They ran from the opera house and left the mob behind, but in less than an hour, the building was in flames. Raoul was bleeding from several places and had an ugly welt around his neck—he was on the verge of delirium, and Christine was half hysterical, so she made no protest when he reined in their stolen horse at his family's town house. Like the chaos behind them, it too was soon in an uproar. Christine could only stand with her arms wrapped around herself, shivering.

The Chagny servants were very good. After the initial flurry, Raoul was whisked off by his valet and Christine was firmly but kindly taken downstairs. The housekeeper herself clucked over Christine's bruises and scrapes. Her wrist was quite red and painful—it was bound up for her. She was given a proper (modest) nightgown and wrapper, then tucked into a corner of the kitchen with a lap rug and a cup of tea that had a healthy dose of brandy in it. She gagged at the burn but drank it all and was glad that the second cup was plain tea with milk. The servants looked at her curiously but asked no questions, and she was content to sit still and slowly become warm, for her shivers to calm. Her lips were buzzing—she could not keep her fingertips away from her mouth. Time passed, and she was led to a small room in the attics, plain but warm, with a still figure under blankets on a bed against the opposite wall. She laid down gratefully. She was sure that she would not be able to sleep, but she was so tired that her bones ached. She pulled the covers to her chin and sleep took her.

Christine dreamed of fire and song. She dreamed of lips pressed to hers while all the music of Heaven rang in her ears. She dreamed that she was wading through cold water with a rope tied about her waist; just as she reached dry land she was yanked backward and the water closed over her head. She dreamed that she wandered through a labyrinth, unable to find what she had lost and not even knowing what that was.