A/N: Sorry for the delay - I had hoped to get this up last, last weekend, but clearly didn't make it...Thank you so much for your interest! :) I love reading your reviews of what you think will happen… and now…

XVIII

.

The twin doors of the music room closed them inside with a firm, ominous click.

While the Maestro's back was still to her, his hands lingering on the knobs once he pulled the doors shut, Christine hurriedly covered the distance mid-chamber to the low fire that had been laid. Stretching her gloved hands before her, she allowed her paint-spattered, linen-covered palms to soak in the warmth of the flames. Still, she shivered, chilled to the bone.

Yet her discomfort had little to do with the inclement weather.

She sensed him finally turn and stare, though she did not dare mimic his action, keeping her eyes fixed to the yellow tongues of flame. With her nerves frayed from his earlier interrogation upon finding her alone at the mystical stage in the clearing, Christine wasn't sure how much more she could endure. If he persisted, she might break…

From behind, a gentle swell of notes ascended in bell-like chimes, and she turned slightly in surprise to see the Maestro seated at the piano. Absent of his hat but still in his cloak, as if he could not bother to take the time to doff it before seeking his instrument; whereas she still wore hers, hopeful soon to make an escape. He brought his hands mid-range of the keys and upward along the scales. She marveled over his skill and grace, and soon he picked out a rippling strand of mellifluous chords….

Chords that became hauntingly familiar.

She brought her hand up to clasp her throat in stunned apprehension. This was not the first time she'd heard him play that song.

"A lovely piece, don't you agree?" His question seemed harmless enough, his tone mild and unobtrusive, but Christine wasn't fooled. "Though I fear the words escape me at the moment."

Words? What words?! He could not know of any words that belonged to those notes because to the outside world, they did not exist. She and her Papa had rested before a campfire one evening as they traveled to yet another town, and he'd taken a simple tune often played on his violin when they were absent of paying crowds, stringing lyrics together to fit and basing them on her favorite bedtime story he'd told her every night that she'd had the blessing of being his daughter. As a child of six, her contributions had been minimal, most of the composition her father's words and his tribute to her.

As a grown woman with some intelligence, she no longer believed in the tale of the Angel of Music, but since they were Papa's lyrics, the song was special for that reason alone. It was his most precious gift to her, along with the locket of her mother's, all Christine had left of her parents. Though her appointed guardians had done their utmost to rip both treasures away, along with the happiest memories from her life -

But never from her heart.

A sudden, terrible rush of despondent longing for that which she could never again have brought a thick lump of emotion to her throat. She brushed gloved fingertips against her lashes, determined not to let the ghosts of past days haunt her, especially while in the presence of another.

"Mademoiselle…?" His fluid playing slowed then stopped entirely. "You are troubled?"

"No. Yes. I don't know. It's just…" She looked away from his intense, burning eyes that saw too much and back into the fire. "It reminded me of my father. Your song, that is."

Christine refused to lay claim to the aria and prove his supposition correct – that it was indeed hers, and thereby her voice he had heard.

She detected the shift and rustle of heavy material as he rose from the bench, and felt his approach from behind. A heated electric current tingled the air. The sudden press of his hands to her shoulders, gentle but firm, brought a rush of both coveted warmth and undesired weakness sweeping through her, and though she made no conscious decision to allow it, her body swayed back slightly and brushed against his.

"It was not my intent to make you cry," he said softly near her ear.

The tender words themselves, so foreign to his nature, acted adversely, triggering tears of old, unhealed loss that rushed forth and spilled silently over her cheeks. She attempted to stifle the muffled sob that pushed relentlessly upward, ramming against a throat she desperately tried to keep blocked. But it broke free in one rasping breath, and she abruptly lifted her hands to bury her face in her palms, her body quivering.

She was not supposed to cry; she needed to be strong. She had sworn to herself at Lindenwood that she would never let anyone see her cry again...

