A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews and continued interest! You guys make my day. :) … and now…

Chapter XIII

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Christine stood at the window and stared out at the abandoned pillory, her mind a muddle of conflicted thoughts. The crowds had thinned, everyone about their business with no further entertainment to distract them, and she wondered what had happened to the old man. Was he now chained to a dungeon wall? Awaiting a more dreadful sentence? Would she share in the punishment of the pillory? No, Erik had said a fate far worse than torture in a dungeon could be her lot, and that would not describe a pillory…

She shut her mind to her morbid line of reflection that threatened to bring back the image of the nightmare. While it was true what she told Erik, that she had accustomed herself to her bizarre displacement through time, acceptance did not eliminate fear or confusion.

By the position of the sun in the sky, it was well past noon. Indeed, she heard the bell in the tower toll the hour a short while ago. A cool breeze whispered against her face, and she wished to be outdoors, back in the forest, away from this confined chamber and secluded from everyone. Save for Erik, of course.

Had he heard her response to him last night?

It was a question she had asked since she opened her eyes at dawn and found herself alone. Upon hearing her Angel's voice sing so sweetly to her again, after an interminable silence of weeks, and before that - months when he abandoned her at the Opera House and she thought never to hear his mellifluous dark tenor again, she had been comforted. Her answer came easily, but exhaustion from the effects of the nightmare sent her directly into slumber once more, held safely in his arms, and if he replied, she'd not heard him.

Her mind was unchanged, but she possessed qualms of what this venture into marriage with a man who no longer knew her would hold. At the Opera House she had run from the dark desires Erik stirred within her flesh and soul, certain that to surrender must be sin. Seduction oozed from his every pore, passion a dark innate part of his nature, and it had terrified her, the manner in which her body ached to succumb to his, the emotions he ignited so foreign to her innocence. That she desired the notorious Phantom, a murderer, was surely the greatest sin of all. And she had run from him, had run and sought safety with her childhood friend who offered calm and never aroused such disturbing feelings.

Foolish child that she'd been, she soon regretted seeking the fulfillment she desperately needed where there was none to be had. The passionate feeling she had erroneously thought she might also find with the boy she once recklessly pledged her heart to.

Did she truly know the concept of love?

She thought she had, but in Raoul's company, the man to whom she was so fleetingly betrothed, all she could think of was Erik. All she could remember were his lips on her lips, his hands roaming her body, his voice teaching her soul to breathe and take wing. She wanted to be in his presence every minute of every day, and when he was absent from her, she felt cold inside. She delighted to hear him speak, to sing, and to hold discussions with him on any subject under the sun. He could make even the inane seem magnificent.

If all of this was love, and it must be, then she was doomed, because she deeply loved a man who did not share the sentiment. How bitterly ironic that the tables had turned – Erik having once loved her at the Opera House, so tenderly vowing his love. While, traumatized by the night's events, Christine had failed to understand her true feelings and said nothing, only folded her ring into his hand.

He had murdered Buquet, yes, but she came to realize that he felt trapped, cornered, and lashed out as a means of survival, also to protect her from the stagehand's lewd threats. Not the case with Piangi. But had Raoul not planned the same and reckoned it an act of honor?

He had devised a plot to capture the Phantom, to kill him and justified it as his right. He was no gendarme sworn to uphold his duty, but he seemed to think that his title gave him the authority to kill another man as if he were vermin to be gotten rid of, because he was in the way – not to imprison him, but to destroy him: Yet while he lives, he will haunt us til we're dead…

Christine shivered at the memory of Raoul's words, at his insistence that she betray Erik. Finally, reluctantly, she agreed, never comfortable with the idea and making Raoul promise only to seek his capture, not his life, as he had made the attempt to take Erik's life on the snow that horrid day in the cemetery. The night of the opera, when the soldiers surrounded the bridge and aimed their rifles at Raoul's order, then to hear the shot of one in the moment before she and Erik fell through the trapdoor, she realized in horror that Raoul would do as he wished to achieve what he wanted. The thought of Erik dead had withered her soul, made her look at her ex fiancée in a disturbing new light, and only until she saw Erik alive and well did she feel life again.

Now she felt her heart brim over with such emotion, such love, and all he wanted of her was physical nirvana. It hurt, but after her betrayal, after leaving him there to face the mob alone, it was no more than she deserved.

In the days of the Opera, behind every coaxing word, behind the hypnotic burn of his eyes, she had felt Erik's intense devotion, heard the sweet truth of it from his lips before she departed that night.

