A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews! :) I'm so glad you guys are enjoying this...And now...

VII

.

The days passed without incident. The few attempts to question the servants were met without success. Either no one truly knew much about the peculiar Hazel Bleue, or they were unwilling to share with Christine any knowledge of the eccentric laundress. Given what Madame Fairfax told her, of Hazel Bleue's preference to make the third floor her exclusive habitat for her tasks, Christine deduced that the former reason applied. She also found it strange that the woman was a seamstress here, yet the sleeve of her uniform had been torn. Did she not have enough time to tend to her own appearance, or perhaps, in secluding herself from others, did she not care?

Adrienne proved to be an adept and interested pupil in those subjects she highly favored, and mildly cooperative in those subjects she did not, depending on her mood.

As for the Maestro, the past four days he had not made an appearance. At Christine's furtive query on the third afternoon when curiosity got the better of her, Madame Fairfax told her he was elsewhere on the estate, tending to business. She supposed she should feel relieved that he remained distant and unapproachable, but oddly enough she felt…troubled.

Why, she did not wish to reason, and she kept her mind and hands busy hoping to drown out such unwanted feeling.

Adrienne slowly pushed three wooden beads to the opposite side of the wire in listless boredom, then looked up for Christine's approval.

Christine gently shook her head. "Remember, Adrienne, the gold bead represents groups of ten, the brown bead groups of five…"

In a fit of explosive anger, her pupil slapped all the beads of the abacus to one side, causing the tall contraption to topple over onto the table with a raucous clatter of beads.

"I won't do it - I won't! I won't! I won't!" The girl stomped her little foot and crossed her arms with a dark scowl.

"Adrienne!"

Chagrined by her governess's horrified bewilderment, Adrienne looked up and through her lashes at Christine. Of the three governesses she'd had, Christine was at least likeable, and though at first she wished her gone, Adrienne no longer wanted her to leave Thornfield. Which she might do, if she didn't like it here.

"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle. But the numbers get all mixed up in my head."

"That is no excuse to throw a tantrum and take out your distress on inanimate objects…"

Had any of the children at Lindenwood behaved in such a disorderly fashion, they would have spent half the day standing on a chair, with their nape stinging from the blows of the punishing reeds.

The day had been long, arithmetic Adrienne's least favorite subject, and Christine struggled to maintain a cool composure.

"I have told you, each row of beads is greater than the row below it. If you can remember that, it will help."

Adrienne pursed her lips in weary disgust but nodded, setting the abacus upright. After a short time, however, it was easy to see that the child's attention again wandered, her peevish sighs making that plain. Christine stared at the small blackboard set up on an easel, watching as Adrienne chalked the sums for her lessons, four of the ten problems remaining. A thin ray of white sunlight illuminated the slate, and Christine turned her head to look out the window at the clear, bright day.

Every teacher she'd known, save for one, vehemently refused the incentive of a reward to encourage studious behavior. And that sole individual had been the only teacher to matter or make a difference in Christine's wretched young life.

"Adrienne, if you promise to conduct yourself in a more obedient and orderly fashion and finish your sums without further complaint, we will have that picnic."

The girl's dark eyes went wide. "Truly?" Immediately her expression lost some of its enthusiastic sparkle. "You said that last week…"

Christine couldn't blame the child for doubting. A promise was not made to be broken, and Christine did not give them lightly. However nature had intervened to hinder their outing.

"We could not very well have a picnic in the pouring rain, could we? Today is full of sunshine."

"Today!" Adrienne squealed and clapped her hands once in glee. "Oh, yes please. I will be very good and studious and do all these awful numbers - and then I will take you to a special place for our picnic, a place no one ever visits."

Her words sent a ripple of disquiet through Christine. "We must stay on the estate, Adrienne."

"Oh – but we will! It's here, at Thornfield."

Humming a little, Adrienne again faced the abacus of wooden beads and studiously set to work at her lesson.

Christine watched in silence, unable to shake the unease that had shattered her fragile calm with the girl's blithe words.

X

One drastically improved lesson later, Christine walked with Adrienne along a wildly overgrown path. What little she had seen of the estate needed some type of renovation, and Christine now understood Madame Fairfax's enthusiasm over the master's return to manage affairs too long neglected. This area behind the manor appeared as if it hadn't been tended with spade, nor hoe, nor blade in more than a decade. She was certain that except for Adrienne this place hadn't seen a mortal walk through its creeping dark greenery for twice that long. Come to think of it, she had never seen a gardener on the grounds in the fortnight since she arrived to Thornfield. Did the Maestro not employ one?

