A/N: Thank you all for your reviews and encouragement! :) So glad you guys are enjoying this! And now for a chapter many of you have been waiting to see unfold …

XIX

.

The confident relief Christine felt with the Maestro's instruction to join him dissolved like morning dew the further the carriage rolled from Thornfield. She had followed him outdoors, without question, and slid onto a seat inside the closed conveyance that stood waiting near the manor entrance, the Maestro taking the seat opposite.

They had traveled for what must amount to minutes, though he had yet to give an explanation for his command of her presence, and minutes stretched into a lifetime. His gaze remained fixed outside the window, conversation non-existent. Likewise she watched the passing landscape, not daring to glance his way, fearful that any unwanted interest would be the spur to a tempest of irate words. She well remembered his tirade against Adrienne's uncle for acting against his orders.

The Maestro had not told Christine to gather her baggage, so she felt fairly certain he wasn't delivering her to town and a stagecoach there, washing his hands of further use of her services. He had been furious with Adrienne's spontaneous recital of the foolish tale, but Christine didn't think he blamed her for the child's rash performance. He didn't seem the type to dismiss her in silence, without a vociferous display of his annoyance, and certainly he wouldn't accompany her in his coach to be rid of her… No, he would order his driver to cart her away then turn his back on her, at once forgetting her existence.

Weary of the mystery, Christine surreptitiously wrung her hands in her skirts, nervously waiting and wondering and fretting what this carriage ride was all about.

The tall curtain of trees soon fell away to give a panoramic view of the tumultuous sea, a short distance from the cliff over which they traveled. It seemed to spread out forever, reaching to infinity, at one with the gray horizon. Christine's eyes widened to see the white-capped waves raked and tossed about as if Poseidon stood beneath in a vengeance, the screech of circling gulls overhead calling out a warning to all mortals within the vicinity. The sight both chilled and amazed her, and she wished for her sketchbook and charcoal to attempt to capture such a sight to paper. So enthralled were her senses, she forgot her unease about the cryptic outing.

"Isn't it stunning?" she turned eager eyes his way, wishing she had not spoken when she saw the dour expression on the unmasked part of his face.

His eyes were intent on the choppy waters, a displeased frown turning down the corners of his mouth, and he gave a brisk little shake of his head as if refusing an unwelcome thought that came to mind. She quickly looked back out to sea before he could turn his head to catch her eyes upon him.

"Stunning?" His belated reply came low, equal parts curious and amused, and relieved her enough to form a response.

"Beautiful, in a dark and turbulent, fierce sort of way… No doubt you find that foolish."

"Only intrigued that you can find beauty in what others perceive as ugliness."

"You find it ugly?"

"Perhaps dismal is a better word - but no less magnificent. 'Stunning,' as you say."

A smile ticked the edges of her lips, and she voiced her earlier desire. "I wish I had my sketchbook."

"Have you given up creating with paint?" He sounded displeased with the prospect.

"No, I anticipate visiting the gazebo again when the weather permits. But there is little color to be seen here."

"You disappoint me, mademoiselle. Where there is any source of light, even in the minutest form, there is color. Only absolute darkness repels what the light captures. Look closer."

Christine turned her focus back to the sea, eyeing the view more attentively. Silver laced the dark green water, a froth of pearlescent foam lining the crest of choppy waves. The storm clouds that filled the distant sky varied in myriad shades of tone, from threatening slate to soft, powder gray, with the faintest hint of peaceful blue reassuring of better days to come.

"Yes, yes I see it now," she agreed in quiet excitement.

"One sometimes must look carefully at the entire picture to find true potential."

No more was said as the drive continued and the road forked, the turn taking them away from the sea. Christine's thoughts again revolved to worry as she pondered the reason and destination for this outing. Having rejected the wretched idea that she was dismissed and he was taking her forever from Thornfield, she toyed with the notion that this somehow involved Adrienne, though if so, it was odd the child had not come with them.

Once the carriage finally rolled to a stop, Christine had knotted herself into a jangle of tight nerves. He stepped out ahead of her and offered a hand down. Nervously she accepted his help, leading with her right foot, newly healed but still tender, and almost collapsing as the sole of her boot slammed against a rock.

