Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This cover art was done by the AMAZING Erik_Carriere (@erik-carriere on Tumblr)!

(better quality can be seen here: https://www.tumblr.com/angel-with-paper-wings/747390679574003712/live-as-youve-never-lived-before?source=share)

TLDR: This is your girl Angie’s take on the story of The Phantom of the Opera; it changes various plotlines/characters from the original in order to make the main romantic relationship (The Phantom/Erik x Christine) less iffy. I hope you enjoy!

Hello and welcome! This is my personal retelling of The Phantom of the Opera and is mostly based on the ALW musical, with some original Leroux novel stuff mixed in for good measure. Because of this, it does change a lot of the canon in order for the relationship between the Phantom and Christine to be less toxic than it is at present (because, let’s face it, their relationship has A LOT of issues that cannot be resolved through lazily writing around the current canon. I’m looking at you, Love Never Dies.) That being said, I tried my best to maintain the personalities of the characters as much as possible, while only adjusting the situations they find themselves in.

Unfortunately, a few characters (namely Raoul) will not show up in this story because they would conflict with the plot I have in mind (i.e. the romance between Christine and the Phantom). I’m so sorry Raoul my beloved, I’m doing this for your own good and to not ruin your precious character arc. He will get a shoutout, though.

Moving on to some background for the story: this is set in a universe where many of the more *morally questionable* moments of the musical don't happen, and the Phantom and Christine start on more level ground. Christine (aged 22-24 at the start of the story) doesn’t have the idea of the “Angel of Music” coming to help her (although her father did tell her that story); she is just a lonely young woman who goes to live/train at the opera house as a dancer per the request of her distant adoptive mother. While there, she is not a very talented dancer, but she does sometimes hum and sing the opera’s arias after hearing the lead soprano sing them during practice. The Phantom (aged 28-30 at the start of the story) hears her, and is immediately drawn to her delicate, crystal-clear voice. As he observes her, he starts to notice her kindness towards the other dancers, despite sometimes getting distracted by her sorrow and grief. These two elements are something he has never seen in anyone before, and the part of him that the world has not yet broken wants to help her, just like she helps everyone else. Internally, he holds a hope that she will be the one person in the world who can give him love and acceptance, and in return, he promises to give her the love and acceptance that she needs as well, in a society that deems both of them unworthy of such things.

It is worth noting that I wrote this story with the 25th Anniversary performance in mind, and as such, the likenesses of the characters are based on that cast (Ramin Karimloo as the Phantom, Sierra Boggess as Christine, etc. I’m basic, I know. Sue me). However, this story can be read with any version of the cast you prefer; I tried to make the actions/dialogue line up with the characters themselves, or at least my take on them. In this same vein, my descriptions of certain settings are based on how I see them in my own brain, so if something isn’t 100% accurate to the book or stage versions you can cough it up to creative liberties.

As for updates, I plan on uploading chapters one at a time every week or every other week. Chapter one will be up very soon!

Overall, this fic is meant to be a love letter to the story that has captured my heart, and a celebration for the characters that have lived rent-free in my noggin for the past year. I hope it will bring you, lovely reader, the same amount of joy that it has brought me, and allow you to take a step away from your world for just a little while and live as you’ve never lived before.

~Angie

Chapter Text

Turquoise waves crashed steadily onto the rocky shore. The wind chased the large grey clouds across the sky and carried the clean sea air over a small grassy hill and through the tree that stood upon it. The tree’s long branches reached out as if to embrace the light that shone upon them, while also providing protection from the dazzling rays.

It was within this protection, beneath the emerald leaves, that a young girl sat perched on one of the branches, her head leaning against the rough bark of the tree’s trunk. The girl’s face was much more forlorn than any child her age should feel, staring out into the blue sea, a great sigh on her lips.

“‘Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing’,” a familiar voice spoke from below her.

The girl peeked down, letting her brown curls waver in the wind. A man with dark hair stood next to the tree, hands in the pockets of his woolen jacket. “‘Like a butterfly she flew about in the gold of the sun./In her golden curls she wore the crown of spring/And her gaze was like the heavens, so bright blue and clear.’” The man glanced up at the little girl, a small smile on his face. “Monsieur Munch got a couple things wrong in his description, but he did well in capturing your attitude.”

The girl straightened back up in the tree, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t like that poem,” she said huffily. “It’s too sad.”

She heard her father’s soft chuckle a few meters below her. “My dear, that’s what makes it so beautiful. When a person creates something that can change how others feel, they have created art.”

Slowly becoming intrigued, the girl poked her head over the side of the branch again. Her father looked back up at her expectantly. With a sigh, she scrambled out of the tree, climbing down the branches one by one, until she was finally lifted from the last and placed on the ground by her father.

“But I don’t like feeling sad,” she remarked, brushing small twigs from her pale blue dress.

“Christine,” her father said, kneeling on one knee in front of her. “It’s sadness that makes happiness so meaningful. In order to truly understand one, you must have first felt the other.” He paused, his dark eyes examining her expression. Finally, he placed his hand gently on her shoulder. “I know you miss him, but you will see your friend again, someday.”

Christine’s eyes fell to the ground. “I know,” she replied sadly.

Her father squeezed her shoulder comfortingly, before his expression brightened. “I learned a new piece. If you’re in the mood, would you like to hear it?”

Christine lifted her face curiously. “What kind of piece?”

“It’s a lullaby,” he said. He moved his hand from her shoulder and instead offered it to her. She took it, and together they walked across the meadow grass back to their small summer cottage.

“Maybe it will help me dream,” Christine pondered, earning another quiet laugh from her father.

“Christine Daae!”

The young woman snapped to attention, the shrill call chasing away the remnants of her daydream. She found herself once more sitting on the side of the large stage, surrounded by the other petit rats —the opera’s young ballerinas. They were all standing and staring at her, led by the hawklike eyes of Madame Giry, the ballet mistress. “I said ,” she continued in her strict tone, “let’s run through the garden ballet again. If you recall, that number includes the entire ensemble.”

A few giggles escaped from the onlooking ballerinas. Christine’s face flushed, and she bowed her head meekly. “Yes, Madame.” She quickly got to her feet and rushed over to her place in the line of dancers. She forced her feet into position, and felt a small nudge on her shoulder. She looked to her side to see Meg, who smiled encouragingly beneath her blonde bangs. Christine smiled back, before the piano introduced the number, and the row of dancers began to glide across the stage.

Christine tried especially hard to not get distracted as she proceeded through the steps carefully. Her skills were decent; if they were anything less, she would not have earned a spot in the corps de ballet. However, she knew she lacked the grace and dedication of a truly skilled dancer, which became apparent as she almost tripped over her own feet as the ballet continued. She did not miss the piercing look of warning from Madame Giry, and she quickly adjusted her posture to keep herself in balance.

The dance went on, and finally reached a point where the corps stood in a line near the back of the stage, forming a backdrop for the principal dancers. Christine stood very still in her pose, despite the aching of her legs. Her eyes, however, were free to roam across the stage and out to the enormous hall of the Opera Populaire, up to the grand chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Later that very night, the hall would be filled with music from a full orchestra as well as an ensemble of singers as part of the premiere of the opera house’s newest production, Lakmé . The seats would all be filled with Paris’s finest aristocrats, celebrating in the best way their money could buy them. For the moment, though, the velvet seats were empty, and the private boxes cloaked in shadow. This was a good thing though, as it helped the young dancers focus on their footwork instead of a thousand prying eyes.

Christine’s thoughts were interrupted as a row of dancers proceeded directly in front of her, and she quickly moved to keep up her position in the line. She recognized the bright ginger hair in front of her; it belonged to Jammes, a tiny girl barely older than fifteen. She was one of the youngest dancers in the corps, fresh out of auditions. Tonight would be her debut, and she was practically shaking with nerves. Christine smiled softly to herself as she remembered how nervous she had been during her first performance. She wanted to tell little Jammes that at least she wouldn’t be alone, something she wished she could tell herself.

At that time, the number was almost over, and the corps took their place along either side of the stage. The principal ballerina got into position to perform her final fouettés, when suddenly, Jammes’s shoe slipped, and she tumbled to the floor with a loud thud. The ballet came to an abrupt halt, the dancers surrounding Jammes gasping and retreating so as not to be knocked to the ground themselves.

Without thinking, Christine rushed over to stand above the fallen girl. She extended her hand; Jammes’s wide forget-me-not eyes fell onto it, then she took it gratefully. Christine gave her a small smile and pulled her back to her feet. Before she could say anything, Madame Giry was upon them.

“You foolish girl! You’d best get your nerves under control before the premiere tonight!” Jammes looked down shamefully, her face scarlet. Christine squeezed her hand but said nothing.

At once, the musical director appeared, stepping onto the stage towards the ballet mistress. “Madame Giry! I do hope we are not interrupting?”

Madame Giry spun around to face the director. “Not at all, Monsieur. Rehearsal of the ballet has just concluded.”

“Excellent! Then we may proceed with rehearsal of the operatic portion. Excuse me, ladies.”

With a collective sigh of relief, the ballerinas quickly made their way to the wings of the stage. A few flitted off to the dressing rooms to change or fetch water, while the rest seated themselves on the floor to watch the remainder of the rehearsal.

Christine sat down next to Meg, smoothing her lilac-colored tulle skirt. “You did well,” Meg chirped encouragingly.

Christine scoffed lightly. “Well enough. When I could concentrate.”

“We must start tying a weight to your head to keep it from drifting into the clouds,” Meg teased, and Christine laughed and elbowed her playfully in the side.

The young ladies watched as another person stepped onto the stage; the lead soprano, Carlotta Giudicelli, looking proud and pompous in her character’s elegant costume. “From the top, please, Signora,” the musical director said, and with a few bars introduction from the piano, Carlotta began to sing the opening aria:

Dôme épais le jasmin

À la rose s'assemble,

Rive en fleurs, frais matin,

Nous appellent ensemble.

Even though the piece was written as a duet, in true prima donna fashion, Carlotta had demanded the song only include the soprano part, so she could be the only singer onstage for the opening number.

Ah! glissons en suivant

Le courant fuyant

Dans l'onde frémissante,

D'une main nonchalante

Gagnons le bord,

Où l'oiseau chante,

l'oiseau, l'oiseau chante.

Christine recognized the song, but not just from the opera’s rehearsals. With a pang in her chest, she recalled a memory of her father playing the same song on the violin for her; he had called it a lullaby, and she did remember drifting to sleep to the gentle notes on more than one occasion.

Before she could reminisce any longer, Christine felt a small hand grip her arm, and she turned to meet Meg’s wide eyes. “You’re coming to the backstage party after the performance tonight, aren’t you?” she asked eagerly.

Christine’s hands fiddled with her skirt. “Oh, I don’t know, Meg,” she said shyly, her voice hesitant.

“Come on, everyone in the corps is going!” Meg leaned in close to Christine. “There’ll be sweets,” she added quietly, a grin on her face.

Christine considered a moment, then rolled her eyes. “I suppose, if there are sweets.”

Several hours later, the performance was over, and Christine wandered through the empty halls of the opera house, letting her feet carry her along the familiar route to the library. Just as Meg was dragging her to the backstage party, she had excused herself to change out of her ballet slippers in her dormitory. Once she had done that, she found that she didn’t feel like returning to the boisterous party just yet. After all, she doubted anyone would notice her absence anyway, except perhaps Meg.

So she trudged along the echoing halls, the walls lined with velvet curtains and studded with elegant columns. This place had been her home for the past five years, ever since she was accepted into the dance ensemble after her guardian, Madame Valérius, had encouraged her to pursue the arts and use the musical talents her father had given her.

Her father.

A tight lump formed in the back of her throat, and Christine closed her eyes momentarily to stop tears from spilling out of them. He had passed away almost ten years ago, leaving her with no one but her distant great-aunt, who was forgetful at the best of times and negligent at the worst. That is why Christine spent so much time at the Opera Populaire; it gave her life structure, it gave her time meaning, which she knew if she didn’t have would send her down a path she couldn’t come back from.

And yet, she missed the happiness of her old life, the life she shared with her father. They had been poor, definitely, but that didn’t stop them from enjoying the simplest of things; walking amongst the flowers, smelling the sea air, dancing at a festival to the sound of her father’s violin.

As Christine’s thoughts drifted further and further into the past, her heart ached more and more inside her chest. Her hands trembled with emotion, and she crossed her arms to hold them steady as she stepped into the opera’s library, a large collection of books and musical scores from the opera’s extensive history. She came here simply because no one else did; when the other dancers preferred to gossip and tease backstage in the dressing rooms and dormitories, Christine made her way here to find peace and silence, as well as a book in which to escape in.

Now, the silence only served to amplify the thoughts in her mind and deepen her gloom. She found a place between the bookshelves and sank down to the floor, her back pressed up against the wall. The melody from the opera’s duet crept to the forefront, and with great sadness, she lifted her chin and began to softly sing.

Dôme épais le jasmin

À la rose s'assemble,

Rive en fleurs, frais matin,

Nous appellent ensemble.

She did not care if the notes were right, or if the tempo was too slow, nor did she try to stop her voice from shaking. She sang with all her sorrow and grief, turning a normally happy song into one of despair.

Ah, glissons en suivant

Le courant fuyant

Dans l'onde frémissante,

D'une main nonchalante

Gagnons le bord,

Où l'oiseau chante,

l'oiseau, l'oiseau chante.

The notes drew tears from her eyes, which she let fall down her face in shimmering trails. Finally, she broke, letting her head fall down on her knees as wrenching sobs shook her small form. She wanted to know why, why did he have to leave her? Why did her old life have to end? Why does she have to be stuck in this place, with nowhere that she can be herself and no one who could possibly understand the pain in her heart? She silently prayed to the angels her father had told her about, begged that they would help ease her burden, and let her live again.

The sound of her sobs echoed through the silence, carrying through the thin walls to the hollow space beyond. Her voice and all its sorrow was heard, but not by an angel. That night, while the rest of Paris celebrated, two souls broken by the world wept together.

Chapter Text

“Signora, we cannot simply cut out the role of Priscilla in this opera!”

The opera director’s frantic protests were drowned out by Carlotta’s loud disapproval, which echoed around the empty opera hall. “I will not have it! Her character is useless and will distract from my—I mean, Elissa’s—plight!”

It was several weeks after the premiere of Lakmé , which had been met with great success by the audiences of Paris. To continue the season, a new opera had been chosen, titled Hannibal , and the first reading of the opera was scheduled to take place that day. However, before the first act was even read through, it became quite apparent that rehearsal would have to be cut short, due to many “artistic differences” between the musical director and the lead singers, namely Carlotta and her lover Piangi.

The musical director sighed and rubbed his temples. “She is a necessary character in the story. To write her out would require a great deal of editing in the score itself.”

“I am sure you will come up with something,” Carlotta said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

In the wings of the stage, Christine sat with Meg and watched with amusement as Carlotta stormed off the stage dramatically, closely followed by Piangi. The two friends found it entertaining to watch the first reading of any new opera, as Carlotta always seemed to make a fuss over some tiny aspect of the score. As trying as it was to deal with the prima donna’s sudden outbursts, Christine had learned that as long as one was not on the receiving end of them, they could be quite funny in their ridiculousness.

The musical director was left alone on the stage, a hand on his pounding forehead. He looked down at the now useless score in his hand. “Well, I suppose I won’t be needing this any longer today. You, ballet girl,” He pointed in Christine’s direction, who had been whispering to Meg but now sat straight up. “Take this back to the library archives.”

Christine got to her feet and walked over to the director, taking the score from his hands. “Yes, Monsieur,” she said quietly, before turning back around and ushering Meg to follow her backstage.

“It was just starting to get good, too,” Meg said disappointedly.

Christine grinned. “I know. I’m surprised that the director has not quit yet, after all she puts him through.”

“He’ll put up with anything to have his fame and fortune,” Meg remarked. “At least, that’s what Mother always says.”

The two weaved their way past pieces of sets, various props, and stagehands, when suddenly there was a great rush of petit rats in front of them, all whispering animatedly. There was soon a small crowd gathered outside the dressing room of the principal ballerina, a woman named Sorelli. “What’s going on?” Christine said, trotting her way over with Meg.

One of the dancers spun around to face her. “It’s Jammes. She’s been frightened something awful.”

“Jammes?” Christine glanced over at Meg, who widened her eyes fearfully, before starting to push through the crowd to make it into the dressing room.

Inside the fancily-decorated room, all the girls were clustered around a chair, where Jammes sat pale and trembling, her bright blue eyes darting around every face. “I am telling you, it was a ghost!”

A few dancers gasped. The tale of the Opera Ghost was a popular one in the halls of the Opera Populaire. Everyone believed in it, even the bravest of stagehands, but no one had ever claimed to have actually seen the specter before.

Christine set the musical score on top of a small table before going to stand beside the terrified girl. Before she could comfort her, an irritated voice raised above the clamor. “What are you all doing in here? This is my dressing room!” Sorelli’s sharp features appeared over the excited faces of the girls, who were all at least a head shorter than the principal dancer. She waded her way through the crowd and over to where Jammes was sitting.

“Jammes says she saw the Opera Ghost,” Christine said bravely.

At once, the anger dissipated from Sorelli’s face, replaced by a look of curiosity. Sorelli was known for being very superstitious, often adorning the practice rooms and dormitories with lucky charms to ward off evil spirits. Even now, she touched the wooden ring on her left hand as she knelt in front of Jammes. “Where did you see it?” she asked urgently.

Jammes took a shaky breath. “I was watching the end of the opera rehearsal just now, and I saw a glimpse of something out in the audience, in one of the private boxes.”

“Which box?”

“The one up on the right side. Box Five.”

Almost everyone gasped, and a few girls screamed quickly. They all knew Box Five was the haunted box; no patron ever sat there, as the ghost had commanded the manager of the opera house to keep it open for his use.

Jammes was urged by the others to continue with her story. “It was dark in the box, but there was just enough light from the chandelier to see the outline of his frame. He was tall, dressed in dark gentleman’s clothes. His face appeared very pale, just like a ghost’s.”

“Well, of course; that’s what he is,” Sorelli said matter-of-factly. She leaned back from Jammes and spoke to the rest of the room. “He’s a Phantom, and has haunted this opera house for the past three years, commanding the manager to do his bidding.”

One of the older dancers looked doubtful. “But why does the manager even take orders from him? If he is just a ghost?”

Sorelli’s eyebrow raised. “ Just a ghost?” She got to her feet at once, drawing every eye in the room to her. “A spirit like him can inflict terrible wrath on a place such as this if he is not obeyed. It’s best to just follow his command, as long as he is not hurting anyone.”

Another dancer rolled her eyes. “Are we even sure she saw it? She was too far away to see clearly into the box, she said it herself.”

Sorelli stuck up her nose importantly. “Oh, there is no doubt the ghost exists. Whether she saw him today or not bears no consequence to that fact.”

As the girls continued to argue, Christine squeezed Jammes’s little hand. “Are you sure you’re alright?” she asked comfortingly.

Jammes nodded. “Yes. I’m just a little shaken. But I’ll be okay.” She leaned in a bit closer to Christine. “You do believe me, don’t you?”

Christine stared into her eyes a moment, before nodding slowly. “I do believe you saw something.”

Jammes gave a small smile, and Christine stood and made her way to the door. She then remembered her original task, and reached over to the small desk for the musical score.

But it was not there.

Meg appeared beside her, and Christine shook her head.  “I thought I put the score right here. Where did it go?” The two girls began looking around the room frantically, under the desk and on every other surface. Christine felt panic begin to creep into her mind, and her voice began to shake. “Oh no, where is it? I can’t have lost it, the director will be looking for it.”

Suddenly, Sorelli’s annoyed voice cut through the many conflicting murmurings of the dancers. “Alright, that’s enough! All of you, out of my dressing room! I wish to have the evening to myself for once.”

As the petit rats began to file out of the room, Christine raced over to Sorelli’s side. “Sorelli, I think I misplaced the Hannibal score somewhere in here. If you find it, will you please let me know?”

Sorelli waved her hand dismissively. “Yes, very well,” she said as she began to undo the bun in her hair, not looking at Christine.

Christine wanted to say more, but Meg dragged her out of the room by the arm. “It’s alright, Christine. Let’s keep looking, I’m sure we’ll find it.”

It was much later that evening, and the score still had not turned up, despite Christine and Meg’s desperate searching all afternoon. Meg had finally convinced Christine to halt their search for the night and get ready for bed. Christine had agreed wearily, her eyes sore from hours of peering behind curtains, under desks, and inside shelves, and now sat dejected on the bed of her small dormitory.

“Come now, Christine, it will turn up in the morning. And even if it doesn’t, Carlotta will probably make the director choose a different opera anyway,” Meg said, trying to brighten her friend’s mood.

Christine let her face fall into her hands. “I can’t believe I lost an entire musical score. When your mother finds out about this, she will not be pleased with me.”

Meg’s mother was, in fact, Madame Giry, and even Meg couldn’t deny the fury she would unleash if it became known that Christine misplaced an operatic score from the opera’s library. She was already well aware of Christine’s distracted nature, and had worked tirelessly to train it out of her. But try as Christine might, she could not bring herself to be fully present in her dancing; her heart was always somewhere else.

Meg finally shook her head, resigned to her inability to shake Christine from her guilt. “Get some sleep, Christine,” she said finally, before closing the door and leaving the young woman in the light of her lamp.

Chirstine sighed heavily, her anxious thoughts still racing as she pressed her head into her pillow and squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to escape to the world of her dreams. She knew the next day would be torture for her, filled with yelling and disappointment and shame. Only a miracle could save me now , she thought bitterly.

After all, if ghosts were real, then surely miracles were, too.

She found herself walking along a small dusty road, dotted with stones that she kicked happily with her little feet. The sun had just set, leaving the western sky streaked with gold and rose, waiting to be consumed by the navy blue night. She made sure not to walk too far ahead of her father, who strolled a few steps behind her.

They were returning to their cottage from the village’s center, where they had attended a festival to celebrate the annual Breton pilgrimage. Her father had played his violin and she had sung just a bit, which had both been met with great joy from the audience of worshippers.

Christine smiled as she stepped along, admiring the trees on either side of the path. She rounded the corner, and arrived beside the small church, its stained-glass windows glinting like jewels in the evening light. She suddenly stopped, her eyes fixed upon the metal gate leading to the small graveyard beside the church. She let out a gasp of fear and ran back to her father, clutching his leg tightly.

His voice chuckled above her. “What’s the matter, Christine?”

The little girl pointed a shaking finger toward the graveyard. “There are ghosts in there,” she whispered.

She felt his large hand pat her head gently. “There’s no need to be afraid, Christine. The dead cannot hurt you.”

Christine looked up at her father’s wise smile, and slowly released his leg and instead took his hand so he could lead her past the graveyard. Her wide eyes tracked the dark stones as they passed, untrusting. “You said that Mama’s death hurt you,” she said quietly.

His smile faded, and she felt his hand squeeze hers. “That is true,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “But it is not her spirit that hurts me, nor her memory. I am only hurt by her absence; the knowledge that she is no longer here with me. The knowledge that she will never see you in your life. That is what haunts me, not her ghost.”

The graveyard was now behind them, and little Christine felt much more eased. She listened intently as her father continued. “But before she left, she gave me the greatest gift to keep me company, and to protect me from my hurt.”

She looked up at him with a grin. He tapped her nose with his finger, and she giggled before hugging his leg again.

Christine’s eyes fluttered open as the wisps of the dream faded from her mind. She looked up sleepily to see the candle in her lamp was almost extinguished, indicating that she had been asleep a few hours and that the night was not yet over.

She sat up in bed, pushing a few curls out of her face, and reached for the small glass of water on her bedside table. Suddenly, she heard a quiet thud from just outside her room. She froze, the glass heavy in her hand, as she listened carefully and glanced over at the door to her room. The sound had been too heavy to be a footstep, and there had only been one instead of the usual trail of steps and creaks as someone walked past her door.

Christine considered her actions for a moment, before slowly placing the glass back on the table and pushing herself out of bed. She placed a steady hand on the door handle and pressed her ear close to the wooden door. Nothing but silence met her ears. Bracing herself, she turned the handle and pulled the door open quickly.

She merely saw the opposite end of the dormitory hall, marked by Meg’s closed door. Her head glanced left and right, looking for a glimpse of a candle or the swish of fabric disappearing behind a corner. But nothing was there.

Perplexed, Christine went to close her door again, but stopped when she looked down to see the Hannibal score sitting innocently against her doorframe. She reached down and picked it up, her eyes tracing it for any sign of damage. It appeared to be untouched, not a page out of place or a fingerprint on the cool leather binding.

Christine felt a strange mix of relief and bewilderment wash over her; she checked both ends of the hall one more time, before taking the score back into her room and shutting the door. She sat down on her bed as her brain flooded with possibilities of who could have found the score and brought it directly to her room. There was no way it was Sorelli; she would be much too proud to interrupt her precious beauty sleep to return Christine’s lost item even if she found it in her room. And it couldn’t have been Meg or Jammes; they would have wanted to let her know, even in the middle of the night, to stop her from worrying. And no one else knew about their search for it this afternoon; they had told no one what they were doing in the hope of avoiding embarrassment at Christine’s mistake.

Christine finally smiled, sliding the score underneath her pillow and climbing back under the covers. She told herself it did not really matter to her who returned it; as long as it was still here in the morning to take back to the music director. Sleep came easier to her untroubled mind this time, but strangely, she did not dream.

Chapter Text

The crack from the ballet director’s came echoed through the large practice room. Madame Giry’s cold eyes scanned over the line of dancers, who had just completed their sequence. “Well, you all are improving with the new choreography; that’s a start. But we still have much work to do in the coming months to prepare for the opera’s premiere. I expect nothing but perfection from all of you. Especially in the temps de cuisse .” Finally, she stamped her stick again, and the dancers were excused.

The petit rats all rushed out of the practice room, chatting eagerly. Among the last to leave were Christine and Meg, who slipped out of their shoes before making their way to the corps’ shared dressing room. “Ah, my feet are so sore today,” Christine grumbled, hissing in pain. “You should ask your mother to go easy on us for once.”

Meg scoffed. “I would if I thought it would help. But you know how she is.”

Christine hummed in agreement as she flopped down in front of her small cubby on the floor of the dressing room. Every dancer in the ensemble had a small compartment to keep their shoes and costumes in a safe place during rehearsals. Many petit rats liked to store other small items in their cubbies as well, like hair clips, supplies for breaking in their shoes, and even some hidden sweets. Christine placed her slippers back into the wooden nook, before noticing a small object tucked into the far corner. She reached her hand in and pulled out a bright red apple.

Meg eyed her actions carefully, before giggling. “How do you always have a snack ready after practice? The rest of us have to change and rush to the cafe at the end of the street.”

Christine, who had been smiling softly to herself, looked over at Meg hesitantly. “To tell you the truth, Meg,” she began, holding up the apple, “It’s not me who brought this here. All my snacks, they’re just….here, in my cubby, after practice.” At Meg’s strange look, Christine continued earnestly. “And it’s not just snacks, it’s all kinds of things. Things I’ve lost, things I need, just when I realize I need them, they’re right here.” She proceeded to tell Meg of the various things she’s found in her cubby over the past few weeks; an earring she had lost, a new pair of ballet slippers to replace her old and tattered ones, extra thread to repair her and Meg’s costumes. “You must think I’m mad,” Christine said, shaking her head at herself.

Meg, who had been listening intently as she rambled on, finally broke her silence. “No, I don’t think you’re mad, Christine. It’s very odd, I agree, but it must simply be someone doing something nice for you.” She nudged her friend’s arm playfully. “Perhaps they’re from your guardian angel! You never know, do you?”

Meg finally turned away to release her golden hair from its tight braid, and Christine’s gaze drifted down to the apple again. She hadn’t wanted to admit to the unusual pattern of events, worried it would only add to her reputation as the silly, absentminded dancer within the gossiping halls of the opera house. However, she knew she could trust Meg with her small secret, but her friend’s words hadn’t done much to ease her puzzlement.

After all, who would want to help her? She couldn’t think of anyone who would go out of their way to return these trinkets, which were so small and insignificant, easily overlooked by anyone but their owner. But maybe Meg was right; maybe it was something else that was helping her.

But a guardian Angel? Her father had told her stories of such things when she was a child, but she had never believed in them more than she believed in any other fairytale. To her, angels belonged in heaven, and were only sent by God when a mortal truly deserved them. And she….she did not deserve an Angel. To believe one was here for her would be ridiculous.

Then again, was it really so hard to believe that someone was just doing something nice for her?

Christine sighed. Yes , she thought to herself harshly, before biting into the apple, letting the sweetness distract her momentarily from her gloomy thoughts.

Outside, it was a dark and dreary night. But inside the small rustic cottage, a warm fire flickered in the fireplace, and the warm sound of laughter drowned out the pattering of rain on the roof.

Two young children sat on the rug beside the fire; a girl, no older than twelve, and a boy a couple years older. The boy was already wearing his night things, because his playclothes were hanging to dry in front of the fire. Earlier that day, despite his governess’s protests he had run fully-clothed into the sea to retrieve a scarf that had been whisked off the neck of the very girl seated next to him now.

The two children continued to giggle as a man walked into the room, a violin tucked under his arm. He smiled when he saw them, and walked over to the table in the far corner of the room. “I thought you two were heading to bed,” he said in a half-stern way. He nodded to the boy as he put his violin back into its case on the table. “Your governess has already retired for the night, and I told her you follow suit soon.”

The young girl sprang to her feet and ran over to her father. “Tell us a story, Papa! Please,” she implored.

The man shook his head. “Now, Christine, it’s already very late….”

The young boy walked over to stand beside the table as well. “Just one, Monsieur Daae! Then we’ll go right to bed, we promise,” he said, and Christine nodded eagerly.

The man glanced from one pair of wide eyes to the other, before sighing and closing the lid to the violin case. “Just one,” he said, grinning.

The children smiled broadly and hurried to sit back down on the rug in front of the hearth. The man pulled a chair from the table closer to them and sat down. He paused briefly, thinking of a story, before he spoke again. “A king sat in a little boat on a deep, still lake in the midst of the Norwegian mountains….”

“Not that one,” the young boy interjected. “You told us that one last time.”

The man crossed his arms and sat back in the chair, feigning annoyance. “You said you wanted a story, you didn’t say which one.”

“Tell us about the Angel of Music,” the little girl’s soft voice spoke up.

The man looked over to his daughter. “The Angel of Music?” he asked curiously.

She nodded; he considered for a moment, before smiling slightly. “Very well.” He leaned forward in his chair, and the two children sat up attentively as he began his tale.

“‘Every great artist that has walked this Earth has received a visit from the Angel of Music at least once in their life. He may come to them in dreams, when their mind is most calmed, or they may hear him in quiet moments alone. Sometimes the Angel leans over their cradle, and that is how there are little prodigies who play the fiddle at six better than men at fifty. Sometimes, the Angel comes much later, because the children are naughty and won't learn their lessons or practice their scales.’” At this, the man’s dark eyes rested on Christine pointedly. The little girl blushed, and the boy sitting next to her laughed lightly before the man continued on. “‘And, sometimes, he does not come at all, because the children have a bad heart or a bad conscience.

“‘No one ever sees the Angel; but he is heard only by those who are meant to hear him. He often comes when they least expect him, when they are sad and disheartened. Then their ears suddenly perceive celestial harmonies, a divine voice, which they remember all their lives. Persons who are visited by the Angel quiver with a thrill unknown to the rest of mankind. And they can not touch an instrument, or open their mouths to sing, without producing sounds that put all other human sounds to shame. Then people who do not know that the Angel has visited those persons say that they have genius.’”

The two children looked up at the storyteller in awe. Finally, Christine broke the silence. “Have you ever heard the Angel, Papa?”

Her father glanced at her, before folding his hands in his lap. “No, I have not.”

The boy frowned skeptically. “Then how could the Angel be real? You are a great musician, and yet you have never been visited!”

The man smiled and looked down humbly. “You are too kind, young Vicomte,” he said, before standing. “And now that I have indulged you with my story, I believe we agreed that it was time for bed?”

The children groaned in protest, but obediently stood and made their way up the stairs. After the boy had settled into the room he shared with his governess, the man followed his daughter into her small room to tuck her in.

Christine climbed into her bed, but sat up to watch her father. “Raoul’s right, Papa. How can you play so beautifully without the help of the Angel of Music?”

Her father smiled as he pulled the covers up to the girl’s chin. “It was just a story, Christine.” He sat down on the side of her bed. “We don’t always need Angels to achieve great things. Sometimes, we just need them to show us our potential, especially when we don’t believe in it ourselves.”

Christine considered his words for a moment. “I want to hear the Angel,” she whispered softly.

Her father nodded, and pressed a kiss to his daughter’s forehead. “One day, you will. I am sure of it.”

The memory of the stormy night floated at the forefront of Christine’s mind as she wandered her way to the library once again. She thought she would select a book to help ease her to sleep that night, even though she had probably read through them all at least once, in the many years she had spent at the opera house.

Her fingertips glided over the smooth spines of the books on the shelves, eyes glancing over the gold-embossed titles. She finally stopped at one, and removed it from the shelf to examine more closely. It was a collection of Greek myths; Christine smiled, thinking of the sweet fairytales shared in front of a warm fireplace. She opened the book to a random page, and read the title Orpheus and Eurydice .

Her mind sparked with recognition at the names. She knew of the many, many retellings of the tragic story throughout history, including ballets and operas. It was a wonder to her how impactful one story could be, especially one so full of heartbreak and sorrow. Perhaps another reading will help me understand, she thought, settling down at a table with the book.

After a few moments of reading, she found herself humming what she could remember of the melody from the opera’s powerful final aria. The tender notes had made her heart light the moment her father had first played them for her, so much that it was only after he told her the translation of the lyrics she realized it was meant to be a mournful song.

She reached the part of the story where Orpheus pours out his grief through his lyre, and the very rocks and mountains of the Earth move to listen. Christine imagined the young man singing the song she hummed, and eventually felt her own lips forming the words, giving life to her vision.

Che farò senza Euridice?

Dove andrò senza il mio ben?

Che farò, dove andrò?

Che farò senza il mio ben?

Dove andrò senza il mio ben?

The beautiful notes echoed throughout the large empty space of the library, bouncing back upon each other until they reached Christine’s ears again. She began to be swept up by the song, her eyes unfocusing on the book in front of her as she instead relaxed into the gentle tune.

Euridice, Euridice

Oh Dio, rispondi

Rispondi

Io son pure il tuo fedele

Son pure il tuo fedele, il tuo fedele

It enveloped her, seeping into her thoughts, so much so that she almost didn’t notice someone singing with her.

Almost.

Christine stopped singing, inhaling gently at the end of the verse. She opened her eyes, and realized the song was not echoing back to her, but a separate voice entirely continued her notes long after she had finished them. A heartbeat passed, and the voice stopped, as if waiting for her to start again.

But Christine did not sing again. Instead, she called out into the silent, empty room. “Hello?”

She received no reply.

The woman gave a small sigh, looking down at her book again. She knew she should dismiss the strange occurrence as another daydream, brought on by lack of sleep, and confirmation that she should head back to her dormitory and call it a night. Yet her mind drifted back to the Hannibal score, the apple in her cubby that afternoon, the many lost items returned to her. Meg’s words popped into her head as well: “ It must simply be someone doing something nice for you. ”

Christine smiled softly to herself. Her finger traced over the illustration of Orpheus climbing out of the Underworld, closely followed by the misty figure of Eurydice. Maybe she was being ridiculous, but she couldn’t help feeling comforted at the knowledge that someone was there watching over her, even if it was just a figment of her imagination. After so much time dwelling in her loneliness, she allowed herself this one desperate glimmer of hope, in her world of darkness.

Chapter Text

Christine sat on the floor of the ballet practice room, her chin resting lazily in her hand. The other petit rats were settled near her as they waited for the principal dancers to conclude their sequence. All eyes were on Sorelli, who whisked herself across the stage in great leaps along with the piano’s light accompaniment.

As always, Christine’s mind was not on dance practice. It instead drifted to her cubby in the dressing room, wondering what lost object she would find hidden there that day. Perhaps a button for her dress, or a few sweets from the other ballerinas, or a book from the library….

The music from the piano stopped, and Christine’s attention sank back to the present moment. She watched Sorelli relax from her final position and look up at Madame Giry for her assessment. In response, the ballet mistress nodded. “Your landings should be a bit softer, Sorelli, but overall not bad. Keep working on it.”

Sorelli smiled and trotted confidently to the side of the room and sat down. When it came to compliments from Madame Giry, she had just received one of the best, and it was obvious that she knew it. Christine looked to her side to see Meg roll her eyes, just as Madame Giry’s cane hit the floor loudly. “The rest of you, in position. Rapidement !”

The girls all sprang up and formed their lines for the number. Before the pianist could count them off, however, the manager of the opera house burst in through the door, looking rather frazzled. “Madame Giry, I apologize for the interruption,” the man, named Lefevre, said as he walked over to the ballet mistress. “But I’m afraid I must cancel rehearsals for the rest of the day.”

Madame Giry gave him a stare of contempt. “Monsieur, I am making progress here! What could possibly be the reason for this?”

The manager gulped anxiously, before withdrawing a small piece of paper from his jacket. “I found this note in my office this morning.”

A few of the ballet girls began to whisper, but fell silent under Madame Giry’s strict gaze. Christine couldn’t help but glance over to Sorelli, who was watching the interaction between Lefevre and Giry closely. The manager unfolded the note with shaking fingers, and read aloud:

“My dear Manager,

I will first give my compliments to you as well as your music director in the latest presentation of Lakmé , as it seemed to be well received by the wider public. Furthermore, management of La Carlotta into anything other than her usual excruciating self is not a task for those with a weak constitution, so you deserve my commendations in that respect.

However, I must confess my concern for the dancers in the corps de ballet. Their performance in the recent production was tolerable, but you must agree that tolerable ought to be honed to exceptional in such a prestigious institution as the Opera Populaire. Upon inspection, the cause of this disappointment seems to be a lack of proper care amongst the dancers themselves, which seems to be an ongoing issue given that rehearsals for a new production are currently taking place. If my theatre and its performances are to be as exemplary as they are advertised to be, the performers must be at their finest capacity.

Please inform the ballet mistress that rehearsals this afternoon will be cancelled, and the dancers are to be given adequate rest in the meantime. Of course, should I learn that my requests have been ignored, I will make certain that you never find rest again.

Your obedient servant,

O.G.

“As you can see, it is in everyone’s best interests if we all take a break from rehearsals for the day,” the manager concluded, nervously folding up the letter and tucking it back into his pocket.

Madame Giry was infuriated; for a moment she looked as if she wished to argue about the matter, but her eyes fell to where the note had been hidden, and she instead bowed her head to the manager. “Very well.” She turned to face the crowd of dancers. “You are dismissed. Practice will resume tomorrow morning as normal, with or without permission from some note.” With one final glare at the manager, she swept out of the room, her stick hitting the floor threateningly as she went.

At once, the dancers burst into chatter as they collected their things and scurried out of the practice room. Some shared frightful whispers about the note’s ominous final lines, while others laughed at what was obviously a silly prank to get them out of rehearsal. Many followed Sorelli to her dressing room, eager to learn her opinion on the strange matter, while the rest proceeded to the corps’ dressing room.

“Do you really think it was the Ghost?” Meg said as she sat down and began to untie the laces of her slippers.

“I didn’t think ghosts could write letters,” Christine said vaguely, placing her shoes to the side and pulling the change of clothes out of her cubby. She reached her hand to the back of the wooden compartment, and frowned when she found nothing there. Then, her eyes fell to the floor of the cubby, and she glimpsed the shape of something small and flat.

It was a note.

Apprehension prickled on the back of Christine’s neck as she picked up the small envelope. Her eyes darted across it, before she quickly hid it within her clothes as a group of girls passed behind her. “I’ll see you later, Meg,” she whispered to the blonde dancer next to her, who was still busy unlacing her slippers. She stood and rushed out of the dressing room, clutching the bundle close to her chest.

Christine made her way down the hall to her small dormitory and closed the door behind her. Sitting down on the bed, her eyes drifted to the folded clothes in her hands. She unwrapped them carefully, revealing the mysterious note; she stared at her own name in black ink, scrawled in a tiny but rather messy cursive. Her fingers hesitated, before curiosity overtook her and she carefully tore the envelope and unfolded the small slip of parchment inside.

Mlle. Daae,

I humbly request that you agree to a meeting in the library archives tonight at twelve o’clock. The west reading room will be suitable.

Christine’s eyes glanced over the message again and again, each time filling her with more confusion. The note was unsigned, unlike the manager’s note during rehearsal, but that did little to help her identify who could have written it. She figured it had to have been sent by the same “O.G.” who cancelled rehearsal that afternoon, but just as she had told Meg, Opera Ghosts could not write letters!

It had to be a joke. Yes, just a joke made to humiliate her and show everyone how gullible and distracted she could be. If that was the case, she would not give in to it. After all, why would anyone invite an insignificant young dancer like her to a secret meeting in the dead of night? It was simply ridiculous.

She was being ridiculous.

The hours without rehearsal proved to be long and agonizing to Christine. Try as she might to enjoy herself with the other dancers, her mind kept tugging her back to the note that rested in the drawer of her nightstand. For some reason, the short message and its appeal to her could not leave her head, no matter how many times she attempted to push it away or deny its importance.

She decided to retire early, returning to her dormitory to read the peculiar note once again. The words on the page had not changed, but her thoughts toward them had; Christine realized that she was considering doing as they asked, and a part of her seemed to know that if she did so, she may finally receive an answer about the strange things that happened to her over the past month.

As the night dragged on, she tried reading one of the books she had brought back from the library to distract herself, but her attention barely spanned two pages before she had to close it again. Eventually, she simply resolved to lie in bed with her thoughts, watching the candle melt lower and lower on her nightstand. The time reached half past the eleventh hour, and she let out a sigh of frustration, running her hands through her brown curls. “I must be out of my mind,” she muttered to herself. Begrudgingly, she pushed herself out of bed and threw on a dressing gown over her nightclothes. She picked up the lamp from her bedside table and quietly stepped out of her room, using the gentle glow from the candle to show her the way to the library.

Chirstine made her way to the west reading room, careful not to make a sound within the sleeping opera house. She found the door to the large room and, gathering her courage, opened it, only to find it was completely empty. Several rows of tables and benches filled the dark room, bookshelves lined the walls, and a piano sat quietly in the corner. Small candelabras sat upon the center of each table.

Christine set her lamp down on the nearest table and used the candle from it to light the candelabra, casting more light into the room and throwing shadows on the walls. She finally settled down on the reading bench and waited uneasily for midnight to come.

As thought after anxious thought wound its way through her brain, she suddenly heard the chiming of a distant clock break the silence. Twelve strikes came and went, and Christine felt a tightness in her chest begin to release. She breathed into the stillness of the room, and closed her eyes.

“I’m here.”

Christine’s eyes sprang open. She jumped to her feet and whipped around; the candelabra wobbled dangerously at the sudden movement. In the flickering light, she could barely make out a shape in the shadows, one that she was sure had not been there when she had entered. She stood quietly for a moment as she collected herself, then took a couple careful steps toward the corner of the room, where the shape hid. As she approached and her eyes adjusted, she noticed a thin white mask staring back at her, reflecting the candlelight. Her heart fluttered as she realized it couldn’t just be a mask staring back, but a person.

“Hello,” she said quietly. “My name is Christine.”

“Hello, Christine.”

The voice was deep and strong, and dark as the shadows surrounding them. The way it spoke her name sent a shiver down Christine’s spine. She took a step closer and saw the outline of a face, the right half hidden beneath the porcelain mask. The wavering light glinted in the eyes of the figure, the man , and in those eyes Christine felt a burning heat that almost made her pull back. Instead, she froze where she stood, locked in his gaze.

Her mind suddenly recalled why she was there, and what she wanted to ask him. “Are you the one who’s been returning my things?”

The eyes blinked. “Yes.”

Christine smiled softly, and said, “Thank you.” She held his gaze a moment more, before finally turning away to settle back down on the reading bench. “Why did you invite me here?” she asked curiously.

The man’s eyes finally fell from her own. He turned his head to the side, until all Christine could see was the mask. She inspected it quickly, glancing over the porcelain carefully shaped and shaded to resemble an attractive face. Her mind flooded with questions, but his voice stopped her from asking any of them.

“Music means everything to me. It is the one thing I treasure most in this world. And in all the years I have devoted to it….”

He turned back to face Christine, breaking her form her thoughts. “I have never heard a voice like yours, Christine.” At her surprised look, he pressed on. “Since the moment I first heard you sing, I knew that you alone can make music take flight, let it take its truest form. That is something I wish to see more than anything.”

He paused, gauging her reaction; she continued to stare at him with wide green-grey eyes. “So now, I will make an offer to you.” He dared to step towards her, bringing himself further into the candlelight. “Let me teach you to hone your skill and perfect your voice, and you will become the greatest singer this opera has ever known.”

Christine gaped at him. “You would do that for me?” she asked quietly.

The man nodded once. “Yes; you have proven yourself worthy to me through your talent….and your heart.”

Christine felt a blush begin to warm her cheeks. She looked down at her feet for a moment, considering his request. “I will do it….on one condition.” She looked up and met his eyes again. “I must know your name.”

The man stiffened, and took a step away from her, closer to the shadows. “My name is of no consequence,” he said tightly.

“Please, I must know it, as you know mine,” Christine insisted. “If we are to become friends, we must be acquainted.”

He studied her carefully with his dark eyes. It occurred to him that he had never seen pure, unselfish kindness in a person until her, and he did not know what to make of it. “It’s Erik,” he finally admitted.

“Erik,” Christine repeated gently.

Hearing her voice say his name brought a soothing warmth to his chest. Despite this, his fingers flexed into a fist at his side. “I do not wish to be called by that name. Understand that I will not answer to it.”

Christine frowned slightly. After a moment of consideration, she said, “Then I will call you….my Angel.” She smiled up at him. “My Angel of Music.”

The visible half of the man’s face gave a curious twitch. “Very well.” He straightened to his full height, lifting his chin slightly to look down at her. “We shall meet in this room weekly, in the evenings after the managers have left. The eleventh hour should be suitable.”

Christine’s eyebrows furrowed. “So late?”

“We must take care not to be seen.”

She found herself considering the man in front of her carefully, and decided to ask one of her many questions. “How long have you been here?”

He paused, his eyes glancing down. “A long time,” he replied softly.

“You must be very lonely,” Christine said without thinking.

At once, his dark gaze met hers, and she felt the heat sear from them again. “And you are not?”

Christine tensed, her hands winding together nervously. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologize, Christine,” he interjected quickly, his tone surprisingly gentle. “You are wiser than you know.”

Christine watched him for a moment, before giving him a small smile. She looked back down at her hands, then over at the candle on the table; it was almost completely melted. This caused her to stand and turn back to the man in the shadows. “I must be getting to sleep. After today, the director will want us up early tomorrow for practice.” She went to pick up the lamp, then stopped, glancing back at him. “Are you the one who’s been sending notes to the managers?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Perhaps.”

Christine‘s smile widened. “You get everyone quite worked up over the ‘Opera Ghost’ tale. Some of the dancers are beginning to make up stories about you.”

The amusement left the visible side of the man’s face. “You mustn’t believe what they say, Christine,” he said softly, but in a stern way. “They don’t know the half of it.”

Christine shook her head kindly. “Of course not.” She then picked up the lamp and walked over to the door of the reading room. She glanced behind her for a moment, finding his eyes once again. “Until tomorrow, my Angel of Music.”

The dark eyes glimmered. “Goodnight, Christine.”

Chapter Text

A young rosy-faced ballerina scurried into the corps’ dressing room. She quickly found a friend and tugged on her arm. “Did you hear? Someone saw the Phantom!”

At once, the girls around them burst into chatter, their tulle skirts ruffling.

“Saw him? Where?”

“What does he look like?”

“Oh, please! You see the ghost everywhere!”

“No, it’s true! Tell her, Sorelli!”

The dancers all turned to Sorelli, who was just walking into the dressing room after hearing her name. She raised her head importantly. “It was Buquet, the scene-shifter, who saw him. He told me everything.”

The group of petit rats all crowded around Sorelli, peering up at her with wide, eager eyes. The principal dancer cleared her throat and proceeded with the tale. “The Phantom indeed wears gentleman’s clothes, but they hang on an extraordinarily thin frame, like a skeleton.” A few girls shuddered, encouraging Sorelli to continue. “His skin is stretched thin over his bones, and is like yellow parchment. And his face,” she whispered dramatically, and the dancers leaned in closer. “Resembles a death’s head. His eyes are great black holes, above a crevice in the skull where his nose should be.”

A few girls shrieked at the terrifying description. Close to them, Christine sat on the floor next to her cubby, watching Sorelli with a worried look. As the principal dancer began to glance over to her, she finally looked down to her ankles and tried to steady her shaking fingers as she tied on her shoes. However, instead of sharing the petit rats’ fright surrounding the ghost tale, Christine’s concern was one all her own.

She was dreading her practice that night. The girls’ gossiping only served to heighten her anxiety, which had gotten worse as the day went on. She could barely eat and was constantly checking the time, counting the hours until eleven that evening.

With a tense huff, Christine finally secured her shoes and got up to walk to the practice room. Honestly, she didn’t know what was making her so nervous. She was not afraid of him; he had looked intimidating at first, merely a mask hiding within the shadows, but as they had spoken she realized he could be kind and understanding, if a little guarded.

She proceeded through the ballerinas’ warmup inattentively, her head swirling with more thoughts and theories. Then again, she did not know if she quite trusted him yet. He was a musician, or at least a knowledgeable opera patron, who was apparently seeking perfection in music. But even if she could give that to him, that couldn’t be all he wanted. Christine did not know much about the world, but she understood that people always want something more than what they will admit.

The dancers finished their warmup, and Madame Giry stepped forward to address them. “We shall begin with the slave girl number, to see what you remember from last time. Hopefully there will be no further interruptions .” The director counted them in, and the corps began the elegant number in unison.

Christine moved through the routine carefully, trying to focus simply on one foot after the other, step by step. That was what she liked about ballet; it was very straightforward, simply a matter of steps to memorize, with an added artistic touch once the basics were down. She wondered if learning to sing would be the same way, or if her teacher expected her to know the basics already. It had been so long since she learned music, she wondered if she even remembered anything. Oh God, what would he think if she—

Suddenly, Christine’s foot caught on Sorelli’s ankle, and she went tumbling to the floor. A few girls giggled while Christine held her foot in her hands, hissing sharply at the pain radiating from her toes. A particularly harsh laugh caused Christine to look up; Sorelli was staring at her from across the room with a cruel grin on her face. The pain in Christine’s foot vanished, replaced by a burning anger in the center of her chest.

A small hand entered her field of vision. Christine looked around, and saw little Jammes reaching out to her, smiling with her bright blue eyes. Christine took her hand gratefully and let the small dancer help her to her feet. “Thank you, Jammes,” she whispered.

“That’s enough!” Madame Giry’s voice broke through the clamor of laughing girls. “We must try that again, from the top. And I hope you all will be better focused this time.” She sent a pointed look in Christine’s direction. Christine’s face grew hot, especially as she stole a glance back over at Sorelli, who stuck her prideful nose up at her.

“In fact, Sorelli,” the ballet director’s voice called, gaining the attention of her principal dancer. “Perhaps we could see how you’ve improved on your solo within this number. From what I recall, it was a rather difficult one for you.”

Sorelli scowled, glancing back over at Christine before grudgingly stepping forward to the center of the room. However, this redress from Madame Giry failed to improve Christine’s mood, for she saw in the mistress’s eyes that she was still disappointed in her. This only made Christine more troubled as she looked down at her hands, absently twisting them together. That, she knew, was what she was most afraid of that evening; she didn’t think she could bear disappointing anyone else.

As the fateful hour finally approached, Christine put down the book she had been attempting to read and left her room to head for the library once again. She was anxious to get it over with, to put an end to all her worrying, though whether the lesson would make her feel better or worse was still to be determined.

When she opened the door to the west reading room, she saw he was already there waiting for her. His dark silhouette stood out against the candles’ soft light; he was facing away from her, but after she closed the door, he turned around. Dark, gleaming eyes met hers. “Good evening, Christine.”

Even three words, when said in his voice, were enough to electrify her mind. Christine nodded in greeting. “Good evening, Angel of Music,” she responded, folding her hands in front of her. “I hope I’m not late.”

“You’re not late.”

A moment of silence passed between them. In it Christine took in his full appearance, and she could say with confidence that the dancers’ description was not accurate. He was not so thin, in fact his shoulders were rather broad, and the evening suit and cloak he wore fit him well. His hands were large with long fingers, but not like a skeleton at all. Her eyes drifted up to his face; what she could see of it looked normal, with strongly defined features and skin the color of pale topaz. Only the smooth white mask fit their depiction of him as a ghost. As a Phantom.

Christine finally cleared her throat. “Before we begin, I must confess,” she said carefully, “I have not trained my voice in many years. Even my friend Meg admits it sounds like a rusty hinge.” She laughed nervously, but stopped as he looked at her quizzically. “What I mean is, my musical knowledge is from a time in my life that has long since passed, and I don’t know how much of it I still possess.”

The Phantom considered her words for a bit, before focusing on her steadily. “I can say with certainty, Christine, that music still lives in you.” He took a few steps closer to the woman in front of him. “I’ve heard you sing in here; your technique is undeveloped, yes, but you have artistry that few others do. Believe me, a voice as beautiful as yours does not go unnoticed.”

She couldn’t help but blush at his compliment; she believed he must be exaggerating, but did not say so. Instead, she looked back up into his eyes. “I’ve heard you sing as well,” she whispered, thinking briefly of Orpheus and Eurydice.

The Phantom nodded and spoke quietly, “I know.”

She wanted to tell him more, state how gorgeous his voice was, how it had seemed to fill up her very spirit, but before she could, he stepped away from her, removing the long black cloak from his shoulders. “We shall start simply, then.” He draped the cloak onto one of the tables, and turned back to face Christine. “Stand with your back straight, shoulders down. Release the tension in your posture.”

She followed his instructions, standing directly in front of him. He was about a head taller than her, forcing her to turn up her chin slightly to maintain his gaze.

“Place a hand over your stomach, and breathe in.” She did as he said. “Feel the air as it fills you up, let it reach the bottom of your lungs.” She felt the top of her abdomen expand underneath her corset, and tried to imagine gusts of air suffusing the space behind her ribs.

The Phantom circled all around her, observing her posture and giving her suggestions occasionally. He had her hold her breath and exhale slowly for extended periods of time, strengthening her muscles and testing her control. “Always focus on your breath, and save it for when you will need it most. Your breath keeps the music alive,” he instructed finally, as he came around to face her again. She looked up at him expectantly.

“We will move on to scales. Repeat what I sing.” His voice then formed a simple one-octave scale, and Christine felt her soul awaken at the graceful notes. How could he speak so highly of her voice, saying it  has artistry and even beauty, when it paled in comparison to his own?

The Phantom watched her reaction to his voice. “Sing,” he commanded her simply.

She completed the first scale with relative ease, so the Phantom continued with more, raising the starting note of each one at a time. Christine felt confident in her ability to attain each note accurately, but the higher she went the more her voice would fade, ending in a small squeak. Embarrassed, she looked over to the Phantom, who was studying her critically. “You’re holding back,” he said firmly. “I know you can go higher.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Again. Breathe deeper.”

Christine inhaled, letting more air seep into her lungs, and started the same scale again. As her voice began to rise, she felt his hand brush over her lower back, and his fingers hover beneath her chin, encouraging her to raise it slightly. She gasped lightly at the ghost of his touch against her skin, interrupting the scale.

Suddenly, he withdrew his hands from her, retreating a couple steps away. She looked over to him, and saw a flicker of worry pass over his face. The fingers that had almost touched her flexed nervously at his side. Both of them stood in shocked silence for a moment; the Phantom kept his eyes on her, gauging her reaction, and saw that she did not back away. He quickly stood tall again, but his voice was softer than it was before. “You must trust me, Christine. I will guide you.”

Christine glanced back down to his hands for just a moment, then nodded, trying to relax back into posture. Her eyes followed him as he swept to her side, and she let his trembling hands graze over her lower back and abdomen, so lightly she could barely feel them.

“Let go,” he breathed. His words made her heart flutter, compelling her to do as they directed. She began the scale again, closing her eyes and releasing all her tension with the notes that escaped past her lips. As her voice climbed higher, she felt him press gently against her upper abdomen, coaxing her to release more of her breath. She reached the top of the scale, but her voice kept going higher, letting her jaw drop and her head tilt back slightly. The sound built and built until one long, beautiful, piercing note rang out through the shadows of the reading room.

