A/N: Thank you so much for the feedback - I LOVE reading where you guys are with this...(as I secretly smile and chuckle)...and now...

Chapter IX

Christine lay motionless, barely breathing, as she strained to hear the poignant chords through thick wood and plaster. A violin. Someone in the building was playing a violin. Or, perhaps the stirring music came from outdoors. Faint, mournful notes plucked the strings to her soul, the musician quite masterful, and as she lay there, soaking in the distant melody, she couldn't help but be reminded of her nights at the opera….and of her Angel.

Unwanted, the last time she heard him play came to mind – at the cemetery, when he again deceived and coaxed her mind into a web of confusion. Father, Phantom, Angel…friend. Yes, he had been to her a friend, their association bizarre, distant, at times uncertain. Yet he never had shown apathy with what she said, and always he had seemed to care, to listen.

He rarely played the violin in her time of knowing him; even during their lessons she usually sang without accompaniment, his excuse being to better hear her every pitch and scale, and that made sense through dense walls of stone she now knew he had hidden behind. (His hearing must be exceptional to have mastered the effort!) When he'd taken her to his lair, he'd proven his skill on the pipe organ, but on those infrequent occasions when he did play the violin, she recalled his mood always seemed troubled, and that day at the cemetery he had only wished to deceive.

Wide awake now, Christine slipped out of bed and hurried to the window. A couple of hits with the heel of her palm to the stubborn latch forced the pane to swing open. The strains of music came stronger, the series of notes more recognizable even if its composer was not. She scanned the empty area lit with intermittent lamps, but no lone street musician stood within view, haunting the night with his evocative notes. Soft, so soft, as if he feared to wake a sleeping city, or perhaps his was the musical lullaby to ease it into restful slumber.

The night breeze smelled of brine and was chill; she had laid no fire in the small stove. Yet Christine lingered a while longer at the window, the cold racing gooseflesh along her skin beneath the loose nightdress, the music stirring rhapsodic inside her soul...

x

With the advent of a new day, Christine donned a skirt of dark green wool over her chemise, the skirt her one additional change she'd brought with her. The stiff corset and button-down blouse followed, with a black silk ribbon for a choker and a matching one to tie back two small portions of her hair the flourish to the image of confident young woman she wished to project.

If only confidence could be attained through the donning of apparel!

Mustering resolve, she took breakfast at the boarding house, finding the barley porridge bland, even with the cream stirred in, and the toasted rye burnt along the top, both as inedible as last night's supper. A pity she couldn't cook; she would jump to offer her services for hire.

"It really is quite awful, isn't it, but stirring in jam does help," the timid Mademoiselle Ledoux quietly offered, and Christine looked across the table in surprise that she'd spoken. The chair next to the young woman was empty, Madame Gagnon absent.

"My aunt isn't feeling well this morning," the girl explained, following Christine's stare. "We've been in Marseille a week, but she still hasn't quite recovered after leaving Paris."

"Paris?" Christine asked, suddenly alert. "You came from Paris?"

The woman's brows lifted, her shock apparent but milder. "You are from Paris also?"

Christine nervously twisted the napkin in her lap. "You mentioned that your aunt isn't yet fully recovered. I hope it wasn't due to the opera house disaster?" She recalled with horror the many that lay wounded that night.

"I've never been to an opera, but no, I was with her that evening. We were visiting a sick relation at the time. However, I actually did hear two gentlemen who stayed here, at Madame Crispin's boarding house, discuss the incident in the parlor days ago. I think they were in Paris when it happened, but not at the opera, due to words they exchanged. From what I gathered, they came from London and had been visiting Paris. Were you part of the audience that night?"

"No, I wasn't," Christine said in all honesty and gave nothing more. She certainly had no wish for anyone in Marseilles to tie her to the disaster of the Don Juan and all else she was currently running from, but she had to know more.

"Do you recall if either of the two gentlemen said if arrests were made?" At Mademoiselle Ledoux's inquisitive look, Christine added, "I have friends who were at the opera that night."

