A/N: Thank you for all the wonderful feedback! :D And welcome to my new readers!

Just a note: Since the suggestion was made in reviews for this story (and another that I'll also put this note in) I want to let those know who wanted me to do an E/C story based on The Man in the Iron Mask - the idea is underway, with an outline/ chapter summary almost fully written out - and will make its debut here once there is an open slot or on my bday next year, whichever comes first. ;-) I am also still planning a Beauty and the Beast E/C story, for those who asked for that (also having a nearly completed outline/summary)… I do welcome suggestions for combos that would complement E/C PotO, classics preferred- (though of course cannot do them all) – but when inspiration strikes at an idea offered – I tend to grab on with both hands and not let go. ;-)

And now, for what you really came here to read…

XVII

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From a window high above the stairwell leading to the tower, lightning flickered with menace down upon the landing, illuminating the area in erratic flashes of ghostly white. In the backdrop of the storm, Christine thought she heard the faintest sound of a woman's laughter high above in the darkness, and shivered with the immediate chill that swept through her soul.

How long had the Maestro been gone? Certainly no more than ten minutes, but far too long for her peace of mind, what peace there was ...

The unconscious man on the ground beside her groaned, and she cast an anxious glance toward his face. In the distant light of three candles' glow from a candelabra mounted high to the wall, she could just make out the nasty gash on his temple and that it still bled in a slow drip onto the flagstones.

His wound could not go unattended much longer. She might have somehow been able to make a tear and pull a strip from the hem of her voluminous chemise to staunch the flow of blood, yet she saw a much better alternative: the stranger's ascot of what looked like maroon silk. Praying he would not later condemn her act meant only to be helpful, Christine shifted toward him and managed to untie the stylish accessory with trembling fingers. Slipping the expensive cloth from around his neck, she brought it to press against the fresh wound.

His eyes shot open, causing her to rock backward on her heels in startled shock. When he did not strike out or push her away, again she brought the cloth to press against his forehead, this time more tentatively.

"Lei mi ha attaccato!" he groaned in a panic. "Lei mi ha attaccato!" He grabbed her wrist in a fierce grip that Christine would not have believed one in his injured condition could possess.

"I don't understand," she said, shaking her head in confusion and keeping the bunched ascot to his temple with the hand that was in captivity. "What are you saying?"

He closed his eyes with a soft moan before again attempting to focus on her face.

"She ...attack me."

The hoarse words spoken in her language sent violent tremors of apprehension rumbling through Christine. This was no chilling tale of pretense, no legendary monster of the harvest, but a genuine evildoer out to cause harm. Someone, no doubt the tower's hostile inhabitant, had made this man her victim! But why?

Light and shadow danced in a sudden merging of gold and grey on the stone wall before her, bringing her swift attention to look behind, to the doorway.

The Maestro whisked through the entrance into the anteroom, his tall form now cloaked. The light from the lantern he carried shimmered off his silver mask. His gaze remained on her as he set down both lantern and the medicine box he carried, which she recognized from the night of the fire when he ministered to her burns.

"Are you alright?" he asked, as if she were the patient, and she wondered what her appearance must be for him to regard her with such concern.

"Yes, I'm fine."

The stranger's grip had loosened, and she pulled away to give the Maestro room to work. In that moment, the man again opened his eyes and stared up at the master of Thornfield with what looked like blame. "She attack! You understand?" he gritted the accusation through clenched teeth then whimpered in pain when the Maestro crouched down beside him, putting one hand to his shoulder and one to his neck. From this angle and with his back to her, Christine could not observe the Maestro's actions, but when he drew back she was stunned and a little worried to see that the injured man again lay insensible.

"What did you do to him?" she gasped before she could think to withhold such words or how they might be construed.

His jaw visibly clenched. "Despite his seeming cooperation, you will need to hold him steady while I contain his arm, especially if he again awakens." His eyes in this lighting, completely golden and absent of all green, like that of a feral animal, flashed her way. "Can you manage that?"

She might be thin but she was strong and again moved close to press the flats of her hands against the stranger's opposite shoulder. The Maestro kept his gaze on her a moment before resuming his ministrations to the young man. "Be assured, he is much better off unaware."

