Disclaimer: I do not own Erik or anything affiliated with him. All I own is the main character and all things associated with her.


So... Christine has officially arrived. Yikes.


Chapter Four: Christine Daaé

Another week passed by. The Phantom seemed to be getting increasingly restless day by day, as if some invisible sort of insect was crawling all over his skin. There were times when it got so bad that she had to set her hands upon his shoulders and force him to stop fidgeting, but it seemed to do no good in the long run. Once or twice during the night, she had overheard him muttering the violinist's name over and over, "Daaé, Daaé, Daaé." It was nearly driving them both insane.

After sunset one evening, out of the blue, he shot up from his organ bench and grabbed his cloak like he was preparing to leave.

"Where are you off to at this late hour?" she asked, looking up from her poetry.

He turned back to look at her. "I am going up to le Maison d'Opera (the Opera House), I need to deliver a letter to the managers."

"Why not just let me do it? I haven't been up in a while," she stood up and walked towards him.

"No!" he protested, a bit too quickly, and she quirked an eyebrow in suspicion, "I wish to haunt for tonight. I think the ballet rats have gone far too long without a fright, do you not agree?"

A moment of silence reigned before she uncrossed her arms and shrugged. "Alright. But don't return too late; I'll kill you if wake me up," she joked, giving him a half-effort smirk.

"I shan't be long," he promised and rowed off in the boat.

What in le monde (the world) was that about? It was quite rare for him to run off like that with such an unbelievable excuse. She had noticed over the weeks that for all his rogue-like qualities, he was a horrible liar. He could act quite well, but when it came to outright lying, he was terrible. The Phantom could not lie at all to anyone, particularly her – she had lived with rogues for much of her life, she'd had to learn to be able tell when someone wasn't exactly being honest. Of course, O.G. didn't have much human contact with which to practice, so she couldn't expect him to be extraordinarily good at it, but even children lie better than that!

It was no surprise that she followed him. When she was curious about something, she tended to get answers. Therefore, she tailed her strange masked companion into le Maison d'Opera using the tunnels from the lair. It took a few minutes of silent creeping, but she finally found him. He was staring at the wall quite intently and singing to someone. For a moment, she was lost in his almost ethereal voice, but regained her senses and quickly walked to the other side of the room. It was the chapel, she knew that much, but why was he singing there? Then she heard the small voice of a young girl. She sounded so innocent, so pure and untouched by the horrors of real life. It was quite beautiful for a girl her age. When she looked through the space in the wall, it was like staring into a mirror that shows only that which you most desire.

The girl was just like her. Soft, brown, ringlet curls, the palest ivory skin… so much like her. Tears nearly sprang to her eyes as she heard the girl speaking – she even sounded like her.

"Est-tu l'Ange de Musique (Are you the Angel of Music)?" the young girl asked.

There was a pause before she heard the Phantom respond, "Yes, child, I am your Ange de Musique."

"So Papa did send you, just like he promised! Oh, tell me, Ange, how is he?"

"He watches over you, Christine. He is content in Heaven, but for missing his daughter."

La Chat watched all this with some measure of confusion. What was O.G. doing? Why was he telling this little girl that he was her 'Angel of Music'? He was many things, but as far as she knew, an Angel was not one of them. For a few minutes, she simply listened to their conversation. It should have, but it didn't bother her that she was eavesdropping on him.

"Will you teach me, Ange? I want to make Papa proud," the girl, Christine, pleaded.

"I will teach you. I will make you the greatest soprano France – nay, Europe has ever known!"

At this, the girl clapped for happiness and thanked him more times than was necessary. It was a minute or two before O.G. – or, l'Ange spoke again.

"The day has grown old, Christine. Return to your bed now and rest. Meet me here tomorrow eve and we shall begin your lessons then."

Christine readily and eagerly agreed, then turned around. The woman behind the wall froze. She was exactly like her. Beautiful in her youth, with the kindest brown eyes she'd ever seen. Her resemblance was uncanny. A sob escaped her before she could stop it, causing the girl to stop for a moment before running up the stairs. It had been so long, so many years. Impossible though it seemed, it was as if she had looked upon her once more, unchanged and just as young as she had been. Another, more silent sob wracked her body and she collapsed against the wall behind her. No… she couldn't be. It was not possible. They had been children then, age would have changed her, even if she hadn't… non. There was no way. She looked and sounded exactly like her, but wasn't her. It was impossible.

