"Fools." As angry at himself as he was at the watchmen, for not knowing they would be overwhelmed by the Vicomte's authority and a sizable bribe. But then, he never imagined de Chagny would be forcing himself into the opera house when he hired the two men. They were two of only a few who were amenable to spending any time there at night at any point, much less with a partner. No one knew what happened to the Opera Ghost.

"I dunno, monsieur. The place is haunted and I have my family to consider."

"Rounds alone? Not for me. Not here"

"What if something happens to me? Who will come?"

The managers were averse to paying for two men to keep watch, but even hiring two men proved difficult. In any event, the news about the Phantom's death changed everything. Never did he think Erik was the Ghost or the nature of his relationship to the soprano would create what appears now to be a dangerous situation for the Vicomte.

The lanterns are stored on shelves next to the door leading into the lower levels. The oil is replenished in the morning, so most of the lamps he checks are almost empty. It occurs to him Raoul was likely unaware of this practice. If he did not check, as would be likely with a privileged young man, the oil would run out long before he would complete his journey.

Erik said they heard someone entering his house on the lowest level. Even leaving once he witnessed the destruction, the lamp would fail. Torches were only placed on the landings to help guide the workman back up to the main level so did not reach the lake. In any event, most would burn out before the night was over.

Nadir hopes he is wrong and finds the Vicomte at least made it back to the boat and across the lake. Perhaps even sitting on the stone steps waiting for someone to find him.

Had he been so foolish in his youth? Of course, Erik was hardly a young man, but his own actions toward Christine far surpassed Raoul's attempts now to find her. Despite spending more time with her, he still wonders what was it about this girl to drive two men to distraction and self-destruction?

When he returns to his flat, he will enjoy lighting up the samovar, preparing a pot of dark black tea and eating at least a dozen cubes of sugar while listening to Darius giving him his impressions of the couple.

Would Erik reveal anything to her of his time in Persia? The girl was not weak, by any measure, but neither he nor Darius could recall those times without becoming distressed over what happened to their friend. It was obvious from seeing Erik's body after the beatings his wounds were not the first he experienced during his, at that time, short life.

And, yet, Erik still found the ability to love someone…just as he loved Reza. So perhaps Christine has within her the same purity as his beautiful son who died too soon.

Pushing all those meandering thoughts aside, he finds the lamp oil, fills one of the larger lanterns and gathers a full packet of matches. Regret at dismissing the watchmen lasts only a moment as he enters the door to the lower levels.

Although the room was small, everything necessary for comfort was provided. The bed could sleep two, if they were not averse to being close together. A narrow window gave the illusion of more space. Perhaps washing up and changing her clothes would dispel some of the disquiet she feels, more so now after talking to Darius.

Opening one of the carpet bags looking for her personal items, she realizes immediately this is Erik's. She smiles as she lifts out one of the bars of soap he packed. Such an unusual man. Artistically, he was so disciplined in her training, she often believed he hated her. There were times she believed she might throttle him if he insisted on one more run of scales, but then transformed into her Angel of Music when his amber eyes lit up after an aria was sung to his satisfaction. Yet, he remembered soap – something she would never have thought of.

When he became a person to her…after her first performance…being led to his home beneath the opera house…she began to love him as a man. A difficult start certainly when her curiosity found her removing his mask. The rage he exhibited terrified her, but when he revealed his torment begging her forgiveness, her heart opened to him. Looking back she wonders at her rude behavior. What would Pappa have said? But then Pappa might have broken the Angel's nose at taking his daughter away as he did through a mirror. Pappa was the one, though, who had her believing in angels. Even now, the whole series of events was like a dream.

What was not a dream were the times he listened to her to grieve over her lost parent. Listening, not judging or intimating she grow up. Raoul for all his good intentions did not understand her love for her father or her love of music…or her friendship with Erik. Despite repeatedly declaring his love for her his words and actions suggested he wanted her to be someone different.

As for Erik, the fact he did frighten her at times and that his face was as ugly as any she ever saw…even at the fairs advertising such people… found him to like her just as she was…except for the further development of her voice.

The thought made her smile. As things would have it, much as Erik was obsessed with her, she found herself equally obsessed with him.

The love and affection she felt for Raoul could not match the passion she felt for Erik, however, much she tried to deny the intense feelings. The stories Darius told her about his being tortured only intensify her determination to be with him to make up for the wrongs committed against him.

His killing or creating scenarios of death did not surprise her. Sometimes taking another's life was necessary. Pappa killed a man. Crushed the man's skull from behind when the man attempted to assault her. The pressure of the dead body lying atop hers, his blood flowing onto her face still haunts her, along with the memory of the look of hatred on Pappa's face. A sip of her cough medicine soon has her back to more pleasant dreams. Much like Erik's hookah.

As for Erik, he did not kill Raoul…because of her. Was that all it took? Someone to hold him? To kiss him? Was there something more? Was it her prayer? Did God intercede? This was not the first time someone loved him. Nadir and Darius love him, so it seems. The boy Reza.