Christine stood very still, her eyes blinking open, in awe of the note she had just produced. She then glanced over to the man at her side, who had taken a small step back and let his hands fall to his sides.

His eyes were glowing with what could only be described as reverence. “You have the voice of an Angel, Christine,” he muttered. “You need to let it free.”

Christine’s mind pulled itself gently from slumber, the Phantom’s angelic voice still echoing in her head. In the darkness, she did not realize where she was; she thought she was still in the library, but the warm blankets and soft creak of her bed told her she was back in her dormitory.

The events of their practice faintly seeped back to her, like a dream; the flicker of the candlelight, the faint pressure of his fingers against her middle, her inexplicable high note resonating clearly through the night.

Part of her wondered if it had just been a dream, that he was merely a figment of her imagination, inspired by the tales her father had told her many years ago. It was easy enough to believe the most distracted girl in the whole opera house would be the one to say the Phantom had spoken to her. Even if she wanted to share her tale with someone, and if someone were willing to listen, no one would ever take her word with sincerity; why should she?

But his voice. In all her life, she had never heard anything like it, and she knew even if given a million years she could never quite imagine it. Not only that, but the way he had spoken to her, encouraged her to go further than even she knew she could go. In that brief hour singing with him, she had felt more free and happy than she had ever been since after her father’s death.

Within the quiet of her dormitory, she relived the last few moments of the lesson in her mind, a wide smile on her face. If it all did turn out to be just a dream, then she wanted to dream again.

The Phantom’s eyes were closed as she completed the first few verses of the aria, simply listening to her sing. As her final note vanished into the air, they opened and met hers with a nod of approval. “You have done well tonight, my Angel. You are learning quickly and getting stronger.”

Christine heard the name he called her, and she felt her cheeks flush. “I am no Angel….but thank you.” She hesitated a moment, her fingers absently stroking the sides of her dress. “You are a wonderful teacher.”

He held her gaze, before quickly looking down, his left hand twitching slightly. Taking this as a dismissal, Christine quietly turned and made for the door to the library.

“Christine.”

His voice, sounding almost like a plea, made her stop. She turned back around and gazed at him.

“Thank you,” he finally said as he met her eyes, an unreadable expression on half of his face.

Christine stared at him a moment more, considering his response, before smiling and giving him a small nod. “Good night.”

Chapter Text

The Opera Populaire stood cloaked in shadow, every room inside completely silent as its workers and dancers slept peacefully. Every room, that is, except for one.

The west reading room resounded with a melody that was fit for the grand hall of the opera house. And yet, the woman whose voice filled the space had never stepped foot on the stage to sing. In fact, she had only ever sung for herself, for small groups of people with her father by her side, and now for her teacher.

Her teacher.

He was quite strange, of course, and so was their little arrangement. What had started as a weekly habit had soon turned into twice, and then three times a week as her voice grew stronger. After everyone else was sound asleep she would leave her dormitory and meet him in the reading room for her singing lesson. He might give her exercises or scales to practice on her own, she would thank him, and then she would go back to bed. There was never time for conversation; normally he didn’t even ask how her day had been, which she thought should bother her. However, whenever something did happen in her day that made her mood sink, she noticed how he would adapt their lesson to something that comforted her, as if he already knew what had happened and was attempting to cheer her up.

As a result of knowing almost nothing new about her teacher, Christine was still desperately curious about him. She couldn’t count how many instances her inquiring eyes lingered on the mask that covered the right half of his face, and the times her mind had swirled with possibilities of what lurked underneath. He was hiding something, and with each practice she wanted to know what it was even more. But he was always so focused on training her voice that Christine could never find the right moment to ask him anything about himself. Besides, she did not forget how defensive he had gotten when she merely asked for his name; she did not want to imagine how he would react if she insisted on knowing any other personal information.

So, for three months, she had resigned herself to the mystery surrounding him, instead letting her wandering mind invent reasons for his secrecy. At times it crossed her mind if he really was a ghost, or an Angel, but these fantasies never lasted long. Let everyone else believe in the ghost tales, she thought, and leave her with the satisfaction of knowing more truth than they ever would.

As soon as she finished the final coloratura of the aria, she glanced over to where he stood in the candlelight, eager for his evaluation. To her relief, he nodded in approval. “Very good,” he said in his graceful voice. “Near perfect, in fact. But you need to bring more volume to the notes in the middle of your range.”

“More volume, yes,” Christine said. She looked down at her hands as she twisted them together.

The Phantom watched her curiously with his dark eyes. “Is that a problem?”

Christine shook her head quickly. “No! It’s just….difficult to achieve in a place like this.” At his questioning look, she explained, “We’re rather close to backstage. I'm always afraid someone will hear me.” She looked down shyly and shuffled her feet a bit. She knew her fears were silly; she was singing opera, after all! But before he could tell her just as much, she let more words slip past her lips in an anxious rush. “I understand how important it is to keep this secret. I’ve tried my best to hide everything, but it’s hard to fool Madame Giry. I know she’s noticed me humming more often than usual during ballet practice.”

As she spoke, the Phantom watched her thoughtfully. He finally nodded after a short moment of silence. “I appreciate your efforts to preserve the seclusion of our meetings, but it will not matter soon. It is almost time to share your voice with the world.”

At this, Christine’s eyes widened fearfully. “Oh, I'm not sure about that.”

He gazed at her seriously. “Why? Don’t you realize how much you’ve improved?”

Christine looked down at her entwined hands. She truly was amazed at her progress in only three months’ time; she now sounded like she had been classically trained for years. Her teacher would no doubt insist it was because of her talent, but she believed his influence had much more to do with it. It would not be the first inexplicable thing he had ever done for her.

“Well, yes, but….” Christine searched for the right words to say. “It would just be so sudden. To be in the background this whole time, then suddenly reveal that I have been taking lessons in secret? I’d be overstepping my bounds, everyone will think I’m trying to upstage the real singers—”

“You are a real singer.” The insistent nature of his voice caused her to pause and listen. “You deserve to be on that stage just as much—no, more—than they do. Soon, they will see that.”

Christine’s eyes were still trained on her feet, and she tried to fight the color that was rising to her cheeks. “I don’t know if I’m ready….”

“You are ready if I say you are ready,” he said firmly, his tone suddenly dark. Christine quickly looked up to meet his eyes, and the unwavering heat they held almost forced her to step back.

In an instant, he took in her alarmed expression, and he suddenly realized what he had said. “Forgive me,” he said very softly, before turning to the side so only his mask was visible to her.

Christine noticed his change, and once again found herself pondering the man who stood before her. She finally took in a deep breath, and broke the awkward silence. “I wanted to tell you,” she began quietly. “These lessons….they help me with more than just singing. They help me with more than you probably know.”

The Phantom met her gaze again, cautiously this time. For a moment he seemed surprised at what she had said. “I am pleased that you think so, Christine.” He then turned to face her more directly, and his voice became resolute. “I want you to know, if you ever need me, for anything at all, I will always be there for you.”

His words, and how he said them, brought a warm feeling to her chest, one she had not felt in a long time. She smiled, her shyness melting away. “Thank you, Angel of Music.”

The memory echoed familiarly through Christine’s mind as she completed the grand dance number from Hannibal along with the rest of the dancers on the stage of the Opera Populaire. Dress rehearsal for the opera was going rather well, or as well as it could go with Carlotta and Piangi at the helm. Still, Christine managed to find time to waste thinking about where she’d rather be.

As the final booming note faded from the stage, the director sprang up and weaved his way through the dancers to address the whole cast. “Thank you! Yes, we shall run though that once more.”

The cast groaned, but were interrupted by the manager, M. Lefevre, who ushered himself onto the stage. “Not quite, Monsieur Reyes. Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention, please?” All eyes fell on the manager. “As you know, for some weeks, there have been rumors about my imminent retirement. I can tell you these were all true. And now, it is my pleasure to introduce you to the two men who now own the Opera Populaire, Monsieur Richard Firmin and Monsieur Gilles Andre.”

Everyone politely clapped as the two new managers bowed. M. Lefevre then introduced the two of them to Carlotta, while Meg poked Christine lightly to get her attention. “I wonder what these two will be like?” the ballerina whispered in her ear.

Christine shrugged. “Monsieur Lefevre wasn’t too bad, I doubt they’ll be any different,” she replied.

Meg nodded, and thought for a moment. “I wonder if the Opera Ghost will like them.”

At this, Christine tried to hide a smile. “Yes, I wonder.”

The managers had requested that Carlotta sing Elissa’s aria, and the haughty prima had agreed. She cued the music director, and after two bars of introduction began to sing.

Focusing on the piano accompaniment in the background, Christine let her mind drift back to thoughts of her teacher; the very “ghost” in question. He had taught her to sing the same aria very differently, with much fewer trills and more focus on her technique and breath control. This led to her notes having a much smoother and richer sound, something that she quite missed when she heard Carlotta’s version. Christine had to admit she always found Carlotta to sound rather silly, but she wouldn’t go so far as to call her “excruciating”, as the Phantom did in one note to the manager. She wondered what on Earth caused him to hate the prima donna so much?

Suddenly, a loud crash emanated through the hall as one of the backdrops plummeted to the floor, and the gas lamps flickered. The ballet girls screamed, and there was a great scurrying as everyone retreated from the back of the stage.

“He’s there, the Phantom of the Opera!” Meg exclaimed, running over to her mother fearfully, while Madame Giry stood stoically.

“Mademoiselle, please!” Firman called after her.

“Buquet, where’s Buquet? He must be responsible for this.” Lefevre whirled around, looking for the head scene-shifter.

Buquet finally revealed himself, emerging from the left wing. He looked just as confused as everyone else. “Please Monsieur, don’t look at me. I was nowhere near the backdrops.”

“Then who on Earth could have done this?”

Buquet shrugged. “Perhaps it was the Ghost,” he suggested, causing a few petit rats to scream again.

“ Ghost? ” Firman said incredulously, throwing his hands in the air. “Have you all lost your minds? I have never known such insolence!”

Andre was busy trying to calm Carlotta, who was agitated at the interruption to her singing. “Signora, please. It was simply an accident. These things do happen.”

“These things do happen?” Carlotta repeated, her eyes now full of rage. “You have been here five minutes , what do you know? See, these things do happen all the time! For the past three years, these things do happen! He didn’t stop them, what makes you think you can?!” She gestured wildly to the two new managers in front of her. “But until you can stop these things from happening, this thing will not happen!” Then, throwing the sash down and with a great ruffle of her skirt, Carlotta whisked away dramatically offstage, closely followed by Piangi.

Christine looked over at Meg, who heaved a sigh. “Well, that went as well as it could have,” she remarked.

“It’s best if they get used to her antics now, rather than later, I suppose,” Christine said as she looked back over to the two new managers, who grumbled amongst themselves.

Andre suddenly called to Reyes, “Monsieur, who is the understudy for her role?”

The music director scoffed. “There is no understudy, monsieur! Carlotta is our prima donna, and she does not like the thought of being replaced.”

Meg glanced quickly to the woman standing at her side, before stepping forward. “Christine Daae could sing it, sir.” At this, Christine’s heart leapt in her chest, and she tried to pull Meg back.

Reyes scoffed. “The ballet girl?”

Meg, ignoring Christine’s protests, continued. “She’s been taking lessons from a great teacher.”

“From whom?”

All eyes were on Christine now, who swallowed nervously. “He…he does not wish his name to be known, sir.”

Firman rolled his eyes in frustration. “Oh, not you as well. A full house, and we’ll have to cancel!” 

“Daae?” Andre said, looking at Christine with interest and beckoning her forward with a wave of his hand. “That’s a curious name. Any relation to the violinist?”

Christine nodded, giving a small smile. “Yes, monsieur. He was my father.”

Madame Giry finally stepped forward. “Let her sing, monsieur. She has been well taught .” Her hawklike eyes met Christine’s at these last words, who held her gaze questioningly. How did she know?

Before Christine knew what was happening, she was being whisked to the front of the stage by Meg, who was muttering assurances in her ear. Her head reeled with doubts and objections, but her mouth could barely move. She felt the long sash being shoved in her wooden arms, and vaguely heard the director giving instructions to the conductor.

Fear trickled into Christine’s stomach as she looked out at the empty opera house. When she was finally able to draw a breath, her voice came out in a shaky squeak. 

Think of me, think of me fondly

When we’ve said goodbye

Her voice wavered and she squeezed the sash in her hands; she jumped as she heard the stamp of Madame Giry’s cane behind her. Looking back, she saw the ballet mistress watching her coldly, with little Meg behind her. The rest of the ensemble, the dancers, the stagehands, the managers— they all stared at her with unfeeling judgment. 

Everyone was there, except for the person she wanted to see most.

Remember me, every so often

Promise me you’ll try

But maybe, a part of her wondered, maybe he was there. Her mind flashed back to her last practice with him in the opera’s reading room; he had promised her if she ever needed him, that he would be there with her. She looked back out into the empty hall, her eyes searching in the shadows. Just the hope of seeing him calmed her heart, and when she sang again, it was to him, and only him.

On that day, that not so distant day, 

When you are far away and free

If you ever find a moment

spare a thought for me….

The next day and a half were hectic, to say the least. Frantic preparations were made to adjust for Carlotta’s unexpected departure, and her even more unexpected replacement. Christine was rehearsed in the blocking for her new role as Elissa; she was already well versed in the vocal part, thanks to her mysterious “teacher”. Her dance costume was also adapted to suit the leading role, and Jammes took over her part in the dance ensemble. Through it all, Christine hardly had time to rest or even think about what was about to happen, until the very night of the performance.

She found herself in Carlotta’s dressing room, which was now hers for as long as she went on for the prima donna. Her new costume hung in the open wardrobe, but instead of putting it on, Christine slumped into the chair facing the heavily-decorated vanity. She sighed, absorbing the feeling of being alone, but as she sat in the silence, a tendril of uneasiness trickled into her mind.

She slowly realized that all of the work that had been done, the rapid changes that had been made in the last few hours, were all because of her. Carlotta had quit, yes, but if Christine had not sang as she did during the rehearsal, the opera would not be going on at all. It was only because Christine was performing that night that the hard work of the dancers, stagehands, and musicians actually meant something.

Not only that, but every wealthy patron who sat to watch the opera that night would be expecting Carlotta, and instead get her. Everyone in the Opera House was depending on her to be nothing less than exceptional.

What if she wasn’t?

Christine shook her head disparagingly, and picked up the hairbrush sitting on the vanity. It was simply her nerves, she told herself as she swept the bristles through her soft curls. Every performer gets stage fright, especially before their first performance. She forced herself to grin as she thought of the first time she had sung in front of a group of people; it had been at a festival, while they were still in Sweden, and her father had played the violin while she accompanied with a simple melody. She had felt nervous then, too, but it had been quickly washed away by one glance at her father’s warm smile.

But this performance was going to be nothing like that. This was in front of thousands of strangers, in a massive opera hall, without any help from her father. Worst of all, they were expecting a professional soprano, the one that had been with the company for years now, not some unfledged ingenue taken from the ballet corps.

The thoughts made Christine’s chest begin to tighten, and she took a deep breath to steady herself. She worked the brush through her hair more forcefully, trying to distract herself with the rough feeling. But try as she might, she could not get the image out of her head of thousands of eyes staring up at her, judging her every move, laughing in derision as nothing but air escaped her lips—

The brush slipped from her shaking fingers and fell to the ground with a loud clatter. Christine covered her face with her hands, the anxiety pressing into her chest and constricting her breaths. Her head swam with doubts, clouding out any chance of another thought. This is insane, what am I doing? I am not a diva, I cannot do this, I’m not ready, how could they let me do this, in front of everyone, no, I cannot do this—

“Christine.”

His voice had a way of piercing through her mind, commanding its focus while everything else became peripheral. Christine gasped and opened her eyes wide, before burying her face in her shaking hands again. “No, please,” she whispered fearfully. “Not now.”

The Phantom stood behind her, having appeared seemingly out of thin air. He took a few apprehensive steps closer. “What is wrong, my Angel?” he asked, his tone laced with concern.

Christine breathed shakily. “I can’t do it. I can’t go on.” She voiced her doubts in a hushed tone, ashamed to reveal them to him.

“Of course you can.”

She shook her head in her hands. “I’ll make a fool of myself. I’ll be terrible, and everyone will see—”

“You will not be terrible,” he said firmly. “You will be brilliant.” The Phantom knelt beside her chair. He felt like he should reach out and pull the hands from her face, but he held back, his hands instead flexing nervously.

When she spoke again, he heard tears begin to muffle her voice. “But what if I’m not?”

“Christine—” he began, but she interrupted, finally bringing her hands down and looking him in the eye.

“What if I’m not enough? What if I mess up, or forget the words, or just freeze, or—” Christine gave a shaky sigh, wiping at the tears on her cheeks. “I can’t…. I can’t bear to see what they will think of me then.” Her eyes met his again hesitantly. “What you will think of me then.”

The Phantom felt his heart ache. He disliked seeing her be afraid of anything, most of all himself. “My Angel,” he muttered gently, “You are enough just the way you are.”

She stared into his steady gaze. “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve seen what you can do; I’ve heard it with my own ears. You come alive when you sing. When you become one with music and forget everything else, you shine brighter than the chandelier.” He finally dared to let his finger brush the back of her hand, sitting on the armrest. “Just focus on the music; it will not guide you astray.”

Christine listened to him intently, while a few more tears spilled down her cheeks. Her hand moved to take hold of his, and she dipped her head. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

The Phantom chose to ignore the shock of pleasant warmth that seeped into his hand where her skin touched his. “Christine, I could never be disappointed in you.” He tentatively squeezed her hand, insisting to her that he meant what he said. “I believe in you, Christine.”

Immediately, her tearful eyes raised to meet him again. “Really?” she whispered.

“Yes.” He gave what he hoped was a casual shrug. “I would not have made you my student if that wasn’t so.”

Finally, she smiled softly, bringing her other hand up to wipe the tears from under her eyes. “Okay.”

It was just as the Phantom said; Christine did shine. No one in the opera house could claim to have seen an opera performance equal to hers in their lifetime. Her notes were nothing short of heavenly, and she played the role of Elissa with such innocent elegance that she was almost unrecognizable to her fellow dancers.

Christine’s fears of dissatisfying the fans of Carlotta did not come true. On the contrary, after hearing her sing, many audience members wondered why such a treasure had remained hidden for so long. The conclusion of every one of her arias was met with cheering and clapping, even more so as they watched the young soprano dip her head shyly and blush with gratitude.

After her final bow and the fall of the red velvet curtain, Christine rushed herself offstage, unable to wipe the smile from her face. The young dancers in the wings all congratulated her earnestly, and it took a while for Christine to weave through them all. Finally, she locked eyes with Meg, who grinned and took her friend’s hands to lead her to a more private section of backstage.

“Christine, you were simply brilliant! I had no idea you could sing that well!” Meg asserted cheerily.

Christine‘s cheeks glowed with warmth. “Thank you, Meg, you are too kind.”

“Really, you were perfect! I only wish you had told me about your secret lessons! Who is this new tutor of yours?”

At once, Christine’s manner changed, becoming more serious. She met her friend’s eyes earnestly and whispered. “Meg, how do you know about that?”

“Mother told me,” Meg replied simply. “She said she hears you singing when you’re alone, and that only lessons from a great teacher can instill such improvement.”

“Where does she hear me?” Christine insisted. Her stomach twisted nervously.

“She said in the dressing room, after practice, while everyone else is at break.”

Relief washed over Christine. Madame Giry had only heard her practicing on her own, then, and not with her Angel of Music. She didn’t want to know what the ballet mistress would think if she knew Christine was meeting with a man late at night, much less the man who sent notes to the managers pretending to be a ghost.

Mega voice broke through her thoughts. “Well, aren’t you going to tell me?”

Christine looked back up to Meg’s face. She hesitated, then shook her head. “I told you, he does not wish to be known. He prefers to keep to himself.”

Meg frowned, looking a bit disappointed, but her face soon brightened as she squeezed her friend’s hands. “Well, he must be quite nice, if he lets you take all the credit for your accomplishment.”

Christine gave Meg a small smile. “Yes, he is.”

The two women were interrupted by the entrance of Madame Giry. The ballet mistress gave her daughter a stern look. “If you are quite finished congratulating Mademoiselle Daae, you must join the other dancers in their dressing room.”

“Yes, Madame,” Meg said meekly. She briefly looked back to Christine, before hurrying off to the ensemble’s room.

At last, Madame Giry’s sharp eyes rested on Christine. “I was asked to give you this,” she said, revealing a small note and handing it to her. The soprano took it, examining it curiously with her eyes. “I hope your teacher is pleased with your performance.”

Christine’s head shot up at these last words, but Madame Giry was already marching away, the tap of her cane fading down the hall.

Slightly unsettled, Christine looked back down to the note in her hands and unfolded it eagerly. The writing was unfamiliar, a measured but graceful cursive.

Mlle. Daae,

Your premiere tonight was a triumph to behold. Never in my days have I beheld such splendor and beauty on a stage, not even from a seasoned performer. As one of the investors in the Opera Populaire, I plan to make many visits to the theatre in the coming months, during which time I anticipate making more of your acquaintance. My congratulations again, and I do hope that you keep in touch.

Sincerely,

Philippe, Comte de Chagny

Christine contemplated the letter as she strode to her dressing room, which was now filled with brightly-colored flowers from adoring audience members. She knew a little of the opera house’s wealthy patrons, though the other dancers always seemed more captivated with the gossip than she ever was. She finally shrugged, settling down into the chair. She supposed it would be interesting to meet someone she’s heard so much about.

She set the note on the desk of her vanity, before her eyes drifted to another object sitting in the center; a single white rose, with a black velvet ribbon tied around the stem. She picked it up gently, her fingers brushing the petals as she smiled knowingly.

Then, a soft, alluring voice floated into the air of the dressing room. “Brava, brava, bravissima,” she heard, and Christine glanced around the room for the source of the voice. She did not see him, but she knew he was there, somewhere.

She glanced back down to the rose in her hands. “I cannot thank you enough, Angel of Music,” she spoke to the air.

“It is I who should thank you, Christine,” she heard his voice reply, and she smiled fondly.

Behind the wall, the Phantom stood dazed, attempting to organize his rush of thoughts. He could not see her, but the sound of her voice brought the image of her to the forefront of his mind. He had watched her performance, of course, as well as the audience’s reaction to it, and recalled the strong swell of pride that their applause had brought to his chest. Finally, they understood a glimpse of music’s potential, and it was only because his Angel had given it to them.

His Angel. The fingers of his hand flexed as he remembered how she had held them. The soft skin of her tiny hand was as delicate as a rose petal, but had enveloped his hand with an unexpected strength. And yet this strength within her she could not see for herself. He recalled the way the tears had made her wide, smokey green eyes glisten, blurring their normally inquisitive gaze.

Try as he might, he knew he could never escape that gaze. He did not miss the many times it had persisted at the edge of his mask, where he could almost see the thoughts forming inside her mind, pondering what lay beneath it. But her perceptive eyes were exactly why he could never let her see underneath, why he always looked away when she got too close. He knew that if he were to put an end to her speculation, the awe and admiration that radiated off of her would disappear, and she would abandon him just like everyone else.

But she is not like everyone else, a deep part of him realized. She is an Angel.

He shook his head quickly, letting out a sigh. He had called her by that name not just because of the name she had given him (which had made his heart stop the first time he heard it), but because he believed that was what she truly was. She looked and sounded like every description of an angel he had ever seen, but her goodness shone bright over it all. That goodness he only wanted to see glow brighter, and not be corrupted by those that surrounded her.

Those ungrateful mortals who roamed about in the light did not deserve her goodness. And yet, she gave it to them anyway, both tonight and on the first day he had noticed her. He had witnessed how she had helped the tiny ballerina after her clumsy fall; that was what first drew his eye to her in particular. No one else on that stage was willing to help, and yet Christine did not hesitate. He could not explain why he had found it so fascinating, but since that day he found himself replaying it over and over in his mind.

And then he had found her again, hiding in the library. And that was when he had been graced with a hint of her voice; a voice filled with sorrow, with grief, a voice that infused such a simple melody with enough heartbreak to make heaven weep, without any effort at all. Just as he has known his voice to compel others, her voice compelled him to help her.

The Phantom finally straightened, staring at the wall in front of him in pitch blackness, envisioning Christine on the other side. She was in danger of having the tiny ray of goodness in her snuffed out by her suffering, and by the wicked people around her, and if she did she would end up like him, alone and sad and angry at the world and its cruelty.

No. He could not let that happen. He would make her believe in herself the way he does.

Chapter Text

The desk inside the managers’ office was littered with business papers of all sorts, from financial ledgers to contracts to mail. But none of these seemed to be of interest to the man who sat behind the desk, with his feet perched upon it. It was Firmin, one of the new managers, who was casually skimming the L’Epoque newspaper. He scoffed at one of the headlines: “Mystery of Soprano’s Flight”, detailing the sudden departure of Carlotta from the Opera Populaire, and the success of her new replacement, Christine Daae. The article hinted at many reasons for Carlotta’s withdrawal, ranging in seriousness from a sudden illness to foul play.

Firmin couldn’t help but laugh. He supposed that was the way of the press, wasn’t it? Well, he couldn’t say the opera house hadn’t benefitted from a good round of gossip; Hannibal had sold out almost every night during its brief run, and the monetary benefits from such an achievement Firmin couldn’t ignore.

Suddenly, the other new manager, Andre, burst through the door, holding another piece of paper. “What a mess of a music rehearsal! That player wouldn’t know an oboe from his elbow! And then this on top of everything. Have you seen it?”

Firmin did not look up, and only heard the rustling of paper. “Why yes, I’m looking at it right now. Quite nice to have a bit of publicity, isn’t it?”

“What? No, not that! I mean this .” He waved a note in front of Firmin’s face, who finally set down his newspaper to snatch it and begin to read.

My dear managers,

I will first apologize for bothering you at what must be a very busy time. In the aftermath of such a successful production, attributable in no small part to Mlle. Christine Daae, you certainly have much work to do in organizing the affairs of my opera house.

However, I am compelled to state my concerns before too much time has passed. I understand the former manager may have neglected to inform you of my normal requisitions, but he surely passed down my Memorandum Book, which I advise you to review as it has everything you shall need to successfully manage the Opera Populaire to my standards. The most important of these requests are the continued reservation of my private box in the theatre, and of course my salary, which you may deposit in your outgoing mail addressed with “O.G.”.

If these instructions are carefully followed, there will be no reason for me to interfere with your affairs, which I assure you is a situation you want to maintain at all costs.

Your obedient servant,

O.G.

“O.G….” Firmin mused. “Surely not—”

“‘Opera Ghost.’” Andre finished for him.

Firmin paused, before giving a small laugh and tossing the note onto the desk. “Some joke, eh?”

Andre frowned, picking up the note and glaring at it critically. “The previous manager was under the impression this is, in fact, not a joke. And whoever has sent this has convinced everyone else of the same thing!”

“But to ask for money?” Firmin groaned. “He has some gall, that’s for certain.”

Andre nodded. “And a private box. What a funny sort of spectre….”

As he trailed off, Madame Giry strode into the office importantly. “Messieurs, The Comte de Chagny is here to see you.”

The managers exchanged a fearful look, and quickly stuffed the note into the drawer of the desk. They realized it would be rather awkward to explain to their investor why they were paying a ghost a salary of 20,000 francs a month.

After a moment, the Comte entered. He was a man in his late thirties of middle height, with well-coiffed sandy hair that was just beginning to fade to grey on the sides. He was dressed in a finely-embroidered purple waistcoat, which subtly made it clear that he was the wealthiest person in any room he was in. His eyes, while a brilliant blue like a summer sky, were rather cold as he glanced between the managers. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I do hope I’m not interrupting,” he said in a perfectly proper manner.

“Of course not, Monsieur,” Andre said. “We were just, ah, discussing business.”

Comte Philippe smiled. “Well, that’s perfect. I came to inquire about how business is going. It sure seems like it is going well, from what I’ve seen.”

Firmin nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes, a packed house for almost every performance of Hannibal , and preparations for a new opera are underway.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” The Comte strode further into the room, hands neatly folded behind his back. “I noticed much of the success seemed to stem from the lead soprano. I understand she is new to the company?”

“Not to the company; she was actually a part of the ballet ensemble until she was discovered,” Andre said, then at Firmin’s insistent look, hastily added, “By us .”

Philippe’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “The ballet? I could never have guessed it, from how wonderfully she sang.” His eyes became distant, reminiscing with a faint smile on his face. “And her demeanor was so lovely, so ethereal; at times she seemed too beautiful to be human!”

“Yes, she is quite a mystery, that Mademoiselle Daae,” Andre remarked, ignoring the change that had overtaken the Comte. “Apparently she is the daughter of the late Gustave Daae; you know, the violinist. I myself never heard him play, but I understand he was quite popular among peasants and the like.”

Firmin nodded. “From what I gather, she was a quite unexceptional dancer, but she managed to obtain some unknown singing teacher. And thank goodness for that, for the opera house’s sake!”

“An unknown teacher? How strange,” Philippe said.

“Indeed,” Firmin laughed. “The girl is talented, but almost annoyingly modest. She nearly refused the prima donna’s dressing room when they gave it to her!”

Andre sighed. “Yes, strange indeed. Always has her head in the clouds, I’m afraid.”

Philippe paused, before looking back at the managers. “And is she…. involved with anyone?” he asked cautiously.

Both managers shook their heads. “Not to our knowledge,” Andre said.

Philippe nodded thoughtfully, before assuming his proper manner once again. “I would very much like to meet this Christine Daae, and see if she really is as you say. Is she available?”

“We shall see. Madame Giry?” Firmin called to the ballet mistress, who was just walking by the office. “Would you please fetch Miss Daae for us?”

“Of course, Monsieur,” Madame Giry said rather coldly, not used to being bossed around. She then strode off down the hallway, only to turn the corner and see Meg crouched near the other door to the manager’s office. The little ballerina had her head turned toward the door, clearly eavesdropping, when she saw her mother and stood up with a start.

Madame Giry glared at her. “Let Christine know the managers are requesting her presence,” she said sternly.

Meg nodded, but paused for a moment in hesitation. “Christine has been acting rather strange lately,” she remarked carefully in her young voice. “I mean, more than usual.”

The hand on Madame Giry’s cane tightened. “The matters surrounding Christine Daae should be no concern of yours.”

“Do you know something about it, then?” Meg asked, inching closer to her mother.

Madame Giry’s eyes looked away for a moment, considering. When she spoke again, it was in an unusually soft tone. “I would suggest you distance yourself from her, Meg. For your safety and hers.”

Meg frowned, offended. “But she is my friend!”

At once, Madame Giry’s eyes became fierce again as they met her daughter’s gaze. “That does not matter! You would do well to stay away from trouble.”

Meg took a step back, dipping her head back down. “Yes, Madame,” she said meekly, before scurrying off in the opposite direction of her mother.

Meg wound her way to the backstage area, peeking briefly inside the corps’s dressing room in case the woman she was looking for was there. Not seeing her, she proceeded past Sorelli’s room and to the large dressing room tucked at the end of the hallway. She first held her ear up to the keyhole, hoping to hear her friend humming, but was greeted with silence. Meg frowned. “Christine?” she asked, knocking on the door.

She received no response.

Brushing her bangs out of her eyes, Meg slowly twisted the doorknob and eased open the door. The room was silent; the wardrobe was open slightly, and there was a piece of paper and a pen on the desk. Everything was in place, except its main occupant.

Meg sighed, before closing the door and turning to look for Christine somewhere else. For a while now, she had simply brushed off the strange things that seemed to accompany her friend, but disappearing into thin air was a bit of a stretch. And no matter what her mother told her, she would still be concerned about it. Where in the world could she be hiding?

~ten minutes earlier~

Christine sighed as she swept into her dressing room, carefully closing the door behind her. She glanced around it briefly; despite having moved most of her clothes and things from her cubby over to the new space, it still didn’t feel like home to her. But then again, no place really did anymore.

She sat down at the vanity and pulled a piece of paper and pen from the drawer, being careful not to disturb the dried white rose that sat tucked in the corner. As she pulled up the sleeves of her dressing gown and brought the pen down to write, she considered what she intended to say.

She wished to write a letter to her guardian Aunt Valerius, whom she had not visited in a while. Part of her felt guilty about that, but she also knew her poor aunt hardly remembered the day of the week, let alone the details of her great niece’s life. Still, Christine liked to keep correspondence at least once every month, even if she never got a direct letter in return. At least this time she had something interesting to report; her successful premiere at the opera was still fresh in her mind, although she knew it was best if she didn’t mention it was all thanks to—

“Christine.”

She froze in place at the sound of his smooth, soft voice. Her eyes glanced up, searching for the source of it, while her lips turned up in a slight smile. “Hello, Angel of Music,” she replied. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until later tonight, for our lesson.”

“I know. I hoped I could see you a bit sooner.” He sounded a bit more shy than usual, his tone hesitant.

Christine set down the pen and patiently folded her hands in her lap. “Do you need something from me?” she asked gently.

His voice paused for a moment, long enough to make Christine wonder if he had heard her question. Eventually, he responded, even softer than before. “I wish to show you more of my world.”

Christine’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I know of a more suitable place for your lessons than the library. I would like to show you.”

“Where is it?”

“Look around at the mirror.”

Confused, Christine turned her head behind her to the floor-length mirror, only to see it was gone. She gasped; in the mirror’s place was a hole in the wall in its exact dimensions, and in this newly-formed doorway stood the figure of the Phantom, his hat and cloak creating a dramatic silhouette.

He let her take in his presence for a moment, before stepping carefully into her dressing room. Seeing that she was not afraid, he extended a hand to her. “ I am your Angel of Music ,” he sang, with more strength than before. “ Come to me, Angel of Music .”

Christine’s eyes glanced at his hand, before resting on the Phantom’s masked face; his dark eyes glowed with resolve, holding her gaze perfectly. A wave of trust came over her, and she placed her small hand into his own. His long fingers wrapped around hers comfortingly.

She allowed him to lead her forward, towards the hole where the mirror used to be. As he stepped back into it, Christine realized it led into a dark passage, and she followed him through the doorway carefully. She heard a faint sliding sound, before they were plunged into near-total darkness. A box lantern stood on the floor of the passage, providing a dim golden glow to the surroundings. Christine turned around for a moment and reached out to the way they came, and felt a cool sheet of metal covering the doorway; the back of the mirror! So that was how he had appeared so suddenly, she figured.

She was broken from her inspection by the feeling of a hand grasping her own. She turned back around, and met the Phantom’s eyes once again, as he lifted the lantern with his other hand. The darkness surrounding them made his porcelain mask seem to float in the air in front of her. Where another would have found it frightening, Christine saw it as a beacon to help her find the way safely through the shadows.

He began to lead her through the walls and cellars of the opera house, consisting of a vast network of stone passages. They were clearly very old, with Christine guessing they had been untouched for at least a few hundred years. Huge pillars rose up from the floor to support the ceiling, making up the foundation of the Opera Populaire and the great buildings that had come before it. All the while, they remained silent, with the Phantom focused on leading her through the tunnels and Christine gradually taking in her surroundings.

They reached a stairwell that curved slightly as it descended further into the depths of Paris, lit by torches mounted into metal brackets along the walls. The Phantom carefully guided Christine down, while she lifted the hem of her dressing gown away from her quick feet so she would not trip. As they walked further down, the temperature of the air began to drop, but the Phantom’s hand remained wrapped around Christine’s fingers, conserving the warmth between them. Christine couldn’t help but watch him as they continued down. She wondered how far down these tunnels actually reached, and how long it had taken him to memorize them. She had no clue how long he had been here; he seemed both young and old to her at the same time, knowing so much about some things yet so little about others. Questions rushed through her mind about his past, his family if he had one, how he came to be here, and why he hid from everyone. Well, almost everyone.

Eventually, the smoothly-carved stone transitioned into rough cavern walls, which grew narrower and narrower the deeper they trekked into the labyrinth. Several tunnels branched off of the main path, but before Christine could wonder which path was which, the Phantom was already leading her down one way, his cloak flying out behind him. Words formed in her mind, words about him, and finally her voice rose over the sound of their feet against the stone steps.

In sleep he sang to me

In dreams he came

That voice which calls to me

And speaks my name

And do I dream again?

For now I find

The Phantom of the Opera is there

Inside my mind

The Phantom paused briefly, absorbing the sound of her voice resonating in the darkness, before he continued down the stairs. He led her around certain stones and over some steps entirely; he would inform her of the location of his traps later, he thought to himself. In the meantime, he responded to her verse with one of his own.

Sing once again with me

Our strange duet

My power over you

Grows stronger yet

And though you turn from me

To glance behind

The Phantom of the Opera is there

Inside your mind

Finally, they reached the bottom of the stairs, and entered the biggest cavern yet, its eroded walls carved out of thick black stone that stretched up to a shadowy ceiling that Christine couldn’t see. A few meters from the entrance to the stairs was the shore of a great underground lake, coated in a thin layer of mist. The Phantom let go of her hand and approached the shore to untie a rope. She noticed it was attached to a small black gondola, and he hung the lantern to a small hook in the front of the boat. Watching his actions, Christine continued her song, her voice echoing around the huge space.

Those who have seen your face

Draw back in fear

I am the mask you wear

The Phantom turned back to her, extending his hands and joining in with his own voice.

It’s me they hear

Christine accepted his hands and stepped into the boat. Their voices melded together, traveling for miles through the twisting underground tunnels.

Your/my spirit and my/your voice

In one combined

The Phantom of the Opera is here/there

Inside my/your mind

Christine settled near the bow of the gondola, looking out into the darkness in front of her. Off in the distance, she could just make out the soft glimmer of many candles, their light reflecting serenely off the surface of the inky black water. 

The Phantom took the paddle and began to push the boat gently through the water towards the light, all the while refusing to take his eyes off of Christine. She truly looked like an angel, or a goddess, glowing in her white dressing gown and gazing around with her large, curious eyes. He watched as she reached her gentle hand through the mist and let her fingertips skim the rippling surface of the dark water. She brought her fingers back up to her face, and he knew she was deciding if this was a dream or not. To answer her doubts, he continued their duet strongly.

In all your fantasies

You always knew

That man and mystery

Christine broke in, causing him to pause between breaths, before they continued on together again.

Were both in you

And in this labyrinth

Where night is blind

The Phantom of the Opera is here/there

Inside my/your mind

They finally reached the source of the light; the far side of the cavern was not merely another stone wall, but was inlaid with several rooms carved directly from the rock. The shore made up a large flat platform, on which sat a writing desk, an organ with a a music stand perched atop, as well as a large chair akin to a throne. Candelabras and torches dotted the walls and surface of the platform, filling the space with a gentle glow while leaving plenty of space for the shadows to lurk.

Christine gazed at every detail of the place, wrapped in a sense of awe and splendor. This must be where he lives , she thought with a warm feeling in her chest. She believed it to be a very beautiful place to call one’s home.

When the small boat settled to a stop near the edge of the shore, she finally dared to look back at the Phantom. He still studied her with his dark gaze as he set down the paddle and stepped onto the stone platform. He extended his hands once again to her and she took them; she stood and lifted her feet carefully from the gondola, leaning on him slightly so as not to lose her balance.

They stood together on the stone platform, a sense of anticipation filling the air surrounding them. The Phantom suddenly let go of her hands, holding his own in front of him slightly. “Sing, my Angel of Music,” he directed, his voice taking on the confident tone he used during their practice sessions.

Enamored, Christine complied. Her heavenly voice rang out like a bell in the expansive space. “ He’s there, the Phantom of the Opera. ”

“Sing for me,” the Phantom commanded again, holding his hand out in front of her throat as if to pull the notes out of her. Sure enough, a string of notes floated up from her lungs and into the cool air. The sound of her own voice gave Christine gooseflesh; even she realized how powerful, how supernatural it could sound under his influence. Her curiosity peaked, she surrendered her voice over to his guidance, merely providing the breath needed to keep the sound alive. He carried her song up higher and higher, filling every corner of the open cavern and making the stone walls shiver, until finishing in one final, clear, strong note that resounded unwaveringly through the dark tunnels.

At last, Christine gasped for breath, bringing her hand up to her throat in shock at what had just escaped from it. She realized she finally understood in that moment why the Phantom calls her an Angel.

“I have brought you,” the Phantom’s voice said, cutting through her thoughts and causing her to whip around to face him, “to this temple, this kingdom where all must pay homage to music.” His eyes shone with intensity, and even from several feet away she felt their heat singe her soul. He held his fingers out to her. “You have come here for one purpose and one alone.” He paused, taking a couple deep breaths, before continuing in a much softer tone. “Since the moment I first heard you sing, I have needed you with me, to serve me. To sing.” He finally tore his eyes away from her to look back at the organ with the music stand. “For my music,” he murmured reverently. He stepped over to the stand and let his fingers brush lightly over the edge of one of his compositions.

Christine studied him carefully. She saw how his eyes softened as they looked upon the scribbled black notes, and could almost feel his heart unclench. Her own heart ached to hear the music that brought him such peace of mind, the music for which he had chosen her.

“Can you share some with me?” she asked suddenly.

The Phantom looked up quickly, meeting her inquisitive gaze. After a moment, he smoothed the sheet music and turned to face her fully, before letting his voice begin a tender song.

Nighttime sharpens

Heightens each sensation

Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination

Silently the senses abandon their defenses

His voice drifted, lighter than air, filling Christine with a profound feeling of calm. He reached out his hand to her and then out to the vast dark cavern, encouraging her to turn her head away from him. Thankfully she did, staring out in awe, and he continued his song as he approached her cautiously.

Slowly, gently

Night unfurls its splendor

Grasp it, sense it

Tremulous and tender

As he sang, Christine could not help but begin to turn her head again to face him; by then, he was almost at her shoulder. He suddenly realized how close they were, and with a wave of timidity, he gently pushed her face away with his hand, his eyes unable to look directly at her and instead following his fingers.

Turn your face away from the garish light of day

Turn your thoughts away from cold unfeeling light

His voice trembled, betraying his fear, yet his heart ached with longing. He dared to reach his fingers under her chin, barely touching her as he turned her face towards his again. He lifted his eyes from his hand, only to meet hers just inches away, the beautiful pale green-grey sending a shockwave into his soul. Overcome, he had to step away from her, glancing down once more as his heart pounded.

And listen to the music of the night

The Phantom took a moment to collect himself, before he looked back at Christine. She was examining every detail of the world around her, amazed and inspired. He began to walk around her, out of her eyeline, to her other side, guiding her through her experience.

Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams

Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before

He raised his hands as if to hold her head, but instead let his fingers drift a fair distance from her face. He let them fall, and her eyelids soon followed.

Close your eyes,

Let your spirit start to soar

The Phantom let his hand hover close to her face; the warmth from her cheek made his fingers shake, and when he sang again, his voice shook, too.

And you’ll live as you’ve never lived before

He looked at her like she was everything; his fingers barely brushed over her cheek, and finally her eyes fluttered open to look up at him. For a moment, they stood locked within each other’s gaze, and they were so close they could almost hear each other’s heart skip a beat.

But then the Phantom took a step back, feeling like he needed room to breathe. His eyes remained on hers as he continued to sing.

Softly, deftly

Music shall surround you

Hear it, feel it

Closing in around you

This time, Christine no longer looked away from him. She kept her focus only on him, drawn by her curiosity and a warm feeling of trust. She began to slowly step closer to him, making him step back to maintain the distance between them.

Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind

In this darkness which you know you cannot fight

Eventually, the Phantom felt the edge of the organ behind him. His trembling fingers grabbed onto it as he watched her approach him willingly, his heart pounding faster and faster.

The darkness of the music of the night

Before he realized what she was doing, Christine had reached out a small hand and barely touched the corner of his mask. She gasped; it was solid, cold, smooth, and real . At once, it was as if she just realized she was awake, and that all of this was not a dream. He was real.

She stepped back from him and turned away, not in horror but in awe. The Phantom stared after her in shock, until he saw her backing away from him. He began to sing again, reaching out his hand, pleading with her to stay.

Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world

Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before

Let your soul take you where you long to be

His last note rang out vastly through the cavern, seeming to echo forever. He slowly walked over to her figure until he stood behind her.

Only then

The Phantom carefully draped his arm around her shoulder, still hovering above her skin, imagining himself wrapping her in his security.

Can you belong

To me

To his surprise, Christine relaxed into his touch, resting her beautiful head on his arm. He felt himself sigh, overwhelmed with the honor of holding Christine’s trust literally in his arms.

Floating, falling

Sweet intoxication

He used his voice to soothe them both, his hand finally resting on her opposite shoulder. She began to raise her hand again, and the Phantom, enveloped in his bliss, let it get ever closer to his face.

Touch me, trust me

Savor each sensation

He did not see her fingers until it was too late, and they rested on the cheek of his mask again for half a second before he suddenly backed away, grabbing hold of her wrist surprisingly lightly. Christine started in shock, glancing down to her wrist and then back to him.

In an instant, he became aware of his own reaction, and more importantly, of hers. He let go of her wrist, but not before enveloping her hand in both of his, looking back up at her in apology.

Let the dream begin

Let your darker side give in

To the power of the music that I write

Christine stared back at him, nothing but compassion in her eyes. He slowly raised one hand and used it to direct her attention back to the world around her.

The power of the music of the night

They both watched his hand reach out into the darkness. A moment passed, and Christine’s eyes flickered down to their joined hands. The Phantom raised them to just in front of his chest, holding onto her hand as if it was made of crystal. His voice was pleading as he sang once more.

You alone can make my song take flight

Help me make the music of the night

He watched her intently for her reaction. Christine stared at him, breathing softly. “Teach that to me,” she finally whispered, the hint of a grin on her face.

The Phantom’s eyes brightened, and he gently squeezed her hand and led her to stand close to his organ.

Time lost its meaning the longer she stayed down there with him. The candles around them did not even melt, so Christine had no clue how long they had been practicing; for all she knew, they could have been there all night. What she did know was the growing fatigue causing her eyelids to droop, and the gentle rumble of her empty stomach.

“May we stop?” she asked at last, interrupting the Phantom as he was scribbling on his score.

He looked up at her, and at once noticed her fatigued state. “Yes, of course.” He set down his quill and stood from his place at the organ. “You did very well today, my Angel.”

Christine smiled at him, and he felt himself almost smile back. Instead, he stepped down and approached her, taking her hand. “Come along this way,” he said, and began to lead her to a smaller cavern hidden within his lair.

They stepped into what appeared to be a dining room, which was just as dark as everywhere else, but with a long table in the center. He seated her in a chair at the head of the table, before walking away through another small door in the room. Christine waited only a few moments, observing the curiously carved metal objects and candelabras decorating the table, before he returned, carrying a small tray of bread, cheese, fruits and a couple glasses of wine. “I hope the change in venue wasn’t too distracting,” he said as he set the tray down on the table.

“No, quite the opposite,” Christine said, picking up one of the glasses. “It’s beautiful down here. Not to mention quiet; I’m glad we didn’t have to worry about anyone overhearing, for a change.”

The Phantom nodded. “I’m glad you like it.”

Christine took a few things off the tray and began to eat; after a moment, she paused to look up at him expectantly. The Phantom caught her gaze, and slowly sat down in the seat beside her. She smiled. “How did you find this place? And when did you decide to live here?” she asked curiously.

The Phantom considered what to say for a moment; he wouldn’t say too much, because there were some parts of his life he felt should be kept hidden even from her. But she was here, in his home, and she wanted to talk to him. He knew he had to say something.

He leaned back slightly with his hands folded in his lap. “I played a great role in building the Opera Populaire. I was a contractor almost six years ago; while they were building the world above, I was building all this below. After construction was complete, I stayed in the home I had built for myself.”

Christine set down her wine glass gently. “You’ve lived here for six years?”

He nodded once.

“Where did you live before you were here?”

The Phantom’s gaze drifted away from her. She thought it was just him recalling times long past, but in reality he was deciding which parts to tell. Or more specifically, which parts to leave out. “I traveled between many places….Italy, Russia, Persia. This is one of the places I’ve lived the longest.” He paused, his long fingers slowly interlacing with each other. “I’ve found….meaning, in writing music. That has compelled me to stay for this long.”

Christine found herself captivated by the pensive look in his eyes. “Do you have a family?” she asked.

Immediately, his face fell, the meditative air disappearing and replaced with an indecipherable darkness. For a moment, she believed he would say nothing more, and she began to regret asking. But finally, he spoke. “I had a mother.” His voice was cold, carrying no emotion. “I left her when I was twelve years old. My father died before I was born.”

Christine watched him cautiously. “Why did you leave your mother?”

“She hated me.” He said the words so simply, so impassively, that the weight of his words seemed to hit Christine twice as hard. “She believed I was a curse, sent to her by the Devil himself. Her first gift to me—” he said, his fingers coming up to rest delicately on the porcelain covering his face, “was a mask.” He traced its curved edge thoughtfully as he continued. “She told me she wished I was dead. Truthfully, it would have spared her much trouble in her life if I was.” His dark eyes finally met Christine’s again. “Once I realized that, I knew I had to go.”

Christine stared at him, her shock bordering on horror. “I’m sorry, Erik,” was all she could say, but she meant it.

She could not imagine what his mother saw that would have made her feel such a way about him; in all the time she had known him, Christine found him to be kind and thoughtful. Her eyes swept over both sides of his face, one covered and one not. The uncovered side was perfectly normal; in fact, Christine thought it quite handsome, with its strong jaw and defined cheekbones. These features were reflected on the other side, but artificial and unmoving like a statue. How different could the side that lay underneath possibly be to force him to hide it like this for so long? What could be so horrible about someone’s face that it caused their own mother to be afraid of it?

The Phantom noticed her watching him closely, and saw the pity in her eyes. No… he did not like her pitying him. “Are you ever lonely, Christine?” he asked, attempting to change the subject.

Christine blinked, her attention returning to their conversation. “I am lonely every day.” She glanced down forlornly to her hands folded on the table. “My father raised me alone, after my mother died giving me life. He was everything to me.” A small smile swept over her face as she remembered her father’s face doing the same. “He taught me to love music, and art, and poetry. He was a violinist, and he took me with him wherever he traveled. We played at weddings and festivals all over Sweden and France. Wherever he went, his playing made people smile, made them dance. But he always made sure I was happiest. He was so kind, and wise, and generous. And when he died,” she said, her voice sticking to her throat. “My world was shattered.”

Her smile was gone now, and her eyes glistened with sadness. “I came to live in Paris with my Great Aunt Valerius. She is kind, but she is very old and….forgets things.” Christine swallowed, deciding not to mention that one of those things happened to be her. “It was she who encouraged me to join the ballet, which I did not protest, because it brought music into my life again. I can’t tell you how much I missed it in those first years without him.”

Overwhelmed, Christine closed her eyes to stop the tears from escaping. “I miss him every minute. Every time I hear a violin, I hear him.”

A moment passed in which Christine tried to fight off the pain that threatened to engulf her heart. Then, she felt a small brush on the back of her hand. She opened her eyes, and through their mist saw his fingers softly touching her own. She glanced back up at the Phantom, whose eyes had been watching their hands until they wandered up to meet hers. “I’m sorry, Christine,” he whispered.

Without a word, Christine gave him a watery smile. So many others had said those same words to her in the past ten years, but when they were said in his voice, they sounded different. They sounded real.

“I find it hard to believe that our lead soprano simply disappeared,” Firmin complained, pacing the managers’ office impatiently. Their meeting with Philippe had concluded only a few minutes ago, after they waited patiently for Christine Daae to arrive and meet the opera’s patron. But unfortunately, despite all the ballet girls’ searching, the young woman could not be found anywhere, and the Comte was forced to politely take his leave. “After all, doesn’t she live here, in the dormitories?”

Andre stood close by, his arms folded. “They’ve checked there already, and found nothing.” He nervously shook his head. “I worry what impression this made on our dear patron. It is most unprofessional to not do as he requests.”

Firmin stopped pacing for a moment to face his colleague. “Well, what were we to do? If the girl could not be found, we simply had to turn him away. At least he knows everything else about the opera house is in good order.”

Andre sighed in frustration. “Yes, but it is quite unseemly how she comes and goes as she pleases without informing anyone, especially her superiors, where she has gone.”

“Indeed,” Firmin agreed, rubbing his temples. “I’m starting to think this young soprano may be more trouble than she’s worth, Andre.” His fellow manager nodded seriously.

At once, they were interrupted by Carlotta, who barged into the office as if it was her own. “You two! I am absolutely insulted!”

Ignoring the diva’s harsh tone, Andre gave an uneasy smile. “Ah, welcome back, Signora!”

Carlotta quickly swept past him and into the center of the office. “Would either of you care to explain this ?” She held up a slip of paper, half-crumpled in her fist.

Firmin scoffed. “A note?”

Carlotta rounded on him. “Don’t act ignorant! I know it was you, or someone else here attempting to make a mockery of me! Well, I have had enough!”

Trying to be civil, Andre stepped forward in front of Carlotta. “Signora, I assure you, we wrote no such letter.”

“Then how do you explain it, then?” she said boldly.

Andre took the paper from her outstretched hand while Firmin grumbled behind him, “Far too many notes….” Andre unfolded it, and read the message out loud.

Be warned,

Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered. Know that you have been replaced as the lead soprano, and that a great misfortune shall befall you if you attempt to take her place.

I understand that you will most likely wish to confirm my message with the managers of the opera house, however do not count on any sympathy from them. If you do decide to visit despite my cautioning, see to it that they receive the attached note.

Andre finished and folded the letter neatly. “Signora, was there another note?”

Bitterly, the diva withdrew a second piece of paper and tossed it onto the desk, where Firmin picked it up and began to read.

My dear managers,

By now you should have received my letter to you detailing how my theatre is to be run. However, I have another condition that must be met, regarding the career progression of Mlle. Christine Daae.

In the opera’s new production of ‘Il Muto’, Mlle. Daae will be given the lead role of the Countess, as it is one that requires a soprano of sensibility and charm. Carlotta should then be cast as the Pageboy, the only silent role and therefore ideal for her, if she dares to return at all; truthfully, her continued absence would not be unwelcome.

I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box Five, which you will keep available for my use henceforth. Should these commands be ignored, you will be giving the performance in a house with a curse upon it.

I remain, gentlemen,

O.G.

“Ugh, I am quite sick of this!” Firmin said, throwing the note back down onto the desk.

Carlotta, however, was fuming. “ Christine ! So that is who this is all about!”

Andre desperately tried to make himself heard over Carlotta’s fussing. “Signora, I assure you, we do not take orders from a piece of paper—”

But Carlotta hardly seemed to care. “This is all a ploy to help Christine overtake and humiliate me! I will not have it!”

“Enough of this! We shall not do as he commands. Miss Daae shall play the silent Pageboy!” Firmin announced with an air of finality, as everyone looked at him. “Carlotta will be the lead.”

For a moment, Carlotta’s eyes lit up, before she returned to her complaining with a scoff. “You only say this to please me! You do not really mean it!” She knew if she pushed the managers even further they would yield to her wishes. They always did.

Andre protested profusely. “Signora, we beseech you! Your public needs you.”

“We need you, too,” Firmin added quickly.

Finally, Carlotta went quiet, considering their words with her nose upturned. “Would you not rather have your precious little ingenue?” she asked with scorn.

The managers both shook their heads. “Of course not, Signora. The world wants you.”

Chapter Text

The enchanting sound of a violin’s strings permeated the small seaside cottage. They filled the air with feelings too big to put into words, too intricate to convey through anything other than music. It was in this activity that the Swedish violinist found the most comfort over the years, and was honored to learn that it brought others comfort, too.

Often, Gustave Daae would practice his playing outside on the rocky beaches, as the waves crashed in their naturally soft rhythm. They reminded him of the shores of his own homeland, a place he longed to return to one day, perhaps when his daughter was a bit older. But today, he practiced inside, the notes echoing off of the stone walls of their little house.

He finally finished the tune, and sighed in satisfaction. He thought that was enough for the day, unless of course Christine asked him to play later, in which case he could not refuse his only child’s wishes.

He placed the violin and bow back into their case before heading upstairs to put it away. However, as he walked along the hall, he heard a strange sound coming from his daughter’s room. He turned to the partially-open door, and stepped towards it to peer inside.

Christine, who was just entering her thirteenth year, sat at her little writing desk facing away from the door, her head in her hands and her long brown hair blocking her face from his view. Every few seconds she gave a quiet sob that made her curls quiver.

