A/N: Thank you for the reviews! : )

And now…

Chapter XVI

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The days passed into a week, then two, approaching three. Christine concentrated every effort in the struggle to improve her primary skills with the violin. The lessons were helpful if somewhat disappointing. Indeed, she had come to regret presenting Monsieur de Ranier with the impromptu gift of the black lacquered music box.

Since the evening they returned from the charity bazaar, with each lesson that commenced she felt the distance he forged between them more strongly than before. Nor did she see any sign of the little music box in the dim interior of his attic room. Of course she did not inquire as to its whereabouts, dismally thinking that perhaps he did not appreciate her little gesture and kept her spontaneous gift wrapped up and hidden away. Maybe he did not deem it appropriate for her to give him a token of her esteem, though he had seemed sincerely grateful, even moved, on the night of its presentation.

He did remain dedicated to his instruction, however, and when he thought it necessary would draw close behind, his form barely brushing hers, to reestablish the correct placements of her fingers and the bow. Yet despite the little thrill that shot through her body on those rare occasions, he might as well have been made of marble for all the interest he showed in her as a woman, and he retreated at the first possible moment. Retracing his steps to where he previously stood. Keeping a respectable distance between them. Close enough to observe but far enough away to avoid accidental contact.

Sometimes, absent of the violin, Christine would turn suddenly to look at him and catch his stare on her, though even then she felt assured of his aloofness. She wished she could see beyond those dratted blue spectacles he always wore and into his eyes. Often she wondered as to their color…were they green? Blue? Brown? Hazel? Or perhaps a golden-green or blue with gold, perhaps even changeable, like those that belonged to the one man who was destined forever to stray into her thoughts…

She drew her brows together in self-disgust. How could she experience these growing and unforeseen feelings for her new teacher when she still possessed such a need, such a desire to be with her fallen Angel? She missed him terribly, and at the same time looked forward to every violin lesson, to share in Monsieur de Ranier's company.

Though to her disappointment, when she approached his door earlier, she found a note addressed to her that he would be absent for the entire day.

She sighed. How could she wish to be with both men?

True, they did posses similar traits, the most recognizable of them their great love of music and innate skill in performing its notes. They both shared a preference for solitude, discouraging social contact. But in other areas they were worlds apart: whereas her Angel had been more refined in his appearance – save for his bold crimson outfit at the Bal Masque - and even that had possessed a masculine elegance - her new teacher was always ostentatious in his choice of attire, preferring a strong bohemian look.

Never could she imagine her Angel in such flagrant - what he would define as foppish - apparel. Her lips tilted at the corners as she pictured his disdain.

They were achingly alike in some ways and widely different in others. But to her dismay, her Angel unfortunately had been correct in his assessment of her character –

She was fickle. As changeable as the seasons. Unable to show absolute loyalty to either of the two men in her past, both who desired Christine as a wife.

And now, in her mind, she ran back and forth between her absent Angel and Monsieur de Ranier, wishing to be in the company of both men. She wondered how her faithless heart would react if they were all three in the room together.

Would it pine toward her Angel, whom she had barely known without the stone walls he kept erected between them for the majority of their strange decade of association?

Or would it gravitate toward the man with whom she had been closed up in an attic room, the door of which had been left slightly ajar, day after day, for weeks, with no true physical barrier to hinder them? The briefest touch, the nearness of his body when he would reluctantly draw close to instruct her, or hand her something and their fingers would accidentally brush, never failed to cause her heartbeats to pick up at a mad rate, much like the metronome he recently acquired to teach her to keep better pacing…

And eventually, grudgingly she would compare each of those fleeting encounters involving her new teacher with the passionate kisses once shared with her Angel and the manner in which he had held her so seductively close against him on the Don Juan bridge, running his hands up along her body –

Nothing could equate with the memories of that!

Yet he was gone from her life by his choice alone, and despite her prudent decision not to allow her heart to become involved, she sometimes found herself idly thinking, even fervently hoping that Monsieur de Ranier would cross that bridge of distance, as her Angel had finally done, and take her into his arms…wondered too, since they were alike in some ways, if his kiss would also set her soul on fire…

Oh, pathetic wretch that she'd become! He had been right to abandon her, clearly having known her capricious heart better than she knew it herself.

