Closing the door to the little house behind her – making certain to shoot the lock, Christine stops to catch her breath. Despite Erik's careful instructions about the path – the different passages and traps and alarms given over and over during the past week both coming and going, making the trek without him was fraught with anxiety. There is something very different about travelling an unfamiliar road with a companion than alone. Pappa's death showed her that and this short journey through the bowels of the opera house only confirmed the realization.

"Do not rush," he cautioned her when they returned from their first excursion. "Do you recall when we left?"

"Yes, I counted the passages as you suggested using 3/4 time rhythm. Each third beat was the opening to the next doorway leading out, for 3 measures. Then a switch to 4/4 for 4. 5 more steps to the gate."

"Good. Simple but effective," he replied. "So on return?"

"5 steps, then 4/4 for 4 and 3/4 for 3."

"How many steps from the door?"

"Oh, right – one step outside the door, turn around to lock the door. Then another step before beginning the measures."

"So, now lead me back," he said. "I will stop you if you miscount. Do not worry."

As it turned out, she did not make any mistakes. The little melody she created in her head helped her. Music was always her way of coping with new experiences – create a song. Erik explained all music was based on mathematical concepts – he could have told her go walk 3 feet a number of times, then 4, but tying the steps to a musical concept would be easier for her. Pappa said much the same thing.

"Do not be concerned about how many miles we will have to walk, think only of the songs we can sing along the way. The time will pass more quickly and if, by some chance, we need to pass this way again, your song will place you exactly where you need to be."

Even so, the dark was so absolute, the oil lamp offering only enough light to see but a few paces in front of her. The desire to rush, to get home to him was strong, but that would change the timing of her song and could lead to her demise. Erik was very adamant about the dangers of this path.

After turning on the electric wall lamp inside the door, she hangs her cloak on the hook inside the door just off the kitchen. "Please let him be here." The thought has not left her since seeing Raoul lying on the floor of the stage, a noose hanging loosely around his neck.

None of them believe Erik is responsible, but if he is not here, where is he? The implication will be the Phantom did this and Erik is the Phantom. As she and Madame rode the short distance from the stage door to the Rue Scribe gate, it became clear she was Erik's alibi.

"Erik?" she calls out, only to find Isis running toward her meowing over and over as she rubs against her legs. "My goodness, you are certainly bothered. I cannot feed you now. I must find your papa."

As quickly as she appeared, the tuxedo turns and runs from the kitchen.

Entering the sitting room, Christine turns on another lamp to find Isis sitting in the entrance to the hallway leading to the bedrooms. When Christine follows her, she stops outside the Louis Phillippe room.

"No, little one, I am not going to my room, I must find Erik," she tells the cat. "He never enters my room." But when she tries to walk past the little cat blocks her way.

"Isis. No." Once again, Christine tries to walk past, but Isis swats at the hem of her skirt and meows.

"Very well, I will enter my room if only to show you that he is not here." That the door is slightly ajar does not bother her, it has been her habit to leave the door open to show Erik she trusts him. Besides closed doors tend to make her feel closed in.

That every light is on surprises her, however. The armoire is open and two large suitcases appear to be filled with what once hung inside the armoire. The mirrors were covered and the entire room was out of sorts, the calm order she left disturbed by…

"Erik? Are you here?" she asks, half running to the bathroom.

"Christine?" he whispers, holding a bloodied hand over his face. "Do not look at me."

"What happened? How did you injure yourself?" she asks, dropping to her knees, taking his hand to look at it. "You are cut…oh, dear. I must clean this." Taking the handkerchief tucked into her sleeve, she places it over his hand.

"No, just get your bags and go. I packed everything you need," he says, pulling away from her. "I will tend to this. It is nothing."

"What are you talking about? I am going nowhere." Rising to her feet, she goes to the sink. "What happened to the mirror?" Turning back to him, she cries. "Oh, no, you saw your face and you did this?"

"Would you not do the same?"

"I cannot say what I would do. I am only sorry you felt it necessary," she says. Opening the cupboard beneath the sink, she removes a whisk broom and dustpan and sweeps up the glass from the counter. A quick check of the floor shows no glass, but she quickly cleans the area as well. "Thank goodness the mirror is still almost intact and did not shatter any more than it did – only a few shards. "

After dumping the refuse in a small trash container, she returns the broom and pan under the sink. Leaving the bathroom, she goes to dresser and pulls out her sewing kit. Grabbing the bench from her vanity she drags it into the bathroom and places it next to the sink.

Isis follows close behind, jumping on the counter to observe the goings on.

"Let me help you up," she says bending over to take Erik by the arm. "I must clean your wound."

"No, I can do it after you leave."

"I am not going anywhere, stop being silly," she snaps. "You are bleeding and I can see no way you will be able to deal with your wound without assistance. Now please get up and allow me to help you."

