Christine woke excitedly on twenty-fourth of December. Tonight her parents were hosting a Christmas party for all of their friends and relatives, and above that it was Christmas Eve. She was sixteen years old, but still loved the excitement and suspense of opening gifts on Christmas morning. Her younger brother, Charles, was still but a child and firmly believed in St. Nikolas. By now, Christine was well aware that there was no such thing anymore. Yes, St. Nikolas had once been a real man, but now, only his story remained. Christine dressed hurriedly, not wanting to miss any of the preperations for the coming evening's festivities. She combed her curly, chocolate hair, pulled it back in a ribbon that matched her baby blue day dress and flew down the stairs to the den where her mother stood, hanging ornaments on the large pine tree.
"Good morning, Christine," her mother greeted her with a warm smile, as she did every morning. Clair Daae was what you would expect in the perfect mother. She prepared breakfast every morning, tucked her children in every night, made sure they were taken care of before herself. A lovely woman, it was easy to see where Christine got her looks from. However, Christine most certainly recieved her brown eyes and hair from another...her father.
Christine's father, Gustav Daae, a famed violinist in Sweden, stepped into the room with a musket in hand. His boots were dirty and speckled with blood. "My two favorite ladies!" He opened his arms to Clair and Christine. "What do I have to do to recieve a hug?"
"You might want to try washing up, Gustav; you're filthy. If you want to be greeted with an embrace from either of us, you had better go take a bath and change clothes." Clair smiled at her husband with humor, but her blue eyes told a different story. She meant for him to go upstairs and do precisely as she'd instructed.
"Of course, Clair." He walked up to her and tried to kiss her cheek, but two of her fingers foiled his attempt. "The goose is hanging up outside. I'll be down shortly to get my morning greeting from you both." He laughed and disappeared up the stairs.
"How long has Papa been gone, Maman?" Christine asked as she took an ornament from the box sitting on the floor next to the tree. "I remember when Papa bought this for me." She sighed at the memory. She'd been about six years old when she saw her first opera, Faust by Gounod; she fell in love the operatic singing after that. The diva's range was unbelievable and her skill extraordinary. Christine wished she could do the same. After seeing the opera, it was all she talked about, and for Christmas, Gustav gave her a glass ornament with a scene from Faust painted on it in miniature proportions. "I still wish I could sing like the diva." She hung it carefully on the tree and turned to see her mother smiling again. "What is it?"
"You could sing the way she did with the proper teacher; you have enough talent, but that doesn't get you anywhere without training." Clair had once been the leading soprano in a traveling opera company from France. In fact, that is precisely how she met Gustav. He'd comet owatch a performance in Paris and fell in love with Clair the moment he heard her sing; her beauty was a plus. She'd taken a bit more time to develop genuine love for him, but it wasn't long before they were married and living outside of Paris. She distinctly remembered telling Gustav that if they had a daughter, she would have a voice for the stage, and she was one hundred percent correct. Though Christine refused to believe she could ever sing as well as the diva from Faust or her mother, Clair knew her daughter would one day win the heart of France with her voice.
"Oh, Maman." Christine turned away and continued hanging ornaments and other decorations on the tree. "It isn't as though the Angel of Music is going to come be my teacher. I'll confine such a fantasy to my dreams." Christine hung the last ornament and asked, "What will you have me do now, Maman?"
"We have to get started on the goose if we want it ready by tonight. Go fill the big cooking pot with water and put it on the stove to start boiling. I'll go bleed the goose; by the time I'm done with that, the water should be boiling, and we'll drop it in there for a spell to be rid of the feathers."
"Yes, Maman." Christine went to the cabinet to retrieve the pitcher they used to fill the cook pot and start the fire in the hearth. As she reached to open the cabinet, her brother stepped in the way. "Charles, please, move aside." She tried not to show her impatience. "Do you need something from in here? If not, go somewhere else to loiter. Mother has given me a task, and you are standing in my way."
"What exactly did Maman tell you to do?" he questioned, folding his arms and giving her a look that told her he was not going to move until he got an answer.
"I have to fill the bigcook pot with water and start a fire beneath it in the hearth. We have to defeather the goose Papa killed this morning. Now, will you kindly leave?"
"Fine." He walked off, no doubt to play with his toy soldiers. Charles was a stubborn boy with their mother's blonde hair and blue eyes, but was hard-headed like their father.
"Thank goodness," she muttered to herself as he walked away. Taking out the pitcher, she began to fill it with water, which she emptied into the cookpot until it was half full. She then lit the kindling and wood beneath the pot and stepped away, watching the flames grow, devouring the wood.
After a while, Christine and Clair had finished cleaning and plucking the goose, and now it was roasting over the wildly dancing flames. Even though they tried to keep clean, neither managed to keep from getting their clothes dirty. It didn't really matter, they would change for the party tonight anyway, and they had no plans of going anywhere before then. There was far too much to do about the house to prepare.