But now…

Christine shook her head sadly and sank to the bed. He had left a dish of bread and cheese, at least seeing to her needs as promised, and she nibbled at what remained.

Only last week she had resolved never to give herself to him when he thought her a stranger and had no memory of his feelings for her – (surely he would still love her if he could remember) – but that was before she came to the awareness that they had fallen through time, where unfamiliar dangers threatened at every turn. She needed his protection, his guidance … she needed him. Perhaps that was the only thing that had not changed between them: Her need and his protection. Last night he had proven he was still her Angel, even if he had no recollection of being one to her.

She only hoped her deep feelings for him so recently discovered would be enough to balance the simple lust Erik felt, that somehow their marriage could thrive on such feeble sustenance. At least he offered commitment and did not attempt to take her as a simple conquest.

Again she seriously toyed with telling him the truth of his identity. She would prefer he come to the knowledge himself, but so far she had seen no glimmer of awareness. He believed he had lived an entirely different life as Le Masque and had a history here – why she didn't know – but if she was to tell him that it was all a deception and he came from her century, why should he believe her? She had no proof, and he already doubted her claim of coming from another time, thinking the injury to her head caused farfetched illusions.

Idly she rubbed the lump near her temple with her fingertips. Knocked twice in the head in the span of one week – it was a wonder she could think clearly at all, and she felt grateful for a rock solid skull. Though the ache behind her eyes still lingered and when she moved too swiftly she grew lightheaded. She had yet to see a looking glass – if such a thing even existed – and wryly imagined the frightful sight she made with the most recent swelling on her brow and the colorful bruise that must be there. Her hair was certainly a rat's nest by now. It was a wonder Erik desired her at all.

The door opened, and she turned at the sound.

"You're back," she breathed in relief.

He stood in the doorway, regarding her with uncertainty before entering the room and closing the door behind him.

"You are unwell?" He set down a cloth bundle.

"Why should you think that because I'm relieved to see you…" Christine shook her head. "Never mind. I was concerned. You left no note, of course you never leave one, but I wasn't sure where you'd gone. And with all that's happened since our arrival in Paris, I was…concerned." She was rambling like the village idiot, her unacknowledged reply from last night standing between them like the glaring change of a libretto in dire need of being discussed.

His eyes widened. "You can read?"

"Yes." She noted his surprise. "Is that so unusual? I can write too."

He studied her a moment before answering. "It is not uncommon for the daughters of nobles to be tutored in such skills, depending on the father's preference, but you told me you do not come from nobility."

"No, but neither do you, and you read and write."

He narrowed his eyes. "How do you know that?"

Oh, Erik, I know so much about you, and for all the knowledge I have, I understand just as little.

"You might have mentioned it," she said, her reply sounding weak.

"I have no recollection of doing so."

"But you told me yourself that you don't always remember things that previously happened after the black spells hit."

He considered her words then curtly nodded, dismissing the subject.

She felt guilty for the deception, but with the suspicious glint returned to his eyes, it wasn't the best time to tell him of how well she really did know him. Not when another matter begged attention.

"About last night…" She smoothed damp palms down her kirtle. He raised his brow, waiting for her to go on. "You sang to me." Her words held a dreamy quality.

"You were distraught from the nightmare. I recalled that you told me that such a thing helps you through troubled times."

"It does. You have the voice of an angel. An Angel of Music…" She hesitated when he gave no response, no reaction whatsoever. "I, um, I gave you my answer to your proposal before I fell asleep. Did you hear me?"

A slight nod was all the answer he gave.

"Perhaps we should discuss it?"

His expression grew hard. "Having second thoughts?"

"No, it's not that. I just wondered…" She lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. "…how we are to proceed? And…and when?"

He closed the distance between them.

"If you are feeling well enough, we can exchange vows now."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "What - here?" She looked at him incredulously when he nodded. "Without a priest? Or witnesses?"

"A priest is unnecessary. As to witnesses, I prefer no one know of our presence."

She thought of Eustace and Tobias, but could certainly do without the cantankerous Scotsman as a witness at her wedding, since he sorely disapproved of her. She had agreed to marry Erik but in this matter she would remain firm. Her Catholic upbringing would allow no less.

"It wouldn't feel as if we were truly married without a priest," she insisted.

"I considered you might say that, after what you said at the campsite. Once the cleric is here, I'll ask him to conduct the ceremony. It is the best I can do. Will that suffice, Christine?"

"You're sure we won't need two witnesses to make it valid?"

