A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) They are always much appreciated… and now I return you to Erik and Christine …

Chapter XIX

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They approached the well, Christine a bit apprehensive that this was all a dreadful mistake...

She had sung for him before, of course – once to comfort during the black spell, and he had forgotten. Once, when he was fully alert, and he responded with a kiss. Then she had sung an aria to remind him of their past, and though she failed in the attempt, he had not suffered for it. Indeed, the music they once shared in another lifetime, so much a part of their souls, had not induced any manner of physical torment for him: to sing, the one token of their past that felt safe, and for that Christine knew immense relief.

To silence the voice her Maestro had shaped seemed an offense, to sing for him a desire rooted deep inside her heart...

Her present worry stemmed from a different nature.

Christine glanced at Erik, noting his unease to be among the villagers, evident by the steely set of his jaw and the manner in which he evaded all eye contact with his one unconcealed eye. But there was little choice to be made. They needed money from those who gawked and stared – so let her voice be the lure for their attention, drawing their interest away from her glowering Phantom while hopefully enticing the townspeople to surrender their coin.

From within the basket Erik carried, Christine looked through those essentials he had scavenged at Notre Dame and pulled up a brass plate with a shallow curved lip – not exactly a bowl, and they had no violin case like Papa once used for contributions, so the plate would have to serve her purpose.

Erik bent close, his one eye solemn. "What exactly are you doing? What do you think to accomplish by this?"

She set the plate on the ground in front of them and straightened.

"Exactly what I said I would. My song will give us coin." Her lips curled upward in a coaxing smile and she reached for his hand, squeezing it. "It might help if you add your own to the plate, to show why it's there."

Her voice wasn't in top form, due to lack of practice, and she had no idea if this era contained traveling entertainers. Though she did recall an opera set in the 17th century with a minstrel in the king's court. Nor did she know if those troubadours that traveled the countryside were rewarded with payment for their music. But of one thing she was certain – these villagers would be the first in this epoch of time to hear an aria from an opera, the style of elocution unique to any folk song or ballad they might know, and certainly the strangeness of it would gain their keen interest if nothing else. That gave her cause to feel optimistic that her idea would succeed.

At the Opera, during a performance, the orchestra played a prelude of notes. With her Papa, when singing in the streets, she relied on his violin. At practice, her Maestro once played for her as well. With no accompaniment and no guiding notes, Christine sent up a silent prayer, took a deep breath, glancing briefly toward her teacher, and let the first lines of song fly from her lips.

Taking on the role of Marguerite, she sang one of the more lighthearted arias of the Faust Grand Opera, imagining the jewels she'd just found and the mirror held in her hand.

At the first crystalline note of her voice, every head turned to stare in shock. Some regarded her with avid disbelief, others in curious caution as if she'd gone a bit barmy, watching her sing and mimic Marguerite's gestures. She glided in dance and flitted around the well, continuing to enthuse over the beautiful and invisible jewels she'd found, relieved that at least the villagers, many who did not hesitate to make a path for her, had no understanding of the words. Had they been able to follow along, they would indeed think her insane. In retrospect, she could have stood immobile and they wouldn't know the difference – could cease with dancing now – but this was how she'd last been taught, so she might as well see it through to the end.

The Opera House often revised the librettos to French, but her Maestro also taught her to sing in the languages the operas had been written, instructing her that she must learn to be fluent. Having told her that with her sublime voice, one day she would take the stage to other parts of the world and should be familiar with their native tongues…

She realized weeks ago, after that tragic night of the Don Juan, his intention must have been to flee with her from France. Perhaps he had planned it from the beginning of their acquaintance as teacher to student. And she couldn't help but wonder where they would be at this moment, if only she had turned back once more that fateful night and refused to leave him alone in his lair…

Certainly not in the sixteenth century.

The Phantom watched Christine in baffled wonder, briefly glancing at her audience of unworthy peasants, noting how they ogled her with the same curious astonishment. The skies were leaden and overcast, but her face shimmered with the luminescence of a pearl, an angel that had stepped down to grace the undeserving inhabitants of earth with her song.

Her eyes shone, animated with delight, meeting his gaze briefly before again looking out over the crowd. Customers of nearby merchants stopped what they were doing to walk closer and stare, a few having left nearby buildings to see.