He uttered a quiet curse in the moment before she felt his palm lay flat against her stomach and he pressed himself closer, holding her up as she so foolishly broke down. Held tight against his solid warmth, within the folds of his cloak he had yet to remove, she experienced the novel and coveted feeling of safety, unfamiliar to her since being a small child. The barest trace of it felt when he carried her to her bechamber weeks ago after the fire –

Now it engulfed her...

His strength comforted in a way she did not expect, her melancholy evaporating almost instantaneously with her tears that had ebbed. He brought his hold to the side of her waist, urging her to walk with him the few feet to a chair. Gratefully she sank to its edge, wiping self-consciously at her damp cheeks with linen-encased fingers. He whirled the cape from his shoulders and swept it around her over her own thinner cloak. She did not realize until then that she was still trembling, only a small part of her distress due to the icy-cold rain they'd just escaped. The needle-like drops now pelted the windows in ruthless staccato, driven by the blustery wind, and she brought the edges of his cloak close around her. The smooth satin lining, warmed from his body, was a caress to her ravaged senses.

He moved out of sight, to a table against the far wall and she heard the clink of crystal. Soon he was back at her side, handing her a glass that contained a modicum of golden-brown liquid.

"Drink," he quietly commanded. "It will take the chill from your bones."

"Spirits?" she questioned hesitantly. At his persuasive nod, she gave a dismal chuckle. "You will soon think me a hopeless lush and certainly not a suitable governess to your ward."

He snorted. "Why would you say such a thing, much less think it?"

"The staff at Lindenwood warned those in service against imbibing in the devil's brew." Along with surrendering every pleasure known to man.

"It is my hand that offers the libation – why would I hold you accountable for that which hardly constitutes sin? Or perhaps you consider me the devil of whom to be wary?" His query came sardonic but light.

"Oh!" She looked up in awkward dismay. "I didn't mean the words as an insult – I only meant –"

"I know what you meant. Rest easy, mademoiselle..." His low timbre reassured, as soothing as the heat shimmering off the fire. "Sometimes these spirits, as you call them, can be as beneficial as medicine. Certainly they are the crux of the so-called miracle tonics sold by charlatans to the unwary, and what Madame Fairfax so ignorantly puts her faith in. It has done her neither harm nor good, only bilking the coin from her pocketbook, of which such men are masterful."

Christine sensed his words were not meant to inform, so much as to calm her senses and abolish her qualms. She recalled the blaze of liquid fire that rushed through her blood on the first and last occasion she partook of what she'd so often been warned was utter wickedness, by those for whom she had little respect, and decided to take the risk. She would never indulge and surely a small taste could not cause irreparable harm to her soul, if it would truly harm at all.

With grateful hands she accepted the offered glass and took a sip. Even so little an amount had her battle a short fit of coughing, but she expected it this time and relished the heat that flooded through her entire being, making her feel pleasantly flushed. Another sip took the edge off her melancholy. However, to her chagrin, it did more than that; it relaxed nerves and loosened her tongue to speak what she never intended to say:

"I lost my father when I was a small child." Realizing she had spoken her thoughts aloud she hesitated. Encouraged by his nod, she tentatively went on, "I never knew my mother; she died of a fever when I was too young to remember. Papa became everything to me…In that last year he coughed all the time, but so did many people that winter. I saw blood spotting his handkerchief one day and even as a child of six knew something was very wrong, though he pretended all was well. I never approached him with what I'd seen, and he never spoke of his illness, though in his last days, he took to his bed and was delirious most of the time, even promising to send me the angel I had then always wanted. The next morning I woke to find Papa gone. I never even got to say goodbye or tell him that I loved him or to thank him for all he'd been." She clutched the glass more tightly in both hands resting in her lap, and shook her head. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to bother you with all of this and am not entirely sure where it's coming from."

"It's no bother." A trace of anger colored his words as he moved a few feet away to stand before the fire. "Did I order you to be silent?"