Christine barely caught the low-hanging limb Adrienne had parted before the leafy branch could snap back and hit her in the face. "Are you certain this area of the grounds isn't off limits?" she asked the exuberant child who blazed a path before her while Christine trudged behind, toting the basket with their lunch.

"I told Madame Fairfax I found it, and she told me why it's there."

Why it's there?

"You're not making sense, Adrienne. Whatever are you talking about?"

"You'll see, mademoiselle. We're almost there."

Once they finally arrived "there," Christine gasped in wonderment at her surroundings, which had surely been inspired as an illustration for a page from a mystical fairy tale. Her fingers tingled to put scenery to paper, to paint, her recent conversation with the Maestro prodding that long-buried desire…

Stone steps that had smoothed with age led downward – at least a dozen – the earth within the clearing layered to perform natural seating in an arc for what appeared to be an open stage – circular and twice as large as a carousel, with slender stone pillars all around that supported a domed roof. Christine carefully followed Adrienne in descent. The stairs were old, crumbling at the edges, but appeared solid enough to hold their weight.

Vines of ivy curled around each column of the stage and draped in graceful curtains over the top of the roof while soft moss covered patches of gray rock over the entire structure. The outdoor theatre had been crafted with a loving hand, each stone carved with meticulous artistry, a lattice of delicate trim hanging below the top edge. Corinthian pillars were carved with exquisite roses and greenery, even the base crafted in swirls of intricate design. Years of neglect gave the secret cove a mystical atmosphere. Christine half expected a faerie to flit into view or a wood nymph to peek from between the wild bushes and thick trees that enclosed the area.

There existed a reverent stillness about the place, not unlike the prayerful awe expressed when entering a grand cathedral.

"You are certain you are allowed to come here?" Christine asked, little above a whisper.

"Mm-hmm."

No matter the girl's assurances, she would check with Madame Fairfax to be sure.

"The first Mr. Rochester had this place built for his ward. She was like a daughter to him and his wife. Madame Fairfax told me," Adrienne explained in a wistful undertone. "Adele – that was her name – liked to dance ballet while others watched, and in the summer, they would hold small concerts here and invite friends. She went to a school that taught dance and her friends would come home with her on holiday to visit and perform."

Christine pondered that nugget of history, her dear friend Meggie coming to mind. She had wanted to dance on stage too, just as Christine wanted to sing. Girlhood fantasies, perhaps, but Christine hoped that every one of Meggie's childhood ambitions were realized.

"This is such a lovely place to which you have brought me," Christine smiled. "But Adrienne, we can hardly picnic here."

The child looked around the picturesque nook in confusion. "Why not?"

Christine glanced at Adrienne's still somehow spotless white pinafore and blue frock, not wishing to raise the ire of the girl's nurse – or worse, that of the laundress/seamstress Hazel Bleue. Based on first impressions, she had no wish for another encounter with the crotchety woman.

"The ground is wet from two days rain, and I brought no blanket to sit upon." Even with a blanket, the dampness was sure to soak through the wool and into their dresses.

"We could sit under there." Adrienne pointed to the covered stage, which Christine noted was also wet in spots, the cracked stone covered here and there in moss.

"Perhaps we will visit another day for luncheon, when the ground isn't so wet. For now, I think we should take our meal in the garden where there is a table and benches to sit."

"Oh, alright, though that's not a true picnic," the child said begrudgingly. "We can come here again?"

Christine would not be wheedled into a promise until she learned for certain that this magical place wasn't forbidden…like the third floor.

"That will depend," Christine said vaguely. "Let us take each day as it presents itself. Now, come…" She held out her hand, urging Adrienne to follow. "Let us have that picnic."

"Not a true picnic unless we sit on the ground," Adrienne stated a second time.

"Then let us call it a repast outdoors."

Christine knew little of picnics or what they entailed, save for those outings she'd read about in literature.

