A/N: Finally, another chapter - hope you enjoy another long-awaited moment! ;-) Thank you for the reviews…

And now…

Previously: Erik again leaves Thornfield, leaving instructions with others of the staff for Christine but not speaking directly to her, which confuses and frustrates her. One of the messages is that she is to oversee Adrienne's uncle's visit, and she is shocked that he has allowed it. While there, she meets the amiable Nadir Kahn, who proves to be an interesting source of information about the Maestro. In her room later, she finds a telling bouquet of flowers from her employer, again spotlighting her voice and that she sing. Christine plays tit for tat, using Adrienne's next lesson to plan her own message in flowers to him, which goes awry when he returns and tells her what they really mean. Again he challenges her to discover the remainder of the mystery regarding him and solve his riddle, and that night in her room, Christine tries to do just that - arriving to a conclusion she immediately forsakes...

Chapter XXIV

.

Another full week passed without sight or sound of the Maestro.

Through offhand comments made by Madame Fairfax and others of the staff, Christine knew he still resided on the premises and had not escaped Thornfield once again, to do whatever he did while away from the estate.

Neither did Adrienne's Uncle Lorenzo make an appearance or send word, to the distress of the child who walked about glumly, showing little interest in her lessons and responding with all the tragic aplomb of one of her melodramatic heroines - certain that either a grave disaster had befallen her uncle or he simply had lost all interest in Adrienne.

Christine had experienced reservations in allowing more than one meeting between them in the month since he arrived, but reassured by Monsieur Kahn, who had also been at every one of those three meetings, she had allowed it, since the Maestro had not been in residence to ask. Then, too, she anticipated learning more about the Maestro through his friend's anecdotes of times spent with him and was not disappointed. It seemed he also had the remarkable skill of ventriloquism; after hearing what that entailed, Christine felt she understood how he had communicated with the gypsy for his idea of a 'proper sendoff' to his guests.

However, with regard to Adrienne, Christine now wondered if she had been remiss to allow those meetings.

Looking up from her sketchbook, she pensively stared out the window directly facing the sofa-bench on which she sat, taking note of the shadowed thicket and darkening sky that all day had portended gloom and now heralded the oncoming night. Scattered showers off and on since she had awakened that morning, like needles of ice, made it evident that she would not be able to escape to her hideaway on the morrow, and soon the weather would be much too cold to visit the fairy-gazebo for any length of time at all.

She let out a world-weary sigh of disappointment that she might not be able to finish her painting until the spring. Insofar that she managed to keep her position and did not anger the master, that is. Within the short time she had been at Thornfield, two of the maids had been replaced, and from Madame Fairfax's words, such was not uncommon when he was in residence. Madame, the most esteemed member of staff there, who had lived at the chateau the longest - born into servitude within the Rochester family - even confided that on occasion she felt she had been close to receiving the axe.

"Why so desolate, Mademoiselle? What gives you such distress?"

The sudden nearness of his voice when she had not heard his approach made Christine start violently, the abrupt action knocking her sketchbook to the floor and scattering those loose pages that had lain on top.

She bent fruitlessly to retrieve them, managing to snatch up her sketchbook and two of the pages, but the Maestro had already swooped in to collect one of the papers that had fluttered beyond her reach.

"Thank you," she said, holding her hand out for it and hoping he would not look too closely. Would not look at all…

Of course, her wish came in vain.

He scanned the sheet from top to bottom, his jaw clenching and eyes narrowing as he handed her back the page.

"Thank you," she said again, her voice a wisp when she noticed what it was. Had he seen? Surely he could not have read all the lines so quickly. "Really, that's not necessary," she tried to stop him when he went for another piece of parchment and turned it over in his hand.

Her breath drew in sharply when she saw it - her foolish sketch of his face, unmasked... with the thick black mark she had accidentally slashed across the whole of it after being startled by his knock at her door that frightful night of the harvest moon.

His mouth compressed into a thin white line beneath the black mask.

"I…" Her mind failed her with what to say. She could think of no words, no excuse and helplessly shook her head.

