A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) Please note: (for future chapters especially) while some of the legendary lore of the "haves and have nots" will be traditional, I'll be doing my own thing too. And now…


III

.

The pane of glass reflected Christine's somber image, and she looked into it with idle curiosity.

The oval mirror in the carved gilt frame was old, the glass decades in age for certain, perhaps even a century or more – the pane used dark and murky, unlike those at the Opera House, or the looking glass that had belonged to Madame Valerius. Still, the mirror proved adequate enough to reveal Christine's features from the bust up and was the sole source of reflection provided her in the bedchamber she'd been given.

Standing alone in her shift and the corset a maid had earlier helped her lace, Christine ran her fingertips over the narrow red line alongside her neck, beneath her ear, where the dark stranger's mouth had boldly strayed. His mask must contain a sharp edge that had lightly split her skin, a minor wound, but on her lily-white neck the scratch stood out like a red flag.

Wishing to avoid bothersome questions that would necessitate another lie, she chose from her repertoire of four dresses, carefully selected from costume racks at the Opera House, a high-necked day dress of black silk and lace similar to Madame Giry's mourning style of fashion. A soft ruff of chiffon encircled the neck almost to her chin and a network of tiny scarlet flowers on a vine of emerald gave a smattering of colorful relief to the edging of the sleeves and hemline.

Earlier, a servant knocked on her door to relay the message that her presence was required in the earl's study.

A quarter of an hour after that, Christine stood in a fluster of dismay and disbelief before him, where he sat behind his desk and regarded her with his usual pompous disapproval.

"But, my lord – a ball? And so soon?"

"I spoke of it on previous occasions."

He plucked up a reed from a narrow jar of them, held it to the flame of a candle and lit his pipe - likely too stingy to strike a lucifer to spark each time he indulged in his habitual vice. Taking a few puffs, he leaned back in his chair and blew out a cloud of smoke that encircled her head and made her want to choke or quite possibly retch.

She waved her hand in front of her nose. He stared at her with amused arrogance.

"I informed you of my plans to find you a husband. What better time to begin than that of a harvest ball?"

He chuckled at his poor joke, the sound gruff, as if laughter found it foreign to emit from his throat. Christine barely held her tongue from expressing her disgust - for him and for his plan.

She had no desire for a husband, not yet, and certainly did not wish one hand-picked by this horrid excuse for a relation.

"I would rather you didn't put yourself to the trouble," she said as politely as she could manage. "I don't want a ball."

"Oh, come now," he countered. "You're a child of the theater and well acquainted with dancing before an audience. Where is the difference?"

There was a world of difference! On stage, she was another character, lost among a host of other characters – all playing out a role. But a ball held in her honor would be focused on Christine Daaé alone, and she did not appreciate the unwanted attention. Despite that she had been raised a thespian she jealously guarded her privacy and often opted for solitude during cast parties, attending them briefly or not at all.

Her uncle cast his hypercritical gaze up and down her form. "I trust you have a more suitable gown to wear for the occasion than what I have seen since your arrival."

Christine saw her chance and took it. "I own no ball gown. They are far too expensive for a chorus girl's salary. All I brought with me is courtesy of the Opera." In that establishment, she would have borrowed the dress, and for the one ball she'd attended, in the New Year, she did. But this was not the Opera, and certainly no seamstress could fashion a gown in such a ridiculously short span of time. "If you must host a ball, then please extend the date. I should think a month would be sufficient."

She would speak with Raoul and convince him, plead if she must, to take her away from Montmarte and back to Paris long before that day arrived.

"The invitations were delivered two weeks ago…"

Two weeks? She had only known about the wretched ball for four days!

He waved a careless hand. "Find a dress of Lucy's to wear – she certainly has a plentiful wardrobe of them."

"Lucy...?!" Christine replied in consternation. "She is at least a head shorter." Not to mention that she possessed more ample breasts, though Christine certainly made no mention of the fact. Where Christine was tall for a woman and slender, Lucy was well-rounded but still petite for her size.

Anything Lucy owned would be sadly deficient.

"Hire a seamstress to alter the dress."

