A/N: Thank you so much for the lovely reviews! :) And now...

VIII

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After a grueling lesson in needlepoint – Adrienne incapable of sitting still for more than two minutes at a time, constantly fidgeting and pricking herself with the point of the needle twice as often – Christine knew great relief when the child's nurse came to collect her.

The remainder of that evening and most of the day following were hers to enjoy as she saw fit. There were no lessons given on Sundays, a mirror to Lindenwood. The "half-day" not her own, she was only expected to be within reach, in case Adrienne's nurse needed time away. And while Christine eagerly anticipated nearly an entire day of freedom, there was one matter she had put off far too long.

As a child she had accompanied Papa in the year after her Mother died, the two living like gypsies traipsing from town to town. But wherever they chose to dwell, her Papa always found and took her to the local house of worship on a Sunday morning, as he had promised her mother he would. Fondly, Christine recalled standing beside him, her small hand nestled in his while singing the lovely spiritual hymns.

It had been an enjoyment.

When living with her hypocritical aunt, she had been trundled off in the carriage with her cousins once a week to visit the holy establishment where her aunt worshiped. During those unbearable mornings, her aunt pretended before the congregation to actually care for her charge, only to treat Christine as a despised servant on their return to Greenwich Hall.

It had been a disillusionment.

As a child at Lindenwood, along with her peers she had been forced to trudge the two miles to chapel each Sabbath. In rain, in snow, the weather failed to matter. Once they arrived to their destination, often chilled to the bone, sometimes wet, always weary, she had been made to sit on a hard bench for hours and endure sermons of hellfire and brimstone, accused of being an unworthy sinner. Upon becoming a teacher there, little had changed.

It had been a punishment.

After all she endured, it seemed odd that she would wish to seek a place to worship, and felt it must be an habitual act ingrained in her blood. Of course, her Papa would approve and be pleased that she did not forsake the tradition he'd set, as would Maman. And she knew that not all of her dour experiences could be blamed on those priests who led such meetings, but mainly on her situation, which had greatly influenced her outlook at the time. Perhaps that was why she was yet willing to find a church to attend.

She must ask Madame Fairfax directions at the next opportunity, along with inquiring about the woodland fairy stage. The mystical beauty of the forgotten nook intrigued her. She yearned to put its enchanting lines to paper.

Once she finished stowing away the items Adrienne used for her lessons, Christine walked down the corridor that led to her room. She opened the door and took a step inside, then stopped and stared in astonished curiosity.

Someone had been there…

And they had left evidence of their presence on the coverlet of her bed.

Several items had been piled at the foot, and as she drew closer, her eyes widened even more when she discerned the nature of what they were. Two wooden boxes, a palette, a blank canvas. And an easel stood propped against the bed. She blinked in shock and peered into the narrow box. On a hard padding of crimson velvet, three thin brushes of diverse sizes lay in their impressed slots. In the larger box were glass vials of colored powders – for paints? - along with several collapsible metal tubes.

She looked back and forth between the items, two things clear. The sender of the gift must have been the Maestro, and he must have entered her bedchamber to deliver it.

At Lindenwood, there was no privacy, but never had a man entered the girls' dormitory rooms, save for the physician when the sickness came. Uneasy to realize the Master must have been there, in her bedchamber, Christine did not suppose that it was apprehension that made her heart beat so stilted and fast.

Her fingertips traced the smooth mahogany boxes with their gold hasps, the vials and the brushes, the bristles incredibly soft and fine, before closing the lids firmly on the lure they presented. Though she had no knowledge on matters of wealth, it didn't take a connoisseur of art to realize these tools were expensive.

The first and last gift she received had been a locket from her father, and she felt adrift with what to do now, having no experience in this sort of thing. The staff at her old school would prohibit her receipt of such luxuries, were she still there, and in her rebellion of all things Lindenwood she was almost tempted to accept.

Yet what would that make her? How would he think of her – how did he think of her? If she allowed this, would he presume she was no better than a loose woman who accepted favors from men – in return for what? To be his mistress?

Her face heated at the scandalous notion, and she attempted to ignore the strange warmth that tingled through her veins at the sudden image of being held in his arms.

Is that what he wished to make her into? His kept woman?

She moved away from the bed and the sight of what it held. There was no choice to be made. Certainly she could never receive such a gift from any man, much less her employer.