While she sang and danced around the well, the Phantom stood motionless and watched, though his soul soared, carried away by her magnificent voice. Flashes of thoughts – memories? – raced through his mind: An empty indoor stage in the dead of night, dimly lit by one candelabra. A girl alone, younger than Christine. Singing the same song – a song he understood in a language he should not know – dancing with her back to him, as Christine now danced. In the child's small hands she held aloft a gaudy necklace of paste, the voice somewhat immature and not as well defined…

His troubadour of a bride turned with her arms upraised as did the younger image in his mind.

Christine…?!

Her unique voice trilled to unbelievable heights, a few notes held to impossible lengths. The villagers gaped in astonishment, clearly having heard nothing like this aria from Faust…

Faust?

Why should he think that? What or who was Faust and why should he even link such an odd but familiar name to her song of receiving jewels and imagining herself as a king's daughter?

Any further deliberation of confusion came to a temporary close as Christine's song found completion after another emotive waterfall of melodic notes, high and rich in splendor. At the finish, she gave a small, graceful curtsy. The crowd hurrahed, tossing a shower of coins at her feet, completely ignoring the plate on which the Phantom initially placed three.

With a benign smile, she nodded her thanks and stooped gracefully to the ground to collect the copper coins, one by one. He began to join her, when he noticed a thief who crouched a short distance away, helping himself to her earnings. In one swift move, the Phantom pulled his sword from where it was hidden inside his cloak, the ring of it slicing through the air, and closed the short distance, bringing the blade to rest just beneath the fiend's bearded chin.

"I suggest you drop the coins in yonder plate and hasten far from this well, if you don't want your throat sliced end to end."

The vagrant let the coins drop where they may and scuttled back like a crab, his eyes wide on the blade before lifting them to the Phantom's covered face. He grimaced and awkwardly scrambled to a stand, running as fast as his spindly legs could carry him.

"Good enough," the Phantom muttered. He sheathed his sword and collected the rescued coins.

"Maestro…?"

At the nervous bent to Christine's words, he looked up to see that she'd drawn close with the plate in her hand. Her eyes glanced in the direction the thief disappeared then looked to him. She gave an uncertain smile.

"Is this enough for a meal?"

The bottom of the plate could scarce be seen for the small copper discs that filled it.

"Two of those will obtain a meat pie, one a tankard of ale. You have provided us a meal for the night and to break the fast in the morn, with many coins to spare. Yet your voice is the true prize, ma damoiselle. Never have I heard a performance so splendid."

Her smile grew even more lovely, while still seeming shy. "I'm delighted that my song pleased you, Maestro, and that at last I've been able to do something to help."

She offered the plate to him and he retrieved his purse, pulling loose the drawstring. As he held it open, she poured in the coins that she'd collected to join the few he had left for a room.

The crowd had thinned, returning to their duties with the entertainment ended, a few lingering nearby and glancing their way in avid curiosity. Even with their attitudes changed from hostile suspicion to tolerant acceptance, he did not wish to remain the focus of attention.

"Shall we see to purchasing the meal you have so well earned?"

"Oh, yes, please. I'm famished." She smiled in delight and wrapped her arm through his.

He had wedded her and bedded her, but these simple gestures of acceptance and expressions of need still managed to tug sharply at the Phantom's heart. Indeed, ever since she had stumbled into his tent and into his life, he felt…changed.

They returned to the tavern, where they took a table at the back. The Italian merchant had gone, likely somewhere to sleep off his inebriation. It was a wonder he'd been able to sign the bill of sale, and again the Phantom thought it odd that a seemingly naïve woman like Christine should perceive such matters of business to advise him.

In all likelihood she would insist such knowledge came from the future century to which she thought she belonged. He still disputed the absurdity of traveling into another era via the standings stones as rational, much less possible. But the more time he spent in her presence the greater his doubts mushroomed, and the more certainty loosed its hold on what was considered sane.

Mayhap, with the most recent addition of disturbing visions to add to his black spells, he was going mad too.

There was nothing for it. Now that they traveled alone he would delve into the matter, to the place it allegedly started...

A buxom barmaid sauntered up to their table, brushing a little too close for his liking, and by Christine's frown, much as she'd looked at Isabel in the brothel, she did not approve of this woman either. He ordered two meat pies and tankards of ale, also securing a room for the night. With the present lack of privacy, he spoke with Christine of inconsequential matters. The township and its villagers. Her stunning performance. Their imminent plans. Yet the questions that continued to run rampant through his mind nearly drowned out her voice, and he again grew distant, noting Christine's confused glances his way.

