You ask me why I'm weary, why I can't speak to you
You blame me for my silence, say it's time I changed and grew
But the war's still going on, dear, and there's no end that I know
And I can't say if we're ever
I can't say if we're ever gonna be free

~ Blue Öyster Cult, "Veteran of the Psychic Wars"

When he was seventeen, Erik had spent two months in the jail at Karachi. Partway through his sentence, one of the other convicts, a disgraced English soldier, had taken it into his head to fight his way to dominance over the rest of the prisoners. And he'd decided that a fine way to start his campaign would be by beating and violating the scrawny, skull-faced French boy.

The burly ex-soldier had managed to pin him against the filthy stone wall and rip his trousers before Erik twisted like a snake and sank his teeth into the man's face. By the time the guards finally managed to separate them, he'd managed to bite off most of his would-be rapist's nose. The savage triumph of standing over his fallen foe as the wretch screamed and bled into the dirt, along with the looks of awe and fear from the other prisoners, was a thrill Erik had never forgotten – although it had quickly faded when he started to feel nauseous from the taste of blood and rancid flesh. He'd spent the next few days rinsing his mouth furiously whenever he got the chance, even going as far as to swallow a mouthful of suds when someone left a wash bucket in reach of the bars. When he'd fallen in with Vishal and the Thugs some weeks later, he'd been only too glad to learn methods of combat that would keep his hands (and mouth) free of blood.

Now he was dreaming of that long-ago incident in Karachi once again. Like decaying revenants rising from their graves, all the horrors from his past were coming back to life, filling all his senses with nightmares he could not wake up from. When black unconsciousness finally overwhelmed him, it came as a welcome mercy.

Hours passed, until at last he slowly began to awaken from the dark. Just as it had in Karachi, his mouth tasted of blood, filth, and sickness, and it was all he could do not to vomit.

He was shivering faintly from nausea and cold, but he could sense warmth – a close, solid presence that seemed to promise comfort and protection. His bare cheek was pressed against something pleasantly soft. Instinctively, like an animal burrowing into its nest in the chill of winter, he tried to curl in closer to that source of warmth …

"Erik? Are you awake?"

His eyes snapped open. The morning sunlight hit them, and he winced, fighting another ripple of nausea. Christine was looking down at him, and it took him a moment to realize he was lying with his head in her lap.

His bare, unmasked head.

He bolted upright and tried to cover his face, only to discover his hands were still chained behind his back. "Chri–" The words stuck in his dry, aching throat, and he started to cough.

"It's all right, you don't need to talk yet." Those beautiful twilight-blue eyes were full of relief. "I'm just glad you've finally woken up. I was worrying how we were going to get you out of here before the tide came in."

Erik turned his head, feeling the scabbed cut on his throat stinging as he did, and saw the two of them were on a narrow strip of beach under a pier. A strip that was growing narrower as the waves lapped ever closer.

"How did I get out here?" The last thing he remembered before the nightmares began was being ambushed in his room at the inn, and the struggle that had ended with him getting a faceful of ether.

"Raoul and I carried you."

… Well, that was something of a surprise. His slowly improving opinion of the vicomte rose some more, but then fell a little as he glanced around and saw no sign of the boy. "And where's he disappeared to now? Don't tell me he's abandoned you in a moment of need."

Christine's relief turned into an annoyed glare. "Of course not! He's gone to get you a ticket for our ship."

"... Pardon me?"

"For the Josephine. So you can come to Sweden with us."

Erik pulled away from her sharply. "That was never something we agreed on! You asked me to go with you to Calais, and I've done that. But now I have my own plans!"

"You can't go to America now. Those men who attacked you, what if they follow you there too?"

Erik hissed. "They won't take me by surprise again. I was careless last night, but from now on I'll be on my guard."

"So you intend to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder for danger?" Christine tilted her head. "Surely it would be easier if you had two other sets of eyes helping you keep watch?"

"I've always looked out for myself."

"Because you had no other choice. I remember everything you told me about how long you've been alone, and how cruel the world has been to you. But that's changed now!"

His golden eyes narrowed. "So because you were kind to me, you expect me to loyally follow you and the vicomte wherever you go, like a starving dog you rescued from the gutter?"

Christine groaned. "That's not what I meant at all! We want to help you because that's what decent people do! Why won't you let us?"

"I don't need your pity!" He managed to get to his feet, towering over her where she sat on the rocky sand, and began trying to pull one leg through the chained circle of his arms. "We've both made our choices, Christine. Your future is with your precious vicomte, in your dear beloved Sweden. Mine is in America, alone, and I need nothing more from either of you –"

Blinding pain shot through his shoulder, cutting off his words in a sharp gasp. Gritting his teeth, he fought through the pain as he tried to get his chained hands in front of him, but his injured shoulder refused to move the arm attached to it. After a few minutes of agonized struggle – with Christine watching the whole time in vexation – the shackles finally clinked as he slumped with a sigh of defeat.

