A/N: Just to let you know I'm back at University now and may or may not manage updates as regularly as I have done in the past two weeks. But I'll do my best to stick to a writing routine. Do let me know your thoughts, they help me see things from your point of view and chase away any doubts I might have.

Chapter 6: Paris

1882

When Christine awoke the following morning, she felt as well rested as she hadn't done since her arrival in Paris weeks ago. She did vaguely remember the strange voice that had spoken to her, but decided that it was nothing more than a figment of her dreams, a manifestation of her desire to receive her father's praise once more.

The dormitory was already alive with movement and noises, as the various girls clambered about to collect their belongings and prepare themselves for the first day of rehearsals that lay ahead. Christine soon followed suit, embracing the sense of tranquillity that Meg had helped her restore the previous night. When nobody came to accompany them to the rehearsals, Katarina, one of the older girls took it upon herself to usher them out. Everyone was responsible for themselves, of course, but it was still refreshing to see that a different, more caring dynamic was starting to develop.

Her ballet shoes in hand, Christine joined the ranks of the chorus girls and followed them towards the front of the building where the auditorium was located.

"Mother told me Monsieur Richard has sacked a stagehand this morning," Meg whispered while she seamlessly fitted herself next to Christine.

"But she said yesterday that there was no-one in the fly tower so no-one could have been responsible. She even told them that it had been the Opera Ghost's doing."

"Easier to blame it on a person than a spirit, I suppose. More believable, too, especially for highly-strung people like La Carlotta."

They both snorted in amusement but quickly stifled their laughter when some of the older girls turned their heads to fix them with a stern look.

"Still, the poor man…it just isn't right," Christine concluded as they turned the last corner and entered the stage.

The two managers had taken a seat in the front row that had been cleared of all the garments that belonged to La Carlotta. They gave everyone a warm smile and sipped from their teacups with an almost serene calmness. Before them, in the orchestra pit, the musicians had also assembled and occupied themselves tuning their instruments.

"Punctual as always," Moncharmin remarked before he fell silent again, leaving the chorus girls confused as to where they were meant to stand and what they were meant to do.

For a short while they simply shuffled around, not daring to converse with one another openly. But then Katarina appeared to find the courage to organise them once again.

"Put on your shoes if you need any and haven't already done so," she instructed, "and let us get warmed up so we won't delay the beginning of the rehearsal."

Heads inclined dutifully, redundant items were flung into the wings and soon all the girls were engaging in exercises that helped prepare their muscles for the strain of rehearsal. By the time La Carlotta finally made her entrance, almost an hour had passed, yet the managers took it with humour and grace. Monsieur Poligny certainly would not have tolerated such tardiness.

"Perhaps you would like a moment to prepare yourself, Signora?" Moncharmin offered graciously and with a polite bow. "The orchestra is at your disposal today."

Carlotta's eyes fell onto the conductor and with a haughty laugh she shrugged off her salmon-tinted coat, relying on one of her maids to catch it, and twisted a strand of her chestnut-coloured hair around one, pudgy finger.

"How very kind of you, Monsieur," she answered silkily, "but I am quite ready. Let us begin at the top?"

Meg appeared to have been right, Christine thought, the sacking of the stagehand seemed to have settled the diva's nerves sufficiently. Without further ado, she took to the stage, giving a curt signal to the chorus to shift out of the way and ignoring completely that her companion, Signor Piangi, should have had the honours of singing first. Christine saw his eyes flickering towards the management who was too enraptured to notice, she also saw his brows furrow at the oversight.

"When you are ready, Monsieur," Richard addressed the conductor and sank back down on his seat.

When the first beautiful notes of music filled the air, Christine was overcome by the familiar feeling of peace, one that was quickly broken when La Carlotta began to sing. Just as it had been the case on the previous day, her voice seemed loud enough to shatter glass and Christine nervously directed her gaze upwards, but all set pieces seemed to have been removed to avoid further accidents.