The father frowned in concern, and approached the young girl carefully. It was then that his eyes fell upon the small birdcage sitting on the desk, and on the unmoving body of the beloved blackbird inside. The pet had given Christine much joy in the past year or so, listening to her hummed tunes and tweeting them back to her, to the girl’s delight.

At once, a wave of pity came over Christine’s father. He knelt on one knee beside his daughter’s chair and let his hand rest comfortingly on her shoulder. “Oh, Christine,” he said sadly. The girl tensed, before moving to cling to her father tightly and crying harder.

“It’s alright, little one,” he whispered as he patted her back, letting her tears soak into his shirt.

“W-Why did she have to d-die? What d-did I do wrong?” Christine asked, her voice shaky and interrupted by small sobs.

Her father shook his head gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Christine,” he said, his heart breaking for his daughter. “It was her time, that is all.”

After a while, Christine’s breath became a bit more steady, and she lifted her head to look at her father’s face. “Is this how you felt when Mother died?”

Her father saw her tear-filled eyes, the shimmer of sorrow deep within them, and let out a long breath. “No,” he said quietly, not intending to lie to her. “I felt much worse.”

Christine looked back down, letting more tears fall as she did. He used his thumb to brush them away. “I wish there was something I could have done,” she whispered, and glanced back to the silent birdcage.

Her father patted her back again apologetically. “I know. But some things you cannot change. We cannot control everything that happens in this world; we can only control how we respond to it.” He watched her look back up into his eyes, sniffing sadly. “And we respond to death by remembering those we have lost, honoring them with our actions and prayers. Can you do that?”

Christine brought her little hand up to wipe the tears from her face. “I will try,” she whispered.

Her father gave a small smile, before wrapping her in his arms again. He sighed wistfully; he was well equipped to guide others through grief, but he never expected it to be one of the things he would have to teach to his own daughter.

Thankfully, she hadn’t noticed how his voice sounded rougher than it normally did, or how his arms hugged her more weakly than usual. And she didn’t know that he had been hiding his coughs from her for a while now.

But he knew he couldn’t hide them forever.

Christine was awoken abruptly from her slumber by the sound of someone knocking on her ballet dormitory door. “Christine, are you in there?” she heard Meg’s hurried voice ask.

Christine pushed herself up in her bed groggily, rubbing her eyes. “Meg? Yes, I’m here.”

The door opened to reveal her young friend, already dressed and holding a bundle of clothes in her arms. Her golden hair bounced as she rushed to the side of the bed. “There you are, Christine! Where in the world have you been hiding?” she said in a slightly disapproving tone.

Christine shrugged, fighting a yawn. “I haven’t been hiding, Meg, I’ve been sleeping.” She glanced at the burnt-out candle on her bedside table, and realization washed over her. “What time is it?”

“Late, for you,” Meg said grimly. “Rehearsal for the new opera is about to start.”

At once, Christine scrambled out of bed, her drowsiness replaced by panic. Meg shoved the stack of clothes into her arms, and without thinking Christine began to dress as Meg continued. “I meant where have you been hiding all this week? Every time I try to look for you I can never find you! I check here, your dressing room, the corps’ rooms, the library—”

“Well, I’ve been here all this time,” Christine interrupted, somewhat irritably as she worked a brush quickly through her long curls. “Perhaps you just haven’t been looking hard enough.” On the inside, Christine’s stomach sank with guilt. It wasn’t technically a lie; Christine truly had never left the opera house, but she had been hiding in a place no one would be able to find her.

“I looked everywhere ,” Meg insisted.

Christine met her friend’s pointed gaze, and was surprised for a moment at how much she could look like her mother. Finally, she sighed. “I’m not sneaking out, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she asserted.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Meg muttered under her breath, but Christine still heard her, and her face burned. “The Comte de Chagny came to call on you, you know,” Meg said after a pause, watching Christine’s reaction closely.

To her surprise, Christine didn’t seem to react to the name at all. “Did he?” she said with genuine curiosity. “I wonder what he wanted with me.”

It wasn’t until Christine was almost fully dressed that she noticed what she was even wearing; a lacy white blouse, knee-high stockings, and a pair of breeches. “What kind of clothes did you bring me, Meg? There’s not even a skirt.”

“It’s a sample for your costume,” Meg replied. “You’re playing the pageboy.”

Christine looked up, confused. “The pageboy? In Il Muto ?”

“Yes! Now come on,” Meg said, grabbing her friend’s hand and pulling her out of her room and to the stage. As she was led along, Christine’s mind spun with questions. When was this decision made, and why wasn’t she told? Of course, maybe they had tried to tell her, but as Meg explained, they simply were unable to find her; her insides twisted with remorse again. But to cast her in a famously silent role? Christine knew it was not good to be too proud, but she thought her previous performance had convinced everyone she could indeed sing, and no longer needed to be cast in non-vocal parts. It couldn’t be a mistake, could it?

Once they arrived, rehearsal was already bustling with activity. Ballerinas wandered to and fro, stagehands pushed around various set pieces, and the sounds of casual chatter and piano keys saturated the air. Christine thanked Meg and hurried over to where the music director stood by the edge of the stage. “Excuse me, Monsieur. Has practice started yet?”

The director looked her up and down before nodding in recognition. “Ah yes, the pageboy. Right this way, if you will, Mademoiselle.”

He ushered her over to the center of the stage, where the rest of the cast, including Carlotta, were standing in their positions for a scene. Carlotta, dressed in a fine brightly-colored gown, acknowledged Christine with a smug coldness. It seemed that no sooner had Carlotta returned to the opera house she was made prima donna again, and just as quickly returned to her conceited self as if nothing had changed. As if Christine’s performance had never mattered. For a moment, with the way everyone was acting, Christine felt a bit foolish in thinking that it might.

The director clapped his hands to call for attention. “All right, let us begin with the rehearsal, please. Dancers, please follow Madame Giry to practice the ballet portion. The rest of you, remain here while we sort out your parts of the score.” He then handed out copies of sheet music to each singer, notably passing over Christine and leaving her standing awkwardly amidst the exchange. She was not used to being without a music score in her hands, or a dance routine in her mind. Everyone else seemed to know what to do, as they swirled around her to their positions on the stage and kept up with the music, while she bit her tongue to keep her mouth closed, suffering in silence. A familiar feeling of helplessness swept over her like an icy breeze, especially as she forced a smile and followed Carlotta as she strutted across the stage.

Suddenly, the light in the opera hall dimmed, causing everyone to gasp and look around in confusion. Christine looked up; the gas lights in the chandelier flickered, casting strange shapes onto the painted ceiling. As soon as the others noticed the chandelier’s unsteady shining, the flickering stopped, every light on the fixture glowing brightly once more.

Chatter erupted as everyone wondered what that had been about. Of course, the first thought of many was the Phantom; they wondered aloud what it could mean, what he could want, but to Christine his message was clear.

He wanted to see her.

Once the director was able to steer the focus back on the rehearsal, it wasn’t long before they moved on to a scene in which the pageboy was not involved. While everyone’s attention was elsewhere, Christine shuffled her way to the left wing of the stage, slipping into the backstage area. She didn’t know where exactly he was, but she imagined wherever she went in the opera house he would manage to find her.

Sure enough, she had just slipped into a quiet room full of stored costumes and set pieces, when his dark figure emerged from the other side, seemingly through a solid wall. Pushing down her curiosity as to how it had happened, Christine approached him quickly. “What is it, Erik?” she asked, concerned.

The Phantom paced the room impatiently, anger flashing in his eyes, too distracted to notice that she had addressed him with his first name. “How dare they defy my orders! I will not tolerate such disdain….they must think themselves brave, yes, brave enough to defy me….”

Christine frowned in confusion at his behavior. “What orders? What are you talking about?”

Immediately, the Phantom spun to face her. “I told the managers to cast you in the lead, I even explained to them why.” He shook his head, looking down again with a scowl. “But instead, they cast that….that….”

Christine was taken aback by his confession. “You told them to cast me? Why would you do that?”

This time, it was the Phantom’s turn to look confused. “ Why? Because you deserve it, Christine! You are the lead soprano now, not her. You are better, and they know it, yet they refuse to admit to it. Even after the success you brought them!”

As much as she wanted to argue with him, every fact he said had already passed through Christine’s mind, even if she chose not to derive too much fulfillment from them. Besides, she knew it was pointless to argue with him about her talent; her own humility on that front would always be overshadowed by his glorification. Finally, she sighed. “Look, Erik, I’m disappointed too, but this is—”

“Disappointed?!” he interrupted incredulously. “You should be insulted , Christine! They are openly rebuffing you in favor of a lesser talent! You didn’t work this hard to just be ignored!”

“I’m not being ignored! I’m in the opera!” Christine argued.

The Phantom gave a humorless laugh. “In a non-singing part. I can think of no clearer way to insult a soprano’s gift.”

Christine felt the cold helplessness creep into her stomach again as she realized he must be right. The director, the managers, whomever had assigned her part did it on purpose. If they didn’t want her to be the lead, whatever the reason, they could have given her a minor role in the chorus, but instead they made it clear they preferred if she were onstage, but silent. She at last understood the Phantom’s reaction, and why he expected her to feel the same way.

However, the fact remained that there was nothing she could do to change her role. Nothing honest, anyway. Her father’s calm voice echoed in her mind, and she clenched the fists that hung at her sides. “Regardless of the part I have, you cannot just demand things from them like that.” Her tone was firm, yet considerate. “‘You can’t control everything that happens in this world; you can only control how you respond to it.’”

The Phantom considered her wise words thoughtfully, before lifting his chin and letting his dark eyes stare back at her. “So you are satisfied with your non-speaking role? You are happy that the lead is being performed by someone else, someone who looks at you like you are worth less than the ground she walks on—”

“I didn’t say I was happy,” Christine interrupted him as his voice began to rise again. “Nor did I say I have to be. But things like this are just how the world works.”

The Phantom glared in frustration, looking away from her and to the rows of costumes along the walls. Of course, he of all people knew just how unforgiving the world could be; time and time again he had witnessed it bring pain to people who had done nothing to deserve it. And yes, most everyone shared Christine’s view that it was due to something outside of one’s authority, something that will never be stopped and must only be survived.

But she was wrong. He did have power over things, he could bend situations to his will. Not everything, of course, but a matter such as securing her role in an opera was rather trivial. He had done it before, in fact, and nothing had stopped him; why should he expect something different now? “That doesn’t have to be how it works,” he spoke in a low tone, looking back at her. “We can make them see how vital you are, we can make them change their minds—”

Christine shook her head adamantly. “No, Erik, you shouldn’t interfere. It’s not fair, it’s not your place.”

The Phantom sighed in exasperation, going back to pacing the room. “So what am I supposed to do, just let this happen? Let them take advantage of my student’s gift when I could have done something to stop them? What kind of teacher would that make me? Now what’s not fair, Christine?”

“It’s just one opera, it won’t be the end of the world,” Christine tolerantly remarked at the end of his bitter tirade.

“But it will teach those managers they can get away with anything they want in this opera house.”

“Of course they can, they’re the managers!” As the Phantom opened his mouth to speak again, Christine cut him off, stepping closer to him. “This is not your fight, Erik! You shouldn’t feel like you need to be in control. This only concerns me, and I can manage just fine. I’ve done so for a while now.”

He wanted to argue more, but he was too taken aback by her opposition to even try. On one hand, the entire situation made him furious, and he wished she would simply put her trust in him to fix it for her, like he has done in the past. But she would not yield, insisting that she was somehow better off being cast aside and ignored, even though he knew it made her feel horrible inside.

The Phantom’s chest ached with pity. She shouldn’t have to resign herself like that. She deserved so much better. He wanted to give her so much better.

As he stood there in silence, Christine took it as acceptance of her side. She sighed, stepping away from him and back towards the door. “I must go. They’ll wonder where I am.”

“No, they won’t,” he said without hesitating, causing her to look back at him. He met her eyes, and noticed for the first time an unwavering courage in her demeanor, a glow of fiery spirit behind the ever-present sorrow. It intrigued him, engrossed his attention; his Angel was truly so many things. He let his eyes take in her whole figure; he had to admit, the pageboy costume rather complimented her boyish figure, accentuating her slight curves, showing off the shape of her toned dancer’s legs….

At once, he snapped himself out of his thoughts. How could he think like that? She was just standing there; where had those thoughts come from? He took a deep breath in an attempt to shove down the warmth that threatened to creep up the skin of his neck.

Oblivious to this turmoil, Christine addressed him. “You will let it be, then? No more notes, no more interference….you will let me handle it on my own?”

The Phantom’s gaze finally returned to hers, and he nodded slowly.

Christine’s lips tightened, not quite forming a smile. She then turned and walked out of the small storage room, unable to shake the feeling that the issue was not fully resolved.

The next few weeks proved to be surprisingly uneventful. Opera rehearsals went as well as they could go, with Christine growing accustomed to her role despite her constant urge to join in the songs. At least it gave her a chance to develop her acting through pantomime. Carlotta still occasionally shot her a superior look or bossed her around the stage, but this grew less frequent as Christine forced herself to ignore her, refusing to give the prima donna the satisfaction of knowing how much her frustration grew.

Christine’s compulsion to sing was appeased in the evenings, when she would follow the Phantom down into the dark caverns for her lessons. He insisted she not let herself become out of practice; Christine did not object to making her voice stronger, because it gave her the hope that she would one day return to a singing opera role. Not only that, but the time she spent with the Phantom was the part of her day she enjoyed the most.

Neither of them brought up their disagreement, for fear of stoking another argument. Any time the subject of Il Muto was mentioned, Christine noticed how the Phantom would tense, avoiding her eyes and quickly changing the subject. She knew there was still anger there, but she was grateful he had done as she asked and left the situation alone, despite his strong feelings.

The premiere night of Il Muto arrived, and the Opera Populaire was packed with clientele. Every seat was filled, leading to the managers having to sit in Box Five, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the gossiping ballet girls. Sorelli called particular attention to it, warning anyone backstage who would listen of the bad luck that was sure to arrive that night. However, once the opera began and progressed without a hitch, Sorelli’s caution was swept from the performers’ minds.

Christine faced only a fraction of the anxiety of her first performance; the watchful audience still made her nervous, but she at least no longer worried about forgetting a line or missing a note. Instead, she did her best to act charming and amusing, feeling encouraged every time a chuckle spread through the spectators. Such a chuckle accompanied the scene where she removed her maid disguise, revealing the cute pageboy costume underneath.

Carlotta, as the Countess, was quick to divert the attention back to herself, as she and the chorus continued with the parlor scene. They were just in the middle of the silly melody, with Christine pretending to kiss Carlotta’s hand, when suddenly—

“ Did I not instruct that Box Five would be kept empty?! ”

The voice of the Phantom, dark and menacing, erupted from nowhere. Christine started in shock at the sound of it, dropping out of character immediately. Everyone else was equally bewildered, fearfully looking around the hall for the source of the voice.

Meg, who was playing a lady’s maid, fearfully rushed to Christine’s side. “He’s here! The Phantom of the Opera,” she whispered urgently.

Christine paid no mind to Meg, instead looking up to the boxes, in the shadows, and around the chandelier. “Oh, not now,” she muttered, slightly exasperated. “Not here.”

At her words, Christine felt Carlotta grip her forearm firmly, pulling her back. “Your part is silent ,” she hissed into Christine’s ear. “You little toad !”

Christine’s blood boiled. Forgetting her composure, she yanked her arm away from Carlotta’s hold and turned to her with a furious look on her face. Before she could say anything, the Phantom's voice rang through the hall again. “ A toad, Madame? ” he snarled. “ Perhaps it is you who are the toad. ”

Uneasy silence followed this ominous reply. However, after a moment Carlotta merely shrugged it off and nodded to the orchestra conductor to continue the number.

Serafimo, away with this pretense

She gripped Christine’s wrist again, forcing the woman to look back at her. She leered at the distress on Christine’s face.

You cannot speak

But kiss me in my—

A loud, guttural croak escaped from Carlotta’s lips. A few of the audience gasped, which was quickly drowned out by another sound; the sound of laughter. It echoed off the walls of the hall, haunting and unnatural, sending a chill down every spine. Carlotta attempted to sing again, but every time she did, all that came out was another loud croak, which only caused the laugh to grow more manic. “ Behold! She is singing to bring down the chandelier! ” the Phantom’s voice roared.

Christine, like everyone else, gaped at Carlotta in shock and concern. In all the years of the Phantom haunting the Opera House, something this serious had never occurred. As Carlotta was led offstage, sobbing and croaking miserably, and before the audience could panic any further, Firmin called down from his place in Box Five. “Ladies and gentleman,” he began agitatedly. “the performance will continue in ten minutes’ time, where the role of the Countess will be sung by Miss Christine Daae!”

He gestured towards the stage at a surprised Christine, who hurried over to the wings of the stage and was met there by Meg and a few other dancers. “Christine, what is going on? What happened?” they asked her urgently.

Christine merely shook her head seriously. “I have no idea, but I have to change, and fast.”

She tried to push past them, but she was stopped when Meg laid a hand on her shoulder. “Christine, you don’t have to do this,” she said, eyeing her fearfully. “What if the ghost does something to you, too?”

“No. I will go on,” Christine replied quickly. At her friend’s concerned look, she gave a small smile. “It will be alright.” She didn't explain how or why she knew it before walking away to the dressing room, leaving the dancers in a state of confusion.

Christine was right, of course. Nothing happened to sabotage her performance, and she gave her final bow as the Countess to a torrent of applause. She couldn’t pretend to ignore how much she missed the sound, how much it filled her with the warm glow of acceptance, even if a part of her felt guilty about how she had obtained it.

After she had thanked the managers and shyly refused to meet more of her “fans”, she swept back to the prima donna’s dressing room. During her performance, Carlotta had returned home to sulk (still hiccuping), so the dressing room was empty, just as Christine hoped.

She closed the door and leaned back against it with a sigh, enjoying the silence after such an excitable evening. She then removed the Countess’s heavy wig and jewelry, before standing in the middle of the room expectantly. “Alright, where are you?” she called into the air. When she got no reply, she huffed and strode to the floor-length mirror. “How does this open?” she muttered, running her hands along its sides in search of a hidden switch or lever.

As soon as she asked, the mirror slid to the side, revealing the passageway beyond. She backed away to let the Phantom step into the room, before crossing her arms, looking up at him sternly. “I told you not to interfere,” she said.

He met her eyes, the hint of a smile on his lips. “I’m afraid I was left with no other choice,” he responded with faux innocence.

Christine rolled her eyes. “I suppose you don’t regret what you did?”

The Phantom frowned. “Why should I?” he retorted. “Everything turned out as it should in the end; you are back in your proper position, the managers have acknowledged your importance, and La Carlotta is at home, probably too frightened to step foot in my theatre ever again. Though I shouldn’t get my hopes up….”

“That was not right, what you did,” Christine interjected, her voice uncompromising.

The Phantom scoffed angrily. “Come now, don’t tell me you think she didn’t deserve it. I’ve seen how she treats you, even tonight—”

Christine shook her head in frustration. “That doesn’t matter! I told you, you cannot control every inconvenience you are faced with.”

“Evidently, you can,” the Phantom replied coolly.

Christine exhaled heavily, turning away from him to sit down on the chair in front of the vanity, staring at her lap. She disliked how he refused to see reason towards his harsh actions; it made her wonder what else he was willing to do to dictate such a situation. At least no one got hurt, she supposed. And against her better judgment, she did feel gratitude for his interference, because it finally spared her from that ache of worthlessness that she had felt the entire time she was forced to keep her mouth shut. The applause and praise she received at the end of the opera had made the last few weeks almost worth it.

She looked up in the mirror, and saw that the Phantom had stepped over to stand behind her chair, looking down at her thoughtfully. She saw his hand in the reflection lingering by her shoulder, and she finally reached up to gently take hold of it and place it there. “Thank you for coming tonight,” she said quietly. She watched her thumb brush over his fingers. “I feel braver, when I know you’re there.”

The Phantom squeezed her shoulder tightly in response. “Christine, I would not miss your performances for the world.”

In the moments before she took his hand, the Phantom’s mind swam rapidly with thoughts in the way it always did when he was nervous. He knew she was still upset with what he had done, but he had resigned himself to the fact that no one seemed to understand why he did what he did. As long as the outcome was what he desired, the method hardly mattered. Especially not in this situation; he sensed he would do anything to give Christine what she deserved, to prevent her from feeling as abysmal as they wanted her to feel.

He marveled for a second at the effect she had on him. Tonight, for the first time, he had acted solely for her benefit, not his own; in fact, he put himself more at risk tonight than he ever had in the past five years. And he did it without hesitation; how did she manage to make him do that?

Then, his mind froze as he realized there was only one way. He realized, in that moment, that he loved her. Somehow, she had found her way into his every thought, his every action, until now everything he did was for her. Is that not what love was?

But how could he know what love is? He had never received love from anyone, not even his own mother. But it was exactly the absence of it that made him recognize what it was, what it could be, what he wanted, what he needed.

He didn’t notice her reaching for his hand until she was already holding it. It felt so right, his hand in hers, unlike any other touch he had known before. When she placed it on her shoulder and held it there, he felt an overwhelming ache in his chest; for a moment, he thought there was something terribly wrong, as his breaths became tighter and head became light. But when she spoke to him, in that beautiful, pure, powerful voice, thanking him for simply being there for her, he felt calm again. Of course he would be there for her, he would do anything she asked.

She was his Angel, and he was her Erik.

Chapter Text

Christine sat on the bench next to the organ, leaning her elbow on the fallboard that covered the keys and letting her chin rest in her hand. She was watching the Phantom, who paced across the foyer of his lair animatedly. “I cannot believe you do not like Faust! It is the perfect example of a tragedy!” he said, his voice echoing around the cavern.

Christine rolled her eyes playfully. “Why do all of your favorite operas have to be tragedies?”

“Because tragic stories make for the best operas! The raw emotions make for the most moving music. Anything added to that approaches superfluity.”

“You don’t think exaggerated emotions can be superfluous?” Christine remarked, raising an eyebrow.

“When handled expertly, no,” the Phantom responded coolly, finally pausing to lean against the back of the throne-like chair.

As his eyes rested on her, Christine grinned and shook her head. “What do you have against opéra-comique? It includes some beautiful romances, full of powerful emotion.”

“While I don’t disagree, that powerful emotion only comes from the tragic parts of the stories. What power can love hold in a story if it is not challenged?”

Christine smiled, glancing away from him as she tried to come up with a response. Her eyes fell upon the candelabra that sat upon the organ, and in the candles that she was sure had been burning for hours now, if not days. “Don’t these candles ever melt? How are they still this tall?”

The Phantom followed her gaze and nodded. “They’re everlasting candles, one of my first inventions. Quite simple, really.”

Christine looked back at him in awe. “You invented these?”

“Yes,” the Phantom said with a smirk, before an air of impatience came over him. “Now don’t try to distract from the point, Christine! You cannot ignore the impact tragedies have had on modern culture.”

As he rambled on, Christine sighed and folded her arms on the organ, placing her chin upon them wearily. “I prefer stories with happy endings,” she said when he paused to take a breath. “I mean, that’s why we read stories in the first place, isn’t it? To feel happy. To escape from things in our life that we can’t control, and feelings we would rather not have.”

The Phantom stared at her, his expression unreadable. Christine shrugged and looked down. “I don’t know. My father once said that sadness is what gives happiness its meaning, and that in order to feel one, we have to feel the other as well.”

He continued to study her in silence for a moment. “Your father was very wise,” he finally said.

Christine smiled softly, her eyes unfocused as she recalled the fond memory. She then gave a great yawn, which the Phantom did not miss. “It’s about time you headed back up,” he said, not without a slightly crestfallen tone.

Christine groaned in protest. “It cannot be that late, can it? I’m not even that tired,” she said, however she was cut off at the end by another yawn.

The Phantom’s gaze glittered with amusement. “Your actions say otherwise.”

Without words, she let him help her into the sleek black gondola and sat quietly while he guided them slowly back across the lake. She closed her eyes as she listened to the relaxing ripple of the water against the boat, her exhaustion finally catching up with her.

Once they reached the far shore he stepped off the boat and turned back to where she was sitting, only to find her small form curled up amongst the blankets and pillows, her face serene with slumber. His heart melted, seeing his beautiful Angel resting so peacefully. He hardly believed she was real, she looked too perfect; pale skin distinct against the dark fabric, coffee-colored curls falling over her shoulder, soft rosy lips turned up just slightly. Oh, how he loved her.

After a long moment, the Phantom took a deep breath and approached her slowly. He knelt on the shore beside the boat, his eyes again darting over her face, before he carefully extended a hand and let it hover over her form. His fingers trembled slightly before he rested them on the curve of her shoulder, and gently shook her until her eyes fluttered open. “Christine, we’re here,” he whispered.

She inhaled deeply, rousing herself from her small nap and sitting up in the boat. She took his offered hands and stepped onto the shore, finally looking up at him. “Thank you, Erik,” she said, smiling at him warmly. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening?”

“Whenever you wish, my Angel,” the Phantom replied, nodding once.

Christine turned to begin the climb up the long staircase to the world above. “You’re still wrong about the tragedies, you know,” she said over her shoulder, and grinned to herself when she heard the Phantom chuckle behind her.

Christine mused on the memory as she flicked through the sheets of music he had given her to annotate, a dreamy smile on her face. Now that performances of Il Muto had concluded, the company was given a short break while they decided which opera they would put on next. For Christine, this meant more time to herself without others constantly calling for her presence for a rehearsal. It also meant more time to spend with her friend beneath the opera house; when they were not practicing together, they would simply talk about anything that came to mind, often leading to playful arguments like the one that presently echoed through her memory.

The scratching of her pen on the paper was interrupted by a quick rap on her door. Christine jumped in surprise, before putting down her pen and walking over to open it. When she did, a tall wiry figure was revealed, causing her to jump again. “Madame Giry!” she gasped.

Giry’s face was hard as usual, but her eyes attempted to be soft. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

After briefly overcoming her initial shock, Christine nodded. “Of course,” she said, opening the door more to let Madame Giry enter.

It felt awkward; even though the older woman was technically a guest in her dressing room, Christine still held a sense of inferiority as she stood before her old ballet mistress. After a moment of silence, Christine attempted to converse. “Are ballet practices going well?”

“Quite well,” Madame Giry replied succinctly. She cleared her throat, then said, “I was hoping to discuss how your life outside of the opera has been.”

“I’m fine,” Christine said, perhaps a little too quickly.

“Really?” Madame Giry said, her eyes reverting back to their usual piercing gaze. “I seem to notice Meg has to wake you up more often than usual for rehearsals. Are you certain you’ve been getting adequate rest?”

Christine opened her mouth, prepared to tell a lie, but stopped herself. She knew Madame Giry would see through it immediately, as she had always done. “I’ve been sleeping fine….but I admit I have been getting to bed later than usual.”

“Any particular reason for these late nights?”

Christine tried to stand firm under the mistress’s gaze, but finally she could keep up the pretense no longer. “Alright,” she sighed, before admitting contritely, “I’ve been attending voice lessons with my teacher.”

“And these lessons stretch into the early hours of the morning?” Giry continued disbelievingly.

“I tend to lose track of time.” It wasn’t a lie, Christine reminded herself, once again running over the memory of the Phantom insisting she return upstairs after seeing her exhaustion.

Madame Giry huffed. “I confess, I have not heard these lessons for a while now,” she said.

The young soprano’s hands twisted nervously. “That’s because we no longer hold them in the library.”

“Then where do you hold them?”

Christine closed her eyes for a moment, and felt a tinge of annoyance at the interrogation. “It is not my place to say,” she finally replied, looking back up at Madame Giry. “My teacher insists that I keep our meetings private.”

“Private is different from secret, my dear,” the ballet mistress stated, her hands clenching on her cane. “Your place in the library was private enough.”

“Apparently not, if you could eavesdrop on our lessons!” Christine declared, her patience waning. “Why would you listen in, anyway? What concern is it to you?”

Madame Giry seemed to swell with indignation. “This strange behavior of yours concerns me, Christine,” she continued in a dangerously calm tone. “When I was your ballet mistress, I was in charge of your every action. Everywhere you went, every move you made, was my responsibility, as it is with all of my dancers. And I take that responsibility very seriously.”

Christine raised her chin, attempting to look more confident than she felt. “Well, you can be relieved that I am no longer your responsibility anymore,” she said, before turning to shove the sheet music into the vanity drawer. “I will try to get adequate rest from now on, if that’s what you’d like.” She then nodded to Madame Giry, avoiding her eyes, before sweeping out of the dressing room and down the hall.

Christine quickly found a hidden alcove between two practice rooms backstage and pressed her back against the wall, closing her eyes with a sigh. She knew there was no reason for her to get upset; the situation simply looked worse than it actually was, yet she couldn’t help but feel frustrated that she could not tell anyone the truth.

Madame Giry was probably just looking out for her, that’s all. But something in her manner had made it seem to Christine that it was more than that. After all, Madame Giry had never shown particular care to any of her dancers before, not even her own daughter, so why this concern now?

A sense of dread finally creeped into Christine’s awareness. The ballet mistress must know something about her teacher, perhaps even what he sounded like if she had heard them practicing. And unlike many others at the opera house, the story of the Opera Ghost never seemed to scare her, even after what had happened at the premiere of Il Muto . How much of their secret had she already pieced together?

“Christine?” said a quiet voice to her left, and Christine started with a small gasp.

She turned, and saw the wavy blonde hair of her young friend. “Hello, Meg,” she said in relief, though the sense of dread still clung to her.

Meg inched into the alcove to stand beside her. “What did Mother want to talk to you about?”

“Nothing,” Christine said, nervously brushing a strand of hair out of her face.

“Come on, Christine, you can tell me—”

“Meg, I said it was nothing!” she snapped, causing her friend to shift back in shock. Regret immediately washed over Christine, and she reached over to take her friend’s hands in hers. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little stressed, that’s all.”

Meg nodded, squeezing her hands in forgiveness. “I have some sweets in my cubby. Want to share them?”

Christine gave a small smile. “Alright,” she said, letting the little dancer lead her down the hall.

Before they reached the corps’ dressing room, they walked by a small group of ballet girls sitting against the wall, who were giggling and passing around a small bottle of cassis liqueur. One of them noticed Christine and Meg, and her bright red face broke into a knowing smile. “Hey Christine,” she called between giggles, “that Comte of yours is handsome, isn’t he? I can see why you’re keeping him all to yourself.”

Christine turned around, a look of bewilderment on her face. “What are you talking about?”

Meg took hold of her arm. “Christine, come on,” she urged quietly, trying to pull her down the hall, but Christine was rooted to where she stood.

“The Comte de Chagny,” she said, the last word slurring slightly. “He must really like sopranos, doesn’t he?”

“ Young sopranos,” added another dancer with a laugh.

“Do you ever sing to him when you’re together in bed?” one of the girls said, before being shushed profusely by the others.

Christine’s face went scarlet. She pulled her arm from Meg’s grasp and strode over to the girls. “Who told you such a thing?” she demanded, but the girls were giggling too hard to give a response.

“Christine, come on,” Meg said again, her hand landing on her friend’s shoulder.

Finally, Christine whipped around to face her. “Did you know about this?”

Meg sighed, and finally Christine consented to being led away from the small band of snickering petit rats , ignoring one of their final calls, “Ask him if he has a brother for me! I wouldn’t mind getting “on terms” with a patron!”

Meg let them reach the corps’ dressing room, which was thankfully empty, before she explained. “I first learned the rumor was being passed around a couple days ago. I heard from someone that Carlotta started it.” She stared at Christine in pity as the young soprano let her head fall into her hands. “No one really believes it, not even those girls; you know them, they just want a laugh—”

“How could I have been so stupid ?” Christine exclaimed. “I knew something like this was bound to happen the more attention I got! And of course Carlotta started it, she’s always been too proud, and after I took her place in Il Muto ….” She sighed wearily, pulling her distraught face from her fingers.  “I have to go talk to her. Maybe then she’ll stop.”

Meg followed her to the door of the dressing room. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I didn’t think it would be so bad—”

“It’s fine, Meg,” Christine huffed, with an air that implied it wasn’t really fine at all, before leaving the small dancer in the room by herself.

Christine marched along backstage to Carlotta’s new room, one that she had agreed to move to after the Il Muto incident, gathering her courage with each step. However, once she reached the door, the courage in her had raised to a fiery degree, to the point that she opened the door without knocking to find Carlotta sitting beside a vanity.

“How dare you!” she yelled angrily. “How could you lie to everyone? How could you tell them all that I….I….” She couldn’t even say it, her cheeks going red with embarrassment.

Carlotta waved her hand dismissively with a smirk. “Oh please, everyone would have pieced it together eventually. What with all the letters he’s been writing you.”

Christine looked up in confusion. “What letters?” she said, a cold sense of dread creeping into her stomach.

Carlotta’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “You’ve been keeping quite a correspondence with Monsieur le Comte, haven’t you? At least, that is what it appears to everyone.”

“What have you done?” Christine whispered, petrified.

Carlotta opened the drawer of the vanity and pulled out several sheets of paper, covered in the measured cursive Christine recognized from the note she received after her opera premiere. “It took a while to approximate your signature, but after that the rest was easy.” She gestured to the pile of letters, then back up to Christine. “You should thank me; I’m doing you a favor in keeping you in touch with such a rich gentleman.”

Christine barely heard her. Her breaths had gone shallow, her head dizzy as she stared at the letters in horror. She could not stop the tears from beginning to form in her eyes, which Carlotta noticed and laughed at cruelly. “Oh, poor thing, crying over her lover! Perhaps you do have some talent for opera after all, and not just seducing rich patrons.”

Unable to take any more, Christine sprinted out of the room, the tears in her eyes blurring her vision. She managed to make it back to her dressing room, where she darted inside and slammed the door, collapsing onto it and covering her face with her hands. She wanted to scream, to cry, to break something; most of all, she just wanted to escape. Escape from everything and everyone.

Once she had regained some control over her breathing, she withdrew her hands from her face and looked around her dressing room. Her eyes landed on the floor-length mirror. She heaved a sigh of relief; she did have an escape after all.

Christine raced down the ancient stone steps as quick as she could. She avoided the weak points and obstacles without thinking, having followed this path so many times before. She finally reached the bottom, where the stone leveled and formed the basin of the underground lake. Spotting the candles in the distance, her heart leapt in her chest, and she continued to hurry around the narrow edge of the lake towards the Phantom’s lair.

She had just reached the granite platform of the lair, when a figure emerged quickly from one of the hidden rooms. The visible portion of the Phantom’s face was contorted in rage, but at the sight of her, it instantly faded into shock and confusion. “Christine?” he said incredulously.

With a great gasp, she sprinted over and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest.

For a moment, the Phantom was too stunned to speak, or even to move. His heart beat furiously as he stood still, his brain racing to comprehend the feeling of her pressed so tightly against him. Eventually, he nervously placed his arms around her, shaking hands brushing over her shoulder and waist. He felt her breathing hitch, and it suddenly hit him that she was crying. Instinctively, his arms tightened to hold Christine closer, forgetting his fear for a moment and replacing it with the need to comfort her.

He held Christine in his arms gently until her sobs had quieted and he felt her body begin to relax. Only then did he move to let her go; she looked up at him, her green-grey eyes brimming with tears, and he felt a sharp pang in his chest.

“Are you alright?” he whispered softly.

Christine nodded, but her tears would not stop. The Phantom led her over to the bench by the organ to sit; he knelt in front of her, clasping his hands around hers. “My Angel, what happened?”

Christine sniffed. “They said the most awful things….”

The Phantom frowned. “Who did?”

“Everyone. But Carlotta started it. She….” Her voice trembled, embarrassed to even say it. “She told everyone….that I slept with one of the opera’s patrons.”

The Phantom froze, his eyes widening ever so slightly. “What?” he breathed.

Christine shook her head, wiping a tear with one hand. “Meg told me everyone knows it’s rubbish, but I still—” She was interrupted by the Phantom standing abruptly, turning to walk away from her. “Where are you going?”

He didn’t respond, instead pacing over to one of the rooms hidden within the walls, and emerging a few seconds later with his heavy black cloak. Throwing it around himself, he did not break stride as he walked toward the stairs leading up to the world above.

Christine stood and followed him urgently. “Erik—”

“She will curse the day she stepped foot in my theatre,” he muttered, the hint of a growl edging his words. “All these years I’ve tolerated them and their antics….but not this.”

Just as he began the climb up, he felt a hand clasp his arm. He turned to Christine, whose face was now full of confusion. “What are you doing?” she said worriedly.

The Phantom shook his head once, a burning heat in his dark eyes. “This can’t go on, Christine. I’ll stop them once and for all.”

A horrified look came over Christine’s face as she realized what he meant to do. “Erik, you can’t—”

“They can say what they want about me, I don’t care anymore,” he snarled. “But not you. I won’t let them do this to you.”

Christine was pleading now. “Erik, please don’t, you can’t hurt them—”

“You have no idea what I can do!”

He pulled his arm from her grip and took another step up the stairs, but she quickly grabbed his shoulder and forced him to turn back. He yelled in frustration, attempting to push her away. Christine grit her teeth and tightened her hold on his arm, leaning her weight against the cavern wall to anchor them in place. “I didn’t come here because I wanted you to hurt them!” she shouted, her voice echoing into the darkness.

“Then why did you come here?” the Phantom exclaimed angrily.

Christine breathed heavily. She felt the tears begin to return, but managed to keep her grip on him strong. “I need you,” she whispered, “to help me.”

The Phantom watched her face become more distraught. His hand came up and wrapped around the wrist that gripped his arm. “Then let me help you,” he said seriously.

He pulled her hand off of his forearm. Christine knew he was stronger than her, but she was more stubborn. With a wave of willpower, she cried out, “Erik!” before embracing him forcefully, practically tackling him; she threw him off his balance so much that he collapsed into the wall, trapped with her arms around him.

He struggled a bit against her grip but could not pull away, nor could he force himself to shove her. Exasperated, the Phantom sighed deeply and settled down on the steps, his arms moving to wrap around her again, but not with the same tenderness as before. He barely looked at her as he spoke. “I can’t stand by and let them treat you like this. Don’t you want them to stop?”

Christine scowled into his chest. Anger boiled beneath her skin for Carlotta and the others, but in the back of her mind, her father’s voice spoke calmly to her, reminding her of the truth. “I can’t control what they say. And neither can you.” She lifted her head carefully to peer up at the Phantom. He avoided her eye at first, but finally he glanced down at her as she spoke again. “I thought by now, you would’ve realized that. After all the things they’ve said about you—”

Swiftly he turned his head from her again, a rageful glare returning to the visible half of his face. “I don’t care what they say about me,” he spat.

“Yes, you do.” Christine shifted in his arms so her shoulder pressed against his, their eyes level. “If you truly didn’t, you wouldn’t need to wear this.”

Her fingers traced delicately along the inside edge of the mask, so close to his skin that he flinched; he reached up and grasped her wrist, carefully. She could feel his warm breath caress her fingers as they hovered over his face.

“I don’t wear it for them. They don’t have to see me every day.” His voice was pained, as if it physically ached to tell her the truth. “But I do.”

Christine stared at him raptly. Her eyes traveled over every part of his face she could see, but lingered at the edges of the mask. The shadowy border hinted at his full features, and her curious soul longed to see them in the light. “And what if I wanted to see you?” she whispered, not hiding her desire.

The Phantom breathed haltingly as she studied him. His ever-present fear creeped to the forefront of his mind, choking back any words of submission. Instead, he resolved to push her intrigue away once more. “You don’t,” he said finally. “Trust me.”

Unsatisfied, but not willing to push the matter further, Christine sighed, letting her head fall back down onto his chest. A few of her dark curls tickled the Phantom’s chin, and the sensation snapped him out of his mind and made him focus on her once more.

As he let her beautiful form rest in his arms, he felt slightly guilty for disappointing her. A part of him wished to give in to whatever she asked, no matter the consequences; another part, the one born from conditioned fear and mistrust, would not let him risk any situation where he may lose her forever.

“Why must they say such cruel things? I will never understand it.” Christine’s quiet voice was laced with bitterness. Her anger had finally calmed to a manageable simmer, helped by the Phantom’s company. A beat passed, and she shifted her arms to hold him more tightly. “But at least I know I am not alone.”

A moment passed. Then she felt one of his hands move from her waist to her hair, running his fingertips through it lightly. “You are not alone, Christine.”

Chapter Text

Christine strolled once again amongst the shelves of books in the Opera Populaire’s library, quietly humming the melody to one of the arias in the opera house’s upcoming production, Faust . The first reading of the opera had concluded not an hour before, and though everything had gone smoothly, the young soprano wished to take some time for herself. She still had not completely forgiven a few people for how they treated her when preparing for Il Muto , and she had found it rather difficult to see them again as the opera’s lead soprano during the reading. Carlotta, for once, had conceded to a minor role, but not before assuring everyone that the role of Marguerite had never been a favorite of hers anyway.

Christine sighed wistfully, picking up a green-bound book and glancing at the cover, trying to avoid thinking about what had occurred a few weeks before. The prima donna had never apologized for spreading the rumour (not that Christine had expected her to), but as time had passed, the gossip ran its course through the opera house, and Christine no longer endured the petit rats ’ constant giggles and whispers behind her back. While this was a relief, it did little to heal the memory of embarrassment that had been seared into Christine’s mind.

She was just beginning to flip through the pages, when the sound of rushing footsteps made her turn around. The petite form of Meg hurried into the library and stopped when she spotted the other woman. “Christine,” she said with a relieved smile. “I hoped I might find you here.”

Christine returned the grin. “Hello, Meg. Is everything alright?”

Meg stepped closer, and spoke again in a quieter voice. “There was a delivery for you. I put it in your dressing room so no one would see it.”

Christine frowned at her, confused. “What was it?”

“Something from the Comte, I think,” Meg replied, still in a whisper. “I didn’t want a repeat of a few weeks ago.”

Christine cringed at the memory, as well as the thought of living through it again. She put the green book back on the shelf and took her friend’s hand. “Thank you, Meg. I appreciate it,” she said, squeezing the ballerina’s fingers before rushing off to her dressing room.

As she ran, her stomach clenched nervously. After all that had transpired a few weeks ago, she had been dreading something like this would happen. For all that she knew, this could just be another prank crafted to humiliate her, perhaps in retribution for obtaining the lead role in the opera again. She would never put it past Carlotta, or one of the other dancers, to do such a thing.

She finally entered the fanciful room, and at once her gaze fell upon the package on the vanity. “Oh, you cannot be serious,” she muttered.

It was a small white box with gold lettering on the side, spelling out the name of a chocolatier. Attached to the gold ribbon tied round it was a small note. Christine sighed exasperatedly, and she closed the door to avoid anyone seeing the gift.

Chocolates? There was perhaps no more obvious way for the Comte to convey his feelings for her. Christine felt her cheeks redden as she stared at the box, silently blessing Meg for being the one to find it, as anyone else would have quickly made very incorrect assumptions.

She hesitantly sat down, watching the box as if she expected something to jump out of it. Carefully, she untied and unfolded the note. She was partially relieved to see the Comte’s familiar cursive, revealing the note to be genuine, but a large chunk of her discomfort remained as she read.

Mlle. Daae,

As always, I hope you are well. I confess to being a bit perturbed when I did not receive a response to my latest letter. You are usually very quick to respond. However, I have tried not to let this concern me, for I understand the life of the principal soprano must be quite busy with rehearsals and the like.

Nevertheless, I was hoping to inquire if you were available for a private meeting. I have only ever observed you on the stage, and though our correspondence has proven to be a charming activity, I wish to meet such a lovely soprano in person. If you wish for a respite from the opera house, perhaps you will join me for afternoon tea at a café. I know of a few that should be acceptable, and I can make arrangements soon if it suits you.

I await your reply with enthusiasm, and hope it will not take too long.

Cordially,

Philippe, Comte de Chagny

Christine sat back in her chair, still frowning at the note and the elegant signature of its author. She herself had only received one letter from this man, which had revealed extremely little about who he actually was, and now he was asking her to an afternoon tea just with him! Of course, he didn’t realize that she hadn’t really been in correspondence with him this whole time. From his perspective, this was the ideal next step in their relationship, and she couldn’t blame him for wanting to take it, despite her own reservations.

For a moment, she let herself entertain the idea of following up on his request. His letters seemed to come from a respectable gentleman, and all that she had heard of his reputation around the opera house supported that observation. He must think highly of her as well; after all, she did not think it was common for noblemen to give gifts of affection to opera singers, or ask them out to tea. But perhaps that was a reason why she should not accept it; it might not be appropriate, and could lead to worse consequences for her than silly backstage gossip.

Christine shook her head dismissively to prevent her thoughts from spiraling any further. All this panic over a box of chocolates, for goodness’s sake! She finally opened the package and looked at the rows of bite-size chocolate candies. The sweet, sugary scent drifted up to her nose, and she couldn’t help but grin as her mouth watered. She didn’t have to tell anyone about the gift; even the Comte had no way of knowing whether she had accepted them or not. Christine was not used to keeping secrets, but under such awkward circumstances, it might turn out to be for the best.

“ Christine. ”

She practically jumped from her seat at the sound of his voice singing her name. Was it time for her lesson already? Hastily, she shoved the letter from the Comte into the drawer of her vanity and stood to face the floor-length mirror.

It slid open as it normally did, revealing the cloaked figure of her teacher and friend. His dark eyes met hers immediately, and Christine tried to keep her face serene.

“Good afternoon,” he said silkily, and took in her surprised state. “Did I interrupt you?”

Christine shook her head, folding her hands in front of her. “No, you’re quite all right,” she replied nonchalantly. “It’s good to see you, Angel of Music.”

She saw the corner of his mouth tilt upward slightly. Then, his eyes flickered to the object on her vanity.

Fighting back a blush, Christine turned slightly and gestured at the open package. “Meg brought them to me. They were for Sorelli, but she didn’t want them.”

“I see,” he muttered, his eyes going back to hers and watching her steadily.

Christine swallowed nervously under his firm gaze. She didn’t know why she had lied. Perhaps she was afraid of how he would react, what he would think of her when she told him she had a secret admirer. He must have known, of course, that training her to be an excellent soprano would attract attention to her; wasn't that the point of it in the first place? But even she had foolishly failed to predict such special recognition from other men, so it stood to reason that he had, too. Even still, her insides shriveled with the guilt of lying to him.

In the tense silence that hung between them, Christine considered what to do. Her gaze fell to the box again. A playful part of her supposed it wouldn’t be good to let such a treat go to waste. “I haven’t tried them yet,” she said, picking up the box and holding it in front of her as she faced the Phantom again. “Maybe you could share them with me?”

The Phantom looked at her as if she had suddenly sprouted a second head. However, this reaction only made Christine giggle lightly. “Well, don’t you like chocolate? You should just try one, I insist.”

He studied her face incredulously a moment more, before he glanced down at her hands as they went to remove one of the sweets from the box. She held it out to him, and he stared at it warily. Eventually, his hand came up to take it from her, his long fingers examining it delicately. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve had something like this,” he said softly. Christine’s heart twisted.

He finally brought it to his mouth and took a bite, and his eyes seemed to light up with glee, something Christine had never seen in him before. “I guess I’ve forgotten how fond of them I am.”

Christine smiled broadly as she watched him finish the small candy. “I’m glad you like them.”

The Phantom contemplated her carefully a few seconds more, before offering his hand to her, which she took at once. “We have much to do to prepare for your role in Faust ,” he commented as he turned and began to lead her through to the passageway. His tone was light as he added, “Speaking of which, what were you saying before about happy endings being better than tragedies?”

Christine laughed and rolled her eyes as she followed him, the bundle of nerves in her stomach finally unclenching. Her mind drifted back to the rare moment of delight she had seen brighten the visible half of his face, and a warm feeling seeped into her heart. An idea then popped into existence, and her smile grew wider as she watched the Phantom’s shadowy form lead her down into the cellars to his home.

A cold breeze rushed though the quiet city street, prompting Christine to pull her cloak tighter around herself. Autumn had finally arrived in full force, and Christine knew the crisp air promised the onset of winter sooner rather than later.

The young soprano had awoken before the rest of Paris, making the short trip from her ballet dormitory to the local boulangerie before anyone knew she was gone. She now stood on the front step of the small shop, waiting patiently for the start of the bakery’s day.

To pass the time, she looked up at the faint pink sky; the young woman smiled as she watched the last small stars fade into the morning sunlight. It wasn’t often that she got the chance to leave the opera house, so the times she did she liked to savor. The outside air reminded her of her childhood in the moors and fields of Sweden and along the coast of Brittany. She recalled how she chased butterflies through the grass on a sunny day, and climbed trees to hear the wind rustle through the leaves, and felt her feet sink into the coarse wet sand on the beach. Everything was so open and free, not bound underneath painted walls and ceilings.

Her thoughts then drifted back to the Opera Populaire, and the person who lived underneath it. She almost wished she had tried to convince him to join her on the little excursion. She imagined it had been a long time, possibly years, since he had left the opera house during daylight. Maybe with her help, she could draw him out and remind him of the beautiful world that lay above the cold cellars.

And yet, he never seemed to have a longing to leave his home. He was so used to being by himself, having created an entire world in the cellars and caverns merely to hide from the people above. But Christine knew that even if he didn’t want to interact with the world above, he definitely deserved to.

He deserved recognition for all he had accomplished: his music, his inventions, his genius. Part of her felt guilty about all the attention she received for her voice, when he had played such a huge role in crafting it yet received nothing in return. To her, it simply wasn’t fair. That was the real reason why she was here; she wanted to give him something to show him how much she appreciated his talent, as well as everything he had done for her. She knew she could never truly convey that through a simple gift, but she supposed it was worth a try.

The jingling of the bell above the door snapped Christine out of her daydreaming. She turned around to face the owner of the shop, an older woman with curly hair who was currently flipping over the ‘Open’ sign on the door. “Miss Daae, how lovely to see you! And so early!”

Christine smiled. “Thank you, Marie. It’s lovely to see you, too.” She stepped into the tiny shop, inhaling the warm smells of fresh bread and sweet pastries.

“What made you rush over here in such a hurry?” the shop owner asked as she shuffled back behind the wooden counter.

Christine sighed dramatically. “I have a bit of an emergency.”

Marie inclined her head. “You do?”

Christine nodded. “A friend of mine is in desperate need of some sweets, and you’re the only one who can help me.”

Marie smiled and rubbed her hands together excitedly. “It would be my honor, Mademoiselle. I know just how to help.” She reached down and grabbed a large box from beneath the counter, and then walked over to one of the glass cabinets behind her. “What does your friend like? Palmiers? Chouquettes? I just made a batch of those strawberry mille-feuilles you love so much, perhaps those would work?”

“How about a few of everything?” Christine said, smiling.

Marie looked back at her customer, her eyebrows raised in playful surprise. “My, it really must be an emergency.”

Christine practically skipped down the cold stone steps, her arms laden with a large paper box filled with pastries. She was buzzing with excitement to show the Phantom what she had bought, and hopefully see that unique spark of joy return to his eyes.

She finally reached the bottom of the stairs, which connected to a curving path along the edge of the underground lake. She was surprised at how quiet she found the cavern; it was strange to not hear the familiar echoing chords of his organ. Perhaps he was busy with something else other than his music at the moment. “Erik?” she called out, but received no response.

Her feet crept quickly along the path towards the soft, cool glow of the candles surrounding the heart of the lair. Once she reached the stone platform, her supposition was confirmed when she couldn’t see the Phantom anywhere. She looked around, peering down the makeshift hallway into some of the deeper rooms. “Are you here? Erik, where are you—”

“Christine, wait.”

The Phantom's voice responded a few meters away. She turned her head to one of the rooms further down the hall, where she had heard him. “Erik?” she said with a frown. “What’s the matter?”

“Don’t approach me.” He sounded flustered, almost frightened.

Christine, ever curious, slowly began to step towards the cavern’s opening. “Why are you hiding?”

“No please, Christine, wait,” he pleaded, which compelled her to stop. “Just….stay there.”

At this point, Christine was starting to get nervous as well. She didn’t know what to do, so she glanced at anywhere but the place where he was hiding. Turning around, her eyes swept across the grand organ, on top of which was the stand holding his music. Sitting next to it, her eyes fell upon an object that was smooth and pale—

“Your mask.”

After a moment, he heard her footsteps shuffle away from him, toward the organ, and he shifted nervously against the stone wall of the room. He listened to her return, stepping dangerously closer until she was just beside the wall’s outcropping into the room. Erik’s hand pressed tighter over his face as he looked away from where she stood, breathing heavily.

Slowly, the white porcelain of his mask slid into his line of sight. He glanced down to see Christine’s fingers holding it out to him daintily. He stared at it for a brief moment, before he took it from her gently, stealing a glance in her direction. Christine looked away from him respectfully, her eyes trained instead on the black stone floor. He quickly fixed the mask over his face once again, letting out a small sigh once he felt it rest comfortably back into place. He then stepped out from his hiding place to face Christine properly.

She met his eyes with a warm smile, tucking a long curl of brown hair behind her ear. Then, suddenly remembering what she held in her arms, she began to unwrap the box of sweets hurriedly. “I got a few of everything, because I didn’t know what you’d like. Here’s some bichon au citron, chocolate chouquettes, a few croissants, these are profiteroles, almond macarons….” Christine looked up at him. “You’re not allergic to almonds, are you?”

The Phantom was staring at Christine with a strange expression on his face. She shrugged awkwardly. “Well, if you are, that’s alright, there’s plenty of other things you must try.”

“No, that’s….” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “That will be perfect.” He took a step closer to glance down at all the things within the box. “You bought all of these for me?” he asks in a small voice.

Christine nodded. “Yes, of course.”

The Phantom looked back up at her, his heart melting as he gazed into her wide green-grey eyes. “Christine, you….you amaze me,” he whispered, barely able to form the words past the lump in his throat. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. “And spoil me.”

Christine‘s face broke out into a wide grin. “Well, I had to thank you somehow for all that you’ve done for me these past months! Besides, now I’ve found a way to spoil you just as much as you spoil me.”

The Phantom let himself chuckle, then took the box of sweets from her. He extended his other hand, and once she took it he led her to the cavern that served as the dining room.

The Phantom would never admit it to anyone else, but they had a lovely time eating their way through all the sweets. He learned that Christine was fond of strawberries, especially in the delicate mille-feuilles, and that she didn’t particularly enjoy lemon-flavored things. On the contrary, Christine learned that the Phantom would eat anything sweet; he didn’t seem to be picky, and he was always the first to finish anything that had to do with chocolate.

As they snacked on the small remnants of the pastries, Christine let her eyes drift up to the Phantom, who thankfully was not looking at her. As she came down from her sugar-induced high, the guilt from before crept its way back into her now-full stomach.

She contemplated how he would react if he knew there was an admirer sending her letters and gifts. The details of Carlotta’s correspondence with Philippe had never been revealed to him; his upset reaction to the prima donna’s rumor was enough to convince Christine to keep that point to herself. And this new attention, no matter how innocent it may seem, she somehow knew he would not appreciate it. Wouldn’t he feel angry and jealous that others are trying to steal her glory?

No. Better to leave it a secret , she concluded sullenly. After all—her gaze remained on the pale white mask that covered half of his face—he still held many of his own from her.

“I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, Erik,” she said bravely after a few moments of silence. “But….why do you wear a mask?”

The Phantom’s fingers, which had been fidgeting with a wrapper, suddenly stopped. The air between them grew cold as his dark eyes slid up to hers. “Why must you ask me that?” his voice said stiffly.

Christine swallowed, but refused to let herself lose her nerve. “You do not let me see your face,” she continued, trying to sound considerate. “Not all of it. You hid from me today. I want to know why.”

For a second, he looked almost hurt, his eyes strangely helpless. But soon it was gone, as the Phantom’s jaw tightened. “You want to know why?” he derided.

At once he stood and took a few steps away from the table. “Christine, you do not know what you are asking,” he said, his tone dark. “I told you that you do not want to see me. I told you my mother’s first gift to me was a mask. Does that not tell you enough?”

“It doesn’t tell me why,” Christine pressed. She couldn’t help it; she wanted to know the truth.

The Phantom growled in frustration, his hands flexing into fists at his sides. He looked away from her, to the black walls surrounding them. “I hide in these shadows for a reason; because I belong in them. That is all you need to know.” He saw her stand from the table out of the corner of his eye, and he immediately took a step further away. “No, you shall never see Erik’s face.”

Christine frowned at the idea of never seeing his face, never knowing who her Angel of Music really was. Perhaps he didn’t mean it. After all, he had told her not to use his real name, yet she had addressed him as it for weeks now, and he had just spoken it himself. “You don’t have to show me,” she said gently. Right now, she added in her thoughts. “Just tell me. Please.”

