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Chapter Text

Erik woke in darkness. He always woke in darkness.  

There was no possibility of sunlight penetrating this far beneath the ground, stories below the streets of Paris. How many layers of rock, dirt, sediment stood between him and the world above? Sometimes he played a sick game of guessing all the dead and living things piled above him--the ecosystems that separated him from his natural habitat among humans. In addition to the strata of soil and earthen substances, he imagined dens of mammals who lived underground. Moles perhaps? Rabbits even? He didn't have to look far for rats and mice of course. And then there were reptiles like snakes, and countless worms and insects. And whatever died, human and animal alike, dissolved into the soil all packed over his own cave dwelling under the city.

Erik had constructed his home here not long after escaping Persia, carving a lair out of the rock surrounding the secret reservoir beneath the architectural triumph of the Palais Garnier. No one could have known that while Charles Garnier constructed the musical haven above, Erik was at work building his own hell below. But the two geniuses labored in tandem for more than a decade before completing their master works, and now Erik was firmly settled in his shadowy habitation to await the opera's opening. 

Despite the space's grandeur, heat and illumination were persistent problems. Erik arrayed the place with all forms of light--fires, candles, gas lamps, and even the experimental electric bulb he was struggling to replicate. But the cold and dark always crept back in somehow. Last night he had retired to his bedroom and drifted to sleep with a book on his chest. Both the fire and candles burned out while he slept, and this morning he woke to the chill and shadow of his sunless living quarters as had become usual.

Erik blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He rose from the bed and relit the candle on the nightstand before crossing the black stone floor to the large fireplace. With little effort he had the fire back in working order. The small flame quickly grew to into a crackling blaze that radiated throughout the comfortable bedroom.

But Erik did not linger there long. He swiftly exited into the corridor, following it out to the open “den” situated on the bank of the underground lake. He had designed his lavish subterranean lodgings based on the Basilica Cistern in Istanbul. Large, symmetrically placed pillars supported the unwitting world of the opera house above, each column complete with elaborate gothic masonry Erik had carved himself. Around them were situated massive and ornate candelabras. Thanks to his inventions, the candles in this part of the abode never went out. Now their flickering flames reflected off the lake, which was so still this morning that not even the gentle lapping of water against the docked gondola greeted his ears.

Beautiful. Still. But silent as death.

He ambled across the Persian rugs sprawled over the floor toward the opulent table stationed in the middle of the room that doubled as a working desk and dining table. It held evidence of both activities: his scattered music sheets and correspondence, a crystalline carafe of brandy, an unfinished glass of which he had absentmindedly left next to a plate of bread and fruit. Erik should have collected it immediately. His new rat traps were proving effective, and the cat helped as well, but it was best not to offer added temptation for unwanted companions in this cavernous apartment of his.

He didn’t stop to tidy the table, though. Instead, Erik passed directly by it to his favorite object in the room: the organ. He navigated around the piles of musical scores and crumpled papers arranged haphazardly in his path and seated himself at the bench.

On top of the organ lay his least favorite object in the room: the white porcelain mask. Erik picked it up and traced the contoured cheek bone, the arched eyebrow, the thin nostril that gave the appearance of a symmetrical nose. Then he lifted his hand to what the artifact was made to conceal—the right side of his face. Carefully, he ran the tips of his fingers over the misshapen features. He'd lived nearly forty years with them--and with the pain they caused--but his hands could never quite get used to the initial shock of touching his own face. They flinched at the malformation of flesh under his cheekbone that pulled the edge of his bloated lip and his right nostril into a slanted, unnatural shape. His index and middle finger were tentative as they felt the gashes on his temple and forehead where the epidermis layer of skin had never properly developed, revealing streaks of what looked like raw pink and yellow flesh. The hair on his right brow bone refused to grow in stubborn protest of the unsightly terrain, leaving his grey eye unshaded. His own body was repulsed by the grotesque face that it was forced to share unwillingly.  

Erik winced—not so much at the pain, but at the feeling of such hideous flesh under his touch—and roughly plastered the mask to the offending side of his face before knocking back another half-finished glass of wine left idling on the organ. Its fruity flavor gave way to the slight warmth in his belly. A few more helpings would help dull his pain.

He turned his attention back to the instrument, running his eyes over the scribblings of his latest composition in progress. Erik uttered a "tisk tisk," chiding himself for a musical decision he'd made just last night. He dipped his pen in the inkpot to correct the mistake and then spread his pale, thin fingers over the keys. The feeling of the ivory beneath his hands gave his heart an immediate thrill. These hands of his were always busy with something; they had built, drawn, sculpted, fought, and even killed. After all this time, playing an instrument was still their favorite sensation. 

Erik was proud of the labyrinth he had built; it had taken years of study, skill, and labor. But even in all its grandeur, it was still just a tomb without his music—and he, a trapped corpse. So, Erik wasted no time. With a dramatic flourish, the ghost of the Palais Garnier—the Phantom of the Opera—laid his fingers on the keys of his organ and felt the instrument, and his heart, groan to life. 

Chapter Text

June 17, 1885 

The trek to the upper world was a triathlon of rowing, climbing, and even gymnastics depending on the route. There was the ten to fifteen minute trip by boat across the lake, then approximately half a mile's worth of stairs. The different footpaths from there took a slightly gentler incline, but littered as they were with false trails and booby traps it took deft body control and an even sharper mind to navigate them.

Thanks to this passage, he'd built both strength and stamina over the last fifteen years despite the otherwise unhealthy environment. He knew the way without lamplight—knew it by the feeling of the earth and wood beneath his feet, changes in temperature and air pressure, the feeling of the stone walls against his hands. And he knew to measure out his energy in portions for the journey, but today he still rushed more than usual.

Aside from the season itself, auditions were his favorite time of year. The fresh crop of chorus members, musicians, dancers, and sometimes even soloists added new characters to his world. For the Palais Garnier was indeed his world, his very own doll house, and the performers his dolls. Since he'd given up on having any real society with other people a long time ago, it served him better to think of them as mere musical instruments or figurines in the stories of the operas. Today he would pick his new toys.

After more than a mile long journey, he finally found his way to the surface. He swept through the corridor toward Madame Giry’s study.

“Running late?” He queried through the grate. 

“Then so are you,” she answered. Her sarcasm was hardly perceptible beneath the calm timbre of her voice, always so unshakable. She had grown so used this tradition that she barely even acknowledged him now.   

“A ghost can hardly be late.”

“What is it you need, Monsieur?” She alone could take such a direct tone with him.

“An understudy for Carlotta.”

“An eventual replacement for Carlotta, you mean. You make no secret of your dislike for her.”

“Watch yourself, Madame,” he warned. “You know I could have made her leave a long time ago if I wished. I graciously allowed Lefèvre to hire her with the understanding that we would seek new talent.”

“And you will judge for yourself whether you find such talent today, Monsieur le Fantôme. My authority only extends as far as the ballet, but I’m told there are some promising candidates from the Conservatoire. Now I really must join the others.”

From Madame Giry’s study, two long figures draped in black made their way to the opera house stage by different routes. The ballet mistress walked through the study door, down the opera house’s office wing, and into the theatre itself where she seated herself next to the manager and patrons.

The second, a phantom, made his way through a complex network of hidden caves and corridors. Assured that no one was there, he crossed under the stage and into another secret stairwell that connected the pit level, the proscenium compartment, and then of course box five. Today he took his place in the proscenium, anxious to see each applicant up close. 

On the front row of the empty theatre's ground floor, Giry, Monsieurs Lefèvre and Girard, and several opera house patrons settled into their seats. Their congratulatory chatter died when Lefèvre offered each a folder of résumés.

Erik abhorred the practice. Most patrons, slaves of fashion that they were, would hire an applicant with just a cursory glance at the page. Lefèvre routinely left résumés and applications in his office desk as kind of offering to the opera ghost; Erik could easily look them over the way he did whatever other documents interested him. But nowadays he preferred to evaluate each candidate on the merits of their talent alone. Besides, in this controlled world of his, only music still had the power to surprise him. 

Lefèvre finished thumbing through his stack of papers before gesturing to the stage attendant.

“You may bring in the first applicant.”

The attendant nodded and disappeared into the wings. Then out walked a young woman, steps faltering as she traveled onto the stage.

And surprised he was. Erik blinked when she first entered. The theatre ran on the new electric light now, but only a few lines were activated outside of showtime. Where their dim glow met the shadows of the wings, Erik could convince himself that he'd been mistaken. But his heart seized when she stood fully at center stage. Could it be possible?

She had grown taller of course; her figure was possessed of a natural elegance only accentuated by her slim build, long neck, and sloping shoulders. The round face of youth too had given way to high, sculpted cheekbones. And her copper curls had darkened to a handsome auburn, shot through with glints of amber.

But the same soft blushed painted her fair, dimpled cheeks. The tendrils of hair at her temples were as unruly as before, and the mass of long lashes still shrouded her eyes like a curtain. When she lifted them take in the empty theatre and the audience of patrons, he beheld that familiar expression: her dark brow lent her face a seriousness that was well beyond her years even now, but beneath them her hazel irises darted from one detail to the next with unguarded curiosity.

Ten years had passed since the day he’d last seen her, a newly orphaned child weeping at the foot of her father’s fresh grave. She was a woman now, and no doubt she’d forgotten her "Angel of Music" after all this time. But Erik could recognize her anywhere.  

“My name is Christine Daaé.”

Her voice altered time when it traveled to his ears, collapsing the past, present, and future--both real and imagined--in some unaccountable way. Though it carried barely a kernel of the child he’d known, it was still hers. And it was still made for music.

Music. Her singing! It was that thought on which his instincts seized, anchoring him to the moment amidst his frantic memories. What must the instrument he had taken such care to cultivate sound like now? Erik’s fingers twitching with excitement, the unconscious tell of his adoration for music. 