"You are too kind."

"Kindness is not in my nature."

He could be beastly, it was true, but never, never had she experienced such tenderness and care from any individual since her days with Papa. Mademoiselle Talbot had been kind to her, after a fashion, improving life at Lindenwood as much as a teacher bound by their stodgy rules could do for her pupils, but not to the extent that Christine had known since coming to Thornfield. That she had oft-experienced such things as care and concern and generosity from this man astounded her; and she assumed that was what made it so easy to talk to him now.

"You do yourself an injustice," she said quietly. "I haven't spoken, like this, with anyone. Ever. My aunt scorned tears and cared nothing to hear of my grieving heart, and the instructors at Lindenwood…" She sighed at the memory of being severely scolded for crying when missing her Papa and for hating her new grim prison of a home. For crying at all, which they cited was a form of self-pity not to be tolerated. "Well, we were taught to be seen and not heard and to be seen only if called forward for instruction or for whatever reason they fostered. To do otherwise invited strict discipline."

He stood with his forearm along the mantel, staring down into the fire. His hand clutched into an agitated fist and his mouth compressed into a thin line.

"I've said too much," she said in weary remorse, "Forgive me, Maes-"

"Enough!" He lowly barked the word, making her jump, and she dropped her gaze to her glass. "Must you forever extend apology when you've not done a blessed thing wrong?! Those fiends at that so-called charitable institution and that crone of an aunt of yours – they are the ones to blame for putting such damnable and demeaning thoughts in your head! For some, perhaps, it is understandable, even deserving. For someone like you, it is not, and that they did - surely that is the true sin! Those fools should be lined up against a wall and horsewhipped."

To her astonishment, Christine realized his outburst of quiet anger wasn't directed toward her. "I received word that my aunt died years ago," she offered the useless information.

He whisked his fiery gaze to hers. "And the cousins you mentioned. Are they still living?"

Bitterness was a sour taste in her mouth. "I haven't seen them since they locked me in the attic on the night of the harvest moon and terrified me with some horrific legend of a Harvest Monster that would find me and eat me – they led me to believe I was the sacrifice. I was but a child and didn't know such legends were only silly fantasies," she explained with a little shrug. "Horrific, but fantasies, nonetheless. I was so frightened, locked in that dark attic room for hours, with only the orange disc of the moon for light. I found little comfort in fixing my attention to it and the stars above. Only when I -"

She broke off, her eyes falling shut as she reconsidered her next words. Even with this unexpected fount of revelation, likely brought on by her chilling experience in the south tower with the wounded uncle followed by Adrienne's recitation the previous night, she couldn't speak to him of her song. No matter that he had heard her voice - but hopefully also had been dissuaded to believe it.

"I thought life at my aunt's manor was difficult," she resumed softly, the crackle of flames nearly drowning out her voice, "but Lindenwood was a tale of horror all its own."

The lack of response was so oppressive it almost suffocated. She dared to open her eyes and glance up, shocked to see that he had left the fireplace and taken the chair across from hers. What she could see of the unrevealed part of his face was almost ghost-white.

"I should not trouble you with this. I.." She cut off her mild apology at the sudden warning in his golden eyes. Still, she took a moment, attempting to gather her unruly thoughts into a tidy package before she continued, "I was never allowed to speak of Papa – my aunt despised him, often saying that my mother was too good for a street musician." She anxiously pulled at her lip with her teeth at the slip, but the Maestro appeared not to have noticed her unbidden reference to music and she hurried on, "Her family was wealthy you see, and Papa was poor. I learned that my mama married him against her parents' wishes."

With her tongue unlocked and unburdened for the first time in years, it seemed set on a course to run amok with thoughts and feelings trapped since childhood. Still, he had not ordered her to desist with her winding monologue, even seeming irritated that she might, and it released something in her heart to speak of things so long contained.