"... Christine, might I trouble you for a hairpin?"

She at least had the grace not to openly gloat as she placed the pin in his hand.

Picking the shackles' lock was a chore when he couldn't see what he was doing. Luckily, while his shoulder might be injured, his hand seemed to have suffered no damage – once he had the right-side manacle unlocked, it was a simple matter to grab his left arm, pull it in front of him, and start working on the other.

Christine bit her lip as she watched him keep working despite the injury. "What's happened to your arm?"

Erik frowned, not looking up at her as he kept picking the lock. "It happened last night. When they seized me, it tore some muscle or tendon in my shoulder."

Christine winced. It occurred to her that the way she and Raoul had hauled him down to the beach could easily have made such an injury worse, but she decided not to mention it – not when the alternative would have been leaving him to die in the smoke and flames. "There'll be a doctor on the ship, you know. I'm sure he'll know how to take care of it."

"And risk him getting a look at my face?" The thought of that reminded him that his face was still bare, and he growled at the memory of Le Chouette destroying the mask he'd worked so hard on. He'd stashed the old leather one in his portmanteau, but right now there was no way to retrieve it without going back to the inn maskless. "I've tended to my own wounds for most of my life. This one will be simple enough."

"For looking after while it heals, maybe. But how are you going to take care of yourself in that time? You won't be able to work. And what if those men find you again? Can you defend yourself, with only one good arm?" She stared up at him imploringly. "Please, Erik. If you won't come with us for your own sake, then do it for mine. I'll never know peace if I have to keep worrying that you're hurt and alone and in danger."

Erik swallowed.

Did she have any idea what she did to him when she said things like that? Oh Christ, it tore his wounded heart all over again to hear that his sweet Christine was worried for his welfare. He wanted so desperately to believe her caring meant something deeper – that somehow, despite everything, she might truly love him the way he loved her.

But he couldn't let himself. That path of thought would only lead him back into the dark labyrinth of madness he was trying to leave behind. He'd finally accepted last night that he was not capable of knowing love like a normal man, and he could not let himself forget it.

Besides, Christine had told him herself that she was only helping him out of simple decency – he had no choice but to take her at her word. So he forced those thoughts away, and tried to focus on the practical matters in front of him.

It had to be his luck that the injury was on his dominant side. While he had trained himself to use his right hand almost as well for most things, grappling corps à corps or throwing the Punjab lasso was out of the question. He would be all but helpless if he found himself forced to fight right now – especially against a foe who'd seemed able to predict all his moves in advance.

Damn her, she's right.

"... Very well, Christine. I'll do as you ask, and come to Sweden with you and the vicomte, until I'm healed enough to take care of myself again." His cadaverous face softened a little. "If only to grant you peace of mind."

At last the second manacle unlocked, and he let the shackles drop to the sand. As he returned the hairpin to Christine, their fingers brushed, and both shared a long look before they noticed a familiar figure approaching down the beach.

"Glad to see you're up and about," Raoul called. "Has Christine told you of our change in plans?"

Erik's scarred mouth tightened. "Yes. I understand our time as traveling companions has been extended."

"Then you'll be pleased to know everything's been taken care of. You're booked on the ship with us, and I took the liberty of going back to the inn to check on our things."

Christine cringed at the mention of that. "How bad is the damage?"

"Damage?" Erik gave her a curious look.

"Well …" She hesitated, biting her lip. "When I found those men attacking you last night, I, er … may have set your room on fire …"

Erik's eyes shot wide, and his tone was intrigued. "Really? "

"It was an accident! I had a lamp, and I wasn't thinking …"

Erik burst into cackling laughter, not caring how much it hurt his shoulder or how mortified it made Christine. "Just what did they teach you at that conservatory?"

"It's not funny!" she tried to insist. "People could have died!"

"Enough of that," Raoul gently interrupted, laying a hand on her shoulder. "No one died, and barely anyone was injured. With all the rain, there was plenty of water to put the fire out. And they still don't know that you had anything to do with it." He turned to Erik. "I'm afraid it did leave your things the worse for wear. Your portmanteau's been scorched, and we'll definitely have to replace some of your clothes. But fortunately, the flames spared this."

He reached into his pea coat, and produced the leather mask.

Erik's breath caught as the younger man held it out to him. He searched his expression for any hint of mockery or disgust, but the vicomte's sea-blue eyes were open and earnest, his handsome face showing nothing but a sincere wish to help.