Surely, she must’ve studied in her time away! He thought to himself. Granted, none of her teachers at the Conservatoire would have been quite as exacting as the Angel of Music, but there was no doubt she’d grown into an accomplished vocalist under sustained tutelage. With her voice in his ear and the music of a former decade overtaking him, Erik knew the opera had finally found Carlotta’s replacement.

“First of all, welcome back to the Opera Populaire, dear Christine!” Lefèvre greeted her warmly. “Imagine how thrilled we were to receive your application yesterday! You were just a child when you last skipped through these halls with Gustave, do you remember?”

Christine’s eyes darkened and her lips pulled into a guarded smile. 

“Thank you, Monsieur Lefèvre. I apologize for the lateness of my application; it’s bittersweet to return to the place my father last performed.”

Erik heard the echo of a violin in his mind playing that composition, calling him deeper into the past. Memories spun in his ears and danced before his eyes: A little girl’s tears. A hand flinching in horror. The cold mausoleum. “My friend.”

“But my dear,” Madame Giry’s voice interjected, and again Erik was jerked back to the present, “I must admit, I was surprised to see you’d be auditioning for the corps de ballet.”

Erik’s face fell in confusion. What could Giry possibly mean? Then he realized: In his shock at Christine’s sudden appearance, he’d somehow failed to take in the whole of her appearance—the pointe shoes, white stockings, full tutu fanning from her waist in the romantic style. She wasn’t singing at all; she was auditioning a variation from Giselle.

The young woman answered matter-of-factly, “I’ve studied both dance and the choral arts during my time at the Conservatoire.”

She offered no further explanation, and so Madame Giry pressed again. Her tone searched for the same comprehension for which Erik yearned. 

“You don’t wish to apply for the soprano understudy position?”    

“No.”  

Erik’s heart might well have crumpled like paper in his chest. What had become of his little Christine? Or rather, who had she become in all this time?

Chapter Text

January 2, 1875: Ten Years Earlier

The anticipation was palpable only a few days ahead of the Opera Populaire's inaugural performance at the Palais Garnier. Erik heard the excited whispers from his hiding places between the walls. He could sense the enthusiasm in the cast and crew’s voices, their bustling movements, even the percussion of their footsteps as they hurried from one place to the next. Everyone was unified in their determination to make opening night a triumph of historic proportions, to produce a spectacle worthy of the magnificent edifice that sheltered it. 

Though they had never seen him—weren’t even fully aware of his existence—Erik had worked tirelessly alongside them from the shadows. No sooner had he moved into his lodgings beneath the new opera house than had the initial ideas for its inaugural performance seized him. Scores of melted candles stood vigil over him in the night as he conceived the Opera Populaire’s restaging of La Juive. Charcoal and graphite sketches took up every surface of his living space while his hands raced to keep pace with his rapidly changing visions. These were followed by a kaleidoscope of brilliant colored pencil drawings and watercolor paintings when the finer details came into view. By spring, he’d submitted a book-length work of instructions, music, notes, and, of course, casting suggestions.

And Lefèvre assented to all of it.

Erik had slowly come to enjoy his working relationship with the opera house owner and manager over the course of the Palais Garnier’s construction. When Lefèvre first moved his offices to the unfinished building in the wake of the Salle Le Peletier’s demise by fire, their initial introduction had been…difficult. New to his haunt, Erik worried he might need to push the man to the brink of madness to make him comply with their business arrangement, and he nearly succeeded. By Erik's tenth note introducing himself as "Msr. O.G.," Lefèvre hadn't been sure whether to seek a police inspector, spiritual medium, or a doctor. Instead, he consulted Madame Giry, who negotiated a truce between them. 

There was no recourse against a nameless, bodiless being with a virtuosic voice, impeccable taste, and a talent for the sinister, and so Lefèvre elected to spare himself accusations of insanity and collaborate in secret with the theatre's phantasmic resident. He cursed his luck that such an unyielding spectre should occupy a newly built opera house, but their volleys eventually settled into what Erik imagined to be mutual respect. And when Erik left his nearly hundred-page mockup of the opening performance on the manager’s desk, Lefèvre required no further persuasion; he lauded its genius and immediately went to the press announcing the Opera Populaire’s revival of La Juive. He even followed with a request for an original composition to open the festivities, and Erik obliged him with a violin solo delivered by way of Madame Giry.

Now after months of mutual preparation, as gathered for final rehearsals, Erik felt something approaching camaraderie with his unwitting colleagues--even if they would never know him as anything but a myth, or at most the spirit that haunted their workplace.

If he closed his eyes, he could imagine himself in their midst. He wasn’t forced between the walls in this cramped compartment in box five; he was in the pit, tuning his instrument among the faint hum of the orchestra. Or perhaps he was warming up with the chorus, commiserating about the effects of the unseasonable humidity on the vocal cords.

No! Today he was waiting for the arrival of the soloist. In that dream world, the song wasn’t the property of some anonymous composer; it bore his name. When Gustave Daaé made his entrance, Erik would step forward and proudly introduce himself with a firm shake of the hand. Genius meeting genius. 

Ha! Erik lifted a hand to his mask absentmindedly. If only.

“Monsieur Lefèvre!”

A voice rang out amidst the orchestra’s preparations and ushered Erik back to the present, where two new figures walked onto the stage to greet the manager. Erik immediately recognized the first as one of the opera’s premiere patrons, the Vicomte Philibert de Chagny. Ever curious (or nosy, more accurately) Erik exited his secret compartment in box five and made for another hiding spot located at stage level, where he could better eavesdrop on their conversation. 

“Ahh, welcome Monsieur le Vicomte,” Lefèvre offered a polite bow.

“Thank you, Monsieur. May I introduce you to my son, Raoul,” the Vicomte gestured toward the other person standing behind him. As Lefèvre shook the young Vicomte’s hand, Erik’s eyes took in the boy with one passing glance. He possessed all the characteristic de Chagny features: he was tall and conventionally handsome, with a slender but muscular build and a fine-chiseled jaw complemented by his sharp blue eyes and blond hair. His attire was, of course, new and meticulously arranged, and his golden locks combed in the fashionable Parisian style. Only fourteen and already a fop, Erik joked to himself.

“One day perhaps it will be you claiming the privilege of patron to sneak into rehearsals,” Lefèvre joked to the young Vicomte.

Raoul laughed politely. “I hope so, sir. I take great interest in the arts,” he answered perfunctorily before disappearing back into the curtains, distracted by something backstage.

“He does indeed,” the Vicomte added. “His music tutor is the guest soloist for the opera’s anniversary performance. We’ve been hosting him and his daughter at our home in the city.”  

“Ah, so Daaé has been staying with you!” Lefèvre realized.

“Yes, which is why we’ve barged so unceremoniously into your rehearsal. We offered to escort him here in our carriage.”

As if on cue, the violinist himself entered from the wing opposite Erik, accompanied by Madame Giry. Erik pressed his face to the hidden window of the proscenium arch, eager to see the musician he had heard so much about.

Like the man who composed his work, Gustave Daaé's appearance did not match his great musical stature. He was a delicate looking man, only around ten years older than Erik. But the violinist’s kind eyes held a wisdom and sorrow that, alongside his tall and thin figure, made him exceed his age.

His entrance momentarily interrupted the bustle of warmups as the cast and orchestra greeted their old friend with excitement and applause. The reception he received from his colleagues momentarily brought the blush of youth to his mournful features. The corners of his mouth twisted into an inviting, if melancholy, smile.   

“How good it is to have you back with us, Monsieur Daaé!” Lefèvre greeted him with a vigorous handshake that nearly knocked the musician off balance.

Lefèvre turned to the rest of the company and continued, “Our guest soloist requires no introduction; he was a longtime musician at the Paris Opera before he took the world by storm with his solo career. Welcome back to the Opera Populaire, Gustave Daaé!”

“I’m grateful for the invitation,” Gustave answered warmly, his gentle voice barely rising above a murmur. “It’s good to be back among friends. Who would believe so much time has passed?”

“I’m glad to have done my part in facilitating such a reunion,” interjected the Vicomte de Chagny. “I understand that you and Madame Giry here were good friends when you performed at the Salle Le Peletier as well?”  

Gustave turned to Madame Giry, who held his arm tightly in hers. She nodded in her usual serene way.

“I was a principal dancer at the time,” Giry confirmed. “I danced to several of Gustave’s solos during those years; he was one of my favorite accompanists, and an even more cherished friend.”

Gustave added, “When I left, you had just retired. Now look at how well the ballet is doing under your leadership!”  

Giry smiled and gave her old friend a fond squeeze on the shoulder. During her time as principal ballerina, Diane Giry had established a reputation as an elegant interpreter of the classics—an talent made more alluring by her calm technique. Those qualities translated easily to her career as the Opera Populaire’s ballet mistress. Nearly ten years on, Giry carried herself with the same refinement. With her towering height, ramrod straight posture, and black garb always buttoned up to the neck, she was the picture of poise--and sternness, when necessary. Now, though, she seemed at ease, almost girlish, on the arm of Gustave Daaé, who leaned into her as if she was supporting his very frame. Erik had never seen her display such warmth.

Despite the length of their acquaintance, Madame Giry's conversations always seemed mediated by her aloofness. But she had been particularly enthusiastic about the prospect of inviting Gustave Daaé to perform Erik’s composition for the opening performance. Now Erik wondered if her persistence was guided by something deeper—love perhaps? He couldn’t quite tell. Erik always struggled to detect the symptoms of that emotion; he knew it so little. 

Nonetheless, Erik had agreed to her idea without resistance. After all, Gustave Daaé was a universally acknowledged talent who had shocked the world with his abrupt departure from the Paris Opera and subsequent on-and-off again career. That Lefèvre and Giry had managed to retain him was a victory; for the past few years the musician had been particularly discerning about his appearances on the world's great stages. He held the distinction of being one of the few artists Erik most respected, but had never heard before.

But now Erik's excitement was mediated by the pang of jealousy he felt watching the old compatriots reminisce with each other. These artists--and even their patron, the Vicomte--belonged to an inner circle of which he could never be a part no matter how many secret windows and mirrors he carved into the opera house infrastructure.