"But – four days?! That hardly gives enough time for such an extensive makeover –"

"I have no interest in how women's affairs are accomplished. That is your concern. The ball begins at seven o'clock in the evening this Saturday. Do not be late. Oh…" He speared her with his frosty ice-blue eyes. "Through my late wife I learned the tricks women use to excuse themselves from tasks in which they have no wish to partake. If you should employ one of these tricks and plead a headache for example, be assured, I will give orders for the maids to drag you from your bed, dress you and escort you to the ball."

Such a hateful man! If only she had the means to hire a carriage to take her back to Paris, she would leave this very minute.

"Why is it so important – this ball?"

His brow arched high. "Are you really so daft? Have I not made myself clear?" he clicked his tongue in disapproval. "All the noblesse from the surrounding districts will attend to see what prize I have to offer. Word has spread of your arrival to Montmarte, I have seen to that, and it is by you I will replenish my fortune. An arrangement with a wealthy husband will ensure I gain what I want once I give to him what he expects in return...a suitable wife to bear him an heir." He looked her up and down. "You are comely of face and form, have all your teeth, and with the talent Raoul tells me you possess, are sure to fetch a promising catch - as long as you rein in that insolent tongue and curb that damnable high spirit before you get to the altar. After that, I don't care what you do." He took another few puffs of his pipe. "At the upcoming ball, you will sing for them…"

The hell she would! She clenched her hands into fists at her sides.

"If you force me to wed a man I don't want, I'll make certain you never receive a penny!"

Her low heated words failed to produce the angry doubt she expected. He laughed – actually laughed – then sneered at her. "The monetary arrangement will be made with the gentleman who has the most to offer and will be handled prior to the ceremony, signed by contract."

Then she was to be sold to the highest bidder? Like a filly to be examined and bred, and indeed that was how he described her, his words hardly complimentary.

Having once heard a bit of how these things worked, when Meg indulged in a mild flirtation with a merchant's son, Christine breathed a trifle easier. What sane man would agree to such a codicil for a marriage agreement? Her uncle was a fool to think it – was not the bride's family expected to supply a dowry? Being poor, her uncle a miser, Christine felt she had nothing to fear.

She drew herself up and regarded him coolly. "Very well, as I clearly have no say in this, I will attend your ball."

"Of course," he said, as if there was no decision to be made. "Leave me now. I have work to be done." He speared her with another disapproving look. "And the next time I send for you, Miss, I expect you to arrive promptly, with none of your impudence."

Christine barely refrained from the insolent reply that burned hot on the tip of her tongue and allowed her displeasure to manifest in a sardonic curtsy to the despised lord of the manor. She then spun on her heel, not taking a breath until she was absent from the stifling room that reeked of his smelly cigar.

x

Halfway up the staircase, she heard her name, and looked to her right where her cousin stood in front of the parlor.

"Raoul." She felt a grain of relief to see a friendly face and managed a smile.

"I was just coming to find you. Are you ready to have that talk?"

Christine recalled the previous night and his mention of wanting to discuss a matter.

"Actually, I must speak with Lucy. Or at least try." She gave a doubtful grin. "Perhaps during luncheon?"

"This cannot be discussed over the crème brûlée. We will talk after the meal."

The gist of his words came light, though his tone was serious, and she tilted her head in confusion. "Is everything alright?"

"I would ask you the same. You seem troubled."

"I spoke to our uncle. A conversation that doesn't bear repeating. He is truly as obstinate as he is insufferable."

"Take heart, Lotte." His tone was sympathetic. "It will take some time to grow accustomed to the way of things here at Montmarte."

"I suppose." Though she doubted a month or even a year would alter her uncle's pitiless tactics to gain wealth. Catching sight of a servant walking along the upstairs corridor, Christine concluded their discussion. "I really must see to this – we'll talk after luncheon."

Christine caught up to the maid and relayed her uncle's orders to send for a seamstress. With that bothersome task behind her, she continued to Lucy's bedchamber, not surprised to find the girl inside.

