"You'll be splendid mademoiselle, I know it."

Sitting at my vanity table, while a makeup artist painted my face—reassuring me for the hundredth time this evening—I realized that I was not prepared for this terrible anxiety. No amount of rehearsing, of scales, of practicing, could ever prepare me for this moment. The makeup woman, a genteel soul called Nanette, prompted me to close my eyes and began to apply thick crème eye-shadow to the lids.

"Oh, Nanette…I fear I won't be able to make a sound." I told her, followed by a thin, nervous laugh.

"Of course you will, mademoiselle. And any sound you make will be beautiful. And a great deal better than anything that ever came out of that wretched Spaniard's throat."

"Nanette, don't be cruel!" I scolded, feeling myself smile anyhow. "Carlotta isn't so terrible."

"Neither is a cockroach!" she remarked, chuckling. "Go ahead and open your eyes now."

The paint on my eyelids feels as thick as grease. I had never worn such makeup in my entire life. It felt like a mask. Nanette dipped a brush with spider-web thin bristles into black paint, preparing for the careful task of painting eyelashes.

"Look up please, mademoiselle. And be careful not to blink, I don't want to take your eye out."

I rolled my eyes up, rather anxious of the brush so close to my eye. My wig cap iwas making my head itch furiously, I longed to rip it off and run away. Dash all my childhood dreams and return to my hiding place…but I knew I couldn't do that. A voice, beloved and familiar, told me I mustn't.

"Well," she continued, her aging face close to mine as she moves the brush up through the lashes, "I suppose we should thank Carlotta. If she hadn't become ill, you wouldn't be singing the lead."

"I don't want to wish harm on anyone." I told her quickly, "I know there are already some who think I poisoned her."

"Oh, that's ridiculous. They're just jealous, mademoiselle. Don't pay mind. You got the lead because of your talent."

Oh how I wished that were true…

It had happened just yesterday. The new managers had arrived and everyone was curious about them. Messieurs Debienne and Poligny did a fine job of keeping them hidden inside their office all day, making us even hungrier for information. The company was rehearsing for the opening of Faust, and had been at it for hours. We were all there, Carolus Fonta, lead tenor, La Sorelli, the prima ballerina, everyone—except for La Carlotta, our diva. It was nothing strange for Carlotta to decide not to show up to rehearsal, for she did this often. Maestro Gabriel and the acting manager, Monsieur Mercier, seemed to always go along with it, although I could certainly see their nerves when opening night came. They were too afraid to confront the tempestuous diva, much like everyone else.

We had just begun the drinking song, Vin ou Bière, when Monsieur Remy, assistant to the managers came running in, pale with anxiety. Maestro Gabriel, looking quite annoyed brought the orchestra to a halt, shooting daggers at M. Remy.

"What is it, M. Remy?" M. Mercier asked. The entire company stared at poor, shy little M. Remy, making him even paler.

Wringing his hands, M. Remy began to speak very quickly, "Er…well, I am so sorry…so sorry to interrupt M. Mercier, Maestro…but something very unfortunate, very unfortunate indeed…has happened."

He seemed to lose the nerve to speak. La Sorelli sighed irritably, muttering something like, "We're going to be here all day." And the ballerinas around her whispered and laughed. Instantaneously, the ballet mistress, Madame Giry snapped her fingers at them furiously, and they went silent.

M. Mercier, however, remained patient. "Pray, tell us what it is, M. Remy?"

M. Remy nodded, his jaw trembling, "Yes, well, you see…La Carlotta…has fallen ill."

The room went into an uproar immediately. Maestro Gabriel looked like he might be sick and M. Mercier went just as white as M. Remy. The chorus around me all murmured the same thing, in the same hopeful tone: "Who will sing the role? There is no designated understudy…perhaps I could do it!" I cannot lie and pretend I was not thinking the same thing. But I also felt a terrible uneasiness about it all; because of something I had been told just the night before.

"This is a disaster!" Maestro Gabriel shouted at M. Remy, who looked as if he may faint. "Tomorrow is opening night! We open to a full house!"

