"Drago!"

Phillippe scans the faces of the people watching him with an odd combination of concern, wariness and curiosity – that from the Persian fellow wearing the odd looking hat aims a gun at him all the while offering a cup of tea. A priest holds a plate of cookies. The dark-haired woman, whose face he recalls, but cannot place, watches silently…her fierce look the most fearsome of the group.

Is this some sort of strange dream? There was a book he remembers from his childhood. Maman would read from it to him, Elizabeth and Genevieve…Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. There is even a cat still around somewhere. He touches his face where the creature scratched him.

Dizziness muddles his mind and he cannot focus. Much of his life these past weeks have been so. Ever since Raoul took up his strange behavior over the girl…then his death. The severe headaches he suffered from since he was a child did not help. Sorelli was excited about a new medicine her doctor gave her for a sprain to her ankle. She insisted he use the cocaine and, much as he hated to admit it, her assurances were correct – the pain disappeared within moments after he drank the potion. Not only that, his thinking became clearer – of course Raoul was a victim of these people. The boy would never harm a soul. As for himself, if he had some incidents of bad temper, well, the benefits still outweighed any negative effects.

Was this one of the strange illusions rising up to confuse him when the drug wore off, bringing the pain back, finding his mind muddled again. Had he forgotten his dose? The exhaustion after the ride from Paris to Rouen must be the reason. Of course, he was perfectly fine, he only needed some of the drug.

Raising his hand to his neck, he sucks in his breath. The injury is real. So, this is a new pain…not quite as severe as the sharp jolts that cross his brow driving him to seek out the medication…but bad enough. The confusion stays, however. How did he come to be injured in such a way and why was he in this room…a homely kitchen?

Digging into the pocket of his waistcoat, he removes a tin of pastilles.

"What are you doing?" The masked man who raised an eyebrow when he called out the name of his steed, reaches for his hand to take the box.

Phillippe pulls his hand away. "It is medicine…for pain. Would you deny me this small concession? I am at your mercy after all."

"Let him," Christine says, quietly, taking Erik by the arm, drawing him away from Phillippe.

The girl's blue eyes are gentle and kind…he can understand now Raoul's infatuation with her. Pretty enough, not showy like the other girls at the opera house. Innocent, at least in appearance. A summer vacation years ago at Perros with Raoul chattering about a girl he met with a beautiful voice. The boy was soaking wet from having run into the surf to rescue her scarf…or so he recalls. Christine. Yes, that was her name. Christine Daae.

Now he remembers – the girl was now performing at the Palais. All this was coming back to him – his brother going mad over the girl, behaving badly, or so he was informed. The memory brings another pain striking him in the chest. Raoul dead – because of the girl.

The idea of avenging the death of the brother he raised as a son became his mission.

At her behest, the masked man retreats, but not before exchanging a look with the man holding the gun. Ignoring them, he removes several of the small pellets, more than he usually takes, but the pain in his neck has become overwhelming and his body feels as if he is shedding his skin. Even so, despite her words, her eyes ask him to not take the pills. Dropping them back into their container, he closes the lid and returns it to his pocket.

"I take it Drago is the name of your horse," Erik says.

Phillippe nods. How long has he been here? Drago must be tended to. Making an effort to rise from the chair, he says, "I must see to him. He was ridden long today – not hard, but long. I should really leave – take him to the barn I leased in town."

"Sit down," Nadir growls, waving the gun at him.

Holding his hand up to stop Nadir, Erik says, "He is safe…in the barn. You left him tethered outside. While not terribly wet, he might have suffered had I not taken care of him."

"Th…thank you," Phillippe replies, offering a small smile. "Even so, I fear I am intruding on all of you."

"It would seem you are not completely aware of your situation."

Straightening himself in the cane-backed chair, he licks his lips. "I fear you are correct. May I ask – where am I?"

"You do not know?" Christine asks. "You were hiding. You attacked me. Now you pretend you are unaware of where you are…who we are?"

Pere Charles hands the plate of cookies to Adele and walks over to Phillippe. Crouching down, he lifts the younger man's chin and gazes into the dilated pupils almost completely obliterating the gray-blue irises. "You are in my home…a home it appears you were intent on burning down. Do you recall that intention?"

Phillippe frowns, shaking his head slowly, he begins to sob. "Your home. You are a priest. Oh, God."

"A prayer is a good start," the priest says, rising to his feet. "I fear your medication has affected your mind and, perhaps, your soul."

"No, I only use it for the pain in my head. It eases the suffering."

"And then the drug takes over entirely," Erik says. "Nadir can attest to that."

"Your master is quite the contradiction – admiring my work, then beating me for my creativity."

"It is your mouth that gets you into trouble."

"I am not supposed to speak."

"He is the shah."

"That means nothing to me."

"It should. He did send this to you for the pain," the daroga said, offering him a small vial of laudanum.

"No hookah? I should think smoking would be the preferred manner of using the drug here in Persia."

"If that is your choice, I will be happy to provide the means."

"No," Erik replied. "This is easier and will do."

"You have an addiction?" Pere Charles asks.

"Had," Erik corrects him, glancing at Christine who has been following the conversation with concern creasing her brow. "A story for another time, my dear. For the moment, it seems our comte needs to have his system flushed from the pastilles he has been tossing into his mouth willy nilly."

"There is a small bedroom next to the kitchen for the in house help I no longer have," Pere Charles says, taking one of Phillippe's arms, lifting him from the chair. "We can take him there."

"Take me where?" Phillippe asks, trying to pull away from the priest, but his limbs fail him and he falls to the floor.

Erik takes his other arm and the two of them lift Phillippe, half dragging him. "Lead the way, Uncle."

"I said where are you taking me? What are you doing?" Phillippe says as he continues his ineffective struggle.

"Should I prepare coffee?" Adele asks, filling the pot before anyone replies. "I suspect this is going to be a long night."

"Plain water might be best for M. Phillippe. Have whatever you like, however." Pere Charles calls over his shoulder. "There are some spare blankets in the anteroom, Mlle. Christine. M. Khan perhaps you can fill a bowl with water and bring some of the smaller dish cloths."

"What are you doing?" Phillippe mumbles, no longer able to fight them.

"Some might say we are freeing you from the devil who has invaded your soul," Pere Charles says. "We are merely putting you to bed."

"Others might just say, we are just cleansing your body of the poison you have ingested," Nadir adds.

"In either case, you will be able to think clearly again and understand the folly you created for yourself and us," Erik says. "Thank God your foolish plan failed."