A/N: A bouquet of fragrant crimson roses tied with black ribbon tossed to all my reviewers! :) I made a PotO mvid to go with story – link is in my profile. It's "Taking Over Me" (by Evanescence) on my Youtube channel (honeyphan2). Be sure and read the description there if you do watch.

And now…

Chapter LXXV

The Vicomte de Chagny hurried through the rear entrance of the opera house, hoping to secure the answers needed and find his impulsive friend. If Christine was to seek help from anyone to locate the Phantom, it would be from the woman who acted as his aide, and Arabella's errand for Christine only made that clearer.

This close to dawn, the crew stirred, busy at their duties, a few of the more dedicated of the chorus up before their peers and engaged in practice. No one paid him more than a curious glance as he hastened to the cluttered office where the ballet mistress presided when she did not rule the stage. Expecting to find both his fiancée and Madame Giry there, he was curious when a quick look into the room, lit by the low flame of one lamp, showed him it was empty. He walked to the desk, hoping to find a clue to where she'd gone.

A note lay there addressed to "Maman."

Raoul had been raised a gentleman, certainly one never to disturb the personal belongings of another, especially those of the fairer sex. Yet under such dire circumstances he felt crossing that boundary a requirement. Meg had grown close to Christine and might have lent aid in her reckless venture.

The missive was brief and rather obscure, telling only of Meg's urgent need to help "the friend we discussed earlier", also expressing that her mother was not to worry, she was not alone - Lady de Chagny was with her.

Raoul's lips thinned. Well, that informed him of his fiancée's whereabouts, to a degree, but to what friend did Meg refer? The Phantom or Christine? If Arabella was with Meg, she would have told her the news of the Phantom's capture, so the friend in need must be Christine. And if that was the case, the urgency to help could only be in relation to the Phantom.

Visions of the three young women guilelessly setting out for Bicêtre and, if they were successful, demanding the rough guards of that men's asylum to release their latest prisoner filled Raoul with dread.

He must find someone who knew of the madhouse and how to reach it!

Swiftly he turned on his heel, his attention lighting on a chair in the corner of the room – and the figure who sat in silence, watching him.

"Giselle?"

"Oui, monsieur."

He looked out the open door, hoping to see his cousin approach. "Lady Arabella…?"

"My mistress told me to stay here until she returned."

It was as he feared. Christine had enlisted Arabella's help to run headlong into some half formulated scheme that could bring them all harm.

"She took the carriage then? Damn. Did she say where she was going?"

"No monsieur."

The girl hesitated, averting her eyes, and Raoul sensed her apprehension of him. He had never once raised his voice to her to cause such fear, but now knowing the kind of perverse man she worked for, he understood her reaction.

"It's alright," he said, forcing a calmer tone. "Tell me what you know."

"I-I overheard her speak to a woman when she came to the carriage, where I was waiting. She called her Meg. They left together and she was speaking of the need to 'find him' soon."

Raoul nodded grimly. "Was Miss Daaé with them?"

"Who?" The girl looked confused and Raoul shook his head, recalling the adopted stage name.

"Pardon, Christine Grendahl. The lady who stayed at our suite for a time."

"No, monsieur, she was not there. But the fair haired lady said that she hoped Christine was alright and had not found more trouble."

This made no sense. Why should the two take it upon themselves to find the Phantom, without Christine accompanying them?

"Did they mention anything else?"

The girl thought a moment. "As they walked out, I heard something about a cave. And … and traps…" She blushed and nervously looked down.

Good God. A cave? Traps? Surely Arabella had not discovered…

"Vicomte."

A shocked voice disrupted his horrified thoughts and he pivoted toward the door.

Madame Giry swept through, untying a woolen scarf from around her head. Her gaze took in Giselle with surprise, then lifted to Raoul.

"What are you doing here – and so early?" Madame looked again at the girl, clearly curious as to her identity, then at Raoul.