Weakened by spent emotion and completely aware of his inability to deal with the cuts on his left hand, he nods and allows her to help him to his feet. Pressing his back against the wall, he keeps his head averted. "Please, allow me to at least place a cloth over my head. I do not want you to see my face."

"I do not care about your face."

"But I do." Holding up his hand, motioning to the broken mirror he says, "This is the result of me looking at myself. My body is full of scars resulting from others seeing my face. I would hardly expect you to find me appealing."

"I have seen you."

Erik's laugh is humorless. "Not up close. Not in full light."

Christine ponders a moment. "I will not argue the point with you any further. I am more concerned about repairing the damage to your hand." Retrieving another linen towel from the shelf, she places it in his hand and turns around. "While you are at it, take off your jacket and shirt."

"No."

"They are in the way and must be tended to from all the blood," she says. "You cannot expect to continue wearing them after all this."

"Christine, please, I cannot."

Turning around again, she stands directly in front him. "If you will not remove your garments, I will." Keeping her word, she lifts the blood soaked hanky, tossing it aside. After which, she unbuttons his jacket, pulling off his shoulders. "Hold your arms at your side and let it drop."

Unwilling or unable to argue with her, he follows her instructions, keeping his head averted. In the same way, his vest is removed and discarded. The cravat presents no problem, is easily untied and joins his tie on the counter.

"Now your shirt."

Swallowing hard, he pulls the shirt out of his trousers. With his good hand he unbuttons the fine cotton to reveal a sleeveless linen undershirt. Dragging the sleeve off the injured arm, he holds out his injured hand. "Here."

Handing him one of the linen towels, she says, "Put this over your head if it will make you feel more comfortable."

"Thank you," he says. Finally looking at his hand, he sees the worst of the bleeding has stopped suggesting the wounds are mostly superficial. For that he is grateful. No where near as bad as his younger self experienced.

"Whatever were you thinking?" his mother asked as she watched the doctor finish bandaging the lacerations on both of his wrists.

"I wanted to kill the monster."

"Oh, Erik," she sighed. "You only saw your own face."

The doctor looked up at her.

"The boy does not know of his appearance?"

The woman shook her head.

"How could he expect to survive in the world without that knowledge? Some of his issues might have been addressed when he was an infant."

"Are you criticizing me?"

"Yes, I believe I am," the gray-haired man replied. "A hairpiece can be made to cover some of the distorted skin. The redness can be calmed with creams."

"I am the monster?"

"You are not a monster, son, but sadly when you were born, some parts of your face were not like most people."

"What was I supposed to do?"

"You could have told him and not make him wear a hood," the doctor replied, packing up his black bag. "I will see to finding a wig and perhaps some facial coverings that will not inhibit his being able to see and speak."

"Will you come back?"

"Yes, son, I will come back to change your dressings."

It was his mother, however, who dealt with the dressings and one morning he found a package sitting on his dresser with a hairpiece and a barbee mask. The doctor never came back…or at least he never saw him again.

Despite his embarrassment now, both at his actions and needing Christine to attend to him, he is grateful for her matter-of-fact attitude. The girl…young woman…is so much more than he dreamed she could be. Losing her would be ever so more difficult now.

And, yet, she came back. She was here.

Once he drapes the towel over his head, he asks, "What would you like for me to do now?"

"Sit down and put your hand in the sink," she says, pulling out a small magnifying glass and tweezers from her sewing kit. "I need to see if there is any glass in the wound, but first I must run water over it to clean off the blood."

"There is a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and another of iodine in the medicine cabinet and some linen pads if you need them."

"But first soap and water," she says. "Pappa taught me that. We shall see if you need stitches."

At the wince he makes at the mention of stitches, she asks, "Do you have some opium for the pain?"

"I do, but I should prefer not to use it for such a minor incident," he replies.

"Are you certain? I understand the medicine helps relieve pain quickly and ease your discomfort," she says removing the bottles of medicine from the cabinet.

"More talk from the ballet girls?"

"Well, yes. Many of them use it for the pain in their feet after dancing."

"Yes, that make sense," he says. "I promise you will never have to go back to that life."

"Because of the opium?" Turning on the faucets, she runs the water until the temperature feels comfortable on her own hand.

"That among other things." Without waiting for her, he puts his hand under the running water and winces.

"Too hot?"

Erik shakes his head. "Stings. There is a bottle labeled Willow Bark, I will have two capsules with some water."

"For pain?" she asks, giving him the medication.

He nods. "Now go ahead. It will take a moment for the remedy to work, but best be done with this."

"Alright, let me look." Moving the lamp closer, she hold the magnifying glass over his hand. "Just one sliver." With her tweezers, she deftly removes the offending piece of glass, pressing the wound to let it bleed out before applying a cotton pad dipped in the peroxide to staunch the flow. "You are lucky, this was the only piece of glass, but the cut is rather deep, other than the one, the rest are mostly scratches."

