A/N: Thank you for the phan-tastic reviews! :D I love this time of year, and when I realized the time frame of my story fits, well, I just couldn't resist… ;-)

Chapter XLIV

.

At the Phantom's continued silence, Christine felt her every nerve strung taut as piano wire.

"That is, if you're not too busy…"

"You wish me to dine with you," he said quietly, not believing the words, as if by repeating them he might find an excuse for their existence. "Why?"

"Does there have to be a reason?"

"There is a reason for everything, though it is not always apparent."

She exhaled an agitated breath. "Fine. If you must have a reason, I grow weary of living in a constant state of discord. I have agreed to every condition you gave when we first met in your caverns. I have become your student, and I will sing for you in your opera as your Aminta. I married you." Her voice wavered slightly on the last words. "Now I ask for this one favor in return. To live through at least one day without chaos or argument or tension - at the very least, one hour - and I think dining together would be a worthy step toward making that happen."

During her nervous rationalization he crossed his arms nonchalantly over his chest and tilted his head, observing her in a cavalier manner as if he'd come to a sure conclusion.

"Do not suppose for a minute that I cannot discern the motive beneath your sudden change of heart. I see past your manipulations. And I assure you, Madame, that though you may have resigned yourself no longer to run or seek escape from this prison, to engage in the pretense of seeking amity will not gain you an earlier release from my dark catacombs either."

"Oh, never mind," she snapped. "You are so entombed in a mire of distrust and bitterness that you wouldn't even recognize the offer of a truce if it rose up from those organ pipes and bit you on the nose."

"That doesn't sound very conducive to peace." He uncrossed his arms and wryly lifted his hands. "Such unique words coming from you - surely you can understand my hesitation? Last night you were ready to tear my eyes out. This night, you invite me to dine with you. What has changed? Or has it? Will I find poison in my wine and ground glass in my pudding?"

She grimaced at his acerbic wit. "I don't wish to discuss last night ever again. I had actually thought to invite you before yesterday, but never was given a chance to ask." She shook her head. "I can see this was a foolish mistake. It was only a suggestion of a meal, and we both must eat. I thought it might be a pleasant change to try to do so together, since I'm to share these caverns with you until you decide otherwise. It does get rather lonely here. But instead you wish only to mock me for an honest offering of peace. I'm sorry I bothered you."

With her head held high, Christine pivoted before he had a chance to counter with another jab. She took the steps down to the dining table, the defeat of her words telling him he'd won. While the undercurrent of anger in her tone expressed how extremely fatigued she was of these unending battles with their cutting rejoinders between them.

She purposely took the chair away from him, at the head of the table, sitting with her back to the rock dais. When the silence grew too great to bear and she no longer could hear even the faint shuffle of a page or the scratch of his quill, she dropped her napkin on the ground, on the pretext to look at him. Head lowered, she grabbed the napkin, barely turning her head to peek, then hurriedly straightened, looking fully behind her.

The organ was abandoned, her indifferent tyrant nowhere to be seen.

Blast him. Or maybe it was better this way. Had she truly thought the pretentious Phantom would yield?

She poured more red wine into her glass and drank half while barely skimming her soup with a spoon, nudging the vegetables around the bowl in their liquid.

A sudden movement out of the corner of her eye made her turn her head to see. The Phantom moved into view from behind her and came to stand at the back of what would have been her chair had she not taken the one meant for him.

Christine blinked in shock, both at his unexpected arrival and the new mask he wore. Of a softer material and lighter black than his usual covering, it ended a short distance below his nose, though the cut of it followed both cheeks at a downward curve toward the jaw and back to the ears like the original did. But this one didn't fit as rigidly around his mouth, which she could see fully for the first time. She stared at the sensuous curves of his upper lip, slightly less full than the lower…

"Does the invitation still stand?"

His quiet words pulled her from her intent perusal, and she swallowed hard and nodded. Unable to keep from staring, she watched, as with the graceful agility to which she was now accustomed he pulled back the chair and took a seat. The distance between them moderate, her eyes lifted to his golden ones. His gaze held hers a breathless moment then dropped to her bowl.

"Is the meal not to your liking?"

His earlier barbed words had lent to her loss of appetite, but now she felt as if she could do the meal justice. "I should say it is. A better potato, carrot, and onion soup you'll not find, monsieur."