She paced a moment, wondering what to do, before grabbing up the two boxes and heading out the door and down the stairs.

Once on the main landing, she spotted the parlour maid, Dorothea, a duster in her hand as she swished the brown feathers over an impressive grandfather clock, whose moon-face displayed that it was going on half past four.

Christine approached the busy young woman. "Pardon, I was wondering, could you tell me is the Maestro on the premises?"

"Oui, mademoiselle. He is in the library."

"Merci." Christine walked off and toward that corridor.

"Oh but, Miss –"

Christine acknowledged the girl with a hurried glance over her shoulder.

"He is seeing to estate affairs. You mustn't disturb him."

Christine vaguely smiled and gave a distracted nod before continuing her trek.

She was now a member of this household, if only the governess, and certainly she had a matter of business that must be addressed. Did she not also warrant an audience with the Master?

Nonetheless, once she approached the tall, closed doors, she wavered. From within the chamber, the Maestro's voice vibrated with anger toward his unseen victim.

"You fool!" he seethed. "Why did you not inform me of this sooner?"

The reply came soft, too difficult to hear through the thick panel of wood.

"Excuses – that is all you have to offer me? Imbecile. Get out. And do not show your face to me again until you have rectified this matter!"

Christine stood frozen, hand on the glass knob, when suddenly the door swung inward, away from her grasp. She inhaled a startled breath and took a quick step back, nearly colliding with the surprised stranger - a tall gaunt man in a dark frock coat and tan trousers, a portfolio clutched in his hand. He glanced down his thin nose at her briefly before dismissing her and striding quickly away.

Now was clearly not a good time.

Hoping to dissolve back into the corridor before she was spotted, she slipped her foot behind her, taking a swift step backward and a steadying breath – which shattered when she realized she was too late.

"Miss Daaé!"

She swallowed hard, clutching the boxes close to her chest.

"Monsieur?"

"Must you forever dawdle in the shadows – come forward."

"Perhaps I should return later. This can wait."

"You are here now. Do as I say."

Given no choice, she rolled her small shoulders back in a pretense of confidence and walked into the spacious room, not stopping until she reached the massive carved desk, behind which the master sat in his equally massive carved chair. Why it should remind her of a throne, she didn't know, but it did. The formidable man, sitting so erect and rigid, seemed to dwarf both pieces of furniture.

His eyes burned gold in suspicion. "How long were you standing outside the door?"

With his current dark mood, she did not think it wise to admit what little she'd heard. "I had only just arrived."

He studied her a moment, as if to ferret out her thoughts.

"You wish to speak with me?" His gaze lowered to the boxes she held, then lifted to hers in what seemed a challenge.

"Yes, I…" She drummed up the courage and stepped forward, setting the boxes carefully on his desk. "I thank you for the overture, but I cannot accept these." She hesitated when he scowled. "I wasn't able to carry all of it down. I'll ask one of the servants to collect the rest."

"You deem the tools inferior?"

At his caustic words, she shook her head. "No, it's not that. They are actually far superior to anything I've ever seen. I simply cannot accept your gift. It wouldn't be suitable."

"Suitable?"

"I am a governess; you are my employer."

He huffed what barely passed for a chuckle. "A female who does not require or expect material goods to keep her entertained…" His musing came half to himself, his intent eyes never leaving her face. "Is there truly such a woman existing?"

"There is. This one." She decided to explain. "I am unaccustomed to such things, monsieur. I do not require them to be...entertained."

Such a foreign concept brought memories of her dear Papa playing his violin for her every night after supper before sending her off to bed, the only person to ever care if she experienced a morsel of enjoyment.

"Then you mean to abandon your art?"

His velvet tone dripped with disapproval, and a small part of her not intimidated by his persona appreciated that he was truly in favor of her continuing with her artistic diversions.

"I have the pens I use for my sketches."

He grunted. "Inferior tools to capture the beauty of the landscape, if indeed you should wish to do these grounds justice. Thornfield is ablaze with color, but all too soon winter's harsh and dreary palette will cover the land."

"Nonetheless, that is what I have." There was nothing more to say. "Thank you for your time monsieur."

Before she could fully turn and make her escape to the door, he spoke.

"Am I not responsible for your salary?"

"The salary you have yet to pay me?" The calm words escaped before she could gather them back. She winced a bit in concern when she became aware of her gall, but he only chuckled.

