A/N: Thank you for everything! :) Patience, my phriends, (yes, good call on the author's mind and the plans conceived -*rubs hands together and cackles in maniacal glee…) We are getting very close to the end of Part I …

XII

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Her arrival to The Heights did not come with the fanfare that accompanied her last homecoming, when the de Chagny carriage had deposited Christine within the open courtyard in her yellow silk dress.

That day seemed a lifetime ago. That day … when she lived her greatest desire, the fire and passion Erik had given her as she experienced her first and last taste of what it felt to be a woman, his woman. Then no more than an hour later she suffered her ultimate fear, when he had ridden out of her life for good. Whenever her cruel mind wandered to the terrible lure of that cataclysmic night, she liked to think that once he calmed, he would have realized she'd spoken out of childish anger and come back to her, had he been able.

But it was foolish to speculate on what she would never know. Erik was dead. And she must go on living since no one would let her die too.

Christine shook herself from somber deliberation and looked around the quiet courtyard - too quiet for this time of day. She frowned.

Things were in grave disrepair. The gate hung crooked, a window she assumed broken had been covered with boards and the pebbled courtyard was littered with bits and pieces of trash. She left her trunk where the footman had deposited it at her request, hardly able to lug the huge thing upstairs on her own.

In the kitchen, she found Henri slumped over in a chair, a bottle of whiskey in his hand and spilled over onto the table where a half empty glass stood. He looked up at her through bleary eyes. "So, you've come back." He mockingly toasted her and took a drink. "Wha' happened? Did the high and mighty Vicomte tire of you an' throw you out on your ear for the peasant whore you are?"

Christine scowled and left the room.

"If no' for my father's generosity," he called after her, "You and your father would have found yourselves in the workhouse or debtors' prison!"

She had heard it all before and turned a deaf ear to his drunken ramblings. Upstairs, she found Elizabeth in her room, still in bed. Her reception to Christine's return was almost frantic in its relief. Startled at her frailty, her pallid face, and the dark circles ringing her eyes, Christine tried not to exhibit her shock.

"I'm so glad you've come," Elizabeth whispered. "Are you here for a visit? How lovely. It's been quite lonely here. Tell me, how long do you plan to stay?"

"Elizabeth, what's wrong? Are you terribly ill? Has the doctor been to see you?"

Somewhat brusque, perhaps, but Christine didn't wish to tiptoe around the facts. She preferred to know the entire truth up front and deal with it rather than to putter about endlessly in a tiring game of useless words. A fault that hadn't won her friends in Raoul and Arabella's social circles.

Elizabeth blinked. "I … well, that is …" Her face grew rosy, almost giving the appearance of health. "I suppose you should know, that is, if you plan to stay …"

Christine nodded impatiently.

"I am with child." The hushed words came grieved, more of a confession of guilt than an expression of joy. "Henri was so upset when I lost the last two. I am, that is, it will be some time yet, but the doctor fears complications if I don't get complete bed rest."

Christine was stunned by the news though she could not reason why. Elizabeth and Henri had been married for well over two years. "Don't fret. I'm here to help now." She squeezed her hand in reassurance then noticed the bruise above her wrist. She frowned.

"Elizabeth, is Henri unkind to you?"

"Unkind?"

"Does he hit you?"

She looked mortified and turned her head away.

"It's alright," Christine soothed. "I grew up with him, remember."

She had been the recipient of more than one of his backhanded slaps, though when Erik had been near, Henri never dared. Even if Erik had been only a servant and Henri the master, the fierce threat burning in Erik's eyes, the first and only time he learned of Henri's violent behavior toward Christine as adults, had been enough to intimidate her cousin and keep him distant.

Elizabeth's teeth pulled at her lower lip. "He hasn't, not since I carry another child." At hearing her own words, she looked up nervously, as if realizing what she'd just said. "It's not so bad. Not really. Only when he drinks too heavily."

