A/N: Thank you for the wonderful reviews! Also, for Child of Music and Dreams, who asked how Christine finally got Erik to acknowledge her when they were children – I found a way to answer that in this chapter and fit it neatly into story plot :) …And now ...

Chapter LXXIX

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Once Arabella had returned above ground to the theatre in the company of Mademoiselle Giry and their taciturn escort, she stared with fascination into the dressing room Christine used, noting from the secret corridor that the mirror was also a window he pulled to one side. So that's how the Phantom had taken Christine from a locked dressing chamber! Ingenious…

As though he read her mind, his fiery eyes flashed a warning behind the full black mask. "I trust I have no need to tell you – both of you – that this too shall remain secret, along with everything else you have seen and heard tonight. No one is to know. Not even Madame - especially not your cousin." The last words were delivered to Arabella as if they were sour to his tongue.

Both women assured him of their promise not to tell a living soul. After one last parting threat disguised as an impassive farewell, the Phantom slid the reflective door closed on its track and they heard the metal slide of a latch behind them.

Meg shared a look with Arabella and giggled. "Well, that was interesting. A worthy night's work accomplished, oui, milady?"

Arabella lifted her brows at the choice of description but nodded agreement, relieved that task was behind them. She looked longingly at the vanity stool. The temptation proved to great and she sank to its cushioned seat.

"You go on. I just want to rest here a moment," she said.

Meg looked as if she might like to linger as well. "Yes, well, I suppose the time has come to brave Maman in her den. But at last the shoe is on the other foot, and I'm now sworn to secrecy to keep something hidden from her. Oh, what a sweet turnabout! And the delightful filling of the tart – she would not dare insist, knowing the mandate came from the Phantom!" Lighthearted with the value of trust he placed in her as his new collaborator, she giggled again and floated out the door.

Arabella shook her head in wry amusement. Ah, youth. Meg wasn't much younger, but Arabella felt every one of her two and twenty years – multiplied. Once she was alone, she crossed her arms on the vanity and rested her forehead on them. It had been a night she would not soon forget. "Interesting" did not begin to cover the scope of the bizarre she'd encountered…from Christine's escape off a three-story balcony, to fleeing the hotel, to venturing into the dangerous world of the Phantom. She had enjoyed the adventure, yes, but sincerely hoped today would prove rather dull and uneventful.

At the opening of the door, she lifted her head.

Raoul rushed inside, closing the door behind him, and hurried to kneel before her.

"Arabella," he breathed in relief, "thank God you're alright…" Taking her face in his hands, he kissed her fiercely.

Stunned by the passion of his greeting, she did nothing for a moment, then softly opened her mouth to his. Dizzy with the movement of his lips over hers and the warmth surging through her blood effectively sapping all exhaustion, she reluctantly set her hands to his shoulders and pushed him away as she pulled back to question - then saw him clearly for the first time. Dirt splotched his clothes from frock coat to the hem of his trousers, which were caked with mud. Even his face was smudged. She took his hands in hers, noting dirt covered them as well, and a few normally manicured fingernails were torn, all of them dirty.

"Raoul, what on earth happened to you?"

He shook his head as if it was of no account. "Are you alright? When did you get back? I've been frantic with worry."

"I'm fine. I told you I was doing an errand for Christine."

"You went to the cave with the traps, leading to his lair..."

It was not a question and she inhaled through her teeth.

"Don't ask. Please, Raoul. I'm bound by a promise."

"My God, Arabella, that you should put yourself in such danger." He grabbed her arms and shook her slightly. "Men have died in his infernal mazes. I should know."

When recalling those chill, dark chambers, she barely repressed a shiver. "As you can see, I'm well."

"It was a foolish stunt, Arabella."

"It was needful at the time. I was with Meg. I had instructions from Christine. I knew what I was doing." A half truth, but she had no wish to cause him further distress.

He shook his head a little as if he might argue with her assessment. "Never do anything like that again."

"I doubt I would be welcomed a second time."

His eyes narrowed as he looked intently at her face. "Did he harm you?"

"No, Raoul," she replied wearily to his sharp words. "He brought us back, but he wasn't one bit happy with the situation. That's all I meant."