"We never did reach an agreement, did we…" He leaned back in his chair, his manner indolent as he planted his elbows on the high wooden arms and lightly pressed his fingertips together. "The first of each month, I will pay your wages, will that suffice?"

"Yes, of course." She felt petty bringing it up, though she had every right to demand what was owed her.

"Consider the artistic implements a disbursement of that."

She blinked at him in disbelief.

"You mean to pay me in paints?"

A slow grin appeared beneath the mask, and though she now realized he was only jesting with her, she couldn't explain away the sudden strong and swift thudding of her heart to see his inexplicably changed temperament. Indeed, it seemed to race more now than when she was in dread wariness of him.

"No, mademoiselle, I do not. They are not yours to possess."

Not hers? Was the overture not intended as a gift?

"I don't understand."

"Did you not look closely to notice the brushes have been used, the powders for the paints not entirely filling the vials? The canvas is the only item that is new, and it is hardly worth much to make such a bother over."

She drew her brows together in confusion, when suddenly it was made all too clear:

"They're yours."

Behind the mask, his catlike eyes glowed, and he gave an affirmative nod.

"Indeed. So you see, there is no need to refuse. It is but a loan."

"But - I can't take your things. What if…what if I break something?"

"Do you mean to be careless with them? Are you careless by nature, Miss Daaé?"

Oddly, she felt the question went deeper than mere paints, and she recalled how they first met, with her sprawled out in the road before his thundering steed.

"I always aim to be careful, especially with what is entrusted to my care."

"Then I fail to see the problem." He moved his large, slender hands apart in a graceful shrug. "If perchance something should break, it can be easily replaced. Nothing is made to last forever."

Christine searched for what to say. Knowing it wasn't a gift did not alter the situation. That these were his own possessions made the matter even more personal.

"I don't know…"

"I would consider it a favor."

"A favor?"

She studied him in wary confusion.

"I no longer have the time to partake in such pleasantries and am doubtful the opportunity will arise in the near future. As you might have discerned, I make my own paints. The pigments come from ground flowers, berries, herbs and the like, which I then mix with linseed oil and transport to the metal tubes for ease of use. Unfortunately, with time, the paints age and in so doing, they thicken and dry out, the color produced inferior to what I desire. I would prefer that the paints be used, as they were intended, rather than tossed into the furnace to become needless ash. Such a waste." He made a tsking sound with his tongue, spreading his fingertips apart only to tap them together again. "So you see, mademoiselle, you would be doing me a courtesy to accept my small offering."

She had no cause to doubt his words, though she suspected that he embellished the negative and her part in doing him a kindness. Still, she knew nothing about paints, so could hardly contradict his claim.

"Well, I suppose I could -"

"Splendid!"

His sudden wide smile scattered what was left of reason, dissolving what the remainder of her response might have been. Her gaze dropped lower, below the mask, and focused on his thinly-stretched lips and bared, even teeth. Never had she seen him smile so unreservedly and without his usual sarcasm, and for a moment she was nonplussed.

As quickly as his smile came, it left.

"Now, if there is nothing else you wish to discuss, I have business to attend."

He pushed away from his throne of a chair and stood, causing her pulse to flutter an anxious beat.

She looked up to meet his eyes, scrambling to find her equilibrium. Had she ever seen a man so tall…? Quietly, she cleared the thickness from her throat, hoping to achieve some measure of balance and refrain from behaving like a simple-minded ninny.

"I will accept the loan of your things, monsieur, for the present, and will return everything to you in the condition which it was received. The price of the canvas you may take out of my wages."

He smirked but inclined his head in a nod.

"As you wish, mademoiselle."

Christine struck out her hand for him to shake to seal the bargain.

He regarded her with narrowed eyes of surprise, those golden-green orbs dropping to stare at her small, pale hand.

Too late, she realized the boldness of such an act, and her stomach plummeted at what he might view as impropriety - and the unnerving thought of his large hand engulfing hers. Still, she did not draw away.

After tense more seconds, he finally lifted his hand and she found her fingers and palm gently crushed within his grasp. His flesh was surprisingly cool to the touch, so it made no sense that it felt as if he had ignited a flame beneath her skin, to travel swiftly up her arm and dispense throughout her body.

