A/N: At long last… you can put your Punjabs away, my phriends. I give you the next chapter…

Chapter XXXIX

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Wavering at the precipice of sleep, Christine came awake with a start at the sudden jarring of her mattress near her shoulder. Scrambling up to a sitting position, she clutched the sheet in one tight fist to her breasts, at once realizing the culprit, who smirked at her with steady golden eyes.

"Mozart," she chided. "That was not at all humorous. Never do that to me again!"

Irritable from a never-ending night of troubled slumber - that is, when she finally did sleep - Christine slid from bed with a huff. Hurriedly she washed and dressed, assuming it to be morning, not wishing to be caught yet again wearing only her shift. It felt as though a small eternity had elapsed since the Phantom left her at her bedchamber after the ceremony. At the sudden thought, she paused in buttoning her dress and stared at her reflection with wide eyes.

She was now married to her captor.

She had given in to every one of his demands.

Forever, she would now be the Phantom's bride.

The title seemed inconceivable, the very idea bizarre, but she had only to look down at her hand and the ring winking at her to perceive the truth of its message…a message she had instigated to save and protect her friends. And even if she wasn't remorseful for her impulsive choice, for it had been the right thing to do to save a life, perhaps more than one, she couldn't help but feel a little jolt of fearful expectation as to what her sacrifice would mean for her future.

She knew relief that the Phantom had honored his promise to keep their vows in name only. At the same time she'd been surprised, even confused that he never once attempted to touch her. Despite his many assertions that he had no wish to bed her and her resulting certainty that he lacked the interest to try, his kiss in the chapel had remained in the forefront of her mind the majority of the night, mocking every claim of his jaded disinterest and holding her trapped in the exhausting preliminaries of uneasy slumber.

A simple press of their lips, it had felt like so much more. Seconds had become timeless, and in the fraction of a moment after he broke their connection, she had read what appeared to be longing in his eyes. She wondered if her own surprising reaction to him had clouded her judgment, since he then immediately snapped out that they must go and nearly dragged her from the chapel by the wrist, making her need to run a little to keep up with his long strides.

Giving one last swipe to her hair with the brush, Christine studied her reflection, noticing the dress fit better than it had two weeks before. She was finally gaining back some of the weight she'd lost these past four years, looking less like a skeleton, since she now gave into his demands that she eat whatever food he put before her. The de Chagnys had urged her to eat more but never forced the issue, and at The Heights she'd spent most of her time hard at work, taking meals only when necessity demanded.

"At this rate I'll need that wretched corset again," she mumbled. She caught Mozart's inquisitive stare in the glass as he walked to the foot of the bed and looked at her from behind.

"Oh, very well…" With a sigh she set down the brush and turned to scoop him into her arms. "I can't stay angry with you all day, and I suppose you didn't intend to frighten me awake. Besides, I need you as my buffer once I beard the panther in his den. Since you both come from similar pedigrees, I consider you a worthy ally. You also have claws and know how to bite."

She giggled at her foolishness and quit the chamber. However, any scrap of levity she had gained rapidly fled as she approached the Phantom's lair.

Her grip unconsciously tightened around Mozart. He squirmed. At the slight prick of his claws against her torso she let him go, watching as he jumped out of her arms and ran to the bench where the Phantom sat. The small black beast wrapped itself in devotion around the Phantom's leg, rubbing against his calf.

"Traitor," Christine muttered beneath her breath.

Although she knew he could not have possibly heard her, the man turned from where he sat at the organ, penning his eternal notes.

"Madame. You are early," he said in surprise. "Are you ready to proceed?"

Christine's heart gave a funny little flip at her new title, like velvet on his tongue, and that she was his Madame. His wife.

Dear God…

"Yes, I'm ready for my lesson." She forced her vocal chords to respond, wincing when her words came out in a slight croak. "Jolene never brought my lemon water," she gave the tepid explanation, sure that her strained voice wasn't due to the absence of lemon but from nerves. With one look he could make her a mass of quivering jelly. She balled her hands into fists, determined to cease with such foolishness.

He looked at her and frowned, as if discerning the true reason for the croak in her voice.

"I haven't seen the worthless girl since yesterday. She has left, and good riddance. I will see to your water."

Christine gaped in surprise. "What of the boy?"

"Jacques is still in bed."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure Jolene will return soon." Christine again irritably wondered what relationship the young woman shared with her master. "I can't imagine she would leave Jacques behind."

