Chapter Text
After the night she explored the manor and discovered the piano player, Christine found herself trying to distract herself from her grief by doing more adventuring. Monsieur Khan, or Nadir as he still insisted she call him, was more than happy to accompany her around the grounds when he was free, pointing out locations Christine might find intriguing like the stables, the garden, or, Christine's favorite, the attic which was filled with all sorts of interesting artifacts from past inhabitants.
“Oh goodness,” Christine said one afternoon a few weeks later as she poked around the dusty, dimly lit room, a spike of surprise flashing through her chest as something caught her eye. “Who is this?” Nadir looked up from the moldering bookshelf he had been pursuing, his eyes going wide in shock as they flicked between Christine and the painting she held up in one hand.
It was a decades-old painting of a young woman and a handsome man who was more than likely her husband. Christine had found it tucked away behind some overflowing trunks of clothes from what she guessed was the late 1700s or so. The most curious aspect was not that it had been hidden away or that it looked as though someone or something had taken to destroying it, whether purposely or on accident at one point or another. No, it was the young lady’s appearance that made it strange.
“I honestly have no idea,” Nadir confessed after a few moments of stunned silence. “But she looks remarkably like you, doesn’t she Mademoiselle?” Silently Christine nodded as her eyes traced over the woman again. The eyes were the same light blue as her own, though even in the painting the artist had captured a sort of pure, unadulterated love, the likes of which Christine had never felt herself. In the same way as Christine’s, the woman’s hair fell elegantly over her shoulder in chocolatey brown ringlets that were painted as if the light caught them just so. They shared the same upturned nose and delicate facial features The likeness was uncanny and more than a little frightening. “Is there perhaps a name on the back of the frame?” She shook her head.
“It… it’s strange, to say the least,” she murmured before placing it upside down on a nearby table and changing the subject. “And of course, thank you as usual for indulging my request to poke around a little. I know you have so much else to do around here.” Nadir dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
“It’s not an issue Mademoiselle,” he said with a kind smile, his green eyes sparkling. “I find taking these breaks with you to be quite enjoyable, the same as I do when I spend my days and free moments with Florin. Excuse me, with Professor Valerius .”
“Still,” Christine insisted. “ You and he have been friends for years whereas I have only come to live here recently and you’ve gone out of your way time and time again to make me feel welcome. I appreciate it. Though I think I’m supposed to be starting my lessons at the Conservatoire soon, so our excursions together may be regretfully coming to an end.”
“I wish you the best of luck when you finally start your music education,” he said, his tone sincere, pulling his watch out of his pocket and checking the time. “Forgive me, but I need to go. I have a meeting with the Professor about the instructions for the banquet he and his wife throwing next week. I’ll send one of the maids up here to fetch you for lunch when we’re finished.” Christine nodded her thanks as Nadir left before cautiously turning the unsettling painting over again. She shuddered. Yet another unsettling thing about this new world she had to navigate without her father. Christine set it down and continued looking around the cluttered room until lunch, unable to shake the strange feeling from the pit of her stomach or the feeling of remorse when she realized that she didn’t think about her poor dead Papa as much as she had upon first arriving at the Valerius house.
Mealtimes proved to be less awkward the longer Christine lived with the Valeriuses and each one became more and more enjoyable. Both of her godparents were good conversationalists and as Christine’s grief became duller she slowly became less closed off, beginning to tell stories about when she was younger or recounting what she’d done during the day. The Professor, once he found out Christine was somewhat interested in science, became fond of explaining what he had taught his students during class and Mama Valerius seemed to know every piece of gossip and news that Paris had to offer. Nadir didn’t join them for every meal, but he almost always at dinner, swapping travel tales with Christine, gossiping with Mama Valerius, and discussing anything and everything with the Professor. Today’s topic was the staff’s obsession with the opera ghost. Or rather, how everyone else seemed to believe in him but Christine.
“Christine, I simply must know,” the Professor said, his eyes twinkling with mischievous amusement as they often did when he was going to stir up something. “You’re an intelligent young woman with a considerable interest in modern science. How is it that with all this evidence brought forth, from various credible sources mind you, you don’t believe there’s a ghost here?” Christine giggled a little. He had such a pleasant sense of humor, one she remembered from when she was very young if she looked back far enough.
“I just… think there might be another explanation,” she said with a barely suppressed grin and a shrug, trying to stay slightly vague. Christine wasn’t quite sure if the man who played during the night was actually allowed to do so and she didn’t want to get him in trouble if he wasn’t. Besides, there was no real harm done with the whole ghost thing anyway. Aside from the paranoid staff and their superstitions. “Ghosts are silly. Nothing like angels or saints or… or… Oh, I don’t know! Things we know are real. They’re just silly, that’s all.
“Be careful,” the Professor warned with mock sternness. “Don’t let him hear you. He’s listening at all times, not just the night, and he might take offense.”
“Oh yes,” Mama Valerius said, joining in on the fun. “If you make him upset perhaps he’ll curse you.”
“A curse from an Opera Ghost? What can he do, make my voice and make you all squeaky for my first day at the Conservatoire?” Upstairs a loud thump sounded, followed by a muffled shout. Both the Professor and his wife laughed at that, but Nadir’s expression went oddly serious at the noise.
“That is only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to his powers mademoiselle. I’ve heard stories from the rest of the staff and I’ve experienced much more. Do not underestimate him.” And then, just as quickly as the mood had changed the first time, it shifted back to lighthearted fun. “But that is neither here nor there for now. Madame, might I inquire over whether or not we might have ice cream for dessert?”
