A/N: I am thrilled this story has gained such interest - thank you so much for the reviews!

And now…


Chapter XVII

She had reclined on the wide sofa and listened to his beautiful music, her heavy eyelids closing and later, slowly lifting, to see him play his violin as he sat so tall and debonair in the chair across from her. She recalled that his frenetic notes had eased into a softer, more poignant melody that both lulled her to sleep and awakened her from dreams. And in that state, she'd felt a coveted protectiveness stem from his music, from his very presence, that had sorely been missing from her life for what seemed an eternity, ever since an unseen angel favored her with his desired visitations.

With tenacious hold, Christine clung to the memory of the music as fiercely as she clutched the wooden rail, while the wind whipped at her skirts, tearing the cloak's hood from her hair, and spray from the channel struck her face. She locked eyes on the tumultuous body of water that stretched so abysmally far ahead of the ferry on which they stood, never once looking away from its threat. With every fiber of her being she wished there was another passage into France and despised that the sole method of transport must involve water. Such violent water...

"Christine?"

His voice came near, but she felt turned to pale, white marble, could not even turn her head to acknowledge him or make her paralyzed vocal cords respond.

"Christine, what gives you such fright? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

She anxiously shook her head at his words that held concern and trace mockery, her white-knuckled grip tightening even more around the smooth wood. A frisson of shivers moved through her at the brush of his gloved fingers against one fisted hand. Her breaths came more fractured, the inability to inhale and exhale correctly causing her to feel dangerously lightheaded. If only she could lose consciousness; then she wouldn't have to experience this most wretched, slothful hour!

A wave slammed against the ferry, a rush of foamy spray arcing near where she stood, and she gave a helpless little cry. Rain was an omen in the ominous gray clouds that cast a pall above and blended into the slate-hued water from the channel – both of which she was sure must mark the conclusion of their lives.

Two strong hands firmly grabbed her arms below the shoulders from behind, his broad chest pressing against the entire length of her spine. Grateful for his closeness, when so often he created detachment, she melted back into his strength, though her dread of the chaotic water did not diminish.

"Tell me…," His rich voice near her ear was a lifeline and she clung, "…you, who are so courageous in all else, why do you fear a little wind and water?"

A shudder went through her from head to foot at his innocuous description of the impending storm.

"I was six," she whispered, somehow finding voice to give. "I played too far out in the sea..." Her eyes fell shut with the memory. "It was a day, like today ... a storm on the horizon. The waves pulled me under and drowned me." Her Papa had swum out to save her and she had come to, coughing up water on the beach.

With the waves violent and crashing all around them on the crowded ferry, she was surprised Erik could hear her terse admission, but the gentle squeeze of his hands reassured that he did.

"Would you prefer to move elsewhere, away from the rail? Perhaps I could find you a seat on a bench?"

They had been among the first to board, whereupon the Count immediately sought the rail; Christine knew that with his back to everyone, no one could then stare with curious impudence at his masked face, as many had on their journey from train to ferry, and she tensely shook her head at his offer. She had no desire to be separated from him when he held her close like this, giving her a measure of reassurance, even to weave through the swarm of passengers, away from the water, in what seemed a futile attempt to find an empty spot on one of four populated benches in the middle of the ferry. And she certainly had no wish for him to think her cowardly or infantile, even if he was witness to such inadequacies through the constant trembling of her body.

"Soon we will be on dry land again," he spoke into her ear. "From there we will take another train and be in Paris by tomorrow morning. Rest easy, my Countess, I will let no harm come to you."

It made little sense that his words should help calm her – he had no control over the forces of nature – but she rested back against him, feeling almost safe as he brought his arm across her collarbone and wrapped her within the folds of his cloak. Then, to her astonishment, he began to hum strains of music he had played on the train, her inner ear easily perceiving the notes, as if they came from within her mind...