Erik tried to tell himself that it was nothing but a practical matter. He had to keep his face covered to avoid drawing attention to all three of them, and the vicomte knew that.

But all the same, for his former rival and almost-victim to do so much for him … even save his life …

He took the mask. The leather was still warm where the younger man had held it against his body. "Thank you, vicomte."

The youth gave a small huff that was not quite a laugh. "You know, if we're going to avoid attention on this journey, you really must stop calling me that."

"And what would you have me call you instead?"

He shrugged. "My name seems the obvious choice."

"Very well. Thank you … Raoul."

The SS Josephine was a three-masted passenger liner that had been carrying travelers between Scandinavia and the western European countries for several decades. The trio managed to secure a cabin with two berths and a bench, and once they'd settled in, Raoul and Christine finally had their chance to learn from Erik just what had happened to him the night before.

"It wasn't a real fever you found me with." As they talked, he worked on fashioning a pillowcase and some of his fire-ruined clothes into a sling for his arm (despite Christine's insistence, he had still refused to see the ship's doctor). "The smoke he used on me was laced with thornapple poison." Seeing the others' puzzled expressions, he explained, "In India they call it dhatūra. It slows breathing and makes the body overheat, and it causes delirium and powerful hallucinations. The bandits there sometimes use it to stupefy their victims." He felt a bit smug as he remembered old Vishal once telling him that the Thugs looked down on robbers who had to resort to such methods, considering them cowards and amateurs not skilled enough to take down opponents who could still fight back.

"Then you think this 'Le Chouette' possibly came from India?" Raoul asked.

Erik shook his head. "He's clearly no common bandit, and thornapple isn't hard to get hold of. He could have come from almost anywhere." His jaw tensed. "But I have my suspicions."

Christine gave him a curious look. "When you were delirious, there was a word you kept repeating: Nasrin. Does that have anything to do with him?"

Erik froze. He tried to avoid her eyes, clearly reluctant to answer.

"It does, doesn't it?" She watched him intently.

"... Yes," he said at last. "She was someone I knew long ago, in Persia. Nasrin al-Saltaneh."

Christine raised an eyebrow. "You didn't mention her during your story the other night."

He didn't answer that.

"Erik, why didn't you tell us about her?" She narrowed her eyes, and her voice grew dangerously soft. "And remember that you promised never to lie to me again."

He inhaled sharply through the leather mask. "I didn't lie. I was telling a story, as per the terms of our game." He met her gaze. "I recall you were the one who made the request that the stories didn't have to be true."

She tried not to groan in frustration. "All right, but we're not playing that game now. Who was she? And what does she have to do with those men who came after you last night?"

"With a title like that, it sounds as if she was royalty of some sort," Raoul spoke up. "Was she part of the Shah's court too?"

Realizing there was no avoiding the truth this time, Erik nodded. "The Shah took her as a wife a few months after I entered his service. He did have quite the appetite for women, but when it came to Nasrin, I suppose I can't entirely blame him. He was grieving the death of his favorite son, and I think he was desperate for something to distract him." He gave a derisive sniff. "I suspect his mother had a hand in arranging it, too. She'd never liked his favorite wife. And Nasrin came from one of the most powerful families in Mazandaran, so bringing her into the royal harem helped that alliance."

Erik hesitated, looking uncomfortable as he remembered. "She was also a noted beauty, and could be very charming when she wished to. Unfortunately, she was also one of the most bloodthirsty people I've ever known." He gave a dry, uneasy chuckle. "And when I say that, remember that I used to keep company with pirates and bandits."

"What happened between the two of you?" Christine watched him closely.

Erik took a long, deep breath before he answered. Of all the dark, shameful parts of his past, this was the one he hated most to remember, and the one he'd most dreaded having to share with his beloved. If there had still been any chance of Christine keeping any fond thoughts of him, it would surely be lost now.

But she and Raoul had taken a tremendous risk by helping him. The least he could do was let them know just what they'd gotten themselves into.

"... Everything I told you the other night about my time in Persia was true. I did come to the Shah's court as a performing magician first, and he did recruit me as an architect after he learned I possessed that talent." He looked away from the other two, afraid to see their reactions. "But there was more that I did for him. He also learned of my skill with the Punjab cord, and the other means of dealing death I'd learned during my travels. He began to use me as an assassin too. Treacherous nobles, would-be revolutionaries, foreigners who threatened the nation's sovereignty – I put an end to all of them."

Christine gasped softly.

"Nasrin soon learned of my part in the killings," he went on. "By then she'd been the Shah's nightly choice for weeks, and he had few secrets from her. She was fascinated by my work. She convinced him that I ought to give … demonstrations, as a warning to all of what I was capable of."

Raoul swallowed. "What do you mean?"