The food arrived, and they ate in silence. After supper, the owner of the establishment, an old man who could not seem to cease staring at the burlap tied around the Phantom's face, handed him a lamp, and he and Christine ascended the narrow staircase to their room to retire for the night.

The chamber was cramped, a hovel certainly, containing a deficient cot, along with a clay pitcher and basin that sat on the floorboards – both stone dry – with no hearth to light for warmth and no window to let in the approaching sunset. Still, what this temporary shelter lacked in creature comforts, it made up for in privacy.

The Phantom hung the lamp on a hook protruding from the wall. "I will see to collecting water."

He had no wish to approach the rude tavern keeper a second time and would accomplish the task himself, knowing of Christine's partiality for cleanliness before she slumbered and when she awoke.

His weary wife sank to the sagging mattress and rested her calf against one knee, using her fingers and thumbs to massage the balls of her feet.

"Might I have a sponge or something similar to wash with as well?"

"I shall see to it."

xXx

Christine's grateful smile faded into a frown of concern as Erik closed the door behind him.

He was definitely troubled and had been since supper. Perhaps he did not truly appreciate her performance. Her Maestro had been very exacting, and though he had no recollection of being her teacher and had readily given his praise, perhaps deep down he'd found fault...

Of course he'd found fault – she had taken no opportunity to warm up, and had not sung professionally in weeks! In truth, had not sung a note at all until she fell into this century and again found him.

Christine sighed and pulled the kirtle over her head, leaving on the chemise. Pulling back the worn blanket she scrunched her nose at the soiled bedding and threw the blanket back up over the mattress in disgust. Did the servants of this establishment even wash the bed linens between customers? Needing to improvise an acceptable bed, Christine took one of the large pelts, spreading it over the shabby blanket. The lush dark fur draped over every corner of the small cot, and she winced, thinking how awkward it would be for her large husband, who, though quite lean, was of considerable height and breadth of shoulder.

She pensively glanced at the dirt-streaked floor that the establishment did not bother to clean either. Perhaps, she should make a bed for them there and dispense with the cot altogether. From what she had seen in this century, clearly no common bed existed to fit her husband's stature, and he was accustomed to sleeping on the forest floor as Le Masque…

The creak of wooden hinges alerted her to his prompt return, and she looked over her shoulder at him.

Erik regarded her where she sat on the pelt on the bed, a large basin held in his hands. With a careless nudge of his boot, he kicked the door closed and walked toward her, setting the basin of water at her feet.

"Merci." Her voice was a wisp of breath, overcome as always by his sudden nearness.

He knelt at her feet and looked up at her, studying her face. His gaze lowered along her neck and to the tops of her shoulders visible above the snug chemise, resting there, before he lowered his eyes again. For all the attention he paid her, his manner seemed distant, brooding, but before she could at last inquire what made him so tense, he lifted her foot in his hands.

Any words Christine may have uttered died in her throat. With wide eyes she watched his large hands and slender fingers untie the lacings of her cloth slipper and pull it from her foot. A rush of embarrassed humility made her curl her toes, drawing them beneath her foot, as if by doing so she could hide them – she had never cared much for them, thinking them too long, her feet rather big for a woman and so filthy from the day's journey besides!

She cringed and tried to jerk her foot back, but his hold remained firm around her ankle. He glanced up briefly in mild warning then cupped the sole of her foot in his warm palm, bringing the wet sponge over the top. The cold water trickled over her skin just as shivers of delight trickled up her spine.

"Maestro…" The muscle in her calf tightened as she again tried to pull away. "You shouldn't do this."

His response was to swirl the sponge in the water, again bringing it to her foot, beneath the arch this time. "Why should I not?"

"I am no one – that is, I'm unused to being served. I'm no true lady of means, as I told you…"

His grasp on her foot tightened, his blue-grey eyes again lifting to hers, the shimmer in them intense. "You are indeed a lady," he argued. "Never think otherwise."

His thumbs began to press in little, massaging circles, and Christine faintly groaned at the wondrous feel of pressure, her eyes sliding shut as the aches dissolved more and more, lost to each revolution of his magical touch. After a while, he set her pampered foot down against his thigh and reached for the slipper-encased one, beginning to untie that ribbon as well. Her eyes flew open.

