It took me three years to write this thing, and then three more to tear it completely apart and rewrite it as Costumes and Filigree, which is, trust me, about a zillion times better. So read that one. I was so young when I wrote this one that it's almost embarrassing to have people read it…but I don't want to take it down. So if you want to read it—and it is a good story—keep in mind that I was in middle school when I wrote it. :)

Chapitre Un

La Voix

Christine Daaé sat down heavily on the old, creaking stool in front of her dressing table and rested her head in her arms. Tonight's performance had taken a lot out of her. Even though her part was minor—merely a member of the Chorus—it was still difficult to sing the background harmony to Despina's aria in Così Fan Tutte. And since La Carlotta, the lead soprano, had been throwing more fits than usual, there had not been much chance to practice. Why, some scenes had only been fully run-through two or three times! But even so, Christine had done much worse than the other members of the Chorus. She had thoroughly destroyed the song "Torments Implacable", hitting several wrong notes, and then stretched a muscle too far in one of the dances. Of course, Mme. Giry had not criticized her, but still….

She had heard the other chorus girls whispering about her, about how she didn't belong there—her voice just wasn't good enough. She could feel tears of frustration welling up behind her eyes; no matter how hard she tried to hold them back, they still threatened to spill forth down her pale cheeks and soak the sleeves of her gown.

Forcing the tears back, she reached for her street clothes and proceeded to change out of her costume. It was a very chilly night outside, even in the dress that Mamma Valerius had given her—simple brown wool, a pattern of rosemary embroidered into it. She'd had such dresses in Scandinavia, as a little girl. Listening to her father play on his violin, watching the waves crashing into the cliffs along the beach….

With a sigh, she pulled the ornaments out of her hair and stared at the picture of her father that she kept by her mirror. Oh Father, she thought miserably, how will I ever learn to sing, as you always assured me I could? Turning away from the picture, she thought to herself, Am I not worthy of the Angel's presence? Of his guidance?

Her mind whirled back to that night, so many years ago, when her father lay dying. When he assured her that the moment he reached the gates of Heaven, he would send the Angel of Music to her. To guide and teach her in the art of song. But it had been years—and no Angel had ever graced her with his presence.

She was no longer trying to hold back her tears. Openly sobbing, Christine laid her head back on the dressing table and wished that she would just die. At least, then, she would get to see her father again.

A soft voice broke through the anguished silence. Christine's head shot up. Her first thought was that it was the Angel. But that was just wishful thinking.

But it was singing, so beautifully….

It was an aria she could put no name to—far more beautiful and heavenly than any she had ever heard. Slowly standing, so as not to scare it, she searched her closet. There was nothing in her closet, or behind her dresser. She opened the door and peered down the hall—but there was nothing there. But the Voice was still singing, even more beautifully than before. The tears had long since stopped, but a fierce ache pulled at her heart, demanding that she find the source of the music. Surely something so perfect, so divine, had to be an angel!

Christine walked out into the hall and entered the room to the right of hers. It never entered her mind that she could get in trouble for getting caught in someone else's dressing room; the power of the Voice was too intoxicating to leave room for anything else. The room on the left was empty; so was the one on the other side. And what was stranger, she couldn't even hear the Voice from anywhere except from within her own room. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. Was she hallucinating?

Dismissing this thought, she decided to enjoy the aria and not worry about where it was coming from. After all, if it was an angel, she probably wouldn't be able to see it.

As the aria came to a close, the heavenly euphoria that had erased Christine's sorrow faded, and she found herself crying again.

"Why are you crying?" The disembodied voice asked concernedly. His voice was smooth and resonant; as commanding as the bells of Notre Dame herself, yet as sad and sweet as the laments of her father's violin.

Her father…. The very thought of him, lying in a coffin as burly men lowered him into the tomb, brought forth more of her bitter tears. It took her a few minutes to calm herself enough to respond, "I—I miss my father, and I'm afraid I'll get thrown out of the Chorus because I can't sing well enough…." After a moment of silence, she added, "Who are you?"

But the Voice was gone.