The man whose life you save becomes your responsibility.

~ Proverb, source unknown


Over the past months, Christine's sleep had often been troubled, haunted by nightmares of nooses and masks and strange, hypnotic music that left her helpless under its power. Night after night, she'd woken up in a cold sweat, with her heart pounding and a scream threatening to break from her throat. She'd fully expected this night to be the same.

But no nightmares came. In Raoul's bed, with his arms around her and his body warm and close, Christine enjoyed the first peaceful, dreamless sleep she'd known in far too long.

When she opened her eyes, the morning sun was streaming through the French doors that led out to the balcony. She shifted in Raoul's embrace, stretching a little as she savored the soft bed and the feeling of waking up truly rested.

A moment later, Raoul made a sleepy, contented noise beside her. When he opened his eyes, she savored the sight of them too – that light, clear blue, with hints of green and gold, making her think of the sea under the summer sun. He smiled at her, and Christine felt a warm thrill at the deep, open love she saw in his expression.

His voice was warm and pleased as he whispered, "I don't think I've slept so well in weeks."

She smiled back at him. "Neither have I."

His blond hair was tousled from sleep, and she reached up to smooth her fingers through it. He tilted his head into her touch, and the two of them shifted closer under the covers almost without realizing it.

Just as their lips were about to meet, a polite-but-insistent knock came from the bedroom door. From the other side, an equally polite-but-insistent male voice called, "M'sieur?"

Raoul sat up abruptly, whispering something that sounded suspiciously like a curse. The collar of his nightshirt slipped down a little, and Christine cringed as she saw the red bruises around his throat.

"That'll be Comtois, my valet." The vicomte took a deep breath. "I suppose we can't delay this any longer."

Before Christine could ask what exactly he intended to tell the servant about the past night's events, Raoul called for him to come in.

Frédéric Comtois was tall and sandy-haired, with the build of a man who had once been strong and athletic but was now starting to soften around the middle. He'd been in the Chagny family's employ since Raoul was a child, serving as a footman at their country estate, and Raoul had always liked his kind, steadfast nature – when he'd come to live in Paris after leaving the Navy, and found himself in need of a valet, Comtois had been the obvious choice.

Raoul had always trusted him so far … but he was unsure how far he should test that trust.

To his credit (and to Raoul's relief), Comtois did not comment on either his master's bruised throat or the young woman in bed with him. He set the hot water and shaving things down on the wash stand, and mildly remarked, "I apologize for not being present to assist you when you came in last night."

Raoul saw that the valet had not come alone. Marie-Inès, the most senior of the housemaids, followed him into the master suite, a breakfast tray in her hands and a carefully restrained expression on her pretty bronze-brown face. "Good morning, monsieur. If the lady wishes assistance getting ready, it will be my pleasure to help her."

The two servants didn't have to say anything for Raoul to realize they weren't here simply to be dutiful. Since the housekeeper, Mme. Travert, had retired last month, they were currently the highest-ranking staff in the household by default, and they'd come hoping to get an explanation for last night from the master – one they'd no doubt share with the rest of the servants.

Raoul cleared his throat – it still hurt a little, but he could tell it would heal before long. "It's quite alright, Comtois. An unexpected matter came up …"


The proper thing would have been for the young couple to groom and dress for the day in separate rooms, but Raoul and Christine made it clear that that would not be happening. They could not risk being separated and telling stories that might contradict each other.

Unfortunately, there was no way to avoid the subject completely without raising suspicion. The servants had known about the vicomte's plan to draw out and capture the Phantom of the Opera (Raoul cringed inside now as he remembered how proud he had been when he spoke of it to Comtois over the past weeks). On top of that, Marie-Inès had placed the morning copy of L'Epoque in prominent view on the breakfast tray, where it might prompt her employer into conversation about the events of last night. The photograph of Meg Giry almost seemed to be looking up at them questioningly.

