Rose Red and Despairing

Hello! I know author's notes are lame, so I'm going to try to keep this short. I deleted the original Rose Red and Despairing because I thought the first few chapters were awful. I always wondered how stage!Christine met Meg and first encountered her Angel, thus I'm rewriting lots of things, but this story is still going to completely follow the stage musical and continue on after the Phantom sings the infamous, "It's over now, the music the night!"

Reviews and feedback are appreciated (:

It was late in the night, but not quite late enough to be called early morning. The air was cold and filled with mist, and the noise of the small boat slowly gliding through the deep water was the only to sound to penetrate the heavy silence. A young girl, barely seventeen, was the only passenger braving the fierce night air on the small deck. Clad in a homely dress and cloak, her faded red scarf was the only color in the murky British air. Christine was traveling to Paris, and though she had spent most of her childhood in France, she had only been to the bustling city twice.

Pacing along the slowly moving boat, she desperately tried to recall those two trips. What were the Parisians like? She had heard that they were snide people. How was the weather? She had been in England for the past year, and she felt rather unprepared to take on the world by herself.

A bitter wind began to howl, and the girl cursed the wind, the boat, and life itself. In the past, she had loved winter. Her father would make snow-angels with her, then they would go inside whatever hotel they were lodging at and make coffee. Her Papa always let her dump half of the pot of sugar in her mug to sweeten the bitter drink. Christine shook her head. She had begun to hate her memories, they were too vivid to ever allow her to forget her pain and move on. Her father had a heart attack. They had planned to go to Paris together only a few months ago. Now she was leaving London by herself, her father was dead.

~~~THREE DAYS LATER~~~~

It didn't take very long for Christine to realize she needed a job. She had rented a small room near the Seine river; it was cheap, smelled awful and scarcely furnished but relatively clean overall. She ate very little and didn't require much in lieu of resources, but even so, her money wasn't going to last for the rest of winter. Her father had been a traveling violinist, and together they had toured Europe. Christine was accustomed to seedy hotels, but she wasn't prepared to live by herself. Her father had been successful, but he had never striven after money. Now, after his death, Christine had a plethora of memories and a very tight budget. Her frugal lifestyle would only get her so far, then what?

Christine had a few useful skills; she could speak a few languages, read and write, play piano and dance with moderate skill. Her most revered talent was her singing voice. Her father, though primarily a violinist, began to teach Christine to sing when she was young. They would often perform together. With that in mind, Christine decided to try for a job at the Opera Populair. From the two trips she had taken to Paris as a child, she still vividly remembered the grand building. It had been one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen; lots of gold paint and towering sculptures.

The more Christine thought about it, the more the idea appealed to her. She loved to perform, so performing for a living was naturally the best course to follow. Perhaps she could even meet people there, for she had no friends in the large city. Christine had been surrounded by loving people when her father had been alive, but once he died she had been dropped from the tight clique of traveling musicians. Their betrayal hurt nearly as much as her father's death, Christine had grown up with those people to only have them scorn her after she had been orphaned.

"I don't need them!" Christine muttered to herself a few days later. Her thoughts were filled with the back-stabbing traveling musicians while she braved the harsh winter air to reach the Opera Populaire. Conveniently, there would be open auditions that day.

"We're ready when you are, mademoiselle," the bored manager drawled. Christine gave him a tight smile. She was immensely angry at herself – she was shaking with nerves! Christine had never been nervous when she sang at her father's performances. She also knew if she ruined this audition she would have to find another job, and there weren't many respectable occupations for a young Swedish orphan in the middle of a harsh winter. Christine anxiously bit her lower lip, then took a deep breath.

Forcing her face into another tight smile, she began to sing "Casta Diva," one of the only operatic songs she knew. She didn't sing beautifully like she had with her father, but her voice still came out as a pure soprano. Those watching the girl were smiling by the time she shakily finished.

"Very nice, mademoiselle...?"

"Daaé," Christine answered hopefully.