The woman shook her head in regret. "I'm sorry, I don't recall either of them speaking of arrests made. But if you wish for information, you might find an article in one of the national newspapers that circulate throughout the city."

Christine sincerely thanked her. Yet later on the crowded street, upon finding a newsboy and procuring a paper to riffle through its several pages, Christine found nothing. No news of Paris. No news of the Phantom's capture or of his evasion. Nothing.

Her venture to the sidewalk café also ended in disappointment. The manager, when she finally did speak to him after asking a waiter for aid and being forced to wait long minutes, told her in no uncertain terms that he did not hire women. He was kind in his refusal, but adamant in his opinion that women workers brought nothing but trouble. She was disappointed with his decision, but resolved not to fully surrender despite that, if he knew her past, he would consider her one of those troublesome women. The tragedy of the Don Juan could not be laid entirely at the feet of the Phantom; Christine bore her share of blame and was determined not to let anything of that nature occur in this new life she struggled to create. But why should it? As long as she kept her voice silent, none would recognize her and manipulate her days into a tragic end. She suggested that should the manager change his mind, she lived around the corner, at the boarding house of Madame Crispin, whose title she came to discover through her discussion with Mademoiselle Ledoux.

Only one name yet remained a mystery, and she wondered if the seized book would provide the coveted answer…

Her dip into the murky side of bad luck continued with her visit to the laundress, the asking price of ₣10 to clean her dress seeming ridiculously high. Christine had no way of knowing, of course, never having needed to tend to her clothing, the laundresses at the opera house having taken care of those needs for the chorus and any payment taken out of her wages before she received them. She supposed she could take the cake of fragrant soap that she'd earlier bought for bathing and use it on the garment, but she had no idea how to proceed afterward. To wring soapy water out of her dress and hang it from the window didn't seem wise, so she submitted to the asking price, swallowing her pride and inquiring about a position there. The sturdy set woman, whose ruddy, perspiring face and chapped, red hands were likely a product of her daily task, took one look at Christine's slight form bordering on petite then dropped her focus to her delicate, lily-white hands and told Christine she had all the hired help she needed.

Christine did not pursue the issue, feeling almost relieved by her rejection as she dabbed the humid moisture from her face and neck with a lace-edged handkerchief and left the steamy area.

After a less than prosperous afternoon, she returned to her room in discouragement to sequester herself within. She eyed with guilt the book that lay on the small table, her awkward evasions to avoid it dwindling as the minutes themselves dwindled, until suddenly she found the leather volume once again in her hands.

"Forgive me, my Angel," she whispered, "but I must know…" Inhaling a steady breath of resolve, she opened to the page where she left off:

That which I fear shall not best me! Once, a skeletal boy kept in a cage, I tore through shackles of blind terror with the brutal pull of a rope, at last putting torment to death by becoming its executioner. Still, in the heavy black veils of darkness, figments of the nightmare linger. The face of my oppressor changes over time, with each new anguish faced, but always with the same haunting refrain – to hunt and to capture. To kill the beast.

It is of no matter. Whatever attempts to oppress me, to chain me, to belittle me, to torture, entrap or hinder me – even entrance me, if that were possible - I shall prevail.

Christine sat back against the chair, pensive with his first entry. She brought her troubled gaze to the window, where the early evening sun beamed a wash of light onto the floorboards between the gap in chintz curtains.

Always, she had been cautioned to fear the Opera Ghost, told that he was a danger, especially to those who dared cross him. Never, never had she imagined that he once had been victim and that such a horrific past stretched far back into the vulnerable years of his youth - not until her enlightening conversation with Madame Giry. And now this, in her Angel's own words.

Her childhood had been intricately sewn with love and music, the glorious pattern of her days knit with weaving flower chains, catching butterflies, and delighting in stories of pretend. Her mother died when she was quite young, but Christine recalled how she had smelled of roses and the coziness of her embracing arms as her mother sang and rocked her to sleep. A malady stole her away, leaving her gentle musician father alone to raise her. He had played for her to dance and encouraged her to play, becoming everything good and safe and wonderful to her girlhood heart.