Raoul and Christine did tell the first part of the truth. Yes, it was just as the paper said: the Phantom, in a fit of insane rage after being unmasked, had abducted Christine right off the stage.

"He didn't get me as far as he wanted, though," Christine said as Marie-Inès helped her into one of Beatrice's dresses (it was a little tight across the shoulders, but otherwise fit well enough). "When we were almost across the lake, I took my chances and jumped out of the boat. If I could swim to shore before he had a chance to follow me, I knew I could escape."

"That's where she found me," Raoul chimed in. "I'd swum most of the way myself, and we managed to find each other on the lakeshore. Really, it was so dark, it's a miracle we didn't pass right by each other."

Comtois, cleaning the vicomte's razor, cast a meaningful look at his employer's freshly-shaved but still obviously injured throat.

"... Oh, yes. I ran into some sort of snare on my way down to the lake. One of our clever friend's booby traps, no doubt. Luckily I was able to free myself before it did me any serious injury."

"Lucky indeed, m'sieur." It was hard to read the valet's mood from his cool, soft-spoken tone, but he helpfully tied the vicomte's ascot higher than usual, to hide the bruises.

Raoul and Christine went on to say that the two of them had gotten a bit lost finding their way out of the underground passages, and had decided to go straight home instead of trying to find their way back to the opera house and risking crossing paths with the Phantom again. As they sat down at the small table, Raoul remarked lightly, "I am sorry for leaving Griffiths waiting with the carriage. I'll make it up to him, I promise it."

Both of them had been too anxious to eat much yesterday, and the tray of coffee, tartines, and fresh pastries was irresistible. Before they'd enjoyed more than a few bites, though, Marie-Inès calmly asked, "Will your other guest be wanting breakfast too?"

Christine froze with a well-buttered tartine still in her mouth. Raoul nearly choked on the coffee he'd just sipped.

"The gentleman down the hall," Marie-Inès went on, still keeping her tone carefully mild and matter-of-fact.

Raoul swallowed, and set his cup down. "He's still there?"

"He is. I hope you won't think me too forward, Monsieur le Vicomte, but I took the liberty of looking in on him earlier, to see if he needed anything. The poor fellow must have been exhausted, he fell asleep without taking off his shoes or his coat." The maid's face stayed mild, but there was a knowing, insistent glint in her eyes as she quietly added, "Or his mask."

I suppose him leaving on his own during the night really was too much to hope for, Raoul thought, and fought the temptation to curse again.

"... Ah, yes, about him. An old friend we happened to run into recently–"

"A friend of mine," Christine spoke up, trying to be helpful.

"Yes, a friend of the Daaé family! He's been ill recently, in need of a place to recover, so I invited him to stay here for a few days. It's best if no one disturbs him." Raoul fidgeted with his ascot. "Sensitive constitution, you see. From an old injury," he added, gesturing to his own face by way of explanation.

Comtois and Marie-Inès exchanged a long, quiet look.

Finally, the valet nodded. "As you say, m'sieur."


The cook, Mme. Poirier, had in fact already prepared another breakfast tray. One of the other maids was about to take it up to the guest room, when Christine stopped her.

"Let me do it."

Raoul gave her a worried look. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"It'll be fine." Christine hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. "I need to talk to him anyway."

Raoul glanced at the nearby listening servants, and whispered, "Be sure to ask him the best way we can help him get out of the city."

"I will, you needn't worry about that. But there's a few other things I need to say to him as well."

Christine climbed the stairs up from the kitchen, trying to keep herself calm and poised, much the way she'd often done before stepping onto the stage. A good night's sleep had done wonders for her nerves, but it couldn't silence them completely.

She too had expected Erik to disappear in the night. Learning that he'd stayed … she'd felt a moment of happiness flare in her heart, like the light of a match striking. It had burned out quickly, snuffed out by worry and fear over what-do-we-do-now, but she had felt it.

And she was ashamed of it.

