An oil lamp sheds dim light on a pile of folded clothing topped by a cavalier's hat taking up most of the space on a small dresser in the equally small room.

"What is this?" Phillippe sniffs, pressing himself against the headboard of the narrow bed away from the cup of tea Pere Charles offers him. "It smells like perfume." Tearing at the tucked collar of a roughly woven garment, he shivers. "And what is this I am wearing? It is scratching my skin. Where are my clothes?"

"The brew is a combination of herbs…lavender, valerian and chamomile…to soothe you," the priest answers, his voice calm. "You are wearing a woolen nightshirt – there was some concern you might take a chill. Your clothing is there…on the dresser." The comment is paired with a nod toward the plain wooden box bearing the handles of three drawers. "The garments need cleaning…unfortunately your pants were stained with kerosene and when we were helping you into this room, a pitcher of milk spilled on your topcoat. Whether they can be preserved I cannot say right now. We shall do our best."

With a grunt, Phillippe accepts the tea; takes a small sip. "Honey. I like honey. Clover…not sage. My father liked sage, but I find the flavor too intense…unpalatable."

The priest chuckles. "A honey connoisseur? A role I would not have imagined for you, a comte from Paris."

"I am a farmer at heart. We keep bees at the family estate. While not a fan of sage, it is quite popular for roasting with fowl, so we grow it for the market and the bees seem to like it, my tastes be damned," Phillippe replies. "Now that I am more awake, I can taste the other herbs as well. Are you sure you are not trying to put me to sleep again?"

"Not at all. You were simply quite agitated and the tea seemed the best way to ease you."

Phillippe squints to eye the older man. "Where am I?"

Pere Charles pulls up a spindle-backed chair up to the bed and offers the tea again. "You are in my home…in the maid's…former maid's room."

"I mean: where am I besides being in this…this room."

"Ah, yes. That. You are in Boscherville. My name is Charles Saint-Rien. Earlier this evening you attempted to burn my house down along with me and my guests."

"Surely you are joking." The meager bit of color returned to his cheeks thanks to the tea fades.

"No. I am not joking. While I do enjoy a bit of humor on occasion, I would not joke about possible arson and murder." The priest's tone remains amiable, if matter-of-fact.

"My neck…" he touches the bandaging lightly, whistling slightly at the sting.

"You made an effort to escape. My nephew stopped you."

"With what?"

"I believe it is called a garrotte. Nasty weapon, could take someone's head off if the user was so inclined."

"I suppose I should be grateful your nephew decided to spare me," Phillippe grunts. "I do not understand what you mean by escape, however." Massaging the area above his right ear, he says, "My head – there is a lump – was that also your nephew?"

"You attempted to leave after the incident with the kerosene. My guest, M. Khan felt the need to apply some pressure with the butt of his gun to stop you. We convinced him not to shoot you."

"This is all too bizarre," Phillippe says. "Do you know who I am?"

"Indeed…Comte Phillippe de Chagny."

"If you know that, why am I being confined here?"

"As I told you…you tried to burn my house down…more importantly, now, since you did not succeed, you are being confined because you appear to be under the influence of cocaine and who knows what all sort of medicinals. Possibly causing you to act in such a way."

"My medicine? The chemist recommended their use when the pain of my brother's death…where is it? I need some for my head and my neck."

"I think not, the tea must do."

Phillippe attempts to lift himself off the bed, only to discover he is tethered around his waist and legs by leather straps. "You have me tied down? How dare you."

"The restraints are for your own safety. You were thrashing around, crying out, we did not wish you to hurt yourself."

"But my arms are free."

"I only just undid the straps when I saw you were waking up."

"Am I a prisoner?"

"No. A guest…a patient, if you will, until the poison you have been ingesting is out of your system. Sadly what the chemist gave you has properties that can transform even the best of men into monsters causing them to act in ways normally foreign to them."

Phillippe hands the teacup back to Pere Charles and falls back on the pillow. "A monster?"

"You say you began using your, um, medicine after your brother died."

"Murdered…Raoul was murdered."

"Are you certain of that?"

There is a light knock on the door, and without waiting for a reply, Erik enters the room. "Uncle, may I have a word?" Noticing Phillippe is awake, he says, "M. le Comte, I am pleased to see you are awake. We were uncertain as to the extent of both your drug intoxication and the…um…damage the physical force used to subdue you might be. One might not guess from looking at you now how strong you are. Of course drugs do tend to endow strength where none existed before."