"I could care less if she returns at all, the ungrateful wretch." The Phantom rose from the bench and moved to the kitchen area.

His words of unconcern belied his tone, and Christine considered it best to drop the matter. She wavered in indecision then followed him. Standing in front of a chair, she gripped its back and studied his movements as he prepared the kettle for the stove. In everything he did, he moved with an assured grace, masculine and fluid. It was no wonder she so often compared him to a dark, nocturnal feline. He turned suddenly, catching her eyes on him. Quickly she dropped her gaze to a bowl of fruit on the table.

"I'll help," she said, grabbing a lemon and a knife that lay nearby.

She took a seat and began slicing the lemon into thin rounds then halves as she had seen them arranged at the social gatherings she remembered. Her eyes strayed of their own accord, again taking in the trim form of the man to whom she now belonged and lingering in their wicked journey. The forbidden memory of the moonlit night invaded her contemplation at the same time he again swung around and caught her stare. The knife slipped and a stab of brutal fire surged through her index finger.

"Oh!" She brought the injured digit to her mouth, the metallic taste of blood filling her tongue.

Instantly the Phantom was kneeling on one leg in front of her. "What have you done this time?"

"I let my mind wander," she said around her finger. " I'm sorry. I didn't sleep well."

She felt foolish for apologizing to him, wondering at the same time why she did, but at least it diverted the conversation from the true purpose of her little accident. She noted from the weary lines near his mouth and the redness of his eyes that he also looked as if he had passed a troubled night. That truth astounded her, to find and share such a human flaw. It made him seem less formidable, and though her hand throbbed dreadfully, her tension to be near him eased.

"Let me see." He pulled her finger from her mouth. The moment the air hit it, the blood quickly welled in a thick line along her skin.

"You little fool," he said gently, "you should never handle a knife when you're daydreaming."

"I didn't say I was daydreaming," she argued sullenly.

"You let your mind wander, which is the meaning of the word. Hold still while I tend to this." He shook his head in mild aggravation. "Do you never cease in causing harm to yourself?"

Christine frowned. "I didn't ask for your help. I can manage on my own -" She tried to pull her hand away, but he tightened his grip.

"Stop."

His eyes met hers, steady orbs of liquid gold, and her breath caught. She felt powerless to refuse his quiet command, powerless even to move. As if his eyes alone had put her under a spell.

He wet a cloth in a basin, pouring water over it from the kettle. Holding her wrist with his other hand, he lightly patted the blood away. Instantly another thick line of red filled the area, forming a large ruby bead that broke away and trickled down her hand. He frowned, inspecting her finger.

"It looks deep. I'll need to bandage it to stop the bleeding."

Her finger throbbed with heat, the icy chill of the water having little effect, and she caught a trickle of scarlet with the damp cloth before it dripped on her dress. He made a cut in the dry cloth, then tore it in a long, thin strip and firmly wound it around her injury, at last tying it off in a knot. He studied the mummified finger. "No blood seeps through. A good sign. Perhaps I won't need to sew it closed."

The horror of that possibility faded as she watched in stupefied wonder while he drew her finger to his lips and gave the cloth binding the cut a soft kiss.

She was fourteen, determined to prove to Erik that she could do whatever he could and do it just as well. Despite his warning of the rocks being more slippery than usual at the stream near the church, she leapt to the next smooth boulder as he had done, but lost her balance and landed on her backside in the chill water. His roaring laughter ebbed when she didn't immediately rise and attack him for laughing at her.

Ignoring the stepping stones, he sloshed through the water to where she sat in the icy stream. "What's wrong? Why are you just sitting there?"

She blinked back the tears stinging her eyes, determined she would never again give him just cause to treat her like a baby. "Nothing's wrong. Go away." She put the sole of her slipper to his leg, pushing him from her and winced once she pulled her hand up from the rock bed. Embedded there was a sliver of sharp stone, blood smearing her palm.

Instantly he was beside her, his manner concerned. He pulled the rock out, wincing when an unwanted moan of pain escaped her lips, and she bit them hard to curb another infantile cry, blinking fast to whisk away the tears. He pulled his kerchief from his neck, dipped it in the stream, and wrapped it around her hand, tying it in a knot.

"Silly child, have you not yet learned that you can never beat me at anything?"

