"Monsieur le Vicomte, the public is most excited about the missing girl. People are paying in advance for future performances of Hannibal once Mademoiselle Daae returns." M. Andre sneezes.

"God bless, you," M. Firmin says. "Perhaps you best retire, take care of yourself. I am beginning to feel a bit unwell myself."

"No, no. I am fine," he insists, dabbing at his reddened nose with a handkerchief. "Excuse me, but I have a touch of cold. To be honest the girl being gone has been a blessing. I am not sure I could deal with a show feeling as poorly as I do."

"But what are you doing to find her?" Raoul demands as he pulls out a handkerchief to cover his face.

"Oh, the girls run off all the time, she will come back of her own accord." Andre waves him off with the linen square. "Is that not so, Richard?"

"Do not wave your contaminated cloth at me," Raoul sneers, backing away from the older man. "She was kidnapped! Does that not concern you?"

"Tut. Tut. If she had been kidnapped, do you not believe the police would be involved?"

"Why are they not?" Raoul paces the floor in irritation. "Why are you so cavalier about her absence?"

"Because she merely left to be with her paramour," Firmin states flatly. "We only suggested a kidnapping to entice the public's imagination."

"You mean you have not even contacted the police? Your leading lady disappears without notice and you do nothing?"

The two men just stare at him. Finally, Andre says, "I believe we explained that to you. None of the other patrons are bothered by this. Even your brother finds this to be an excellent advertisement for us."

"Phillippe?"

"You have another brother?"

Raoul shakes his head, nostrils flaring. "I cannot believe this."

"Please do not be so upset, Monsieur, the young lady was seen…last night…in a coach…with her…um…friend," coughs M. Andre.

"There you see," agrees his partner, "nothing to be concerned about."

"If the young lady is riding about Paris in a coach with her sponsor…well, this is not something we can interrupt, now can we." Andre smiles, nodding at both Raoul and Richard.

"Phillippe!" Raoul shouts before he is completely inside the door of the manor. Slamming the door, he storms into his brother's study. "How could you believe Christine's kidnapping would be good advertising for the opera house?"

The elder de Chagny brother looks up from the book he is reading. Putting down his cigar in the crystal ashtray on the side table next to his leather armchair, he examines Raoul with grey-blue eyes. Without answering he gets up and goes to the parson's table set up with a number of crystal decanters and pours himself two fingers of brandy.

"Drink?"

"No. Yes. Whiskey…not brandy. Neat." Raoul walks to the chair matching his brother's and flops down, putting his feet on the matching ottoman.

Phillippe hands his brother his drink and stokes the fire in the fireplace before returning to his own seat. "I understand there are advance bookings, so it would seem her going missing is a good thing for all of us."

"She could be in danger."

"From what I understand, she is being tended to quite well by whomever she went off with."

"Do you know who?"

"Does it matter?" Phillippe swirls his brandy, savoring the heady fragrance of the amber liquid. "Really, Raoul, until the performance you had not seen the girl for what ten…twelve years. Never shown any interest in seeing her after that summer. Now all of a sudden your life has no meaning without her."

"I did wish to see her but had no means to locate her," he mutters. "She was quite happy to see me again as well."

"Understandable, I suppose. She was…is a lovely girl, but a singer. A performer…not exactly the type of woman considered marriageable."

"You are one to talk," Raoul downs his whiskey, wincing as the sharp liquid burns his throat – not so much as to prevent him getting up to pour himself another, downs it, then pours another. "You do not seem to have any issues with seeing La Sorelli."

"You do not see me marrying her, do you?"

"What is wrong with me wanting to court Christine. We were very fond of one another. I have never forgotten her. The young ladies I meet of our social status bore me."

"I suggest you slow down with the drink," Phillippe says. "The bottles are becoming empty more quickly these days."

"I am concerned about her." He puts the glass down. "I have been worried."

"You have been drunk," Phillippe counters. "It would seem she is otherwise engaged and you would be best served to forget the strumpet, sober up and find a new outlet for your energy. A commission in the Navy would be ideal. You love the sea."

"And I would be out of your hair."

"For a time, yes." Phillippe laughingly admits. "Nevertheless, I am concerned about you, brother," he says. "Paris is not the right place for someone of your sympathies – you are much too vulnerable to the evils of life."

"A child, you mean…"

"No. Just a very protected young man. I have failed you, I am afraid, and I am sorry for that." Rising from his seat, he walks over his brother, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Come, you need something in your stomach to counter the alcohol. Tomorrow we shall see about that commission."

"I never really noticed how beautiful the city was," Erik says. "I always seem to find myself hiding in shadows."

"Neither have I, it is particularly wonderful at night…the music of the night, if you will," Christine laughs. "My ventures into the city out always take place during the day – at night I am rushing to get home. This is just so much different. It is like being on holiday."

The daily routine soon revolved around their nightly coach rides around the city. Each journey, three of them now, has both of them considering where to visit next. Christine finds herself to be particularly proud of herself for even bringing up the issue of leaving the confines of the underground apartment.

Erik was so adamant initially she not venture out, but now seems to be finding even more pleasure with their evening journeys than she.

"Why did you never do this by yourself?" she asks, tucking a plaid blanket over her knees.

"For that reason…I would be by myself."

Touching his gloved hand, she says, "I am sorry, I did not mean to bring up anything painful."

With a rueful smile, he draws away, saying: "And I did not intend my words to seem self-pitying."

"Oh, but they are not," she protests, reaching for his hand again. Unable to read what he is telling her with his steady gaze, she hesitates – uncertain as to what the simple act of comfort might mean to him – and ultimately to her. Those unfathomable eyes. A not unpleasant warmth flows through her. Risking his disapproval, she touches him lightly, then pulls her hand back.

