English Countryside, 1880

* * *

Raoul’s hand, steady and sure all during the carriage ride, began to shake as he reached for the knocker. It was only a slight quiver, not even noticeable if he put the member in his pocket, or clasped it in front of him. He dropped it and sighed heavily.

The house was still as stunning as it had been—was it six years, now? Six years since he had last walked through the gleaming doors, into the vast entry hall, through the maze of corridors…

Six years since he had seen her, six years to put the past behind him, and still a cold sweat of apprehension graced his brow. Nearly six years since his godchild was born, a godchild he had never come to meet.

The cloud that had been blocking the sun drifted off, and polished gold glinted as he took a firm grip on the handle and knocked.

“…Monsieur le Comte?” The door was pulled open a moment later, and a familiar elderly woman stood before him, staring. He took off his hat and gave her what he hoped was a smile. His insides were churning horribly, unexpectedly—he felt the sudden urge to turn and run.

“Hello, I…I came to see Madame de la Rue and her husband—if they are here. I sent a letter, a short while ago…” He broke off uncertainly, the astonished expression of the housekeeper settling like a deadweight on his chest.

She opened and closed her mouth several times, searching for words. “Did…? Well—come in! I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten myself. Your letter did not reach us in time, I suppose.” She moved aside and he stepped in, nervously removing his hat. “My apologies for the informality—it’s the servant’s day off.”

He nodded in response, inwardly relieved; he doubted the customary butler knew how to speak French. Raoul hadn’t thought to greet the woman in English, his anxiety automatically forming his mother tongue.

“This way, if you please.” She gestured and started down the left hall. “M. de la Rue and his wife are outside, with the children, at the moment. They’ll only be a moment.” She let him into a parlour with cheery blue walls, and, making sure he was comfortable, shut the door behind her as she left.

He sat down on the edge of the cream coloured settee, removing his hat and fiddling absently with its brim. A numb sort of horror had set in after his quivering trepidation had subsided. They didn’t get his letter. He had arbitrarily shown up at their door, on the servant’s day off, while they were enjoying the fair weather with their children.

Children. The housekeeper had used the plural; that meant they had had another, or perhaps several others. While he was childless still…Jealousy prickled at the back of his mind, but he pushed it away, trying to steady his thoughts. What would he say when they came through the door? No doubt together—even after six years, he doubted Erik would want Christine to spend time alone with him.

The door opened.

“Papa?”

His stomach lurched at the word, and he all but leapt to his feet.

A little girl in riding habit, her dress covered with patchy grass stains, gawked at him. She desperately flattened her curls—dark coils that just brushed her shoulders—then gave him a low curtsy. “Hello sir,” she said, her sweet voice bursting with suppressed excitement at the occasion of a visitor. Stepping forward, she offered him her hand. “I am Nadine de la Rue. Are you a friend of my mother and father?”

Raoul looked down into the wide blue eyes with a mixture of amusement and uncertainty. In his accented English, he replied, “Miss Nadine…I am Raoul de Chagny—” He took the tiny hand and bent down low to give it a kiss. “—Your godfather.”

“Are you really?” She gasped, eyeing him curiously. Retrieving her hand, she took a seat beside him as he returned to the settee. She now spoke in lilting French. “Maman has told me about you. You are from France. I learned French so I could visit you—” she abruptly frowned, “—but Papa says I am too young.”

He smiled at her straightforward dialogue. “When you are older, perhaps.” Curiosity overtook him, and he asked, “What has your maman told you about me?”

She frowned thoughtfully. “She says you were her closest friend, when she was my age—and that you did brave things for her, things she would tell me about when I was older.” With a huff, the girl dropped her chin in the palm of her hand. “Everything when I’m older!”

Raoul stiffened as the door opened again, and another child appeared. A little boy, with short dark curls, the shorter match to his sister’s, raced to the girl’s side. His riding habit was much cleaner, and he only glanced in Raoul’s direction. Blushing shyly, he tugged at Nadine’s hand. “Papa says we have to wait with Auntie.”

“But this is my godfather,” Nadine protested importantly, pulling away. “I must talk with him now, because he’s come to take me to France!”

The boy’s eyes amplified in alarm. “But I don’t want you to go to France!”

“She is not going to France.” A firm voice came from the doorway, and all three companions looked up immediately.

