Umph, putting on a luncheon at church has left me exhausted so I shall simply say thank you for reading and reviewing and alerting and favoriting and know that I love hearing from you! Makes eeking out my last bits of energy to write and post all the more worth it.

Onward!

V

Christine was exhausted.

Dinner service was surprisingly smooth, although she was not entirely sure she liked having more couples to serve rather than the business clientele she was used to. On more than one occasion she received dirty looks from wives and girlfriends should they catch their significant other staring at her scant cleavage as she placed his order down on the table, and one time a woman had followed her to the kitchen to yell about how inappropriately she was dressed as she demanded another server.

Ewan had stepped in immediately and demanded she leave before allowing Christine a few moments in the office to collect herself before returning to finish her shift.

The last few days of the trial had been a bit more tedious. They had a DNA expert that had been called that confirmed that sweat found on the masks discovered in the opera house had been worn by Erik. A few of the performers had even offered testimony, claiming to have seen him wandering about the halls or peeping into dressing rooms.

"His eyes glow in the dark, you know!" Miss Jammes was a dancer at the theatre, or so she had stated. "I saw him watching me after rehearsal one night, staring as I took off my leotard."

Christine had glanced at Erik, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Miss Jammes had initially shuddered when she walked past him to the witness stand, but her eyes were quick to stare at him, repulsion and fascination overtaking her in equal measure.

She felt a little sorry that she had such a difficult time believing that the girl had been subjected to such things, but she was fairly certain that if one had suffered a frightening experience such as seeing a man—or a ghost as Miss Jammes had initially insisted—there, it would not induce the level of excitement she displayed. Genuine fear, certainly, or perhaps indignant outrage at having endured such an invasion, but not a thrill.

Her weekend had been fairly quiet and since she had no shifts to occupy her time she had spent most of it sleeping. A trip to the grocer had been the most exciting excursion and she happily noted that it was a less stressful experience when one had extra tips to help pay for necessities.

But the following week had negated her restful weekend and she was back to feeling exhausted and worn out. She felt horribly guilty about almost nodding off the day before, and she even risked the murmured thank you to Richard for prodding her gently on the arm so she had not further embarrassed herself. Erik deserved a proper trial, not one tainted because she couldn't keep her eyes open.

He hadn't looked at her for quite a while now. Sometimes she thought she felt his eyes on her but every time she checked, he was once more staring at the desk before him. At first she wondered if she had done something to offend him but then chastised herself thoroughly for such thoughts. She was on the jury for his murder trial, and now was not the time to be making friends with the accused.

The judge had been acting strangely for almost a week now. They never did disclose what emergency had called him away, but one of the other jurors said she overheard the bailiff's talking and they seemed to think that something strange had happened to his daughter, but no one knew exactly what.

Today they were listening to a Mr. Joseph Buquet regale the jury with a near death experience at the hands of an alleged madman.

"What is your position at the opera house, Mr. Buquet?"

He pushed a lock of greasy hair away from his cheek and Christine grimaced. While she tried to think the best of people, truly she did, she valued a kempt appearance, and there was something… off… about this witness. His eyes were too bright, his smile nearly menacing, and although she was ashamed to admit it, she didn't think she would have any difficulty believing that he was capable of peeping in at women's dressing rooms.

"I'm the senior stagehand for the theatre. Worked there fifteen years and seen a lot of funny business up in the rafters too."

Mr. Sorelli smiled. "I'm certain you have. But what have you seen about this man in particular?"

Mr. Buquet glared at Erik, his lips pulled back almost in a snarl. "Was toward the end of last season. I was a little late checking the rigging and one of the scenes dropped and when I went to investigate, I saw this man," he pointed a gnarled and dirty finger in Erik's direction, "standing there all smug before he dropped a letter onto the stage below."

"And what happened next, Mr. Buquet?"

The man coughed noisily into a gray rag that he tucked back into a pocket. "I ran forward to catch him. I wanted to be sure management knew that I wasn't to blame for the scene fallin' and I won't lose this job!"

Mr. Sorelli nodded in sympathy. "Would you say that you got a good look at the man?"

Mr. Buquet scoffed. "I'd certainly say so! The man tried to strangle me! A rope came out of nowhere and went about my neck and his eyes came up all close, glaring and hissing like the demon he truly is. I'd swear on my good mother's grave it was that man sittin' right there."