Christine studied the frail woman, not much older than she. Still attractive, though her looks had begun to fade like a fragile rose lacking sunlight, she was a kind and gentle soul.

"Why ever did you marry him?" she voiced the question that had surfaced in her mind on their first meeting.

Elizabeth pulled her billowy sleeve over the faded bruise. "My father and Henri are good friends. After my mother died quite suddenly, my father became a bitter man. He began visiting … areas of entertainment that Henri frequented and my father once investigated."

"Investigated?"

"He is chief constable where I lived, in Yorkshire. At one time he was a detective with Scotland Yard."

Christine grimly nodded. The places of entertainment undoubtedly referred to brothels and gaming establishments, since that was where her cousin spent most of his time, traveling from county to county on his binges, disappearing for days or weeks on end.

The sharp report of a gunshot went off outside.

Startled, Christine hurried to the window overlooking the courtyard. Henri stood, the term misleading since he could barely stand, waving his rifle and staring up at the cloudy sky.

"He's likely shooting at the pigeons again," Elizabeth said wearily from her bed.

Christine frowned, hardly thinking the courtyard a place for hunting. "Where are the servants?"

"One night during one of his … when he'd been drinking, he discharged them. Berta and Joseph are the only ones who ignored him and stayed. Berta's at market and Joseph is visiting the minister, likely to dig poor old man Riley's grave."

Christine pondered this. So Riley, who'd looked as old as Methuselah when she was a child, had passed on to meet his maker. It seemed she wasn't the only soul whom Death mocked in taking his time … With narrowed eyes she watched the disgusting reprobate swaying on his feet in the courtyard. Maybe he'd do them all a favor and shoot his fool head off and Joseph could dig two graves. Death would surely pounce on the opportunity to take such a black scoundrel. She turned from the window.

"Now that I'm home, I'll see to keeping the household affairs in order, so please don't fret or worry yourself with any of that. You rest. I'll return later to see if you need anything."

"I really am so very grateful that you've come home," Elizabeth said meekly, and Christine managed a smile before closing the door.

She wished she could say the same.

Entering her gable room, she found it covered in a film of dust. However, everything looked untouched and only a light cleaning would surely set things right. Her dresses that had been left behind were a different matter.

Over two years, and her breasts had grown fuller, her waist slighter and her height taller. Likely, her hips had also spread, but with the profuse expanse of skirt it was difficult to tell. Even with the great amount of weight she'd lost during her travail, her curves had expanded. She shook her head. This would never do! The ill-fitting dresses barely left room to breathe, and she only just managed to peel herself out of a snug gray woolen. At sight of the yellow silk, she inhaled a swift, startled breath. With a trembling hand she lifted the gown from the clothes cupboard and pulled it toward her. It still bore soil stains. Tears glazed her eyes.

A foolish notion, yes, but she couldn't resist the lure.

Smoothing the silk over her body, she wasn't surprised to see this dress also fit badly though it was the newest of what she had there. She watched her hands slowly sweep downward over her breasts and stomach, thinking of other hands, long and slender musician's hands, having done the same. Closing her eyes briefly in quiet sorrow, thinking she would give anything to experience his touch again, she turned her head slightly, shocked to notice her door now stood ajar.

Henri watched her, a disgusting glint in his eyes.

Incensed that he should see her during such a poignant and vulnerable moment - that he should see her at all! - she marched toward him. "If you ever look at me like that again or even cross the threshold of my room, I shall scratch your eyeballs out of their sockets and feed them to the pigs," she hissed vehemently, slamming the door in his face with a return of her old fire.

But so long a dying ember with not enough fuel to sustain it, even with the fanning of her wrath, the flame of her spirit quickly extinguished. And again she felt wretched, helpless and torn.

Hurriedly she pulled off the yellow silk and donned the extravagant day dress she'd arrived in, deciding it would have to do. Perhaps Joseph and Berta could help lift her heavy trunk waiting in the courtyard and filled with the dresses Arabella had insisted she take with her.