He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes in acute observation. "She gloats."

Christine nervously giggled at his absurd remark - the last thing she expected the brooding Phantom to say - or perhaps it was the sudden and welcome break of heaviness in the atmosphere that lent to her ease. "No, I speak the truth. Though I regret that vegetables is all there is. We have no more meat or bread. The larder is somewhat bare."

He nodded and took a sip of wine. "I shall need to go above and seek Madame's help to gather provisions. It was Jolene's task to go to market."

Christine had no desire to talk about Jolene. Noting he took a second sip of wine, she raised her brow. "Tell me that the great Phantom of the Opera is not apprehensive over a simple bowl of soup?"

"With your eagerness to persuade me to indulge, I am inclined to believe my earlier conjecture - that you resorted to poison."

Rather than take offense a second time, she smiled sweetly. "But, monsieur, why would I destroy a perfectly good bowl of soup, when the deadly tines of a fork could achieve the purpose with so much more satisfaction?"

At the dry reminder of their altercation over her concealed choice of weaponry - a matter in which she felt surprised she could find amusement, since she had been the one mocked at the time - to Christine's shock, the Phantom laughed. Not in ridicule or disdain, but a genuine laugh that brought a light of mirth to his eyes, making them shine more golden.

She warmly shivered, resolving that she would hear that rich sound again. His laugh was as beautiful as his song.

"I have noticed you no longer collect them," he mused.

"One is enough to keep as a warning," she said just as lightly.

He inclined his head, a half smile twisting his lips. "I shall keep that in mind."

"Please do." She glanced down at his bowl. "Your soup is getting cold."

"Ah, yes…" His smile faded. "The soup."

He finally took a small bite - making even that simple act one of fluid poetry- then looked up at her in shock.

"I told you it was good," she said smugly.

"Where did you learn to cook like this? To cook at all?"

She puzzled over his queries. Was it so astounding that she'd been taught to prepare food? To her knowledge, most women of the working class, what he thought her to be and what she had lately become, were taught as small children, hanging by their mother's apron strings to watch and learn. Christine had no wish to lie, but if she should mention her nursemaid - that she even had one would likely invite further ridicule of her past. Not wishing to go down that path again, she carefully selected what to say.

"A member of the family, Berta, taught me all I know, especially how to compliment each dish with the right herbs. Many of which you have in your kitchen."

The Phantom absently nodded. Berta had been as much his nurse as Christine's in those early years at The Heights when her father was alive. Upon remembering the woman's frightful superstitions he sensed Berta had feared him, both for his gypsy beginnings and the appellation of his face. She once glimpsed it, on his second day there, when in her sternness about cleanliness she ordered him to strip to nothing and step into a washtub of hot water before the fire. She had snatched away the canvas covering, but he'd been quick to turn aside. He recalled that she had gasped with what little she had seen, and all the while she scrubbed him did not once insist he remove his hand from hiding his deformity.

Curiosity prodded him to inquire, "The two of you must have been close. What happened to change that?"

"Change it?"

"Your arrival in Paris to the theatre."

"Nothing happened." Her eyes took on a wistful shine. After a brief span she lifted them to his. "You were right when you said that people leave and Jacques must learn that lesson early in life. But it's not just women who go.…"

The Vicomte, of course. That must be the basis for the reason she came to France. The infernal scoundrel had broken her heart.

"My father died when I was just turned twelve," she said quietly. "And there was another who left me, when I was just sixteen, exactly one week after my birthday…"

His heart pounded to realize she was talking about him.

This was dangerous territory. But the need to hear more, provoked by a sadistic tendency to self inflict pain, for that is what it must be, propelled him to continue along the jagged edge of disclosure.

"Perhaps it was his destiny to go."

She looked at him strangely. "I didn't say it was a man."

"You mentioned that it was not only women who left," he carefully stated. "That implies the opposite gender."

"Oh." She frowned. "Yes, I see. But no, it was not his destiny."

"You are so certain?" Intently he observed her reaction.

She miserably sighed and nodded. "Others stole from him what should have been a choice. And he would have chosen correctly, I'm sure of it. But it was never his choice to make."