"I remember standing beside his grave, the sole time I was taken there, and watching two men shovel dirt on his coffin. I cried even harder when my aunt promptly dragged me away by the hand. I wished only to remain with Papa, but even then I wasn't allowed to say goodbye…" She gave a dismal shake of her head at the memory. "Close to where he was put to rest, there was a statue of a praying angel, and later, I comforted myself with the idea that it watched over him. But that morning, she forced me into nearly a run at her heels – down a long path through double iron gates where two tall statues loomed like fearsome sentinels with robed hoods over their bowed heads. The sight of them gave me such dread, like an omen of what was to come. I had nightmares for weeks…"

And she had been right to be frightened.

"Would that I had known," she thought she heard him whisper, but he muttered the words so low she couldn't be certain.

Yet what if she had heard him correctly?

Alarm whisked through her on serrated wings that nicked her soul. After hearing of her wretched past and the alleged blemish to her character, did he now regret keeping her on as governess to his young, impressionable ward? Would he tell her to go collect her things and give her the boot?

"My life before coming to Thornfield some might consider …unsavory, but I assure you, monsieur, I am of good moral character and nothing like my predecessors at Lindenwood. I would never administer harsh punishment to any child."

He chuckled, the sound hoarse and without humor. "I would not classify your character as unsavory, mademoiselle. Deceitful at times, yes. Unsavory, no."

She looked at him with uneasy shock. "Why would you say such a thing? I prefer truth above all else, both as a giver and a recipient. Even if that truth is painful to bear."

"Do you?" he scoffed and leaned back in his chair, the leisurely act deceptive as it made him seem taller and more confident. "What of your repeated falsehood spoken to me in the clearing earlier? Not once, but multiple times." He waited for her reply, but when none came, he went on, "I am no fool, mademoiselle. We both know it was your voice I heard in song."

A troubled expression clouded her countenance, and she bowed her head in weary defeat.

"If it is as you believe," she began quietly after a moment, "would it truly matter?"

Erik studied her in baffled curiosity, pondering her bizarre reply. Still not owning to possess such an exquisite voice but not denying it either. She was as wary as when she'd entered the room, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation, the telltale nervous rubbing of her fingers on the brandy glass a sure sign. And if he were not shaken to his very foundation by the attack of her innocent disclosures, one following another like brutal stones hurled at his soul, he might pursue her odd train of thought and initiate discourse into the matter so as to understand her reasoning.

"If you croaked like a toad or chirped like a sparrow, perhaps then it would matter," he mused quietly, "but you did neither. Your voice is angelic to behold."

"Don't say that!" Her head snapped up, her eyes intent with what seemed alarm, further astonishing him. "My voice has caused nothing but misery for myself and for others nearly my entire life, monsieur. It is anything but angelic. Perhaps it is even wicked..."

He was so nonplussed, even annoyed, by her soft, impassioned and nonsensical response, that he could hardly appreciate the small victory in her admission of belonging to the voice. By her pronouncement and the emphasis she placed on certain words, no doubt the withered, spinster crones at that blasted institution filled her head with the rubbish of such lies. Lies she seemed determined to believe. But one truth he laid above all the rest:

"And yet, you were singing, mademoiselle. So clearly you do not believe the falderal of what you just stated."

Her slight form seemed to deflate even more and she evaded his gaze, as if caught in some unforgivable sin. He wished he had every one of those sanctimonious tyrants who'd inflicted harm to such simple sweetness and beauty at the mercy of his hands right now. A mercy he would be disinclined grant.

"But I was alone," she nearly whispered, as though speaking to herself, "where it cannot matter or cause harm…"

Before he could refute yet another of her curious inanities, Christine suddenly shot to her feet. "I never meant to deceive, monsieur, and I apologize if in keeping my little secret you took that as injurious against you. I would prefer not to talk about this any longer. With your permission, I should go and find Meg. I promised to go over the play with her before supper."

