A/N: Thank you for the reviews! And now…

Chapter XXXIV

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The Phantom eyed her with wary regard, sensing that a simple deflection would not discourage her this time. By the wild burn of her eyes, Christine appeared ready to lunge across the short expanse and tear the mask from his face with the hand she held tightly behind her back - to keep it from also being captured in his firm grip.

Despite his outrage, he could not help but be awed by this woman of fury and fire. Oblivious to her alluring appearance, she was glorious in her anger, and his desire to take her inflamed him anew. The over-sized wrapper fell from one shoulder to drape at the bend of her elbow, midway exposing the upper part of her shift and the soft blush of skin beneath. His eyes dropped to the firm globe of her breast and the hard outline of nipple straining against the cloth. He imagined pressing his hand there in possession, ripping away that cloth and taking the erect nub of darker flesh into his mouth, coaxing her into full submission...what would she taste like…? What would she feel like…?

Struggling to dispel the unwanted fantasy of his nightly slumber, The Phantom worked to retain his clarity of mind.

"Your hesitance does little to disprove your guilt," she said bitterly.

"What reason would I have to steal lyrics from an unknown composer?" he asked, ignoring her demand that he remove his mask. "I have no need for a ghostwriter to create my works. I am my own Opera Ghost," he smirked.

Living beneath a theatre for three years had been of great benefit. In the mild and steady tenor of his voice, he detected none of the alarm or passion struggling to break through his fragile veneer of incensed calm.

"You know very well you haven't stolen them," she snapped.

He snorted in derision. "I fail to understand your reasoning – or lack thereof. You come to my chambers unannounced and uninvited, stealing up behind me like a thief in the night, and accuse me of being a plagiarist -"

"I accused you of nothing of the sort! You cannot steal what you already own!"

The strength of her outrage vanished in an instant as the full awareness of her words entered her smoldering eyes for the first time since her attack - as though her heart had found him guilty, but her mind had just come to the realization of what that meant.

She stared at him in dawning shock.

For several oppressive heartbeats, the Phantom could not breathe.

His mind seemed absent, torn from logic. He could do nothing but numbly stare back, as frozen as she, watching as the weight of years seemed to fall from her thin shoulders. In the sudden over-brightness of her eyes he saw a montage of hope, disbelief, determination, and uncertainty - a glimpse of the girl he had worshiped and adored in their wild English countryside. And in that one brief, glimmering moment, he found himself wishing to affirm her suspicions, that he was once this unknown composer, this ignorant boy who penned the composition of his heart in a burgeoning poem to his beloved. He felt surprised by the strength of his desire ... felt surprised, too, that he would so rapidly consider forgetting all the rage and bitterness and the untold pain, all to follow the dream long buried deep inside a chamber of his blackened and scarred heart.

The intensity overwhelmed, that heart pounding out the need and releasing its hold on the unrequited aspiration. Its plea rushed through his ears and beseeched him to forget all else, to take her in his arms and to his bed. To kiss her senseless and brand her body with the heat of his own, until she cried out in surrender to his ownership of her heart, soul, and mind, of all that she was and ever would be … to put an end to these endless games between them, of masquerades and omissions and lies. Deceptively innocent - but at its essence, cruel and selfish …

All of which she had first engaged in with him.

The brutal reminder strengthened his dwindling resolve. If blame was to be placed, she had begun this war. And he would finish it, coming out the victor - and she, his captured slave and the spoils of their final, imminent battle.

As children, they had respected one another with honesty. As a grasping young woman, avaricious in her goal to become a Viscountess, she had changed the rules. She had wanted him as a pet and a plaything. To fawn over her and be there as she willed, exploiting his affections, arousing his passions, never intending to marry one so lowborn and debased. And when she was done with him, by her cruel, loaded words she would have finished him off through the hand of another, thereby sealing his pathetic fate - at the same time giving herself to that bore of an aristocrat, hoping to wed the damned fop and gain his title.

She had almost succeeded with both.

In that final revelation, the rosy dream faded, pale and ghostly, its voice dwindling to a whisper as it slunk back to the prison chamber lost inside his heart.