Lucy's room was located at one end of the third floor landing, in the north turret, to be precise, and Christine felt as if she had entered a young girl's bedchamber. Dolls with china faces sat on a low table against a wall of white stone, and she noticed that the furnishings, of mauve, sky blue, forest green and silver, had been fashioned to fit flush against the round stone wall that made up the chamber.

Vivid tapestries of frolicking ponies and woodland animals playing with nymph-like creatures gave color to the walls, and the canopied bed was piled with cloth animals stuffed with cotton batting. Lucy sat on the cushioned window seat, her legs drawn up beside her like a little dove in a nest of jewel-toned pillows. With great interest, she looked out the pane of beveled glass, a flaxen-haired doll in her arms.

"Hello, Lucy." Christine smiled at her cousin who continued to stare out the window as if Christine wasn't there.

She sighed. "I'm sorry to bother you, but your father would like me to…" She could hardly say borrow, since the seamstress would need to make drastic alterations. "…take one of your gowns for my use. For the ball this Saturday. Is that alright with you?"

No answer came from the bench seat, not that Christine expected one.

"I'll just help myself then, shall I?"

She hesitated several seconds, vainly waiting for a response, then strode to the tall wardrobe.

Inside, an abundance of gowns and day dresses hung from a rack. Strange that the child had so many, when she never left the estate. If one kind thing could be said of the miserly earl, it was that he doted on his only daughter, and Christine missed having her Papa in her own life. Of course, giving Lucy whatever her heart desired could cause dire consequences, though so far as Christine could tell, spoiling her had not altered her personality, either to enhance or corrupt it.

Christine slid the dresses over the wooden dowel, to find one suitable. A silk cream and white lace dress looked sweet and childlike, but would never do for an evening event, the same could be said for the butter yellow chiffon. A black bombazine that never appeared worn hung next to that, a mourning dress. Had Lucy worn it once, to her mother's funeral?

Suppressing a little shiver, Christine thumbed through three more gowns before she found a pale mauve satin, more violet than rose, with ecru lace. The lower neckline and capped sleeves made it a lovely choice for formal evening wear, and she decided it would serve well.

Again looking toward Lucy, whose gaze remained riveted to the outdoors, Christine joined her at the window.

"I went to the ball once."

Christine nearly dropped the bundle of cool satin in her shock that Lucy actually addressed her.

"Really? When was this?" She looked at the gown in her hands. "Is this the dress you wore? It's very pretty. If you would rather I didn't wear it, I can find something else…"

Lucy's eyes glanced with indifference toward the dress then resumed their vigil toward a patch of trees that fringed the estate.

"I don't care," she whispered.

Christine's heart raced in a little burst of triumph to successfully make conversation with the girl - the first time since she had arrived to Montmarte when rational snatches of thought were exchanged between them.

Lucy began to hum an off-key ditty, and the fur pelt on the other side of her lifted its head. Not a pile of fur, a pet. Christine narrowed her eyes in annoyance at the rebellious pup that caused her to lose her way in a nocturnal fog.

The shaggy fur ball yawned in apathy and settled his chin back down on his paws.

"Will you be attending this ball, Lucy? I should like it if you were there."

Her cousin gave no response and Christine sighed, curiously looking out the window.

"What do you see out there?"

"Secrets…" Lucy said softly, and resumed to hum.

"Secrets?" Christine studied the fringe of thick forest. A fine white mist floated as wisps of veiling between the trunks of the trees and lower branches.

Unwanted, the face of the enigmatic masked stranger came to mind, with his burning golden eyes, and she shifted her feet uncomfortably.

"What kind of secrets?"

Lucy lifted her finger to her lips and slowly turned her head, flicking her ice-blue eyes up to Christine.

"Shhh…mustn't tell."

A frisson of unease traveled down her back like a slow droplet of icy water.

"Who told you these secrets?"

"The dark woodland fairies. They dance and play beautiful music."

Christine exhaled a long, soft breath, realizing that Lucy was again immersed in the world of one of her illogical fantasies. Did she ever leave them?

"Do you like to dance?"

Lucy barely nodded.

"Are you looking forward to dancing at the ball?"