"You'll hear from us soon. Next!" The manager half-smiled at her, then looked to the next girl who wished to audition. Christine gave a slight curtsy, then hurried off the vast stage. Standing up there had made her feel weak and small, yet she also felt that with time she could learn arias that would make the entire audience weep. She desperately wanted the job.

"Oh, this is wonderful. Training another batch of foolish new chorus girls is just what I need right now!" The woman speaking towered over Christine by at least a foot. Her iron gray hair was twisted into a severe bun and her regal features were drawn into a scowl. She wore all black and carried a huge cane. Christine anxiously tugged on one of her dark brown curls and looked at the crowd of girls surrounding the grimacing woman.

"Madame, I'm not new to performing. I trained at the ballet conservatory!" A smug-looking girl stepped out of the group and smiled at the frightening woman, who merely rolled her dark eyes.

"Yes, yes. Good for you." The woman turned to the rest of the girls. "I'm Madame Giry, your ballet mistress. All of you should learn to listen to whatever I say. If you do that, I fancy that your career will progress here at the Populaire." She had a low, husky voice that demanded respect from all of the new chorus girls. "Now, let's begin!"

The next few days were frantic for Christine. She was taught new songs and routines at a blinding pace. The hope that had filled Christine at the audition had completely abandoned her. Seeing the other employees at the opera, she realized she didn't have the talent or necessary "spark" to ever rise to fame. Instead of meeting new friends, she simply drew further and further into herself. The other chorus girls were young, flirty and loud. Christine was rapidly becoming the opposite – being around such lively, vivacious people made her feel stupid and weak. She fell further into the depression created by her father's death. After a few days at her new job, Christine was already labeled an outcast.

"You! What's your name?" Madame Giry's imposing form stood over Christine while she stretched. Christine jumped with shock, then quickly straightened.

"Christine Daaé, madame," she humbly replied, her eyes cast to the floor. Christine immediately thought the woman was going to fire her for being too poor of a dancer.

"I thought so!" The ballet mistress murmured, peering at the girl with interest. Christine immediately blushed. "Your father played at my wedding," she continued, straightening her pristine black skirt. Christine finally looked at Madame Giry and smiled, imagining her happy-go-lucky father playing for the stern ballet mistress. "I heard about his death. It's unfortunate, yes?"

Christine's smile abruptly fell off her pale face. She bent down and began to adjust her ballet slippers. "Very unfortunate," the Swede quietly replied.

Madame Giry briskly nodded, then cleared her throat. "I didn't come over here to discuss our sorrows, Daaé. I believe you're ready to perform in the next production." She allowed a moment for the news to set in. Christine's eyes widened in disbelief. "Talk to one of the experienced girls for your new work hours. I'll see you at tomorrow's rehearsals." The ballet mistress then strode away.

"Don't let her intimidate you!" A friendly voice called out once Madame Giry was out of range. Christine quickly turned and saw a smiling blond girl. She was very pretty and popular; Christine had seen her dance and knew that she was one of the opera house's favored ballerinas.

"It doesn't take much to intimidate me," Christine shyly replied, offering a small smile to the vivacious girl.

"I've seen you around here the last few days. My name's Meg Giry. Yes, yes, our lovely ballet mistress is my mother."

Christine looked at her with amazed eyes. Meg seemed so sweet and lively, it was hard to imagine the stern Madame Giry as her mother. Then again, Meg was an excellent dancer, so it did make sense. "My name's Christine," the smaller girl eventually replied.

"Mother told me you're to be in the next production. God, I remember my first production. It seems like a lifetime ago. Are you terribly excited?" Meg toyed with her light blond hair and offered Christine a sincere smile.

"I'm not sure if I'm good enough to dance before an audience. Even so, I am rather excited. I imagine the costumes we'll wear will be beautiful!" Christine twirled one of her brown curls around a pale finger and looked down to her plain ballet costume.

"Trust me, our costumes will be gorgeous. They're awfully uncomfortable, but wearing them is definitely worth the discomfort. Theaudience is filled with handsome young men!" Meg leaned towards Christine and offered a conspiratorial wink.

Christine and Meg continued to talk throughout the rest of the ballet practice, and continued on even after while the girls went out for a cheap dinner. There were occasionally awkward moments, but Meg had kindly decided to take shy Christine under her wing. Within a few days, the two had become close friends. Meg was the only girl at the Populaire that Christine felt truly comfortable with. Some of Meg's countless friends and admirers were interested in Christine, as she was beautiful, but her shy attitude eventually led them to ignore her. Christine preferred it that way, she didn't want attention focused on herself.

