Clara's P.O.V

The dim lighting of Practice Room 2 scratched at my eyes. Little crown glass widows lined the farthest wall, letting in small heavenly spotlights of natural light. It was refreshing to finally see dust particles dance around the rooms.

I glanced around the large space at the vast expanse of chairs and music stands all lined up. Some musicians had arrived early to assemble their instruments and tune, but many seats were left empty. Whilst set design obtained much of the main stage, it was impossible to practice there and so I learned very quickly to resign myself to become comfortable with the Practice Room 2 arrangements.

The music had yet to be passed around and so I had taken a seat between the second violinists and the one oboe player who had arrived. My co-player's chair was empty, and I stared at it, mulling over whether they would be kind and friendly or at least a civilised person.

"He always turns up five minutes before the rehearsal so don't worry- you're not on your own." A plump bald man in his mid-fifties said absently.

"That's good." Was all I said.

The man snorted as he rubbed rosin on his bow, "Yeah. Good for who?"

I frowned in worry, that was obviously not a great sign. Then again, I was going to abstain from making my judgments from those of others.

More musicians filed in and readied themselves as I played with a loose thread in my black dress, winding it around my finger until the end went bright red.

It was a good few minutes before the conductor arrived. She strode in with the vigour of someone who would take no fuss and I knew I was dead. She wouldn't let slackers get away.

Mlle. Denise Bloch- according to my very astute sources. The old woman appeared worse than Mme. Giry, but without the kindly glimmer of relenting in her eyes.

Right behind the conductor was my co-player. He seemed to be a handsome, refined young gentleman, oddly wearing a suit for someone who wished to play in a pit for a job. Our deductions, Watson, say a rich man- but I don't think that was hard to guess.

The man stood in front of the stand ahead of mine and rose an eyebrow.

"Good morning. You may call me Louis. I see none of these players informed you of your placing." He directed a pointed stare at the portly man who had spoken to me earlier, but the man didn't give a toss.

"Please move a seat to your right." He flicked his finger in a dismissive motion.

Throughout his speech I merely squinted at him and pursed my lips. I then understood the violinist's previous comment and heartily agreed with him- on a mental level which I didn't think the imbecile in front of me could ever achieve.

Grudgingly, I otched over a seat and sorted out the pile of music which had been unceremoniously plonked on my stand.

As I set Louis' music on the stand, I saw him twang a tuning fork and tune to it. My eyes widened in horror as I saw the man sit back in his chair all smug that his flute was tuned.

There were so many things I wanted to call him, but all that came out was a spitting "Posh pillock."

Louis slowly turned his head, "Excuse me?"

"Pretty penny! P-pretty penny that f-flute must have cost?" Yet, in my head was the booming voice going 'and the best liar award goes to Clara Daaé'.

To my blesséd relief, Louis just nestled comfortably into his chair, a bigger smirk on the toad's face.

Mlle. Bloch stood at the front and tapped her stand to gain our attention. "We have a new flautist in our orchestra- a Mlle. Daaé."

A few heads turned in surprise to get a glance of me. For musicians, their eyesight was very poor for not noticing me- well, Louis' curt outburst.

"Attention! We will begin at the first aria of Il Muto and perfect it today and then we will move onto the ballet, which will take a couple of rehearsals to get right after the shambles I witnessed on Saturday."

A snicker was heard from the brass section- of course it was the brass. My 'tutor' had told me all about what it was like to actually be in an orchestra and so I felt as though I had already been in one and knew the ins and outs of the culture.

The piano played concert A and all of us tuned, except Louis. I so wanted to give him a thump on the back of the head- but I don't think that would have given a very good first impression.

Mlle. Bloch gave a bar for nothing and then it began.

Hell.

In all honesty, it may have appeared to people before that I enjoy playing the flute. And yes, when I get it right and play with others, I can see the appeal, but I just don't feel it. When I imagine scenes as I play- it's all forced.

For example, take Erik's wonderful Holmes and Watson piece. It's fabulous music, but that's all it is to me- music. I can enjoy it, sure, but really feel it to the extent of many- no.

Music was and is a chore. I only practice because I don't want to forget how to play and then regret not keeping it up- especially when it's the only 'hobby' I have.

Due to this lack of enthusiasm, there's something you all should know- I'm not very good. At all.

I can read notes and I can do the fingering and I can produce the notes. But, I lack that je ne se quoi, which makes people dream whilst they play.

Still to this day, I never told Erik- he would be so disappointed in me.

I would love to say that the aria went off without a hitch when I was sight-reading because the music inspired me and wound fantastic images in my brain helping to flow the notes from one section the other- but I would be lying and we all know how good I was at that.

At the end of the aria I bounced to the back of my seat in despair and faintly heard the ting of Louis' tuning fork as he grumbled and adjusted his head-joint.

I distractedly stared at his music as Mlle. Boch corrected something in the cello part, inwardly laughing that she hadn't come directly to me with a disapproving grimace.

Louis turned to me with an unreadable expression. "You did not play half the notes and your scales were botched at best."

"Anything else?" I asked uninterested- I already knew what he was telling me.

He clicked his tongue, "Dynamics do not seem to exist in your 'playing' and you were too slow the majority of the time."

I hummed an impressed hum and nodded. "Conclusions?"

"I think you know." He said darkly.

I finally snapped. I know it was wrong, but I didn't need the arrogant twit pointing out my guilty flaws.