She supposed that was true, yet wondered what the Maestro had done to achieve such a cooperative and silent state.

"He mentioned someone attacking him."

The Maestro shifted so that he now knelt in profile to her. In another burst of flashing white from the storm, she could see the hardening of his jaw beneath the mask. "He is well into his cups and likely created a scenario in his mind of what he believed to be true. Could you not smell the rum on his breath?"

Drunk? The man was drunk? She had been too unnerved by his panicked reaction to draw close enough to tell. Keeping pressure to his bony shoulder, she watched as the Maestro moved the other arm to press against two pieces of wood on either side then bound strips of linen tightly around the whole, making a rough splint. The procedure looked quite painful; the Maestro, though meticulous, moved his hands swiftly, seeming unconcerned that he might cause further anguish – so unlike the tender care he'd given her – but even so, his patient did not stir, except faintly to moan now and then.

In the light of the lantern, she studied the stranger more closely: black hair, lean and handsome with Latin features and coloring. Beneath a rather hawkish nose, he sported the faint beginnings of a mustache. This man was still in his youth, not yet twenty, younger even than she. Christine would place him at sixteen or seventeen years of age.

"Who is he? I have never seen him at Thornfield."

The Maestro gave no response, and Christine wondered if she might have finally crossed a line. "I apologize, monsieur; it is hardly my business."

"Adrienne's uncle, newly arrived from Italy." His words came terse. "When I learned of his plans, I sent a missive that he wasn't welcome here, but he had already left for France."

A flurry of questions spurred from that one revelation, but before she could pluck one from her bewildered mind, he snorted derisively.

"He is no more than an insolent young upstart. A fool who presumes to know it all!"

"Is he dangerous to Adrienne?"

"Dangerous?" He spoke the word as if uncertain what it meant and puzzled over its letters. "I wouldn't know. Lorenzo was but a boy when last I saw him. Regardless, he should not have come to Thornfield. He was told not to. They all were."

"All?"

The Maestro grimaced. "Adrienne's indolent uncles wanted nothing to do with her when she was born and foisted her off on me by means of trickery. Because of a deathbed promise I made to their father, I took the child."

Astonished to hear how he'd become Adrienne's guardian, though the details proved even more of a puzzle, Christine studied him as he finished tying the last knot around the splint. That a man would bypass his own sons and deliver his small granddaughter into another man's care, a man not of their bloodline, was incomprehensible and spoke volumes toward the Maestro's character… unless…

"If I might be so bold to ask…" She paused, wondering at her gall.

He turned to look at her and curtly inclined his head for her to continue.

"Are you Adrienne's father?" she posed, carefully keeping her tone free of censure.

He snorted in derision. "Hardly. I never had relations with the girl's mother. The scoundrel responsible would have nothing to do with either of them, I was told, having seized Luciana's virtue when she was little more than a child herself."

Luciana. The ghost had been given a name.

At his blunt and pensive words that seemed weighted with remorse, Christine peered more closely at his masked face. Had he loved the young woman then? Clearly he'd known her well, to speak of her so informally. The thought that he had cared and still did brought an odd little twinge to Christine's heart. That was one question she could not ask; indeed, did not wish to know.

The Maestro drew back from his work and brought a roll of linen from his box to wrap around the man's head. His actions were again swift, as if he wished for no more than to be finished and rid of his unwelcome guest.

"What happened to her?" Christine whispered, unable to curb her curiosity, having long wondered.

A chill of silence lengthened between them before he muttered, "An accident brought on a terrible illness. She died." He snapped his case shut with an impatient air of finality that matched his words. "That should do, until the fool can find a physician."

Sensing the thorny subject was fast on its way to becoming more than just painful, Christine evaded further questions into Adrienne's origin and repeated what yet troubled. "He seemed so certain that he was attacked."

"A drunken stumble down the stairs."

"And the mirror?"

"Mirror?" He bestowed on her a brief glance.

"My mirror, actually. The one stolen from me that is now lying shattered at the foot of the stairs."

Clearly taken aback, he parted his mouth in surprise. It was a moment before he answered.

"My apologies for the loss of your trinket, mademoiselle. The fool must have visited the town tavern after I ordered him to leave, then found his way back here, slipping through a back door that led to this tower by mistake..."

