A/N: (Your wish is my command, O.G. ...) ;-)

Here is the next chapter! Thank you for the reviews! :)

Chapter XIV

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Within dreams, she found him.

At times her eyes would briefly flutter open, and in the darkened room she sensed he stood hidden in shadows, always hidden.

As a child of twelve, she had once been extremely ill. Within the fringes of bare consciousness she had heard frequent strains of his sweet dulcet tones…

As she heard them now.

Christine struggled to force leaden eyes open but lucidity floated beyond her grasp and she felt herself tumbling deeper into oblivion. She was so hot...and so cold. Yet she did not fear death, caught in the embrace of his heavenly song.

When clarity began gradually to dispel the dense veils that clouded her mind, time had passed though she felt unsure of its span. She opened eyes, still heavy-lidded, and saw not her Angel sitting in the chair beside her bed but a gray-haired woman she felt she should know. Her knitting needles clacked to and fro as industriously she worked then abruptly stopped upon glancing Christine's way.

"Well, Mademoiselle Daaé, I see you have returned to us."

Returned? Where had she gone?

Yet it was not these questions she asked but another, dear to her heart.

"Have you…" Christine winced and hesitated at the instant awareness of the soreness in her throat when she tried to speak. "Have you seen my Angel?" she continued in a whisper.

"Your angel?" the woman answered with incredulity and an upraised brow. She set aside her knitting and with a grunt stood to lay a heavy hand that reeked of lanolin against Christine's brow. Christine flinched back into the pillow at the suddenness of the motion.

"The fever has not returned," the woman announced. "You appear to be out of danger. I still am of the belief that the doctor should apply the leeches, as my own physician supports in cases like these, but this doctor is clearly not in favor of bloodletting. A most peculiar man, that one; he can be quite rude. Still, for all his boorish behavior, his manner of using buckets of ice did seem to work. Strange thing that, never saw such a method used before…"

Finding her Angel sadly absent and wishing to escape the woman's prattle, which only served to torment a mind still hazy, Christine turned her head away on the pillow and succumbed to the weariness that weighed sore limbs, once more allowing sleep blessedly to overtake her.

When next she came to, the room was darker, the chair empty…

Yet she sensed she was not alone.

She struggled to prop herself up on trembling arms, surprised with how weak she felt. At the rustle of the sheet, a stir came from across the room, followed by the shadowed form of a tall man who silently approached the ring of golden light emitted by the lamp beside her bed. He stood just outside its glow, not coming closer, but she recognized by the dull sheen of long, dark auburn waves the identity of her guest. He wore his plum-colored waistcoat buttoned up over a white linen poet shirt with sleeves that billowed to the cuffed wrists, and dark trousers. Bohemian in nature, his elegant attire clad his lean form in a striking manner that, as always, took away her breath.

"Monsieur de Ranier," she whispered, not allowing her voice to emit sound and further aggravate her throat.

"Mademoiselle, I trust you are feeling better?"

She wondered how he could arrive to that conclusion when she must be a fright to behold. Her shaky limbs no longer able to support her, she let them give way, dropping her head back to the pillow. Clad in only her chemise which clung to her from the sweats, she nervously pulled the sheet up to her neck.

"Have you been here long?" she whispered, curious as to his presence in her room.

He curtly nodded as if coming to a realization. "You do not wish me here. It is understandable, given your current state. I will fetch Madame Gagnon to tend you."

Putting the name to the face, with a hazy recollection of the judgmental woman's last visit there, Christine called to him before he could put his hand to the latch. "No, wait – I don't wish for her to come." She clasped a hand to her throat against the tickling soreness and continued more softly, "I would prefer that you stay."

"You are certain?"

She nodded.

Gingerly he approached the bed, the flame from the lamp reflecting in the dark blue lenses of his pince-nez. "I made a broth, if you feel able to partake of a bowl?"

Christine couldn't recall the last time she had eaten and nodded again.

She watched him move toward the small table, where a stub of a candle was lit, the same bracketed device he used in his attic apartment again holding a bowl above the flame. He stirred it once then plucked it from its perch and brought it to her. It was then she noticed his hands, could not take her eyes off them…

"You're wearing gloves," she whispered, a bit nonplussed and feeling thrown back in time to the memory of her notorious vocal instructor.

