Morning crept above the Paris skyline and crept into the ballet dormitory. Christine Daaé, who did not rest well the night prior, was wide awake as she surveyed the dancers still fast asleep. Some beds were empty; the owners were residing in more luxurious beds that belonged to aristocrats. Meg was resting in the bed next to Christine's; her golden curls framed her face like a cherub's, soft inhales and exhales signaling that she was truly alive and here, unlike Christine.
The flourished announcement that Christine's teacher (should she still call the man with such a title after all that occurred within these walls?) gave at the masquerade still plagued the soprano's mind. There, fear paralyzed her, greater than her first performance as a chorus girl. Christine was isolated among the party-goers with cheeks hot as he (her teacher, the Phantom, the infamous Opera Ghost, did titles matter anymore?) made public her tutelage under him.
Christine rested her shaking hand against her collarbone where her ring used to be. Tears stung her eyes, and she felt her chest constrict and breathing became difficult. The soprano blinked furiously, feeling tears roll down her cheeks as another sleeping ballet dancer rolled over, sighed, and continued to snore.
She rose from her bed and felt her stomach churn at the sense of déjà vu as she retrieved a cloak, satchel of coins, and prayer beads, and hastily walked down to the stables. Christine frowned; César was not returned. She pushed out of her mind what fate had come to the white stallion.
Another stablehand was tending to the horses. She glanced over her shoulder, fearing that her shadow may get the best of her. Repeating her paranoid act, she rubbed her shoulders while walking up to the young man. He was around his mid-twenties, a bit of a stubble along his cheeks. Young and full of life where as she was not.
A prayer rested on her tongue of a fruitful life for him, but all that came out was, "The Perros-Guirec graveyard, please." She handed him her satchel and closed his broad, calloused hand around the velvet bag. Christine trained her eyes on the stablehand as she settled into the carriage. One glance away, and he could grow broader and more foreboding and adorn a porcelain mask-
Her chest ached. "How things have changed," she muttered, resting against the velvet seat as soon as the carriage began to move once she was assured that the stablehand did not shapeshift in front of her eyes.
In a haze, the scenery shifted from the brick empire of Paris to the cold, desolate, bare forest encompassing the graveyard where her father rested. "Thank you," she told the stablehand before he left. She waited at the entrance before she could not see the carriage anymore, then walked into the graveyard towards the back. There, a small mausoleum stood, embellished with DAAÉ across the top.
Christine sat down at the steps of her father's grave, taking consideration to tuck her cloak beneath her as a barrier to the cold steps. Clutching her prayer beads in her pocket, she closed her eyes, breathing in and out deeply. With the stress of her next - and possibly final - opera, she did not feel safe in his domain. She felt safer here, at her father's grave, though she knew that her shadow could easily find her here.
A cold gust of wind blew, dusting Christine's midnight cloak with snow. But that was not the cause of the hairs on her neck standing straight. The dull scorching of someone's gaze confirmed her fear in the deserted graveyard.
"So you are here," she stated, maintaining an apathetic tone to it. Her tongue was heavy in her mouth. After all the precautions she took this time around, he still followed underneath her nose.
Silence met her.
Christine licked her lips and continued. "I do not know if you come here as the Angel of Music or the Angel of Death, but I implore you to come forward simply as a man." She straightened her posture and used her free hand to draw her cloak closer, waiting for a response and being met with none – again.
The soprano sighed, and she loosened the grip on her prayer beads. Her prayers will have to wait. Her stomach knotted at the thought of how long it will take until she could be at peace again.
"I will perform in your Don Juan, if that is what you are inquiring about in your reluctant silence." She glanced forward, imagining his form in front of her: domineering, menacing. "If there is to be another display such as in Il Muto," she swallowed the bile at the memory of Buquet's dangling, lifeless body, "then I shall-"
What would she do? If she fled, he would surely follow. England, Italy, even back to Sweden - she did not doubt his tracking. If she stayed, she would not see the light of day past his underground abode.
"I shall return to my Father in Heaven, where the true angels reside." A white lie, yes, but nonetheless she bit her tongue, waiting for his response. Heaven was the only place she was sure he cannot go, considering the sin he has wrecked to the Opera Populaire.
"You will not."