Her plea seemed to soften him, at least by a trace. His thumbs brushed nervously over the knuckles of his fists as he thought. Finally, he inhaled sharply, looking down at the floor instead of at her. “My face has brought nothing but horror and despair to all that have seen it. It reminds them of their fear of death. Of hell.” His eyes, burning black, at last met hers. “I was born with the face of a corpse.”

Christine studied him, and his masked face, for what seemed like an hour, as her mind rushed to imagine what he had described. Could it really be as he said? If it was true, it would explain what he had told her about his mother, as well as why he chose to live down here of all places. But she could not bring herself to believe that every person to ever see his face had met him with such misery. And even so, that was not enough to claim he belonged in the shadows, to be banished from the light. She wanted to ask, wasn’t there anyone in his life that had proved him wrong and seen his face as something other than what he described?

But she knew there was no point. If there were, he would have said, and her stomach sank even further.

The Phantom finally tore himself away from her steady gaze, and walked to the opening that led to the corridor. “We shall not practice today. Rest your voice. I trust you know the way out.”

With that, he left, and a moment later Christine heard him bashing a few twisted, droning notes on the organ. She looked over to the table, at the paper box that now sat empty, and sighed. There was just so much of him she still didn’t understand.

Chapter Text

Cold winter rain splattered on the window, dousing the world outside in a dark, dismal grey. Inside, a girl of fourteen sat on a chair with her head leaned against the glass. The sound of the rain hitting the window drowned out the hushed tones of the man and woman who stood further down the hallway, outside of a bedroom door.

The man carried a black physician’s bag at his side. He shook his head gravely at the older woman, who covered her mouth with her hand. With one final apology, the doctor retreated down the other end of the hall to the stairs; after a moment, the woman approached the young girl. She placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder, causing her to turn and meet the woman’s sorrowful eyes. The girl stiffened, and timidly allowed the woman to take her hand and lead her to the door.

Reluctantly, the girl turned the knob, feeling like time had slowed down. Inside was a small simple bedroom, lit only by a lantern on the nightstand, with the rest bathed in shadow. A sense of sickness and dread hung in the air. Her eyes finally focused on the bed itself; a man with dark hair lay tucked underneath the red quilt. He seemed to be asleep, but at the sound of the door opening, he opened his eyes and let them rest on the person in the doorway. “Christine,” he said softly, his voice rough. He reached out his hand to her weakly. “Come here, my child.”

The girl slowly approached the bed, every step sending a new crack through her heart. She took his offered hand and sat on the edge of the bed beside him. “Father,” she whispered.

Her father gave her a comforting smile, despite the tears in his eyes. “I know my time is coming soon. And you must be ready.”

She squeezed his hand, her breath shuddering. “No, Papa,” she said. “I don’t want you to go.”

“You mustn’t fear, my child. I will be with the angels, and your dear mother.” His sad smile widened, and his other hand raised to hold the side of her face. “I’ll tell her of the wonderful girl you have become.”

Christine began to cry as she felt his fingers rub across her cheek. “Please don’t leave me. I can’t live without you,” she admitted tearfully, pressing his warm hand between both of hers.

Her father glanced over her, dark eyes full of pity. “When I am in heaven, child, you will still live. Even when it seems impossible, you must still live. You have such a precious gift, and you are destined to share it.” His thumb brushed comfortingly over her desperate hands. “But you will not be alone. Someone will find you who will care for you as I have, who will guard you and give you music. I will not leave you abandoned; I will plead to God if I have to.” His tone was determined, despite the hoarseness of his dying voice. “But until then, you must promise me to take care of yourself. Be good, and practice your scales.” He added a trace of humor to his last statement, which made Christine let out a short laugh that was quickly absorbed into a sob. The hand on her face wiped away another tear. “And know that I love you. My Little Lotte.”

Christine finally crumpled, letting her head fall on top of her father’s chest. The violinist rested his hand over his beloved daughter’s hair as she sobbed, silently praying for Heaven to have mercy on her, and to send someone who could help her where he had failed.

The Phantom was in a dark mood. Well, darker than usual.

His mind still reeled from Christine’s sudden interest in knowing what lay underneath his mask. That curiosity he had seen spark in her eyes before; he had barely stopped her then, and he wondered how long he would be able to keep her at bay going forward.

She had been so considerate when she had found him without it, even looking away as he slid it back on. That was why her question had surprised him so greatly. Why did she have to be so inquisitive about it? Didn’t she realize the risk she was taking? He knew she probably did not; he had revealed just enough for her to understand why he wore the mask, but something told him it would not be enough for Christine’s curiosity.

Yes, he wished to show her. He gained no pleasure in hiding from her and denying her what she so clearly wanted. And a part of him dared to hope that somehow she would be different from everyone else, that she would see the man behind the monster.

But every time he pictured removing the smooth porcelain in front of her, he could only think of what he had seen too many times before. Eyes widening in terror, mouth opening in a horrified scream, legs turning and running away never to return, leaving him once more in his wretched darkness. He could not bear to imagine it with Christine’s features, let alone risk it appearing before him in reality. So, he kept the mask on, yet felt a pang of guilt every time her eyes drifted up to it when they saw each other.

This whirlwind of feelings made him a bit on edge as they practiced in his lair about a week later, especially when Christine made more mistakes than usual. He could not blame her for fumbling a few notes, but he could tell from how her gaze drifted from the sheet music that she was not quite focused.

As her voice faltered again, he stopped playing altogether, his hands instead resting on his knees. “Are you alright, my Angel?” he asked rather irritably, looking over to where she stood. “You seem distracted today.”

Christine bowed her head in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be.” She continued to look down, her fingers absently folding the edges of the piece of music in her hands. “I suppose I am distracted. My mind can just run away from me sometimes. It’s always been a problem.”

The Phantom frowned. He wasn’t implying that it was a problem, and he felt a twinge of sorrow that she seemed to think it was. He had just wanted to know what was troubling her. “And where is your mind running to now?” he asked, more gently this time.

She met his eyes briefly, and he noticed a deep despair within them, before she turned to the side to avoid his gaze. The sorrow in his heart deepened, and he stood from his place at the organ and carefully approached her. “Christine,” he said softly in his smooth voice; he reached out and brushed his fingers delicately over her forearm. “Tell me.”

His touch made her look over at him again. Finally, she sighed. “It’s just that….next week is the anniversary of my father’s death.”

The Phantom's eyes widened in understanding. As his mind raced to think of a response, Christine continued in a somber tone, and he found himself listening intently. “Every year, I visit his grave, and leave him a letter telling him what has happened to me, and remind him of how much I miss him. I suppose I was thinking of what I will write in my letter this year.”

She paused, then gave a small smile. “I can’t wait to tell him about all of this,” she said, gesturing to the music in front of her and then to the whole cavern. “About my new passion for singing, and how much it has helped me. And about my Angel of Music, who helped me discover it.” With her last statement, she turned to the Phantom again and took his hand, squeezing it meaningfully.

The Phantom’s gaze dropped from her face to their joined hands, eyeing them with shocked admiration. He was amazed in her ability to find optimism in situations that he knew brought her pain, such as the thought of her late father. Even still, he wished her pain was never there in the first place, wished the despair had never appeared in her eyes. He felt the familiar pull to help her deep within his heart. There must be a way , he thought. Your Angel has helped you before, Christine, and he will help you again.

After a moment, his eyes drifted to the sheet music she held in her other hand, and an idea formed in his mind. “Instead of telling him about it,” he said carefully, his eyes meeting hers again, “why don’t you show him? Sing to him, I mean. I’m sure if he were alive, he would want nothing more than to hear you sing. And music conveys feelings better than words, in my experience.”

Christine’s eyes brightened, and she broke into a glowing smile. “Oh Erik, what a wonderful idea!” She moved to wrap her arms around his waist in an embrace, but before he had a chance to respond, she pulled back again. “Better yet, could you help me write a song for him? That way, he can meet a part of you, too.”

Still a bit flustered from her sudden closeness, he slowly nodded when he saw her eager face. “I would be honored, Christine,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. He gently took hold of her forearms and moved them away from his waist, before leading her closer to the organ. He sat down and stared at the keys thoughtfully, letting the beginnings of melodies float forward in his mind. “Now, tell me again what you wish to say to him,” he said; his head was turned downward, so he missed the grateful smile that grew on Christine’s lips as she observed him.

Over the next few days, the nightly practices between Christine and the Phantom were spent composing a song in honor of her father. Despite the melancholic nature of the song, it proved a very enjoyable experience for both of them, as they both got to see the other’s thinking in a new light.

As for her life in the world above, Christine preparatively asked for the day off, saying it was a personal matter. Many of the older dancers didn’t bat an eye; they knew that Christine liked to take a day off during late autumn for some reason. The managers hesitantly agreed, only after Madame Giry insisted Christine would be back at rehearsal the following day like always.

Finally, the fateful morning arrived; Christine awoke early and put on the nicest dress she owned, dark blue with white lace, and her long blue traveling cloak. She left her dormitory quietly, and after a small breakfast from the kitchens she made her way to the entrance of the opera house.

As she opened the doors, she shivered at the cold rush of winter air that seeped past her cloak. She walked down the steps and blinked around at the busy Paris street in front of her. It was nearing the end of October, yet a thin layer of snow coated the rooftops of the surrounding buildings and a few flakes drifted through the air. Normally, she would take in the beauty of such a morning, but her heart could not quite pull itself from its gloom.

She hailed a horse-drawn fiacre and told the driver where to take her. After climbing into the carriage and feeling it begin to move along the bumpy road, Christine let herself drift into memories of her past, considering things she had not thought of in a long time.

As a child, she had never realized how difficult her father’s life must have been. He had married young, against the wishes of his family, to the love of his life, only to watch her die after giving birth to their only child. He was left then to raise a daughter on his own with barely more than a violin to support them. But despite all of it, he had never let Christine feel unloved or forgotten, and always found a way to keep them safe and happy. In their journeys throughout the Swedish and French countrysides, he taught her to read both words and music, told her tales of spirits and kings, and through it all learned more about life than many men ever would, which gave him the wisdom that he passed down to her so generously. And then, after all his good work, the world thanked him by making him sick.

Christine let her hands form into fists on top of her lap. Unfair. It was just so unfair , she thought, biting her lip.

The fiacre finally stopped and Christine stepped out, pressing a few francs into the driver’s hand and thanking him. She looked up at the iron gate to the cemetery, and inhaled deeply before striding forward.

The familiar path was hidden beneath the powdery snow, but Christine did not need to see; she had walked it so many times she could do it with her eyes closed. At last, she found the simple grey stone, and her eyes glanced over the frost-covered engraving:

Gustave Daae

1832 - 1871

In all the time she had spent writing the song with the Phantom, she had managed to hold back her tears, never letting a single one go. But as she stood there amidst the falling snow, staring at her father’s grave, she felt her eyes begin to sting as she took a deep breath.

You were once my one companion

You were all that mattered

You were once a friend and father

Then my world was shattered

She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering the strength to keep going, as he had taught her to do.

Wishing you were somehow here again

Wishing you were somehow near

Sometimes it seemed if I just dreamed

Somehow you would be here

Wishing I could hear your voice again

Knowing that I never would

Dreaming of you won’t help me to do

All that you dreamed I could

She let her gaze drift around to the tall stone statues and graves surrounding her, drawing her cloak tighter around herself.

Passing bells and sculpted angels

Cold and monumental

Seem, for you, the wrong companions

You were warm and gentle

Christine smiled softly to herself as she recalled her father’s kind words and warm embrace, the things she had sought out whenever she felt disheartened. Long after he was gone, she still found herself chasing them, sensing them everywhere she went, haunting her. When before they had given her comfort, the memory of them now brought only pain, and she just wanted the pain to go away.

She lifted her shaking hands to remove her hood, as her eyes misted with tears. She squeezed them shut and drew in a shaky breath; she had to finish the song. She had to for him, but also for herself.

Too many years fighting back tears

Why can't the past just die?

Wishing you were somehow here again

Knowing we must say goodbye

Try to forgive, teach me to live

Give me the strength to try

No more memories

No more silent tears

No more gazing across the wasted years

Help me say goodbye

Help me say goodbye

She let the final note ring out through the winter air. When it had long been carried away, she finally knelt beside the gravestone, the fabric of her skirt and cloak pooling around her. She reached out a hand and touched the cold grey stone, as gently as if he could still feel it.

“I miss you, Father,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I always do. But I want you to know that you were right. I am not alone anymore; I’ve made a friend. He started as my voice teacher, but he’s become so much more than that. You would like him; he loves music, and he’s been so kind to me. He helped me write this song for you.” As she spoke, a smile returned to her face at the memory of the Phantom, and the wonderful time she spent with him. “I call him my Angel of Music. Do you remember that story? Of how the Angel comes to artists when they least expect him, when they are sad and lonely? Well, that is how he found me. He sang to me, and Papa, his voice sounds like an Angel.”

Silence followed her words, and in it Christine sighed, letting her hand fall from the stone to her lap. “You told me you would not leave me abandoned. You promised me that I would be found by someone who cares for me and protects me.” Her breath shuddered as a realization finally came over her. “If you are the one who sent him to me,” she whispered, tears forming in her eyes again. “Thank you so much. Thank you for watching over me after all this time. I always knew you were there.”

Christine bowed her head a moment, letting a few tears fall down her cheeks before she reached up to wipe them away. Her heart felt too big for her chest, beating with the love she held for the man that had finally answered her prayers.

She took a deep breath again and swallowed down more tears. Her mind roamed with the idea of her father’s spirit bringing her to the opera house, while coaxing out the man who lived beneath it. And at once, she recognized that perhaps her father may not have just been acting for her benefit. “He is not here, but I know Erik wants to thank you, too. I think he needed someone in his life quite possibly more than I did, and I feel honored to be that person for him.” The corner of her mouth drifted upwards fondly. “He helps me live. And I dare say I help him live, too. And I know that’s what you wanted for me.”

Christine paused a moment more, sweeping her eyes over her father’s name again, before she got to her feet and straightened her dress. “Now, I won’t ask anything else from you. You’ve done more than enough. You can rest.”

She bent down and pressed a kiss to the top of the stone. “Goodbye, Papa,” she whispered, before slowly turning and walking away. She pulled the hood of her cloak back up over her head as snow continued to fall around her.

The sound of her light footsteps echoed through the quiet cavern, and the Phantom’s heart leapt when he looked up to see Christine making her way around the lake towards his lair. He set down his quill and stood up from his place at the writing desk, stepping over to greet her. “My Angel,” he said when he was a comfortable distance away. “How was your visit?”

Christine nodded, her eyes sparkling as she removed her long blue cloak. “It was good. It helped me quite a bit. It always does, but this time it felt more…purposeful.” She grinned at him. “I think the song had a hand in that.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” he replied, before reaching out to take her cloak, earning a soft thanks from her in response. He glanced at her a second longer before striding away towards one of the hidden rooms. He was intrigued at how much happier she acted compared to the previous few days. He was expecting her to return more forlorn than ever, but instead it seemed the visit to her father’s grave had served to remove a weight from her shoulders. As he hung up her traveling cloak next to his, he thought about her curious habit of speaking and singing directly to her deceased father, and wondered how helpful it could really be if she never got a reply back. She fascinated him in how she thought about things, different from anyone he had ever met before.

A moment later, he entered the main cavern again, and saw Christine carefully flipping through the sheet music sitting on the stand of his organ. He considered his words for a moment, before gently speaking, “Christine.”

She glanced up at him, giving her full attention.

The Phantom took a deep breath. “You father must have loved you very much for you to miss him as much as you do. And I believe if he were still alive, he would be exceptionally proud of you.”

Christine stared at him, the beginnings of tears in her eyes at his words. “Thank you,” she managed to whisper. She took him in for a moment, convinced that her father would indeed have liked the Phantom, and wondered what the Phantom would think of her father.

She was suddenly hit with a wave of pity; she realized that the Phantom must have never known anyone in his life who had treated him like her father had treated her. The little he had revealed about his past was filled with pain and loneliness, and her heart hurt to imagine that no one had ever told him they loved him or were proud of him. She could not imagine it; if she felt so mournful after being loved all her life, then how terrible must he possibly feel?

As the Phantom began to turn and walk back to his writing desk, Christine quickly crossed the stone floor and threw her arms around his torso, pulling him in tightly. “I’m proud of you, too,” she whispered, slightly muffled as the side of her face pressed against his waistcoat. “I’m proud to call you my teacher and friend. You mean so much to me; not just what you’ve done for me, but just as a person.” She released him just enough to look up into his eyes, her hands still holding onto his waist. “And I want you to know that nothing will change that.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he simply stood in her embrace and let her tuck her head back into his chest, his mind scrambling with a confusing mix of thoughts and emotions. Eventually, the ones that came to the surface first were the ones that had been there the longest; the bitterness, frustration, anguish.

Of course there were things that would change her mind, if only she knew. The person he was with her, the person she said she was proud of, was not the same person he let the rest of the world see. To her, he was a teacher, a genius, a—his heart jumped in his chest—a friend . But that was only because she did not know what he had done, or what he was capable of doing. Everyone else knew, and they called him a monster. A ghost. A murderer. Surely if she knew him like they did, she would only think the same.

But as he continued to stand in her arms, and she showed no intention of leaving, he slowly let himself forget all of it. He believed for a moment the words that she said, trusting that she truly could feel this way about him even after learning what he truly was. More than anything, he wanted to believe it.

He moved his arms to wrap around Christine and held her tightly against his chest, tighter than he ever had before. He lowered his head to rest on hers, and detected the scent of wildflowers, sweet and vibrant. Maybe, his mind considered as he breathed her intoxicating scent, he could possibly be wrong about this.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Christine sneezed.

She had woken up that morning with a stuffy nose and a small headache, which had only gotten more unpleasant as the day went on. And what was worse, now her throat was beginning to twinge. She knew that meant her voice would not be well enough for rehearsal this afternoon, let alone the opening night of the opera in two days.

In her dressing room, she sniffed and took another sip of tea, letting the warm liquid soothe her burning throat for a moment. She was dreading the time she would have to leave for rehearsal and tell the managers she could not sing. They would both grumble and exclaim in frustration, as if it was her fault that she had caught a cold, and Carlotta would no doubt rejoice at her misfortune. Christine, of course, would not dare object to Carlotta taking over for her, but just imagining the look on the prima donna’s face made Christine’s stomach twist in anger.

A tapping at the door awoke Christine from her brooding; at once, a golden-haired head peeked in. “Five minutes to rehearsal,” Meg tweeted.

Christine sighed. “Thank you, Meg,” she said hoarsely.

Meg frowned. “Are you alright?”

Christine cleared her throat and stood, meeting Meg at the door. “Better than I will be in a moment.”

The two friends walked to the main stage, where the rest of the cast was assembled and receiving instructions from the director. The managers stood slightly offstage, watching the rehearsal unfold and mumbling to each other. With a squeeze from Meg’s hand and after taking a courageous breath, Christine stepped over to where they stood. She only spoke quietly with them for a moment when suddenly Firmin exclaimed, “You’re sick? ”

The words echoed loudly through the empty opera hall. Everyone on the stage stopped chatting and looked over to her and the managers, causing Christine’s face to burn with embarrassment.

Firmin did not seem to notice the others’ attention. “But you cannot be sick! We premiere in two days’ time! You should have taken better care of yourself, Mademoiselle.”

Christine, biting her lip to hold back both an apology and an irritated remark, simply looked down to her shoes. From behind her, she heard mumbling from the rest of the cast, and even caught the sound of Carlotta snickering. Her insides twisted.

Andre sighed. “Very well, then. Since we can’t cancel less than 48 hours before we premiere, I suppose we are left with no other choice. Carlotta, are you familiar enough with the role to take over for Miss Daae?”

The prima donna stepped forward from the crowd, shooting Christine a wicked grin before puffing out her chest importantly. “Of course, monsieur. It would be my pleasure .”

Christine felt hot, angry tears well up in her eyes, and her hands clenched into fists.

“Very good. Everyone places, then, as we—“

A loud bang echoed through the hall as one of the battens holding up a curtain fell to one side, and the curtain dropped to the floor. The performers gasped and turned towards the backstage area, and a few dancers screamed. The managers huffed and strode over to the fallen curtain, which thankfully was several meters away from the crowd of performers. “Buquet, what is the meaning of this?!” Andre fumed.

At once, the face of the scene-shifter appeared at the other end of the fly loft. “Not to worry! A line must have snapped. We’ll take care of it; carry on.”

Everyone proceeded as if nothing had happened, although now their whisperings were all about the Opera Ghost. With the smack of her cane on the floor, Madame Giry called her dancers to attention at the center of the stage while the others retreated to the edges. Once she was in position, Meg glanced over her shoulder, only to see an empty space where Christine had just been standing.

The young soprano hurried back to her dressing room, shoved open the door and quickly sat down in front of the vanity. She unclipped the earrings from her costume, sniffling dejectedly. The swell of the orchestra’s overture seeped through the walls, and it mingled with the echo of Carlotta’s bitter laughter in Christine’s mind.

“I’m here.”

The familiar voice caused Christine to look up, her eyes landing on the reflection of the Phantom’s masked face in the mirror. “My Angel of Music,” he said softly.

Christine looked down to her hands, still clenched, in her lap. “I can’t sing,” she admitted roughly.

“I know.” He stepped out from the floor-length hole where the mirror had been to stand beside her chair. “I won’t ask you to.”

He held out a hand to her. She sniffed, then turned and took it, absorbing the strength it carried. She got to her feet, but wobbled slightly, her free hand coming to rest on her pounding temple. Without a word, the Phantom swept her up into his arms like she weighed nothing; he felt her finally relax, closing her eyes and pressing closer into his chest. He turned and carried her through the passageway, the slightest of smiles on his face.

The Phantom cradled her in his arms as he meticulously descended the stone steps to his lair. Every time he looked down to her serene face, he had to remind himself to breathe, and hoped that she couldn’t hear his rapid heartbeat with her ear pressed against his chest. He reached the bottom of the stairs and approached the shore of the lake, where the boat was waiting; wordlessly, he laid her down inside, and she shifted to rest comfortably against the pillows.

The cold underground air made Christine shiver, and not a moment later she felt the soft, warm fabric of his cloak enveloping her. She opened her mouth to thank him, but suddenly was struck by a small coughing fit, and instead pulled the cloak tighter around her form. “I hate being sick,” she said in a rough voice.

The Phantom hummed in agreement as he began to push the boat along.

“And of course it had to happen right before the premiere. Just my luck,” she added bitterly.

The Phantom shook his head. “You could not help it, Christine. And they shouldn’t pretend like you could.” His hands gripped tighter around the paddle as he felt the echo of his anger return. More than ever, he wanted to go back up to the opera house and make the managers suffer for what they had said, for humiliating her in front of everyone. But every time he considered doing so, he thought of how Christine had responded to his last attempt. With stubbornness in her eyes, she had pleaded with him to spare them (as if their lives were worth something to her), and even physically held him back when he had tried to defy her. He had found her resilience frustrating at the time, but now he looked back on it with admiration; never would anyone expect such nerve from the gentle young woman sitting in the gondola before him.

Obviously, her way had not solved the problem, as the managers and others still felt comfortable enough to treat her in such a manner. He knew his way would change things, would make them realize the egregious error they had made. But, it was not what she wanted, so instead of risking her outrage, he held himself back.

The Phantom pushed them slowly across the glass-like water towards the haven of candles. When the boat finally bumped against the far shore, the Phantom got out first and carefully helped Christine step onto the stone platform, letting her lean almost completely against him.

He noticed this weakness, and frowned. “You need to rest,” he stated. She nodded against his shoulder, before tucking her head into her elbow and coughing again. His eyes drifted to the dark corridor that led to the other rooms of the lair. “Come with me,” he said, taking her hand and shoulder and leading her deeper into the caverns.

They arrived outside a smaller room, which was dark except for a few small candles. Christine’s eyes adjusted, and she realized at once it was a bedroom, draped entirely in black. A wooden wardrobe stood in the corner, next to a dressing table and across from a four-poster bed and nightstand. Dark embroidered curtains covered almost every part of the walls, and the blankets and pillows on the bed were also black. His bedroom.

Once he knew she was steady on her feet, the Phantom removed the cloak from her shoulders and stepped away from her, back out into the hallway. “I’ll leave you to change, then,” he mumbled awkwardly before retreating quickly to another room further down the corridor. Christine watched him curiously, but thankfully she had missed the embarrassed blush that colored his face and neck.

Sighing, she stepped into the room and over to the wardrobe. She opened it to find several sets of dark evening clothes; undershirts, waistcoats, jackets. However, in a separate compartment she found a couple of her own dresses, as well as one of her nightgowns. She wondered briefly why these were already in his lair; he did have access to her dressing room, she supposed. A few alarmed thoughts sprang to her mind, but she shook her head to clear them and withdrew the nightgown from the wardrobe. The lair had become something of a second home for her anyway, so she really didn't mind too much. Besides, she thought as she stepped towards a smaller doorway that led to a washroom, he had never given her a reason to fear the worst. Even at her most vulnerable, she always felt safe with him. It was a strange but wonderful feeling.

Christine returned to the bedroom a short while later dressed in the nightgown, and without thinking collapsed onto the bed, her energy drained. She tucked herself under the soft silk sheets, pulling them to her chin and curling up like a cat. Her stuffy nose still made it difficult to breathe, but at least the rest of her was comfortable.

Her thoughts drifted to her teacher and friend, who had still not returned. She assumed he was leaving her alone to rest while he did other things. While she was definitely grateful for the peace and quiet far away from the disaster of the rehearsal upstairs, another part of her longed for his company, to feel his protective aura beside her, warding off her sickness and frustration.

She ran her fingers across the delicately soft sheets; they did not appear to have been slept in recently, and knowing the Phantom’s unusual schedule, it seemed reasonable to assume it had been a while since he had slept at all, much less here. But the knowledge that this was his bed , a place he had personally chosen to comfort him, somehow added to Christine’s own comfort. She nestled into the covers even further, trying to absorb a sense of his presence, to approximate his warm embrace.

She had almost convinced herself that he was really there, when she heard soft footsteps approaching. Her eyes opened, and there he stood in the doorway, holding a cup of tea and hesitating.

Christine smiled at him and pushed herself up into more of an upright position. “You can come in,” she said gently.

Nodding, he stepped forward to her bedside and handed her the cup of warm, sweet-smelling tea. “Thank you, Erik,” Christine said before taking a sip, sighing in contentment as the smooth, honey-infused liquid soothed her throat.

“It’s nothing,” he said quietly, watching her movements intently. “I’m glad I can be of some help to you.”

“You have helped so much,” Christine said, taking another sip. She cleared her throat roughly, trying to disguise a cough, but the Phantom saw through her easily. A look of concern passed over the unmasked side of his face, and he reached out to gently touch her warm temple. “You’re getting a fever,” he remarked, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

Christine nodded. Her eyelids drooped, an effect of her exhaustion and his gentle touch. “I’m tired, too.”

“Then rest,” he said, his fingers hovering over her cheek. “You’re safe here.”

He took the teacup from her hands and she snuggled further under the covers. “Meg will worry about me,” she said, her words slurring slightly.

“I will write a note to Madame Giry,” the Phantom whispered.

“Of course,” Christine muttered, before her eyes drifted closed. After a few moments, he thought she was finally asleep, but then she breathed, “Your bed is nice.”

The small utterance brought a wave of heat to the Phantom’s face. He was still processing the hurricane of emotions in his mind when he finally heard Christine’s breaths deepen, a signal that she was truly asleep. Fighting back the controlling urge to pull away, he let the back of his fingers trace the outline of her jaw delicately. “Sleep well, my Angel,” his voice purred.

It was so dark. And so cold.

She trembled head to foot. Her fingers were freezing together. Even her thoughts seemed to stick to the inside of her skull.

Suddenly, a door appeared. A familiar door. She approached it, almost gliding through the icy darkness.

It opened to let her in, and she saw the living room of her small childhood cottage. It glowed with a dim orange light, and she traced it to the flickering fireplace. She reached out her hands toward it, letting the warmth coat them like honey in her throat.

A faint tune wandered into the room. She followed it down the hall and opened another door to the study. A tall man stood with his back to her, holding up a violin. When he drew the bow across the strings, words came out to form a song, but they were slightly muffled, as if she was too far away to hear what they were.

“Papa?” she asked.

He stopped playing, but did not turn around. Even though she was away from it now, she could still feel the heat from the fire against her skin.

“Christine.”

She whipped around, seeing another door several feet away. She turned back to look at the man in the room again, but he was gone.

“Christine.”

Someone was calling her name from behind the door, which seemed larger than it should have been. She stepped toward it, and it opened on its own. Inside was a small simple bedroom, lit only by a lantern on the nightstand, with the rest bathed in shadow. A sense of sickness and dread hung in the air, which was getting hotter by the second.

“Christine.”

Reluctantly, her eyes focused on the bed itself. A man with dark hair lay tucked underneath the red quilt. He reached out his hand to her weakly. “Come here, my child.”

An outside force seemed to usher her toward the side of the bed in one movement. Sweat trickled down her temple as she took the hand and looked down at the man in the bed. “Father,” she heard herself whisper, her voice sticking to her dry throat.

Her father gave her a comforting smile, despite the tears in his eyes. “I know my time is coming soon. And you must be ready.”

She squeezed his hand, her breath shuddering. “No, Papa,” she said. “I don’t want you to go.”

“You mustn’t fear, my child. I will be with the angels, and your dear mother.” His smile widened, and his other hand raised to hold the side of her face. “I’ll tell her of the wonderful girl you have become.”

She felt his thumb rub across her cheek, brushing away either a tear or a bead of sweat. The heat was pressing into her from all sides now, but she could only stand trembling amidst the sweltering air. “Please don’t leave me. I can’t live without you,” she admitted tearfully, pressing his warm hand between both of hers.

Her father glanced over her, dark eyes full of pity. “When I am in heaven, child, then you will be alone.” He met her eyes again. “You will always be alone.”

His words broke through her emotion, and she furrowed her brow in confusion. “What?”

“You will always be alone.” Her father’s lips barely moved, and she watched in horror as a trickle of blood seeped past them and landed on the bedspread, blending into the red fabric.

She looked down at the hand she was grasping, and realized it had no skin, only bones and the dusty remnants of long-dead tissue. She gasped and dropped it, before realizing his other hand, cold and withered, still brushed against her face.

“You will always be alone.”

She pushed herself away from the bed, daring to look back up, and saw the eyes of her father replaced by dark holes staring lifelessly back at her. Her strangled voice tried to let out a scream, but the choking heat dove down through her open mouth and into her lungs. She was shaking from head to foot until finally her legs gave out from under her, and she collapsed on the ground, covered in shadows.

“You will always be alone.”

Tears rained down her face. She closed her eyes, wrapping her head in her arms to block out the cursed vision. “Please, make it stop,” she begged to no one, taking in erratic breaths of the boiling hot air.

Faintly, a soft melody floated in to reach her ears. The notes were gentle and sweet and familiar, and immediately began to drive away her fear. She slowly unraveled herself, lifting her head from her arms and opening her eyes, only to see darkness. But, there was something comforting about the dark; it surrounded her, hugging her in a way that wasn’t suffocating, unlike the heat that still stuck to her skin.

The gentle song coaxed her to relax, so she laid down amidst the void, thankful for the absence of light. Here, she knew she could hide from her fears, if only for a short time.

It was about ten hours later, and the Phantom was on the verge of panic.

Christine had not woken up yet, and her illness had only gotten worse; she was now pale and clammy, her skin glistening with sweat. Her forehead burned to the touch, yet she shivered beneath the bedclothes like she was outside on a winter’s night.

And then there were the fever dreams. Halfway through her sleep, he had heard her whispering from the other room. He went into the bedroom to check on her, and heard her calling for her father. Her eyes were squeezed shut, yet she spoke as if she could see him in front of her. “No, Papa. I don’t want you to go.”

The Phantom had placed his hand against her warm cheek. “Christine. My Angel, wake up,” he had said quietly.

But Christine did not wake. “Please don’t leave me. I can’t live without you,” she had whispered. 

The Phantom shook his head. “I am not going to leave you.” He knew she probably couldn’t hear him in her state, but a part of him felt he needed to say it.

His response did not seem to comfort her in the way that he expected. Her brow furrowed, and she shifted under the blankets away from him. “No, no, no,” she kept muttering, her eyes darting rapidly beneath their lids, her whole body trembling.

“Christine,” the Phantom had pleaded. His hand moved to hurriedly brush the hair away from her face, but other than that he felt helpless to Christine’s plight.

“Please, make it stop,” she had whispered, breathing heavily.

The Phantom couldn’t think, couldn’t move, and almost wanted to cry in frustration. With no other option, he began to sing. He kept it soft, not wanting to disturb her, but he hoped it would be enough to soothe her in the way that it usually did. Thankfully, he was right. As soon as she heard the notes, her breathing started to slow, and her body’s shaking eased. Relieved, the Phantom continued his melody for an hour, afraid that if he stopped she would descend into her fear again.

That was several hours ago. Luckily, Christine had not suffered another dream since, but her fever had also not left. The Phantom knew that the danger she was in was only getting worse, and that she needed help that he could not provide alone.

It was this realization that caused him to put on his cloak and hat in preparation for the journey to the world above. He tucked in the hastily-written note to Madame Giry into his pocket, before going back into the bedroom where Christine lay.

Her form looked particularly small curled underneath the covers, and her pale skin stood out against the dark sheets. The Phantom pressed his fingers to the inside of her wrist; her pulse was fast, but still there. He knelt next to the bed and leaned close to her ear. “I’m going to find someone to help you, Christine. I promise I will return soon.” He breathed deeply, fighting back his fear for her. “Stay strong, my Angel.” His hand lingered at her cheek, before he drew away and marched his way up to the outside world.

The Phantom slid open the door behind the mirror soundlessly, finding a dark and quiet dressing room on the other side. By now, it was the middle of the night, and the residents of the opera house would be fast asleep. He pressed the hidden switch to seal it shut behind him, then opened the door to the dressing room and carefully stepped out into the hall beyond. He tried to remain silent as he moved stealthily through the halls, but he could hardly hear his own footsteps over the pounding of his heart. Twice, he became distracted with thoughts of Christine hidden in his lair below, before realizing he was going the wrong direction, and cursed quietly as he corrected himself.

He finally turned the corner and arrived outside the room of Madame Giry. Hesitating, he raised his hand to the closed door ready to knock, before considering just slipping the note under the door. But then she wouldn’t see it until morning, and by then it might be too late. It may be better if he—

At once, he heard the faint sound of Madame Giry’s cane striking the ground, approaching the place where he stood. His mind raced to think of an option, before he silently stepped backward into an empty practice room across the hall, blending in with the shadows. He watched the ballet mistress turn the corner, hawklike eyes looking down each end of the hall, before she walked over to the door of her room.

It was then that he decided to speak. “Madame Giry,” he said steadily, throwing his voice so it landed right next to her ear.

The older woman turned her head quickly to the side, looking for whoever had spoken. Seeing no one, she continued to turn until she faced him; he saw her eyes widen as she took in his form, bathed in shadow.

He straightened to his full height and lifted his chin, falling into the familiar posture of his pretense. “You know who I am.” It was a statement, rather than a question.

“The Opera Ghost,” she uttered softly, a trace of fear in her voice.

The Phantom’s fingers twitched beneath his cloak. “Then you will do as I say.” He stepped forward, keeping his eyes trained on hers. “I know you have heard the lessons between Christine Daae and myself. The soprano is under my care, and well protected.” He paused, controlling his voice, keeping it from betraying any hidden worry. “But currently, she is ill and needs medical treatment.”

A look of concern flickered over Madame Giry’s face. “How ill is she?”

“Quite ill,” the Phantom said. His heart clenched nervously, but he kept the visible half of his face impassive.

Madame Giry frowned. “With all due respect, Monsieur, I cannot help much if I don’t know exactly what is wrong with her.”

The Phantom’s jaw tightened, debating with himself, before he gave in. “She has a fever and chills, and experienced some delirium a few hours ago.”

The older woman shook her head in dismay. “Perhaps a doctor should see her—”

“No! That will not be necessary,” the Phantom hissed, a bit louder than he intended. He inhaled quickly to try and gain back his composure. “Surely there is something you can do. You have medicines for your dancers, do you not?”

Madame Giry’s eyes glanced over him analytically, before she nodded. She gestured down the hall, and began to walk down it with the Phantom following closely.

They arrived at the ballet corps’ dressing room, which was also thankfully empty. Madame Giry opened a wooden cabinet on the wall and pulled out a tiny brown vial of clear liquid. “This is an extract of willow bark,” she said, holding it up to the Phantom. “It reduces fever and some pain. Without knowing more about her condition, this is the best I can do.”

The Phantom took the small vial; her remedy sounded right, but in his frantic state he could not be sure. He suddenly turned to her with a dark look in his eyes. “And how do I know this will help her, and not make her worse?”

Madame Giry held her ground. “The only poison that will harm her now is your own lack of trust,” she answered calmly, a hint of strictness in her tone. “You are not the only person in this opera house who cares for Christine’s well-being.”

A long moment passed where the Phantom stared into Madame Giry’s unflinching gaze. Finally, he sighed, and slipped the vial into the pocket of his cloak. “You will say nothing of this to anyone, especially the managers of the opera house.”

Despite her nod in confirmation, the Phantom remained wary. “You have a daughter in the ballet corps,” he mentioned smoothly. Madame Giry nodded again, looking suspicious. The Phantom’s eyes glittered. “If you do as I command, she shall one day come into great fortune. The title of Baroness may suit her well.”

Madame Giry narrowed her eyes at him in disbelief. “How can you possibly make that so?” she whispered.

He inclined his head again, standing over her ominously. “The same way I can ensure she never dances again, if you defy me.” Truthfully, the threat was rather empty; he knew Christine was fond of the young Giry girl, and he would never seek to harm her because of that. However, that was something Madame Giry did not need to know, and he felt relieved when a flash of dread crossed her eyes and she looked down.

He turned to the doorway to leave, but stopped when he heard her speak again. “Before you go, I have something for Christine.” Madame Giry reached into her own pocket and withdrew a neatly-sealed note.

She offered it to him, and the Phantom took it from her hand. “What is this?” he asked.

“A letter to Christine from the opera’s patron,” she replied plainly.

The Phantom quickly looked from the slip of paper back to the older woman. “Why would the opera’s patron be writing letters to Christine?”

“That matter is between Christine and the Comte. I know nothing about it.” She dipped her head once to him. “Good night, Monsieur. And wish Christine well for me.”

With that, Madame Giry turned and walked out of the doorway and back down the hall towards her room, leaving the Phantom to stare after her, confused. He glanced down to the note in his hand. What Comte? What was she talking about?

But he could worry about that later. Right now, Christine was waiting for him.

The Phantom rushed back down to the depths beneath the Opera House, using every shortcut he knew; as he ran, his manic mind raced faster. He had never been particularly religious, but in those moments he found himself begging with any and every higher power to keep Christine safe until he was by her side.

He finally reached his lair and sprinted to the bedroom where Christine lay. He stopped in the doorway, gasping for breath and taking in the sight of her. She was pale, too pale, the edges of her lips tinged with grey; beads of sweat clung to her brow, and her breathing was deathly shallow.

His heart sank in fear, and he rushed forward to the side of the bed. “Christine?” he asked breathlessly, his hand moving to sweep a strand of damp hair from her burning forehead. He reached down and found her wrist, and sighed in relief as he felt her faint and rapid pulse.

He then searched in his cloak for the small vial of medicine. Uncorking it, he poured a small amount into the cup of tea that sat on the bedside table, which had long gone cold. “Christine, my Angel,” he said, now moving to lift her head gingerly into his hands. She stirred weakly, her eyes fluttering but not opening. “Look at me,” the Phantom whispered. His thumbs brushed repeatedly over her cheeks in an attempt to wake her.

Eventually, she came to enough to glance at his face, though her eyes were glazed and he wasn’t sure if she really saw him. “Father?” she whispered, her mouth barely moving.

The Phantom’s heart twisted; he picked up the cup of tea and brought it to Christine’s lips. “Christine, you have to drink this for me. I promise you’ll feel better if you just drink.”

Christine blinked sleepily, eyeing the cup unsteadily, but allowed the cold liquid to be poured down her throat. It was mostly gone when she pulled back, grimacing at the bitter taste. The Phantom stroked her face with his fingers again. “I know, I know, but you have to finish it. Please, Christine, do it for me. Please.”

The desperation in his voice must have broken through the fevered fog in Christine’s mind, because she turned back to him and dutifully drank the rest of the cup. “Thank you, my Angel,” the Phantom sighed in relief. Christine’s head slumped back onto the pillow as she slipped into sleep once more.

He stayed at her bedside for a moment, just watching her as she slept. He hoped it was enough; if it wasn’t….his fingers twisted nervously as he shoved the terrible thought from his mind. Now, he could only wait.

After a few minutes of agonizing patience, the Phantom suddenly realized the other object Madame Giry had given him. He stood from the bedside and turned to take a few steps further into the room, removing the letter from his jacket pocket. He hesitated for only a second, considering, before unfolding the letter and scanning it quickly.

Dear Mlle. Daae,

Since it has been a while since our last correspondence, I shall fill you in on what I have been up to. I visited the Opera Populaire last week to call upon you once again, but I was told you were unavailable for personal reasons. I arrived again today to wish you luck on your performance at the opera’s premiere tomorrow, only to hear that you are ill and will not be present. I deeply regret to hear this, and I wish you a safe and quick recovery.

That being said, I was disappointed not to receive a reply to my recent invitation asking you to tea. I understand some of the factors that have prevented us from meeting are outside of your control, but I have never had to wait this long for an answer from you after all my previous letters.

I hope you do not find my restlessness off-putting, and instead see it as a sign of my devotion to meet you outside of the realm of pen and paper, and see you closer than a seat’s distance from the stage. I do urge you to consider these words carefully, and I again hope you get well soon.

Affectionately,

Philippe, Comte de Chagny

The Phantom’s hands shook, his fingers gripping the thin piece of paper as he read the words over and over and over. He could barely breathe through the shock, rage, indignation, spite, all boiling inside of his chest and climbing up the back of his throat. Finally, the paper fell from his hands to the floor, and he backed away from it until his back pressed against the wall. He forced his lungs to take a shuddering breath, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, before they reached up to compress against the sides of his skull, where his mind was hurtling with thoughts at breakneck speed.

How dare this fool have the audacity to request such things from Christine? How dare he say he was “disappointed” in her? How dare he think he had the right to even stand in her presence, let alone “urge” her to do anything? He was a patron of the opera, so surely the Phantom must have spotted him at some point. The Phantom wracked his memory for this Comte de Chagny, but came up empty. Oh, he was such an idiot; he had been so distracted with helping Christine that he had become blind to the workings of his own theatre!

He let himself sink to the floor against the wall, his legs practically giving out beneath him. His palms moved from his temples to over each of his eyes; he felt the weight of the mask press deep into his face, the thin edge cutting painfully into his skin, but he did not care enough to stop.

He should have known, should have expected that brave young suitors such as this were bound to fall for her as soon as they heard her sing. After all, was that not what had happened to him? And then, the Phantom had been foolish enough to cultivate her gift and ensure that she shared it with the world, which only served to draw in more admirers to her, like moths to an irresistible flame.

But he had not done it for them. They did not deserve his music, and they definitely did not deserve her glory; no, he had done it just for Christine. The time spent teaching her had restored the light to her eyes, the smile on her face, the joy in her heart. And that he did not regret. But now, look at how she had repaid him.

Slowly, he withdrew his hands from his face, and let his cold dark gaze rest on the woman sleeping in his bed. Christine had lied to him. She had kept this secret from him for God knows how long; more than two weeks, enough for this boy to write “all his previous letters”. How many words had she written to him? How long had she fed this relationship right under his nose?

The longer he stared at her, the further his helplessness threatened to consume him. But at once, a sliver of hope cut through his dark thoughts. Perhaps it was not all what it seemed. His eyes slipped back down to the slip of paper resting innocently on the floor. According to the letter, she had not replied to his invitation, and had in fact kept him without an answer for enough time to make him “restless”. Could she have discontinued their correspondence on purpose, and this letter was merely the boy attempting to regain her attention?

The Phantom shook his head, letting out a heavy sigh and curling his legs to his chest. He pressed his forehead against his own knees, hiding his face from the room, from the letter, from her. He clung to the promising thought, despite a part of him knowing it could be false. If it was the way he hoped, she should have told him. He could have helped her; that is what he had been doing all this time! Didn’t she trust him?

The Phantom’s eyes stung with tears. Of course she didn’t. He had never done anything to earn her trust; he wouldn’t even show her his face. He had no right to expect loyalty from her, just the same as this suitor whom she had never seen.

He sat there against the wall, barely moving and letting tears trickle down his face, waiting for her to wake like before, but now in a new kind of agony.

Christine finally drifted awake, blinking sleepily in the dim light of a candle on the nightstand. She stretched her limbs slightly under the sheets, which were softer than the ones she was used to. Just as her mind remembered where she was, her eyes landed on the figure of the Phantom, leaning with his back against the wall, watching her fixedly. She smiled at him, but he did not return it, his eyes glancing down to the floor. “How are you feeling?” he said quietly.

“Better,” she said in a rough voice, before swallowing. She was pleased to feel her throat did not hurt as badly as it did before, although her nose was still a bit stuffed. “How long was I asleep?”

“About a day.” He approached to the nightstand, picked up a small cup of water and poured a few drops of a clear liquid from a small vial into it. “Drink this,” he directed, pushing the cup into her hands.

Christine gave him a curious look, before bringing the cup to her lips and drinking the bitter medicine. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been that ill,” she said conversationally when she had finished. “I remember having the most terrifying dream. The rest is just a blur.”

The Phantom nodded, taking the empty cup from her wordlessly. Before he could step away, Christine reached up and placed her hand on his wrist, making him pause. “Thank you so much for taking care of me,” she said, looking up into his face. His eyes evaded hers, staring instead at the cup in his hands, his brow slightly furrowed. She frowned. “Are you alright?”

“I am fine,” he said shortly. She let go of his wrist, and he immediately retreated from the bed. When he spoke again, Christine detected a hint of pain in his voice. “Your fever is gone. You must get dressed and return to the opera house as soon as possible.”

Without looking at her, he walked to the doorway. Christine felt a pang of sorrow in her chest at his reaction; she realized how terrifying it must have been for him to watch over her for a whole day while she was unconscious, not knowing whether or not she would ever wake. She had felt that terror before, and much worse. “Were you scared of losing me?” she called gently to his silhouette.

The Phantom stopped, his hand coming up to grip the side of the cavern wall, facing away from her. After a moment, he turned and met her eyes with a look of desolation. “You will never know the half of it, Christine,” he whispered, before leaving her in his bedroom to consider what he had said. She expected to hear the sound of the organ, but was met with a silence that continued on as she finally dressed and traveled back to the world above, alone.

Chapter Text

Christine did not understand what was wrong.

Ever since she had fallen ill and spent the day recovering in the lair, the Phantom had treated her oddly. They still met in the evenings for practice, but when he arrived in her room to escort her, he always seemed wary, as if expecting to find someone else in the room with her. He also no longer seemed interested in partaking in the conversations they usually shared while traveling down the winding stairs, meeting Christine’s attempts with a few words or simple silence.

While they practiced, it was as if they were strangers again, just like back in the library, only now he didn’t dare touch her, except to hold her hands to help her in and out of the small boat. Even that touch felt detached, with his hands leaving hers much quicker than she was used to.

The first couple of days, Christine tried to shrug it off, assuming he was in one of his darker moods that always passed quickly, especially after practicing with her. But as a few more days went by, his behavior showed no sign of change, and if anything it grew worse.

She couldn’t pretend like it didn’t hurt. Christine missed the warm feeling of his hands in hers, the tender brush of his fingers beneath her chin, the way the corners of his mouth turned up while giving a clever reply. She didn’t realize how much she had grown to treasure them, until now when she had to go without them. She wanted to know what had happened, what she had done wrong to make him so cross with her, and how to fix it. Was he disappointed that she had not been able to sing at the opera’s premiere? Did she intrude too much by staying in his lair while she was sick? She did not recall much of the occasion; perhaps she said or did something to make him angry?

Finally, before one practice later in the week, Christine decided to end her conjectures and confront the issue. After pushing them across the underground lake in silence, he reached for her hands and rigidly led her out of the boat. She tried to hold onto his fingers, but the second she began to squeeze them he pulled them away. She looked up at his face, and watched his eyes dart away from hers, refusing to meet her gaze.

Her heart ached. “Erik,” she began gently, “are you sure you’re alright?”

He scoffed lightly as he turned away, removing his hat and cloak with a flourish. “Of course I am; why wouldn’t I be?”

There he went, putting up his mask again to hide from her. She studied him carefully as he strode over to his organ and sat down, staring intently at the sheet music. His hands smoothed over his hair, brushing momentarily over the physical mask covering the side of his face. That familiar curiosity tugged at her heart, and finally she gathered enough courage to say something. “You really don’t need to wear that around me,” Christine said quietly.

The Phantom raised his head, finally letting his eyes rest on her in consternation. “Yes, I do,” he replied. He quickly picked up a quill and began scribbling something on one of the pages before him.

Christine frowned at his blatant avoidance. She took a few steps closer to where he sat. “Please, I wish to see you.”

The Phantom let the quill pause and sighed, his eyes squeezing closed. “No, Christine,” he refused.

“I am not afraid of you, Erik,” she spoke firmly.

The Phantom opened his eyes and glanced at her with a searing darkness. “That is exactly why I can’t,” he muttered. “You are not afraid now, but you will be.”

Christine shook her head adamantly. “I won’t, I promise you,” she insisted honestly. Deep in his eyes, she could see he did not believe her. Her heart aching, she asked, “Have I ever lied to you?”

At once, his gaze grew even darker; the surrounding candles glinted off of the two liquid shadows staring at her intensely. “Are you certain you wish to ask me that question?” he said in a dangerous tone.

His voice forced a chill to run up her spine. “Excuse me?” she whispered.

The Phantom’s jaw clenched in frustration. Finally, he said, “When were you going to tell me about your admirer, the Comte de Chagny?”

Christine’s eyes widened as cold, familiar guilt seeped into her stomach, freezing her from the inside out. “You know about that?” she asked, realizing as she did how foolish it had been to keep it from him in the first place. Of course he had found out; everyone else knew, and she should have known better than to try and keep a secret in the Opera Populaire. She slowly began to shake her head. “Erik, I was going to tell you—”

“But you felt it unnecessary to burden me with such sensitive information,” he snarled with a taunting air. “Believe me, I understand perfectly .”

Christine’s hands clenched into fists as she fought herself for patience. “I was going to tell you, but I didn’t want to make you upset.”

The Phantom gave a quick, sharp laugh. “Upset! Why would I be upset about such a thing?” He pinned her with his eyes again, all humor disappearing. “After all, it’s not like a situation like this has threatened your reputation before.”

The words stung bitterly inside her chest as she was reminded of her embarrassment, but where before they would have brought her to tears, now they morphed into annoyance. When she spoke again, her voice was low and fuming. “That incident is exactly how I knew you would react this way. I knew you would take it too far, and see it as worse than it is. That is why I didn’t tell you.”

“And what exactly am I taking too far?” he replied, his tone smooth and icy.

Christine sighed, steadying her voice. “The Comte has written letters to me since the night of my first performance. Some of them were replied to without my knowledge, as part of the ploy to humiliate me. But I did not write back to any of the letters I received. I have never even met the Comte in person, even though he invited me to do so.” She watched him look down to his music again, and pressed further. “Please believe me, Erik. That is the whole truth.”

After a moment, the Phantom nodded, still refusing to look at her. “I know it is,” he said, defeated.

Christine‘s expression changed to one of confusion. “Then you’re not upset about that?”

He finally looked up and met her eyes, and she saw what looked like resentment pass over the left side of his face. “You don’t trust me, Christine,” he muttered darkly. “Don’t dare pretend like you do. You kept this from me, you lied to me, when I could have helped you out of this demeaning situation—”

At his words, all of Christine’s frustration came bubbling to the surface. “You accuse me of keeping secrets? What about you? ” she argued fiercely. “I’ve told you so much about my past, and yet I know so little of yours. I don’t know where you came from, I don’t know how you’ve learned everything you know. I even had to beg to know your name! You must realize how unfair that is to me.”

The Phantom was looking at her in stunned silence. Christine swore she saw remorse pass over his features, which gave her a spark of hope. She continued in a much gentler tone. “It’s not that I didn’t trust you; believe me, it wasn’t. It’s the fact that…I was afraid of what you might do. And that I wouldn’t be able to stop you.”

A mix of anger and sorrow suddenly flooded through the Phantom. “So you are afraid of me?” he said quietly. “You are afraid of your Erik? The man who has trained your voice, who gave you his music, who cared for you when you were ill….now you fear him and what he could do to you?”

Christine shook her head once. “All those things are what you have done for me.” she insisted sagely. “I am afraid of what you will do to everyone else. I would never wish for you to take your anger out on the Comte, or anyone, especially not in my name.”

The Phantom gave a heavy sigh and glanced back down to his organ, his fingers absently caressing the smooth keys. Christine finally closed the distance between them, letting her hand rest on his shoulder as she looked down at him. “This cannot go on. We cannot keep deceiving each other.” When he continued to look down, she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the letters, and I’m sorry I lied to you. I promise to never deceive you again, as long as you do the same.” She reached over to his hand that covered the keys, and took it in her own. “Let your secrets be mine as well.”

The Phantom's eyes had followed the movement of their hands, but suddenly they looked up at Christine’s face, and she saw how they were filled with anguish. “I cannot make you a promise like that,” he whispered ruefully.

“Why not?”

The Phantom swallowed, but he realized his mouth had gone dry. “My secrets are nothing like yours. The person I am, the things I’ve done….” He looked down to his hands; hands that have dripped with blood, hands that have stolen the breath from another’s throat, hands that have created machines to drive men to madness. They did not belong so close to Christine’s, so he pulled them away. “If I told you, you would never see me the same way again.” He quickly stood from his place on the bench and took a few steps away, flexing the hand that had just rested so gingerly between hers.

Christine watched him as her heart squeezed painfully. “Do you really think that little of me? Do I seem like one who would forget all that we have been through together after just one glance under that mask?” She approached him, stepping down from the organ’s platform and stepping across the black stone floor. He did not turn around, so she spoke to his back. “I have let you see me at my lowest, my most vulnerable, and you have cared for me just the same. Trust me when I tell you I will do the same for you.”

The Phantom’s breath caught in his throat. Trust. She was asking him to trust her. Oh, how he wanted to, but she would never know how difficult it would be for him to do such a thing. But he considered what she said, and realized how difficult it must have been for her to do the same thing. She had put herself at risk, showing him her heart and how broken it was, and counted on him to help mend it instead of smashing it further. He did not understand why she had given her trust to him, but the fact remained that she had, and now he had no choice but to give his own to her.

“Close your eyes,” he breathed.

“What?” Christine said.

The Phantom turned around and shifted his gaze to her again. “Close your eyes, and keep them closed until I tell you.”

Christine studied him for a moment, trying to read his expression. Eventually, she did as he told and closed her eyes tightly.

The Phantom watched her for a moment, waiting to see if she would defy him, while also building his own courage. When she kept her eyes sealed, he raised a hand to the right side of his face, tracing the curve of the mask, his heart pounding. Finally, his trembling hand lifted it from his skin slowly.

He stood there in silence, unmasked, just a meter away from another person; the intimacy choked him. Every thought in his head screamed at him to replace the mask, to hide, to fight, to do something . But he simply stood, hoping the torture in his mind would fade.

When the thoughts would not stop, he looked over at his music, and went to sit at his organ again. “Sing for me,” he called to Christine, whose eyes were still closed. His shaking fingers rested on the keys and hesitantly began to play the melody of his song. Christine recognized the notes, and dutifully followed with her voice.

Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation; Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination

Silently the senses abandon their defenses

She could hear in his playing how anxious he was, in the slight uncertainty between each phrase; in response, her voice softened, attempting to soothe him from a distance.

The Phantom noticed the switch in her tone, and his mind began to relax as he focused on the song. He picked up the cadence slightly and guided Christine’s voice to be stronger, more confident, everything he needed to be in that moment. Christine smiled slightly as she was led through the music by his careful conduction, keeping her eyes sealed.

As the song progressed, both of them began to drop their guard, in the way that only their connection to music could make them. They forgot everything; the time, the place, their worries, their fears. They lost themselves in the other’s harmony, weaving the notes together in such a way that would have made any bystander weep.

