A/N: Thank you so much for your interest and the reviews! :) As most of my blended tales of classics with PotO do - the foundation of plot follows both stories - and becomes my own creation as well - this is one of those (many) times. And now...

XII

Two days slipped by without Christine's full awareness. She slept the majority of the time, waking only to take the remedial tea or sip a broth the new kitchen maid brought up or have Madame Fairfax tend her wounds. Adrienne poked her head in now and then, sometimes with a fount of excited words involving whatever latest fancy had taken hold of the child...sometimes only to stare, as Christine twice noted through barely-slit eyes.

The Master did not once make an appearance.

On the third day, her fever decreased to the point that she could make better sense of the world around her. She told Adrienne to bring in her needlework, and an hour passed punctuated with her pupil's grumbling and disgruntled short stabs into cloth with a needle. Now and then such actions were followed by a sharp little cry or a coarse muttered word unfit for a lady, much less a child, when said needle found its way into the tip of a finger. No matter that Christine cautioned her not to wield the needle so fiercely, and certainly never to swear so unbecomingly, Adrienne continued her vengeful attacks upon the helpless strip of woven cloth.

The girl let out a particularly emphatic yelp, sticking her fingertip in her mouth to suck away a bead of blood, and Christine sighed.

"We should move to your reading lesson. Did you select a book from the library?"

Adrienne lifted her head and pulled her finger from her mouth, a shine to her eyes. "Si, er, um oui, mademoiselle. I told you that day."

Christine barely recalled any of it. Adrienne tucked the needle safely between the weave and dumped her sewing to the floor. Christine held her tongue at the child's untidy eagerness to be rid of her needlework and watched as she retrieved and opened the book on her lap.

Christine had not heard this story from its beginning, but soon picked up the thread of a king of fairies named Oberon, his impish cohort, and their devilish manipulations into four peoples' lives, causing no end to jealousy, misunderstanding and pain. Their cruel maneuverings of others to force men and women to desert their true loves and join with others in unholy union was truly despicable. The undertones of prose made it clear that their spell involved the corporeal and Christine blushed to think it. For a girl of Adrienne's scant years, the context might not be entirely discernible, hopefully not.

"Perhaps this isn't a book suitable for a young girl to read," Christine interjected when Adrienne paused between sections of Act 3 to take a breath.

"Oh, no – it's alright – the Maestro said," Adrienne coaxed desperately. "I only have a short amount of pages left – see?" The girl fanned the pages with her thumb, riffling them and letting them fall into place. "It's Shakespeare – you said Shakespeare was alright, and I do like the story so well."

Christine reflected. The Master allowed a story of this nature for his ward? She promised him she would not cross him in his orders, but was he fully aware of the contents of this book? Romeo and Juliet had been tame in comparison, but held a moralistic message; perhaps this one would as well.

"I should speak with the Maestro regardless."

Adrienne gave a careless shrug, though the shine of excitement left her eyes.

"The Maestro isn't here."

"When he returns, then."

Adrienne gave a full-on pout. "Why must I wait months to read such few pages?"

Much more than a few, but months? "What are you saying, Adrienne? Why should you need to wait so long?"

"That is how it always is when the Maestro leaves. He stays away an eternity!"

"The Maestro went away?" Christine detested the little hitch in her voice upon hearing the news.

Adrienne solemnly nodded. "He rode away on Cesar this morning. He never stays at Thornfield for long. I don't think he likes it here."

"Perhaps he only has business to attend in the village."

"No, Madame Fairfax said he's gone to Paris. Again." The child sighed. "He left this morning, before dawn."

Christine stared somberly at the blue fibers of the blanket that covered her stomach. He had left without telling her, without checking on her one last time or even saying goodbye?

True, there was no actual relationship between them that necessitated such kindnesses. But after the fire, there had been a bond of intimacy, of budding friendship – perhaps audacious of her to think it, since she was only the governess. But she had felt a new ease of rapport between them, even in their differences, and when he held her in his arms…there had been more.

Such feelings must not have been mutual. She was foolish to think that he'd felt as she had, though she was still unclear as to what it was she felt exactly. With no doctor to send for, she had fully relied on his skills in medicine. She supposed she should feel comforted that at least he waited until her fever broke and had not left her so ill, but could not fathom why he would not inform her of his decision to leave Thornfield or at the very least say goodbye...

Christine clenched her teeth at her foolish fancy. God, what was she thinking? Why should his decision to go even matter to her or cause this strange dull ache inside her heart?

"Please let me finish the story," Adrienne said. "I won't read aloud anymore, if you don't wish me to."

"No, no…" Christine might regret giving permission, but the depraved topic had already been introduced, and surely there must be some worthwhile moral involved by the tale's end. "I will think on it. Leave the book here. It is time for luncheon with your nurse."

Adrienne frowned but did as told, and brought the book to Christine.