It was in this frame of mind she answered the door to a timid knock that came seconds later.

Theresa stood on the threshold, her hands clasped in gray skirts, looking awkward and nervous like a frightened little mouse. Her eyes briefly darted down the staircase, as though she heard a noise.

"Theresa," Christine said in some surprise and opened her door wider. She had barely seen her new friend since the night of the bazaar, Christine immersed in lessons and practice and assuming Theresa's aunt kept the girl busy with other things. "Do come in. Is everything alright?"

"I can't," she said, an apology in her voice. "I only came to tell you that we're leaving. On the next train as a matter of fact. Tonight."

Christine's eyes widened at the surprising news. "So soon?"

"Yes." Theresa bit her lip. "I'm sorry. I really shouldn't be here, but you've been so kind and I have truly enjoyed the talks we've had, few though they were. I didn't wish to leave without first saying goodbye."

"It's alright. I wasn't busy."

"No, it's not that." The girl squirmed, uncomfortable. "My aunt has forbidden me to speak to you."

Christine shook her head slightly. "But why?"

Theresa hesitated, as if not wishing to answer. "Please don't be angry, but she says that only loose women keep the company of gentlemen without being chaperoned. I'm sorry."

"I see."

Christine felt as if she'd been slapped. Since coming to Marseille, she had tried so hard to achieve the required amount of respectability but failed at every turn. She simply did not understand the multitude of rules that involved social decorum between a man and a woman, rules never practiced inside the theatre, rules she had not needed to learn until reuniting with Raoul, and even then she had been lax with their enforcement.

Her Angel never cared for such things as pandering to society, and Madame Giry, though strict, gave only three mandates to follow: Be prudent, do not speak of what you know or think you know, and do nothing that would cause your dismissal from the chorus.

Christine had done her best to adhere to all those guidelines, but in this world outside the theatre, it simply wasn't enough.

"I wish we could remain friends," Theresa said sadly. "I don't think you're a bad influence, quite the opposite, but it doesn't matter what I think. Aunt Agatha is quite fixed in her ways, and since she is my guardian I have no choice but to do as she says."

"It's alright, Theresa," Christine said with a resigned smile. "I understand and wish you only the best."

And once more she bid farewell to a budding part of her life that was not meant to be.

x

As twilight fell, Christine stood at her window and somberly watched Madame Gagnon rush her niece to a waiting carriage, luggage in hand. Christine missed her friendship with Meg and had hoped to find a companion in Theresa...

Desolate, with no wish to be alone, her first thought was to seek out her teacher, but she dismissed that idea before it settled in her mind. Not only had he made it clear through his remote actions that, besides the violin lessons, he had no interest in spending more time with her, his note had informed her of his temporary absence.

She wondered where he had gone, wondered what business he had and what business he was even in, wondered, too, his Christian name. When he was only a stranger she had been content with the formal use of his surname, but now she wanted to know more about him.

Such questions held no current answers, but she did have the knowledge at her disposal regarding other matters that long vexed her, and she retrieved her Angel's journal, settling down to where she had left off. She had opted to peruse the pages in small doses rather than read the entirety in one sitting, his revelations at times boggling to the mind, often alarming and overwhelming her with a strong mix of feeling and pensive thought.

Tonight, the despair of his words became her own, making her feel worse than she already did. Still, what little heartbreak she endured in her seventeen years could not begin to compare to the amount of anguish he suffered. How could he have borne such grief? All those horrible incidents that happened to him, all the agony, the torture, the pain – not only in childhood, but in his adulthood as well – enough torment to cause him to withdraw from humankind, secluding himself five levels beneath the earth. And at last, his choice of a home finally made sense…

And then, abruptly the dark tone of his thoughts shifted, and her eyes widened in amazement to realize the cause:

The most extraordinary incident happened days ago as I was making my weekly rounds to check my traps. While moving beyond the chapel wall I heard the sound of muted sobbing. I looked through the peephole to see a small girl kneel before one set of memorial candles dedicated to a recently deceased violinist.

