A/N: Sorry it's taken so long to get back to this – hope you enjoy! :) And thank you for the wonderful reviews!

And now…


Chapter VIII

Christine slipped the sealed envelope into the pocket of her cloak, her eyes darting around the sitting room and toward the door leading to their bedchamber. No intimidating wax seal of a red skull blazoned across the center seams of her missive, unlike the notes that Erik once used to control his opera house kingdom. But the dread anxiety and nervousness that accompanied those letters revisited her mind and made Christine's mouth go dry.

She despised deceit in all forms, especially after her experience under the Phantom's dark reign, and felt like a terrible wife for withholding the truth from her husband. She did so only to keep the peace that had finally entered their lives since they secured rooms at the quiet inn. With no incessant worry of a horde of gendarmes crashing through the door to apprehend her Angel and cart him off to prison, the dangers of Paris far behind, they had all begun to breathe easier. Erik had even foregone his usual camaraderie with the midnight hours and slept these past four nights, finding and adhering to a standard schedule of slumber they had enjoyed for a short time in Seville.

Not for anything would she disturb his newly achieved and tenaciously won serenity. Their bedchamber had been dark, but from the dim light beyond the draped window she had seen the covered hump lying motionless next to her, attesting to his presence.

If she had only thought to secure Meg's location, this second evasion of deceit wouldn't even be necessary. All she knew was the name of the estate where Meg had traveled: La Manoir Claire de Lune. But surely that wasn't enough to deliver a letter, with no knowledge of the town's name. She must return to Whiterose and learn the needed information.

Quietly she exited their rooms, closing the outside door behind her. She turned to leave and let out a muffled exclamation of shock, bringing her fingers to her mouth.

There, her husband stood – tall and majestic – and fully dressed for the outdoors, in cape and fedora.

"I thought you were asleep," she breathed, giving no thought to her words or how they might be construed, feeling like the nervous little mouse skittering away with its tidbit of cheese and coming face to face with the silent, stealthy cat. A foolish allusion and one she would never be thinking if she did not feel so wretchedly guilty for her blasted secret.

"So, you thought to slip away without a word?" Sarcasm vied with amusement in his tone, while suspicion appeared in the narrowing of his eyes.

She did not bother pointing out that he had done the same, since such behavior actually fit with his character. Whereas her furtive actions opposed her usual conduct.

"I just…" She cleared the frog from her throat. "That is, I thought to find one of the hotel staff to retrieve a bottle of milk for Angelique."

She could have bitten through her false tongue, though the excuse was worthy, as it was essential to find their barely-weaned daughter sustenance.

"Narilla cannot manage such a mundane task?"

"I have been confined to bed for days, Erik, before that, hidden away so as not to be spotted by passing gendarmes, and of late whisked off at dawn by train," she said lightly in frustration, though her heart felt heavy as a stone. "Is it so inconceivable that I would want some fresh air?"

He looked at her a tense moment and held out his hand.

"Come then. Accompany me."

His silken invitation posed a challenge.

She loathed being in this position, the bearer of a lie that masqueraded as an omission, even one of good intentions.

She should tell him…she needed to tell him…

"Actually, there's something I must discuss with you…"

Christine placed her fingers in his outstretched palm and moved closer, raising herself on her toes to give him a morning kiss. Footsteps approached and they softly broke apart, turning at the interruption. Captain Miguel appeared at the bend of the corridor, halting upon seeing them there.

"Pardon, my lord, but the carriage is ready."

Erik nodded in acknowledgement and pulled Christine's hand through the crook of his arm.

"You had something you wished to tell me, my dear?"

"It can wait."

Without thought, Christine fell into step beside him, disappointed at the delay of her confession, nonetheless intrigued.

"Where are we going?"

"You did say you wish for some air. Perhaps a stroll along the promenade?"

"Oh, yes." She clasped his arm in delight. "That sounds lovely."

He smiled at her enthusiasm. "First, I have one location I wish to visit."

He walked with her downstairs to the lobby. Only two people were present, the concierge and a guest, both with their backs to Erik and Christine. Regardless, he pulled his collar higher and his fedora lower. Christine brought her other hand to rest on his arm, hopeful for the day when he would no longer feel a need to hide. Now that they were far from Paris, at least he could walk along the streets without fear of being recognized, and though she preferred he wear no mask, this flesh-toned one did allow him to blend into the crowd.

A short carriage ride down the crowded boulevard and through the Square Boïeldieu brought them to their destination. Rouen was not as big as Paris from what Christine could tell, but it also teemed with citizens of all social standings, at work and at play.