She froze at the chilling timbre of his voice. A nerve was struck with her bold claim, and she felt inspired by the confidence that followed.
"There is nothing for me here except the opera," she continued. "If you tarnish that, then I have nothing."
"'I have nothing?' You believe I trust that statement knowing your involvement with your childhood lover?" The words bit like acid.
Christine stood up slowly, feigning a relaxed, aloof persona, and she chose her next words wisely. "He will find another. His love does not tie me down to this earth." A pregnant pause. "I would like to have this conversation face to face. I think it's pitiful that I am talking to a mirage." She closed her eyes and waited.
Within the minute, she felt him standing in front of her, towering.
She slowly opened her eyes, meeting amber ones that were tinged with rage and - dare she say - betrayal. His mask was firmly in place.
"You will not, Mlle. Daaé. If I understand your beliefs correctly, killing yourself would be a slap to the face of your god." His eyes bore into her, begging for a rebuttal.
"It will look like a cakewalk compared to the horrors you've committed to Joseph Buquet!"
His hand rested at the junction of her throat and her shoulder, applying the gentlest of pressure, but strong enough not to be swatted away. "That is not up for discussion," he seethed. "My orders were not obeyed."
Christine's hands found his wrist, and she grasped it tightly, keeping her voice from wavering. "That does not justify murder."
The masked figure dropped his hand from her as if she burned him; his breathing spiked. "There is no justification, Christine! How could your god justify my abhorrent face? Hm? I reside beyond justification."
"You believe it is only about your 'abhorrent face?' Your face does not compare to what lies beneath." The statement burned her tongue with its vicious nature.
The wind roared around them, swirling snowflakes in a frenzy, dusting the two figures.
Christine raised her gaze towards the sunrise, a warm orange disc rising against the tinted blue snow and grey tombs. She needed to get back to the Opera so she may rest for rehearsal in the afternoon.
"I will perform your opera," Christine promised, repeating herself and returning her gaze to the man in front of her. "I will sing for you with everything you instilled in me under the guise of my Angel." She took a step closer towards him. "You already know of the precautions that will be placed during opening night, I have no doubt. I would appreciate if we all remain intact by the end of this, you included." Another step; she was now a foot away from him. "All you can do now is trust me, as much as I trust you and your work."
Christine broke her glance, stealing a glance at her father's grave, then back, sighing against the silence between them.
She tried again. "You are a sublime man." Christine licked her lips, hesitating, before continuing. "You fill me with song, yet you terrorize me to my core. I cannot run from you on this earth; I would rather not. Your genius is unparalleled, but your murderous intent scares me to death. At this moment, all I can do is trust that everything will go smoothly as it feasibly can. Please do not betray this trust I am bestowing on you."
The masked man's eyes hardened under the plea laid before him. Christine lifted a hand perpendicular to the snowy ground, waiting for his to embrace it.
"I cannot promise anything."
Christine shut her eyes, keeping them closed to will away the tears. A breeze caressed her exposed skin, and the searing gaze was gone. She fell to her knees, her hands bracing her fall. The soprano bit her lip and her hands clenched into fists. A fire licked her heart, fighting against the cold, dead environment around her. All she could do now was to perform at her best, hoping to convince him to agree to her request through the sheer blaze of her performance.
If one paid close attention that afternoon, they would have noticed a difference in the brunette soprano as she strutted, head held high, towards the managers' office. "I will take on the role," she announced, holding the score with one arm and her other hand clenched in a fist that was shaking ever so slightly.
If one paid close attention that afternoon, they would have noticed a nervous tic in the former chorus girl when she was not rehearsing. Whenever she entered a room, she would scan every inch of the space before her tense shoulders slacked.
If one paid close attention that afternoon, they would have noticed a fire in her eyes that hid unbridled terror. Christine Daaé threw herself fully into rehearsals; the managers and other performers wondered if she simply acting or if she had truly become Aminta in the flesh.
If one paid close attention that afternoon, they would have noticed a new bout of confidence that kept Christine Daaé from breaking. Whatever was on her mind, she did not tell anyone, but she knew that the opera would have a successful debut, and her fingers burned at the thought. It had to.
From above, a specter observed with growing suspicion at the newfound fire in his protégé.