"Nasrin loved the stories of the deadly arenas of Rome. She had the idea to put me in an enclosed courtyard, armed with nothing but the cord, and send in condemned prisoners to fight me. She'd give my opponents a sword and spear, and tell them they would win their freedom if they could defeat me." Erik gave a bitterly proud smile. "None ever did."

Christine shivered. She'd been sure from the beginning that Buquet wasn't the Phantom's first victim – anyone who could murder a man in cold blood and drop his corpse in the middle of the ballet stage was clearly someone who'd long since developed a taste for killing – but she still hadn't imagined something like this.

"It sounds as if she was fond of you, in her way," she cautiously observed, trying to force away the horrible image of Erik slaughtering men like a dog in a rat pit. "Why would she send someone after you now?"

Erik cast his eyes down. "Le Chouette spoke of returning me to her. Someone in Paris must have told her I was still alive, and she's decided she wants her Angel of Death back under her control."

Raoul nodded. "And by sending her own men to take you quietly, she probably hopes to avoid the Shah finding out, and finishing that execution you told us he'd ordered."

"Indeed." He looped the mostly-finished sling over his neck with his good hand and began adjusting it. "I'm sure you're regretting having me come with you now. I don't know how they found me this time, so they could well be following us to Sweden." He glanced at Raoul. "Is there any chance you brought one of your pistols?"

"I'm afraid not." He had considered it while he was in the midst of packing, but had decided not to. He'd seen it as a promise to himself – wishful thinking that in his new life, he would never need a gun again.

Erik gave a miserable sigh. "Then we're doomed. If they find us again, I'll be useless. I can't defend myself. And if Le Chouette decides he wants revenge on Christine for thwarting him, I can't protect her."

The two young people were silent for a long moment, taking in the gravity of all that he had said.

Then, Raoul straightened his shoulders. His voice was soft, but steady.

"So teach me."

Erik's head snapped up. "What?"

"Teach me to use the Punjab lasso. Let me defend us if they find us again –"

"NEVER!"

In an instant, Erik was on his feet, and trembling with what seemed like barely-controlled fury. "Is this what you've been waiting for all along?!" he roared. "A chance to betray me, now that I'm weakened and you have the upper hand?!"

Raoul took a step back, staring at his unexpected outburst in surprise. "What the devil are you talking about? I only asked –"

"I heard what you asked," Erik snarled. And before Raoul could say anything more, he tore out of the cabin and disappeared down the passageway.

Raoul stared after him, more than a little shaken. "What in the world's come over him now? I thought things between us had improved!"

Christine stared at the newly-vacated cabin door as well. Though she had been quiet during Erik's tirade, her mind was turning, examining all the pieces of his past he'd shared with her. Like a broken frieze being reassembled by a patient archaeologist, a picture was beginning to take shape.

"I think I know what this might be about." She laid a gentle hand on Raoul's shoulder, offering him a moment of comfort before she glanced at the door again. "Let me go see if I can talk to him."

It took some searching, but she eventually found him deep in the cargo hold. She spotted a familiar shadow in the dark, narrow space between the hull and a ceiling-high stack of crates, and stood for a moment, regarding him in the dimness.

"Erik? Could we talk?"

The shadow did not look at her. "How did you know where I was?"

She smiled a little. "There aren't any cellars on a ship, so I looked for the next closest thing."

He stiffened, both touched and annoyed that she'd known him so well.

"I'm in no mood for conversation, Christine." His thin silhouette grew thinner as he turned away from her and huddled in on himself.

"All I want is to know what happened back in the cabin." She softly approached him. "Why were you so angry when Raoul asked you to … ?" She trailed off, afraid to set him off again by saying the words.

He turned away from her further. "I don't wish to speak of it anymore. I've made my feelings on the subject very clear."

"But you haven't." She kept her tone as gentle as she could, in spite of her frustration. "Do you really believe Raoul would turn on you like that if you taught him to use the lasso?"

She heard Erik breathe sharply, but he did not answer her.

The thing she had started to suspect earlier was growing clearer in Christine's mind. She knew her next question was a loaded one, but she had to know the truth, if the three of them were to have anything resembling peace between them.

"Erik … why did you really leave Persia?"

"I told you that the other night," he snapped. "The Shah –"

"Yes, the Shah wanted you killed so you wouldn't share the secrets of his new palace." It was a story right out of some lurid tale about the barbaric Orient – the sort of detail that would be at home in the likes of Le Roi de Lahore or La Schiava in Bagdad.

And, she had come to suspect, it was probably just about as true as the stories in those operas.