The Phantom blinked, coming to himself. No more than seconds had elapsed since she last spoke, but he felt the weight of them rest heavy in his soul. The unasked question remained in her eyes that still searched his, her hesitation clear: to believe what he did not wish her to know.

Good. She yet struggled with the possibility.

Telling her the truth would change nothing. The facts remained, cold, insurmountable and dark - the past that could not be altered, the present that could not be ignored - and he swiftly released her, wrenching her from his hold with a hard push and turning his back on her.

Closing his eyes, he clenched his hands in tight fists. Better for all to let the pathetic creature he once was remain dead and buried.

"You speak in riddles, Miss Daaé , and I weary of your games." His words came clipped and forced but low and quivering, contrary to the image of cold disinterest he hoped to achieve.

Damn her and these wretched feelings! They would not become his entrapment. His own game of subterfuge was vital to his plan.

Knowing he could not face her in this state, he worked hard for composure, reminding himself of what would happen should she find out. In her ignorance he maintained the upper hand. If she learned the truth, he would lose that defense. She would be livid, most certainly, but her fury he could manage.

That was not what concerned him.

Pity would follow outrage, followed by insincere apologies, both of which he would loathe. The boy from The Heights had given in to Christine, time and again. The girl he remembered knew what to say and do to obtain all she desired. In his pathetic state of utter infatuation he had been helpless to refrain from giving her whatever she asked, even when it nearly destroyed him. Though on that night both her cold, callous words of wishing him gone and his blind rage were what drove him. Later, he reconsidered his haste, little good it did.

The Phantom scowled at the memory. He would not offer Christine ammunition to destroy him a second time. The bullet wounds had healed; it was the invisible scars of her deceit and betrayal that yet festered. If she learned his identity, after the stilted apologies, a tiring exhibition of deceitful pleasantries and feigned delight that he had survived would no doubt fall like sweet poison from her lips. She would use the advantage to try to worm her way into the core of his soul ... Try? The possibility was better than certain! Even during this month with her in his underground caverns, posing as a stranger, he had felt the tenets of his resolve sorely tested more than once. Hell, he had wavered only moments ago. Should he yield, should she learn the truth, he feared that she would use the affection he once felt for her as a plea to win him over, to secure her release so as to foolishly return to her thrice-damned, violent excuse for a lover - leaving the Phantom alone to rot in his miserable existence, wretched and ignored, the hapless fool to be forgotten and scorned.

Never again.

And never again would that boy harm her.

"Why will you not remove your mask and let me see your face?" Her voice, no longer trembling with fury, came as gentle as a moonlit whisper from behind.

"I have told you why."

He heard the satin rustle of her robe and tensed as she drew close.

"Is fear of being captured by the authorities your only reason?"

"Is that not reason enough?"

"Why do you so often answer a question with another question?"

He gave a wry, tense laugh, his eyes impatiently scanning the cavern wall before him. "Why do you ask so many?"

"How else can I learn what I wish to know?"

"Rest assured, mademoiselle. I will tell you all that is necessary, to live here and perform my opera."

"I think we differ on the opinion of what is necessary." Despite his biting words, her voice remained quiet. "I think it's necessary, for my peace of mind, that I know more about the man who brought me to live in his home and has become my teacher."

The resulting span of silence was broken only by the lap of water on the bank.

"I will tell no one your secret, monsieur, I swear it."

At that, he swung around to look at her in wry disbelief, noticing she had closed her wrapper tight. "I cannot trust you, Miss Daaé ! You made that perfectly clear tonight."

"I would never do anything that could bring the children harm. I see how they depend on you. I promise I'll not turn you over to the authorities or do anything that would risk you being taken from them."

The Phantom hardened his heart to the plea in her voice. He knew what she truly asked, what he would never show her. It was apparent that the only way to end her troublesome suspicions of the truth were to put them to a quick and final death.