She had every right to inquire what they were doing in her office, of course, but Raoul countered with his own question.

"Where have you been?"

Madame lifted her chin and pulled away the scarf, regarding him with cold disdain. "Not that it's your concern, monsieur, but I've been visiting a friend."

"A friend." Raoul scoffed. "Christine perhaps?"

Madame looked flummoxed and more than a little irritated by his question. "Why should I do that?"

Raoul narrowed his eyes. "There's a letter for you on your desk, from your daughter."

She eyed him with wary hesitation, clearly wondering how he would know that, her mild scowl that followed showing that she deduced he had read the note. He watched as she did the same, watched her face drain of color and her hand clutch her throat.

"I assume the friend your daughter refers to is Christine?"

Another slight hesitation, a meager nod. Her eyes remained fixed to the letter, which she studied as if trying to find secrets hidden within the words.

Then she didn't know.

Raoul darted a glance at Giselle, who again lowered her eyes, then swung his gaze back to the woman behind the desk.

"Walk with me, Madame." To Giselle he gave the quiet order, "Stay here. If Lady Arabella should return, tell her to wait for me and under no circumstances is she to leave the opera house again."

The girl nodded. "Oui, monsieur."

If he did not first visit the stables with contrived explanations, the stable master might discover two horses missing and contact the gendarmes of theft. Not knowing which of them were worthy of trust, Raoul had no desire for the law to interfere, and possibly cause even more damage if those men that arrived did work for the vile concierge.

To his surprise, Madame Giry did not refuse his directive or question him about Giselle, and as they moved down an empty corridor, Raoul filled her in on all that happened since he made the mistake of agreeing to aid in the concierge's plan.

Shock then horror colored her expression. "Mon Dieu," she breathed, "Christine is alone in the city – at this time of night?"

He remembered the maid's words and knew of only one cave that would hold traps.

"Madame, you work for the Phantom. I know this – do not insult my intelligence by stating otherwise," he said before she could again deny it. "You must know a way to enter his hideout safely and avoid his vile traps. For the sake of all involved, please tell me." It occurred to him she might also know the way to Bicêtre.

"I have never been to his home. We met in abandoned rooms of the opera house." Her brows drew together in grim suspicion. "But even if I did know, why should I tell you, when you have made clear your desire to capture him? Perhaps what you say is a ruse, and he is not imprisoned at all – but your wish is to make me believe it, so I will let down my guard and help you find him and you can then lock him away."

He was surprised by her frankness, when she had always been obtuse in all things concerning the Phantom, and decided to be just as candid.

"Madame, how well do you know the Phantom of the Opera?"

Madame Giry eyed the Vicomte with curious indecision. He did not phrase the question in a demand to know more, as in times past, but spoke as if he possessed secret knowledge he wished to impart.

"Well enough," she said warily.

As well as anyone could know a Ghost, she thought wryly.

"And do you know his history? Of his life before coming to this opera house?"

"No, he never told me. I didn't even know his given name until a week ago, and learned that by accident."

The Vicomte nodded, not surprised, from all he remembered of the gypsy stable boy of The Heights.

"Then if you will lend me your ear and accompany me as I make my way to the stables, I will tell you what I know of a story that began with two children who met well over a decade ago and developed a bond of obsession not even death could sever. Perhaps then you will understand my fear for Christine this night, and realize I am not the enemy…"

xXx

Meg leaned forward in the carriage. "Can the driver be trusted to accompany us?"

"Rochefert? He's harmless but we'll soon reach a point where we must leave the carriage behind, and he'll remain with it." Arabella only hoped she could remember the path to the cave, having visited twice before.

She stared out the window, both relieved and apprehensive when the lantern's glow from the carriage caught one of the cloths she'd tied to a branch, soaked from the recent rain.

A swift knock to the roof brought the carriage to a stop. Soon her driver was opening the door, his expression one of cautious concern.