Christine had barely changed from how Raoul remembered her, and any alteration had been for the better. Her cheeks were flushed prettily, and her eyes shone with paternal delight. She wore a riding jacket and split skirt of pine green, dark and dramatic against the pastel walls. Giving Raoul a small, knowing smile, she turned a sterner gaze on her children.

“He will still be your godfather after I speak with him, you do not need to talk to him now. You are frightening your brother.” The children trudged over to her, spouting objections (Nadine insisting she did need to speak to Raoul, and the boy insisting he wasn’t frightened). She tutted placidly, giving them both a little shove out the door. “Go find Auntie Edith, and stay with her this time.”

The door shut, and they were alone—

“Erik should be along shortly.”

—For the moment.

He stepped forward and took both the hands she offered in his own, his mouth turning up in a lopsided grin as she squeezed them warmly. “It is good to see you, Raoul,” she murmured, and he was surprised to find her eyes were glistening with moisture. “Truly.”

“Your children—they’re lovely,” he said sincerely. Something about her calm disposition put him at ease, and his smile widened. “Especially my goddaughter.”

“They’re…” She struggled for a word to describe them, “Time-consuming.” She laughed lightly, and then continued in her hushed, refined voice, “How are you?”

Raoul paused, trying not to think about how lovely she was. An image of thick flaxen hair, loose and fluttering, floated to the surface of his roiling mind, and he was at ease again. “Fine,” he replied earnestly. “I’m doing fine.” Releasing her hands, he gestured for her to sit across from him. “Actually, I came to speak with you about—”

The door opened; again. Raoul swallowed.

The mask was still the first thing to catch his eye, its whiteness vivid and glowing against the man’s skin. Erik was dressed informally, his flannel shirt in disarray—work of his children, Raoul assumed. The Comte could not recall ever seeing the man in anything but formal wear. The difference was…

But perhaps that was not what struck Raoul as altered about the man. His face, and his eyes, they were at ease, unguarded as the man shared a look with Christine, and not even hostile as he transferred his gaze to Raoul. His eyebrows rose in greeting, and he nodded.

It was the closest thing to a respectful acknowledgement Raoul had ever received from the man—and he didn’t even give any sign of surprise at seeing him.

Erik joined Christine across from Raoul, who sat again. He was struck at the way the couple moulded together subconsciously. Christine’s hand found Erik’s, and he leaned over her protectively.

With a mental shake, Raoul found the sentence he had let trail off before. “I came to meet my goddaughter—of course—and to inform you…” he reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope addressed simply to ‘Le Famille De La Rue’. “It is an invitation,” he said, only a little unsteadily, “To my wedding. I’m engaged.”

For a split second, no one spoke. Then Erik’s eyes flared in discernment, and Christine threw up her hands with an animated exclamation. “Oh, Raoul!” She stood and embraced him openly, even as her husband sat in the room. The younger man stood motionless for a brief moment, and then embraced her in return. She withdrew to arm’s length, beaming at him. “I really am so happy for you. Who is she?”

Raoul suddenly found himself speechless. What would she say? He knew exactly how it looked, how it made his and Christine’s relationship look—he could only pray she would trust his word…

“The Baroness Marguerite de Castelot-Barbezac.” Erik spoke for the first time. He was staring down at the opened invitation, his expression blank. Raoul forced himself not to blink as the man raised his gaze and looked him directly in the eye. Abruptly Raoul realized Erik knew precisely whom the invitation was talking about.

* * *

“Allow me to introduce the lately widowed Baroness de Castelot-Barbezac, Monsieur le Comte. Perhaps you two will be of some solace to each other, after your loss. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to greet my guests.”

Raoul stared resentfully at the retreating back of his host, Monsieur le Marquis Roche. He was an old acquaintance from Raoul’s years in service of the navy, and so the Comte had felt inclined to accept the man’s invitation to one of his many extravagant soirees. It was the first social gathering Raoul had attended since Dion’s funeral, and he was finally feeling up to the mindless banter of nobility. After all, it was Christmas Eve.

Unenthusiastically, he turned to greet this ‘lately widowed’ Baroness. He was half sick of the mournful facade he had dutifully put on for almost a full year now, and revisiting the subject he had been hoping desperately to forget was not something he had planned for his first Christmas alone.

