A/N: I heard your outcry – here it is - and hope you enjoy…)


IV

An Alliance

.

Dominique Giry moved through the long dark hallway like a silent, black-winged moth to the beacon of light glowing from the parlor door that stood ajar.

Having arrived at Le Manoir de Blanc La Rose, fondly called Whiterose, to the disturbing news that her foolish daughter had hours earlier fled – there was no other word for Meg's rapid and stealthy departure – Madame Giry, exhausted from the discomforts of travel and possessing the most horrid of aches in her skull, had immediately sought solace in the room she'd been given to rest. Yet sleep was an evasive beast. The realization that her daughter truly hated her for the falsehoods Madame raised her to believe, (only to protect the ignorant child), pierced her heart. The persistent knowledge that she must now share news that would surely wound her hostess burdened her soul…

But there was no escape from what must be done.

At the threshold, she collected a breath before pushing the door open the rest of the way. Surprised to see the Dowager Comtesse in her nightgown, wrapper, and ruffled bed cap, seated in front of the fire and staring fixedly into its flames, as if lost to another realm, Madame hesitated just inside the room.

Her hostess turned her head and spotted her. "Madame Giry," she said in surprise and straightened. She pulled the edge of her wrapper closer in an instinctive gesture, as if just realizing her appearance. "Do forgive my disheveled state."

"I have no wish to intrude. I'll go…"

"No, please stay. I could use the company. Lady Helena huffed an embarrassed little laugh. "I fear this has become a habit of late – coming here in the night to sit by the fire and lose myself to foolish reminiscing. I should welcome the respite."

Madame remained where she was, uncomfortable to intrude on what had obviously been a poignant or troublesome memory, due to the wet shine in the Dowager Comtesse's eyes. And she wondered if perhaps she should put off her news until the following day.

"Please." Her hostess motioned to the gold, satin-covered chair across from hers.

"If you're sure, my lady…?" At her nod, Madame Giry moved to join her and took a seat.

"I wish you would dispense with such formalities. Let us speak as friends. Call me Helena."

Dominique blinked at such a peculiar request from a noblewoman. True, Dominique was the daughter of a baron, and she and the Dowager Comtesse once before shared habitation when Madame and Meg needed sanctuary after the rebels' downfall and the fire that burned throughout Paris. But they never once shared a true rapport, each of them wary of the other and for their own reasons. Dominique still could not conceive how this woman would let her only child leave her care, whatever her reason of believing him dead, which made no sense and failed to do so when the Dowager Comtesse first made that statement a year ago, before they were interrupted. The sole purpose of Dominique coming to Whiterose was to see Meg, having felt the elapse of five seasons more than long enough for a separation and for her daughter to find forgiveness in her heart.

Apparently, it was not.

Seeing that her hostess awaited a reply, she gave a slight nod. "As you like." Courtesy demanded she offer the same privilege, but almost two decades of caution held her back, and awkwardly she clasped her hands together on her lap. "I am not yet accustomed to using my given name and still familiar with the practice of shielding my identity."

"Oh?"

"Rest assured, I am not a wanted felon, but then … Meg must have told you all of it," she realized aloud.

Speaking her daughter's name drove deep the thorn of pain she experienced upon learning of Meg's departure from the housemaid. The servant had also told her she just missed Meg's carriage, set off for a destination unknown.

"She mentioned your privileged upbringing as well as your decision to hide it, and her recent discovery of that truth. No more than that." Lady Helena's smoky green eyes brimmed with sympathetic understanding.

Dominique nodded. "If you don't mind, at least for now, I prefer to retain the name by which you know me and be called as such." Perhaps it was a lie, since she'd never married and Meg now knew that, but it was a comfortable lie Madame had grown accustomed to in order to maintain respectability.

Her own little masquerade.

The irony did not escape her, and unexpectedly the memory of Meg's long-ago prophetic uttering, "The face of evil wears many masks" came clear to her senses.

"I know this must all be quite difficult," Helena said, jarring Madame from the disturbing thought. "I attempted to persuade Meg to remain at Whiterose, but she was determined to go. However, I had not realized she slipped away until this afternoon. I had company this morning – the local cleric visited, seeking donations for an orphanage he has newly begun. Forgive me for not being here to welcome you to my home. Once I was told you arrived, I was also told you had retired to rest."

"I desired no one's company upon my arrival, and I certainly do not hold you accountable for my errant daughter's proclivity to slip away."

This time, Madame added silently. She could hardly forget that the Dowager Comtesse helped Meg escape from Manoir de Ravenwolf to this very estate over a year ago.

"Did she mention where she was going? Surely she did not just take off without divulging her plans?"

Though she had done exactly that before, so Dominique did not know why she bothered to ask.

"She told me a friend sent her an invitation by letter to come visit."