Wrapped in the spell of the music, Christine let her eyes flutter open, forgetting why they needed to be closed in the first place. She smiled as she sang into the darkness of the place that had become her second home. The notes fell from her lips as easily as her own breath, guiding her closer to the accompanying melody, until finally she turned and saw—

The Phantom heard the slight change in her voice, and he opened his eyes and peered up at her. For a moment, they paused just to stare at the other, then a wave of realization came over the Phantom.

Her eyes are open.

The phrase echoed in his head, and suddenly he felt the absence of the mask on his face. His breathing quickened as panic set in; his hand reflexively flew up to cover his face as he turned his back to her. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for her scream of terror, but none came. He finally heard quiet steps behind him, but instead of running away, they were slowly approaching him, then climbing the few steps up to the platform where he stood. His trembling fingers gripped the edge of the organ behind him as he realized how close she was getting.

Suddenly, he felt her warm fingers touch the hand that was covering his face. He opened his eyes to see Christine standing before him, gazing at him with a gentle curiosity. Her hand moved to carefully wrap around his, and she slowly but surely peeled it away from his face.

Her eyes swept over each crease and scar, every mangled ridge, the twisted sections of skin bordering his lips, the misshapen portions of bone and ligament visible through a thin layer of pale skin. But they also looked over to the other side, where the flesh was smooth and even, with gentle curves defining his strong jaw and cheekbones.

After a few moments, she finally rested on his eyes; those dark eyes that she had seen burn with rage, glow with adoration, and swim with sadness. They were pleading with her now, shining with his agony as he watched her every move. Her heart bled at the thought of him alone with this pain for God knows how long. All this time, he worried about her being afraid, but now she was the one standing unwavering as he trembled beneath her very gaze.

“Poor Erik,” Christine whispered softly, “are you afraid of me?”

She watched his expression shift as he took in what she had said and became aware of his own emotion. Without another word, Christine wrapped her arms around his torso and pulled him close, pressing her forehead against his chest.

In a million years, her reaction would never have crossed Erik’s mind. He stood in her embrace, every muscle in his body slowly relaxing, until finally he found the strength within him to hug her back. “You are too good, Christine,” he spoke in a shuddering breath, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve you.”

Christine looked up at him after hearing the pain in his voice. “You don’t get to decide what you deserve,” she whispered. “But I know that you will always deserve this.”

Christine hugged him close again, and suddenly Erik was crying as his walls came crumbling down. He clutched her form desperately, leaning into her so much that she almost fell off-balance; she caught the edge of the piano bench behind her and sat down. At once Erik knelt in front of her, pressing his forehead against her knees and wrapping his arms around her legs.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the fabric of her skirt, muffled and broken by sobs. “I’m sorry I hid the truth from you for so long….so long….I’m so sorry I ever accused you; you , who are so honest, and kind, and good, and I….” He stopped himself just in time, holding back the words he felt with all his heart, but dared not to say, in case this was all still too good to be true. Instead, he sighed and let his head rest against her knees once again. “Please forgive me….”

“Oh, Erik,” she said, her hands tenderly cupping the sides of his face and raising it from her lap to look at her. “Of course I forgive you.”

They remained for several minutes in that position, with Christine using her thumbs to brush away the tears from his cheeks. Erik’s heart throbbed painfully each time her soft fingers passed over his face; every second he expected to be his last, awaiting the moment the universe decided he had felt his share of happiness for one lifetime, before dragging him to hell where he belonged. But against all his expectations, he did not die, instead remaining in heaven in the hands of his Angel of mercy for longer than he could have ever dared to hope.

Finally, Christine said quietly, “Can I ask you to do something for me?”

Erik gasped, and held her legs tighter in his embrace. “Anything. I will do anything for you, my Angel.”

She locked her eyes steadily onto his. “Tell me everything. Tell me who you are, where you come from, what you’ve seen, what you’ve done. I know you’ve been so very afraid of what I would think, but please….Please don’t be afraid of me anymore.” His head had begun to tilt down again, but she took his chin in her fingers and slowly raised it back up to face her. “I just want to understand you.”

After a long moment where his gaze flickered between her green-grey eyes, Erik nodded. He carefully stood and took her hands, not letting go this time, and led her down the corridor to a room deeper within the lair. It was a room she had never seen before, arranged like a comfortable drawing room with tasteful furniture and an elaborately-designed rug, lit by a small fire in the fireplace. It felt oddly normal, but still carried the cool, dark undertone of a cavern that Christine found unusually cozy.

He guided her over to a chaise in front of the fire; she sat down, and after gently pulling on his arm, he settled next to her, leaving a small space between them. She looked at him with her wide eyes, ready to listen. Erik hesitated, his fingers quivering against her palms. “Where to begin….” he mused nervously.

Christine squeezed his hands encouragingly. “Just at the beginning?”

Erik sighed, letting his head turn to stare into the fire, its light flickering on the surface of his dark eyes. “The beginning….”

The after-rehearsal quiet permeated through the  backstage halls of the Opera Populaire. The petit rats had all fluttered off to the kitchens in search of snacks, while the principal dancers retired to their dressing rooms. One of them, Sorelli, sat in front of her vanity, busy untying her black hair from its tight bun.

Swiftly, a figure passed outside of her dressing-room door; the scent of expensive cologne caught Sorelli’s attention, and she turned her head quickly to see the hem of an elegant coat slip past the open doorway. Intrigued, she put the hairpins down and stood to carefully peek down the hallway. She saw a handsome man with sandy-brown hair holding a top hat and peering into the other rooms as he paced down the corridor, looking rather lost. Sorelli eyed his fancy nobleman’s attire with interest.

The opera’s patron, the Comte de Chagny.

Sorelli grinned to herself, before running a quick hand through her unpinned hair and pinching both of her cheeks to infuse some color into them. She leaned one arm against the door frame and shifted her legs so that more of their length was prevalent beneath her short ballet skirt. “Can I help you with something, Monsieur?” she said in her sweetest voice.

The Comte turned around and took in the principal dancer with bright blue eyes, before nodding. “Yes, actually. I am looking for Mademoiselle Daae’s dressing room.”

Christine. Of course, she thought bitterly. Sorelli gave a flirty smile, and stepped away from her position in the doorway until she was closer to the Comte. “You must be Comte Philippe,” she said, her head tilted slightly down; she was a couple inches taller than him, helped by her long thin legs. “Yes, Christine’s told me all about you, of course. But I’m afraid you won’t find her in her dressing room at this time of the evening. She tends to disappear at around five o’clock.”

Philippe’s eyebrows raised. “Every evening?”

Sorelli shrugged. “She’s a girl of the most peculiar habits.” Seeing the disappointment on the Comte’s face, she quickly added, “But we all love her anyway. Sweet little Christine.”

Philippe gave a fond grin. “You are a friend of hers, then?”

Sorelli waved her hand in a casual manner. “Oh, yes. Christine and I get along famously ,” she said in a pompously doting way.

Oblivious to her lie, Philippe let himself relax a bit. “I confess, I am becoming quite nervous about her,” he said quietly, his hands shifting around his hat.

Sorelli placed her hand on his arm in faux sympathy, before motioning to her dressing room. “Come in here, we can talk about it.”

The Comte followed her into the room and politely took the chair offered to him. “What is your name, Mademoiselle?”

“Sorelli. I am the principal ballerina,” she said, taking the seat across from him and carefully folding her legs together, in a way that was proper but still attempted to draw attention.

Philippe modestly maintained her gaze. “Ah yes, I have seen you dance in the opera’s latest performances. You are quite talented, I must say.”

Sorelli gave a small laugh and looked down, peering at him through her eyelashes. “You flatter me, Monsieur.”

Philippe’s blue eyes fell to his lap, his hands still anxiously clutching his hat. “I don’t mean to pry, but…,” he began, before looking back up at Sorelli. “Is everything alright with Christine? It has taken her much longer than usual to reply to my letters, and every time I have tried to meet her here she has not been available.”

Sorelli nodded. “She has seemed quite occupied recently, hasn’t she?”

“Indeed,” Philippe replied. “A few weeks ago, I arrived here to visit her, but I was told she took the day off for personal reasons. Then last week she fell ill, which I of course should not fault her for, but it meant I could not meet her after the opera’s performance the following night, as I was planning.” He almost continued speaking, but hesitated. “Forgive me if all these complaints are annoying you,” he said civilly.

Smiling, Sorelli met the Comte’s eyes fervently. “Trust me, there’s nothing I’d rather be doing than listening to you.”

Philippe blushed under her strong gaze, and looked down to his lap again. “It’s foolish to think like this, but—” He sighed. “I sometimes feel like she is avoiding me on purpose. Especially with the letters; she must have had some unoccupied time to write back! Now I am a very forgiving man, but….I would very much like to see her.”

On the inside, Sorelli rolled her eyes at the man’s persistence to chase after some coy little ingenue who clearly didn’t want him. But on the outside, she gave a condoling pout and stood from her seat, placing a hand on the Comte’s shoulder. “It’s such a shame you’ve been put in this difficult situation,” she said, her condescending tone dripping with honey. “I’m sure a kind gentleman like yourself has done nothing wrong to deserve this treatment.”

He gave a small grin and nodded, but did not look back up at her; Sorelli sighed, trying not to rise to her frustration. She silently cursed Christine and her effortless ability to attract rich and powerful men, only to wander off and leave them broken-hearted so that more deserving women like Sorelli are forced to pick up the pieces. Well, if that clever minx wanted to lure the Comte into a trap, then perhaps Sorelli would give her a taste of her own medicine.

When she spoke again, it was still in that gentle, falsely pleasant tone. “You know, she has never had an admirer before. She may not know how to react. She has always been rather meek, you see.” She looked back down to the Comte, rubbing his shoulder softly. “Maybe she needs a little more encouragement. A push in the right direction, to show her the right way to behave.”

Philippe finally turned his head to look at Sorelli’s hand on his shoulder, then up to the woman’s eyes. “What would you suggest?” he asked quietly, his blush beginning to return.

The principal dancer grinned, her cunning mind working rapidly. “If she refuses to respond to your letters, then you must confront her directly. Come back tomorrow at two in the afternoon; that is when rehearsal begins for the day. Stay during rehearsal, and as soon as it is over go backstage and you can speak with her then. I will try to keep her in place as much as possible, but you must work quickly; she disappears at around five o’clock or so, and is gone for the rest of the evening.”

“What if she is not at rehearsal tomorrow?”

“Trust me, I will make certain that she is,” Sorelli assured.

Philippe smiled, and stood to shake Sorelli’s hand. “Oh, thank you, Mademoiselle. I greatly appreciate your help.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Sorelli replied in a playful tone.

Outside the room, unbeknownst to either the ballerina or the Comte, a young dancer with golden hair was listening intently. As the two said their goodbyes, the dancer stood and trotted back down the hall, chewing her lip nervously as she went off to look for her friend, a certain dark-haired soprano.

In the fire-lit darkness of the underground drawing room, Christine and Erik spoke for hours into the night. Erik told her story after story, revealing secret after secret. He told her more about his childhood, how he had first found solace in music, how his mother had treated him before he ran away, and how he was exhibited like an animal in a cage until a knife showed him the only way to be free. He told her of the places he had traveled, what he had learned through his own teaching, and how he became the world’s first master of illusions before he was Christine’s current age.

As he told his stories, Erik found it helpful to move; he would often stand, pace around the room, pause for long stretches of time with his hands fidgeting as he thought of the right words to say. He often wouldn’t meet Christine’s eyes, for he was still too afraid that he would only see reflected in them her revulsion, her hatred, and worst of all, her pity.

But against all his expectations, Christine did not run away. She listened to every memory intently, silently staring at him as he laid out his life to her. Multiple times, he heard the faint sound of her sobs, which was quickly followed by her getting up from the chaise and pulling him into her arms, whispering apologies and words of comfort against his chest. In those moments, he expected himself to pull away; he had handled the pain of his memories on his own for so long, he felt guilty for burdening her with them, even though she had asked him to do so. But when she touched him, held him so close to her, it managed to soothe the ache deep within his heart in a way he had never experienced. It felt….good, to have the burden of his pain eased for just a moment, to share it with someone who could perhaps understand, and was willing to try.

They took a break after a little while to have a small dinner, at Erik’s request. Christine was left feeling so horrified after some of his stories that she didn’t think she would be able to stomach anything, but once he set out the selection of bread, fruit, and cold chicken, she realized just how hungry she actually was. He shared the meal with her in the dining room, before making tea and guiding her back to the drawing room to continue the dive into his past.

They eventually reached the subject of Persia, which sent Erik into one of the darkest moods Christine had ever seen. For several minutes he strode around the room in silence, hesitant to begin, while Christine relaxed into the chaise and finished her tea patiently. He finally settled on the rug that lay before the fire, leaning back against the chaise. She could only see the back of his head from where she sat, so she leaned forward to see more of his face as he sprung into his story. He slowly recalled building a hall of mirrors to please the sultana, who was delighted not by the illusion it created, but by the terror, torture, and death that it wrought on prisoners of her choosing. The words themselves formed pictures in Christine’s mind that made her want to cower in horror. But the way he said them forced her to remain; Erik’s tone never raised, his voice never broke, nor did he smile in amusement at what he had done. Instead, he spoke in a low, stony manner, as if reading facts out of a dull book.

“Do you regret any of it?” she finally dared to ask. Christine didn’t want to believe seeing him feel a certain way towards his past actions would change how she saw him as a person. She wanted more than anything to simply forgive him for all of it, despite what he felt, but she knew there were certain things that she was not sure if she was strong enough to forgive. And Erik deriving pleasure from taking another’s life was one of those things. 

Erik turned his head to look up at her dazedly. “Not everything,” he said, before swallowing anxiously. “I’ve never been ashamed of anything I’ve created. But the outcomes of such things, I’ve never found….” He struggled at the right words for a moment, before giving up with a sigh. “I will not lie to you and say I’ve never sought out the deaths of others, because I have.” Erik met her gaze again, holding it steadily. “But I draw no pleasure from the act of killing. I have enjoyed the planning and construction of means to do so, but the deed itself has always left me feeling….numb.” His dark eyes glazed over, and after a moment he looked back down to the rug beneath him. “I don’t know if that is regret, but if it is, then yes. I regret a great deal of it.”

Christine bit her lip as she thought. She didn’t know exactly what to make of his apathy toward such horrendous actions, but a part of her wondered how she would feel if she was in his place. If the world had treated her like a monster from the beginning, and denied her any chance of proving otherwise, then what choice would she have other than become the thing they forced her to be? Closing off her feelings would become a necessary part of survival, if she didn’t wish to completely drown in her anguish. She could not blame him for doing what he could to keep himself alive; she was simply glad he was alive with her now, after enduring countless things that would have destroyed lesser men than him.

Taking a deep breath, Christine slid off of the chaise to sit on the floor beside him. She gently touched his arm, and when he did not pull away, she carefully moved her hand down to wrap around his, entwining their fingers together. Erik stared at their joined hands, before he glanced up to Christine. His eyes glistened as they threatened to release their tears again.

“Tell me another story. Tell me why you decided to leave Persia,” Christine said, changing the subject in order to clear the dark thoughts from both of their minds.

He complied, and began another tale of how he subtly became involved in the inside politics of the Persian government. Christine expected herself to be bored, but his brilliant mind explained it all in a fascinating way, and his liquid gold voice held her attention like nothing else.

“The vizier, like many members of court, tolerated me well enough, but I quickly fell out of his favor after…. minorly insulting him and his family.” A small smirk emerged on Erik’s face. “In retaliation, he ordered me to be executed.”

At this, Christine gasped. “ Executed ?” she exclaimed, her hand raising to cover her mouth.

Erik nodded calmly. “The courts and shah alike agreed that I knew too much about their inner-workings, so they quickly put steps in place to ensure my death. Luckily, I did have the loyalty of one person; the shah’s head of security, the Daroga.”

The look in Erik’s eyes softened to one of….not quite fondness, but there was some warmth there. “He was the man who first brought me to Persia at the request of the shah, and he was ordered to check in on me— and, I imagine, prevent me from escaping— as I constructed my inventions. It was quite the annoying arrangement, but after a while I came to expect it from him.” He rolled his eyes and spoke with exasperation, and Christine couldn’t help but grin softly. “By that time, I learned he had grown quite disillusioned with the system of justice in his home country, and felt no guilt in giving up his position as police chief in order to help me. He smuggled me out of Persia, knowing by doing so he could never return. We decided France was far enough away to avoid suspicion.”

“So that is how you came to live here,” Christine concluded.

Erik nodded. “Despite his rejection of career path, I will always know him as Daroga, because he still finds it amusing to police my actions.” He sighed in a way that attempted to be irritated. “Apparently, he still receives a pension from the Persian government to keep an eye on me, in case I decide to enact my revenge. But I have made no attempt to do so, and have no plans at this time, so he must find himself very bored in his flat on the Rue de Rivoli.”

Christine smiled; he spoke of this man with more fondness than anyone else in his stories, which warmed her heart. At least there had been some goodness in his past, no matter how hard Erik tried to deny it. “I would be pleased to meet this Daroga one day, if only to thank him for saving your life.”

Erik looked over at Christine with great tenderness. “You and him would get along quite well, I am sure.”

“And why is that?”

His dark eyes shimmered. “Because both of you believe my life is worth saving,” he said softly.

Christine felt the familiar pang of sorrow return to her chest at his words. She pulled his hand, which was still entwined with hers, into her lap and covered it completely with both of hers. “How many people will it take before you believe it yourself?” she asked, stroking his long fingers gently.

Erik felt tears begin to well in his eyes at her soft touch, and for a second, he allowed himself to believe it. But as the second ended, and her hands did not leave his, he forced himself to look away, glancing at the fire, then at the small clock on the mantle. “It’s late,” he said suddenly. “Very late. You must be getting back.”

Christine groaned in protest. “Oh, must I?” As he got to his feet she did the same, her hands moving to hold onto his arm. “I want to hear more about how you found this place, and how you built all of this.”

Erik glanced down at her, a hazy look of recollection coming over his eyes once again. “That story is one I am particularly proud of,” he remarked, before blinking and refocusing on her. “But I’m afraid it must wait until next time.”

He made a move to leave, but she held fast to his arm, and he glanced back at her. “Promise you’ll tell me?” she urged, looking up at him expectantly.

Erik held her gaze intensely before nodding. “Let my secrets be yours as well,” he whispered, his hand pressing gently into the embrace of her own.

Christine smiled, before letting him lead her from the drawing room and back out to the main cavern, where the boat was waiting.

They were silent on the journey to the opposite shore, which gave them both more time to reflect on everything that was said between them. Erik could hardly believe she was still sitting before him, as calmly as when he brought her there earlier that same evening. Their argument from before seemed like a lifetime ago; so much had changed since then, and he still felt the sting of guilt at how bitterly he had treated her. Cruel, ignorant Erik, and kind, patient Christine!

When they finally reached the shore, he helped her out of the boat, and was almost toppled as she threw her arms around him in an embrace again. This time, he accepted it after only a moment’s hesitation, and held her more tightly than he ever had before. His heart ached when she finally pulled away, but then he met her green-grey eyes, just inches from his own, and the breath caught in his throat. “Thank you, my Angel of Music,” she whispered softly, with a content smile on her face.

Erik stood in awe at her words, as his eyes swept over her beautiful face. She still called him her Angel, as if nothing had changed between them, but she had never said it so gently, so easily, as she did just then. It was trust, he realized, that softened her words, and he swore to himself he would never break it if only to hear her voice speak to him in that way once again.

Finally, her tiny hands fell from his, and she retreated slowly back up the stairs. He followed her with his gaze, rooted in place as he breathed shakily. The hand that she had held so firmly came up to rub over his mouth, and it was then he realized that he was still not wearing his mask.

A wave of shock washed over him as he recollected the past hours; the entire time they spoke together his face had been exposed, and he had not noticed! Even more incredible, Christine had not noticed, or if she did she had shown no sign of distress.

He stood frozen for the longest time on the stony shore, the quiet sound of water brushing against the boat breaking the silence. He had learned from the earliest age to never give his trust to anyone, but Christine was not just anyone. He loved her, he adored her, he would do anything for her, even show her the darkest parts of his heart, the parts even he was afraid to face. He may not trust himself, but he trusted her, and she trusted him.

Trust for trust. A fair trade , he thought with the shadow of a smile.

Christine smiled broadly as she sealed the mirror-door shut behind her and stood once again in her dressing room. As her eyes glanced over the mundane space, her thoughts were giddy, and her heart was soaring.

She had seen her Angel. He had given her what she had desired from the moment she first saw him. She had survived the dark and twisted forest of his mind, and now she had an answer for why he acted the way he did. The answers themselves still made her shudder, but the fact that he had trusted her enough to do something she knew he feared showed how much he respected her. And she had not felt respected in a long time. Still grinning, she opened the door to her dressing room and let her feet begin to carry her to her dormitory.

“Christine!”

The soprano turned around at the sound of her voice, and saw Meg running down the corridor to meet her. “Hello, Meg,” Christine greeted brightly.

Meg looked slightly concerned. “Where have you been?”

Christine’s smile grew wider, if that was even possible, as her mind again filled with thoughts of the Phantom—of Erik. “Oh, just around, practicing a bit, hearing some stories—”

“‘Hearing?’” Meg repeated, alarmed.

“Ah, I meant reading ,” Christine corrected with a laugh. “I guess I’m more tired than I thought. I think I’ll head off to bed.”

She turned around and began to wander down the hall, humming softly to herself. Meg frowned, and moved quickly to catch up with her. “There’s something I need to tell you, Christine,” she muttered as they walked.

Christine sighed, running her hands over her face. “Oh, Meg, can’t it wait until morning? I’m very tired, and I just want to go to sleep.”

“Christine, this is important,” Meg insisted as they reached the hallway of their ballet dormitory. “It’s something about the Comte.”

At the mention of her admirer, Christine groaned. “Oh please, I don’t want to think about the Comte right now. Just let me go to bed, and whatever it is, you can tell me in the morning,”

“But—”

“In the morning , Meg,” Christine pressed, opening the door to her room and stepping inside. “Good night.”

Meg watched her friend close the door softly in her face, and her heart dropped. She considered ripping the door open and telling Christine everything she had overheard between Sorelli and the Comte, but she didn’t think Christine would even listen to her in her current state. Her frown deepened as she considered her friend; she was acting very strange, there was no doubt about it, but she just didn’t know the best way to help her. How do you help someone who won’t even listen to you?

Finally, Meg sighed, and opened the door to her own dormitory. Maybe it was best to wait until morning….she could only hope Christine was in a more reasonable disposition by then.

Chapter Text

Christine woke up the next day in just as high spirits as when she had gone to sleep. As she dressed, she found herself almost looking forward to rehearsal that day; she no longer feared embarrassment from anyone, and the burden of guilt at hiding her secrets had finally been lifted from her shoulders. And it was all thanks to him.

She smiled softly to herself as she ate her breakfast alone in the kitchens. She wished the Phantom was with her; she wondered vaguely what he was doing at that moment, and if he was thinking of her, too. Her mind could not stop replaying the look of admiration on Erik’s face—the last thing she saw before she had climbed back up the stairs. His eyes had glowed like that while looking at her many times before, but this time she had seen the awe encompass every part of his face, even the side he had once kept hidden from her.

Of course, Christine did not forget the fear, anger, guilt, and sorrow that had crossed over his face prior to her departure. She did not forget the horrible images he had created in her head of the things he had suffered through, all of which she found much more hideous than his face could ever be. But that was all they were; images in her head, scars that were not quite faded, remnants of his past that cursed him to this day. They haunted him, yes, but they were not all that he was, and she knew she would never look at him and only see those things; instead, she would only see Erik.

Meg overslept, but Christine did not attempt to wake her; the ballet girl had stayed up late into the evening waiting for Christine to return, and Christine felt partially responsible for depriving her friend of sleep. She also wasn’t keen to hear any more about the Comte, not when all of her thoughts were occupied elsewhere.

A little while before rehearsal, Christine decided to look over her musical score and annotate some things. She made her way to the only free place to practice, the large ballet room next to the corps’ dressing room. When she entered, there were a few petit rats already there, putting on their shoes and stretching, so Christine politely made her way to a far corner of the room and sat down.

She began to study, humming softly and trying to ignore the girls’ tinkling laughs from the other end of the practice room. One of the girls peered at herself in a small handheld mirror, pinching her cheeks. “I dislike the wintertime. It makes my skin go ever so pale,” she groaned woefully.

One of the other girls giggled. “Well, at least it isn’t sickly yellow, like the Opera Ghost’s.”

At the mention of the Ghost, Christine’s ears perked up, but at once wished they hadn’t after hearing what they said. She rolled her eyes and went back to her sheet music, attempting to block out the echo of the dancers’ grating voices.

The first girl sighed. “I would take any color right now, honestly.”

“Watch what you wish for, or else the Ghost will make you as ugly as he is!”

Another girl with pale blonde hair laughed and added, “Indeed; next you’ll be telling us you wish your nose was nothing but a hole in your face!”

Christine bit the inside of her lip so hard she tasted blood. She closed her eyes and forced herself to take a deep breath; they were just teasing, they meant no harm, they didn’t know what they were saying. But even as she repeated those things to herself, the image formed in her mind of a boy trapped in a cage, the cruel words driving into his skin like needles, leaving wounds that would never heal.

Immune to Christine’s distress, the girls continued to chatter away. “That’s one thing I’ve always found odd about the story. Why would he wear fine gentleman’s clothes, if he is anything but?”

“It’s like he’s trying to compensate for how hideous he is.”

“Perhaps he died, and those were the clothes he was buried in. And that’s why he is a skeleton; because his body is all rotted away!”

The first girl looked down at her own slim fingers as they tied up her ballet shoes. “Ugh, imagine having skeleton-hands. Nothing but cold bones and skin.”

“Worse yet, imagine those cold bones and skin touching you ,” another said, poking her friend with a grin.

A couple of the girls shrieked playfully, and the girl with pale blonde hair laughed again. “I would rather kill myself than let such a grotesque thing touch me!”

The statement caused something to shatter inside Christine, finally letting her fiery anger burst free. She stood and stomped over to the girls, who all looked up  at her in bewilderment. “Don’t you dare say such things! You know nothing of what you speak!” Christine scolded.

The pale blonde shrugged and gave a casual smile. “Relax, Christine, it was only a joke.”

“It’s not funny!” Christine declared, practically trembling with fury. “Never again say such wicked things.”

“Or what?” the pale blonde confronted, standing up to face Christine evenly, her eyes shining with defiance. “You will summon the Ghost and have him curse me? I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Christine’s hands balled into fists, and a wave of rage overtook her. But before she could think about raising her hand, a sharp voice rang through the room. “That’s enough!” Madame Giry called from the doorway, and all the girls turned to face her. The ballet mistress’s hawklike eyes landed on the soprano. “Christine Daae, I must speak with you.”

Unease creeped into the pit of Christine’s stomach as she met the ballet mistress’s firm gaze. With one last icy glance over her shoulder at the group of petit rats , she dutifully followed Madame Giry back into the hallway and into the now-deserted dressing room.

“You must learn to control your emotions,” Madame Giry began in a low voice, turning to face Christine. “You cannot risk everyone knowing your secret.”

Christine’s eyes widened, but she fought to keep her face straight. “Secret? Who said I had a secret?”

Madame Giry’s eyes pierced into hers, seeming to cut through to her soul. “I have met him, Christine,” she revealed. “He came to me for help while you were ill. And I know he is the one who has been training you.”

Christine kept her face impassive for a few seconds more, before finally sighing and letting it drop. There was no point in hiding it if Madame Giry already knew. She folded her arms around her chest and turned away, unwilling to glimpse the haunting disapproval on her old teacher’s face.

Madame Giry hesitated, before asking in a gentler tone, “Does he treat you well?”

“Of course,” Christine said, nodding. “If he didn’t, I would have refused to let him teach me for this long.”

The ballet mistress eyed Christine skeptically. “When I spoke with him, he was…erratic. Volatile. It did little to assure me of your safety.”

Christine glared and turned back around, her fiery defensiveness returning. “If you knew him like I do, you would know why he acts in such a way.”

“And you still choose to associate with him so closely?” Madame Giry challenged, not backing down. “Or are you being forced against your will?”

“It is not against my will! I have chosen to continue my meetings with him!” Christine insisted.

Madame Giry leaned back, folding both hands over her cane. “I am merely certifying that you are not being…deceived.”

At this, Christine bristled with outrage. “I am not as much of a fool as everyone takes me for!” she shouted. “I am mistress of my own actions. You have no right to control them, nor does anyone else. I beg you to desist from my personal affairs if this is all that is to come from it.”

“This is not about you, Christine!” Madame Giry matched her frustration. “This is about the man who has been supposedly protecting you for months now.” She continued to speak even when Christine shook her head and turned away again. “He pretends to be a ghost, he steals money from the managers, he damages opera house property, and I’m sure he will not hesitate to do much more if it came to it!”

Christine stood facing the wall, shoulders rising and falling with indignant breaths. She could not protest; she knew all of it was true, no matter how hard she tried to ignore it. A small part of her, the docile young ballet girl, felt guilty for defending someone who could do such deplorable things without a second thought. And yet, that part was not all she was anymore. The rest of her, which had grown and blossomed over the past months, felt nothing but sympathy and pride for the man whom she called her teacher, her friend, and refused to fall into everyone else’s narrow perspective of who he was. For even though she knew he was responsible for all of those things, she also knew he was capable of so much more than they would ever know.

When Christine did not respond, Madame Giry sighed, letting her anger fade into urgency. “I am not here to ask you why you have done this. You have your own reasons, and it is not my place to know them. But…” The older woman took a step closer. “I feel compelled to warn you of what will happen to you.”

Finally, Christine slowly turned back around, meeting Madame Giry’s eyes warily as the mistress continued. “You must realize if you continue down this path, if you continue to hide away and reject all prospects, you will never have a normal life in society. You will never be accepted. People will always be cruel and misunderstand you, just as they do now.” The woman’s gaze was almost soft as she regarded the young soprano in front of her. “Are you willing to accept a life like that?”

Christine’s hands were clenched, and tears threatened to spill from her eyes, but she forced herself to hold them back. She took a deep breath. “All I want is freedom. The freedom to do as I wish, with someone who will always accept me and never hold me back because of what I am.” She was surprised at how her voice sounded; steady, strong, controlled. “I know he can give that to me. And more than that, he needs me in return. Knowing that, I cannot leave him now. I cannot just abandon him.”

Madame Giry frowned. “Have you ever considered that he needs you more than you need him?” She paused, waiting for a response, then shook her head. “I am not sure that the life he offers is what is best for you. It may not be as free as you imagine.”

“‘Best for me’,” Christine repeated, soft but with a deadly bitterness.

The ballet mistress finally placed a bony hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. “I urge you, Christine. Just think about it. I would hate to see you make a decision you will one day come to regret.”

With that, Madame Giry let her hand fall back to her side and strode back out of the room. Christine stood frozen in place for a few more moments as a fierce battle raged inside her mind and her heart, until finally she gave a heavy sigh and left the dressing room as well.

But behind the thin wall of the dressing room, the Phantom remained for even longer. His ears rang with the echo of the overheard conversation, his feelings engaging in their own war inside his head. His hopes had been so high, too high, after their trade of trust; he should have known something was coming to tear them back down.

The thing that broke him most was Christine. She was confident that he could give her all she wanted: freedom, acceptance, happiness. When before a thought like that would send his heart soaring, he now felt it sink deeper into his chest as he realized how impossible it was. The only life he could offer her was one of darkness, threats, and secrets—the only one he had ever known. He could not allow society to reject her the way it had rejected him; she might argue and say she doesn’t care, but one day she might and by then it will be too late.

His eyes burned with tears that spilled hot down his face as his thoughts continued to torture him. It didn’t matter what he felt for her; his feelings never mattered in situations like this. His own selfish love could not get in the way of what he knew had to be done. He had to make her understand the mistake they were making, and stop all of it before they were in too deep. Before they passed a point of no return.

Rehearsal was tedious for Christine. Her voice was fine and handled the melodies of her arias well, to the satisfaction of the music director, but it lacked the passion it usually carried. When she was not singing, she could not bring herself to focus on anything for longer than a few seconds, before her mind returned to its despairing thoughts.

Meg never showed up to rehearsal; apparently she was in a group of ballet girls who needed to be fitted for their costumes, so they spent rehearsal time in the costume department getting everything in order. Christine did not mind this much, for she had already endured the wrath of one Giry today.

Once the rehearsal had finally concluded, Christine rushed back to her dressing room, anxious to hide away and wait for the time when she could see her teacher. But when she opened the door, she was shocked when her eyes laid on the tall frame of the Phantom already standing in the middle of the room. He glanced up and met her eyes, and Christine thought she saw tears in them. “Christine,” he said in a hushed voice.

“Erik!” she exclaimed, before nervously checking both ends of the hallway to see if anyone had heard her. When she saw no one, she quickly entered and closed the door. “What are you doing?”

The Phantom was breathing heavily, as if he was in great pain. “This…,” he muttered, swallowing uncomfortably. “This cannot go on, Christine.”

Christine frowned in confusion. “What?”

“I heard your conversation with Madame Giry, and she is right.” He shook his head. “I am not what is best for you.”

“What are you saying?” Christine said, a horrible dread seeping into her soul at his words.

The Phantom took a heavy breath, the hands at his sides flexing uncontrollably as he forced himself to go on. “I have deceived you. I should never have lured you away like I did, and you should never have trusted me. You belong up here with everyone else, away from me.”

Christine looked down and shook her head, fighting back tears. “You’re not making sense, Erik. I don’t understand—”

Suddenly, the Phantom reached up and grabbed her shoulders, firmly but careful enough not to harm her, and forced her to look at him again. He spoke shakily, his beautiful voice desperate and pleading. “I cannot give you the life you want. The more time you spend with me, the further away from everything else you become. If we go on with this arrangement, I will ruin all chances of you ever having a normal life, the life you deserve.” He paused, hating himself when he saw the despair in her expression. “And I am sorry.”

Christine’s hands gripped his forearms, her voice breaking. “Erik, stop this. Please, I cannot bear it—”

A knock on the door made them both jump. Before she could stop him, the Phantom had slipped his arms out of her hands and back over to the mirror-door. “Wait!” Christine whispered pleadingly, catching the sleeve of his jacket. He looked back at her, and the anguish in his eyes was identical to her own. Before she could beg him to stay, another knock sounded through the room.

“Christine?” a male voice asked on the other side.

The Phantom’s dark eyes glinted with tears, his heart straining as he shook his head at her and tried to pull his sleeve from her grip. With great reluctance, she finally released it with a gasp. He pressed the lever to close the mirror between them, just as the door to her dressing room opened.

Christine turned around and met the sky-blue eyes of a respectable-looking man with sandy-brown hair. He smiled at her warmly. “Why hello, Mademoiselle Daae,” he said, nodding his head politely. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“Hello,” Christine replied faintly, the forced switch in emotion leaving her in a state of shock.

The man gave her a friendly smile. “Forgive me for my forwardness. I am Philippe, Comte de Chagny, at your service,” he said in a pleasant, gentlemanly voice, holding out his hand.

At the name, Christine felt her heart drop, but she tried to act like she was merely flustered. “Oh! It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Monsieur.” She took his offered hand, and he leaned down to place a small kiss on the back of her hand. The action made her flush with embarrassment, but thankfully his touch did not remain on her skin long.

The Comte folded his hands behind his back as he addressed her again. “I was hoping you might finally join me for tea this afternoon. I trust you are not otherwise occupied, now that rehearsal is over for the day.”

Christine cringed on the inside as she finally heard the request she had been dreading. Her mind worked desperately to find an excuse, but she quickly realized that anything she said would just put it off longer, and she should get it over with now. “Thank you for the generous offer. I would be…” She absently turned her head to the side, and saw her reflection in the floor-length mirror staring back at her. Ice-cold guilt drove through her heart like a knife as she imagined the man on the other side, listening to every word she said. “I would be delighted,” she said in an ashamed tone.

Not noticing her troubled demeanor, the Comte merely smiled again. “Wonderful! And don’t worry, there’s no need to change; you look lovely already.”

Christine turned back to him, and saw that he had noticed her looking at her reflection. She wanted to say that wasn’t what she was worried about, but she held her tongue. With one more longing look at the mirror, she let him take her hand and lead her out of the room, her guilt growing worse with every step she took.

“So…,” the Comte began as he tugged her stiff hand through the backstage area and out into the foyer of the Opera House, “What did stop you from replying to my letters?”

Christine sighed and tried to focus on her answer to the question. “I’ve been rather busy these past few weeks. Opera rehearsals take up much of my time, and there were some personal things to take care of as well.”

“Like what?” he pressed, his gaze landing on her rather firmly.

Christine frowned; the way he said the words was gentle enough, but his urgency showed that he obviously couldn’t tell how intrusive he was being. It made her stomach twist in an unpleasant way. “I took a day off in October to honor the day my father passed away. Then I was ill a bit later, so I had to rest for a few days more.”

His eyes softened at her explanations. After a moment, Christine sighed. “I apologize, it was very rude to not reply to you.”

The Comte held her gaze thoughtfully for a moment more, before giving a small smile. “It’s quite all right now,” he said, patting the back of her hand. “I am just pleased we could finally have some time to talk.”

They opened the doors of the Opera House and walked down the steps. The mid-November day was chilly and bright, with the sun casting warm rays down onto the bustling Paris street. As the gentle wind caught Christine’s hair, the Comte grinned at her. “You are much more beautiful up close than you are on the stage,” he said softly, close to her ear.

Christine’s face burned, and she pulled away slightly. “Thank you,” she said in an insecure voice. She did not smile.

“Here we are,” the Comte said, gesturing to a café on the corner of a building directly across the street from the Opera House, under a sign that read Café de la Paix. It looked very fine, finer than any place Christine had eaten at before. A wave of diffidence overcame her as she reluctantly followed the Comte through the door.

She wished Philippe would have let her change into something nicer. When they stepped inside the café, she realized at once she was quite underdressed; her simple light blue dress was fine for opera practice, but it paled when compared to the billowing skirts and bustles of the aristocratic ladies. They passed by tables covered in decadent food, passed under ornate ceilings and columns, weaved around beautiful people sitting at perfect posture. Christine felt quite out of place.

Finally, the Comte sat her down at a table in the corner of the luxurious tearoom, which was bathed in golden light from several decorative chandeliers. Christine could not quite bring herself to be awed by the décor, not when her stomach was squeezing with anxiety and her heart felt empty.

Philippe ordered the tea, then sat down and began to talk to Christine; he began with his family’s estate in Chagny, his parents who had both sadly passed, and then his siblings. He had two younger sisters and one brother, the latter of which he spoke of with a warmth that was almost paternal. He proudly stated that his little brother was serving in the Navy currently, otherwise he would have liked to bring him along to Paris.

The large tearoom echoed with the sound of wealthy guests chattering and eating politely, so much that Christine could barely focus on what Philippe was saying. However, he didn’t seem to notice her lack of attention, simply continuing his one-sided conversation while Christine stared down miserably at her porcelain teacup.

At last, the tea arrived along with several plates of delicate pastries and sandwiches. Christine went to pour her own cup, but Philippe stopped her with a small laugh. He then added the milk in first, explaining with slight condescension that the boiling-hot tea would crack the porcelain cup if poured in first. Christine bit her lip and fought back another wave of self-consciousness; could it be made any more clear that she did not belong here?

After a few more agonizing moments, the Comte finally broke the silence. “I am aware that other noblemen have… close relations with dancers and singers.” He eyed Christine carefully. “But I want to be clear that those sorts of affairs are not what I intend from this relationship.”

Christine met his pale blue gaze. “I didn’t assume they would be,” she said honestly.

Philippe smiled brightly and nodded. “I’m glad we are on the same page.” He sipped his tea thoughtfully, then decided to address her again. “What would you think of a trip outside of Paris? I would be honored to show you my family’s estate; the grounds are quite excellent this time of year.”

Christine stared at him in shock. “Leave Paris? Oh, I couldn’t, I have the opera coming up, and Christmas, and—”

The Comte cut her off with a small chuckle. “Not to worry, Christine. It can wait for another time if you’d like. Although I must inform you, it is traditional to meet the groom’s family before the wedding.”

The spoon Christine had been holding clattered against the saucer after it fell from her fingers. Her whole body had gone rigid, and it took her a moment to form words again. “ Wedding? Whose wedding?” she managed to gasp out.

“Ours, of course,” the Comte said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He eyed her curiously. “I thought you understood that when you acknowledged the nature of our relationship.”

Christine slowly shook her head as she continued to stare at him. “That was definitely not my understanding,” she said adamantly.

Philippe finally sighed, folding his arms on the table in front of him. “I will be frank with you, Christine. After the loss of my father, I have recently become the patriarch of my family. Such an event made me realize the absence of certain things in my life that I need to properly handle that burden, for me and my siblings. One of those things,” he said, reaching over to take her hand. “Is a wife.”

Christine watched his hand squeeze hers before releasing it; she felt like it was happening to someone else. She wished it was happening to someone else. “But…I barely know you. We saw each other for the first time today.”

Philippe shrugged, picking up his tea again. “Oh please, you must have learned a little something about me from our correspondence. I certainly learned much about you.” He took a sip casually. “Besides, I saw you before at your opera premiere, though you must forgive me for being too shy to greet you in person.” He laughed, eyeing Christine playfully. “It seems that you’re not the only coy one at this table.”

Christine’s face burned with a mix of anger and mortification. She fought to keep her breathing steady, aware of the other patrons seated close to them. Her mind swirled with thought after thought; the memory of her conversation with Madame Giry was still fresh, and so was her strange encounter with the Phantom. The insistence presented by each of them prompted her to play devil’s advocate. “If I marry you, what would happen? Where would we live? How would I still sing at the Opera House?”

“Christine, you won’t have to sing in the opera anymore,” he replied, as if presenting her with good news.

“Well, what if I want to?”

Philippe scoffed. “The wife of a Comte is too busy with other things to do that.”

She didn’t want to ask what other “things” she would be busy with; she couldn’t even begin to imagine the complicated rules and codes involved in that realm of the world she knew so little of. “And you think I am ready for such things? I don’t even know how to pour tea correctly!” she remarked with a quick, nervous laugh.

“You will learn,” he said confidently with a dismissive wave of his hand. “All women are well equipped to handle such things. Although, I must warn you that your shyness may not be tolerated well amongst others of my standing. Of course I can forgive it, but such actions may not seem as charming to others. Do you understand?” He paused only for a second, before he continued without waiting for an answer. “Like I tell my younger brother, ‘It is not good to be too good.’ Sometimes you must be courageous. Sometimes we must do things we’ve never done before.”

Christine sat in silence for a few more moments, confused as she tried to make sense of what the Comte had told her. At last, she decided enough was enough. “Philippe, I…” She sighed wearily. “I cannot agree to this. Whatever you know about me is untrue, I am sure of it. I could never be the woman you need as your wife, and I could never live the life you have offered me.” Groaning, she let her head fall into her hands. “This is all just too much.”

Now it was Philippe’s turn to look confused. “Christine,” he said with a frown. “I don’t understand.”

Christine let her hands fall from her face and looked Philippe firmly in the eyes. “Then try to,” she urged, the beginnings of her anger returning. “Ask me what I want. Ask me what you can do for me. Ask me where I want to go.”

The Comte met her gaze fearfully. “Where do you want to go?”

“Home,” she whispered, before standing from the table and quickly striding across the tearoom to the doorway. She ignored the way everyone’s heads turned to look, and the sound of Philippe calling her name.

Christine gave no thought to the peering eyes of the staff as she raced through the wide halls of the Opera House. The edges of her dress whipped around every corner, causing wrinkles to form in the light blue fabric, but she did not care. The only thing on Christine’s mind in that moment was finding the quickest way to the underground lair, in order to find the Phantom.

She swerved around stagehands and gossiping petit rats until she reached an almost imperceptible gap in the wall. She ducked into the gap quickly and followed its twisting route, until she reached a set of stone steps leading down into a dark passage, which connected to the corridor from behind her mirror. Christine began her descent at once, the light from torches illuminating her path.

By now, she knew the way by heart, having traveled it almost every day for the past several months. She knew every crack in the stone, every pressure point indicating a hidden trap, perhaps as well as the man who had built them in the first place. In the near-darkness of the passageway, her thoughts were overflowing. I should have never agreed to his request, I should have expected it to be that bad. What on Earth will people say about me now? I need to tell him it didn’t mean anything, I will make him believe me. But what if it’s already too late? No, it can’t be….

Christine finally reached the bottom of the stairs and let her hand trace over the solid cavern wall. The feel of the cool rock against her fingertips felt like home, and she prayed it would remain her home for longer than this afternoon. “Erik!” she cried out into the darkness, towards the distant glimmer of the many candles surrounding his rooms. When she received no response, not even the sound of his music, she swiftly treaded her way along the path that wrapped around the lake, fear rising in her chest.

Once Christine made it to the main platform of the lair, her stomach dropped as she looked around. Sheets of music and shards of broken candles were strewn everywhere; ink was splattered across the stone floor, gleaming wetly under the flickering flames. Torn fabric, seemingly from a curtain, lay crumbled on the ground. Fragments of glass and metal spilled out from the entryway to one of the cavern’s rooms.

After pausing a moment to take in the mess, Christine knelt down and picked up a discarded page of music; she recognized it as a piece she was currently learning with the Phantom, one of the first ones that he had written himself. A wave of sorrow came over her as she glanced around again at the papers scattered over the dark floor. Without a word, she stood and began picking up every single sheet, starting with the ones nearest the shore of the lake that threatened to glide into the misty water.

Once she was done, she placed the restored stack upon the music stand on his desk. She then turned to face the inner rooms of his lair. “Erik?” she called.

After a moment, she heard a faint tune drifting from deep within the cavern’s rooms. It sounded vaguely familiar to her, but she could not quite place it. Christine proceeded to search for the sound, hoping it would lead her to what she needed.

The quiet tune led her to the doorway of the library, where several wooden shelves covering the walls held many leather-bound books. Along the far side of the room, a couple small steps emerged from the floor and formed the podium for a small music box; atop it was attached the figure of a monkey playing the cymbals, its little robes lined with velvet and gold thread. She had often wondered about the origins of the curious trinket, but now she gave it no attention. Instead, her gaze landed on the Phantom, who was sitting on his knees on the steps beside the music box, his head down and tilted away from her.

Slowly, she entered the room, her footsteps dulled by the gentle chiming of the music box. Only when she was a few feet from him did he turn his head partially, confirming to himself that she was there, and then faced the box again. It was enough for Christine to glimpse tear tracks running down the visible side of his face.

“You came back.” His voice was unusually hoarse, and the soft pain underlying his words made Christine’s heart sting.

“Of course I did,” she whispered.

He finally dared to look up at her. His dark eyes were clouded with doubt, with longing. She reached out her hand to brush his shoulder; he let it rest there only a moment, before he caught it in his own hand and slowly brought it to his lips. His touch lingered on her skin in a way Philippe’s did not, and the simple act brought Christine to her knees beside him. Her fingers stroked the left side of his jaw lightly, while his hand moved shakily up her arm. Eventually, the Phantom wrapped his arms around Christine’s middle, pulling himself to her and burying his face into the waist of her bodice. Christine accepted his embrace, clinging to him just as tightly.

They sat there for a long time, eventually shifting so Christine sat on the step and leaned against the wall while the Phantom lay beside her, his head resting on the folds of the dress covering her lap. He had removed his mask, which now lay beside her as she let her fingers gently trace over his face.

“So, how did it go?” Erik asked, breaking their silence.

Christine gave a humorless smile. “Horribly,” she replied. “He was nice and all, but he just doesn’t understand me, and isn’t willing to make the effort.” She sighed wearily, shaking her head. “He told me that ‘It is not good to be too good,’ which I guess means I was too virtuous for him.”

“Too good? Too virtuous?” Erik stared up at her with a look of bewilderment. “Christine, your goodness is your greatest strength.”

Christine looked down at him with a blushing smile. “Well, he didn’t seem to think so.” She let the back of her finger brush across his cheek as she thought. “We come from two very different worlds, him and I, and I don’t think we could make each other happy.”

His eyes fluttered closed at her soft touch, and he felt tears begin to form in his eyes again. “I thought you weren’t coming back,” he admitted quietly.

Christine frowned. “Why would you think that?”

Erik sighed. “Everything I told you, I thought he would show you it was all true. He would show you the life I am taking you from; the life you deserve.” He opened his eyes to stare into hers. “You deserve a place of power and luxury, which are things he could give you easily. To everyone else, the choice is obvious; In their eyes, he is perfect for you.”

Christine gave a scoff of annoyance, not at him but at the people he spoke of. “How could they possibly know what is perfect for me? They didn’t give me a second’s thought before they learned I could sing for them, and even now they still don’t care about what I believe is right. I will never mean anything more to them than a means through which to help themselves.” She cupped the side of his jaw with her hand. “You are the only person in ten years that truly cares about me.”

Erik lay there in her lap with his face in her hands, a mixture of emotions brewing in his chest: tenderness for her and disdain for the rest of the world, yet he could not bring himself to feel hopeful towards himself. At last, he slowly sat up, bringing his face out of her hands, but still sitting close to her. His eyes avoided hers as he shook his head. “Such dreadful choices the world has given you,” he remarked in a defeated tone. “A life of mundane cruelty, or one in the company of a monster.”

“You are not a monster,” Christine insisted.

He gave her a dubious look. “Christine,” he began; he wanted to argue and call her claim ridiculous, remind her of everything he had done, tell her to just look at his face. But she already was looking at his face when the words had passed her lips, and the firm look she gave him now made him pause. He searched for a long time in her green-grey eyes for any trace of uncertainty, but he found nothing but unwavering honesty, stubborn affection.

And that was what made him believe her.

She saw the change in his dark eyes, and carefully pulled him into an embrace, her arms wrapping around his waist and behind his neck. He nervously settled his head against her shoulder, his heart pounding, but once he felt her fingers rubbing against his skin, he relaxed and leaned against her form.

He had never felt his face was safe; even when he had the mask in place, he lived in constant fear of it being removed or lost. But here, in her arms, with his mangled skin pressed against the curve of her neck, he felt completely and utterly sheltered from everything that could hurt him, for the first time in his life.

Chapter Text

The next few weeks passed unceremoniously, compared to all that had transpired in the weeks before. The Comte had not written another letter to Christine, nor had he appeared at the Opera House again, to the dismay of more than one young ballerina. As for Christine herself, she was grateful to consider the matter finished, and returned to her normal schedule of rehearsal after rehearsal.

As November creeped into December, the upcoming holidays became the main subject of conversation. The workers and performers at the Opera House took two weeks off for the winter holidays; those with families nearby went off to visit, while others, including many of the petit rats , stayed at the Opera House and shared their own holiday traditions.

This was what Christine had become accustomed to during her time at the Opera Populaire, but this year, there was something— some one — new she had to consider. During the day she would help Meg and the other girls put up branches of ivy and mistletoe in the dressing rooms, and in the evenings she would join the Phantom in his lair. They still practiced their music, but often they would simply talk or read together, simply enjoying each other’s company.

One of these evenings, Christine found herself perusing through the lair’s library. The Phantom seemed to have a different taste in literature than she did; many of the books that lined the shelves were nonfiction, detailed accounts of history, architecture, and medicine in several different languages. The only fictions she could find were related to operas, along with a few copies of works by some fellow named Edgar Allen Poe.

Sighing in boredom, she trotted back out to the main cavern, which was filled with the echoing sound of the organ. She approached the man who wove the strange melody, and waited until he paused to write something down before speaking. “What are you working on?” she asked, her hand coming up to rest on his shoulder.

The Phantom looked up at her, and surprisingly didn’t flinch when he saw her so close. “It is my masterwork,” he said. Flipping to the first page in the leather-bound scorebook, he let her read the title: Don Juan Triumphant . “It is nearly finished now. And once it is, I plan to share it with the world. With your help, of course, my Angel.”

Christine smiled in delight at the thought of singing in an opera written by his own hand. “I look forward to it,” she said, squeezing his shoulder.

The Phantom nodded, before glancing back down at the page full of notes. “Hopefully I’ll have a chance to test how some of the score sounds in the opera hall itself, now that rehearsals have officially paused for the annual winter break.”

“Don’t you take time off as well?” Christine inquired.

The Phantom scoffed lightly. “Why would I? There’s nothing I’d rather do than this.” His fingers rested on the keys in front of them, absently playing a lighter version of the melody he had just been working on. “Besides, it’s the only time the hall is empty and I don’t have to worry about the managers disrupting my artistic affairs.”

Christine regarded him curiously. “So you don’t celebrate the holidays?” As soon as she asked, she realized how foolish the question was. His fingers ceased their playing, and though he didn’t look at her, she knew a darkness had fallen over his eyes. Her heart squeezed painfully, like it did every time she thought about how cruel life had been to him. She didn’t wish to embarrass or anger him any more than he already was. “No, I suppose you don’t,” she answered herself quietly.

A moment passed where they said nothing, then Christine suddenly asserted, “We must change that, then.” She took both his hands and made him face her. “This year, Erik, we will celebrate Christmas together.”

The Phantom looked at her like she had gone mad. He stumbled on his words for a second, before he inhaled and focused on what to say. “Christine, I don’t know if that would be appropriate.” He gave an awkward laugh. “Any relationship I have with God is…tentative at best. As such, it is unfamiliar to me to celebrate holy days.”

Christine shrugged. “Well, Christmas isn’t just that. At least, not for me. My father and I used to collect evergreen branches and hang them around our home, wherever we found ourselves staying. He would play the most beautiful carols, and taught me to make my mother’s pepparkakor .”

“Pardon me?” the Phantom interjected.

Christine laughed. “Oh, they’re these Swedish biscuits with cinnamon and ginger. The Christmas season wasn’t complete without them.”

The Phantom stared at her with wide eyes. “I’ve never heard you speak Swedish,” he said softly.

Under his intense gaze, she blushed. “Well, now you have.” She squeezed his hands, before letting them go and pacing around the organ, thinking carefully. “I’ll have to see if the boulangerie has anything similar, and if they do I’ll buy some and bring them over; I’d love for you to try them. And I’m sure you know some of the Christmas songs we used to sing. Oh, I wish you could come to Christmas Mass, they play the most beautiful music. Maybe you could make an exception, just this once!”

As Christine rambled out her plans, the Phantom couldn’t stop the torrent of doubts from flooding into his mind, and he shifted anxiously on the bench. Finally, he muttered, “Christine,” which made her turn to face him. He inhaled, considering how to gently reveal his dark thoughts. “I’m pleased that you find enjoyment on this holiday. Especially in these last years, when you’ve been on your own. But…I’m afraid my inclusion would only damage things for you.” He swallowed nervously as he watched Christine’s face begin to fall. “What I mean to say is…I don’t want to be the reason you break your traditions. It’s alright if you just go along with them without me, as you have for so long.”

Christine gaped at him. “What? And leave you here all by yourself on Christmas? Certainly not.” She went over to stand by his side again, taking his hand. “We’ll just have to have our own Christmas Mass here.”

The Phantom looked up at her, his helpless eyes meeting her resolved gaze. He didn’t have it in his heart to deny Christine, even if he believed that what she wished was too good to be true. At last, he sighed in a yielding way. “If you are sure…then that is what we will do.”

The morning of Christmas Eve arrived, and Christine winced as an icy gust of wind attacked her face while she exited the boulangerie. She wished she could pull her cloak around herself, but as her arms were already occupied with two parcels of sweets, she merely braced her teeth and continued down the busy Paris street. Instead of heading back towards the Opera House, Christine made her way down a branching street to the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Victoires. She figured it had been too long since she had paid her benefactress a visit, and that the holidays were the perfect time to remedy that.

Christine found the familiar entrance to the flat and rang the bell. The door opened and a round-faced woman peered out, meeting the young woman’s eyes with a smile. “Mademoiselle Christine! How wonderful to see you!”

“Hello, Emilie,” Christine greeted brightly. She stepped into the flat, savoring the respite from the bitter cold. “How have you been?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Emilie replied, taking the parcels from Christine’s arms and setting them on a nearby table. She then turned and helped Christine out of her cloak.

“And how is my great aunt?” the soprano asked, hanging her cloak on a coat stand by the door.

Emilie shrugged. “She has her good days and bad days. Today seems alright so far, which I hope is thanks to the holiday.” The kind caretaker shot a pointed glance over to the packages on the table. “Those aren’t all sweets for her, are they?”

Christine grinned. “Not all of them are for her. I was already at the boulangerie, so I thought I’d pick up some of her favorite orange madeleines, as a Christmas present.”