"You were actually there," he said after a slight pause, and she heard a thread of envy in the gruff statement that she'd found and been to the hidden place he'd spent weeks trying to uncover. "You saw where he lives…"

"Don't ask," she said again, "I cannot tell you."

"So you have said." He grudgingly nodded. "But one day, perhaps, you will tell me of the experience?"

She cocked her head in suspicion. "So you can hunt him to ground, like an animal?"

He winced. "I gave my word to Christine I wouldn't again interfere. I told him that as well. I am only…curious to know what a home in caverns beneath the earth is like."

Her grin came slow. That she could understand. She, too, had often wondered what the Phantom's habitat would entail – and had been greeted with a scene beyond anything imagined. But such stories could wait for another day, and she again took in her fiancee's appearance.

"No more curious than I am to know how you arrived to this state." She motioned to his soiled clothes. "Really, Raoul. You look as if you fell through a trap of mud this time."

"You wouldn't be far off the mark," he said with a grimace and sighed, sitting back on his heels. "I found myself with the unfortunate task of digging a grave."

"A grave?" she exclaimed softly in horror, her eyes widening.

He nodded somberly. "For the young Jolene."

"Oh, Raoul, no…" Sorrow pierced her heart. "Giselle will be heartbroken."

His dark blue eyes suddenly burned with intent. "Listen to me, Arabella, and heed what I say. I cannot allow you to return to the hotel. It is far too dangerous. I have talked to Madame Giry, and she agrees. As Christine no longer needs this room, you may stay here."

"Stay here?" She blinked in shock and glanced at the pink walls of the dressing area and the chaise longue that stood nearby.

"Anything more you need for comfort will be provided at once," he reassured.

She shook her head as if that wasn't important. "What about you? Where will you stay?"

"I'm returning to the hotel and my new room there."

"But – is it not also dangerous for you?" she insisted.

"It will be more dangerous for all of us if I do not return." He hesitated, then took her hand in both of his, keeping his attention on their clasped fingers. "I put something in motion last night, to help Jolene escape the hotel." He looked up at her. "I saw firsthand the error of my judgment to help her fiend of an uncle and had to do what I could to put things right." He sighed, looked askance, and ran a hand through his hair. "The concierge presently thinks Jolene is with me, in my room," he said carefully. "I had to convince him of my interest before he would let the girl out of his sight."

"Oh." Arabella blinked and tried to remove her hand, but he held fast to it.

"I swear to you, Arabella, it never went beyond a kiss. And that was for the concierge's benefit, to persuade him I had accepted his methods. I need to return, to convince him I had no knowledge of Jolene's latest escape. I shall play the part of the wronged customer and tell him that while I slept she robbed me and slipped away, so as to allay suspicion and keep him in my confidence. If he thinks I helped her, he could turn on you, and that I will never allow!"

"I saw you at the hotel with a young woman," she said very quietly, looking down at their hands he would not release. "You had your arm around her and walked quickly into another corridor. She was very pretty."

He inhaled sharply then lifted her chin to look into her eyes. "She could not hold a candle to you. You have a form more lovely than any woman's I've beheld. And I have seen you…all of you."

At his bold reminder of their earlier heated encounter, Arabella felt the heat rise to her face and looked down shyly.

"I could not bear it if that perverse concierge was to get his hands on you," he said tightly. "You will stay here. And I will live there. It is the perfect solution, as it has become impossible for me to keep my hands off you. The doors to our separate rooms at the hotel were not so distant. This will serve our purpose, while we await word from my father so that we may post the bans for our wedding. Perhaps I shall not wait and do so regardless."

His tender smile and frank words smoothed her ruffled feelings over his stark admission about Jolene. Unlike Arabella's father, who'd had a wandering eye, Raoul had proven his trustworthiness by his honesty to bring up the situation regarding the deceased maid.

"What if the concierge suspects something amiss, regarding my sudden absence?" she asked nervously.

"I'll tell him you learned of my night with Jolene, we fought and you left me. If I stay, I can be there to hear anything that could be helpful."

"You mean you will spy?"