Erik was glad when the pianist, Monsieur Girard, interrupted the group’s conversation to turn their attention back to rehearsals.

“Monsieur,” Girard addressed Msr. Daaé, “I’m glad you’ve joined us for rehearsal ahead of opening night. I’m most anxious to hear your interpretation of this passage.”

He pointed to a place on the sheet music. Never more had Erik wished to be visible so that he might be a party to the discussion of his own music.

"Perhaps you might be willing to play for us now so I can determine how best to accompany you?” Girard asked. 

Giry’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

“Why not give Monsieur Daaé some time to get situated and rehearse with him privately, Girard? I’m sure he’s quite tired from his travels,” she suggested. 

And indeed, the violinist did look positively worn out. Beneath the glaring opera house lights, beads of sweat had formed on his wan skin. His gaunt frame, supported by the stalwart Madame Giry, looked as if it might buckle under the weight of the violin case in his right hand, and his other arm had hardly let go of hers since he’d arrived. Erik observed to himself that the man could clearly do with a rest, but Gustave shook his head in faint refusal of the idea.

“I’d be happy to go over it,” he insisted, drawing his mouth into a weak smile.

As Girard arranged the sheet music on a stand at center stage, Lefèvre and Madame Giry traded a concerned glance with each other. The small act didn't go unnoticed by their concealed observer: they wanted to intervene for some reason, but proper words eluded them in light of their friend’s decision. Without any excuses to offer, they silently stepped back while Gustave removed his instrument from its case and stepped tentatively downstage. 

The harsh spotlight at center stage cast Gustave's features in an even worse light, illuminating everything that had gone shielded and unnoticed in a crowd of admirers: the dark circles under his eyes; the the fresh supply of sweat on his forehead; cheeks hollowed even as he pressed the violin beneath his chin. The violinist’s skin was even more bleached than Erik's own, but only one of them had the excuse of living without sunlight. Giry and Lefèvre's previous geniality was now altogether dimmed by worry, and Erik squinted his eyes with suspicion. There was no hiding in this position; Gustave Daaé was feeble. 

He raised his bow to the instrument, and that's when Erik saw the tremors. He'd known several performers' fingers to quiver during preparation; for many, it was a part of the act to keep the audience's attention engaged. But Gustave's shaking hands were more than just affect, or even nerves; they were a symptom. And it grew worse with each second that passed without the sound of the violin's music filling the air. Now they trembled so violently he could hardly get a handle on the bow. His breath shallowed, and what little color remained in his face drained to gray as his eyes widened in disoriented panic. 

“Gustave?” Lefèvre intervened. “Would you like to sit down?”

The violinist's thin arms dropped to his sides as his body began to sway unsteadily. Giry rushed to his side to steady him. The manager snapped his fingers, and a crew member promptly placed a stool at center stage. Gustave collapsed onto it gladly just as his legs started to give out. 

“Gustave, are you ok?” Giry whispered. 

Gustave nodded—a great effort.

“Yes, thank you,” he panted. All his energy seemed now focus on keeping himself upright. Girard came forward to remove the violin and bow from his unsteady hands. Gustave gratefully acknowledged his help, but without words. His heaving chest made speech nearly impossible. 

“Can we offer you a glass of water?” The Vicomte suggested.

“Y-yes, I would like that. My sincerest apologies, friends. I am only recently recovered from a slight cold.”

Within the proscenium arch, Erik saw his best-laid plans begin to unravel in the form of Gustave Daaé’s sunken figure. The blood rushed to his face, summoning with it his scorching temper. The fool! he fumed. Why would he attempt to perform if he's still ill?  But even that was a poor question to pose in light of the situation's gravity. Two things were evident to Erik now: Gustave Daaé had been sick with more than a cold, and he was certainly not well enough to perform the solo opening night. Worse still, Madame Giry and Lefèvre had clearly known about the musician's poor health and conspired to keep it from him!

Erik's hands rested in tight fists on the inner wall as he clinched his jaw against the tremor of his own wrath. He'd been at the cusp of victory--his authority over the opera house established, his revival set to premiere, and his composition featured at opening night in the hands of one of the world's most renowned musicians--and now everything he had worked for seemed imperiled. After years of such careful planning, his design could only be undone by deception and unwelcome surprises. 

“Papa!”

The tension onstage was momentarily broken by the sound of a child’s lilting voice. Then a little girl ran from behind the backstage curtain as quickly as if she’d been shot out from a cannon. She made a beeline straight into Gustave’s arms, nearly knocking his fragile frame off the stool on which he was so precariously perched. Gustave immediately straightened himself as much as he was able to receive her without a sign of weakness.

“Papa!” The girl repeated.

A child. Erik’s masked face twisted in anger as insult compounded on insult. If the Phantom loathed the abominable position in which he now found himself, the only thing that could have made it worse was a child's laughter. The list of the Opera Ghost's rules delivered to Lefèvre and passed along to the company had made clear: no children allowed in the theatre—especially not during rehearsal!

“Christine,” Gustave chided, his voice shaking, “I told you to sit still while I rehearsed!”

The girl paid him nearly no mind. “Raoul and I were playing hide-and-seek,” Christine explained, as if the game itself was a mitigating circumstance. “But I still can’t find him.”

Erik stifled a guttural sneer as the curly haired girl nestled herself in her father’s embrace. He could hardly focus as his burning eyes darted across the stage from one cursed detail to the next.  Gustave Daaé’s frail form nearly doubled over atop the stool; Giry and Lefèvre’s looks of concern escalating to silent panic; all the earlier energy had deflated and left the entire opera holding its breath. In the midst of it all, the oblivious curly-haired youth stepped back to survey her father’s drawn face.

“Papa, are you ok?” She asked softly.

Erik had seen enough! "As long as you obey my orders, you will find me a fair-minded partner." That's what he had told Lefèvre and Giry two years ago. The threat in the Phantom's voice had carried through the manager's study even in the unaccountable absence of his body. "But I would advise you not to test my patience."

Now as Erik's anger rose to a volcanic pitch, the sleek grand piano in the theatre’s orchestra pit emitted a single, shrill note. The cast, crew, and orchestra immediately turned in the direction of the piano that had sent forth the shrieking sound.

But there was no one at the instrument; it was empty.

“Oh no,” Lefèvre whispered.

The piano's keys moved unbidden as if powered by the fingers of a spectral musician. The frantic, unsettling melody filled the entire rotunda, amplified by the space's emptiness and marvelous acoustics. The crowd of people onstage shrank away from the possessed instrument, but the fury of the malevolent presence wasn't just confined to one place. Above their heads, the lights in the chandelier and lining the boxes blinked rapidly, venting Erik's displeasure. 

“So it's true, he is here," someone cried aloud, the terror in their voice reflecting the horror of everyone gathered."The Phantom of the Opera!” 

“And he’s angry,” Madame Giry murmured to Lefèvre, holding the manager’s worried gaze.

Only the little girl, Gustave Daaé’s daughter, seemed to take delight in the scene. She detached herself from her father’s arms and stepped forward, drawn as much by the alluring melody as by the demonic instrument.

The entire company of the Opera Populaire watched in terror and awe as Christine Daaé knelt at the edge of the stage nearest the piano. To everyone else the orchestra pit might as well have been the mouth of hell, but her features glowed with curiosity and elation. Her eyes fastened on the possessed ivories moving under the flickering gaslight of the opera house chandelier. The tune, though ominous, struck her with its complex arrangement that testified to the composer's passion. 

“How beautiful,” Christine breathed aloud to herself.

When the music ended, nobody dared speak or move except to make the sign of the cross. The residents of the Opera Populaire had seen similar phenomena since the move: gas lighting flickered during rehearsals without being touched; objects around the opera house frequently disappeared and reappeared again without explanation; sets and equipment crashed onto the stage without a force to move them.

Everyone had brushed these happenings aside at first. Then the unexplained activity took the shape of a kind of rhyme and reason, and the rumors started. A worker had been killed during the building's construction, someone said. Perhaps the poor soul was not yet at rest? The petite rats--ever the more superstitious sect of the opera's employees--conjectured, but the veterans took such ghost stories with a grain of salt. 

Now, however, it was clear: a phantom haunted the Palais Garnier. The theatre hadn't even opened yet, but in the stillness that followed the Opera Ghost's rage, they all wondered what horrors already marked these walls? What had they done to displease the hostile spirit? 

But little Christine had no such fears. As the adults puzzled over the source of the phantom music, the child stood up and turned to her father. Her rosy features broke into an exuberent smile.

“Papa, it’s the Angel of Music!” She shouted. And her voice was filled with pure joy.  

Chapter Text

January 2, 1875

“Madame Giry!” Erik’s voice hardly rose above a whisper, and yet it vibrated like thunder in her ears. He’s here, the Phantom of the Opera. She could never comprehend how he manipulated sound the way he did. His voice emitted from everywhere and yet nowhere at all. It bounced off the papered walls, launched first from one corner of the study and then another; it filled the room like a symphony but echoed in her mind like a still small voice, made all the more resonant by the speaker's invisibility.

“Monsieur le Fantôme.”

“You knew Gustave Daaé was sick,” he hissed. The sound of his ire localized near the grate behind her desk where she’d grown accustomed to speaking with him. She instinctively stationed herself against that wall as she often did, her back facing the grate lest she inadvertently catch a glimpse of his glowing eyes.

 “He’s recovering from a cold; he has traveled a long way.” Giry feigned innocence.

 “Do you think me a fool, Giry?” Erik’s voice flared. Giry shuddered and shook her head in the negative as words momentarily forsook her.

“Why did you invite him here? I’ve never known you to have such poor judgment,” he chastised her.

 “Gustave Daaé is still one of the most prolific musicians in the world—”  

 “The man can barely hold his bow! He cannot play opening night.”

 “He will play, Monsieur! On opening night, and through the revival of La Juive,” Giry found her voice and interjected passionately. She continued before Erik could check her tone. “This restaging will be the run of his life—because it will be the last run of his life.”