"Are you certain of this, milady? The Vicomte won't like it, me letting you go off alone in the dark wood."

"The Vicomte need never know, Rochefert. Besides, I have Mademoiselle Giry for company."

Arabella forced a blithe ease to her demeanor as he helped her down to the muddy ground, then aided Meg. Arabella was thankful she'd accepted the girl's offer of a change to sturdier footwear, not knowing how she would have managed this wet terrain in her flimsy slippers.

At least thirty years her senior, Rochefert had served the de Chagnys for generations, hired not to argue, only to obey, and aware of his station he stepped aside with a grim, deferential nod. His pinched features, however, let her know just how much he disapproved of her recklessness.

"Please wait here," Arabella said to her driver. "We might be awhile." She thought twice about that. "If we're not back by morning, please return to the hotel and the Vicomte then." If they should find trouble and need help, Raoul would understand to search for them, though she hoped it didn't come to that.

She took hold of Meg's arm, pulling her from the road to walk with her through the trees. Meg cast a curious glance back at their silent driver.

"I wrote Maman something of our mission, though didn't go into it," Meg whispered. "She won't be one bit happy if she finds out I was walking through a dark forest."

"Rochefert won't say a word to anyone. Servants don't involve themselves in the affairs of their employers, no matter how bizarre, unless asked," she explained helpfully, aware the young ballerina knew nothing of the unwritten rules of master and servant. "Rochefert knows to keep this secret."

"If you say so. No one can keep a secret at the theatre - well, unless it has to do with the Phantom."

Reminded of their task, Meg held up the lantern she'd taken from backstage, and both women were soon grateful for even the modest amount of light it cast.

The night was dark, the moon hidden by towering trees. It seemed as if they trudged through mud and moss forever before Arabella spotted a second long strip of material hanging limply from a branch. Praising her foresight to create such landmarks, she motioned to the left.

"Over there."

After passing two more linen beacons, the cave came into view. At its hidden door she hesitated, nervous of what she might find, then pulled the key from the reticule hanging from her wrist. She unlocked the door and stared at the deceptive wall of brick. Recalling all Christine told her she moved her hand above and to the right, searching bricks with the pressure of her palm. One gave, and stone grated against stone as the wall moved aside, opening up to chill darkness.

"Merde," Meg breathed in astonished awe.

Arabella refrained from her own exclamation of amazement and looked at Meg. "Once we're inside, count off fifteen steps."

She quenched all misgivings to enter the Phantom's abode and slipped through the tomb-like dwelling, the opening narrow enough for one person to squeeze through at a time. Meg followed. Christine had not related how to close the barrier while she rapidly wrote the missive for Madame Giry, but after pressing a number of bricks, Arabella found the secret latch and the door slid back on its track.

Staring into the massive chasm of darkness, Meg grabbed her hand. Arabella held hers just as fiercely. The silence was deafening, reminding her of the first time she trespassed into this chamber. Any moment Arabella expected the Phantom's chilling bellows to echo from the dank cavern walls and wrap around them, demanding the reason for their unwelcome presence.

"One…two…three…four…five…"

Slowly they proceeded, Meg holding the lantern high, their footsteps echoing through the hollow chamber. When they reached fifteen, they stopped. Arabella looked toward the wall on the right, found the lever there and pushed it up. The ominous sound of metal bars sliding and locking into place with five subsequent clangs filled the area, seeming to come from beneath the floor of stone.

Meg looked at her in stupefied shock, though Arabella sensed an adventuresome sort of eagerness in her overly bright eyes and slight smile.

"Is that our cue that all is well?" the young thespian asked.

Arabella swallowed hard. "One would hope…" If she had not forgotten any of the steps. Jolene had disabled the trap to enable Arabella's first visit here, but surely there could be no more to it than that...