"We all know that, Gabriel! For God's sakes…are the managers hysterical, Remy?"

"I'm afraid so, monsieur…"

"And they have the new managers with them! Oh God, can it be any worse?"

"Surely, someone can sing it."

"No one!" Maestro Gabriel groaned, "There is no one that knows the role of Marguerite!"

I felt my hands sweating, my heart pounding—I knew the role…knew it by heart. I had been learning it for weeks. Only, I was too afraid to say anything. That was when Meg, a ballerina, Madame Giry's daughter, and my closest friend, said the sentence that changed everything for me. She swiftly sneaked away from the ballerinas and her strict mother and tapped Monsieur Mercier on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, monsieur but I know someone who could sing it."

Maestro Gabriel stared at her, and exasperatedly demanded, "Who?"

"Christine Daaé, sir."

And with that, the room went silent, and all eyes were on me. I felt my throat close up as they all stared, Maestro Gabriel and Monsieur Mercier looking shocked and wildly confused.

"She's only a chorus girl…" M. Remy said worriedly.

"But, sir, she knows the role! Tell them Christine!" Meg looked at me excitedly. Madame Giry emerged from the hoard, but did not go to snatch Meg away like I would have suspected.

"Well…I…I don't know…" I stumbled stupidly.

"Come here, girl." M. Mercier motioned to me. I shakily walked towards him, seeing the flabbergasted looks around me. "Mademoiselle Daaé, is this true?"

"Well…yes, yes sir it is. I do know the role, but…"

"Monsieur, she's wonderful, really!"

"It is true, monsieur," Madame Giry suddenly said, surprising everyone, "She has been well taught."

I looked at her with wide eyes, she simply nodded encouragingly. Mercier and Gabriel looked at each other, and then at M. Remy.

"We shall have to let the managers hear her." M. Remy told them, looking at me hesitantly.

"Of course," Mercier nodded, "Mademoiselle Daaé, go with M. Remy."

"But monsieur…"

"It was not a suggestion, Mlle. Daaé." He told me harshly, "Go."

So with all of the other chorus members glaring at me nastily and my loud-mouthed friend smiling at me, I followed M. Remy down the stage steps and out of the auditorium, keeping my head down. He took me to the managers' office, where we could hear them shouting from inside.

"I'm telling you messieurs, someone has sabotaged the diva!" I heard M. Poligny say, sending a chill up my spine.

"Oh Poligny…not more of your ghost." A voice I didn't recognize responded impatiently.

M. Remy cleared his throat, looking at me with hesitance again, and rapped on the door.

"What is it?" M. Debienne snapped.

"It's me, monsieur…and I've brought someone. Someone who says she knows Carlotta's role."

The door opened rapidly, and I was greeted by the astonished, grey face of M. Debienne.

"Mademoiselle…" he struggled for my name, further proving how invisible I was.

"Daaé, monsieur." I told him quietly. M. Remy quickly hid himself in the corner of the room.

"Ah, yes. Of course. Well, come in." he waved us in. Monsieur Poligny, fat and always nervous, sat behind the great oak desk. On a settee in front of the desk, sat the two new managers. One was short and very angry looking, the other was tall and looked more gentle; they were both dressed splendidly. Debienne provided a quick introduction.

"Mademoiselle Daaé, these are the new managers. Monsieur Firmin Richard," he gestured to the short man, who simply glowered "and Monsieur Armand Moncharmin." He gestured to the tall man, who nodded and smiled.

Poligny, looking as if he might jump over the desk, began to question me brusquely.

"Tell us girl, can you really sing the role of Marguerite? You aren't just playing with us, are you?"

"No, sir." I replied earnestly.

Poligny looked at Debienne, who shrugged.

"She is only a chorus girl…"

"Oh Debienne, really!" Monsieur Moncharmin rose from the settee, coming over to inspect me as well. He looked at me thoughtfully, and suddenly his eyes lit up. "Wait a moment…Daaé? That's a curious name. I wonder my girl, if you might be of any relation to a Swedish violinist who used to play at traveling fairs?"

