"Christine!" The sound of his own voice wakens him. Sitting bolt upright, he throws off the duvet, rousing Isis who cries out in protest. Nothing is right. The confusion of this nightmare – nothing like others – sends a chill down his spine. Haunted by memories of the different times he has been beaten…or worse, was called upon to make someone else suffer. Too often, they events melded together into one grizzly cacophony of blood, screams and pain. The physical pain was no longer an issue, but his mind refused to let go. Dreams reminded him of his sins and those who sinned against him.

This one, however, was different…immediate.

Feeling around him, he begins to realize where he is and why he is in her room…in her bed. Touching his hand, he feels the bandages so gently placed on his injury. Then there were the kisses. All her beauty and grace giving him a respite from his loneliness…so, why this dream?

The darkness of the tunnel broken by a flickering light. Christine crying out. "I forgot the pattern. I could not remember my melody. Oh, Angel, I am so scared." Has there been an alarm? If someone tried to break in he would not know…not here in her room. When he returned to pack her things, he made certain all the traps were set again. Only now is he aware she might have been caught in one of them. Was that what the dream meant? His not protecting her?

But she is here. The treacherous path did not thwart her return. Clever girl – she did memorize the path. Thank God for that. It was only Christine's faith in herself, in his instructions, in God that saved her. Although the Lord did seem to be somewhat more friendly to him these days. A lack of his own faith might have killed her. Was it too late for him to learn to pray?

"Thank you," he whispers, eyes looking up, then lowering them, uncomfortable in his penitence. "I suppose gratitude is a beginning."

Turning on the small table lamp, noting the time on the ormolu clock – less than an hour since he lay down. The disarray of the room finds him embarrassed at his foolishness and lack of consideration for her.

"Do you not think Reza might want to keep his things as they are?" Nadir said as he watched him put the books in one case, his drum and flute in another. Lastly, the toys – boats with boats, soldiers with soldiers, and animal statues with animals statues according to type.

"He has been feeling especially weak," Erik said, standing up, admiring the order. "I thought I would help."

"You never had many toys, did you?"

"But I did. So many I seldom had time to play with them. When I was old enough to think about the number of playthings filling my room, I realized they were supposed to replace human companionship. And yet, my mother was quite adamant about every one of them be put away before I went to bed."

"So rather than enjoy them you did nothing?"

"The price was too high – a brief nod and occasionally a small smile were preferable to a scowl or gruff comment or an occasional slap," Erik admitted. "Mostly I read or copied the pictures from the books my father left…or played my violin."

"Well, since you were the perpetrator of this organization, he will be pleased," Nadir laughed. "The boy worships you, you know."

"Does he?"

"You cannot tell?" Nadir shook his head. "Oh, Erik."

The daroga did warn him Christine would not have wanted him to pack her things. Just as Reza was happier with his toys strewn about the room. Did he also suggest she cared about him as well? Human relationships were truly beyond his comprehension.

"They look so nice, amoo* Erik," Reza said when he returned from tending to his little garden.

"There," Erik smirked to Nadir.

"I will keep them this way always." Wrapping his arms around a stunned Erik, Reza looked at his father and smiled.

After giving the boy a pat on his head, Erik pulled away so he could look Reza in the eyes. "You hate the order?"

"I like how you wanted to do something for me," Reza replied, squeezing his hand.

"But?"

"But, they seem sad. They want to play with one another."

Of course, in this case, he took the order she created for her things and he disrupted that to satisfy his own beliefs. Now he was uncertain what to do. The suitcases packed with her things as he left them will be left to her. If she decides to stay, he will mind his manners.

"Erik, come quickly, Reza is feverish again…I gave him the medicine, but he is delirious. I do not know what to do."

Rushing into the boy's room, he noted the toys were still on the shelves where he placed them. "What happened? He was fine earlier."

Nadir shrugged. "He was so worried about you…hurting your feelings – he did not wish to tell us he felt ill. Then he told about the pain returning when he was in the garden."

"So he was not able to play with them?"

"No."

"I should scatter them about," Erik growled, "He must have thought I wanted him to stop playing."

"No. He thought you put them away because you loved him," Nadir said, patting the taller man on his back. "Now, you must really love him. Ease his pain for however much longer we have him with us."

After slipping into his shoes, he gets to his feet then groans and sits back down. The ankle…now he recalls falling back, twisting his foot. Balancing on his good foot, he limps across the room to the bathroom. Spotless, of course. She cleaned up the disorder he created. Of course she did. Just as she took the music he gave her in their lessons and gave the notes life.

Splashing his face with water, he rinses his mouth – a proper brushing can wait until his has use of his own toothbrush and powder.** An aching in his head and the wound on his hand reminds him of the events of less than an hour ago, but the fear the dream aroused might have been a lifetime ago. Opening the medicine cabinet, he takes two more capsules of the willow bark. The opium bottle tempts him – his body feels so wretched, but he closes the cabinet. Now is not the time for forgetfulness. One glaring event on this day is quite enough.