He softly pumped her arm twice in agreement, but made no move to release her hand. Her mouth went dry, her fingers tingled, and it was a moment before she retained the presence of mind to pull back from his hold.

Without another word, she snatched up the boxes and whirled around, beating a steady path to the door.

xXx

The morning of her freedom dawned brisk, the ash-tinged clouds luminescent before the weak sun they shielded. Christine willed the clouds away and the sun to make a strong appearance, not wishing to have to postpone her plans for the afternoon. A cardinal alighted upon her windowsill, and Christine smiled through the pane, considering the vibrant bird an omen in her favor. She watched as her small visitor pecked at something in a crack of the wood then spread its wings and flew away, a vivid splash of color in the leaden sky.

With her toilette accomplished, and wearing a serviceable brown wool dress with white lace collar and cuffs, (pushing from her mind the Maestro's dry quips of a sparrow), Christine descended to the main floor and Madame Fairfax's small parlor. The table had been laid for breakfast, and Christine greeted and joined the older woman, who took up a thread of dialogue as if they had already been engaged in conversation. She criticized the lazy parlor maid, again late with her duties, expressed doubt about the new kitchen maid, and looked forward to the morning service. Finding this the perfect opportunity, Christine asked about the local church and was pleased but confused when the housekeeper issued an invitation to accompany her.

"I usually walk to the village, unless it rains," Madame Fairfax said. "I'll be leaving after our meal, if you want to join me."

"Yes, that sounds lovely. Does Adrienne also attend? Am I not to remain here for the first half of the day?"

"Your services will not be required. The poor dear is in bed with a tummy ache."

"Oh?" Christine said in concern.

"Nothing serious. Likely she had one too many tarts last night, she does have such a sweet tooth. But no, the child doesn't attend services. The Maestro isn't much for the things of God and doesn't insist on the child's upbringing in spiritual matters." The woman sniffed in disapproval. "I doubt he's ever stepped foot inside a church a day in his life. But his grandparents, well that's another story. Such devout souls they were, according to what my mother said. There's a room here at Thornfield where Madame Rochester liked to spend her time, down the hall from the library. It was made into a chapel of sorts. She said she found peace there."

Christine had every intention of finding and visiting that room.

The trek to the village was shorter than taking the brown ribbon of road that wound through the trees in the distance. The leaves, still in varied shades of green, would soon turn vibrant with the entrance of autumn and make a stunning backdrop. They cut across a neighboring farm, and Christine grinned when Madame Fairfax slyly admitted that she brought the widower Macintosh a freshly-made custard pie each week for that right.

The stone chapel was small, the congregation large. They arrived just as everyone stood for the opening hymn and found a place on the outside of a middle pew. Christine drew her cloak around herself, finding the constant and curious glances directed her way a trifle disconcerting, but the sermon, though a bit long-winded, was thankfully not filled with hellfire and brimstone.

It was…an improvement.

Afterward, the young minister stood outside the arched door and shook hands with each of the villagers as they left the building. When Christine came abreast of him, he took her hand in a gentle grip, clasping the back of it with his free hand, and welcomed her to the community, inviting her to come again.

Pleasantly surprised by what she had dreaded might be an ordeal, she nodded and assured him that she would.

Once out of earshot, Madame Fairfax chuckled. "He's a catch, that one."

Christine regarded the woman in shock. "What - the minister?"

"Who else?"

"But he's a minister!"

"Yes, he is, and ripe for the plucking. He seemed to take kindly to you. 'Course he doesn't make much, and the woman he takes to wife will be living near poverty."

Horrified by the idea that the man would actually marry, since the priests of her own religion took a vow of chastity, she cast a furtive glance over her shoulder to find his warm brown eyes regarding her.

Swiftly Christine set her sights ahead, determined to forget this conversation.

The walk back to Thornfield helped to stretch the kinks from sore muscles in her back and hips that came from two long hours of sitting nearly motionless on a hard bench. The day remained clear and not overtly sunny, but thankfully absent of the threat of rain, and the grasses they trod through were dry. She brought up the matter of the woodland fairy stage.

"I had near forgotten that place existed," Madame Fairfax puffed, a little breathless, as the twin turrets of Thornfield came into view. She wiped her perspiring brow with a blue kerchief. "I can't see why you would wish to spend any time there, but certainly you are welcome, if you've a mind to visit."