"The marriage would be recognized if we spoke our vows alone. There is no need for others to be involved and less risk that way, but the cleric knows of our presence, so when he returns I will speak with him. He divides his time between his own parish and the cathedral during the archdeacon's absence."

She nodded and fidgeted, clasping her hands before her. "I would ask one more favor. Might I have some water to wash with? And soap if you have it, or whatever is used to get clean."

His eyes gentled and he nodded. "I will see to it." He hesitated. "Are you feeling well?"

She laughed nervously. "I must look a fright. That's the second time you've asked that since you walked through the door."

"You are lovely as always."

She had reason to doubt that, but the sincerity in his quiet words warmed her heart. He lifted his hand toward her face, and she inhaled a soft breath. But instead of the touch she expected, he hesitated then dropped his hand back to his side and turned to the door.

"I will see to your request." He stopped before exiting the chamber. "In the cloth sack are shoes to replace what was lost."

Not certain what had happened, Christine watched in confusion as he exited the chamber.

xXx

An hour before sunset, Erik led Christine through the outside corridor to another chamber housed at the back of the cathedral, near their temporary abode.

After a stilted knock at the door, a voice bade them to enter.

Christine noticed the lines of tension around Erik's mouth and knew this could not be easy for him. Whether he called himself Le Masque or Phantom, neither man encouraged or engaged in social encounters.

She put a hand to his arm before he could open the door and he looked at her in impatience, a question in his eyes.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

His gaze softened and he nodded, opening the door.

The chamber they stepped into was smaller than the bedchamber and reminded Christine of how a sixteenth century office might appear. A torch stood mounted high upon the wall, giving the room light, and a man in a plain tunic of brown wool sat behind a table cluttered with parchments. A candlestick shed light on his work. He appeared to be in his forties, with graying hair and sharp, intelligent eyes. To each side of him and behind, a honeycomb of odd wooden shelves with hollowed compartments held scrolls.

His eyes swept over them both. "Monsieur Fantôme…?"

"I have need of your aid," Erik said tightly, the words to obtain help difficult to say. "This woman and I…" He glanced Christine's way. "We wish to be wed."

"I see." If the cleric felt any surprise, he concealed it well, turning his attention to Christine, who stood a step behind the Phantom, near the door. "And you, mademoiselle, is it your wish to be wed to this man?"

Again the Phantom looked at her. This time she met his eyes.

"It is, Père. I want nothing more."

The Phantom's heart lurched at the quiet glow in her eyes. He could almost believe…

The cleric nodded and spoke again. "I am pleased to see you have recovered from your ill fortune, mademoiselle. Your head, does it still pain you?"

At the reference, the Phantom watched as her fingers lightly touched the swelling near her brow. The bruise, no longer a glaring purple, had lightened to yellow-brown.

"Only a little," she admitted. "The rest has helped."

He looked at them both. "I presume you have come to ask for my blessing?"

"That," the Phantom said, "and to conduct the ceremony."

The cleric's dark brows lifted at that. "It is no secret that the church frowns upon clandestine marriages, no matter that they are recognized by the laws of the land. But I must profess surprise, given the state in which you arrived, that you have chosen to abide by these higher dictates…"

The Phantom wryly filled in the blanks of what he did not say – that he was a wanted criminal in hiding, seeking sanctuary with an injured young woman whose identity had been kept a mystery.

"The banns will need to be posted and read over a period of three weeks," the cleric continued.

"The banns must be waived," the Phantom interrupted. "Given our situation, it is impossible to wait. I will pay you in gold for a license." At the man's surprise that the Phantom would know such negotiations were sometimes permitted, he added, "I was told of you, Père Arnould, that after the incident within these walls two decades ago you were sympathetic toward monsters such as myself." He tensely motioned to his mask. "It is why I came here, seeking shelter and aid. Tell me I was not wrong to do so…"

As if his words sparked a memory, all tension left the cleric's jaw and a hint of melancholy misted his eyes. He looked at the Phantom and nodded.

"I was but a lad, an aide to the archdeacon who served then," he said sadly, "on the day the babe was left on the doorstep of the cathedral. He was named for the feast day in which he was found. I attended university here while he grew up within these walls and became the bell ringer." The cleric shook his head. "Many feared him for his monstrous appearance and called him a creation of the devil, but he had a gentle soul. I rarely spoke with him, my duties to the archdeacon increased as I grew into my studies, but I knew Quasimodo to be kind, even intelligent after a fashion."