He smiled grimly. "My lack of trust in humankind is not exclusive to you, Miss Daaé . I have uncovered my face for no man, woman, or child. Nor will I. Perhaps instead of attempting to beat a matter to death that has previously been laid to rest, we should return to the source of your accusation …"

"First, there's one thing I will ask of you," she countered, her eyes riveted to his narrowed ones, "since you refuse to remove your mask."

She paused. He gave her a wary nod to proceed.

"I need you to convince me that you're not the original composer of that song."

"But I am the original composer, as I have told you." Her eyes widened and he hastened to add, "But I'm not the man you seek. That's what this is truly about, is it not?" She did not answer and he lifted his brow in polite detachment. "I assume we speak of the same man that you mistook me for when first we met? This Irwin...?"

"Erik," she corrected softly.

"Ah, yes. Erik." He repeated the name with cool disinterest. "I assure you, these lyrics of The Point of No Return are my own conception. I wrote the entirety of the Don Juan opera here in my home."

"I read the lines." A glimmer of anger revisited her tone. "And I read his. That song in your final act has some of those same lines."

She clearly would not surrender with ease, tenacious to a fault.

He feigned a laugh of disbelief. "And what were these suspect lines that have you once again envisioning scenarios that never existed?"

Her skin flushed a shade of rose at his mockery. "I … I cannot remember - that is, not exactly. I no longer have the parchment on which they were written."

"You cannot remember?" He fiercely pounced on her words in surprise, glaring at her. "And you dare invade my solitude and attempt to strip me of my mask - accusing me of a crime I never committed - when you cannot remember or produce the alleged proof of your claim?"

"I remember what the lines were about," she defended, her chin lifting. "They spoke of letting your darker side yield to a passion that fully controls you. Of crossing bridges and not turning back. Of a complete possession and surrender of the body, mind, and soul."

He did not flinch a muscle, surprised by how much she recalled, and shaken by the depth of emotion that trembled in her voice as she recited the crux of his primary lyrics. She had never been quick to learn, a trait that he mastered without difficulty. She must have looked at that page more than once to recall so much.

He worked to keep his features as bland as the mask he wore and quietly cleared his throat. "Is that all?"

"Is that not enough?" Her brow lifted incredulously.

"No, Miss Daaé , it is not. I am not the only composer who has written of a bridge to be crossed or of passion that burns the soul and wholly possesses it…"

Drawn to her against his will, he moved closer as he spoke and slowly circled her. That, and the velvet lure of his hypnotic voice he used as a ploy to unsettle her nerves and fluster her logic. She followed him with her head and her eyes when he was within range of her sight but otherwise remained motionless.

"…The lyrics are a match in theme only through coincidental happenstance. It is not so unusual that two composers who pen diverse stories of dark passion would coin similar phrases using key words known by many. Such things do happen, and I sincerely doubt the lyrics are an exact imitation. It fails to matter, since you admitted that you cannot remember them."

He came to a stop before her.

"I think we have clarified that, thank you."

Her answer came miffed and tight, her breathing slightly labored. She looked away from him and out over the water, her full lips turned down at the corners, all outward signs of former indecision absent.

Now he must erase any remaining trace of inner doubt. What were a handful more lies among the scores he had told since the day she first entered his lair? He felt justified; she had started this web of deceit four wretched years ago.

"This unknown composer - Erik. How long has it been since you last saw him?"

Her eyes flicked to his in curiosity and she answered without thinking. "In the autumn of 1864."

"And how long have you known him?"

"Almost my entire life," she whispered.

"And he has lived in England during the entirety of your acquaintance?"

She winced. "He never left."

His smile came hard and brittle upon seeing that she hid from him her knowledge of his presumed death. "You offer me conjecture, I give you proof. Jacques approaches his sixth year. I met his mother in a bistro, in France…"

At his deliberate pause, bright red suffused her skin. She gave a terse nod and dropped her gaze.

"Now that we understand each other, I must demand two things of you, Miss Daaé …"

He waited. She did not look up or acknowledge him.

"First, you are never again to attempt to look beneath my mask. Should you do so, I warn you, the consequences will be grave. I might forfeit my arrangement with you and keep you trapped in this frozen hell for the remainder of your lifetime - regardless of any capitulation you offer to my conditions for your release…"

Still, she did not look up.

