A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews! :) And now...

Chapter XXXVII

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Never in all his life, in the century once inhabited and surely in this archaic one to which they had mysteriously been cast, did a voice so pure and transcendent exist. He had made a creative decision for Christine to sing the finale of their diverse repertoire without the aid of his rebec or Bertram's reed, the crystalline notes that issued from her throat in no need of instrumental accompaniment and lending an emotive intensity to the haunting words to hear her voice alone.

Erik stood in the shadows near the crowd of townspeople who had gathered and watched his enchanting bride as she stood on the makeshift stage, entwining the audience within the silken chords of her melodic voice as she sang poetry he'd once read with lines he had reshaped and set to music to fit this era.

A deeper recollection of his life had returned to him, including his hard-earned skill as a composer. However, the memories retained of the renegade leader, those days he never once lived but somehow had known, became more blurred with the passing of each new dawn. A definite drawback when living within this unfamiliar world, expected by the men to recall all or at least most of what Le Masque had undergone in past years. It helped that they were familiar with his "black moods" and loss of passage of time, which he could blame for his forgetfulness, though a few looked upon him now and then with suspicion. As if they sensed he was not in authenticity their true leader. Special moments in this medieval world with Christine before he had come to himself thankfully either remained or returned, some with the aid of her vivid recounting, though others were regrettably hazy. At least no further black moods had struck, since the day his memory had been returned to him, weeks ago, and he had no recurrences of a lapse of identity - all new memories formed his to possess.

As his enchanting bride relayed the tragic tale of the highwayman and his lover, he noticed a new quality to her voice that only the experience of heartache could fashion. A depth of intensity in her expressive portrayal that enriched her voice with a maturity beyond the innocence of her angelic performance in Hannibal or the naive seductress of Don Juan…

"The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding –
Riding – riding –
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.

"Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair…"

As she sang the last line, Christine brought her fingertips softly down her profuse locks of long curls that hung over one shoulder, her wide dark eyes behind the ivory mask of suede he had helped her to fashion scanning the audience.

Searching…

Aware of what she sought, he quietly stepped out from the shadows.

As though she caught his unhurried motion at the flank of the approximate forty villagers gathered there, she turned slightly and looked over the heads of the crowd to find and lock eyes with his. The next verse she sang, of the moonlit tête-à-tête between the notorious highwayman and Bess, Christine never once looked away from his masked face. Erik sent her a heartfelt smile of approval and nodded, noting her lips she had stained an alluring red with the juice of a crushed berry turn up in joyful response.

How he desired to take her behind the curtain at this very moment and seek their flavor…

"One kiss my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by the moonlight,
Watch for me by the moonlight,
I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way…"

With apparent reluctance in the slow measure she took, Christine broke eye contact with him to engage the audience, as he'd taught her, and for the first time he also looked away from his beloved, to gauge the crowd's reaction with a critical eye. Satisfied that their attention never wavered from his masked beauty who bewitched them with her song, they stood as if entranced, which came as no surprise.

What did come as a shock was the sight of one of his band in the distance, the realization of what Erik witnessed serving to sweep every vestige of pleasure Christine's song had brought him and replace it with a livid anger he was hard pressed to contain.

While his gifted bride continued the lengthy ballad describing the soldiers' invasion of the inn and their cruel captivity of young Bess as they lay in wait for the highwayman to fall into their trap, the Phantom slipped furtively from the crowd to shadow the fool insurgent and take him unaware.

The opportunity came behind a ramshackle building, the narrow path empty of any onlookers – all those within the small village able to spare half an hour away from their daily grind a part of the audience to the traveling show. He withdrew the rope from his cloak, and with one swift move of skilled precision the noose effortlessly found its target around the usurper's throat.

Marcel gagged and brought his hands up to his neck as Erik viciously pulled the rope, bringing the fool backwards and slamming him against the wall of wood while bracing his arm beneath the noose that encircled his neck. The man's black eyes were wide with fear, his expression taut with hate.

"Give it over!" Erik demanded in a low voice that brooked no refusal. "Now…" He pressed harder.

Marcel gagged and dipped a hasty hand into his tunic to withdraw the drawstring purse he had filched from one of the bystanders. Erik scowled and grabbed it with his free hand.

"I ordered that you were no longer to steal," Erik bit out softly, not letting go of his threatening hold.

"We are thieves," Marcel rasped, "not canaries and dancing monkeys!"