They wended their way back through the jungle of foliage and to the manor and the terrace behind. Christine laid the picnic out on the stone table there and took one of the two benches on either side while Adrienne took the one opposite. A low wall of pale stone enclosed the terrace, myriad bushes laid out in scenic panorama, also in neglect, but nowhere near as chaotic as the path they had just left.

Adrienne's disappointment not to take luncheon at the woodland fairy stage disappeared with the discovery of the éclairs the cook had included inside the basket. They tucked into lunch, a delightful medley of small round rolls with a salad filling, thin slices of ham, sharp cheese, hard boiled eggs, and baguettes. Inside was also a flask containing coffee. One thing could be said in favor of Thornfield - never had Christine enjoyed so much food and food that was so appetizing!

They ate, Adrienne filling in the silence between bites with her enthusiastic critiques of her favorite plays. Twice Christine had to gently reprimand the child not to speak with her mouth full. As Adrienne polished off their afternoon repast with one of the éclairs, Christine plucked up the book of Hugo's poetry she'd brought along, deciding to read aloud and blend their amusement into a short lesson.

"Will you read to me?" The girl sounded genuinely pleased.

Christine smiled. "Yes, that is my intention. I thought I'd pick up where I left off…let's see…"

She pulled back the cover. The book opened to a page midway through, as it always did, a page more worn than the rest, as if it had been read often. She darted a glance to her pupil, who licked the chocolate filling from her fingers, then cleared her throat:

.

"'I know not if the rock, or tree o'erhead,

Had heard their speech;—but when the two spoke low,

Among the trees, a shudder seemed to go

Through all their branches, just as if that way

A beast had passed to trouble and dismay.

More dark the shadow of the rock was seen,

And then a morsel of the shade, between

The sombre trees, took shape as it would seem

Like a spectre walking in the sunset's gleam…'"

.

Christine took in a breath and turned the page, preparing to continue, when a masculine voice came from beneath the terrace, advancing closer.

.

"'It is not a monster rising from its lair,

Nor phantom of the foliage and the air…'"

The bearer of the smooth, deep voice broke through the cover of nearby trees.

"'It is not morsel of the granite's shade

That walks in deepest hollows of the glade.

'Tis not a vampire nor a spectre pale

But living man in rugged coat of mail.

It is Alsatia's noble Chevalier,

Eviradnus the brave, that now is here…'"

.

The reason for the well-worn page was solved – clearly a favorite poem of the Master.

His last words came sardonic, as if in jest that he should be compared to one deemed noble. The shock of his abrupt appearance dissolving, Christine would not be cowed.

"And so, monsieur, are you Evirandus, the brave knight?" She lifted a brow in speculation.

If he thought his jarring presence to unsettle her, it didn't show by the placid expression beneath his mask.

"Do you see a vampire or a spectre, mademoiselle? Or perhaps a monster, or a phantom?" He chuckled low at that, as if at some private joke.

The deep, rich sound of his amusement caused Christine to shiver, and she set the book in her lap before he could see the telltale tremble of her hands. How could a laugh, even one so dark and still, seem to contain a life all its own?

"Maestro…?" Adrienne regarded him with a peculiar sort of nervous hope. "Will you sit with us? We're having a picnic, even if it's not on the ground. Mademoiselle Daaé said it's too wet."

"I see." His words came solemn, hardly receptive to the child's invitation.

"You are welcome to join us, if you like." Only after the words left her mouth, did Christine realize he might take offense with one of his hired help giving permission to the Master of Thornfield. She hurried to say more. "There is quite a bit of food left if you care to partake."

She did not imagine the shocked look Adrienne sent her way for the impromptu invitation nor the uneasy silence that ensued.

"I will have to decline," he said at last, his careless mood of earlier having crumbled if the stony set of his jaw was an indication. "I have business to attend."

Now ill at ease, Christine gave a soft nod, her gaze falling to her lap a moment and the book she held before daring to look up again.

His eyes were formidable; with the day-lit sky behind casting him in silhouette, they glinted more golden than green, as they had that night on the road. He looked her up and down briefly before mounting the short flight of stairs to the terrace and walking past their table and into the manor.

Clearly she had overstepped her boundaries, and Adrienne, with her furtive glances between Christine and the departing lord of the manor knew the reason. However, she did not feel it prudent to question the child about her guardian.

"Mademoiselle…? Why do you stare so?"