Arabella summoned every morsel of courage she possessed and moved forward into the unknown, Meg beside her. When the floor did not fall beneath their feet, sucking them into a void of nothingness, the tension that stiffened her back began to ease. Meg, too, felt calmer - quite cheerful, actually - as she began to prattle on about the many traps unknown, and those the crew discovered behind the opera house walls, going into morbid detail that Arabella did not need or want at the moment.

"Meg, please," she said finally, shivering at the thought of a sharp rod of iron suddenly shooting out from the wall of rock and piercing her like a pig on a spit.

"Sorry," Meg said a bit sheepishly though with a discernible twinkle in her eye.

After endless walking, twice at a downward slope that again leveled off, a natural staircase appeared in the lantern's glow. Coins of moonlight from small openings somewhere above scattered the steps that descended far downward, and from what Christine had said, Arabella knew their frightful journey was almost at an end.

Distant firelight glowed to their left and the two women walked through a narrow walkway and turned the corner. Minimal torches lit the walls, keeping most of the chamber in a state of partial darkness. The black shimmer of water caught her attention to the right, a wide moonbeam dimly pooling in its center. They continued into what appeared to be a bedchamber, also dark, but Arabella could see well enough to know the room was empty of occupants. She walked through the entryway into another chamber and came to an abrupt stop. Beside her, Meg gasped.

This room was as massive as the giant cathedral in London and surely as elaborately decorated as the queen's palace in Whitehall. There was even a crimson and gold throne that stood at her side, for heaven's sake - as well as a goodly number of statues and statuettes of the same precious metal standing throughout the entire chamber. Calm green water stretched before her extending past a closed portcullis, a fragile white mist dancing above the surface of what appeared to be a lake.

"Blimey," Arabella coined the vernacular The Grange's cook often used, unable to think of one intelligent, decent word to say as she beheld the exotic grandeur of the Phantom's subterranean dwelling. Every dark story of the north she'd ever read in the days of her youth could be compounded into this one magical, hidden chamber...the fantastical could easily convince reason that such creatures as fairies, imps, and ghosts existed...

One Ghost in particular.

Meg's eyes shimmered wide in bedazzled wonder. "Christine spoke now and then of her time here, but she never said anything about this!"

Outfitted with all the comforts of home a prince would be proud to own – dark velvets and damask, brilliant silks and satins in abundance, beautiful hanging tapestries and textured colorful rugs, with elegant furnishings scattered everywhere – there was little lacking save for warmth and natural light. Several torches stood lit and mounted against the cavern walls, their flames picking out sparkles of gold and red veins in the stones. Candles flickered atop a long dining table, their flames mirrored in the polished surface, and a vase filled to overflowing with red roses stood behind the many-branched candelabra. Empty silver serving dishes sat abandoned at one end, as if the diners had hastened away at the end of their repast. And in the center of the chamber on a raised dais, in a place of honor, stood a huge pipe organ made of ebony wood buffed to a high gloss, pipes of gold behind it.

When picturing Christine living beneath the earth, Arabella never once imagined anything like this barren wildness gilded with such lavish opulence!

"Look," Meg said quietly, "by the organ."

Arabella walked further into the chamber and saw the child at the same time Meg spoke.

Wearing a long white nightshirt, he sat shivering on the ground beside the organ with his knees drawn up, his face buried on them, his arms tightly wrapped around his legs.

"Hello?" Arabella called out softly, then more loudly when the boy did not lift his head.

She shared a curious look with Meg, and both women approached, taking the stairs down and crossing the expanse to the next staircase. Meg brushed against a statuette at the edge of a table, upsetting its balance. The gold figurine fell to the stones with a discordant ring that jarred through flesh to bone, echoing throughout the chamber.

The boy never moved from his position, and Arabella wondered if he was asleep. On the heels of that thought came disbelief that the strident sound of heavy metal dropping on stone did not wake him.

She had no wish to terrify the child, by his behavior he was already frightened, but she needed to reassure the boy that everything was alright…

Even though it was not.

