Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.
Chapter 1
Christine brushed the sweat from her brow. She had finally gotten everything moved in. Madame Giry and her daughter Meg had helped as best as they could, but Madame had staff meetings to attend and classes to prepare before term started; whilst Meg had ballet practice.
Were it not for the fact that Christine understood all too well, she would have thought those extra classes insane. Meg, like herself was entering her first year at the prestigious Ravelle Institute of Performing Arts, and whilst some of their classes overlapped, Meg's major was dance. She often complained about her workload, which probably wasn't too surprising, seeing as her mother was to be her teacher for the majority of it – but anyone who saw Meg knew she was born to dance, and anyone who knew her, knew that she would agree.
With this thought, Christine paused in her work. She looked about her and once more the stupidity of it all weighed in. Here she was moving everything into a strange house that she might not even be able to stay in long-term, all to start a course she was probably no longer eligible for. After all, who would in their right mind would accept someone onto a music course, specialising in vocal performance who was . . . no, it wasn't true. Papa promised. He promised. . .
He lied.
A tear slid down her cheek at this thought. Only one. She couldn't allow more than that.
But it was true, no matter how many tears.
If he hadn't been lying, she wouldn't be in this position.
No. Papa wouldn't lie. He never did. How was he to know that this would happen? How was he to know that any of it would happen?
It didn't change anything though.
They still turn her away when they found out.
After all, why would they take on someone meant to be a voice student who was. . .
Someone who was mute.
Imagine the irony of it all; the daughter of the great Katie O'Neill, a child of music.
A mute.
Madame Giry assured her that they could make allowances. That in all other respects she was still a very worthy student. That they could probably get a special voice teacher for when her throat had finished healing.
It didn't help that no matter what the course, for every place at the Ravelle Institute, there was somewhere in the region of 200 people seeking a place.
Two hundred people seeking her place.
Two hundred people who could at least speak, whatever their singing capabilities.
And yet, because she couldn't even speak anymore, in spite of her efforts, she was still denied a voice in many things, so she had lost that argument. Or at least she had stopped fighting when Madame pointed out that she and her father had worked to hard for her place, and he would not her to give it up.
She hadn't said what it was. But she wasn't fool enough to believe that more had been meant than just a place at a school.
At any rate, Christine had found herself moving the last of her belongings herself on the bus. The Giry house, where she had been staying, was not very far away – unless you were lugging all your worldly possessions. It hadn't taken as long as she had feared – although longer than expected, as she had managed to get a lot more stuff whilst there. That and she had brought her parents' memorabilia out of storage at last. Now that she finally had somewhere to put it.
She was glad the old house had been too small for everything; otherwise even these mementos would have been gone too.
At least that was a situation she didn't have to worry about here. The house was huge – to her mind anyway. In actuality, whilst it was large, it was not overly so. A family of six would probably have been able to live in it comfortably.
Christine slipped the scarf down from around her face.
She had been dusting all day, trying to find places to put everything. A few knickknacks here and there made the place feel more lived in, without conflicting with the style already in place. She had claimed one room on the second floor as her own, which had been transformed accordingly. There was a second living room at the back of the house which had been turned into a shrine of sorts to everything that had come out of storage. Other than that, the hardest part had been shifting all the dust that had collected.
The scarf had been removed once she had looked around and decided that she was finally done.
She was wrong.
Her cough brought her to her knees as pain ripped through her throat. She gasped at the pain and tried to swallow to ease it, but that only made her breathing laboured, which made it worse. Her lungs ached. Her throat was on fire.
NO!
Not that!
She tried to fight off the memories, but her physical pain sapped her mental strength, and she began to drown once more.
She couldn't fight it.
She collapsed on the floor, alternating between sobs and gasps for air as she gave in and became one writhing figure of pain. All else was lost to her, and so she was barely aware of the bag being placed over her mouth. As her breathing steadied, her consciousness waned. All she saw before the blackness descended was a shining white face and she mouthed:
"Angel."