Yet another, long week after the discussion of the ghost was Christine’s first day studying at the Conservatoire. She rose before the sun, her entire body a giant ball of nerves. To make things even more ridiculous a glance up at the mirror over her door proved that additionally, she was now feeling anxious about Nadir’s comment on the ‘ghost’ that one evening. Realistically she knew he was nothing but a man, a servant who happened to like playing piano at night after his work was done, but that didn’t do much to make her feel any better. She was much too nervous about the Conservatoire and those nerves made everything else frightening, no matter how absurd.
Hundreds of thoughts, fears, and doubts raced through her mind. What if she wasn’t any good at her classes? What if her voice instructors were too strict or too lax to learn anything from? What if she developed some sort of stage fright the first time she had to sing? What if she got lost on the way there, on when she was coming back home?
It became too much. There were far too many unknowns so rather than laying in bed worrying about them all, she would give herself something else to do. Christine threw off the purple sheets and climbed out of bed, trying to distract herself by reorganizing her few belongings on their shelves.
By the time Melodie knocked on the door to bring her down for breakfast Christine had rearranged her shelves three different times, run through various scales and vocal warmups, organized her dresses by color in the closet, and ordered her books on the bookshelf first by color, alphabetical order, size, and then put them into alphabetical order by author’s name. None of that had helped with the pit that was vastly deepening in her stomach, but it had given her something to do with her hands, and for that she was grateful. The maid knocked once again, snapping Christine from her fears and distractions back into the moment.
“Are you up yet Mademoiselle,” Melodie asked through the door. “Madame Valerius informed me that you have a most important appointment to keep at around nine this morning and I must ensure that you are ready for it.”
“Oh. Yes, I’m awake,” Christine answered, a little embarrassed that Mama Valerius had deemed her first day taking singing lessons at the Conservatoire as such an important day of note that even the staff needed to be informed of it. “Please tell Mama and the Professor that I’ll be down to eat shortly. I only need to dress for the day and put up my hair.” A sound of acknowledgment came from the hallway followed by a dutiful, “Yes, ma’am.” As Melodie’s footsteps faded down the hall Christine reached into her newly color-coordinated closet and pursed her lips. Today’s dress had to be perfect, not too self-important but certainly not too understated and plain. She sighed. Today certainly was going to be a long day if she was spending this long agonizing over the perfect dress.
“There she is,” the Professor crowed when Christine entered the dining room. “Look at her Elaine! Our very own future opera star!” Mama Valerius smiled but playfully swatted her husband on the arm.
“Hush now Florin,” she said. “Christine may do whatever she pleases with everything she learns. And we will be proud of her either way.” Christine felt her cheeks heat up a little at the words, but she sat down quietly to eat as much as she was able to.
Breakfast was short a quieter than usual between Christine’s nervous stomach and the short one or two-word responses she gave whenever her godparents tried to engage her in any sort of conversation. It was rude, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself. Whenever she opened her mouth to speak tsunami-like waves of anxiety rushed over her with even more intensity than the previous time. She considered it a miracle that she even managed to make it into the carriage with Mama and the Professor who were both going to escort her there and even more so that she stayed conscious during the stress-induced blur that was the journey through Paris.
Finally, they arrived in the heart of the city. The driver stopped in front of the huge, grand building and Christine’s heart lept into her throat. There must be some kind of mistake, she thought for a moment. I can’t belong here! Yet even as she thought this, all the memories of her childhood returned. The days of singing with Papa as he played his violin for crowds of thousands to earn money. The gorgeous primadonna who sang the first opera that Christine had ever been taken to see and her dream of singing on stage like that. The kind words of encouragement from her father and the other musicians they met on their travels whenever she sang. The look of pride in his eyes when she first announced her desire to study at the Paris Conservatoire. The light leaving his eyes as he coughed and sent her to the Valeriuses to follow her dream.
Her father was dead, buried six feet down in a cold churchyard back in Sweden. Paris was her home and this was her dream. If there was anywhere she belonged now, it was here.
“You can do this,” Mama Valerius said softly, encouragingly, placing one wrinkly hand over Christine’s. “Your Papa would be so proud of you for making it this far.” Christine nodded, blinking back a few tears as a watery smile found its way to her lips. How she wished he could be here to see her. “And your Mama, your real one, would be proud of you too. You have a lovely voice and with all the polishing they will give you, you will be the most beautiful singer in all of France.”
“And we are proud of you,” The Professor added. “We are proud and have faith in you.” Christine nodded in response, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin. The time for tears was over. Now there was only music, the music that ran through her veins. She stepped out of the carriage and walked forward, feigning less confidence than she thought she’d need to as she climbed the steps.
Several hours later she re-entered the house, sobbing. No one could get Christine to calm herself
“It was horrible! I was horrible! I’ll never sing there again. Send me back if you must, but I’ll join the dancers! I will! All of you were wrong and my father has broken his promise! There is no Angel of Music and if there is, it has been sent to someone else. I’m no future primadonna. I’m nothing at all!”
Somewhere within the house, the Opera Ghost stroked his cat with an invisible hand and fumed. He had listened to the girl’s voice, the girl with a kind likeness of his mother’s features, on various occasions during her time in his domain and while it was far from perfect, it was the sweetest thing he had heard in his existence, both dead or alive. He vowed to find a way to shape it, to craft it into something the world could experience. His life had been full of accomplishments before it had been taken so cruelly from him and creating art had been his purpose. Perhaps, he mused, my death could be full of accomplishments too. Perhaps she can be my art as well. Perhaps I can help her become art if I can only find a way.