"Child," she said once she walked up the stairs, "please look at me. Are you hurt?"

She had almost come upon him when at last he lifted his head, tear tracks running down his cheeks. His bright blue eyes widened in shock and he cringed against the organ in fear. He looked no more than six years of age, if that.

"It's alright," Meg said slowly, bending her knees so that she was on a level with him. The boy's attention jerked to her face. "We're not here to harm you. We've come to help…"

Arabella suspiciously narrowed her eyes as she watched the child's odd response to Meg, watched how he stared fully at her lips while she spoke and did not once look away from them. With the boy's complete focus on Meg, and Arabella out of his view, Arabella deliberately knocked over a brass candleholder. It fell hard to the stones.

At the sudden clank and roll of falling metal, Meg jumped a little in surprise, her eyes darting around to pinpoint the noise. A black blur raced within Arabella's line of vision, and startled she glanced that way, noticing a cat dart up the stairs and disappear into the bedchamber.

The boy never once flinched.

"He cannot hear us," Arabella said, now certain of her earlier suspicion. "He's deaf."

Meg blinked and looked at the boy, who continued to cringe against the organ, warily studying first her then Arabella.

"Then – how on earth are we to convince him to come back with us to the opera house?"

Arabella sighed. They couldn't very well take the child back kicking and screaming, which he was sure to do if two strangers pulled him away from the familiarity of his home. In all likelihood, if they were to attempt it, he would break free and they would need to give chase. The prospect of blindly running through gloomy, mysterious caverns that surely contained more of the traps Meg had gleefully recounted held no appeal.

"We don't." Her eyes met Meg's. "We wait for their return."

She did not doubt that the Phantom would evade his captors and slither his way back home – he was far too clever not to find a means to do so, this underground kingdom he had fashioned a testimony to his skills and intelligence. Indeed, on the three occasions she had met him, he had proven his cunning and dark genius every time…

Recalling his large hand at her throat and his silken threats never again to cross into his domain, Arabella only hoped that Christine would return before the ruler of these caverns made an appearance.

xXx

The forest that earlier seemed so magical when she and her lover shared its moonlit brilliance had become a fearsome prison of threatening shadows and sinister trees that loomed toward an ink-black sky. Even the stars withheld their gentle twinkle.

Each careful step took them closer to what could become a perilous trap if they were to meet up with soldiers or confront the unknown wild creatures, which filled the lapses of hostile silence with their terrible calls that sent a shudder down the spine.

Christine trudged behind Erik through the closely knit trees. It felt as if hours had passed since they left the dead soldiers near the abandoned wagon, though certainly it must have been minutes. Traversing Paris into this forest was taking its toll – she must have been on her feet for well over an hour of ceaseless walking – more than that. It had become an effort to put one foot in front of the other.

The thought no sooner crossed her mind when she stumbled – evidently over her own feet since there was no apparent obstacle in the path, though thick branches did lay scattered over the ground, as if struck down from a storm. Christine blindly reached out, grabbing the brush nearest her to save her fall, and winced when the sharp sting of thorns scratched her palm and fingers.

At the loud rustle she made, Erik finally halted his methodical pace and turned to her. What little moonlight there was slid across his features, his Phantom's scowl melting enough to let a grain of concern show through.

"You are weary," he said.

"No, I'm alright."

"Like hell you are."

He shook his head and took her injured hand. She winced in pain and pulled it back. He grimaced and reclaimed her hand, bringing the throbbing appendage, palm up, for his inspection. A gentle finger ghosted along the bloody scratches.

"You should never have returned to these woods, Christine. And never at night."

She frowned. "So you have told me. Twice."

"Another promise you did not bother to keep."

"I never promised," she seethed quietly, sensing a hidden meaning deeply laced within the fabric of his words. "But I did make other vows tonight – surely you recall them, to go where you go and never leave your side."