Once she left, Christine again rested. Later that evening, with nothing to do, she propped the book on a pillow and read from the beginning, awkwardly turning pages with the fingertips of her bandaged hand.

It was as she feared, the worst tenets of the tale already addressed. The ending at least offered some manner of righteous instruction on the dual snares of pride and envy, slight though the moral was. She felt it important for Adrienne to hear the tale's conclusion, with Oberon's confession to his queen, now that the damage had been done due to Christine's unintended failure in her role as teacher.

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

The line from Puck crossed Christine's mind as she closed the book, noting that through the mullioned window pane, darkness spread across the sky to gather the shadows into early evening. She was a fool, to err with ignorance regarding Adrienne's lesson, no matter that the fever was the true villain here, but more than that, to allow her heart any amount of offense at the Maestro's silent and swift departure.

To care at all.

She was no more than a glorified servant hired to teach his ward; he was the master of the manor and owed her nothing. She must not be so quick to forget that, and certainly must not pass forbidden boundaries...even if only in her mind.

xXx

Once Erik tended to his first order of business in Paris – finding the theatre in a state of mild panic – he left the pathetic fools who called themselves managers and the bumbling stagehands to deal with the chaotic mess. It was hardly surprising on whom they placed blame - did they not call "foul" and "ghost" with every issue and accident the theatre faced? What irked him was that, in this instance, they were most decidedly wrong. It was their own incompetence that led to what could have evolved into an error of catastrophic proportions.

Sweeping through the city, he hunted down the one man who could alter his unfortunate state of affairs. He despised dealing with arrogant men of such questionable ilk, but had no choice.

He found the locale, noting the brass plate and engraved name, and sneered before opening the door. Had the Daroga not made the recommendation, urging him to act, he would not be here now. He preferred to socialize, with those who knew him, as a rare occurrence; with strangers and fools he preferred not to speak at all. Yet after the fiasco with the fire of days ago, which could have damned well ended in tragedy and had caused grievous injury, he felt he no longer had a choice.

A mousy little bookkeeper looked up from penning information into a ledger. Stranger or Fool had yet to be determined.

"Monsieur, may I help you?" He blinked and squinted over his half-moon spectacles as if he could detect the outline of the flesh-colored mask in the low light. Rather than remove his fedora, Erik pulled the brim lower to better shield his face.

"I am here to see Monsieur Marisat." He noticed the closed door beyond the man's cluttered work area. "I assume he is alone?" At this late hour, minutes before closing their office for the day, it was unlikely his employer had a client.

"Yes – that is, I mean – what is the nature of your business, monsieur?" the bookkeeper sputtered, stuffing papers into a crowded pigeonhole of his cluttered desk.

A Fool, then.

"That is exclusively for Monsieur Marisat to hear. No need to announce me; I will announce myself."

"Monsieur, you cannot go in there –"

Erik paid the little man no heed, turning the knob and entering the room, afterward swiftly closing the door behind him.

From behind a desk just as cluttered, a pudgy man with heavy sideburns extending nearly to his chin puffed on the stem of a pipe. He sat, absent of his frock coat, with his tie askew at the throat of his high collar, looking as if he had endured a long and trying day.

Erik was about to make it even more vexing.

"Do I know you, monsieur? Have we business at this late hour?" Monsieur Marisat stood to pull his frock coat from a hook on the wall and shrugged into it, likely in a feeble attempt to make himself look more professional. But, contrary to his rigid nature on such matters, Erik cared not for sterling appearances at this moment, only that this man possessed the clever intelligence for which he was fabled.

"I am in need of your services. An acquaintance, Nadir Khan, recommended you."

The man sighed, as if weary to hear what had become mundane with regard to his line of work. He did a mild double take when he turned fully to face Erik and saw the mask gleam dully from beneath the fedora, but quickly recovered. At this close proximity, and with the gas lamp nearby as illumination, lines would be seen. "Of course, monsieur. I would be happy to assist you, if I am able. However, the hour is late, and I'm expected elsewhere. If you will make an appointment with my secretary…."

As Marisat made his pedestrian excuses, Erik withdrew a thick bundle of francs and laid them on the desk before the man, whose words trailed off at the exorbitant sight. "I can pay well for your services, but will not be deferred. This matter is of the utmost urgency and requires absolute discretion for the sake of all involved. You are reputed to be the best in your vocation. However, if you cannot spare these few minutes to speak with me…" Here his words mocked, "I shall take my business elsewhere."

Monsieur Marisat tore his eyes away from the stack of bills. "Please, have a seat, monsieur. No more than a mundane dinner party my wife insisted I attend. It can wait." He motioned to the chair and took a seat behind his desk. "Now, how may I be of service to you?"

