A/N: Finally - another chapter! : ) Thank you so much for the reviews - they mean a lot. (I am trying a new method, hopefully, to get chapters of this one and others posted sooner... I guess you could call it my New Year's resolution? Wait - those never work well. lol So we'll just say I'll keep at it until I succeed. ;-))

And now...

VIII

Christine woke near dawn, having slept deep after crying herself into an exhaustive slumber, determined that today would be better. It must be better. She would somehow make it better, do better, act better and try harder.

She should never have turned to look at him; his desire for the concealing shadows and customary physical distance made clear his preference to remain an intangible ghost. Yet for all that, she had barely gotten a glimpse - of dark hair and a white mask of all things - a strange half mask - and little else. A blur of black and white; surely not worth his rage. And why, if he wore a mask, did he even care if she saw him? Why wear a mask at all, if he never planned to be seen...

Who was he hiding from - himself?

Still, her place was not to question. She was no more than a servant - he had made that very clear - here to work off her father's debt. To the whim of whatever the master wished - within reason, of course. She would engage in nothing immoral and would remain her Papa's good girl.

At once, the memory of the master's electrifying closeness behind, of his large hands briefly touching her, to grasp her arms and prevent her fall, brought that same shocking warmth to wash through Christine a second time…

Hurriedly she left her bed to dress, first closing the curtain she'd kept open to benefit from the moon's gentle glow, finding it necessary to shield her eyes from the directly parallel view of the rising sun. For a moment she stood and lowered her gaze to stare out the window at the grounds, where the sun's rosy hue cast a mantle over the newly fallen snow. A crystalline froth of white, like cream that had been whipped, lay topped with glowing pink and spread far over the earth, flocking the trees in a shimmer of gossamer.

The sight encouraged her of new beginnings. That something vibrant and alive could be found within the still and icy cold...

As she went about her duties that morning, she resolved to keep her tongue well bridled and strive to be cooperative. Perhaps she had not truly given her best in their lesson, still disgruntled with the confined circumstances she was forced to inhabit. The tall metal bars before the front entrance reminded her of her imprisonment each time she passed by it. At least the back door through the kitchen did award her a breath of the outside air, though it was much too cold to do anything but throw out the dirty dishwater. She had stubbornly told him that she liked to walk in the bracing air and snow - a slight exaggeration on her part in her futile quest for freedom, since she had only a thin cloak to provide a barrier. A quick look around at the high walls of stone enclosing the small area proved his words true, though she did notice a narrow iron gate in the distance. No doubt it was locked, but it did make her wonder about its odd location, at the back of the chateau, and what could possibly be on the other side. From this angle, she saw only tall firs flocked with snow. Perhaps the gatehouse where the driver would live was located beyond the gate, since she had not seen him since her arrival...

The hours passed as she worked. The lyrical chimes of the clock he had evidently wound, ending with five evenly spaced bells, alerted her that the hour to prepare supper had arrived. She went to the kitchen, stopping short when she saw a familiar rectangle of white propped against a bowl on the counter.

She quickly put away the cleaning utensils into their cupboard. Then, taking a deep breath, she wiped her hands down her apron and approached the note. Lifting it and tearing away the seal, the sight of his loping words with their artistic swirls now familiar, she read:

Do not come to the music chamber tonight. The lesson is canceled.

A soft breath escaped her lips at the shock of the two pithy lines that brought with them such an unexpected and peculiar disappointment. Did this mean he was releasing her from his tutelage before it had even truly begun?

The remainder of the evening, Christine walked about in a state of confused uncertainty as she finished all of what was expected of her. Her dismay intensified when she went to collect his dishes an hour after she'd left them - and found the plate of food untouched.

Perhaps then, he had been absent from the chateau all day. Yes, of course. That made sense. Just because she was a prisoner did not mean he was. There must be another exit from the chateau, besides the two known to her. Likely beyond his locked gate upstairs, since she had been in every other room available to her and had seen no door leading outside.

