The Treasure *Phantom of the Opera* (sequel to The Quest)

Chapter XV

**Chapter XV**

Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.
~Maya Angelou

xXx

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Weary from passing the night with Luminitsa, Christine returned to the tent she and Erik shared. The nights were desolate without him, without his strong, warm body entwined with hers, so that she neither knew where she ended and he began. Too often she passed the empty hours devoid of sleep. The days also extracted their toll without him with her.

Luminitsa had taken a high fever the previous morning, and despite the Drabarni's ancient chants and remedial potions, nothing had broken it. Christine prayed for the child and sang softly to her all through the night, choosing to keep vigil by her side rather than face the bleak solitude of her bed. She didn't know if the girl would live, and that sorrow, compounded with the loneliness of missing her beloved, threatened to consume her. Though she gave her time unceasingly and without question to all of the children, as well as aiding the Drabarni, she doubted she was much real use to anyone. She couldn't stop thinking of her Angel. Often the gypsies needed to repeat themselves she had become so lost in worry.

Three days ... it had been three full days since she'd told him goodbye. Last night, the fear that he might have been captured gripped her soul, the knowledge persistent that by now he should have returned. Hoping the distance separating them would not prove too great she had spoken into his mind – Erik, are you well? Please be well ...

Tears of relief glazed her vision and she had smiled to hear his beautiful but weary voice respond, I am well, Christine. Fear no longer. Soon, I will return to you.

Christine was grateful for their strong connection in spirit, but it didn't lessen her solitude. She dared not speak into his mind again, for fear of distracting him at a crucial moment. And so, she waited. And she prayed. And she hoped for the sluggish days to sprout wings and fly into the void of night, which she yearned then to hasten into dawn. But the hands of time turned a deaf ear to her pleas and crawled along their same tedious course.

With weary reluctance, she pulled back the draped entrance to their tent and came to a halt inside, letting the striped cloth fall behind her. She looked at their home, so cozy and inviting when he was there, so barren and cold without him. Her gaze fell upon Erik's violin, waiting for its maestro on the table where he last laid it. She moved to touch the instrument. Ran her fingers gently along the neck and strings, which glistened in the glow of five candles that leaked teardrops of wax, as though they too wept in silence. An image of his hands as he played his compositions with such heated passion, such loving reverence came to her ... an artist's hands. Gentle and strong. Not rough hands made for war, to engage in battle. Not hands made for violence and carnage and bloodshed ... but long, slender fingers meant to create sound where there was only silence and compose a symphony in the hushed corners of those hearts open to receive his music.

The sudden ghastly image of her Angel covered in his own blood made Christine inhale a sharp breath and clutch the edge of the table, dizzy. Behind her the tent flap stirred, and she glanced over her shoulder, eagerly expectant, only to have her hopes dashed when only Lupita walked inside.

"Su Majested!" the girl breathed in shock and rushed toward her, almost spilling whatever she carried in a teacup as she set it down next to the violin.

"Don't put that there!" Christine snapped. The girl flinched and quickly retrieved the cup, the look in her eyes perplexed. Christine took a deep breath for calm, knowing she shouldn't be so harsh, that her servant acted in ignorance. She forced a mild note to her voice. "What did you bring me?"