Perhaps, this man was no true fool, despite his first impression of slothful arrogance. Erik's options for stellar counsel were slim to none, and the Daroga wouldn't dare send him astray. The former chief of the Persian police was intelligent enough to know how vital this was to Erik and would not have made such a recommendation carelessly...

With a grimace of a smile, having successfully baited the rat with a tempting morsel of expensive cheese, Erik pulled a thin sheaf of papers from his satchel and handed them across the desk.

"I require this farce to end."

xXx

The days slowly melded, one into another. Able to riffle through a book's pages, Christine passed the time reading those novels she asked Adrienne to bring her from the library.

After more than a week of detestable bed rest, Christine felt able to resume her regular activities. The burn on her foot had healed well enough that she could wear a stocking over the bandage, and though she winced a bit to shrug into her low-heeled shoe, she could walk for short distances at a time.

Her hands had been aided greatly by the Maestro's mysterious salve, though in all likelihood she would bear scars. She wrinkled her nose at the pink, shiny patches of healing flesh and after dousing them with another heaping dose of the cream, tugged on white linen gloves for protection. The skin of her palms and fingers felt tight and itched dreadfully, another good reason to encase her hands in soft material. Unfortunately, she couldn't bend her fingers well enough to use the many pins to sweep up her hair in an appropriate manner, but managed to pull back her thick twists of curls and tie them with a black velvet ribbon.

She cast a disparaging glance at the odd sight she made. The image of the white go-to-meeting gloves with her plain dark frock looked absurd, and the girlish style of her hair that rippled to her lower back made her appear even younger and less like a capable governess. But there was little to be done about it, and any scrap of vain unease could simply not be entertained.

At least only Adrienne and the household staff would see. The shy new maid had served broths and tea during her convalescence, the former maid having left the Maestro's employ to marry. Lynette was now the only member of staff serving under Madame Fairfax to speak freely to her, when her timidity allowed it, the others still clearly upset to have their rooms searched after the theft.

Christine supposed it scarcely mattered what she wore or how ridiculous she looked, and she held her head high as she descended the wide stairs to take luncheon with Madame Fairfax. Carefully she gripped the polished banister, still feeling somewhat unsteady. Not wishing to snag the low heel of her slipper against the carpeted runner, her steps came slower than usual. More than halfway down, the knocker sounded at the front door.

She came to a stop mid-staircase and paused, uncertain if she should continue her descent to the main floor or retrace her steps up to her bedchamber. With the master no longer in attendance, surely the caller would be turned away.

The footman, Gregory, strode into view from somewhere within the manor and opened the front door. A brief discussion with the guest ensued – guests – as two women suddenly strode into the foyer as if they belonged there. The first visitor, Christine noted, was an attractive woman in her mid-forties, her mourning dress proclaiming her to be a widow. She pulled away a scarf equally as black, displaying hair wrapped in thick braids around her head. She scanned the room, her eyes an alert bright blue, hawk-like, as if they didn't miss a thing.

The second woman was twice as young, the similarities of features suggesting a familial bond, though the young woman's sleek locks were fair, shades lighter than the older woman's light brown braids. There was something about the graceful young woman that struck a mild chord of intrigue, and Christine stared, intent in her curiosity, unable to look away. Their manner of traveling attire was hardly extravagant, but neither was it worn or threadbare. They were not of the noblesse, here to pay a social call to the master; nor were they poverty-stricken, out seeking charity.

As the footman took the strangers' cloaks, Christine's silent presence was at last recognized.

"Hello," the younger woman said with an engaging smile as she moved toward the stairs and tilted her head upward. "Are you a member of the Maestro's family? He didn't tell us he had any relations."

"Meg!" the older woman softly chastised and she, too, stepped forward. "Forgive my daughter's wayward behavior. I am Madame Giry. We are here by invitation of the Maestro. He neglected to tell me that he had family staying at Thornfield; I do hope our presence won't be an imposition."

Christine awkwardly cleared her throat, noting the wayward daughter stared just as hard at her as she had formerly done. "You are mistaken, Madame. I am only the governess."

"I see."

"Governess…?" The young woman echoed in stunned curiosity. "The Maestro has a child? Why would he not have said a word of it when he told us to come?"

"Meg - enough," Madame Giry again corrected.

"Adrienne is his ward," Christine said as she resumed her slow pace down the stairs to face them. "Madame nodded as if aware of the fact, though her daughter continued to stare in complete bewilderment. "I am Mademoiselle Daaé. You should speak with Madame Fairfax, the housekeeper here. She will show you to your rooms. I can get her, if you like."

"Yes, thank you." Madame nodded her gratitude.

"Daaé," the younger woman softly parroted, as if trying to put together a puzzle. "Daaé…" Suddenly her eyes widened in disbelief. "Not Christine Daaé?"

Hearing her name spoken with such familiarity and shock caused a shiver of strange expectancy to tingle down Christine's spine.

"Yes, that's my name."

