A/N: This was entered into the PFN Morbidity Contest of Aught 5, Version 3.0. It was a spanktacular contest, and I was proud and thrilled to be a part of it.

I had been carefully watching Christine Daaé for a little over six months; before that, she was an inconsequential soubrette with a thin voice and a modest countenance.

She meant nothing to me.

Not until I saw her. Saw her as an avatar through which much could be transmitted.

That pale skin, those soul-less eyes, that delicate frame: the essence of mutability. She could be refashioned, remade, broken and put back together. How could I have been so blind?

I comforted myself: Why would I have thought to look at her? Why would I have ever suspected that this child might be the one to undo everything I have so carefully created?

My daughter came bounding up to me, her airy costume fluttering at her calves. "Maman, Christine has fainted!"

I shushed her softly. "It will be alright, I'm certain. She is just overwhelmed."

"Oh but she looked so white! Like a ghost!"

I touched Meg's hair, her dark curls spilling forth from the loose ribbon at the nape of her neck. "When one chooses to surround themselves with the dead, the dead take them home."

My poor girl gasped at that, shaking her head. "She fainted on stage, after she had sung her aria. She's in the dressing room now. Do you think I should take her some tea?"

"Why would you want to do that?" I questioned sharply. "She is no friend to you."

"She is kind to me, very kind in fact. She mentioned something just the other day about how high my jumps were." Meg bit her lip. "And I think she is beautiful."

"You would." I grimaced. Meg would willingly subjugate herself, even prostrate herself before this child. Who wouldn't get down on one knee before Daaé?

"I think I'll just see if she would like some. May I?"

I nodded. "Yes, you are right." I put my arm around her thin shoulders and kissed the top of head. "You are loving girl, my darling. Why don't I go to the commissary and fetch some tea myself? I'll meet you outside La Carlotta's dressing room, and you may tell me if she wants it."

Meg smiled and scampered off. I set off for the commissary. I knew precisely where the tea was kept.

Christine and I had been taking tea together for about a month now, a fact of which most were ignorant.

Nearly every day, she would steal away from rehearsal to speak candidly with me, the harried and insane box-keeper according to her peers. She thought differently, she said confidentially that first day as she begged me to follow her outside the material confines of the Opera. "You know him," she whispered. "I've heard the stories, about your box patron. I think my Angel and he are one in the same!"

Though I was not surprised by this fact, I was shocked by her emotional confession. Gently I pried information out of her: her Angel was tutoring her, he was sent to her by her dearly departed father, and he was determined to make her a star on the stage. I listened to all of this with rapt attention of a priest. She begged me to keep her confidence, saying that only her Mama Valerius knew of the Angel of Music and that I alone might help her. I asked her if she was frightened of him.

"No," she insisted. "But I must know the end of this. And I do not know how to serve him properly, as he so deserves."

Of course not. This child was not made for service as I am. With that, I resolved to be of service to the Angel beyond even his ken.

My first appeal was to her vanity. Christine was so eager to believe that she was not a decent offering for her angel.

"All the way from England, I tell you," I whispered to her as we stood outside on rue Scribe. As I passed the vial to her, I touched a finger to the soft skin of her cheek, far more tender than my Meg's.

"I never thought my Angel would care for my looks," she murmured.

"Don't you think he desires beauty? Don't you want to be worthy of him?"

Her sorrowful downcast gaze gave me all the satisfaction I could imagine.

I secretly paid the maid extra francs to keep Christine's room clean, telling the girl that the stress of the young singer's new training schedule would likely take its toll on her physically. Her enemies, La Carlotta not withstanding, would relish news of her potential frailty.

I surreptitiously collected the clumps of golden hair from her silver hairbrush when I brought tea service to her in her dressing room one day. We sat in silence, and she told me that she felt a mere shadow of herself.

"Perhaps we might take a walk after you finish you tea, then?" I suggested.

"Yes," she said, her hands shaking. Her brittle nails clicked on the side of the chipped china.

"He's everywhere, you know," she stammered, pulling her fur wrap tighter. "I can hear him even when I know he is not there!" Christine massaged the side of her face, perhaps thinking it the crisp wind stinging the muscles into paralysis.

"I do not want him to see my weakness, of course. I've stopped taking the treatment for my complexion—my Angel never even made mention over my paler skin—yet I am not… strong. He has not noticed, though," she said smugly. "I refuse to waste time during our lessons. He believes me to be improving, in fact!"

"You are improving," I said. "Look at you. A vision of artistry."

She pressed a hand to her temple, then rubbed her hands together vigorously. "Hardly," she said bitterly. "I must be ready for him. I should go. He needs me. Forgive me Madame."

I watched this abrupt change in her with amusement. She was becoming so very much like him: terse, dramatic, moody. As Christine charged off, I hoped to hear from the Opera Ghost soon. Surely he would react to this. Surely he would confirm my hopes?

And yet, nothing. I tended to his box and spared no effort to keep it neat. I spoke to him gently one day as I worked.

"Have I done everything as you desire it?"

No answer.

The next day, however, a small box of chocolates appeared on the plush velvet chair. I thrust my hand into my pocket to feel the hard cardstock, running my finger along the imaginary impressions of red ink. I could recite the words, but I imagined I could feel the script beneath my flesh. For Meg.

ooOOOoo

I walked quickly, attempting not to slosh the tea onto the saucer. Not a drop should be wasted. Stealing the flypaper was not hard, but extracting the precious liquid was time enough spent to send the girl to her Master.

The nervous vicomte fretted outside her door when I arrived. Meg was also there, looking nervous herself. "She will see no one," Meg admitted with a watery timbre.

I merely knocked on the door. Christine's glazed eyes met mine as the door opened.

"Oh, let Madame Giry in, Monsieur."

I entered, sitting the cup and saucer near the divan on which she lay. Her pallid face, her complaints of sore feet, and the stench of sickness gifted me with immense satisfaction. When Meg was Empress, as he promised, she would never have to smell death like this.

I smiled as she weakly reached for the tea.

"I gave him my soul tonight, Madame," she whispered. "And I can only hope it is enough."

Gently touching her hair, I pretended not to notice as I pulled several strands away and removed my hand. "You have done well, my dear. Drink your tea. I believe tonight you shall meet your Angel."