His contrariness was like a white-hot knife pounded against the anvil of Erik's anger, his immediate wish to end the troublemaker's life, as he might have done months ago. Only his promise to Christine eased the deadly pressure he had exerted against the pulse that beat erratically in the scoundrel's throat.

"If you wish to loot the entire kingdom absent from the band, it is no concern of mine. I want you gone - take your things, leave, and never come back."

"The men will not hear of it," Marcel dared to gasp, rubbing his throat that Erik reluctantly freed. "They fought to free me! They will not allow you to do to me what you did to Richard."

"Do not try me, monsieur – you will not be pleased with the results. When they learn that you put their lives at risk by your foolhardy action, I will have no need to convince them that you do not belong with us. They should have left you to rot in the Vicomte's dungeon! "

The former Opera Ghost who once relied on the fatality of violence as a method to stop the madness fought for calm, reminded of the senseless tragedy he had then wrought by allowing his conflicted emotions to overtake him. He took a deep, stabilizing breath.

"You were given a choice to stay or go but to abide by my demands if you chose to stay. You have betrayed the band, betrayed my trust. If ever I see your face again, your fate will be worse than Richard's. Next time, I will squeeze every vile breath from your lungs, slowly, and damn your soul to everlasting hell..."

The thieving fool would endure soreness and the difficulty to speak for a day or more, but he had not killed him. This time. Surely, that was progress.

Erik pulled back in irate disgust and left, knowing he must act quickly to rectify the situation before an alarm was raised and the audience turned in a furor against the troubadours – against Christine!

Once Erik returned to the market square he noted that she was mid-song, the trussed young Bess sacrificing her life with a soldier's musket they had propped against her, the shot warning her approaching lover of their menacing presence. Many a damp eye could be seen, and he detected the shimmer of wetness against his Angel's cheeks beneath the mask as she put her heart into the tragic words.

It would be so easy to lose himself within her voice, as happened each time she lifted it in song, but he must keep a clear head and act with all haste before the haunting ballad drew to a close and disaster struck.

He quickly walked to the area where those of his band had gathered and motioned Tobias to follow him. Once they moved a short distance from the crowd, hidden away in the shadows, he relayed his plan to the boy, handing him the stolen sack that held a few paltry coins. Hardly worth the trouble Marcel had brought down upon their heads.

"You are to return this to that man…" Erik pointed him out. "Tell him you saw a small lad steal his purse and chased him down to get it back. If he tries to give you coin as reward, do not accept it. It could bring suspicion that it was planned and you were part of the theft."

"Aye, milord," the lad said without hesitation, eager to please, though by his solemn expression he understood the gravity of the situation.

"I will watch from here to see that nothing untoward happens to you," Erik assured with an unexpected pull to see to the boy's safety. "Go quickly, before the ballad ends and the crowd disperses."

Tobias nodded and sped away toward the oblivious victim who stood at the rear of the crowd. The boy approached from behind and spoke. The heavyset man turned, the boy's head coming as high as his chest –a cherubic David approaching the mighty Goliath. Immediately Tobias handed up the bag to him, speaking what Erik assumed was the explanation given him. The peasant's hand went to the hilt of the blade he hid in his sash, and likewise the Phantom moved the rope through his hands, ready to intervene, dryly thinking he should have armed Tobias with a slingshot instead. Ready to spring forward at the first sign of conflict, he watched the man hesitate then drop his hand from his dagger and accept the bag with a brusque nod. Tobias scurried away, to the front of the stage and the rest of the band. The beefy man did not resume watching the performance, but instead lumbered away, his gait rapid.

Erik scowled, alert to the strong possibility of trouble brewing beneath the surface of the placid gathering despite his best efforts to mend all damage done. Through the weekend he had planned for them to stay in this village, performing three shows a day, but now they dare not tarry.

He brought his attention once more to his bride, feeling a jolt go through his blood to see that her focus was fixed upon him. Even from this distance, he sensed the concern in her eyes, though any bystander would erroneously attribute her solemnity of expression to matching the tone of song. Swiftly he tucked the Punjab back into his cloak as she continued to sing -

"He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know she stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew gray to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there."

Erik slowly made his way to the front, keeping to the fringes of the crowd and amongst the shadows, aware Christine's eyes followed him the entire time.

"Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
with the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat.
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat."

Erik came to a stop near the front and somberly stared up at her. He inclined his head in a slow nod of acknowledgement and knew she would recognize in that gesture a reminder from teacher to pupil to connect with the audience.