"A friend?" Who did her daughter know in Rouen or outside of it to be on such close terms as to stay at their home? "Someone associated with the Opera House?"

Helena lifted her hands in a shrug of remorse. "She did not say, and I did not think to ask. She is hardly a child that I could prohibit from leaving the estate."

And yet, Meg was behaving exactly as a child! "I cannot believe she would take off alone a second time. Has a full year's maturity been in vain? Have life's experiences taught her nothing?"

"I can assure you, Madame, the present situation excluded, Meg has become a very capable young woman, both strong in spirit and sound of mind. You have no reason to fear for her well being. The driver I sent with her is a man I trust implicitly. He would risk his life to safeguard her if need be."

Madame seethed with bitter resentment that she had to be told about her daughter by a woman who had gained the intimacy to know her, yet was a step away from being a stranger – a mother who once abandoned her own child. Where was the justice in that?

She managed a wan smile. "I admit, it is somewhat of a relief that your servant has merited such trust."

"You are mistaken." Lady Helena sat forward slightly, as if to divulge a secret. "The driver is no servant. He is my nephew."

Trickles of ice seemed to freeze inside Madame's blood. "What?" she asked hollowly. "Not the Vicomte de Chagny?"

"Yes, it is Raoul of whom I speak; I have no other nephews."

"He has been staying here?" Madame barely masked her disquiet to hear such news. "All this time?"

"No, he had affairs elsewhere in France this past year. But I consider it a stroke of good fortune that he arrived when he did, just this morning as a matter of fact. He took the place of my regular driver – a stick of a man with the strength of a willow reed – because I asked it of him. I loaned Meg the use of my carriage but did not feel comfortable letting her go alone. If anyone can watch out for her well being, it is my nephew."

Madame said nothing, barely shaking her head in helpless aggravation. During her last encounter with Meg over a year ago, her daughter made it implicitly clear, without stating in actual words, her untoward feelings for the Vicomte.

"He should not have done that," she whispered.

"Oh no," Lady Helena assured her, "he did not mind the task and was quite willing to help. He thinks as well of Meg as I do."

Rather than encourage, her words caused further distress. Madame felt uneasy with regard to Raoul's true motives toward Meg and gave no response to the Dowager Comtesse's mistaken assumption that she apologized for the Vicomte's peculiar and inappropriate involvement as a nobleman behaving as a servant for her daughter.

"From some things said recently, I feel confident that Meg will soon release this grudge she holds against you. That she said she is 'not yet ready' to see you implies that at some point she will be. You of course are welcome to remain at Whiterose as long as you wish. She assured me that she would return in due course, though she gave no definite date."

There was little else to do but stay. "Merci, I shall take you up on your offer. I have no plans to return to Paris at this time."

"Have you let your tenement go then?"

Lady Helena had just presented the perfect segue to share the news Madame must tell, and she decided not to delay until morning. She had no idea how to proffer such information carefully, to tiptoe around difficult matters was foreign to her nature, so she simply came right out with what needed to be said.

"Erik returned to Paris. He is staying at my flat."

By Lady Helena's blank stare the words at first did not penetrate. Her eyes suddenly grew large and she laid a hand over her heart and pressed her shoulder blades to the back of her chair.

"Erik…my Erik? He is in Paris…?"

"Oui, he arrived last night."

Lady Helena let out a soft, startled breath then sat forward in sudden apprehension. "He is well? Is there still any danger of his capture?"

"I cannot tell you if there is or is not; it is impossible to know with soldiers everywhere one looks nowadays, or to know if more than one year was enough time for Paris to forget the night of the Don Juan. With more recent memories of the tragic revolution, I would think that the matter of the Phantom of the Opera has been laid to rest. But I advised him to exercise caution at all times, regardless."

Whether her stubborn and reckless Maestro would heed such advice was another matter altogether.

"And is he well?" Lady Helena repeated.

"He and Christine are both well. They are married and have a child. A little girl."

"Married … a child." Helena's eyes slid quietly shut and a slight catch marred her voice. "I have a granddaughter…"

Suddenly she opened her eyes and rose from her chair, walking to the mantel in clear agitation. "I must send for him at once. He must know his true heritage and assume his rightful position here at Whiterose. There is no other choice, and I'll not have it any other way …"

The grave and emphatic manner in which the Dowager Comtesse quietly spoke puzzled Dominique, and she sensed much more lay beneath the surface of things left unsaid. For the first time since her arrival, Dominique anticipated her stay, if for no other reason than to learn more about the mystery of Erik and the woman who had borne him.

"I did not tell him about you, your relation to him, that is," Madame inserted uneasily while watching her reaction closely. "Only that you are Raoul's aunt and a de Chagny. I invited him to accompany me here, stressing that he would be welcome, and I believe he was actually considering it, but he refused when he learned your name. I'm sorry I wasn't successful."