"The Théâtre des Arts of Rouen," Erik explained, looking out the window with Christine as their carriage rolled to a stop. "The city's home for the opera."

Five stories in height, the monolithic structure of pale stone was impressive, but in Christine's estimation did not compare to her old home of the Paris Opera House. Along the façade four pillars separated three tall windows stretching from the second story to the fourth, what appeared to be the theater's insignia centered above that. With five walls in view, the edifice boasted numerous windows. From their position near the entrance, Christine counted at least forty.

"Mon Ange, why have we come here?" She continued to study the building as he assisted her from the carriage. "Have you plans to attend the next performance?"

"It would be wise. First, I wish to survey the premises to deem if it is worthy."

"Worthy?" Christine halted in her tracks and faced him in shock. "You mean to make this your kingdom!"

"What is a ruler without a kingdom to rule?"

"But - not as before…?"

He heard the worry in her tone.

"The Phantom is gone, Christine. We saw him disintegrate into particles with the power of your ring." He tapped her finger where the band of eleven crystals continually rested. "The Voice in the light assured me that foul spirit will not oppress us again."

She nodded, somewhat comforted by the reminder. "We were also told to be wary, that the face of evil wore many masks…"

A tic jumped near his clenched jaw. "You do not trust me."

"No, it's not that," she said truthfully. "I simply don't – I mean, how do you plan to accomplish this? To, to take over?" The words brought an unwelcome sensation of dread.

"Do you fear I will slink behind walls and shower the managers with my notes?" He chuckled darkly. "You doubt my ability to rule without the Phantom's influence. But why should you think otherwise, when I never have done so before?"

His accusation of sardonic amusement came mild, and Christine sensed his rising anger and frustration was not aimed at her, but himself.

She pressed her palm against his tense jaw. "Please, let's not argue. I do trust you, Mon Ange. I always have. You have within you the ability to rule alone. You proved that in Spain."

He visibly struggled to retain his calm, placing his hand atop hers. "Never alone, but with you always beside me, Christine. Without you, I am nothing."

She smiled in apology. "Together we are strong."

A faint smile and nod was his answer to words that had become their mantra.

They moved through the doors, no doorman present without a performance in progress, the foyer empty at this hour of day. Outfitted with long runners of rugs in rich hues, intricate gas lamps held aloft by statues of men and women in provocative Grecian dress, and walls and ceiling decked out in gold leaf and pink-veined marble, with a dual twisting staircase not unlike the Paris Opera House, the foyer welcomed its guests with lavish opulence. From beyond its carved doors, the muted din of music intermingled with the singing of a rehearsal in progress.

Erik lingered near the closed doors a moment, but rather than enter the theater, he appeared to change his mind and took Christine's arm. "Come."

"Where are we going?" she asked as she walked quickly alongside him to keep up with his long strides.

"What better opportunity to investigate while the mice are busy at play?"

Unnerved by his choice of words after her guilty thought at the inn, she raised a curious brow. "And will the cat toy with them?"

"I told you, no." His answer came brusque, and Christine wished she could retract her thoughtless words. "I'm sorry, Erik. I didn't mean…"

He patted her arm still looped through his. "Never mind. I realize it will take time for you to have faith in my desire to manage these affairs differently."

She wanted to believe him, desperately so, but this was their first occasion to visit an actual working Opera House since the tragedy he inflicted in Paris while under the mandates of darkness. And in such a setting, unwanted memories were her tormentors. During their two years in Spain, they had remained at the secluded villa and on its grounds, before that, in a tent in Seville at the festival, and during their initial journey they sought only to put distance between themselves and those who meant to kill them.

Now, she could not mistake the excited gleam of regal interest in his eyes, one she had not seen since he sung to her of the Music of the Night…

For at least the next quarter hour they traversed each corridor, Erik peering into several doors but never entering those chambers. On occasion he smoothed his gloved hand down the wall, as if greeting a beloved pet, and stared intently within alcoves they passed. A few times he glanced in Christine's direction, inquiring after her welfare – the last time noting her wearily lean with one hand against a pillar.

"You must rest, Mon Ange. Forgive me."

"I'm fine, Erik. Really."

"Come." He took her arm and led her back toward the main entrance of the theater, soon expounding on what was uppermost in his mind. "The foundation is not built upon a subterranean lake, as the map I studied showed, the acoustics not as pronounced as at the old Opera House, but it is not without merit."

He had studied a map of the building?

"But I still don't understand. What exactly are your intentions?"

"Patience, my love. Watch, and you will see." He gave her a twist of a smile and pushed against the door, holding it open for her to precede him.