When he died, a part of her died with him, until she met the Angel, who had breathed the music back into her emptiness…into her soul.

To learn how cruelly he suffered – trapped in a cage – tortured? And to know that such despairs followed him through each stage of his life was overwhelming to consider and absorb…He had been brief and concise with his words, but in that brevity she felt such depths of his pain.

That night, Christine forced herself to stay awake. She had poured herself a cup of coffee after dinner to remain alert, and anytime her lids began to droop as the minutes trudged past, she paced on bare feet over the cold planks of her floor. A glance at the small silver pocket watch she had obtained at a watchmaker's showed it had gone past the midnight hour. The window stood wide, the chill wind causing the curtains to flutter inward then blow out again. She pulled her wrapper tight over her chemise, and continued her vigil, but after a few more minutes of this, began to think it a waste of time. Simply because the musician had chosen the nocturnal hours to play did not mean he would repeat his solo performance. He likely was no longer in the area.

With a sigh, Christine closed the window and pulled back the bedcovers, hopeful to get at least a few hours of sleep before dawn. As she reclined on the mattress, the melancholy hum of a violin sweetly vibrated into the night.

Throwing aside the blanket, Christine dashed to the window and pushed it open, clutching her hands around the ledge while popping her head outside and straining to hear. No longer distant, the music sounded as if it came…

She craned her head to peer upward, noting the curtains blowing in the shadows of the window above. She looked a moment longer before pulling her head inside.

With nary a sane thought to propel her, she hurried to the door and slipped out of her room. This late in the night the other residents would be sleeping, with perhaps the exception of one guest.

It was irrational, yes; she did not understand why it was so important to discover from where the music came, but she moved to the foot of the stairwell and looked up the narrow passage to the single door above. Slowly, she took each stair upward, placing her palm to the wall as a guide. The other hand clutched her gown, pulling up the hem, so as not to trip in the darkness, the only light coming from the gas lamp in the corridor below. As she ascended, the music grew in strength.

There was no longer a doubt in her mind; the nighttime violinist occupied the attic room above her bedchamber.

Giving no true coherent thought to her actions, she arrived at the topmost stair and the short landing to stand before the door. The music played on for several melancholy notes before it stopped mid-adagio, and Christine saw with a shocked start that her fist had lifted to knock.

She blinked, coming to awareness, and took a small step back, snatching her hand away.

What in heaven's name was she doing?!

Realizing with sudden embarrassment that she stood in her nightdress in the dead of night about to knock on a stranger's door, she whirled away and sped down the stairs and to her bedchamber. Once she closed herself inside, she sat on her bed long minutes to find a measure of peace before slipping beneath the blanket and laying her head on the folded cloak of a pillow.

The moonlight cast a dim glow in the room as she stared up at the ceiling.

The violin did not play again.

xXx

Another day passed absent of opportunities to gain a livelihood. Another night passed sweetly saturated in the haunting music. This time, Christine did not linger at the open window but lay within her bed and allowed the nostalgic notes to cover her in the raiment of dreams….

Whereupon she dreamed of her Angel, before she had known he was but a man.

At breakfast, she questioned Mademoiselle Ledoux if she, too, had heard the music. The docile young woman softly shook her head and explained that their rooms were located on the second floor and her aunt kept the window closed. "Besides," she said, darting a nervous glance to the gentleman who occupied a chair at the far end of the table. "I sleep quite soundly," she half whispered to Christine.

Christine understood the woman's regress into shyness. The other guest, who earlier introduced himself as Monsieur Roquefert had not ceased in covertly staring between Christine and Mademoiselle Ledoux, as if sizing up which unescorted conquest he wished to undertake first. Christine gave him no opportunity as she bid adieu to the mademoiselle and left the table and the dining room, feeling a twinge of conscious to leave the timid girl alone, but then she had been alone with the man before Christine entered to dine.