"…Or, depending on my mood at the time, I might choose to close you up in a dark corridor, until you assure me that you have learned your lesson … with the ever-present threat of my serpentine friends only a misstep away."

Her face paled, losing the flush of angry, embarrassed rose. Her already large eyes were huge with dread as they met his.

Ah. At last, he received a response. Circumstances being what they were, it took very little to deceive her of the peril he could present.

His threat was empty, of course; he had no intention of placing the little fool in danger. But she didn't know that. Even after saving her life, twice, she still thought him an ogre and a monster. A deformed beast who had seized mortal life with the whisk and snap of his lasso - yes, he was precisely that. But to Christine, he secretly aspired to become her Angel of Music, his hope as foolish as her childhood belief that such a glorified storybook being existed.

Assured that she would never again try to unmask him, he continued.

"Secondly, you are never again to bring up this boy from your past. Your idiotic fantasies in comparison and presumption have interfered with the development of my opera and your training. Both are paramount to all else. The show must go on as planned, and I will tolerate no further disturbances."

Her eyes filled with clear dislike. "I assure you, Monsieur Phantom, I will not make the same mistake again. You two are nothing alike."

"At last, we reach an agreement."

He welcomed the triumph of relief from what had become a wearisome task in persuasion, while he tried to ignore the stirrings of regret at what surely must be her final surrender. He became incensed at his own foolishness. This was what he wanted! It was how things must stand between them!

"If there is nothing else, Miss Daaé , you may return to your chamber. The hour grows late and I have business to attend."

She gave a half-hearted nod at his stiff dismissal and turned away.

Helpless not to do so, he watched her retreat, her poise graceful but wraithlike, her figure almost skeletal but still so damnably beautiful. The dejected slope of her thin shoulders and the defeated bow of her head caused the dark void in the center of his chest to ache.

Needing to force his mind off the waiflike vixen who still had such a wretched hold over his faculties, The Phantom moved down the opposite stairs and bellowed for Jolene.

Within moments, the girl came running from his bedchamber. "Oui, Maestro?"

"Tell me of your visit above this morning."

A betraying flush of crimson stained her face. His expression hardened.

"You went to the hotel. Did I not explicitly forbid you to go back there?"

"Forgive me. I was worried for my friend."

"The cavalier fool who works as a bellboy?" he growled.

She sniffed. "I have no interest in Peter. He is only a boy. I prefer older men."

The Phantom regarded her in weary disdain. Was he to have no peace this night?

Her form was full and ripe for that of a woman twice her age, but her mind still retained the foolish and infantile behavior of a child. In the span of time it took to wrap the rope around their abuser's neck, he had unpredictably been cast into the role of guardian to both children - and he had no concept of how to instruct a young woman coming of age. At least Jacques was a boy and easier to manipulate since he feared going above. The girl went into the city three times a week to market and to procure any other requirements, also acting as his spy in the opera house. But the older Jolene grew, the more obtuse she became. And now, at sixteen, she spoke of her proclivity for older men as if she was the most jaded streetwalker on the Rue Scribe.

She studied him, as if expecting an answer, and he shook his head gravely.

"You invite danger and the risk of discovery to all of us every time you step through that door. I'll not warn you again. You do not wish to feel the heat of my wrath. Stay away from that place, and especially Peter. He would harm you without thinking twice."

Her lips turned up in a pretty smile. "As you wish, monsieur."

Feeling at a loss as to her pleasure with his stern reply, he moved to the next matter at hand.

"What of the furor above? Did my recent visit to La Carlotta obtain the desired results? Did she at last heed my warning?"

A wicked smile twisted his lips at the memory of the erstwhile diva coated in the white face powder he had magically blown toward her in a thick cloud, once he snuffed out the candles that ensured her attention was focused in that direction. His location behind the mirror had given him a coveted spot to witness the evening's entertainment.

"She demanded another dressing room. The managers complied and gave her the room at the end of the east wing."