Erik paused as the facts seized him.  

“You invited a dying man to my stage on opening night?!”

“Monsieur Lefèvre agreed. He thinks it will be an even greater boost for the opera’s opening; imagine the prestige that comes with a rare appearance from Gustave Daaé." 

“How dare you go around me—” Erik growled.

 "Monsieur, please. Gustave alone is suited to play your work.”  

 “Perhaps he was at one time. Now he’s a liability,” he shot back.

 “Give him a chance and he will not disappoint you,” Giry attempted to reason. “He needs to provide for his daughter, her livelihood depends on his performing. If he doesn’t work, she will have no prospects.”

They always beg on behalf of a child, Erik thought to himself, rolling his eyes.  During his career as an assassin and executioner at the Shah’s court, he had heard the appeal all too often. A montage of faces flashed before his eyes, each frozen in fear as it stared down the long descent from the precipice of death. Warriors, courtiers, royals alike—all reduced to pleading at the feet of a monster: “Please, I have a child; show some compassion.”

It never moved him. Even if he and the Daroga hadn’t been trained to ignore such tactics of emotional manipulation, they held no sway to Erik. The world showed no compassion to me! That was always his contemptuous response. When he was abandoned, chained, and abused in youth, who had pled for mercy on his behalf? Who had interceded for him or sought to preserve his innocence? No one—least of all other children. They had been some of his cruelest opponents.

Giry wasn’t aware of the grave misstep she had made; there was no appeal that could penetrate his heart less.

“You mean the child that isn’t allowed in this opera house?” He spat.

“Monsieur le Vicomte invited Christine, not us,” Giry explained.

“Does the Vicomte’s influence on this opera house exceed mine?!”

The ballet mistress sighed, but offered no response.

 “Get him out of here,” Erik said through gritted teeth. “He will not perform in my theatre.”

She turned to the grate in a final effort to change his mind, but it was already closed.

Erik sought refuge in the empty world behind stage following rehearsal, his mind still racing after the day’s events. He fumed as he snaked his way between the maze of curtain, ropes, and set pieces. How could Giry have deceived him like this? Her lack of explanation affirmed what he had begun to recently suspect: they did not fear him enough. She and Lefèvre had appeased him early on, but at the first opportunity they’d taken advantage of his goodwill to test his authority.

If he was honest, a significant part of him resented their loyalty to their ailing friend. They had tried to go around him, and now the entire Opera Populaire knew that a phantom shared residency of their new home. His trick with the piano and the lights turned their optimism to ashes; the remainder of rehearsal was efficient, but otherwise still as a graveyard. Was retaining Gustave Daaé worth the risk Lefèvre and Giry took in displeasing him?

Now at least they know better than to cross me, Erik thought to himself. But he didn’t intend to stop with a haunted piano. As he glided through the set like one floating mass of darkness, he contemplated his next move—both for retaliation and for finding a replacement for Gustave Daaé.  What were his options at such short notice? An understudy? Perhaps a local musician? Maybe he should compose an entirely new piece for a different instrument?

But his thoughts were interrupted by the echo of a child’s quiet giggle.

“Ready or not, here I come!”

Erik’s head snapped up. That blasted little girl was still here! And she’d found her way backstage. Suddenly, somehow, he was caught exposed.

“Raoul?”

Christine Daaé’s call traveled through the darkness, but Erik attempts to pinpoint it were all in vain. He ducked into the folds of one of the massive velvet curtains to gather himself, praying that the little vicomte hadn’t chosen the same hiding spot.

Erik held his breath, ears searching for the speaker and her target while his eyes mapped his escape route. The little girl’s voice and the sound of her feet against the floor seemed to issue from everywhere and nowhere at all. How did she know such tricks? And how dare she use them against him?

More importantly, how had he miscalculated so, moving out in the open like this? This is why children don’t belong here, he mused. Actual ghosts didn’t have to worry about being caught in these kinds of predicaments, but the Phantom of the Opera’s “haunting” required careful management and skill. His business depended on precise timing, technological maneuvers, and, above all, control. In such an environment, children were unpredictable and inevitably too curious for their own good.

Erik listened intently and, with an effort, was finally able to locate the child’s quiet footsteps. They were close—alarmingly so—and getting closer.

“I hear you,” she teased in a sing-song lilt.

He could see her through the slit in the curtain now, creeping her way through the set via the same route he had just taken and following a trajectory that led her straight to his hiding spot. Erik attempted to settle the panic in the pit of his stomach as he eyed his exit. If he weren’t so off put, he might have laughed at the irony: the Opera Ghost. Monsieur le Fantôme, maestro of the Palais Garnier and terror of the Opera Populaire...roped unwittingly into a kid’s game of hide and seek.

He had backed himself into a corner; the only way to the nearest trap door was to cross the path while her back was turned. But he had precious little time to do so. Bereft of options, he reclaimed the trick she had just stolen from him:

“I’m here.”

Christine spun around as his voice reached her from the other side of the room.

“Raoul?”

“I’m here,” he whispered again, attempting to lure her away. She took the bait, aimlessly following his hypnotic purr as it echoed off one surface and then another.

“Hello?” Christine called out again. She paused. If Erik had expected his hailing to scare her, he was wrong. The child almost relished the game she was playing with the unknown voice.  

Whatever the case, she backed away from his hiding place and made for another section of the curtain, just as he’d hoped. Now it would be easy. Erik readied himself to glide into the shadows as soon as she was distracted. Then he threw his voice one last time:

“Christine.”

“I’ve got you!” She howled triumphantly. She took a fist full of the heavy velvet and drew the curtain forcefully. She found nothing.

Erik heard her huff in exasperation while he seized the moment to take his exit. Silently, he slipped from behind the curtain and started to round the corner toward his target escape door—but not quickly enough.

“Wait!” The girl’s voice rang out strong and clear.  

It was only a fraction of a second that Erik’s feet turned traitor against him, but it felt like time betrayed him too. For that brief moment, the Phantom hesitated and looked over his shoulder at the child who sought his attention. They caught each other's eyes, then he disappeared into the dark.

“Wait!” He heard her call after him. “Who are you?”

This time he did not stop.

Christine travelled a short way behind the mysterious figure, squinting into the shadows that absorbed it. She was disappointed when her eyes adjusted only to discover that there was no one there. 

"Christine!" 

The resonant whisper was gone, along with its owner. This time it was Raoul's clear and confident voice that sought her. She gasped and turned to see the handsome boy walking toward her with a self-satisfied chuckle. 

"Did you give up on finding me?" He asked. She smiled sheepishly and nodded. 

"Where were you?" 

"The right wing," he answered. "But then I thought I heard you talking to someone. I assume it was my father coming to fetch us." 

"No, they're all still together in Monsieur Lefèvre's office. The doctor is with them." She blinked away the sadness that rose to here eyes with that last sentence. 

"Who was here, then?" He questioned. "Who were you talking to?" 

Christine shrugged innocently. "No one. Just me."  

"I will visit you tomorrow at the Vicomte's residence," the doctor said. He was all business, no bedside manor. 

The arrangement of fragile objects—vials of medicine, glass syringes, the monaural stethoscope—as the doctor gathered his belongings was the only sound in Lefèvre's office. Gustave Daaé pulled his shirt sleeve down over the area where the needle had administered its reviving substance and sat up on the chaise. Madame Giry immediately took his hand, her body perched at the edge of the armchair. 

"Thank you for seeing him at such short notice, Doctor. Please direct the bill to the opera house," Lefèvre said, his voice grim and businesslike. 

"Nonsense," objected the Vicomte Philibert de Chagny, "I will take care of it." 

The doctor nodded his assent to the Vicomte and, with a last knowing glance to the Vicomte and Lefèvre, promptly took his leave. 

"You are both too kind," Gustave thanked the two gentlemen. His forced cheerfulness did little to lighten the mood in the room.

There was the ticking of the office clock, the soft thud of Lefèvre's footsteps as he paced the floor, the creaking chair as Madame Giry left it to sit next to Gustave on the chaise. She looked even more funereal than usual. Her skin was nearly white in contrast to her dark hair and garb, her lips twisted in an effort to reign in her emotions. The Vicomte de Chagny was the first to break the silence. 

"Monsieur Daaé, I will say but one word on the matter: You and Christine are welcome in my home for as long as you have need of it. You need not worry about your care or comfort in these—last weeks." 

The musician's lips parted as if to speak, but having nothing to impart he only gave a sorrowful nod. Again, the clock ticking. Again, Lefèvre's frantic steps. Giry cleared her throat, gulped down the tears in her voice.

"Gustave," her eyes searched his as she spoke, "did you know you had so little time?" 

"I suspected—I felt it." 

"You are, of course, released from your contract with the opera house," Lefèvre offered. "We will work on finding a placement for you so that you may convalesce."

"No, I will fulfill the contract," Gustave asserted.

"You can't possibly!" Giry denied him. "You should be resting, spending time with Christine--" 

"My dear friend, you will receive the money regardless," Lefèvre added. "You mustn't feel obligated for fear of financial loss." 

"Indeed, Christine will be taken care of," Giry echoed. 

"It's not just the money," Gustave objected. "I left the Opera all those years ago because I’d lost the joy in it all. I hated playing for elite society, seeing my art reduced to catering to the tastes of the fashionable,” Gustave smiled apologetically in the Vicomte’s direction. “And when my wife died, I chose to raise Christine away from the artifice and intoxication of the opera world. Even when I’ve returned to the stage in order to support her, I’ve done my best to shield her—maybe I’ve even clipped her wings.”

“Well?” Giry asked after a long pause, giving voice to everyone’s confusion. "What possessed you to change your mind now?"

“The piece," he answered. "In your letter requesting my services, you included the first part of the composition. I can't guess who composed it, Lefèvre, and I know you’d never compromise their anonymity, but the purity of the piece…It's an ode to music, to its ability to move us. And I remembered what united me with Christine's mother, and what's joined Christine and I." 