She ought to want him gone from her life – she knew that perfectly well. She ought to hate him.

She wanted to hate him. Hate was clean, simple, guiltless. Hate wouldn't leave her still feeling drawn to the man who'd kept her and those she cared for living in fear for months. The nightmares she'd dreaded most had been the ones where the hypnotic music didn't frighten her at all – the ones where, as the music entered her soul and body, as it took hold and caressed her, she welcomed it.

If she could only force herself to hate him, she'd never have brought him here last night. Never would have put herself and Raoul in this predicament.

But she had. And now she was responsible for dealing with the consequences.

There's no reason to be afraid, she tried to tell herself as she approached the guest room door. He's not a monster, ghost, or angel. He's just a man – a man named Erik. And he has no power over me anymore.

She entered the room.

Erik was sleeping curled up on top of the covers, still fully dressed as Marie-Inès had said. His back was turned toward the windows, and the sunlight cast his face in shadow. His breathing was faint and peaceful, whistling softly through the leather mask.

Seeing him like this – asleep in a bed, like any ordinary man worn out after a long night – Christine felt bolder. She almost didn't want to disturb him, but what she had to say could not wait.

She set the tray down on a nearby table, and cleared her throat. When Erik didn't stir, she stepped closer to the bed, and spoke a loud, emphatic, "Good morning."

His golden eyes shot open. He sprang upright like a startled cat, so abruptly that he nearly fell off the bed, and Christine had to swallow a laugh (if he caught her laughing at him, she was sure, it would only make things worse).

"Let me guess. You didn't intend to sleep this long?"

"I didn't intend to sleep at all." Erik self-consciously smoothed his thin, graying hair, trying to compose himself (and wishing he'd thought to bring another wig with him). "I'd hoped to be far outside the city by now."

Christine relaxed a little, relieved that he'd brought up that subject before she had to. "I suppose last night took a toll on all of us. Is there –"

"Why did you bring me here, Christine?"

He was on his feet now, his eyes burning as he watched her closely. He looked almost frightened, she realized, as if he feared what her answer might be.

"I couldn't bear the thought of that mob finding you. I had to be sure you'd gotten away. That you were safe."

His eyes narrowed behind the mask. "Is that the only reason?"

"Yes." Christine forced herself to say it quickly, before anything could make her hesitate. "And all I meant was to get you out of the opera house. After that, you could have gone anywhere you wished. I didn't abduct you and force you to come here." She narrowed her own eyes pointedly at him as she said that last.

Erik, realizing she was right, looked more than a little abashed. His eyes turned from hers, and his voice was soft with heartbreak as he replied, "You say that as if I could refuse anything you asked of me."

Her shoulders tensed. "What do you mean by that?"

Erik hesitated.

He wanted to repeat the words he'd spoken last night: I love you.

He wanted to say: If you could only give me your love, my angel, you would see what devotion I am capable of. I would obey you, and worship you, and you could do anything you wished with me.

He wanted to say it so badly that the words ached on his tongue.

But he could not. It was too late. When he'd made the choice to let her go, he'd given up any right to say such things to her, and both of them knew it.

Christine could read enough in his expression, though, even through the mask. She sighed, and straightened up as she prepared to say what she had to.

"... Erik." It still felt strange to call him by a mortal's name (and such an ordinary one, to the Swedish-born Christine). "I do care for you. I told Raoul last night that you weren't beyond hope. Despite everything you've done, I still believe that."

The ghosts of Joseph Buquet and Ubaldo Piangi rose in her mind, and Christine felt a lump in her throat as tears threatened once again. "There is something in you that can be saved. But Erik … I can't be the one to save you."

"Christine –"

"No, don't say it. I'm only mortal, Erik. Even if I had …" she stopped herself, changing her words, "... even if things had happened differently, I couldn't heal what's damaged in your soul. Only you and God can do that."

His scarred lips tightened in a bitter line. "I'm not interested in help from God. He and I have had nothing to say to each other since He cursed me with this face."