“Raoul? Raoul de Chagny?”

With a start, he scrutinized the woman before him. She was young, his age, when he had been expecting a lady in her fifties or sixties. Her thick flaxen hair was elegantly coiffed in a twist at the back of her head, leaving her shoulders and neck bare, and giving a golden frame to her heart-shaped face. She wore no jewellery, save a pair of tasteful diamonds in her ears, and a wedding ring whose pair was now, according to the Marquis, buried six feet under. Her light brown eyes were radiating warmth and concern, and her petite, full lips were parted in surprise.

He knew her. An image of fire and panic flashed in his mind, and a young woman capturing his gaze for a split second, as her eyes glittered with pure nerve.

“Marguerite?”

“Oh, Monsieur, please call me Meg—all my friends do,” she smiled for a moment, her light voice fluttering up and around him. Then she froze, and the expression of delight slipped off her face. “But, no—Monsieur Roche, he said…” Her hands twisted nervously as she held them in front of her. In a choked voice, she continued, “Christine, is she not…?”

“She is not with us, no.”

“Oh, Monsieur,” she gasped, her eyes filling with tears, “Oh…”

Raoul suddenly felt a pang of guilt, deceiving the woman who had once been Christine’s closest companion, a woman who had truly lost her husband and thought he deserved the same sympathy.

But he could not betray Christine.

Meg wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and smiled wanly. “I’m sorry, I know it must be hard for you to speak of it…perhaps, you would have lunch with me? Sometime this week?” She moved closer a little hesitantly. “It would be nice to speak with someone from…from before.”

Raoul felt a bit of his hopelessness slip away. Someone from before—of course. Someone who could understand.

He offered her his arm. “Will you walk with me, Meg? I think I’ll find your company much more stimulating than anyone I might find here.”

* * *

“She was widowed not long after it became known that I had—lost my wife, as it were. A friend introduced us, in hopes that we would comfort each other,” Raoul said quickly, wanting strangely to explain himself to Christine’s husband, to prove his innocence. He felt sure if Erik understood him, Christine would undoubtedly empathize with the relationship.

The corner of Erik’s mouth twitched slightly, and he nodded. Raoul let out a little breath of relief. “My congratulations,” the masked man said; sincerely, the Comte thought.

“Erik…? Do you know the Baroness?” Christine asked, the unspoken conversation that had passed between the two men bewildering her.

“Surely you remember your old confidant, Meg Giry?”

Christine’s jaw dropped as the revelation sunk in. “Meg—my Meg—a Baroness?” She sputtered.

“And the new Comtesse de Chagny, as it happens, on—” Erik glanced at the invitation again, “—August twelfth.”

His wife gaped at him, and then burst into overjoyed laughter. Grinning mischievously, she bubbled, “Two little ballet rats, turned into Comtesses and Baronesses and—ha!” Turning to Raoul, whose tense body was sagging with relief, she said gleefully, “Of course we will come—all of us!” Then she suddenly grimaced, and he was reminded of the cloud that had passed over the sun earlier. “But…” Her eyes widened apprehensively. “How public is it? Who knows if Erik is still entirely safe in Paris—and the Girys wouldn’t be the only people who could know me on sight—”

“Christine, please!” Raoul interrupted, almost amused at her fretting. “It’s only a small ceremony, outside of Paris, with some family and our few closest friends. No one who knew you intimately enough to recognize either of you will be there besides Meg and her mother.” He paused, his amusement dimming. “Of course, it will still come as a shock to Madame, seeing you alive, and…well, together.”

“You haven’t told them the truth about Christine?” Erik asked, his tone critical.

“We made an agreement not to talk about our previous marriages until we were ready,” Raoul retorted defensively.

How much did Christine really know about Erik’s past, in any case?

“Her husband was older—much older—it was only to make a future for herself that she accepted his proposal. She doesn’t like to speak of it, and I…” He looked down self-consciously. “The heart and thrust of it is that there has been no opportunity to tell her that her former best friend was not actually brutally murdered; but she does suspect that something is not entirely accurate about the story I told the papers. I…I will try to tell her before the wedding.”

“Meg will understand,” Christine said confidently, smiling again.

“Then you’ll come?” Raoul asked hopefully.

