I normally wouldn't write this, but… Katie, you made my day by reviewing. I wasn't expecting it, but I greatly appreciate it. Hopefully, I'll manage to live up to your expectations, so, in short, thank you for liking the story. Yours was a great inspiration and still is a high standard to reach. I really hope you write more, I enjoyed it tremendously. So, thank you.

As for the opera, it's my own creation – partially. It's a classic Japanese fairytale, but only the name of Yohei is mentioned in it. The synopsis is in this chapter. The title is in French, as is the "opera".

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Chapter 4

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Carriage – check. Dress – check. Fairy godmother – check. Ball – check.

Christine was really beginning to feel like a modern Cinderella. A Cinderella with an audio recorder and camera in her purse. She hadn't forgotten the reason she was going to the opera house. She kept checking her things all the way to Covert Garden, until Sorelli gave her a pointed look that plainly told her to stop and focus on her date. Not that any of them was really focusing on one another, with the exception of Raoul, who seemed to be trying to think of a way to start a conversation, but was too busy staring at Christine. Philip was talking to someone quickly on the phone and Sorelli was checking her lipstick in a small mirror she had pulled out of nowhere.

Finally sealing her purse, Christine smiled at Raoul, who was still looking at her as if she had fallen out of the sky. He had put on a good show of attempting to be casual in her apartment… but it was useless now that they were sitting next to each other. Since he didn't seem to find words, Christine decided to play it cool and start a conversation with everyone when Philip put away his cell once more.

"Do you know anything about this opera we're going to? I couldn't find anything on the web about it, not even the name of the composer. It was like you were making something top secret." she said, trying to appear unconcerned.

Philip chuckled. "No, you wouldn't. You see these days, people are used to listening to the old classical operas – Verdi, Mozart, Rossini, Wagner. Those are the ones everyone knows and expects to hear. Now, when our family decided to invest in the arts, we did a bit of market research, you could say. Opera is the fastest growing entertainment in the world – movies usually last about a month and operas have lasted centuries. But the last famous one was written in the 1920s, if I remember correctly."

Christine nodded. "Turandot, by Puccini. His last."

"I see why you got sent here, Christine." Sorelli noted, "From what Meg said about your boss, it's either 200 percent or nothing with him. French." she shrugged elegantly.

There was a collective laugh and Philip continued. "Well and we managed to hit the jackpot. Some new composer decided to enter the scene and compose new operas. A risky business, but the critics are all head over heels with the music. Each performance of his very first work was a full house. Opera Garnier – that's where he started," he said to answer Christine's unasked question, "is at his feet, begging him for more. We went to see the thing with Raoul and the fact that he didn't fall asleep mid-opera proved to me that this was worth it."

Raoul frowned as Sorelli giggled. Christine only smiled vaguely. "Phil, don't be like that. Just because opera is not exactly my favorite thing to see doesn't mean…"

"I went to see Aida with him in Milan once. The entire audience was crying, so they didn't hear his snoring – fortunately." Philip said, ignoring his brother.

"I simply prefer sports." Raoul said defensively. "Wait till we play ice hockey again, bro, then you'll regret these words deeply."

"Until then, however…" Philip smirked. "The rest, you'll have to see, I'm afraid – I can't give you any details about this, the production is entirely new, not even I have seen it. Actually, anyone who had nothing to do with the show didn't even get the chance to be present at the rehearsal. Our dear composer's demands. Honestly, if the guy wasn't so brilliant, I don't think anyone could stand his bossiness and arrogance for longer than five minutes."

"Can you tell me his name, at least?" Christine asked hopefully. A name would be far more than enough.

"Well, to us, he is commonly known as the Opera Ghost, or the Phantom of the Opera." Christine raised an eyebrow. "A nickname made by the ballet girls, you can guess. He never shows up at any rehearsal, we've actually never even met him personally, just received notes, emails or phone calls. We've mostly dealt with his… manager, you could say." Raoul laughed slightly. "Artists – they always have their little demands, you know. Maybe he doesn't think we're worthy of his holy presence."

"Quiet, Raoul." Philip said seriously, "His methods may seem curious to you, but if the man isn't a total workaholic, I can understand him. He's already writing a new opera. I'd be surprised if he has time to eat or sleep. Besides, he seems to be a very private man."

"What do you mean?" Christine asked, surprised.

"The compositions are anonymous, in a sense." Philip said, sighing, "He doesn't seem to want his name known… yet. And, you can imagine, it's a very good marketing move. People all around the world will be talking about him within a few weeks, trying to guess who he is. I've asked him several times to tell me his full name, so that we may invite him to social events, introduce him to people… he refused. Politely, but coolly, he refused each time. He said something about waiting for a triumph… well, he can be cryptic, as I'm sure you've noticed. Anyway, we put up with these little whims purely because having him composing for us means bringing attention to the Royal Opera House. It's a bargain."

"How does he know how to correct the rehearsals then? If something is wrong?" Christine asked, genuinely interested.