~~~~~~~TWO WEEKS LATER~~~~~~~~~~

To Christine's surprise, she found that she danced well in the new production; The Magic Flute. She also met the leading soprano - La Carlotta. Carlotta perfectly fit the stereotype of the Prima Donna; rude, foreign, buxom, with a loud and shrill soprano voice. The Opera Populaire was her kingdom, and her lover Ubaldo Piangi served for king as the principle tenor. Christine rather loathed both of the star performers and The Magic Flute, but she was immensely excited to dance onstage for real performances.

The rehearsals for The Magic Flute were rigorous, but Christine had taken to wandering around the opera house once they were finished. She hated returning to her tiny, empty apartment every night. That night was no exception, so once the rehearsals concluded Christine said goodbye to Meg and slipped into a pair of comfortable shoes, not bothering to change out of her rehearsal tutu. Then she began to roam down one of the many halls in the huge opera house. It was dusk, but many of the hallways were never used thus their candles were never lit. Christine wandered around the dim and narrow halls, noticing nooks and crannies hidden in doorways and cracks in the walls.

During the previous week Christine had discovered the opera house's rarely used chapel. Feeling like she harbored a precious secret, the young Swede made her way into the secluded chapel. She had brought matches with her, and once she arrived, she carefully lit a few of the many candles scattered around the small space.

Sometimes she felt foolish, but Christine had begun the habit of trying to communicate with the spirit of her beloved father in the chapel. "We learned a new routine today, father. I actually managed to avoid tripping! …..But I accidentally tripped another girl when I adjusted my ballet slippers. Then another dancer fell over the ballerina I tripped! The girl that tripped over me had her long hair in a tight bun, and it somehow bounced out like a spring when she tumbled. It was an awful accident, but Meg met my eyes right when the girls fell and we couldn't stop laughing! If you had been there, you would have laughed too. Anyways...I must say that I find the The Magic Flute to be a rather bothersome opera." Christine smiled ruefully and sank down on the low bench near a stained glass window that depicted beautiful Angels serenading the lord. She began to fiddle with her puffy rehearsal skirt and stretched her sore legs out with a sigh.

"I'm not too fond of it either," a lilting voice replied. Christine sprang up, her eyes wide with fright.

"Who's there?" she gasped. Christine quickly looked around the room, narrowing her eyes when she saw that she was alone. "Won't you come out?" she demanded, a hint of irritation in her voice. She thought of her time in the chapel as private, and didn't want to be interrupted.

"I'd rather not come out," the mysterious speaker replied. He had the most glorious voice Christine had ever heard. It was smooth, low and inexplicably rich. It reminded Christine of sweet honey, the rushing sound of the ocean and the few times she had drank expensive wine.

"Oh..." Christine mumbled, at a loss for words. She continued to glance around the chapel.

"You can't see me," the voice murmured, sounding amused. "You won't ever be able to see me unless I decide it so."

"Who are you? Where are you?" Christine asked incredulously. She turned and tried to stare out of the stained-glass window, as if the speaker were on the other side.

"Who do you think I am?" the voice thoughtfully replied.

"I haven't got an inkling!" Christine answered, her frustration very apparent.

"Surely you know." the voice said.

"I assure you, I do not know your identity...You've got a flawless voice, whoever you are," Christine mumbled. Then she blushed as she realized she said that last sentence aloud.

"I'm not of this Earth, Christine."

"Yet you know my name?"

"Among the many other things I know."

"...Oh God..." Christine slowly whispered. Her heart began to pound. She began to hope who the mysterious voice might be. Her hope was so strong it felt like it physically hurt. "Are you- Is it even possible? My father used to tell me fantastic stories...But they can't be true...Yet they have to be...Are you the Angel of Music?"

A moment of silence followed, then the voice replied, "Yes."