"Papa," she cried out pitifully, "Please come back! I don't want to be here. The girls, 'cept for Meg, are all mean to me. Why, oh why must I stay…?"

Curious about this child whom I had never before seen at the theatre, I listened to her ongoing pleas a short time before turning to go. However, her gentle cries followed me, echoing through the walls and wrenching my heart I thought long hardened. Her misery brought to mind the months upon months I spent locked inside a gypsy cage, nightly crying out for a mother who never cared and a father I never knew, needing so desperately a kind word or a gentle touch that I was taught a monster did not deserve.

I found myself unable to leave the secret passage, instead moving back to the hole in the chapel wall. For what purpose, I was unclear. Certainly I could not enter the chamber lest I frighten her to death with my sudden appearance. The mask of a skull had been designed to terrify, much more what lay beneath the plaster. Then, too, she might raise the alarm that the Phantom had approached, even tell lies to paint me into a darker spectre as most of the young ballet rats did, and for an unknown interim I would be forced to field a mob of amateur hunters in their pedestrian attempts to locate my lair. Should the fools fall into my traps and come to harm, I, of course, would be blamed.

As I pondered what direction to take, she again spoke, lifting haunted eyes that glistened with tears to the domed ceiling. In her pinched face, I sensed a wisdom older than what must be no more than her seven years.

"Papa, I'm so very lonely. Please send the Angel of Music, like you promised. I have been good, as you said I must, for the angel to come visit me."

Intrigued by the sudden idea that filled my mind I nodded and seized her plea like an offering, in return giving her what she required and shaping my response into a song:

"Wandering Child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance…"

Later Madame Giry would ridicule me for what I had done, but the child's shock and awe caused her tears immediately to cease, and from the moment she rose to her small feet and searched the length of the frescoed walls, with the whisper of "Angel…?" I resolved that was what I would become to her.

Christine briefly closed her eyes, recalling that day, the memory still vivid though she had been seven years of age as he had guessed.

She had been stunned to hear his reply when none had been forthcoming in the weeks before, and as she read on, she experienced the first visitations between them from his perspective. Strange, but beautiful….

She had been fearful, overwhelmed and excited to find what she soon began to think of as her Angel. Through his words, she read how he first had been uncertain how to speak with her, though she recalled no hesitation on his part, and that he soon came to think of his encounters with her and his agreement to teach her voice as an opportunity to redeem himself for the great darkness he formerly allowed into his life.

She shuddered to recall his recollections of Persia on previous pages, brief but explicit enough to make it clear he had assassinated many men at the cruel behest of someone he referred to as the Shah and the Khanum. The revelation had not shocked her as much as it would have had she not experienced his horrific reprisal against the entire Opera House in murdering messieurs Buquet and Piangi and bringing down the massive chandelier, causing untold injury and death.

He considered himself a demon but through teaching her hoped to become the Angel she nightly wished for, even if only in a masquerade. As she read on, she noticed a more hopeful tone to his words as he came to anticipate their weekly meetings, which as the months progressed changed into thrice a week. He wrote of the fondness he had begun to feel for her which soon led him to become her silent protector.

Stunned, Christine read of occasions he had been to her an unseen savior when she was unaware trouble even existed! He outlined two incidents, one of which she vaguely recalled, never having known he intervened. From a piece of toppling scenery he swiftly moved to right to a threatening bully he had later warned in the guise of a ghostly apparition, her Angel had silently stepped in, time after time, without Christine's knowledge.

Overcome by all she read, but still with many more pages of mysteries to unravel, she reluctantly closed the journal and safely tucked it deep inside her carpet bag. Darkness filled the window, and exhausted in mind if not body, she decided to opt for an early night and forego the evening meal. Theresa's absence would be felt, even though they had not recently shared meals, and Christine was lonely. Moreseo after reading her Angel's telling words that made her miss him anew.

Had Monsieur de Ranier been available, she might risk an impromptu visit, creating some excuse for a reason to be on his threshold. But since that wasn't an option, she chose sleep as an adequate escape. At least in dreams, she could find some sort of companionship, even if wasn't genuine.

