A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews and interest in this story - welcome to my new readers! :) And now...

Chapter VII

Once the Phantom left the Girys' flat, leaving behind a substantial amount to see them through for many months to come – money long-owed to Madame for services rendered – he tugged his hat down low and his collar up high, so the mask Christine returned to him was hidden from prominent view. He detested seeing his former aide and her daughter abide in squalor, the regret more vividly felt since he was the cause.

For a number of years, he demanded a generous salary from the managers for his expert advice and occasional artistic renderings for set designs and costumes. At first he deemed it necessary to collect the exorbitant amount for his dream of securing land and a home, a home he then hoped one day to share with Christine. The chateau he now possessed, secured by unexpected means without a need for extortion. A manor for which he had not asked or wanted, but chose to accept and renovate for his reclusive preferences and her feminine comforts. He almost regretted the decision. Nothing had changed, save for the locale and the number of chambers above ground in which he would have to rattle about. A feared spectre, destined always to live a solitary existence, that was the extent of his fate. A blind woman might be forgiving of his loathsome flaws, but Christine had torn out his heart and taken it with her, along with destroying his trust. For him, there could be no other...

He had loved against reason, at great casualty to them both. The music of the night was finished.

The Phantom entered the Fifth Cellar of his sanctuary and prison and noticed immediately that someone had been there…

Perhaps still was.

He scanned the perimeter of the tidied lake room with grim astonishment. The intruder was no enemy. What foe would sweep away the mess and straighten the clutter? The pathetic remains of his pipe organ was covered with a sheet and a thick coverlet lay spread over the slashed bed, the slight depression bearing the imprint of one who had recently lain there. He detected the faintest of sweet floral scents and grabbed a fold of the gold satin, bringing it to his nose and acknowledging that his assessment was correct. His eyes fell shut with a tantalizing memory: skin like velvet and redolent with roses … silken hair perfumed with the scent that belonged to dainty purple blossoms… rosewater and lilacs ...

Christine.

His heart lurched at the realization that she'd been there, had returned after he so callously abandoned her. Despite his abrasive words that he never wished to see her again, another deception harshly felt, she had come back…

The frantic beats of his heart slowed to a despairing rhythm when logic interfered and recalled her letter of farewell. She had not arrived to this place of former torments and temptations to seek out his company; no, she had come, because she thought the Opera Ghost would no longer be in residence, as he'd told her. Perhaps she had also used the caverns as he once had - as a place to think, to hide, to plan…

When problems in her girlhood loomed insurmountable, even when overwhelmed with too much excitement, she had often escaped the frenetic world of the theatre to withdraw to a place of solitude and meditate. Usually her brief wanderings led her to the chapel, where he then joined her, sight unseen, on occasion alerting her to his presence, other times spying in quiet adoration. Ever since the night, as a tiny girl, she'd sought out her Angel of Music, and the Phantom, unable to resist her muffled, pitiful cries reached out to her from beyond the shielding wall. It had been one of the rare occasions he acted without thinking – but despite tragic events of recent weeks, he could never consider answering her plea as a mistake. She had found sweet solace and a teacher for her voice. An 'Angel' in whom to confide. He had found true purpose and a reason to live, the years before her arrival having created only untold death and darkness.

No matter that it was futile, sensing she had already gone, the Phantom did a thorough search of his cavern dwelling. He did not stop there, but traversed the secret passageways in all the cellars, apprehensive of traps he designed that could snatch the unwary, if indeed she had taken the route from the mirror door. Once he realized he was the only underground inhabitant of the cellars, he somberly returned to his former lair.

What he would have done if he found her, he was uncertain. Perhaps tried to make her see reason, even if to do so would invite more pain, revealing that he still did care. In her letter to him, she made clear that she wished to forget the past and separate herself from everyone associated with the opera house, to find some place to start anew. And while he understood the sentiment – had he not said the same to her? – Christine was not world-wise in knowledge or experience. Always she'd had everything handed to her – shelter, food, clothing, as well as what trifles Erik secretly bestowed now and then without her being aware. Her modest wages earned through the dance had been unnecessary to provide what was fundamental, the arrangement for housing made with the management part of the unwritten contract. Had she sung for the masses as lead diva as they both wished, she would have received a salary to reflect her rise in status, but his retaliation of rage put a swift end to all long-held dreams.

Christine never needed to fend for herself without someone to lead, would not know how to begin. He was to blame for all of what happened and must find her, if only to ensure that she was well. How to embark on such a mission, he felt uncertain. The fraction of his sullied conscience that knew remorse for his deception warned that he should not follow through with a similar scheme of pretense. No, the Angel had been put to death the moment he opened to her the mirror door leading into the Phantom's world. Yet disguises were plentiful, and he was a master with how to use them to his advantage...

First, he must find her. Then he would plot his next move.

The Opera House and its cellars he knew as if the stone and wood and plaster were part of him - had she been hidden within, he would have already found her. But the entire city of Paris, save for those places seldom visited on the rare shopping excursion, remained unfamiliar.