And though she did not release her death-grip on the rail, she closed her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder, allowing his lilting voice to soothe her terror of the deep and unforgiving ocean.

xXx

After nearly five long days of travel, they arrived in Paris in the early evening and took up residence at a topmost suite Erik procured at the Grand Hotel. Christine was exhausted, in mind and in body, and Erik quietly directed her to go to her room and lie down to rest.

His bedchamber faced hers across the room, the sitting room they would share in the center. A grand piano he arranged for this room in its early years of business sat before the tall draped windows that led to a short balcony. A short sofa and two chairs were situated on the opposite side of the room, before a marble hearth in which the hotel chambermaid had laid a low fire.

He watched Christine's lethargic retreat into her bedchamber. At the soft click of the door between them, his eyes fell shut and the invisible mask of polite indifference fell from his features, covered by the mask but his expression, he knew, still discernible. Like the Titan, Atlas, he felt as if he carried the punishment of the entire weight of the world on his shoulders. Each day, Erik worked to lengthen the aloof distance he knew he must create; each day, some random incident occurred to make that endeavor more difficult, if not impossible.

He had been to her the Angel of Music, a moniker accepted in blasphemy the moment he heard her soft, fervent plea for such a heavenly being in the chapel. Protection, he would give her, would always give her, as he had done in her childhood. Companionship she wanted, and a small measure of that he could allow, enough to teach her to sing as had been the plan when she introduced herself as Lotte. Theirs would remain a fragile camaraderie, shallow in composition and meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Anything else, how could he bear it? He had made hiding his true nature into a classic art form; to continue his concealment wouldn't be difficult within the boundaries he erected into place. This moment in time would pass, as they all passed. He could bear the decades, the loneliness that must transpire, to know he had helped her achieve her dream and not abandoned her as she thought, even if she would never know that truth. Telling her of their past and his sham of creating it could only be a mistake, forging avenues he had no wish to traverse.

His mind mocked his stalwart decision. He had no heart to beat; no more than a corpse. Yet the sensations he felt when she drew near begged to argue the fact. It was as if her very presence brought him to life. Physically it was implausible, but his emotions knew no such boundaries. Little that it mattered.

Damned twice – in features and in form: A mask covered the horror of the first atrocity, but nothing could eradicate the monster within, the monster that shaped him…

With a grimace of self-loathing, the Count pulled the brim of his fedora low over his head and took the back stairwell, exiting the hotel, unseen. The sun burned stronger today than in past days, and feeling the despicable weakness settle over his bones, he ducked into dark alleys to avoid the destructive rays of heated light. He gripped his hand with the family ring into a fist, the abhorrent token all that kept him from burning to ash.

In the dark space between tall buildings, a young lad crawled on the ground near a wall, reaching for something in a crevasse. With a lift of his brow upon recognition, Erik kept his steps silent as he moved to stand behind him.

"One would think after surviving The Plague, rats would be your last choice of culinary selection."

The boy awkwardly jumped, bumping his head on the planked wall, then scrambled to his feet and ambled around, his eyes going wide in startled shock.

"Sire!"

"Archer," Erik returned in gruff response. "Why are you in Paris? When last I left you, London was your home."

The lad, who looked to be in his early teens, wore a scraggly rope around his waist from which hung three wriggling rats, each tied by their pink tails with string. Long lank hair, the color of which was indiscernible in its need for a wash, hung past large outspread ears and into grey eyes that framed a thin face. His entire family having fallen victim to the Great Plague and turned by Erik's nemesis in the latter half of the 17th century, the boy had been abandoned to his own devices. Erik had experienced a rare bout of sympathy for the lad, taking a fortnight to teach him how to manage his vehement cravings and evade capture, before then leaving London.

"I make the rounds through the cities, as you told me, sire. I grew weary of England after a half century there and came to France."

"And has the selection of this city grown so poor that you would stoop to rats' blood?"

"I've no choice," the boy grudgingly admitted. "I was near caught. People have been asking questions, starting to say it be queer I don't age."

Erik's eyes narrowed. "Then why are you still here? You must leave! I instructed that you cannot stay in one place for more than five years – not at your young age."