Helena laughed bitterly, her eyes sad, her nod resigned. "It is to be expected. What have the de Chagnys ever extended toward my son but a lifetime of animosity and shame? My husband… and now my nephew, whose sole ambition was to hunt Erik down to kill him."

Her gaze went to a daguerreotype in an oval frame on the mantel. From this distance it appeared to be a couple, and Dominique assumed by her hostess's somber admission that it must be Lady Helena and the former Comte.

"Oh, if I could have those days back to relive, to erase all I set in motion with one foolish and fearful act," the Dowager Comtesse said little above a whisper. "If only I had known then what I know now…" She suddenly straightened her shoulders, as if refusing to give into despair. "But to return to the past is obviously not optional. I can only go forward from this moment – and I intend to do just that."

"I spoke with Christine," Madame offered, a morsel of sympathy prompting her words. "I believe she agrees with me, that Whiterose would be the best place for them at this uncertain time. If anyone can make the Maestro see reason, it is his wife. She alone has ever been able to reach him."

Lady Helena regarded her reflectively. "I should very much like to meet this young woman about whom I've heard so much."

"If you wish it, I will tell you what I know, based on my experiences from the many years I acted as her guardian."

Helena's smile came faint but assured. "I should welcome that, and to know more about my son, as well."

Dominique gave a faint nod, still undecided about the woman's character, due to the cruel abandonment of her child; though her motives to be reunited with Erik sounded pure. Raoul had betrayed them for personal reasons, but despite what transgressions his aunt committed in her past, Lady Helena seemed fervent to rectify former mistakes.

"It seems we share in common children separated from us through mistakes we have made," Lady Helena said as if reading her mind. "Perhaps if we work together, Madame, you and I, we can help one another find a way to bring them home where they belong."

Dominique did not know how such a feat could even be accomplished, but was willing to do whatever it took – even if that meant forming an alliance with a de Chagny.

.

xXx

.

Silver moonlight flooded the grass trodden down by the many hooves and wheels from the multitude of horses and carriages that had traveled to and from the inn throughout its ample decades of service. That is, where packed mud was not present, the dark, wet earth covering the majority of the area.

With one hand clutching her skirts, the other the frame of the carriage door, Meg wrinkled her nose at the thick black sludge beneath the coach. At least she hoped it was only mud…

"Is there a problem?"

"No, everything is fine," she responded tersely to the Vicomte's casual question as he waited for her to emerge from the coach.

"Would you like some help? Or do you intend to stand there all night?"

He stood beside the coach, having tied up the horse, and now observed her with a cocky grin.

Of course she did not expect him to spread his cloak on the ground for her to walk across – she would shun the offer if he tried! – but she certainly did not need him to watch her like a barn owl as she pondered her predicament either.

"You may take my trunk inside. I'll follow in a moment." As soon as she could find a way to salvage her smooth-soled slippers and prevent a fall. Unfortunately she had packed her unwieldy but markedly more stable boots in her trunk.

"Ah," he said with a slight nod to her haughty directions then grimly shook his head. "Not a chance. I'm not leaving you outside, alone, in these surroundings."

Meg cast a skeptical eye around the relatively quiet area; indeed the only sounds seemed to be coming from within the tavern.

"There's not a soul in sight," she argued her point.

"Not now, there isn't. I cannot swear that will be the case within the next few minutes."

"Don't be absurd. It won't take me that long – wait. What are you doing?" Meg gripped the frame more tightly when it became apparent exactly what he was doing as he swung her into his arms. "Put me down this minute, Vicomte!" She struggled against him.

"Stop squirming or we'll both end up in the mud," he softly ground out as he carried her toward the entrance, fighting to keep his hold on her.

"Leave me be," she seethed, "I don't need a savior!"

"Would you prefer I put you down here?" He lowered her a bit, and she cast her eyes to the slick mud that looked deep, by the condition of his boots. Unwittingly, she tightened her hold on his shoulder.

"I thought not."

At his smug tone, she narrowed her eyes at him. "You are an arrogant bully and a boor, and –"

"And if you say you despise me once more, I will drop you in the mud," he finished for her.

She stared at him with her mouth open in surprise that he, a presumed gentleman, would even say such a thing to her, then firmly clamped her lips shut, caging all the harsh insults she would dearly like to hurl at his leonine head. Sitting as rigidly as she could in his arms, she kept her frozen glare on the arched door of the inn. The moment his foot hit the stoop, she wiggled to be let down, and more swiftly than she would have supposed, he gave her what she demanded. Regaining her balance, she smoothed her skirts, relieved there appeared to be less mud here than what covered the ground – but had barely recovered before he swung the door aside.

"After you, Miss Giry."

She haughtily lifted her chin and entered the noisy room without looking at him, then hung back as the blatant interest from those patrons at the nearest tables focused on her.