"Is that so odd?" He gave a careless shrug. "I recently came in from the outdoors."

"But you're not wearing a cloak or coat."

"The gloves make a good buffer against the heat of the bowl. However, if you would prefer I take them off…"

"Please, monsieur, forget I said anything."

She was being foolish. Certainly many men wore smooth, black, kidskin gloves and wore them while indoors. The sudden memory of another pair of similar gloves rubbing slowly along her corset and bare skin made Christine give a little shiver.

"The weather has taken a sharp turn toward the coming winter…" he stated as he brought the chair close to the bed and glanced her way. "…which begs the question – why in God's name did you leave your window open? You could have caught your death, and very nearly did."

At the mild censure in his tone, she sheepishly cast her gaze downward. If he thought her foolish about questioning his gloves, he surely would consider her an imbecile for her direction of logic – or lack of it. Yet once he took a seat, and those round cobalt lenses fixed on her face as if awaiting an explanation, she found it difficult to keep silent.

"I wanted to hear the music," she whispered.

His lips parted softly in surprise, as if he did not expect that for an answer.

"To hear you play," she continued. "You play so beautifully."

"I see." His concise reply came soft and deep. "Do you feel able to sit up on your own?"

She nodded.

He looked away to give her some privacy while Chrsitine struggled to a sitting position and pushed the pillow against the wall to lean her spine against it. Wearily she brought the sheet back up to cover herself, tucking it beneath her armpits. Even so little a task exhausted her, and she no longer felt able to balance a bowl of hot liquid, certain that in her current state she would spill it and scald herself.

"I'm sorry. I don't think I can manage after all."

"That is why I'm here. To aid you in whatever manner you require."

"You mean to feed me?" she asked in shock.

"Unless you can come up with another method by which to receive sustenance."

Vanity prompted her to ask that he go – after lying abed in a fever for what felt like days, she certainly must be less than pleasant to the eyes, even darkened with the blue shades he preferred, or the nose. She wished for a bath but certainly would not ask him to help her with that! The raw ache of hunger in her stomach urged her to accept his benevolent offer, and meekly she shook her head in acceptance.

He dipped the spoon into the bowl he held in his glove, leaning toward her and bringing the filled utensil in her direction. She parted her lips in readiness, when suddenly the spoon's progress halted, and he brought it back several inches as hostage. Somehow he managed not to spill a drop. She blinked at him in curious shock that he would tease her so.

Yet his expression was anything but amused.

"I will have your vow that you will not again attempt anything so foolish," he said in reprimand. "And your agreement that you will leave the window closed throughout the winter season."

Treated as a child, she responded like one and pouted. "It wasn't that cold."

He imperiously lifted his chin at her cheek, and she could sense his eyes peering down at her from beyond the dark spectacles. Not for the first time she wondered as to their color.

"Cold enough to place you in that bed four days. And I have no wish to repeat the harrowing procedure to keep you alive."

Feeling duly chastised, she lowered her gaze briefly then caught the full gist of what he said. "Repeat the procedure…? You took care of me." It came not as a question but a revelation, and she vaguely recalled Madame Gagnon's words spoken at some point during Christine's bedridden state.

"You're the doctor," she said in astonishment.

He paused with what to say. "A physic? No. But I have vast knowledge in the healing arts. Between the two of us, let us say I am a healer and leave it at that." He shook his head. "You have deviated from the conversation, mademoiselle. I will have your promise."

Christine regarded him pensively; something had changed between them since she had taken ill. He no longer seemed so distant, though she would not call this turn in their relationship of a familiar nature either. Yet only three people ever chided her for misbehavior: Her papa, Madame Giry, and her Angel. She had yet to decide if she was in favor of this man adopting the role, though it did feel nice to know she was well cared for. Since the moment she embarked on her solitary life, she had felt so alone.

"Christine…"

The shock to hear her name from his lips, also not unwelcome, even in its gentle warning, prodded her into a whisper, "I promise."

