A/N: Thank you so much for the continued interest, the reviews - and welcome to my new readers! :)

And now …

Chapter XII

Exactly one minute before noon the following day, Christine clutched her Papa's violin case in one damp hand, a small parcel in the other, and nervously ascended the stairs to Monsieur de Ranier's attic room.

During Monsieur Dumfries' rather uninspiring lesson, the majority of which he monopolized in a solo performance with little instruction given, she had heard the wood above her head creak rapidly to and fro, from one end to the other, as if her attic dweller paced in a burst of frenzied impatience. The moment she escorted Monsieur Dumfries out the door, she had been more than a little surprised by Monsieur de Ranier's dramatic appearance and abrupt offer – almost a command – to teach her.

It was what she originally wanted so Christine saw no reason to refuse, despite his rather forceful approach and seeming distaste at the idea. (Why did he keep offering to help if his heart wasn't in his words?) Secretly, she had been relieved to see him descend the stairs even with his dour attitude. By his terse remark he had been annoyed by Monsieur Dumfries' attempt at playing Bach, and who could blame him? She, too, had winced when strings squeaked in notes that should have ascended. The man had been a bit overzealous in his attempts to make their hour together into more than a simple violin lesson, and his parting insistence that it would be more advantageous if she were to visit the room above his shoppe for their next tutorial left little to the imagination of what advantages he hoped to gain.

Perhaps, she was a bit naïve, even reckless, to have invited the manager of the music store into her room to teach her; perhaps she was also foolish to visit Monsieur de Ranier's private room to take instruction from him. Both men were no more than strangers to her, yet one glaring difference set them apart:

Though she had little experience to base such feelings on, she trusted Monsieur de Ranier.

As Christine paused with her hand lifted to knock on his door, she only hoped that trust would not prove to be her misfortune...

She had once trusted an Angel too.

Refusing to dwell on memories that only brought a pang of hopeless melancholy, Christine gave a frustrated little shake of her head and knocked firmly upon the scarred wood.

The seconds ticked past. Nervously she shifted from one foot to the other. Just when she had begun to believe he would not answer and had changed his mind, the door suddenly clicked open a fraction to reveal one dark blue oval lens, then widened to let her enter.

"Mademoiselle, you are punctual," he said, clearly pleased.

"Monsieur," she said with a diffident little nod and smile. "I always try to be."

Punctuality was a trait that had long been ingrained in her character during her time at the Opera House, especially by her strict Angel, who never condoned tardiness, accidental or otherwise. Yet any vague reply to such training was lost as the most delightful aroma assailed her senses, a hint of which she'd discerned when she left her room but thought it came from downstairs or outdoors. The spicy fragrance of simmering beef and onion…

She inhaled deeply and briefly let her eyes fall shut, almost in a rapture. When was the last time she had enjoyed a whiff of, much less ingested, a decent meal? Not since Paris, surely…

The Phantom observed her enthralled response, a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth beneath his flesh-colored mask. "Please, take a seat," he instructed, motioning to the chair beneath the covered window. Atop a platform of three stacked crates to one side of her, a trio of candles in a candelabra he had strategically placed there cast light upon her form as she obeyed. He noticed the long and subtle inhalations she took, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath.

Nodding to himself in satisfaction, he turned and moved toward the small pot that stood suspended on an iron bracket over the open flame of a kerosene lamp, its glass chimney sitting off to one side. A Bunsen burner would have been a far more worthy addition, certainly cooking his meals faster, but he had left his prize of a night's thievery in Paris, in his lair. Retrieving a chipped bowl of china, one of many castoffs he'd found within the crates stored away and forgotten, he dipped one ladle full of the French Onion soup into the shallow interior, all it would hold.

He had observed her childish eating habits this entire week, spending coins on pastries and little else, as a form of daily sustenance. The sole time he watched from outside the dining room, where he had stood in shadow, he noticed she had pushed the food around on her plate, pecking at it like a bird, which was so unlike her; and though at a glance he could see the provision of paltry offerings were indeed intolerable, she could not subsist on sweets alone.

