A/N: Thank you for the reviews – As usual, this has been looked at only by me (forgive any mistakes)… And now…

XI

The Maestro sat hunched over his cluttered desk, pushing aside mundane paperwork to scribble music notes onto parchment. Despite the absence of a piano, he toiled at this preferred labor, the desire to compose once more effervescent in his blood.

It had been too long, years, since he picked up pen and ink and allowed the music reverberating within his mind to lead him. Over a decade had elapsed since the music fostered true inspiration. On that occasion an Angel's voice in the night led him away from throwing himself off a high cliff to be smashed by rocks and carried out to sea wrapped inside violent waves. But there was another time, the first time inspiration visited months before that, when a girl two years younger than he inspired him, her folly being that she'd been given all she ever wanted, unable to comprehend the word "no". The brief inspiration she birthed with her smile died with the toppling of her slender body over a balcony rail, followed by the horrendous wails of grief from her distraught father, the only man ever to treat Erik with kindness, the only man ever to whom he felt indebted…

He closed his eyes at the painful recollection. It was a bitter satire that inspiration once came to him, briefly, preventing his harsh plummet to the rocks; but with its former visit through the charm of a lesser muse, her plummet of fright seized from him all musical inspiration.

What caused the burgeoning melodies to ring through his soul a third time? Not the fire, surely; tragedy had only ever muted its voice. He suspected the captivating new governess was responsible for fickle Inspiration's rebirth into his life.

Christine's quiet manner intrigued him, her daring a bafflement to him. She had battled the flames to save his unworthy carcass, putting her own life at risk, and been burned for her kindness. By accounts he had heard as a child, his grandmother had done the same for his grandfather when they were unwed and she was still a governess. A governess like Christine.

But no, he must not make too much of this. He had no right.

With the manner of man he'd become and the monstrous appellation of his curse upon being born, he did not deserve Christine Daaé's consideration or her attentiveness, however innocent and well-intentioned. This was not a case of history repeating itself. Only that of someone who knew such history, repeating its madness...

And he had done the same.

With the dismal secret he withheld that hovered above his neck like the wicked blade of Madame Guillotine, he would be an avaricious scoundrel to covet any worthwhile association with Mademoiselle Daaé.

By his extensive list of crimes, he deserved the punishment of being rendered headless, though wasn't fool enough to step into the enemies' court and put his head on a chopping block. His past, thickly colored in blood, was a partial reason he adopted his latest moniker while in Paris, into a creature that wasn't visible…a ghost.

In greater part, the managers paid keen attention and listened with a frightened ear when they thought supernatural entities had invaded their theatre.

The imbeciles.

Erik's mind revisited the reason for Christine's injuries, and his notes turned dark and ominous, jarring to the ears, a force that pummeled the heart - as would these chords be if written in this lower octave. They hardly correlated with what he previously jotted on his musical staff of notes, and he crumpled the paper in one hand in disgust.

Someone had tried to kill him, and he was reasonably certain who the offender was...

A stir at the door brought his attention that way, and to the entrance of a lesser offender.

"Madame Fairfax."

At his grave tone, the old woman stood a bit anxiously, as if undecided she should enter the library or go back the way she'd come. He took the choice from her.

"Come inside and close the door."

She did as ordered, tensely coming to a stop before his desk.

"You have been spreading tales," he accused grimly, planting an elbow on the desk and pointing a long finger her way.

She clutched and kneaded her apron between tight fists.

"Maestro?"

"Do not play the bewildered and innocent with me. You have been spreading tales about my relations," he continued sternly, clutching the brass lions' heads carved at the ends of the chair arms with both hands. "Incidents that occurred decades ago, in England."

She alone of those still living knew the closeted skeletons of truth long concealed from public knowledge. His grandparents' story had been enlightening, fodder for gossip and scandalous in the extreme, but nowhere near the black infamy he had created in a faraway land. Thank God this meddlesome woman knew nothing of that.

"Gossiping to the new maid about the secrets of my ancestors," he reminded. "The fire, for instance."