Christine didn't know if his mother was really good or not, but she still didn't think he should be swearing on her grave.

"How did you get away?"

"Not because of some sense of mercy, I can tell you that! I must have managed to make some ruckus because George, uh, another stagehand came running up and must have scared the devil off because the next thing I knew I could breathe and George was askin' me if I was alright."

The prosecutor's face took on a look of apparent concern but Christine thought he merely appeared rather sick. "And were you? Did you see a physician to assess your injuries?"

Mr. Chagny rose swiftly. "Your honor, not that I am unsympathetic to any injury this man has sustained over the course of his long… service," Christine was not oblivious to the slight look of distaste that the defense attourney had for the witness, "I must ask what the relevance is to this case. My client has been charged with the murder of Mr. Poligny, not an assault upon this man."

Mr. Sorelli was quick to argue. "I beg to differ, your honor, this clearly relates a pattern of violent behavior that could easily have escalated to homicide if not for the intervention of another."

The judge's lips pursed. "Proceed carefully, Mr. Sorelli. The accused is indeed charged with only one murder, and I won't have you misleading the jury with tales of an unsubstantiated crime that wasn't even reported."

Mr. Sorelli grumbled lowly before repeating his question to the witness.

Mr. Buquet glanced at the judge briefly before looking downward and shifting slightly in his seat. "Uh, no. Doctors are expensive, and other than a bruise on my neck there was hardly any need to involve a... hospital."

Christine could understand someone's fear of hospitals—she doubted that anyone truly enjoyed being forced to visit one, especially when a hefty bill was soon to follow with possibly no savings to cover the expense. But there was something about this man's demeanor that suggested that the cost was not necessarily what concerned him most about seeking medical assistance.

She made a quick note of it.

Eventually the prosecutor sat and the judge allowed Mr. Chagny to proceed with questioning.

It was a testament to how her life had changed that one of her favorite moments of the day was seeing what interesting tie and shirt combination Mr. Chagny selected. Today he favored an almost sickly green shirt, the tie a swirling mass of silver and whites with the occasional shocking emerald dot to offset the otherwise pale colors.

Christine wondered where on earth he found such strange clothing.

"Mr. Buquet, it must be difficult for you to recount such a harrowing tale."

"Objection!"

The judge sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mr. Chagny, I realize you are fairly new to the law, but sarcasm is not a way to win a case."

He nodded his head in apparent supplication. "My apologies, your honor."

Christine wondered at what point Mr. Chagny would run out of the apologies he so readily gave and the judge would simply throw him out of court.

She would miss his ties if it came to that.

But then she tried not to giggle when he flicked his hair slightly off his shoulder before making another attempt at examining the witness.

And for the first time that day when she looked in Erik's direction he met her gaze; a small frown on his face. Did he not like her smiling at Mr. Chagny's eccentricities?

Despite his disapproving expression, she was gratified to see that the bruises that had adorned his features when the trial first began had all but disappeared and no new ones had taken their place.

Hopefully that meant he was now in safer accommodations, wherever that might be.

"Mr. Buquet, do you have a drug problem?"

The witness glared as the prosecutor rose in protest. "Your honor, this is hardly relevant!"

Mr. Chagny appeared nonplussed. "It goes to the character of the witness, which I believe highly relevant since his testimony apparently suggests a violent streak within my client."

Christine thought that the judge rolled his eyes as the vehement display by the counselors before he waved his hand. "You may proceed, but let's leave behind the theatrical objections, shall we? This isn't a courtroom drama."

Both men murmured their assents before Mr. Chagny asked his question again.

"I most certainly don't have a drug problem."

Mr. Chagny returned to his desk and placed a folder before the witness. "Do you know what this is?"

Mr. Buquet glanced at it dismissively. "Some kind of report."

The defense attorney smiled almost mockingly. "Very good, Mr. Buquet. In fact it's an arrest report from July of this year. Your arrest report."

"I'm sorry, your honor, but the witness is not on trial here. Even a man with an alleged drug abuse problem can experience an act of violence!"

"Just sit down, Mr. Sorelli. Your indignant outrage is noted."

He huffed in his chair and Christine didn't miss the triumphant smirk on Mr. Chagny's face.

"That was all just a misunderstanding. The meth wasn't mine."

"Of course it wasn't. But in fact you were arrested and charged, and are awaiting a trial of your own, isn't that correct?"