Living for over two decades in his subterranean dwelling, with no one to care for his needs, the Phantom had been forced to fend for himself and learn what was necessary to survive. At first, when he was a boy, the young Madame Giry had brought parcels for him of what could be smuggled out of the Opera House, on those rare days she could get away without being missed; but in the preparation of meals he had needed to teach himself everything. As a man, he had often gone without food in his obsessive desire to compose, not wishing to bother to take the time for cookery, shunning sleep as well; but he knew when to surrender to his body's relentless requirement for nourishment as well as slumber.

Living at the dormitory of the Opera House, Christine had all meals provided for her, basically instructed what to eat with little choice given, and clearly she still must be taught the correct way to care for herself, as a woman now alone. In some matters she still thought like a child, and it was for this reason Erik had donned cloak and hat and visited the market early that morning, as soon as the merchants opened their stalls and shoppes. Despite his elaborate disguise, he had been tense with the fear of discovery: not of being a murderer but a monster, though little disparity existed between the two. But no one had looked at his face twice, and with a new ease of relief he had returned with his purchases, deciding to forfeit the errand boy's services and regularly take the task upon himself, even if the application of mask, stage makeup, and hairpieces did take the better part of an hour. All of it now necessary, what with the frequent visits of his guest.

Christine had ventured into a new order of life, and so, perhaps, should he.

He had never asked for nor wanted an existence of solitude, hidden away beneath the earth. At one point, it had been vital to hide; later, when the danger passed, it became convenient and preferred. His single-handed destruction of the Opera House changed all that. Perhaps, he too, could find a second chance for a life in Marseille…

She looked up in surprise when he approached and stopped before her, extending the bowl of soup and a spoon he had filched in the dining room during one of his nightly forays to gain what was needed. Staples he had removed from the kitchen and little else. He reasoned it was owed him, as he had no desire to engage in the distasteful commodity to take his meals in the populated dining room; nor did he have the stomach for it. He paid an exorbitant sum to keep his home here, more than it was worth, as well as to make up the remainder of the ₣50 charged each month for Christine's room. He felt no shred of remorse in his light-fingered and oft-persuasive if underhanded methods to acquire anything that was needed...

The former tenant of her room had been quite receptive to the lure of ₣100 to leave with all immediacy, a few weeks early, and the landlady had not cared one whit where the money for rent came from, as long as it found its way into her greedy hand.

Christine stared into the bowl then up at him in confusion. "For me? Oh, but I can't…"

"You have already had luncheon?" he asked, doubting she'd even partaken of breakfast.

"Well, no, but you've done so much already! You repaired Papa's violin and have offered to give me lessons without payment. I can't take your food too."

His lips twitched in what was almost a smile. "It is only a bowl of soup, mademoiselle. At day's end I will have to dispose of all that remains, and I would prefer it not spoil and go to waste. Nor would I wish you to delay the lesson by swooning from fatigue due to lack of nourishment."

She looked down in embarrassment at his mildly teasing rejoinder and licked her bottom lip in anticipation, the sight of which sent a jolt through him as quite suddenly he recalled the feel of her soft mouth pressed against his. Swiftly he averted his eyes to the bowl he held and they both stared at. She hesitated a few seconds longer before taking it from his hands.

"Thank you. Are you not going to eat as well?"

"I did so before you arrived."

"Oh." As if just recalling something, she set the bowl in the lap of her skirts and reached down for the parcel on top of her violin case, handing it up to him. "Then perhaps you would care for some dessert? Please, accept this as a token of my appreciation."

A lump rose to his throat, yet he managed a steady voice. "It is not necessary to spend your money on me, mademoiselle."

"It is only a pastry, monsieur," she countered with a twinkle in her eye, using his words against him. She sighed. "I'm taking so much from you already. Please, allow me to give something in return."

Madame Giry had supplied items to satisfy his needs, so that he did not perish, but never had anyone given him a gift because they wanted to - twice-given, and he remembered a similar parcel he'd found days ago at his doorstep, followed by the swift duck of a curly head behind the wall.

His heart clutched at the sweet gesture, he hardly knew what to say, and as he took the proffered sack, he blinked away the spot of moisture that clouded his eyes. He was not particularly fond of the overly sweet chocolate éclairs, but he would bloody well learn to favor their taste for her sake.