What in the bloody hell was she talking about? He stared at her in disbelief, wanting to shake the pretense out of her until she confessed her cruel part in the malicious little game she once played with the boy against him. A game of deceit and manipulation that ended in his near death. At the grisly reminder of that day and what followed, he worked hard to regain control, to push unwanted feelings to a shadowed corner of his heart and adapt the cool stony exterior needed when in her presence.

A feat that grew more difficult with each night and day that passed.

This had been a mistake. He should have allowed his suspicion of her behavior to take dominance and prevent him from joining her for the meal. Curiosity to see what new trickery she was up to compelled him to tie on the mask he fashioned for dining purposes - another foolish undertaking on his part, to make the mask to begin with! He had crafted it the first night she alluded to the question of his eating habits - with no conscious plan to take a meal with her and no real understanding of why he made the damn thing in the first place.

He should go, excuse himself, flee from the table…

Her hand trembled as she took a small bite of soup, then drank a tiny sip of wine. She blotted the moisture from her lips with her napkin. He found himself continuing to stare at her parted mouth and inhaled an inaudible gasp when the tip of her tongue peeked out to wet her lower lip. Her lashes flicked upward, and he lifted his focus to haunted eyes, so dark and deep and mysterious he could drown in their allure.

The Phantom tore his gaze from his disturbing dinner companion and drank half his wine in three swallows. He set down his goblet, never lifting his gaze from the crystal stem.

"Tell me about your father," he said quietly.

xXx

Due to her extended time beneath the earth, Christine had lost track of the days. Not until she spoke to the Phantom of her dear sweet Papa and her favorite childhood memories with him did she bother to count the marks she daily scratched onto the wall near her dressing table. Over a month had elapsed and with a start, she realized the season.

She may be entombed beneath the earth in a never-ending world of shadow and rock, but like her Papa she always greeted this time of year with goodwill and enthusiasm. With that in mind, she wished to spread a little cheer where she could…

Or at least make the attempt.

Once the Phantom excused her from evening practice, he mentioned he was going above for supplies for which he had given Madame a list the previous day, followed by his usual warning mixed with a threat on the subject of any attempted escape she might make. After her solemn reassurance that she would remain and honor her vow to him - words she must have said a hundred times by now - Christine waited until he'd gone, then hurried in search of the boy.

She found Jacques playing in the interior lake room. He had become sullen these last few days, less inclined to communicate. When he didn't look up or acknowledge her presence though she stood in his light and cast a shadow over him, Christine bent down and grabbed up two of his wooden soldiers.

This earned her an immediate reaction, his eyes snapping to hers, full of angst and anger. He thrust out his hand in demand to have them back, reminding her so much of his father it was almost unnerving.

"Come with me," she enunciated slowly and retraced her steps to the Phantom's bedchamber, heartened when she heard the boy's footsteps behind her.

Taking up a torch, she led him through the long passages, coming to a stop at the barred door.

She hesitated, knowing what she was about to do would certainly earn the Phantom's wrath should he discover it, but Jolene's punishment was unfair to young Jacques who deserved no sentence. And even prisoners received visitors, did they not?

Upon opening the heavy door, it was worth any stern reprimand she might suffer to see the boy's face light up as if, indeed, the Yuletide had been brought to his doorstep.

He ran into Jolene's embrace and hugged his sister tightly. With tears sparkling in her eyes, Jolene looked up at Christine, shaking her head a little, too stunned to speak.

"I'll give you some time alone," Christine said, placing the wooden soldiers on the bed.

She left before Jolene could respond and closed the door behind her, then wondered what to do for the next half hour. She was uncertain how much time she should allow for their covert visit, but remembering her trek with the Phantom to the opera house, where it was likely he would meet Madame Giry, she estimated that she had a little under an hour before his return. Unless he took a shorter route to get there. He seemed to have a myriad of secret passages, and Christine remembered the Phantom demanding that Jolene tell him which entrance she had divulged to his enemies, so there must be more than one.

Experiencing a sudden fit of nervous tension, Christine barred the door and hurried the short distance to her room. She straightened the area then sat on the edge of her bed to pet a languid Mozart. As she did, she forced herself not to think of what her captor might do if he should find out. Her mind traveled back to the past three evenings…

After the first occasion she had dined with the Phantom, counting her endeavor a worthy success, Christine again issued an invitation for him to join her the following night. To her relief, he accepted after only a slight hesitation and with no repeated accusations.