"Fire, monsieur?" Her voice was a wisp.

"Similar to what occurred last night. Years ago you told me of the incident that my grandfather experienced while he slept, as I presume you have told others."

Beneath the ruffled cap, her face went a shade pale. "Then – it wasn't the accident of an overturned candle?"

"Have you ever known me to be so careless?"

She cast her troubled gaze to the floor. "No, monsieur."

His lips thinned. "I will not tolerate such tale-bearing. The walls have ears, Madame, and you must be vigilant to hold your tongue."

"Oui, monsieur." She fidgeted, clearly wishing to be away from him.

"Which brings me to the next point for discussion: when matters of consequence arise, significant matters of which I should be informed – you are not to remain silent. As many years as you have worked for me and my father and my grandfather before that, you should not need to be reminded." He shook his head in disgust. "Why was I not informed of the theft of Mademoiselle Daaé's hand mirror?"

"Oh." She blinked as if realization just dawned. "I'm sorry, Maestro. I forgot."

"You forgot?"

"You were nowhere on the estate when it happened and didn't return until long after I conducted the search. When next I saw you, it clean slipped my mind. It's been happening off and on lately – old age creeping up on me I expect."

He clenched his teeth at her ineptitude. For the most part, he was pleased with her work. She had been with his family from the beginning, in England, born into this household, and he had no desire to find and train another housekeeper to abide by his rigid set of rules. She knew his darkest secret, the version he shared with her at any rate, and to let her go could be tantamount to endangering the privacy he required on the subject should she "forget" and let hidden truths spill out to prying townsfolk.

"I will ignore your incompetence this time," he grimly stated. "If it happens again, there will be consequences."

"I understand," she nodded. "But there is more I must tell you, monsieur."

"More?" He lifted his brow.

"The search turned up nothing; I didn't expect it would. Not when she told me of the footsteps in the corridor and the strange laughter in the night. It's her, I'd stake my life on it."

He nodded pensively, having already come to that conclusion. No one else at Thornfield would have the temerity to end his life or make the attempt, and he resolved to have a word with the inept Hazel Bleue once he finished here.

"Mademoiselle Daaé was injured last night and is bedridden." He turned back to the crucial issue at hand. "Her dressings on her hands and foot will need to be changed daily. I left a salve on her bedside table." Retrieving his pen, he jotted down the names of several herbs on a blotter and tore the sheet free. "Acquire these at the apothecary if you do not have them on hand for a remedial tea."

"You wish me to walk to the village today, monsieur?" She held back with obvious reluctance and cleared her throat. "I still have half a bottle of the elixir I purchased from the traveling salesman. I could use that."

He scowled. "That snake oil you were deceived into buying isn't worth the price of the print on the label. Give her only what I direct you to give. Send one of the other servants if you do not believe yourself capable of the task."

"I will go, monsieur," she decided. "I should select material for new bed curtains, as well."

"Save that for another day. I can sleep in another room until the bedding is replaced. Have Rutherford drive you, but tend to Mademoiselle Daaé first. I wish daily to be apprised of her condition."

"Of course, Maestro."

Once she exited the library, he tried to focus on his slow-budding opera. But after blank minutes and without a piano to test the composition of notes, he put his fountain pen aside. He tried again to set his mind to estate affairs, deciding he must hire a new gardener worth his salt and absent of excuses, when there was a tap at the door.

"Enter."

He lifted his brows to see Madame Fairfax again so soon.

"Maestro, I fear something ails Mademoiselle Daaé."

"Explain yourself," he said, even as he rose to his feet and walked around the desk.

"She's contracted a fever. I cannot wake her. And I have none of the tea left for such ailments."

He waited to hear no more, taking the stairs to the second landing two at a time. At the threshold of the governess's room he did not hesitate to open the door and step into her private chamber. Even had he knocked, it would fail to matter. The slight figure that lay twisted in the sheets doubtless would not have responded. Perspiration shimmered as dewdrops on her face and neck. She lay on her back with her arms flung to her sides, the bandages thankfully intact despite her apparent thrashing. One light press of the back of his fingers to her cheek and forehead felt like he'd drawn too near a flame.