“We read it together; she was looking over my shoulder,” Gustave continued, his voice shaking. “If I have so little time left, grant me this kindness: let this be the last thing we enjoy. And not in the shadows, not just for ourselves anymore. The world will bear witness." 

Giry heaved a long, weighty sigh. She looked desperately from Lefèvre to the Vicomte for some kind of reprieve. Words evaded them all. 

“He shall play.”  

The Phantom's voice in her ear saved her the trouble of saying more. The Opera Ghost had been listening, of course, and he’d given his final word on the subject. Apparently his command had carried to Lefèvre as well, for the manager caught her eye before offering Gustave a weary nod. 

“Very well,” Lefèvre okayed. “You shall play the opening for as long as you feel physically able.”

When Madame Giry saw Gustave and the Vicomte out of the opera house, she felt as worried by the Phantom's inexplicable consent as by his earlier refusal. If only her friend could understand the irony of his own words. She knew better than anyone that the composer whose work had caused Gustave to wax poetic about musical purity was, in fact, the essence of danger and artifice. And yet, she mused, it was only natural that a man at death's threshold should be lured by the songs of Hades.

Chapter Text

June 17, 1885

He could hear them evaluating her while he wore down the floor with his relentless pacing.

“Gustave Daaé’s daughter, you said?”

Lefèvre: “Yes, her father died ten years ago barely a month after playing the opening here. He never made it back to his home.”

“What a tragedy,” another patron sighed. “I remember that solo vividly—a breathtaking display!”

“And the girl?”

“She enrolled in the Conservatoire a few years after her father’s death,” Giry replied. “She’s in her final year there now and her teachers all give her high marks.”

“Her technique is good, but the variation was unremarkable. I can’t imagine her advancing far in the company.”   

“She’s a pretty little thing though. Does she have any other family?” Another patron observed. As distracted as he was by his own frantic thoughts, Erik bristled at his insinuation.

Giry responded brusquely, “There’s talk of a wealthy widow who sponsored her education.”

“Shame. She’s easy on the eye, but her talent isn’t overwhelming.”

“All the same, I’ve a mind to bring her on,” Lefèvre mused. “We might be able to rely on her voice in a pinch, especially if we don’t find a vocalist today.”

“Monsieur, she was quite adamant that she does not intend to sing.”

Erik had heard enough. He never left auditions early, but he was sure his ragged breaths would betray him from the proscenium and so he retreated further toward the stairwell.

Christine’s presence ushered an onslaught of memories, questions, visions that flooded his brain all at once. He couldn’t stop them pouring in, and now they threatened to drown him; he could hardly withstand one wave before the next came crashing upon him.

Had ten years passed so quickly? How could it be that she was grown up and here again, auditioning at this opera house? And yet isn’t that exactly what she had promised she would do?

Her promise. He wasn’t sure what caused him to remember it, but he was even less certain of whether he’d ever really forgotten it.

‘Til he saw her this morning he’d barely been aware of just how much he thought of the child. Occasionally, he indulged a passing curiosity and wondered what had become of her over the last ten years. He hoped he’d done her some good. Was life treating her well—better than it treated him as young orphan?

Otherwise, he’d turned his back on the "Angel of Music” when Christine departed the opera following her father’s death. Unlike the Phantom, it wasn't a role he'd intended to assume; he only took up the character to set young Christine on the path of singing.

But that, it seemed, had been in vain. Why had she stopped? 

It maddened him. He felt like he had to do something, had to fix it somehow. What the patrons said was, for once, correct: if Lefèvre and Giry accepted her into the corps, she would do little but blend into the background—a crime against nature. Worse, it was a waste of his own efforts (however short they’d been), a blot on his discernment of her talents. Whether the world knew it or not, he could not brook such a failure.

Without further thought, Erik's feet set their course to find her wherever she was in the opera house. He crossed beneath the stage once more (tuning out the pitchy mezzo offering a disastrous audition above) and then made his way up a story and toward the corps dressing room where he suspected she might be.

Mentally, he dusted off the persona of the Angel of Music like a forgotten artifact—another mask. It didn’t matter how much time had passed since he’d worn it; he was prepared to step back into that voice to restore Christine’s joy in singing. Her “angel” would not let her give up. He was determined to encourage her, to make her see the folly in abandoning a talent so pure.

Every dressing room in the opera house was modified with a sliding mirror for his convenient passage, but Erik rarely ventured into this part of the building. He’d promised Madame Giry to honor the privacy of her young wards—an agreement that was easy to keep given how little interest he took in the daily goings-on of the ballet, particularly the silly petite rats.

Today, on a rash mission to revive the voice of his former pupil, he violated their compact. His long legs steered him through the corridor and behind the large, full-length mirror in the women’s quarters. But he wasn’t prepared for what he saw when he peered into the room.

Christine was there, as he’d suspected. And she was alone; the other applicants were all in the wings waiting for their auditions.

Only, she was in the process of undressing.

It was a common occurrence for the Opera Ghost to see things he wasn’t meant to see. Some of the scenes he surveilled were humorous, others provided useful intel for blackmail, and several were--carnal. Above ground, the opera house was built and curated to be a sensual world. Desire, exposed flesh, forbidden acts, moans and whispers were all common here. But whenever Erik stumbled on acts of intimacy, his first instinct was not to play the voyeur; it was to run...in fear as much as from embarrassment. 

Now his brain tried to trigger that instinct once more. Turn away, you idiot.

No matter what instructions his rational mind issued, it couldn’t make his eyes avert themselves from Christine’s form as she peeled back the layers of costuming.

She unclothed herself with ritualistic care. Every task performed by those delicate dancer’s hands was slow and systematic. With a weary exhale, her body slumped against the dressing room bench and her eyelids dropped so languidly that she looked as if she might fall into slumber.

Instead, she propped her foot up on the opposite leg and pulled at the ribbons of her pointe shoes, first one and then the other. The flesh-colored fabric gave way in undulating waves, and she kicked the oppressive articles off with a flourish.

Again she rested her ankle on the other knee and ran her hands along her muscular calves—up, down, and back up again—methodically kneading away the lingering aches. Her head drooped to one side while she performed these ministrations until her ear was nearly laid against her own shoulder, and Erik was captivated by the dramatic curve of her long neck.

Then she unburdened herself of her tutu. He saw the puffed sleeves slip down her arms first, baring the pearly flesh of her shoulders, the shadows of her chiseled collar bones peaking from beneath her chemise. After that, she husked the costume from her torso to reveal her corset, and then finally slid it down her legs until it pooled around her feet.

Alone and freed from her audition attire, Christine paced leisurely through the dressing room in her undergarments. She turned away from the mirror and reached a hand up to her ballet bun. He traced the way her shoulder blades folded and unfolded with each movement, but only for a moment: when she uncoiled her hair it fell down her back in luxuriant amber waves, obscuring the view of the marbled skin there.

And then she started to hum, faintly, along with audition music that wafted from the distant stage.

For the first time in ten years, Erik listened to Christine Daaé's musical voice. Muted as it was as she followed the stage music absentmindedly, he could glean everything he needed to know from it. It was, of course, richer than before--only slightly touched by the physical changes everyone underwent in the transition from youth to adulthood--and that added depth suited her. He couldn't dispute that she had been well-trained as well, and she had retained her natural gifts. Without effort, she eased through the vocal gymnastics of the aria playing far away. Yes, her voice was still as gorgeous as it had been before. 

And yet, it barely clung to life within her chest. Christine was just twenty years old--only at the precipice, not even the peak, of her career. But she hummed as if her best vocal years were already behind her, as if life had already exhausted her talents. Every note was distant and resigned. Erik knew she could have easily hit the song's climactic note in her sleep, but instead she faltered, let the song trickle away, and turned to catch a glance of herself in the mirror. 

Shielded as he was behind the one-sided contraption, Erik could've sworn they'd caught eyes through the glass. Her green irises seemed to flicker to him and hold his gaze. In that brief moment, he searched her face, trying to reconcile the music and memories of the past with the perplexing and uncertain present. Christine, where are you? He found himself asking silently. Just as quickly, her eyes fell from her reflection and she again to dress herself. 

The moment silenced all former thoughts and placed them in some kind of proper order. Erik realized three things as he beheld her:

First, Christine wasn’t a precocious child playing hide and seek among the curtains anymore; she was an adult...and a stranger. Whatever knowledge he'd had of her in childhood, he did not know the person who stood before him now. He could not comprehend this lithe body, this indecipherable mind, both molded by experiences of which he knew nothing.

The second thought followed quickly on the heels of the first: She’s forgotten me. Blinded as he was by his initial nostalgia, this revelation hadn’t quite occurred to him at first.

Even the word “forgotten” didn’t seem quite fitting, since “forgetting” was merely a problem of recollection. Wasn’t “remembering” the act of recovering something…true?   

Christine couldn’t possibly remember him; there was nothing tangible to remember. He was, for all intents and purposes, an imaginary friend—doomed not only to be forgotten but altogether discounted from reality. The Angel of Music had likely faded in her estimation along with the existence of fairies and Father Christmas, and the imperative to sing had waned right along with him.

What else did he anticipate when he posed as a character in a children’s folktale? He couldn’t have expected for her to leave, grow up, and for the story to continue to be real to her. There was no register on which he could live in her memory.  

Erik’s final realization was the simplest, but by far the most astounding. By heaven, she is beautiful.

He understood now that he could not reveal himself to her by his voice or by any other means. The Angel of Music would never be reborn, if indeed it ever truly lived. And what of the imposter who had impersonated that angel? He was a man and monster who stood transfixed behind a looking glass while Christine undressed before him. He was the wretched fool falling in love for the first time with a woman who could not be more lost to him.

It was preposterous for such a creature to even dream of knowing her now. All he could do was cling to that brief space in childhood when she'd needed him. 

Chapter Text

January 5, 1875

None of the wonders of the world could have rivaled the Palais Garnier on its opening night--at least not to Christine Daaé. 