Built much like the Paris Opera, tiers of seats and balconies filled the area, with a massive golden-branched chandelier suspended above (Christine suppressed a shudder and looked away from the crystal prisms). The theater could easily seat hundreds, likely well over a thousand. Erik led her to a back row of red plush chairs and stood aside, allowing Christine to enter before he took a seat beside her.

"Hamlet," Erik leaned near to whisper to Christine after a few bars. And again, a moment later, "Their Ophelia can at least carry a tune, but cannot aspire to your sublime talent."

She looked sharply at him. "Erik, you know as well as I that I cannot perform, not now," she whispered more softly, though there was no need with the vociferous singing from the distant stage, "not in my condition."

Gently he swept the backs of his leather-gloved fingers along her cheek. "Yes, I understand that. But perhaps, in the future, you will again wish to take the stage as the lead."

His words were apt. The desire to create and express music, made stronger ever since he made her into a part of himself, sharing with her his spirit and joining together in union, surged powerfully within Christine's soul.

"After our child is born, yes, but only if the role is fairly given. No notes. No demands. If and when I take the stage, I want my voice to be the sole reason I receive the lead."

His lips twitched as if trying to contain a smile.

"As you wish, ma reine. I have no doubt that on such terms you will seize the spotlight and every spectator's breath the moment you sing. You are the embodiment of music, after all."

Throughout the rehearsal, Erik shared with Christine his views on the performers, the musicians, the dancers, even the costumes and the sets. He nodded slightly when he approved, which wasn't often. The remainder of the time he would scowl or narrow his eyes in deep thought, now and then sharing with Christine what was foremost in his mind.

"The oboe overpowers the music in the last refrain…the dancer that flanks the right side of the rear line lacks true coordination…the male lead is too boisterous in his musical approach…Good God, what were they thinking with that ghoulish excuse for a costume…?"

And so it went, on and on. Christine agreed with the majority of his comments, finding very few with which she had a different opinion, and those only minor points. With each stanza that passed, the more engrossed and determined he became.

"Enough," he said quietly and stood, moving into the aisle and holding out his hand.

Christine slipped her palm in his, and he pulled it through the crook of his arm, exiting the door and moving into one of the corridors.

"What now?" she asked.

"Now, we express our intent." He glanced at her. "Do you see this theater as a musical kingdom through which we could rule?"

"With demands?" she asked warily, recalling his absorbed and strict attention to the rehearsal.

"Through mutual agreement," he corrected on a sigh. "Do not fear, Christine. This is a new era. I told you, I'll not fail you a second time."

They entered through one of the doors Erik earlier peered through and into what was clearly an office. A small man with a thick brown beard like wool and tired, red-rimmed eyes looked up from a sheaf of papers.

"I- uh – why are you here…?" He blinked, flustered by their unexpected presence. He set down the sheet in his hand. "Do I know you?"

"No, but you will," Erik replied calmly.

"Pardon?"

"You are Monsieur Pettigrew?"

"I am. And you are…?"

Christine looked at her husband as the manager would see him in this first impression of a stranger. Standing at the threshold, Erik possessed an inherent strength and grace magnified by the aura of authority he wore, as perfectly fitted as his impeccable suit of clothes and the purple-lined cloak of ebony that swirled about his tall, majestic form. The lowered brim of his fedora, along with the grim look about his mouth warned that he was not a man to be trifled with or taken lightly.

"Who I am is not important at this moment," Erik said, his voice smooth like velvet but with a stern edge of authority. "What is important is the proposal I am about to make you. May I enter?"

Christine looked at him in surprise, a small smile playing about her mouth. Never had he asked such a thing of the mangers before, always intruding when and where they never wanted.

The manager gaped, clearly flustered, but nodded his permission.

Erik swept inside, coming to a stop before the large desk, bringing Christine along with him.

"It has come to my knowledge that your opera house has come into financial difficulty. Indeed, that you risk losing everything, due to debts that gambling has not aided."

"Now see here…" The manager placed his palms on the desk and frowned, leaning forward.

"Do you deny it?"

Erik…

Christine whispered gently into his mind to persuade him to temper his approach.

He inhaled a deep breath and gave the faintest of nods.

"I am here to offer an escape from the prison into which you have trapped yourself," Erik said quietly. He named a figure that made Christine gasp and the manager's eyes go wide. "I will pay those debts, in full, and become a patron here. I will finance the restoration of the Opera House where needed. The peeling wallpaper and worn spots in the carpet tell their own story of neglect and age. I will refurbish this edifice to all it was intended to be. In appearance and through music…"

Hope glimmered in the manager's eyes, but he guardedly shook his head.

