Ah, dream too bright to last!

Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise

But to be overcast!

A voice from out the Future cries,

"On! on!" –but o'er the Past

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies

Mute, motionless, aghast!...

-"To One in Paradise" by Edgar Allen Poe

""""

"Christine, perhaps you could sing for me?" Raoul's light voice floated to me from across the parlor. Madame Giry and Meg had retired early, as was Meg's habit before a show. So, it was only Raoul and I, a vision of most nights to come, I imagined. I glanced up from the book I'd been immersed in and met Raoul's hopeful eyes. I tried to smile, but I'm afraid it might have been more of a grimace as I said, "Not tonight, my love. Someday."

His face fell slightly before he could mask it. I dropped my eyes to my book again, but the words were swirling; I couldn't focus on them. I despised myself for hurting Raoul, he deserved so much more. I should give him all the music my heart can hold, but I couldn't. My music had fled, and we both knew why. I loved Raoul with every piece of my heart, but my soul held no music for him. Only two people had ever stirred that part of me that held my music. My father… and my angel. I closed the book with a snap, shutting my mind away from those thoughts. From the corner of my eye I saw Raoul jump at the noise.

"Oh! I'm so sorry, darling," I said.

"Have I upset you?" Raoul rose from his chair, concerned.

"No, no, of course not. I closed the book harder than I realized, that's all." I laughed, but even to my own ears it didn't sound like me. "Anyway, I think I'll go to bed. Wouldn't do to fall asleep during Meg's performance tomorrow." I rose and held my hands to towards my fiancé. He took them in both of his and gave me a smile, but there was a touch of sadness in his eyes. Rising up on my toes, I gave him a soft kiss. When I withdrew, his eyes were clear and content once more. "Goodnight, Raoul," I said.

"Goodnight, Christine," he murmured as his hand rose to stroke my cheek, once. "I'm so happy you're here."

I laughed softly. "You don't have to tell me that every day… but so am I."

My smile lasted until I was alone in my quarters, but then it faded, as it always did. Truly, I normally tried to postpone the hour when I would have to retire for the night because I hate it so. The loneliness was crippling. At the opera house, I'd always been surrounded by people. I'd even shared quarters with the other dancers. The last time I'd been really alone was after my father died. Now, just like then, I was in a place wholly unfamiliar to me. A place that felt too big, like I could be lost and forgotten. Only now, there was no angel of music to comfort me.

Stop it, Christine. There never was any angel, just a mad man with a beautiful voice. But, God, it was beautiful.

With a deep sigh, I undressed and changed into my night clothes. The fire drew me close and I let the heat soak into my legs from the hearth. This room really was much too big. It's meant for le Vicomtesse, so it really isn't proper for me to stay before Raoul and I are married, but he insisted. Truthfully, it was causing a bit of a scandal for me to live here before our nuptials, and it was really just one more thing to fuel my guilt. The city was already awash with rumors about the ballerina turned prima donna whose rise to fame was the work of the infamous madman and murderer, the Opera Ghost. None of them knew what had really happened down in the depths of the opera house, Raoul assured me. This is why it was none of their business how long I stayed here unmarried. After the fire, I was left just as homeless as Meg and her mother. Considering such friends as the two of them have been to both Raoul and me, Raoul offered them quarters as well, though notably less lavish than mine, and they had to share. Still, they were grateful and so was I. Madame Giry flatly refused Raoul's "improper" offer at first, but a few days of searching for a job in a Paris that knew her to be somewhat of an accomplice to the Opera Ghost had taught her the meaning of humility. It was so hard to watch her realize how much her life had changed from the powerful position she held in the ballet, but we've all had to adjust. Raoul has already received fewer invitations, fewer handshakes in the street. The whispers from society are a small price to pay for safety, he assured me; God knows they'd whisper anyway. It's been two weeks, and Meg and Madame Giry are beginning to find their ways, thanks to Raoul's influence. Meg has already joined a chorus at another opera house, less prestigious than the Populaire, but she's dancing. If she does well, they promised to find a position for her mother as well. None of us doubt that Meg will do well, she was made for dancing. And I, well I don't know what I was made for. A few weeks ago, I would have said that I was made to sing, but now I can't produce a note. Every song that passes my lips since the fire catches in my throat like a lie and it makes me feel as though I were a stranger in my own body. Worse, I didn't know how to fix it… or perhaps I did, I just didn't want to face it.

My Raoul knew this, or he sensed it. He knew I didn't sing anymore. Every night he asked me to sing, at least those first few days. I tried, but couldn't sing more than a few bars. The wounds were too fresh and he could see that. He hardly asked at all anymore. It seemed so unfair to ask him to be patient after all he'd done for me, but I had no other choice. My music was gone.

I gave Meg a hard hug backstage. "You'll do wonderfully, dear!"

"Well, I'll do my best," Meg giggled, obviously nervous.

"Giry, you must get your makeup on!" a stagehand scolded from behind me.

"Oh, it's time!" I said. "I won't say good luck because you don't need it." I swooped down to give her a kiss on the cheek and watched her run back toward the other girls, her dainty feet flying. I smiled up at Raoul, who took my arm and led me toward our box.

As I watched Meg twirl around the stage, obviously one of the best dancers out there, I couldn't help but sigh. Raoul seemed to read my thoughts. "Do you miss it, darling?"

I gave him a sad smile. "I do, but it belongs to another part of my life."

"It doesn't have to. I could patron another opera house, I can—"

"Raoul, please. Thank you, but no. Let's just enjoy Meg's night, yes?"

His warm hand covered mine as his head turned back toward the stage. "Of course."