The Phantom heard Christine gasp and looked at her. Her dark eyes were round with shock as she moved forward to stand beside him.

"The hunchback?" she whispered.

"Ah, you have heard the stories, then. Still they speak of it…Yes, he was afflicted with a deformation of his body and his face. He saved the gypsy woman, Esmeralda, when she was sentenced to hang for murder and witchcraft by bringing her here and enacting the law of sanctuary…my dear, you don't look well. Are you ill?"

"I…" Christine grabbed hold of the Phantom's arm. "A bit dizzy."

The cleric looked at her strangely, but rose from the table. "I will get you water."

"Merci," she whispered as he left.

"Christine?"

The Phantom turned to her in concern, and she grabbed his other arm.

"What he said – all of it – I read it, Erik! Many times. In a novel. Notre-Dame de Paris, it was my second favorite book next to La Belle et la Bête. I always thought it was a story of fiction, a legend – but it's true!"

She swayed on her feet, and he took hold of her arm, leading her to the stool to sit down. So excited was she by her discovery, she failed to notice the chill that swept over his countenance at her address toward him.

"Victor Hugo wrote it," she went on excitedly, "Meg gave me a copy for my birthday two years ago. It was so romantic but quite tragic. Quasimodo saved the beautiful Esmeralda because of his great love for her, and though it was a love unrequited, she showed him kindness by giving him water when he was at the pillory, and later he watched over her as a guardian, to protect her. That evil archdeacon, the man who raised him, tried to rape her, and Quasimodo saved her again, later killing him by throwing him off the balcony – but he couldn't save her from the mob, and she was hanged ..."

"Christine," he interrupted sternly, "You must not speak of this when he returns."

At the hurt that entered her eyes, he looked away, unable to bear inflicting pain but alarmed by yet another bizarre revelation of what she supposed true. His glance swept the parchments strewn over the desk, where he noticed a crude map lay. He slotted the information away in his mind for reference.

"I am not a fool, monsieur," she said stiffly. "I know what not to say."

"Let us hope so."

The cleric returned with a goblet, handing it to Christine. She thanked him and took a sip of water. The man turned his attention to the Phantom.

"You did not err in your judgment to seek me out," the cleric said, answering the Phantom's earlier concern. "I will help you. Would that someone could have helped him."

Christine could not resist one last question and phrased it carefully.

"Père, I have wondered, is it true that they found Quasimodo at the Gibbet of Montfaucon where he died, clutching Esmeralda's body to his breast? And after trying to separate their skeletons years later…"

Erik looked at her sharply, his eyes burning fire.

The cleric had gone pale with shock. "How could you know…"

"…their bodies crumbled together to dust?" she whispered the rest anxiously, wondering why he stared at her so strangely. She did not dare look at Erik, feeling his anger.

"No one knew that. No one. The new archdeacon felt it wise to keep such things from common knowledge. Only a select few knew and two of those men are dead. Who told you? How came you by such information?!"

She felt a little faint by the sudden edge to his voice. Erik tensed, moving close to stand protectively beside her, his hand going to her shoulder.

"I – I heard some men speak of it on the street," she whispered the false excuse, wondering if it was a greater sin to lie to a member of the clergy. "I had no idea if it was true or not. I-I'm sorry." Her voice came meek.

The cleric stared hard at her a moment, and Christine could almost hear the gibbet being prepared for her hanging. At last, the man seemed to come to some conclusion, and his features eased into a resigned but grim smile.

"It is unfortunate, but secrets often have a way of leaking out, I suppose. I never understood why the archdeacon would make the demand for silence, but he's not here to ask. The king sent for him, and I'm here in his stead. Now, about the ceremony…" He looked at Erik. "It is custom for a wedding to take place outside the church doors, but I assume that would not be to your preference?"

"You assume correctly," the Phantom nodded, not wanting to run the risk of being seen.

"If I may make a suggestion…?" Christine piped up softly, nervously.

Both men turned to look at her.

X

A few minutes later, the Phantom and Christine followed the cleric at a distance down the corridor.

"I'm sorry, monsieur, I didn't mean –"

"Why would you ask such a fool question –?"

"He told the tale –"

"You said you wouldn't say what you shouldn't –"

"Yes – I meant in reading it –"

"I warned you of the dangers –"

"He knew I'd heard –"

"If he had not believed you, do you realize what might have happened –?"

"I thought speaking the story itself would be alright –"

"Did you really hear it on the street?"

He stopped and turned to her. A short pause elapsed, and she shook her head.