"What would you want in return?"

Erik felt a trace of admiration that the man before him was not so greedy as to grab all of what was offered without first learning the particulars, what could not be said for any of the old managers in Paris.

"I will have the final word on all matters involving the opera, the cast, the musicians, the staff and the crew. You will act as manager, but under my guidance. I will be a silent partner, so to speak, and will bring this theater a prosperity it has never before known."

The manager sat back in his chair, shock and suspicion evident in every line of his pudgy body. "What guarantee do I have that you can do these things – that you even have the capital? Who the hell are you?"

Erik studied him with a steady gaze, before withdrawing from his cloak a thick stack of bound franc notes, which he nonchalantly tossed to the desk before him. The manager stared, his eyes bugging.

The amount, though exorbitant, was only a morsel of the riches Erik possessed, both from the former count's holdings and the pirate treasure found locked and hidden away deep within the caverns of Spain.

"That should be enough to start. I am the Count de la Vega, and this is my Countess. Agree to my terms, and I will make this abode of music legendary, the operas performed here the most magnificent, and the revenue abundant, with every seat in the house filled, night after night."

"Y-you ask for full control!" the manager spluttered.

Erik answered with a self-assured nod. "I do. I will remain behind the scenes, the controlling force. You will be my mouthpiece and deal with all those involved in the business, both inside and outside the theater. If after three months you do not see the changes I have detailed, I will walk out that door and you need never see me again. The money is yours to keep, but only for the improvement of the theater. Should you use even a franc of it for personal use, you will not find me a forgiving man."

Christine's hand tightened nervously on his arm.

"And if I refuse?"

"I will leave through those doors, for you to flounder and try to stay afloat above the oppressive sea of debt, however you can," he said calmly, surreptitiously patting Christine's hand. "The wait for you to lose management of this theater will not be long in coming, according to all I have learned. If you should refuse my generous offer, I will simply buy the building when it is put up for sale. However, I am not a patient man and have no desire to experience the wait, even one so short. So, which will it be?"

"But- but this is a lot to consider - I must have time to think!"

"You have the next few minutes to make your choice, before I exit this office and you are left on your own."

x

Ten minutes later, Christine sat across from Erik in their carriage.

"You never cease to amaze me," she said with soft wonder as they pulled away from the theater.

He chuckled, the sound tight in his throat. "I am pleased I met with your approval."

"Erik…" She leaned over and took hold of his hand. "Alright, yes, at first I struggled with doubt – you were so enigmatic about your plans, never once speaking about them beforehand. It took me by surprise, much like the poor bewildered Monsieur Pettigrew." She brought her other hand to clasp his. "But I thought you dealt with the matter wondrously well. You achieved your goal without sacrificing your power - this time, in a manner befitting an esteemed ruler, a good one."

He stared at their clasped hands.

"You speak in truth, Christine. I should have spoken with you first."

His choice of words unnerved her, reminding her of her small duplicity.

"Oh, I'm not upset about that –"

"Nonetheless, we rule together. I want nothing less. Therefore, you should share in all decisions made. So tell me, Mon Ange, are you not comfortable with the idea? I can retract my offer, and we can find some place more deserving to focus our music, if you would prefer…"

"No, that's not it at all. The Théâtre des Arts of Rouen does seem like a lovely place, Monsieur Pettigrew seemed nice once he realized we were no threat, and clearly you will be helping them through their current hardship. That pleases me. So yes, I would love to rule with you there, as long as we do so kindly."

He lifted his brow in wry humor. "Kindly…" he repeated the word as if it was foreign to him. "Will you settle for trouble-free?"

She grinned. "For now, that will suffice. But I'm curious, will you tell the manager who we truly are?"

"No, Christine." He grew solemn once more. "That we cannot share; it is much too dangerous. Such knowledge is only for those who have their hearts open to hear so that their spirits may understand."

She nodded, well aware of the danger that could occur if anyone were to discover their true identity – their secret rulership – after their experience at the Paris Opera, with the Phantom's dark interest in Erik's power.

"What if the manager discovers the truth?"

"Then it is my hope the revelation will make our reign at the Théâtre des Arts of Rouen one of ease and great pleasure."

The carriage rolled to a stop. Christine could see from a glance out the small window that they were nowhere near the inn.

Erik pulled out his gold pocket watch he had acquired before their return to France, flipped it open, stared at the time, then flipped it closed and pocketed it again.

"Come, Christine." He descended from the carriage and held up his hand to her. "I would hope that you feel well enough to partake of an early luncheon?"