His eyes, like fiery coals, snapped up to hers.

"Yes? You wish to explain?"

Thoroughly ashamed, unable to meet his intent gaze, she lowered her timid one, eyes downcast.

He shot up to stand to his feet, towering over her, the betraying paper still in his hand.

"Right. But then, explanations are unnecessary. A picture does paint a thousand words." He crumpled the sketch in his hand and stalked away, to the door of the parlor.

The Maestro's abrupt departure spurred her thoughts back into motion and clutching her sketchbook to her chest, she ignored the two inconsequential pages that still lay on the floor and whirled around to see that he had reached the door. With a vicious sideways thrust he hurled the crumpled paper far from him and exited the chamber.

Heart pounding fast, Christine hesitated only a moment. She thought of ignoring the discarded art - but then a maid might find it and see what it contained.

Hurriedly, she snatched up the proof of her wretched curiosity from the gleaming tiles and also quit the room. She turned her head to the right and saw him, already a good distance down the corridor. Clutching up the hem of her skirts with one hand, she ran to catch up.

"Maestro, please, I meant no harm or disrespect." Her words came a little breathless.

He did not turn or decrease his swift stride and she quickened her steps to follow.

"Please, allow me to explain as you asked of me... please, won't you listen?"

Her pleas fell on deaf ears, the Maestro altogether ignoring her presence, but she continued behind him, not knowing what else to do, soon noting that they approached the library, the place where he conducted his business.

To her shock, he entered and stood aside for her to do the same, finally acknowledging her existence. Christine offered one nervous glance upward to his burning eyes, her heart continuing to race as she swept past and he closed the doors behind them for privacy. Would she now be the recipient of his harsh words, like those who came here before her. Would her wretched thoughtlessness in penning the sketch all those weeks ago now cause her to lose her position at Thornfield?

Of all the horrible things she could have done, she had strayed too close to the one issue that gave him the most pain, though she had never meant him to see it! And she felt almost ill with the knowledge of her trespass.

Standing near the doors, now feeling trapped by her entreaty that he heed her explanation, she watched as he walked to his mahogany desk and bent slightly to spread his hands against its scrolled edge, bracing himself.

Anxiously, Christine waited to learn her fate.

"Are you a woman of your word, Miss Daaé?"

His soft, silken voice was deceiving, the turmoil still felt with the words - words that bewildered for they were so far opposite of what she thought he might say, and it took her a moment to align her mind to his question. Confused, she watched as his hand moved to impatiently snuff out the wicks of three candles burning there between thumb and fingers.

"Monsieur?" Her eyes followed the thin, lazy ribbons of smoke rising toward the high ceiling.

He turned then and eyed her where she still stood across the room.

"Simply put. Despite former incidents of which we are both now made aware, you claim to abhor deceit and the practice of it. Are you a woman of your word?"

Christine struggled to understand how her simple rendering of a sketch with the image of how she thought his face might appear had anything to do with the sin of deceit - but fully acknowledged the former incidents he spoke of must relate to the concealment of her singing voice. In that matter alone she had deceived him. Though she did not really count it as a sin against others, certainly not him, since the matter involved her alone.

"Yes," she said.

He gave a light snort as if uncertain whether to believe her.

"I am a woman of my word," she insisted.

"Come forward. I have no desire to shout across the room to converse with you."

They were hardly shouting, but tentatively she did as instructed at the same time he moved away from the desk and behind it. Instead of taking a seat in his great leonine chair as she thought he would do, he moved to stand in front of the tall window behind it, once more putting his back to her. The action was not unusual save for the fact that the heavy damask curtains stood closed against the approaching darkness. She came to a stop in front of his desk.

"From what you penned, I presume you to have uncovered the mystery?"

She recalled the first page he had picked up containing the list of truths and suppositions she had jotted down.

"I …" She hesitated with what to say. "... have been working on it."

He snorted again, this time in disdain. "Are you so afraid to speak the words?"

"Pardon?"

"The last lines on your paper - read them to me!"