"I haven't the money to go nowhere, not yet. Though I got prospects."

"You have feet; use them." Erik thought a moment. "Have you heard of Berwickshire, on the border of England and Scotland?"

The boy shook his head. "Never been there, not to my recollection."

Erik pulled his wallet from his frock coat and selected enough bank notes to secure travel. "This will get you there."

The boy's eyes widened at the amount offered. Quickly he took the lot of them, stuffing the francs into his filthy shirt.

"Tell me," Erik instructed, veiling his fervor to know, "while you have been in Paris, have you heard anything of Nicolae?"

"No, sire." The boy winced, perhaps not wishing to be reminded of his true sire, but Erik sensed Archer withheld something of significance.

"Tell me all you know." Erik's words came menacing and still, power vibrating in their consonants.

"I don't know nothing, honest. That is - nothing of late…" The boy's eyes were stricken with a nervous kind of fear but Erik nodded for him to go on. "I did hear tell that a man of his appearance was in the city years ago, looking for you."

That came as little surprise. "How many years?" Erik asked the question though he was certain he knew it must coincide with the time he was forced to vacate the premises.

"I don't know, sire. Didn't ask."

Erik looked deep into the boy's eyes, ascertaining if he spoke truth, and convinced, he nodded. "Leave Paris on the next train. Do not delay. Upon your arrival to Berwickshire, go to Dragan Castle - it lies in the midst of the forest. Tell whomever should answer the door that I sent you." He cast a disgusted glance over the boy's scrawny form. "Wash the dirt from your face, find clothes that fit without holes, and do dispense with the rats before the journey."

With no more to be said, Erik walked away from the boy and continued on his mission, keeping close to the shadows when he could – both out of a necessity to maintain full strength and the desire to avoid the curious and suspicious stares always directed toward the mask.

xXx

Christine awoke into surroundings unfamiliar. The bed she lay in was softer than what she was accustomed to, though not uncomfortable. Curtains suspended over the window did not allow the sun to shine through their thick fabric, and she stumbled to her feet and moved toward the narrow chink of daylight, pulling the heavy drape aside to bring the light into the room. Wincing at the sudden brightness that assaulted weary eyes, she blinked to rid the sleep from them, the city-scape serving as an anchor of reminder to why she was there.

Paris lay spread out like a familiar blanket, though she had never observed it from this angle. From her bird's eye view, she could see over many rooftops to hints of streets beyond and recognized the ivory and gold dome of the Opera House nearby. She hadn't realized they were so close and hoped to persuade the Count to make a visit there. How dearly she would love to see everyone again, especially her dearest friend…

Recalling the reason they had come to the city, and noting by the sun's position in the sky it must be nearing noon – how had she slept so late? – she hurried with her morning ablutions. In the adjoining room, she found a pitcher of clean water sitting next to a luxuriously appointed washstand, in the recess of which sat a porcelain bowl decorated with golden flowers. A claw-footed tub with fixtures of gold sat near, with a cistern positioned high on the wall in the opposite corner, a porcelain bowl on a stand beneath with a long golden chain for dispensing waste. Only once had she seen anything like it, in a room shared by the public and nowhere near as splendidly outfitted, this mode of bathing and plumbing still new to society. This room for cleansing was as posh as her bedchamber, as elegantly decorated, the suite of large rooms clearly designed for the absurdly wealthy, and she felt a rush of lingering disbelief to realize she now fit into that class.

She thought about locating a maid to see about hot water for a bath, but decided to wait to take advantage of that small luxury since it was already so late in the day. A table stood next to the washstand, upon which sat several carved glass bottles, and picking up one of them, she found it was cologne and almost squealed. What a delight to the senses after long days of travel!

Once she washed with soap and a cloth she wet with water from the pitcher and donned her gown, she pressed the bulb, holding the bottle in her other hand and lavishing the sweet indulgence of lilac and roses all over her. Lovely. …She had just fastened the last of the tiny buttons along her shoe with a buttonhook when she heard a knock. The rapping was not on her bedroom door, but instead came from the other room.

