A voyage across the sea

Much to Christines surprise, sitting beside her was a letter, which when she opened it, she discovered was from Léon. "Dear Christine" She read.

After the death of your father, it was my duty to escort you to your new home in England, however I am afraid that I cannot. I have some unattended business here to attend to, including sorting through your fathers final payments alongside making sure all that is left to you is stored correctly, so that when the time comes, it will not be too difficult for you to come home and find it. I hope you have a safe journey, and you should be hearing from me again soon,

Your affectionate friend and humble servant

Léon

She folded the letter and put it back in to the envelope. It would be such a tiring journey without him, though from the beginning she had suspected the only reason he stayed to care for her was out of pity. Every one needs some one, and in his eyes it must have seemed that she was alone with need of some one to care for her.

Her hands fiddled with the mask which she had taken of her face to prevent sweating, as she would not be able to wash for a few hours, and wanted to remain as clean as possible. Christine looked out of the window and saw for miles around nothing but water and endless planes of land. It was so lonely, not a single boat or house in sight, just some horses grazing in the meadows and overhead, some sky larks circling lower and lower only to surge right back up in to the clouds again.

She found herself slipping in to unconsciousness as she wished more and more, that she could be like those birds. In her dreams, she was safe, wrapped in the world that only existed inside her head, that nobody else could break in to and destroy. It was funny, she thought, her mind was almost like a little house. There was the place where she kept her thoughts, a form of library that served as a giant library, with ladders leading up to the top shelves, the thoughts that she had put away for now, or forgotten about.

In the next room was a sitting room, where she would be able to sit and keep company should her father or mother ever visit. A fire burned warmly in the hearth, with a table for placing tea upon. ' But I don't suppose one can drink tea in ones own head' was her response. But the dream was rather pretty, as full of fancy as it seemed.

A garden, where each flower symbolised a dream or a person. As she began to wake up, her eyelids remained closed, just so she could continue with these thoughts. Her father, why he would be a water reed to symbolise music - for he was the music of the world. Her mother would be a lily, which in celtic meaning (just as her name had) meant beautiful and care free breeze. And Erik, he would be the red rose. Her favourite bloom and also the most meaningful. Friendship, compassion. Deepest of love and affections. That was him, and she had not even known him longer than a day. Yet already, she could feel the beginning of some thing. It wasn't over yet. It couldn't be.

The carriage rolled on over the rickety pathway, so often left abandoned for months on end during the winters, that it became inexistent and was difficult to track where the grass and wild flowers over grew again. No one cared for this place, but it was quite easily a place a lonely person could relate to. It symbolised all the empty unspoken feelings that could not be expressed from the persons own heart.

The sun had set four and half hours previously, leaving the world outside bleakly cold, the wind whistling in a hollow kind of way and Christine couldn't wait to rest in a comfortable bed on the boat. At least she hoped she would be comfortable, travelling along Canals was one thing, but on such a large body of water was entirely another and she dreaded the talk of seasickness.

Her heart beat began to pick up again, so she went back to her thoughts, resting her head against the soft grey cushioning of the seat, her eyes gazing out at the navy sky above, her fingers dancing with the rose bead that was attached to the fabric bracelet Rosalind had given her.

At the school in Venice, Christine had just finished her exams and had been looking forward to leaving to find a job. Her, Rosalind and a few of their other friends including Aelwyn and Marie were considering applying for jobs in the clothing stores or the small water shops that served coffee to the tourists.

The clothes shop in Venice, were the finest and most expensive around. The floor alone looked as though it would cost too much to walk on. Some of the stores were even lucky enough to have forms of lighting less difficult than oil lamps. The seamstresses were of astounding ability, they could make a dress fit you like a glove if you gave them ten minutes and half of your bank account, if you were lucky enough to become their apprentice, you would go far in life. But now Christine would never know if she would become the new florist making heart shaped bouquets on valentines day, or the seamstress at Bluebells, making dresses from the finest velvet imported from Paris or the silk imported from China. Maybe she would never even get to visit those places as she had so often dreamed throughout childhood.

Her mind wandered further in to countless labyrinths, wondering what it would be like if she could have stayed with Erik. Would it have been like with Marguerite, one of the girls at the school, who had fallen in love with the stable boy and been married so young she did not even get the opportunity to consider a job or life without a husband? No, Christine thought, Erik was different than those other boys around Venice, he was a gentlemen, he wouldn't have taken advantage of her.