Christine bit her own lip. "Then you'll have to find redemption on your own. And maybe you can. You deserve the chance to try, at least, and that much I can give you. We'll help you get out of Paris –"

" 'We'?" He tilted his head, the bitter line of his mouth turning into a wryly impressed smile. "Then you've convinced the vicomte to help you with this grand plan?"

"Why wouldn't he? He loves me, and you showed him mercy last night because of me." She gave a wry smile of her own. "And I'm sure he'll be just as glad to see the last of you as you will him."

"I'm sure he'd be even more glad to see me shot dead on his doorstep."

He saw anger suddenly flash in Christine's eyes. "Don't you talk that way about him! Do you really think so little of Raoul that you believe he'd murder a guest in his home? He does want to help you!"

"Only because of you."

"That may be true. But even so, he is choosing to do it. The least you can do is be civil to him in return."

Erik hesitated for a long moment, but finally leveled his gaze at her. "... Very well. As long as the vicomte continues to be a gracious host, I shall be a gracious guest. For your sake."

Christine saw his expression soften as he said that last, and she could see the familiar look of adoring, tragic love in his eyes. Her heart ached, and she found herself resisting the shameful urge to embrace and comfort him.

She remembered the touch of his lips last night – how his rough, cold flesh had warmed so quickly against her own. She'd kissed him the first time to disarm him, to soothe and calm his desperate fury, but the second time …

But she would not think about that. She could not think about that. All that mattered now was getting him far away from her and Raoul – the sooner, the better.

"There's something else I need you to do." She straightened up, her eyes bright and intent. This was the true reason she'd come to speak to him, and if she didn't do it now, she'd lose her nerve. "Before I help you any further, I need you to promise me two things."

He looked at her, a little surprised, but gave a small nod for her to continue.

"First, you have to promise that you'll never lie to me again."

He nodded once again. It wasn't a surprising request after all that he'd done, and since he wouldn't be around her for much longer, it should be easy enough to keep. "I promise it."

Christine smiled, but that intensity was still in her eyes. "Good. Because second, you have to promise me that you'll never kill again."

She saw Erik freeze suddenly, as if a chill had come over him.

"Piangi and Buquet didn't deserve what you did to them," she went on. "For their sakes, and the sake of my own conscience, I have to know I'm not sending you out into the world to murder more innocents."

When he didn't answer her, she approached him, her back straight and her eyes piercing as she looked up at him. "Promise me, Erik!"

He gazed into her eyes – that deep, rich blue that always made him think of the sky at twilight or just before dawn. The morning light caught them as she faced him, making them burn like the first glimpse of sunrise. This, he realized, was the first time he had ever seen her in sunlight, and she had never looked more like an angel – a fierce, avenging angel come to demand atonement for his sins.

"... I promise." He gave her a smile that was small, but genuine. "As I said, I can refuse you nothing."

She relaxed a little. "Thank you."

"And I will give you one other promise, Christine."

She tilted her head a little, surprised. "What is it?"

Erik started to move closer, about to reach for her hand, but stopped himself. "If, at any moment, you wish me to be gone, I will go. You need only say the word, and I will leave you and the vicomte immediately. No pleading or arguments."

Christine released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "I hope it will never come to that. But, thank you. To hear you say such a thing … it means a great deal."

Realizing that now was as good a time as any to ask what Raoul had requested, she went on. "You said you'd hoped to be far outside the city by now. I take it that means you already have a plan?"

Erik frowned. "Not exactly. My plan was to stay ahead of the gendarmes before they had a chance to lay their nets. By now they'll be watching the roads and trains, and they'll know exactly what face to look for." He frowned at Christine for a moment, wordlessly reminding her that that last part was her fault.

She frowned as well, a little chastened. "Perhaps Raoul could arrange for his carriage to take you. They probably wouldn't stop and question a driver working for the Chagny family."

