A/N: What's this? An update? Who would have seen THAT coming? Certainly not me! Thank you to tasteofthebitchpudding for her support!

Chapter Three

Christine gasped as she took in the sheer size of the auditorium. Beside her, Madame Giry nodded once, as if to say, Yes, Christine, my thoughts exactly. Why must the Americans make everything so large? Meanwhile, Meg was practically vibrating with excitement. Even as a cleaning woman, the former ballerina was thrilled to simply be in a theatre, as if the slightly musty air here had some sort of restorative powers. The three women stood at the back of the theatre, looking down the center aisle towards the stage as Christine took it all in.

It was much bigger than the Salle le Peletier, and she couldn't imagine trying to fill every seat. However, Meg and Madame had assured her that they'd seen it done several times during their tenure. The Bowery's silly comedies and cheap melodramas brought in huge crowds, even if they didn't pay much for their tickets. Meg had even taken part in one of their productions a couple of months before. It had been a sort of musical revue with several songs and dancing, and the managers had asked her to dance a little ballet. She had stood on a platform and pretended to be a ballerina in a music box. It hadn't been very complicated – just slow pirouettes en pointe. But she had danced on stage in front of an audience again, which is more than Christine could claim since the theatres closed in Paris.

Christine wistfully remembered seeing the Peletier's stage for the first time. She had been so young, and she had felt so small. Her shoulders trembled at the very idea of standing alone on that stage and filling the room with the notes of an aria. It was the same fear and reverence she felt when she stood before the altar in church.

Back then, she had blushed at the thought of the plush velvet seats and the wealthy patrons who would occupy them every night. As a performer, she knew she would live or die by their applause, and that was before she'd had any idea that her childhood sweetheart would eventually be among them.

Christine half listened as Madame Giry described the history of the building, the number of seats, square footage, etc. No doubt, it was all very useful information, but facts and figures told her very little about the soul of the place. If she squinted, Christine could imagine the theatre as it had been when it was new.

The seats had probably, at one time, been just as fine as the Peletier's, but now they were faded and damaged, the stuffing showing in some places and patched in others. The curtains were in a similar state, and the stage boards had no shine or luster. Evidently, they hadn't been polished in some time. It was clear to Christine that it had all been intended for the wealthier citizenry, but it now showed more than forty years of wear and neglect.

"We should go to the offices, so I can introduce you to our managers," Madame Giry said, turning to the wide double doors. Meg had other ideas, grabbing Christine's hand and dragging her down the aisle.

"Christine can't leave without seeing the view from the stage!"

"Are we allowed on the stage," Christine hissed, looking around and desperately hoping she didn't get in trouble on her first day.

"Of course, we can," Meg laughed, but the mischievous sparkle in her eyes did little to reassure her. "Who deserves to be on the stage more than the prima ballerina and the prima donna of the Paris Opera?"

Christine snorted at Meg's description of their careers. Ballet rat and chorus member would be more accurate. Still, once they had reached the end of the aisle, she had to admit that even this worn out stage held a certain mystique.

They scrambled up over the foot lights, Christine muttering that it would have been easier to enter from back stage. Meg helped her straighten up, and Christine looked out onto the same seats and boxes as before. But they were different somehow. They seemed almost enchanted from this vantage point. Christine couldn't see the faded spots or the patches. She didn't see Madame who was probably glaring at them with disapproval.

Christine paced center stage, feeling the boards creak a little under her weight. She could smell the faint scent of old wood. It was one of her absolute favorite scents – better than any of the expensive perfumes that wafted through the lobby of the Peletier. These boards felt more like home than Perros Guirec or the Giry's flat ever could.

Though Meg was hardly dressed for ballet, she did a few quick traveling turns across the stage. Perhaps she needed to remind Christine – or herself – that she could.

"What was that?" Madame Giry's voice cracked through the silence like thunder. She was coming down the center aisle with "Was that supposed to be chaînés? I have never seen such poor footwork!"

"I'm not wearing the right shoes, and you know it!"

"Then perhaps, you should not dance without the proper footwear!"

"It seemed alright to me," came a voice from the side of the stage. The three women hadn't noticed him come from the shadows of the back stage to lean against the curtain rigging. He was of average height, perhaps a little on the stouter side, and had light brown hair that was graying at the temples. He looked as if he were in his forties and wore an amiable expression. "But then again, I wouldn't know that much about ballet, would I?"

"Mr. Thompson," Madame Giry called from the aisle. "This is Christine Daaé, your new seamstress." Christine's head bobbed in a nervous greeting. "We were just showing her around the theatre before she starts work. I'm afraid that my daughter got carried away in her enthusiasm."

Mr. Thompson waved her fears away and stepped forward, holding his hand out to Christine. After a moment's hesitation, Christine gripped Mr. Thompson's hand and then quickly let go.

"Christine, this is Mr. Alfred Thompson, one of our managers," Madame Giry introduced.

"I handle the business side of things," Mr. Thompson explained, noticeably looking her up and down. She didn't feel that there was any…unwanted attention in his gaze. It was more of a measuring up, as if he was wondering if the pale former opera singer in front of him, whose frame didn't entirely fill out her old dress, was ready to take on the job. "Martin is the Artistic Manager," he said archly, as if there was nothing artistic about Martin at all. "You'll probably meet him when he tumbles in later in the morning."