"If I must. His men have no wish to reveal that they shot the girl, and if I claim ignorance to the situation, I doubt they'll step forward with the truth. In all likelihood, they'll think I'm covering for them, and that will win their trust so that they'll include me in their circle. If the concierge believes Jolene escaped, he will make plans to get her back. Once he learns the Phantom has also slipped through his fingers, I have no doubt he'll make new plans to capture him. His hatred is extreme, beyond anything I have known. If I hear anything, I can warn them."

Arabella regarded him in wonder. He had such a strong air of authority, and she felt Christine was right in her assessment – he could easily attain command.

"You really meant it when you told Christine you would help."

He looked hurt. "Did you doubt me?"

"Raoul, be reasonable. You never have liked the man, be he the Phantom or Erik." She shook her head in confusion. "So why would you do this?"

He sighed and looked away a moment. "Something he said tonight, in the church where we all found ourselves for a time. It seems that he believes I ordered one of our servants to have him killed."

"What?!" Arabella gasped in surprise.

"Victor was the man who shot him and left him for dead."

"Our Victor?" Arabella blinked, stunned. She had never liked the surly groundskeeper, but had kept her silence. "Well then, he must go. As soon as we return, he must leave." She felt a twinge of conscience for the man's small twin boys and his wife, but she could not allow a cold-blooded murderer to remain on the premises.

Raoul's lips twitched with a smile at her assertive attitude. "I agree. When we return to England, it will be the first matter I undertake. But first, we have important matters here in Paris to contend with."

"Yes, we do…" Arabella had thought long through the night, as she waited for the Phantom and Christine's return, and had reached a decision. "Giselle stays with me. I want her as my personal maid, Raoul, to return to England with us. Tell the beast who thinks he owns her that I insisted, and if he raises a ruckus, that I have already taken her with me as my lady's maid. Offer whatever recompense he demands – I'd even be willing to part with Mother's pearls if I must. I absolutely refuse to send that sweet child back to that horrid den of iniquity!"

Prepared for his arguments, she was stunned when he chuckled, clutched her head, and gave her another soul-stirring kiss.

"Keep your pearls, my dear. I'll be happy to take care of the matter out of pocket. He won't dare refuse my offer, not after he thinks I was robbed by one of his staff." He stood to his feet. "I'll make arrangements to have your things sent here. I'll take care of that straightaway and shall return later to take you to lunch. The Le Grand Véfour perhaps? I rather enjoy their cuisine."

"Yes, alright…Raoul," she said before he strode halfway across the room. "Please send Giselle in to me. You'll find her in Madame Giry's office."

"Of course, my dear." He walked to the door.

"Raoul…?"

He looked over his shoulder, and she gave a little shrug.

"I love you."

Swiftly retracing his steps, he took her hands and helped her to her feet.

"And I love you, my darling Arabella." He kissed her tenderly as if sealing a promise and noted the worry lines on her brow. "We have come this far. You'll see. Everything will be alright."

She clung to him a moment more, and to the hope of his words.

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xXx

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"Christine, Christine, Christine," La Carlotta Gudicelli muttered the despised name beneath her breath as she swept through the door of the pastry shoppe and approached the counter. Usually she sent one of her aides to fetch her sweets and trifles, but after the harrowing week she'd experienced, she found the need to escape for a short while all those idiots who plagued her.

The managers had asked her back to perform, which placated her at first, somewhat, but in their eyes she could see they no longer thought she measured up to sing the lead – as if she could be compared to that little upstart of a mouse! After her fight with the mouse, her Piangi had not even spoken up for her, as he once would have done, and she had given him the lash of her tongue and the chill of a cold shoulder ever since, finally walking out on him when he spoke so warmly of the woman who'd been her torment. Besotted old fool. She had given him her valuable time and attention for years, and he betrayed her for a younger, immature slip of a girl. It made no difference to her that the little slut denied any interest or interaction with her Piangi – the old goat clearly had the wool pulled over his eyes where she was concerned. And then, just this morning, Madame Giry approached and told her the little toad was coming back to play the lead.

"Christine," she hissed with a low growl, then held her head high at the approach of the shoppe owner.

"Madame Guidicelli! How delightful to have you grace our establishment. It is not often we have the opportunity to see your lovely face."