Realizing that she was vacantly staring at the back entrance to Thornfield, or more aptly, at the spot where her dour employer had last been before disappearing into the manor, Christine hurriedly snatched the book up from her lap and resumed reading the poem aloud.…

Never mind that she had lost her audience.

Never mind that her own thoughts were far from the noble chevalier.

xXx

Once he had dined in his habitual solitude, Erik stood inside his bedchamber, with one hand clutching the mantel above the hearth. His mind retraced the day to its finest point, and her quiet invitation to join them for luncheon. She had seemed sincere, her large dark eyes kind and welcoming.

How he had wanted to accept and sit near her; but for more than one reason, it was necessary to decline.

He stared into the flames that burned, relentless, through vulnerable wood. The cut branches crackled in feeble protest, made as a sacrifice to be destroyed, to give off warmth to those in demand of such a ritual. Such was its duty…

Duty.

How he had come to despise the word!

Erik closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath, appreciating the sweet aroma of the cedar chips a servant had tossed inside. He had no business thinking about the new governess, but could not seem to stop, and their recent discussions only exacerbated the problem.

For one decade, no long before that, he'd had few of like mind to converse with. Adrienne, with her childish prattle, soon wore on his last nerve, and while Madame Fairfax was a wealth of information with regard to his family history, she was nonetheless a servant under his charge. Never did she feel fully at ease speaking with him, often fidgeting to be excused from his presence.

Indeed, the majority of his servants found great relief to quickly escape their masked overlord, even when his temper was calm and his voice mild.

Those of his peerage misunderstood him or had no wish to collaborate with him, unless the subject was his wealth. Those at the theatre had little wish to cooperate at all – thus his mischievous diversion over the past three years. Yet even his little forays into Paris to haunt had begun to lose their sparkle and appeal. The entrance of Christine Daaé into his household had ignited to life an interest long absent over the long, endless days of preferred solitude.

Not truly a servant nor a member of the family, but the caretaker to his ward – a governess was a strange breed of individual.

When Madame Fairfax explained weeks ago the need to hire a replacement for Adrienne, he had been fully prepared to put distance between Mademoiselle Daaé and himself, as he did with all the staff of Thornfield. Such worthy intentions soon fell by the wayside. Even as early as their initial encounter on the road, he perceived a quality about the young woman that stirred his dormant passion as much as it confused his fractious mind.

Every conversation with her only served to strengthen such emotion, to discover surprising bonds shared that he would have never guessed existed. Though clearly she had no true appreciation for music, his chief interest, which was indeed a pity.

But what they lacked as a bond in the musical aspects, they shared in the medium of art. Not only the subject itself, but their dark and passionate insight into the world was eerily similar, with how they each exhibited perspective, as if they shared one and the same soul.

Clearly she had suffered in life; so had he.

After endless years of silence and living within a self-made solitude, was it any wonder, now that he'd potentially found someone with whom to share a coveted bond of kinship, that he would wish to arrange future meetings? Within the bonds of propriety of course. If only to satisfy his curiosity and determine exactly what else they might have in common, if indeed he was correct in his presumption that they did share more...

Was that so wrong?

Their discussions intrigued him; indeed, he could not recall when or if he had enjoyed a conversation with another person more. Was it truly so wicked to crave the female companionship other men had? He had not asked for this fate – it had been thrust upon him, through deserved guilt, yes, but he had been tricked and deceived….

As he now tricked and deceived those who deserved it.

What he did, what little ghostly deceptions he evoked, was for the betterment of an entire industry. What evils had been done to him and to his household was for the benefit of no individual, but an act of selfishness that stemmed from indolence.

The pads of his fingers dug into the mantel. He wished he could give vent to the old rage rising within, could wrench the wood away from rock and exhaust his angry frustration in a momentary whirlwind of havoc.

The letter he received today only complicated matters, and he had wasted no time in penning a reply. God, that the fool would listen and refrain from his plans...

He squeezed until he felt the slender bones of his fingers might crack, then released the mantel and whirled away from the protesting wood and greedy flames.

He had no right to seek Christine Daaé out, by God and by heaven, he had no right. Perhaps to do so was blasphemy, due to all he lacked and what he'd done.

Yet he could not call himself a man of scruples, despite the one honorable act he performed while under duress.

Never could he claim to be such a man. He was no noble knight and never would be...

Wicked was the foundation of all he was.

xXx