"Meg, Christine, come down at once," Madame Giry said. Christine hurried to jump back down into the aisle. Meg followed somewhat ruefully. "Christine has much to learn about the theatre and very little time."

Christine stuck close to Madame Giry as they made their way through the maze that was the back stage of the theatre. Meg trailed behind them, greeting people along the way, some in French, others in English, still others in Italian or German. The little blonde dancer seemed quite popular, at least with the denizens of the back stage.

Christine rather envied Meg's ability to charm. Meg had grown up in the theatre and had never lacked company. Her father, the late Monsieur Giry had been a danseur, and then a choreographer, and her mother had, of course, become the ballet mistress after retiring as the prima ballerina. Christine, meanwhile, had grown up with hardly anyone but her Papa to talk to, rarely having the chance to really get to know anyone until Professor and Mamma Valerius came along. She still felt a little shy and awkward around strangers, even after crossing the ocean with a ship full of them.

Christine met so many new people, she doubted she'd ever learn everyone's names and jobs, even if she worked here for the rest of her life. However, after being introduced to the head seamstress, she doubted she would ever forget her.

Augusta Heller was a robust woman in her mid-fifties who seemed to have taken on a permanent squint from years of peering at her needle and thread in dim light. Her golden blonde and silvery gray hair was bound tightly in a braided bun, and when Madame opened the door of the costume room, Frau Heller's drab brown dress and cream apron were in almost comical contrast with the lacy bright pink frock she was holding.

Frau Heller was carefully sewing maroon trim onto the bodice. The dress looked a few seasons old, clearly an outmoded garment that the head seamstress was updating to appear more fashionable, rather than go to the trouble and expense of buying new fabric and making a dress from scratch. Christine briefly wondered if this dress had started its useful life as a costume piece, or if had been discarded by a debutante and picked up secondhand.

Christine's eyes darted around the room and realized that there were no other seamstresses in sight.

"Komm her," Frau Heller grunted from her sewing table. Christine hastily complied while Madame Giry kept her place by the door.

Frau Heller carefully laid the dress out on the table, making sure not to crease it or pull any of her stitches. She held out both of her hands, palm up. Christine just looked at them, not sure what Frau Heller wanted her to do.

"Hände!"

Christine jumped at the impatient command and pushed both of her hands into Frau Heller's. She jerked them closer to her face, turning them over a couple of times and examining them closely. She made approving noises.

"Klein. Small," Frau Heller declared, letting go of them. "Hard work. Will do."

Christine wasn't sure if that meant she could see that Christine's hands were no longer strangers to hard work, as they had been in Paris, or if she was warning her that her hands and hard work would shortly be introduced. Perhaps a bit of both.

Madame Giry gave her a slightly softer look than usual – perhaps out of pity that Christine was clearly the only person working under Frau Heller to costume this theatrical company – and exited the room.

Frau Heller wasted no time in putting Christine to work, giving her needles, thread, and several costumes that had been pinned and were ready to be hemmed. There were four men's jackets pinned at the sleeves, six pairs of trousers, and two dresses.

Christine did some quick arithmetic in her head. This company mounted a new production approximately once every three weeks – primarily musical revues and other such "sketch" productions with three or four melodramas mixed in every year. She thought there were about fifteen to twenty performers in the revues, maybe ten in the melodramas. That was about sixteen productions, since they had a few weeks off throughout the year. It came to more than two hundred costumes a year, assuming there were no repeated costumes.

She looked at Frau Heller's bent back and hoped fervently that they reused costumes frequently.

xXx

Two jackets and three pairs of trousers later, Mr. Thompson pushed open their door, followed by another man, who appeared to be walking rather unsteadily. Even the dim light of their oil lamps seemed to be too much for him. He was taller and thinner than Mr. Thompson and seemed a little green about the face. Christine strongly suspected that heavy drinking the night before was the likely culprit. She had never had a hangover before, but she'd seen enough of them to read the signs.

"Ms…Day, was it?"

"Daaé, sir, Christine Daaé," she corrected, springing to her feet.

"How about we just call you Ms. Christine – that's something everybody around here ought to be able to manage," Mr. Thompson continued. "Ms. Christine, this is Martin Wilson, our Artistic Director."

"Ms. Christine," he nodded. He gave her the once over, just as Mr. Thompson had earlier, but there was something more appraising in Mr. Wilson's gaze. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and held her hands stiffly behind her back.

"Martin and I have some matters to discuss," Mr. Thompson said a bit tightly, "but we wanted to make sure you were feeling right at home."

"I'm always at home in a theatre, sir," Christine assured him with a quick smile.

"We'll let you get back to work, Frau Heller, Ms. Christine. We'll see you around."

"Yes, I certainly hope we do," Mr. Wilson said, as they turned to go, giving her an odd look.

Christine sat down at the table across from Frau Heller, who was shaking her head. "Belästigung," she muttered.

Christine had heard several women on the ship mutter this same word many times. Trouble. Harassment. Molestation.

A/N: I've also cleaned up my previous chapters a little and reposted. It's the perfectionist in me. I can't imagine publishing hard copies of anything I write because then I couldn't revise anymore!

Apologies if I got any of the German wrong. I didn't think I could do too poorly with a few short phrases.