He grimaced at mention of that particular accursed work of the bard, but instead of granting permission, he clicked open his pocket watch to glance at the black needle-like hands, tucked it back in concealment and also rose to his feet.

"You will likely find your friend in the parlor, as the call to supper should come shortly. I will accompany you."

He covered the few feet of distance between them and took the brandy glass she still tightly clutched, setting it on a nearby table. His cloak he drew off her shoulders and tossed to hang over the back of the chair.

She appeared no less nervous now that their discussion had ended, and grimly he wondered if given her experience with authority she assumed some form of punishment would now follow her reluctant admission. He had no intention to carry out such an act – indeed, of all mortals who could take blame for past misdeeds, which amounted to the entire human race, he considered Christine near faultless, the earlier deception of her song notwithstanding – and in his estimation the only soul in all of France deserving of his mercy.

As to the matter of that little deception, Erik was undeterred and would revisit the topic in the foreseeable future. First, he needed time to deliberate and recover from all she had divulged with the dismal recounting of her childhood. Only then, would he act.

xXx

With wary regard, Christine noted how the Maestro matched her pace and walked beside her, not a step ahead to lead as she followed, per usual, but side by side, so as to converse. However, he kept silent; nor did she offer up any morsel of wit or wisdom. In truth, she felt rather foolish.

She was still stunned, even a little exhausted, from her full disclosure. Not even her dearest friend, Meg, knew her secret of singing in solitude… and yet, though he certainly used heavy persuasion to ferret out her innermost thoughts – had an infinitesimal part of her soul connected to the love of music they shared wanted him to know the truth? Otherwise, why would she have given in so readily, handing him the answer he craved after only a token refusal?

Next to Meg, the Maestro was the only living being she trusted on this earth, and she hoped now that her closeted skeleton was revealed, he would put the troublesome matter aside and leave the bones to crumble into the dust of forgetfulness where it belonged.

As they neared the parlor, Christine heard one distinct voice, high and excited, coming from within.

"What the devil…" the Maestro muttered beneath his breath.

He increased his pace, and Christine hurried to follow. At the parlor entrance, she noticed all the guests were gathered in one spot of the room, their attention riveted to the young girl in a white dress studded with red rosettes, her black leather-patented feet planted firmly atop a wooden chair. With hands widespread, she addressed her captive audience like a carnival barker enticing the crowds with mysteries hidden, as yet unknown.

"…and it is on that terrible night, when the moon glows orange like the fires of hell, the monster of the harvest seeks out little children whom he might devour. He creeps about…" - She raised her hands above her head, claw-like, a sneer twisting her pretty little mouth - "slinking in the shadows. Those who see him and his monstrous face become paralyzed with fear, like living statues. And then, when his victim cannot even scream, their breath dying in their throats, the Harvest Monster bares his sharp teeth and –"

"ADRIENNE – That will be enough!"

The sharp command came from Christine's right. She and everyone else looked with surprise at the Master of Thornfield. What could be seen of his face was drawn and white, his eyes blazing a furnace of repressed anger.

The child froze, her expression wide and uncertain, even afraid. "Maestro," she said, her tone one of defensive apology, "I wasn't allowed to come downstairs and entertain your guests last night and thought you wouldn't mind if I did so tonight." Her words ended on a less than hopeful question.

"I do mind. Go to your room, Adrienne," he bit out on the razor-edge of impatient civility.

"Oh, but –"

"Now!"

With her lower lip visibly quivering, Adrienne jumped down off the chair and sped from the parlor. A tense, awkward silence followed as the flummoxed guests looked back and forth among one another and at their irate host.

"If you will excuse me," he snapped with a curt nod and turned on his heel, taking the corridor opposite of the direction Adrienne fled.

"Well! What was that all about?" Carlotta huffed. "I thought the child deed well, born to take the stage one day. Though the legend, itself, ees rather horrid."