Sensing the resurgence of his ire, she hurried to collect the list from her sketchbook, first smoothing the crumpled paper she still held and tucking it behind the others. She then softly cleared her throat, wishing that she could dislodge the lump there, and read, "When he was a child, the diva saw him at a fair in the city. Other children who saw him there were frightened…" The last came out barely above a breath in her discomfort to read such hurtful things to him that were solely about him.

"No," he said more softly. "The two words beneath."

The muscles of her back tightened with dread. The paper shook in hands that now trembled.

Oh, no. But surely that had been no more than a foolish guess brought on by an even more absurd nightmare…

"Read them to me!"

"Harvest Monster?" she squeaked out the question she had penned beneath her list.

"Harvest Monster," he repeated dully with a slight shake of his head. "Yes. And the contents of that list are all you have uncovered?"

"There is more?"

"It is enough."

She watched with wary shock as slowly he lifted a hand to his face then hesitated. Just as slowly he began to turn, as if fighting some dread instinct not to act - though she was wholly unprepared for what came next.

At last fully facing her he peeled away his mask with the same sluggish movement, his hand visibly shaking.

"Behold, it is I…" His voice came hoarse but determined, mocking but sincere. "The Harvest Monster."

x

Speechless, Christine could not think, could not move, could not breathe, his startling admission as well as his staggering action incomprehensible to all lucid thought.

From where he stood in the windowed alcove, the light of the hearth barely reached, no nearby illumination giving ease by which to see. As such, she could not perceive detail, only a hazy, dim image. Yet it was enough to discern gross malformations that marred the side of his face never seen until now, as well as to hint at discolorations - what little the shadows allowed.

As the fire crackled and the silence stretched, so did his patience, and with a hasty lift of his mask, he replaced it, pulling the band back into place around his head.

Still she said nothing.

"Has your 'tongue frozen in fright' after coming face to face with the monster that you so feared in your childhood?" he sardonically asked, quoting part of the tale. "The beast that many have feared and still do with the fool legend engineered through the callousness of juveniles? Yes, Mademoiselle, your ears do not deceive you - I am that frightful creature of long ago. A tale of horror come to life - can you bear it?"

Bear it? She could hardly take it all in - certainly this night wasn't real! But why then would he say such a thing? Do such a thing? When it was evident the anguish he self-inflicted and endured was genuine.

His mastery of the situation did not alter, his grim determination and firm authority still intact. Yet, though she could not see the fierce emotion in his eyes, she could hear the telltale tremor of it in his voice. Not of anger and disgust, though they were present as well…but of fear. He, himself, feared. What she might say? What she might do …?

And in that realization, her shock began to ebb at the same time her courage returned to her.

"Do you eat small children?"

A tense heartbeat of silence passed between them.

"What?"

Clearly taken aback by her soft question, he stepped forward, the glow from the hearth now lighting his ebony mask and revealing the gold of his eyes. In them she could see a world of pain.

"I asked -"

"I heard you. Do not be absurd."

"I take that as a no then. As you have no sharp claws or teeth, I can assure you, I do not fear you…"

Her courage did not only return, it amplified. Barely aware of her own actions she walked around his desk to stand before him.

"...or your face."

She lifted her free hand toward it. Instantly he seized her wrist.

"I did not reveal myself to you to seek your pity!"

Pensively Christine studied his moist eyes. Eyes that revealed the turmoil writhing within his soul - of pain, of hope, of fear and doubt - and it wrenched her heart to see him thus.

"Will you receive my acceptance?"

He gave a scornful laugh. "Acceptance of the monster?"

"I see only a man."

This time it was he who was rendered speechless, and she watched as his somber gaze searched her face, as if to find an expression there contrary to her words, at last landing and settling on her parted lips. A spark of excitement flickered within when she thought he might kiss her, as he had done twice before, and instinctively she swayed toward him without clear knowledge of doing so. But he only set his other hand to her shoulder and took a step backward, also pushing her slightly away, though he did not release his hold on either her wrist or shoulder.

"Then you deceive only yourself," he replied at last, a catch to his voice. "However, I trust that you will stand by your word given to me."