Still, it wasn't long before La Carlotta appeared to be struggling. At irregular intervals, the volume of her voice started to waver, at times disappearing altogether. Though at first the diva tried to remain calm, soon she forgot about disguising her shock and began grasping at her chest and throat, both of which were covered by the burgundy leather of her corset, with an increasing sense of panic. At last, she was cut off all together and as the orchestra continued to play, she shot angry glares around the auditorium in search of the culprit. But there was no movement, not even up in the gilded boxes, until Monsieur Moncharmin jumped to his feet and hurried to the stage.

"Perhaps a glass of water, Signora?" he offered nervously, the fear in his eyes only growing when the diva seemed to work herself up to twice her size.

"Water, Monsieur?" she shrieked. "Do you wish for me to be poisoned as well as undermined?!"

The poor man seemed to have no answer to that, appeared confused even as to the meaning of her words, and spluttered and gestured hopelessly as the woman strode past him and deep into the auditorium.

"But, Signora, the rehearsal?" Richard called after her, though truthfully he did not seem all too concerned since he remained in his seat.

"I will not sing until this fool is captured!"

Her voice seemed perfectly normal again and Signor Piangi less than impressed.

"But Signora," Moncharmin insisted, jogging after her through the aisles so that his tailcoat fluttered behind him, "you know the new patron will be here any moment. He has been looking forward to your performance for weeks now."

He grasped her hands, lifted both of them to his lips and bestowed several kisses upon her knuckles. For a moment, La Carlotta seemed to wrestle with herself as flattery tangled with the fright she still had not shaken off entirely.

"We must present something and you're the best," he tried once again.

"Christine Daaé could sing the part, Messieurs!" Meg suddenly announced so loudly that Christine startled.

She had quickly learned that the young Giry could be unpredictable, impulsive even but an impromptu performance for the Opera Ghost was one thing, a performance in front of the whole ensemble and the management something else entirely. It was true that she knew the part of Marguerite, her father had exposed her to many operas in his time, but that did not mean she had memorised all the lyrics, let alone possessed the talent to do justice to a role like that.

The silence seemed to stretch on indefinitely as the air around her crackled with tension. The lime lights felt much too hot on her skin but all the eyes were burning her far worse. Incredulously, she stared at her friend, trying to discern what had made her utter such a ridiculous claim, but in her kind face she only found genuine affection and a small amount of expectation, as if she sensed that something was clearly due to happen any moment now.

"A chorus girl?" La Carlotta shrieked, bursting into fits of laughter that her companion gladly reciprocated.

The sound she produced was not feminine or becoming, but an ugly gulping sound that seemed to expand her stomach against the restraints of her garments.

"Good heavens, you are all raving mad! What are you waiting for then, Monsieur? Let the girl sing. I am yet to encounter a member of the conservatoire that possesses an ounce of talent."

Christine thought about the ballet mistress and the elderly gentleman that had given them voice lessons, she thought about the tireless energy, the boundless passion they had displayed. She thought about Meg who had continued dancing on one leg until she had been given the chance to buy a prosthetic counterpart. She thought about the rest of the girls and everything they had lost but the conviction they had maintained nonetheless. And suddenly when she looked at the arrogant beast in front of her, a fire seemed to fill her belly, giving her the determination to take firm steps forwards until her feet were aligned with the very edge of the stage.

"Messieurs?" she asked firmly, tilting her chin up to strengthen the resolve that already seemed to crumble again.

"From the beginning?" Richard asked, glancing uncertainly from Moncharmin to the conductor.

She felt her legs tremble beneath her when at last the music started to soar. Her heart was fluttering in her chest, her palms sweaty. She tried to envision the auditorium as it had been the previous night, dark and empty, but it was impossible with Carlotta's green eyes boring into hers from across the room and the presence of all the conservatoire girls just behind her. The first few lines came forth breathlessly, as if her throat had grown narrower somehow and did not permit the same amount of air to flow anymore. She focused on her breathing, tried to relax her shoulders but found she could not support her voice fully. Still, she pushed on, determined to diminish the triumph that glistened in Carlotta's eyes.