She examines the ring he has placed on her finger not once but twice. Had it belonged to the shah's sister? A simple round black diamond set in what was either white gold or platinum. Her knowledge of precious metals slim – she did not believe it was silver, however. Somehow she found it difficult to believe he had it sized to wear on his little finger and yet, this was not the type of ring she thought a woman would choose. The ring Raoul chose for her was a round white diamond surrounded by smaller diamonds, delicate and feminine…prettier in many ways. No, the black diamond was definitely Erik's.

To her it was perfect – much like him – simple lines, but with facets catching the light unexpectedly. What happened to his cloak with the cut glass and rhinestones? Likely on the corpse discovered under the bridge. Did he grieve the loss? Probably. Every piece in the bag looks to have been chosen with care and discretion. The shirts made of fine cotton. Cravats of silk…handkerchiefs of purest white linen.

Perfection to disguise a body he believes to be unworthy of affection – otherwise why would he refuse her touch. Well that would soon change. A smile curves her full pink lips. Soap and diamonds settled next to one another. All his worldly possessions, such was the dichotomy of her Angel of Music.

Upon discovering his undergarments at the bottom of the case, she slams the bag shut, blushing at her indiscretion. Faint fingermarks appear on the black leather. How had her hands gotten so greasy? The cookie, of course. Did Darius think her rude – she never even tasted the cookie, simply let it crumble to pieces on her lap.

The bathroom is just outside her door. Maybe a wash will calm her. The small warm room, the unusual cooking smells, this stranger telling her gruesome stories of Erik's past leaves her feeling strange and confused. Opening the other bag, she riffles though her own less than carefully packed items to remove a few bottles Erik gave her along with fresh undergarments.

The bathroom is another simple room – absent of the Middle Eastern charm of the sitting room. A ceramic tub with a white shower curtain is in one corner. The toilet in another. Quickly attending to her needs, she hopes the flush is not so loud as to disturb her host. Will he even be aware of her movements…his own were so quiet…smooth? Years of being a servant…slave. She trusts he is for those very reasons. Oh, well. Pappa was always considerate of her needs. "Nature is nature, dotter. Nothing to be embarrassed about."

Everything about Erik is so pristine – neat, clean, orderly. Despite her acceptance he is a man, not an angel, there is still something about him to make his seem not quite human in many respects. Otherworldly – from the travel, from the abuse…from killing? Making amends. Would her untidiness bother him?

The sink and countertop take up most of the far wall. Removing her clothes, she soaps the fresh cloth she finds on the counter to cleanse, then rinse her private areas. Once dry, she opens one of the bottles, screwing her nose up at the smell, she reads the label - laudanum. "Well, I have no need for this right now." Thankful, however, for having the pain killer handy. The other bottle contains a lotion scented with gardenia. "Much more suitable," she mutters, brushing aside thoughts of death, as she rubs the fragrant cream into her skin.

After scrubbing her round cheeks, she rinses her face, dabbing it dry with a soft white towel, gazing at herself in the rectangular mirror. The deep blue eyes are her best feature she always thought, even though her vision itself was lacking. Whatever other argument there might be in returning to the dressing room, she must get the bag she brought with her when she left the de Chagny house – it contained her glasses…and her blue dress.

A round face, narrowing slightly at the chin. Straight nose, with a hint of a bump, turns up slightly at the tip. Despite her fair coloring, the lashes are dark and long. A pretty girl, Pappa said. Heads did not turn when she walked by as they did with Sorelli. A glimmer of a scowl often present when not wearing her glasses was likely off-putting. Madame Giry was always reminding her to smile.

"One must please the patrons, even when your feet hurt."

"I squint because I cannot see well without my glasses."

"Then you are lucky, most of them are rather coarse looking for all their money – smile about that!"

Unlike most of the other rats with their flat chests, her breasts were full, always creating problems for the seamstresses because her costumes had to be specially crafted to accommodate her fuller figure. When she began performing as a singer, the ladies in wardrobe were happy they could return to sewing identical costumes for the ballet girls.

"Now anyone can wear anything."

A narrow waist curves into wide hips…once again a part of her body not suitable for the dance but disguised nicely by the short skirts and tutus. The triangle of curly hair, several shades darker than the locks draped over her shoulders, is not visible in the mirror, but she is very aware of that part of her anatomy.

What would his body be like? Being in the theater, she was quite accustomed to seeing the male dancers walking about backstage, often completely nude, proud of their muscular frames. The rats, those who had partnered with patrons would describe their private parts and how with as little as a gentle touch would grow hard.

There were times with Raoul when he held her close, she felt him press himself against her and his body would change. Was this what the girls talked about? When they were young, swimming in the sea, she recalls his skin was almost as soft and unblemished as her own. Of course they were children, but judging from his hands, she suspects nothing has changed.

After the stories Darius told her, she supposes Erik is scarred. How badly? Did he still feel pain from the whippings? Was that the reason for the large bottle of laudanum? How could anyone treat another human being that way? How does one survive such treatment?

Touching herself lightly, she wonders – would Erik like her body? He loved her singing. Pappa told her her voice was her gift and her goodness. Pure. Whatever that meant.