Almost to her room, she heard the rapid tread of light steps coming up from behind and turned in mild alarm. A young towheaded lad with a folded newspaper tucked under his arm scampered up the stairs. She recognized him from the day before, having seen him run down the first floor staircase at the same rapid pace and leave the boarding house.

"Beggin' your pardon, ma'amselle," he huffed, clearly winded, and she felt he might try to push her aside and against the wall in his hurry to reach his destination. Before he could brush past, she turned fully on the steps blocking him.

"Is that for the tenant in the attic room?"

The boy stopped his swift tread and squinted up at her in frank curiosity. "Oui – he calls out for the paper two days now. Doesn't like it when I'm late to deliver."

"I'll take it to him." She held out her hand for the newspaper he held. "I have money in my room, just there –" she motioned to the corridor two steps above where she blocked his path.

The boy hesitated with handing it over, clearly uncertain.

"It's all right, really. I plan to go up there and speak with him." The words aired gave way to the desire to do just that, uneasy though it made her.

"Well…I suppose…" The lad handed over the paper. "No need to pay, miss. He tosses a coin from his window to me each morning."

An odd way to secure a newspaper, but then she was hardly blameless of the peculiar, this spontaneous plan of hers odder still.

The boy ambled his merry way back downstairs, and Christine took the few steps to the short landing. Eager to find out what she needed, she quickly riffled through the pages of La Presse, scanning the articles for any news of Paris. There was nothing in this circulation of newsprint either, and she refolded the pages.

Surely, with his tenacity for brilliance, he would not allow himself to get caught. Surely, after such a lengthy experience with hiding, he would not put himself in that vulnerable position. She thought of the cage into which he had been forced – but he'd been only a child then. His maturity and genius would devise a way to keep him safe. It must!

With an anxious glance, she looked up the narrow stairwell leading to the attic. Two nights ago she had gone up those stairs without qualm, the music the lure that drew her there, and had stopped herself from absolute mortification at the last second. Now, her nerves were jangled and on edge to confront the mysterious resident who never once came down for a meal, never once had been seen... at least, not by her.

It was a troubling familiarity Christine could not ignore, and with this latest knowledge of his bizarre procurement of the paper, fanciful improbabilities pricked at her mind, as they had done all throughout a mostly sleepless night.

Half in dread, half in hope, her heart beat a heavy cadence, each step upward forced and slow. She pressed her hand lightly to the papered wall as a guide and support as she drew near the attic door. Closing her eyes briefly to achieve calm, she lifted her hand and rapped on the peeling wood.

"Leave it at the door!" the sharp order came from within, and Christine felt as if she had forcefully been slammed against that door...

That voice! It came from beyond wood, distant and disturbing, as once it had come faraway, from beyond stone walls.

She stared with wide eyes at the dark wood and again knocked – more insistently this time.

"Monsieur! Please, open the door!"

Silence answered, thick and intolerable, and she called again, "I have your newspaper." When no response came, she quieted her tone to one almost pleading, "Please, monsieur, I must speak with you…I…I promise not to take up much of your time. I only need a moment….please…"

A moment grew into an eternity. In defeat Christine half turned to go, to do as commanded and leave the paper on the short landing.

"One moment." The voice within came deeper, closer. Christine tightened her free hand into a nervous fist by her skirts and waited, motionless. The blood coursed through her veins so swift and furious, she shook inside. Another infinity, and she heard the latch give, saw the knob turn and the door swing a fraction inward…

"Oh," she breathed in surprised disappointment, slightly rattled by her mistake, having actually thought… but no. Such a likelihood was impossible. He felt nothing but hatred toward her now; he'd made that blatantly clear. He would never follow her to this place.

The mystery resident of the attic chamber had partially opened the door and stood tall within a shadowed room, only three-fourths of his face visible to her. Dark reddish-brown curls, much like her darker ringlets only looser, brushed a few inches past the shoulder of his plum-colored frock coat. Over his eyes, propped high upon the bridge of his quite ordinary nose, he wore a pair of pince-nez with dark blue lenses. A short stripe of dark facial hair ran down the middle of his chin and a mustache outlined his upper lip.