His large gloved hands caught her about the waist when she staggered against him and held motionless a moment before releasing her. Likewise she slipped her hand from his shoulder where she'd sought balance, her heart pounding beneath her cloak. Her face rosy with warmth from the graceless move, she did not look at him but focused beyond, her eyes widening at the sight of closed iron gates, beyond which stood weathered crosses, some leaning to the side as if carelessly placed.

"You…you brought me to a cemetery?"

"It does not seem familiar to you?" A hint of disappointment laced his voice.

"I've only ever been to one," she answered quietly, looking to each side of the gate and noting the twin hooded statues that towered and faced the gravestones. Covered in thick twining ivy that had not been tended for years, they had at first escaped her notice. Many of the trees nearby were gowned in shades of scarlet, gold and bronze, some nearly denuded of their leaves – not newly budded like that day – but her pulse raced on the edge of sudden awareness.

Could it be…?

She walked numbly, as if brought under a spell, and put her hand to the latch of the gate. He did nothing to stop her when she walked into the cemetery with a nervous sort of hope and down the main center path caked with half-dried mud, barely aware that he followed.

It had been so long, she'd been no more than six, and Christine could barely recall the direction to take, only the brutal emotion of that day. After walking past countless headstones with unknown names and pithy epitaphs, the unkempt rows going far into the distance, she stopped and shook her head fretfully.

"I don't know where to look," she whispered sadly to herself then realized during her concentrated efforts, the Maestro had slipped away, and she stood alone. She doubted he would bring her here only to abandon her and refused to dwell on the beastly thought, instead renewing her search for endless minutes.

"Mademoiselle!"

In relief, she swung her gaze to the direction of his low, resonant voice. At the beckoning of his hand, she continued down the trail and turned at a grassy path to join him where he stood near a slim maple tree. A statue of an angel, hands brought forward in prayer, stood waist-high near its trunk. She followed its empty gaze to a simple and small headstone covered in brambles, the name partially seen.

"Papa," she breathed through trembling lips, her eyes tearing up as she sank heavy to her knees to sit on her legs, her black skirts ballooning around her. Unmindful of the thorns, she hastily worked to pull choking vines away from the granite, wincing when one stabbed the pad of her thumb. The Maestro abruptly lowered himself down beside her and pulled at the prickly overgrowth with his gloved hands, nudging her bare, unprotected fingers aside.

Once the headstone was cleared, the tears slid heedless down her cheeks, hot and slow, her heart brimming with bittersweet regret. She sensed the Maestro again slip away and was grateful for this time alone to be near her father, the first she'd been given since his untimely death.

She pressed gentle fingertips that trembled against the mean engraving of letters that spelled out the stark name 'Gustave Daaé', with nothing more following than the year of his death. Not even the year of his birth had been inscribed in the stone, and she realized her aunt probably never knew it nor cared to make inquiries.

"Oh, Papa," she pleaded, her voice coated with tears. "Why did this have to happen? Why did you leave me? Why did cruel fate bring us to this point?"

Questions all without answers, but they trickled past her lips regardless. A poem that Mademoiselle Talbot once received from a gifted friend and shared with Christine came to mind, and she murmured the words beneath her breath:

"My life closed twice before its close—
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me

So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell."

Her eyes fell shut, the tears slipping past her lashes and down cold cheeks.

Once, when her Papa died and she'd been sent to Greenwich Hall, her heart had shut tight, her life feeling as if it seeped away...

Once, when she was made a prisoner of Lindenwood, her spirit had been wrenched from her through punishments endured, and she had known true loneliness...

She shuddered to think what a third calamity would cause her to suffer. Perhaps fate would be kind for once and when her life next closed, it would be final and she would know heaven and be reunited with Papa.

She remained motionless as memories became both friends and tormentors, bittersweet. Uncertain how much time passed as she ruminated on the extent of her life, she was startled out of her thoughts when a handful of autumn wildflowers came into her line of vision. She followed the elegant hand up the dark sleeve and to the masked face of its bearer. He regarded her with a gentleness she had seen twice before, when he lent aid in her suffering.

"I thought you might like these to leave as a tribute."