Instantly she brought her troubled gaze to the center of the crowd, looking out over the sea of faces and finishing the ghostly tale…

"And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding –
Riding – riding –
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

"Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there,
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair."

The last expressive note flowed with poignant gentleness into the warm, still air and faded away like those ghosts of whom she sung. The audience stood spellbound, a few women dabbing at their eyes with their kerchiefs or sleeves. Once all who watched realized the song had concluded, a loud hurrah came as appreciation, a few calling out the name "La Diva!" as she had been christened and introduced. Erik brought his hands together in applause for his beloved's glorious talent. Those nearest him followed his example, until the villagers were all applauding. A few of the more affluent threw coins up onto the stage, which two of the children from their band hastily scooped into small sacks.

Christine gave a low deep curtsy, crossing her arms over her breasts and bowing her head in gratitude, then gracefully rose to stand. Her eyes immediately pinpointed Erik's, but before she could leap off the crude stage that stood half his height, as she seemed intent on doing with the sudden steps she took in his direction, he quickened his stride and scrambled up onto the platform to meet her.

"Erik, what's wrong?" she greeted him. "What has happened?"

He took hold of her arm. With a solemn nod of acknowledgement and a lift of his hand in farewell to the cheering crowd to keep up appearances that all was well, he brought her with him behind the drape of a curtain. The coarse cloth consisted of no more than two blankets spread end to end, looped over and sewn over a stretched rope and all of what shielded their backstage area.

"One of the men took it upon himself to resort to old methods and commit robbery during your performance," he said in an undertone. "Marcel is no longer with us."

"No longer…" Her eyes widened, her manner anxious, as though she wished to question but dared not do so, and he recalled that she had spotted him with his Punjab lasso.

"No, Christine, I did not eliminate him," he said wearily, though with their history he could not blame her for instantly arriving to that conclusion. "I ordered him to go and attempted to rectify the problem, but I cannot be certain that I was successful. I seem to be more adept at playing the hated villain than the noble knight," he added sardonically. "Perhaps because I have more experience with the former role and am sadly lacking in the latter one."

"Oh, Erik, that's not true."

It was foolish to argue the point with her; he knew that from experience. How she had come to place such faith in him was a mystery all its own. He took hold of her hand and lifted it to his lips, brushing a brief kiss to her palm.

"The wronged has had his purse returned to him, but I do not trust that he will not raise a cry of alarm and stir the villagers to riot against us. We must pack up and leave at once. Tell the women. I'll alert the men."

She nodded, and he cradled her head in his palms and kissed the frown that had risen to wrinkle her forehead. "It will be alright, mon amour. I will not let anything bad happen to you."

She nodded, though he could still see the worry cloud her dark eyes. Catching sight of Tobias with Bertram, he bestowed a quick parting kiss, to her lips this time, and set off in the brothers' direction.

On hindsight, to conclude the stage show with a ballad about the capture of a notorious highwayman and his love, ending in their bloody demise, was perhaps not the most auspicious move for an erstwhile band of thieves. But he had thought those who had chosen to remain would honor his command to put a life of larceny behind them.

He should have known better. After his deplorable experience with those fools at the opera house of his century, what made him think that the scoundrels in this one would honor his word as final?

At least the mischief-monger would cause no further trouble. Above all else, Erik would ensure that Christine remain safe and well. It was the one vow he swore to honor, always, as his first priority. Never again would she be made to suffer due to foolish choices he had made.

xXx

The sun was just beginning to set, gilding the forest with its retiring breath of pure gold and outlining each falling petal with a rim of muted light.

Shailene took a moment to enjoy the majestic panorama before turning back to complete the potion that would bring a morning dew of fuchsia, sapphire and violet flora where before there had been only wood rot. It was one benefit of the demeaning punishment the queen forced upon her - the ability to create beauty in the forest. Where before there was bleak emptiness, Shailene produced a bounty of color.

And yet it was not in this matter that she felt the true necessity for her intervention…

In the slow progression of time, Queen Viviane had granted her return of a little more of her powers, though never enough to make a true difference. Bradon, being a halfling, had few abilities, but together they had linked their Fae skills to manage what was necessary -

He, to enter two eras and give aid to the whipped boy with a message of warning for Erik to flee, and later, to help rescue his nephew, beaten, shot and caged by the Vicomte of the 19th century...

She, to give what guidance she could to Christine, directing her and Erik away from impending danger.