"But that's not what really happened, is it? It was something else. Something to do with Nasrin." She swallowed, uneasy about asking the next question, but knowing she had to. "Did the two of you …"

"No," he quickly answered. "That night, when I told you how I … had been denied, I wasn't lying. If Nasrin had any real affection for me, it was the kind the executioner feels for an efficient, well-maintained guillotine." He gave a dry, bitter laugh. "Besides, there's an expression the Romans used to speak of."

"And what's that?"

Erik's eyes glittered in the darkness. " 'He who fucks a fire burns his prick.' "

In spite of everything, Christine couldn't help a brief snort of laughter. Vulgar though the expression was, she had to admit it was a good one.

"The Shah learned that lesson the hard way," he went on. "It took some months, but all those nights Nasrin spent in his bed eventually bore fruit. One day, soon after she learned she was with child, she came to my chambers in tears. She told me that, now that she might produce an heir, she was terrified the Shah's enemies I'd been tasked with killing would come for her next. She begged me to help keep her and her unborn child safe. And because she knew I could not be at her side every moment, she asked me to teach her to use the Punjab cord herself."

A great many things began to make sense to Christine. The picture was nearly complete, but not quite. "What did she do once she learned?"

Erik was quiet for a moment, gritting his teeth at the memory. "Naser al-Din Shah can be … eccentric. It amused him sometimes to put out the lights in the royal harem, and give his wives permission to do whatever they wished to each other in the darkness. Some did nothing and excused themselves, thinking such indignity was beneath them. Others would fight, beating each other or ripping clothes and hair." Another bitter laugh. "After I taught her to wield the cord, Nasrin used one game as a chance to murder the women she considered her greatest rivals."

Christine sucked in a sharp breath.

"It's possible to kill very quickly with strangulation, if you know how to cut off the flow of blood. She'd slain half a dozen before anyone began to realize just how amiss the game was going. Rumor has it that when they finally lit the lights again, they found her standing over Jeyran, the Shah's longtime favorite, with the cord around her neck."

She moved closer to Erik in the shadows, and saw him starting to tremble again. "What happened after that?"

"After the guards seized her, Nasrin turned to tears again. With six women lying dead and the seventh barely alive, she had the nerve to plead her innocence. What was more, she blamed the entire thing on me. She claimed I'd used hypnosis to compel her to commit the murders, to punish her for spurning my advances."

"And they believed her?"

Erik gave another mirthless laugh. "I don't think the Shah truly believed her for a moment. But it was tremendously convenient for him to pretend he did. Someone had to be punished for the murders, but he was reluctant to have Nasrin herself executed. He feared making enemies of her powerful family. And he'd already lost several of his children – he had no wish to kill a woman who was carrying another, no matter what she'd done."

Another cold, bitter laugh. "But me? I was a foreigner with no family or allies. Most of the nation already believed I was a monster with far too much influence, and would be more than happy to see me gone. And I knew too many secrets of the court, and the royal family. Having me charged and executed in Nasrin's place would solve every last one of those problems, in one easy stroke." On that last word, Erik raised his good hand and sliced it across his throat for emphasis.

Christine shuddered.

A few weeks ago, his tale wouldn't have earned much sympathy from her. Even if he hadn't killed those women himself, Erik still bore some responsibility for teaching his favorite method of murder to someone he knew to be bloodthirsty and sadistic. With how frightened and furious she'd been at him during that time, in the aftermath of their confrontation at her father's grave, she might even have seen the execution as something he deserved – twisted justice, but justice all the same, for all the crimes he had committed.

But now she'd had her own taste of what it felt like to be blamed and hunted for the crimes of another. And knowing everything she'd learned about him in recent days … the life of cruelty and loneliness he'd led, how desperate it had left him for any form of companionship and approval, especially from women …

She still couldn't forgive all that he'd done. But she thought she could understand better why he had done it all.

"You did still have one ally, though," she said. "Monsieur Khan was there for you when you needed help. And you have me and Raoul here to help you now. If you did teach Raoul to use the cord, do you really believe he would betray you like Nasrin did?"

"He'd have every reason to." Erik's voice was tense. "Certainly far more reason than she did."

"But he isn't like her. He's kind, and brave, and honorable. He'd never sacrifice someone else to save himself."

That final night in the lair rose in both their memories once again – that memory of Raoul telling Christine to refuse the Phantom, fully knowing it would mean his own death.

"He was worried about you when the storm came yesterday, you know," she said softly. "He told me he thought it would be a waste to have you die when he's done so much to help you. He may have done it at first only for my sake, but I think he's truly started to care about you now."

In the dimness, she could see his pale, scarred lips tighten in a way that suggested he didn't entirely believe her. But the anger seemed to have drained out of him now, and he didn't try to argue.

"I will … consider all that you've said," he forced out. "But I promise nothing yet."

Christine gave a small nod. "I won't ask for more than that."