"I'd rather not depend on the vicomte's generosity any more than I have to."

Erik paused for a moment, and looked thoughtful. "There might still be a way I could slip past them. It would take a day or two to prepare, and I'll need you to help me with some things, but it may just fool them …"


Griffiths the coachman was less than happy about being roused for a drive after his long, sleepless night, but a few words from Comtois praising his loyalty for waiting all those hours (and the promise of a generous bonus in his next wages if he kept his mouth shut) soon cheered him. The sky over Paris was clear and sunny as the berline drove across the city, the air temporarily freshened after last night's rain. Christine gazed out the window as they drove, and thought over what Erik had told her.

There was, he'd explained, a type of mask he'd invented for himself that could almost pass for a normal face. If she could obtain the materials for him, he could craft one now, and it might allow him to slip under the nose of any police patrols.

"The paint and glue will take time to set properly," he'd said. "But it's worked in the past, and I'm certain it can work now."

When they drove down the Rue Auber, Christine tensed in her seat as they passed by the Palais Garnier. After her conversation with Erik, she'd thought she had made some peace with all that had happened, but at the sight of the opera house, a cold knot of unease twisted in her stomach.

She knew she ought to visit the Garnier before doing anything else. She'd read the story in the paper earlier – Meg, Mme. Giry, and everyone else in the Opera Populaire must be wondering what had become of her. And the gendarmes would be looking for her too, expecting her to make a statement about what had happened last night.

But I can't, she thought anxiously. Not yet! Not while we're still keeping Erik hidden. Once he's gone, Raoul and I can both give our story to the police. But until then, we can't risk any eyes on us!

She wished Raoul could have come with her now. But when they'd talked after her meeting with Erik, the couple had agreed it might be best for the vicomte to stay home for a few days and avoid drawing more attention while his throat healed ("And it might be wise for one of us to stay here and keep an eye on our guest," he'd added). When Christine had suggested she also stay over for a few more days (privately worrying that if she didn't, Erik and Raoul might forget their promises and try to kill each other again), he'd agreed quite happily, and had sent Comtois with her in his stead to help fetch her things.

Beside her in the carriage, the valet noticed how tense she was. "Are you all right, mamselle?" he asked with a gentle, concerned smile.

Christine shook her head quickly, trying to clear her thoughts. "Yes, it's nothing."

When they arrived at her building on the Rue Notre Dame des Victoires, she remembered too late that she'd left her key behind at the Garnier the night before. Fortunately, her landlady was present to let them in – however, Christine couldn't help noticing the puzzled, suspicious looks the woman kept giving her as she did.

Christine tried not to think too much of it. She knew that Mme. Beaulieu considered hers a respectable place, and had never quite approved of the young singer continuing to live alone in the flat after Mme. Valerius had died. Or maybe she'd also read the papers this morning, and was trying not to bombard Christine with questions. Either way, Christine couldn't afford to add it to her other concerns right now.

With Comtois' help, she packed a carpet bag with a week's worth of clothes and necessities. After some consideration, she also took the tiny photographed portrait of her father that rested on the mantle, wrapping it carefully in a scarf before she tucked it into the bag. Perhaps I'll keep it at the house now, she thought. That will be my home soon, and he ought to be there.

As she and Comtois finally made their way down the stairs, bag in tow, Christine heard Mme. Beaulieu talking with someone. She tried not to let it distract her, but the voice was female, and youthful – and familiar.

"... Meg?"

"Christine!"

Christine found herself swept down the last two stairs as a blonde whirlwind embraced her.

"Are you all right? What happened last night? Where in the world have you been?!"

Meg looked as if she hadn't slept at all. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her hastily pinned up hair was already starting to come loose, making her look disheveled and a little crazed. She'd changed from the vest and breeches into a dress, but had missed a few buttonholes in her exhaustion and distress.

Christine hugged her friend back tightly. "I'm fine, Meg. Everything's fine."