The feelings she has now are less than pure. What sort of girl is she – learning the man she loves was tortured and might have been a murderer and she is imagining what he looks like naked.

The ablutions complete, she decides put on the Il Muto costume again. A dress would be too difficult to run in. Not that she was going anywhere. The bed was welcoming, but she has no desire to rest or even sit down. Instead of calming her, the tea seemed to excite her nerves.

When would Erik return? What was she supposed to do with herself until he returned? Why not let Nadir handle Raoul? Why did Raoul not understand? Even without Erik she did not want him. If Raoul knows he is alive, though, he will turn him in to the police. Would Erik kill him to save himself? She could not allow that to happen. Not now. Now that he was free of his past. Now they were bonded to one another.

Pulling the door open, she calls out, "M. Darius. M. Darius, I need my coat."

"Mademoiselle?" he says, stepping out of the kitchen as if waiting for her command. "If you are cold, there are blankets…"

"No, I need my coat," Christine insists, heading for the door. "I must go back to the Opera House."

"You cannot, please. Whatever the difficulties you imagine, Nadir and Erik can handle," he says, following on her heels.

"My former fiancé is the difficulty and I believe I am the only one who can handle him" is her reply. "Now, I must have my coat."

Sighing deeply, Darius nods. Taking her coat from the rack near the door, he helps her put it on. Then reaches for his own coat.

"Where are you going?"

"With you," he says, standing in front of the door. "I will not have you out by yourself or I would find myself dead by the hands of either Nadir or Erik. Besides one more person dealing with your former fiancé who seems to be causing all this upset might be useful."

Erik suspects the two men the cab passes when they turn into the alley are the watchmen the daroga hoped might assist him in locating Raoul. Their disconsolate state suggests Nadir discovered they were likely bribed to allow him in and were summarily dismissed.

"Wait where you first picked us up at the Rue Scribe gate," he tells the cabby, handing him a few coins. "Hopefully it will not be for too long a time."

Jumping down from the carriage and checks the stage door – unlocked. If those supposed watchmen do come back for any reason, Erik will be certain they are dismissed immediately for leaving the door open to anyone – especially the Opera Ghost.

There is no sign of Nadir. The vicomte is not worth challenging the five levels alone, whatever were you thinking, my friend?

Repeating the daroga's examination of the lanterns, he finds one close to full, checks his matches and enters the cavernous belly of the Palais Garnier. Any hope of seeing the light of Nadir's lantern fades as he moves carefully down to the third level – the torch is nearly burned out. Even his long experience traversing the stone stairways, finds him cautious, especially now with the new construction. Taking special care to check the area where he built one of his traps – where Joseph Buquet met his end – he is relieved to find nothing amiss.

But where is Nadir?

Secure in his belief Raoul is still in the house, being unable to find his way back to the stairs, he calls out. "Daroga?"

A weak voice, full of relief replies, "Erik?"

"Yes."

"Praise, Allah! I tripped, dropped my lantern."

"I am coming." Erik moves swiftly down another level of stairs. "Keep talking."

"My leg may be broken."

"Of course it is. The worst possibly situation. I would not have it any other way." The light from the lamp reveals the older man lying on his side, pressed against a stone wall, his left leg bent, his hand rubbing the knee cap. "You look comfortable."

"I suppose it could be worse, I might have fallen off the stairs and fractured my skull."

"In that event, you would be dead and dealing with whatever issues arise on the other side. That, or the ridiculous hat you wear would have prevented any major damage." Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the small vial of laudanum. "Here take a sip it will help with the pain."

"Morphine still?"

"When appropriate," Erik cuts him short. "Lie still while I examine your leg. Where is the pain most severe?"

"My right ankle twisted and I fell on my left knee." Sucking his breath in sharply. "There."

"Drink the laudanum," Erik says. "No breaks as far as I can tell, the patella is a fairly strong bone. Just a sprain thankfully."

Nadir grimaces at the taste of the tincture. "How you bear the taste of this I cannot imagine."

"Next time I will bring sugar cubes."

"Very funny," Nadir grumbles. "Now what?"

"Down into the depths," Erik says, taking back the medication. "Walking down stairs will be easier on both of us than climbing up. There are still some supplies in my house to deal with your injury."

"What about Raoul?"

"If he is still alive, this costume may be sufficient to fool him."

"If not?"

"We shall cross that bridge when we come to it." Stooping down, he supports Nadir as he pulls himself up onto his good leg. "Keep an eye out for a piece of wood you can use as a crutch – they seem to be littered all over the place."

"There should not be any scrap being left about," Nadir says. "The workmen have been warned."

"Yes, well, there are many things in life that should not be, but then, there they are," Erik smirks, "like your watchmen."

"The magnitude of the repairs needed are beyond my original estimation."

"You just need a better foreman."

"You?"

"At one time, I might have said yes, but I find I am growing tired of this place."

"I thought we discussed this."

"Yes, well, I have not made any final decisions yet," Erik replies. Getting a good grip on the Persian, he take the first step, bracing him for the first step. "Those sugar cubes?"

"What about them?"

"I suggest you cut back."