The dimly lit room was filled with men, mostly slovenly, filthy drunkards, from what she could tell, loud and boisterous workmen, similar to Monsieur Buquet, and she felt the slightest twinge of remorse for thinking ill of the dead. Spotting the sole woman in the room, she moved toward the long bar at the back. A hand reached out toward her skirts and she skirted away in shock to feel the sudden clutch of her leg.

"Still don't need a savior?" her annoying escort queried beneath his breath from close behind.

Vexed with him and with the drunken lout who dared to handle her, she reached within her cloak and pulled out a dagger she had taken from the Dowager Comtesse's home, holding it up for the man to see. She may be impulsive to make such a journey alone, or so she had thought, but she was no fool to come unarmed.

"Touch me again and I'll remove those fingers, just see if I don't," she threatened, the steel in her voice as glaring as the message of the blade that flashed in the candlelight.

The drunkard's gaze fastened on the dagger gleaming inches from his face in surprise and he recoiled. She felt a burst of triumph to have gotten her message across without bloodshed.

Her unwanted escort grunted in impatience and grabbed her arm above the elbow, hurriedly moving with her toward the bar.

"That was unwise," he reproached beneath his breath.

"What? That I stole your thunder?" she huffed in disdain.

"That you should flash a blade of clear value in such a poor establishment. I recognize it from the library at Whiterose. It was my uncle's. My aunt gave it to me, and foolishly I left it behind when I last visited."

"Fine. You wish for it back then?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Just keep it out of sight."

Meg was not given the chance to respond with the wry rejoinder she wished, as they came to stand before the woman, as ill kept looking as her customers. Her damp hair was straggled, all her teeth nearly rotted, her clothes spotted with sweat; trickles of it ran down her temples. She looked at them suspiciously from behind the counter.

"What you be needing, monsieur?"

"A room for the night, if you please."

"Two rooms."

"Let me handle this, miss," his soft voice held a warning to Meg, his blue eyes briefly going to her, "it's what you hired me to do."

She blinked as she realized his ruse but narrowed her eyes in equal warning that she would not stand for any tomfoolery.

"A room for my lady," he again said to the woman.

"All to herself then?" the innkeeper asked skeptically, casting another curious glance at Meg.

"Of course," Meg was quick to reply and felt the cautionary squeeze of his hand, still holding her arm.

"She won't be sharing with any of your other female guests. And I will sleep in the common room, with the other drivers and servants."

The woman shrugged. "It'll cost you more, for the privacy. Don't have many rooms."

"I am well aware of the extra expense."

"In advance." She held out a grubby palm.

The Vicomte placed a few coins into her hand. She looked at them then grunted in satisfaction.

"You don't talk like a servant," the woman mused, looking him up and down.

"I was most fortunate to be educated by my master."

"Hmph. All them fancy words and that pretty face won't get you nowhere, mark my words, boy. You'll still be common born and a servant 'til the end of your days." As she spoke she turned to collect a key and a lit candlestick, then moved from beyond the counter to the foot of a staircase. "Come along then. Finn, take over," she said to a young man who washed glasses in a steel basin around the corner and out of sight of the main room.

"By your master?" Meg wryly muttered beneath her breath as they followed the woman up a narrow flight of stairs.

"Every boy born to the nobility has a schoolmaster," the Vicomte said just as quietly. "She doesn't need to know what kind of master I meant."

Meg softly snorted. "And don't think you'll be paying for my room. I brought money."

"Would I rather not know how you came by it?"

"I didn't steal it if that's what you mean," she snapped in reply. "I didn't steal the dagger either. I would have returned it."

"Perhaps this is not the appropriate time for this conversation," he advised as they came to a corridor just as narrow and dimly lit with few gaslights scattered far in murky globes. The woman led them almost to the end of the corridor before opening a door on the right.

The room was surprisingly larger than Meg would have thought, but sparse, containing a bed, a hearth and two simple wooden chairs. A pile of logs rested against the wall and a worn blanket lay folded on a bare mattress. The woman lifted a glass globe from the lamp mounted to the wall by the door and lit it, bringing more light into the room.

"If you be wantin' water to wash with, Finn can bring you up some. Setting a fire costs extra."

"Extra," Meg parroted in disbelief. "It's not included in the price of the room–?"

"That will be fine, Madame, just the water," Raoul interrupted, addressing the woman. "I can build a fire."

The woman sniffed. "As you like." She bustled out of the room.

The Vicomte looked over at Meg who crossed her arms and glared at him.

"Right," he said, "I'll just see to that fire and then get your trunk, shall I?"

He set about his task, placing wood in the hearth and setting flame to the bits of straw stuffed at the bottom. Once the flames sputtered then caught onto the wood, he rose from where he knelt and turned, to see Meg had not budged, though her eyes had followed and watched him.