Adjusting her position to face forward again, she continues her story. "After Pappa died, I did not wish to see or be with anyone." Looking out the window of the carriage, she sighs deeply. "He would have loved this, but we did not have the funds for a private carriage."

Erik clears his throat. "How did you live?"

"Fairs mostly until a wonderful couple heard him play…and me sing and sponsored both of us," she explains. This talk of her past is reminiscent of their early conversations when he was not a man. "Their influence allowed me to study at the conservatory. Professor Valerius died several years ago…Pappa and I continued to live with Mamma Valerius. Then Pappa died. Her death came not that long after. It was only the good graces of Madame Giry keeping me from being homeless."

"I am sorry – so many losses in a short period of time, you never spoke of your sponsors. Although I am not surprised – they had great wisdom…knowing how gifted you are. I am also grateful Adele was able to foster you."

"You call her Adele?"

"She befriended me as well," he says, offering no further explanation.

These silences are not unusual, in fact, most of their conversations, especially when he was her Angel of Music, would come to a stop whenever the conversation turns to his life. Even so, tonight is different. Pushing that realization aside, she goes on. "I was doing quite well at the Conservatory, but when Pappa died I no longer cared about excelling. Mamma tried to encourage me, but she was ill herself…then she died."

The cold night air is cause enough for her eyes to water, and if he asks, she will blame the tears falling down her pinkened cheeks on the weather. Since the Angel of Music entered her life, her grief at the loss of her friends and father has softened. Music once again fills her with joy and, now, with him being a real man, her life is somewhat normal.

Erik's moods could swing quickly and his occasional outbursts frighten her. The incident when she removed his mask now has her apprehensive about what to say or how to behave with him. The confrontation with him in the music room frightened her as well. Such deep rage is unfamiliar to her. Pappa might get angry, but not to the point where she felt he might do her harm.

What makes him this way she wonders. Most of the time she feels his fits of pique come from not knowing how to be with other people. For herself, feeling estranged from others came from living as a vagabond. The other girls enjoy her stories about living on the road…sleeping in the woods or roadside inns. They laugh at her tales about singing at fairs while Pappa played violin. However, despite their enjoyment of her stories, she is still an outsider.

And so, both she and Erik shared an oddness of character making them both outcasts. Perhaps this is why his anger calmed so quickly when she speaks…that and their shared love of music.

"I was given a small role in one of the operas, but they were not pleased with my performance and they were planning to let me go. Madame stepped in, saying she could use me in the ballet troupe…one of the girls had run off with a patron and she needed someone to fill in."

"And the housing?"

"I was sharing a room with two other girls, but the landlord increased our rent, I was not earning enough to pay my share."

"They asked you to leave?"

Christine nods. "Madame found me crying in the dressing room where you came to me. I was living there."

The carriage comes to an abrupt stop.

"What the devil?" Erik calls out to the coachman as he raises an arm to prevent Christine falling forward.

"A man appears to be running up to each carriage as it passes him," the driver replies. "Seems to have come from another Brougham stopped in the street. The driver is following behind him, seems to be trying to pull him back. It is quite a scene."

Erik pulls the curtain aside to get a better look at the street. Closing the curtain, he falls back against his seat. "Fool." Knocking on the window in front of him, he orders, "Go around him."

"I do not want to cause him to fall, Monsieur, the street is wet with the snow."

"If he does that is his fault for running in the street. Do not allow him to approach. Keep driving," Erik commands.

"Yes, Monsieur…do you still wish to drive to the Bois?" the coachman asks as he encourages the horse to continue the journey forward. "The snow is picking up."

"Christine, do you still wish to be out in this weather?"

"Oh, yes, I should love to see the snow."

"To the Bois then." Calling out to the driver, he tells him to continue onto their planned destination.

"Why do you suppose the man was in the street?" Christine asks.

"I have no idea, my dear…under the influence of drink perhaps…our coachman did say the man's own driver was attempting to dissuade him."

"Did he move out of the way?"

"So it would seem," Erik replies. "I am certain we would have felt a bump had he been hit."

"You called him a fool…as if you knew who he was."

"Did I? Well, I suppose anyone walking in the middle of the road chasing down carriages like a stray dog would be considered foolish, is that not so?"

"Yes, I suppose, but…"

"Yes, but?"

"Nothing. I understand, we were having such a lovely ride and a stranger interrupted our outing."

"Precisely."

There is no point pursuing the topic…clearly Erik is unwilling to discuss it further. Nevertheless, she suspects there is more to the event than he words suggest. Best to put the situation out of her mind and enjoy the ride. The Bois will be lovely in the moonlight with the snow. Tucking her hands more deeply into her muff gifted her after their first ride – the nights being quite cold and the carriage, although quite well made, is not heated.

Such a thoughtful man – never did she believe someone would treat her so well and ask so little in return. Just your freedom. A little voice chides from the back of her mind. Brushing the voice aside, she prefers to think of his kindness…at least for the moment. Turning toward him with a bright smile, she finds his gaze fixed on the street. Mouth firm, hands twisting and untwisting, muttering words in a language she does not understand.

What or who could possibly shift his mood so dramatically? The man in the street, of course. But it was such a minor inconvenience. She did not have enough knowledge of him as to who much cause such provocation.

"Erik? Are you alright?"

As he turns slowly toward her, the anger dissolves into a what she can only call relief – his entire body relaxes and he gives her a rare smile. "I am fine, my dear. Thank you for your concern," he says. "The muff is keeping your hands warm?"

"Yes, I am fine…the muff is perfect."

"Good. Good."

"Erik?"

"Yes, my dear." The earlier warmth of his eyes cool as they narrow.

"Nothing," she demurs – best to leave things congenial. "I am perfectly warm and looking forward to our little walk."

"I, as well." Glancing out the window, he says, "And here we are."