Author's note: It's been a while... More has happened in the month of January than usually happens throughout the year. That being said, please pardon the lateness of this update. so without further adieu...

III.

The most delicate of eyelashes fluttered open, mimicking almost exactly the graceful movements of a butterfly's wings.

Christine carefully rolled up into a sitting position, her mind groggy and her limbs felt as though they were as limp as a rag doll's. As her vision cleared, she looked about the room in horror; it was not her own…

Struggling to get out from underneath the heavy duvet comforter and what seemed like a whole arsenal of blankets, she fought her way out until she consequently fell off the edge of the bed and onto the hard floor!

"I suppose the little songbird's up," crooned a soft voice unrecognizable to her. It seemed to be coming from the farthest corner of the room, and so she crawled cautiously towards it.

"Tsk, tsk," uttered the voice – this time from a different direction entirely -, "this won't do. This won't do at all."

She heard footsteps echoing off the walls of the cavern-like room. Trying to pinpoint where the footsteps were going, she climbed shakily to her feet and followed.

Outside the room was a narrow descending staircase, or rather more like a tunnel with steps carved into the rough-hewn rock.

With one hand brushing against the wall for some kind of support, the other was holding up the long skirt of her nightgown so as not to trip and potentially fall her way down to the bottom.

Once she reached the end, she couldn't help but gasp at the beautiful splendor of the room before her.

Wide-eyed and entranced she tiptoed over to an elaborately set dining table. It had everything, literally everything a girl could ever want for breakfast; a tray of tea things, a colorful array of fresh fruit, varieties of pastries and breads as well as a full accompaniment of preserves, seemingly homemade.

Impressed and intimidated all at once, she shoved her inhibitions aside and drew a gorgeously crafted antique chair and was about to sit when someone pushed her chair in for her. Startled at the sudden gesture of chivalry, she started to turn around when two large, strong hands caught her shoulders.

"Do not turn around, mademoiselle," came a ghostly whisper, merely a faint echo of the voice she had heard in her room.

"Who are you?" She cried, "What am I doing here?"

She awaited his reply for what seemed to be an agonizingly long moment, all the while holding her breath. His hands still held her shoulders. Noticing they were covered by what she thought looked like expensive black Italian leather gloves, she briefly wondered for what purpose he wore them inside the house.

He drew in a deep breath to steady his nerves and slowly retracted his hold on her. Here he was, with the object of his affections, in his very home. The possibilities were endless; he just had to tailor his response in such a way…

"You are here," he began, "on your father's wishes…"

Christine paled at the mention of her father, her heart feeling as if it dropped to the pit of her stomach.

"Christine," he said as he spun her chair towards him, took hold of her hands and knelt in front of her, his eyes burning into hers from behind the mask.

Shocked, Christine could only stare at him, as dumb as a mute. His liquid amber eyes bore deeply into hers, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"Although we have never met, child, I have watched over you for a very, very long time. I knew your father." His intensity gave way to an awkward sympathetic quirk of his lips.

"H-how," she stuttered, attempting to find some semblance of clarity, "how did you know him?" Her eyes pleaded with his, entreating him for any small consolation.

"We were partners for some time," he stood up and began to pace. At least some of his story would be true. He had known Mr. Daae over the course of several decades; they had just never met face-to-face.

"Partners?" Christine asked dully, tilting her head slightly to one side like a doe, her mind still reeling from the confusion of the current situation.

"Yes, partners. I'm a composer, you see. Among a great many other things," he grinned as he spread his arms to indicate the fruits of his labors. Obviously, if he could afford all this…

"I don't even know your name," she confessed, ashamed that her dear father never mentioned someone so seemingly important. Seeing her visibly wilt before his eyes at his admission, he knelt again before her so that he was at eye level. Deftly taking her chin by his gloved forefinger and thumb, he tilted her face upwards so that their eyes met once again.