"What do you mean?" His steady command again sparking her apprehension, she inadvertently tensed and recoiled.

Abruptly he dropped his hands back to his sides and stood tall, domineering, again in full control.

"We had an arrangement, mademoiselle, and you will now fulfill your end of our agreement."

And suddenly Christine understood the reason behind the extraordinary unmasking. He had planned this to force her hand! To force her into what he desired, what she told him never could, never would happen…

She should be outraged, indignant, but could find no such emotions within her heart. Could not define exactly what she did feel. Inwardly she trembled at the idea of what he demanded of her, but neither could she deny the small - very small - glimmer of anticipation that lit her soul with his next words -

"As tomorrow is your day off, I shall expect you in the music chamber at noon for your first lesson. Do not be late. You may go."

Christine did not wait to be told twice. Hugging her sketchbook to her breast, she literally fled from the room.

xXx

Once she left, nearly slamming the door behind her in her haste, Erik collapsed from his rigid stance into his chair and planted his elbows on the desk, dropping his head into his hands.

She had run from him, yet again, but it did not escape his notice that her rapid exit was not the result of being an unwitting spectator to his abominable face but rather with the certainty that she was soon to present to him the gift of her beautiful voice.

A humorless laugh escaped his lips.

What irony! A true conundrum…

The evening he had planned nothing as expected.

Up until the moment he pulled his mask away, he questioned, for days, if he had the required mettle to do such a horrendous thing - the discovery of that blasted sketch of his face provoking his determination. He was then certain that in baring his wretched distortions to her, more horrific than her imagination devised, he would drive from her mind any possible thoughts of future intimacy in furthering their strange relationship, while serving as a reminder to him that he had no right to ask for anything more, no matter how he wished it …

Yet those were not his only two reasons. His cause had been threefold.

Haunted by her Angel's song for over a decade, he could not fathom the idea of never being able to hear her crystalline voice at his will - to shape, to mold, to perfect. The aural taste he'd been given on the cliff by the sea would never be enough, not now that he had miraculously found her and she abided in his home! And what he once swore never to do for another living soul in allowing his face to be seen - not by force and against his will but through choice and by his own hand - he had done for her. In part, to enact his half of her conditional agreement so as to possess her voice. To hear it each day, to train her and become her teacher.

It made the wretchedness of that harsh moment of his unveiling a little easier to bear, the manipulated dimness of their surroundings kinder to his flaws, as he had counted on.

It must have been that which caused her not to run …

Not to scream …

Not to recoil in fear or disgust ...

And though she had been silent for an unnerving amount of time, she had approached him, actually reached out to touch him.

No, she could not have seen the full horror well…

Though she now fully understood that he was the frightful monster of her childhood. Yet even after the dreaded admission, once the incredible shock subsided, he had seen only gentleness in her eyes.

So much different than Lucianna.

She had run.

She had screamed.

She had recoiled in fearful disgust.

And she had fallen at his approach, a victim to the worst kind of fate ...

Erik shook his head in his hands, an involuntary sob escaping his throat. One he immediately squelched with his palms before it could evolve into more. In self disgust he pushed himself away from the desk and leaned back in his chair.

After all he had done… after all that had been…

It was this third reason that had finally propelled him to remove his mask - in the knowledge that he could never have Christine. Grimly aware that he must put distance between them and engender her abhorrence for all else but for him to be her teacher in voice.

However, she had not responded in the manner expected, instead acting with unbelievable tenderness and despised pity. Reaching out to him like the Angel she was. Her glistening eyes asking for what he should never have twice given.

No doubt, she had not seen well …

He let out an exclamation of impatience, clenching his hands that rested on his thighs into fists.

It failed to matter. Never again would he so intimately touch her and seek her lips with his own. Never again would he unmask himself to her, the need to do so having been enforced. The requisite distance now met. He would be to her master and teacher and nothing more.

Even if circumstances were different and he was not bound by law and by duty, even if he had the temerity to mirror in full his late grandfather's actions, he did not deserve her.