From experience, she had thought all outside doors were kept locked. "It must have been Hazel Bleue. I think it was she who stole my mirror weeks ago, and tonight attacked him with it."

"No doubt, if you are correct, she thought him an intruder and warned him away, perhaps throwing the mirror at his head when in his drunken stupor, he resisted. Likely he lost his footing and fell down the stairs. Do not trouble yourself further, Miss Daaé. I will look into the matter."

He seemed so sure of his analysis, and his words did make a wretched kind of sense. Her brows drew together in a frown as she studied the bandaged survivor of Hazel Bleue's wrath.

"What will you do with him?"

"Put him in a carriage and give my driver instructions to take him to the village inn."

"You don't think he should stay at Thornfield, at least for the night, given his poor condition?"

"He has a room. At the inn."

His reply came more clipped than the last, a trace of rising fury in his tone, and sensing that the wick of his patience would ignite and combust with one more spark of a question, she left it at that.

"You will need to carry my medicine box and the lantern while I see to him," the Maestro instructed. "I have no wish to leave them in this chamber unattended. You can put both in the library." With some difficulty, he managed to hoist the wounded man up to a sitting position and slung him limply over one broad shoulder. Thus burdened, he straightened to stand and turned to look at her. "Feel free to sleep through the morning, as the hour is late and I have kept you from your bed far too long. You need your rest."

His thoughtfulness was at odds with his disgruntled tone. But she gathered his items, not bothering to remind him that tomorrow was her half day off, and they parted ways.

Christine had no intention of sleeping past dawn. She had plans, ones held in a necessary abeyance for too long, and looked forward to rising early to enact them.

xXx

At long last…

Christine breathed deeply of the cold, crisp morning air – perhaps too cold and wet for this venture…but muddy boots could be scraped and dirty hemlines washed. Such inconveniences were trivial; she simply did not care. For once she welcomed the gloves that covered her hands in a modicum of warmth as she dabbed her brush into a small pine-green blob of paint. The leaves had already begun to turn scarlet and bronze, but the needles of the firs forever retained their verdant quality, and it was on those she concentrated first.

Safely ensconced within the world of this fairy gazebo, she forced to the background all troubling thoughts that revolved around the inhabitants of Thornfield as swiftly as she whisked her brush along faint, charcoal-sketched lines to give them color. In these lovely, mystical surroundings, it wasn't difficult to focus concentration on the vibrant splash of nature's detail all around her. As she worked, her heart grew light and she found herself humming in soft accompaniment with the birdsong in the trees. He forever compared her with birds; and so, safe within her secret, she joined their happy tune.

Meg had gone with her mother to the village, with Adrienne and her nurse going along as well, and the Vicomte accompanying the women. And though Meg had tried to persuade Christine when she quietly but firmly declined the invitation to join them, her friend had not been too disappointed by Christine's stubbornness, Christine assuring her that they would meet before supper to discuss the play.

In all honesty, Christine wasn't certain they should proceed with the Shakespearen comedy, given the Maestro's irrational feelings about that one scene, so far from being amused…or perhaps it was the entire play that upset him. If not for the heavy disappointment Adrienne would feel were Christine to abolish the performance, she would put an end to the idea, altogether, the Maestro having given his permission for her to proceed as she saw fit.

She wished, above all else, that she could prove to him the world was not poised to rise up against him as he thought. Though she doubted an amateur rendition of Shakespeare's play could tip the scales in either direction.

It was, after all, no more than a chronicle of fiction. Just like the tale of Sleepy Hollow and that of the Harvest Monster…

The notes that glided from her throat took on a more melancholy tone as she applied color to the drab sketched lines and brought life to her painting. Would that she could do the same at Thornfield…

Thoughts of Adrienne's privileged but pitiable childhood mingled with memories of her own fractured youth and curiosities about the Maestro's tragic past, as Christine cleaned the brush of green and began to shower her canvas with scarlet, depicting both leaves and vines.

No sound alerted her to an unwanted presence; the birdsong did not desist, though her own song went silent, as instantly she knew her solitude was threatened. She lowered her brush from the canvas and edged a look over her shoulder, apprehensively searching the trees.