The next day Christine woke, even more determined to do well in her lesson. When it came time to prepare dinner, she felt a strong sense of relief not to spot another note, feeling cheered when later she removed the cloche from the dining room to find his food half eaten. Once the hour arrived for her lesson, she approached the music chamber with a hopeful heart…

Yet the shadows held no masked form, distressingly empty, and the hearth fire had not been lit. Perhaps he intended her to light it, though he had done so before...

Uncertain what to do, she looked at the bin holding the wood. Surely, with his odd trait of wishing to be unseen, he would not walk through the open doorway in clear view. She thought about extinguishing the gas lamp on the wall, but that would cast her in darkness as well. Perhaps he was only running late and if she left the room for a few minutes and returned that would give him time to enter and sequester himself on the piano bench within his beloved shadows.

She returned to the kitchen, nibbled on a piece of bread she slathered with butter - only too late recalling his strict instructions - and quickly set the crust aside. Again she walked to the music chamber -

Again finding it empty.

The weight of melancholy settled heavily on her shoulders, and she realized that though his ways were eccentric, a secret part of her had anticipated what he might teach her. Indeed, except for those occasions when she eavesdropped to hear his music, the moment he came close behind to train her had been the closest to excitement, even contentment, she had known since arriving to this hollow mausoleum….

Which made no sense. Her mind was obviously tricking her into feeling things she normally wouldn't, no doubt because of the pervasive loneliness she suffered each day.

Christine sank to his bench and laid her fingertips against the ivory keys, gently depressing them to make a quiet lilt of sound. She recalled the melodies she'd heard - the darkly sensual and the gently provocative - and she brushed her fingers along the scales where he had played.

Clearly her impulsive act had angered him beyond forgiveness… perhaps... and she stopped and frowned to consider her next thought. Perhaps even injured his feelings. That, she had not previously considered, and the idea brought with it no satisfaction. Though he often acted beastly toward her, she had no wish to behave in kind and felt a twinge of remorse that he might have regarded her behavior not only as disobedient but also cruel.

When two more days of emptiness followed - with no one to talk to, no lessons to anticipate, only the drudgery of servitude in cleaning a manor whose chambers seemed never to be appreciated by anyone but herself - Christine decided to make the first move toward reconciliation.

How, was the question, when she did not even know the manner to reach him...

The answer came in the next breath. Still, she hesitated with such a bold move on her part.

This, too, might prove to be another mistake, but she could not endure a year of this infernal silence without at least attempting to mend what she had broken.

In his library, she found what was needed, uncapped the inkwell, and put pen to paper.

xXx

The master of Rosemont whisked through the corridors of his palatial home, his contained energy not spent after having taken a bracing ride over the grounds on Cesar. With the knowledge that his indentured servant would be in the kitchen preparing their supper, he walked into the music room, the ever-present memory of their two disturbing and enticing lessons guiding him to seek out the chamber and his music sheets he'd left there whilst his little maid was elsewhere tending to her tasks.

His brow lifted in shock to see the white rectangle propped on the fallboard of his piano, not unlike those he left for her. Plucking up the note, he unfolded it and read:

Please forgive me for my foolish misstake. I humbley ask that you meet with me in the music room tonight at seven o'clock.

Christine Daae

Despite the shaky handwriting and poor spelling, the girl obviously not having gone far in her academic education as was often the case with those of the Petite Bourgeoisie, he read the sincerity that underlined her words.

And again, as he did each morning, noon, and night, he asked himself - had she seen?

Of course she had seen, how could she not - she had turned almost fully around, her eyes going directly to his face in the moment before he issued the warning.

Though he had worn a mask - never went anywhere without one, even in his solitude - it failed to matter. Any time intrusive eyes lit upon his countenance, he felt their strength as if they could see beyond the porcelain or leather material - oftentimes noting their disgust, fear or censure - and was reminded of those days as a small child wallowing in filth, no more than a beast in a beast's cage. A victim to the cruelty and mockery of an unfeeling crowd.