Christine blamed her own lack of diligence to prevent this. She had known of Adrienne's intended form of entertainment, having visited her room the previous night. Nor did she fail to realize the subject matter of both play and legend revolved around a beast with a monstrous face. Surely, it should be obvious to all gathered here why the Maestro was upset. Did they fail to notice he never went without a mask nor guess at the reason? And yet, only she had been privy to his utter disgust with the tale, in particular that one scene, so perhaps his guests truly did not understand his sensitivity to the subject.

He did seem more upset than the matter warranted," Meg hesitantly agreed, addressing her words to her mother. Meg then looked at Christine. "That legend reminded me of the frightful tale that one of the stagehands likes to scare all the ballet rats with, that of the Opera Ghost. His face could certainly belong to the Harvest Monster."

"Meg," Madame Giry scolded softly. "That will be enough. Buquet is a foolish little man and not worth the bother to listen to. Whatever reason the Maestro has for not wishing his ward to entertain is his business alone."

"But you have to agree," Meg argued, "the similarities are there."

"Phantom! Phantom! Phantom! Can I not get a moment's peace without talk of that hor-eeble troublemaker?" Carlotta nearly screeched. "I left Paris to get away from the Ghost. Must we talk about him now?" She looked toward Raoul, who sat in a chair to her right. "Do you not agree, Vicomte?"

But Raoul paid no attention to the brash woman, his eyes fixed on Christine. She fidgeted under his keen gaze, not exactly impolite but definitely interested. A fact that did not escape Carlotta's notice as she narrowed her eyes at Christine.

"Won't you sit down, mademoiselle?" he asked, making as if to get up and give Christine his chair, though there was another near the piano a short distance from where she stood.

"No thank you, Vicomte. I should see to Adrienne," she said, more for an excuse to escape a discussion she didn't understand and had no part of than a need to search out the girl. The nurse, Elita, would see to the child's comfort, but Christine wanted to make sure Adrienne was alright. She also wished to know if the Maestro was well and what had vexed him so fiercely to strike out at Adrienne – (was it only the legend's mention of a monstrous face?) – but she curbed the surprisingly strong impulse to turn down the corridor he'd taken and seek him out.

At the head of the stairs, she felt prickles run up her spine, sensing that someone watched her. Quickly she turned her head to look over her shoulder. The corridor was empty, as always, this not being the first occasion she felt she wasn't alone.

Shaking off the niggling apprehension in all likelihood brought on due to the strain of this day, indeed all this past week, she resumed her swift pace. The child was in her playroom, sitting on the turret's window seat and holding her new doll close. Morosely she stared out the clear pane. The nurse hovered near the girl and looked up when Christine entered, a welcome smile on her lips as she moved toward Christine.

"I am happy you are here," she said in an undertone of fractured French, "I must tend to something. Will you stay with her?"

"Of course." Christine directed the words toward Elita while never taking her eyes off the sulking Adrienne. The child chose not to acknowledge Christine's presence. At Lindenwood, if a young girl were to behave so surly, she would be punished. As a teacher there, Christine never employed such stern, even cruel methods for obedience, always asking herself what Miss Talbot might have done. She relied on that method now.

"Are you alright, Adrienne?" she asked gently. When she received no response, save for a sad little sniffle, she tried again, "I know you didn't mean to make the Maestro angry."

"He hates me!" The girl turned teary dark eyes her way. "He wishes me gone - perhaps even dead!"

"Adrienne!" Stunned by the child's dramatic outburst, Christine mollified, "I am most certain that is not true."

"It is," the girl insisted, sticking out her lower lip and hugging her doll close. "He teaches me to sing but is never happy when he hears me. That is the only time he wants me near him. He doesn't like me and is always ordering me to go away."

Christine understood her pain, having once been a child neglected and unloved, but pointed out one indisputable fact. "If the Maestro did not care for you, he wouldn't give you pretty things that make you happy. He would never have gifted you with that doll you're holding and given you other little fancies of your heart. No one who truly despises a child would do all that."