Yet it wasn't enough… Neither she nor Bradon could spend more than an hour away from the forest without coming under suspicion, and in doing that, not often. The queen's spies were everywhere, many of whom were unknown.

"Shailene, may we speak?"

Shailene tensed at the last voice she expected to hear and turned to confront her sister. One summer apart in age, but often Shailene felt like the eldest, by decades.

"Lillith." She said nothing more, wary and curious as to her presence there. The expression in her iridescent eyes also gave Shailene pause. She seemed...undone. A look she had rarely if ever seen on her usually aloof sibling.

"I have something I would like to ask you," she began and paused, when Shailene offered no further encouragement. "I understand your hesitance to speak with me."

"Can you blame me?" Shailene said at last, a trace of remembered anger hardening her words. "You threatened my family. More than that – you actively took part in trying to destroy them."

"Yes, you're right." Lillith sighed. "This was a mistake. I don't know what I was thinking. I'll go now."

She turned away with head bowed. Shailene had never seen her sister more dejected. It stirred something inside her heart, an emotion akin to empathy yet with caution at its core.

"Wait."

Shailene set down the bottle of morning dewdrops she'd been about to pour into the blending pot and gave her full attention to her sister.

"What is it you wish to say?"

Lillith took a moment to respond. She moved in Shailene's direction and took a seat on the moss-covered rock nearby. "I have wondered…if you assume the glamour beyond what is advised - for more than a day - how long before all mortal emotions cease and you return to what you are?"

Shailene shook her head. "It is immediate. There is no limit of time."

"What? But no – there must be!"

Shailene regarded her sister curiously, noting the desperation that shone from her eyes.

"Perhaps you should explain in more detail. What exactly have you done, Lillith?"

In halted words, studded with little resigned exhalations of breath, the story came tumbling out.

It did not surprise Shailene to learn of Lillith's interference to capture Le Masque in the century to which she'd sent him, her intrusive actions continual in tearing down what Shailene and Bradon worked hard to accomplish to aid his mortal family. She was somewhat astonished to learn that Lillith gave herself over to intimate relations with the bandit, something her sister had sworn never to do with a mortal after she first learned of Shailene's punishment. Her excuse that she wanted to keep him there until the appointed time of the Vicomte's arrival held no weight when matched with the lack of usual sparkle in her tone whenever she normally spoke of her spiteful actions against mankind.

But to learn that Lillith risked discovery - risked the queen's wrath - to find the masked brigand and ensure Erik's friend did as well, even doing what little Fae magic she could undetected, so that he would not perish, completely astounded her. Bradon never told her any of this after assisting the Persian gentleman in Le Masque's rescue, but perhaps he did not know his aunt had assumed the glamour of a maid at the Vicomte's estate. Lillith could be very secretive when she wished it.

"I think, from what you have told me," Shailene began carefully, "that you have deep feelings for this man. Perhaps you have even come to love him."

"Impossible," Lillith immediately countered with a sniff. "He is mortal; I am Fae. We Fae are not burdened by such things as love."

Shailene gave a little scoffing laugh. "Who told you such rot?"

"No one needed to tell me. I have never known any of our kind to be plagued by such foolish emotion."

"Mother and father," Shailene contradicted gently.

Lillith winced. "I don't remember."

Or perhaps she did not want to remember. She had not been there the day of the trial, likely due to a sense of guilt in spreading tales that unbeknownst to her would result in their parents' capture. But Shailene had hidden herself to watch – had seen and heard and would never forget: For their betrayal to speak against the queen and incite others to act against her, they were exiled from the Fae kingdom, to endure the fate of the stones. How well Shailene recalled her mother on bended knee, pleading with their sovereign not to separate her from her husband but to send them together to the same era of time, her father also begging to remain with his wife – ultimately granted their request and accepting of their fate without a word for or about their two daughters. Shailene sighed, pushing that painful memory to the back of her mind.

"You cannot choose not to love," Shailene spoke, "Or even who to love. The heart decides."

Lillith shook her head, as if refusing to heed the verity of such counsel. "What of you? How long until the spell wore off did the manipulated love you felt for your mortal leave you?"

"Who said it did?"

Lillith's eyes widened. "Then you are still under its spell?"

"The only spell and manipulation involved was in his capture of me as I sat by the brook, unaware. Once he manacled me with the witch's talisman, so I could not use my powers, and locked me away in his tower, I loathed him for weeks after that, despising the very sight of him when he approached each day. Love came slowly, through little kindnesses shown and interests shared, but it was natural. Not induced by magic."