Lucy's stare grew vacant, never leaving the pane of glass. Once more she began to hum in her eerie manner.

Realizing she would get no more communication from the girl, Christine moved to the doorway.

"Thank you for the dress," she said and turned one last time to glance toward the window seat, pitying the poor young woman there who'd so mercilessly had her life snatched from her. Christine wished she could find some tangible method to reach her cousin. For a slim moment, she thought she had breached that impasse and wished, albeit briefly, to enter whatever illusions of truth played out in Lucy's mind, to better understand her cousin.

But such wishes were futile – all wishes really. Christine had learned long ago that childish wishing failed to make her dreams, those reachable and far distant, come true.

Her dear Papa had been a dreamer, her memories of both parents a flimsy veil of fading images slowly blown into tatters of vague recollection as the years passed, and she clung to the few strands left, desperate not to lose what little remained of them. Two were still vivid to her – that of her papa playing his violin in their cottage by the sea, his sweet music blending with her mama's gentle voice. And at bedtime he would sit on her bed where she lay and tell dark stories with frightful witches and ogres and other beasts - moralistic tales that almost always ended badly for the arrogant hero or erring heroine of the story, with a lesson to be learned on their road to repentance.

Even her most beloved tale she once believed so devoutly contained a dreadful clause: for her obsessive wish only to sing with supreme excellence, uncaring of all else, Little Lotte had needed to give her heart and soul over to the Angel of Music, sacrificing everything in life – her time, her home, even her family and friends, to be all that the Angel required of her. Her voice had been superior, but her life had been lonely as she lost touch with her loved ones. Though she did have her unseen Angel always to guide her...

Wishes were futile, even dangerous.

And so were farfetched tales destined never to come true.

xXx

Luncheon was a simple and quiet affair. Her uncle did not appear, having business elsewhere in town, and Christine was thankful for the reprieve. Raoul was also strangely absent, and Lucy, although present, again inhabited her untold imaginings, leaving Christine virtually alone.

Left to her thoughts, she found them continually traveling on wayward paths within two separate nights and the daring of one mysterious stranger, whose name she still did not know. What was it about him that affected her so intimately? Her body, her heart…even her mind…and she took a sip of water to cool the flush that warmed her face, though she could do nothing about the abrupt quickening of her pulse.

Despite her hope for companionship to divert her from such unwanted imaginings, once Raoul finally arrived as she exited the dining chamber, Christine suddenly wished she could prolong the advent of their mysterious discussion. His eyes failed to sparkle as they often did, and his mouth was grim, causing her to dread what was coming.

Regardless, when he asked her to join him, she followed him to a small parlor in the east wing, rarely used, and took a seat in one of the chairs there, watching as he closed and locked the double doors.

Locked?

"Raoul..." She studied him in surprise. "What have you to say that requires such secrecy?"

Without responding he walked to a table by the wall where a bottle of Scotch sat next to a wooden container, a little larger than a jewelry box. He looked at both a moment then picked up the box.

"After Mother died, I found this."

He covered the distance between them and held out the carved box for her to take.

Christine looked between him and the box before accepting the container and setting it in her lap. "I don't understand. What is this?"

"Answers. To our family. To your destiny."

"My destiny?"

He expelled a heavy breath. "Did you know that before they married our fathers, your mother and my mother were once very close?"

"I've heard that cousins are often like that," Christine tried, feeling oddly as though she was being tested and her answers were being scrutinized. By the impatient shake of his head, she had given an improper response.

"They were given a mandate, if you will, passed down from their fathers and grandfathers, and they worked together to see it accomplished. Few outside the family knew of it – your father was one of those few, as was mine. Your mother…" His voice grew softer, "she died trying to see those expectations fulfilled."

A chill trembled through Christine's bones. She wasn't sure she wanted to hear the rest of what he had to say.

"I was told my parents died in an accident," she answered just as quietly. "You heard differently?"

Her parent's story had become legend to her, their timeless love and loyalty the pattern she wished to trace for her own life, alongside the man with whom she chose to spend it.

"Your mother died trying to protect your father."