Taking note of his state of dress, he groans. No mask. No wig. No shirt or jacket – just his undershirt and trousers. What a wretch he is and she saw him this way. At least when clothed and groomed, he is somewhat attractive. Why would he not be – both his parents were handsome people. Years of mistreatment, however, left scars on his body. The wearing of a wig did not serve his scalp very well and soon his own hair stopped growing – and then there was the deformity itself.

Well, the answer to that was to become presentable before seeing her again. Somehow get to your room, wrap the ankle, put on some clothes, a mask and wig, then find her. Isis darts into the hallway when he opens the door making a beeline for the sitting room.

"Is that where she is?"

The cat stops for a moment to look at him, then continues on her path.

"You do not have to look at me as if I am completely witless. I will take that as a yes, she is in the sitting room." With a light laugh, he waves the cat off. "Keep her safe while I attempt to make myself presentable…I hope she is sleeping…I must check the alarms." A feeling of dread rises in his throat. "Please, God, if I might pray, if someone is injured, do not let Nadir be a victim of my caution."

None of the traps was intended to be deadly, but one could never know about such things. In the time he has lived beneath the earth, they have never been tested. A life of being punished…hated for something he had no control over, made him cautious. At times he wonders about having spent so much time and effort to create such elaborate traps – the sandbags alone would be sufficient protection…but his fear was too deep, his anger too great. No one would best him ever again.

And with a fierce determination and a back-breaking effort, he constructed the path to bring as much fear as possible to anyone who dared try to hurt him. Pain was less important than terror. Even so, an interloper was not necessarily doomed.

The idea was the first sandbag would be enough to discourage anyone from moving any further onto the path. Small enough to send a message, but not so heavy as to knock someone out. The bag would also act as a lever for the trapdoor, but only if the prowler moved beyond a certain point. Otherwise, he might simply get up, turn around and leave with a lump on his head and a sense of regret at trying to find the entrance to his house.

A sandbag missing the mark would allow anyone to continue…onto the next trap. The same with the next. The idea of anyone bypassing all three without either being hit or the trap opening was slim. However, if someone was especially unlucky, and one of the three trapdoors opened, he would be deposited into the lake after a short fall down a very dark, slippery tunnel. The level of injury from being hit on the head and the inciting of fear and the swimming ability of the vandal determined the odds of survival.

If he were to make a wish, if in fact someone did break in – he would hope Buquet was the recipient of his welcome. After that the Vicomte, although the boy did not seem clever enough to do much more than cry about his losses. Or if clever, but simply lazy, Raoul de Chagny living a life of high expectations, he lacks the instinct to fight or work for what he wants. Although Christine did seem to waken something within him. For that, he could not fault the young man. It would be well for him not to underestimate the young man.

Besides Christine would be significantly more upset about him being injured or worse than Buquet, although he doubts she would be pleased about anyone being hurt – whatever the reason.

Finishing his toilette – a complete change of clothing into more comfortable drawstring pants, a soft flannel shirt and a light wool jacket, he dons a newer wig, one recently purchased upon coming to know Christine, and one of his barbee masks.

As he passes from his bathroom to the hallway, he glances down at the coffin where he sleeps if he does not first doze off in his wing-backed chair, making a mental note to buy himself a normal bed. The short time in Christine's gave him more rest than this reminder of his death wish of one night lying down and never waking up. Peace in death, if not in life.

The oblong box, carved from ebony, while not comfortable was comforting. The nightmares over the years grew progressively worse, sleep was often impossible because he was afraid of hurting himself. Having his body confined, held close by the tufted satin lining kept him from thrashing about and injuring himself.

Stepping into the hallway, he looks briefly toward the living area of the apartment before walking swiftly to the music room where he can see if any of the alarms were tripped and, if so, determining how much damage was done.

"Stop here," Raoul shouts out the window of the carriage to Albert, his new driver.

"I cannot abide a driver who treats me like a child."

"When you act like a child, expect to be treated as one," was Phillippe's curt reply. "However, I do not wish to put a loyal servant through your excessive temper tantrums. He deserves better. Albert will take care of you from now on."

"Albert! He will be worse. He was Papa's favorite."

"Exactly."

"The instructions were to take you home, sir."

"Since when do you take orders from a complete stranger?"

"You are not well, even a person with poor eyesight can see that, M. le Vicomte," the older man calls down to him, continuing to guide the horses along the Rue Scribe. "M. Khan said you had a spell."

"I said stop," Raoul screams. "Here. Now."

Sighing deeply, Albert pulls the carriage over to the side of the road. "As you wish."

Pushing out the door, Raoul runs across the street. "Aha, I thought it appeared to be ajar." Pushing through the wrought iron, he stumbles toward the heavy wooden door. Trying the latch, he finds this entry open as well. "Good fortune seems to be with me."

Turning around, he waves at the older man. "I have some business I must attend to. Wait there for me." Ignoring Albert's stiff frown and the epithets rolling from under the man's mustache – curses he cannot hear. The run across the street finds his head still swimming from the alcohol and near-death experience with Buquet, but he does not care. Whatever she may have said, he knows he must save her…if only from herself and her foolish ideas about singing and the theater. His purpose set, he staggers through the door into the darkness.

*Amoo – Uncle on the father's side.

**The first toothbrushes were invented in China using boar bristles. Tooth powder was also commonly used during the period of time when Phantom takes place.