The doors were opened so softly that she at first did not notice the tall figure striding confidently into the auditorium. The orchestra was drowning out everything else around her and her eyes were still locked with Carlotta while she willed herself to continue. It was only when she became aware of the whispers that were beginning to swell behind her that her eyes fell on him. He was tall and of average-build with kind blue eyes that twinkled in a familiar face. His blonde hair was cut fashionably short, accentuating the square line of his jaw. His clothes were only of the best material, the double-breasted silver waistcoat a nice contrast to the black tailcoat, trousers and cravat that made up the rest of the ensemble. He walked slowly but with conviction and with the aid of a cane that gave him the appearance of a much older man.

Her voice cracked when realisation dawned on her, then simply froze. Memories infiltrated her mind unbidden. The sea, her red scarf, the accident. She could scarcely believe that he was standing here before her. How desperately he must hate her.

Suddenly, the tension in the auditorium came crashing down on her again. La Carlotta's croaking laughter echoed in her ears where it mixed and mingled with the snickering of the other chorus girls.

"Please forgive me," she whispered and, picking up her skirts, fled the stage.

In her panic, she did not look where her legs carried her, simply allowed them to create some distance between her and the past. Light and dark marble blurred together as she flew down the corridors, down the staircase and into the chapel. With no space to go, she stopped at last and sank to her knees. Her cheeks were streaked with tears and more followed as she buried her face in her hands. She had not felt this wretchedly miserable since her father's fingers had slipped through her hand. Now it felt as if her own life was disappearing also.

Surely Raoul had recognised her and if the managers would not punish her for her impertinence and her sudden disappearance, he would ask them to have her removed. She had destroyed his life, or so she'd thought, and he had every right to want revenge. It would be all too simple now. The whole ensemble, the whole Opera had witnessed that she was nothing more than a fraud. She had no real talent, or at the very least not the nerves that were required to take to the stage as a prima donna. She had proven herself yet another example of mediocrity.

"I hope you get nodules on you cords, Carlotta," she whispered venomously before covering her mouth and choking back another sob. "No, I don't wish that." The glow of a dozen candles blurred before her eyes but she could still feel their heat. "Forgive me, father, for the Angel of Music has chosen another. I'm not worthy of him anymore."

She lingered on the cold stone floor until even the last tears had subsided and only the heavy emptiness remained in her heart. She was frightened to return to the dormitory, to face all the girls who would surely loathe her again now that she had acted like she was better than them. They would not allow her the time to explain that she had only been trying to avenge them, to put La Carlotta down a peg or two. She wondered briefly if Meg already had to bear their anger.

Wiping her cheeks a last time, she pushed herself up before taking a tentative step out of the chapel. Her face would, no doubt, be puffy and red but there was little that could be done about it. She walked back up the grand staircase and down the corridor with all its gas-lamps. She had nearly reached the dormitory when a sudden movement caught her attention.

The insect appeared out of nowhere, its little legs propelling it rapidly across the smooth surface of the floor. Christine shrieked and shrank back against the nearest wall, clutching her hand to her chest while the beady eyes of the scorpion remained fixed on her. She did not dare to breathe, could not summon the focus to wonder how on earth the exotic creature could have appeared in a Parisian opera house and simply stared at it, hoping that it would scurry off again from where it had come. Unfortunately, it approached her instead, pressing its black body closer to the floor and extending its terrible, pointy tail. A few more seconds passed and then, all of a sudden, music started flowing forth. It was almost like a strange dream, as if she was losing her mind, but the melody was most certainly emanating from the scorpion.

Hesitantly, she crouched down and examined the little creature more closely and with a gasp realised that it was not alive, that it was nothing more than an extremely well-crafted machine. As if sensing her realisation, it suddenly turned around and began scampering away, past the dormitories and deeper still into the other end of the corridor. Incensed at the cruel deception, at this malicious prank, she hurried after him, her fatigue making her testy enough to yearn to confront whoever was behind it.