Whatever else she might have said was lost in a girlish squeal of delight as the young woman clapped her gloved hands together and elegantly rushed to the foot of the stairs in a swirl of blue cape and skirts, as if in a ballet.

"Oh, Christine – it's me – it's Meg!"

"Meg," Christine repeated before she fully understood. Her own eyes widened. "Meggie?"

"Yes," the lovely woman said with a sweet laugh, and suddenly Christine found herself enfolded in two slender arms that held her tight. "Oh, my dear, sweet friend, how I have missed you!"

Her words broke through the fog of lingering doubt, and Christine swiftly lifted her arms to enfold her old friend in an embrace just as strong, the faded memory of that long ago winter's day when Meggie was so suddenly taken from the orphanage coming vividly to mind.

"Oh, Meggie - mon ami - I can scarcely believe it's really you!"

"Well, believe it!" she said with a tearful little laugh, "though it's just Meg now. The change is more dignified and less childish. Don't you agree?"

Their light giggles made clear all infantile girlishness had not eroded with the passage of time, and as they hugged each other it was as if the great span of years in between instantly fell away. Christine was again an outcast child sitting on a hard cot in a cold room, with little Meg holding her in reassurance. They broke apart, each of them smiling and wiping the dampness from their eyes with gloved fingers.

Meg was hardly little any longer, now in possession of a lush, womanly figure a good deal more curvaceous than Christine's slender frame. She still stood shorter than Christine, that had not changed, but Christine had always been tall for her age.

Her friend turned to the other woman who came up beside her. "This is my mother – but you already knew that, since she just introduced us." Meg laughed in giddy embarrassment, and Christine realized just how much she had missed her effervescent friend.

"Do calm down, my dear," Madame softly instructed. "It is a pleasure to meet you," she said to Christine. "I have heard a great deal about you."

At the surprised lift of Christine's brows, Meg spoke. "I wrote you in the year after I left, but when you never wrote back, I thought you must not have received my letter."

"No, I never did," Christine replied grimly, a bit stunned to learn of the missive, but not surprised to hear the staff at Lindenwood had denied her the privilege.

"But, have we caught you at an inopportune time? Were you about to leave?" Meg glanced down at Christine's gloves. "I hope we aren't detaining you from your plans."

"Oh this?" Christine lifted her hands, looking down at them with a grimace. "No. I was just going to have luncheon. You must both join me." She smiled at Madame Giry, extending the invitation to her as well. "I will ask a maid to serve us in the parlor. You must both be weary from your travels. Did the stagecoach bring you here the entire way, or were you forced to walk?"

"Oh, no – a driver came to collect us at the inn, as the Maestro instructed." Meg gave another overt glance to Christine's white-clothed hands then, as if she understood her distress, linked her arm with Christine's as they walked toward the parlor. Madame silently followed.

"It's just so incredible to find you here –"

"How do you know the Maestro –?"

Each of them laughed as they both spoke at once, and Meg gave a little shrug.

"He's a patron at the opera house where Maman and I work. A secret patron." Meg grinned. "Only Maman and I know of it, really, and I learned quite by accident."

The revelation did not surprise Christine, musical genius that she had discovered him to be, but Meg's news made her smile. "You work at an opera house?"

"Yes – can you believe it? I'm a dancer in the chorus!" Meg squeezed her arm excitedly. "Though, sad to say, I'm temporarily without work. The theatre is closed for repairs, you see – which is why we're here. And I'm so grateful that Maman accepted his invitation!" Meg gave her another squeeze. "I wasn't sure at first, to stay here, in his home – but to find you is certainly a gift."

"And the Maestro?" Christine wished to curb the telltale words, but they streamed from her lips without thought. "Did he not come with you?"

"He remained behind in Paris. He has other business there, so he told Maman. But he said that we must come stay at Thornfield for a visit, and with little else to do, Maman naturally agreed."

Christine's dismay to hear that the Maestro would not be joining them dissipated somewhat in the brightness of Meg's smile and the joy of being reunited with her bosom friend.

Arm in arm, the two entered the parlor, eager to catch up on the missing years and reacquaint one another with their lives.

Meg suddenly pulled back and looked down in concern. "Why, Christine – you're limping! Are you hurt? Is that also why you're wearing those gloves?"

"It's a rather involved story…" Christine deferred, hesitant with what to say. She wished to remain loyal to her employer, but if Meg and her mother were staying at the chateau, did they not have a right to know that a thief was still lurking about the premises?

"It started late one night, when I heard strange sounds outside my room. There was a fire," she began. "It was contained to one of the bedchambers -"

"A fire?" Meg exclaimed, cutting her off with blue eyes round in astonishment. "But - that is exactly what brought us here!"

xXx

A/N: I have really looked forward to bringing these two back together. A little more of the mystery will be unveiled soon…

Until next time - :)