She tilted her head in the direction of the cargo hold's entrance, silently inviting him to come back to the upper decks with her. But he turned away, not yet ready to leave his new refuge, and she did not try to push him.

As she turned to leave alone, Christine paused. "Erik … Raoul told me you gave us the money because you wanted to see me safe from the reach of the law. Did what happened in Persia have something to do with that?"

She heard him hesitate before he answered. "I never wanted you to be blamed for my crimes. If you believe nothing else I've told you, Christine, please believe that."

It was a cold comfort, and it had come too late to change anything, but she did believe him.

Later that afternoon, as the two of them went for a peaceful walk along the deck, Christine told Raoul the story Erik had shared with her. He listened with keen interest as they finally came to a halt behind the wheelhouse, and leaned forward against the stern rail.

"No wonder he lost his temper when I asked him." He gazed down at the ship's wake churning and fanning out behind them. "Still, I won't be holding my breath waiting for an apology."

"That's probably wise," she admitted. "But I do think it's given him some peace to finally have it out in the open."

"Yes. The fewer secrets there are between all of us, the better."

She joined him looking out over the rail. The ocean breeze was cool and refreshing on their faces, and Christine inhaled the salt air with a deep, contented sigh, finally allowing herself to relax a little. As she did, she noticed Raoul admiring the way her bosom rose, and she smiled and blushed.

What she was about to ask still made her nervous. But he had just said they should have fewer secrets.

"Raoul …" Her cheeks felt warm even with the cool wind. She was very conscious of her hip and thigh pressed against his, even through the many layers of her skirt. "What we did yesterday …"

He tensed a little against her, blushing as well. "You're still thinking about it too?"

"Yes." She laid her hand over his on the railing, gently lacing their fingers together. "I liked it. It was one of the most wonderful experiences of my life."

"I … enjoyed it a great deal too." He swallowed. "But perhaps you were right, and it's for the best that we didn't go further."

"And we don't have to. We can still wait until we're married for that. But … I liked touching you that way." She leaned in close, cuddling against him as she whispered, "I'd like to do it again. If we keep giving each other pleasure with our hands in the meantime … that wouldn't be so terrible, would it? We'd simply be continuing to show our love for each other. Surely that can't be wrong?"

Her heart sank for a moment as he pulled his hand from hers, but then leapt as he gently took her in his arms. "When you put it that way, it doesn't seem wrong at all. I love you. I want to be with you, however you'll have me."

The sea wind embraced them as they kissed. "When we get to Gothenburg, we'll have to see if we can arrange for a private room again," she murmured against his lips.

"... You know, we don't have to wait that long." He grinned. "I can think of a few places on board where we might find some privacy."

A short while later, he was showing her how to climb into the sail locker without being noticed. The space was cramped and cold and airless, but they did indeed have the privacy he'd promised. As they kissed ever more passionately, he pushed her against a stack of canvas, and any fear she might have had of being caught was burned away by the thrill of doing something so scandalous.

During her time at the Opera, Christine had stumbled on a few of the other performers with their lovers in various secret corners of the building. In a place so suffused with passion and fantasy, such trysts were a natural occurrence. On one memorable occasion, she'd even walked in on Meg kissing and fondling the breasts of Josianne Savatier, the senior alto vocalist (and had promised them she would never tell Mme. Giry).

Now and then, she'd even imagined what it would be like to have such a tryst herself. She'd pictured losing herself with some nameless, faceless lover, both of them so crazed with desire that they were willing to risk all the eyes of the world finding them.

She wondered if Raoul had ever fantasized about such things too. He'd certainly been quick to think of bringing her here. Maybe she'd ask him about it later, and find out if he had any other fantasies she could help make come true.

Not right now, though. Right now his hot mouth was on her neck, and his warm, strong hand was beneath her skirts, seeking the wet heat between her legs, and there was no one else in the world but the two of them.

It took some hours, but Erik did eventually emerge from the cargo hold. He found the young couple in a much better mood when he returned to the cabin, and they accepted his quiet, contrite manner for the unspoken apology it was.

"You can have the bottom bunk," the vicom– … Raoul told him when it came time to prepare for bed. "With your shoulder, it'll probably be the most comfortable. I'll be fine on the bench."

Erik swallowed uneasily, still not sure how to accept kindness from someone who had nothing to gain from offering it. "Thank you."

Between his weakened arm and the lack of privacy, he didn't bother trying to change into nightclothes, but slowly climbed onto the narrow berth in his shirt and trousers. As he stretched his long body out, he tried in vain to get comfortable – the pain in his shoulder had quieted to a dull ache, but even with his arm still bound in the sling, every small motion threatened to awaken it again.