He brought the bowl close and the spoon to her lips, softly tilting its edge and making it easier to receive. Though a bit lukewarm from the wait, the next spoonful he offered was hotter and settled like a warm glow to the pit of her stomach.

Erik regarded his suddenly meek patient with careful attention, noting her eyes were bright but not overly so, and though clearly exhausted from the ordeal of her illness, she was lucid. By her earlier words to him she had forgotten their brief conversation days ago, to inquire whether he was a doctor, and knew relief that in all likelihood she would not recall her Angel singing to her in slumber either.

He wished he could remove the pince-nez to ascertain whether she was flushed or pale, but a cool hand to her brow earlier, while she lay sleeping, told him the wretchedly high fever of the previous day remained absent, and he took care not to show more than the normal amount of concern a relative stranger would give. Had she been conscious at any time during these past three nights, especially as she lay violently shivering while packed in ice, she would have seen just how terrified he had been of losing her.

Between spoonfuls, her eyes flickered around the room as if she searched for something. Once she had taken more than half of the broth and shook her head in refusal for more, Erik pointed out her behavior.

She seemed a trifle discomfited. "I was looking for my cloak," she whispered.

"Your cloak," he repeated, letting his eyes skim along her bare shoulder from which the wide neck of the chemise had slipped. "Are you cold? I will fetch you a blanket."

"No, it's not that. It's…" She gave a little shrug. "Nothing really."

"It is evidently something, mademoiselle. You look concerned about its absence. Have you secreted an item in one of the pockets and perhaps wish to retrieve it?"

"Pockets?" She drew her brows together. "My cloak has no pockets."

"Of course it does." He found it astonishing that his cloak had been in her possession for what amounted to a little more than an entire fortnight and she never once discovered the lining's secrets.

Setting the near empty bowl aside, Erik moved to the wardrobe where he had stowed the outerwear, in order to free up the chair to sit down. Retrieving his cloak from the hook, he brought it to her. She slightly pushed herself up and took it from him, immediately exposing the gold lining which shimmered faintly in the dim glow of the lamp. He watched her survey the yards of damask top to bottom, moving it as she did so as to see better. Finally, she looked up at him.

"You are mistaken, monsieur."

"May I?"

He held out his hand and she nodded, returning his cloak to him. He brought the chair closer, not daring to sit on the bed, and again flipped the heavy drape of material to the gold satin. His fingers found and located a slit that had been thrice stitched to prevent a tear but blended in well enough with the pattern to go unnoticed at a casual glance - three of them, each containing a hidden pocket he had added to secret items that had kept his hands free to climb and otherwise roam about the rafters or the caverns as needed. Two small, one much larger, the latter having previously contained the slender rope of a Punjab lasso, and he was grateful he had removed the weapon long before he'd given his cloak into Christine's care.

She watched his movements with awed eyes as he pointed out each pocket. She then brought her own hand to run fingertips along the slit of the pocket closest to her, slipping them slightly inside. "My cloak – the cloak I used to have – didn't have anything like this…" She shook her head slightly. "I don't know why I am surprised. The original owner was – is a master of concealment." Her skin darkened, as if with a flush, and she lifted stunned eyes, now curious, even somewhat anxious, to his face.

"How could you have possibly known about this?"

Erik had understood all along he would need to tell her and hoped she would be receptive to his unsolicited involvement.

"I could not help but notice that your cloak was much too long and not made to fit your form."

Her teeth lightly tugged at her lower lip as she intently regarded him in an innocently provocative gesture, and he briefly looked away, setting his gaze to the lamp beside her.

"While I kept vigil beside your bed the first night, I took the liberty of rectifying the problem." He had no longer been able to endure the knowledge of the expensive cloth trailing along the muddy ground like a train and leading to its ruin, but more importantly he wished to prevent her from unintentionally stepping on its folds and taking a stumble.

Her eyes widened in disbelief. "So, you are a musician, a healer, and a tailor."

He snorted softly. "To the first, I claim full ownership. I dabble at the other skills, a necessity that sprung from a life lived alone."

"I see…" She grew pensive as she studied him. "And do you sing as well?"

Taken aback by the question that came out of nowhere, he hesitated before answering...