"How can it be natural?" Lillith insisted. "You were from two different worlds."

Perhaps she put herself at peril to speak so candidly with her sister who often boasted that she worked for the queen, but Lillith had also put herself at risk, to seek Shailene out and unburden her heart. Unless this was all a trap…

Immediately Shailene discounted the idea. Lillith was not one to set herself up as bait – she wanted full accountability for any action that would be considered a triumph by her liege.

"Love cannot be pigeon-holed into a convenient slot, sister. It was as natural as the air I breathe and the beats of my heart. I swore to the queen I no longer cared, but I lied. I lied for Bradon's sake, that he might know protection and the ease of the Fae life. He is all I have left of Gregory and our love."

She sighed. Time had healed the deepest wounds, but the loneliness of losing a companion so dear still sometimes ate away at her soul. And she hated that now her son had become the queen's plaything, wishing to put a stop to such manipulations. Powerless to act with what would be considered yet another betrayal…

She brought her conflicted thoughts to the problem at hand.

"Tell me this, Lillith. You clearly do not wish ill to come upon Le Masque, so what is it that you seek? Is it not working in opposition to what you desire to initiate his destruction for the queen's favor?"

"I have no wish to see him destroyed," Lillith countered testily. "But ever since the Persian found Le Masque in the Vicomte's dungeon and took him back to the Phantom's lair to tend him, he has not woken. His sleep is unnatural and deep and I had no part in that. Only with his capture - but I had no idea it would result in a struggle for his life!"

How characteristic of her sister to act on impulse and come to remorse later. Yet Shailene found she could not easily dismiss her or her words, when for once it seemed they worked toward a common goal.

"What do you want from me?" Shailene lifted her hands in question. With little to no powers, her abilities were limited and it frustrated her to no end, whereas her sister had a bountiful supply. "What can I do?"

"I want you to make a restorative potion that will bring him to full wakefulness."

"Are you sure that's wise?"

Lillith regarded her in disbelief. "Why would you ask such a thing? I thought you wanted to help your former lover's descendants!"

"Le Masque does not belong to that epoch of time and can find himself in even greater danger when he awakens. Perhaps it is best that he remain unaware for the present."

Lillith drew her brows together, clearly not pleased with Shailene's suggestion.

"If we interfere, we put him at greater risk. Do you not see? Le Masque comes from a time when to fight by the blade is the expected standard – a much more violent era than the genteel one of his descendant's time and one that could put him in prison or an asylum, since in the middle ages there are some who still believe in our existence. Yet it is rare to find such belief in the century to which Erik and Christine belong. Should Le Masque be overheard to speak of magic spells and the Fae as being truths, he could be considered quite mad – or, from what you told me, he still does not understand he is in a future century and the discovery could put him over the edge. Not to mention he is a wanted man, since all believe him to be the Phantom. Erik and Christine have acknowledged their placement in a former time and have coped surprisingly well together, though they are still in grave danger."

"There is nothing I can do about that."

"Is there not?" Shailene said with certainty that the opposite was true. "There is only one manner by which all three of them can prosper, even survive, and that is to be returned each to their own era."

"You ask the impossible," Lillith countered with a huff. "That kind of magic requires great involvement – Queen Viviane would surely find out I betrayed her and I would be exiled and sent away from all that is Fae."

"There is that risk," Shailene agreed solemnly. "Even with employing every caution, she has spies everywhere."

"Then why do it?" Lillith insisted. "Why put yourself in such a perilous position, especially when you are well on your way to regaining the queen's favor? You know if you are caught, she will not extend mercy a second time. You will be exiled – lose your immortality - likely cast into another time through the stones. You and Bradon both, if he is involved in your plan."

Shailene gave a slow nod. In her sister's words, she did not hear a threat but a caution and knew Lillith spoke from a grudging concern. Perhaps she, too, thought of their parents. And it was for this reason she did not conceal her motives.

"I do it for the same cause that brought you here to me, today, to find aid for the one who has grown dear to your heart. What use is immortality if it cannot be shared with those you love?"

Lillith averted her eyes as if she did not want to hear what she preferred to ignore; but neither did she contradict Shailene's words.

"I do not wish for Gregory's family to suffer any longer. He is gone now, but in helping his descendants, I feel as if I am helping him. Family was important to him. Le Masque is Bradon's nephew, Erik is his descendant through generations, the Vicomte of that century his relation as well. And the curse that has been cast upon the de Chagny men for hundreds of years has brought them nothing but the pain of heartache and love lost. It is time to put a stop to all of it."