"Mademoiselle?" he queried and dropped a hand to her shoulder to jostle her gently. "Mademoiselle Daaé," he said a little louder to no avail.

"Monsieur?"

He swung around toward his housekeeper and noted she carried a fresh pitcher of water. "Put that down and leave for the village immediately. Select herbs to bring down the fever as well."

"We still have a bottle of elderberry wine. Best thing for a cold, which is likely what this is – what with her running about in the rain. Poor mite. I'll send Daniel to the cellar to fetch it."

While he wondered what the blazes the fool woman had been doing running about in the rain, Madame Fairfax placed the pitcher beside the empty basin, offering one empathetic glance toward the distraught girl in bed. "Shall I send up one of the maids to tend her, monsieur?"

His first inclination to accept fell to silence. "It isn't necessary. I will see to Mademoiselle Daaé's needs." From what little he observed of the female staff, barely past girlhood, they did not appear to have the aptitude or maturity to deal with the situation. To delegate their skills to dust his furniture was one thing, but to entrust the care of an ill and injured woman into their unschooled hands, he had grave misgiving.

Madame's eyes glinted with disapproval. "Monsieur, you cannot. It's hardly proper."

He snorted faintly in derision that she would believe he cared for such ethical inanities.

"We are well beyond that. I spent a goodly part of the late evening tending to her."

She frowned. "You will ruin her reputation, monsieur."

"You and I are the only ones to know, and after our talk, I trust you'll not spread tales that are harmful and untrue?" He ended the rhetorical question on a warning note. "Now go, before you further try my patience."

She seemed about to argue, but gave a taut nod and left the bedchamber.

Simmering with angry frustration, Erik shut the door none too softly. Despite his cavalier attitude toward scruples, he had no wish to be spied upon by any servant who should wander past, and fuel their abhorrent need for gossip. He had long been accustomed to rumors spread, here and in Paris, with regard to both his visible persona and his ghostly aura. It mattered not one whit to him what the meddlesome ingrates said. But for Christine, he wished no groundless repercussions to haunt her.

Erik poured water into the basin and doused the cloth, wringing it until his knuckles were bone-white, then perched on the edge of the bed. Forcing any lingering resentment against all gossip-mongers aside, he gentled his touch as he dabbed the cool cloth over her pale, beaded brow and along one high flushed cheekbone.

Her coal-dark lashes did not once flicker. She lay still and silent as a wax doll, and with the heat that inflamed her skin he half-feared that if it were possible, she might melt like one.

"There now," he assured softly when she moaned as he lifted her arm to adjust the sleeve. Taking care not to jostle her linen-bound hand, he pushed the material of her bed gown past her elbow and slowly traced the cool wetness along the veins above her wrist where the bandage ended then up inside one arm. He retraced the path and did the same with her other arm.

She shivered as with a chill.

He hesitated, ill at ease, before softly dabbing her neck down to the square neckline of her gown, all the while trying to ignore the graceful twin mounds that gave shape to the ivory muslin. The irony of his circumstances being that despite his twenty-eight years, he had barely touched a woman, any woman. His hand shook slightly as he drew the cool cloth along her collarbone. She stirred and he jolted in shock with her unexpected awakening. Eyes of lustrous midnight slowly flickered midway open. Swiftly he withdrew his wet touch from her bosom.

"Monsieur?" The inquiry came out a rasp, her expression wary. "Why are you here?" She barely turned her head on the pillow, as if to assure herself that it was indeed her room.

"You've contracted a fever," he explained. "I sent Madame Fairfax to the village to purchase what is needed."

An unnaturally bright film covered her eyes. "Have you been here long?"

At her hoarse whisper that sounded mildly terrified he stiffened and tersely nodded.

"If you would prefer I go…"

"No," she shook her head as though he misunderstood. "Did you…did you hear her?"

A frisson of unease crackled through every tendon of his body.

"To whom do you refer?"