Adrienne seemed to consider. She shifted around fully to face Christine and buried her chin in the doll's gold tufted curls. "He never wants to be in the same room with me," she repeated despondently. "He's always leaving Thornfield, and he won't come to see our play!"

All truths Christine could not contradict. Recalling Signora Giudicelli's absurd demand to incorporate her voice into the performance as well as the Maestro's extreme sensitivity to the subject of his masked face, she tried another approach. "Perhaps, if we were to change the content of the presentation, perhaps, he might change his mind and attend."

"Change Shakespeare's story?" Adrienne curiously mulled over the idea. "But the Maestro says history cannot be changed; it cannot alter the course of the present, and there's no reason to try."

Having learned an infinitesimal part of his tragic childhood, that small bit heartbreaking, Christine sensed the Maestro's words went far deeper than a child of ten could understand. Nor did she seem to discern the actual concept of the message.

"Mademoiselle Giry told me that in the theatre they often tweak things to change parts of the presentation that did not work as expected or were not received well by the audience. We will do the same."

Adrienne awarded her with the flicker of a smile. "We can do that? It will be alright?"

"I don't see why not." Spotting one of the librettos on the table, Christine snatched it up and turned to the offending page. "And the first place I think we should tweak is here."

She handed the girl the pages and pointed to the area.

"But that part is funny!" Adrienne complained.

"It is never humorous to mock another living soul, for any reason. It is unkind. What seems comical to you might wound someone else's heart and injure feelings."

"Like the Maestro," the girl softly pondered. "That's who you meant, isn't it? I wouldn't want to hurt his feelings…"

The child was more astute than Christine first gave her credit for.

"I think, perhaps, if we eliminate that scene and put something else there, perhaps a song, it would please the Maestro and he might be persuaded to attend the play. There are no guarantees, mind you, but we can try. Are you willing?"

Adrienne nodded and for the first time smiled. "Can we start tonight?"

In light of all that had happened, Meg would understand the need to postpone their meeting a little longer. "Of course, but only until the call for supper."

With the turbulent waters again peaceful, at least at this end of the manor, Adrienne was her usual cheery self and mostly cooperative as they passed the minutes with edits to the play, along with the inclusion of Carlotta's song, the choice of aria to be left up to the diva. When suppertime came, Christine left Adrienne with her nurse, assuring the girl they would resume edits the following day.

At dinner, the Maestro did not make an appearance, and Christine took her initial place at the foot of the table, allowing Carlotta her reign near its head. Truthfully, she could care less where she sat and was more concerned with the condition of the Maestro's mind and heart and why he chose to be absent. Meg took a seat beside Christine, attempting to capture her wandering attention with conversation of the theatre and the play as they dined, but the Master of Thornfield was ever present in Christine's thoughts.

Not until the next day, after she dismissed Adrienne from her lessons with the promise that they would work on the libretto that evening, was Christine's curiosity at last satisfied.

She descended to the main floor, with the intent to join Meg, but as she approached the last bend of the staircase, Christine noticed the Maestro waiting on the landing, his golden-green eyes looking up at her. She could not define their expression from this distance, giving no hint to his mood, only that they were intense…and determined.

She trembled slightly and had to force concentration to make it safely down the remainder of steps and not stumble.

"Mademoiselle," he greeted, inclining his head with a little nod, "grab your cloak. Now that the weather has finally cleared, there is somewhere I wish to take you."

Not a polite invitation but a direct command, as was his wont. In no position to refuse, she little more than his hireling, Christine found that she welcomed his company and did not wish to ask permission to excuse herself, no matter that she was a bit wary of his motive and apprehensive of his mystery. There was nothing more to conceal – he now knew her wretched little secret – and with a clear conscience, Christine nodded and hurried to fetch her cloak.

xXx

(A/N: I wonder where Erik is taking her… any ideas…? ;-) Thank you for all your wonderful feedback. It is always much appreciated.)