He grimaced and resolved to pay a visit to the new locale soon. He would not tolerate her refusal to obey his command and would haunt her as the unseen ghost until she complied with his wishes.

"Did anything else of interest occur, anything of which I should be made aware?"

For the first time she seemed anxious. "The Vicomte has arrived."

He sneered, giving a curt nod. "As I expected. Though his arrival came slower than I would have anticipated."

"You wished for him to come? But - I thought you didn't like him?"

A scuffling noise brought The Phantom's head around.

"Silence," he warned softly.

A cursory look at his dwelling showed that all appeared as before. The lattice framework of iron that protected his home from any invaders remained closed, no sign of life outside the grille. The water had not stirred, still barely lapping at the dark rocks of the shore. In its sluggish state, the brackish green water appeared to have taken on the aura of the tomb in which it was trapped. An underground network of caverns and passages, some of them secret, his home hid pits and dangers he had made use of, and in all likelihood once had been the ceremonial gathering place of an ancient sect. Now, he sensed a presence lurked nearby.

And he did not think it was the ghosts of the Druids.

He narrowed his eyes then looked at Jolene. "We will finish this discussion elsewhere. Come."

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xXx

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Christine pressed her back against the cold rock, her heart pounding with the knowledge of what she'd just heard.

The Vicomte they spoke of must be Raoul! He had come to France! When had he arrived? Did he know of her disappearance?

She peeked around the corner, finding the main chamber room empty, and hurried to the organ, grabbing the papers of the Don Juan for which she had returned. After a momentary hesitation, she laid them back down and soundlessly took the stairs to the Phantom's bedchamber, sure that by the curtness of the truncated discussion, she would not find him and the girl in an embrace she had no desire to witness.

She strained to hear, wishing for details of Raoul, but all within was silent. Nervously, she worked up courage to peer around the entrance.

No one was there.

Biting her lip in frustration she rushed through the chamber and looked around the back corridor to stare both ways before heading in the direction of the bath chamber. The unwelcome thought of finding them together in the copper bathtub brought uncomfortable heat to her face but she pushed away such an outrageous idea. They did not seem in a congenial mood, nor did she hear the rush of water. A hasty glance inside assured her the room was empty.

Confused as to where they had gone, she moved further down the corridor, lit periodically by torches, the stretches between dim but not dark. Her steps measured and silent, she clung to the wall as if it could shield her from discovery. Her pulse throbbed in her temples. The fear that he would suddenly appear ahead or see her from behind constricted her breathing. If she were wise, she would run to her chamber and forget all she'd heard. She still smarted and burned from their confrontation and had no idea what to say if she were caught lurking through his inner chambers. But the persistent need to know more compelled her forward, and having come this far, she didn't wish to turn back.

The direct path came to a sudden end, the corridor twisting to the sides in both directions. Hearing a scuffle to the left, she hesitantly moved in that direction. She approached another chamber, the flame from the torch coming from inside and casting a golden pool on the ground in front of her. She edged close and peeked around.

Her mouth fell open in surprise at the small figure of Jacques tucked in a large bed that anyone from the opera house dormitories would covet. His room was half the size of her chamber and also made cozy, with a rug of deep pile that looked alarmingly like a bear, and a low torch burning near the door.

Small toys of wood sat in a line on the ground. Here too, the rock that composed the room was lighter, streaked with coral and gray. A low chest of drawers stood there with an organ grinder's toy monkey resting on top. The troops of angels and demons stood in wooden rows of attention beside it. Next to that, his small wool suit of clothes was laid out over a chair, his black shoes and hose tucked beneath.

It was a room a little boy would love.

Catching sight of her, his sleepy eyes flickered and he stirred as if to leave his bed. She shook her head no and approached, smoothing her hand down his tousled hair and pulling the blanket back up around his neck. Without thinking about it, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to his brow, the desire coming natural. She felt a hint of surprise and a bloom of warmth inside when his skinny arms encircled her neck and he reciprocated with a wet kiss on her cheek.