Carlotta offered him a superficial smile and held out her hand for him to pay homage. He took it, bending over to kiss the large rings on her gloved fingers. Her gaze flitted around the small pastry shoppe, which to her disappointment she found empty. She had hoped to soothe her ruffled feathers in becoming the object of attention among a crowd of ardent admirers.

"Would you prefer the usual assortment of bon bons?" the manager asked, "or perhaps a chocolate éclair?"

It had been a terrible week.

"I shall take both."

"Of course." The manager smiled and reached for a paper parcel, awaiting her choices.

Carlotta glanced at the wide assortment, the idea exhausting.

"You have met my expectations before. I shall leave ze choices to you."

He nodded and swiftly went about his business of selecting her confections.

"Papa, oh Papa!"

The silence was rent by a girl's voice, quickly followed by its owner who looked no more than twelve. Tall and gangly, wearing a long apron over her pinafore, she hurried from a room beyond the counter. She cast an uncertain glance at Carlotta before rushing toward her father. A newspaper was clutched to her chest.

"Winifred, I have a customer," he said sternly.

The girl quieted though excitement still danced in her eyes. "The diva of the opera house was here, wasn't she? A delivery just came and the boy who brought it said he saw her enter the shoppe!"

The manager looked uncomfortable and gave a nervous smile to Carlotta, who stood more regally at the child's words and waited for awestruck recognition to dawn.

"Yes, of course she's here," he said, "The diva is standing right before you."

Carlotta affected the aloof smile she used to greet her fawning devotees, and watched as the girl looked all around the shoppe.

"Where, Papa? I have so wanted to meet her. She's truly wonderful."

Carlotta stood taller, like a queen that had just been crowned…

"Winifred, mind your manners! Have you been struck completely blind?" His stern countenance toward the girl melted into one of simpering apology as he looked back at Carlotta. "My daughter, she does not see well. She means no harm."

"I can see well enough to know she's not the diva," the girl insisted, pulling the newspaper away and unfolding it. She pointed to a penned sketch of a woman in the center of the page. "Christine Grendahl is much younger and slender and very pretty. They say she has the voice of an angel – and she does, Papa! I heard her in rehearsal, when I delivered pastries to the opera house a month ago."

The unseen crown went toppling off Carlotta's head.

"Winifred, be silent! Return to the kitchen. I'll deal with you later."

The girl's eager words fanned the glowing embers of jealous rage Carlotta had been trying to suppress. Shaking all over, she snatched the newspaper from the unwary chit's hand and stared at the artist's rendition of the face of a serene Christine.

"Christine, Christine, Christine!" Carlotta screeched and tore the offensive paper into long strips, ignoring the impertinent girl's cry of despair to lose her despicable trophy, which Carlotta then threw to the floor and stomped on. "I have had it up to here with ze little toad – and you!" She jabbed her finger in the air toward the pastry manager. "Never have I been so insulted!"

"You are a horrid horrid woman," the girl cried.

Carlotta lifted her hand to strike the scowling teary face but before she could, the owner rounded on the girl.

"To the kitchen, Winifred!" he barked then gave Carlotta a pleading look as he groveled before her once the sniffling chit ran from the room. "Forgive my daughter her insolence, Madame, I beg you. She is no more than a silly child. Anything you wish to partake of in our humble establishment, you may have at no charge."

For a moment the idea of free pastries tempted, but her pride was at stake.

"Never will I enter zees establishment again," she insisted, and silently damned the intrusive singer who had stolen Carlotta's starring role away with that horrid Phantom's aid. Even with the woman's blessed absence from the theatre, they chose to use her understudy of all things, when they could have had the famous La Carlotta – and then had the gall to offer her a minor role instead. The nerve! This added insult and its imminent repercussion were also the little snit's fault! The pastry shoppe offered the choicest morsels in all of Paris, but Carlotta's affronted dignity would never allow her to visit this establishment again. And all because of Christine!

"Bye bye – I am leaving," she announced stiffly and spun around to march out, the swift action with her ankle so newly recovered causing her to lose her balance. She swept her arms out to the sides, surprised and grateful when strong hands clasped her above the elbow to steady her.

"Madame, are you unwell?"