As far as she was concerned, there was no world outside the one contained within the warm glow of the opera house. Everything the eye settled on was bright, glittering, and ornamental: the crystalline chandelier that refracted every movement and glint of candlelight; the jewels and soft satins that adorned the French nobility; even the glistening faces of patrons, already sweating from the heat generated by the massive crowd. 

Raised at first in rural Sweden and then in the hamlet of Perros Guirec, Christine had never seen so much finery in her life. But all the markers of wealth, in her mind, paled in comparison to the occasion: thousands of people had donned their best clothes and packed into one of the most gorgeous buildings ever constructed to enjoy a few hours of music. And to see Papa play the violin. 

“Christine?”

Raoul’s charming smile gave her something to focus on among the glimmering lights and low murmur that threatened to overtake her senses.

“May I escort you?” He asked. “My father said to stay close.”

Christine averted her eyes and felt a blush rise to her cheeks. 

She couldn't say what it was about Raoul that made her so diffident. Perhaps it was because she'd never met anyone quite like him. The boys in Perros were grubby and rude; they either pulled her hair with their cruel teasing or ignored her completely. But Raoul was so handsome, so chivalrous—so good. Even though he was a full four years older than her--a millennia in her eyes--no folktale was too ridiculous for him to indulge on her behalf; none of her games were dismissed as “child’s play.” Instead, he seemed to revel in being her playmate and protector.

Now he gestured his head toward one of the adult couples strutting past and, with a wink, straightened his posture to copy the gentleman. He placed one hand behind his back and courteously offered her his other arm, showing her how to simulate the fashionable ladies around them. She stifled a giddy laugh and gratefully wrapped her arm around his. 

“Listen to the sound!” She gushed as he steered her toward the Vicomte's party. 

He chuckled. “The orchestra hasn’t even started." 

“I mean the acoustics,” she responded. “You could sing an aria right here in the foyer if you wanted to, the design and the music all work together!”

“You are certainly your father’s daughter.”

Raoul leaned in close to her ear. "One of the best things about the acoustics is you can hear what everyone is saying. My mother used to say that one stroll through the room can acquaint you with all the night's gossip." 

Christine tested his theory. While they drifted through the crowd, she closed her eyes and tried to catch the wisps of conversation. Some snippets made her smile; others were beyond her understanding:

"Charles Garnier outdid himself!"

"Gustave Daaé back on the stage for the first time in months; it should be a treat..." 

"...an original work by an anonymous composer..."

"Have you heard about Box Five?"  

"...in the the foyer de la danse after the show..." 

"They say it's the best seat in the house, but no one can figure out who managed to claim it." 

The bell rang and they were herded toward the theatre. Christine clutched even tighter at Raoul's arm when the crowd pressed in around them, taking heart as he marched in a sure step behind his father filing to the vicomte's box. 

Christine, who had never been without her own father in such a large venue, thought again of how lucky she was to have the young vicomte guiding and guarding her. He already seemed to know his way around that assemblage of people, codes, and behaviors adults called "society." With him by her side, she would try to forget how the collar of her new dress itched mercilessly at her neck. She would smile and act like she belonged to his world, feign as if she cared about the adult conversations taking place when all she really wanted to do was marvel at the music and architecture. 

When they entered the box, Christine's unbridled excitement tore her from Raoul's side and sent her bounding to the edge, where she took in the sight with wonder. The opera house had been beautiful during rehearsals; but the filled seats, reverberating sound of marveling patrons, and full lamplight made it truly come alive. The thrill in the atmosphere hummed right through her, and she rested her arms and head on the balcony ledge to sense the vibration within the architecture itself. 

When she turned back to find her seat, Christine caught eyes with the bearded, brown-skinned figure in the neighboring box who seemed to draw everyone else’s attention.

"Some sort of emissary for the Shah of Persia, I believe," the Vicomte de Chagny explained to his companion, some severe-looking dowager marchioness. "I'm told he also has a connection with Monsieur Garnier."

"Well, he's made quite the entrance into Parisian society."

Christine observed the nervous flutter of the dowager’s fan, the arch of an eyebrow, the craning necks and hushed whispers. She knew they meant something, though she couldn’t quite decipher what. But she sensed that the man endured it all with such admirable composure that she decided she liked him then and there. She offered him a smile and a wave in confirmation of the fact, which he acknowledged but did not return.

“Why is everyone looking at him that way?” She questioned Raoul when she plopped into her seat.

“Boxes are status symbols," he explained. He looked over to the mysterious Persian. "The Mohammedan is sitting in the Duke of Lorraine's box, which is a high honor…especially for someone from so far east." 

He continued, "Our box is also very good because Papa is a patron; the de Chagny family has a long history of supporting the arts."

"And do you see the box across the way?" He pointed to the other side of the theatre to the seats paralleling the Persian’s. “The president is over there.”

Christine squinted at the figures across the hall, but found her attention drawn to the box directly across from their own. It was conspicuously empty, encased in red curtains and black shadow.

“What about that one?” she asked. “I can’t see anyone over there.”

“That box belongs to the mysterious patron.”  Raoul whispered, charging his voice with an air of intrigue. "It’s the talk of Paris; no one can figure out who purchased it or how much the man paid." 

"They'll have to show their faces tonight though, won't they?" She asked. 

"Well, they haven't arrived yet, and the show's about to start." 

Christine's eyebrows knit together. “Who would book the best seats just to miss the opening?” 

Raoul shrugged just as the gas lamps dimmed across the theatre. All eyes turned toward the stage, where the conductor assumed his place in the orchestra pit to enthusiastic applause. With a few waves of his wand, the instruments all gasped to life in unison while the tenor took the stage to perform an excerpt from La Juive.

Christine’s body relaxed at the sound of the music. But no sooner had she begun to take comfort in the familiar sounds of the opera building an alternate world around her than did the sharp whispers of the Marchioness yank her abruptly back to reality. Having found little of a conversation partner in the Vicomte de Chagny, the woman struck up a dialogue with the widow on the other side of her, who was all too willing to oblige.

Christine looked to Raoul and the Vicomte in confusion.   

“Do they—do they always talk like this?” She whispered.

“I’m afraid not everyone who comes to the opera is here to enjoy the music.”

Christine gulped down her disappointment and lowered her eyes to the bulletin trembling in her hands. Seeing her father’s name printed there in red suddenly filled her with dread. He was on next.

She'd promised she would behave, but all she could think of now was getting away from them all. She couldn’t bear to hear the marchioness’s discordant voice drowning the soloist as surely as if she had plunged the poor tenor underwater. The activity of other conversations across the theatre was quiet enough, but it frayed at her nerves like a shrill and relentless ringing in the ears.

She was on her feet before she’d fully made her decision.

“Where are you going?” Raoul asked.

“Powder room. Be right back.”

She heard the climax of the aria as she exited the box. There was little time to figure out where to go, and she knew of only one place where she might listen to her father’s solo undisturbed. She would have to dodge the attendants to find a way inside, but it was worth a try. With some trepidation, Christine ventured through the hallway and attempted to chart a course toward box five.

Contrary to everyone's belief--and flawed vision--box five was not unoccupied. Erik had only just settled in the recesses of its darkest corner when the child slipped through the curtains. 

It was déjà vu. Hadn't they just rehearsed this very same scenario a few days prior--Erik cursing her for being where she shouldn't, and cursing himself for being caught without a clear path of escape? And now she wasn't playing hide-and-seek backstage, but walking brazenly into his box during the most sacred time, when the danger of public exposure was highest. There were no rules this little girl did not break.  

All these thoughts occurred to him as he shrank into the shadows, where she had yet to notice him. But he found himself more curious than enraged when, instead of taking a seat in one the empty chairs, Christine sank to the floor beneath the ledge. 

Now both she and her father were in Erik's direct line of sight: In the background, just over Christine's shoulder, Gustave Daaé took the stage with a slow step. Monsieur Girard entered from the opposite wing and went to the grand piano that had been wheeled to stage left. (Lefèvre had made this last minute alteration at the Phantom's insistence so that Girard could take the composition over in case of disaster.) The violinist sat in a chair placed at center stage along with a music stand.  

In the foreground, Christine pressed her back against the ledge, hugged her knees to her chest, and closed her eyes to the stage and to the entire Palais Garnier. 

Father and daughter drew a shaky breath. Erik wondered if they were aware of their synced movements. Neither Daaé opened their eyes when Gustave tucked the violin under his chin and lifted his bow to it. Their lids remained shut even when the first notes sighed from the strings. 

Gustave Daaé's fingers betrayed no trace of nerves or spasms of illness as they moved deftly across the neck of the instrument. The composition itself took on a life of its own under his tender touch. Musician and melody entered a dialogue: the violinist recognized the work's simultaneous clarity and fragility, and in response the music purred with gratitude for his sensitive intonation. Every word about the Swedish virtuoso was true; his reputation had not been oversold in the least. 

Erik's hands responded first, as they always did when music was truly satisfying.

During his days in Persia and even with the carnies, he'd heard of and studied people with unique abilities to process music. Some could literally "see" it as color or moving notes. Others could place sound in space as if music was its own architecture or geography. Still others possessed perfect pitch, the talent for plucking a correct note out of thin air without any kind of prompting. 

Erik had several of these talents as well. He did not need to be near an instrument or referent to conjure whatever note he wanted to produce, and he often found that he saw sound move before his eyes when it ordered itself into compositions for him. But his special connection to music exceeded the auditory or even the visual; he also felt it in his body as a tactile sensation. 

His piece on Gustave Daaé's violin felt like fine silk between his fingers--smooth, comforting. But when Erik heard a human voice humming along, the shock made even his neck snap to attention.

Christine's vibrato was so quiet that it was almost imperceptible at first. Once he caught it, though, he could hear her improvising alongside the strings and piano, composing a harmony he hadn't thought to explore. To his shame, he hadn't even noticed it was there. Influenced by her sweet voice, the melody morphed into a materiality so much better, and far more foreign, than silk. Her hum was...sunlight. Her father's violin, her voice, Erik's composition--it felt like open air and the warmth of daylight on his skin, as if he'd turned his face unashamed toward a blue sky. It was a feeling he barely remembered, but he held onto it fiercely now. 