“We’ll come. All of us,” Erik said, getting to his feet. Raoul, bewildered, got to his feet as well, thinking his visit was over.

Then, Erik pulled open the door in one quick stroke, and two small forms tumbled inside.

The two Rue children regained their footing and brushed themselves off, as Erik regarded them with a pained expression. “Are you quite satisfied?” He asked them, his mouth twitching, and Raoul realized in amazement he was trying to keep from laughing.

“We were only waiting for you to finish your conversation, Papa,” Nadine informed him with wide, innocent eyes. “I thought it rude to interrupt.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” the boy piped indignantly, clutching his father’s pant leg. “Nadine said we were spies and I had to be quiet.”

Nadine hissed and stomped on her brother’s foot. “You weren’t supposed to tell them that!”

As the boy’s eyes watered, Erik scooped him up and stared down his nose at his daughter. “Apologize, Nadine,” he ordered sternly.

When she only scowled, Christine repeated sharply, “Apologize, or you’ll spend the rest of the day in your room.”

“I’m sorry, Charles,” Nadine mumbled grudgingly.

Charles, the boy, copied his father by staring down his nose at his sister. “Forgiven,” he said pompously.

Christine covered her mouth with her hand to hide her smile, and Raoul coughed loudly.

“And now apologize to your godfather for eavesdropping.”

“I’m sorry, Monsieur.” She smiled sweetly at him, and Raoul smiled back. Then, turning back to her father, she said, less sweetly, “Auntie Edith sent us, because there’s another visitor. We’ve never had two visitors in one day,” she observed happily. “Are we having a party?”

“No,” Erik informed her dryly. “Did you recognize this visitor?”

“No, but she shrieked when she opened the door, and hugged him.”

Erik and Christine looked meaningfully at each other, and Raoul said quietly, “Perhaps I should be on my way…”

“Oh! Raoul, I’m so sorry—won’t you stay for dinner?” Christine gave him a pleading look, but he shook his head decisively.

“I didn’t mean to stay this long as it is, and we’ll see each other in a month, won’t we?” He smiled, first at Christine, and then at his goddaughter. “When you all come to France.”

For my wedding.

His heart sang.

* * *

Christine waited until Raoul’s carriage passed through the gates and disappeared around the corner, then stepped back inside and gave Erik a slow smile.

“He really is quite in awe of you, my love,” she teased him merrily, taking his hand as they set off to greet the unknown guest Edith had sat outside at the tea table in the gazebo.

Erik gave her a sidelong look and replied solemnly, “I was under the impression it was you who inspired his apparent trepidation.” When she only looked puzzled, he continued, “You are quite horrifying for a French woman, Christine. I imagine if you had so much as spread your arms he would have crawled under the settee for terror.”

“You—!” She cried indignantly, retrieving her hand and moving to slap his arm. His eyes danced as he seized her wrist in mid-strike and caught her to him, the guest momentarily forgotten.

* * *

“Are you from France, sir?”

“Non, mademoiselle.” Seth gave the girl, Nadine, a winning smile as she poured the tea, covering his chuckle with a deep cough as she faltered and spilled some into the sugar bowl. Flushing, she put the pot down and resigned to wait for an adult to join them.

The sun beat down on the back of his head, where the shade provided by the gazebo’s roof came to an abrupt end. It made sweat trickle uncomfortably down the back of his neck and into his stiff collar, as his thick sable locks clung to his skin. Only the strong urge to impress his absent hosts kept him from removing his jacket and cravat.

“Are you an old friend of Mama—Mother’s and Father’s?”

Grinning inwardly at her slip of the tongue, he replied easily, “I’ve known your father since I was younger than you, Miss Nadine.”

She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. “How old are you now?”

“I think I might be seventeen,” he said, egging her on.

“You think? That’s silly. How can you not know your age?” She paused and raised her chin. “I’m eight years old,” she announced proudly.

“Well, I don’t know my age because I was born on the streets and my mother forgot my birthday.”

Her eyes lit up in delighted shock. Don’t enjoy yourself so much; he thought absently, grinning mischievously.

“You don’t look like you live on the streets,” she half whispered, leaning forward as though she were sharing a secret.

“That, my dear girl, is because I am very good at what I do,” he whispered back tauntingly.