Carlotta noted the bearded face was pleasant and the weave of his suit was fine, not like that of a noble, but he was no peasant either. What her calculating mind grasped most was the interest that lit his steel grey eyes.

"Oui, monsieur. I am La Carlotta Gudicelli." When no recognition dawned, she slightly pouted. "From ze opera house."

"Ah, my apologies, Madame. I am new to these parts and do not attend operas where I'm from."

"Oh? And where is zat?"

He gave a little bow, tipping his hat. "Inspector Leverton, at your service. Recently arrived from Haworth, in England."

She smiled. "And are you here on business, Een-spetor?"

"More of a personal matter, really."

"In zat case, perhaps you would like to have luncheon with me in ze café across the street?" She looped her arm through his, guiding him to the door like an obedient lapdog. "Thees shop is really quite dreadful. The eggs they use are not always so fresh…"

After the horrific week she had suffered, she needed a new toy and a listening ear. In the inspector she was promised both.

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xXx

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Christine sat with her inked quill poised above the pages of blank paper and studied what she'd written, what she remembered of that long ago stormy night in Haworth, when her father brought Erik to The Heights and they first met. She had pulled away his mask, the culmination of which had formed the tenuous bond that would strengthen and hold them together throughout distance and death. Her dear foolish husband might think his face a curse, but pulling away the mask and what followed was what prompted her to seek him out in friendship.

Arabella kept daily journals at The Grange. Christine had been intrigued by the idea but never engaged in the practice. After last night and being reminded how swiftly everything could change, she wished to set her thoughts – her life – to paper. She would be the only one to see them, naturally, save for when she was dead. But then it wouldn't really matter who found and read these words, would it? Perhaps she might even leave them to her children who could learn from her mistakes and her triumphs, her fears and her joys, her trials and her raptures...

She gave a wistful glance to the bed, where Erik lay sleeping.

One day, she was determined, she would bear his child.

She would love to have remained cuddled in his warmth, but upon awakening she had no wish for a scandalous repeat of Jacques finding them together naked. Not long after she dressed, the boy did appear in their bedchamber, and she made him porridge. He looked around the lake chamber, clearly in search of something, then returned his attention to Christine. Patting his heart twice, he then held his palm out – his signal for Jolene. Swallowing hard, she'd given a little smile and shrug and hurried to clean her mess, also finding the blank sheets of paper. Once he was quietly playing, she returned to the bedchamber and her vanity, where she sat down to write.

Picking up the topmost page, she studied her recounting of that first night of Erik's arrival, amazed at how vividly she recalled it. But then, it was a monumental event and what had brought her soulmate to her. Some of their childhood days she remembered with astounding clarity, others not so much, but she was determined to write down all she could recall. She set down the page, her eyes going to Mozart who lay curled asleep at the vanity's edge. Reaching out, she idly scratched his sleek head then noticed what sat behind him.

Stunned, she picked up the wooden angel the boy had given her – this one newly given a face. Clearly it was her very own likeness: the small knife-edged nose with its slight tilt, the wide full mouth, the high cheekbones, all carved by the same deft hand. Tears wet her eyes as she turned them to her husband.

Oh, how she wanted to rush to him, to embrace him and shower him with kisses for his unspoken tribute, and she treasured the coveted knowledge that she was again, at last, truly his Little Angel. She still wasn't sure exactly what had caused her halo to topple - unless it was that foolish business of him thinking her engaged to Raoul - but she was grateful Erik had resolved the problem in his mind.

Yet she wasn't all Angel and felt a devilish urge to slip into their bed and remind him…

She sighed. Jacques could walk in without warning, and after all her dear Phantom had been through – and the difficulty he must soon face – Erik needed his rest.

Bestowing a soft kiss to the head of pine curls he had so meticulously carved, Christine set down the figurine and again picked up her pen to relate the events which followed that first rainy night.

Erik was not one to befriend so easily. After I gave him back his mask and sat down beside him and asked if he would like me to sing to him sometime – and he said yes – I told him I would take him to The Summit. He seemed interested. Yet the next day, the irritating boy kept his distance from me! A kitten, I thought again, would have been much more friendly.