Her own story mirrored her words, and she recalled with melancholy fondness the vows spoken in a secret ceremony between her and Gregory, expressing their heartfelt commitment to one another, moments before the queen's soldiers found Shailene and dragged her away, separating her from her beloved for all time.

A niggling sense of dread made her think of what she had learned of Erik and his Christine and their struggle to be together. They were separated once before, after the opera house fire of their century, and she knew that wicked forces had been set in motion to destroy their bond again. In part, due to her sister…but now, Lillith seemed changed – not the vindictive and vengeful sprite she had been when last she visited this part of the forest. Even, perhaps, remorseful though she would never admit to that.

Shailene's voice took on a softer, more persuasive tone. "I would hope that you would join me in this worthwhile endeavor, but if not, at least promise you will do nothing to thwart my efforts this time. There is nothing I can give you to bring Le Masque to full wakefulness – only strong magic can do that if he is in the deepest of sleep. But I can give you a restorative potion that will go undetected by the queen and surpasses mortal medicine, to help him heal from his wounds. I will need to gather a few of the ingredients by the light of the moon when the Luna flower blooms. I can have it ready tonight."

Lillith gave a resigned nod. "I will return for it then." She moved to leave.

A restless urgency overcame Shailene, a niggling sense that she must attempt to put matters right between them, and she confessed what she should have said long ago.

"I misspoke when last we talked," she admitted.

Lillith halted and turned in question.

"I was angry with you for what you had done, for how you so often charge ahead without considering the consequences, and I allowed you to believe an untruth. I should have told you at the time…."

A wary look entered Lillith's eyes, but she nodded for Shailene to go on.

"You were not responsible for what happened to our parents; they did not leave because of anything you said or did. I was at the closed trial that day, hidden behind a tree, and I heard everything. Your words did not help, but had you never spoken, they would have still been seized and brought before the queen. The wheels for their arrest were in motion long before you said anything to Falena. You could not have known at the time that your supposed friend was a spy."

As Shailene watched, it seemed as if a weight lifted off Lillith's shoulders, the tenseness leaving her posture and an expression of relief softening her gaze. Shailene had been wrong to think her sister did not care and at once realized that the icy hardness had been a sham to cover her true feelings.

"Did they…did they say anything about me or have any words to leave with me before they were exiled?"

How Shailene would love to say yes, to assure her sister that their last thoughts while in the Fae world were of their two daughters...

"I believe that they felt it in our best interest to remain here," Shailene began carefully, "with those of our kind."

Lillith pursed her lips in weary disgust. "Thank you for that, but I know what they were like. They simply did not care about us."

Shailene looked away and began fidgeting with the vials of potions. There was nothing more to be said.

It was perhaps the chief reason that she felt so strongly about family, the wish for a closeness of kinship she never had, and made it her mission to try to save Gregory's descendants. He, and of course Bradon, had been to her more family than her own.

Many an occasion she had fantasized about using the stones to go back into time, to find Gregory and flee to another part of the world before they could be discovered. But fantasy was all it could ever be. To alter history, even the slightest, could have detrimental effects on the future to come. Nor could she leave her son behind. Even if he agreed to enter into the past with her, there forever to dwell, that in itself was a massive alteration of what had been since he had not yet been born...

She hoped she had imparted to her sister how crucial it was that each of Gregory's descendants return to their true placement in time. Nothing that could introduce drastic change had been practiced – yet. But each day that Erik and Christine remained lost in the past, with the advanced knowledge of their world as a guide, the chance of interference became far greater.

Not only could their lives be destroyed by something so simple and deadly as a slip of the tongue – but the pattern of what had been a reality in their own epoch of time could be forever twisted, should he, for instance, take a life. Or shape one to follow a different path –

Resulting in the elimination of ideas, even souls that would never be born and the creation of those that were never meant to be.

xXx

A/N: I took the lyrics for The Highwayman from the poem by Alfred Noyes, written a few decades after their time in the 19th century, so taking a bit of artistic license (but then again, time is relative in this story! lol) If you want to hear the tune that was in my head while Christine sang, look up Loreena Mckennitt's version of "The Highwayman" on Youtube – she took the poem and made it into a song, though for some reason she left out the last stanza of it, with Bess at the window - but that's the tune that was running through my head as I wrote this. :) (And I just had to reunite the ghost lovers in my own story. lol)