Certainly, the Count had arisen and would see to their visitor, but when a second, louder knock came shortly afterward, she hastened out of her bedchamber and into the sitting room. She found it dark and empty, the curtains drawn in this room as well.

Had Erik also been a slave to exhaustion and slept long past the dawn? She cast an uncertain glance toward his closed door before opening the door to the corridor, her mouth dropping open in shock to see who stood there, when she had so recently been thinking of her.

"Meg…?"

"Christine?" Though Meg had been the one to knock, she seemed just as surprised to see her. "So then – it's true?"

Christine struggled to shake off her surprise. "What's true?"

Meg's focus dropped to Christine's raised hand that clutched the edge of the door, her eyes widening as she grabbed that hand and brought it nearer to her eyes, giving a little squeal upon eyeing the Gimmel ring. "It is true! What he said – you're married!"

Christine pulled back her hand from Meg's grasp, slightly embarrassed. "Come inside and we'll talk." Impatient for her to enter, she grabbed Meg's arm and hauled her inside before anyone could stroll by and overhear.

All of what Meg said suddenly registered, and as Christine closed the door, she turned to look at her friend. "You said 'he' – who do you mean?"

"Why your husband, of course! He came by the Opera House to talk to Maman and arrange for us to go to the boutique to select your wardrobe. Is that not splendid?" Meg touched her shoulder. "And you! I know I've always teased that you have your head in the clouds and your feet barely skimming the earth – but to leave for little over a month, and come back married – and to a Count! My word, Christine – or should I now address you as my lady, the Countess?" She giggled. "Perhaps there is something to be said for living in daydreams after all!"

"Oh, Meg, don't be such a ninny." Christine lightly laughed with her, though she felt a sober jolt to be playing out such a pretense - her marriage of convenience to Erik hardly a dream come true, fashioned solely out of necessity's bonds and not through love's shimmering ribbons.

"We should hurry," Meg urged, "The driver is waiting outside. Maman is only giving me the afternoon rehearsal off."

"Give me a moment. I should speak to the Count and tell him I'm leaving," Christine excused herself, but before she could move toward his door to tap on it, she was stopped by Meg's incredulous giggle.

"Christine, did you not hear a word I said? Bring your mind out of the clouds, mon ami. Your husband isn't here; he's at the Opera House or was."

"Right – of course…" She shook her head a little, feeling like the ninny.

Christine's senses were scattered; The Count had arranged for Meg to keep her company… in all likelihood as a substitute for his company. Distance he preferred, even before they were wed, but really, any injured feelings on Christine's part that he chose not to accompany her were misplaced. A gentleman like the Count would feel awkward and ill at ease inside a ladies' boutique. He did not welcome attention, and surely would receive it in droves were he to enter such an establishment. A lone male, and a masked one at that.

Christine gave a little shrug of her shoulders and a smile. "Let me grab my cloak, and we'll go."

She quickly gathered her things and joined her friend. Her mind studded with questions mounted in confusion, she waited until they were both seated in the carriage, which took off with a jolt. The driver never asked their destination, clearly having been informed.

"I am still in shock that your mother actually gave permission for you to accompany me," Christine began. "Tell me, has she so radically changed in the short time of my absence?"

"Why are you surprised? - You have!"

For some reason the words lightly stung, troubling her. "No, Meg, I'm the same Christine you've always known."

"Christine," Meg corrected gently with a pointed sort of gaiety. "You are a countess now, a member of the nobility. Of course you've changed! If not in behavior - simply by how the world perceives you. Just wait until the rest of the chorus hears the news of your marriage! That will certainly put a few girls' noses out of joint, after all the trouble they caused you over the years."

"Never mind all that – for what reason was the Count at the theatre?"

"To speak for you, of course, and request my company."

Christine shook her head in puzzlement. Why did it seem that there was more buried beneath the surface of a simple request for an outing?