"But I shouldn't be the one to - I mean - what of your face?" She just prevented herself from reaching toward the burlap in concern.

His own movements grimly stilled. "What of my face?"

At the heavy warning note in his tone, she carefully stated, "It's bleeding, or it was. There's a spot that bled through the cloth – I noticed it in the stables. I should be the one tending to you."

"It is nothing," he offhandedly cast her words aside, also denuding her of her other slipper. His fingertips brushed a feather-light trickle against her instep with the motion, and she softly drew an intake of breath. In his large, warm hands, her feet felt dainty and feminine as they never had, his touch warming her blood.

"I offer you so little," he went on darkly, his voice angry though his touch remained gentle as he washed her foot. "You are accustomed to finer quality."

"That's not true," she countered, surprised by his sudden switch in mood, though by now she should be quite accustomed to her Angel's erratic temperaments after years of knowing him, even if it was beyond the walls as a believed entity from on high. "I have never once complained with what you've given me. Well, except for that awful disguise of a robe - but I understood that was necessary to protect us. What I don't understand is why you're even bringing this up?"

In truth, she had felt greater contentment hiding with Erik in stark quarters than she had known while living the life of luxury at the Chateau Martinique with Raoul.

"You should not have to work so that we may eat."

She blinked in baffled shock.

"But I love to sing," she argued. Especially for you, her thoughts supplied. "It is my life and, I believe, a chief purpose for which I was created."

He stood slowly to his feet. "It seems a bizarre life for a woman."

Christine fought despair that he should say such things, reminding herself that he spoke from a medieval mindset, with no recollection of being her Maestro.

"Perhaps, but it is my life and my choice. Or it was. I recall my father saying that the thespian is a strange breed. Our work is creativity, and to survive we must entertain. Not because we feel an obligation to perform, but because we feel a need." She looked up at him, her eyes sincere. "To sing is all I have known, ever since I can remember. It is the breath of my soul - music..."

His nod came remote, his attention elsewhere as he picked up the basin.

"I will collect fresh water."

Taken aback by his abrupt disinterest, Christine stared ahead in confusion as he slipped from the room. With a frustrated little sigh, she glanced down at her bare toes, covering one foot with the other.

Had she said too much? Certainly, she had said too much. She shouldn't have brought up the discussion of music. Or Papa. Or perhaps it was the part about music being the breath of her soul – had her Maestro not once said much the same? Or...

Her eyes widened in revelation. Oh, hell's bells and buckets of blood – with how she had raved on and on about it, he likely thought she preferred music over him, and regretted giving up her career to sing – what little of that she had in this era – for a wedded life with her Phantom. She simply must disavow him of such a foolish notion at once.

Determined to be more careful to rein in her feckless tongue, she clasped her hands in her lap and waited, staring at a reddish-brown splotch on the wall and shivering to wonder its origin. Was that blood? With how matters were so violently dealt with in this era and considered routine, it wouldn't surprise her if it was.

He was gone far longer than before and her present train of thought did not aid her peace of mind. She feared that he must have had another spell or that something equally wicked had befallen him, imagining him calling out to her, his bleeding body lying in the dirt or imprisoned - and was ready to tie on her slippers and go in search of him, when the door finally swung open.

A second time he entered with a basin of water and set it at her feet. He straightened but made no move to leave, not that she truly wanted him to go. But she felt somewhat unnerved by his clear intent to remain, and so close, though she supposed she should accustom herself to the idea and not act like such a goose, what with the marked change in their relationship. Christine bent to take the sponge and carefully wring it out. She ran the wet sponge along one arm, then the other, bringing it slowly up to her neck and along the top of one shoulder, just above her chemise.

While she bathed, he walked behind her. She heard the shuffling of items in the basket.

"Who is Faust?" he asked quietly. "Have you heard of him?"

The sponge dropped from Christine's nerveless fingers, bouncing off her lap to the floor. Her startled gaze remained fixed on the stained wall.

"I see you have."

At his dry words, she swallowed over a dryer throat. "Why would you ask such a thing?"

"'Tis a simple question. Do you know a man by that name?"

"No, I know of no one by that name." That much was true, since the character of the opera was entirely fictional.

"Your behavior betrays you, damoiselle."

She shook her head and bent to collect the sponge, again dipping it in the water and squeezing it. "I've never met anyone with that name in my life."