On the third night, she had no need to issue the invitation. To her surprise, she found him standing at the table once she turned from the stove top with what was left of their larder. Once more he had exchanged his usual stiff mask for what she'd come to think of as his dinner mask. He held back as though not fully certain.

"I assume you have no objections?" he asked warily.

"Please." She had smiled and motioned to the head of the table, as if she were the hostess and he the guest. "Be seated."

With each night that elapsed their ease of conversation progressed until Christine could see little of the ogre who once claimed her for his prisoner in the captivating dinner companion who entertained with stories of his exploits at the opera house. Some tales were amusing, such as his harmless pranks on La Carlotta, and Christine had laughed to imagine the haughty singer covered head to toe in white face powder. The previous night he embellished on his nocturnal forays, dangerous to himself and to whoever was his prey or the hunter, though thankfully the topic of death was withheld from dinner conversation. She gave a little shiver upon remembering his somber recounting, at least grateful that for all his propensity to torment, the Phantom had not once physically harmed her. And she was convinced he never would.

After a fair amount of time, with no way to tell how much of it had passed, she returned to the cell chamber.

Jacques sat cross-legged on the bed facing Jolene, who busily made motions with her hands in communication. She glanced up at Christine's arrival.

"Tell him he must remain silent about this visit," Christine instructed.

"Do not tell the Maestro you came here," the maid said slowly, also using her hands. "This is our secret."

The boy nodded.

"We must go before he returns," Christine said.

Jolene looked at her, clearly apprehensive to speak. "Do you know how much longer the Maestro plans to keep me here?"

"I intend to speak with him tonight on the matter of your release." The girl looked surprised, her smile cautiously happy, but Christine remained somber. "Make no mistake, Jolene, I haven't forgotten our former words, when I brought your meal to you that first day." Ever since that morning, neither of them initiated conversation, Christine hurrying in and out to bring the girl her food and collect the old tray, also emptying the chamber pot there. "Should I meet with success I want it understood that I am the Phantom's wife. And I'll not tolerate any threats or innuendos of your plans to replace me."

At first Christine had been stunned that the girl would speak so boldly to her face, then livid that she thought she had the right - whatever Jolene's hold on the Phantom. On the second day, keen anger gave way to reluctant compassion when she thought about all of what the maid suffered in her short lifetime, the horrors she had faced, with only her Maestro to show any consideration. Christine had suffered similar abuse one foul morning, to a far lesser degree. She couldn't fathom how Jolene had stayed sane to undergo such treatment for years. The Phantom had been to her a saviour, and Christine could begin to grasp why the girl thought him her property, feeling threatened to lose him. All of this she thought she now understood - but that didn't mean she had to like it, and she certainly didn't relay her change of heart.

"My plans for my life, whether I stay or go or when I do, are no concern of yours," she continued in a quiet, brusque tone. "Do not again interfere. And one last thing: Whatever…contact you share with the Maestro in the future you are to keep to yourself. I have no wish to hear about any of it."

Christine said the last with a bitter taste in her mouth, recalling the Phantom's taunts of four nights ago, certain he would do as he pleased. While she may be his wife according to a legal document, Christine felt she didn't hold the right to warn the girl away from him as she would have preferred, and that it would be useless in any case.

"Are we clear on this, Jolene?

The young maid appeared confused but nodded. "Oui…Madame," she added the title somewhat dismally. "I'm not sure why you brought my brother to visit, not after all I've said. And done." A tinge of rose colored her skin. Perhaps the girl wasn't so obtuse to realize when she had acted too boldly. "But, merci. I thank you."

"I did it for Jacques." Christine's voice softened as she glanced at the boy, whose back was still to her as he played with his soldiers. "However, you must now say your goodbyes. We dare no longer stay."

Christine watched Jolene make eye contact with the child and do as told. Jacques furiously shook his head no.

"Tell him that you'll see him again soon."

Jolene did, and after some cajoling on her part, Jacques gave a defeated nod. The two siblings shared a heartfelt hug then Christine led him away by the hand and out the door, which she barred. She turned to go, surprised when the boy clutched her hard around the waist in a grateful hug. Smiling faintly, glad she could have given him this small bit of happiness, she smoothed his hair, then gently pushed him away.