Riled by his arrogant words and that he always saw her as nothing more than a small girl, any hot retort she would have given numbed against her lips when he brought her palm to his mouth and kissed the area where the stone had severed her skin…

"Madame?"

The Phantom's low voice snapped Christine from the memory of that bygone day.

"Are you feeling ill? You look as if you might collapse."

"No…I…" She looked at the hand he still held then at his mouth. "I was remembering when I was a girl and fell and cut my hand. A friend bandaged it then, just as you did now." She tilted her other palm upward. "See. The scar is faded but still there. He…he kissed it too."

His lips thinned. "My apologies. I should not have -"

"No, it's alright."

He remained immobile, his eyes giving nothing away. "Your friend, I presume, this young man of whom I remind you. Erik."

She was surprised he spoke the name so calmly, having been very careful not to say it due to their last heated conversation involving her deceased love.

"Yes." Her reply came weak. "It was Erik who helped me. He always was there for me."

The Phantom stood to his feet, and turned away, wiping her blood from his hand with the cloth he'd torn.

"I think it is an inherent trait for most boys and men to come to the aid of damsels in distress. But never mistake me for a princely hero of your storybooks, Madame. I may share certain traits with this Erik, may even resemble him in appearance, as you have so tirelessly noted, but I am still the monstrous villain I warned you of that first day and rotten to the core of my black soul."

Clearly, from his terse reply, she had made him angry. Her eyes flickered down and she stared at her wrapped finger. After a moment, she again looked at him. "Devil or not, I thank you for your kindness, monsieur."

He turned and stared, his eyes intense and unreadable, causing her to inhale a little breath and hold it. His attention lowered to her mouth, and she wondered if he could see how her bottom lip now trembled. Giving a curt nod, he resumed his task and put the kettle back on the stove.

The Phantom did not look at her again.

Christine could not stop looking his way.

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xXx

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At the sound of a faint sniffle, Arabella's attention broke away from her restless tenure of endlessly staring out the hotel window. Much as she had caught Raoul doing, what seemed a lifetime ago at The Grange. Only he'd held a stout drink in his hand, and all she had was the Frenchman's idea of morning refreshment - neither tea nor coffee, it consisted of liquid chocolate. Normally the sweet drink engaged her delight. Now she frowned, setting down her cup, barely touched.

"Are you not feeling well?" she asked the young maid whose back had been to her since Arabella entered the sitting room. She recognized the young woman who'd brought her the requested exchange of pillows on her first night at the hotel. Then the girl had seemed distracted but polite. She had since been assigned to their suite of rooms, but with her mind on Christine's disappearance or whatever her and her cousin were discussing at the time, Arabella paid little attention to the maid's brief visits to clean, collect or deliver. With Raoul having slipped out of his room before Arabella awoke, she was now alone and had been for hours.

The maid remained busy with her dusting. Without turning she gave an abrupt nod to Arabella's query. Normally Arabella would have let it go at that, but something about the girl's awkward stance and jerky motions unsettled her mind.

"You don't sound well," she said, when the girl gave another faint sniffle. "Sit down for a moment and rest."

"Oh no, my lady. I cannot do such a thing." The girl shook her head, still not looking at her. "It is only the stirred dust."

Arabella had never heard her sniffle while undertaking the task before. "Dust or not, surely you can sit down for a few minutes."

"My manager, he would not like it."

"Well then," Arabella insisted in a soft, pleasant voice. "We shan't tell him. Now please. I should like some company. With my cousin absent and this foolish tickle in my throat keeping me bound to my room during this dratted rainfall, I very well might start talking to the furniture if you don't comply with my wishes."

This earned her a choked giggle and Arabella smiled.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Giselle."

Giselle had brought two teacups, as she always did for Arabella and Raoul. Arabella filled the second cup with the thick drink, then set it on the table across from where she took her usual seat.

Giselle finally turned away from the mantel, keeping her head lowered. However, she was unable to hide her blackened eye, the new manner in which she'd fluffed her light colored curls near her temple to cover the bruise hardly acting as concealment.

"Sweet virgin, what happened to you, child?" Arabella tried to cover her horror, sensing Giselle might flee if she gave into it. She motioned to the chair opposite, and hesitantly the girl slunk onto the cushioned seat. "Did someone hit you?"

"No. No one did." Giselle's reply came hasty, her fingertips going to her cheekbone, to cover the dark violet blemish. "I was where I should not have been. Another maid opened the pantry door too fast as I was walking to it from the other side."