Necessity forced this masquerade, as fate demanded from the start of their association more than a decade ago, though this time he underwent the subterfuge with only the best of intentions – to safeguard her, yes, but never again to selfishly interfere in what choices she made for her life. He would be in the background if she needed him, but otherwise would remain in shadow, watching over her from a distance, as it always should have been. The friendship she suggested - regarding him as a newly made acquaintance and, in a twist of irony, once more her teacher - he had never fit into his original plan. Yet he did not foresee a problem since he would never again pursue her affections.

He had painfully learned his lesson with that.

Erik had no wish to deceive her again, the disguise notwithstanding. In all other areas he resolved to remain truthful, awarding information in a way she would never associate with the beast she had left behind.

"Trust me, mademoiselle. You would not wish to hear my voice in song," he replied in some amusement, lending to the idea that he could not carry a tune, knowing the gist of his words true – that she would be horrified to learn the erstwhile Phantom of the now deposed Opera sat beside her as she lay in bed.

Her lips tipped softly upward in understanding.

"You say you lived a life alone. Have you no family?"

Her innocent query brought a pang to his heart, and to his surprise, he wished to share. She knew nothing of that part of his past save for the little he once revealed about his mother.

"Until quite recently I would have said yes." He thought of the unexpected missive received on his first visit home to the manor and frowned. "It seems I have a niece."

"You only just learned of her existence?"

He gave a short nod at her apparent surprise. "I did not know I had a brother until less than a year ago. We never met. He died in a train accident, he and his wife."

A sheen of tears glossed her eyes. "I am so sorry."

He waved a careless hand. "It is unimportant."

"How can you say that?" she queried in whispered disbelief. "Family is everything. I was so young when my mother died and I lost Papa not long after that, when I was seven, making me into an orphan. I still feel the emptiness in my heart."

"For some, perhaps, for you, memories are a thing to be coveted when they pertain to familial matters. I, however, did not have the kind of experience to miss the absence of their presence."

She cast her eyes to the sheet, as if her mind assimilated all he told her, her expression troubled as if his words were difficult to understand. Again she looked up at him.

"What of your parents?"

"Both are dead."

His father, he had never known; his mother, he only wished never to have known.

At the bitterness that laced his voice, she did not again offer her sympathy.

"Tell me of your niece," she urged after a lapse of awkward silence.

"I know nothing about her, except that she is at a boarding school."

"Really…" She hesitated. "Do you plan to meet her soon?"

"That is doubtful." In truth, he never planned to make the girl's acquaintance; why invite another member of his family to look down upon him with scorn? He would give the school the funds they sought after to continue with her education there and meet any of the girl's other monetary needs, but that would be the end of it.

Christine's brows again drew together as she became contemplative. Though exasperated with the turn of conversation, he desired to know her thoughts.

"You have something you wish to say?"

"I have no wish to intrude, monsieur, it isn't my place. But I remember how it felt to be all alone in the world. Your niece must be suffering ever since her parents died. It is only that I feel for her and what she must be going through…forgive me." She shook her head, putting a hand to her throat. "I shouldn't have spoken."

He sighed. "There is nothing to forgive, Christine."

A smile again lifted her lips. "I like it when you call me that."

The familiar had slipped out often while she lay in delirium, and again now that she was awake to hear, this time without him realizing it. Though it pleased him that she did not mind, the formal 'mademoiselle' having felt so foreign, he also knew it was imperative that he put some distance between them.

"I must go." He stood to his feet. "You should rest."

She looked up at him, her shock evident at the abruptness of his intended departure. "I hope you're not angry with me."

"No, not at all. I have business I must attend to."

"Then when I'm fully recovered, will you still agree to give me lessons?"

There was such a lost quality to her dear face, as if she assumed he would now reject her, and Erik recalled her fears of loneliness and abandonment. It was a trait they shared and what had originally drawn him to her. He recalled, too, those last moments in his lair, and how she had broken down and wept once she thought him forever departed. He had almost gone to her then, but the furies of his emotions had not allowed his surrender...

He would not make the same mistakes twice. Indeed, it had become his mantra.