"They ran out of éclairs," she said in apology as if she'd heard his thoughts, "but I found the cinnamon cakes to be tasty, if not as sweet."

His lips turned up in the twist of a grin. "In truth, I prefer them."

"Oh!" Her eyes lit up then lowered to his mouth. A strange, almost hesitant expression touched her features before she again looked up, her smile brighter. "Well then, that's splendid!"

Erik drifted a few steps back into the gloomier part of his chamber, wishing he could remove the blasted pince-nez so as to see her illuminated in golden candlelight and not always tinged in blue, as he must now forever suffer. Though in any color of the spectrum her beauty was exceptional.

He watched the ascent of the spoon to her mouth twice, the sole spoon they now both had shared in her possession, suggesting a feeling almost intimate. Before sliding the utensil between rosy lips, each time she pursed them in a slight pucker and lightly blew to cool the liquid. The mundane act ignited into something so innocently sensual, it heated his blood to a dangerous level, reminding him of a sacrificial kiss to tame a beast. Even now, he could taste her tears mingled with his own and feel their hearts beat in a fury…

Recognizing that his mind had once more strayed down a path no longer viable, explicitly forbidden, he spun on his heel and took up his violin in preparation for their first lesson.

How quickly he had forgotten what being in close quarters with this woman did to him! Only Christine had been able to reach him on so many unexplored plateaus, the present of which could prove an embarrassment if he allowed his gaze to linger. Distance must be maintained; it was the only way to endure these accursed lessons he had undertaken and not give away the masquerade. She did not want him, did not even give him the pastries. Her kindness had been for the stranger he presented - Monsieur de Ranier. And in that knowledge he must step into and firmly assume the role.

x

Unaccustomed to being openly stared at while she dined, Christine tried to ignore the monsieur's bold scrutiny as she indulged in the first few spoonfuls of the delicious soup, not remembering when she'd last eaten a full meal, her appetite having suffered of late. She knew relief when at last he turned away, though his movements were brusque and she wondered what had upset him. It wasn't so much that he made her nervous, not really, but the impersonal ovals of blue glass that shielded his eyes regrettably also masked their expression. She wished she could see beyond the lenses, to the soul of the man, for she knew, as Papa once told her, the eyes were the window into it. Yet she understood his dilemma of the need to elude daylight... though certainly the room seemed dark enough to warrant their removal.

Covertly she watched as he lifted his violin from its case and gently bounced the bow upon the strings then plucked them, testing for sound, while twisting pegs to achieve the correct amount of tension for each note desired.

What possessed her, she had no clue, but Christine suddenly found herself blurting, "Would you play for me the song you play each night?"

He looked in her direction, silent and unresponsive. The image of two ovals of opaque glass turned upon her above a grim mouth almost gave her pause to reconsider her rash request.

"Please," she phrased her words carefully, hoping he wouldn't think her impertinent or too demanding. "I should like to watch you play before we begin the lesson. It might help me to study your form."

After another tense moment, he inclined his head in a deep, gracious nod, stood, and lifted the violin to his shoulder, resting his chin against the bottom curve. The rich wood gleamed with a reddish-golden hue, even in shadow. The f-holes were long and elongated, more so than Papa's, as was the body of the instrument. The scroll curved inward as an intricate coil, with no swirls of décor that engraved the wood like the one she had, his violin elegant in its simplicity. Even at a distant glance she sensed that his instrument was of higher quality, perhaps an original carved by the masters of old…

And then he brought his bow in a gentle slide along the strings, and she was beguiled into a world of his making.

Through walls and floors, the violin remained a distant, haunting refrain. But with nothing to impede as a barrier to its strength, its power was potent, the clear, rich tone lingering in her ears and pulling at her heart, until Christine felt the evocative music had washed into her skin and flowed inside her veins. Or maybe it was the talent of the virtuoso that made her breaths come more swiftly and the reverberations so deeply felt.

She watched his pale hands, his fingers confident, long and limber, as they depressed strings and moved the bow. A musician's hands, striking a sense of the familiar... though she had seen so little of his hands, always encased in black gloves, until that one last, tragic night…

"It's so beautiful…," she said when he stopped after one stanza. She swallowed back a lump of emotion birthed by both the music and the memory, "…but somehow, so sad. Are there words?"