He went to the table that held the small replica of the stage to retrieve his funds. A rectangle of white caught his eye. No thin black border had been painted around its edge, no skull of red wax closed the missive together, but he recognized the paper used for his notes to the management. A dollop of white candle wax sealed the back edges. No name of Angel or Phantom had been beautifully scrawled across the front this time, but then there was no need.

Swallowing hard, he opened the flap and for the second time that day read the graceful handwriting within:

Angel –

You told me you would never return after all that has happened between us, and perhaps this, too, that I have done is wrong. I didn't know who else to turn to, who would approve of my decision and not hinder it, but I find I must leave Paris and make a new life for myself. I thought, after all you said, you might be the only one to understand. Of course you're not here; I don't know why I thought otherwise. In all likelihood you will never read this, if you truly have no plan to come back, even to collect your things, and it is for that reason I did what I did. If perchance you do return and are now reading this, I must tell you that I borrowed money. I spilled some wine and found your cache, quite by accident– so am writing this to vow to you that I will repay the 5,000 francs I took as soon as I find work and receive payment. Please consider this an I.O.U. I will send the funds through Madame Giry as soon as I am able. I never meant to steal from you, but I didn't know what else to do.

Please forgive me. I hope, deep in my heart, that you find the peace you seek. If you should think of me, think of me fondly and remember only the happy times we shared. I shall never forget. As ever -

Christine

Shaken, he lowered the note and looked at the blank wall opposite, where myriad Christines had once stared back, some pensive, some smiling, from his pen and ink renderings and charcoal sketches.

Five thousand francs. She had taken five thousand francs of his stashed wealth…

Why in God's name had she not taken more? Why had she not taken a full roll of 20,000 francs? He would have gladly given her that, beyond that, whatever else she needed. What little sum she took was paltry and would not last long, not when embarking on the grueling task of starting over within a new foundation of her existence. Nor did he wish for one centime of the money back.

As he pondered these truths, the Phantom sank to the chair and uncovered his cache, pulling up the handle. His fingers brushed the violet ribbon, and a sad, wistful smile touched his lips as he recalled the day Christine lost it. She had been playing with Meg in the auditorium. The ribbon fell from her hair, several feet from where he'd hidden in shadows. He had watched its graceful flutter to the floor as she darted away from behind a chair to run down another aisle. Then, any emotions for his young protégé had been purely innocent and intrigued, his stealth in taking the ribbon only to have something of hers to ease the heavy mantle of loneliness that was his lot. In those days, he dared to equate himself as an older brother, a friend, a confidant - nothing more than that.

Once she blossomed into a woman, his feelings abruptly shifted into an unfamiliar and disturbing cadence he'd never before known. There had been lust, as he experienced at some of the worst times in his life, but what he felt toward her had been so much more than heat and want – confusing sensations tangled within the bonds of his heart that made it bleed as much as his body grew to burn. Bleed, when she turned away from the eternal promise he offered and embraced the shallow beauty of the boy. What the Phantom felt for Christine had been so unlike anything formerly experienced, terrible if not impossible to manage. Had he more panache with how to overcome his ravening sensibilities or even known the correct method to proceed to his desired goal, perhaps matters could have ended differently between them. Perhaps they would not have needed to end at all. Perhaps, she might have come to care…

He snorted at the idea. Care for a monster? What treachery his mind was intent to foster! After she had ripped away his mask the first time, he pleaded with her to find the man behind the beast, but she only watched with eyes of misery before averting them to the stones. Weeks ago, when she sought him out after the Don Juan tragedy, she had been vague in her replies to his demands, as always, unable to ferret out the secrets of her heart and tell him what he longed to hear...what he would never hear...what she could not begin to feel.

Not for a monster.

In a tight fist he withdrew the ivory glove she'd worn to her first ball and absently left behind on a bench. He had followed every one of her movements on the ballroom floor, jealous that he could not be her partner, and had wished a dark and brutal end to every gallant young hopeful who touched the dainty hand held within that glove and danced with her that night...

Now, he could see how what he felt for Christine had escalated into a dangerous obsession. One forbidden thought, one dark hope, and he had allowed it to spread like a weed that choked all else, destroying an opera house and all the lives within. When he overheard the boy in his wretched scheme to force her betrayal and take her from him, reason gave way to madness.

The petals of his rose she so thoughtlessly dropped on the rooftop had browned, and crumbled slightly beneath his hand, much as his association with his pupil had faded and ended in ruin.

Frowning, he set the decayed rose aside. He could not change what he razed, could not reverse the damage done. But if it was within his power to help Christine now, he would do so. That is, if he could find her.