"Yes, thank you."

She took the posy of blue and lilac asters with a grateful smile at his unexpected thoughtfulness and carefully laid them before the stark headstone, bringing a little beauty to the drab memorial. "I must go now, Papa, but I promise to come again soon."

Accepting the Maestro's offered hand, she struggled to her feet, coming to stand a short distance before him. She felt suddenly breathless as she looked up into his eyes behind the mask, more golden than green on this overcast day and full of an emotion she could not name.

"Should you wish to take the carriage to visit again, you have only to tell my driver," he said, breaking the new silence. He released her hand and lightly took her by the arm above the elbow, steering her back toward the gates.

His generosity touched her heart but she deferred, "Oh, but I couldn't! What if you have need of it while it's in my use?"

"I heard you speak of your intent to visit again. What do you plan to do, walk?" he asked wryly.

"Well, no…" she hedged.

She had no wish to be an imposition. Yet what else could she do? She certainly couldn't walk from the manor to the cemetery. Judging from the carriage ride, it would take the entire afternoon to get there on foot and even if she made the visit to his grave short, she wouldn't be back to Thornfield before dark!

"It is a rare occasion I take the carriage," he assured. "I prefer to ride Cesar."

"That beastly black stallion?" Aware that she had just criticized his choice of horse, she shook her head and stumbled over her next words. "That was rude. I didn't mean to speak harshly."

He chuckled. "You spoke in truth, mademoiselle. Cesar is quite formidable, but to those who seek to know him well, he can achieve the docility of a lamb."

A perfect complement to his master then...

Recalling their first encounter on the moonlit road, she found his assessment of the horse difficult to fathom, but then, she would never have ascribed tenderness as a trait to the frightful rider she had first compared to the Headless Horseman of lore.

Indeed, her estimation of the Maestro had changed a great deal since that night...

As they approached the gates and the looming twin statues that flanked them, another realization hit her with force, the earlier surprise of their destination having caused her not to consider it before. When she traveled to Lindenwood by wagon as a small child, the arduous journey seemed to go on forever though it took half a day – the same amount of time it had taken to arrive to Thornfield by coach. The knowledge had not filtered into her mind weeks ago, certainly she'd had no idea that she had retraced her path of so many years past – but to be within the vicinity of the same town?!

She came to a sudden halt as the enormity of the truth came clear to her.

He turned to her in confusion. "Why did you stop?" He looked at her more closely, noting her profound shock. "Are you alright, mademoiselle?"

"It's only that – something just occurred to me. Have you... have you heard of a place called Greenwich Hall?" The title of the house that had been to her a chamber of horrors she remembered, but she'd been too young to recall the name of the town.

"On my return from Paris two years ago, I read of the matriarch's death. As I do not conform to social niceties, I am not acquainted with those who dwell there."

"I see." She felt faint with the knowledge that the Maestro knew of the place – that she had been so close, all this time… "I…I think I should tell you…" Christine turned from his keen gaze, focusing on the gates as they resumed their walk to the carriage. "'Those who dwell there,' the matriarch who died – was my aunt. Greenwich Hall was my home for almost a year."

She darted a glance his way to gauge his reaction. He only nodded, his mouth grim, as if he already knew the facts. After what she'd revealed to him of her past, it was unsurprising that he had pieced together the knowledge. After all, he had brought her to visit her father's grave, so must have known her childhood dwelling was close.

Her heart began to pound with the request she had yet to make, one she felt uncertain would be wise or foolish.

"I wonder if, perhaps...if it isn't any trouble…" She hesitated, not so much dreading his reaction, but uncertain of her motive or if she had the courage to air the words.

"Yes?" he prodded when she kept silent.

"I should like to visit there. Perhaps take your offer of the carriage. Another day, of course. I don't wish to infringe any further upon your time."

"Have you heard my complaint?" he asked, a soft bite to his words. "I will take you there, mademoiselle, if you are certain you wish to go."

"Yes," she said quietly, but her answer lacked the confidence and resolve needed to convince even herself.