She straightened and smiled at him, then put a finger to her lips and shook her head, hoping he would understand that she asked for complete silence, as if she'd never been there. He solemnly nodded against his pillow, and she moved back to the empty corridor and resumed her venture into the unknown. At this point, she no longer expected to find them in time to hear the rest of the Phantom's plans, but that did not alleviate her curiosity to investigate this section of his caverns.

If Jacques's room was in this corridor, she reasoned that Jolene's would also be near. As expected, the girl's private chamber was a short distance away. It explained the many times Christine had seen her leave the Phantom's bedchamber, since his was the portal to the main room, but it did not dismiss her niggling suspicion of their intimacy.

She scanned the empty chamber, also dimly lit by one torch, and saw evidence of the young girl Jolene had been and the woman she was becoming.

A porcelain doll in a ball gown sat on a similar chest of drawers, this one gilt and painted with rosettes, along with a bone-handled brush, blue hair ribbons, and an enameled box. Exotic, gold-embroidered fans in bold colors hung on the walls, surrounding a small painting of a man and woman in a gondola, and a simple armoire and screen completed the furnishings. Jolene also had a large bed that would be the envy of any maid above, surrounded by a veil of ivory, though neither of the children's beds were as high and large as hers or as spacious as the Phantom's. On it was a trio of decorative velvet pillows with another doll nestled among them. A plush rug of deep green flanked the girl's bed.

No amount of opulence was spared in any of the chambers she had seen thus far, her own included, and she wondered if the Phantom had taken all he desired from old sets of past operas or purchased them anew. With his notorious reputation as a criminal who could not visit the shops of Paris, she expected the former. But his attention to detail, to bestow treasures dear to a girl's heart, the same as he had done for the boy, left Christine amazed with confused wonder. He also had done the same for her, supplying her with every feminine luxury. Even trivial items that might not mean much to some but which Christine enjoyed. As if he knew her innermost desires…

Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, she tore herself away and continued down the corridor.

A step sounded on the stones ahead, and she faltered.

Swiftly she turned and sped to the boy's room, plastering her back to the part of the wall hidden behind the door. Her eyes darted to Jacques, who appeared blessedly asleep.

"I will send a note with you to deliver to Madame in the morning, with instructions of what must be done."

"Monsieur..." Jolene's voice came anxious. "Will you kill him?"

Christine sucked in a sharp, silent breath, wondering who he would kill. The Vicomte? Their voices grew louder as they neared.

"A slow death is what the wretch deserves for his crimes. He should be made to suffer." A pause, then, "I have not yet decided."

"And the lady?"

"I hold no ill will toward the woman. It is only through the misfortune of fate that she is related to such a cretin…"

He sneered the last words, his voice trailing off. A lapse of uneasy silence ensued.

"Maestro…?"

"Go to bed, Jolene. We will speak more of this in the morning."

Christine held her breath, willing her heart to stop beating, afraid he could hear it pound within her breast and smell her fear. He moved with the deadly grace of a panther and reminded her of one, like the caged black wildcat she had seen in her exotic travels; why should he not possess other traits of such a beast? She closed her eyes as if by doing so, she could make herself vanish.

The girl mumbled something then hurried away. In the unbearable interim of silence that followed, Christine felt as if her heart might burst from her body. When at last his footsteps moved in the direction of his bedchamber, she let out her breath, lungs burning, and almost sank with relief to the cave floor.

Trapped in the unknown maze behind his private rooms, she hoped that by continuing the course she would find a different way back to her bedchamber. She had learned that the endless labyrinth of corridors could backtrack on themselves or wind into dual entrances. If one could not be found, she would wait until he slept and creep past him. The image her mind formed of him in his bed made her strangely tingle with warmth, her body releasing the same moisture as when he had slowly circled her - and she hastened down the corridor, desperate to find another way out. Peeking into Jolene's room she noticed the girl's silhouette behind the dressing screen.

Christine raced past on silent feet, thankful for the soft leather soles of her slippers. Thankful that here no water pooled on the ground to give her location away.