"She - what...? I...protect him?"

At such an odd revelation her words came out jumbled.

Raoul nodded. "Due to what she was and what she was called to fight."

"I don't understand. You're not making any sense."

"No, I suppose not." Briefly he lowered his head and sighed. "What I'm about to tell you will sound…incredible. We – the children of our mothers – you and I – indeed, many of the Van Helsings, since our ancestor, Gabriel, in the 18th century, have been called to fight a very dark evil."

Christine felt as if Raoul had just invited her to live out one of her childhood stories of the North. Either that or her cousin had gone barmy.

"A dark evil?" She managed not to laugh outright at the ludicrous words upon seeing the grave look in his eyes.

Her mind went to those lewd stagehands and managers who often took a sly peek at unsuspecting dancers in a state of undress, and a tumble with the more brazen of the chorus girls – but she did not presume Raoul's explanation of dark evil had to do with the standard Opera House monkeyshines.

"And what, pray tell, is the source of this evil?"

He narrowed his eyes at her patronizing tone.

"Creatures that inhabit the night. Those about which you were warned on your arrival."

"I see." She shifted and smoothed her skirts. "Wolves then? Bears, wildcats…?"

"The creatures I speak of are not of this world, not as we know it. They have ceased to dwell on the earth as living beings and are now immortal, secretly hunting in the dead of night in their thirst for blood. Mortal blood."

Speechless for a moment, she stared at him in annoyed disbelief. "Oh, Raoul. Really. This again? Uncle tried to frighten me at dinner with the morbid legend, but I don't scare easily. Nor do I care to hear such grim accounts a second time."

"It's no legend, Christine! I've seen them. I've fought them."

"You expect me to believe such outlandish dark tales?" she scoffed. "Was it not you who convinced me that eggs came first - when they rained down like hail from the sky and the impact caused chickens to hatch from them?" She gave a little huff of disgust. "I am no longer so gullible."

"I was ten, you were five. We are no longer children, and this is serious…"

She watched him move toward the bottle of Scotch and pour himself a dram, his manner quite agitated. From what little she'd seen of him on her return, he was usually levelheaded, if somewhat high-strung. His evident upset gave her pause, more so that he mentioned to her a week ago that he didn't like the earl's Scotch, didn't touch the stuff, and preferred the sweet vintage of wines and after dinner brandy…clearly he felt troubled enough that he needed it.

He finished the snifter and set it down.

"You have been chosen, as have I, to protect humanity and rid the world of this evil."

"Is that all?" she said with wry humor.

By his irritated frown, he was not amused, and she decided to humor him this once.

"Very well. What are these nocturnal creatures that hunt blood called?"

"Gabriel Van Helsing wrote of them as vampyres." At her sudden start, he lifted his brows in surprise. "You have heard of them?"

"Only from a novel that a friend in the chorus read." The spine-tingling horrors from within those pages that Meg shared with Christine last year had been enough to fabricate nightmares without the need to close her eyes. "A book of fiction. The tale wasn't real."

"I assure you, Christine, vampyres are very real."

She rolled her eyes a little, certain now that he had revealed the name of said dark evil creature he was only pulling her leg. As if he read her mind, he walked to her chair and knelt, looking up into her eyes in solemn entreaty.

"I vow to you this is no jest."

His earnestness troubled her. Had her dear Raoul lost touch with reality, as their younger cousin Lucy had? Or was this an extensive prank, like those of his boyhood?

"Tell me, then. Why do you believe we were chosen?"

"You and I were marked at birth."

"Marked?" she said a tad nervously.

He looked at her shoulder. "On your right arm, just beneath your shoulder, you bear a mark – a circle, with lines radiating from it, in what appears to be a sun."

She resisted putting her hand to her sleeve and the area mentioned. "A puckered bit of flesh. Probably burnt by accident when I was a child – likely from the glowing end of a cigar I brushed against or some such thing. I don't recall."

"But I do recall the mark, Christine, having seen it in our youth – because I possess the same mark, and in the same place."

Christine fidgeted. "A birthmark, then. Passed down through our mothers. It's not so unusual."