Why did it always seem as if he was dwelling on an incident from their past when he made such hurtful, acerbic remarks? Why did it feel as if he still nursed some imagined wrong against her?

Indignant, she again pulled her hand from his. "If it came to a choice between your life and some foolish promise, I would gladly break it a hundred times over to be where you are. Though when you behave in this manner I cannot for the life of me think why."

His chuckle was low and terse, his expression, what she could see of it, without humor.

"Come," He grabbed her a third time, by the wrist, tightening his hold when she would pull away. "I have no desire to fight with you, Christine. I wish to save my strength to deal with my true foes."

"But you're still angry – I hear it in your voice," she said with a pout. "Though my goal was to escape to you this time, and never again away."

He blew out a heavy breath through clenched teeth. "We cannot stand idle and talk here," he insisted in a quieter tone. "A little further and you may rest."

The prospect of a much needed respite blunted the sharp edges of her vexation.

"Then you do know where we are?" she asked hopefully as they resumed walking.

"I have a fair idea, though we're still a great distance from the path that leads to the cave."

They were both exhausted with nerves stretched taut, causing tempers to run short and flare with little provocation. Christine had only to remember her misery of an hour ago, of how she might have lost Erik forever, to allow her irritation to melt away. She was too weary to care to argue and too thankful to have found him to continue down that course.

They walked on. After some time elapsed, Christine numbly wondered if he had forgotten the promised rest, when Erik suddenly stopped, alert, his head poised to listen. Christine could hear nothing but the usual nighttime sounds that followed them throughout their journey, but she did not audibly question his caution, her heart pounding in alarm.

At last he moved, taking her down an incline of more than two stories, into a thick cluster of trees, and through a covering of bushes into a niche that hid them fairly well. Directly above their heads, the edge of the cliff where they earlier stood could be seen. Moonlight slipped through the branches and leaves, offering enough light to detect their surroundings.

Erik gravely stared at the area they'd just left, his lips pinched in a tight line, and Christine gently touched his sleeve.

"I'm sorry."

She felt the tension slowly diminish from him. He bowed his head, his manner contrite, then turned to look at her. The moonlit night sapped color from everything, but his eyes still retained their golden glow.

"Why should you apologize when I am the one entirely to blame?"

She looked at him in shock. "Erik – no. You're not."

"I took you from the safety of the caverns and brought you here," he broke in, ghosting his gloved finger against her injured cheek. "When I saw that bastard strike you to the ground…" His eyes briefly fell shut at the weight of such intense emotion. "Christine, I died inside. I would have cheerfully killed him had I been given the chance, as I will kill anyone who dares lift a hand against you."

His grim vow brought to mind the scene they'd left, and she gave a short nod, her eyes dropping nervously to her skirts.

"Like you killed those two men back there?" At the lengthy stretch of silence that followed, she lifted her eyes to his solemn stare and hastened to add, "Not that I blame you. Sometimes to defend yourself, there is no other choice. I know that now."

Memories of Henri spurred her words, that final horrific experience enabling her to understand that sometimes to kill meant to seize the only chance to live.

Her Phantom blew out a long, weary breath and looked away.

"I did not kill them. Not as you think."

"But – I saw…" She broke off, uncertain of exactly what she'd seen in the moon-laced darkness. "Were they not dead?"

"They are indeed absent of all life. But I did not kill them."

"Then…how?"

He turned his head to regard her.

"They killed each other."

Christine blinked, struggling to understand what made no sense. "But – they fought? The cage door that held you stood open. Did they free you?"

He held up a hand for silence.

"Patience, Christine, and I will tell you. I had hoped I would never have to speak of this…" He sighed, shaking his head with a sort of fatalistic acceptance. "But after everything that has happened between us, and against us, you deserve to know."

She lifted her hand to his shoulder. "No matter what you tell me, nothing will change what I feel for you, Erik – nothing."