The corridor made a gradual turn and she found herself in the cathedral-like lake chamber, where she had first spied the children. Looking across the expanse of water, she could barely detect the oblong patch of light that would be her bath chamber.

The lake entirely filled the area between, offering no passage, save for a narrow strip of bank that was no more than two feet in width and curved around the edge to the left, leading to the high oblong patch of light and the area where the children had stood. In the steady glow of the torches, no passageways or doors marked the cavern wall. She looked to her right. Further down, darkness formed a perfect rectangle that suggested an opening and she moved toward it. She gasped when she looked through and saw the edge of a staircase. And on the stairs, a faint wash of moonlight she had also seen in the center of the lake.

Inhaling a triumphant breath at her discovery, she came to a decision, certain Providence had paved the way. Recalling the Phantom's animosity toward her friend, Raoul could be the one the Phantom meant to kill. She must find him, tell him that she was alright and not to interfere. Weeks ago, she would have sought him out to rescue her, in fear for her life. But now she worried what harm could come to all of them if he tried. He could be hurt in the Phantom's dark plot, the Phantom could be captured, the children could be exposed. She felt she had no choice but to honor her word and stay per their arrangement, at least until she could think of a method to persuade him to return her permanently to the world above. If only he would agree to some sort of compromise and not be so wretchedly stubborn to insist that they be wed!

The opening was perpendicular and seemed no bigger than herself, standing a few feet off the ground. Clearly a hole in the wall and not a true passage, but she felt she could squeeze through…

A short time later, with half her body dangling out the other side, Christine rethought her plan.

The idea of running through the streets of Paris in her bed wrapper was an invitation to trouble. If she waited until The Phantom slept, (if he ever did sleep), then hurried to her chamber and dressed before undertaking her temporary escape, Raoul would also be less inclined to believe she was in danger, than if she were to show up at his hotel room in her bedclothes. A little over a month ago, she had shown up at his door, wearing only her shift and a cloak; he would suspect something was amiss if she were to repeat those actions. And she would not rest at night if he again risked everything because of her, by unwittingly charging into the midst of the Phantom's dark plot to make her a star. She still felt guilty about hurting Raoul in refusing his proposal and had no wish to burden him with her troubles. He deserved every happiness.

She pulled back. But her body wouldn't budge. Horrified, she pulled again, to no avail.

No! She couldn't be stuck!

Gripping both sides of the rock wall she forced movement and winced at the fiery pain as rough stone scraped deeply into her shoulder and breast. She couldn't help the whimper that escaped.

Even with the amount of weight she had lost, she couldn't seem to force her body back through the hole! Why? She had little trouble going in, a bit of a push, but nothing like this! Envisioning herself trapped straddling the half foot or so of ice cold rock the entire night, with her wrapper and shift bunched up near her hips, she felt a growing sense of alarm and strengthened her efforts to get free.

The slipper fell away from her foot dangling on the other side, and she groaned, slapping the mottled rock in frustration. Finally, he had given her shoes to wear, and barely a week passed before she lost one to the darkness of the unattainable passage, probably never to retrieve it?

She wanted to cry but gritted and bowed her forehead to the stone, refusing to. After taking a few deep breaths for calm, she tried to work herself loose again. The back of her shoulder throbbed incessantly as the rock bit into fragile skin, bringing tears to her eyes that she impatiently blinked away. Her progress was slow, but at last she felt a give and let out a weak trembling laugh of relief…

…which died in her throat at the dreaded sound of a hiss followed by an angry growl.

Her heart ceased its fluttery beats.

Before she could whip her head around to see, his large hand burned her bare thigh, wrapping around it in a vice-like grip, at the same time his other hand manacled around her arm near her shoulder. She felt her body fly from her stone confinement as he viciously yanked her toward him.

Christine tumbled against his solid form before falling to the ground in a graceless heap. She groaned, painfully pushing herself to her hands and knees…

…and looked up into the burning yellow eyes of the Phantom.

.

xXx

A/N: Note: The term "ghostwriter" did not originate until 1890. I took some artistic license since I wanted to use it. :) Besides, Erik always was a man before his time… ;-)