"Audio and video footage… but it's more than that. It's like having a real ghost that can see everything, you know. The ballet girls get pretty creeped out at times." Raoul confessed.

"Yeah, you'd know about ballet girls, huh, Raoul?" Sorelli said snidely. Raoul went slightly red and looked down as Sorelli spared him a triumphant glance. "What was the name of the last one – Rebecca, right?"

"For your information, Sor, she was a chorus girl and that particular relationship has ended at least a month ago." He said quietly. "She was simply more interested in working her way to the place of the prima donna…"

Sorelli made a tsk noise. "Too bad, dearie. That's the bad thing about relationships between two people who work together. You never know when one might be using the other. Still, you're better off without her. Hopefully you don't buy all your girlfriends dresses for the opera, or you'll be broke soon."

It was Christine's turn to blush slightly, but she camouflaged it by looking out the window. They had arrived at Covert Garden and she almost gasped when she saw the opera house. Of course, she had seen it before, but never so late at night and never so beautifully decorated. Cars were zooming past it, occasionally stopping in front of the building. The Greek pillars were lighted spectacularly, giving off the effect of an ancient temple ready for a ritual. However, the modern lights and the crowds were clearly 21st century-ish. Their limo – the source of Sorelli´s enthusiasm – stopped and the two de Chagnys carefully helped the two women get out. Their movement was slightly limited by their dresses and Sorelli´s near-hysterics when Christine's dress touched the surface of the car, which was, for the record, spotlessly clean.

Christine could only think of the sights around her, ignoring all as they entered the Royal Opera House, ignoring even the fact that she had accepted Raoul´s offered arm. They were almost precisely on time, so they didn't want to waste any more minutes meeting anyone – after all, this premiere was for the press and the sponsors primarily. The elite of London, the crème de la crème, as Lefévre had correctly informed her.

Their box, box 42, was on the grand tier, to the left when they ascended the stairs. They were almost facing the Queen's reserved box. Philip was clearly satisfied with himself when they entered the box and sat down. Sorelli had wanted to purchase a bulletin about the opera, but the woman selling them recognized the two patrons and quickly gave it to her for free. Sorelli sat down, reading it, while Christine was too busy looking around. The lights around them, the beautiful furnishings of each box and the rich wine red curtain was enough to get her into an artistic ecstasy. Suddenly, she wondered why she had never visited this wonderful place during the years she spent in London. Now, faced with this wonder, she had almost forgotten that it had been because of her father.

Sorelli finished reading what interested her in the bulletin and handed it to Christine, tapping her shoulder with it. Christine snapped out of her momentary trance. "Here, you need this more than I do."

Christine suddenly realized that she was supposed to work. She smiled and thanked Sorelli, quickly going through the bulletin. Now she was very glad she had come, even if she might not like the opera they were about to see. She noticed that there was a plot outline in the bulletin and felt a wave of anger leave her. Information at long last!

Finally. She thought, and, the journalist in her taking over, she read the article, despite the fact that she wanted to see what the opera was going to be about. Apparently, it wasn't supposed to have been printed, but someone wanted to save money and not print two types of bulletins for the same performance.

La Grue – drama lirico in three acts, based on the classic Japanese fairytale

Setting: Japan, sixteenth century

Synopsis

Act 1: The young Japanese settler Yohei is out in the fields, trying to think of an idea to better his financial status and collect some food. He finds a badly injured crane, shot down by an arrow, lying on a rock. Yohei heals the crane by taking out the arrow and saves the bird's life. He then returns to his home, empty-handed. After nightfall, there is a knock on his door. A beautiful young woman, who introduces herself as Miyoko, greets him and offers to become his wife. Overjoyed and enamored, Yohei welcomes her to his life.

Act 2: The newlyweds are coexisting peacefully, but in poverty. Seeing Yohei´s despair, Miyoko offers to weave fabrics for him to sell, but makes Yohei promise that he will never come see her when she is weaving. She produces a bundle of amazing silk, but emerges from the weaving room very tired and pale. Yohei sells the silk for much money. When it runs out, Miyoko sees Yohei´s sadness again and agrees to make some more silk. She is even more tired and paler when she leaves the room finally. Yohei, happy that they will get more money to better their way of life, sells the silk for twice as much as the first one. His neighbor, Haruki, compliments the silk, saying even his wife, who has been weaving for many years, has never produced anything so fine. He offers Yohei the start of a business. Yohei is enthusiastic, but Miyoko grows sadder each day.

Act 3: Miyoko has wearily agreed to weave more silk, for the very last time. Now, however, Haruki´s words repeat themselves in Yohei´s mind. His wife had never needed new threads or anything else. She had always seemed so tired and pale. Breaking his promise not to enter her room while she is weaving, he opens the door slightly to see what is happening inside. He sees a slightly blood-covered crane weaving the silk, tearing out its own feathers for threads. Yohei faints from the terrible sight. When he awakes, he finds a fresh bundle of red-stained white silk in his hands. The voice of Miyoko tells him that she was the crane he had saved in the fields and had come to him in the form of a human to repay him. Now that he had seen her, however, she must forever leave the world of men. Half-crazed, calling for his wife, Yohei runs into the plains where he had found the crane. But the crane is already flying away, disappearing behind the clouds.