On each occasion that I would seek him out in the week that followed, he scampered away like a dormouse as soon as I entered the room. At meals, I made it a point to sit beside him, but he would studiously ignore me, staring only at his food, then would jump up and run out the door as soon as he had sopped his plate clean. The boy had no manners, none whatsoever. Henri called me a fool to pay the gypsy scum heed, (his words, not mine) but I cared not for what Henri thought, and in fact, knowing he didn't like Erik made it all the more enticing to win his friendship. Where before I was intrigued, now I was determined.

Where Erik went, I would go. I followed him shamelessly, but a girl of five has no shame, and I relentlessly dogged his tracks. Once near the stable, he spun around, threw up his hands like claws, as if he were a wild beast, and growled at me – actually growled! It shocked me more that he should so suddenly acknowledge my existence than the beastly behavior he used to frighten. Indeed, after the initial shock, I clapped my hand to my mouth and giggled. Oh, he didn't like that one bit! He called me a silly, addlepated girl and told me to go play with my dolls and leave him be. But he was much more interesting than any doll, and I had no wish to be absent from him, even for a moment.

I became the hunter and he my prey. I stalked him relentlessly. I hid in a room I knew he would soon enter, then crept up behind to surprise him. I followed him, I chased him – I even ran after him, trying to catch him – all to no avail. He was always faster, always smarter and would slip away into hiding or race from me like the wind.

After a fortnight of this, one would suppose I would surrender the hope of our friendship as lost. My determination was strong, but my tender heart I tried so bravely to keep hidden was bruised. I was unaccustomed to rejection, being Papa's darling, the servants all adored me, Henri the only person I'd known who was cruel - but I never did like him, so was not bothered by his attitude. Erik's forced distance, however, ate away at my mind until I could think of nothing and no one else.

One afternoon, I spotted him lying in the haystack and jumped down from the loft – right on top of him, like a cat to a mouse. A painful encounter for both of us – but as I said, I was determined. After his initial shock, he swore quite viciously, pushed me off of him roughly, then jumped up and warned me never to come near him again, saying he would curse me if I tried. He raced out of the stables, and I was undone. This time I did not give chase. My heart lay broken and I pulled my knees under my chin, buried my face in my skirts and wept until I was exhausted.

It was then I sensed I was no longer alone. I looked up and my jaw dropped to see Erik standing there.

"Why are you crying?" he asked warily.

I sniffled and wiped my wet cheeks. "Why do you think, you big bully? You're always so mean to me."

"You silly girl – you jumped on me!"

"Only because you won't ever talk to me. How else was I to get you to notice me?" I turned my eyes from him, embarrassed by my tears. "Oh, just go away!"

To my surprise, he came and sat near.

"Will you take me to see the stones?" he asked after a long silence.

"I was terrified of you," a silken voice whispered near Christine's ear, and she jumped, dropping the quill and spinning around on the stool.

Mozart woke, leapt off the vanity and sped away, but she barely noticed the cat's departure - caught up as she was in the amused eyes of gold behind the black mask.

"But I fear, my love, that time has dulled your memory," he said dryly. "I never scampered like a dormouse."

She giggled, both stunned that she'd been so immersed in her writing that she had not sensed his approach, and embarrassed he had read her amateur scribbles.

"I beg to differ, my darling. You raced away the moment you heard my step on the stones." She tilted her head and gently tugged at the sash to his wrapper. "But why were you terrified of me? I was just a small girl and you were much taller – and meaner."

"You were a wild little hellion, a beauty even at that tender age, with an iron will and sweet voice you used to acquire whatever you wanted – and you made it clear you wanted me." He shook his head in wonder. "I had never met anyone like you, anyone who wanted to be near. Everyone my age or close ran from me and scorned me. You were different from the start, and I couldn't understand why…" He tilted her face with his fingers beneath her chin, and kissed her lips lightly. "Yet once I surrendered to your wish for companionship that afternoon in the haystack, you had me twined around your little finger from that day forth." He kissed said finger.

She sighed and pulled him close for another kiss. "Even at the tender age of five, my heart was lost to you, though it took you long enough to realize it."

He glanced at her efforts of the past hour. "But tell me, Christine, why are you penning our childhood to paper?"