"Hmm." Arabella eyed her closely, doubting her claim. Her lashes were moist, her nose pink, and she gave another little sniffle. Stirred dust? Hardly! "You've been crying. Are you in much pain?"

"It is nothing." The girl dismissed her bruised skin as if she was accustomed to receiving blows, fueling Arabella's suspicion that the girl had been struck. The maid still would not meet her eyes, growing more uneasy by the second.

"If there is any way I can help, you have only to tell me. I can be discreet."

The maid burst into a sob. "You are too kind, mademoiselle, you and your cousin. I do not deserve your kindnesses. Or to sit at your table. I should go." Giselle made as if to rush away in a flurry, but Arabella grabbed her wrist in a firm, non-threatening manner.

"Calm yourself, my dear. Why should you think of yourself as undeserving?"

"The monsieur almost died because of me!"

"What?" Arabella looked at the girl in curious shock. "The Vicomte?"

Giselle nodded, shamefaced.

Arabella grew alert. "Then - you know of this Phantom who terrorizes the opera house?"

Giselle remained silent a moment, nervous to speak. "No. I know the girl who works for him. She once worked here. She was the one who gave me the message for the Vicomte." She lowered her head. "So you see, it is because of me he almost drowned."

"Don't blame yourself, Giselle. You bore no ill intent, and my cousin is dogged in his goals. He would have found a way inside at any cost."

A glimmer of hope for exoneration sparkled in the girl's delft blue eyes.

Arabella felt a little jolt of victory. Raoul kept her uninformed of his plans, claiming he wished to protect her from "the unknown dangers of the Phantom," and had told her little of what occurred yesterday - a cloudless afternoon when he returned in a stormy mood and sopping wet to their sitting room. His only explanation had been terse - that he had acted on information leading him beneath the opera house where he'd fallen into a pit of water. He had refused to divulge more than that.

Arabella did not condescend to being treated with kid gloves, her unconventional streak far from tamed during her years at the elite ladies academy. She had accompanied Raoul to France with a purpose as dominant as his own - to find Christine. And no one, not even her well meaning but obstinate cousin, would prevent her participation. Since he excluded her from his search, it was time to initiate her own strategy.

Raoul underestimated her worth in such matters. Arabella had orchestrated a number of schemes at boarding school and rarely been caught. Those few times she had not been fortunate to escape accusation, she'd been convincing in her pretense of innocence, without casting blame elsewhere. Or she had behaved in a meek, repentant manner, reverting to the "good girl" of her former reputation, so much so that the headmistress relented and she never suffered a severe punishment. Perhaps, in retrospect, as a grown woman she should now be ashamed for her little deceits. But her cunning had been one reason the girls chose her as leader for their innocuous mischief and girlhood frolics.

Arabella now leaned forward, barely able to temper her excitement at this new scent of adventure, to become the leader once more.

"Do you and your friend see each other often, Giselle?"

"Oui. Often when I go to market, Jolene is there. We shop for food on the same mornings."

Arabella smiled, outlining her next move in her mind.

"Drink your chocolate, dear, before it grows cold. I am quite interested to hear more."

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xXx

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After her reckless incident with the knife, the morning progressed smoothly. Much to Christine's surprise, the lesson went better than at any time she could remember, though her teacher remained typically stern. Yet he did not berate her for what she considered inconsequential details and not once did their voices rise above normal speaking level.

The first time that had ever happened.

Once Jacques entered the lake chamber, the Phantom ordered the usual respite for morning tea. Christine had discovered a week ago that instead of rising early to eat hours in advance, she preferred to break the fast after morning practice, which strictly concentrated on the nuances of training her voice. The afternoon and evening practices were devoted to the opera itself. Much to her surprise, the Phantom had not begrudged her this small preference.

"Since Jolene isn't here, I'll cook," she said, hoping he would take her offer as the proverbial olive branch and they could at last have some degree of amity between them.

She saw the surprise flicker in his eyes. "If you wish." He gave a curious nod of assent. "Be assured, I do have ointment for burns."

With a haughty sniff, Christine brushed past where he remained seated at the organ, paying his blithe mockery no heed. His inference that she would prove to be a hindrance in the kitchen came as little surprise, given the start of their morning, and she felt eager to prove him wrong and wipe that smug expression from what she could see of his face beneath the mask. The bulky bandage troubled her slightly but soon was forgotten as she set about making the meal, humming while she did.