X

Christine pressed her little hands against the cold rock of the inner tunnel, moving carefully in her ballet costume and satin toe slippers along its dank length. Light came from no crack or crevice of the damp black rock that surrounded her, and yet she could see to move ahead. The darkness not outward but invisible, stalking her as she moved. A living breathing foul creature set on overtaking her and emptying her of her soul…

She called out for her Angel, her pleas becoming more desperate the further she moved into the void, but he did not come. Still she moved forward though the path seemed to wind on forever. From nowhere and everywhere she heard voices – first Meg's –

"There is no such thing as an Angel of Music, mon ami, only in stories. You have always had such a vivid imagination….!"

Then Madame Giry's –

"You must cease with this childish foolishness, Christine Daae! He is but a man…"

Then Raoul's –

"He is nothing but a monster! You should be happy we are rid of him…"

The voices continued their rants, each beginning to overlap the other, swirling around her like so much choking smoke. She coughed as though physically affected, but kept moving forward, not knowing where else to go, the steps aging her until she was no longer a child but a woman, her outfit the shimmering ivory gown with crystal beading that she'd worn for her debut solo performance in the opera.

Ahead the path branched into three tunnels. She had no idea which direction to take. The walls mocked her ignorance and began slowly to close in on her with their sinister whispering. Desperate, she struck her hands out to her sides as if to stop their torment –

"Angel, I don't know where to go! Please help me!"

"Christine…!"

She snapped around in shock – his voice! At last!

"Christine!"

Desperately she looked all around, but could not see him for the pale gray smoke that had manifested from the whispers and now filled the area. His voice calling her name seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere…

"CHRISTINE!"

Her eyes flew open, to see – and feel – Monsieur de Ranier bending over her, his hands grasping her upper arms as he shook her into wakefulness.

"Monsieur…?" she asked groggily in confusion then coughed, confused to see filmy tendrils of white smoke float behind him.

Was she still dreaming?

"Hurry, mademoiselle – there is a fire. We must evacuate the building. Get your cloak," he added, pulling her up to sit before releasing her and moving toward the clothes she had discarded in haphazard fashion over the chair. He scooped them up and grabbed her shoes from the floor, but instead of handing them to her bundled and stuffed all of it in her carpetbag.

"There is no time to dress –" He turned to see her gaping at him. "Make haste! Quickly!"

The alarm of the situation finally registered enough to blow some of the cobwebs of sleep from Christine's mind, though she still felt in a daze, certain she had engaged in no more than a few hours slumber, if that. A glance toward the curtain proved it was still dark outside.

She tried to piece together logic through what he said, while reaching for and donning her Angel's former cloak.

"Fire? There is a fire?" She worked to make sense of things. "Where?"

"Downstairs." He fastened her carpetbag and picked it up then glanced her way. "Come!"

She looked down, still not fully alert. "I need my shoes."

He offered no more than an impatient glance to her black-stocking toes that peeked from beneath her long white nightdress. "There is no time to button up your boots – come, Christine! You will be alright. I will see to that…"

His last words she barely heard as he swiftly moved out the doorway. She followed then abruptly turned back to her room for a forgotten item.

"Christine!"

"I needed to get this," she explained, hurrying out with her papa's violin case in hand. She noticed he did not carry his instrument, a coil of rope hanging over one of the shoulders of his long coat all that he had with him. Before she could question his choice, he grabbed her by the forearm to hurry her along behind him. Likewise, she grabbed his arm to maintain her balance in the flurry of his maddened pace.

They descended two flights of stairs, the acrid smoke growing thicker as they went. Her eyes widened in horror to hear the crackle and roar of flames raging out of control, not as distant as she wished – a sound hauntingly familiar and experienced mere weeks ago.

"Hold the cloak over your mouth and nose," he instructed when she could not cease to cough.

He turned the corner, looked down and swore viciously. Christine saw nothing but an orange glow before he swung around and practically pulled her back up the stairs they had just descended.