For long minutes he lay awake in the darkness, listening to his companions' gentle breathing (he supposed an easy slumber was to be expected for them, considering how little rest they must have gotten the night before). It had been many, many years since he'd peacefully shared a room with others – not since his childhood with Antoinette, first in her family's tent in the Romani camp, and then just the two of them in the squalid inn that had been their home when they first came to Paris.

He'd forgotten that it could be comforting not to be alone in the night. Perhaps continuing to travel with his two unlikely saviors wouldn't be so unbearable after all.

Perhaps it would even be worth considering the vic– … Raoul's request.

Much as Erik hated to admit it, Christine was right. He might be rash and foolish, but perfidious, Raoul was not. The boy hadn't even had the sense to keep from talking aloud about his plan to capture the Phantom in the very building where his foe could hear everything – did he really have it in him to play the long game, and wait for Erik to teach him to kill before turning on him?

He could have learned from his mistakes, the dark voice of survival whispered. It's not impossible.

Not impossible, no … but Raoul could have left him to die in the flames last night, and he'd chosen to save him instead. He'd opened his home and protected him instead of turning him over to the gendarmes. And all three of them would be safer if at least one of them could still fight.

Le Chouette expected the Punjab cord, the darkness whispered again. There's no point in teaching it to the vicomte. You'd only be handing him your own hangman's noose.

He expected the cord from me, Erik answered his own thoughts. He might not from someone else. And he certainly wouldn't expect it from an insufferably handsome nobleman with the brains of an overeager gun dog …

Well, he didn't have to decide right now. He'd told Christine he would consider it, but he hadn't told her how long that would take. He'd sleep on the matter, and perhaps an answer would be clear in the morning.

He closed his eyes, trying to make himself fall asleep by sheer willpower. But his shoulder continued to ache, and slumber continued to elude him.

If he'd been home beneath the Garnier, he might have gotten up and taken to his organ, and played and composed until exhaustion overwhelmed him. But there were no instruments here – not unless he wished to go liberate that poor, ill-tended guitar he'd heard one of the other passengers abusing in the saloon earlier.

And even if he did have an organ or violin in front of him now, and had two free hands to play it with …

He'd first noticed it the morning he woke up in the Chagny townhouse. And as the days had passed, he'd become all too aware of it.

The music that had lived in his mind since his earliest childhood, the notes that changed with his thoughts and moods, that piece of the divine harmony of the universe that gave light to his dark soul and granted him inspiration … was gone.

There had been times in the past when the music had faded – usually after the times of greatest horror and heartbreak in his life. He'd barely heard it during the winter he'd left France after his falling out with Antoinette, or during the months he'd spent escaping west from Persia. But he could not remember a time when it had ever fallen completely silent.

… But then, he'd never experienced anything worse than losing Christine.

He listened to her sleeping above him, her breathing as sweet and peaceful as it had been the night he'd laid her on a bed of pillows after she'd fainted. Once again, she was so close, and he still could not have her. And this time, he couldn't even hope that she still might come to return his love when she woke up.

He'd ruined any chance they might have had. And worse, he had ruined her. Because of his selfish, monstrous desires, all their lessons had been for nothing. The most beautiful voice the world might ever have known, a voice that could have changed the very future of opera, would never be heard on a stage again.

If having the divine light of music forever snuffed out was to be his punishment for that, he could not deny that he deserved it.

They arrived in the Port of Gothenburg after three days at sea, sailing into the mouth of the Göta älv under a clear silver-blue sky. After a night's rest at a hotel in the city, they set out by train on the next leg of their journey, toward Stockholm.

As they traveled across the country, the two men observed the change in Christine. The countryside they passed was awakening with spring, flowers blooming in every park and meadow, and the woman they both loved seemed to be coming back to life as well. Her mood was bright and hopeful, her steps lighter with excitement as she walked her native soil again.

At every stop along the journey, she took the opportunity to point things out to Raoul, beginning his lessons in the Swedish language. On the second day of travel, as they prepared to depart after a stopover in Örebro, she approached Erik for more advice.

"You must have learned many languages in your travels –"

"Thirteen, to be precise," he told her with a proud smirk. "Six I'm quite fluent in, and the others I can at least make conversation with."

"Then you must know some tricks for learning them faster. Is there something more I could be doing to help him learn?"

Erik's first instinct was to make a quip about the slow speed of the boy's mind, but he thought better of it. Raoul had continued to be nothing but courteous to him, even helping carry his portmanteau to spare his injured shoulder, and it was growing hard to have any real resentment toward him anymore.

After a moment's consideration, he offered an idea. "Perhaps you could show him translations of some works he knows. Comparing the words may help, though you'll still need to help him practice spoken pronunciation."