"There are, but they are not written in the language of France."

"Oh…" A strange explanation, but she prodded further. "Do you know them?"

She, too, seemed surprised by her soft, abrupt question. What was she asking? For him to sing? She didn't even know if he could sing, and surely to ask if he did and could would be infringing on his generosity.

"I know the translation," he said after a long pause, and before she could reply, again he lifted the violin to his shoulder and his bow to the strings.

.

Bonne soirée, Bonne nuit,
With roses covered,
With cloves adorned,
Slip under the cover.
Tomorrow morning, if God wills,
you will wake once again.

.

He did not sing the words, but adjusted his voice so that his timbre was deep and powerful enough to be heard in recitation over the music, yet strikingly gentle to suit such lyrics.

A shudder traveled down the length of Christine's spine. Almost without being aware she did so, she set her empty bowl aside. The mild accent was divergent, but the tone of his voice, its quality of timbre bred a familiarity she had heard him display before. And yet…often when he spoke at normal volume, there was a variance there.

She stared intently at his face – now she the bold one to scrutinize - and at the dark mustache and thin stripe of hair on his chin...the slope of nose, not aristocratically straight but a tad longer with a small bump high at its bridge that the pince-nez did not hide, the thick cloud of reddish-brown curls that brushed his shoulder and past it as he moved in graceful rhythm…

She relaxed her shoulders in a strange blend of discouragement and relief then lowered her gaze to his form. Tall. Lean. Powerful. Commanding – and again a sense of the familiar elevated her breaths. Today, his mode of clothing was more provincial and less bohemian in style, his frock coat and trousers black, his waistcoat a shimmering plum, the ascot above it a dark shade of gold. Different... and yet, equivalent, he presented a paradox of thought and feeling she had tried for weeks to bury. He opened his mouth and a second time his rich, deep voice poured forth over the notes, not in song but in spoken words -

.

Bonne soirée, Bonne nuit,
By angels watched,
Who show you in your dream
the Christ-child's tree.
Sleep now blissfully and sweetly,
see the paradise in your dream.

.

By angels watched…In your dream…

Singing so sweetly in sleep…

Angel…

"Mademoiselle? Are you unwell?"

Christine broke from her trance, noting how intently she still stared at him. With difficulty, she shook herself from memories that haunted and silently scolded herself that she was nothing more than a silly goose. He was certainly no doppelganger, as Meg once whispered to her of those ghosts who were but a shadow of another in appearance - this man did not even look like her Angel. Nor was he a ghost. True, he shared a few similarities – his height and build, his smile, his hands, the tone and rich quality of his voice – but Monsieur de Ranier was most certainly his own person. He was not her old teacher, he was her new one.

To save them both unnecessary embarrassment, she must remember that, remember that her old teacher had abandoned her and wanted nothing more to do with her. It was time to forge a new life and a new path, God help her.

She brushed away a tear and forced a smile that came tremulous. "It is a lullaby then?"

"Intended as such, but there has been speculation it is more."

"Oh?" Sensing an intriguing story and desperate to still all despondent thought, she asked brightly, "Do you by chance know it? I'd love to hear…"

For a time Christine didn't think he would answer. He took a seat in the chair a few feet across from her in the shadows. Stretching out long legs in a manner of casual elegance, he rested his violin on his lap, casting his gaze upon the varnished wood.

"The composer was once a choral director who fell in love with one of his singers," he began, his voice quiet and low. "They shared a bond of music and would take long walks alone together, her hand held in his, at which time she would sing a unique song, especially for him. Complications arose that tested their love and they were soon parted, each going their separate ways…" He exhaled a weary breath, his fingers idly stroking the glossy wood of his violin. "Years later, he saw her from afar and knew his deep love had endured. But she had married another and expected a child. This lullaby was the composer's gift to her on the birth of her infant, and in the melody, as tribute, he had woven in the gift of her song. She, too, must have held him dear, for upon the child's birth, she gave her son his name…"

During his solemn recounting warm moisture rained heedlessly down her cheeks, and at its bittersweet end, a harsh sob escaped her throat as she buried her face in her hands.