"I was so worried." Meg's voice was rough, close to tears. "When you didn't come back, I thought the Phantom might have …"

"He didn't. I got away from him, and Raoul and I found each other."

"The vicomte's safe too?"

"Yes! He took me back to his house after that. I'm going to be staying there for a little while." She turned her head for a moment to glance at Comtois. "This is his valet. He's helping me fetch some things."

Comtois looked a bit awkward as he watched the two ladies, but he shifted the carpet bag and gave Meg a polite nod.

Meg pulled back from Christine's embrace a little. A few tears glinted in her eyes, but Christine could see something else there too.

A hint of suspicion.

"Christine … how did you get away from the Phantom?"

"I jumped out of the boat," she replied immediately, without thinking. "Before he could take me wherever he was planning to. I swam for the shore, and Raoul was there –"

Meg's gaze grew more suspicious. "And how did you get out of the cellars?"

Too late, Christine realized she should have considered her answers more carefully. Unlike Raoul's servants, Meg wasn't going to obediently accept whatever she was told. She tried to avoid the other woman's eyes as she hesitantly replied, "We went searching. It took us a while, but we found another passage that led up to the streets."

"The one that leads up to the Rue Scribe?"

Christine froze.

Meg let go of her. "Christine, I was there. I saw them find your costume in the Phantom's chambers. And my mother and I saw the boat. I know all three of you used it to get to the Rue Scribe passage."

Christine tried to think fast. Lying had never come easily to her, especially to someone she loved. "Er … that's what I meant. I jumped out of the boat as he was taking me there …"

Meg laid a hand on her shoulder. It was meant to be reassuring, but as Christine's anxiety rose, it felt like a threat.

"Please tell me what's really going on." Her dark eyes were wide, intense, imploring. "You can trust me, I promise. Are you in danger? Is the Phantom threatening you?" She paused. "Did he do something to the vicomte?"

"No!" She flinched away from Meg's touch. "It's not like that. No one's in danger."

"Then why won't you tell me the truth?"

"Meg …"

"Christine, please let me help you! "

"I …"

She wanted so badly to say yes. She hated all this secrecy, hated lying to someone who cared so much about her.

But it was one more risk she couldn't take right now. The fewer people who knew about her plan to help Erik, the better.

"... I do appreciate it," Christine said at last. "But Meg, everything really is fine." I need you to trust me on that, she tried to say with her eyes. "I'll be back at the Opera in a few days, I promise. Raoul and I just have some personal matters to take care of first." She managed a smile. "Please let your mother know we're all right, and give her my best."

"Christine –"

But she was already leaving, quickly heading out to the carriage with Comtois behind her.

Meg and Mme. Beaulieu watched them go. The landlady shook her head disapprovingly, and turned to the younger woman with an expression that was both irritated and sympathetic. "She always was a strange girl. Shameful of her to act that way to a friend who's only looking out for her."

The dancer didn't respond. She approached the front door, and watched the departing carriage.

"Thank you for your help, madame," she said quietly, still not looking at Mme. Beaulieu. "I'm sorry again for us bothering you last night. I should have guessed it would be better to wait until morning."

"Oh, it's no matter. Did you at least find out what you and that foreign gentleman needed to know?"

"... Yes and no." Meg straightened her shoulders. "I think I'll do as Christine said, and let my mother know what's happened."

And Monsieur Khan as well, she thought. He's going to be very curious about this.


Raoul hadn't forbidden Erik from exploring the rest of the house, but only because the two of them hadn't spoken to each other at all since the night before. This was perfectly fine as far as Erik was concerned (it was certainly easier to be civil to the young aristocrat if he didn't have to see his insufferably handsome face), and he was sure his host felt the same. By now it was late in the afternoon, and the former Phantom still had yet to leave his room.