Emilie gave a mock-annoyed huff, shaking her head in amusement at the other woman. “Once she knows they’re here, that’s all she will eat until they are gone! I swear, her sweet tooth is as big as yours!”

Christine chuckled lightly, before becoming serious again. “Do you think it’d be alright if I saw her?”

“Of course, Mademoiselle,” Emilie said, before leading the young woman down the corridor to the door of a bedroom. “She’s just working on her knitting.”

After knocking softly, Emilie opened the door to the ill-lit room. Christine entered and looked upon the age-worn face of her Great Aunt Valérius. Her head was tilted down toward the pile of thread in front of her, but at the sound of footsteps in the room she raised her bright blue eyes. “Who’s there?” she said, looking right at Christine.

“It’s me, Auntie. It’s Christine.” A pang of guilt seeped into Christine’s chest as she paced over and sat upon her benefactress’s bedside.

“Christine? What a curious name,” the old woman said, frowning in thought. “There are not many Christines in France, are there? Except for this famous soprano I keep hearing about in the newspaper.” She waved her hand towards the newspaper that sat upon her bedside table, before glancing at Christine again. “You must have heard about her. They say she sounds as lovely as an Angel. I wonder if my grand-niece has met her; she is a dancer at the opera, you know.”

Christine swallowed, the pain of seeing her aunt in such a state making her heart hurt. She reached out a hand and gently took hold of the old woman’s fingers. “Auntie, it’s me. I am not a dancer anymore; I found a voice teacher, and now I sing in the operas.”

“You sing, Christine?” Aunt Valérius said, her eyes growing wide. She let out a soft laugh. “Well then, it’s finally happened! The Angel of Music has finally visited you.”

Christine shook her head. “You know there is no such thing as the Angel of Music,” she said, even as a tender warmth began to brew inside her stomach. “My teacher is nothing but a man. A very…unique man.”

Aunt Valérius suddenly frowned in shock. “A man? At your age? Why, you are still only a little girl!”

“I’m twenty-four, Auntie, and I can take care of myself,” Christine said patiently, moving a hand up to brush a strand of white hair out of her aunt’s face.

Her aunt’s bright eyes traveled over Christine’s expression thoughtfully. “You are quite lucky that the Angel has chosen you,” she said softly.

Now it was Christine’s turn to laugh, though not without a hint of bashfulness. “Auntie, there is no Angel! That was just a story.”

Aunt Valérius leaned back against the pillows, smiling absentmindedly. “Oh, dear Christine, how you love your stories! You used to beg your father to repeat them to you, and you stayed up long into the night reading with a candle by your bedside. And many times you said you dreamt of the Angel, but once you awoke you could never remember exactly what he sounded like. You always loved those dreams.” Suddenly, the gaze of Aunt Valérius became serious, meeting Christine’s eyes firmly. “You do love him, don’t you?”

Christine stiffened, and her heart clenched. Something in her great aunt’s voice made her seem like she wasn’t talking about a story anymore. After a moment, Christine let out another soft laugh and shook her head, trying to shrug off the feeling of butterflies in her stomach. “Auntie, don’t be silly—”

But Aunt Valérius interrupted her. “Child, look how you blush! It must be very cold in here. Emilie, close the window!”

At her call, Emilie entered the room and stepped over towards the already-shut window, but stopped when Christine spoke again. “It’s alright, Emilie. I was just leaving.” The young soprano turned back to her great aunt, squeezing her fragile hand. “I must go now, Auntie Valérius. I’m glad to hear you are doing well. Merry Christmas.”

Aunt Valérius frowned. “You are not leaving me so soon?”

“Forgive me, Auntie. I promised I would spend Christmas at the Opera House. There’s someone there who needs me.”

She pressed a kiss to the old woman’s brow and stood from her place by the bedside. As Christine began to exit the room behind Emilie, Aung Valérius called after her. “Yes, go back to your good genius! The Angel of Music has blessed you, and you should be proud!”

Emilie closed the door behind them and the two women walked together down the hall back to the foyer. Christine removed her cloak from the stand by the door and wrapped it around her shoulders, before turning to see Emilie waiting, holding the other parcel of sweets. “Thank you for taking care of her, Emilie. It means so much to me,” Christine said, taking the paper box from the caretaker’s hands.

Emilie smiled and nodded. “I’m happy to do it, Mademoiselle. Merry Christmas.” Christine wished her the same before turning to face the winter air outside of the flat again.

Back on the Paris street, Christine dazedly reflected on what had just been said. Her great aunt had never been the most rational person, and age had only worsened that, which made Christine hesitant to accept anything she said as sincere. But the question her aunt had asked her, and the grave way it had been spoken, as if it was already a fact and she was daring her to deny it…

You do love him, don’t you?

Christine frowned as she walked down the side of the road, trusting her feet to carry her while her mind spun with thoughts.

The only things Christine knew of love were from books and fairytales; a poor source of information, she knew, but throughout her motherless childhood they were all she had. Some of the ballet girls had fancied one of the stagehands or an audience member before, but those small infatuations never lasted long. Everyone she asked said that she would know real love when she saw it, and that one day someone would catch her eye, steal her heart, strike her fancy. When it was explained like that, it all seemed so sudden, so forceful; how could you just be living your life one moment, and the next your heart belonged to someone else?

Things had not been so with the Phantom. When she first saw him, she had been stunned, but that was because he was a tall, strange man lurking in the shadows and wearing a mask. But slowly, as she learned who he was and how he acted, her initial surprise had ebbed away, and a simple fondness had taken its place. She enjoyed his curious way of speaking and moving, and she could not deny how his voice made her heart tremble. But none of that she would call love, not in the way she understood it.

It was only after all their lessons in the library that Christine began to seek out his company, like she did after that embarrassing rumor. She had not turned to Meg, or to Madame Giry, or anyone else she had known for much longer. No—she had run to the Phantom. She had not even thought about it; her feet simply carried her down to the lair, and before she knew it her arms were around him. But was that love, or just the desire for safety? Did she seek him out because that was where her heart was, or because she knew he was the only one who would protect her?

Christine clutched the package of sweets closer to her chest as she crossed the street, carefully dodging between fiacres and other passersby as her mind continued to wander. Stability and protection were things that had been scarce her entire life. Of course her father had cared for her, but he had also dragged her all across the countrysides of Sweden and France at a young age, until eventually Christine felt no real connection to anywhere. And after that part of her life had ended, she had finally found routine as a ballet dancer, but it lacked all the warmth she had known before. Both things she had found again all those months ago with that one slip of paper in her cubby, requesting her for a midnight meeting.

Her time with the Phantom had given her the stability she craved; every evening she looked forward to their lessons, at the same time and same place, with the same ethereal voice calling her an Angel once again. 

While he could be unpredictable in his moods, his routine with her never wavered, and he always regarded her with the same respect and dedication as he did in the beginning. And as for protection…

Christine shivered, not from the wind this time, but from the memory of just how protective of her the Phantom could be. She had seen it in his eyes more than once; that dark, burning glare that threatened to turn anyone they landed upon into stone. And when he spoke, his graceful voice was laced with poison as it swore to do unspeakable things to the people that had harmed her. He had told her he would do anything for her, but only now did she realize how much he meant it. He was prepared to do anything , even corrupt his own soul, just to avenge his Angel. But, he had not done so, simply because she had told him not to.

The power she held over him frightened Christine, but also strangely made her chest swell. The thought that she knew someone who would do anything in the world if she merely asked for it made her feel…

Christine sighed. There was really no other word for it. She felt loved . As her cheeks began to flush with warmth, she walked a few more steps before realizing she had gone a block too far, and quickly turned around to find the right street again.

Could Erik truly love her? Did she dare consider the possibility? As soon as she began to ponder the thought, she felt an ache deep in her bones that told her it was true. Erik had done things for her that she had never asked him to do, but he somehow knew that she needed. He listened to her, and understood her better than anyone she had ever known. He gave her comfort without expecting any in return; in fact, when she did return it, he always seemed surprised, as if he deserved it less than she did.

Christine felt tears begin to form in her eyes as Erik’s words came tumbling back into her mind. You are too good, Christine. I don’t deserve you. He had been told such lies all his life, lies that had warped and darkened the most sensitive parts of his soul, until all he had to cling to was the devout belief that he was broken beyond repair.

But his brokenness didn’t scare her, nor did she rebuke him because of it. Still, she wished it wasn’t there, only to save him from the pain it caused him every day. She wanted to see him healed, to see him smile, to hear him laugh. Not because he had done all of that for her, but because…because…

Christine gasped and stopped in the middle of the street, a few tears finally falling.

She loved him.

She stood in shock for a moment, then raised a hand over her mouth to cover the giggle that sprang from her throat. She couldn’t imagine how ridiculous she must look, laughing in the middle of a crowded street, but in that moment she did not care. She had never known her heart to be so full, expecting it to burst at any second from the way it pounded almost painfully inside her chest.

Christine finally glanced around to the shops on either side of the street, and noticed the bookshop she had been searching for a few meters away. She practically skipped inside, the grin on her face unable to be erased, her thoughts settled on just one thing: she loved Erik.

That evening could not come quick enough. After a few hours celebrating with Meg and the other girls, Christine had managed to separate from the festivities, giving a half-believable excuse that she wished to spend the rest of the evening with her thoughts. Only Meg seemed to be suspicious, but the blonde-haired dancer had mercifully avoided any awkward questions and let Christine return to her dressing room alone.

Christine dressed quickly in her most festive attire, and then perched herself in front of the vanity, waiting for the time to pass. Her hands fiddled impatiently with the twine that held the paper box of sweets together, as well as the wrapping paper coating the Phantom’s Christmas gift. Her stomach was twisted with nerves, and she was vaguely reminded of the hours before her first practice with the Phantom. Where before she had dreaded the time she would see him again, worried about disappointing him, now she was only filled with bubbling excitement.

After only five minutes of sensing her mind begin to go mad, Christine huffed and strode over to the floor-length mirror. She pressed the hidden lever on the side that the Phantom had shown her, and it slid open to reveal the familiar passageway. Smiling, she gathered up the box of sweets and the wrapped parcel into her arms and stepped into the dark corridor, sealing the door behind her.

Christine followed the well-worn path deeper and deeper into the recesses of the Opera House. Her heart beat more furiously with each step, and the fluttering feeling of butterflies returned to her stomach. She looked down at the gifts in her arms, illuminated by the passing torches, and smiled at the memory of the spark lighting up the Phantom's dark eyes.

Distracted by her thoughts, she did not notice the shadow moving towards her from further down the corridor. She collided into it with a surprised “Oof!”, but two strong arms caught her before she could fall over. In the flickering light from the torch on the wall, she saw the masked face of the Phantom, who looked just as startled as her.

He opened his mouth to ask if she was alright, but before he could she had pulled him into a one-armed hug, tucking her smiling face into his chest. “Merry Christmas Eve,” he heard her say, her voice muffled. Eventually she took a small step back, removing herself from his chest while still remaining close, and looked up at him curiously. “What?” she said with a grin.

The Phantom was staring at her in awe. Christine was adorable , even more so than usual. Her dress was a lovely dark green, and she had tied a bright red ribbon around the waist so it formed a bow in the back. Half of her dark brown hair was pinned up, woven with sprigs of holly, while the rest fell down her back in long waves. But it was her smile that made her positively glow, and the Phantom found himself softly smiling back. “You look magnificent,” he said plainly.

Christine blushed, her heart growing light. “Thank you,” she said with a small giggle. Her eyes drifted down to take in his own outfit, a black silk tailsuit and white dress shirt; simple yet elegant, well-suited for a composer such as him. “You look very handsome.”

The Phantom seemed to be broken from his trance by her assertion; he blinked at her awkwardly for a moment, before clearing his throat. “One normally wears their best on such a special occasion, no?” he said with a slight tease, attempting to disguise his shock.

Christine nodded, her smile glued to her face. The Phantom’s eyes drifted from it down to the items in her arms. “What’s all this?” he asked.

“I told you, it’s not Christmas without Christmas treats!” Christine said, holding out the paper pastry box, before moving it to reveal the wrapped parcel underneath. “And this is your present, but you mustn’t open it until tomorrow morning. Those are the rules.”

The Phantom looked up at her again, a playful glint in his eye. “Not even a small peek?” he said impishly.

Christine’s laugh echoed through the dark stone hall. “Of course not! Now come on, I want you to try these sweets.” She then took his hand and pulled him further down the passageway, while the Phantom, mesmerized, followed her eagerly.

The eternal night of the underground cavern was soon filled with music. The Phantom's organ, which was so often used to pour out the anguish of its master, contrived blissful harmonies of joy and hope, while Christine’s seraphic voice painted the air with notes made of pure light. Everything, from the world’s finest composers to the most common peasant carols, seemed equally sacred. That Christmas Eve, no other Midnight Mass in the world came close to creating the euphony shared between the two souls beneath the Opera Populaire.

Before their symphony began, however, the Phantom and Christine had first stopped in the lair’s dining room. They had shared a rather large Christmas supper, but only after sampling more than a few of the sweets Christine had brought with her. She had not been able to find the same biscuits she remembered from her childhood, but she had bought some bredeles , a few slices of bûche de Nöel and pain d’épices , chocolate macarons, and a handful of peppermint candies. To her delight, the Phantom enjoyed all of the sweets, and practically begged her to bring back more the next time she traveled outside the Opera House. Christine had laughed, and told him he could always make a trip to the boulangerie himself, to which she was surprised to hear him say he just might have to do.

The hours melted like snow, and still Christine and the Phantom sang and sang. Finally, as they completed yet another beautiful melody, Christine sighed in contentment and turned to face the Phantom. “What time is it?” she asked.

The Phantom took out a pocket-watch and looked at it. “Half past eleven,” he said.

“Perfect,” Christine whispered. She reached over and grasped the Phantom's hand in hers, causing him to look at her. “There’s one more tradition I’d like to show you,” she said.

The Phantom searched her eyes curiously. “What is it?”

She smiled and tugged on his hand, leading him to the staircase that led to the world above. “You’ll see,” she said mysteriously.

They made their way up the stairs, past the main floor with the backstage rooms, up higher and higher. The pair were soon under the roof of the building, slipping carefully through the rafters and over the beams of the great ceilings below, until they met a small door. When Christine opened it, the cold outside air pierced through the Phantom’s black cloak, but he hardly noticed as he looked out at the amazing view.

All of Paris stretched out before them, silent and twinkling with small golden lights, reflected hazily in the dark waters of the Seine. Snow was falling gently from the thin indigo clouds, and already a thin layer had collected on the roof so that it crunched softly under the pair’s feet as they stood in front of the Apollo’s Lyre statue.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Christine said, noticing his reaction. “I come up here every Christmas Eve to hear all the bells ring right at midnight.” She beamed as she gestured to the large cathedral standing splendidly within the skyline. “I also used to come up here many nights when I couldn’t sleep. I have these dreams, you see. Well, I say dreams, but they’re more like memories. Memories of my childhood, memories of my life with…” Her face fell slightly as she looked out over the snow-covered buildings.

The Phantom watched her carefully, then moved his hand to brush her arm. “Your father,” he muttered.

She looked back at him, and nodded. “Christmas was our favorite time of year. But every year since, it’s just felt…empty. I still love all the little things, like the food, and the music, and the snow. But for me, it’s like…the spirit left it somehow. And it’s all just quiet.”

The winter silence hung between them; the only sound came from their gentle breaths misting in the air before them.

“But this year, it’s not as bad,” Christine said, breaking the silence.

“It’s not?”

She met the Phantom’s eyes. “No, because I have someone to share it with again.”

The hint of a smile passed across the Phantom’s lips. The fingers he held near her arm twitched, flexing with nervous energy. Christine’s eyes fell upon them, then reached up and held them gently as they trembled.

“Can I ask you something?” she asked after a moment.

“Anything, my Angel.”

She looked up at him again. “Why did you offer to teach me? Me, of all people?”

The Phantom gazed at her in surprise. “Christine, your voice is unlike anyone else’s—”

“But anyone’s voice could be perfect if you trained them like you trained me. I have to know…why did you choose me ?”

The Phantom stared into her eyes a moment longer, before looking back down at their joined hands. His fingers brushed tenderly over hers, sharing her warmth against the chill of the night. He had never truly considered her question before, but that was because he seemed to have always known the answer. “Your voice is not the only thing special about you,” he finally said. “You…you understand so much more than others do. You see things for the good in them, even when it’s not there. And when it’s not there,” he whispered, cradling her hand between both of his, “You put the good into all things. Everything is made better after you have touched it. You have more kindness, more wisdom, more strength within you than anyone I have ever known.” The Phantom gave her hand a gentle squeeze, his eyes focused only on her face. “I would never call myself blessed, but when I am with you, I feel like I am.”

Christine’s eyes were still locked on their hands, though the Phantom could see them glistening. He carefully withdrew one hand and brought it beneath her chin; he lifted it lightly so she was looking at him. “That is why I chose you,” he murmured almost breathlessly.

Christine gazed at him with a tearful smile, her heart full. “Thank you,” she whispered shakily. “For everything. You’ve given me more than anyone ever has before. You helped me when no one else would.” One hand reached up and grabbed the fingers under her chin, and brought them to her lips. “You are my Angel of Music.”

The Phantom stood frozen for a moment, his eyes examining every beautiful detail of her face, seemingly deciding on something. When he did look away, it seemed to take all of his willpower to withdraw his gaze from her and out onto the Paris skyline. Taking a deep breath, he raised his right hand to his face and gently lifted off the thin porcelain mask. The cold air swept across his exposed face, causing him to shiver slightly. He paused a long moment before turning to his side, only to see Christine watching him intently.

They studied each other for a minute, until Christine moved her hand slowly up to the right side of his face; he followed it carefully with his eyes, but never pulled away. Finally, she let it rest against his deformed cheek. The feeling of her warm, soft palm in the place of his cold mask almost made his heart burst, and tears began to well up in his eyes as he squeezed them shut. “ Christine, I love you ,” he sang, letting his voice drift as tenderly as the wind into the night.

Christine felt herself gasp, her lips breaking into a bittersweet smile. It was true, then. Overcome with joy, she closed the distance between them and pressed her lips to his softly.

Erik did not dare to move, for fear that he would break this precious moment. His mind was a flurry of emotion, astonishment and apprehension, disbelief and delight, that he found himself overwhelmed. Finally, he focused on memorizing the feeling of her lips, warm and tender against his untouched skin, ignoring the tears trickling down to his jaw.

After what felt like both a second and a lifetime, Christine pulled away. It was then she saw the tears on his cheeks, and immediately her fingers were there to brush them away. “Oh, Erik, I love you,” she whispered, still smiling.

She loved him. Defeated, Erik let his head fall forward to rest against her forehead, his hands rising shakily to her arms. He let his tears fall, not caring enough to stop them, for all he could think of was her words echoing in his mind. Christine loved him. She was alive, and she loved him.

Suddenly, the sound of bells broke the spell between them. Christine turned her head towards the city, spotting the cathedral perched a mile away, its chiming ringing through the crystal-clear night. “It’s midnight,” she whispered quietly. She turned back to Erik, her smile growing. “Merry Christmas.”

For the first time he could remember, Erik smiled without thinking. “Merry Christmas, Christine,” he said softly.

With a delighted laugh, Christine threw her arms around his shoulders, tucking her face against his neck. Erik returned her embrace without hesitation, and practically shook as he reveled in what was happening to him. And before his stubborn doubts had a chance to return, Christine had released him and was pulling him by the arm back to the door. “Come along. I want to see you open your present,” she insisted eagerly.

Erik’s mouth was still miraculously turned up in a grin. “Aren’t we supposed to wait until Christmas morning?”

“It is Christmas morning. Come on, please.” She made her green-grey eyes wide and pleading. Erik’s grin broadened, and after slipping his mask back on he let her lead him down through the Opera House back to his lair.

They made their way back into the dining room, where Christine could not resist eating another small piece of candy from the opened box of sweets. “Alright, now sit here and close your eyes,” Christine commanded, leading the Phantom to one of the chairs by the table.

The Phantom obeyed, and then listened carefully as she left the room to go to another part of the lair to retrieve the gift. Once he knew she was gone, he let his eyes open. He sat there in silence, still reeling from the moment they shared on the roof. He raised his trembling fingers to his lips, which seemed to burn from where Christine had kissed them. His mind could scarcely begin to believe what he had felt, and yet his senses had never failed him before. He had never known a touch so gentle that could kindle his very soul, that could leave him wanting so much more. But he couldn’t possibly be so lucky as to feel it again—

Suddenly, he heard Christine’s footsteps in the corridor, and let his hand fall to his lap and closed his eyes again.

Christine stepped over to stand in front of him, holding the wrapped parcel. “Did you open them?” she asked.

“Of course not, my Angel,” he replied innocently.

“Liar,” she denied playfully. She placed the wrapped parcel in his lap, and finally he opened his eyes to look upon it closely. He glanced up at her for permission, which she gave with a nod, before he began to unwrap the gift with barely-contained excitement.

He pulled from the wrappings three new books, each one with a smooth, decorated cover. As he looked over them, Christine spoke up. “They’re for your library. I know you don’t have either of these,” she pointed to the first two, one about architecture and the other about music theory, “but I saw them and thought you would like them. And this is one of my favorites.” Her fingers brushed across the cover of the third book, which held the title Les Misérables . “I hope you’ll like it, too.”

The Phantom’s eyes swept over the books again, before looking up at her with an elated smile. “I love them. Thank you, Christine.” He placed the books carefully on the table, before standing in front of her and guiding her to sit in another chair. “Now it’s your turn to close your eyes,” he muttered softly.

Christine’s face lit up with excitement, before doing as he said. He left the room as she had, going out into the main cavern and over to his writing desk, where he opened a hidden drawer and pulled out her gift.

He brought it back into the dining room and sat in the chair next to hers so that they faced each other. He laid the gift in her lap, and watched her tiny hands feel over its smooth surface. She finally opened her eyes and looked down at the large hardcover notebook in her lap. It had a lovely blue cover with decorative gold latticework, and on the spine was a small “C.D.” printed in gold lettering.

“You told me your mind can sometimes get away from you,” the Phantom said as she observed the journal. “I thought this would help you…to organize  your thoughts. Write down memories, ideas, anything you’d like. You could even start writing music, if you want.” He shifted anxiously, still waiting for her reaction. “And if you’d ever like to share them with anyone…”

Christine lifted her head to reveal an expression of pure joy. “I love it,” she said, her voice trembling with gratitude.

The Phantom let out a sigh. “You do?”

Christine quickly stood, placed the journal on the table, and wrapped her arms around the Phantom's shoulders. “I love it,” she whispered close to his ear. She felt his hands reach up to wrap around her waist, and she shifted so she sat down on his lap. She drew back so she could see his face, looking into his dark eyes deeply. “I love you.”

Christine kissed him again, just as delicately as before. And again, the Phantom savored the tender feeling, letting it seep into the furthest reaches of his soul. But something within him made him feel like it wasn’t enough; somehow, he found himself wanting more.

Just as he felt her pulling away, he tried to press closer, and his cold mask brushed against her nose and cheek. She gasped lightly, and at once the Phantom drew back, muttering hurried apologies. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, forgive me; I mean, I’ve never…I’ve never done this…”

Christine shushed him gently, placing her hands on either side of his face; the uncovered side was warm with embarrassment. “It’s alright, Erik. It’s alright,” she insisted as he timidly opened his eyes to look at her. She smiled at him encouragingly.  “Do you want to try again, without the mask?”

Immediately, his hand came up and practically tore the shard of porcelain from his face. He watched her eyes sweep over his scarred and twisted skin, but this time he hardly gave it a thought. His gaze flickered between her eyes and her mouth, and his breath trembled as her fingers stroked along the corrugations around his lip.

She inched closer, but it was him who closed the gap between them, kissing her with more pressure than before. Erik relaxed as he felt her kiss him back; her soft lips tasted like peppermint and chocolate, and as they slowly moved against his, he wanted to simply dissolve. He brought a shaking hand up to her cheek, then began to weave it into her hair, letting the soft brown curls tickle his fingers. The tiniest sound of longing escaped Christine’s throat, a sound that ignited a fervor deep in Erik’s chest; he boldly pulled her further into his lap, his hand clutching her lower back.

He didn’t want it to end; he would have been content to die in that moment of happiness, if only to let the last thing he ever felt be her loving touch. But finally Christine drew back, leaving only a small space between them so they could breathe. Erik was close to tears again as he let his emotions wash over him. “I love you, my Angel,” he sighed breathlessly. He moved his hand to let his thumb stroke her temple, and her eyes fluttered open to meet his. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to tell you. You don’t know the joy you’ve brought me these past months, simply being by my side.” He leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to her cheek, savoring the feeling of her warm skin beneath his lips. “I am yours. Your Erik.”

“My Erik,” she whispered, her lips turning up in another smile. She nuzzled her nose against the twisted skin of his face, before pressing closer to his shoulder. He enveloped her in a tight embrace, and they simply breathed together, enjoying the incredible gift of each other.

Chapter Text

“Places everyone, if you please!” the director’s voice rang out through the opera hall. His command prompted the cast of performers to scramble to their respective positions on the stage. “Now, we shall start from the top; maestro, begin.” A stirring melody from the piano cued the opening of the new winter opera; several ballerinas took the front of stage first, including Sorelli.

It was a few weeks after Christmas, and the performers had all come back rested and focused after their holiday to resume rehearsals. Some of the ballet girls had struggled to settle back into Madame Giry’s harsh training schedule, but after a few extra practices and pressure from their peers, they had returned to the ballet mistress’s high standards. Even still, the woman’s harsh eyes scanned carefully down the line of dancers, watching for the slightest mistake.

Unseen by anyone else in the hall, a lone audience member observed the rehearsal. Box Five was cloaked in shadow, but even still the Phantom stood within his specially-designed hollow column, hidden from view. His eyes also swept over the stage, but what he sought out could not be more different.

The last few weeks had passed for the Phantom in a blur, with each day proceeding like a cycle of seasons. His mornings and early afternoons dragged by, cold and silent as a forest in winter. He could always distract himself with his music and the books Christine had gifted him, safe in the refuge of his lair. But ever since that Christmas night, he realized he never noticed just how lonely it all seemed when she wasn’t there with him.

Amidst the frost and solitude, he waited in earnest anticipation for his Christine, his springtime, to return to him and bring the joy and peace of summer to the shadows of his lair. Her voice to him became like the birdsong, a ray of hope that filled his mind with the comfort of her presence. And then, always too soon, the summer would end as she left him to return to the world above, and he was forced to prepare for the arrival of another harsh winter without her. When his loneliness became too much, he would sneak up through the walls and secret corridors of the opera house to watch the rehearsals, as he did now.

As the initial tune concluded, the director clapped his hands to gain attention. “Very good, ladies. Now, onto the next number; the aria. Mademoiselle Daae, if you would.”

The Phantom’s heart leapt as he spotted the young woman stepping to the center of the stage, and a smile crept across his face as she began to sing. The aria was sweet and spirited on its own, but became even more so thanks to Christine’s angelic soprano. He let his eyes drift closed for a moment, and swam in the golden sound of her voice. It was light made into matter, a manifestation of bliss; pure perfection.

His eyes fluttered open again, and he gazed at his beautiful Angel with such pride. How far she had come in a little less than a year, not just with her voice but with her very spirit. And everywhere he had expected to teach her, she had taught him twice as much, until along with being her Angel of Music, he had become her Erik.

My Erik.

His small smile grew as he recalled her beautiful words, whispered to him like they were too powerful to say any louder. But they were true; Erik was hers in every way, mind, body, and soul. It was not much, compared to what he believed she deserved, but he was more than willing to give her all of it and more.

He wanted to care for her, he wanted to give her everything she desired, let her do anything with him that she pleased. He wanted to spend an eternity with her simply making her smile, making her laugh, making her eyes light up in excitement. He wanted to sing endless melodies with her, set his Angel free through the power of music. He wanted to walk with her for hours, and hold her in his arms, and feel her hands on his face like they did the first time he removed his mask. He wanted to kiss her until he couldn’t breathe, in a thousand different ways, a thousand different times. He wanted her to be the first thing he sees when he wakes up, and the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep.

He wanted to marry her.

As Christine neared the end of her aria, Erik’s mind flooded with delightful fantasies of what it would be like to be married to her, to have her as his true living bride. They could have a nice, quiet flat with ordinary doors and real windows, with a kitchen and a piano and maybe even a garden. On weekdays he could keep her amused with music and singing and reading, and on Sundays, he could take her out and walk with her on the streets—people would not turn to look at him strangely, he could look like anybody else, he could invent another mask…

But through it all, she would be his, and he would spend the rest of his life making her the happiest of women. All because she had found a way to love him for himself.

As soon as rehearsal concluded, Christine hurriedly made her way to the wings, unaware of the quizzical looks she received behind her. Even if she had noticed them, though, she would not have paused to say anything; her mind was too distracted with other thoughts in that moment.

She had just entered the backstage area and was about to speed down the hall to her dressing room, when a familiar voice called her name. “Christine!”

The soprano stopped at her friend’s call. She considered for a moment ignoring it, but quickly shoved the idea aside and turned around. “Hello, Meg,” she replied with a smile.

“Good rehearsal, wasn’t it?” Meg said conversationally as she approached the other young woman.

Christine nodded. “Yes, it was. You danced very well.”

Meg scoffed playfully. “Oh, you’re just being nice; I know my ankles were shaking the whole time.”

“Come on, I mean it!” Christine insisted.

Meg shook her head, before her eyes lit up in excitement. “Hey, have you heard about the ball that’s coming up?”

“The managers’ winter ball? I thought it was only for patrons and guests,” Christine said with a shrug.

Meg tilted her head curiously. “I’m surprised you didn’t get your own invitation, given that you’re the lead soprano. Anyway, they said they’ve extended the invitation to the whole cast! That means we all are going!”

Christine beamed. “Oh, how wonderful! I’m sure that will be very fun.”

At her wording, Meg frowned. “You are going, aren’t you?”

Christine paused, twisting her hands nervously as she considered her friend’s question. “I might need to think about it…”

Meg groaned in exasperation. “C’mon, Christine. It’s like you’re never around anymore; perhaps you’re working too hard. You need a break to do something fun.”

Christine gave her friend a meaningful look. “Well, if the patrons will be there, I’m not sure how much fun it will really be.”

A look of understanding passed over Meg’s eyes, before the young dancer shook her head. “Oh, don’t worry about the Comte. He hasn’t written you a letter in ages! He’s probably well over you by now. No offense,” she added quickly.

Christine grinned. “None taken. It would actually be quite nice if that were true.”

Meg sighed, and took her friend’s hand. “At least just come to enjoy the party. There will be loads of other people to talk to, and lots of dancing.”

Christine maintained her friend’s gaze steadily for a moment, before squeezing her hand warmly. “I will think about it. I promise.”

Finally, the young soprano stepped away from her friend and began her walk down the hall once again. She heard Meg’s bright voice shout after her, “Don’t forget to wear a costume! It’s a masquerade!”

Once she reached the end of the hall, she entered her dressing room and closed the door. She leaned her back against the door, frowning, her mind swirling with worried thoughts. Eventually, she sighed and sat down at the vanity; she opened the top drawer and reached inside for the gold-embossed blue journal and a pen. She had found the Phantom’s gift to be very useful in the past few weeks as a place to store her multitude of ideas, dreams, and concerns outside of her own head. Once she wrote something down, she realized, it was always easier to think about it much more clearly, without her contradicting thoughts piling up and drowning each other out.

She was just about to put the pen to paper, when a soft, enchanting voice echoed through her room. “ Christine. ”

The soprano smiled, and set down her pen. She stood from her chair and turned to face the floor-length mirror, which slid open and revealed the figure of her teacher, her love; her Erik.

She approached him and looked up at his masked face, meeting his dark, glowing eyes. “Good afternoon, Erik,” she said, before pulling him into an embrace, tucking her head into his chest.

She heard him sigh in contentment as his strong arms wrapped around her back and the warmth of his heavy black cloak enveloped her. “How was your day, my Angel?” he whispered in his elegantly tender voice.

“Mmm,” Christine hummed disappointedly into his chest, before lifting her head to look up at him. “It just got much better,” she whispered with a small grin. She craned her neck to press a soft kiss to his lips, which he returned warmly. “How was yours?” she said after pulling away.

The Phantom shrugged, brushing a brown curl away from her face. “I'm almost finished with the books you gave me.”

Christine’s eyes brightened. “Oh, already? Wonderful! How do you like them?”

The Phantom smiled and continued to speak as he ushered her further into the dark passageway, closing the mirror-door behind them. “They were very informative, I must say. Even the novel gave a surprisingly detailed exposition on the technical and philosophical state of the Paris sewer system.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Christine said, grimacing. “I always found those chapters disgusting.”

The mask lay forgotten on the writing desk in the main cavern of the lair. Further down the hall, Erik walked from the dining room to the makeshift living room, carrying two fresh cups of tea. Christine sat on the chaise near the fireplace, staring into the flames with a slightly frustrated look on her face. The book she had chosen from the lair’s library sat unopened on her lap.

Erik set one of the cups down on the side table next to her, and noticed her disgruntled expression in the fire’s light. “Is something the matter, my dear?” he asked gently.

Christine blinked and looked up to meet his eyes, before sighing. She picked up the cup of tea and took a small sip before speaking. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the ball that’s coming up.”

Erik made a sound of annoyance as he sat down in the armchair beside her. “You refer to the managers’ extravagant attempt to attract aristocratic patrons by exploiting the beauty of this sacred Opera House?”

“That’s the one,” Christine said with an amused grin. They both sipped on their tea for a moment before she continued. “Then I imagine you can guess who is rumored to be in attendance.”

At once, Erik’s face fell. “The Comte de Chagny,” he muttered darkly.

Christine nodded in a grim way, and sighed again. “After hearing that, I thought it best if I just avoided the whole thing entirely. But Meg seems so excited about it, and everyone else is going, and it would look very strange if I didn’t show up.” She shifted nervously, glancing back into the fire. “More and more people have noticed how I’ve been absent at these sorts of things lately, and…frankly, it’s becoming harder for me to keep all this a secret.” She gestured around to the room she was in.

Her admission caused a pang of guilt to creep into Erik’s chest. He had never fully realized the implications of what he had asked her to do for all these months, and how difficult of a task it must have been for her. He had been forced to keep secrets and lie his entire life, whereas Christine was honest to a fault; he should have known it would be impossible for her to conceal the truth forever.

He was broken from his stream of thoughts when Christine spoke again. “So, I’m just worried about whether or not I should even go, and if I do what will happen.”

As she continued to sip her tea, Erik gazed between her and the fire, thinking intently. “I think you should attend,” he said after a moment.

Christine blinked at him in surprise. “What?”

In response, Erik merely nodded. “You’re right. Your frequent disappearances have drawn much attention towards you, for the wrong reasons. Another absence, this time from such a high-profile event, would only worsen your reputation.” He then set down his tea and stood from his chair, beginning to pace the room as his words became more animated. “Not only that, but perhaps your presence could be used as an opportunity to present to the world your true status, and at the same time explain to them the reason for your disappearances.”

Christine watched him as he walked back and forth in front of her, considering his words carefully. “Are you saying I should tell them about you? About all our meetings?”

“No, not tell them.” He stopped in front of the chaise and looked at her squarely. “I’m saying, if you are seen with someone else, it will convince them once and for all that your heart lies elsewhere.”

Christine frowned in confusion. “What do you mean, seen with someone else?”

At once, Erik stood tall and offered her his hand. “Christine Daae, it would be a privilege to escort you to the Opera Populaire’s winter ball,” he said in a jokingly formal way.

Christine’s eyes widened in shock. “ You go? Erik, they’ll—”

“See me, yes, with you.” He retracted his hand and began to pace the room again, more excited than before. “They won’t know who I am, so any rumors they create will be of their own design, while at the same time ensuring that none of them are true!” His voice was gleeful, obviously pleased with his brilliant plan. “Besides, remind me what kind of ball it is again?”

Christine considered for a moment, then suddenly realized what he meant. “A masquerade.”

“Exactly,” Erik said with a smirk. “A perfect place for your Erik to hide, don’t you think?”

Still trying to wrap her mind around his plan, Christine shook her head and set her teacup back on the side table. “Erik,” she began, gazing at him seriously, “I can’t ask you to put yourself at risk like this, after everything you’ve done all these years to keep yourself safe.”

Erik shook his head quickly. “You’re not asking me; I’m doing it to myself.” Meeting her solemn gaze, his manner suddenly softened, attempting to reassure her. “And I promise you, I will be perfectly safe.”

Christine stared at him a moment more before looking down. “I suppose it could work,” she said, still hesitant. Suddenly, she let out a little chuckle. “Oh, I won’t have anything suitable to wear. I’ll have to borrow something.”

Erik waved his hand dismissively. “No matter; I can make you any costume you’d like.”

“You can ?” Christine said in pleasant surprise.

Erik scoffed. “Honestly, my dear, you’ve known your Erik to do much more spectacular things than make a dress.”

“Spectacular things…,” Christine mused, until a thought popped into her head. “Can you dance, then?”

At this, Erik paused, all arrogance fading from his face. “Excuse me?”

“Well, it is a ball; there will be dancing,” Christine said with a shrug.

Erik stared at her a moment, stuttering wordlessly. Christine let out an amused sigh, before standing from the chaise and approaching him. “Come here, then; let me teach you so you don’t make a fool of yourself.” She took his hands in hers and led him out to the main cavern so they had more open space, with Erik following her reluctantly.

Once they were standing with plenty of room on all sides, Christine turned to face him. She guided his right hand down to her waist, holding the left one up in her delicate fingers. She rested her other hand on his shoulder and looked up at him. She watched his eyes dart between his own hands and the parts of her they touched, wide with caution.

Christine cleared her throat softly in an attempt to help him focus. “So the rhythm is usually a waltz, which is in—”

“Three-four time,” he concluded for her. His eyes returned to hers, and seemed to calm for a brief moment.

Christine grinned. “That’s right. So just keep counting to three in your head. Now, the pattern is quite simple; for now, just step in the same direction as me.”

She took a step back, and watched his foot follow hers. Another step back, and he mirrored her perfectly. She then took a step to the side, and he adjusted accordingly. Christine nodded in encouragement, which she wasn’t sure he even saw as his eyes were still firmly fixed on his feet, focusing hard on avoiding her toes.

“There, then we just make a big circle, see?” she said. Leading him through the dance, she began to consider that it wasn’t just the steps that were making him act so nervous. Every time she squeezed his shoulder or hand, his breath would catch, and she noticed his eyes start to venture away from their feet and up to her face. They lingered on her eyes and her lips, and she was certain he did not miss the warm blush that colored her cheeks, yet he was polite enough not to mention it.

Eventually, Christine slowed their waltz to a stop, and gave his left hand another squeeze before letting go. “You’re very good,” she said with a smile.

Erik let his hands fall to his sides, but did not step away from her. “Well, I have a lovely teacher,” he replied, the corner of his mouth turning up.

Christine laughed and leaned up to kiss his smiling lips.

The night of the opera’s masquerade ball arrived in full splendor. The spacious foyer of the opera house was comfortably crowded with Paris’s finest patrons as well as many performers, and the horde of costumes was an absolute marvel. Every color was on display, and not a single face was seen; instead, one only saw the feathers of peacocks, the scales of dragons, the armor of knights, the bones of skeletons. The room swirled with color as couples danced and talked, creating a tremendous din. Carlotta, as always, attempted to attract the most attention in the room as possible, and as a result her shrill laughter could be heard even from a neighboring room.

A few of the older petit rats had been granted attendance, but their behavior was monitored closely by an alert Madame Giry. As such, when a few of them dared to flirt with a young nobleman or sneak a glass of champagne, they were quickly ushered to the side and chastised by their ballet mistress.

The girls now stood in a corner of the ballroom, swapping masks with each other and giggling. A hint of gold caught the eye of one of the dancers; she looked up and gasped.

A new figure had appeared at the top of the grand staircase; a woman in a magnificent golden ball gown, gilded with intricate swirls and sequins so that it seemed to glisten with the light of a thousand tiny candles. Delicate white lace stretched across the back of the bodice and curled down the sleeves, forming the shape of feathered angel wings.

Every eye in the hall soon fell upon the woman in gold, whose upper face was hidden beneath a beaded white mask. Many did not recognize her, but a few of the dancers did, including Meg. The tiny blonde, dressed as a musketeer, stepped over to meet the woman in the gold gown as she reached the bottom of the staircase. “ Christine? ” she asked disbelievingly.

The soprano nodded, and Meg smiled. “Oh, you look amazing! Wherever did you get that dress?”

“A friend made it for me,” Christine said, her fingers brushing fondly over the sequined fabric.

She didn’t wish to elaborate, and silently prayed that Meg would not ask her to. After all, Christine reasoned as an inkling of trepidation crept into her mind, she would know well enough by the end of the evening. They all would.

Meg quickly led Christine over to the corner occupied by the rest of the dancers. The young women gushed over Christine’s outfit, but just like before, Christine maintained the secret of how she had obtained it. The subject soon passed, and turned instead to the much-favored topic of gossip. The dancers pointed out certain costumed individuals and their various stories, which were always slightly too sensational to be completely accurate. Christine had to fight to keep herself from feeling overwhelmed amongst the sea of shapes and colors, and most of the time she kept a firm grip on Meg’s hand. At least she had her mask to conceal most of her uncomfortable expression, she thought. This was followed by a peculiar jolt as she realized that must be exactly how the Phantom feels.

After a while, one petite ballerina, whom Christine recognized as Jammes, asked the group, “So, is he here? Has anyone seen him yet?”

Another dancer nodded, pointing to the other side of the ballroom. “I think he’s right over there, next to Sorelli.”

Christine followed her gaze, and picked out Sorelli’s tall form easily in the crowd. Talking with her animatedly was a man dressed as a prince with sandy-brown hair, who made Christine’s stomach twist in unease. The Comte de Chagny.

Meg also frowned as she looked over at the couple. “Hmm, wonder what they could be talking about?”

“Nothing good, I’d imagine,” Christine said under her breath.

Slowly, a stunned quiet crept through the hall, broken only by a few occasional whisperings. All heads were turned toward the stairs again, obviously noting a late arrival. Even before she followed everyone’s wide-eyed gaze, a burst of knowing excitement erupted in Christine’s chest, and she did not hide her smile when she finally turned around.

There he stood, his tall form imposing, in a blood-red suit embroidered with gold, just like her dress. He had replaced his usual mask with one that covered the top half of his face as well as the entire right side, and was shaded to resemble a death’s head. It made him look, for perhaps the first time, not out of place amongst everyone else, except that his outfit dripped dramatically with bright gold and crimson. But he was clearly not concerned with how he looked to anyone else; his focus was only upon Christine.

She met his intense gaze from across the room, and gave him the slightest of nods to let him know what she was thinking. Suddenly, she was broken from the spell by her friend tugging on her arm. “Christine,” Meg whispered, nodding her head to gesture behind Christine. “He’s coming over.”

Christine turned to see Philippe making a beeline through the crowd directly towards her. A rush of dread came over her, and she tried to shrink her face further behind her mask. When she turned back around to find the Phantom again, he was gone. She craned her neck, hoping to see him in the shadows, but he seemed to have vanished, something that ultimately didn’t really surprise her.

“Christine,” the Comte’s annoyingly polite voice uttered from behind her. Christine closed her eyes for a second, gathering her strength, before turning around to face him. He grinned at her, bright blue eyes shining. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

Christine dipped her head. “You as well, Monsieur le Comte.”

Noticing her use of his title instead of his name, Philippe cleared his throat awkwardly and continued to speak in a more formal tone. “I am quite pleased to see you here tonight. After our previous—ahem, disagreement —I was afraid we would end our fellowship without making proper amends.”

Christine paused for a second, considering his words, before giving a polite smile. “It was a misunderstanding, on both our accounts. But I’m sure it will not happen again.” At this, she turned away from him and back to Meg, intending to begin another conversation.

“I was hoping I could make up for it tonight, Mademoiselle,” he continued.

Christine bit her lip painfully, before facing him again. “How were you planning on doing that?”

As if waiting for her to ask, Philippe held out his hand. “Will you honor me with the next dance of the evening?”

Christine eyed his open hand warily, as if it would burn her if she touched it. She hesitantly looked up into Philippe’s insistent gaze; his unapologetic persistence was starting to make her very uncomfortable. She opened her mouth to tell him so, when—

“I’m afraid she is spoken for.”

The dark, smoldering voice from just behind her head brought a relieved grin to Christine’s face. She turned her head slowly, knowing he would be there; the Phantom’s eyes met hers bewitchingly from under his mask, making her heart flutter. When he wordlessly offered her a hand, she took it immediately without breaking his gaze and let him lead her away from the confused Comte, whose request was already forgotten.

They weaved their way easily to the dance floor. The other guests were watching them intently, distracted from their own partners. Christine let herself glance back at them for a moment; it seemed as if everyone was staring back at her, pairs and pairs of hollow black eyes peering out from each ghoulish mask.

She was brought back to the moment by the feeling of his fingertips beneath her chin; he gently eased her face back to him, and she immediately felt comfort in his warm, steady gaze. His hand pressed against her waist while she rested her other hand on his shoulder, leaning in slightly until she could hear his soft breathing.

The music began, and his hand tightened a bit more around her waist as they stepped together across the floor. The Phantom danced even better than he did in practice, all while not taking his eyes off Christine. They stared at each other like they were memorizing every line of the other’s face, and soon the world around them dissolved into a blur of meaningless color.

Whispers made their way all across the ballroom, passing from one person to the next, everyone asking who the mysterious man in red could be, and what the lead soprano was doing dancing with him. The ones closest to the pair, who could see the looks on their faces, knew that he must be no stranger to Christine; only those that knew each other deeply looked at each other in that way.

For the first half of the song, their thoughts belonged only to each other. Christine savored the feeling of his touch, his strong hands above her hip and against the skin of her hand. The Phantom dissolved into her eyes, counting every hue of color he could find. Eventually, he leaned forward until his lips were almost touching her ear. “This is how I want them to remember you,” he muttered, looking past her to the crowd of gossiping guests. “I need them to see you as the fearless, confident, untouchable woman that you are. They will not see you as a meek little dancer anymore; they will not underestimate you again.”

Christine’s heart was full to bursting as he pulled away from her. She dared a peek at the spectators to her side and spotted Philippe, looking both confused and dismayed at his own situation; Carlotta, filled with indignation at the unexpected distraction; and Sorelli, her pointed face glaring at her in contempt. For some reason, she found their reactions amusing, especially as she realized they were only proving the Phantom’s words.

An idea sprang into her head as she glanced over them all, and she smiled as she turned back to the Phantom. She placed both her hands on his shoulders, stopping their dance. “And this,” she whispered, her hand moving to the back of his neck, “is how I want them to remember me.”

Without hesitation, she pulled the Phantom’s head forward and met his lips with hers. Her action drew a few gasps from their onlookers, but Christine did not pull away just yet. The Phantom paused uncertainly, but after a moment relaxed and returned the kiss firmly.

Seconds passed before Christine pulled away, holding his head in her hands. They stared at each other for a long moment; then, Christine suddenly remembered where they were, and let her hands drop from the sides of his face just as the music concluded. The Phantom, reeling in the thrill of her kiss, stole a look at the surrounding crowd with a small grin on his face. His dark eyes seemed to challenge them, almost arrogantly, showing off the pride he held of being completely and utterly hers. After noting their suspicious glances, he turned back to Christine. “They will definitely remember you now,” he whispered, and she gave him a small grin.

“Christine!”

Christine whipped around at the sound of her name, and saw Meg pushing through the crowd over to where they were standing; close behind her was Madame Giry, whose eyes were piercing and stern. She turned back to the Phantom, grabbing his hand. “We’d better go.”

The Phantom nodded and pulled her quickly in the opposite direction through a door leading out of the foyer and into a long hallway. They raced past the costumed strays of the party that randomly dotted the halls, who all followed the bizarre couple with bewildered looks.

Eventually, they made it to a practice room, which featured only a small bench and a long floor-length mirror. The Phantom reached up and pressed a hidden switch on the side of the mirror; it slid open to form an entrance to the dark passage beyond. He held out his hand and helped Christine through first, before stepping in himself and pressing another switch, allowing the mirror to slide back into place.

A moment later, Meg threw open the door to the practice room, then stopped suddenly. She looked around the empty space in confusion, seeing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Believing she must have followed them the wrong way, she turned and walked out of the room, calling Christine’s name into the air as she did.

Inside the dark passage just behind the mirror, Christine let out the giggle she had been holding. “It worked,” she said into the near-darkness, her smile visible by the light of a torch farther along the stone wall.

The Phantom laughed as well, still breathing heavily from their race through the halls of the Opera House. “I think it did,” he responded.

He felt her hand reaching for his arm, and he grabbed her wrist gently to show her where he was. He then found her waist and scooped her up into his arms. She gasped at the sudden movement, which at once dissolved into delighted laughter, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

“Shall we?” the Phantom whispered close to her ear.

Christine nodded. “Lead the way,” she said happily, and they began their path into the darkness.

When he finally reached the bottom of the stairs, the Phantom set Christine back on her feet, and she practically skipped into the large candlelit cavern of the lair, still laughing brightly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun causing trouble, have you?” Christine said, beaming at the man beside her.

The Phantom smirked. “As someone who has caused a lot of trouble, I can’t say I have.”

Christine reached up and removed his scarlet cavalier hat, setting it on the writing desk a bit further away. She then turned back to him and extended her hands, which he took while stepping closer to her, his eyes glimmering with devotion. Christine finally wrapped her arms around the Phantom’s broad shoulders and buried her smiling face into the crook of his neck.

The Phantom let the uncovered part of his face rest against her head, breathing in her wildflower scent. He could hardly believe what they had just done, what Christine had just done in front of everyone. He realized only now how foolish of her it had been; she had possibly just cursed her own place in society, any chance she had at a different future, all for him. The dark part of his mind told him that he did not deserve this, and that she may one day come to regret it. Because of this, he felt compelled to at least give her another chance to change her mind.

“You could go back, if you wanted to,” he began quietly, trying to mask his despondency at this proposal. “Say I tricked you, abducted you. They would believe it. I know that Comte would still have you, if he really loves you.”

He could practically feel Christine roll her eyes as she pulled away from his shoulder and met his gaze. “If he really loved me, he would have followed us down here, and fought you for my freedom. Not that I believe he would win, of course.”

The corner of the Phantom’s mouth quirked up in amusement. “Is that your standard for love? A man who would risk his life for you?”

Christine raised her chin confidently. “Should a woman accept anything less?” she challenged playfully.

The Phantom’s grin widened. His hand found hers and lifted it to place a kiss on her fingers. “A woman like you deserves nothing less.” He slowly let his forehead rest against hers, and for a while they just listened to the other breathe.

After a few moments, Christine realized how late it must be, as a yawn threatened to creep up her throat. “I’m tired,” she muttered.

“You should go to bed,” the Phantom replied in a whisper.

“Will you go with me?”

His hand, which was still wrapped around hers, squeezed her fingers gently. “Yes.”

Christine smiled her beautiful smile, before leading him by the hand down the corridor within the cavern wall.

His room, which had once been dark and somber, now glittered with the light of several candles and lamps. Christine enhanced the glow, he realized, as he watched her release his hand and walk to the wardrobe, setting her gilded mask down on the nearby dressing table. She then slipped out of her shoes and reached her arms around to attempt to unfasten the buttons on the back of her bodice. At the sight of this, heat rose up the Phantom’s neck. “What are you doing?” he asked breathlessly.

Christine turned back around, her eyes wide. “Getting ready for bed,” she replied innocently. She gestured down to his costume with a grin. “You’re not sleeping in all that, are you?”

He held her gaze speechlessly for a moment more, before turning around shyly as his mind raced. After a few composing breaths, he took off his shoes and red suit jacket and undid the top buttons of the waistcoat underneath.

From behind him, he heard a frustrated sigh; he peered out of the corner of his eye to where Christine was standing, still struggling with the back of her dress. The Phantom, gathering his courage, approached her slowly. “May I?” he asked quietly.

Christine looked up at him, and nodded gratefully. “Please,” she said, letting her arms fall to her sides and turning her back to him. “I usually have a mirror to see what I’m doing. And this dress is so beautiful, I'm afraid I’ll ruin it.”

The Phantom hummed in response, concentrating on keeping his hands steady enough to undo the buttons on the back of her bodice. He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, and the skin on his face was burning now. Despite his inner turmoil, Christine seemed completely calm. He wondered if she could sense his anxiety and was being strong for his sake, or if she even had any idea of the effect she had on him. After all these months of knowing her, he still found himself amazed at her fearlessness.

When the final button was undone, Christine moved away and slipped the dress off of her shoulders, revealing a pale chemise tucked beneath her corset. Beneath the dress were several layers of petticoats, which she untied one by one while he watched in shy fascination. She stopped once she reached her drawers, gathered up the heavy skirts and offered them to him; his shaky arms carried them to the hamper-basket, grateful for the chance to catch his breath after witnessing the sinfully exquisite sight of her undressing.

When the Phantom turned around, Christine had placed the golden gown back in the wardrobe and was facing away from him again. She swept her long hair to the front of her shoulder, revealing the back of the corset. Taking her cue, the Phantom stepped forward to untie the laces. He focused carefully on the task before him, but as each cord was loosened, and the longer they remained so unbearably close, the more difficult it became to ignore the adoration that crept through his veins for her.

When all the laces were loose, the Phantom paused, his fingers twitching with uncertainty. He finally settled his hand lightly on the curve of her waist; he waited for a reaction from her, but Christine remained perfectly still, her eyes closed. Hesitantly, he lowered his head and placed a delicate kiss on her bare shoulder. “I love you,” he whispered, like a promise.

He felt Christine lean back against him, her hand pressing his deeper into her waist. “I love you, too,” she sighed.

With this assurance from her, his arm wrapped further around her waist, and he slowly pressed a trail of soft kisses along the top of her shoulder and up her neck. She relaxed completely into his embrace, giving in to a warm feeling of bliss. When his lips reached her jaw, she turned her head toward him; he drew back slightly and opened his eyes to meet hers. They gazed at each other ardently as time seemed to stop, and the shadows around them held their breaths.

Christine slowly turned around in his arms to face him directly. Her hand raised to the side of his face, which was still hidden beneath the death mask. “Do you sleep with a mask on?” she asked quietly as she traced it with her fingers.

“Sometimes,” the Phantom muttered.

Christine paused for a moment, then said, “Not tonight. You have nothing to hide from.”

The Phantom dipped his head, believing in his heart that her words were true. She carefully lifted the mask from his face, placing it on the dressing table and pressing her hand against his cheek in its place. Erik leaned into her palm, making no attempt to resist her; she couldn’t help but smile slightly, feeling encouraged by his display of unwavering trust.

Her hand finally fell from the side of his face to the border of his waistcoat, where she began unclasping the rest of the fastenings. She tilted her head slightly down to do her work, and Erik leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead. When the clasps on the waistcoat were all undone, she got to work on the buttons of the dress shirt underneath. “So many buttons,” she said under her breath, earning a soft chuckle from Erik.

After the undoing of each button, more and more of Erik’s chest was exposed, and the lean muscle quickly stole Christine’s attention. Her eye was particularly drawn to several raised lines scattered across his torso. She raised her fingers to gently touch a short thin one resting just below his rib cage. “Erik, what’s this?” she asked quietly.

His silence was enough of an answer for her. She suddenly realized what she was seeing, and retracted her fingers slowly from the scar. Questions flooded into her mind, along with a wave of sorrow for him. “Someone gave this to you?” Her eyes raised to his face.

He gave a single nod, looking slightly past her.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She traced over the scar once again, before leaning into his chest to comfort him.

His arms enveloped her automatically. “It’s not your fault,” he mumbled into her ear. “It was a long time ago.”

Christine’s hands moved beneath his shirt to wrap him in an embrace; as they moved to his back, she felt more thin ridges along his skin, long and crossing over one another. Her sorrow turned to icy horror, causing her stomach to plunge. She knew he felt her stiffen, because his arms wrapped tighter around her. “Oh, Erik,” she whispered, tears stinging in her eyes. “What kind of life have you known?”

Erik closed his eyes, and raised one hand to gently comb through her hair as he spoke. “A life I wanted to hide from you, and from myself. It was a life I hated living.” His usually strong voice faltered. “I was…lost, and afraid. I didn’t want to feel like that ever again. I’ve tried to hide it, but…I don’t know if I can.” Christine tilted her head to look up at him, understanding and sadness glittering in her eyes. The sight of her in such heartache for him caused the air to leave his lungs. “But I would suffer through it all again if I could still meet you at the end of it,” he admitted sincerely.