In the end, she only found herself in a dressing room, one that appeared to have been out of use for many years. The walls, the dresser and the ornate table were covered in a smooth layer of dust, the large mirror on the other side of the wall was so murky that she could barely see her own reflection. And yet, two lonely candles were burning on either side of it and that's where the scorpion had stopped also, producing a few last fading notes.

"Show yourself!" she demanded, though her voice sounded shaky and uncertain.

She was all too aware all of a sudden that she was utterly alone.

"Do you so yearn to see my face?" a voice boomed in return.

Christine flinched in surprise and fear alike and glanced around wildly trying to locate the man behind it.

"I have spoken to you before yet you paid me no heed."

She wrapped her arms around herself and stared at the little scorpion.

"How may I call you?" she tried tentatively. "You must offer me a name, a title at least since you seem to know very well who I am."

"I have had many names in my time, child." The answer was philosophical, bestowing more beauty to a voice that already surpassed her wildest dreams. "A ghost, a spirt…an angel."

She felt shaken by every word spoken, to her dismay she even felt fresh tears well up in her eyes that she could not explain. But it was all there in that heavy melancholy, that powerful agony that clung to every note.

"The Opera Ghost," she whispered, the words simply slipping out.

Laughter echoed through the room, rich and yet somewhat terrifying.

"How ungrateful you are," he spoke at last, "did you not sing for me only yesterday? Yet today you renounce me."

"You are not the Angel of Music!" she replied firmly, looking around once more for him.

"But I could be, Christine." Deepest sorrow was tainting his voice. "You have a gift, a talent, a soul quite remarkably unique in a world as desolate as this. You are quite wrong to believe that the Angel of Music has cast you aside. How could you possibly think so when you're the very fabric of music itself?"

She stared at the mirror and found her wide-eyed reflection in the layer of dust. Oh how he stirred something up inside her, this man, this disembodied voice, how he moved and freed a part of her long ago buried. How easy it was to forget about everything else he had done, should he truly be the Opera Ghost.

"You wished nodules upon Carlotta's vocal cords, did you not?"

"How? How could you possibly know?" she whispered, panic rising anew.

"I see and hear everything, Christine. I am the heartbeat of this Opera, my blood runs through every passage, my bones are the very foundations of this building. You must believe me when I tell you that no such ill fate needs to befall La Carlotta. If you permit me to teach you, your voice will eclipse hers and before long, Paris will be at your feet."

The promise was intoxicating, his words had an almost physical effect on her as she felt a sudden rush while her cheeks flushed with excitement.

"I do not wish to take her place," she demurred, thinking about the chorus girls and the miserable existence she'd suffer, should she agree.

"Perhaps not for your own selfish reasons but to set an example," he argued, "you owe it to them, you owe it to your father."

She swallowed, felt a fresh lump in her throat. Perhaps one more chance would suffice, just one more performance to open the managers' eyes, to open the door for simple girls such as herself.

"And where would you teach me?" she asked quietly.

"In this very room. Why do you think I've brought you here? Every night at 8 o'clock you will meet me here and I will tutor you. Provided, of course, you agree."

She thought of the long hours of rehearsals, of all the hard work the other girls had invested and nodded eventually. "As you wish."

"Then go now, you are clearly fatigued and a tired body is of no use to me."

Those parting words stung, rejected her as if she was nothing more than an object that had outlived its usefulness. Biting her lip against the fresh onslaught of tears, she picked up her skirts and hurried out of the dimly lit room and towards the dormitory.

Heads turned in her direction when she entered, whispers grew louder and louder but she only hurried to her bed, ignoring all of them, even little Meg who looked desperate to talk. She had only just curled up on the soft linens when she noticed the white envelope that seemed to have slid off her pillow. With fearful fingers she opened it and produced a small note.

Little Lotte,

Why did you run after I'd only just found you again? I tried meeting you once the rehearsal had finished but was told you would see no-one. Would you not indulge me and permit me to take you out to supper?

With fond regards,

Raoul de Chagny