The Phantom looked into her earnest dark eyes. After all she endured, all he had forced her to endure in his twisted plot of revenge, then later hearing his confession to crimes of the hundreds he killed – still she remained by his side, even risking life and limb to get there. He could believe her. She would not hold this night against him. And with that grain of trust now firmly embedded in his heart, he began to recount his experience.

"In Persia I learned … unique skills, including how to use my voice as a weapon. I am able to manipulate a person's mind to do my bidding, so that he has no choice but to obey. I am also able to throw my voice, to make it appear that it comes from a different location."

"Really?" Christine said, and he noted the mild skepticism in her tone, as when they were children and he told her a far-fetched tale he would embellish as truth.

"Yes, Christine, really."

The Phantom quietly chuckled at how her eyes rounded and darted with shock to the pool of moonlight past the bushes, where his answer softly resounded.

She looked at him, a new respect glimmering in her intrigued eyes.

He looked away, somber again, deserving none of her awed esteem.

What had taken place this night, she understood - actions executed as his only means of defense. But the cold-blooded murder of innocents that cried out to him from his nightmares – one in particular - that could never be admired. And he felt sickened that she looked at him as one would an idol to be praised.

"I coaxed the guard who came to check on me to release me from the cage," he continued doggedly. "I then instructed him to return to the others – and unload his firearm into the heart of his fellow soldier nearest him. In the chaos that erupted, I hid behind a tree and threw my voice to make it appear as if I escaped far ahead, into the forest. Two of the gendarmes remaining took off in that direction. The other two were as you saw them, victims of their own company. I fled back the way we came, when I heard you moving in the bushes and followed."

Christine stared hard, trying to absorb all he told her.

"If you possess such magical skills, why did you never use them to gain your demands from the managers? And with me – when you took me as prisoner? Or did you…?" Memory of his alluring silken voice and how it had raped her senses that first week in his chambers entered her mind.

"My victim must be at close range, within my grasp. Once, I sang you a lullaby to give you peace, your mind captive under my influence to receive slumber – but I never again used such tactics with you. I swear it, Christine."

Her eyes flared a little in surprise, as she recalled the night mentioned, and she solemnly turned her gaze to the bushes, as if also recalling the heartrending trauma that led to that moment.

"I could have made you into a puppet to serve me, but I had no desire to strip you of all freewill, more dead than alive, and quench what fiery spirit of yours remained. I wanted a living wife."

There was more he could never tell her, the main reason he'd sworn off such mystical methods once frequently demonstrated as chief magician of the Shah's court, and he hoped she would be satisfied with his simple explanations.

"The night of my debut," she whispered, her mind skidding down another trail, "I heard you. Before I sang, I was so nervous, and I heard you – as if you whispered in my ear. I later decided it must be the acoustics of the theatre, though it made no sense that I was the only one onstage to hear your voice. And in the chapel..." Her eyes brightened at the memory. "I thought it was because the room was round that caused your voice to bounce, but I heard your whisper in my ear that final practice too."

"Yes, Christine. I used ventriloquism, throwing my voice so that it seemed I was there beside you."

"I can see how those skills would be useful," she said in amazement. "I wish I had such abilities – then I might have been able to gain Cesar's attention."

His own attention sharpened on her words. "What do you mean?"

"Cesar ran away. I'm sorry, Erik – I tried to catch him but frightened him even more, and you warned me he was skittish."

The Phantom ignored her apology, his thoughts immediately flying elsewhere.

From her sluggish movements, he could tell that his wife was too weary to make the journey home to the caverns. Any deliberate noise created to be heard in the distance was a risky venture, but after hearing Christine's needless confession, he was now certain the faint sound he earlier heard was a whinny.

The Phantom abruptly stood and brought his fingers to his lips, letting out a long shrill whistle, followed by three short trills, the effect mimicking a bird call. This close to daybreak, he hoped any intruders on the hunt for him would mistake the sound coming from a creature of the air – and not the beast of the opera house.