"Do you recall the rumors flying around that we would soon get new managers along with a new patron?" Meg asked, breaking into her pensive thoughts, and Christine nodded. "I think that your husband may be that patron or even the new manager!"

"Why in heaven's name would you think that?"

Erik, had a fondness for music, a polished and supreme expertise not found in most men. But that he would become so involved while living an entire kingdom away – and never tell her a thing about it, when she'd brought up her life in Paris, at the Opera House – seemed ludicrous, strange…and as she gave the matter some thought, not all that implausible, as enigmatic and mysterious as the Count of Castle Dragan so often proved to be.

"It's just a hunch, really," Meg answered her. "I only heard the tail-end of their conversation – his mention of your name and that you're his wife – but when I walked into the room, I got the distinct impression that Maman and the Count knew each other. There was a strange feeling in the air – I can't explain it. A familiar sort of tension one wouldn't find among strangers. Something like the polite hostility that exists between Carlotta and her servants, though not exactly that either…"

Meg's explanation made a warped kind of sense. Madame Giry wouldn't give her consent for one of her dancers – certainly not her daughter – to leave practice for a stranger's whim; but she would show such subservience to someone she respected as an authority over her as she did the managers. That Erik was a nobleman was of no account. Christine once heard Madame staunchly tear into a Marquis who'd had a lustful eye on her daughter; his elevated station in life having not mattered one whit for Madame to refrain from expressing her mind.

Meg snapped her fingers in her face. "Christine? Are you still with me?" she teased.

Broken from her musings, Christine stared at her buoyant friend. "What happened then?"

"They immediately ended their conversation once I walked inside. The Count didn't seem all that pleased to see me - he remained silent, only nodding when Maman introduced me as her daughter, and left immediately afterward. Maman told me she was giving me a few hours off to accompany you to the boutique and would arrange for a driver. And that's the sum of it. Now…!" Meg turned more fully on the bench seat in a flurry of excitement. "You must tell me everything, Christine, all of how this happened – and don't you dare leave a word out!"

Christine smiled, a bit nervously. "We met on the night of Samhain, at a village festival…" she began, knowing she would get no peace from her effusive friend until she caved in and Meg's curiosity was appeased.

Tentatively she covered the complicated events of past weeks, omitting all mention of Raoul and his undead, while keeping in mind that of the three conditions her husband made, she promised Erik loyalty. She would not paint their marriage as anything less than what was naturally presumed: two people having fallen in love and after a whirlwind courtship exchanging vows of a shared eternity. Nor would she embellish it into more than existed: what, at the loneliest moments, some wretched longing inside her heart wished it might be …

She did not speak of the evasive night in her bedchamber at Montmarte and her vague recollection of his tempting arms around her in sweet seduction, what she once believed a dream… or of the other day on the ferry, when those same strong arms held her with such gentle care that she'd felt safe, her wild terror of churning water that nearly eclipsed her childhood fear of the darkness abated in his quiet song …, And she certainly did not mention the sole passionate kiss once shared at the forest edge…

Some things could not be shared. To do so wouldn't prove disloyal to her promise, but those special moments, so often at the threshold of memory, belonged centered only in her heart. She wished to understand what had changed between them, that he no longer invited her nearness. And then, in the next moment, though he clearly had high demands in whatever business ventures he dealt in, to remain absent from the castle each day, he dropped all of what was important to accompany her to Paris.

He blew as cold as a storm in winter, and then, with a suddenness that stole all breath, he radiated warmth and concern, though his skin always maintained that strange chill…

The Count was a locked door, to which she was determined to find a key. Perhaps the Opera House was the vehicle inside... though what Christine would find within the man both captivated eagerness and awakened her dread to learn his full mystery.

xXx


A/N: Christine is getting closer to the truth, but which truth? ;-) …Did you like the ferry crossing? The introduction of Archer? Christine and Meg's unexpected reunion? Be sure and let me know! :) Next chapter will have much more of Erik with Christine - I promise.