He had not given her the opportunity to react in kind, had barely noted her reaction, before commanding that she leave his presence. And though he had sworn to himself not to initiate anything that might repeat the disaster of the previous week, he could not help but be curious as to her unexpected summons.

Perhaps he was mistaken. To do this, to reach out to him, surely she could not have seen…

And if that were true, he must ensure it remain that way.

Ignorance, after all, was bliss.

A vicious truth taught to him, again and again, throughout his misery of a lonely life.

xXx

Christine went about her duties, which had become no more than a matter of simple upkeep, all the lower rooms of the chateau gleaming and glimmering and almost nauseatingly fragrant with the oil of lemon. She inspected the upstairs chambers though no note had given the order, wishing to assess the complexity of the task that awaited, having decided to embark on her own without being told. For surely he did not expect the upper rooms never to be tended...

In most of the bedchambers, she found the same pattern - sheets used as dust covers over the main furnishings, which she left in place. Parquet floors and pile rugs all held a layer of undisturbed dust, as if no foot had trodden over them for years and not to her surprise, as she had needed to rid her chosen room of the thick gray matter upon her arrival. The floors could be swept but rugs would need to be taken out and beaten, something that would have to wait for warmer weather. Every mirror was also covered with tapestries or sheets, as hers had been, though not many of those existed, not all private rooms containing a looking glass, either attached to a table or hanging on the wall. Downstairs, there were none.

Nearing the area to which she gravitated daily, though no music was forthcoming and had not been for some time, she noticed the scrolled iron gate that prevented her from entering the unknown wing was still firmly closed and locked against her.

Twice, she checked the music chamber where they had met.

Twice, she saw the white placard propped where she had left it atop his piano.

Each time she left with the sensation that a tiny piece of her heart had been chipped away.

She was unaccustomed to being ignored, certainly never rejected, and to endure such cold treatment chafed at her confidence, which had always been so strong…

As the day meandered onward at the pace of a snail, the quietude almost intrusive to the point that she wished to scream, confused anger slowly began to build and warm her blood.

Was it too much to expect a reply, when she had done her utmost to form an apology?

The written word she was familiar with, having enjoyed books her Papa owned and books once borrowed - but penning notes felt so peculiar, when she rarely found reason to form her own letters. Once her mother died, what little education Christine obtained slowly began to dwindle, her time and skills needed to fully take over with the upkeep of the cottage, in providing what little of a happy and comfortable home she could for her grieving father, who never fully recovered from the love of his life taken from him. A tall order for a girl then seven, but she had managed. Spare time was spent in music her Papa played, songs sung, and stories he told before the hearth fire. To be certain they were well fed, to keep the home tidy, to mend and scrub and even tend her little row of vegetables and herbs - those things she had begun to learn at her mother's skirts and now knew well. To pen letters, having sent only one before and to Meg, in all the years she had known her, was a slow, painstaking skill with which Christine had little practice. It seemed silly to write, when she saw her at least twice a year and both girls were kept busy with work the remainder of those months. The necessary note to her Papa had been brief - one simple line not to worry and that she was doing what she must.

And she had once again accomplished the laborious effort for the Maestro, taking even more care in forming her letters and words, to try to initiate peace between them.

Perhaps she was foolish to believe he had truly been keen to teach her, since he so quickly lost interest - and for the most simplistic and foolish reason. He did wear a mask, for pity's sake, to hide whatever it was that he wished - something she had already realized from seeing his shadowed form at the piano. He must have known she had seen then; he had chastised her for staring.

So why did he continue to treat her with such hurtful disregard?

Despite her confusion with his bizarre methods of instruction and lingering apprehension to have a teacher unknown and unseen, he had led her to hope for what she always believed she could never have. Perhaps this was all a cruel bit of what he considered entertainment, to allow her hopes to soar within the clouds only to shoot them down around her feet. She had long associated him with a beast, his actions oftentimes monstrous.

Shortly before the allotted hour, she peeked into the music room a third time…

And a third time was rewarded - or perhaps punished - by the sight of the little white note sitting where she had left it, atop the piano. Forlorn. Ignored. Unread.