He never would.

xXx

Hours later in her bedchamber, clad in her chemise, Christine paced before the glowing hearth, seeking what warmth it could give. Her blood felt like ice in her veins, the thoughts in her mind flitting madly about like a bird's wings and finding no place to roost.

She had long known of his scarred countenance, since her first week at Thornfield. The actual sight of his disfigurement had not unduly surprised her, though she had been unable to see his face clearly, standing in the window's dark alcove as he had. Nor had she experienced the terror he seemed to expect.

What had utterly floored her besides his astounding revelation - and still did - was the unforeseen act itself, that which she had erroneously thought by his claims and protestations he would never do. He was an enigma, the Maestro, certainly in no way predictable. Indeed, she wondered if she would ever understand his full mystery ...

Though to see his weakness, she did not believe had been his intent.

He had wanted to frighten her, it seemed, despite that he had retreated to the shadows, away from the light. Yet when he pulled away the shield of his mask, she had been given a glimpse at the chink of vulnerability in his armor, and it had made him seem more human, engendering an empathy she did not expect, along with feelings that rose up which she could not explain.

She had wanted to touch him, to reassure, even embrace him. But he had made it patently clear that he did not welcome any form of her compassion.

However, that is not what gave Christine such distress and prevented her from seeking her bed, though surely the sun would soon rise. Rubbing her arms to try to dispel the wash of icy dread, she stopped pacing and looked into the fire.

He had bared himself to her, sharing what gave him a lifetime of grief - and now, because of her reckless tongue in making what she'd thought an unlikely bargain, he expected her to do the same.

She had promised …

He had been quick to remind her.

Christine anxiously continued to stare into the flames.

Could she truly do it? This was so much more than a snippet of song on a remote cliff sung to the open sea. No, this would be a series of lessons, she was sure (had he not emphasized 'first' lesson?), with her voice the principal object throughout each one. Required to sing in a closed chamber, again and again, for him, when for so many years she had exacted silence while not in the peace and safety of her own solitude.

She had promised …

But how could she?

And how could she not..?

Moreover, what choice did she truly have?

None, that would not make her into a liar.

She had promised.

A creak coming from behind had her spin about in alarm, and she frowned to see the cause, her frustration magnified and giving a bite to her words -

"Adrienne! I have told you more than once to knock before entering a room."

Instantly, the tousled head disappeared, the door closed, and a heavy rap followed on the wood.

Christine rolled her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head. "Yes, yes, come in."

The girl once more entered, and Christine cast a critical eye over her. Adrienne had clearly roused from slumber, her bedgown rumpled, the rags tied to the end of the strands of her black hair askew as if she had tossed and turned, but her dark eyes were wide and shone with what amounted to fear.

Instantly Christine's disposition softened and she moved toward her, laying a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Adrienne, dear child, what is the matter? Did you have a nightmare?"

She haltingly shook her head in the negative. "Why do they say it's a horse that brings bad dreams at night? Do you not think it strange? Helios drove his chariot across the sky, making the hours and seasons, which I think must be tiring since there are so many - hours, not seasons. But I don't recall that he brought daydreams and certainly not night ones."

It wasn't the first occasion Christine was surprised by the precocious child's clever if bizarre and verbose questions. Taking her hand, she brought her to sit beside her on the edge of the bed.

"The mythology of the ancient Greeks is only fiction, a story to be told, but we can discuss that at a later date. What brought you to my door tonight, Adrienne?"

The girl sobered, her eyes round with dread, her small brow furrowed.

"Do you believe in ghosts, mademoiselle?" she asked little above a whisper.

Chills sent tingles up Christine's spine, her first thought going to the Harvest Monster, an unseen creature who had haunted her dreams but was, in fact, a man. Not just any man but her Maestro. A truth that was still as shocking as it was unsettling - that children could be so cruel as to devise such a horrid tale to wield nothing but harm, both to the bearer and those who heard it. The Harvest Monster did not exist, never had, and that led her to recall recent conversations of another spectre who certainly could not be real.

"While our guests were visiting, did you overhear talk of the Phantom that rules the opera? Is that what you speak of?"