“And just what is it that you ‘do’, pray tell,” a harsh voice demanded, and the two confidants’ heads jerked up.

Erik and Christine stood at the top of the stairs leading up to the dais, staring at the young man talking to their daughter, Christine in astonishment and Erik grimly. He struck them both as beguilingly familiar, with the head of wavy black hair that surely was once a mop of curls; the glittering eyes still an indefinite shade of brown, grey, and green; the confident smirk that once decorated the face of a boy much, much younger…

Six years, and Seth had grown from a barely contained boy to a refined, self-possessed man. He was nearly as tall as Erik, his shoulders nearly as broad, and his chin just as arrogant.

“That, sir, is not fit to speak of in the presence of your daughter,” Seth replied softly, determined not to be surprised. He turned to the girl in question and gave her another charming smile, baring his large, straight teeth to their full extent. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to give myself and your parents some time to catch up, my dear.”

With a nasty look at the three people towering over her, she hopped daintily out of her seat and marched, haughtily as she could, away.

“Seth,” Christine said, with a watery, uncertain smile. She struggled for words. “You’ve grown.”

He laughed, a little too affably. “Just as your family. You have a charming daughter—your son was stolen away by Mrs. Attwater before I could talk with him properly.” He motioned to the cushioned wicker bench Nadine had adorned moments ago. “Won’t you sit down?”

They did so cautiously, Christine startled by his intimate little speech, and Erik betraying no emotion.

“Come now, don’t look as though you’re attending a funeral,” Seth bantered, pouring the tea himself. “This is a reuniting of old friends, you should be throwing yourselves at me like the dear housekeeper.”

“Forgive me if I doubt a ‘reunion of old friends’ to be your sole reason for coming here,” Erik said cynically, his eyebrows arched. Christine took a cup silently, paling a little at her husband’s bitter tone. She couldn’t claim that she knew Seth as well as he, but she knew Erik better than he knew himself, and she sensed his suspicion. It put her on edge.

Seth’s charming aura slipped away, replaced with a cool, calculating stare. “I suppose I deserved that. Query my motives to your heart’s content, but in essence, that is truly my purpose. I have come to say goodbye.”

“We haven’t spoken for six years,” Christine said carefully, after there was a tense silence. “I would think—I would think a goodbye would be rather too late.”

Seth waved her comment away. “Not that sort of goodbye,” he said, as though he was dealing with very young, slow children. “I am leaving the country, and I wanted to properly express my thanks for the time you spent harbouring me and teaching me. I was too young and—passionate, if you will, six years ago, to realize it was my mother who was at fault. I sincerely regret my reaction,” he looked genuinely remorseful for a moment, then the expression morphed into one of mocking superciliousness. “I lost many valuable years of training that would be useful to me now.”

The words ruined any chance of a true reconciliation, and Christine’s hopeful expression wilted. She lay a gentle hand on Erik’s arm, which was hard as rock. Knowing it wasn’t yet safe for him to speak, she asked, “Your mother…how is she?”

“Dead,” Seth replied bluntly, his eyes darkening. “Within the year of the…unfortunate affair that led our separation.”

“Our condolences,” Erik replied, opened his mouth to say more, and then shut it with a aggrieved look. Instead, he inquired, “Where are you going, exactly?”

“I would tell you, but that would be compromising my associates,” Seth answered smoothly. “It is a business matter. I may not return to England.”

“You’re not yet twenty!” Christine protested brokenly. “What business could you possibly—?”

“Business you would not approve of,” Seth interrupted heatedly, suddenly standing. “I have done what I came to do,” he informed them impersonally. “Perhaps not as successfully as I might have wished, but remember that I returned to you in the end, even if you can no longer summon any sort of positive opinion of my me. I would also ask you not to turn my name and description over to the authorities for future reference, but I fear that would be hoping for too much. I…” He had spoken the last few sentences so quickly and sharply that he had to stop to catch his breath and rearrange his thoughts. He closed his eyes for a moment. “I hope, one day, you will understand. I am sorry.”

Christine lowered her eyes and looked at her hands, fiddling in her lap. Though she willed against them, tears fell freely.

Erik got to his feet and stared levelly at his ex-apprentice. “I never meant for you to use what I had taught you like this,” he said, not accusingly but apologetically.