"Yes, I do know. I know you're an arrogant idiot who thinks tuning to a fork is good. At least I know that a decent player should try and flow with the rest of the orchestra, whether it's sharp or not. I also know that you are a rude moron who introduced yourself through gritted teeth- not even asking my name personally.

You do know that people only tolerate you, right? Because I've already gauged that from about twenty minutes of being here and that was longer than necessary."

Honestly, as soon as I had said it, I felt guilty for it. Louis looked deeply hurt and I had attracted a few looks from those around us. I felt cold and prickly tingles from my head downwards and wanted to sink into my chair and disappear.

I no longer wanted to be part of an orchestra like this one and my reputation was already in the gutter.

I grabbed my flute case, not bothering to pack up my flute. I just needed to be out of there.

I mumbled a small "Sorry" to Louis as I dashed out the door, ignoring the confused shout of "Clara?" from Mlle. Boch as I went.

My legs pumped fast as I dashed through the passageways. My lungs burned for oxygen and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth whilst sweet air felt too cold for my mouth. It only occurred to me how long I had been running when I reached the roof.

I slammed into the door- I swear I broke the lock- but I didn't care. The afternoon sun cascaded down and covered the roof in its golden light. The air smelt fresh and clean compared to the cramped and dusty opera house.

My knees gave way under me and I sank to the floor, catching my breath. I stared at my spread-out hands as my lungs heaved. I didn't realise how unfit I was.

The flute case lay beside me. I didn't want to look at it, it just made me feel useless. I pushed it away, not caring if the underside scratched. It was useless anyway.

Slowly, I lay down on my back and closed my eyes. I knew I would have to go back to work eventually and the incessant calls of the practice rooms never waited for idle hands.

Sleep. I needed sleep. I just wanted to sleep. The warmth of the sun and the quiet made me more sluggish than I had felt in a long time.

The creak of the door is what jolted me. Cold shivers skirted up my body, I panicked that it was Mme. Giry come to fire me for not working. I shot onto my elbows as the door opened.

Arthur. Blessèd Arthur. I collapsed back onto the roof, hitting my head. The impact jarred me and I gasped in pain.

"Are you okay?"

I felt two hands help me up to a sitting position.

"Physically or mentally?" I quipped.

He sighed, "You're fine then, but can I check ya head?"

I leaned forward to give my consent and he pushed my hair aside to get a good look, running his finger over the spot. I could feel him hesitate for a moment in his administrations and clicked at what he was staring at- oh flipping crackers.

"Well, you're heads fine, you're just gonna git a little bump. Gonna hafta call ya humpty dumpty." I laughed at his joke.

"But whatta about this?" He traced the line of my scar.

"Burning oil."

He sucked air between his teeth, "Sounds nasty. All better now, I hope?"

I nodded and crossed my legs and he copied me. We sat in comfortable silence for a moment as the breeze swept through the statues on the roof.

"How did you know I was here?" I asked him.

"Let's just say that when you're bolting through the corridors- you're not exactly subtle." Arthur said with a supressed smile.

"Oh."

"So, what's up buttercup? Tell old Prince Arthur." He looked at me with real interest and I just wanted to tell him. I needed an outside party to give me advice. I knew Erik would offer lessons, but right then, that wasn't what I needed to hear.

"It started when I got into the orchestra pit. I didn't want to be in the pit. I just- I can't play that well. You'd think ten years of playing would equate to some form of prowess, but I just can't. I sit with all these snobs who have had professional lessons, they hear music, I just hear music." At this point I was gasping for words and my eyes pricked with tears from words I had never spoken before.

"I want to play, but I can't play. I-I just can't. It doesn't come." I hiccupped out.

Arthur moved to be beside me and hugged me. I collapsed against him and cried. I felt so comfortable around him, he was rocking me a little, humming a tune to calm me down.

"I feel useless." I murmured into his shirt once my eyes had dried up a little.

"You're not useless." He breathed.

Arthur shifted his weight, so I had to sit up, his eyes locking onto mine with full seriousness.

"Now, I have never heard you play. Yet, you got into the orchestra pit. This can only mean one thing: you can play." He put his hands on my shoulders, "Who cares about those snobs? Not me and you definitely shouldn't. I know it can be hard for others to see your achievements when all they see is inadequacy, but they are your achievements. It's your first day, obviously you weren't going to get the pieces today. Some people can sight read, others can't- guess which category you fit into." He took a deep breath, "But that doesn't mean you won't ever be able to play it.

Tell ya what, why don't yous give the orchestra another go and if your really don't wanna, then I will help you find somefin your passionate about."

I sucked the corner of my lip, he made sense and I felt stupid. I gave up too quickly and deep down I knew it too.

I nodded, "I guess I should practice then."

"Leave it till tomorra, it's only Tuesday and you're already exhausted." He smiled at me.

A grin spread across my face and it made me happy, I had a new perspective and I was going to follow through.

"You know, you're not too shabby with the whole motivational talk." I tapped his arm.

Arthur lay a hand on his chest, "Careful, dearie, that could almost be misconstrued as a compliment." He grinned impishly.

I thought about my practice the next day, Wednesday. Wednesday. That made that day Tuesday. Tuesday. Oh powdered pumpkins on a pick of pies- it was Tuesday. Christine had a lesson and I was supposed to ensure it happened.

Without thinking, I bolted and left a startled Arthur on the roof, wondering where on Earth I had run off to?