She whipped eggs with a fork, blending them with cream, cooked and fluffed over the stove, as Netty had taught her, sliced the bread from yesterday then toasted the pieces on a wire rack over the oven fire. They ended up on the dark side, since she toyed with the bandage the Phantom had devised for her, (while her feckless mind revisited the memory of the incident) - and she brewed the customary pot of hot tea.

She made enough for three and turned to announce the meal complete, disappointed to see the Phantom nowhere in sight.

"What…" Her slow breath of a word trailed off in puzzlement as she moved to the bank of the lake, to see the whole of the chamber.

Yes, he had disappeared at some point.

The ingrate.

Christine frowned. Calling out to him, should he be lingering in his bedchamber or in the corridors beyond produced no results. Of course she had not prepared the meal with him in mind, but he could have had the decency to tell her in advance that he would be absent.

As she fumed while scooping servings onto two plates, she realized she had not once seen him eat. She paused in her task. Surely, he must eat - he was mortal - even if he behaved like a devil at times. She doubted his reason for abstaining from food in her presence was due to his mask, since the bottom of it just touched his upper lip but certainly wouldn't prevent a utensil's entrance, and he had screamed at her enough for her to know he could open his mouth without the stiff leather hampering movement.

His unexplained exit left her to fend off the perplexed stares from Jacques, who clearly wondered where his sister was as he pointedly looked at the empty chair where Jolene often sat, then at Christine as she set the platters down and took her seat at the end of the long table.

Leaning forward toward where he sat in the middle, she slowly spoke, exaggerating the movements of her lips so he could follow what she said. "Your sister will return later." She hoped that was the case, for the boy's sake.

He nodded brightly and dove into his food, relieving Christine that she had so easily and successfully dealt with his curiosity. Not only had her lessons in French ended with the return of Jolene's antipathy (though Christine played the words taught over and over in her mind every day to retain them), learning to use her hands to communicate with Jacques had also ceased. Yet if she had thought eating a meal with the lad would be quiet and without interest, she was mistaken.

After a few bites of toast, Jacques took a nibble of egg then piled his serving in a tottering heap with his fork. Trekking the demon soldier he'd brought with him over the table and up to the scrambled egg mound, he swatted with it as if to demolish a fortress, while making sounds at the back of his throat. She'd heard him hoarsely laugh before, so wasn't surprised to hear him emit sound. Now he let out grunts with each swat of the demon soldier against his egg.

She didn't know how to gain his attention and chide him to stop playing with his food, other than to leave her chair and approach him or to wave her arms like a madwoman, since the boy's attention never left his pretend battle. So she let him be. It wasn't her place to correct him, her experience with children non-existent, the short time she spent helping with her baby cousin hardly giving her the knowledge of how to manage a five-year-old child. Besides, his antics amused her while she ate. Clearly he wasn't enthused with the eggs. Jolene often made porridge topped with a dollop of cream. Christine had thought to try something different, but the boy obviously wasn't interested.

She let her mind wander to events of the previous evening…going up above while blindfolded and clinging to her captor's solid warmth for protection…her first delicious breath of the fresh night air in weeks…the bizarre outing that had taken her to be forever linked to the man known as Phantom…the same who had so tenderly seen to her wound…and disappeared without a word…

Christine bowed her head, her gaze going to her bandaged finger. A bite-sized piece of toast fell from the top of her head to her plate. She hadn't even felt it land she'd been so absorbed in thought. With curious surprise, she looked at the torn morsel compressed into a ball like a spitwad, then up at the boy.

Jacques was the picture of all innocence making furrowed indentations with his fork onto his eggs. Christine was not fooled, but spotting Mozart sauntering toward the table, she bent down to set the saucer of cream she earlier prepared on the ground. As she straightened, she distinctly felt a wet spongy splat on her neck. Stunned, she swung her head around, catching Jacques who held his spoon up by the handle, treating it as a catapult and his food like bite-sized missiles.

Christine stared with her mouth open in shock, earning her rasping laughter from the boy, who took a piece of egg as she watched and fired again. This time it hit Christine above her cleavage, dropping inside her neckline. The recollection of similar fights of food with Erik, both of them as children laughing and dodging a shrieking Netty and her broom made Christine smile.