"We must keep this a secret," she stressed, putting a finger to her lips.

The boy solemnly nodded, then took her free hand in his for the walk back to the lair. An unequivocal change from the lad who peevishly stalked her shadow earlier. Christine smiled at this second triumph.

Once they entered the main room, he stopped and looked up at her.

"Go play," she told him, grateful to find the chamber empty.

He smiled and ran up the stairs into the Phantom's bedchamber, in all likelihood back to the interior lake or to his own room.

With her torch still in hand, Christine hurried to replace it in its holder, almost dropping it to the stones when the Phantom emerged from the area where Jacques had just disappeared.

x

The Phantom looked toward the torch she held, then brought his attention back to her face.

"I can explain," she said, cursing the tremor in her voice. "I was with the boy. In the tunnels. Not the dark ones," she hurried to say when he narrowed his eyes.

"The ones lit by torches?" he asked evenly, again pointedly looking at hers.

"Y-yes. I wanted to be sure to have light." She realized that she must sound like the village idiot and hurried to explain, "One of the torches gave out in the passageway when I was returning to my chamber the other night, and I didn't wish a repeat of that darkness. I detest the darkness, as you no doubt will recall after my first night in your caves."

The warmth of nervous embarrassment rushed to her face when at once she remembered falling into a swoon in his arms in the pathos of her terrifying encounter in the bath chamber.

"I see."

He took the stairs down. She thought her heart might fail when he stopped before her. His eyes searched hers before he took the torch from her trembling hand and strode toward its empty holder. That he went directly to the spot and didn't have to search it out made her realize he must have returned earlier and noticed the torch missing…as well as her absence from the main chamber.

He was infuriatingly calm, which only served to agitate her nerves until she felt she might snap in two. "Yes, well, I suppose I should prepare something for supper before the hour grows late."

If he wasn't going to inquire as to her earlier whereabouts, she certainly wasn't going to tell him! Though, as she mulled it over, he likely thought her to have been keeping time in her chamber, and in principle it was true. She had spent most of the past hour there.

Now certain that's what he must think, and feeling as relieved as a doomed prisoner who'd just escaped the hangman's noose through an act of unexpected fortune, Christine hurried to the table and the large crate on top. She looked inside, her eyes widening at the bounty. And was that…

"A goose?" she breathed in shock, picking it up by its scrawny legs and staring at the plump, feathered carcass.

"Have you experience in preparing one?"

"Once. With Berta's help." She had plucked the feathers and watched Berta clean, stuff and baste last year's Christmas goose, then bake it and prepare the sauce. Surely Christine could manage the task on her own. She peered into the crate a second time, withdrawing a canvas sack. Upon untying the string, she found the pouch filled with raisins. Another one held currants, yet another, almonds. She withdrew a pint of milk and looked up at him, her mouth parted in dawning shock.

"For a plum pudding. You mentioned that in Christmases past it was the treat you most enjoyed." He cleared his throat gruffly. "You'll also find the makings for a mince pie."

Speechless, she continued to stare. She had told him that some of her favorite occasions with her father had been their festive Christmas dinners, detailing what delights Berta had baked. She once even mentioned Erik, though briefly, and to her relief the Phantom had not grown angry at the slip.

He approached, his brows drawn together. "Is it not to your liking?"

"No, that's not it," she said faintly. "I approve. It's just so…unexpected."

"I'm not one to honor the holiday festivities, but we must eat and it will be a welcome change to try something different. If you feel you're up to the task?"

His lips quirked in a wry half grin and her good humor returned.

"Most certainly, monsieur. Though I fear I'll need to spend all day in the kitchen tomorrow to prepare."

"You have come far in your vocal training. I will make an exception and excuse you from the day's practice this once."

She smiled as she noted boughs of evergreen lining the sides at the bottom. So he was not one to maintain traditions, was he…?

"This ought to make an interesting appetizer." She held up a branch as long as her arm. "Or did you intend it for an herb to flavor the goose?"

His lips twisted in a half smile. "A bit of greenery wouldn't hurt to liven up this tomb of stone. Cease your mockery, woman, and prepare tonight's dinner. A light repast of bread and cheese will suffice. I'll put the remainder of provisions away."