A hand clasped her shoulder firmly and she looked up at the face above her. He was angry, very angry, and dragged her along with him through the passageways to the lair without stopping for the gondola. When they entered, he dropped her roughly in the desk chair and stormed about, pacing. Finally he turned and looked at her with furious blue eyes as cold as ice.

"Pourquoi (Why)? Why did you follow me?"

It took her a moment to regain the ability to speak. "I was curious."

"Curious!" he repeated, throwing up his hands, "Have you not heard that curiosity killed the cat?"

"Oui," was her only answer.

"I will not stand for you being so insolent as to follow me!" he shouted.

"I understand. I won't do it again."

He stopped pacing and looked at her like she had gone mad. "Are you not going to respond?"

"I did."

"I called you insolent."

"Je sais (I know)."

He knelt before her, looking up at her impassive, yet somehow pained expression. "Mon chat, what is wrong?"

After a shaky breath that wasn't meant to be so weak, she responded, "Nothing. Nothing is wrong. I'm fine," she denied, standing up.

With an incredulous 'I know you're not telling me the truth' look, O.G. stood up and pushed her back down into the chair, kneeling again. One of his gloved hands reached up to wipe a stray tear she hadn't meant to let escape from her face. She broke then, letting the tears flow from her eyes freely. It was strange how comfortable she felt with him after only a month and a half. Without a word, he pulled her into his arms and held her close.

"I will not pretend to understand why you are so upset, but please tell me that it was not my anger with you that caused your distress," he whispered.

"It wasn't you," she assured him.

"Then what caused you to cry?" he asked, pulling back to look her in the eyes, and she shook her head. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gave her a long look, "Please tell me."

She paused for a moment, avoiding his gaze. "It was the girl."

"Young Christine? What could she have possibly done to you?"

"She didn't do anything. She just… looks so much like her," she ended the sentence in a whisper.

An eyebrow quirked as he pushed, "Like whom?"

She sighed and back in the chair. "My sister."

"This is a bad thing, I take it?"

It took a few moments for her to think about what she wanted to tell him.

"When I was young, I had a sister named Aletté. She was a very… feminine girl, always playing with dolls and dressing up," she smiled at the memory, then her face became melancholy, "We lost her to the pox when I was twelve. The reason it hurts so much is that I'm the reason she got it."

When she was eleven years of age – Aletté only nine – she had fallen ill with the pox. Maman – a nursemaid hired by their father – cared for the girl in her sickness, while their birth mother never once came near. Since an early age, she had taken the place oftheir mother-figure. Aletté refused to leave the room when her sister was quarantined; their bond was quite tightly knit. One sister never left the other's side. Despite being told of the risks to her health, Aletté stubbornly stayed with her and aided Maman in nursing the girl back to health. As a result of their kind, affectionate care, she quickly returned to health. The girl made a remarkable recovery, bearing none of the usual scars from the pox.

However, a few months after her recovery, Alettéfell ill with the same, as they had been warned would happen. It was dreadfully worrying for the girl, and like her sister had done for her, she refused to leave Aletté's side. Over the next month, she willingly watched her sister slowly get worse and worse until eventually, the younger died. The girl sat by her side crying and held her hand as she left. She was so overcome with grief that she didn't speak to anyone for a year. Losing her little sister was one of the most traumatic experiences in her short life. It haunts her to think that she lived, yet her sister died from the same sickness.

"As much as it seems unlikely, Christine bears a remarkable likeness to my little sister. I almost thought I was staring at her again, seeing Aletté again… she even sounds like her," she involuntarily took a shaky breath, "I could not bear it when she spoke. So soft and gentle, the sweetest soul you'd ever know – taken from me by the same force that I survived. No older sister should have to bury the younger. It is a torture I would not wish upon my greatest enemy," she whispered, before succumbing to depressed silence.

In a split second decision, O.G. pulled her into his arms and held her for a moment, trying to console her. She hesitated before returning the gesture, wrapping her arms about him. Despite living together, they had never actually touched before in a way that friends did. Yet this gesture from him was comforting, and she was able to regain her composure. When she pulled away, she almost smiled.

"Merci, O.—" (You should know this, but it means Thank you)

"Erik," he corrected her, "My name is Erik."

She regarded him for a moment before nodding. "And mine is Camillé."

"What a pleasure it is to finally meet you, Camillé," he joked with a light smile.

"The same to you, Monsieur Erik."


So our mysterious killer woman - in other words, Camillé - has a heart after all.

Anything to say? Questions, concerns, good, bad, somewhere in between?

- Emmy