"I know it's nowhere near as comfortable as Whiterose, or even the dormitory rooms at the Opera House, but it's the nicest inn on the road to Troyes. The alternative is far worse." He brushed his hands together to rid them of ash. "You will just have to manage as best you can."

Weary of strife, Meg released a brief sigh and uncrossed her arms. She moved to the window concealed by a long moth-eaten drape. Pulling it aside, she shuddered and immediately snapped it shut.

Surely her apprehension to be in such a situation added to her fear. Surely of the burly men now standing outside, she had only imagined one of them turn his attention up to her window.

"Is there a problem?"

"No," she rubbed her arms and directed a fleeting glance at the Vicomte. "It's cold in here."

"The room will warm up shortly. I will see to retrieving your trunk."

Meg barely offered a nod of acknowledgement. Once he left she moved toward the bed and shook out the blanket, coughing when dust particles floated around her. How long had this been sitting in such a state? Did not many travelers take advantage of a single room and prefer to share?

The boy, Finn, appeared with the pitcher of water and a basin he set on the small table near the bed. She smiled and thanked him. His face flushed and he gave a shy nod then hurried out. Within minutes, the Vicomte reappeared, carrying her heavy trunk on his back. She watched as he set it at the foot of the bed. The unwelcome thought struck her that he was much more appealing in plain shirtsleeves and trousers, exerting his raw strength, than as an important nobleman decked in all his finery.

Angry with such favorable thoughts of his person when she had no wish to think anything about him, she tore her attention away from the shirt clinging to the muscles rippling in his back to look down at her trunk. A thought struck her.

"Damn," she muttered beneath her breath.

He turned. "Pardon?"

Her face warmed at her slip. "I left my valise inside the coach."

"I shall retrieve it for you."

Once he left the room again, she changed her mind. There was nothing she really needed for tonight inside the cloth bag, which contained her few books and trifles and she moved to the door and opened it to stop him. All she really wanted was a decent meal and a good night's sleep.

There was no sign of the Vicomte, but one of the men from downstairs approached from the far end of the corridor, staggering slightly, his face an ugly smiling leer. Instantly she recognized him as the disgusting lout she had threatened with her dagger.

Meg instantly drew back and shut the door then realized with fearful dismay she had no key. Her heart beating hard beneath her ribs, she backed up, sure he would seek retribution, and invade her room at any moment. She made a cursory glance around the room for a weapon. A slim brass candlestick she'd not first noticed sat atop the hearth's ledge and she grabbed it, pulling out the unlit candle and tossing it to the floorboards.

Gripping the candlestick around the bottom, she approached the door and stood at the side of it in wait. To her expectant horror the door swung slowly inward and a dark shape appeared, taking a step across the threshold. Stepping forward she swung, hitting the intruder hard on the back of the head.

The man groaned and slumped to the floor, the murky gaslight on the opposite side of the door picking out the fair glints in his hair.

"Oh, God," Meg dropped the candlestick and hurried forward, falling to her knees. She grabbed his shirt in fistfuls below the collar and shook him. "Vicomte! Can you hear me?"

He did not stir and she looked toward the open door and the yawning space of the gloomy corridor, recalling the danger and the need to act with haste. Grabbing hold of his body beneath the arms, she dragged him the necessary distance to close the door, then saw the wood was warped and prevented her from being able to shut it firmly. In frustration, she looked around, her attention catching on one of the chairs with its high back, and she retrieved it, dragging it to the door and lodging it firmly beneath the latch, hopeful it would prevent any unwanted interlopers.

Her attention went to the one man who she had considered most unwanted and she gripped his shoulders, again shaking him.

"Vicomte," she insisted softly. "Wake up… please," she whined a little. "…wake up." Her brow furrowed when his eyes remained closed. Again she shook him. "Vicomte … Raoul! You need to come awake now." She slapped his cheeks, trying to revive him. "Don't you dare do this to me you horrid man …"

Fearing she had truly killed him, she grabbed both sides of his head, her stomach lurching to feel something warm and wet against her fingers. Pulling away her hand, she almost retched to see them covered with his blood. "No- don't you dare die on me!" She slapped his face harder, not knowing what else to do, certain she would get little or no help from those on the floor below.

"I always knew...one day...you'd find an excuse to strike me."

At the low thread of his voice, she softly laughed in relief then briskly wiped away the moisture that had leaked onto her cheeks. His lashes fluttered open and she never thought she'd be so happy to see the azure blue of his eyes.

"What in blazes did you hit me with?" he groaned as he sat up groggily, putting his hand to the back of his head.

"A candlestick. Sorry. I thought you were someone else."

"Someone else?" He grimaced as he pulled his hand away and saw the blood on his fingers.

"We need to stop the bleeding."