“I know,” Seth replied quietly. “It was my choice, not yours.” He hesitated, and then held out his hand. After a nerve-wracking pause, Erik clasped it briefly. “Thank you,” Seth muttered, his tone strangled, emotion breaking through his nonchalant veneer. Erik released his hand, and the younger man walked briskly away, without looking back.

Erik hated himself for a moment, when he saw himself in Seth and did nothing to help him. But by now it was beyond him, and he had other people to take responsibility for.

His weeping wife, to name one.

“Christine,” he murmured comfortingly, sitting down and putting an arm around her. She leaned into his chest, hastily wiping her eyes. “There is nothing you could have done, beloved,” he reassured her, kissing the top of her head.

“But—Erik, that’s not it, that isn’t it at all,” she said mournfully. She took his cheek in her hand and looked at him face to face. “Please, look at me and tell me the truth.”

Erik’s insides suddenly chilled, as alarm bells went off in his mind. He was rarely taken by surprise.

“Are you, or are you not Seth’s father?”

They stared at each other.

“Christine!” Regardless of the miserable situation, he burst into appalled laughter.

Christine blushed awkwardly, dropping her hand. “You aren’t? But—the way his mother talked about us, when we met her—and you look…” She trailed off weakly as he continued to laugh, and smiled shyly in spite of her self. “I suppose it was a rather ridiculous question,” she admitted with no small amount of humiliation. “It would just be so awful, if he were and you lost him to this...this...”

Taking her by the shoulders, he kissed her soundly. “I would never keep something that important from you, beloved,” he said affectionately. “Seth has only ever been my apprentice, and his mother was only ever a very bitter woman I pitied horribly.”

Christine nodded in acknowledgement. “She didn’t seem your type,” she admitted seriously, and the corners of Erik’s mouth twitched. “You may kiss me again.”

After a time, he sighed and spoke. “Seth’s mother was the mistress of a rich businessman up north. He never acknowledged Seth as his son, and when he died suddenly, she was left with no means to raise him. The man’s wife refused to help them, but I had encountered Seth by then and brought them to the shelter. His mother had lost all of her trust in men and life in general, but she loved her son fiercely. She only permitted me to continue teaching him because he enjoyed it so.”

They sat in comfortable silence, enjoying the simple pleasures of the sun and the breeze, until Christine asked, “Do you regret it—teaching him what you did, now that you know what he is going to use it for?”

“No,” Erik said, sounding weary. “I don’t believe Seth would do something that was truly wrong—he may be a criminal, but the crimes he commits will not harm anyone. He will commit them for a higher purpose—” Erik’s mouth turned up slightly. “If that is possible.”

“Anything is possible,” Christine replied unoriginally. She glanced up at the house, and smiled when she saw two tiny faces pressed against an upper story window. “Our children await us.”

Erik followed her gaze and moaned with exaggerated exhaustion. “Perhaps we should leave them here when we go to France—or leave them there when we return.”

“My, what a miserable old man you’ve become,” Christine laughed, knowing he would be hesitant to leave Nadine or Charles for more than a day. “Besides, there’s going to be three before long, so you best put on a brave face.”

Erik’s eyes flashed instinctively down to her middle, where their third child was growing—a second son, though they did not yet know it.

As they strolled hand in hand back to the house, Christine commented, “Two prominent figures from our past in one day…” She sighed tiredly. “You’d think they compared schedules beforehand.”

“Raoul,” Erik paused, the man’s name feeling unnatural on his tongue, “Raoul and Meg will be good for each other.”

Christine glanced at him, surprised. “It will be nice to see France again,” she said wistfully. “Perhaps we should visit…other places, as well—to show the children, of course.”

“Do you miss France terribly, Christine?” Erik asked, supposedly offhand, but his wife caught the underlying agitation.

“No, Erik,” she replied truthfully. “Only slightly.”

“We could return, to stay, if you wish it,” he persisted, unconvinced.

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, mumbling something against his skin.

“I beg your pardon?”

“…Stupid,” Christine repeated, grinning. “My delightfully stupid husband.”

Erik gave her an offended look. “I suppose you won’t explain that decidedly childish remark.”

She laughed and threw her arms around his neck, not caring that Nadine and Charles were watching with identical intense stares from the doorway