Mr. Buquet scowled. "I'm not talking about that without my lawyer!"

Mr. Chagny raised his hands defensively. "I would by no means ask you to incriminate yourself. But you mentioned that you were concerned that if the theatre discovered you had neglected your duties you would be fired. Tell me, are you in fact still employed at the opera house?"

The scowl deepened. "No."

"And what was the nature of your termination?"

He huffed impatiently. "Some falsified drug test. One of the junior stagehands was jealous of my position and framed me. I got fired 'cause of him!"

"You got fired because of testing positive of methamphetamine use," Mr. Chagny corrected, though Christine supposed because of the slight rise in his tone toward the end that he was disguising it as a question so Mr. Sorelli wouldn't interrupt again.

"That's the official reason. Didn't get no severance because of it either."

Mr. Chagny shook his head in a semblance of sympathy. "Are you aware that prolonged use of methamphetamine can lead to heightened paranoia and hallucinations?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Your honor, I would like to submit into the record an affidavit from a Mrs. Mildred Buquet, mother of the witness, who swears that she has witnessed methamphetamine use by her son for almost a decade."

"Don't you bring my mother into this!"

"Your honor, I must repeat, the witness is not on trial!"

All of this was spoken at once and eventually the judge was forced to quiet the communal outburst with swift use of his gavel. "All of you sit down and be quiet!"

So loud and firm was his voice that Christine cringed a little inside, hoping that she would never be faced with hearing such instruction directed at her.

This time he did not give either of the attorneys permission to continue questioning the witness but instead turned to the man himself. "Mr. Buquet, I believe I understand where Mr. Chagny is going. Is there anyone that can substantiate the attack on your person? This… George perhaps?"

Mr. Buquet rolled his eyes. "We all thought this madman was a ghost. Of course he disappeared before anyone else saw him! Only I was a threat enough that he would try to kill me, I'd seen him blackmailing the managers."

The judge frowned. "So you believe that in no way were you faculties… compromised during this alleged event?"

"I didn't imagine it, that's for sure! It was painful as all hell and I know it was that rat bastard that did it to me!"

The judge coughed slightly. "Alright, that's enough; I think we've heard enough from this witness. You may step down, Mr. Buquet."

The clerk stepped forward and she and the judge spoke quietly for a few moments and Christine was grateful as it allowed her time to write out a few of her thoughts about the rather strange Mr. Buquet. One glance at his teeth suggested that there was nothing alleged about his drug use, and she rather thought that a doctor should take a look at his lungs as there was something terrible about the way they rattled.

But could he really have imagined himself being attacked? He had said that it was a demon that tried to kill him, yet he was also emphatic that it was Erik. Didn't they say that Erik typically wore a mask?

She was terribly confused, and she remembered how adamant during their initial questioning of the jury that they be able to suspend formulating their opinion until the end.

But her intuition screamed that Mr. Buquet was not to be trusted, and how could she ignore that? Of course it was perfectly reasonable that he should deny any drug use as surely the transcripts of this trial could be used for his own, but what if he had lied about being attacked at all merely to avoid facing blame for neglecting his job when an accident had occurred?

Christine wished that she could at least talk to the other jurors and see if any felt as she did, for at the moment she was confused and isolated and no matter how much she scribbled on her notepad she kept returning to the first page and what she had scrawled along the top line.

Erik is not a monster.

It seemed silly really to keep coming back to such a simple thing. But the more testimony she heard, the more she believed it, and she hoped—prayed—that she wasn't just being gullible.

"Off for the day then, Miss Christine?" She was a little surprised that the same security guard from the morning shift was still there once the court dismissed for the day, but she smiled at him tiredly, although a small feeling of unease prickled that he knew her name.

"I suppose I am. The judge seems to be in a worse mood every day, and apparently can only take so much bickering between the attorneys." She hesitated, trying to gather the courage to ask how he knew of her, but he cut in quickly.

"You've been looking a little tired the past few days; it's not good for a girl your age."

She grimaced ruefully. "I would tend to agree with you but I've got to work the late shift to make ends meet." So many tables, so many people she met in a day, yet this man acted as though they were somehow acquainted…

"Oh! Have I served you before? It's just… you know my name and I couldn't think how…"

His smile seemed a bit forced, but he nodded all the same. "Yes, it's hard to forget a face like yours."