"What are you doing?" she cried out through the cloth she kept clamped over her mouth.

"The fire has spread. We must find another way out."

Another way?!

There were no exits, no back staircases. Confused and frightened, she watched as he moved toward one of the nearest doors – what had been the room that Theresa and her aunt recently vacated. He tried the knob. Locked.

He swore again and raised his boot to kick the door in. It cracked and gave on the second attempt. He pulled her into the blinding darkness of the chamber, but seemed to have no problem maneuvering to the window. Tearing aside the drape, he looked down and softly swore a third time.

"It is a long drop, but I will lower you with the rope. It will be alright."

Christine looked fearfully out the window, noting that they were on the third floor. Noting also a crowd had gathered below to watch.

He gave her no time to consider, throwing wide the pane. She heard him move away, immediately followed by what sounded like heavy furniture scraping the wooden floor, bringing it closer. A short time later, he rejoined her, the coil of rope now held in his hands and trailing taut behind him.

"I will tie this around you and help to lower you. When you reach the ground, slip it off."

"What about you?" she worried.

"Do not concern yourself with me, mademoiselle," he said, bringing the end of the rope beneath her armpits and tying it in a double knot. He gave it just enough slack so that she could slip it off once it was no longer needed. "I will descend once you are safe. Keep hold of the rope as I lower you."

"But – how am I to do that and hold on to Papa's violin?"

It seemed a foolish thing to ask in light of the peril they faced, but she could not lose what may prove to be her sole means of livelihood.

Without a word, he took the instrument out of her hands, unclasped the carpet bag, set it atop the bundled mess and with some effort managed to clasp the bag again. "Once you are on the ground, I will throw it down to you. Do not try to catch it! You will only injure yourself. Let it fall – the case will protect the violin and the clothing inside will also act as a buffer. Now hurry!"

He pulled hard on the rope, testing the knot, before helping her climb out the window. In her bed gown it was impossible to move with any degree of modesty, though with a fire raging below the floor on which they stood, decorum was the mildest of her concerns at the moment. Thankfully her Angel's cloak was fastened securely around her, though that proved more hindrance than help in her awkward maneuvering, and she was tempted to shed it and have him also throw it down to her despite that she was nearly bare beneath the voluminous gown.

With his aid, Christine managed her escape, nervously clutching the rough hemp above her head once she dangled directly beneath the open window. He must have seen the raw terror in her eyes as she craned her head to look up at him for his voice grew calm, almost hypnotic, reminding her of another voice that had so often soothed her…

"It is alright, Christine. Hold to the rope. I will not let you fall."

And suddenly, despite her panic, she believed him. He had tied one end to the bed and carefully fed the rope through gloved hands so that her descent was slow and steady. Yet she had inhaled enough smoke that she could not stop coughing, making her unsteady, and from above she heard him do the same.

Her body exhausted and mind and emotions in a whirlpool of turmoil, she clung to the rough rope which chafed palms and fingers, determined not to let go. Her head began to spin and she felt barely aware of the murmur of voices below growing louder.

"Grab her, Gilles!" she heard a woman's voice shout.

Moments later, strong hands reached for her arms and around her waist, helping her to the ground. Two men, one of whom began to question her, but she shook her head, fitfully working at the tight knot of the rope.

"Please help me with this – he's still up there!" she pleaded, tears coming to her eyes that stung from the smoke. She was now safe, yes, but could feel little relief until her teacher stood beside her. Desperately she tried to bring the rope up over one arm, but there was barely any slack to work with. She shook so hard, she could not manage to break free of the noose that held her, which made her even more frantic in her attempt.

"Allow me, mademoiselle."

The next thing she knew, one of the men who had grabbed her – Monsieur Laurent she now realized –sawed at the rope with his dagger. Within seconds it gave, and she tossed the slack rope from her, frantically looking up to the third floor. In the next instant her carpet bag came plummeting to land on the ground a few feet away.

Unsteadily, she moved to grab it and awkwardly held it to her as once more she brought her attention three stories high.

"Please, please, please…"

A sudden explosion rocked the building. She screamed to see flames of orange highlight her teacher's form into black silhouette at the window.