Again Adrienne shook her beribboned head. "I did hear talk, but no, that's not what I meant…" She hesitated as if unsure whether to continue. "When I told Bambinaia Elita, she said I should forget, that it was only a dream, and I mustn't bother the Maestro with my tales. But it wasn't a tale. Or a dream. It was true! I swear it was true, the devil take me if it wasn't."

Christine winced at the echo of irreverent words she'd heard the Maestro once say, hardly suitable for a child to mimic, but at the girl's clear agitation she did not correct her this time.

"Tell me, what was true, Adrienne?"

"The ghost - I saw her! It was in the summer, before you came to Thornfield. I woke up in the night, and she was standing at the foot of my bed looking down at me!"

Christine struggled with what to say. "Perhaps it was one of the maids, coming to check on you?"

"None of them ever do that. She was someone I have never seen before. Her face was so white, like the moon, and her hair was thick and unkempt and hanging down loose past her waist. Not pretty, like yours. She wore a nightdress and held a candle, but when she saw that I was awake, she backed up then turned and ran from my room. I never saw her again… but tonight. Tonight I think she came back."

Wondering how much to attribute to the wild forest of the girl's overactive imagination, Christine was careful not to water the roots further.

"It is likely your mind was still thick with slumber and you only thought it so."

"No, no," she insisted, "I did not think it. I did not dream it. This time I heard it - first the laughing then the crying and the footsteps running away. I swear it, mademoiselle. I am not telling tales!"

A distinctive chill raised the hairs on the back of her neck, and Christine shivered at the reflection of her own nocturnal experiences - a mirror to the child's. Since she had come to Thornfield, she too had heard strange noises in the night, distant weeping and laughter, wailing and running footsteps. Often she sensed she was being watched by an unseen presence - but a ghost? In all likelihood the crazed seamstress Hazel Bleu had trespassed again, but thankfully had done no true harm to the girl like what the Maestro had suffered and for which Christine would always bear scars.

A stop must be put to this before someone else was hurt! Tomorrow she would once more attempt to speak with him about the troubling matter, sharing what his ward had just told her. Somehow she must get him to see reason...

"I don't disbelieve you, Adrienne. You were right to come tell me. But the morning will be here before you know it, and from what Madame Fairfax said, you will be attending church with us. So now you must go to bed and get some rest." Christine pulled her close to kiss the top of her head. "And I must do the same."

The girl grudgingly nodded and sent a longing look to the pillow at the head of Christine's bed.

"Please, mademoiselle, might I sleep with you this one night?"

Surprised by the request and wondering why the child had not sought out her nurse instead, Christine carefully posed her reply.

"Won't your Bambinaia Elita wonder where you are come the morn? You don't want to give her cause to worry."

Adrienne gave a halfhearted shrug. "I could not find her."

Could not find her? Where could the young woman have gone? Likely she had only made a visit to the water closet, or perhaps sleeplessness had led her to visit the library for a book or to the kitchen for tea, as Christine had sometimes done.

She took note of the child's woebegone expression, the fear still manifest in her eyes. Recalling those days when she and Meg cuddled beneath a threadbare blanket, holding each other in reassurance against the threat of shadows, those known and unknown, Christine nodded.

"This once then," she allowed, pulling back the coverlet.

A smile of delight lifted the girl's rosy cheeks as she bounced onto the mattress and between the sheets. Christine turned down the lamp to a low flame and slid in beside her, drawing the girl close, like a mother hen to her chick.

Within minutes Adrienne slept soundly, cuddled against her side.

However, Christine lay wide awake with eyes closed, the bizarre events of the evening preventing slumber... every creak of wood and whisper of sound bringing her eyes wide in a vain attempt to seek out its source.

The mystery of the Harvest Monster had been eradicated and solved, but the Ghost of Thornfield yet lurked within these walls…

Hopefully soon to be put to rest.

Hopefully...

Until that time, she felt that no one who abided here could truly be safe.

xXx

A/N: 'By the pricking of my thumbs...something wicked this way comes...' ;-)