"I will continue to teach you. I also require that you visit my attic room thirty minutes earlier than planned."

"Of course." He heard the question in her voice and read it in her eyes.

"It is important that you rebuild your strength. A diet of nothing but pastries will not go far in achieving that goal. My fare is simple, often no more than soup and bread, but I will gladly share with you each day of your lessons."

She blinked in astonishment. "You mean to teach me and feed me?"

"Yes." In this matter he did not give her a choice.

She thought a moment. "Then you must allow me to pay for my portion of the food, since you won't take it for my lessons."

"I have no need of your money."

She blew out a soft breath, a determined look firming her delicate features. "Very well. Then I shall bring dessert. You must let me do something!" she insisted when he opened his mouth to refuse. "I may not have much to spare, but I'm no charity case either."

He regarded her where she half reclined, half sat, her hair a messy tumble of curls. Weariness clouded her expression and a stubborn glint shone in her eyes. As weak as a days-old kitten and twice as feisty.

"I am partial to cinnamon cakes."

The brightness of her smile warmed the cold cockles of his heart.

"I remember."

Before he could exit, she again spoke, "One last thing, if you would be so kind to ask Madame Crispin for a pitcher of warm water? I should like to wash up."

Her voice went soft, as if she was embarrassed to say it. He nodded without looking at her. "I will see to it."

"Monsieur, if you will also tell me, when may we resume my lessons?"

This time, he looked over his shoulder at her. The fever had at last broken and the soup helped to revive her, but he had seen how she clasped her throat now and then when she spoke, as if there was still rawness there.

"I believe that you require at least one more day of rest. Drink mint tea with honey, it will help alleviate the soreness. I will instruct the landlady to make a pot for you."

She tilted her head. "You truly are a doctor aren't you?"

"I am many things, Christine Daaé."

And with those enigmatic words, he left her bedchamber.

X

Some time later, Christine heard a distant thump-thumping along the stairs, growing ever closer, and her eyes widened in curious alarm. The strange noise ceased and a gentle knock came to her door.

"Yes?" she called out, instantly putting a hand to her throat and wincing.

"Mademoiselle? May we enter?"

We?

Recognizing the voice of Madame Crispin, Christine issued a quieter, "yes."

The door swung open to admit the landlady's young daughter half dragging/half carrying a large washtub. Behind her, the landlady walked inside, both hands grasping the handle of a steaming bucket, followed by Mademoiselle Ledoux with a porcelain pitcher in one hand, a cup and saucer in the other. Christine sat up and craned forward to watch the trio in curious amazement as without a word they each went about their tasks. Mademoiselle Ledoux placed the pitcher on the washstand and brought the cup and saucer to Christine, who gratefully accepted it and took a sip of the soothing liquid. The child, Jess, plucked something out of the washtub after setting it down, and the woman poured a bucket of steaming water into it.

"I have another kettle on the fire," the older woman gruffly said. "I do hope you're feeling better Mademoiselle Daaé."

Christine watched her exit open-mouthed. She could not recall the woman ever being almost…congenial.

"Monsieur Doctor ordered Maman to prepare the bath and make tea. He gave her many francs…" The girl revealed in candid innocence and brought forth a plate with two slices of soft bread thickly buttered. "I made the bread myself," she admitted proudly. "Monsieur Doctor said the butter will help make your throat feel better."

Christine wasn't sure how she felt about Monsieur de Ranier spending even more of his money to aid in her welfare, but knowing what she did about Madame Crispin he had likely needed to entice her cooperation with coinage. Christine gratefully accepted the plate from Jess and thanked her. Under the girl's expectant gaze, she realized that she awaited approval (how many times had Christine had that same look in her eyes after accomplishing a difficult vocal lesson for her Angel-teacher?), and she took a bite, surprised to find it quite good. Delicious, in fact, and she told Jess she was a marvelous bakester, watching as the child beamed with delight.

Once Madame made three more trips with buckets of hot water, the Crispins left, Jess bidding Christine a cheery farewell with a fervent hope that she enjoy her meal and her bath.