Pere Charles shakes his head at Erik, pressing a finger to his lips.

"You!"

"Me, indeed," Erik replies. "This is my uncle's home. Was I not the one you sought when you broke in and nearly killed us all?"

"Erik, please," Pere Charles says, raising a hand to stop the younger man from continuing. "The comte is only now just aware of where he is…and what he did."

"So, you have been indulging in the drugs so long, you have no idea of where you are or why?"

"It is coming back to me," Phillippe growls. "You kidnapped Raoul's lady, then killed him."

Pere Charles face flushes. "What?"

"He has shortened the story somewhat and romanticized his brother I fear." Erik leans against the door frame, folding his long arms across his chest.

"Are you saying I am a liar?"

"No, just leaving many things out for the sake of drama," Erik says. "I thought you were the smarter, older brother. LaSorelli was quite fond of you and her taste is usually exemplary."

"Veronique? What of her?"

"Would you not rather be with her, than traipsing all over France seeking some sort of revenge for your brother's foolishness."

"You kidnapped Mlle. Daae? She and le Comte's brother were to be married?" Pere Charles' brow wrinkles in confusion.

"You killed him," Phillippe insists pulling against his restraints, "then you staged the scene…made it look as though he was shot during a robbery…left him for any sort of street creatures to do further harm to him."

"Excuse me, M. le Comte," Pere Charles says, gently touching Phillippe on the shoulder. "Mlle. Christine is to marry Erik…here…by me."

"Of course, Raoul is dead."

"But, my dear sir, why would she marry the man who killed him?"

Erik sighs deeply, a grim smile visible below the bottom edge of his barbee mask. "I hoped this would be something you could be spared from knowing, Uncle. A matter you need not know about. Christine and I only came here to learn about the possibility of being married with the blessing of the church."

"You killed him then?"

"No, but I was under the impression Baptism forgave all sins."

"You were baptized as a baby, so you must go to Confession for your wrongdoings before you can wed." The priest leans back on the wooden chair, wiping his brow with a linen handkerchief. "I am glad you committed no murder."

"Did you really think you could be such a villain and be excused of killing my brother?" Phillippe lies back on the pillows and laughs. "You thought coming here…to this old fool…pretending to be pure of heart?"

The older man straightens. "Whatever I may be, I am not a fool, Monsieur…and Erik never professed to be a saint. I just never suspected…"

Erik holds up his hand. "Nadir shot him when he tried to shoot me...us…Christine and me…in her dressing room at the Palais."

"M. Khan? He is a murderer?"

"No, he was protecting us," Erik insists. "Nadir was a policeman in Persia…where I met him. When he came to Paris, he assisted the gendarmes on occasion."

Phillippe shakes his head. "That foreigner was supposed to help me find whoever killed Raoul and all the time it was he who shot him?"

"Rightly or wrongly, we believed it was better the shooting appear anonymous than taint your brother's reputation," Erik says, the amber eyes surprisingly soft.

"An odd act of mercy," Pere Charles says, talking mainly to himself, still trying to make sense of the new information, "but reasonable I suppose. Self-defense of a sort. Saving other lives."

"All our reputations and that of the opera house were at stake," Erik replies with a shrug. "Your brother refused to believe Christine did not welcome his attention and was quite persistent. You said yourself he was besotted and unwilling to listen to reason."

Drained of any more sense of fight, Phillippe's blue-gray eyes fill with tears as they focus on the ceiling. "I had no idea he was so close to the edge of madness – wanting to kill. I suppose a similar pain overtook me as well. Oh, God."

"So you believe me?"

Phillippe gives a grudging nod. "Yes. Sadly. Yes. He was not himself. The Raoul you saw was not the boy we all knew. Loving and gentle, if a bit spoiled as the youngest. When he met your Christine as a boy, he was kind to her…not like the rest of us, I am ashamed now to admit. When he found her again he was overjoyed and then became dismayed at her rejection. I encouraged him to move on, but he was adamant."

Neither Erik nor Pere Charles replies nor moves. The idea of disturbing Phillippe's realization too fragile and new. Both wait patiently for anything more the man now lying perfectly still in the small bed to respond.

Phillippe is the first to notice the heavy silence offering a smile more grimace than pleasantry. "I feel a bit of a fool. My father would be ashamed, I fear. 'Phillippe, I raised you better. One must never disgrace the deChagny name.'"

"No one knows besides us," Erik says. "As I said, we tried to make things looks as though your brother was the victim."

"I know that now."