The typical nausea of the morning had thankfully passed though she had not regained her appetite for days, and eagerly awaited the phase of her condition when this disfavor of food would pass.

"Perhaps some tea," she agreed as she took his hand and stepped down.

"You must eat, Christine."

With their first child, Fifika, the little angel they had lost, she had practically starved herself, and saw the concern now cloud his eyes.

"I will. I promise. If you will recall, when I carried Angelique, from the sixth month on I could not seem to get enough to eat," she reminded with a little groaning chuckle.

"True, but that is months to come yet. I will not see you waste away until that time."

"I am hardly wasting away, Erik," she said with a little roll of her eyes.

He steered her toward the door of the café. Pulling the brim of his hat lower as a shield to obscure his masked face, he opened the door, allowing Christine to precede him. The aroma of freshly baked bread and coffee was at least not unpleasant, in that she had no wish to make a mad dash for the latrine. Perhaps a few bites of a scone would be manageable…

Christine gasped in shock when she noticed who sat at the table to which Erik led her.

"Madame Giry," she breathed.

"Christine…?" Madame's surprise was just as evident. "I didn't think to see you again so soon…"

Christine vigorously shook her head the barest fraction, silently pleading with her not to expound on that thought, and Madame's words trailed away.

"After Paris, that is," Madame added somewhat awkwardly. "I was quite surprised to receive Erik's message to meet here, and to learn that you had taken the invitation to come to Rouen."

Erik looked between Christine and Madame, his smoky green eyes narrowing curiously, and Christine wondered if he had seen the signal she gave Madame.

Erik held out a chair, and Christine gracefully took a seat, Erik taking the one beside hers, so that he sat in the middle of the small round table and Christine faced Madame. She felt he watched them both, like the fox eying the hares, then chastised herself for her foolish notion. First a cat, now a fox, but she was neither a mouse nor any other meek creature.

He couldn't possibly know of her visit to the home of his nemesis – or more accurately, the aunt of his enemy, never mind that it wasn't the regal woman she had gone to see…

Since they had begun their day's excursion, her shame magnified. Soon, immediately upon leaving this luncheon, she would tell him.

A sense of relief to arrive at the decision caused her shoulders to ease while an impatience to reach the moment had her knead the cloth napkin in her lap.

Madame brought them up to date, doing most of the talking, twice bringing up Whiterose and causing Christine's palms to sweat. Only after a waiter served them and left, did Erik sit forward and address their guest.

"Clearly you have enjoyed your stay in Rouen. So now I will ask – how long do you plan to remain?"

Madame set down her teacup. "At this time, I have no plans to leave. Especially due to Meg."

He tilted his head. "You said that Meg has left Rouen."

"Yes, but she won't be gone forever." She glanced at Christine then back to Erik. "I expect her return any day."

The blank envelope felt as if it burned a hole through the cloak against Christine's thigh. She considered handing it over, then and there, but couldn't do so with Erik present and her foolish omission a great ugly stain between them.

"I am in need of an instructor and an aide," he announced.

Madame raised a brow as if she'd not heard correctly. "Pardon?"

"I have acquired directorship at the city's Opera House."

Madame's gasp was audible. "The news should not surprise me, but…how?"

"All of it was justly acquired, a mutual agreement between the management and myself, if that will reassure you in making your decision. Christine was a witness to the transaction."

Madame glanced at Christine, who faintly smiled and nodded.

Madame Giry fingered the lace collar at her throat, her manner confused. "You wish me to become your aide - after how badly I failed you in Paris?"

He sighed. "You were as much a victim of the Phantom's manipulations as I."

"But that night, I-I told the Vicomte where to find you," she said in shame.

"Had you not done so, Christine might never have escaped the mob's fury, and I might never have been freed with her kiss." He shook his head, wishing to forget. "Never mind. It is done. Let the wretched past lie in the pit of obscurity to which it belongs." Reaching across the table, he grasped Madame's hand, surprising her and Christine both. "Those were dark times, but through the years that preceded them you proved your loyalty many times over. If you wish for the chance to do that for which your heart yearns - instruct the dance and be a part of music again - I am offering you the position, Dominique."

A hint of moisture glimmered in her eyes. "Then yes, of course I accept, Maestro. I am most grateful for the opportunity to serve you again."

"Excellent." He gave her hand a slight squeeze and pulled away. "There is one last matter. Christine is in need of your help. I will leave you ladies alone to discuss things."

He stood from the table, and Christine stared up at him in shock.

"But – where are you going?"

"I have a matter to which I must attend." He bent to kiss her cheek. "I will be back shortly, my dear."

Once he left, Madame turned to her.

