'Now Christine, if you could just raise your arm slightly. Colette, bring me the scissors'.

The seamstress was busy gathering fabric under Christine's arm, as a young maid darted across the room to fetch the required tool. It was late afternoon in Paris, and the day's humidity seemed to be trapped within the claustrophobic boutique. For hours now, Christine had been plied with ice-cool beverages, and sweat had been mopped off her brow with cloths, yet the heat never seemed to wan. It was trapped amongst the boxes and rolls of fabric, and lurked in the dark corners. Paris was going through a heat-wave, and it did nothing to lessen Christine's dislike for hot weather.

She sighed, and turned her gaze away from where she had been looking out of the window, and back to her reflection. She had been standing on a pedestal for a few hours now, as fabric was draped, pinned and cut to her precise measurements, and she was beginning to feel her temper growing terse as her boredom increased.

It certainly was one thing to agree to Raoul's suggestion that a couture, made-to-measure wedding dress would be the perfect wedding gift from him, yet another to actually be going through all the tedious fittings, strict dietary control and stern gaze of the head dressmaker.

The hours spent in this room had stretched to beyond tolerable, and it took all of Christine's restraint not to rip out of this heavy dress, run out of the shop and jump into the Seine.

'So, we have agreed on the Chantilly lace for the sleeve edging, mademoiselle?' The seamstress' enquiry made Christine look down at her, and nod in agreement.

'Yes, that's what the Vicomte thought most appropriate', Christine responded, and turned back to where her reflection gazed passively back at her.

The dress was going to be spectacular, yes. Nothing short of the best money and taste that money could buy. The boned corset gave her the womanly shape her dancer body lacked, and the cream neckline set off her skin perfectly. Yet, deep down, she could not help miss the old costumes that Madame Giry would fit her in. The glittering jewels in her hair that she wore when singing her Hannibal aria, or even the layers of tulle that she was accustomed to whilst being in the corps de ballet. They were always bright, cheerful and hard-wearing. Unlike this garment that she wore now. The dress that felt as delicate as gossamer, and cost thrice as much as even the most elaborate stage costume.

She dare not voice her opinions to Raoul though. He would just brush it off, call her 'Little Lotte' and tweak her nose. He never liked being reminded of Christine's days at the Opera. And with good reason too.

Six months had passed since that fateful night where Don Juan Triumphant met its first and final performance. Six months since she had been forced to choose between a life of eternal darkness and music, or sunshine and sweet love. Six months since she had last seen him.

Erik. Her Angel of Music.

Like his namesake, Erik had disappeared into the night like a phantom. The Opera House had succumb to the flames of that night, and scandal had rampaged through the street. There had been talk of abduction, of murder and of obsessive love. She and Raoul had remained virtual prisoners in the de Chagny estate for weeks afterwards, as eager reporters pressed themselves against the gates and begged for their story. But she dare not. She had promised Erik that she wouldn't say anything. She had promised him.

And Christine never wanted to disappoint her mentor.

'Mademoiselle Daaé? Care to discuss the veil? We have some preliminary sketches here'. The seamstress had moved away from underneath Christine's arm, and held out a swatch of papers. On them, Christine could see intricate drawings of lace, and embroidery.

The thought of remaining in the building for one second more made her heart race. Christine furrowed her brow, and put on her most apologetic smile.

'Well, I'm afraid not Madame. My fiancé will begin to worry about where I've got too. But, I can rearrange for another date, if that is possible?' she questioned. The seamstress pursed her lips, but nodded graciously.

'Of course. Forgive me, the time has simply swept away. Shall we say… a week? At one?' The seamstress enquired, consulting a small leather diary.

'Of course. Sounds perfect. Thank you for your tireless efforts today. The dress looks already looks marvellous', Christine trailed her fingertips down the silken waist. The hidden mother-of-pearl clasps were beginning to dig into her hips, but Christine did not wish to say a negative word. Any comment could prolong this already lengthy fitting.

'Let me unpin you then'.

As the seamstress extracted her out of the heavy fabric, Christine could barely contain her excitement. A week away! It felt like a holiday. She already had plans to spend tomorrow just lounging in the tall grass of the de Chagny estate, in her most loose-fitting and light dress. She wanted to fall asleep with the feeling of sunlight caress her skin, and wake to shiver under the chill breeze of night air. Tonight, she was going to beg Raoul for a retelling of the stories that her father told them as children, and perhaps she would sing. She hadn't sung in such a long while.

'Do you need us to call you a carriage?' The seamstress remarked as she laced Christine back into her own clothes.

'No. I shall be quite safe getting home'. Earlier that day she had left Raoul in the company of his friends, and as she had spent the majority of her life in this bustling city, she didn't feel the need to have somebody accompany her back to where she would find him. The seamstress paused on her back.

'But, surely it is not safe for such a young lady to walk through the streets at such a late hour?' she questioned.

'I can assure you, I will be-'

'She will not be alone'. A familiar voice made Christine look up. A dark, tall figure was looming in the doorway, and Christine felt her heart drop.

'It can't be…' she muttered.