Christine lifted her hands from his waist to rest on either side of his jaw, holding his face close to hers. “You’ll never have to,” she breathed into the space between them. “I’m here now. You’ll never be alone again.”

Erik smiled for only an instant, before letting his lips meet hers. The kiss was nothing like the one they shared at the ball, in front of everyone who would judge them; this kiss was deeper, warmer, more tender. Into each movement, each breath, they poured more of their souls, slowly allowing the ardor to build. This moment was only for them, only for each to enjoy and experience just how much the other had grown to love them.

At last, Christine pulled her face away; Erik started to pursue her lips again, releasing a whimper in protest, but she held his head steady in her hands. She grinned at him, in a way that made him feel like he swallowed starlight.

Slowly, she began to step backwards, leading him as he followed. She reached the dressing table and paused, letting go of his face to unclasp her corset and drape it onto the table. Taking her lead, Erik slipped out of his shirt and waistcoat, and part of him realized he did not feel nearly as shy about it as he did before.

He took her hands when she offered them, letting her guide him to the black-draped bed. Erik felt his heart hammering against his ribcage as he pulled the covers to the side and sat down. Christine watched him lie back on the bed, noticing how his wide eyes stared at the black sheets; for some reason, it made her smile. She slid in close to his side under the warm covers, pressing the thin material of her chemise against his bare skin. Erik sucked in a breath, and Christine propped herself up on her arms to look at his distorted face. “Is this alright?”

“Yes.” Erik let out his breath slowly.

Christine grinned. In one movement, she shifted to let her chest sit on top of his own, resting her arms on either side of his head. Her chestnut curls brushed her rosy cheeks as she stared down at him. “Is this alright?” she whispered in a slightly lower tone.

This…this was more than alright. Erik did not know it was possible to feel warmth like this, when all he had ever known was cold and darkness. He could not claim to be a corpse in this moment, for the heat that pulsed in the air and beneath his skin insisted that he was alive. He met her eyes above him and nodded. “Yes,” he said, his hands coming to rest just above her hips.

They took precious time to swim in each other’s gaze, synchronize their breaths, savor the feeling of them being so close. Christine at last brought her lips down to his, which he met hungrily. Erik dared to let his tongue slip across the inside of her bottom lip, causing Christine to shiver before kissing him even harder.

They eventually broke apart; Christine let Erik gasp for breath while she continued to kiss every part of his face that she could reach, lingering in the places she knew he despised the most. Erik lifted one hand from her waist to tangle into her long curls. “Christine,” he sighed, soft yet earnest, as he felt her lips trace down his jaw to his neck. He wanted to beg her not to stop, but he held back, reminding himself that she said she was tired and not intending to push her farther than she wanted to go.

Christine’s kisses grew less frequent once she reached his warm chest, until she finally contented herself with snuggling into his side. Her head rested over his heart, which had been pounding rapidly but was now just starting to slow back down. They laid like that for a long time, with only their gentle breaths breaking the silence. Erik’s hand absently caressed her back while Christine traced over his scars lightly, every so often pressing a kiss to the ones nearest to her. Finally, she spoke quietly, “Every moment with you feels like a dream. It’s too incredible to be my life.” She closed her eyes and let her open hand rest upon his chest. “But if this is a dream, I hope I never wake up.”

Erik turned his head to glance down at the woman in his arms, the fierce little soprano to whom his heart belonged. He picked up her hand on his chest and raised it to his lips. “Thank you, my Angel, for giving me something to live for.”

Chapter Text

Christine awoke surrounded by silence and warmth. Her mind gently eased itself out of its dreamless slumber, slowly becoming aware of her surroundings. She sensed that she was lying on her side, beneath soft covers that were very much unlike the ones in her ballet dormitory. She felt her chest rise and fall steadily, and the movement revealed a light pressure across her waist.

The young woman opened her eyes, and took in the soft folds of black sheets illuminated by flickering candlelight. She was in Erik’s lair. She was in Erik’s bed.

All at once, the events of the previous evening rushed through her mind; the surprise at the ball, their narrow escape behind the mirror, their shared laughter echoing through the dark tunnels, the feeling of Erik’s lips pressed against hers, the sight of scars on his chest, the warmth of his embrace lulling her to sleep…

Christine smiled and let her hand drift down to cover the one wrapped around her abdomen, above her chemise. At her touch, it tightened slightly, and she felt him shift behind her so his chest was pressed against her back and his head nuzzled into her hair. “Good morning, Christine,” Erik’s voice whispered into her ear, tickling the tender skin.

Christine’s smile widened. She turned her head to look behind her, and met Erik’s soft gaze. “Good morning, Erik,” she sighed sleepily.

His hand finally moved from her waist and up to her cheek, where he stroked his fingers lightly over her soft features. “Did you sleep well, my Angel?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she hummed in agreement. She let her eyes flutter closed, before turning her head to press a kiss to his fingers, which stopped their stroking. After a pause, his fingertips softly traced over her lips, practically trembling. When Christine opened her eyes, she found Erik gazing at her face, absolutely captivated by the movements of his own hands, or perhaps instead by the tender skin that they touched. Christine felt her heart skip a beat as she was reminded of the passionate way he had looked at her the evening before.

Slowly, as her mind began to shed its final traces of sleep, she started to recall other events of the evening, events she soon realized she wanted to forget. She thought of the eager look on the Comte’s face when he asked for her hand, and then his confused disappointment as she was whisked away; she thought of Meg urgently calling her name, and Madame Giry’s cold, warning glare; she thought of the patrons and performers who had tracked them with their eyes, bitter and prying, whispering strains of scandal that were likely far from the truth. And suddenly, she was hit with the embarrassing realization that she would only have to endure more. This time, all on her own.

Christine sighed wistfully, her breath fanning over his fingers. She then moved herself closer to Erik under the covers, wrapping her arms around his torso and hiding her face against the top of his chest. “I wish I could stay here all day. In this bed, with you.”

She felt Erik suck in a breath at her words, before shifting his hands to rest against her back lightly. “If that is so, then you very well may.”

“No, I can’t,” Christine said sadly. “I can’t put it off forever.”

“Put what off?”

Christine sighed again, lifting her head from his chest to meet his eyes. “Sooner or later, I’m going to have to face everyone. And after what we did last night…” Her voice trailed off, before she shook her head and continued. “I mean, I know we wanted to get their attention, but now they’re just going to ask questions that I cannot answer. Like who you are, how I know you, how we escaped…”

Erik frowned in thought. “Well, even if they ask, you don’t have to answer them. They don’t need to know everything. Simply say it is a personal matter; that is not a lie.”

“That’s easier said than done, Erik,” Christine replied, her brow furrowing and tone bittering. “You know how gossip likes to flourish up there. Even if I insist it is none of their business, that will not stop them from digging deeper, or making things up.” Her own words drove Christine to agitation, and she pushed herself up into a sitting position on the bed, twisting handfuls of covers nervously. “I know how I appeared last night, dancing with a man who is a stranger to everyone. Just imagine what they’ll say about me now! And I know I shouldn’t care, but…” She let out a weary breath, running a hand over her curls before letting it fall into her lap.

Erik watched her as she confessed all of it, his heart stinging with guilt. He realized now that he had been a fool to assume his plan would solve everything, and that the others would unquestionably leave her alone. He should have guessed that it would be more complicated than that. The truth was he had hardly considered the others at all; he had only done what he believed would make Christine feel safe in the moment, and now it was turning out to be hurting more than helping her. How could he let that happen, when all he wanted was to help her? Oh, wicked wretched Erik!

He finally sat up in bed beside her and tentatively wrapped his arms around her waist. She leaned back against his bare chest, letting his caring presence comfort her. “Forgive me for putting you through this,” he said remorsefully. “I didn’t intend to make it this difficult for you.”

Christine let her hand pass gently over his again. “I know you didn’t.” She leaned her head to the side and nestled it under his jaw. “I just wish you could come with me. I wish I didn’t have to face it alone.”

Erik sighed softly, his chest hurting with the fullness of his heart. He wanted so terribly to be with her as well, to shield her from their unwarranted scorn. If he was by her side, he would be a visible reminder for them to treat her with the respect she deserved, or be subject to his wrath.

A visible reminder…

“Perhaps you won’t have to,” Erik replied suddenly. He withdrew his arms from her and stood from the bed, making his way to the small dressing table on the other side of the room. Christine followed him with her eyes as he opened a drawer on the table and withdrew something small. She couldn’t quite see what it was before he sat down on the bed again, keeping it hidden within his fist upon his lap.

“I told you of my time in Persia,” he said quietly, looking down at the blankets beside her, avoiding her eyes.

Christine slowly nodded, unsure of where he was going.

Erik took a deep breath. “Once I knew my stay there was nearing its end, I did not consider taking a souvenir. I have no need of something to remind me of that place; I need no assistance in remembering what I have done.” He bowed his head for a moment, urging his dark thoughts to fade. “It wasn’t until I had returned to France that I discovered…I did keep something from Persia. A gift from the sultana.” The fist he kept clenched moved to hover between them, capturing Christine’s inquisitive gaze. “I am sure she did not even notice it was gone; she had many others, but I admit I always found this one to be particularly beautiful. And I  would like to change its meaning to something…good.”

He carefully opened his fist, and sitting on his palm Christine saw a small, unique ring. The intricate silver jacket held a perfectly-round black opal, and she could see a glimmer of deep violet within the stone when the light struck it just right.

Christine’s eyes widened as her mind raced to a single thought. “Erik, what are you doing?” she said softly, looking up at him.

“Something I should have done months ago,” he muttered. His long fingers picked up the ring from his palm, fidgeting with it slightly, until he held it up before her. His eyes stared into hers unblinkingly. “Christine, I give you this ring as a symbol to me, you, and everyone else, of my undying love for you. You have shown me what love truly is, to give and to receive. This is my gift to you, to thank you.” His eyes flickered down to the ring again. “When you look upon this, I want you to remember that whatever you face up there, you are not facing it alone. As long as you wear this, I will be by your side. For all eternity.”

Erik’s heart pounded fiercely as his gaze rose to meet hers once more. “Christine, will you…” he breathed, his beautiful voice trembling, “will you be my wife?”

Christine was watching him through tear-filled eyes. “Yes,” she whispered, barely more than a breath, before releasing a sound that was a mix between a sob and a laugh. “Yes!” she exclaimed louder, and at once flung her arms around him and buried her smiling, crying face into his shoulder.

Erik held her there firmly as tears of his own spilled down his face. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think of anything except the words she had spoken to him, without hesitation. After a moment in his state of shock, Christine brought her face back to his and kissed him passionately. He perceived the taste of salt from their tears mingling together between their lips, which at once brought him rushing back to reality. He returned her kiss earnestly, and something about it made him finally believe that the depth of her love was equal to his. She understood all the pain, all the joy, all the desire that came with it, because she had experienced it herself, but for him . And for now, he decided to not try to make sense of it.

They broke apart, pressing their foreheads together and staring into the other’s glistening eyes. Erik found her left hand, and glanced down to carefully slide the ring onto her fourth finger. Christine watched his actions with the brightest of smiles, feeling the power of their promise taking hold between them. “It’s perfect,” she said. She lifted the hand that now wore the symbol of their love back to his face, pulling him in for another small kiss. “I love you, Erik.”

“I love you, my Angel,” he murmured between quiet sobs. “You will never know quite how much.”

Leaving Erik later that morning was one of the most difficult things Christine had ever done. After dressing in one of the gowns he had stored for her in his lair, Christine met Erik in the dining room, where they dined on coffee and a small breakfast. They were slow in cleaning up, and just as slow in their trip back across the lake. Instead of letting Christine return to the world above on her own as usual, Erik followed her up the stairs, not yet ready to depart from her.

Finally, they reached the back of the mirror-door, and paused. Christine wrapped her arms around Erik’s shoulders and kissed him once more, hoping to convey the joy that overflowed from her heart. “I will be back soon. I promise,” she whispered into the space between them when they finally parted.

His dark eyes shone with melancholy. He lifted his hands to carefully cup her face, and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “I love you, Christine. My beautiful, precious Angel.” His hand slid down her arm and found hers, tracing over the new ring on her finger. “Remember, I am with you.”

“You are with me,” Christine repeated, and with a bracing breath she untwined her hands from his and turned to open the mirror-door. She stepped into her dressing room once again, and with one last glance behind her, the mirror-door slid shut.

Christine sighed. She stared at her reflection in the mirror for a moment, contemplating her own mess of brown curls and green-grey eyes. She had always considered herself to be rather plain; indeed, as a modest ballet corps girl, she was discouraged from standing out. But now, in the aftermath of Erik’s whispered words and adoring touches, she felt nothing less than exquisite.

She caught a glimpse of the ring, the violet of her dress bringing out the purple hues within its depths. Suddenly, the likeness in the mirror seemed to change as she imagined herself in a gown of white lace and a flowing white veil. She was to be a bride; she was to be a wife. The fact didn’t scare her nearly as much as it did when Philippe had offered the same thing, and the reason why was clear.

She was to be Erik’s wife.

The thought filled her entire body with a golden warmth, and she smiled despite herself. The smile lingered as she stepped out of the dressing room and began to wander down the backstage halls, her mind drifting. Eventually, the sound of approaching footsteps broke her from her reverie, and she turned around.

The petite form of Meg Giry was advancing towards her, an aggrieved expression on her face. “Where have you been?” she asked.

Christine smiled and walked over to her friend. “Meg! I’m glad to see you,” she said brightly.

“Are you?” Meg replied skeptically, folding her arms over her chest. “It didn’t seem that way last night, when you left in the middle of the party.”

Christine’s face fell, and she twisted her hands together nervously. “I’m sorry about that. I…” She almost said she didn’t mean to leave her friend, but reflecting on her feelings the previous night, she knew it wasn’t true. “I’m sorry.”

Meg gave a small sigh and looked away. A beat passed, before she continued impatiently. “So, where did you run off to with your new lover?”

Her words brought a sudden blush to Christine’s face. “ Meg! ” She glanced over her shoulder to the other end of the hall, where distant chattering of petit rats could be heard. Christine hurriedly pulled her friend into an empty alcove between rooms. “Mind your tongue, and keep your voice down!”

Meg gave an annoyed groan. “Come on, Christine! Everyone saw you last night with that man, and the way you looked at him. Whatever I say now is the least of what they’ve been whispering.”

“But you don’t have to say it. Not to my face,” Christine said. Her cheeks were hot with embarrassment.

In her frustration, Meg chose to ignore her friend’s uneasy state, and pressed on. “Well? Are you going to tell me who he is? Can’t you tell me anything?”

Christine let out a heavy breath. “I can’t. It’s best if I don’t.” She bit her lip, wishing there was a way to make Meg understand. “He doesn’t like to be in the public eye—with the exception of last night. It’s not for no good reason, though.”

Meg frowned in confusion at Christine’s vague explanation, but soon a spark of recognition appeared in her eyes. “Is he the one who has been teaching you? The one who ‘does not wish to be revealed’?”

“Yes,” Christine confirmed with a nod.

The dancer stared at her friend, trying hard to make sense of it all. She slowly let her eyes drift down, until they landed on something unfamiliar; a ring with a black stone on Christine’s finger. On Christine’s wedding finger. “Is that from him?” she asked quietly.

Christine frowned. “Excuse me?”

Meg quickly grabbed her friend’s wrist and pulled her hand to her eyes; she gazed at the ring for one second before Christine swiftly withdrew her arm from her friend’s grasp. “Meg, please!” she said, taking a step back.

But it was too late; Meg’s eyes had gone wide with shock. “He is not just your lover, then, is he? He’s convinced you to marry him.”

“He has not convinced me to do anything I don’t want to do!” Christine bristled, before letting out a huff of frustration. “And here I was thinking this would be easier with you than with your mother.”

Meg gaped at her friend in offended disbelief. “What has gotten into you, Christine? Why are you keeping secrets like this? I feel like I don’t know you anymore.”

“I don’t know if you ever really knew me,” Christine muttered before she could stop herself.

At these words, Meg seemed to shrink, her gaze softening. “What do you mean? We’ve been friends for years, and I know when you are not acting like yourself.”

Christine glanced up at her friend again. She felt a sliver of remorse, but it was drowned out by the frustration that had been brewing inside her for years. “Do you?” she replied darkly. “Do you really know me that well? Or have I just been that good at hiding it?” Christine wrapped her arms around herself and turned away. Her back rested against the painted wall and she slowly slid down until she was sitting on the floor, her skirt pooling around her. Meg followed suit next to her. Christine still could not meet her eyes; when she spoke again, her voice was strained. “When I came here, I thought I was honoring my father’s memory by pursuing a life in the arts. I thought that’s what he would have wanted for me. But I didn’t realize how difficult it would be.” Her hands scrunched into fists, and the tiniest glint of tears appeared in her eyes. “I bowed my head and did as I was told, because if I didn’t I would be thrown out of the ballet corps, with no place to go. I had to hold in my tears, I had to obey, I had to act like everything was alright, all the time, when inside I was dying!”

Meg listened to her confession with wide, sorrowful eyes. “Did you pretend to like me, too?” she asked timidly.

Christine met her gaze, and after a pause slowly shook her head. “No. I’ve enjoyed our time together, Meg. Really, I have. But you must understand, I was not made for a life like this. Everything they say, and the way they say it, makes me feel like I am nothing. Like I have no choice, no freedom. And I hate it.” She looked close to tears, until she moved to cover her left hand with her right, fondly tracing over the ring once again. Her face broke into a small smile. “But this…this is my choice. I’ve found someone who loves me and makes me feel…treasured. And I’ve chosen to spend the rest of my life with him.”

The two young women sat in silence for a moment. Finally, Meg placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “You are not nothing, Christine. You never have been.”

Christine sighed wearily. “Then why has it always felt that way? Why is he the only one who has made me feel like I am more?”

“It’s good that he makes you feel like that, I suppose. But Christine,” Meg persisted, moving to face her directly. “This can’t be the way to go. You can’t just…run off with some man no one has ever met.”

Christine turned to glare at Meg. “Why can’t I do that, when apparently some man I have never met can think he has a claim to me?” She squeezed her left hand with her right, pressing the cool metal of the ring into her skin. “Besides, even if you met him, you wouldn’t see him like I do. No one does.”

Meg frowned. “Do you not hear yourself? You wouldn’t say that unless you know we would find him disreputable. And if he is disreputable, then you shouldn’t marry him, Christine!”

Enraged, Christine stood and whirled on Meg. “Why do you all condemn a man that you have never seen, that you do not know? Why does everyone think they can make my decisions for me? Don’t you trust me enough to know what’s best for myself?”

Meg got to her feet and stood her ground. “Not when you’re acting like this. It’s like you’re blind to how irrational you sound.” She watched Christine turn away from her again, and mumbled under her breath, “Mother was right. You are acting mad.”

Christine heard her. She raised her eyes, shining with hurt, in an ice-cold glare. “Well, if you and your mother have me all figured out, then why are you even talking with me? Why don’t you go and gossip behind my back, like everyone else? I’m sure news of my engagement will keep you all quite entertained for the next few months!”

Meg watched the soprano storm off down the hall, and felt a pang of sorrow in her chest. “Christine…” she called worriedly. But the damage had already been done.

Meanwhile, inside their office, the managers of the Opera Populaire were struggling to repair a different kind of damage.

Firmin sat at the desk but paid no attention to the piles of papers sitting upon it. Instead, he was rubbing his hand over his forehead and grumbling. “What a disaster! Only a handful of new patrons, and they didn’t offer nearly as much as we were hoping they would.”

Andre, who was pacing across from him, huffed in bemused agreement. “I’m sure it would not have gone so wrongly if it weren’t for that distraction .”

“What do you mean?” Firmin asked, looking up.

Andre waved his hand vaguely. “That man in red, whomever he was, stole the attention of everyone at the ball! From the moment he showed up to the moment the party was over, he was all anyone could talk about.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “He must have done it on purpose.”

Firmin scoffed. “Well, why would anyone want to do that? We have no enemies as humble opera house managers.”

At this, Andre let a fearful look pass over his face, and he gave Firmin a meaningful look. “Unless…”

“You cannot be serious, Andre,” Firmin said, rolling his eyes.

Ignoring his fellow manager’s dismissal, Andre continued avidly. “Who else would sabotage what would have been such a beneficial event for us? It must have been the Ghost!”

Firmin shook his head, unconvinced. “If it was the Ghost, then how could we all see him? Up until now, he’s been invisible, immaterial. It’s not like we’ve seen anyone—” His mouth stopped in the middle of his sentence, a thought arising in his head.

A similar look of realization had come over Andre. “Unless he isn’t a ghost,” he whispered. “Unless he’s just…a man.”

At once Firmin stood from his place at the desk. “The girl. That soprano, she took his hand and danced with him, and then they both disappeared!” He clapped his hands once in exclamation. “You see, I knew that girl would be more trouble than she’s worth.”

Andre ran a distressed hand through his hair as hiskind worked rapidly. “All this time, we’ve been afraid of some ordinary fellow! We’ve even been paying him, Firmin! What on Earth are we going to do?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?” came a cool, feminine voice from the doorway. Both managers turned to see the tall form of Sorelli, watching them with an air of cunning amusement.

The managers stared back in silent confusion for a moment. “How long have you been standing there?” Firmin finally asked.

Sorelli smirked and strode into the room. “Long enough to learn that you two find yourselves in quite the predicament.”

Andre cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped forward to meet her. “I am not sure we know what you mean, Mademoiselle…” He looked her up and down again. “Who are you, exactly?”

Sorelli rolled her eyes. “My name is Sorelli. I am the principal ballerina,” she replied in an exasperated voice.

“Ah yes, of course, Mademoiselle,” Andre said, nodding. “You see, my partner and I were merely discussing some private, managerial matters. They need not be of any concern to you.”

“Is that so?” Sorelli remarked, raising an eyebrow. “Well, I wonder if they would be of concern to your patrons, especially the Comte de Chagny .” She put particular emphasis on these last three words. It seemed to be effective, as both managers shifted uncomfortably; Sorelli’s smirk grew. “It would be quite embarrassing if they found out you have been using their generous funds to pay off a man pretending to be a ghost.”

Firmin raised his hands yieldingly. “Now, Mademoiselle, there’s no need for any rash accusations—”

“No, I think there is,” Sorelli cut off, her tone suddenly dark. She raised an accusing finger toward both of the men in front of her. “You managers have been letting a man have his way with the running of this theatre for years now, letting us all live with the fear of a Ghost haunting us while we sleep! And then this flighty young soprano comes along, and you let her make a fool of us all while she gets more famous by the day.”

The stories of the ghost, the strange happenings, the mysterious notes, had terrified Sorelli for years now. To know her superstitions were all merely a ploy by some ordinary man was humiliating to say the least. Someone had used her beliefs against her, and Sorelli would never forgive who it turned out to be.

And then, there was the matter of the Comte de Chagny. Sorelli knew she wanted and deserved him more than anyone else in the Opera House, even Christine. However, whatever game Christine was playing by making herself unavailable only seemed to draw the Comte closer to her. And it wasn’t just him; the soprano had been able to charm her way into everyone’s good graces, fooling them all into thinking she was some innocent, harmless little thing.

But Sorelli was not a fool. And she wanted to prove it.

Her attention snapped back to the managers, fixing them under a hard stare. “You two need to put a stop to it, find out what Christine Daae has been hiding, and hold her accountable. And in return, I will not inform the Comte of your unfortunate circumstance.”

The managers considered her argument independently for a moment, before glancing at each other. Andre raised a finger to Sorelli, a signal for her to wait, then both he and Firmin turned their backs and spoke in hushed whispers.

“We do need to be rid of him, Andre,” Firmin mumbled.

Andre shook his head. “But we can’t throw out our most popular soprano! We’re in the middle of the opera season, the audiences would eat us alive!”

Firmin shrugged nonchalantly. “We may not need to. We don’t know yet what kind of deal Daae has with this man; perhaps we could convince her to stay if we offered her something better. We’re after him, not her.”

The men shared one last conceding look before turning back around. The woman looked bored as she waited for their response, until finally Andre spoke. “Perhaps we can help each other, Mademoiselle. You see, we will still be rather busy with running our theatre, and we don’t wish to call premature attention to this delicate matter. So, for the time being, we will need you to keep a close eye on Mademoiselle Daae; try to find out where she hides between rehearsals, and inform us of any trips she makes outside of the opera house.”

“And what would that accomplish?” Sorelli said, frowning. She wasn’t expecting to have to do any work about this matter herself .

“It is clear from what we all saw at the ball that Christine Daae is very… close with this mysterious man,” Andre continued. “They must know each other quite well, and may even have regular correspondence.”

Firmin, who had been thinking carefully, stepped forward. “He is the reason she is always missing outside of rehearsals. They must be meeting in secret!”

“Perhaps if we observe Christine Daae more closely, she could give us a hint as to where this man is hiding,” Andre added.

“She will lead us right to him, and when the time is right, we can rid ourselves of this bothersome ghost once and for all!”

Sorelli stood before them a moment in silent consideration. They both seemed very excited about this matter, which she knew was a good sign, and they even had a plan going forward. But she didn’t want them to forget who encouraged them to act in the first place. “Very well. I will do it, but only after you guarantee one thing.” She crossed her arms and raised her chin haughtily. “I request immunity; no matter what happens to me, I shall not be replaced as principal ballerina at this opera house. And, once I decide to retire from my position, I would like to continue my career here. My experience could be quite useful as a ballet instructor, or even director.”

The managers glanced at each other again for confirmation. Firmin shrugged and said, “I see no issue with that.”

Andre smiled and nodded politely to the ballerina. “Of course, Mademoiselle. As long as you live, and we are in charge, you will have a position at this opera house.”

Later that day, Sorelli began fulfilling her end of the deal with the managers. Wherever Christine wandered off to, Sorelli was quick to follow, bringing her posse of gossiping dancers with her. She tracked the soprano to various practice rooms, the kitchens, the library; each time, the girl would pretend not to notice, but Sorelli watched as she eventually got frustrated and left to find another quiet space.

The petit rats that accompanied Sorelli had only one subject on their minds; the ball from the previous evening. The mysterious man in red was mentioned at least three times by each girl; the detail of Christine not only dancing with him, but kissing him, stirred up even more interest. Sorelli overheard a couple girls suggest that they might be secretly engaged, but the older dancer brushed them off. Besides, Christine kept her left hand hidden within the folds of her dress, making it impossible to check if the rumors were true.

Rehearsal began early that afternoon like always and proceeded without a hitch. The next performance of the season featured mostly ballet sequences for a change, and as such Sorelli found it difficult to observe Christine while concentrating on her new routines. Luckily, the small soprano did not fly off to anywhere. She merely sat alone on the side of the stage and scribbled away in her little blue journal while waiting for her cues.

FInally, the company was dismissed, and Sorelli watched as Christine flitted backstage amid all the chaos, and quickly followed suit. She knew this would be the trickiest part; the most attentive ballerinas had only ever seen Christine retreat into her dressing room, but after that it was like she disappeared, not to be seen until she returned to her dormitory late at night. This was Sorelli’s only chance to find out where Christine was going, and who she was meeting there.

Sorelli kept Christine’s shorter frame in her sights and followed her at a distance through the maze of backstage hallways. She turned several corners in a row, swiftly darting past the rows of doors and stage debris, until suddenly the principal ballerina found herself alone in the empty corridor. She grumbled slightly in frustration, before doubling back in case she had missed her. After a couple minutes of searching, Sorelli decided to head off the soprano at her dressing room; that was where she was heading, after all.

Sorelli found the corridor leading to Christine’s dressing room, and noticed that the door was closed. Suspicious, the ballerina crept forward quietly as she could and knelt next to the door, pressing her ear to the keyhole. Sure enough, she heard Christine’s soft voice coming from inside.

“It’s been so strange; it’s like they wouldn’t leave me alone all day. I couldn’t find a moment to myself before they all would rush in. I even had to use one of your secret passages to make my way here, in case anyone was following me. And I probably don’t have long before they realize I’m gone and come looking for me again.”

And then Sorelli heard it, a voice answering Christine: rich, elegantly intense, and somewhat familiar. ”Well, if they do, they will not find you. If you wish to be alone, my dear, then I will make certain that you are.”

Sorelli frowned. Whomever Christine was talking with sounded less than virtuous—he sounded dangerous, even.

To her surprise, she heard Christine sigh in contentment. “I suppose I don’t wish to be completely alone. I wouldn’t mind the company of my fiancé.”

Fiancé? Then it was true!

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind some music as well?” the man’s voice said, so quiet Sorelli could barely hear through the keyhole.

“I would like that very much.”

Christine’s reply was followed by a few strange sounds; a small click, faint footsteps, and a slight sliding noise. Sorelli waited a few extra moments, but heard nothing more. The ballerina finally got to her feet, still gazing curiously at the dressing-room door, until her determination overtook her and she pushed it open.

The room was empty. Frowning, Sorelli began to snoop around, lifting objects from the vanity and checking behind the wardrobe for any clue as to how the soprano disappeared. Her eyes finally swept over the floor-length mirror. It seemed to sit flush against the wall, but with no discernible hooks or fasteners behind its solid oak frame. She carefully ran her hands over the frame, looking for the slightest imperfection in the smooth wood. As she brought her fingers up and behind the left side, she suddenly felt a tiny lever jutting out almost imperceptibly. She slowly pressed the lever down, and at once the mirror within the frame slid to the side, revealing a dark stone passage that led into the wall itself.

Sorelli gasped at her discovery. It was impossible, it was ridiculous, but it was…here. Proof for all the world to see, which is more than could be said for many of the other things she chose to believe in. But she knew her job did not end here. She had to know how much of the rest was true, how much of a fool she had been, and how much of a fool she wouldn’t be now that she had evidence.

Her hand reached up to grasp the wooden ring on her left hand, gathering her courage from the lucky token, before taking a step into the passage. Once she had been completely swallowed by the darkness, the floor-length mirror slid itself shut behind her.

As she had done throughout the day, Christine tried not to make her disquiet obvious on the outside. The Phantom indeed did not seem to notice as he gently took Christine’s hands to help her out of the small boat. She looked up at his face, half-covered by the mask, and discerned his lips turned up in a delighted smile. The sight momentarily filled her heart with elation, and she was tempted to tear the mask from his face and kiss him soundly before he could say a word.

But before she got the chance, he quickly pulled her forward to his organ. “What shall I play for you, my dear? What would make you happy?” he asked giddily as he sat down on the bench and stretched his fingers over the keys.

“I’ll be happy with whatever you choose,” Christine replied, standing beside him.

The Phantom glanced up at her with eyes that sparkled with adoration. His long fingers reached out to cradle hers again, then brought them up to his lips. “I choose to do whatever makes you happy,” he said quietly, his lips brushing her skin.

Christine smiled at him, but it didn’t quite hide her dejection. This time, the Phantom noticed. “Angel, where is your mind running off to?” he murmured as he trailed tender kisses over her hands and up her wrists. “You know you can tell me anything.”

At last, Christine sighed and dropped her facade. She tilted her head to the side to avoid his eyes. “Meg and I had an argument today,” she admitted.

The Phantom stopped, watching her carefully. The tips of his fingers moved to touch the ring on her finger. “Was it about…us?”

Christine nodded. “She wasn’t exactly pleased to hear of my engagement, or the fact that I’ve been keeping our relationship a secret for so long. And that made me realize that no one else would be pleased about it, either. It’s just too hard to explain when I can’t tell them about you.” She paused, thoughts and feelings raging against each other. “I sometimes wonder if I…I just want to…I don’t know…”

“Christine,” he began, but faltered. What could he possibly say? He could apologize for proposing to her, or for their whole relationship, or at least for his need to be kept a secret, but none of that he was truly sorry for. What he was sorry for was how dispirited it made Christine feel, and that he did not know how to change, so what was the point in apologizing? He gripped her hands silently, trying to comfort her while he struggled with his helplessness.

Christine’s expression suddenly became grave. “This is right, isn’t it?”

“Is what right?” the Phantom asked, frowning.

“This,” she said, lifting their joined hands and staring at them curiously. “Us.”

At once, ice-cold dread surged through his body, and left in its wake a desperate, all-consuming fear. “You don’t think this is right?” he breathed.

Christine did not answer; instead, she pressed his hands and bit her lip anxiously. “They will never understand why I did what I did. Why I chose you.” Her thumb brushed softly over the back of his fingers before she released them, drawing her hands back to wrap around herself. “I just wonder…perhaps what they say is true. And I guess what I mean to ask is…” She met his eyes meaningfully. “Does someone who is mad know that they are mad?”

The Phantom blinked at her in shock. He had been too busy trying to keep himself afloat in his dark ocean of thoughts that he barely heard her question, and much less made sense of it. “Why are you asking this?”

Christine squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “Because everyone thinks it. Everyone thinks I’m mad, and to be perfectly honest I’ve often given them good reason to believe it. But I didn’t kiss you in front of everyone because I wanted them to think that. I did it because I wanted them to see me finally making a choice for myself, and not for them. But they don’t see it like that; they just think I’m acting insane. And if that’s all I’ll ever be to them, then what am I to do?” By the end of her ramble, her voice was breaking and she was dangerously close to tears.

The Phantom stared at her in agony. Every part of him felt like it was breaking; he could feel the hope and joy from that very morning slipping from his grasp like water. Christine took a couple steps back, breathing heavily, but at once the Phantom was on his feet and pulling her back to him. His hands gripped the tops of her arms, not enough to hurt her but to ensure she would not disappear. “Do you no longer wish to be married?” he asked, his voice trembling.

Christine looked up at him in surprise, and immediately shook her head. “No, of course I still wish to marry you!”

Despite hearing the words from her own lips, the twisted part of his soul forced him to doubt her. He released her arms and stepped away from her, his fingers balling into fists. “They only think you’re mad because of me. Because they know Erik is mad, and to them only someone insane would agree to spend the rest of their life with a demented monster.” He turned around to face her again, but her sorrowful gaze made him regret it. He took a deep, shuddering breath. “If you wish for them to stop believing you are insane, then you must go. You must leave me.”

“I won’t leave you,” Christine said at once. She strode over to where he stood. “I can’t, I—”

At once, they both became aware of a distant sound that disturbed the silence; it was a sort of soft whistling—half breath, half music—that drifted through the air of the room. Christine found herself enticed by the sound, as faint as it was, and she quickly looked around the cavern for the source of it.

The Phantom, however, had frozen in place, an expression of fearful recognition on his face.

“Erik, what is that?” Christine asked softly as the sound continued. It seemed to be pulsing out from somewhere across the underground lake, or even from the lake itself. She made a move to step closer to its rippling edge, but was stopped when the Phantom gripped her arm.

“Someone’s coming,” he whispered, his tone dark. She didn’t have a chance to ask him how he knew, before he pulled her away from the shore and made her face him. “Stay here, and do not touch the water,” he warned seriously. He then let go of her arms and strode over to where the boat was tethered.

Christine shook her head. “No, I’m coming with you,” she said, and began to walk after him.

“Christine, it’s not safe—”

“Then it’s not safe for you either!”

“Erik can defend himself quite well, let him handle this—”

Suddenly, a piercing scream broke off their argument, and the faint song ceased.

A beat passed where neither of them spoke. Then, Christine focused on the Phantom once again. “What was that?” she asked in a small voice.

The Phantom hesitantly met her eyes. “One of my traps. The Siren Song.”

Christine considered his words carefully. “Do you mean, someone just…” She watched as the Phantom avoided her eyes, his hands twitching nervously, and a sense of dread trickled into her stomach. “Show me,” she said.

Reluctantly, the Phantom stepped forward and took her hand—Christine noticed how firmly he held it, beyond what was necessary to guide her—and led her over to the boat. He helped her in and began to push them across. As they drifted over the water, Christine saw the Phantom scanning the surface of it closely, as if expecting something to jump out of it. But the water remained perfectly still, black as night and glimmering in the light of the lantern.

The boat finally bumped against the far shore, and the Phantom edgily helped her out of it. He then walked along the shore, a couple steps ahead of her and with his hand stretched out behind him protectively, searching the waterline carefully. He suddenly stopped, and turned around to Christine; the look in his eyes told her to stay put, which she did. Christine watched him walk to a point further away, where something could just be seen peeking out from the inky-black water. He knelt down and pulled the strange thing from the lake, and Christine’s stomach dropped when she saw four long limbs, a head of black hair, and a face of ghost-pale skin. It was Sorelli, and she was dead.

“Oh God,” Christine whispered, raising her hand to cover her mouth. She let out a shuddering breath and turned around, hiding the terrible scene from her sight.

The Phantom was silent as he lifted the body completely out of the water and set it on the shore. A moment passed, and he finally said, “You may turn around now, my dear.”

Christine did hesitantly, and saw that he had covered the body with his cloak. Still shocked, she glanced quickly between it and the Phantom, who shook his head. “And after all this time, I thought these traps would never come of use,” he remarked bitterly.

Christine let out an exasperated breath. “Erik, this…this isn’t a joke! This is a terrible accident!”

At this, the Phantom met her eyes dubiously. “ Accident? You think her following us was an accident? ” He had to fight to stop himself from releasing a frigid laugh. “It is because of her inquisitiveness that she met this fate. That is why I have my traps in the first place; to keep nosy fools from disturbing my carefully-constructed sanctuary.”

“But this is the principal ballerina,” Christine continued grimly. “People will notice right away when she is gone, and they will search for her. When they find out she’s dead…they’ll believe you killed her, Erik.” She stiffened in realization. “And it only happened because she was following me…”

The Phantom seemed to reach her conclusion at the same moment, because he immediately stepped over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Christine, I need you to listen to me,” he said steadily, his dark eyes looking straight into hers. “You need to go back upstairs now, and don’t tell anyone you’ve been away. Find someone, say you were in the library, on the roof, something.”

“Why?” Christine asked.

“We cannot have you linked to this. I’ve subjected you to enough scandal already.”

Christine’s eyes widened in understanding. She began to nod, but then suddenly gripped his wrists as she thought of something else. “What about you?”

“I will take care of it,” the Phantom assured vaguely.

Christine frowned. “But what will you do? Just hide down here? What if they find you? You know they won’t stop searching until they get an answer to all of this.”

The Phantom shrugged. “I have lived here in comfortable secrecy for years now. They have not found me yet, and with as little as they have to go on, they should not find me this time.”

Despite his confidence, Christine’s hold on his wrists grew firmer. “You must promise me you will not risk anything, not even for me,” she insisted. Her eyes glimmered with fear. “We can’t let them find you. They’ll take you away from me.”

The Phantom felt himself begin to break again at her words. He moved his hands to gently hold her jaw. “I will never let them take me away from you,” he vowed. “I promise you I will be safe.”

Hoping with all her heart that he was right, Christine pressed her lips to his before wrapping her arms around his shoulders and tucked her face into his neck. “I love you,” she whispered shakily.

Feeling his heart throb painfully, the Phantom enveloped her in his arms and held her tight to his chest. “I love you,” he returned. He pressed a final kiss to her hair, and then pulled away. “Go now,” he urged, leading her to the base of the stone steps.

With one last desperate look, Christine forced herself to retreat back up the stairs, feeling truly alone for the first time in many years.

Later that evening, the Phantom paced around the foyer of his lair restlessly.

He had just returned from disposing of the dancer’s body in the Seine; by all accounts, it would look like a suicide, but even a half-witted inspector may take suspicion to that story, and he didn’t expect it to last very long. Soon, the managers would be required to bring in a whole host of investigators, and possibly put the opera house’s productions on hold for a while. At least that meant Christine would get a break from rehearsals.

Christine. His chest still ached with the emptiness that had appeared the moment he sent her back up to the world above. She was right; after the years he spent terrorizing the opera house and its managers, he would become the prime suspect of all theories regarding the dancer’s death. And his appearance at the ball occurring only the evening before, which proved his existence as a man and not a ghost…he sighed. Someone was bound to put the pieces together. Once they did, they would come looking for him, start looking for evidence of who he was. And he knew where they would start, because they already had; with his precious Christine.

Christine. The ache would not go away. He ground his fingernails into his palms to try to distract from it, but it continued to throb with a dull heavy rhythm. He hated himself for forcing her away, especially without telling her when they would see each other again. If they ever would…

The Phantom stopped pacing suddenly. No. He would not let himself entertain that thought. He would see her again, he had promised her. She was his fiancée, and he had sworn to be by her side forever. Even if her worries were true, even if everyone would scorn them for the rest of their lives. He loved her, he needed her, more than anything else. He could not live without her by his side.

But now, he thought as he continued to pace, he couldn’t be beside her, not yet. Even still, he needed to make sure she was protected. And the best way to do that was to distance himself as far from her as he could bear, to draw everyone searching for him away from her. But how could he make sure she was safe if he couldn’t be there to ensure it? The answer, of course, was that it couldn’t be him; it had to be someone else, someone he could trust. But the problem was, he couldn’t trust anyone —

At once, he stopped pacing as the solution popped into his mind. The thought made him release a bitter laugh and shake his head. No matter how annoying it would be, he supposed it was the only way.

The Phantom stepped over to his writing desk and sat down. He opened a drawer and withdrew paper and a fresh bottle of ink. He considered what to say for only a moment, then with another amused sigh he dipped his quill into the ink and began to write a letter.

My dear Daroga…

Chapter Text

It was a frigid February morning when the Comte de Chagny returned to the opera house, for the second time in a week. Albeit this time, it was under much less cheerful circumstances than a masquerade ball.

The young nobleman entered the avant-foyer and removed his hat, running a hand through his sandy-brown hair. He stood for a while, admiring the beautiful columns and finely-crafted filigree on the ceiling, until his eyes landed on the approaching petite figure of a young woman.

Her blue eyes blinked up at him through blonde bangs. “Monsieur le Comte?” she asked in a timid voice. He nodded; she gave a small smile and motioned for him to follow her. “The managers are expecting you. Right this way, please.”

“Thank you, Mademoiselle,” Philippe said before following her down a side hall. “If I may ask, what is your name?”

“Oh, I’m Meg. Meg Giry,” she replied. “I’m a dancer.”

At once, Philippe’s manner became somber. “Well then, I must offer my deepest condolences for the loss of your fellow ballerina.”

Meg nodded dolefully and twisted her hands together. “Thank you, Monsieur. It did come as quite a shock.”

“Indeed, I could hardly believe it myself when I first got word. And by suicide…I never would have guessed.” Philippe shook his head with a sigh. “She just didn’t seem like the type. I didn’t know her for long, but she was so clever and skilled…” He paused, finally noticing how the young woman beside him had fallen silent. “It was suicide, was it not?”

Meg winced awkwardly. “Well…not exactly.” She stopped her walking just before they entered the backstage area. “I guess they thought it looked like a suicide at first, but recently there has been talk that doubts that. Which, I imagine, is why you’ve been called here today.” Just as she spoke, a team of uniformed policemen passed in front of them, heading down an adjacent hall.

Philippe watched them pass with an ominous feeling in his chest. He turned back to Meg, suddenly fearful. “What kind of talk?”

Meg hesitated a moment; she had already said more to the Comte than she ever expected to in her life. But the Comte seemed so very charming, and she was emboldened by his keenness to listen to her. So, she brushed a golden curl from her face and fell into the low voice she used when discussing gossip. “Well, Sorelli was friends with most of the dancers here, and they were all shocked to hear of the news. Like you, they couldn’t believe that she would just throw herself into the river.” Meg suddenly remembered with whom she was speaking, and she clamped a hand over her mouth. “Oh! That was uncouth, I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, Mademoiselle,” Philippe said reassuringly. He then took a deep breath and lowered his tone. “If I understand you correctly, they suspect she was… murdered? ”

Meg nodded grimly and continued to lead him down the hall. “I’m afraid so. That’s why the Sûreté have been wandering around the opera house the past couple days. I heard they even called in a private investigator.”

Philippe frowned. “Private investigator? Is it really that serious?”

Meg nodded earnestly. “They said it was to have someone unbiased give an outside perspective on everything.”

“I see,” Philippe mused. “Well, while I am here, I intend to provide my help in any way I can. I owe it to Sorelli, after the favor she did for me.” He did not see it, but Meg gave Philippe a strange glance when he said those words. Not noticing, Philippe’s face shifted to one of curiosity as he turned to Meg again. “Speaking of which, how has the lead soprano been taking all of this? I’m sure the passing of someone so close to her has not been easy.”

Meg shook her head. “Christine and Sorelli were never that close. But it’s true, she has been affected by it.” The dancer’s manner then became dark as she thought of her friend. “After the news broke, she stayed in her dormitory almost all day, only coming out for meals or to grab a book from the library. She hardly speaks to anyone, and when she does she always seems irritable.”

“That is peculiar,” Philippe said with a frown.

“Ever since the Masquerade Ball, she has never been quite the same. And I fear I’ve only made it worse,” Meg said with a melancholy sigh.

Philippe studied her for a moment, before saying gently, “With how fondly you speak of her, I would be quite surprised if that was true. You seem to only have her best interests at heart.”

This seemed to ease Meg a little, and she gave a small shrug. “I try to at least. But it’s difficult when she just refuses to listen. In fact…oh, but you don’t know, do you?”

“I don’t know what?”

Meg leaned in and let her eyes grow wide. “Christine is engaged.”

Philippe almost stumbled back in shock. “ Engaged? To whom?”

“She will not say, but…” Meg gave him a telling look. “You remember the man she danced with at the Ball, don’t you? Everyone assumes that it must be him.”

Philippe’s eyes widened as he remembered. The blood-red suit, the burning dark eyes peering out from the death-mask, the long-fingered hand that enveloped Christine’s and led her away. Him? How could it be him? “And no one knows who he is?”

Meg shook her head. “No.”

“Very peculiar indeed,” Philippe pondered for a moment more. By then they had reached the manager’s office, and the Comte turned to face the small dancer. “Thank you for escorting me, Mademoiselle Giry.” He reached for her hand and placed a light kiss upon the back of it.

“Of course, Monsieur,” Meg breathed, her face flushing in exhilaration at the simple act.

The Comte smiled. “Philippe, please.” He then released her hand and knocked on the door to the manager’s office.

Deeper backstage, inside a quiet reading room close to the library, there sat two armchairs, a small desk with a lamp, and a forlorn young woman. Christine sat with a book open on her lap, her chin on her hand and her fingers fiddling with the corner of the page. Her eyes were unfocused, and the mind behind them wandered bleakly from thought to thought.

The book itself was not of interest to her; the only reason she had it now was accidental. She had been browsing the titles in the library, eager for a distraction, but then Meg had entered and insisted on speaking with her. At this, the wound Meg had left from their previous argument reopened, and Christine snatched a random book and quickly strode out of the library, muttering something about wishing to be left alone. Now, she was left with the boring historical book, and thankfully Meg had been wise enough not to bother her since.

Christine took refuge in this quiet study room, as it was one of the only places she knew no one else would bother. By now, news of Christine’s unconventional ring, worn proudly on her wedding finger, had spread throughout the opera house. Everywhere she went she was greeted with whispers and quick glances at the ring; during these times she held her head high and said nothing, attempting to appear indifferent to their insatiable nosiness. But hiding her true feelings from others was not as easy for her as it once was. So, instead of creating an emotional scene that she knew would only worsen their derision, she resorted to hiding away and being alone with her own thoughts. If they were going to talk about her, at least they wouldn’t do it in front of her face.

Christine sighed, blinking and shaking her head before glancing back down at her book. As she did, her eyes spotted the gleam of the silver ring in the lamplight. Her heart clenched painfully, and she let her fingers trace fondly over its delicate surface.

Words could never express how much she missed Erik. Her soul had felt broken in two when her father had died, but that she knew was irreversible; the fact that Erik was here , so near and yet so far away, and they were isolated intentionally made her feel shattered. Just when she thought she would never be apart from him again, they were separated once more. All because of one terrible accident.

Christine closed her eyes and swallowed. She would not soon forget the shock of seeing Sorelli’s dead body upon the shore of the lake. Her sudden death had drawn dark, painful memories from deep within Christine’s mind, which she had struggled to push back down during the short time that had passed. None of the horror she felt was directed at Erik necessarily, though she was quite unsettled to see his seeming lack of concern in the face of the tragedy. However, she reminded herself of what he had revealed to her about the act of killing, how he forced himself to grow apathetic to it to save his own psyche. Perhaps this reaction was the same, except in a different form. Regardless, one thing was clear to her: he did not kill Sorelli. No one would believe her, but she knew it was just a mistake. An accident.

The hand that had been stroking the ring came up to rub over her eyes as she sighed wearily. Christine ignored the book on her lap, continuing to consider her beloved, eccentric fiancé. She worried what he might assume she was thinking about the whole thing; he might think she blames him and that he actually is a murderer. It wouldn’t be the first time he admitted such acts to her, after all. Did he think she wouldn’t forgive him? Did he think it would make her stop loving him?

Cold guilt seeped into her chest. She realized quickly that she had already set these thoughts into motion in his mind during their last conversation. ‘Do you no longer wish to be married?’ he had asked her. And even when she had assured him she did still wish it, and that she loved him, she could see in his eyes that he still doubted her.

She had to convince him that it was true; she had to make things right. Perhaps later this evening, when the Sûreté were gone, she would sneak out of her dormitory and try to open the mirror-door. Madame Giry or someone else might be roaming the halls, and if they saw her it would be too difficult to explain, after what had occurred. She would need to move silently, as silent as the man she longed to see…

Christine was suddenly broken from her thoughts by a knock on the door. She sighed and closed her book with a loud thump . “Please, Meg, I said I wish to be left alone!”

There was a moment of silence, before Christine  heard the click of the door opening behind her. She huffed in frustration, stood from her chair and whipped around. “Meg, I said—”

She stopped suddenly when she did not see the dancer. Instead, her eyes took in the tall figure of a middle-aged gentleman, with deep bronze skin and a short-cut beard, wearing an unusual cap. His jade eyes were both striking and warm, and they looked into Christine’s with a friendly sort of wisdom. “Pardon me, Mademoiselle,” he spoke in a cautious voice. “I merely had a few things to discuss with you. However, if you would rather be alone, I shall—”

“No, it’s alright,” Christine said, her frustration replaced with curiosity. She cleared her throat and gestured for the man to enter. “Please come in.”

The man nodded and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him before facing her again. “My name is Nadir Khan. I was hired by the opera house’s managers to investigate the situation surrounding the death of the dancer known as Sorelli.”

“Are you with the police?” Christine asked tentatively.

“No; I am a private investigator.”

Christine paused, choosing her words carefully. “And you want to ask me questions? About Sorelli’s death?”

Nadir shook his head. “Not necessarily. I am already fully aware of how Sorelli met her demise, and that it was because of no fault of your own.”

Christine frowned; she didn’t want to consider how he could know such a thing. Ignoring the dread gathering in her stomach, she raised her chin and tried to appear indifferent. “Well, what use am I to you then? I know no more than anyone else about this.”

Nadir held her under a steadfast gaze. “Now, I know that is not true.” Her face slowly dropped its facade and grew fearful at his words, and he gently held up a placating hand. “Be at ease, Mademoiselle. I promise I am an ally to you, for it seems we have a mutual acquaintance. In fact, it was he who invited me here in the first place; the managers merely accepted my help when I offered it.”

Christine heard the emphasis he placed on the one small syllable, feeling it like a shock in her heart. How could he know? Still untrusting, Christine set her jaw and looked to the side to avoid his eyes. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

At her reaction, Nadir merely sighed. “I admit I am slightly offended to know he must not have mentioned me to you. No matter.” He took a few steps further into the room, closer to the chairs and giving Christine space by the door. “I was once an enemy of the man who now calls himself the Opera Ghost, back when he was a visitor in my homeland of Persia. Even now, he still refers to me as—”

“Daroga,” Christine finished for him. Her eyes widened in recognition as she looked back at the man in the room.

He watched her take him in with a new understanding, and he smiled slightly. “Erik has always had a flair for the dramatic.”

At once, all of Christine’s hesitance was gone, replaced with a warm delight. She quickly walked over and took the man’s hand in hers. “Oh Monsieur, it’s an honor to meet you! Erik has told me so much about you.”

“Not everything about me, I hope,” Nadir said with a grin.

Christine smiled at him fondly. “He told me you saved his life.”

“Did he?” he said, an amused glint in his eye. “I didn’t think he’d ever admit to that. Even though it is true.”

“Well, for that alone, you have my infinite thanks,” Christine replied. She then led him closer to the two chairs, ushering him to sit in one. “I’m Christine Daae, by the way. I apologize for being so rude to you earlier—”

Nadir gave her hand a comforting squeeze before letting go. “It’s quite all right, Mademoiselle, truly. I imagine it’s been a difficult time for you lately.”

Christine’s smile became sad as she perched upon the chair across from her guest. “You’re very kind to say so. And it’s Christine, please.”

Nadir nodded. “He has already told me much about you as well, in his correspondence. And about the…situation you both find yourselves in.”

Christine’s face fell. She quickly leaned forward in the chair, her gaze insisting. “It was an accident. It wasn’t Erik’s fault, you must believe me—”

Nadir quickly held up a hand to silence her, glancing at the door and listening carefully. After a moment, he met her eyes and whispered, “Please, Mademoiselle, we mustn’t mention that name anymore. We don’t know who could be listening. We should speak only using ‘he’ and ‘him’.”

“Of course,” Christine said, nodding. She fidgeted nervously with her fingers. “Do you believe me when I say it was an accident?”

About this, Nadir had to think. Several seconds passed where he did not meet her eyes; when he finally replied, his voice was slightly guarded. “I admit I find it difficult to believe, knowing him for as long as I have. But I have learned that the truth is very often the most difficult thing to believe. And if you say it is the truth, then I have no reason to believe it isn’t.”

His kind eyes met hers firmly, and she knew what he said was honest. Christine let out a calming sigh. “Thank you.”

“Speaking of truth,” Nadir added, “the real reason he summoned me here is you.”

Christine blinked in surprise. “Me?”

Nadir nodded once. “He is entrusting me to watch over you in his stead, and to divert the attention of the Sûreté away from you, which I am doing by conducting this “interrogation”. I will report back to the police and tell them that you had nothing to do with the murder, which I hope should eliminate most of the suspicion directed towards you.”

Christine scoffed lightly at his final statement. “If you knew the kind of people who work here, you would know that task is nearly impossible.” She processed the rest of his words and decided to ask him something else. “What do you mean when you say you will watch over me in his place? Is he no longer here?”

“He is here, but hiding. He took your words to heart and will not put himself in jeopardy. In addition to that, know that he regrets it, but he asks that you do not try to seek him out. You will be under too much scrutiny in these following days, and he does not wish to risk your safety,” Nadir explained.

Christine felt a pang of sorrow in her heart as her plan was extinguished like a flame, and she realized that she would have to wait even longer before she saw Erik again. Finally, she dipped her head. “I understand.”

Nadir’s slightly-wrinkled face frowned in pity when he saw her pain. “One more thing, Mademoiselle,” he continued gently. “In his letter, he requested for me to question you. Well, he told me to ask…” He paused, wincing internally, before asking, “Do you still love him?”

Christine’s eyes widened in disbelief at being asked such a thing. The ache in her heart doubled, morphing quickly into anguish. “Of course I do! I love him with all my heart, with everything in me!” She looked down into her lap, feeling the sting of tears start to well up. “I wish he didn’t have to doubt that.”

Nadir watched her closely as she confessed, and he seemed shocked at the fervor of her response. His jade eyes glanced down to her hands, the right of which was anxiously twisting a ring around one of the fingers of her left. His gaze softened in recognition, and finally in understanding as he looked back up and took in her expression as a whole. He saw that Christine’s quick defense of the Phantom was not borne of fear; it was borne of something much stronger.

Nadir smiled very slightly despite himself. He slowly extended his hand and held it palm-side up between them. Christine glanced up, and after a moment placed her own hand on top of it. “Thank you, Christine,” Nadir said sincerely, squeezing her fingers.

A moment of empathy passed between the two, before Nadir let go of the soprano’s hand and stood from his seat. “I will be making frequent visits to the opera house over the next few weeks, as I continue my “investigations”. In that time, I hope you’ll allow me to check in again with you? I’d like to monitor how you both are faring.”

Christine’s smile returned as she stood and nodded. “Does that mean you will be visiting him, too?”

“Yes. Though I admit, I do not look forward to it,” Nadir admitted tightly. “The fact that he called me here does not necessarily mean he will be happy to see me.”

Christine laughed at the investigator’s exasperated tone. “I think I know what you mean.” Without another word, he bowed to her and walked over to the door, but before his hand landed on the handle Christine thought of something and trotted after him. “The next time you speak with him,” she whispered, “please tell him I love him. And I miss him.”