Christine couldn't tell when she started to hum during Papa's solo, or why the tears began to fall. Was it the beauty of the composition under her father's powerful command? The memories it conjured? The sure knowledge that he was leaving her soon? She knew he was more than sick, even though he tried to hide it. He was dying. He had offered this performance to her as a final gift, and here she was with her back to the stage, cradling herself on the floor in the dark. 

But this was the best way to enjoy music, he'd told her: undistracted by the eye, listening with one's heart. "That is when the Angel of Music visits," Papa always said.

And surely, the Angel had come, because Christine suddenly heard a hum accompanying her own. It was voice that was more than melodic, and that far exceeded resonant--a voice that would be diminished by being described as merely "beautiful." To Christine, it was nothing short of a voice from heaven. The notes it issued mingled with her melody and made her own inferior voice sound almost transcendent, coaxing it to planes she'd yet to discover. 

"Christine?" 

The voice she heard addressing her within the darkness of box five was a gentle whisper. Against every impulse, she sealed her eyes even tighter and listened. 

"Y-yes?" She answered.

"Why are you crying, child?" 

Chapter Text

March 21, 1858

The mask went airborne before it shattered in pieces across the hardwood floor. No, not just “pieces”—parts of it seemed to dissolve into fine dust upon impact.

Erik steeled his jaw. He would not give Madame the satisfaction of seeing him cry. Nor would he acknowledge his pain by lifting his hand to the place where she’d just struck him across the face.

He had worked so very hard on the clay mask. The idea came to him when he’d snuck into the art institute and seen the sculptors at work in the cold clay. He was good with his hands, he thought. He could make a mold of his face and craft a mask to conceal his deficiencies!

He went to the school often after that. It was easy enough to leave the house once his mother drifted into her opium-induced slumber, but making his way to Rouen from Boscherville was more difficult. The first time he attempted to borrow the horse from the stable, the creature—like everyone else—had frighted at the sight of his face and nearly given him away.

The next time Erik covered everything but his eyes with the black scarf and hummed to the animal. His voice had its usual calming effect on his steed, who allowed the slip of a boy to hop on its back and trot toward the edges of Rouen despite his clumsy riding. With his hooded cape and scarf, he could navigate the empty streets of the village without fear of being seen. Even if the streets had been full, no one cared enough to look twice at an unkempt ten-year-old anyway—probably just a street urchin.

All in all, it took him more than hour to get to the institute, which was usually empty by that time of night. In those echoing halls, he set to work on a mask that could finally replace the burlap bag Madame forced him to wear in her presence. He pressed the clay as thin as he could make it without breaking, then smoothed out one side into a handsome and detailed face—one with a full nose, a cheek that felt symmetrical under his touch, and a forehead that didn’t look like a concave crater.

Erik poured his hopes and energies into the project for what it was: a last and desperate bid for Madame’s love after ten years, a fix that would finally make him bearable to her. It took several midnight trips back and forth to Rouen, but when he completed the mask he dared to believe that he’d sculpted a solution to his ugliness.

Now the results of that idea lay scattered on the floor in large shards and tiny crumbs of clay.

When Madame turned around and saw that crystalline eye staring out from the fake clay visage, the back of her hand shot out swiftly and vengefully. She’d gotten him square on his “good” cheekbone. Amidst the throbbing he could feel a wound open its eye and begin to weep a fine trickle of blood. It was always brutal when she wore her rings. The cut stung, and the blood fell from his cheek onto his shirt now, but he wouldn’t wipe that either.

How unfortunate that she was left handed, always perfectly poised to round on his good side with a powerful backhand! How much worse that she still insisted on wearing her large wedding ring, even though she never spoke of her dead husband, the father he had never seen. It was as if fate conspired to make her hand a natural weapon against the one part of his countenance that held any beauty. Was she intent on making the normal side of his face as raw and frightful as the one he sought to hide from her?

“What were you thinking?” She snapped at him.

Disarmed of his mask and without the burlap bag nearby, Erik turned his head in profile so that she could see only his left side. Even with pearls of blood gathering and then trailing down his cheek, it was still infinitely preferable to the carcass on the other half of his face.  

“I thought you’d like it, Mama.”

“Don’t call me that,” she growled. “Do you want lashings?”

His voice was ice. “I thought you’d like it, Madame. I thought maybe—maybe you'd let me go out in the daytime to hear the music at the festival.”

He could barely complete the sentence before his shirt and collar were wrenched into her violent grip. Her shoes trampling over the mask's remains as she dragged him across the floor. He heard the pieces of pottery dispelled under her feet with a deafening crunch.

“No!” He cried at the loss of his work and the knowledge of where she was taking him. 

His shirt ripped and gave way a little. He tried to escape her grasp, made a trail of linen fabric from her fist, but she was faster than he was, and far stronger. She seized him again, this time by his arms, and all but toted his kicking and screaming form to his torture chamber--the empty room with the large, ornate floor mirror.

“Look in the glass.”

“No, please! Mama!” He screamed in terror and pressed his eyes shut.

“Do not call me that! Never call me that!”  

He felt her plant him on the floor, then she took his face in her hands with vicious force and anchored her fingers around the lids as if she might pry them open if he denied her.

“You will open your eyes this instant!”

Madame abhorred touching his deformities, but he supposed she found this cruel mission well worth the disgust. She pressed her long nails into the skin around his eyes. The flesh on his deformed side, always more sensitive, tore open and he cried out in pain. Water rushed to both lids, flowing over his cheeks, mixing with blood.

Erik was already monstrous; he did not want to add blindness to the list of his disfigurements, and he was sure Madame would tear his eyes out of their sockets if necessary. There was no hope of resisting.

He opened his eyes and stared directly and defiantly at both their reflections in the mirror.

There he was…a horror to himself. Apart from the deep cut on his cheek, the red scratches around his eyes, and tears streaked with blood rolling down his face, half of him looked like any other child his age. His left side was pale and angular from disordered eating and too much time indoors, but that only made his dark hair, thick brow, and deep brown eye even more striking. 

What a brutal contrast was his right, though, with its bare and misshapen brow bone that hardly shadowed the frosty blue iris, the ravaged and streaky flesh, the seemingly sunken and discolored forehead where only the thinnest layer of skin appeared to shield his skull from exposure! Eye, “nostril,” and swollen lip were all pulled into a strained and unnatural shape. The first time Madame had made him behold his own face in the mirror, he’d sobbed with fear and revulsion.

His eyes momentarily locked with hers in the glass. Even now, he searched for a trace of tenderness in them but found only tears of hate, and that sight was more unbearable than his own distorted features. Erik wanted to be strong, but he couldn’t help it: he ducked his head and cupped his face in his hand.

"Madame--" 

“You ask to leave this house when you can’t even look your own face in the mirror?” she sneered. She gave him a cold shove and left the looking glass before returning to her place on the fine cushioned chaise. Her hand reached immediately for the opium tincture on the side table; the fingers that had just clawed at his face handled the glass bottle delicately.

Her body relaxed with only a few drops, her face resting in serene repose when she reclined onto the chaise. Her voice was almost gentle when she spoke:

“Clean that mess up.”

She gestured faintly at the smashed mask before closing her eyes. He turned to pile of dust and brown clay on the floor. When he knelt to collect it, parts of the brittle material broke apart even further in his hands.

He glanced between Madame and the window as he cleaned. She’d taken the tincture too early; the sun was still out. But he knew she took it at untimely hours on days when she caught sight of him. Whatever the case, she would sleep deeply for the next few hours, and the day outside was seasonal. Despite the utterly miserable start to the day, the time was still his to “enjoy.”

Erik grabbed his cloak, hat, and scarf—the burlap bag he left. Then he went up to Madame as she slept and took a bold look at her.

She was beautiful like this. She almost looked harmless. Sometimes when she was under the medicine’s influence she even called him “darling,” and he loved that. It didn’t matter that she never meant it, didn’t remember it afterward.

He often beheld her in slumber and traced the contours of her pretty features with his eyes. Erik thought he must “favor” his father, since there was so little of her in him. Her hair was fine, curly, and golden unlike the lank black locks that struggled from his own scalp. Everywhere he was dark and angular, she was soft and fair—her lips most of all. When she slept like this, when they weren’t curled into a menacing scowl at the sight of him, her lips were pink and plump, with a heart-shaped cupid’s bow. They were his favorite and most coveted part of her.

Erik was seven years old when he learned what a kiss was. It took him weeks to realize that it was something people did to those they loved. Then it shocked him when he discovered that parents kissed their children as a matter of habit. Another revelation followed shortly after that one: his mother, Madame, had never kissed him—or hugged him.  

Neither had he shared such signs of affection with her. He didn’t dare. Several times in the past three years when she was leaned back on that chaise, especially when she had called him “darling,” he promised he would drum up the courage to press his own bloated lips against her forehead.

He contemplated it again now. He brought the tips of his fingers to his malformed lips and awkwardly puckered them the way he'd seen fathers kiss daughters, mothers kiss sons, lovers kiss lovers. Then he held his fingers to her mouth, barely grazing the velvety skin. When she shifted in her sleep and turned her face away, he flinched. Then he went into the hall and slipped out the door.

No one was out on their quiet street, so Erik bravely let the sunlight hit his face a brief second. Its rays tingled upon his flawed skin, which received the nourishment gratefully. His feet carried him in the direction he most desired—toward the music echoing from the Romani encampment on the outskirts of the village. He clothed himself with his coverings as he walked. 

Chapter Text

January 5, 1875

The whole audience was on its feet, rapturous with applause for Gustave Daaé and the anonymous work he had just performed. But their cheers and clapping hands seemed far away now, muted by the more precious sound that penetrated Christine’s ear—that mysterious voice that echoed around and within her.

“Angel?” she whispered tentatively.

At her inquiry, Erik sank deeper into the shadows of box five. The spell of the violin and their voices was broken and now the panic set in. He hadn’t intended any of this; he certainly hadn’t thought it through. What was he to do now?