Lighthearted, Christine withdrew a block of cheese and a loaf of rye, humming while she cut them into slices. Her attention lifted to the shore, where the Phantom carried the wooden crate, his strength evident. She watched as he went through the process of securing the food beneath the lake. His lack of frock coat and waistcoat brought into focus the glimpse of muscle in his back and legs as he worked, and she stopped slicing, went silent and boldly stared, thankful he had no knowledge that she did. Exactly like one other time she had dared to watch, when he had not been wearing one stitch of those fine garments…

Her face heated with the scandalous memory, and quickly she resumed her light task, then went in search of Jacques. Usually the boy ate before they did - in weeks past, taking his meals with his sister - in keeping with Jolene's custom of putting the child to bed early and giving them the chamber free to practice. But the hour had grown late to apply any such rule.

Once the three sat at the table and ate, Christine had the oddest sense of family overtake her. A foolish notion, and she shook it away, blinking back the inexplicable moisture that rimmed her eyes. She would one day leave this place and go back to the world above. Of sun and air and freedom. She could not let herself become attached to the dream of again belonging to a family. Especially not to this one. Everyone she loved was dead and forever lost to her. She was the Phantom's wife in name alone, and certainly not dear to him. Nor was he to her. But she could imagine his displeasure if he was to learn how fond she had grown of the boy.

Thinking it would benefit her to speak with Jacques present - for she hoped that the Phantom would contain any excessive rage in the child's presence - she nervously cleared her throat.

"My father had a custom at the Yuletide, one that I greatly admired. He dismissed all debts owed to him, forgiving any grievances against those with whom he held aught."

The Phantom held aloft his slice of bread, stopping in the process of bringing it to his mouth, and stared at it grimly, as if knowing what she would say next. Christine spoke in a rush before she lost all courage.

"I was thinking it would be a lovely gift for Jacques if you should release his sister. Two hands in the kitchen will also help matters, as I've had little experience with cooking a Christmas goose - though I'm sure I can do it," she added hastily as his golden eyes flicked up to meet hers. She swallowed hard, feeling a bit faint with how intently he stared. "But it would be ever so much more … advantageous to have Jolene's help."

"More advantageous than slinking through dimly lit corridors with the boy for clandestine meetings?"

Christine balled her hands into fists in her lap. She felt the nervous warmth of scarlet flood her face. "You knew?" she managed to say when she could speak.

"I'm no fool, Madame. You don't cover your tracks well."

She silently agreed with his genius arrogance and cursed her rash ineptness. Had she truly thought to keep anything hidden from the great Phantom of the Opera? She watched as he took a sip of his wine.

"And you're not angry?" she dared to ask in the ensuing silence, surprised that she'd not yet become the recipient of a host of cutting words and dark threats.

"I suspected that you might behave recklessly. It's in your nature. I'm not surprised."

She felt a twinge of indignation, though she could hardly refute what he said. However much she had improved over the past four years, at times she still spoke or acted before she thought. She dared to press her luck.

"Won't you at least consider releasing her? As you can see, Jacques is more well behaved than he's been these last few days. It did him a world of good to see his sister -"

"Madame," he interrupted pleasantly while setting down his goblet. His eyes were twin flames behind the mask. "I would advise you not to test my patience. This one indiscretion I will overlook. Let us leave it at that. I'm not as likely to ignore a second occurrence."

With an inward sigh of relief that he was willing to forget and regret that she had not succeeded to sway him, Christine concentrated on her meal. The boy finished and the Phantom stood, bringing her surprised attention his way.

"I will put Jacques to bed and clean up. You should also retire, since you said that you'll need most of tomorrow to prepare dinner."

Cheered anew by the prospect of the festive meal ahead and a bit stunned by his desire to aid her so that she could indulge in an early night, she wondered if by chance a smidgeon of the spirit of the season might be rubbing off on the grim ruler of these eternal caverns who claimed to shun such beloved traditions.

Chuckling to herself, she smiled.

One could only hope.

xXx

A/N: Yes, I kept the chapter ending light- I'm just full of the holiday spirit, what can I say? lol Enjoy the lack of cliffies while they last. ;-) … Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate it, my phriends! :)