"I told you how I came to know the story. I read it, in a book that was written in my century."

He studied her intently, his eyes puzzled, wary, but wordlessly took her arm, and they resumed their walk in silence.

In the cathedral they joined the cleric, who stood beneath the huge window of colored glass, where Christine had asked for the ceremony to be held.

"Is it not a thing of beauty?" Père Arnould asked. "This window symbolizes the glorification of the Virgin Mary, each pane that makes up the rose depicting a judge, prophet, or king."

Christine stared at the monolithic window with the same wonder she had viewed it the first time, seeing that she'd been correct: the panes were even more beautiful with daylight shining through the leaded glass. But the greater part of her amazement lay in the knowledge that she was only minutes away from becoming Erik's wife.

Her earlier qualms melted away to nothing as she looked up at his beloved masked face, a kaleidoscope of colors showering upon them from the stained glass. His eyes shone, seeming almost iridescent in the fantasy of jewel-like tones. They stood within that peaceful glowing circle, and to her shock and delight, he took hold of her hands.

"Je Fantôme donne mon corps a toy, Christine, en loyal mari," he spoke the words instructed of him.

And she answered, "Et je la recoy."

"Je Christine donne mon corps a toy, Fantôme."

"Et je le recoy."

She watched wide-eyed as Erik produced a silver ring, pushing it partway onto her thumb.

"In the name of the Father…" the cleric intoned.

Erik moved the ring to her index finger.

"In the name of the Son…"

He repeated the gesture with her middle finger.

"In the name of the Holy Ghost…"

He brought the ring to her third finger and slid it past both knuckles to its final resting place.

"Amen," Erik whispered.

She stared in awe at the ring and then up into his eyes.

"I take you for my bride … Christine."

Her heart fluttered at his quiet claim, so sincere, and the soft glow in his eyes.

The cleric who instructed them throughout the ceremony brought it to a close, speaking in Latin words Christine could not understand, but she didn't need to. It was enough for her to know her Heavenly Father ordained this and their union would be recognized by the church. She felt as if she was floating and Erik's hands were all that anchored her to their intimate pool of iridescent lights. The cleric made the sign of the cross in the air between them, ending the blessing.

Christine did not have long to wonder if a sixteenth century wedding would conclude with a kiss. Erik leaned toward her, brushing his lips to hers in a chaste token of commitment that nevertheless set her pulse racing.

He stepped back from her and she looked up at him.

The cleric cleared his throat.

"I must beg your leave. I have duties to which I must attend before returning to my parish for the evening. Go in peace, my children."

Christine looked after his departing figure a moment then brought her eyes back to Erik.

"He is either very wise or very foolish to leave us here alone each night."

The words were inane in light of what just took place. But with the overwhelming reality that they were man and wife, that she was now his bride, she could scarcely think.

"That is quite the conundrum," he said in mild amusement. "Explain."

"He is very foolish for leaving all the valuables at risk, and he is very wise for knowing that you will not resort to thievery and can be trusted."

His brow went up in incredulity at her confident reply.

"How can you be so sure?"

"You paid him in gold for the license, and much more than it was surely worth. If you meant to rob him, you wouldn't have done such a thing."

He chuckled at her logic. "Unless I plan to steal the gold back."

Her brow arched upward in worry. "Do you?"

"No," he said after a moment. "Anything of value is locked securely away and only the black powder can retrieve it. Or it is too large to carry off."

"How do you know this?"

"While you have been resting, I took the liberty of scouting the many chambers."

Her brows drew together. "Tell me you won't steal from this place. Promise me. Not only would it be wrong to steal from a house of God, but Père Arnould has been such a help to us. It wouldn't be right. I wouldn't feel right…"

Grimly he acknowledged her words, stroking his fingertips lightly over her frown.

"Rest easy, ma belle damoiselle. I will do nothing that gives you grief. This is our wedding night, after all, and thievery is far distant from my mind."

His velvet-edged words and touch made it difficult to breathe, causing her to flush with shy warmth. No longer must she turn away; no longer must she deny her body what it had been craving since the night of the Don Juan, even before that.

The blood that thrummed through her veins seemed to rush to her head and she clutched his arm suddenly, fearful she would collapse.

"Christine," he said in concern and searched her eyes and face intently. "You must rest. This has been too taxing for you."

"No, really, I'm fine."

Before she could further persuade him, he swung her up into his lean, muscled arms. Breathlessly she looked at him from beneath half-veiled lashes, deciding she liked it there better.