Fine then.

Determined not to allow his stubborn silence to affect her mood any longer, Christine detoured to the dining room to collect his dishes, an hour having elapsed since she set the cloche in its usual place. Lifting the silver dome from the platter, she noticed that his meal went untouched yet again.

On past occasions she had frowned but thought little of it, discarding the food. This time, a spark of rebellion had her plunk herself down upon his high-backed, carved chair, lift the plate from the silver platter and set it on the white damask placemat before her. She poured water no longer piping hot but manageably warm over tea leaves, stirred, and lifted the dainty teacup by its handle to her lips.

Painted roses and lilacs covered the snow-white ceramic. Such strange chinaware for so dark and brooding a man…

"Why do you drink from the master's cup when you should be elsewhere?"

The sip of warm tea spewed from her lips. She coughed and set the little cup down hard on its saucer, surprised when neither one cracked. Blotting her mouth with the cloth napkin, then wiping the sprayed drops from the table, she glared at the cup that had seemed to speak to her and brought her attention over her shoulder to the open door. She was surprised not to see the shadow of his tall figure in the dimly lit corridor and looked around the entire room, to find herself alone.

Her curiosity was piqued with how he managed his trick, but his strange query that came more like a demand only incensed her ire, at the same time her heart pounded out a staccato of strong feeling to again hear his voice after days of his silence…

Even if it did bizarrely come from a teacup.

Picking up his fork and knife, she decided to give him a taste of his own disregard and ignored him, cutting a bite sized portion of meat and bringing it to her open mouth.

"Will you not respond to your master?" the fork asked.

She gritted her teeth and set the utensil down on the plate, the food still in its tines.

"I don't make a habit of speaking to the dishes or the cutlery."

She winced, realizing that by her reply she had done just that.

A soft chuckle could barely be heard… somewhere. She bristled and took another - albeit careful - sip of the black tea, wary of any sound that might suddenly come from the porcelain. Her objective successfully accomplished, she set the cup down.

"Why are you here?"

The booming words came from all around, making Christine startle, as if the very walls gave the query of demand, and she again wondered how he enacted such peculiar magic though refrained from asking.

"I had no wish to see good food go to waste once again. You seem to have no desire for it."

"You are very bold with your words, mademoiselle."

A glimmer of apprehension coursed through her at his grim observation, but her earlier anger still resonated too strong to allow any show of meekness.

"I speak only the truth." She looked at the thinly-striped papered walls, wondering if he hid behind one of them.

"And what was the purpose of your note, if not to play me false?"

"My note?" she nearly whispered, shocked to realize he must have seen it after all.

"Yes," the acerbic words came from the hearth this time and the low flames that writhed within, as if in pain. "You do remember writing one?"

"Yes, of course - but I didn't think you'd read it." Her reply came flustered, any calm containment burning to ash as the wood did, beneath the flames that held his quiet and heated words. "I mean, it's still where I left it. On the piano…" She inwardly groaned, letting her vapid explanation trail to nothing upon realizing she sounded as foolish as she felt.

"And is that the reason for your little act of defiance to eat the meal you prepared for me? That I did not previously respond to your note?"

"I told you," she said, scrambling for a defense, weak though it sounded. "I don't like throwing good food away. At the cottage, we had to be so careful…" She hesitated with speaking of home, which only made her feel more miserable, and she hoped her father was managing well. "I should think you would be pleased that I am trying to be a good steward of your possessions and am not wasteful."

"Hmm…." the striped walls seemed to softly reverberate his deliberation. "Very well. Perhaps you would now care to address the reason for this requested meeting?"

"What… here?" Christine struggled to think.

"What difference if it is here or there?"

This was not how she had imagined the presentation of her plea to commence. She had pictured herself calm and collected, with the knowledge of every word eloquently put - not addled and adrift, caught off guard from his disconcerting little games.