"Christine," he breathed, "I know this was sudden, but I do have my reasons for bringing you here in such a fashion." He searched her eyes for acknowledgment before continuing.

"First, I must say that you are by no means in any danger here, and that you will never come to harm while in my presence." She nodded in understanding.

"Second, I swore to your father that I would protect you in his stead."

"Third," his voice broke ever so slightly, "that in time my dear, that you might-," he shuddered at the very thought of her becoming his living bride, "that you might accept me… as your husband."

Christine felt as if she had been struck a blow to the chest, all the air rushing out of her in one sharp breath as she collapsed inwardly. He grabbed a hold of her before she fell out of her chair, setting her upright as best as he could.

"Fourth, that I am the only one who can make your wildest dreams come true," he finished regally, knowing that if anything this would distract her from his almost-proposal.

She immediately perked up, searching his masked face for any signs of fallacy, finding none. Could she really trust this man who knew her father? Was this the future her father would have wanted for her?

"What do you mean? You seem to know so much about me already… Do you know my heart as well?"

She gazed into his eyes, willing him to admit this whole affair a farce concocted by her friends to make her blow off steam. With tears in her eyes, she reached out for his mask, only to be stopped short as he grabbed her wrists.

To her surprise, he was shaking.

"I don't need to know your heart to know what it is you wish for most in this world," he released her as he stood, crossing the room to the fireplace, resting his arm against the mantle. The light from the fire cast long, unnatural shadows across the room, making him appear more intimidating than before. She shrank back against the back of her chair.

"You have spent the last four years at the Conservatoire, correct?"

The sheer normalcy of the question threw her; she looked up at him questioningly.

"And during all this time, have you ever been given the opportunity to take your place in the limelight?"

Her embarrassed expression gave him his answer. He stalked towards her with all the litheness of an alpha lion, leaning on the armrests over her.

"Has anyone ever realized your talent…" he paused to brush a stray hair from her face, "your beauty…"

She froze as he softly stroked her cheek, her mind in shambles. What would happen to her from now on?

Reluctantly, he withdrew his hand and rose to his full height. He sighed audibly and then turned her chair back around to face the table.

"Well, I think that's enough for now, you must be famished," he said emphatically, waving a hand over the table, "Please, eat."

With that, he plopped himself down at the head of the grand table, eyeing her encouragingly although he made no move to take part in the repast. After several moments of fidgeting with her fork, she speared a generous wedge of cantaloupe, taking it into her mouth and chewing as imperceptibly as she could.

.

.

.

After a very awkward breakfast, Christine stood after finishing her tea, ready to flee the room. The trouble was, she wasn't quite sure where the bedroom she had awoken in was, a fact that painted her cheeks a very becoming shade of pink.

Erik seemed to sense her predicament and immediately came to her rescue. Standing abruptly, he proffered his arm, which to his amusement she accepted readily. So far, she was taking things much better than he had anticipated.

Leading her into the adjoining sitting room, he gestured for her to sit on a finely upholstered chaise long, a pretty piece he had acquired at an auction in Versailles. Of course, he had traveled to many countries during his unnatural lifetime and had an extremely unfair amount of luck when it came to getting anything of material value he wanted.

Except for one thing that he held far above any piece of furniture – a wife – someone with whom he could talk to about everything and nothing and take out on Sundays. It seemed ridiculous to him that after all this time he would still harbor a weakness for the opposite sex.

Looking across the room at the lady in question, she was without a doubt the most perfect creature he had ever beheld since her.

No, he wouldn't think of that now. Not when he was in this Angel's presence.

How prettily she twisted a lock of hair about her finger in nervous habit, how her lips pouted and her cheeks blushed. She was the picture of perfection. To take her mind off of their conversation prior to breakfast, he ventured in turning her attention to him.

"Christine, are you fond of reading?"

Looking up, their eyes met briefly before she looked away shyly, trying to pretend something had caught her eye.