He walked with her to the corridor of rooms behind the cathedral and their temporary bedchamber.

"I will see about finding supper, something more substantial than bread and cheese. You have barely eaten since we arrived."

He moved into the chamber and stopped near the bed but did not set her down. She looked up at him in curiosity, again feeling faint by the hungry gleam and intensity that shone from his beautiful eyes. His arm beneath her back shifted, bringing her closer, and when his lips met hers, she gave a little sigh.

This kiss was not chaste, but it was tender, hinting of the passion to come. She pressed her fingers to his jaw, yielding her lips to his, parting them in invitation. His muscles contracted beneath her and he more firmly met her mouth, his tongue lightly touching hers. She swept her tongue into his mouth with a soft groan that was echoed in his.

He pulled away and looked at her in silent question, then set her carefully on the bed. She lay still, looking up at him.

"I will return shortly with our supper," he said. "Rest while you may."

His soft, low words tantalized, suggesting all manner of pleasures. Christine sat up, leaning against one arm, and watched him go.

While she awaited his return, her mind played back every moment at the Opera House, when he first taught her to need such passion, to the moment they were reunited in the forest and their stirring encounter in the lake, when she had felt his naked skin against hers.

Nervously she stood and unclasped the link of silver chains about her girdle. Should she remove the kirtle and approach him wearing only the long, clinging white undergown? Should she allow him to remove it? Strange, she had married in the dress she wore every day, yet did not regret the absence of a true wedding gown and all the luxuries that came with a formal ceremony. Indeed, she could not recall ever feeling such happiness as when she stood with Erik beneath the rose window in their illuminated circle of colored light and quietly exchanged vows.

She decided to remove the kirtle and laid it on the bed, her brow furrowing in thought to see how short and narrow the simple cot truly was. She looked to where their few belongings lay on the table and blushed with her bold decision.

Unrolling the pelts, Christine spread them over the floor beneath the shuttered window and pulled the long pillow from the bed, laying it at one end. Deciding to test her handiwork, she laid on the furs, but the flagstones beneath were harder than the forest floor, and she stripped the cot of all bedding, using the blankets as a cushion beneath. Again she laid down, finding the result a marked improvement. She stared at the wooden shutters, popping up a third time to open them and quickly sat back down, cursing the lightheadedness that came over her with the abrupt act. Slowly she again reclined on what would become their marriage bed, and flushed with warmth at the thought.

She remained in that position for some time, dreaming of lying within Erik's embrace and gazing up at the stars. The sun soon set, the hazy purple of twilight filtering inside…

Heat flushed her face when she realized he could return at any second, and she again stood, not wishing him to find her in such brazen repose. She wished she could do something with her wild curls and settled for running her fingers through the strands and untangling them into some sort of order.

She took deep breaths, walking to the window and looking at the view beneath. The streets were now dark, very few torches lit the areas, and she wondered if Erik was below, wondered too, at the long delay…

She felt more expectant than nervous, though there was that, but she had been dreaming of this moment for months, years, ever since her invisible teacher, her friend and idol, spoke to her from behind the walls and she wished he was a man. How she had longed for the kiss of an Angel, and how wicked she had felt for that wish!

Christine anxiously looked at the closed door. Surely, more than an hour had passed.

She moved that way and peeked outside the chamber, looking in both directions for any sign of her husband.

Her husband!

A pleasurable glow filled her heart to acknowledge the change. At last, she had obtained what she most wanted. At last, she had been allowed to make her choice and follow through with it.

The smile that lifted her lips as she closed the door vanished in horror when a familiar shout came from outside. A shout of anguish.

Erik?!

With no thought but to find him, Christine snatched up her cloak and raced from the chamber.

xXx

A/N: Translation of vows (if the French is wrong I apologize- I took it from actual historical documents of vows spoken in 1532, but over the centuries, grammar and spellings sometimes change…):

"I, Phantom, give my body to you, Christine, in loyal matrimony."

"And I receive it."

"I, Christine, give my body to you, Phantom."

"And I receive it."

A bit of trivia – Before the Court of Trent and the Tametsi decree issued in 1563, there were many instances of clandestine marriages between bride and groom conducted with a simple exchange of vows, without an officiating priest or witnesses. At this time such unofficial ceremonies were considered valid (though hard to prove, which is one reason the decree came into being and became law. However, receiving a blessing from a priest was still sought after, even if the couple married without one). Also, there were recorded instances of buying a license to waive the banns if the marriage needed to happen swiftly.