"The woman," she croaked, attempting to prop herself on her elbows. She managed to lift herself a shaky fraction then groaned at the poor attempt and fell back in the pillow. Had she not needed complete rest, he might have extended his aid.

"There was a woman," Christine quietly insisted once she inhaled a deep breath. "She was weeping."

He kept his expression as bland as his mask. "I heard no woman, weeping or otherwise."

"But there was – I know! I heard her. Last night."

"You must have been dreaming, Miss Daaé. In your present condition it is not inconceivable that you are subject to hallucinations."

Faint troubled lines marred the space between her brows.

"There were other times," she argued. "The first night I had no fever. I felt someone watch me..."

"You were wandering alone in the dark and almost run down by my horse. The shock of the incident no doubt scattered your sensibilities."

She frowned but thankfully said nothing more.

"I should see to your hands. If I may?"

She nodded and he turned her closest hand to reach the knot. Though he was careful with his ministrations, he did not fail to notice her wince more than once.

"I'm surprised that you were not burned as well," she said after a time.

He did not indulge her curiosity, the tone of her quiet words searching. He had earlier tended his own burns above his hip and to his arm, more a nuisance than a danger and not as fierce as her own. She had pulled the flaming blanket off of him before it could do lasting damage, and what was yet another scar among the multitude he carried? Long accustomed to pain, his grievance was a mere trifle and hardly worth discussion.

But her poor, small, once lily-white hands…

The extent of damage to them was expected, but he could not withhold a grimace of concern. Her palms and the insides of her fingers were badly blistered, the abused skin shiny and pink, damaged flesh raised like bubbles in the worst of places, which were thankfully scarce. The salve he used last night helped to ease the pain; the ingredients Madame Fairfax had left to collect would aid in healing the flesh.

He dipped the cloth in the basin of cold water and wrung it out lightly before touching it to her wounded appendages. She sucked in the edge of her lower lip with her teeth but bravely made no sound.

"How did you come to know all this?" she asked.

His lips turned down at the dismal recollection of the runaway child he'd been, later the solitary youth he'd become, finding and learning what was needful to care for his frequent injuries and rare illnesses. Piecemeal lessons scattered through time from observing the gypsies, later from poring over books of reference from the library of his former mentor, and especially from his own widespread and disturbing experiences….

"Through trial and error fashioned by necessity." At the curious worry that widened her eyes, his lips twisted in a dry smile. "Years of experience have honed my skills. I am well aware of what I'm doing. However, if you wish me to send for a physician, there is an old gentleman who lives in the village, with more than four decades of experience –"

"I trust you," she interrupted softly, and he was stunned at how his heart leapt by her undeserved show of good faith, making him that much more determined not to fail her.

It was unwise to become so involved with this woman; he told himself that truth daily. But it had become next to impossible to look into her dark, candid eyes and not wish for friendship, since he could ask for nothing more.

Once he tended to her other hand, he set the basin and cloth aside. "Is the pain any better?"

"Much the same as last night. The cold water helps some though."

He nodded, unsurprised there had been little change, and lightly bound her hands, keeping the bandages untied. "I must collect my box of medicines and apply more cream. Try not to move your hands while I'm gone."

xXx

Christine watched the back of his broad shoulders as the Maestro left the room. Lean but tall, his magnetizing presence had seemed to fill the entire chamber...while his absence created an unusual void of emptiness.

Christine turned her head on the pillow to stare at the closed curtains. Certainly the fever must be responsible for her wayward thought, and she remembered how her heart sprung to her parched throat when she opened her eyes and found the master of Thornfield sitting on the edge of her bed and dabbing above the loose neckline of her chemise with a cool, damp cloth. It was only a wad of bunched material that had caressed her skin, his fingers making no true contact. But he had touched her in an area no man touched before, tracing the cool dampness very near to the uppermost swells of her breasts scarcely covered by a thin drape of muslin…

She closed her eyes at the heated thought, both terrifying and titillating, but the anguish she suffered as she unconsciously moved quickly extinguished the daydream from her mind.