Once they returned to the waiting carriage, he offered her his hand, and though at any other time she could manage the short step up she was grateful as numb as her senses now felt. The Maestro instructed his driver then retook his seat in silence. Christine wasn't sure if she felt more ill at ease during his earlier disinterest or in this present situation, with his keen, glowing eyes that never wavered from her face.

x

Throughout the drive, Christine twisted her hands in her lap, averting her gaze to the window, new qualms plaguing her thoughts. After a time, the carriage turned and rolled up an incline. Much sooner than she would have supposed, they again rolled to a stop. She jolted to attention, turning her gaze to the opposite window and the house of gables that loomed there, their sharp triangular edges portending doom, though for Christine, it had been no mere suggestion. Certainly Greenwich Hall wasn't as large or imposing as Thornfield, but she could not shake the unease that gripped her at the sight of it.

In her memory's eye of a vulnerable and frightened child, the edifice had been a monstrosity of a place that went on forever, though she'd often felt closed in and suffocated within its gloomy corridors. A dark structure of wood, with three brick chimneys, all its windows were barred by closed curtains refusing to admit the outside light. Her eyes lifted to the topmost gable, beyond which the attic room stood, and she noted the window that she clawed open that terrible night had been boarded shut.

The house loomed before them, as if warning her to stay away, while the ghosts of yesteryear's taunts invaded her thoughts:

You are nothing but a poor orphaned waif! No one wants you here…

Touch my things again and you'll get more than a slap on the face…!

Stop your sniveling, you irksome girl. Your father was a fool and certainly not worth crying over…

You are no canary, do you hear? Your wheedling song is a tool of the devil and I'll not have it in my house…

There is no Angel of Music, you stupid child...

You will never amount to anything. You're plain as paint and dumb as a cow…

If not for my generosity, you would be in a work house and perished within a year…

The Harvest Monster seeks out stupid little girls to devour – you will make a tasty treat…!

Your father erred in your training and lack of discipline. It is my duty to amend that. You shall remain locked in this room until you can learn to be grateful for what you are given…

Christine Daaé, you will be punished severely for this!

Courage seeped away with each ghostly remembrance, until Christine could take no more.

"Monsieur, please tell the driver to return to Thornfield. It was a mistake to come here."

Her voice came out almost panicked, soaked in her childish fears, and in shame she looked away from his intent eyes, wishing she also had a mask behind which to hide.

"You are certain you wish to leave?" he asked quietly.

"Yes."

Her aunt had passed on from this life to reap God's judgment, but surely her two beastly cousins were still in residence. And though to her disgust it made her into a coward, she could not face them. Not now. Maybe not ever…

Christine felt so steeped in the bitter past, she was barely aware once the wheels of the carriage resumed to roll, taking them back the way they'd come. This time it was the Maestro's sudden pounding on the roof that startled her from morbid thoughts.

They came to a slow, jarring stop, and to her confusion, he exited the coach, immediately turning to assist her. "There is something I wish to show you before we return to Thornfield," he said by way of explanation.

They had come back to the road that ran alongside the cliff by the sea. Puzzled, Christine took in the wide vista of greens, grays and white that made up water and sky before she accepted his help to the ground.

The wind blew fiercer here, and when he moved closer to the edge, staring down into monstrous waves that crashed against the rocks far beneath, she hesitated a moment before joining him. One glance downward to where his attention was fixed made her hug herself tightly beneath her cloak and step back a safe distance, rubbing her hands up and down her sleeves in an attempt to provide more warmth. The chill of the moist air wasn't all that put a shiver in her soul. Why had they stopped here, especially when it appeared as if a storm was blowing inland?

Christine turned her gaze from the far-reaching sea to anxiously study the Maestro's profile where he remained in silence scant feet away but too near the edge for comfort. As was his custom, he held himself tall and elegant, his manner aloof and formidable. She stood on the side not covered by his half mask, but it failed to matter. His expression of stone gave nothing away, his face unflinching. She sensed more than saw that his mind was embroiled in thoughts that gave him no pleasure.

"It was here," he began so suddenly that she jumped slightly at the shock of his deep timbre, "that I heard an angel's voice."