A tall shadow detached from the green darkness and stepped into the clearing and the gray light of the overcast day. His steps were swift, as if he had hastened to that spot, and she inhaled a sharp breath to see the Maestro there, his cloak fluttering in the stiff breeze, his hat slightly askew. Yet what made her heart flutter with nerves was the expression of incredulous disbelief parting his lips in wonder and shining from his mesmeric eyes, made even more golden within the silver of his mask.

"It was you…" he said, little above a whisper.

She could form no response, her voice lost somewhere within her throat.

"It was you," he said again, with more volume this time. "Your voice. Your song…"

Panic swept through her with his words, though she maintained an aura of confusion. She had thought the Maestro also at the village and the inn there, to see to his unwanted guest, but apparently the maid who'd informed her of his whereabouts had been wrong.

She had never intended anyone to hear, not after the conflict her singing created in years past. Never again would she be the instigator to such misery…

"I'm sorry – I don't know what you mean." She averted her gaze, unable to hold his eyes when he looked at her through golden orbs filled with such astonished wonder.

"I heard you," he insisted, covering the distance between them. "I followed your voice, like last time, again to this location. But you were not there."

Last time? He had heard her before?!

Willing her heart to stop drumming in its horror that her secret was swiftly becoming unraveled, Christine forced herself to face him and not turn on her heel and flee his accusation.

"I am sorry, monsieur, but you are mistaken. It was not my voice you heard."

xXx

Erik possessed a wealth of experience with the ability to distinguish fact from fiction. His dark years in Persia taught him to read a face and the language of a body, what had become a necessity for survival. Several key areas pointed to deceit, and Christine exhibited all of them. A deep flush of rose tinged milky white skin. Twice, she had averted her eyes in unease as she spoke, unable to keep eye contact. He would presume her pupils had dilated, her palms had become clammy and her heartbeats had also escalated. Though, to be fair, such expressions could also display extreme reticence –

A trait she had never before shown.

"You expect me to believe that the trees were given tongues to sing in the voice of angels?" he questioned acerbically but softly, the shock of his discovery still rattling his senses.

The bygone voice of his angel was Christine? How could that be, that she had found her way into his life a decade later and been established under his roof these past weeks? She had made it a point to tell him at their first meeting as Adrienne's governess that she could not sing, and was not in any way musically inclined. Had she lied then, too?

"I have no idea what to tell you, monsieur, or what you heard." Her words came surprisingly steady and quiet. "All I know is that it was not me."

"You disappoint me, mademoiselle. I did not presume you to be a woman who deceives."

She flinched but was adamant, "I assure you, monsieur, I possess no voice of an angel."

He studied her in confusion. Still she avoided his stare.

"Look at me and say that."

His words hung suspended between them, before, at last, she turned wide brown eyes up to him, solemn in their affirmation. "It was not me you heard," she said resolutely.

That he had indeed heard that voice during his walk through the forest Erik did not doubt, unless he had become victim to phantasms of the aural sense. With the bizarre state of his life and the poor choices made, he would expect madness could linger just around the bend…but no. He must have heard her. What made little sense was why she would lie about so inconsequential a matter.

From all he had observed of Christine Daaé, she did not favor deception; indeed, from their previous conversations she seemed to adhere to a strong moral standard, no doubt drummed into her by the staff that ran the institution of Lindenwood, and what helped to make her a remarkable governess. It was no sin to lift one's voice in beauty, especially if such beauty was rare and unique. So why did she behave as though he had caught her running naked through the forest rather than as an accidental witness to her song?

The unbidden thought of Christine unclothed created a sensual and provocative image in his mind that brought the blood roaring though his veins. This time he was the one to avert his eyes in unease, as spasmodically he clutched his gloved fists at his sides and tried to erase the vision from the periphery of thoughts that should not be allowed to exist while he stood so near to her…should never be allowed to exist.

For what purpose she would engage in so absurd a falsehood did not simply pique his curiosity, it tore furrows through it - and he was determined to disclose the reason. At the moment, however, he did not pursue with what he believed to be true, sensing she would not budge from her ridiculous claim.

He stared at the canvas before him, willing shock to subside. "Your landscape is coming along well," he said at last. "Your use of color is most realistic."