The Phantom swiftly looked up from his violin in concerned shock to hear her great distress. She sat hunched over, her shoulders shaking, looking so fragile and lost. Remorseful that he had brought Christine to tears, never his intent but so often his fate, he struggled with what should be done next.

She had always enjoyed stories spoken to her from beyond a chapel wall, but perhaps he should not have told her this particular one. He could not help but note its beginning bore a resemblance to their own tragic tale, the difference being that his love had been unrequited. Yet with the loss of all she'd held dear at the opera, surely she now drew comparisons. And though she deserved to feel the sting after her careless betrayal of him and their music, he found it difficult to gain any satisfaction from her tears. Indeed, he felt as miserable as she.

When her soft weeping ebbed, he set his Stradivarius aside and rose from the chair. Each step forward into her pool of candlelight came forced and uneasy. He withdrew a black silk handkerchief from his coat and held it down to her.

"Mademoiselle," he urged, barely catching himself before speaking her name.

Her face lifted, and his heart was struck anew to see the wet shine of her cheeks and the sorrow drowning her haunted, dark eyes. Her lashes were clumped, her face splotched with pink with what must be pink but he saw only as darker blue, and her nose was running. She had never appeared so vulnerable, so childlike, and he battled the strong urge to kneel at her feet, take her in his arms and hush away her every fear.

She took the handkerchief, their fingers brushing with the contact. A spark of awareness traveled up to his elbow, and she gasped. He snatched his hand away and with a curt nod, retreated a step, then turned on his heel to again seek the safety of his chair, reclaiming his instrument.

He watched as she dabbed at her eyes, cheeks and nose, her head bowed in shame.

"I'm so sorry…" she whispered. "You must think me terribly foolish, and I suppose I am. I'm not really sure what came over me…" She looked away and to the right, toward the veiled part of the attic chamber that stretched further beyond the shadows to cover her own room, his floor which was her ceiling, the depth of the walls not realized at this distance.

Though seconds ago he told himself her brief dip into the pool of misery was well-justified, he could not bear to hear her self-ridicule.

"Perhaps, if you are feeling unwell, we should postpone the lesson."

"Oh, no!" She whipped her head around, her eyes seeking him out in the gloom. "I would like to continue. Please, monsieur, pay me no heed. It has been a rather difficult month and I suppose it all crept up on me, what with hearing the terribly sad and yet somehow hopeful message of that song…"

He yearned for her to continue, to play voyeur to her thoughts and perhaps, at last see into her heart. At the same time, he wished her to forever remain silent about the past, uncertain he would be able to bear it if her heartache was for that insufferable boy. She had chosen to flee from her spurned lover as well, that much was true; but her choice to go failed to mean she might not now be regretting her hasty decision, and he had no desire to hear her pine for the Vicomte.

"I am ready to begin whenever you are," she said with a courageous lift of her chin and a smile that trembled. Quietly she sniffled, blotting the remnant of tears from her face.

He nodded in approval, relieved her lapse into melancholy was concluded. "First, you must learn the preliminaries to care for and understand your instrument. Do you know how to tune the strings? Ah, I thought not. Observe what I do and then do likewise with your violin."

He shifted his violin in his hands, plucking a string, as before, and adjusting a peg that no longer needed it. She had been blessed with clear perception of a musical ear, easily able to discern a note and sing it back when instructed, and he knew this stage of preparation would not be difficult for her to manage.

"I can't see you well over there." She squeezed his now crumpled handkerchief in her lap before letting go of it. "Can you come closer?"

Icy dread chilled his blood before he recalled the elaborate disguise, and how his housekeeper had seen him face-to-face on more occasions than Christine, though seldom, yet had not recognized him.

Slowly he stood and dragged his chair closer, placing it right at the outside edge of the ring of candlelight, within a few feet of her. Once he reclaimed his seat, the golden glow brought his hands and the violin into clear focus, leaving his face above the jawline dimmed.

"Will this suffice?" he asked, cursing the tremor in his voice.

"Yes, thank you, that is much better." Her smile was wide. "I am ready to begin."

xXx

A/N: The composer's tragic story of a love lost that Erik told is true – a golden nugget I found during my research that I had to incorporate into this tale. :) The name of the song is Wiegenlied, otherwise known as the Cradle Song or Brahm's Lullaby.