Nadir met her pleading green-grey gaze, and was once again stunned by the intensity of the woman before him. A warm feeling of respect blooming in his chest, he nodded to her. “You have my word, Mademoiselle.”

“That is the most improbable thing I’ve ever heard,” Philippe said, shaking his head.

The Comte was seated in a chair inside the managers’ office, while the managers themselves stood on the opposite side of the desk across from him. Andre nodded regretfully. “I’m afraid it’s all true.” The two men had just explained to their patron the secret they had been keeping for months; that they had been blackmailed into paying an unknown malefactor 20,000 francs a month, that the regular property damage incurred in the opera house was his doing, and that they had every reason to believe he was behind the death of Sorelli.

Philippe sighed, running a tense hand through his hair. “And you have no idea who he is? No one you suspect?”

The two managers exchanged a meaningful look. “Well, we do believe we have seen him,” Andre piped up.

Firmin nodded and continued, “At the Masquerade Ball. He danced with the Daae girl.”

At once, Philippe blanched in realization. The same man that was terrorizing the opera house, stealing money and spreading fear…he was the same man that, according to Meg, was now engaged to Christine. “It’s impossible,” Philippe whispered, mostly to himself. And it was; based on everything he knew about Christine, she would never make such a ridiculous choice. However, her blunt and ultimately humiliating rejection of his own proposal emerged from the confusion in his mind. Perhaps Christine that day had been right, and he really didn’t know her after all.

While thoughts continued to swarm in Philippe’s head, Andre shifted nervously from behind the desk. “Please understand, Monsieur le Comte. We were given no other choice. We didn’t know what to do.”

Hearing the distress in Andre’s voice, the Comte finally glanced up at the managers. He slowly shook his head. “Of course; there was nothing you could have done. I do not blame you two at all.” His tone grew dark as he looked back down again. “It is this… Opera Ghost that is guilty.”

A quick knock then sounded on the door to the office, followed by the entrance of a uniformed member of the Sûreté police force. Firmin nodded in greeting. “Ah, Captain, perfect timing. How was your search?”

The police captain bowed politely. “Messeuirs, we found no evidence of a murder scene anywhere in the building, especially not one that matches the manner of death. Likewise, we thoroughly questioned the performers, stagehands and musicians, and they do not report seeing or hearing anything suspicious and all hold plausible alibis. When asked about the day leading up to the death, a few dancers reported seeing the victim disappearing backstage after rehearsal. She seemed to be following another woman, one…” He looked down to check his notes. “Christine Daae?”

Firmin exclaimed and slammed his hand on the desk. “You see? I knew she had something to do with all of this!”

The police captain merely nodded once. “Yes, but Private Investigator Khan reports that he interrogated the woman, and he is certain she had nothing to do with it. She even has an alibi for the time of death that was nowhere near where the body was found by the Seine.”

“Where is that private investigator, anyway?” Andre asked, glancing outside the door to the hallway.

“He said he was investigating further on his own, and would debrief with you later,” the police captain replied.

Andre nodded in understanding. “Very well, Captain. Good work.”

“If I may, Monsieur,” the police captain continued, folding his hands behind his back, “in a case as delicate as this one, we recommend arranging regular police postings in and around the opera house. This is to ensure the safety of everyone inside, and prevent such an event from being repeated.”

“Yes, that sounds excellent. We must discuss the details later, but for now we thank you for your help, Captain.” Andre waved the police captain out of the office, before awkwardly turning back to the Comte. “Well, that was unhelpful,” he muttered dejectedly.

Firmin sighed. “Cheer up, Andre, I’m sure the Sûreté did everything they could. I mean, no one else in this bloody place can find a clue of where the man’s been hiding over the past year.”

“Well, we do know one thing for certain now,” Philippe asserted, gaining the other men’s attention. The Comte met their eyes gravely. “No matter how improbable it seems, Christine Daae knows more about all of this than she is letting on.”

Firmin hummed in disapproval and glanced back over to his fellow manager. “I told you that soprano would be more trouble than she’s worth.”

Just then, they were interrupted once again by another visitor. This time, it was Madame Giry, who held two things in her hands; one was a thick leather-bound book tucked under her arm, and the other was a small slip of paper. “Please, Messieurs, you have a note.”

Philippe peered at the letter with interest, while the two managers immediately backed away from it as if it would explode at any second. They gestured for Madame Giry to open it, which she did and began to read.

“Fondest greetings to you all,

I will begin by offering my most sincere condolences as to the unfortunate death of your principal dancer; its occurrence is something no one could have predicted, but even I will admit could have been prevented.

As I understand, this tragic circumstance leaves you managers in an awkward position. The upcoming ballet production of course can no longer take place, as its lead is now rather permanently indisposed. So, the decision must be made as to whether an alternate performance will be put on instead, or if the performing season will be left vacant. Given that you two are so earnestly driven by the monetary benefits of the former, I assume you would want to avoid the latter at all costs. Therefore, the consideration remains of which production will be chosen to replace the ballet. For this, I generously give the solution: I have written you an original opera, whose finished score shall be presented along with this note.”

At this, Madame Giry stopped reading and placed the large leather-bound volume onto the managers’ messy desk; on its cover it bore the name Don Juan Triumphant . The three men stared at it in similar states of confusion, while the ballet mistress continued.

“I advise you to comply with my requisition; I need not remind you that this remains my theatre and that it will be run as such without managerial interference. A manager’s proper place, after all, is in an office and not the arts.

Vis-à-vis my opera, I have included detailed  instructions on its proper orchestrations and performance that the musical director will find most illuminating. My most important dictate pertains to the cast; as should be obvious given her talents, the lead soprano role will be given to Mlle. Christine Daae. Besides this, I’ve managed to assign more minor roles to the other members of the company who cannot act, of which there are unfortunately many. Any deviations from these decisions would be most unwise, and shall be met with undesirable consequences (please refer to La Carlotta with any doubts regarding this fact).

Kind regards,

O.G.”

Madame Giry finally ended the note, and almost immediately Andre turned to Philippe and gestured at the slip of paper. “You now see, Monsieur le Comte, the sort of problems we have been dealing with in these past months.” He ran an exhausted hand over his face. “Oh, what are we to do?”

“Well, we’re not performing this , that’s for certain,” Firmin said, jabbing a finger at the leather-bound score. “God only knows what the fiend has in store if we put it on!”

“Well, let’s not be impetuous,” Philippe said quietly. “This may prove to be an opportunity.”

Andre gaped at him. “ Opportunity? Pray tell.”

Philippe suddenly stood, his eyes bright with a new thought as he looked down at the score. “Perhaps the answer is staring us in the face. This is our chance to find him, and ensnare him in his own trap.” The managers continued to stare at him quizzically, so he continued. “If we play his game, then at least we know his next move. He will try something the night of the performance, which he will have to be present somewhere in this building to do.”

Andre’s eyes widened steadily as the plan seemed to crystallize in his mind. “We utilize the help of the Sûreté , we seal the exits, fill the building with guards…”

“ Armed guards,” Philippe said, nodding. “And we can ensure he does what we want him to, because we have his own pawn.” He plucked the note from Madame Giry’s hand and held it up. “Christine Daae. She is in league with him; he will follow where she goes.”

Firmin nodded eagerly. “We do as he asks, Christine sings, and we get our man. This will seal his fate!”

“This is madness!” Madame Giry finally exclaimed, after listening to the planning in appalled silence. “You cannot possibly think of putting the girl’s life in danger, with so much unknown!”

Andre spoke in a slightly patronizing tone, “Madame Giry, we will have the Sûreté on our side, I am sure she will be perfectly fine.”

Madame Giry quickly rounded on him, flashing her cold hawklike gaze. “Do you forget he has already killed one young woman? We have no idea what he could be planning next!”

“Which is why we need a plan of our own,” Philippe said as he began to approach the woman and meet her eyes calmly. “You can help us with it, Madame Giry. Help us convince Christine that she must sing, for the good of her and everyone else in the opera house.” He paused, before letting his voice become soft. “Please, Madame. Think of your daughter.”

Madame Giry continued to glare at the Comte, but her eyes seemed distant as she considered his words carefully. As she thought, the two managers stood huddled by their desk, fervently discussing the plan. “This will turn the tide in our favor, surely! If we play our cards right, and don’t say a word of it to anyone else, he will never suspect a thing,” Andre rationalized.

“It will all be over,” Firmin agreed. “His reign will finally end.”

At the same time these arrangements were being made in the managers’ office, the hired “private investigator” wandered the opera house alone. He poked his head into open rooms and random spaces, careful not to linger too long before the prying eyes of the opera house’s residents. He seemed to be searching for something that no observer could quite discern.

Eventually, he found the door to the lead soprano’s dressing room. Looking to his left and right down the corridor to ensure he wasn’t followed, he entered the empty room and closed the door silently. His eyes glanced around for only a moment, before he strode over to the mirror on the wall and ran a finger along the side. Almost immediately he found the hidden lever, as if he had known what to look for, and the mirror-door slid open easily. Nadir Khan then disappeared into the dark passage and began his descent down the dark stone steps, keeping his footsteps light and his head clear.

Several minutes passed before he reached the deepest part of the labyrinth. He found himself standing on the shore of the underground lake, the black water looming like a void in front of him. Squinting at the small patch of candles in the distance, Nadir considered his options; there was no boat to be seen, and swimming was out of the question. His eyes began to trace along a roughly-hewn path in the distance, one that looped around the side of the lake and led directly to the main portion of the lair. Sighing, Nadir began to follow along the path hugging the stone wall.

He managed not to slip on the thin outcropping of rock and made it all the way to the candlelit lair. Here, Nadir was even more cautious; he saw and heard nothing, which he knew was more than likely intentional. “Erik?” he spoke into the darkness. Another moment passed, and nothing happened. Nadir sighed again and began to pace around the open space, searching for any sign of life.

“Looking for someone?” a hauntingly familiar voice said directly in Nadir’s ear, causing him to jump and curse. The private investigator whipped around to face a shadowy figure a few meters away, meeting the burning dark eyes of the man whose life he had once saved.

“How imprudent you are!” the Phantom bristled. “I didn’t invite you to come all the way down here to my lair. Imagine if you were followed!”

Nadir, having recovered from his initial surprise, scoffed indignantly. “What, and then another innocent victim falls into your traps? Honestly, Erik, you promised me you would not murder again!”

“The ballerina did not meet her death by my hand,” the Phantom insisted darkly.

“Yet it is because of you she is dead,” Nadir argued. “You expect me to believe you built traps without expecting anyone to fall into them?”

The Phantom sighed heavily and shook his head. “Enough of this. It may actually be a good thing you are here, as we have more important matters to discuss.”

“More important matters,” Nadir mused with an impatient huff. “Are you not at least sorry the dancer is dead?”

The Phantom frowned, half of it hidden behind the mask, before speaking in a subdued tone. “She is not someone I would have wished dead, at least not by those means. Perhaps I should have considered disabling some of my more dangerous traps, in order to avoid something like this.” This pensive mood lasted only a moment, and then the Phantom stood tall again and eagerly walked around his organ to approach the other man. “So, Daroga, did you do as I asked in my letter?”

Nadir paused, unhappy to drop their previous subject but not keen to argue further. “I interrogated the young soprano as you requested,” he said, nodding.

“And?”

At the memory, Nadir gave a soft smile. “And she is every bit the compassionate, resilient woman you described.”

The Phantom looked away, trying to hide the proud upturning of his lips, but Nadir still saw a flicker of it pass over the uncovered side of his face. “And did she answer my question?”

Nadir folded his arms across his chest. “Yes, and I should note that she seemed rather disturbed that you would insist on asking her such a thing.”

The Phantom turned to face him again, his eyes fiery with aggravation. “You great booby, will you just tell me what she said? Did you save my life only to make it unbearable for me?”

Nadir rolled his eyes and sighed at the Phantom’s dramatics. “I would tell you, if the answer wasn’t so obvious. Frankly, I will never understand why you insist on being so cruel to someone who could only ever show you kindness.”

At this, Erik let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “ You show Erik kindness ? You give yourself too much credit, Daroga—”

“I am not speaking of myself, I speak of Christine!”

The Phantom’s manner switched to one of false bewilderment. “I am cruel to her? I have been as gentle as a lamb to her! That much should be clear to you, if the answer is really as obvious as you say.”

“Then why do you feel the need to doubt her affection for you? You must realize how much that hurts her,” Nadir asserted, his irritation growing. “Why must you seek to inspire so much pity in others, and then scorn them when they only do as you said you wanted?”

The Phantom growled in frustration. “You are trying my patience, Daroga, and you know well that is a dangerous game to play.” He swept away across the floor of the cavern, going to sit at his organ. “Perhaps you should leave, before I force you into giving up more of your precious pity.”

He picked up a quill and looked down at his music, attempting to appear distracted while waiting to hear the other man’s retreating footsteps. But to his surprise, Nadir Khan did not leave. Instead, the man sighed and slowly approached the side of the organ bench. The Phantom could feel his careful eyes peering at him; he shifted uncomfortably, refusing to meet his gaze.

“She loves you immensely,” Nadir said softly. “Do you understand that?”

The Phantom’s grip tightened on the quill in his fingers. “So she has informed me,” he said in a measured tone.

“And you love her?”

The Phantom closed his eyes and sighed, his heart squeezing so hard he thought it would burst. “How could I not?” he whispered. He finally looked up at the man standing over him, and frowned in confusion. “What?”

Nadir was grinning. “I am happy for you, my friend.” 

The Phantom looked at Nadir as if he had suddenly spoken an unfamiliar language. “You are?”

Nadir nodded, his smile growing. “You once told me that all you wanted was to be loved for yourself. And now I see it has finally happened. I can only imagine how relieved you must feel. So yes, Erik, I am happy for you.”

The Phantom’s eyes searched the other man’s face for a moment more, before looking back down. His thoughts, however, were no longer on the sheet music in front of him; they were focused on the feeling of relief Nadir had mentioned. The problem was, he did not feel relieved at all, not when the only person in the world he wished to see in that moment was withheld several stories above his head. His mind recalled the last time they had seen each other, and suddenly he glanced back up at the man to his side. “Was she wearing a ring?”

Nadir blinked in surprise. “Yes,” he said, giving the Phantom a meaningful look. “Persian, unmistakably.”

The Phantom sighed, eased by a sliver of reassurance. He now knew, for certain, that she still wished for him to be by her side, that their time apart had not managed to change her mind. He acknowledged it was harsh to test her affection in such a way, but  when the doubts and darkness began to pile up in his mind and block out the chance of any other thought, it began to feel like a necessity.

After watching the Phantom think for another couple moments, Nadir let out a heavy breath and took a few steps away from the organ. “So, my friend, what is your great plan?”

The Phantom’s eyes lit up, and at once he stood from the organ and hurried over to his writing desk, pulling out a few pieces of paper and a journal from the drawer. “You will be pleased to know that the Opera Populaire will be continuing their season after all, starting with the premiere of an original opera written by yours truly,” he said as he set everything on the desk.

“An opera written by you ?” Nadir asked incredulously. “Forgive me, but what makes you think the managers would ever agree to put that on?”

“I plan to make it quite a simple choice for them. Rather, they will think it is simple, at least,” he said with a dark chuckle. “I will still need your assistance in the coming weeks, I’m afraid.”

Nadir shrugged. “No matter; I intend to do as you asked of me. I will check in with Christine regularly and divert all interest away from her, to the best of my ability.” He fixed the Phantom with a hard stare. “But in return, you must promise me you will not doubt Christine’s love again.”

The Phantom’s face grew serious. He fidgeted with his hands for a moment, perhaps assuring himself, then gave Nadir a clear nod. Before the man could nod back, the Phantom had turned back around to his desk and began to skim over his notes. “There is much to be done before my opera is presented to the public. So many details to arrange, so many things that must go perfectly. I shudder to think if only one thing falls out of place…”

Nadir stood for a while, watching him as he mumbled to himself and planned frantically. “For your sake and hers,” he cautioned with a sigh, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Chapter Text

Three weeks.

Never before had Christine realized how long such a time actually was. She seemed to feel each second passing, every moment seeping by as if time moved through thick honey.

She sat alone on the bed in her dormitory, all dark except for the faint glow of her lamp. The blue journal sat open on her lap, her pen poised over a blank page, but her hand refused to make a single mark. She couldn’t remember for how long she had sat staring at it. Finally, Christine sighed and pressed the journal closed. Her fingers stroked over the gold latticework on the cover, before rising to her face and rubbing over her eyes.

What was the point? Nothing she tried could pull her from this feeling, which was too profound to simply be called loneliness, and different from grief. It was an ache deep in her soul, like a broken bone that couldn’t heal. The problem was, she knew what could heal it, but it had been out of her reach for so long now that it hurt her to wish for it, so again she asked, what was the point?

When she had found that little note in her cubby all those months ago, she never could have guessed the person who had written it would cause her such pain. Of course, it wasn’t Erik causing the pain himself, but simply the absence of him from her side; how could a lack of something cause her to ache so much? She couldn’t explain what had happened, what he had done to make it so, but their souls were now linked in such a way that it was impossible to imagine one without the other.

At night, when her dormitory was cloaked in shadows and she lay alone in her bed, she could hardly keep the thoughts of him from her mind. She cried many tears imagining him alone in his lair, perhaps not eating or sleeping, as lonely as he had always been before her. The only way she could bring herself to sleep was through the memory of the one night she had slept by his side. Her half-dreaming mind attempted to recreate the feeling of his arms around her, the sound of his tender voice whispering in her ear. Only then was she eased enough to drift off into sleep, tricking herself with the hope that he would be there when she awoke.

During the day, she wandered aimlessly through the halls and the library, like a quiet ghost searching for a place to rest. The only times she ever felt alive were during rehearsals for the new opera. There, she was able to obtain a semblance of her fiancé’s presence through the music he had written. The score of Don Juan was anomalous and harsh to the ears of the other performers, but in its sound Christine could discern the genius mind that had created it. The fantasy that it was his own hands playing the piano keys, and that she no longer stood in the grand hall but in his dark lair once more, made these rehearsals somewhat easier to bear.

However, the opera itself still proved rather difficult for her to perform. The music was not the issue; it was the words, the story, and the role. She had never played a role like Aminta before, and for good reason; it was hardly the regal, elegant female lead that typically graced the Opera Populaire’s stage. Instead, Aminta was playful and wanton, a young peasant woman who is seduced by Don Juan and agrees to marry him, only to be abandoned at the altar and swear her revenge in the final scene. It was a passionate and shameless role, and no one believed Christine could do it, including herself at times.

Some of the scenes she found almost impossible to get right, no matter what she tried. She sought to embrace the fiery side of herself, but it always felt forced, and she often became flustered at her own silliness. She knew her heart was not in it, but she didn’t know how to find it when she didn’t have him to help her.

She knew Erik had adapted the role of Aminta to suit her voice exactly; all the little details and melodies hidden in the score were things he had taught her. Based on this, it was hard not to realize that he had imagined her acting out the role of Aminta as well, in all her tempting glory. This thought often made her blush with embarrassment, but only because it filled her with a strange warm excitement that she couldn’t quite explain.

Christine felt her face begin to go red, and she shook her head to clear her foolish thoughts. Suddenly, she heard a shuffling outside her door, the unmistakable sound of the petit rats running off to the dressing room before rehearsal. The soprano sighed and pulled herself out of bed, laying the blue journal on her bedside table. Perhaps after rehearsal she would finally have the strength to write something down.

She made her way to her dressing room silently, closing the door behind her with another heavy breath. It was only a couple weeks until the premiere, and the music director would not be forgiving of any mistakes, so she had to be at her best during rehearsal. Christine peered at herself in the floor-length mirror, trying to ignore the way her heart twisted in pain. Her wavy hair could use a good brushing, and perhaps it would help to change into a fresh dress. With this thought, she stepped over to the wardrobe and opened it—

She gasped.

Inside hung a beautiful white wedding dress. The skirt flowed with layers and layers of ruffles, delicate lacework covered the front of the bodice and the edges of the sleeves, and the whole thing was adorned with handmade silver bows and satin wildflowers. It was simply exquisite.

Christine admired it in awe for a moment, before working up the courage to touch the laced edge of the neckline. How could the costume-makers have prepared it so fast? They told her yesterday they wouldn’t have her costumes for the opera ready until at least next week, and yet here was the dress she was to wear in the final scene. She finally shook her head, ready to admit they must have just worked all night on it, when her hand brushed over one of the sleeves. She frowned when she felt something flat with a pointed corner. Reaching inside the sleeve, Christine’s fingers closed around the edge of the object, and withdrew a small folded note. She quickly looked around her shoulder to assure that the door was sealed, before unfolding the letter eagerly.

My Angel,

Your message was received, and understand that the feelings professed are mutual.

Trust in your Angel of Music. Do not forget my promise.

Your E.

Tears welled in Christine’s eyes, and soon her vision was too blurred to read the note any more. She collapsed back onto the chair behind her, clutching the note to her chest as she sobbed. He knew. He no longer doubted her. Most of all, he missed her just as much. Her heart could have burst out of her chest while at the same time felt as if it was being torn in two.

Christine finally wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand. She held up the note and pressed a kiss over the small cursive E. at the bottom. “I trust you, Erik,” she breathed. She looked up at the wedding dress, and suddenly her mind made the connection. He wanted her to wear it the night of the opera, which proved he must be planning some way to meet with her, evidently on the same night. Christine smiled excitedly at the hope of seeing him again so soon, and assuring him in person that all she said was true.

Only a few minutes later did she leave her dressing room to go to rehearsal, in considerably higher spirits than she had been earlier that day. This was clear to many, as eyes tracked her and her smile all the way backstage and inside the hall itself. One set of these eyes belonged to Madame Giry, who stood on the side of the stage waiting to speak with the musical director. When she saw Christine, her brow furrowed curiously and she stepped forward to speak with the young soprano. “Christine?”

“Yes?” Christine replied, her eyes brighter than they had been in a month.

Madame Giry noticed this. “Are you…doing alright?”

Christine nodded, her grin growing wider. “Very well, thank you,” she said.

The ballet mistress’s fingers tapped uncertainly on the handle of her cane. “I’ve heard from some of the girls that you have not quite been yourself lately,” she continued in a cautious manner.

Christine’s smile faded a bit, and she looked down to her hands. “I’m afraid I have been struggling a bit with my emotions. You know, after all that has happened. And my part in the opera is keeping me very busy, as you can understand.” She took a deep breath and looked back up into the older woman’s eyes. “But I’m alright. I’m feeling better today, at least.”

Madame Giry watched Christine with a look that was…almost tender, or as close to it as she could manage. When she said nothing, Christine made a move to step away, but Madame Giry held out a hand to stop her. “Christine, you realize you do not have to go on with this if you do not wish to,” she said discreetly. “While the managers might make it seem like they are forcing you, I need you to understand that you do not have to perform the opera if you feel too… frightened .”

Christine blinked in surprise at the ballet mistress’s courteous offer. She considered for a moment all that she said, but then her back straightened in resolve. “I am not frightened one bit, Madame Giry,” she said in a confident voice. “I want to do the opera. And I know I can do it right.” With that, Christine gave a small curtsy and swept over to the musical director to retrieve her copy of the score. Madame Giry followed her with her hawklike eyes. Confusion first swept across the older woman’s face, but then deepened into a frown as her suspicions around the soprano grew even stronger.

The night of the premiere arrived two long weeks later. Per the request of the managers, the Opera Populaire was packed not just with patrons, but with many officers of the Sûreté police force, their shining uniforms and the guns at their sides sparking rumors and concern from the paying clientele.

Once the audience had been seated, the chief officer gathered all of his men into the avant-foyer to give them their instructions. “Are the doors secure?”

“Yes sir,” several of the officers confirmed.

“Very good. Do not open them until my command, and do not let anyone in or out of the opera house.” He then addressed the rest of the assembled force. “You each have your assigned positions, and you are to remain there for the duration of the performance. If at any time you note a suspicious action, you shall look into it immediately, and if you have to, you are given permission to shoot. To kill.”

Off to the side, Philippe shifted edgily as he watched the debriefing unfold. As the guards were dismissed, his blue eyes darted around, and landed on an older man wearing a strange cap standing quietly near the back of the group of Sûreté . The Comte decided to approach the curious man, who held his hands behind his back. “You must be the Persian Private Investigator that I have heard about,” he began, specifically noting the man’s darker shade of skin.

Cool jade eyes glanced to the side, looking the anxious Comte up and down. He then gave a small bow and replied tightly, “Nadir Khan. At your service, Monsieur.”

“Philippe, Comte de Chagny,” the Comte introduced. He stepped closer to the man and spoke in a lower voice. “You are aware of the reason for all this security? You know of the… Ghost business?”

“Quite aware, Monsieur,” Nadir remained impassive as he replied. He liked to consider himself well-practiced in the art of interacting with entitled nobility.

Philippe nodded. He then glanced down to the man’s side, and was surprised not to see a pistol there. “Then you must be very brave not to be armed,” he remarked, betraying some of his fear.

At this, Nadir’s expression became stern as he turned to fully face the Comte. “Being armed would show that I expect trouble tonight. I find that when one is expecting trouble, they will often find it. Even if that means they are the cause of it.”

Philippe’s hand absently touched his own side, which was hidden beneath the black overcoat he wore. “Wise then, not brave,” he muttered. It was mostly to himself, but Nadir stil heard it and gave the man a hard glare. The Comte leaned close and said, “Stay vigilant,” before striding off down the foyer to the grand hall. Nadir watched him go, now tense with a familiar feeling of dread.

The performance began without a hitch, which at first only served to make the police more antsy as they prepared for whatever interruption was imminent. But to the surprise (and slight embarrassment) of the officers and the managers, it continued to proceed as planned. Once the opera was almost three-quarters of the way finished, many of the guards had relaxed and grown idle at the lack of activity. The ones stationed inside the grand hall were the most fortunate, for at least they could be entertained by the performance onstage.

The stage was set to resemble a regal dining hall. Carlotta and the other members of the opera chorus were dressed in fine sixteenth-century costumes, pretending to set the table for a banquet while singing the opera’s dissonant notes.

The rest of the chorus disappeared back into the left wing of the stage. Then, from the other side, the character of Aminta appeared; Christine was practically unrecognizable in a gorgeous pink dress, trimmed heavily with black lace and red roses, and short enough to reveal a pair of black boots and a tease of her thighs. She carried with her a feigned air of frivolity, a lighthearted playfulness that could have easily been interpreted as innocence, if it weren’t for the alluring gleam present in her smokey eyes.

No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy

No dreams within her heart but dreams of love

She skipped over to the table that was part of the set and picked up an apple, waiting to hear Piangi sing the lines that would cue the start of the next scene.

Passarino, go away

For the trap is set and waits for its prey

Christine froze. She heard it in the voice; the intensity, the angelic intonation, the way it seeped into her bones and refused to let go, that could only belong to him . Her heart leapt with joy in her chest, and she had to hold back a genuine grin.

Her Angel had returned to her.

At once, his plan clicked in her mind. He would hide in the one place the others would never search, for it was already being watched; on the stage itself. She realized he must have known she would recognize him, but he was counting on her to continue the performance like nothing was different.

You have come here

In pursuit of your deepest urge

In pursuit of that wish which till now has been silent

Silent

And the scene he had chosen to perform with her…Christine felt her face begin to flush. Well, if this was how her fiancé wished to greet her after a month apart, then so be it.

She quickly stood from her place on the bench in front of the table and strode over to the other side of the stage, trusting that he would know the staging of the scene. She caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, and saw he wore Don Juan’s black cloak and veil, completely covering his face. No one would ever guess who was truly hidden underneath. Except for her.

I have brought you

That our passions may fuse and merge

In your mind you've already succumbed to me

Dropped all defenses, completely succumbed to me

Christine grinned, rolling the apple between her hands before raising it to her lips. Before she could pretend to take a bite, she recognized the Phantom’s fingers as they plucked the apple from her hands, and a pleasant shock ran through her body to feel him so close.

Now you are here with me, no second thoughts

You've decided, decided

Emboldened by the Phantom’s presence next to her, Christine’s eyes swept over the vast audience, unable to keep a sly smile from her face. They all would never know just how true his words were.

Past the point of no return

No backward glances

As he continued to sing, she slowly turned her face away from him, hoping he would reach out and guide it back; he did, and her heart skipped at the long-awaited sensation of his fingers underneath her chin.

Our games of make-believe are at an end

Past all thought of if or when

She slowly raised her hand as if to remove the veil from his face, but he stopped her with his own hand around her wrist. She smiled at him flirtatiously, hoping he could see it under the black veil, as he gracefully led her back to the table.

No use resisting

Abandon thought and let the dream descend

He released her wrist and she hurried around to the opposite end of the table. Christine was grinning broadly, practically giddy with joy and excitement; he was here, sharing the stage with her, performing the scene she had considered impossible. But nothing was impossible if he was there with her; her lessons with him proved that much.

What raging fire shall flood the soul?

What rich desire unlocks its door?

She moved to sit on the bench, fanning out her lovely skirts, before glancing to the side to watch the Phantom approach, beckoning him closer with her eyes.

What sweet seduction lies before us…

Christine gasped lightly as he placed his hand upon her hip, surprised but pleased at his boldness. She leaned back against him, turning her head to expose more of her neck, longing to feel his lips there. Her reactions to him were genuine, which the Phantom seemed to realize, as he moved his hand up along her side as he continued.

Past the point of no return

The final threshold

His right fingers brushed delicately over her neck, before he moved to reach his left arm to her other side. His hand found hers and slowly guided it up along the fabric of her skirt, grazing her hip, over the bodice of her dress, finally resting over the curve of her chest. Christine’s eyes fluttered closed, wrapped in the fervor of his voice and savoring his seductive touch.

What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn

Beyond the point of no return?

She felt the weight of the Phantom’s fingers trace meaningfully over the ring he had given her, and she knew he was reminding her of their promise to each other.

Christine opened her eyes, silently scoffing at his actions; how could he think she needed reminding? Did he think she had forgotten, or worse yet, that she didn’t still mean it? Did he dare to doubt her love still? She suddenly stood up from his embrace and took a few steps away from him, pausing before she began to sing, keeping their performance going.

You have brought me

To that moment where words run dry

To that moment where speech disappears into silence,

Silence

She then turned away from the audience, back to him again, twirling her skirts playfully as she did so. She watched his cloaked figure with a small smirk; perhaps it was him who needed reminding.

I have come here

Hardly knowing the reason why

In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenseless and silent

Now I am here with you, no second thoughts

I've decided, decided

When she had first read the lyrics, Christine had been mortified at the thought of her voice saying such things in front of a crowd of complete strangers. She had not anticipated how it would sound if the Phantom were there, not just in his box but on the stage . His presence made the words form easily, her voice finding the notes without effort. Her confidence was secured as she rested her back against the table, making her voice as sultry as his.

Past the point of no return

No going back now

Our passion play has now at last begun

Her eyes slid back over to him and saw that the Phantom’s head was turned in her direction. He was watching her; the fact warmed her core and flooded her with nerve, and she strode over to his side with no hesitation.

Past all thought of right or wrong

Christine threw her knee upon the bench, so close to him that he jumped, clenching his hands. She smiled at his reaction before creeping her fingers up his back and onto his shoulders; he shivered. Her hands then slid slowly down his arms as she resumed the song.

One final question

How long should we two wait before we're one?

She at last found his trembling fingers, and she curled them into her own. The Phantom's head fell back against her chest and Christine could swear she heard him sigh. She looked down at him, and wished she could see the expression of bliss that no doubt covered his face in that moment.

When will the blood begin to race?

The sleeping bud burst into bloom?

When will the flames at last consume us?

By then, the audience might as well have melted away, for all that mattered to the two people onstage was each other. All Christine felt was her fingers clenched around his, his back pressed flush with her chest, the thin cloth tickling her lips as she sang enticingly into his ear.

At the last word, she loosened her grip on his hands; he inhaled deeply and pushed himself off of the bench, turning around to face her. She continued to grin as he advanced toward her, and she knew somewhere beneath the dark veil, he was grinning too.

Past the point of no return

The final threshold

The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn

Christine felt her lower back hit the edge of the table and settled her hands upon it. She leaned back slightly as the Phantom grabbed her waist and pressed his body close to hers, and Christine thought she would collapse from desire.

We've passed the point of no return

They both froze, chests heaving, their faces inches away yet still separated by the black veil. The audience made themselves known again with their applause, but they were still barely heard over the racing heartbeat in Christine’s ears.

The curtain had barely hit the floor when the Phantom suddenly burst into action, clasping her wrist and tugging her unexpectedly across the stage. She let him pull her along to a darkened corner of the set, where a secret door stood ajar leading to a small hidden room. They both hurried inside, and he closed the door so that only slivers of light from the edges of the door illuminated the space.

As soon as he closed the door, Christine pushed him against the wall; her hands reached up and tore the veil from his face, and suddenly her lips were on his, kissing him desperately. After only a second of shock, Erik responded earnestly, gripping her hips and pulling her closer against him. They hardly stopped to breathe, too wrapped up in their need to feel each other after so long apart, and convince each other that how they had just acted on the stage was absolutely real.

Christine’s nose brushed against the cold edge of the mask. Without hesitation, she reached up and pulled it off Erik’s face as she continued to kiss him. She held it tightly in her hand as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and let her teeth sink into his malformed lip. The sudden jolt of pain sent a shockwave through his body, but instead of flinching from it, Erik relished the burning heat it left in its wake. He moaned with pleasure into her mouth, and stepped forward until he was pinning Christine against the opposite wall. Christine wrapped her leg around his waist, and his hand moved down to hold it there.

Christine finally broke their kiss, tilting her head up to gasp for air. Erik continued to press lustful kisses down her jaw and to her neck, feeling the blood rush rapidly beneath her warm skin. “I’ve missed you,” his divine voice whispered softly just below her ear. “I’ve missed my Angel.”

Christine’s heart ached when she heard the touch of pain lacing his words. Her free hand came up to cradle the back of his skull. “And I’ve missed my Erik,” she breathed and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Christine, this month has been hell without you,” Erik confessed, drawing back slightly to look into her eyes. “I thought of nothing but you every second, wondering if you were alright.”

Christine shook her head softly. “I wasn't alright,” she said. “I didn’t have you.”

Erik’s dark eyes began to shimmer with tears. He let go of her leg and moved to wrap his arms around the woman in front of him, pulling her deep against his chest. He buried his face into her wildflower-scented hair and muttered, “I love you.”

Christine relaxed into his embrace, completely content for the first time in over a month. “I love you, too,” she sighed. She feared it wouldn’t be enough to convince him, but after a moment she felt his body shudder and his arms hold her tighter.

The sound of the orchestra could be heard from just outside the small hidden room of the set, commencing the next scene in the opera. Christine and Erik continued to cling to each other, afraid to let go and be parted again. While holding her, Erik took a moment to compose himself before proceeding with the next part of his plan. “Run away with me,” his low voice whispered close to her ear.

Her heart jumped in surprise at his request, but she soon found herself grinning. “Where?”

“Anywhere.” She felt his lips press a kiss to the crown of her head, before he pulled away just enough to look at her. “We can’t stay here, my dear. I know this is your home, but I’ve put you in too much danger to stay, and I can’t let anything happen to you.”

She stared into his desperate eyes, and a tiny part of her hesitated. Paris was all she had known for the past ten years; it was difficult for her to imagine leaving without even saying goodbye. But she also knew she could not stay, for her life was now more than just hers. Her life was Erik’s, too.

“My home is with you now,” she said, pressing their foreheads together. “I will go anywhere, as long as it’s by your side.”

Erik again looked as if he might cry, before smiling and pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “After your final scene, go to our practice room in the library. There is a secret passage between the shelves that we can use to escape. From there, the Daroga will help us.”

“What about you?” Christine asked. “They’re looking for you everywhere.”

Erik nodded in acknowledgement. “I’ll draw them away. Cause a distraction. They’ll follow that while I go to meet you.”

At once, Christine’s brow furrowed in worry. “If they catch you—”

“They won’t,” Erik insisted. He saw the fear in her eyes, and raised his hand to stroke the side of her face to soothe her. “They won’t.”

Christine leaned into his gentle touch, but it wasn’t enough to erase her unease. “Erik, be careful,” she pleaded.

The distress of her words gave Erik pause for a moment, before he whispered, “Yes, my Angel.” Before, every time in his life when he assured himself a plan would work, he realized he did not really care what happened to him if it didn’t. But this time, even if he did not care about himself, he knew Christine did. And it was up to him to not let her down.

His heart burdened with responsibility, he held her close again. Christine leaned up and kissed his lips firmly, before it ended too soon and they each let their hands drop to their sides. She handed him his mask again, which he took and slipped on before activating a mechanism that opened the opposite wall of the secret room, which led to a small corridor. She glanced back at him a moment, saw him nod, then proceeded down the darkened corridor alone.

Christine emerged a few steps later out of a hidden gap in the wall, and realized she was in one of the backstage hallways. She quickly shuffled her way through the maze of doors, her mind reeling and her heart giddy. Further down the way, she heard loud quarreling that sounded like Piangi, who was firmly asserting that he had been trapped in his dressing room for the past ten minutes and was late for his cue.

Holding back the urge to laugh, Christine raced over to her dressing room and closed the door. She quickly stripped out of her Aminta dress and put on the gorgeous wedding gown in preparation for the final scene, her whole body buzzing with excitement and hope. They were leaving, they would be safe, they would finally be together, and if they played it right no one would be the wiser.

After several minutes she finished dressing, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror, remembering a time not too long ago when she pictured herself wearing something very similar. Before she could get too wrapped up in her memories, she turned and went to open the door of her dressing room to return to the stage.

But the door would not open.

Christine frowned, turning the handle in either direction. It seemed to have been locked from the outside. Trepidation began to creep into her mind, and she hurriedly began knocking on the door, hoping someone passing by would hear her and let her out. “Hello? Can anyone hear me?”

She first heard nothing in response, but after a moment she heard a small shuffling of skirts and something heavy hit the ground. “Is someone there?” she asked.

An older woman’s voice replied, “It is I, Christine.”

Christine sighed in relief. “Madame Giry, thank goodness! Can you unlock the door? It’s almost my call.”

She heard Madame Giry pause before speaking again. “Unfortunately, the opera has been stopped early, and the audience is being escorted out of the hall as we speak.”

“Why, what is going on?” Christine asked.

“A patron has reported a suspicious observation. The Sûreté are currently searching the Opera House for the man known as the Opera Ghost.”

A cold feeling of horror washed over Christine. She tried to shove it down and kept her voice steady as she replied, “What are you talking about? There’s no such thing as the Opera Ghost, it’s just a silly story! And what had that got to do with me being locked in here?” When her question was met with silence, Christine grabbed at the doorknob again, shaking it furiously. “Madame Giry, please unlock the door,” she said, her voice becoming desperate.

“I’m afraid I cannot do that, Christine,” Madame Giry said, her tone remorseful. “My daughter and I have grown quite concerned for your well-being over the past few months, particularly your mental state.”

By now, Christine’s cold fear had begun to slowly heat into a boiling anger. It only grew as Madame Giry spoke again. “We believe it is in the best interest of the public, and yourself, if you allow the police to collect this man and let him face his crimes.”

Christine clutched the frame of the door urgently. “No, you can’t! You don’t understand, no one does! I can explain everything, if you just let me out.” Silence greeted her words once more, and her fist hit the door in fury. “Let me out this instant! Madame Giry, you must listen to me!”

Between her yells, she heard what sounded like whispering between two people. One voice belonged to Madame Giry, and the other was rather fearful, tiny and familiar. “Meg!” Christine cried. “Meg, are you there? Meg, please help me!”

She tried the door handle again, but it was still locked. Then, she heard many hurried footsteps rush past the door, along with the voice of a police chief giving firm directions. They were looking for him, and she couldn’t stop them or warn him in time. “No,” she whispered tearfully.

Christine spun around and threw her back against the door, her nails digging into the palms of her fists. It couldn’t end like this; she had to find a way out. Her eyes glanced quickly over the hairpins lying on her vanity. Perhaps she could try to pick the lock, though with Meg or Madame Giry on the other side she would not get far. She groaned in frustration, before her gaze slid back to her reflection in the mirror.

The mirror.

Heart jumping into her throat, she strode over and ran her hand along the side. Surely he did not go so far as to lock the door? Her question was answered as she pressed in the lever, and the mirror-door slid itself aside like it always had. She almost cheered, but remembered the others lurking outside the door. Christine resorted to merely smiling as she stepped into the familiar dark passage and the door slid shut.

The decorative foyer of the Opera Populaire was chaos, with the hurried movement of skirts and the loud echo of boots against the floor. The last of the patrons were being ushered out of the hall just as more Sûreté officers were being led inside. Standing in one corner away from the madness were the managers, who were speaking urgently to a chief officer. A rather shaken Comte Philippe was standing next to them and scanning the crowd with his eyes.

The chief officer was addressing the distraught managers in a calm but firm voice. “Messieurs, for your own safety, we urge you both to leave with the rest of the audience while we search the opera house. You as well, Monsieur le Comte,” he added, nodding to the third man.

Philippe snapped back to attention as his name was said. “Do you know if Christine Daae is safe?” he asked pressingly.

The chief nodded. “I have a report that the soprano is secured backstage, sir. She and the rest of the performers will be escorted out soon.”

At this, the managers thanked the chief and began to follow the last of the patrons out of the opera hall. Philippe looked as if he wanted to say something more, but grit his teeth and reluctantly retreated after the managers.

A whistle was blown, which was followed by a row of Sûreté officers filing into the avant-foyer. The chief officer gave a few shouted instructions, before every man drew his pistol and shuffled off in groups down the halls to begin sweeping the opera house.

Nadir Khan stood off to the side, having politely refused to be evacuated, and watched a group of men race past with a wary expression. He decided to follow them from a fair distance out of the foyer and down an adjoining hall. He was stricken at how seriously they were handling the situation, involving the entire police force in search of one man; not even a man to them, merely a ghost tale. It would seem ridiculous, if Nadir didn’t already have experience of what the “ghost” could do. Still, the man couldn’t stop his noble and generous heart from trembling at the thought of what they would do if they managed to find who they were searching for.

He made it about halfway down the hall, when suddenly he heard a low whistle coming from a column to his side. Nadir glanced down either end of the hall; both were clear, so he stepped close to the column. At once a long-fingered hand grasped his arm and pulled him roughly behind the column and into a dark hidden alcove in the wall. His jade eyes blinked to grow accustomed to the darkness. “You know what to do?” the Phantom’s voice whispered a short distance from Nadir’s ear.

Nadir nodded. “I will head to the library and wait for you both just outside. I assure you I will not be seen.” He looked around, and thought he saw the glint of dark eyes within the shadows. “Christine knows?” he asked the place he assumed the Phantom was.

“Yes. She should be on her way there soon. I must get on with the distraction, to buy her some time.” The Phantom paused. “If it comes to it, Daroga…just take Christine and go.”

Nadir frowned. “Without you? You know she will never let me do that.”

The Phantom’s voice was firm, but it still betrayed his distress. “Then you must make her. No matter how this ends, she must be safe. Promise me.”

Nadir hesitated for a moment, before finally nodding in resignation. “I promise. But whatever it takes, Erik,” he said in a warning tone, “do not let it come to that.”

Another silent moment passed, and Nadir thought he felt the Phantom nod. The dark shadowy form let go of his wrist and slipped deeper into the darkness of the hiding place, and Nadir stepped back out into the hall, each man rushing off to complete his objective.

The practice room was empty, except for a small bench and a long mirror on the wall. Suddenly, the mirror slid open, and a woman in a wedding dress stepped out of it. She pressed the hidden lever on the side, and the door closed again. Christine then turned to leave the practice room, but stopped in her tracks when she saw a tiny figure in the doorway. “Jammes!” Christine cried in surprise.

The red-haired ballet girl gaped at Christine with wide forget-me-not eyes. A tense moment passed where they just stared at each other, both too afraid to move. Then, the sound of shouting and heavy boots echoed from further down the hall. Jammes turned to look, and Christine hurriedly stepped forward. “No!” she pleaded, taking the young dancer’s hand. “Please wait, you must understand.”

Jammes met her eyes again. The desperation in the soprano’s kind face urged her to make a decision. She glanced down the hallway once again, then pulled Christine by the hand out of the room. Christine looked and saw that the hallway was empty; Jammes had waited until the others had passed before revealing her.

“More are coming. Be careful,” Jammes warned softly.

Christine smiled in relief and squeezed the little dancer’s hand gratefully. She almost let go, when another thought popped into her head. “Jammes, tell Meg…” She paused, a darkness flashing in her eyes for a second, before saying, “Tell her goodbye.”

Jammes nodded. Christine let her hand fall to her side and took a step down the corridor; with one last glance back at the young dancer, she turned and ran the opposite direction down the hall, heading towards the library archives.

“He is here! This way!”

The shout from one of the Sûreté officers echoed through the grand hall of the opera house. More guards dashed between the aisles to get to his side, guns drawn and scanning the shadows for any sign of movement.

A couple floors above, the Phantom sprinted through the corridor that led to the private boxes. He had managed to dodge more guards along the way using his various shortcuts and hiding places, but the sheer number of them was beginning to overwhelm him. He darted into Box Five, which was empty and sufficiently darkened so he could not be seen, and attempted to catch his breath.

“The second floor is secure, sir. No sign of him,” the Phantom heard one of the guards say from one floor below him.

“We’ll check the next one up. Come on, men.”

The Phantom silently cursed, and his mind worked fast to come up with options. Steadying his breath, he focused hard on the sound of the men climbing the stairs and emerging onto the same floor he was on. He sensed one in a box that sat across the hall from his own, and after calculating based on the acoustics of the hall, suddenly made a loud snapping noise appear beside the guard.

The guard whipped his head to the side, toward the noise. “There, I heard him!”

The chief officer glanced around the box and then out into the grand hall, searching for the source of the sound. “You two, take the right, you, double back—”

“ And two to the left as well ,” the Phantom's voice suggested into the chief officer’s ear, making him flinch. “ Or perhaps this way? ” it spoke again, this time from a place on the main floor.  “ Or up here, Messieurs? ” it seemed to call from a box one floor above.

“He’s toying with us!” the chief officer exclaimed in annoyance. “Come on, keep checking all the boxes!”

No, not the boxes , the Phantom thought to himself bitterly. He closed himself completely into his hollow column and listened carefully as the guards searched one box after another, quickly closing in on Box Five where he stood. Would his trick hold up to their scrutiny? What would he do if they saw through it and discovered he was there?

A second passed in which Nadir’s words echoed in his head: Whatever it takes, do not let it come to that. Another moment and Christine’s beautiful face, contorted with worry, sprang into view. Erik, be careful . His heart clenched painfully, and he set his jaw tightly.

He couldn’t risk it. He had too much at stake to take chances.

It had to happen now .

Suddenly, one guard after another uttered a terrible cry that echoed around the grand hall. As each man looked up, they all saw the lights of the great chandelier flickering madly, a few blowing out with a flash of sparks. Suddenly, the entire fixture seemed to slip further and further down, swinging ominously, until at once the chandelier unhooked from the ceiling and came smashing down to the empty audience below.

Pandemonium ensued across the hall as the guards scrambled to regroup, now entrenched in darkness. Meanwhile, an unseen shadow slipped out of Box Five and rushed off to the library, not without a wicked grin on his face.

Christine had just made it to the library when she heard the giant crash, and the shouting and stomping of feet that followed. A wave of horror came into her mind, before she remembered Erik saying he would “cause a distraction” to draw the guards away from her. However, her mind was not totally eased; even if his distraction had worked, whatever he had done, she did not know if it was enough to draw them away from him, too.

It seemed like a lifetime passed before she finally heard steps rushing into the library archives toward her. Expecting the Sûreté , she braced herself to make up an excuse on why she stood alone in the library in her wedding costume, but relaxed when she saw the tall figure of the Phantom enter through the door of the reading room. She smiled broadly at him, and he returned it under the mask as he began to walk towards her.

Before he could say a word, someone burst into the room behind him, holding up something at arm’s length. In a split second, Christine saw the revolver aimed at her fiancé, and a surge of fear and adrenaline drove her into action. “No!” she shrieked, jumping forward to shield the Phantom from the gun’s aim.

The Phantom realized what she had done, and turned around to grasp her arms. “Christine!” he cried out, about to push her away, but stopped as the third person yelled, “Don’t move!”

Christine and the Phantom both froze and looked up at the man holding the gun; it was Philippe. The normally well-kempt gentleman looked irascible, coiffed hair out of place, breathing heavily from running through the halls. The hand holding the gun shook slightly, but it was still firmly trained on the masked man shielded by the woman standing before him. “Christine, stand aside,” he urged.

“No,” Christine said, bending her arms to wrap around the man behind her as much as she could, despite his efforts to pull away.

“Christine, please,” Philippe implored. His blue eyes fell to hers and looked at her woefully. “You shouldn’t be a part of this.”

Christine met his gaze and did not blink. “Please, Philippe. Let us go.”

From behind her, the Phantom began to tug at Christine’s waist, carefully urging her to retreat to the secret passage. At this movement, the Comte’s grip on the gun tightened. “Don’t move,” he ordered fiercely. “I will call for help. Or I’ll shoot and they will hear; they’re right outside.”

The Phantom stared at the Comte with the intent to kill. “Then call them now. What are you waiting for?” he growled.

“Erik—” Christine warned, glancing back at him.

“He’s bluffing, Christine—”

Anger flashed in Philippe’s eyes. “I cannot let a murderer walk away free!”

Christine turned back to the Comte and shook her head. “He did not kill Sorelli,” she insisted. “It was an accident, Philippe. I promise you.”

Philippe considered her words for a moment, but did not lower the gun. “Even if that’s true, he is still not innocent.” His eyes then softened as they looked into hers. “If you step aside now, Christine, I will make certain they know you were not involved.”

Christine felt tears prick the back of her eyes, but she set her jaw and refused to let them fall. Her hands tightened around the man behind her. “I would rather die.”

The Phantom’s fingers clutched desperately at her waist. “Christine—”

“And you will not kill me,” she continued, ignoring the Phantom. She kept her focus only on Philippe, locking his gaze with hers so he would look nowhere but in her eyes. “I know you have feelings for me, Philippe. And I am sorry that I cannot return them. But if you care about me at all, you will do this one thing for me. Just let us go. Please, Philippe.”

Philippe stood for another tense moment, his gun still aimed at both of their chests. His gaze darted between Christine’s pleading eyes and the Phantom’s dark warning glare. Finally, as if it pained him, Philippe clenched his jaw and let the arm holding the gun fall to his side. Christine sighed in relief, and heard the Phantom do the same behind her; his hands tightened around her waist and continued to pull her back towards the hidden door, but she stopped him by turning around. “Go, Erik,” she said, her hands holding his face.

The Phantom shook his head firmly. “I won’t leave you with him—”

“I’ll be alright, I promise. Just go.”

The Phantom wanted to argue, but saw the resolve in her eyes and decided to trust her. He released her with a long exhale, and began to walk backwards to the secret passage. After giving Philippe one last burning scowl, he disappeared through the gap in the bookcases.

Christine finally turned to face Philippe again, who was leaning against a bookshelf and breathing heavily as he looked down at the gun in his hand. She tentatively approached him, and when she was close he raised his head to look at her, the blue in his eyes swimming with tears. “I’m sorry,” he admitted. He shook his head and bowed it again. “I tried to do everything right, everything that I thought would work to make you happy with me. But I could never do the right thing for you. Except for this.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and glanced up again to her pitying eyes. “Thank you, Philippe,” she said honestly; he nodded silently, and she went on. “You know, just because all of it didn’t work for me, doesn’t mean it wouldn’t work for someone else.”

Philippe nodded again, his face becoming distant as he thought about what she said. Finally, she squeezed his shoulder and let her hand fall back to her side. “I wish you and your family well.” Christine then turned and walked out of the library through the same gap in the bookshelves where the Phantom had gone.

She emerged from the small passageway to the world outside; the night air tasted cold and freeing, and Christine took a large gulp of it as she stole a look up at the stars in the inky black sky. Her body trembled with leftover nerves, but there was an exhilarated buzz in the center of it, telling her that she was alright, that everything would be alright.

Her gaze then fell to the dark street in front of her, where she could make out the silhouette of a horse-drawn fiacre. Standing beside it was the tall, cloaked figure of the man she loved; he turned and saw her, and the tears from before returned to Christine’s eyes as she smiled. He took a step towards her, but before he could take another she had raced over and hugged him fiercely. His arms enveloped her and lifted her off the ground, holding her so close to him, so tight she could barely breathe, but at that time air didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except for the two of them together, safe, whole, real, alive.

He finally let her feet touch the ground again, but they did not let go of each other just yet. They shivered together, either from the cold or from suppressed sobs, and when they finally let go and moved to look at each other, both of their faces were wet with tears. Christine leaned up to kiss him when—

“I hate to interrupt such a tender moment,” Nadir Khan said from his place in the driver’s seat of the fiacre. “but we really should be going.”

Christine giggled while the Phantom rolled his eyes in annoyance. She motioned for him to get into the fiacre first, which he did while she wiped the tears from her face. Christine then looked up and met the driver’s kind jade eyes. “Thank you, Nadir. You’ve put yourself in great danger tonight and over the past few weeks. But you’ve saved our future, possibly even our lives, and for that I will always be grateful.”

Nadir smiled warmly and bowed his head. “It was my honor, Christine. Truly.”

Suddenly, the Phantom’s irritated voice could be heard from inside the fiacre. “Daroga, if you would kindly desist from flirting with my wife, or I swear—”

“He’s not flirting, Erik!” Christine laughed, while Nadir shook his head exasperatedly. With one final nod to Nadir, Christine pulled herself into the coach and closed the door behind her. She settled down onto the velvet seat, and was immediately gathered up into the arms of her fiancé. She giggled as he pressed kisses into her hair and wrapped his hands around her waist, pulling her into his lap. She felt the fiacre begin to move along the bumpy road, and she took one of his hands and brought it to her lips. “Also, I’m not your wife just yet,” she said between kisses against his palm.

“We could remedy that tonight, if you wish,” Erik said after removing his mask with his other hand. He nodded towards the wedding dress she still wore. “You’re certainly dressed for it.”

Christine’s heart leapt at the idea. “As much as I would like to, Erik,” she began, before sighing. “It’s been quite an exciting night already, and I think we should simply rest instead.” She saw something dim in his eyes after she said those words, and quickly pressed another kiss to his hand. “Believe me, there is nothing I want more in this world than to become your wife, but I think it would mean more if we are both at our best when we exchange our vows.”

Erik nodded once. “I understand.” There was perhaps a hint of disappointment in his voice that made Christine’s heart heavy for a moment; however, the feeling was quickly swept away as Erik leaned in to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth, causing her to smile. She took his head in her hands and pressed their lips together in a true kiss, one that took its time and sought to do nothing but acknowledge and celebrate everything they felt, everything they had lived, both apart and together.

“So, my dear,” Erik said when they had finally broken apart. “Where shall we go? I did promise you anywhere.”

“Anywhere…,” she mused as she snuggled into his chest, her head resting in the crook of his neck. She thought for a long moment, then said, “I told you about the place in France where I grew up. A small cottage by the sea, surrounded by rocky moors.” 

“Perros-Guirec,” Erik said thoughtfully. “In Brittany, as I recall.”

Christine nodded. “Since my father passed, I’ve always wanted to return there, but never could. Maybe now…” she said, looking up at Erik with her wide green-grey eyes. “It’s finally time to go home.”

Erik gazed at her in wonder. His breath caught in his throat as he contemplated her final word, the meaning of which he had never really understood until that moment. A long trembling finger reached out and brushed a curl away from her face. “Home,” he repeated softly.

Christine stood beside a tall tree, looking out at the turquoise waves crashing steadily onto the rocky shore. The wind billowed the young woman’s dress and played with her long brown curls as she stood there with a sigh upon her lips.

She did not notice another person approaching her. The figure stepped across the meadow grass towards the tree, stopping when it was behind her. It carefully reached out to place a hand on her shoulder; Christine turned her head, and met Erik’s tender dark eyes. He was not wearing his mask, instead letting a small, adoring smile be visible amidst the cracks and misshapen pieces of his face.

Christine returned his smile warmly. She took a step closer to him and wrapped her arms around his frame, nestling her head into the top of his chest. His own arms wound comfortingly around her waist and her shoulders. There were no tears shed, no passionate kisses, no whispered words of assurance needed. They were simply two souls bonded by trust, safe and secure in the other’s embrace.

The Angel and her Erik.