"Why will you not look at me?"

She took an unsteady breath then turned her head toward him. He had exchanged the scratchy burlap for his smooth black leather mask, and beyond the sockets, his piercing eyes intently studied her face. Under the burden of her noble deceit, her lashes swept low on her cheeks to hide the guilt that surely must show.

Lying was never her forte, and omission of the truth was certainly a weak brand of whitewashed lie.

"It is most troubling, and I have given the matter a great deal of thought," he went on, his voice as alluring as a ripple of silk, but with a barely concealed edge that made her wary. "I speak in fluent Italian, having once told you I have no true knowledge of the language, and you barely bat an eyelid or even question. Are you not the least bit interested to wonder how that could have been possible?"

The Phantom was a master at laying a trap with his hands, as well as with his words, one of his many former titles The Trapdoor Lover. Christine vocally felt her way around the unsettling discussion, leery of falling into his snare.

"Of course I'm interested. That was truly amazing. I thought perhaps it was a memory you'd forgotten that came back."

"That I, raised as a wildling in the forest of Brittany, should understand and speak the language of Italy...?"

She shrugged slightly at his sardonic words, not sure what reply to give that could be considered safe.

"I whisper words in your ear to flee when I am standing at a great distance. Even so, you treat the matter as quite common, saying nothing."

She nervously cleared her throat. "I had forgotten."

"You had forgotten?" His scathing tone called her a liar even if he didn't use the word.

"We were running from the Vicomte's soldiers, and well, later I didn't remember to question. That really was quite remarkable how you did that." She attempted a smile that felt shaky at best. "You are indeed a man of many talents."

He narrowed his eyes and stepped closer. She cringed back, not out of fear of him, but terrified that he would compel her to say something she shouldn't.

"Do I frighten you?"

She did not fail to register the trace of hurt in his tone or note his troubled expression. Something had clearly happened between this room and their time at the well…a brief spell? A memory? She looked at him intently to see if he was in pain. He held himself with ease, though anger hardened what she could see of his countenance.

"You don't frighten me, no. I simply don't understand why you so often put me under some sort of, of inquisition – demanding answers – and then you're never happy with those I give."

"Inquisition?" He laughed without humor, his eyes like steel. "What an odd choice of word. Unless, perhaps, you feel blame for keeping something hidden from my knowledge?"

She had no wish for this to escalate into an argument, what it was fast becoming, but felt powerless how to stop the avalanche of dark emotion now that it had begun. Worse, she had no idea how to respond to his insinuation, since he was exactly correct in his appraisal.

"Let us put aside for the moment your uncanny ability to ignore and forget the emergence of bizarre skills that have no explanation – those upon which I cannot cease to reflect with curious wonder and horror ..."

He began to pace from wall to wall in the cramped area. Christine clasped the damp sponge tightly in her lap and held her breath.

"Since our escape from the cathedral I have been having flashes of memories, visions I cannot explain. Events that transpired in places I have never been. People I have seen and do not or should not know from the past…"

He swung his gaze in her direction.

Christine's heart dropped then raced at the silent YOU he did not utter but spoke with his eyes. Before he could give voice to the word, she hurriedly spoke -

"You shouldn't dwell on things that only bring torment and confusion."

"Why would I not?" he incredulously rejected her helpful persuasion. "I, for one, wish to know the past that has eluded me!"

"It cannot be healthy for you."

"Healthy?"

She sought in her mind for the medieval equivalent of the word.

"In your best interest. Hale and fit – what is helpful for you to manage, in mind and in body. What if..." Christine nervously wet her lower lip with her tongue. "What if it leads to another black spell?"

His eyes glittered with scorned anger at her near whisper. "So you see me not only as a monster to be feared, but some pathetic fool you must mollycoddle and protect?!"

She winced as he disdainfully threw back her word at her.

"I never have seen you as a monster - or a fool!"

"You LIE, Madame! It is written on your face and in those eloquent eyes that hold so many unspoken secrets. I asked only for THE TRUTH between us. Yet you cannot grant me even that!"

He stormed around the cot and to the door, his hand grabbing the knob.

Desperate to stop him from leaving, Christine jumped to her feet -

"I love you..."

Neither of them moved once her soft, strangled words rang through the air.

xXx

A/N: Awww…. (About time, Chrissy!) - Next chapter will have what some of you have been begging for. ;-)