Crossing the room in three deliberate, measured strides, he took a key off of his watch-chain and unlocked her bedroom door, pushing it open slowly. He hadn't had the heart to destory this room...it was the last oasis of peace in this hell he existed in. It always had been; the colors, the fragrance...even the darkness was different here. Hesitantly he edged around the corner and turned up the lamp, his breath catching in his throat as the room blossomed into light.

She might have just stepped out. Her dress from Don Juan Triumphant still lay across the bed, the covers beneath it still carelessly rumpled. He moved to her dressing table, absently caressing the objects that had known her touch, even as he had not; her pretty hairbrush, a ribbon, a comb, a glass vase...

He felt something warm on his face and touched his cheek. Tears again. He shouldn't have come in here. He should have thrown away the key the moment she left him; there were too many memories here, far too many. He reached out slowly, brushing his fingertips gently over the dead, dried rose petals scattered under the vase. Purity and Passion; faded white, and red as old blood, rustling across the polished surface of the table... He had bought her those roses, to commemorate the triumph he had been so sure of having. They were to be her bouquet at their wedding.

He let out a soft, shaking sigh, closing his eyes wearily. So many memories of Christine. His Christine. Her name was the only song left in the darkness of his mind, and it was a dirge. A slow one. In A minor. He could hear her voice even now, as it had first sounded; echoing eerily through five cellars of stone and mortar, calling him as strongly as he had called to her. He had found her at last, in that dark hole of a dressing room. He remembered the white gown that  made her look like an angel, the tears on her pale cheeks...the desperate plea for an angel of her own. Most likely it was unspeakably wicked for him to pretend to be the Angel of Music -- wasn't it a sin for a mortal to claim divinity? -- but at the moment, he hadn't cared. All that mattered was her smile, her voice, the brilliance in her eyes as she listened and believed and learned...

He had planned it all, designing her bedroom with meticulous care, putting an incredible amount of thought into every detail. It had to be perfect for her, utterly perfect. He had cleaned his house from top to bottom, and had filled her wardrobe with dresses of the finest material, all for her. He had filled every room with flowers. She loved flowers, didn't she? She had told him so; she even put red roses on her father's grave every year. He found that apt. Red roses had always been his favorite as well.

She had been waiting for him that night, when he arrive to take her home. It was her home too, now; he simply could not think of it without her. The look on her face had been one of pure ecstasy, and he would never forget it. Then came the journey, the realization of his identity, and her slow acceptance of his life, his devotion, his love.

Or so he had thought. Until that...that boy had come in and destroyed everything. He should have killed the Vicomte the instant he saw him, fawning over her like a demented spaniel. He should have kept his temper when she took his mask. He should have done so many t hings. But he had done nothing...nothing but slip away into the fearful rage that blinded him to everything, including Christine. Anger had always been his protection and his shield; it was far easier to hurt someone than to allow them to hurt him. How had she seen through that final mask? Where had she found the courage to reach out and touch him, while her fiance suffered in t he next room? Did she realize that she had stripped away more than one mask that night? No. She had never understood such things, but he did. Rage gone, fire exstinquished, he had turned and opened his mouth to speak when she brushed back her veil and gave him the Kiss.

The Kiss,  the glorious kiss that had lasted for an eternity and yet was over  far too soon. She had to leave then; he couldn't hurt her anymore. It only hurt him deeper  to see her torn apart, as he was tearing apart...

And so she left.

He opened his eyes with a snap, staring at his hands. They were desperately clutching something white and delicate, and so very soft. Ah yes. Her wedding veil. When had  he gotten it out? Gently untangling his fingers from the lacy fabric, he smoothed it and hung it up carefully. Bending down, he scooped the broken music box up off the floor of her wardrobe and left her bedroom behind. He relocked the door, and  looked at the key thoughtfully. To keep it or not to keep it, that was the question. After a moment of silent speculation, he stuffed it into his pocket.

He set his favorite chair upright again, then sat down with the music box on his lap. Stroking its fur softly, he bent over to look into its face. It was such a dear little toy; he hadn't meant to break it. But when the realization had hit him -- that she was really gone -- he hadn't been able to control the anger. Hence the broken spring. At least he hoped it was only a broken spring. It had taken him quite a long time to build this music box, and  it had a  very complicated mechanism...

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