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

Chapter 26

A/N: As a famous movie quote goes, "Fasten your seatbelts...it's going to be a bumpy ride." ;-)

**Chapter XXVI**

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Music is the shorthand of emotion.

~Leo Tolstoy

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With her cheek against his solid chest and one leg entwined between his strong ones, Christine nestled in deep satisfaction half draped over her lover. She had awakened earlier, to find Erik lying on his side supporting his upraised head with his hand, and staring down at her with renewed longing and adoration. His intent look and gentle smile set her body aglow, stirred her blood with fire, and she had opened her arms to him, drawing him close to share in their inexhaustible passion again – at first so achingly tender, murmuring endearments amid soft caresses – then grasping, yearning, desperate, as each of them sought to hold onto each other and what little time they yet shared. After the conflagration eased to a warm glow, he held her in his arms, whispering his love for her in French, in Spanish, in Romani, each avowal an assurance to her heart.

He would come back; he must. Still, that knowledge did not ease the ache that soon he must ride off into certain peril. She noticed with dismay that the tent walls had begun to glow blood red with the arrival of sunset and tightened her arm around his side.

"Speak to me, My Angel," she whispered as if by conversing he could fill the predatory silence of the passing minutes and somehow hinder time's ruthless advance. Or perhaps they could forget its existence altogether.

"What is it you wish to know?" His voice came very deep, softly rumbling against her ear, as he stroked her hair, weaving a ringlet between his fingers.

"Speak of anything, or speak of nothing. I only want to hear your voice." Though she couldn't bear him speaking of this night. Nor could she ask him not to. To give volume to such words would make the imminent future all too real and disrupt this illusion of well being, shattering these warm, precious moments with a reality she did not yet wish to face.

"What gave you such distress when you performed your debut in the forest?" he responded quietly.

She concentrated on his words. "I'm not sure. And I don't know why I chose that song. It came to me before I was aware I'd even begun it. So many memories of those days have visited me lately. Since ..."

"The Vicomte's arrival." He filled in her pause, stating the words as fact, as if he had experienced the same thing.

"Yes." She nuzzled closer to him and closed her eyes, not wanting to speak of that either. "I suppose I remembered how unhappy I'd become when you completely withdrew from me those three months. How silent and resigned I felt each morning, waking from sleep and you'd not been there to sing to me. A verse of that song reminds me of the way things once were between us, the loneliness of separation, the uncertainties, the fears. It's foolish, I know. You're here with me now, always to stay," she stressed the words, "but I cannot help what the mind recalls."

He was silent a long moment. "When did you first suspect I was no true angel?"

His hesitant question made her smile. "I may have been naive about many things, my love, but somehow I knew that angels do not curse. As you did when you would sometimes get frustrated with my lessons or agitated with Monsieur LeFevre over a matter concerning the opera." She giggled. "I remember especially how livid and appalled you were with La Carlotta's performances, from the time she first arrived at the opera house, when I was almost thirteen. I'd begun to suspect your mortality then, as I gained a better understanding of angels through my catechism."