This time the pink that flooded her cheeks could be deemed modest, her tentative smile one of pleasure.

"I am indebted to you for allowing me the use of your paints and brushes," she said. "Once I saw this spot, I had to paint it…" She set brush and palette down upon one of the stones engineered for seating and futilely wiped her stained gloves with a cloth. "May I ask, about Adrienne's uncle…?"

He was hardly surprised that she would inquire, after having sought her help in the vexing matter, feeling that she was the only one in the household he could trust. Yet he was loath to speak of the incident at length.

"Is he well?" she continued. "I was told that you visited the inn to see him."

"Nothing more than the expected aches to come from a broken arm and a knock on his thick skull. A physician was sent for. Lorenzo will survive."

"And does he still seek a visit with Adrienne?"

"It is of no consequence. I will not allow it."

"Perhaps…" she began softly, and he narrowed his eyes, waiting to hear the rest. "Perhaps a visit supervised by you or I wouldn't be amiss? He can be reassured that Adrienne is well and go away content, and you'll no longer need to trouble yourself with him."

A sardonic smile twisted his mouth. "If only it were so simple."

"You could try. He traveled from another country to see his niece. You said he was but a boy when last you saw him. Perhaps he's not like his brothers and truly does have Adrienne's best interests at heart.

He snorted in disgust. "You seem to have taken his interests to heart. Tell me - why have you have made yourself his champion? You don't even know the man!"

A haunting sadness swept into her dark eyes, and he cursed himself for putting it there.

"If Adrienne has blood relatives who care about her, she should know. After my father's death, I was foisted upon my aunt, who wanted nothing to do with me. She and her offspring treated me worse than a servant. I would have given anything to have had family who truly cared."

"I understood that you grew up at Lindenwood?" Erik posed in mild puzzlement.

"I did. My aunt sent me there, when she could no longer stomach the sight of me in her home. On the morning after my cousins terrorized me and locked me in the attic, during the night of the harvest moon…" She shivered. "Never will I forget that wretched night."

Erik frowned, this time of year also bringing with it a host of cheerless memories he'd wished to ignore but had been unable to forget.

He felt a splash of something cold hit his neck, at the same time she wiped away a drop from her cheek, though he did not think that moisture caused by the imminent shower.

"It appears as if it will again rain," he stated the obvious. "Gather your things. We must leave before the storm hits. I will accompany you back to the manor."

Without awaiting her response, he dropped the sheet hanging from the easel over the canvas and picked up both to carry. Though the downturn of her lips proclaimed her disappointment to have her day of painting ruined by the obtuse weather, she obediently gathered the remainder of art paraphernalia. Instead of leaving by the way he had come, she took another path out of the clearing, one hidden by bushes and overgrowth, a path that led to the tower – one Erik barely did recall and could easily have been used as an escape the first day he'd heard the ethereal voice and had come upon the gazebo to find no one there.

As they hurried along, the intermittent drops turning into a light shower as they cleared the trees, Erik realized he had no wish to part ways with her once they reached the manor. His Angel or not – and he was almost certain that she was – he wanted Christine near.

Inside the front foyer, he turned to her, noting the dampness of her mahogany curls, which she again wore down, and the moist sheen covering her face and spotting her dress, though her cloak had kept out most of the rain.

Erik handed off the easel and canvas to his footman who appeared at his side, ordering their placement in her chamber and the servant's return for the remainder. Once Gregory disappeared toward the stairwell, Erik took from Christine the additional art sundries and set them on the table.

"Come with me to the music room and dry yourself before the fire." He delivered the words as a low command, as her employer, knowing she would not refuse. In both the parlor and library they could be interrupted, especially with guests lingering about. But the music room was his domain where the servants knew not to disturb him when doors were closed, and guests would not wander.

She seemed hesitant, her eyes uncertain, but nodded and followed him to what had become his private sanctuary. Perhaps, in its tranquil atmosphere, she would unburden herself and release her inhibition to admit what they both knew was true…

For he would not rest until she did.

xXx

A/N: Ah, but what method will Erik use to get Christine to bend or break? I know that you guys are eager for more than one case of "bend and break" between these two – lol – (soon… ;-))