"You haven't told him of your visit to Whiterose."

It wasn't a question, and Christine winced at the implication, intentional or not, that she had set out to deceive her husband.

"No, but I will." She retrieved the sealed envelope from within her cloak and handed it to Madame Giry. "A letter to Meg. I didn't have her address to see to it myself."

Madame took the missive. "I will see to its delivery. You have my gratitude."

"Of course. I want her back as much as you do." Christine took a sip of her tea. "Will you come visit me at the inn? There is still so much I need to know about…well, motherhood, that I wasn't able to say at Whiterose, with the Dowager Comtesse there."

"Of course, my dear. Will tomorrow at noon be agreeable?"

"Thank you, Madame, yes. I'll expect you then."

"You may call me Dominique."

At the reminder, Christine barely nodded. "In time, I shall...try."

Both women smiled and talked a few minutes more before Erik returned, and all said their farewells. He escorted Christine to their carriage.

"I trust you two had a good visit," he said more than asked once they sat across from one another.

Christine arranged her skirts, habitually smoothing her hand over her slightly rounded stomach. "We did. She will be visiting me at the inn tomorrow."

He nodded and looked out the window. Christine clasped her hands in her lap, wishing the next few minutes were over and done with.

"Erik, there is something I should tell you…"

He continued to stare out the window while silence followed her words, as she sought for how to begin. He looked at her, his expression grim.

"Would this be about your regrettable visit to Le Manoir de Blanc La Rose?"

Christine's lips parted with shock, her eyes sliding closed in regret.

xxXxXxx

1838

Cantelou, France

.

"Helena? Helena, where are you…!"

Startled, Helena pushed herself from Edward's embrace. "That is my sister's voice."

Her fingers made swift work of her top laces, even as Edward's lips stole another kiss, his hands firm against her hips.

"I must go before she finds us."

"Or we could slip into the trees and hide until she leaves."

They had just exited the caretaker's cabin after an afternoon of carnal pleasures. She giggled as his lips brushed a familiar path down her neck to her shoulder, reveling in his touch a little longer before reluctantly pushing him away.

"If Lysette is searching for me, it must be important," she insisted, bringing her lips to his one last time even as she pulled back. "Until next week…"

"Would that the days could fly past, as swift as the clouds that scuttle across the sun. Every minute of every hour without you is torture," he whispered against her ear, holding her against him more tightly.

"Edward…" she said on a little breathless whine, her heart frantic in its beats, caused by his touch. How she wished she could lead him back inside the cabin and they would never have to leave it.

"Very well, my darling. Farewell." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers before letting her slip away.

As she hurried along the path that ran alongside the lake, she smoothed her hair, positioning pins, and smoothed her skirts, hoping she did not appear hastily dressed. She and Edward took advantage of the abandoned cabin each Saturday afternoon, never daring to spend more than two hours on the rug before the fire. One day, she would dearly love to sleep held in her lover's arms, without dreading the shortage of hours that often seemed to disappear before they barely arrived.

"Helena!"

She hurried up the slope and silently slipped through the trees onto the main path.

"Lysette, why do you scream so?"

Her sister spun around in shock and looked at her curiously, glancing behind Helena to the long stretch of road and clearly wondering how she'd gotten there.

"Maman says you must come at once."

Helena groaned. "Do you know why?" she asked, hurrying back to the manor beside her sister.

"Bridgette came to call."

"Bridgette!" Helena exclaimed with another groan, louder this time.

She had forgotten their plans and wished she could forget them now.

Upon entering the foyer, she came face to face with her ice fortress of a mother. Perfectly polished from her coifed, silvery-fair hair to her many-ringed fingers, and meticulously outfitted in the latest Paris fashion, she severely regarded her two daughters.

"Lysette, leave us."

The youngest of the DuChamps looked back and forth between her mother and older sister, then hurried away.

"Did you forget that you were expecting a guest?" her mother asked in a voice that dripped icicles. "Look at you – you are a disgrace. Your appearance is ghastly, and is that mud on your dress?"

Helena slowly clenched her hands at her sides, her nails biting into her flesh.

"I fell."

Her mother's eyes narrowed. "Where have you been?"

"I went for a walk."

"You've been absent for hours."

"It was a long walk."

Her mother blew out a breath that sounded like a hiss.

"Your behavior is unacceptable, Helena. Do not forget that your every action can have repercussions on this family – I will not allow you to bring disgrace to our name! It is high time that your father finds you a husband to control that detestable wild streak of yours, and I will be sure to speak with him about it at the next opportunity."

Helena squeezed her hands tighter until she was sure she drew blood.

"Yes, Maman."

