapters. I had to deal with an unexpected move. Hope this chapter contained enough stuff to be worth it though.

Also I wasn't planning for Nadir to let slip the "Erik" thing to Christine this early, but I couldn't help it. He's not a "Charles" and it was just wrong having Christine think of him as such. Which, I guess, is part of the point? But still. It was just easier to move the "Erik" thing up a couple of chapters.