She shrugged a bit nervously. "I thought it would be nice to have, as a reminder of how we arrived to where we are, perhaps for posterity. Do you not approve?"

"It depends." He looked pensive. "Do you plan to continue our years in ink?"

"And if I said yes?"

"Then if they are our years together, I want to read all that you write."

She hadn't thought he would ask such a thing and stared at him in shock, realizing by the steady look in his eyes he was sincere.

"My little scrawlings can hardly compare to your masterful works of genius," she hedged. "Even if one is fact and the other fiction."

"You told me you didn't like my opera."

"No, I don't like your Aminta…"

She opened her mouth to argue her case then closed it. He had heard her grievances with regard to her character, again and again. Besides, now was not the time. They had more important issues to deal with. Namely, Jacques, and seeing a shadow at the entrance of their bedchamber, she looked past Erik, not surprised to see the boy standing there. A struggling Mozart was held tightly in his arms.

Erik also looked. She felt his sudden tension and squeezed his hand.

"I'm here," she whispered though there was no need. "I'm always near, always with you."

He brought her hand holding his to his lips and nodded, then stood to his feet and helped her rise. Hand in hand, they approached the boy who tilted his head and looked at them in wary curiosity.

Later, Christine would recall this day many times and wonder what they had said or done to tip Jacques off, a moment in time that would always remain a mystery.

The boy shook his head slowly from side to side, looking from Erik to Christine and back again. Then throwing the cat down, he spun on his heels and raced away, down the stairs. Christine felt chills at the agonized garbled cry that erupted from his throat.

Erik went in pursuit. Christine hurriedly exited the bedchamber after him, staring in horrified shock to see Jacques throw one obstacle after another into Erik's path and run as if the demons from hell were chasing him. Erik leapt over a downed candlestick the moment it struck the stone path with a strident ring, and grabbed the back of the boy's nightshirt before he could make it to the main corridor.

The boy fought him, hitting out with small fists, wriggling like a slippery eel. Erik knelt on the stones and ducked his head to avoid the wild punches and errant fingers that could so fortuitously snatch away his mask. Grabbing the boy around his middle, he hauled Jacques close. The boy screamed and screamed in hoarse bellows until he wilted against Erik's shoulder in convulsive sobs.

Christine quietly approached. Her heart broke further to see the helpless anguish in Erik's eyes as he turned them her way.

"He knows," she stated the obvious in shock, coming to stand beside her husband. She laid her hand on his other shoulder. "Somehow he knows."

She thought of herself as a child when her Papa died, and how she discerned the truth without being told. There had been such a pervasive sadness, such a stifling heaviness in the air. More than anything, she had needed strong arms to hold her, along with the comfort of knowing she wasn't alone and never would be...

And Erik had been there.

He had always been there.

"Tell him the rest," she urged softly.

He looked at her a prolonged moment, reading the message in her eyes as if recalling with her that rainy day in the stable. The boy's cries dwindled to hiccups and sniffles. And finally, Erik nodded.

He pulled away, so Jacques could watch his lips, and wiped tears from the boy's cheek with his thumb.

"You must be very brave, must be a little man now. Can you do that, Jacques?" At the boy's tremulous nod, he continued, "Jolene will always be your sister and you are her brother. But she's gone, lad. Gone to be with the angels and won't be back." He glanced at Christine, and she nodded in gentle encouragement. He took a deep breath. "I am your brother, and you are my brother. Our father was the same man. Do you understand what I'm saying, Jacques…?"

The boy rubbed the tears out of his eyes with his fingers, then suddenly vaulted himself at Erik, wrapping skinny arms tightly around his neck.

"I think he does," Christine said softly, smiling to see the reaction she had expected. She blinked away the moisture from her own lashes and stepped away to give the brothers a moment of privacy, when she felt Erik's hand grasp her hand to stop her. She turned to look at him.

"You belong with us." He spoke to Christine then again looked at Jacques and swallowed hard. "We three are a family. Christine, you and I. Always…" Again his shining eyes of gold lifted her way. "Whatever perils life may bring, that will not change."

The boy bravely smiled through his tears and also looked up at Christine, slipping his little hand into her free one. Christine's trembling smile broke and she sank to her knees, gathering her two strong men close to her heart.

xXx