To visit the train station to learn if anyone fitting Christine's description purchased a ticket and to what destination was dangerous; he was a wanted man, the catastrophe of the opera house disaster still fresh in the minds of the citizenry. Gendarmes were sure to still be on the lookout, eager for his capture. The white porcelain that covered his face would have to go, all of Paris on the alert about a deformed madman in a mask, and the black leather of his Don Juan had likely been burned to a crisp, though it, too, was unsuitable for his purpose…

When he thought he would be spending a life with Christine, he'd begun to fashion a full covering for his face as close to the hue of his flesh as he could craft. After a cycle of trial and error with the dyes, at last he had arrived at a nearly seamless version, almost undetectable unless one looked too close. Alterations would need to be made, another wig used, but he could manage that.

After selecting several of his best sketches of Christine, he withdrew the rolls of bank notes and pouches of gold napoleons, emptying his cache and again wishing that she'd taken more for her journey to the devil knew where. He stashed the money in a swathe of black velvet he used to cover the diorama, knotting his makeshift knapsack tightly, and settled back a moment to ponder anything else needed. At rest, he noted what he'd not seen before: One of his fountain pens lay atop a sheaf of paper used for his scores, blank and not yet lined with staffs for composing his music notes. His housekeeping skills were practically nonexistent, in truth, quite slovenly, but he would never leave the writing instrument there, on the possibility that ink might leak from the nib and ruin the expensive paper.

He picked up the top sheet, his keen mind immediately noting the indentations which covered the middle of the page. His eyes narrowed in thought before he reached for his box of charcoals and withdrew a stick. Lightly shading over the marks – three names of cities emerged from the black, with only one of them circled – Marseille.

Grimly he smiled. Fate, perhaps, that her chosen destination was mere miles from what would have become their home. Coincidence, surely, but now that he discovered her route, he made quick work of collecting all else required and left his subterranean dwelling place of over two decades. This time, forever. He did not look back to reminisce, the only memory worthwhile tainted by pain and heartache. As Christine had done, so would he do, and begin a life elsewhere.

Time was of the essence, with no idea when Christine left, be it days or hours; though her scent still perfumed the air, telling him it might have only been a matter of minutes. He had arrived to his lair by a route unfamiliar to her, a shorter and more perilous stretch, and could easily have missed her.

The Phantom found an agitated Cesar closed up in a dirty stall with an empty feed pail, the trough bone dry. The stable boys, no longer receiving their pay, had left the premises with the demise of the theatre. But what was unforgivable was their callousness in leaving the animals behind to starve. Volubly cursing such negligence, he kept his tone low so as not to startle his horse. The living conditions of the remaining three horses were likewise deplorable, and in a state of righteous fury, he unbarred and swung open each stall, giving the poor beasts their freedom. No living being should be caged and left untended. Not a one!

Whipping out his dagger, he slashed one of the feed bags so that grain poured over the floor in a yellow flood and watched with grim satisfaction as all four horses eagerly took their fill. The heavy rain that still covered the streets would take care of their thirst. He had no time to tend to each animal individually. Leading Cesar from the dark stable, he noticed a bucket half-filled with water on the ground outside. The horse dipped his head low and drank. Erik then saddled his mount and rode out into the night.

From perusing train schedules weeks ago, he knew the train bound for Marseille would have already departed, the next not arriving until the following day. It hardly mattered. He did not dare show his face, even so disguised, within so populated an area. One of his many interests being geography led him to craft maps, crude but well charted enough for him to follow, and he soon determined what direction he must travel.

Like an avenging wraith, he rode hard across the dark countryside, until the scourge of the Phantom had been left far behind. Traveling parallel to the train tracks, he entered a town, dawn still hours away, his horse exhausted from being driven so hard.

Running a hand through Cesar's damp mane in apology, he then pounded on the door of the common stables to summon the stable master. With a disgruntled yawn the man answered, blinking sleep from his eyes and barely offering a glance toward Erik's flesh-toned mask, over which Erik had pulled the brim of his hat low. He paid the price quoted for lodging his horse, securing Cesar a clean stall and care, stating he would return in a matter of weeks and would reward the man with several gold coins if he found Cesar in good health and well-tended. He bit off an instinctive threat, if Cesar should not be found in sterling condition, having no desire to draw attention to himself. He was far enough from Paris and the gendarmes who hunted him not to arouse suspicion, but still found it prudent to exercise caution. The light in the man's eyes at mention of due compensation assured Erik his instructions would be followed implicitly.

Locating the train station wasn't difficult, the ticket master barely offering a weary glance as he stamped his ticket and handed it over. A few pointed questions assured that he wasn't too late.

Scant minutes later, the Phantom boarded the train that had stopped to take on passengers, bound for Marseille. One hawk-like glance around the interior assured him that his hard work had not been in vain. His heart gave a mad lurch, as if to tear loose from his body, though he held back and remained silent, not wishing to draw attention to himself.

Like a shadow, he slipped into a seat at the rear, his eyes never straying from the head of pinned-up mahogany curls that wearily nodded toward the slender shoulder of a woman halfway up the car from where he sat.

Christine...

xXx

A/N: Yes, I know, a lot of exposition, and no dialogue - but it was necessary to plot, and I wanted to give Erik's eye view of all that was happening...thank you, as always, for the reviews! :)