Thankfully there was no sign of Henri in the corridor. Before she went downstairs, she walked to the opposite gable room. Tentatively, she opened the door - and took in a sharp breath, bringing it closed with a rapid thud.

No sign of Erik had been left, the room absent of all furnishings. The sight of such emptiness brought a fresh stab of pain to the hollow place where her heart had once been.

Years had elapsed since he'd been forced to find shelter in the stables; however, his room had been untouched up until Raoul and Arabella had taken her from the Heights. She had hoped to find at least one memento, no matter how small, but could expect no less from her despicable cousin than to wipe out every trace of Erik as if he never existed.

Sadly, she made an inspection of the rest of the rooms, finding some dusty and all in disrepair. Poor Berta must not be well to have let it come to this; with the absence of the other servants all would have fallen to her shoulders. Papa would have been horrified to see such neglect of his beloved Heights! Henri's father may have owned the building and the land it sat on, but after her uncle's death, Papa had been the loving caretaker. She, too, would be like Papa. She would give her childhood home all the care and love it deserved.

Needing to see what else would need mended, she stepped out of the house and into the courtyard. Her feet led her along a familiar path, one she had taken many times, and she went into the stables.

She looked up at the hayloft in bittersweet remembrance. She could no more prevent herself from climbing the ladder than she could cease to breathe.

Fresh hay filled the loft, and buried beneath the sweet smelling piles, hidden in its corner crevice of the wall, she was startled and elated to find Erik's box where he'd left it. Joseph was too old and crippled to climb there to find and dispose of it. The former stable hands must have missed it or not cared to mention it to Henri. Their oversight was her gain. This was exactly what she'd been hoping for! To lay hungry claim to whatever morsel was left behind of who her Angel had been - and she had been granted his entire box of treasures!

Cherishing her unexpected find, she caressed the box like a dear friend, running unsteady fingertips along the graceful swirls that Erik had carved to decorate the wood. Holding her breath, Christine lifted the lid and inhaled softly.

A fresh onslaught of tears burned her eyes as she gently retrieved his precious compositions from their place of concealment. Her fingertips brushed the bold notes and staffs that his hands had painstakingly etched and she embraced the papers against her bosom.

She fell back in the sweet smelling hay and looked through the cracks in the roof as they had so often done together, while lying side by side.

"Oh God, Erik - will this pain never end? I miss you so much sometimes I can't breathe…" She let out a little despondent sigh and closed her eyes. "I haven't visited the moors since you left - I cannot. Without you there it's only rock and heath. The memories come so strong at times, I fear that if I did visit I would never want to leave and wish only to perish on the rocks where we shared our last true happy moment. And my love, I have learned to live on, though the lesson was fierce. So you see why I cannot go there."

How many times had she spoken to him in the lonely nights? How many times had she stood on the balcony and looked at the stars ... sometimes with slow tears of bitter regret, other times with a sad smile of tender reminiscence, wondering if he watched her…

How unfair that she could not see him!

The loft was filled with memories, too – memories of their talks and laughter, memories of their arguments and scuffles. The memory of their first kiss.

Only one memory of all of them had wretchedly left her.

In a sad sort of bitter irony, as the months had slowly drifted into years, the memory of his face became less detailed in her mind. And she hated that! Hated that she had no portrait of him upon which to cast her adoring gaze. His amazing eyes she would never forget, and she remembered the color of his hair had been a rich, sable brown. But other features had become fuzzy with the relentless passage of days and months and she wanted to weep for the injustice of such cruelty!

Aware that she must stop such painful reminiscing or go mad, she forced herself to sit up. There was much work to be done before night fell. After two years of having her every need met and being waited on by servants, often before she realized a need existed, she would have to learn how to manage a household.

She moved to replace the papers, trying to think of a better hiding place, perhaps in her room - when she saw it. Face up in the box, another paper held words.