"Actually, it is."

She sighed. "Fine then. And how did you come to believe all of this…" She refrained from adding the word "nonsense" though it could be nothing more.

"Through reading my mother's journal. Your mother also kept one. They are in the box you now hold, as well as an old journal I found from one of our ancestors. My mother had all three hidden away in her things."

Stunned, Christine stared at the lid of the closed box – both eager to know her sainted mother's writings were only the turn of a page away and fearful to discover Raoul's words were accurate – that her mother had actually written such impossible, frightful tales, believing them to be true.

She heard somewhere once that lunacy often ran within family bloodlines; the past few minutes in her cousin's company gave credence to that claim.

"Read their personal accounts. See what they have to say before making your decision."

"I have a decision?" she asked in surprise. "To do what?"

"To join in the fight, of course."

She let out a huff of disbelief at his emphatic reply.

"What if I don't want to?"

"To fight them is your destiny, Christine." He shook his head. "You cannot run from what you're meant to be, what you are…"

"Even if I did believe you, I'm only a simple chorus girl who wishes to sing and dance in the opera! I have no desire to hunt down and slay legendary creatures…" who did not exist, she reminded herself and sighed. "I have no wish to be one of the chosen, like our mothers."

"They were not chosen." He glanced down at the box. "They were not marked."

"But – you said…" She halted, confused by his quiet words and flustered by her own foolishness for encouraging this conversation, which was moot in any case. They argued over a fantasy, whether fabricated as a foolish prank or living within his mind she had yet to decide, but found she had no desire to know. All she wanted was to leave the room and escape his words that brought such unrest …

She should just get up and walk out the door.

"The mark skips generations – it's in the journals. Once a generation dies out, the next receives the mark – but not all who fight are marked. And not all who are marked accept their destiny. Our great grandmother and her sister – our great aunt, in whose home we now dwell – I believe both were marked, but they chose not to accept the mandate given them. Our mothers fought because they felt it their duty – that someone of the bloodline must take up the sword and combat the oppressive evil. The plague wiped out many of our relations in Europe – to my knowledge, our immediate families are all that are left. Being Van Helsings, our mothers were trained for battle, but they didn't have the special skills that only the marked bear. My mother wrote that is what she thinks might have led to your mother's death, that she wasn't well-equipped with the agility and foresight needed…"

"Special skills?"

So much of what he said slipped like grains of sand through an hourglass - she felt barely aware of their passage. But those two words stood out.

"Intuition. Agility. Speed. The innate ability to hunt prey. As well as being highly skilled with weaponry once taught..."

"Enough, Raoul, please." She held up her hands as if to push him away then set the box on the floor and pushed herself up from the chair instead. "This is all highly … imaginative." She chose to be kind. "Really, you should pen your thoughts to paper and sell them to a publisher – but I've heard enough."

"At least promise to read the journals."

He stooped down to pick them up and offered the box to her a second time. Grudgingly she accepted it, the lure of her mother's words impossible to refuse, and held the box against her with her left arm.

"One more thing," he said, "Because of the recent attacks in our district, I wish to train you to protect yourself. I hope you'll agree to that, if nothing else."

"Train me? You mean with a weapon?"

He nodded. "A sword, a dagger, whichever you prefer. It could prove beneficial should you find yourself out alone at night, in a fog, with no defense..."

Christine blushed at his pointed words, alluding to the two times he'd found her in such a state, and she almost smiled at the ludicrous idea of belting a sword to her skirts, wearing a scabbard hanging down her side as men did. Yet in thinking of the lewd Buquet brothers at the Opera and men like them, a dagger hidden away for defense did hold some appeal…

"Our uncle might have something to say about your plans. You do realize he intends to marry me off to a wealthy husband at the first opportunity that presents itself - with this wretched ball to help it along. He's made no mystery of the reason for my coming here."

He frowned as if the idea gave him no pleasure either.

"Perhaps I can persuade you to take me back to Paris?" she asked more softly, but by the stubborn look in his eyes she presumed her plea was futile.