My heart swelled a bit. "My father, sir."

"Of course!" he smiled, "Years ago I travelled to Scandinavia and I heard him play. It was quite extraordinary. I don't think I have heard anything like it since."

"Thank you, monsieur." I nodded graciously.

"How is your father now, my girl?"

I felt the swelling warmth die away, "He died, monsieur. Not three years ago."

"Ah…I am sorry to hear that." He looked at me sympathetically, and then turning to his colleagues, he offered his opinion, "We should hear the girl sing, gentlemen."

Poligny held his head in his hands despairingly, M. Debienne sighed, and M. Richard still looked irritated.

"Oh, come now. We must give her a chance."

"Very well." Debienne agreed tiredly. He sat down behind his own desk, and pointed to the middle of the room. "Stand here, é."

I was too afraid to protest. With knocking knees, I did as he asked and stood there, in front of the four men. I begged for help inside my head.

"Help me, please help me…please be with me."

"Will you please sing for us…" Debienne looked through the libretto, "The Jewel Song, Mlle. Daaé?

"Yes…yes sir." I stuttered. Though I hated singing without any accompaniment, I knew I must not argue. I took in a breath and I began, unsteadily at first.

"Ah! je ris de me voir

si belle en ce miroir,

Ah! je ris de me voir

si belle en ce miroir,

Est-ce toi, Marguerite,

est-ce toi?"

And yet as I moved on through the aria, my confidence grew. It grew until I sang more triumphantly than I had ever before. I could hear the Angel's voice in my head, assuring me, encouraging me. The looks on the faces of the managers had changed from anxious hesitance, to complete awe and disbelief. The next thing I knew, the role was mine. I didn't feel like I obtained such a prize merely from my talent. Perhaps from desperation, M. Moncharmin's sympathy, or something dark that I dreaded; but it was not from pure talent that my dream would be realized.

"Ten minutes until curtain!" M. Mercier shouted through the backstage corridors.

By then, Nanette had finished my face. She took Marguerite's blonde braided wig from its stand and situated it on my head, beginning to pin it into place. The dressing room door burst open and I saw Meg's blonde head and wide smile from the corner of my eye.

"Christine! I just had to see you. You are such a beautiful Marguerite!" she came over to get a closer look and pats Nanette on the shoulder, "Well done, Nanette!"

"Meg Giry, you know you shouldn't be here! Mother Giry will furious you've left the foyer of the ballet…"

"She'll be furious no matter what I do, Christine." Meg shrugs. Nanette laughed at her, as if agreeing. "Besides, what kind of friend would I be if I didn't see you off? After all, I did help you get this role…"

I laughed at her, my silly, little friend standing before my chair in her tulle skirt, looking like a ballerina doll. "You should not have done that Meg. It was out of turn."

"God in heaven, you're so solemn lately!" She placed her hands on her hips and cocked her head, "Is that the thanks I get for helping your dreams come true, Christine? Can't I get a smile from you? Just a tiny little smile?"

Looking at her, with her big brown eyes and lovely pout, I was unable to resist giving her what she wanted. She was a dear friend, no matter how impetuous and outspoken.

"Ah there it is! You ought to smile more, Christine…it makes you even more beautiful."

"Oh hush." I told her, feeling myself flush under the makeup.

Nanette finished her final pin and stands back to admire her work, "You are finished, mademoiselle. Have a look." She turned my chair around so I could face the mirror. I am shocked to see this painted faced, blonde staring back at me—but her work is beautiful. I feel more like Marguerite when I see myself.

"It looks lovely, Nanette. Thank you." I smiled at her graciously. She removed the protective drapery from my costume and I stand up, straightening the skirt. The stage call came again:

"Five minutes until curtain!"

Meg looked over her shoulder. "I suppose I had better get into the wings." She grabbed my hands, grinning at me again. "I know you will be perfect, Christine. After all those lessons, all those times you disappeared for hours to practice…it will all be worth it tonight."

"I hope so." I gulped, already feeling myself shake.