Contrite, Meg ignored his question and with difficulty helped him to stand. Clearly dizzy, he slapped his palm to the wall to regain balance. Undecided, she glanced toward the bed and then the remaining chair by the fire, and helped him toward it. He slumped to the hard seat and leaned his head back against the top edge, again closing his eyes.

Meg set about collecting handkerchiefs from her trunk and wet one with water. She knelt beside his chair.

"Vicomte, I think this will be easier to do if you remain awake."

"You called me Raoul before," he said wearily, "You should continue, since I'm known only as your driver…"

"Yes, alright," She concentrated on pulling the strands of his hair apart to locate the wound and clean it. A nasty bump had risen at the back of his scalp which was split, and she sponged the blood away from the small cut then pressed hard on the wound to stop the flow of blood which came heavy but sluggish.

He flinched at the sudden pressure. "You are gaining an ungodly amount of pleasure from this, aren't you?"

"Terribly much." She tied two handkerchiefs together, end to end.

He barely nodded. "I thought as much … you seem to have experience with this type of thing."

She wound the linked strips of cloth firmly around his head, then knotted it. "Dance instruction comes with its own cuts and bruises ... There." She looked into his eyes, which were half closed, and noted also that his skin seemed paler than usual.

Standing to her feet, she regarded him where he sat. "Perhaps you should rest there awhile, until you feel steady again."

He did not respond and she realized with resigned frustration that he'd fallen asleep or again had become unconscious. By the quiet rise and fall of his chest she assumed there was no reason for alarm.

Struggling with what to do, Meg paced the room, first picking up her valise where he dropped it when he fell. The events had dulled her appetite, and the burst of adrenaline that rushed through her at the mistake in hitting him and the scare of killing him had faded. She now felt quite weary and sank to the foot of the bed. She stared at him where he slept, noting how his long legs had sprawled out, his head resting against the chair and leaning toward his shoulder.

She found herself jerking awake and sat with her spine ramrod straight, rapidly blinking in an attempt to stay alert, before finding herself slumping over in sleep again. The third time this happened, she realized that the desire for vigilance was a lost cause.

She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, wondering what to do about her unexpected guest, then decided to let him be. She was to blame for his injured condition and did not feel comfortable about waking him, to suggest he retire for the night to whatever area the common room contained. Judging by her supposedly exclusive room, which was in a questionable state with a door that did not even close, she imagined the shelter for the servants must resemble a sty.

Darting wary glances toward him all the while, she unbuttoned her dress to loosen her corset, knowing she could not sleep in any comfort as tightly as it cinched her. Relieved to again breathe, she slipped beneath the blanket, pulling it up to her chin, her eyes remaining on his still form until she could no longer keep them open.

.

xXx

.

The tickle of something soft, like a breath of velvet air, moved along Christine's collarbone then up her left breast, whispering over her nipple and trailing down the globe to her midsection and her thigh. She smiled a little then giggled with delight when Erik's lips moved to the crease of her neck.

She opened her eyes to see her husband sprawled out beside her, the edge of the blanket barely covering his hips as scantily as it covered hers. In his hand he held a long white feather, one of many strewn on the bed around them. With its velvety tip he made slow and scintillating paths along her skin.

"Mmm," she approved, running her fingertips along his muscled arm. "This is nice."

"Yes, quite. But I fear we have continued the devastation of the mob and entirely destroyed this bed. There is little hope for it."

"I disagree. I think it suits who you are."

"Who I am?"

"My Angel of course."

He rolled his eyes a little at their light repartee then gave a low chuckle. "And I have told you – and shown you numerous times – I am hardly an angel, Christine."

"And I have told you and shown you numerous times, you will always be my Angel."

She gasped when his teeth nipped the lobe of her ear.

He moved over her, dispensing with the feather and clasping both her hands beside her head on the slashed mattress. "Ah, Christine, you are the true Angel, who freed me from my hell and opened your heart to the lonely man hidden behind a fearsome beast. I never thought it possible, but you gave wings to the song dearest to my heart – a lifetime with you by my side ..."

His lips took hers, his caresses sweet and intense. Once more they engaged in their most sublime music, this time, a slow and tender melody that warmed them to the depths of their souls. Together they rolled on the bed as beads of perspiration caused the loose feathers to stick to their damp skin and they truly did resemble such celestial beings – or perhaps one perfect angel, two counterparts joined and complete.

Once their hunger peaked then rescinded, breathing soon eased while heartbeats decreased from their fervent pounding. Tenderly they smiled at one another as Christine plucked a feather from his tousled hair, above his brow. He in turn picked a feather off her shoulder and brushed one from her breast with his fingertips. Leaning down he kissed the dusky rose crest then fell slowly to his back, bringing her with him.

"Mmm, this is sooo nice," she purred in the cozy afterglow, "did I mention that?" She brushed her lips over his chest and nuzzled her cheek against him.