"Go – see to your guests. They are waiting in the parlor."

Helena did not wait to be told twice and swiftly quit her mother's presence.

"Helena," Bridgette scolded once she strode into the parlor. "Did you forget we are to go on an outing?"

"Of course not." She smiled, inwardly wincing, and took her friend's outstretched hands in greeting. Bridgette's elder sister stood beside her, both nearly identical in looks with brown hair and leaf green eyes, but there the similarities ended. Jillian, two years more mature at nineteen, was more refined and strict – every inch a chaperone – but Bridgette had an air of the imp about her and was a gossip, like her mother. Their mothers were close friends, the sole reason Helena agreed to this obligatory shopping excursion. She'd had little choice. Though Bridgette was a match to her adventurous side and the most preferred of her mother's selection of friends chosen for Helena.

"Shall we go?"

"Don't you wish to freshen up first? You look as if you've been on a wild romp. Your hair is truly a fright."

Always the epitome of tactfulness, Helena thought dryly.

"I'll just get my wrap."

A short time later the Belafonte carriage neared the city. A thick scattering of tents attested to a carnival on the outskirts, near a grove of trees.

"Oh, do let's go!" Bridgette enthused.

"We came to shop," Jillian said.

"Why can't we do both?"

"There isn't time."

"There might be," Bridgette argued petulantly. "You don't know that there won't be time left to visit the carnival."

"I agreed to take you shopping for a hat. So, let's shop..."

The sisters' argument extended to their arrival to the chapellerie, and continued once purchases were made and they had returned to the carriage.

Helena fingered the scarlet and gold satin ribbons she'd purchased as they took the road out of the city. She slipped the gold into her reticule and on a whim, tied the red around her wrist, wondering if Edward would think it pretty in her hair…

"Please, Jillian, only for a few minutes," Bridgette pleaded.

Jillian let out a weary sigh.

"Isn't that Paulette's family carriage?" Bridgette asked, speaking of Jillian's bosom friend. "It appears that the Fairfaxes are attending the carnival."

Jillian glanced out of the window in surprise, hesitated, then shook her head a little.

"Oh, very well. No more than a quarter hour. It's nearing sunset now, and I'm certain Helena's parents will wonder at the delay…"

"Don't be concerned on my account," Helena hurried to say, intrigued by the prospect of a carnival. "Père is in Paris on business, and Mère spoke earlier of a charity function she will be attending tonight."

"Fifteen minutes," Jillian stressed, "and you will both stay close to me."

Nearly that amount of time passed before they walked along the perimeter of tents, Jillian making a beeline for her friend, Paulette. The two embraced and began talking, Jillian giving surreptitious glances toward Paul, Paulette's twin brother whom she'd adored for years.

Minutes passed, with the three older friends absorbed in deep discussion. Bridgette took hold of Helena's hand, pulling her back in slow retreat.

"Let's go," Bridgette whispered, cupping her hand around Helena's ear. The two younger girls took another few slow steps back, both of them unnoticed, before they slipped around the corner of a tent and made their escape, racing along the path between tents erected there.

"Finally," Bridgette giggled once they stopped to catch their breath. "I thought - we'd never get away…" She grabbed Helena's hand and companionably slipped it through her arm. "So, what shall we do first?"

They walked with the crowds, gawking at those gypsy performers who mingled among them, each exhibiting their act. They gasped to see a swarthy man insert a sword's blade fully down his throat and giggled to watch a short, sad-faced clown juggle, his monkey outfitted the same and playing with one of the brightly painted balls. At each tent they passed, hawkers stood near the entrance, entreating them to come and see what lay within their cloth habitations for the price of a coin.

The earthy odor of sawdust and animal dung mixed with the scent of candied apples and roasted peanuts in the evening air that had gone chilly. The sun had long set and torches stood in the ground, lighting the area where they walked, while the many tents glowed a dusky orange from the firelight within.

"I suppose we should find Jillian," Bridgette said reluctantly, but Helena wasn't listening.

Across from where they stood, a haggard gypsy woman lingered near the entrance of her tent. While all other hawkers attempted to gain the interest of every visitor who came within speaking distance, this woman looked only at Helena. With a rat's nest of frizzed black hair, a hawk nose, and black eyes that seemed to sear flesh, she pointed one gnarled finger her way.

"You," she said in a voice so deep it could be mistaken for a man's.

"She seems to be talking to you," Bridgette whispered. "Do you know her?"

"Of course not." Goose pimples formed along Helena's arms and she shivered from a sudden chill that tingled down her spine. "I have no idea why-"

"Come." The gypsy addressed her in demand. "I tell your fortune."

