Chapter Text
Christine is a little nervous among the crowd, alone. Paris still feels unfamiliar to her in many ways, even after the years she has spent here since her father brought her from home. She takes care of herself well, though life hasn’t given her the chance to live as comfortably or elegantly as the other girls around her. They wear fine dresses, talk easily, laugh, showing small signs of affection and happiness. In her plain white dress, she stands out a little, with the quiet feeling that she doesn’t quite belong.
She is here at the fair for simple reasons: a bouquet of sunflowers, some fresh apples, or just to pass time and look at things she cannot take home. Still, there’s a slight sense of embarrassment, and she isn’t quite sure where to go next.
She moves toward a small shop selling fairy tale books and stops in front of it, picking up East of the Sun and West of the Moon, her childhood favourite. A violin sounds suddenly, yet feels strangely familiar, running through the noise of the crowd, gentle but clear. It reminds her of spring fields, green grass and yellow flowers from her hometown, of air that feels lighter than it should be.
Her heart tightens. It isn’t the song she knows, but the way it is played. The tone is clean and focused, almost like crystal. The vibrato is controlled, low and soft, like a quiet murmur. The bowing is steady, smooth as silk. It reminds her of her father, who used to play the violin for her.
Christine looks around, trying to find where the violin is coming from. It almost feels as if no one else is there. Then she notices a caped man sitting beside a gypsy tent—perhaps for fortune-telling, she guesses. She walks over and sits next to him.
The sound feels almost like magic, and without quite realizing it, she begins to sing a folk song from her hometown, her voice blending with the violin. When the song ends, she seems to wake from it. The man is looking at her, and she finds herself doing the same.
“I like how you play the violin,” Christine says with a small smile. In the mask he is wearing, decorated with pieces of glass, she can faintly see her own reflection. “It sounds like my father’s playing, but yours is so exquisite… it doesn’t feel human. It feels like the Angel of Music my father used to talk about.”
The man almost shivers at her words. It is too much praise. “I thank you for your kindness, mademoiselle. But what makes it beautiful is your voice. I never thought a small piece of my own could deserve such a voice—so clear, and…”
He is interrupted by another voice.
“Mademoiselle, your voice is the most valuable treasure in the world. I was lost the moment I heard you sing. May I ask your name?” A young man steps forward, bright-eyed and well dressed, surrounded by several elegantly dressed girls. Almost everyone knows him—the famous Count, Philippe de Chagny.
Christine hesitates for a brief moment. She is not used to this kind of attention, especially not from someone so confident, so easily surrounded by others. She glances back at the masked man again, as if something in her expects him to speak, or at least move—but he remains still.
“Christine Daaé.”
Philippe smiles warmly, as if the answer was exactly what he expected. He says something light, something that makes the girls around him laugh, but Christine barely hears it. Her attention is still half behind her.
He promises to speak to a friend and arrange for someone to train her at the Opéra Garnier. Then he gently takes her hand, guiding her away from the fair. Christine walks with him, though not entirely aware of each step. The noise of the fair shifts behind her, slowly becoming more distant. Still, after a few steps, she slows slightly, as if something is pulling her back.
“Goodbye, monsieur. I hope I’ll see you again someday.” She turns back as she says it. Not fully, just enough to look over her shoulder.
For a moment, the man does not move. He is still sitting there, the violin resting in his hand. Then, very slightly, he inclines his head, or more like a pause in time than an action.
“Of course we will. Goodbye, Christine.” His voice is quiet, steady, almost swallowed by the fair around them.
By the time she turns forward again, he has already begun to walk away in the opposite direction, disappearing slowly into the alley, his violin still in his hand.