In curiosity, she lifted the page into her hand. Her pulse raced and her throat tightened as she scanned his artistic, imperious handwriting – what looked like lines of a poem he'd been in the midst of creating, some lines spaced far apart as if he wished to add more in between:

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Touch me, trust me.

Share with me this love,

This lifetime

Each night and each morning,

Christine, share with me.

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Let your darker side yield

To the fire that floods the soul!

Let the dream build.

The time is past,

We can't go back now.

.

The bridge is crossed.

No backward glances.

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Passions will merge.

Abandon defenses.

.

Let the dream begin …

Surrender only to me.

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Her breathing escalated as she read the proof of what she had longed for. Erik loved her! He wanted to marry her! Had he been composing this to give as his way of asking her to be his wife? That sounded just like something he might do!

In the harsh rasp of one cruel instant, blind elation collided with horrific despair - as vicious memory rose to taunt her, to remind her…

Oh, God … no … no!

What had she done?!

Her discovery brought the worst kind of perverted, sadistic joy – the kind in knowing she could have had all she ever wanted - every last wondrous particle of it- if not for her foolish pride that had maliciously destroyed any chance of her knowing such happiness.

The black talons of grief rose from the bower where she had tried to bury it. It seized her shuddering breath and ripped through her heart. The heart Christine was mistaken to believe she no longer had.

That heart now pounded out its agony, every beat calling her a murderer. For she had surely murdered him, murdered their love, murdered their future together - just as if she had been the one to pull that godforsaken trigger and put the bullet in his flesh!

She doubled over as a new pain erupted.

Erik had loved her - He had loved her! He would have married her!

Her returned heart bled only to shatter a second time in her life as she hugged herself fiercely, rocking in her grief …

She had not known a person could die twice inside in one lifetime.

God - How was she to bear this! Why had she ever looked into that box? Erik had warned her never to say what she didn't mean – oh, God … why hadn't she listened to him! Why had she been so foolish?

Why hadn't he realized?

Why hadn't she?

The tears came harder still. She wished to crawl into the hay and hold his unfinished compositions close, these beautiful lyrics, her precious memories - and escape this horrid, empty life. To lose herself in all of what could have been, all of what should have been…

And for a time she did.

x

All too soon the grim awareness of responsibility demanded Christine's return. Elizabeth needed her. She had vowed to help Henri's poor wife in whatever way she could. The frail woman was no match against such a brute.

Yes … yes, she must go back. Berta would need her help too. Christine had been selfish her entire life and lost everything that mattered because of it. She would not be selfish again and invite further desolation … somehow, she must become what they needed her to be.

Unable to release the paper that both comforted and condemned, she gently folded his never-to-be completed poem in a small square and slipped it into her bodice next to a folded scrap of black silk. Later, when the household slept, she would come for the box and take it to her room. She secreted it back in its hiding place, deep beneath the hay.

Still shaking from her misery, she climbed down the ladder and looked into the horses' stalls. The animals looked well cared for, their tacks and saddles shiny on the wall, clearly Joseph's doing. Suddenly she stopped in front of an empty stall and stared hard.

Turning on her heel, she raced for the house. She found Henri and came to a breathless stop, confronting him where he sprawled on the sofa in the parlor.

"Where is Cesar!"

"What?"

"Your horse! The horse that your friend thought stolen! Why would a man shoot another man that he presumed to be a thief and not bring back his horse?"

He impatiently waved her away.

"Tell me!"

"The horse bolted at the series of gunshots …ran off. Never saw it again."

The distant hope that had unfurled frayed to nothing. She had hoped Henri had lied, that the horse was gone because its rider had gotten away.

Such hopes were folly of course. After more than two years, she would have heard if he was alive.

Without another word, Christine left the room, moving for the stairs …

SERIES of gunshots?

… and stopped abruptly, feeling as if she herself had just been shot.

xXx

A/N: Pretty bleak so far, but things are about to take a wild ride…

Get ready…