Taken back to her girlhood, she grabbed her own catapult and the last piece of toast, tearing it up into morsels for her arsenal. Jacques gaped in surprise when she used her own spoon as a catapult. A simple game of firing food soon led to a chase around the table, good-natured shrieking and a dose of merriment that dispelled all the dreariness of previous days. She laughed in victory when her doughy missile hit him between the eyes then shrieked when he flung his goblet with what was left of his water her way. Her eyes widened in alarm when he then grabbed a silver platter with the remaining eggs.

Realizing his intent to hurl the entire thing, she cried out, "No, Jacques, no!" at the same time she dropped to her knees and ducked beneath the table. The platter went flying and landed with a resounding crash that seemed to go on forever on the stones. When silence returned, she moved her body around to look that way. Her heart froze to see a pair of men's polished black shoes with bits of egg covering their tops.

Oh dear God no…

Wishing to remain hidden beneath the table for the unforeseeable future but knowing that was foolish since he had obviously seen her duck beneath, Christine gathered her courage and what shreds of dignity she still possessed. Despite her dishabille, with bits of egg sticking in her wildly tousled curls and water spotting her dress, she crawled into view on her hands and knees, looking up at her captor.

The explanation she had primed herself to give died on Christine's tongue at the sight of the Phantom standing stock still with bits of egg smearing the front of his pristine waistcoat.

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at her.

She gaped up at him and blinked.

"Well?" he finally said. "I cannot wait to hear your explanation for this."

"I didn't think you'd be joining us for morning tea."

The moment the words most prevalent in her mind escaped her mouth, she realized how inane she sounded. A match to her present state of appearance, to be sure.

"For a food fight - or actually to consume the meal as it was meant to be taken?"

Her surprise doubled at his calm rejoinder. He shook his head slowly then stepped forward, holding out his hand.

"Do you intend to stay down there?" he asked wryly when she only stared at his long slender fingers extended toward her.

Awkwardly, she accepted his hand, finding its warmth strangely unsettling, and rose to her feet. She broke the connection quickly, trying to eliminate the tingles his touch had caused by rubbing her palm against the side of her skirt. Her action did not go unnoticed and he frowned.

"Perhaps you would care to return to your chamber and freshen up before we continue with practice?" he suggested in a velvet drawl, his golden eyes giving off a distinct chill.

She had always associated the color gold with warmth and flame, and often his expression showed the latter - fierce and angry and passionate. But since living in his underground home, she now knew gold could be like ice too. Cold and hard, like the streaks of color that ran through the chill cave walls.

Disgruntled at being caught in such an embarrassing state and perturbed by his aloof manner, Christine gave a short nod and hurried to the exit. Once she walked no more than a few feet from the lair, she had second thoughts about leaving the boy with him. She was a grown woman, she knew better and should have stopped the food battle once it started, not encouraged its continuance. Taking a deep breath for confidence, she retraced her steps to make certain that Jacques did not suffer the Phantom's certain wrath.

The sight before her eyes halted her calculated entrance.

The boy had approached the Phantom and grinned up at his looming form, clearly not one bit anxious or repentant for his misdeeds. The Phantom shook his head in a long-suffering manner, then hauled Jacques up under one arm, settling him on one hip and giving a firm swat to his backside. The boy laughed and the Phantom repositioned Jacques so that he was hanging draped over his arm at his side, his manner not angry but almost…playful.

Christine gaped in shock to witness such ease between the two as the Phantom carried the boy to his bedchamber and likely to Jacques's room to clean him up. Long after they disappeared from sight, she remembered to step back from the opening. She moved slowly so that her shoulder blades were pressed against the cave wall.

The scene shouldn't surprise her as it had; Jacques was the Phantom's son. It made sense they would share a special bond, and she had witnessed their rapport before this. But suddenly she wished to experience that same ease with the man and no longer wanted to continue with the polite and detached hostility that had become their method of communication. They were now married and though it was in name only, she desired a change…more than grudging tolerance or indifferent acceptance. She wanted true companionship.

Stunned by her mind's full disclosure, she slowly made her way to her bedchamber. She wasn't sure of the exact day when her antipathy toward him began to fade; she still resented how he drugged her and brought her to his perilous maze of underground caverns, holding her imprisoned against her will. But that knowledge didn't lessen this new desire to forge a truce, and she decided to be the first to cross the battle line they had drawn, by asking him to stay and dine with her after practice.

More than anything, she wished to share a meal with him. Tonight.

After such an eventful morning, Christine nervously wondered how the Phantom would respond to her hopeful invitation.

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xXx