In her mind, she saw herself graduating, them travelling from place to place for a few years. They would settle in a country side cottage, where they would own some farmland to make a living. No, they would live in a city and go to the theatre every night, surviving from the money that Erik made with his beautiful music boxes.

Then, one day, he would take her out to dinner at a restaurant by the sea, where the water would be so clear you could see right down to the ship wrecks at the bottom. He would point some thing out to her, like a flounder or a dolphin, she would turn to look and when she turned back around, and he would be bent one knee with a ring, asking her to be his bride. To be his wife. And they would live happily ever after.

Sighing, Christine shook her head, her eyebrows previously arched peacefully as though in sleep, furrowing causing creases to mark the soft cream of her fore head. No, none of that would ever happen now. Even if it did, they had not yet even see each other face to face. They did not know one another at all in all truth, as much as she wished that they did.

"We're at the quay miss, its time for you to board for England," the kindly coach driver called as the foot men opened the door and helped her out of the coach. "Thankyou," she called back as he tipped his hat. Clutching her shawl about her, she boarded, praying for warmth once she stepped inside.

As soon as she boarded the boat, she became lost in the sea of people entering and leaving down the wooden ramp that had been placed to make things easier. She could see the footmen stacking her trunks in the luggage room by the main entrance and headed there.

Once through the small glass doors, she was able to sigh in relief at the warmth that emanated from the thick insulating materials surrounding the floors. Still clutching her shawl to her in case of a draft, she approached the main desk where she collected her key and got directions to her room.

She found it at the end of the passage way. It was plain enough, her clothes trunk was at the end of a small bed covered with a rag quilt and there was a chamber pot placed beneath the bed, a portal above the pillow, with a wash basin and a jug of water on top of a wooden night stand, a clock on the wall opposite the bed.

Despite being used to slightly more luxurious back grounds, Christine felt at home in this lonely empty room with the blue carpets, it made her feel safe, in a way where she didn't have to face any one or make peace with any one else except herself.

"What do you think Papa?" she found herself whispering, turning to ask his opinion, only to remember that he was not there. That he wouldn't be there again. It felt like he was dying in front of her all over again. She knew it would feel this way, it was this way when her mother died so long ago. But she had the luxury of forgetting.

Brushing aside the moment, replacing it with thoughts of masquerades and monkey music boxes that played Celtic melodies, she dressed for supper, breathing a sigh of relief as she removed her corset, only to feel the ache as she replaced it with a clean one.

Her dinner dress was nothing fancy; it was made of pale blue cotton with a pattern of daisies sewn onto a ribbon around the waist. It flowed down to her angels, making her feel presentable, as she feared that the British may be stricter.

Her own mother, she recalled, was not fully British. She had been born in Austria, near to Germany, and had moved to England when she got a scholarship to an all girls boarding school where she had studied music and literature.

Once she was dressed, she picked up her key and locked the door behind her once she was in corridor. There was a small pocket where the ribbon sash tied around her waist, so she tucked the key in to it, so that it would be safe and hidden. Then she walked to the space that she had been told was the dining room.

It was lit entirely by candles, with small tables each with a white table cloth and shining cutlery laid out neatly around a metal plate, menus standing in a cardboard folder in the middle. All of the tables were full, so she pulled a waiter to one side and asked if he might help her find some where to sit, some one who wouldn't mind her as an additional presence.

"Of course miss, I'd be happy to," smiled a young man, who had dimples when he smiled. He looked only 12 or 13, far too young to be working already, yet here he was. Nodding her appreciation, she followed him through the crowds of people making orders and plates full of steaming shrimp, until finally she was being introduced to a table surrounded by six people all whom smiled up to her as the waiter asked if she could sit there.

One of the women stood up, a smile decorating her tiny face, "Why, of course! Aren't you the prettiest little thing!" she linked arms with her and directed her to the empty seat by her side. "We will be fast friends I am sure, you must sit by me of course!"

Christine smiled apologetically at the waiter boy who simply muffled a laugh, bowed and returned to the kitchen with a cloth hanging over his arm. "Now, we must make proper introductions to you," smiled the woman. "My name is Jammes Debut, but every one calls me little Jammes, because I'm so small for my age," she giggled, lighting up her eyes and making her pinks turn pink.

Come to think of it, Christine thought, that may have been through her drinking too much of the Port wine which was on sale here.

Turning to the other five members of the table, Jammes gestured her hand to each of them as she introduced them. "This here," she gestured in front of her, "This here is Clara Prose, she is the best with styling her hair, she taught me how to do mine when I first started dancing!" As Clara shook Christines hand over the table, Christine turned her head to Jammes.