The pain was atrocious, leading her to believe she may never have the use of her hands again, despite his reassurances to the contrary. The heat of the fever singeing her flesh did nothing to help, but she'd bitten her tongue when she felt she might scream, not wishing to become even more of a nuisance.

Unaccustomed to overtures of concern, she didn't know what to think or how to react to the Maestro's keen attentions. During her pupil-hood at Lindenwood, the students had to be near death's door for the staff to take notice. Even during her time as a teacher they frowned upon "pampering a child's foolishness" should a student complain of illness or injury, always casting blame on the one affected…she should have not gone out in the rain without her head covered, the headmistress once said of a girl miserable with the croup – she should have been more careful holding the knife, said about a child who sliced her finger clean to the bone while peeling potatoes. Had Christine been at the orphanage, they might have tended the burns on her hands, but would never have allowed the privilege of complete quiet and bed rest – and certainly not a week's worth of what they considered the devil's idleness.

Such kindnesses were foreign to her, more so that they came from the dour Maestro she had once likened to the fearsome headless horseman of lore. To receive tenderness from him was unexpected, stirring something foreign in her heart, and she chided herself to cease thinking of him once and for all.

A reprieve came in the form of a small head that popped around the door.

"Mademoiselle?"

At the girl's uncertain query and hesitant step inside the chamber, Christine pressed all disturbing thoughts of her employer far to the back of her mind, hopefully to get lost in the crevices there. She forced a smile, determined not to let the perceptive child see her pain.

"Adrienne, come in…." She did not chastise her about knocking, since the Maestro left the door ajar. "I'm pleased that you came to visit me. Unfortunately we won't be having lessons this afternoon, but I expect you to keep up with your reading and needlework."

Adrienne mumbled something derogatory that Christine couldn't quite make out but suspected had to do with her latter instruction. The girl's dark eyes suddenly brightened. "Might I use the library to select a book?"

"May I, and perhaps, with your nurse to accompany you. I will speak to the Maestro."

Adrienne half-skipped into the room, all apprehension evaporated. "He won't mind, as long as I go when he's not there seeing to everyone's complaints."

"Does that happen often?" Christine found herself asking.

"Only when he's been gone for long months at a time." Adrienne tilted her head in curiosity. "Why are your hands bound up like an Egyptian mummy?"

"I was careless," she hedged, doubting the Maestro wanted his ward told of the fire or that he'd been the target of a madwoman, for she was quite certain Hazel Bleue had a chief part to play in the near tragedy of last night.

"Did you know that they bind the body from head to foot with linen strips like those on your hands?" The girl's dark eyes shone with morbid delight. "First they use a hook to scoop out the brain through the nostrils…"

"Adrienne!" Christine reprimanded, wrinkling her nose at such a gruesome thought. "Wherever did you hear such a thing?"

"I read it in one of the Maestro's books on Ancient Egypt. They empty the corpse of its insides before they cover it with bandages. Why would they do that?"

"I haven't the faintest notion, nor is it something I wish to dwell on. It is hardly a fit subject for young ladies." Christine affected a stern teacher-like countenance, as foreboding as she could convey while lying under-dressed and helpless beneath a coverlet, with her arms resting useless atop the blanket. "When you find a book, bring it to me so that I might approve its suitability."

Her perusal of the library shelves earlier that week turned up a number of books she didn't deem appropriate for a lady to read, much less a ten-year-old child – and Adrienne's macabre introduction into mummification made that even clearer.

Her errant pupil lightly shrugged as if she couldn't understand the problem. Christine never thought of herself as squeamish until today, or perhaps her unsettled stomach was due to illness. No doubt her dash through the rainstorm brought on the fever and whatever else would come with it. How odd that both fire and water had induced her suffering.

"May I choose something by Shakespeare?"

"I don't see why not," Christine allowed, recalling the girl's penchant for the bard's works. "It would be beneficial for you to read aloud, to me. You may also bring your needlework so that I can supervise you."

"Must I?" the child groaned.

"Indeed. We should continue with your lessons in whatever manner presents itself, as it may be a while until I can truly be your teacher again."