"Thus, so much blood – more small veins close to the surface of the skin," he says, "Do I still need stitches?"

"A few."

"Then sew away while I am still feeling brave."

So beautiful, he thought, watching her concentrate on the task, biting her lower lip. Every time he flinches, she stops, takes a small breath, then continues. "There, five should do it."

"I could use a brandy," he attempts a chuckle as he examines her handiwork. "I should have thought of that in the first place."

"Me, too," she offers a soft laugh. "Now for some bandaging to keep it clean." Before wrapping the gauze, she kisses the wound.

Erik pulls back at the unexpected gesture. "You kissed me." His heart is beating so fast, he feels faint, hardly able to get the words out.

"Mama always kissed my hurts…said they would heal better with the extra love," she says, concentrating on bandaging his hand.

"You did not die."

"Why would I die?" A perplexed frown creases her brow.

"No reason." As he grew older he suspected the idea of someone kissing him would bring about their death was just another of his mother's fables. If anyone was toxic, it was she. And yet, he still believed this to be true. Until Christine, no one in his life ever came close enough to prove her wrong.

"Now to bed." Taking him by the arm again, she encourages him to stand.

"Your bed?"

"Do you see another in this room?"

"What about you?"

"I can make do in the sitting room," she says, tugging at his arm. "At the moment, you are the one in need of rest."

"I can manage without you holding me," he says, then stumbles as he tries to gain his footing.

"Did you hurt your leg when you fell? You did fall, did you not?"

"I stepped back," he snaps, wincing. "My ankle must have turned."

"As I suspected. You were crumpled on the floor when I came in."

"Was I?"

"Did I not just say so?" she scolds. "More than your hand was injured, so stop fighting me…let me help you."

Isis leads the way to the bed, jumping on the bed as soon as Christine pulls back the duvet, to settle on the pillow.

"Move over, little girl, your papa needs to lie down," Erik says, as he drops down onto the mattress. "My head does ache as well…it is possible more damage was done than a cut hand."

Christine bends over to pull off his shoes.

"Christine."

"You have suffered an injury," she says, lifting his legs onto the bed pushing him gently onto the pillows. "I do not know what prompted you to start packing my clothes, but whatever it was you wound up hurting yourself. I can see from your wrists and arms that this is not the first time you were cut. The small injury I dealt with is nothing compared to what I see here."

"Can we just leave this be for now? They are from times past…years," he says, rolling away from her, gathering the cat close to him. "I do not want you to pity me. I find I am so very tired right now."

Drawing the duvet over him, she bends over to pat Isis on the head, brushing her lips against the top of his head. "I do not pity you. I care for you. Now get some rest," she says, turning off the lamp.

"You kissed me again."

"And again I did not die," she sighs, touching him lightly on his shoulder. "Go to sleep now. We can talk more about this not dying business later."

Watching him, she waits until his breathing is even to return to the bathroom. After quickly putting everything back in its place, she picks up his soiled clothing and towels carrying everything to the kitchen. Running the cold water, she rinses and squeezes the sleeve of his shirt, then that of his coat under the tap until the water runs clear. The towels and her handkerchief are places in a basin to soak, to be rinsed later.

The routine and homely activity finds her calming down, allowing her to relax to try to understand what happened with Erik. The entire day has been nothing like she imagined it might be. The altercation with Raoul seems as though it happened weeks ago.

This is the first time for her to consider what to make of his behavior and then finding him with the rope around his neck. Once back home…she knows there is no possibility Erik is responsible. Still M. Khan and Madame both believe he might be blamed.

Fatigue is setting in for her now that the emergency is over. Leaving the laundry in the kitchen, she goes back into the sitting room. Removing the jacket of her gray suit, she lays it over the arm of Erik's chair. Looking back at the door of her room, she shakes her head. "Should have changed my clothes earlier. Oh well."

Looking around, she smiles at the crocheted Afghan she made to counter the chill that still settled in the room despite all of Erik's precautions for evenings when they sat and read. Removing all her clothes, with the exception of her chemise and pantalets, she folds them adding them to the jacket on wing-backed chair. Finally, wrapping the soft wool blanket around her, she lies down on sofa, tucking a small throw pillow under her head.

"My poor Erik, what sort of life have you known believing someone would die from kissing you?" she wonders, stifling a big yawn. "Time enough tomorrow to worry about that and so many other questions."

In the bedroom down the hall, certain Christine has gone, Erik rolls onto his back, discarding the towel covering his head.

Isis meows her objection to being disturbed and moves to the foot of the bed.

"Sorry, my pet," Erik says. "I cannot stop thinking about Christine's sweet kisses."

The cat returns to sit on his chest, giving his distorted cheek a raspy lick.

"Yes, my dear, you give lovely kisses, if a bit scratchy," he laughs stroking her soft fur. "I shall dream about hers, however, if you do not mind." Fluffing the pillow, he closes his eyes. "What a fine day this turned out to be."