"Dancing?" she asked curiously. "Why yes!" Jammes smiled, her eyes wide suggesting that she thought Christine mad for asking. "We all work at the Opera Garnier, you have heard of it of course?" Christine shook her head apologetically, "No, I'm afraid not, only the Italian opera companies are spoken of in Venice…"

"That's why you talk so funnily then" Jammes cooed, "I thought you had an accent but I couldn't guess it, you speak English very well, much better than me, Oh Je suis Jalox!" Clara giggled at her friends silliness and pinched her fingers affectionately.

"I was so caught up in our conversation that I forgot every one else," she gasped, looking over to the rest of the table. They, for the record, seemed not to have even noticed, discussing sums and accounts, whilst slurping up platters of sea food.

Christine soon found out that next to Clara was Remy Landau, the secretary to the stage managers, who were absent as of current as they were making final changes to scripts in their cabins.

Next to Remy was Comte Philippe De Chagny, one of the rich patrons of the opera "Populaire" who was sat beside the other patron (his younger brother) The Vicomte De Chagny, Raoul.

The final person at the table was sat on next to Raoul, and she was fawning over him, like one might imagine a kitten crawling over ones arms restlessly when in want of attention or going out side. Her name was Carlotta, and though Christine was not one to be hostile, she felt a sudden surge of fear at the name. This woman, although appearing gentle enough, seemed almost like a serpent. Christine was not unaware of how bold women could be, Venice was no place of only virtue, but people generally conducted themselves well. Whereas this woman was literally throwing herself all over the Vicomte. She could not tell whether or not this displeased him. He carried on eating his meal, dipping some shrimp in to a glass of sauce.

Clara lowered her voice to a whisper as she leaned in to Christine, covering her mouth with her half empty wine glass. "She is the Prima donna at the Opera house, she was once great, came all the way from Spain, but now her voice is old and has deepened, yet still she stays on season after season," Clara rolled her eyes, sipping from the glass.

"You wouldn't believe half of the tantrums she has, if any thing is out of control she becomes absolutely furious and quits on the spot. The managers always go grovelling, after all, how could they not! They have no other star, and despite how horrible she is, you cannot deny her beauty" Jammes sighed, half in irritation, the other half in adoration.

Christine continued to eat, but as she did, she sneaked glances up at Carlotta. She had long curly red hair that fell down to her waist, with large green eyes the colour of a sea after a storm has passed. When she smiled, traces of orange, the colour of her hair, would sparkle in them.

She was dressed like a queen, with rubies dripping from her neck and emeralds coating her wrists. She even thought that the diamond tiara she wore might be real. But such things were only objects, it was them that was beautiful truly, not the woman. Coated with sugar, Christine believed this woman had a sting like that of a wasp.

As the evening wore on, Christine found her eyes flickering from Carlotta to the gentlemen beside her. Raoul his name was, she thought she recalled, as Jammes and Clara chatted happily about upcoming auditions for a ballet production of Giselle that the opera were putting on to celebrate the coming of spring.

He was quite handsome, with shortish long hair, the colour of brown you associate with violin polish, whereas her own hair was deeper, the colour of milk chocolate. His eyes were pale blue and they twinkled when he laughed, which was often. His brother seemed even lighter, his hair blonde and short, his eyes so blue they were almost milky. Together they made a charming family. Dressed in evening dress of the finest quality, clearly imported, it was quite obvious that they were rich.

She was broken from her thoughts, when a man wearing a red bow tie walked on to the stage, some cue cards in his hand. "It is my great pleasure to welcome you to the entertainment for this evening, which is singing. If you wish to perform for this lovely audience, please come and discuss with our small pit orchestra what you would like to sing. Thankyou!"

The people at the tables applauded politely, before going back to their meals. Carlotta waited for a few seconds, before hastily rising, lifting her skirts slightly so that she did not fall over them, and then rushing over to the orchestra as she saw another young lady rising on the table behind them.

"Do you sing Christine?" Clara asked, Jammes looking around eagerly for other performers. "Its going to be a competition in the end you know," she squealed excitedly, "and people are going to try and beat Carlotta!" Pouting, she frowned, "I wish some one would, but I don't think they will"

Carlotta began to sing, the sound was spot on yes, but it was harsh, forced and it echoed in Christines head despite her being so far from the stage.