Adrienne looked at her in confusion. "But - how much longer will you be in bed? I'm never sick for more than two days –"

"Adrienne…" At the deep voice of authority coming from the doorway, both Christine and the girl turned their heads. "Cease with your endless questions and allow Mademoiselle Daaé the peace she needs so that she may recover."

Adrienne lowered her eyes, crumpling like a pale pink rosebud cut off from sunlight.

"Yes, Maestro."

"I don't mind," Christine intervened, her well-intentioned desire to speak up on behalf of the girl dying on her lips at the dual flames of warning that shot from the Maestro's eyes.

"You are ill and must rest."

She did not think it wise to argue with the child present, so only gave a taut nod against the pillow, her aggravation at his curt attitude toward the child restoring in her a strange rush of energy.

"Adrienne, is it not time for luncheon with your nurse?"

His tight inquiry came across as a demand. The girl looked back at Christine, who gave a smile of reassurance. "I shall see you later," she said, reminding the girl of her assignment. She looked at her employer. "I trust it is alright for Adrienne to visit the library to collect a book?"

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion, as though trying to find the hidden reason for such a question, but looked toward the child. "Touch nothing on my desk."

At his stern directive, the girl nodded, then shook her head as if confused with how to respond. "I won't. Buon pomeriggio." She performed a small curtsy as though exiting a stage and flitted off in her cream and pink dress.

Once the girl was out of earshot, the Maestro turned his agitation on Christine.

"You should not be taxing your energy," he reprimanded.

"I don't intend to tire myself, and will rest as needed," she defended her decision. "Really, I welcome Adrienne's company."

"I have no wish for her to learn the events of last night."

"No, of course not – I suspected that." She shook her head against the pillow in frustration, her mind trapped in a filmy haze. On a good day, with Adrienne, she felt in charge, but in this domineering man's presence, she felt uncertain. Yet a lifetime of defending herself against unjust claims, (often causing her more distress than if she had just stayed silent), recklessly pushed her to say, "I would never cross the line to go against your will. I may speak my mind, but I know my place."

"Yet you would test my will and ignore my orders?"

"Pardon?" She felt genuinely confused by his mild rebuke.

Beneath the mask, his mouth was grim, though his eyes strangely gleamed. She wished she could see more of his expression to discern his current mood. He did not appear foreboding; neither did he seem congenial. Though he did seem… eager to continue their discussion.

"Have you so soon forgotten my directive to dispense with Adrienne's lessons until you are recovered?"

"Oh – but I wouldn't be instructing her, not really." She inhaled a slow breath to give herself a moment to think more clearly, so as to ably state her case. "I intended only that she read aloud and practice needlework in my company. If an opportunity arises that I should need to correct her, I can easily do so from this bed."

As she spoke he readied his implements – bandages, cream, water. He brought the stool at her dressing table near the bed and took a seat, leaning forward.

"You are one bloody obstinate woman. Have you forgotten that I'm your employer and you are to follow my instruction?"

The mild chastisement might have concerned her that she had indeed overstepped the mark, but his gentle touch as he took her hand to treat it thoroughly rattled rational thought and she blurted her defense, "I wouldn't take on more than I'm capable of; I know my limits. That is…" She felt a sheepish sort of embarrassment at her audacity, "If you should grant me permission."

He snorted softly what came very near to a chuckle, and the sudden thought struck her of what his true laugh might sound like. His eyes seared her in gold before he smoothed the cooling cream against her palm. She gave a little shiver as his rough fingertips ghosted ravaged skin, with no cloth this time to trace the wet path. His careful touch caused no increased pain, but rather a wave of something that made her heart shimmer with warmth. Or perhaps it was the fever …

"And if I should refuse?" he asked nonchalantly, spreading cream along her other palm.