"I'll speak with him and try to convince him to cease in his pursuit to see you wed, at the very least to delay it. It was I who initially persuaded him to send for you."

The news didn't surprise her; nor did she fail to note that he ignored her question.

"I see. So your reason for bringing me here was to enlist me in your crusade to oust the world of bloodthirsty monsters?"

He winced at her sarcasm.

"I don't blame you for doubting me, Christine. I was an incorrigible trickster in our childhood, though I vow to you on my mother's grave that every word I said today is true. Honestly, I understand your ridicule. It took me weeks to come to terms with all of what is in those journals. I wasn't an instant believer either."

"Hm." She gave a noncommittal reply. "Well, I should be going."

"Christine, tell no one of this. Even Uncle – I don't know if our aunt ever told him of the destiny she refused, but all of what I shared must remain secret. No one can know about you, about us – that we are the chosen for this important mission in our lifetime. To my knowledge, we are all that remains of the Van Helsings."

"Of course."

Who would believe such a bizarre tale anyhow? Well, except maybe Lucy…

"Christine," he said again, once she reached the door.

She turned in question – her hand swiftly flying up on instinct to catch the heavy column of metal he threw hard at her. She stared with stunned horror at the empty brass candlestick she now gripped tightly in her right fist.

"Special skills," Raoul remarked quietly.

It would not have struck her, only flown past her ear to smash against the door, but she was still outraged that he would enact such a reckless stunt. She threw the candlestick to the floor with a ringing clatter and shook her hand that badly stung.

"That hurt, Raoul. Why would you do such a thing?"

"I apologize, but some things must be experienced to be believed."

Christine glared at him, his poor excuse barely tolerable. She spun on her heel, turned the key in the lock and hurriedly left the chamber.

xXx

The remainder of the week Christine was kept busy with fittings from the harried seamstress and banal letters penned to Meg and Madame Giry, both missives devoid of the dark mysteries involving the countryside and those closer to home, at Montmarte. When she wasn't busy preparing for the unwelcome ball, she ruminated over her two encounters with the man in the mask.

Would he be there? Had he been issued an invitation? Who was he? Surely he must be a local and therefore would be known…

Her silent questions went unanswered. She would not initiate a conversation with the earl to discover the man's identity, and lately avoided Raoul whenever possible. On those occasions she found herself in the same room with him, his riveting blue eyes always filled with his own unasked questions – had she read the accounts of their mothers? Would she join his preposterous crusade? Did she yet believe him…?

All to which she could only give an unqualified no.

She had stowed the box with the journals at the back of her wardrobe, leery of opening their leather-tooled covers, afraid of what she may find. More dreaded meanderings of (she couldn't even think the name without wincing at the insanity) vampyres? – proof that madness ran deep within her bloodline – within her own mother? She wasn't ready to learn that disheartening truth. One day, she would look through the pages that promised to shine harsh light in this preferred darkness; it was inevitable. The pull was too strong.

But not yet…

For tonight, it seemed, she must attend a ball.

She backed up, to better see her altered gown in the oval mirror, wishing for the magnificent one La Carlotta used in her dressing room at the Opera. As big and grand as a castle door…

She frowned. Even retreating until her spine met the wall, she could see only a little past her hips, and would have to trust the added satin flounce that gave a height of six additional inches was acceptable to the dress. At least the gown fit her form like a glove, the seamstress a decided miracle worker. Not that she truly cared how she appeared, taking no delight in being forced into this situation.

Yet she did feel a strange sort of…expectation. There was no other word for this sudden breathlessness that caused her heart to skip a mildly eager beat.

She pondered, as she had with alarming frequency these last days, if she would once more encounter her cryptic masked savior…then scolded herself that she did not care either way.

As she descended the twisting staircase, she felt eyes watch her, though the foyer was empty. Once her foot took the last stair, a man suddenly appeared by her side, and she turned in surprise.

xXx


A/N: I know- bad me! A whole chapter without Erik in it! But I promise you'll see quite a lot of him in the next… ;-) Also, for those interested- next weekend, I'll be posting the intro chapter of my Jane Eyre/PotO story …