Armed with permission, upon their return Christine immediately sought canvas, easel and the remainder of what she needed, eager to begin her new artistic endeavor. She put brushes, palette, and the tin tubes of paint into a basket for ease of carrying, also slipping in a bit of scone left over from breakfast and a small stalk of sweet black grapes.

The path proved as difficult to traverse as before, thankfully not as muddy, but once Christine stepped into the woodland clearing, she considered it well worth the effort.

Even the air seemed magical here, a misty faded violet, no doubt due to the overshadowing trees, several of whose leaves were just beginning to turn yellow and copper in patches. The dark gray stone of the amphitheater-style seating and the gazebo-like stage only enhanced their color.

She set the basket down near the top step, propping the easel carefully with the canvas against it, then grew hesitant, deciding to scout and see if there was a better angle. She walked along the perimeter, curious to find a second path, this one covered in fir needles and small stones, that led out behind close bushes. Her sense of adventure took her down the narrow trail, not quite as overgrown as the original route, with more evergreens and fewer long fronds to push away. She was elated to find that this path led out to the grounds that flanked the forbidden south tower of the manor.

She returned to her vantage point, moving everything further to the center so that she had a frontal view of the stage and the feathery vines that cascaded from the roof nearly to the ground, and the ivy that twined along columns and stage.

The palette bore dried splotches of color, and she opened one of the tin tubes, finding there a lovely shade of green. She squeezed a dab onto the oval wood and collected a thin brush, dipping it into the thick pigment. She stared at the canvas, as blank as her mind.

Now what?

No one had ever taught her how to paint, and she wished she had asked the Maestro for the fundamental instructions when she agreed to borrow his tools. Should she have first outlined the scene with one of her pens as a guide? Surely, it could not be so different or difficult to put color to canvas than using pen and ink.

With ghostly pressure, she touched the wet bristles to the bottom of the white rectangle. A little thrill shot through her to see the stroke of color she made, but the hue was all wrong. Perhaps she should try mixing the paints.

She unscrewed more tubes - a deep golden yellow, dark ocean blue, brilliant white, ebony black, crimson red, a rich acorn brown - and put little dabs of all of them onto the palette in the dried ring of color that was now part of the wood, dipping her brush first into one color, then another, blending, testing. After some time, she found the shade needed but realized she should paint the gazebo first as the focal point, afterward adding the vegetation around it.

With an exasperated little sigh at her oversight, Christine used the stained cloth that had been included with the supplies, wiping off as much of the forest green from the bristles as possible, then set about to blend the proper colors for the stone. She found that if she took a little dab from each color needed to make her own pool of color, this method worked much better than re-dipping the brush again and again in each individual dab of paint.

As she created her little masterpiece, she began to hum in imitation of the birdsong, then stopped, force of habit causing her to look apprehensively over one shoulder. She let out a sudden, reproving giggle, realizing she had no cause for concern. This far from the manor, secluded as she was in this forgotten thicket, she could sing at the top of her lungs if she so desired, and no one would be the wiser.

She passed the afternoon in paints, stopping only now and then to rest from her continual stance and pop a few grapes into her mouth, before rising to take up the brush again. And though she sang, years of keeping her forbidden talent a secret caused her to release the notes in low, mild tones.

When it became somewhat difficult to see, her surprise was vast to look up from the canvas and see how much the skies had darkened. Was it so late already? Or was there an impending storm?

Casting a rueful glance to her incomplete gazebo-stage in oils, she knew she shouldn't linger and risk being caught in a downpour or in darkness. Swiftly she packed up her items, slipping the handle of the basket over one arm and taking special care to carry the canvas, not wishing to smudge the wet paint. Though she walked along the newly found shortcut, the necessary precaution she took with her artwork made her return slower than normal. The trail came out onto the grounds at last, and she saw that both theories were correct.

Dusk had fallen, and past the south tower, lightning flashed behind distant clouds.

A glimmer of something gold caught her eye, and she turned her focus toward the gray column of looming stone. The strong glow of what might be a candelabrum flickered near the third floor. With the tall, narrow windows of the turret as a guide, the bearer was making steady progress upward. As the firelight reached the window nearest where she stood, Christine caught a glimpse of a dark figure bearing a torch.

It was too far too see clearly, but she felt certain that it was a man.

xXx

A/N: Next up, things take a scorching turn...in more ways than one.