She exhaled a faint sigh. "I would abide by your decision, of course. But I implore you to reconsider. It would actually be helpful to me, a way to cut through the boredom that will no doubt visit if I'm confined to this bed longer than a day. I cannot draw or paint. I cannot even hold a book to read for my own pleasure…"

Christine was unaccustomed to a life of leisure and couldn't imagine lying here, feverish or not, with no company and nothing to do for the week he had ordered. She craved projects to keep her mind and hands occupied, though the latter would have to wait. She cast a disparaging glance to her appendages that had betrayed her. She should have been more careful, instead acting in haste and tearing away the fiery ribbons of material in reckless confusion. The sight of the monstrous fire eating its way toward the Maestro had terrified her, and she thanked heaven that he had not also been burned.

He studied Christine a moment before unrolling a bandage and loosely winding it around her hand. "We will revisit the possibility once your fever has subsided. Until then you must rest so that you may recover. "

"Yes, alright." She was weary of hearing his mantra and watched as he finished with one hand, knotting the bandage, then proceeded to the next. Again the peculiarity struck her of the Master of Thornfield waiting on her, literally hand and foot. She chuckled slightly at her absurd pun, earning her a swift glance from her self-appointed physician, who then moved to the end of the bed to untie the bandage from her sole and check the wound there.

More cream, another bandage, and he finished his treatment, packing his supplies back into his wooden box.

"If you wouldn't mind…" She hesitated a bit nervously when he turned the full power of his riveting eyes her way. "I should like a drink of water."

He replied with a curt nod and poured a serving from the pitcher on the bedside table, again sitting beside her on the coverlet to hold the glass to her lips. His every graceful action came with studied precision. He pulled the glass away, and a thin stream ran down the corner of her mouth. The sudden brush of his thumb along her chin to catch the moisture, with two of his fingertips lightly cradling her jaw stunned them both. The manner in which his eyes lifted and held with hers left her without breath.

He stood to his feet with a swiftness that made her dizzy. "Madame Fairfax will soon return with herbs for a tea to eliminate the fever. You are to drink every drop. I will instruct her on how to care for your other injuries as well."

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he would not continue to visit and care for her, but Christine bit back the question, giving a nod to his order. "Thank you, monsieur. For all you have done for me. I apologize for being such a burden."

As she spoke, he turned a key in his wooden box and pocketed it. He looked at her in mild surprise. "If I hear one more unwarranted apology from you, I may wring your silly neck. You are not a burden, Mademoiselle, far from it."

His rush of words again seemed to surprise him as much as they did her, that, and the gentle tone with which he delivered them.

Immediately he turned, box in hand, and headed for the door. "Madame Fairfax will bring you a tonic upon her return."

Christine made no mention that he had already given that information, feeling that perhaps he didn't know what he said. He seemed…flustered.

But no more than she.

The afternoon passed in a fitful sleep, Christine awakening when a glass of wine was brought to her. Madame Fairfax held the glass for her to sip, bringing to mind the memory of the Maestro in her place, doing the same, his hand gentle against her heated face and causing it to tingle…

She spluttered and coughed and Madame swiftly pulled away the glass.

"Easy now, dear, don't drink it so fast."

Christine shook her head as a sign that she wanted no more of the bitter brew when the housekeeper brought the glass to her lips a second time.

"Enough then? Alright." She set the wine on the bedside table and stood. "The tea is brewing. A maid will bring it up soon."

Over the next hour, her fever peaked, Christine drifting in and out of slumber, awakened only when Madame Fairfax or a maid brought her an herbal remedy to drink. Adrienne appeared at some point, book in hand, and Christine barely cast a glance at the embossed cover with fever-blurred eyes.

A Midsummer Night's Dream wasn't a title with which she was familiar. Yet with what she did know of Shakespeare's works, she felt no hesitation to agree. Unfortunately, her fever-laden brain could not make sense of too many words strung together. She wished only for sleep and instructed the girl to read on her own.

Adrienne left in an excited blur of pink, and Christine turned her face as far into the pillow as possible while still lying on her back...allowing hazy dreams to take her to a shadowed realm and down winding stairs to a landing…

Where a man in a mask looked up with eyes of shining gold and awaited her.

xXx

A/N: Things are about to take an exciting little twist, starting with the next chapter… ;-)
(*Buon pomeriggio - good afternoon)