Half way through the song, she told her companions she needed to use the powder room, before fleeing through the shadows at the side of the room to the conductor, whispering in his ear that she would like to perform a piece called "The last rose of summer" next. He nodded, his mouth lifting gently in a half smile of recognition, before he went back to conducting the accompaniment for Carlotta.

When Carlotta had finished, the gentlemen who had introduced the entertainment walked back on to the stage, as the applause reeled in. "Excellent! Well, does any one dare to rival that performance? Who shall challenge Miss Guidacelli?"

The conductor tapped his baton on the stand before speaking clearly, "Miss Christine Daae will do it sir!" whispers went out around the crowd, and Carlotta looked down in to the pit with a mixture of amusement, anger and pity. She was so sure of herself. For some reason, Chrisine felt compelled to show her that music was not about being sure of yourself, it was about expression, about compassion, about feeling emotion. Knowing the words which you sung and relating to them.

"Thankyou Mr Lefrevre, and now ladies and gentlemen, Miss Christine Daae" Again, polite applause went out through the audience as Christine stepped on to the stage, a dark hallway of shadow and candle light twinkling like a starry night all of its own inside before her.

The orchestra played the soft introduction and she inhaled before she began:

'Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone
All her lovely companions are faded and gone
No flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh
To reflect back her blushes and give sigh for sigh

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, to pine on the stem
Since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep thou with them
Thus kindly I scatter thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead

So soon may I follow when friendships decay
And from love's shining circle the gems drop away
When true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown
Oh who would inhabit this bleak world alone?
This bleak world alone

As the final note trailed away, the crowd jumped to its feet, applauding her with thunder and rain, applauding for her with all of the light in the world, Making the future and the present seem a little less dimmer.

"It seems we have our star!" the announcement manager beamed, taking her hand and bowing with her. Christine smiled out looking over towards her table. She saw Jammes and Clara jumping up and down cheering, she saw the secretary smiling quietly, beside them the patrons were smiling hugely, but this was nothing new, they were always smiling. And at the head of the table, Carlotta had a look on her face that rivalled that of Medusa. It seemed to scream green loathing and jealousy. Christine simply smiled meekly at her.

She had won the battle, but there was still a days voyaging to England, who knows what she would encounter when it came to the war. Some thing told her that it wasn't over yet. Like when she left Erik earlier that afternoon, it seemed that some thing wasn't finished. There was much still in store.

As she lay in bed that night, a small smile lay on her face as she dreamed of a masked man playing the piano, with her sat by his side, a small ring glinting on her finger.

The next morning, Christine slept in so that by the time she rose to say goodbye to her French friends, it was only an hour before the boat docked there to let them off.

She dressed in her grey travelling dress with the shell buttons, wrapping herself in a black cape and the red scarf that her father had bought her when she was only eight years old. He had been on a trip to Italy to visit her uncle who had a daughter called Luciana, who had suggested it as a present. It had been Christines favourite ever since.

When the boat docked, Christine walked out on to the shore to bid her goodbyes, simply because she had grown to care for them greatly despite not knowing them for more than a few hours. Plus, she wanted to be able to claim, though she wasn't sure to whom, that her feet had touched French soil.

Carlotta simply glared at her and stormed off, at which Jammes rolled her eyes and Clara fell to the ground in a fit of laughter, which soon attracted Philippes attention and he winked at her which made her blush even more than her laughing had caused.

Just as Christine had climbed back on to the deck, a gust of wind blew her scarf over board in to the water that was at the base of the harbour. "My scarf!" she cried out, reaching for it, but the wind had already plunged it down.

Raoul seeing her distress, but not hearing her voice over the wind, saw the scarf fall and dived in to the ocean after it, then racing dripping wet up the ramp, before it could be packed away. "Your scarf mademoiselle" he beamed at her. "Thankyou Monsieur" she beamed back, wrapping it round her neck. "I should wish to repay you for your kindness, but I do not know how." Smiling at her, he pulled out paper and a pencil. "I should very much like to write to you, your address would be more than enough" Scrawling it out, Christine handed it back to her.

He caught her hand before it fell and kissed it. "Aurevoire!" he bid her with a wave, as the ships horn blared and he raced down the wooden ramp. Jammes made kissy faces which made Christine laugh. She waved and waved, until France was nothing but a tiny dot and they were docking in England. Only then did she stop waving, her stomach churning with the promise of a new life. Looking back once over the boat, with a weight in her stomach, she walked out on to the harbour.

And on to British soil.