"Oh. Alright, if you prefer." She smoothed the apron over her skirt with her hands, hoping the slow gesture in scrambling for a little more time would help to iron the kinks from her mind. "It is simply that I, um…I..."

Apparently not.

She looked around the empty room with the strange unsettled nervousness she often experienced to talk to empty air and know that he was somewhere hiding. No doubt, able to see her though she could not see him, perhaps through peepholes hidden between stripes in one of the papered walls or within the landscapes of one of the two framed paintings… but that made no sense. He would have to be within the walls - since the rooms stood far apart and would not allow for access...

She tried not to think of what she could not understand and closed her eyes.

"I wish to ask that you resume being my teacher." When silence followed, she hurried to say, "I promise to do better and will do nothing to anger you - or at least will try. Not to, that is. I never meant to upset you… that night… I wasn't thinking and… I'm sorry."

In the silence that followed, she could hear the bells of the grandfather clock play the short melody for the quarter hour in the distant foyer.

"Why do you care?"

"What?"

His response was so sudden and unexpected - in the delivery and the words themselves - and she struggled to understand.

Another beat of silence, then -

"Why do you wish to resume your lessons with me?"

Christine realized that to open herself up to him and speak of the coveted dream she'd long kept buried, even from her father, could backfire if he chose to react beastly as was his habit. Did he ever respond with kindness...?

The memory of awakening in his library covered with a blanket she had not put there came to mind, and she found herself answering him almost without realizing it.

"My mother sang on the stage. In Sweden. Before I was born. And I have often wished to be like her. To sing… like her… Perhaps even one day…"

She did not continue, could not continue. Not wishing to sound foolish and air what to him must be so absurd a wish, for one with her low station in life. She was only an indentured servant, after all, the idealistic daughter of a poor musician.

When another wave of deafening silence followed her disjointed sentences, she bowed her head.

Perhaps he had left, now that his curiosity was satisfied. Did she truly expect anything more?

Moisture swam to her eyes and she fiercely blinked it away, determined not to cry. Not in front of him. If he was even still there...

"Come to the music chamber when the clock chimes the half hour. Do not be late. I detest any lack of punctuality, whether deliberate or accidental."

Startled to hear his voice come so quiet and so sudden - from behind her? - she dared not move. Dared not even breathe, the shock of it clouding the elation that he seemed to agree to her request. She was uncertain if he truly stood there with her, in the room. Or if he was testing her and throwing his voice, however he did that, to see if she was sincere in her apology. She felt tense with her effort to remain still and not look over her shoulder, bunching the apron into tight fists in her lap.

"Yes, Maestro," she said at last. "I will be there."

Her heart slammed against her ribs to feel a waft of air - a stir directly behind her - and to hear his footsteps leave the room, deliberate and steady, as if he wanted her to hear them. She let out a shaky breath.

He had stood near to her. Again... but how had she not heard him enter?

A man of unfathomable mystery, he could be as quiet as a ghost when he wished to, which she supposed fit well with his persona. But it stretched her nerves to snap and her chest to hurt with her heart's fierce beating each time he took her by surprise.

When she felt it safe to do so, she glanced behind, to the open door that led out to the corridor, empty as she expected it. The door to the pantry that led through to the kitchen remained closed but she didn't expect him to use that exit.

Though the scent and sight of the food she had prepared tempted her to indulge (she had barely eaten all day) she left the room to doff her apron then went upstairs to freshen up, hastening with the task and grabbing the slim book before she left her bedchamber.

The moon face of the grandfather clock showed the long, filigree hand barely touching the six by the time she approached the music room. She knew relief peppered with apprehension to see the glow of the fire, the area now lit from within.

Once the half hour melody began to chime, she inhaled a deep breath and entered the chamber.

xXx

A/N: At least they did reach some sort of understanding… ;-) (heh heh) Thanks again for the reviews! Many of you have asked for more chapters of different stories, which have also shown continued interest - and I am doing my best to fulfill each one. If ever wondering where I'm at with each story, and what is coming up next - please refer to the "update" portion in my profile. : ) Thank you!