"An angel?" she responded, uncertain of his state of mind. Surely he did not mean a true angel…

"I was barely a man, little more than a boy, when I came home to Thornfield and left that same night," he continued, ignoring her tentative query. He opened his mouth to say more, but momentarily paused as if struggling with what to say. "I was heavy of heart, without the will to live to see another sunrise when I arrived to this spot, ready to throw myself down to those rocks. I would have followed through and allowed my misery to engulf and destroy me, if not for an Angel's song barely heard in the still night…"

He turned to her then, his enigmatic golden eyes no longer fixed upon the sea but on her. They glimmered with gentleness and esteem, a wet shine to them hinting at a vulnerability rarely glimpsed.

"The Angel who saved me was you."

She blinked in stunned disbelief. "B-but how is that possible?" Her small voice was barely heard above the distant crash of waves beneath their feet.

"It was the night of the harvest moon. From what I have pieced together, on that same night you were imprisoned in the attic, where in your solitude you did what gives you comfort from your fears. You sang from your heart…"

Christine felt so bewildered, she could think of no hollow excuse to refute his insightful words. Could barely breathe and only stare with eyes wide and lips faintly parted. His gloved hand moved into her line of vision, and she felt a frisson of shock that evolved into a trail of electrifying tingles when his fingertips gently stroked along her temple, to tuck behind her ear the tendrils of curls that blew into her face with the shift of the wind.

"You are the angel of that night," he said again, loud enough so that his words could be heard above the sea. "Your sweet voice drifted to me from there," he motioned with his hand beyond her, but she was so compelled by his eyes, she did not look away from them. "The house on the distant hill from whence an angel sang…"

The Maestro's voice came both confident in his certainty and awed by the revelation. He had presumed the truth all along, of course, ever since he confronted her in the forest clearing. Yet to see the verity of the matter unveil before his eyes sent his emotions on an uneven keel, and he made the request he held slim hope for, desperate to make it so.

"Sing for me," he half ordered, half beseeched her.

"No!" Anxiety creased her brow and she took a step back as if to escape. "No, I couldn't!"

"We both know you can and very well, that you have indulged in the pleasure while in your solitude. I ask that you share your talent with me, here, away from all others. That you allow me to hear your song again."

"It is no talent, monsieur, not when it causes so much sorrow and pain. My voice is a curse."

He chuckled without humor. "A curse? Then you believe that saving my life was without honor? Something you have come to regret?"

"What?" She looked at him incredulously. "No, of course not. But what does coming to your aid in the fire have to do with this?"

"My God, woman, have you not been listening?!" He closed the distance with a hasty step and grasped her firmly by the shoulders. "Have those puritanical fiends of hypocrisy so addled your mind with their lies and envy that you cannot conceive the truth? I stood on the edge that night, ready to throw myself to my death – when you filled my ears with your song, the song of an Angel. It gave me hope and the will to step away from that cliff, to attempt to carry on with what life I had left. If not for you, I would not be here today. You, Christine, are my savior. Your song gave me hope and sent my spirit to soar."

"I…" Her eyes widened more with each emphatic sentence he spoke. "…did that…?"

With the barest hint of a smile, he nodded. "Yes. You have been given a voice to accompany angels and silence demons. I am but a flawed and unworthy mortal, yet it would give me the greatest pleasure to hear you sing again. Please, do not deny me that honor."

Christine shook her head a little in confusion, trying to equate his hopeful, impossible words with the many demeaning ones she'd heard all her life, since memory first visited her as a small child. His voice, his expression was so sincere, his eyes gentle and pleading for her surrender …

"I …don't know if I can," she admitted, terrified by the prospect of singing for an audience, even of one - a far cry from the little girl who entertained the many passersby while Papa played his violin. Yet those days were so long ago, a cloudy memory vague in detail, nearly a dream... The driver was also there, though he seemed unconcerned with the proceedings, trained not to interfere in his master's business.

What was she thinking?!

"I will stand over there," the Maestro persisted, moving beyond her and out of eyesight. "Look out to sea and pretend you are alone."

Pretend? But how could she pretend, when she sensed him with every breath, sensed his presence whenever he was near…and when he wasn't, longed to feel him with her.