It was bad enough that the girl had seen him the other day, but this time, drawn by the music of her voice and her father’s violin, he’d halfway revealed himself. Now the child was leaning forward, listening for him and as if she relied on his words. Erik knew that once spoken, they could never be taken back.

“Please come back!” Christine cried. She pressed her eyes even more firmly shut and started to hum again, desperately, as if the fervor of her voice would summon the being once again.

The safest and simplest thing to do would be to remain silent. He had only just cracked the lid of Pandora’s box, not opened it completely. There was still time to disappear, to let Christine believe the voice was a figment of her imagination, the same way the sight of his silent figure days before had been just a trick of the eye. All he needed to do was draw out this silence, retreat into his routine again, and wait for the girl to leave once her father’s contract was fulfilled.

Yet, the danger of discovery paled in comparison to what he’d felt as his song intertwined with theirs. Not only had they understood his work; Erik had witnessed his music become a vehicle for Christine’s grief and for her father’s love, and that intimate communication threatened to reawaken a desire for belonging that he'd determined to suppress long ago.

And her voice was truly lovely. He saw and heard something of his childhood self in her: She was untrained, only at the beginning of her talents, but already she could no more deny music than deny herself. And now at the time when her voice cried out to be shaped, her greatest teacher—her only family—was leaving too soon.

At that, a fragile conclusion crossed Erik’s mind: Maybe, just maybe, I can do her some good.

And so he spoke.

“I’m here.”

Relief broke upon the girl’s face, followed by an exhale and a tearful smile. She wiped her stained face with the sleeve of her dress.  

“So, it is you?” She asked. “The Angel of Music.”

“Yes. I am your angel of music.”

“I knew it,” she whispered triumphantly. “I knew you were real!”

Were Erik not already assured of his soul’s damnation, then he was certain of it now. It would not be the torture chambers he had designed, the assassinations he had carried out, or even his cursed face that would send him straight to hell; it was the audacity to deceive this trusting child by posing as an angel of all things. And yet some small part of him insisted that this was not damnation at all, but his first step toward some kind of redemption.

“Are you come because Papa is dying?” Christine asked.

He was taken aback by her piercing question. So, she knew about her father’s illness.

What could he say to that? Divinity was already trying. This was a far different role than the opera ghost; phantoms were generally avoided, but people actually sought answers from angels.

“Your Papa is not long for this world,” he responded. His voice was soft but frank. It would do no good to sugarcoat the truth; the girl's brave question demanded an honest answer. 

Christine’s eyes wrung out a fresh supply of tears at his words. She’d known of course, but hearing an angel—or anyone, for that matter—confirm it aloud made it real. Some part of her hoped that he would promise a miracle, or at least tell her that everything would be fine. Instead, he’d told her the unvarnished truth. The angel's gentle and unwavering voice encouraged her to be brave, and yet the gravity of his words still filled her with dread. Mama had gone to heaven, Papa would follow her shortly...and Christine would be left alone. 

“What will I do?” She inquired. This time her voice trembled with fear and deepest sorrow.

Another impossible question. What would she do? He thought back over his own life and imagined that it was not so far removed from her own. He too had been thrust into the wide world at far too young an age. He'd been completely alone, and arguably even more vulnerable than she would be. He hoped dearly that Christine would escape all the human cruelties that had visited him in youth. His face had certainly invited most of them, but he didn't assume that safety would much easier for an orphaned girl to attain. What had he done in her shoes? 

"You will sing."

“Sing?” Christine seemed genuinely confused at this answer. 

“Yes, my child. Do you not see that your voice is a gift? Music will keep you company when all others have forsaken you; it will guide you in the darkness. Sing, and not only will you feel your dear father after he has gone; your voice will secure your future.”  

Christine worried her lower lip, measuring the words of her divine messenger. As much as she adored music, she had not considered her voice in that way. Her faltering harmonies were nothing compared to the gravity of her father's violin, or the enduring voice of this angel who whispered to her now. When he had hummed alongside her, his melody had been so celestial and yet so true. She could not imagine her own fleeting sound in league with those two figures' instruments that, to her, were eternal. 

“My voice,” she thought aloud, "I want it to...I want to learn."

Erik said nothing as she weighed the choice. If she thanked him and walked away now, that could be in the end of it. He would have helped her, comforted her a little, given her an idea of where to channel her energies. And Erik would smile and be proud of himself for the aid he had rendered to the little intruder in box five. But if she asked what he suspected she would, his recklessness might plunge them both headlong into murky waters.

“Angel, will you teach me?”

“Of course I will.”

June 20, 1885

She is beautiful. She will not sing.

The audition ended with only a small batch of hires: Some chorus boys, Christine, and Meg Giry, the ballet mistress's daughter. The business of the opera house seemed to hum on as usual with only slight acknowledgment of the new additions. To Erik, however, everything was disrupted. 

She is beautiful. She will not sing.

Those two facts plagued him, worsened by the reality that there was nothing he could do about either. He could not escape Christine's beauty. His attention traveled to her during every rehearsal. He sought her face among the company and studied each turn of her gorgeous expression like the pages of a book. He waited in expectation for the moments when she would lift her piercing green eyes, wishing for the feeling behind the mirror when they had seemed to meet his. Every moment was an opportunity for him to work out the enigma she presented. 

She will not sing. 

Her growing beauty in his eyes only made the silence of her voice more painful. Did she not want to sing? Did she still love music? Did she have other plans for her life that he knew nothing about? Why was she here if not to nurture her talent? The conundrum sent him searching her face for answers more intensely and frequently. Each time he came away with more conviction of her loveliness, more familiarity with the curves of her cheek and the lines of her smile--but no more answers. 

It was a vicious cycle that was already threatening to drive him mad, and it sent him in a restless rush to the ballet mistress's study one afternoon. 

He was hovering over Giry's desk when she entered, and she started at the sight of him in the flesh unannounced. Though she'd slowly grown use his occasional physical presence over the years, it was still unusual for him to venture from his hiding spot behind the grate. Now his long, cloaked figure stood at the center of the room as he looked down at the corps de ballet contracts lying on the table. 

"Well Monsieur?" She greeted him calmly. 

He ignored her in his brooding way as his eyes roamed over Christine’s winding signature. He reached out and absentmindedly toyed with the edges of the paper, resisting the urge to trace her name. 

"I was looking more closely at the hires following the recent disappointing auditions," he responded after some time. 

“Yes. Well, at least we have two children of the Paris Opera,” she replied. “I assure you, they will know well how things are done here. They understand our standard of work and won’t cause trouble.”

She could hardly imagine that Christine caused nothing but trouble for him whenever she entered the opera house. 

“I am confident in Meg’s abilities. The other one, though…”

“Christine.”

“Hmm?" Erik's reaction was so abrupt that he was sure she could detect how unsettled he was, but she didn't appear to notice. 

“Christine Daaé," she corrected him. "You recall when Gustave Daaé was here for the opening?”

“Of course, he was spectacular,” he mused. He could see that she surprised by his compliment, and he quickly shifted his tone to his usual sarcasm. “And I think I can be relied upon to remember the man who swooned during rehearsals and then died at the end of his run.”

Giry rolled her eyes. “He brought her with him; she was just a girl back then. You nearly had us toss them both out, remember?”

“Can’t say that I do,” he snorted the lie, “but it sounds like me. I detest children.”

He paused. His own frustration had driven him to Giry's office initially, but now a plan formulated in his mind. There was only so much information he could glean from eavesdropping and gazing on the indecipherable wonder of Christine's face during rehearsals. He needed to solicit Madame Giry as an unwitting ally in his his investigations and his ultimate quest of hearing Christine's voice onstage. 

“Is she any good?” He asked, feigning disinterest.

“Have you not seen her?”

“I haven't paid her much attention.”

“Well…if she had remarkable talent then you would have taken notice,” Giry sighed. “She’s adequate, but nothing spectacular.” 

“Then why did you hire her?”

“For—"

“Gustave," he interjected with a mocking tone. "Such weak sentimentality!"

What a relief that she didn't know the hypocrisy of his statement given his own past attachments and nostalgic motivations!

Giry cut her eyes. “—and because Lefèvre and I hope she might be persuaded to sing.”

He felt tension release in his shoulders. 

“Yes, I heard you mention that at the audition,” he remarked. "So then she does have talent?" 

“Gustave told me on his deathbed that she had an angelic voice like her mother’s, that it was too good to waste.”

Erik was glad his back was to her; his face burned, and his mouth twitched with something like a smile. He was proud that Christine's father had agreed with him. He remembered the sound of Daaé’s violin and little Christine’s humming that night at the opening--how he had felt some strange camaraderie form between himself and the violinist. 

“Then why didn’t she give a vocal audition?”

“Well, that’s the thing: the girl did find a way to waste it," Giry mused. "Meg has been one of her closest friends for years, and I’ve also spoken with her teachers. They say the same thing: she would be the best in her class if she'd applied herself.”

Erik huffed. It couldn't be that Christine was disinterested or lazy, could it? None of it made sense. But for the time being, he didn't dare betray his preoccupation with Christine to Madame Giry by pressing further; he was only glad that the ballet mistress shared his interests. Giry was far more closely positioned than he was to investigate the matter and to influence Christine toward singing. That would have to do for the present.

He turned toward Madame Giry but cast his eyes to the floor, hiding his masked face even further under the brim of his black fedora. 

“She can’t be any worse than the auditions we heard,” he sighed, folding his arms. “Carlotta will continue without an understudy for the time being, and we will schedule another round of auditions, unless you can persuade the girl to...apply herself?”

Giry nodded. “I can try, but I’m not sure what good it will do. And I doubt she'd meet with your approval if she does sing."

"I will be the judge of that," Erik quipped. 

He paused, then added, "You will get rid of her if she proves untalented in both arenas." 

His voice was cold and commanding even to his own ears; it adequately concealed the swell of turbulent emotions beneath his words.