"It was a favorite pastime of my father," she paused at the painful memory of his sitting by the fire reading her stories of his childhood, "I learned the joy of books from a young age. Even now…" She looked up with tears in her eyes, stubbornly fighting to keep them from falling. Her bottom lip trembled before continuing.

"How did you know my father?"

It was an innocent question and he had already planned the perfect story for her, to both calm her fears and intrigue her simultaneously.

"It was a long time ago. I must confess that I was a very lost young man when we crossed paths," he regarded her to see her sitting up in rapt attention. "I was in the process of finding a competent musician to display my latest work for a very prestigious national competition. I heard him playing the violin in a restaurant I frequented back in Paris. His was the most sublime music I had ever heard."

For a moment their eyes met, and Erik thought he saw something akin to delight at his praise of her father.

"Of course, he would not accept any payment for showcasing my work in the competition, but rather asked me to join him for supper," he chuckled at the obscenity of the older man's intractable kindness. "It was then that I first learned of the human race's capacity for compassion. Obviously we won the competition. Then, after much cajoling, we formed a partnership that ensured us much success."

Overwhelmed by details of a past unknown to her, Christine forced herself not to dwell on the fact that her father was no longer with her and instead decided to listen as if she were hearing the story of a stranger.

"How long did you two…work together?"

Erik's chest swelled at his Christine's timidity. He leaned back in his impressive wingback armchair, gracefully shifting one long lean leg over the other as he folded his hands together.

"For some time. Actually, I'd say a fair estimate would be at least five years. You weren't born yet when I'd first met him, but I did know your mother before you graced the world."

"My mother?" To this Christine was very curious, for she had never been able to get her father to talk about her mother at all.

"Yes… your mother," he said wistfully, recalling in minute detail the close likeness of mother and daughter. Although he thought Christine had inherited her father's gift for music.

"She was a very strong woman. I daresay your father needed some pushing at times – a little jolt back to reality – and your mother was an artist at it." He rose from his chair to move to the grandfather clock that stood impeccably next to an overstuffed bookshelf stacked with manuscripts. Staying still for long periods of time had never suited him, so he started winding up the clock and checking the different mechanisms to make sure they were working properly.

He felt Christine's gaze burn into his back. Evidently this was all new information to her… Perhaps her father hadn't the stomach to tell her after the accident.

"Perhaps it's best to leave it here for today my dear. Go now, get some rest," he pointed at where the wall had suddenly opened to reveal her bedroom on the other side. Relieved, Christine made her exit, pausing behind Erik just for a moment as she willed herself to speak.

"I don't know how I feel about all this," she said, gesturing around the room, "I don't know if it is even right that I should be here, but…" gaining courage, she rose up onto the balls of her feet to place a wary kiss on his masked cheek.

"You seem to know me although I don't remember you – and I'm sorry – but I just want to say thank you. For telling me about my parents."

With that, she exited the room and the wall swung shut behind her.

A solitary tear found its way down Erik's sunken cheek, a testament to the fact that up until now it had been nearly a century and a half since his last kiss.

.

.

.

"Where the hell could she be Meg?!" Raoul demanded passionately over his cell phone.

He had been searching all of Christine's most frequented spots for the past six hours. Why didn't she tell anyone where on earth she was going?! Despite the fact that he wasn't her boyfriend or even her best friend – she always confided more in Meg than she did with him – he was frantically running all over town trying to find her.

The police had been most unhelpful, insinuating that it was probably none of his business where the young lady went. After all, she was a blithe young woman at twenty-two years of age and therefore it was up to her where she came and went!

Frustration ate at him as he ran a nervous hand through his sandy blond hair. They didn't know Christine. They didn't know that she wouldn't just vanish into thin air to go on an adventure for the weekend.

With a knowing feeling he drove towards the house they had visited only the day before with the curious estate sale. It was minutes before he arrived at the same cross street. However to his dismay – and dread – the sign for the estate sale was gone.

P.S. - Reviews are the fuel with which this story runs!

Humbly,

Yours Anonymous