Christine closed her eyes to the forbidden thoughts that visited often of late. The Maestro had been the sole person on this earth to encourage her song, save for her Papa. Papa had delighted in hearing her sing, and she had happily given into every one of his requests. Never had she thought she would meet another person in this world who would want the same thing from her…never had she felt such an …affinity with a man, made even stronger with his tragic disclosure. For her, the night of the Harvest moon had been one of dread and loneliness and suffering, but in her troubles she had unknowingly reached out to his hurting soul with the balm of her song and saved him from death.

Her voice…

Not evil…not poisonous to the spirit – but a saving grace.

The lock that held her back, fastening the musical secret deep within her being where no one could find it, slowly unhinged at the remarkable knowledge. The last time she had shared her voice with another had been a few furtive stanzas to a dying child when Christine was little more than a child herself. But suddenly, to sing in this moment mattered just as much. Even more…

Nerves made her tremble, cutting off the breath in her throat that gave power to her voice, and she forced herself to relax and unclench clammy fists that hung down by her sides. She was fearful to note his reaction, mindful that she wasn't as skilled or practiced as he thought, but felt both anxious and eager to give him what he asked.

He had heard her recently, absent of her knowledge; was this really so different now that she was aware?

And in that calming reminder, the notes at last came forth, a tremor at first, but softly gaining in strength as she sang with hopeful behest to the Angel of Music…

x

Erik stood, dumbfounded, as he remained a few steps behind and watched Christine. Her voice held the purest tone, begging to be shaped and molded to rich finesse. She lacked the expertise achieved only through serious training, but the potential was there, shining brilliant as an uncut gemstone that peeked through imprisoning rock ready to be chipped away. Silently he moved alongside her, to hear better, grateful to note that her eyes were closed and she was undisturbed by his sudden nearness.

She sang the song of the Angel, the same he'd heard on the night of the Harvest Moon and never forgotten. Even years later, upon his return to France, the long-ago melody inspired him to pick out its notes on the two instruments he frequently played and piece them together in a melody that soothed his fractured heart and overburdened mind.

Now, the music stood before him - not an ethereal voice drifting in the night sky without substance, but coming from within the form of a demure young woman possessing a pure soul as fettered as his black one. Possessing a voice fashioned in hope that made him forget…

And caught up in the sweet strain of notes, once more he did.

She stood unaware of his silent approach, her eyes still closed as the final strains of the mellifluous song floated from her lips. Not until the last crystalline breath filtered between them did he act. With one gloved finger beneath her chin, he gently turned her face toward him. Her eyes popped open wide at his unexpected touch, but she did not recoil; nor did he resist.

"Your voice is liquid gold," he whispered, "a treasure to the senses. I am grateful for your gift."

Never in his lifetime had Erik kissed a woman, though the desire visited in the past, but not so strongly as it did now. Unable to prevent himself, he leaned in slowly but before he could make the desired contact, held his head motionless, taking careful note of her response. Had she stepped back or given the slightest deterrent to the liberty he boldly took, he would likewise retreat and ignore the slight, fully expecting her rejection.

It stunned him when she did not shy away - instead moving her face a fraction closer across the distance he had laid…

It was hardly a kiss...the soft press of lips made awkward with the slight bump of his mask against her nose, followed by the exchange of gasps, her breath warm against his mouth…over before it could truly begin, with little resemblance to the suave gentleman he had hoped to present himself as, in the many long years he'd dreamt of such a moment.

Yet the shine in her dark eyes and the pounding of his heart told him this was no mistake …

While his conscience accused his black soul and berated his reckless audacity.

xXx

A/N: Hope this chapter lived up to your expectations! :) It is one of several I have anticipated writing for well over a year- lol ...Kudos to Child of Dreams, Badpixie06, Elucidinian, and O Desperado Sweetie O who got the destination of Erik's outing right - (Wasn't that fun? :))… the poem used is by Emily Dickinson – her works were not published until decades after this story takes place, (posthumously, after her death), but in researching, it did say that while she lived she was known to regularly enclose her poems in letters to friends – and so, for my story, Mademoiselle Talbot was a good friend. ;-)

Be sure and frequently refer to my profile to see what chapter of what story is coming next - and thank you to everyone. Haven't always been able to respond to each review personally, as I prefer to do - but know that I appreciate every one of them and you!