"Mmm," his reply was a low, velvet drone that moved throughout her being.

Realization interfered, prodding at her consciousness as the dreamy haze cleared. She sighed in reluctance.

"I suppose we should return before the curfew begins." The tone of her voice made it clear that the last thing she wished to do was leave his arms.

Since she had begun to wean Angelique, she could no longer gauge the passage of time by the weight of milk in her breasts, which always had given her great discomfort whenever their daughter did not nurse for more than five hours; but that was no longer the case, since her milk had diminished now that Angelique took some solid foods. They could have been lying in bed two hours or five, for all Christine knew or cared, though she suspected the number leaned toward the latter since they'd slept between the lengthy stretches of their lovemaking.

"It is long past that. I would hazard a guess that it is approaching midnight."

"Midnight!" she shrieked, instantly alert, not questioning how he came by such knowledge. Her husband had always possessed an impeccable sense of time when living beneath ground and was never late for their lessons in the days of the Opera.

She popped to sit up. "But what shall we do?! We cannot stay here the entire night, not without telling anyone. Surely Captain Miguel and the children will worry that some ill wind blew our way …"

His smoky green eyes remained peaceful as he tweaked a few small white feathers from her long, wild ringlets.

"You look like an Angel that tumbled into a cloud," he said silkily, gently pulling on a ringlet.

She grabbed hold of his wrist. "You are not the least bit concerned of getting caught on the empty streets?"

"It is wisest for us to travel by night, away from any of daylight's curious interlopers of the city, those meddlesome Parisians who would make it their business to know ours."

"But what if the others worry and, God forbid, go out to search?"

"I told the Capitan to return for us after dark and wait."

His information surprised her. "But what of the curfew?"

"The soldiers look for discord among the commoners, not the aristocracy. They will pay little to no attention to a coach bearing the insignia of a nobleman. Last evening they stopped us, as they would stop any conveyance that sought entrance into the city from the main road leading out of it. Now that we are well within Parisian borders, it is doubtful the soldiers will spare us a second glance, likely presuming that we bear the arrogance of all nobles, to defy foolish conventions that we consider far beneath us…"

Christine could not help but smile, thinking how aptly he had just described his own character. Erik was never one to concede or conform to the modes of society, a trait that both exasperated her sense of caution and gained her admiration.

"We are currently the Count and Countess de la Vega – garishly rich and hardly worthy of suspicion in being revolutionists eager to incite a new rebellion. After the display I gave them last evening at the checkpoint, they will know better than to interfere a second time, so as to save their scrawny necks from the wrath of their commanders who I threatened to inform. You have nothing to fear, mon amour, I assure you. Now, come here and take advantage of what rest you can while in the arms of your adoring Angel."

He pulled her willingly back against him. Gladly Christine laid her cheek against his chest, pressing her arms against his sides in quiet embrace, eager to claim every fleeting moment they could grasp.

Once a ruler presiding over the Opera House and all who dwelt within its hallowed halls of music, her king had obtained little knowledge of the world outside its ivory walls. Through necessity and harsh experience, that lack of knowledge had altered; now, he knew exactly how the world functioned. And though he was often still arrogant in his belief that he was indestructible and able to conquer whatever enemy opposed him, no matter their massive weaponry or number, his abundance of confidence to prevail despite the dreadful odds exasperated and exhausted but ultimately always reassured her. He – they – had defeated the most malevolent of foes time and again. Knowing this, she again relaxed, confident of his wisdom and protection.

Another dilemma surfaced to her thoughts, and she spoke of it.

"What will we do, Erik, about the future and our living arrangements? We cannot stay at Madame Giry's forever. We are too large in number."

"I will explore our options tomorrow. Until we establish a place to call home I will secure us a suite of rooms at the hotel."

Christine idly traced her fingertips through the dusting of damp hair on his chest, while her eyes fixed to the low hills and valleys of feathers displaced from the mattress after their passion play. The threads of her conversation with Madame Giry wove into her thoughts, and she pondered if Whiterose was indeed the best solution for them. It troubled her that they would again need to trust a de Chagny with their safety – something Erik may never agree to after the fiasco with Raoul when he betrayed them and she and Erik first fled Paris. Her former fiancé and childhood friend had redeemed himself to her, in aiding her and her husband in their fight with the evil Don and their old nemesis, the Phantom, who ultimately possessed the Spanish noble – though Erik still harbored nothing but distrust for Raoul, for all who bore the name de Chagny. But surely a small distant township in the countryside would be far safer than Paris!

"Perhaps we should go to Rouen…"

"No, Christine."

"We don't have to stay at Whiterose, where Madame is visiting. We could find lodgings elsewhere in town…"

"I fear that would be most unwise."

She sighed at the slight edge of steel in his voice, recognizing that to persist would be futile; at least for now.