The only person he'd spoken to since Christine had left was Marie-Inès, when she'd brought him lunch a few hours ago. The maid had given him a disapproving look when she saw that he'd barely picked at the breakfast Christine brought him, and had addressed him with a manner that was both scolding and cautious.

"The vicomte told us you've been sick recently, monsieur. If you need something easier on the digestion, we'll prepare it for you, but you won't recover if you don't eat."

"... I suppose not." Well, at least now I know how he explained my presence to the household.

He'd dismissed her after that, and for the sake of peace, he'd made himself eat as much as his finicky appetite would allow. He couldn't fault the vicomte's cook – the fish and vegetables were exquisitely prepared, the cheese and fruit well matched. For a man who'd spent the last ten years surviving on little more than wine, spite, and angst, such a meal was practically a banquet.

Really, he couldn't fault anything about his accommodations. The room was both comfortable and spacious, with a beautiful view of the house's back garden and the Parc Monceau beyond. While he'd waited for Christine to return, he'd thought about moving the chair and table closer to the windows to enjoy the sight.

But he hadn't. After his years living underground, being so close to the sky and sun felt too exposed.

Christine was right – he was a creature of darkness. His wasn't a face that would ever belong in the daylight. Even if she was also right that what was distorted in his soul could be healed, that part of him would not change.

So the table had stayed where it was, and the heavy brocade curtains had stayed closed. And Christine, to his relief, hadn't commented on it when she returned with his supplies.

Ever the attentive listener, she had followed his instructions perfectly, right down to finding the exact shades of paint and dyed leather he'd requested. He'd thanked her graciously, and she'd given him a smile that tore at the raw, scabbing wound of his heart.

She'd left him alone to work after that. As he started to unwrap the block of sculpting wax, he couldn't help glancing over at all the other items she'd purchased for him without him having to ask.

The fresh socks and underthings were very welcome (if rather awkward to imagine her picking out). The charcoal-colored sack suit was plain and shapeless, not the sort of thing an elegant opera ghost would have been caught dead wearing – and that, of course, was the point. She'd bought him a new wig, and had even found a wide-brimmed felt hat in the obscure style he favored.

She'd used the vicomte's money for all of it, he knew, and he supposed he owed the boy some gratitude for that. But Erik still couldn't ignore the bitter ache as he realized how many of these gifts were the sort of ordinary, loving things a wife might buy for a new husband she was setting up a home with.

She'd bought him a toothbrush, for goodness' sake!

Erik shifted miserably in his chair, lifting up his mask a little to soothe where the leather had chafed when he'd slept in it. When was the last time anyone had brought him simple things to make him comfortable, just because they cared about him?

Antoinette had, he supposed, when she'd hidden him after his escape from the freak show all those years ago. But she hadn't said the kind of things to him that Christine had earlier. That he had it in him to be good, that he was worthy of saving …

Did she really believe that? Had anyone ever believed that of him before?

… Oh, right.

One other person had. The same person who he'd last promised he would never commit murder again.

Erik wondered how long it would take the vicomte's servants to notice that he'd stolen the curtain cords.

The red silk ropes were a little too short on their own, so he'd spent most of the day splicing them together into two longer cords. A pair of brass knobs removed from the dresser served as effective (if crude) weights, and now both cords lay coiled up, hidden in easy reach under the bed.

I promised Christine I'd never kill again, he thought. But surely she can't expect me not to have a means to protect myself. Besides, in a day or two, we'll never see each other again.

She'll never have to know.


That evening, just before Paris' central telegraph office prepared to close for the day, a new message arrived.

Though the operators did not realize it, it had come in immediate response to another telegram they'd sent that morning. If they had known, and had connected that with the message's faraway point of origin, they might have thought that such a swift reply said a great deal about the urgency (and funds) of the one who had sent it:

THE OWL MUST HUNT [STOP]
TAKE HIM ALIVE [STOP]
RETURN HIM TO ME [STOP]
ANY MEANS NECESSARY [STOP]


To Be Continued …