"No!" she cried. "Come down from there!" she begged as loudly as she could, doubtful he could hear her over the roar of the fire…

Her insides twisted in an agony of upheaval; her mind grew even hazier, like the smoke that rose before them. She felt dizzy and confused, barely aware of the two men who had again stepped up beside her and held to her arms when her body began to sway -

From exhaustion, from shock…

She could not think, could not reason…

And she watched in stunned horror as hell swallowed her home once more.

Movement high above brought her terrified eyes upward. A trickle of hope burned away an icy shard of fear. There, dangling from the rope but making steady progress down its length was Monsieur de Ranier!

"Oh, Dieu merci," she whispered and took an unconscious step forward. Monsieur Laurent did not release his grasp, though the other man had moved away.

"Mademoiselle Christine, please you must stay back," he insisted. "It is much too dangerous."

She impatiently ignored him, distantly shaking free of his hold, her sole focus on the man fleeing for his life and dangling high above their heads.

He was the one in true danger!

Each hand beneath fist that Monsieur de Ranier used to lower himself helped Christine to breathe a little easier. With each section of rope traveled, he used his feet to bounce off the wall, as though he were a circus acrobat performing a death-defying act for the shocked crowd who had gathered to watch.

And then the unthinkable happened –

The rope above him snapped, and she cried out in horror a second time as he went plummeting to the ground.

Her knees folded and gave out from beneath her, Monsieur Laurent all that kept her from a hard fall to the stony ground. Nonetheless, she fell backward so suddenly that he was only able to soften her fall, his hand and arm supporting her back and shoulders as she sat numbly, her black-stockinged legs sprawled out before her. And in that horrendous moment, the smoke, the heat, the exhaustion and despair overwhelmed her so intensely that she grew confused with time and place, seeing only myriad tongues of fire lick viciously over a tall building that had been to her a home…

She heard the cries and shouts all around. The roar of the flames. Noted vaguely a line of men that formed a chain using buckets of water to douse a fire that had long exceeded mortal control…

The Opera House. Dear God – the Opera House!

The tall silhouette of a man slowly approached, coming into her line of vision, the flames rising high beyond him. She stared in befuddled shock at the way he held his shoulders, the lithe manner in which he walked, his slim build - all of it familiar to her. In the darkness he drew close, and dimly she saw his eyes… eyes that appeared hauntingly familiar…

"You…" she whispered. "You did this!"

At her accusation, he halted abruptly no more than an arm's length away.

"Why, Angel?" she whimpered hysterically. "Why did you destroy all that we worked so hard to build? Our music. Your music. The Opera House -" She glanced beyond him in misery. "- Is gone! Why did you do it? Why?!"

"Christine!" he barked and dropped to one knee before her. He stared hard beyond her shoulder. "Leave," he demanded, his expression fierce. More than a moment elapsed before she felt Monsieur Laurent's supporting hands release her and sensed him move away. The shadowy figure before her brought his attention back to her face.

She had not ceased looking at him and peered intently at his features, especially his eyes, in a vain attempt to discern details in the darkness.

"Mademoiselle," he said, his tone softer but no less forceful. He put a hand to her shoulder. "You are mistaken. This is not an Opera House. You are at the boarding house of Madame Crispin, and I am your teacher, Monsieur de Ranier."

She struggled to grasp hold of his lucid explanation while the world around her seemed to spin on its axis into an illogical nightmare.

"Monsieur de Ranier, of course," Christine managed after a moment, "I thought at first…but no. I was confused." Desperate to know that he was alright and had not injured himself in the fall, she lifted her hand to cup his face. He flinched, but did not pull away. "You are not hurt? I saw you fall!"

"I am alright."

She nodded in relief. "Thank you for saving me. I…"

She suddenly became aware of something strangely peculiar. Something hot and creamy wet her palm and bewildered, Christine pulled her hand away from his cheek. She dumbly stared first at her fingers, horrified by what her eyes told her but her mind could not conceive, then at his face….

And then she screamed.

xXx

A/N: whoops...

*runs