"F-forgive me for staring," she near whispered. "I thought –" She barely shook her head. "Never mind what I thought."

"I will take what is mine." Through the gap, he held out his hand for the paper. A hand not encased in black leather… though on the one night he had been without gloves, she'd been at first too awed and later upset to give much notice to the construction of his hands.

This man's hand was large, pale, with long, slender fingers curled slightly upward in demand for his purchase. She looked down to what she held, reminded of what was his, and handed him the paper. To her frustration, the door began to close.

"Wait!" She pressed her palm to the wood to stop it and felt an immediate rush of embarrassment to be so brash, but she stood her ground. "I- I should like to speak with you."

He did not force the door shut but stared out at her through the one oval, blue lens she could still see. "What do you want?"

His voice was deeper than she first thought, with the cultured hint of an accent she couldn't define, and she shook away the hopeful, fearful wish that had been birthed with the poignant memory of a time forever lost to her.

"Was it you on the violin these past three nights? Are you the musician?"

He inclined his head in response.

"You play beautifully."

"I trust I did not disturb your slumber." His words came stilted, almost forced, as if he had no wish to say them but felt he must.

"No, indeed, monsieur. I enjoyed it immensely. My Papa once played, and your music brought back fond memories of that time in my life. His violin is all I have left of him."

He did not move, did not respond, and she hastened forward with her chief reason for remaining at his doorstep. "I was hoping you might know where I might take my violin to get it restrung. It hasn't been touched for over a decade."

"You wish to have your instrument restrung?" His voice came curious.

Was the request so unusual?

"Yes, I intend to take it up again. Papa taught me when I was small, what little a child of six can understand. I know the basics, but need the practice. I thought eventually to make a livelihood of it, in time perhaps, to teach children to play…" Why was she telling him this, when he was nothing but a stranger and surely had no interest to hear her amateurish plans, which sounded quite foolish when aired. "Can you give me the name of a music shoppe that deals with such matters? I am new to Marseille."

"You wish to teach the violin?" He parted his lips as if to say more, but refrained.

Why should he seem so puzzled, even incredulous? Because she was a woman? Was a musical instructor also not deemed a suitable job for a female to master? Or perhaps he did not think she had it in her to teach or to play...

"Is that so unbelievable?" she asked, trying not to feel offended. "My papa was a famous violinist. He once played in the orchestra at an opera house. It is my hope that perhaps some small part of his talent has been passed along to me."

He studied her a long moment. "Bring your instrument here," he said at last in somber tones. "I will see to its renovation."

Stunned by his offer, it took her a moment to form a reply.

"I don't wish to intrude. It's only a few strings…"

Too late, the door closed softly in her face, putting an abrupt end to their conversation.

Christine blinked, tempted again to knock and decline his reluctant offer. If he had no true wish to give her aid, why did he bother?

She retraced her steps down the steep stairs, deep in thought.

More to the point, what guarantee did she have that she could take this man at his word? She had no clue of the monetary value of Papa's violin, only the sentimental price it held in her heart. He could be a thief; he might take and never give back, with only her word against his that he'd done so.

Regardless, she returned to her room and found herself collecting the treasured instrument to take to him, with no clear understanding of why she did.

xXx

A/N: And so, Christine is drawn to and has met the stranger in the attic… muahaha! ;-) I based his appearance on Dracula from Bram Stoker's Dracula - I just adored his stylish, Bohemian look when he met Mina - should I give him a tophat too? ;-) (Here is a short vid of their meeting for those who aren't familiar with the movie: (the usual https, colon and dashes, and DOT = .) youtube DOT com/watch?v=WOhogqO0tsY - or do a search on youtube for: DRACULA meets MINA (name of clip). Other publicity pics of him in that attire show that he sometimes wore the pince-nez higher to completely cover his eyes, as I showed for my attic guest in this chapter... Would love to know what you think of story thus far! :)