Helena twisted one end of the red ribbon tied around her wrist, relieved she had spent all her money. "Thank you, no. I have no coin."

"But I do." Bridgette giggled.

"Bridgette," Helena whispered in frustration.

"Oh, what harm can it do? You must at least do this one thing before my dull sister drags us away. It might be fun." She stepped forward to hand the gypsy a coin. "Is this enough?"

The fortune teller glanced at the coin in her sweaty palm and grunted, then again looked at Helena as she parted the flap of her tent in invitation.

"Certainly you, the fearless Helena, are not afraid?" Bridgette taunted. "Oh, well, if it frightens you so…"

"Of course not." Helena stiffened her shoulders and lifted her chin, walking forward. She had never been called a coward a day in her life and didn't appreciate the implication now.

"Not you," the gypsy said and blocked Bridgette's path when she tried to follow.

Both Bridgette and Helena looked at the gypsy in anxious surprise.

The woman nodded her head at Helena. "You only."

Helena nervously clenched her hands near her hips and nodded. Perhaps this way was best. There was no telling what this bizarre woman had to say, and with how loose Bridgette's tongue could wag, Helena might not want what was revealed, no matter how fictitious, to be repeated…

She certainly didn't believe in something so silly.

The interior of the tent was dim, lit only by a few thick candles. A milky ball of crystal sat on a pedestal on a small round table covered with black cloth. Helena took the stool the gypsy motioned to, as the woman took the one across from her at the low table. A thick aroma of heady incense permeated the small enclosure, so strong, it made Helena a bit dizzy and nauseous. She twisted the ribbon harder.

"So, if I recall from what I've read in tales with gypsies in them, you will look into the crystal and tell me the future you see for me – is that right…?" Helena quipped lightly to cover her nervousness when the gypsy did nothing but stare. "Or is it my palm you wish to read?"

"Beware," the woman warned, her eagle-sharp eyes never leaving Helena's face.

"Pardon?"

"The child within your belly will have many enemies, fearsome enemies, great in number..."

"Wh-wh-what?" Helena felt a cold frisson of stunned fear. "I don't understand."

"Before the blossoms disappear from the branches and make room for the leaves to bud, you will bear a son. You shall call him Erik, for he is destined to rule over many. The spirit of music is his birthright and forever will be his reign. Within him will reside a special gift. He will be a child like no other. A master musician, a king. A savior to my people, and to others…"

Helena stared in wide-eyed shock, tugging at the scarlet ribbon so hard it fell away from her wrist, into her lap.

"You are mistaken, old woman." Her voice rose in anxiety with her words.

She could not be…

"Silence!" the gypsy ordered in a hushed tone and glanced toward the tent entrance in warning then back to Helena, leaning in close. "Listen well, young gadjo. Your son will be gifted in all that is musical – a master of song without the need to learn a note. The embodiment of music, he will be wise beyond the scope of mortal reasoning. A ruler of that realm. But he will bear a mark that cause men to fear him. Because of this, his life will be spent in avoiding peril from those who wish his destruction. All will be in danger if you do not heed my warning - you must see that he comes to no harm…"

Helena rose from the stool swiftly, awkwardly, heedless of the fragile ribbon of red that fluttered to the ground.

"I don't believe you," she said, willing her voice not to tremble. "You make these stories up, fantasies to intrigue and terrify your customers. It's all part of the performance."

The gypsy's eyes fell to Helena's flat stomach, then again lifted to her anxious eyes.

"Once you look upon the child's face, you will remember these words of Lucrezia, and know I speak the truth."

Helena instinctively clutched her stomach, feeling ill, then forced her hand away.

"No," she whispered, then again, more forcefully - "No!"

She pivoted on her heel, grinding the forgotten ribbon into the earth beneath her slipper in her desperation to escape.

"Beware…"

The gypsy's faint warning followed Helena as she hurried from the tent, her heart pounding with fear of the unknown…

And in shock of the suspected.

xxXxXxx


A/N: For those who recall (in the other two stories of this series), I like to weave hidden plot aspects and symbolism into this tale. This one time, I'll give an example of what I mean for those who enjoy a little sleuthing as you read (though if you prefer not to, you won't lose anything from story) – Red is Erik's color (from HP) and a ribbon is used to tie things together – a bond. Helena twisting/losing her red ribbon (Erik; bond w/ Erik) when anxious, then accidentally stepping on it during her escape is prophetic symbolism (giving nothing away – it's already been covered, also alluded to in ch. 24 of The Quest, since it's Erik's backstory - just not the how of it...yet. ;-))