Christine stared up at her husband's tall form in a daze of wondering shock, a rush of warmth spreading through her veins to hear the sweet, familiar sound. His years of caring for the horses at The Heights made him particularly fond of one such beast, often using the same musical signal as to its namesake he now beckoned. When silence answered, Erik waited a moment then tried again.

His lips curled into a triumphant smile. Christine peered through the tight-laced branches, but saw and heard nothing.

"Come, Christine." He held out his hand to help her to her feet.

Seconds later, she heard it - hooves that struck the muddy ground in a series of sequential splats, followed by the emergence of a powerful dark stallion through an opening in the trees.

Erik quietly emerged from the shadowed bushes, bringing Christine with him and clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in rapid, gentle swells. He dropped her hand and moved forward, and she understood she was to remain where she was.

His musical voice became a cadence of soft velvet words that he spoke to the horse over and over in the Romani tongue he had learned as a child and always used when dealing with horses at The Heights. His every movement toward the beast, which had slowed and stood a short distance away, was a graceful approach, steady and unassuming.

"Khushti grast, Cesar, Khushti grast … av akai…khushti grast…"

Mesmerized by his skill, by the man himself, Christine watched Erik's mastery over the calmed beast as he came alongside Cesar and reached for the bridle. With his free hand, he rubbed the stallion's forehead and muzzle in long reassuring strokes then slipped his hand into his cloak, grimacing when he came up with only powder, the bits of sugar loaf having disintegrated through the trials suffered that night. Cesar didn't seem to mind, lowering his mouth into Erik's upraised glove and enjoying what was left of the treat.

Erik unfurled his hand toward Christine, beckoning her to join him.

Carefully she picked her way over the ground, worried that sudden movement would startle the horse into flight. Erik smiled in reassurance and took her hand, bestowing a kiss to the thorn-scraped palm before lifting her onto the horse's back. He walked, leading Cesar by the reins up the incline, and soon they were again on the unmarked path they'd earlier taken.

In the moment before Erik could mount behind Christine, a distant gunshot startled them, breaking the eerie silence that had settled over the forest.

The horse nervously sidestepped. Erik put a hand to its neck.

"Easy… easy…"

"Erik?" Christine nervously whispered.

Before he could respond, running footsteps and a threatening rustle stirred the bushes far ahead. A gendarme broke from the foliage, stumbling into their path. Erik scowled and in one fluid movement grabbed Christine from the horse then delivered a powerful swat to Cesar's rump.

"AVREE!" he commanded.

The startled beast obeyed, taking off at a run straight for the soldier, who'd just regained balance – and lost it once more as the horse struck him before he could jump clear. The unwary soldier went flying over the edge of the cliff with a terrified shout as he met his death.

More footsteps rustled through the undergrowth, and a second figure broke through the bushes.

A woman stumbled onto the path, hair disheveled and hanging to her waist. She tightly clutched her stomach, the bodice and skirts of her dress glistening a wet, devilish black in the misty moonlight.

Christine gasped in dismay.

Erik let out a muffled curse and ran to where the girl fell to her knees. Horror at seeing him approach altered her pale features, and Christine knew the girl's terrified shock in no way related to his naked face.

"Run!" Jolene hoarsely begged him, as he crouched before her, his hands grasping her shoulders.

Christine moved to join them, when a sudden rustle behind made her spin around without thought.

A second gendarme emerged from the undergrowth only feet away, his sabre drawn and pointed at her heart.

xXx

A/N: Oh, dear… I wonder how (if) they're going to get out of this one. *beams an innocent, angelic smile as HCA (heartless cruel authoress) slowly backs away then jumps over the cliffie, safely (if unrealistically) landing on her feet. (cliff/cliffie - get it?) Ahem, um, yeah... *runs
(gypsy terms: Khushti grast- good horse; av akai- come here; Avree- away)