Mademoiselle Ledoux stepped forward. "The doctor thought you might like some assistance and asked if I might stay. But if you would prefer I go…"

The soup had helped, as had the bread, but after days in bed, Christine still felt shaky. At the Opera House, there was little to no privacy, the girls' chorus changing in the same dressing room every day, and she nodded.

"I would welcome your company."

Once she slipped from the edge of the bed and her feet touched the floor, Christine felt dizzy. She grabbed the mattress until she again felt balanced. Despite her assurances that she was now alright, Mademoiselle Ledoux assisted her by the arm and helped her discard her chemise, holding it up for modesty sake as Christine stepped into the blessedly warm water and sat down.

The tub was not overly large, Christine needed to sit with her knees drawn up almost to her chest, but it was worth it as the silky liquid cossetted her skin and the heat soothed tired muscles. Why her body should hurt so when she had done nothing but sleep was a mystery, but soon the aches melted away into nothing.

"Mademoiselle, the girl also brought up a cake of soap."

"Please, we have been acquainted for two weeks now. I simply must insist that you call me Christine."

The young woman smiled and nodded. "Theresa."

Christine unwrapped one of her arms from around her shins and held out a hand dripping with water. "A pleasure to meet you, Theresa."

The woman giggled and shook her hand. "Likewise, Christine." She then handed her the cake of soap.

As Christine lathered and rinsed, Theresa informed her of all she had missed.

"I have seen notices in the newspaper that there is going to be a charity bazaar in two weeks, an event of which my aunt would heartily approve. We simply must go, and perhaps, inform Monsieur Laurent of the event as well, should he wish to attend. Don't you agree? To return the favor of the outing, of course ..."

A pretty flush colored her cheeks and Christine wondered if matters had progressed between the two boarders, despite the girl's strict aunt.

"That sounds lovely. I might invite someone as well."

"The good doctor, perhaps?" Theresa lightly teased.

Monsieur de Ranier had done much for Christine, and she certainly wished to repay him in some manner. But if she was honest with herself, she enjoyed time spent in his company.

She had no wish to repeat past mistakes, resolved to proceed slowly with whatever this was developing between them, but did not think an invitation to join their little group for the charity bazaar would go amiss…

"I find him rather eccentric, but it is evident he thinks highly of you."

"Oh?" Christine paid intense concentration on lathering her wrist to her elbow.

"While you were ill, he was quite efficient at his work, exceptional really, but I could sense also that he was very concerned. He insisted on sitting by your bedside each night, to keep watch over you – even once kicking Aunt Agatha out of the room when she said it wasn't proper." She giggled with the memory.

"Did he…" Christine breathed in curious astonishment.

She had known of his involvement in her recovery, but not to what degree it entailed. The two physicians she had met in the past were rather aloof, not allowing themselves to become emotionally involved. Though he had told her he was no true doctor…

Did he care, truly care?

Christine pondered what that might mean, wary of forming a close relationship with any man after the travail suffered at the Opera House. She had felt an affinity with her new teacher since she'd first heard his expressive music, but often wondered if those emotions were a lie, a deception of her heart somehow muddled with the memories of her first teacher and the feelings he evoked…still evoked.

As she rinsed the soap from her skin, her gaze wandered to the carpetbag, thinking of her Angel's journal stowed safely within. At least she'd had the foresight to hide it away from any curious eyes before she'd grown ill, jealously guarding his poignant words for herself alone.

How she missed him…

Believing she had heard his song while she lay in a feverish state made the ache twice as difficult to realize it was only a phantasm brought on by her delirium. And not for the first time she wondered and hoped and prayed he was well.

Long after Theresa had gone and Christine lay beneath the covers, sleepy thoughts of her Angel fled as the sweetest music showered down on her from above, the tender strains of a violin easily heard – clearer than ever before. She flicked her eyes upward in shock, the glow of the lamp barely illumining a knothole in the ceiling directly above her bed.

She smiled at the knowledge that Monsieur de Ranier stood near and played...

For her.

xXx

A/N: Poor Christine, so vulnerable and missing her Angel, but then there is Monsieur de Ranier to help her forget… ;-) (trivia bit: bakester is not a typo - it is historically the term for female bakers, though nowadays we call both females and males baker).