Christine's face lit up at the suggestion. "Yes, that might be just the thing!"

When they finally arrived in Stockholm, she disappeared for a short time while she went in search of a bookstore. And that evening, she surprised her delighted fiancé with a Swedish translation of The Count of Monte Cristo.

From Stockholm, they took a much shorter train ride north to Uppsala. Dusk was falling when they arrived, and as they emerged from the train station into the heart of the city, they found themselves in the midst of an unexpected commotion.

All through the streets, throngs of revelers wandered, talking and singing in obvious high spirits. The rich, pungent smells of beer and brännvin wafted in the air, overlaid by plumes of woodsmoke floating in from all across the city.

"What's in the world going on?" Raoul asked after one particularly high-spirited woman tried to pull him into a dance. "Have we stumbled into some pagan festival?"

Christine's eyes widened, her face glowing in the light of the streetlamps. "Of course! How could I have forgotten? Today is the thirtieth, isn't it?"

"Yes –"

"It's Valborg!" Seeing Raoul's blank look, she explained. "Walpurgis Night! The true beginning of spring!" She beckoned eagerly to both of her companions, her skirts bouncing as she raced down the street as eager as a child. "Come on, we have to go see the bonfires!"

With little other choice, Raoul and Erik followed her through the streets. At last they came to a green, open park, where a massive bonfire roared up to the darkening sky. More revelers (the trio would later learn that most of them were students from Uppsala University) gathered around the fire, singing and drinking and dancing in uninhibited joy.

"I must say, this isn't quite what I'd expect on a saint's day!" Raoul spoke up over the din of the festival.

Christine laughed. "I imagine not! I remember how disappointed I was when I found out they don't celebrate it this way in France! But it's more than just an ordinary feast day here. It marks the end of winter's darkness, and the promise of summer and the new life that comes with it." She swept one arm toward the bonfire, her traveling cloak billowing. "The fire burns away what is old, and lights the way toward the future."

It didn't take long for the excitement of the holiday to take over Christine. She pulled Raoul into a dance with some of the gathered students, and Erik watched as the firelight gleamed on their hair and their young, beautiful faces.

He stood alone, his golden eyes reflecting the flames. In most of Europe, he knew, Walpurgis Night was a time of fear, when superstitious peasants feared the gathering of witches and demons. When he was a small boy, he remembered the village priest telling his mother to say extra prayers on that day to ward off evil, with a dark, pointed look at her malformed son as he did.

If what Christine had said was true, then he liked the way the Swedish viewed the day much better. This was a natural turn of the seasons, nothing more and nothing less. A time to celebrate new life, and think of new beginnings – everything he was supposed to be seeking now.

As he watched, he noticed a few of the reveling students tossing things into the fire. A broken walking stick, some dried-up flowers, even what looked to be a torn examination book.

A chance to burn away what is old …

The spirit of Valborg finally took hold of him too, and Erik approached the raging bonfire. In his mind's eye, he imagined holding the ghostly porcelain mask that had been the emblem of the Phantom.

He saw himself lifting it high, imagined the polished white porcelain gleaming one last time …

And he imagined himself throwing it into the bonfire. He pictured it falling, tumbling down into the flames like a damned soul cast into Tartarus. He saw it lying in the pyre of logs and branches, deep in the fire's heart where the heat was most intense, until at last it shattered and lay broken among the embers.

Erik closed his eyes, breathing deep. The hot, cleansing air of the fire seemed to burn away all defilement from his skin, thoughts, and soul, more purifying than the water of any baptism.

He didn't know how long the feeling would last beyond this night. But perhaps it would be enough.

"Välkommen!" an old man called as he too approached the fire. His gray hair had probably been neatly combed and pomaded when the evening began, but now it was sweat-damp, and hung in his eyes as he pushed a cup into Erik's hand. "Ta en drink, min nya vän!"

Erik's own command of Swedish was a little weak (it had never been one of the six languages he was fluent in, but he'd made an effort to learn it when he first began his lessons with Christine, thinking she might believe in the Angel more if he spoke the language her father had), but he understood the inebriated stranger perfectly well. He did not particularly want to drink with him, but he had a feeling that refusing would spoil the festive mood, and he wanted even less to be shunned and driven away from the gathering his companions were clearly enjoying.

"All right then, in the spirit of the occasion." He lifted his cup. "Skål!"

The old man burst out laughing, and lifted his own drink. "Skål!"

Erik sipped the liquor carefully around the edge of the leather mask. It was dark and rich and faintly sweet, making him think of smoke rising at dawn. And as he watched the bonfire burn, the flames seeming to dance along with Christine, Raoul, and the other revelers, he thought that, just maybe, it tasted a little like hope.

To Be Continued …