""""

"Oh, it was so good to dance! I don't think I can ever repay you, Vicomte…" Meg was all smiles as she was escorted into the parlor by the valet.

"Nonsense, Meg. You are practically family to Christine, and so to me," Raoul said with a smile. My heart swelled with love for him and my mouth lifted in affection.

"You were wonderful, Meg!" I spoke up from my seat by the fire.

Madame Giry cleared her throat from beside me. "Yes, but I noticed that you let your foot fall twice during the second act—" Meg floated over to her mother and bent down to kiss her softly on the cheek.

"Oh, Mother, I'm going to enjoy this! I will practice tomorrow, I swear."

Madame Giry tried to remain stern, but it was impossible not to be caught up in Meg's easy happiness. That was her way.

"Well, this calls for some wine!" Raoul summoned a servant who scurried into the kitchen, emerging with four wine glasses and a decanter filled with a deep red wine. When it came time to take the glass Raoul offered me, I refused.

"No, no, you enjoy."

"Come, Christine, we're celebrating!" Raoul laughed, placing the glass down on the small table beside my chair.

I'd seen how drink transforms people and, having never tried it, was nervous about what I might say or do. Still, I knew that when Raoul set his mind to something, he did not easily surrender. I rolled my eyes playfully at him and wrapped my hand around the glass, raising it in an ironic toast to him.

"There now!" He raised his own glass towards Meg, who was perched on the arm of Madame Giry's chair. They both lifted their glasses towards him and I followed suit. "To Meg. May her feet never falter or fall during the second act!" We all laughed and tipped our glasses back. The wine was bitter; I didn't like it at all. I glanced up at Raoul, who was taking a deep drink of his wine, and grimaced a little. How could he like this so much?

Having had the same amount of experience with wine as I, which is to say none at all, it wasn't long before Meg's face was flame-red and her giggles were even more plentiful than normal. My own glass was still full beside me, though I'd been sipping it for Raoul's sake. Madame Giry's glass, however, was just as full as mine. I understood why when I noticed her concerned eyes were trained on her tipsy daughter. I'd never seen a mother more protective than Madame Giry. I supposed because she was Meg's only protection against this world, a world which could be so cruel. It made me miss my father to see her.

Another couple rounds of drinks and Raoul and Meg were laughing, talking about some chorus girl who'd forgotten a turn during the opera. I was laughing, too, but at the two of them. I met Madame Giry's eyes and she gave me a smile tinged with exasperation. My heart warmed with affection for all of them. It was late and I was tired, but it felt wonderful to be surrounded by so much happiness. Also, I didn't want to be alone any sooner than I had to be. Unfortunately, even these celebratory nights must come to an end, and as Madame Giry noticed Raoul signaling for more wine, she rose and said, "Meg, dear, I think that's enough for tonight. We must ice your feet before they swell permanently."

"But, Maman, we're celebrating!"

"You've celebrated enough. Christine and le Vicomte must be tired."

Raoul said, "No, madame! You must allow one more round…"

"No, thank you, monsieur. Come, Meg." With a firm, but gentle hand on her upper arm, Madame Giry led Meg up to their room.

"Christine," Raoul turned to me with brows pulled together in worry, "you're not leaving me, too, are you?"

I smiled and shook my head. "No, my love."

He leaned down to grasp my face in both hands, a bit too tight, but I didn't complain. His mouth tasted like that wine and I drew back, but his hands were insistent. I resigned myself to his normally pleasant kiss, but his mouth was sloppy with drink and when his hand slipped over my breast, I pushed it away. He drew back enough to whisper, "It's alright, dear." His hand returned, but with more purpose. I tore my mouth from his.

"Maybe it is time for me to retire," I said, irritated.

He leaned both hands on the armrests of my chair, trapping me. I stared up at him with wide eyes. "Christine, you're to be my wife. I've given you everything, it's perfectly proper to have a celebration of our own." His mouth lowered to my neck.

"No, Raoul." I scrambled out from under him and hurriedly placed myself so the sofa was between us. "What's gotten into you? I will give you the benefit of the doubt and blame it on the drink, but I do not like you like this."

All of a sudden the man I loved transformed and his eyes turned hateful. "Oh," he growled, "I can't touch you in our own home but you let that monster put his hands all over you on stage?"

I recoiled as if he'd struck me, and he might as well have. My eyes filled with tears and he became nothing but a watercolor blur as I turned and ran upstairs. I heard his yelled, "Christine, wait!" from behind me, but I didn't stop until my bedroom door was closed and locked, separating me from my fiancée. I slid down the door until I was crumpled in a pile of fine clothes on the old but plush carpet, my back on the hard, heavy wood of the door. Through my crying I could hear Raoul's footsteps staggering up the stairs. "Christine, forgive me." I remained silent. I listened to his labored breathing through the door until he sighed, and his jarring footfalls retreated into his room. I let my head fall back against the door and sat that way for I don't know how long. I probably would have stayed there all night had I not noticed a shadow directly across from me, darkening the curtains in front of the balcony doors. My heart stopped and then started again, racing as I squinted into the darkness. Was it a trick of the moonlight? I sat still as a statue, eyes glued to the figure, waiting for it to betray itself either as shadow or man. My mind whirled, but couldn't help but land on another figure from my past, one whose shape I knew well. Could it be? My stomach knotted with fear… but not just fear.

Suddenly, finally, the shadow moved, proving itself to be more than moonlight. Quicker than a blink, the figure disappeared from the window's view, slinking left out of my sight. Before my mind could stop me, I shot up from my place on the floor and ran to the balcony, throwing open the doors and yelling, "Wait!" But it was too late. In the cold winter air, I looked in every direction, but nothing was there. I'd missed my chance.