She highly doubted that but she felt reassured that there wasn't anything nefarious at work. If he recognized her then it was simple enough that he would ask one of the court clerks which trial she was on—nothing suspicious about that.

"Well, have a good evening then, I've got to get across town."

His lips thinned for a moment before he leaned across the counter dividing them, his expression grim. "Please be careful, Miss Christine."

The feeling of alarm returned. "What do you mean?"

He sighed and took a step back. "Nothing. You just seem very alone in the world and I would hate for someone to take advantage."

His tone suggested more of a warning than a personal threat but still she hastened out the door and kept careful watch of her surroundings as she took the bus to work.

There was nothing unusual about the homeless man that approached her begging for change before cursing at her when she tried to explain that she had none. Or about the well dressed business man who bumped into her a block from the restaurant, giving her a half-hearted apology before carrying on his way—regardless of the fact that her purse had spilled open and she had to scramble for items before they were trampled by pedestrian feet.

Just as always, it made her feel invisible.

And while sometimes she relished in her aloneness, sometimes she wished that someone would just see her. See the girl whose parents had died too early, see the young woman who struggled every day to ensure she had enough money for a place to live and food to eat. And most importantly, see the person who just wanted to be loved.

She changed quickly into her uniform in a bathroom stall, being careful to ensure that nothing fell and no unprotected bit of skin touched the tile floor. She knew that Ewan had convinced Carlotta to employ a very proficient cleaning staff to come in after hours but Christine wasn't about to take any chances.

Her shift went smoothly enough. No one yelled at her and the head chef even let her have an untouched ramekin of crème brûlée that one of the diners had sent back for appearing too sugary.

Not that they'd even tasted it to find out.

Christine thought they were ridiculous as she savored every bit of crunchy topping and sweet custard, but she was grateful for their finicky tastes all the same as it meant she got to enjoy an unexpected treat.

She was therefore unprepared for when Ewan called her into the office, and she was doubly nervous to see Carlotta sitting at the desk.

"Hello, Christine. Have a seat."

Christine wiped her hands nervously on her black uniform pants before doing as she was told.

"Is there a problem?"

"Have you asked any of your tables to contact me?"

Christine's brow furrowed. There was nothing she would have been less likely to do. Hardly anyone ever contacted management with a glowing review and she would certainly do anything in her power to keep them from complaining about her service.

"No, ma'am, I haven't." She swallowed. "Did I do something wrong? I don't remember anybody in particular complaining about my service…" Not wholly true but that was more about her as a person and cheating spouses and not her promptness to bring more wine and supply their order.

Carlotta clicked her fingers on the desktop, her gaze still one of suspicion. She stared for a long moment before sighing and shoving a handful of letters in Christine's direction. "Do you recognize those?"

They were all in differing handwritings, some far more legible than others. She pushed them back gently. "No."

"So you didn't write them?"

Christine's mouth dropped open. "Why would I complain about myself?"

Carlotta collected the letters and shoved them into the bottom desk draw, clicking her tongue all the while. "I never said they were complaints, Christine. Evidently some of your regulars from lunch have started coming for dinner service and want to know why you no longer sing."

Christine thought she could breathe again, though her befuddlement still remained. She knew people enjoyed her performances but not enough to come specifically to see her.

She swallowed. "I had no expectations, ma'am. I'm grateful you even let me try dinner service at all and I respect that you have rules about seniority on who gets to perform."

Carlotta's lips thinned. "Quite."

Ewan cut in after glancing at both ladies, both unwilling to speak next. "In an effort to keep our regulars happy Carlotta has agreed to put you on rotation starting next week. It's just a test run of course and you'll still go back to lunches when your trial is over. We wanted to be sure you had the weekend to prepare."

Christine nodded numbly. She missed singing, but she was too overwhelmed with the strange turn this conversation had taken to do anything but thank them both politely and head home in a near daze.

And it wasn't until the next morning that she noticed the single red rose just outside her front door.

Sooo… who thinks that Erik was peeping on Little Jammes? And what did you think of Joseph Buquet's testimony? Is he to be trusted? Did the drugs make him think that someone was trying to kill him or was Erik actually there? Seems like he slipped up on whether or not his mother was alive so maybe he's not the most reliable witness…

And what about that rose showing up on her doorstep? Who could it be from? Looks like she has a secret admirer...

I'd love to hear what you thought!