The lights went out almost precisely when Christine finished reading the last line. She hastily put the bulletin away and moved her eyes to the stage just as the conductor appeared and the orchestra started a hauntingly lyrical overture that put everything she had ever heard to shame. She sat, transfixed, hypnotized from the beginning to the very end. If she were to describe it, it would have been a swan's song, a portrait of a swan – or, in this case, a crane – through music. It was graceful, wounded but contained a slight Japanese theme as well. Nevertheless, if was like nothing she had ever heard and she listened to almost only classical music.

"La beauté de la soie", the Weaving Aria of Miyoko, as she nicknamed it in her mind, brought her to tears and she had to force herself not to start sobbing in the middle of the audience. She spoke French fluently, so she understood what was being said, but the lyrics had a great effect on her, even the English translation.

Beauty of silk is born through pain

For him I shall endure it

For him I cross the borders of sacrifice

Surrender willingly to fulfill his heart's desire

The curtain went up, revealing a distinctly rural setting. Not once did Christine remember that she wasn't here to simply sit back and enjoy the performance. From the first note to the last, she was tied to the storyline, unable to tear her eyes and ears away from it. Not even the breaks managed to get her attention away from the composition. Sorelli was almost in tears by the end of the opera, along with who knows how many other people in the audience. Philip was applauding loudly by the end of it, one of the first people to stand up. Even Raoul seemed to be applauding slightly louder than was needed. It was the applause that brought Christine back to reality. The story was over.

She found herself unable to even applaud. This­… this wasn't genius. Genius was human. The music she had heard was holy, with all that came with it. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. If only her father would have heard this. He would have been so happy, so pleased. Music from heaven… the music of angels. She smiled tearfully. She remembered his promises of an angel. An Angel of Music.

Tonight, she had witnessed the work of an angel.

She looked around and saw that every person in the theater was offering a standing ovation. The soprano and the tenor who had sung the main parts were being showered with flowers. Screams of "Bravo!" were heard from all sides of the audience. The managers, two middle-aged men, had come to congratulate the soloists and the conductor. More flowers were being brought. People expected, hoped, that the composer himself would step into the limelight and take the offered congratulations. However, no one came.

Everyone's eyes were on the stage, still waiting, hoping, anticipating. Christine was the only one looking around, trying to memorize the positive reactions, memorize every detail of the opera house. However, she noticed one box on the grand tier that was quiet. It struck her as very strange – everyone was applauding, cheering, but this box, number 65 on the seating plan, appeared lifeless. The lights in it were turned off. She could make out the outline of a person standing up, preparing to leave in the midst of the celebrations. Whoever it was, they seemed to have a very good sixth sense, because they turned and looked for the person that was looking at them. Other than the fact that it was a male figure that seemed to be very tall, Christine could make out almost nothing. She knew he was looking at her, though she didn't see his eyes.

"Christine, come, the party will be in full swing by the time we arrive!" Raoul said to her. During the moment she had wasted to glance at her escort, the figure in the dark box had vanished. Christine couldn't place the feeling of a slight scare.

Mingled with the fear, however, was great curiosity. Who was that man? She didn't want to ask the de Chagnys directly, however, because she didn't want to rouse any suspicions and draw attention to the fact she had seen anyone at all. She had the distinct feeling that she had seen something she shouldn't have seen.

"I noticed an empty box after we returned for act 3." She noted, trying to be casual, as they descended to the hall where the party would be held.

Raoul tried to remember something, then nodded. " Box 65? Yeah, I'd say it would be empty, though I didn't really check. Erik had that box reserved, but he didn't show up, I guess. It would ruin his air of mystery."

"Erik?" Christine asked.

"Oh, I forgot – that's our composer. Whether it's his real name or his penname, I don't know, but it's spelled with a k, not a c, if you'll want to print it, so be careful. He's the greatest perfectionist the world has ever seen." Raoul warned her, but smiled. "I suppose I'm having such a good time that I barely remembered that this isn't a real date."

Christine looked down, blushing slightly. "I… I'm not sure."

"Maybe we could have a real one later on?" he asked hopefully.

Christine didn't answer at first, but then nodded. Why not? She asked herself. He was great – and she had promised that they would see each other, after all, in exchange for the dress.

Raoul beamed at her. "Great, Christine! We'll sort out the details once you're done and we get out of here. Now do your job and do it quickly, so that you have loads of free time on your hands, Little Lotte. We have a lot of catching up to do."

Christine nodded absent mindedly, but found herself pondering the man she had seen. Had it been him? Had she been the only one to see him? Obviously, yes. Everyone else had been under the spell of Erik's divine music, too hypnotized by its wonders to pay attention to anything else.

Erik.

She found she rather liked the name.