"Whatever we decide, we should come back here to escape."

"Here?" At her soft words, his hand against her back stilled, as if she had taken him by surprise. "Bring the family to live underground in this hovel?"

"No, of course not – I meant us." She pushed herself up, bracing her hand against the mattress. "It was never a hovel until the mob came. You made it into a shrine of candlelight and wonder. We can do so again."

His hand slid down to rest against her hip. "Why should we want to?"

"This is the place you intended to be our home, a haven of divine music and where we first made our feelings known to one another…"

"A haven? It was my captivity!"

"Only because of him," she countered gently. He imprisoned and deceived you – deceived all of us. But we were told by those of the Light that dark spirit has been banished from us, never to return." At his continued silence, she urged, "I'm not suggesting we live here, Mon Ange, only that we, you and I, use this place as a retreat when we wish to be alone. Perhaps to work on our music and compose new operas…"

"Look around you, Christine," he said wryly, lifting his hand to include their surroundings. "This is hardly a place to inspire our Music of the Night. The organ is smashed, surely ruined…"

"The notes dwell within our spirits, do they not? The foundation of who we are? Nothing can detract from that. We worked to compose an opera within our enemy's former home, a home we made ours." She took in the tattered ruins of their bed. "The Phantom once seized your home, the seat of your kingdom, but now, through these last hours spent together expressing our devotion in this bed you crafted for that very purpose – we have taken back what he stole from us. Covering the harsh and bitter memories with bright new ones of bliss." The more she spoke, the more eager she became to see the dream fulfilled. "Surely we can restore our hideaway to what it was, if we like – even better. This can become our new Eden."

"This?" He scoffed out a laugh. "This cavern of cold and rock is hardly a garden of trees and wildflowers, Ma Reine." He grimaced. "It is now uncanny to me that I actually expected you, a glorious creature of light and brilliance, to live inside this tomb with a pitiful creature of darkness."

Though his tone came light and absent of all accusation, Christine grimaced at the reference to her spiteful words, what seemed a lifetime ago.

"Stop it, Erik, please…" she leaned in to kiss him. "Let us not speak of past mistakes when our future is so full of promise. We have been blessed. We have our sweet Angelique, we are at last home, in our beloved France, and we have a life together and a great love that withstood all the darkness that tried to destroy it …"

He nodded slightly, his mood becoming more serious. "Yes, and I am grateful, though at times I still believe I must be in the trappings of a dream. Being in this place now, it is difficult not to recall all of what transpired on the last occasion we were within these walls, all that I put in motion..."

"But we have now created a new memory, a better one," she insisted, determined to steer his thoughts far from that awful night and the black spirit whose goal was to punish them, by destroying their kingdom and their love. "I would much rather dwell on these past hours in bed with you than to think on anything else that came before, wouldn't you?"

"I would much rather do more than just dwell on the memories of these hours," he whispered, his velvet tone tantalizing her senses. "I would relive them…" Shivers tingled through her blood at the feel of his fingertips brushing down her spine. "And it is to my deepest regret that we must leave."

She sighed once more lying fully against him and holding him close. "I know. It's been so delightful, to be with you like this again, away from all the cares of the world – able to lie with you naked and make love without haste and at our leisure … to converse without a necessity to sacrifice our time together to attend to some important matter with the gypsies or a need of the children. Something we haven't been able to do since before Angelique was born."

He stroked the back of her head, his fingers weaving into her thick, tousled curls, and smiled. Of all the points of influence to use, she had picked the perfect argument to win him to her favor.

"Very well, Christine. If that is what my queen desires, for this to become our personal hideaway – though I can scarcely call what I long considered my Hades an Eden – then you shall have your wish."

He could feel her smile growing wide against his skin. "I vow to do all that is possible to make it a slice of heaven for both of us, Mon Ange…" She laid a kiss beneath his collarbone, above his heart.

"You are well on the way to doing that," he purred and brushed his lips against her head. "There is a second entrance, more obscure, tangled with overgrowth and hidden beyond the trees and from the roads that might be safer for us to use to avoid detection. I will return tomorrow to ensure it has not become impassable with time."

They talked of their plans for the foreseeable future a little while longer before Erik said they could no longer delay the inevitable. Neither wished to leave the warmth of each others' arms and they tarried with dressing, extending the final moments of their solitude as long as possible.

The steady moonlight forged a silver path to the waiting carriage concealed by a small copse of trees. Thankfully they arrived to Madame's flat without being stopped by any soldiers on watch, Erik had been right about that, but Christine sensed from what experience taught her that such excellent fortune could not favor them indefinitely.

Madame Giry was right; Paris was no more than a trap waiting to ensnare her husband, the fugitive they all knew as the Phantom of the Opera. And somehow, at least for the present, they must hide within its crowded streets to evade being caught.

xXx


A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) They help more than you know ...