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The air was bitter and sharp as Christine rowed herself down the narrow lake passage beneath the Palais Garnier, toward his beautiful underground exile. She was tired—oh, so very tired—after a long day of rehearsals. The heat of the crowds, the suffocating glow of the bright oil lamps, and the constant pressure of performing had overwhelmed her like never before. To make matters worse, she had nearly fallen from the black, ornate boat and into the stagnant lake water. Her near plunge had cost her her boots and brand-new stockings, now sodden and heavy.
Throughout the day, she had felt his eyes on her from the darkness of the lies, watching her like a silent protector as she sang his music in his theatre. The power she felt knowing he was watching—like the Angel of Music he was—filled her with a heady sense of control and dominance. Not because he watched her (he did most days), but because it was him. No one dared cross her. Not after the events of seven months ago.
She had been so naïve back then.
So silly. Now, she was seven months wiser—smarter.
No longer that foolish girl who abandoned him, who left him to chase after Raoul de Chagny instead.
A decision Christine Daaé deeply regretted.
Raoul had been awful to her—his family even worse. The de Chagnys believed she was a harlot chit, lower born, unworthy of someone like the Comte. She had overheard Raoul’s older brother one evening after dinner, a dinner that had already made her feel far beneath them, painfully unequal. Philippe de Chagny had called her “stained” and asked Raoul if she was “still pure” after her dealings with him. Of course she was—but the de Chagnys did not see it that way. The conversation had made her feel ill. It was twisted and sick, and it made her want to vomit straight into the stupid vase filled with potent, deep-purple blooms—a brutal contrast to her drab tan dress, far too plain for a woman meant to become the next Comtesse.
That night, she decided. She knew that once she married Raoul, she would never be allowed to sing again. She would lose that heavenly gift—the one her Angel of Music had bestowed upon her.
To lose her voice would be to lose her soul.
She left that very night, leaving Raoul a short, simple note explaining why she could not go through with the marriage—nor the engagement. She returned to the Palais Garnier, the only true home she had known since her father’s death. There, she crept into her old dressing room and stood before the tall, proud mirror—the one he had taken her through after her triumph in Hannibal, when Raoul had come for her. Oh, how bold he had been that night, whisking her away to his lair.
Standing on a chair, her fingers brushing the top edge of the mirror, she heard a click.
Ah. She’d done it.
The mirror swung open, a gust of bitter wind blowing her dark curls back. She almost heard his voice, almost felt his gloved hand take hers, beckoning her forward—like a wolf leading a lamb to slaughter. She stepped into the damp passageway just as the mirror swung shut behind her, soundless and final.
She had triggered one of his traps.
She fell—down, down into darkness—striking her head against cold stone and knocking herself unconscious. She screamed, over and over, begging for her maestro of song. The licking, searing heat from the fallen candle burned nearby as she lay helpless in his abyss. She nearly died in his tunnels.
But he was her angel.
He had descended from whatever heaven he dwelled in and saved her.
She remembered him carrying her, her body pressed against his solid warmth, lean muscle bearing her safely to his lair. The last thing she remembered was his voice—his horribly seductive tenor—singing her into darkness.
The black boat bumped gently against the bluestone edge of the lake. Christine climbed out, her stocking squelching against the stone, greeted by the familiar sight of Persian rugs and warm candlelight.
“Erik?” she called. “Erik! I’m home!”
No answer.
Her Phantom must have been haunting some part of the theatre—likely enjoying himself by frightening the ballet rats. Exhausted, Christine staggered toward their shared bathing chamber, shedding her soaked boots, stockings, and clothing along the way. She smiled upon entering the candlelit room to find a scalding bath already prepared.
He always knew what she wanted.
She sank into the water with a soft moan, her skin and curls drinking in the long-desired warmth.
After all, he was her angel.
She did not know how long she lay there before she felt his presence—his body hovering over hers, his lips brushing her neck. She opened her eyes just long enough to see him before closing them again, before she spoke.
“Had fun watching me?”
“Of course,” he murmured. “You were magnificent. Beautiful as ever.”
“That was until Act Three.”
“I must have missed it.”
“Luckily, I nearly passed out. Could you please—please—get Firmin and André to switch to those new lights? Elec—”
“Electricity,” Erik supplied, amused.
“And yes, I will pass along your complaints to management.”
She scoffed. “We both know you run this place.”
That made him laugh. Beneath the water, his fingertips traced slowly up her thigh.
“My angel. My Christine,” he murmured. “Shall we make the music of the night…?”
That made her laugh, too.
Later, Christine sat on the couch in the main chamber of his so-called lair, reading Dracula—a book Meg Giry (now prima ballerina) had pressed into her hands with a giggle. At Christine’s confusion, Meg had only smiled.
“Oh, read it,” she’d said. “You’ll get it.”
Now, sipping the tea Erik had made for her, Christine turned another page.
She did get it.