A/N: This chapter was written in response to a speed challenge from milegre, whose stories don't get nearly enough praise and feedback as they should. She is possibly one of the most creative writers on the site, and I thoroughly enjoy reading her unique work.

In response to Thornwitch's comment on Chapter 9 about Tora having no survival instincts whatsoever, I assume that's in reference to Tora's "Kill me if you dare!" when she came across the lake.

It was a rather reckless thing to say, assuredly, but she was being slightly sarcastic because for one thing, she was in a rather bolder mood than usual, and for another thing, she was quite certain he'd do nothing of the sort.

And of course there's the glaring fact that she doesn't exactly know him like we do, so there's another reason she'd say that so flippantly.

Tora's chicken-plucking was not at all up to standard that next morning. She just barely managed to pluck nearly half the chickens that she usually did.

It was noticed. Her wages for that day were subsequently cut by half.

Desperate, hungry, out of sorts, Tora collapsed on the bed when she and Agnes returned home and, embarrassed but nonetheless at her wits' end, she wept heartily.

She felt her aunt's hand pat her back. "There, there…" she soothed, and then asked, quietly, in a tone of regret, "Are you missing your man, Tora? I feel awful for having ripped you away…"

Tora's only response was a muffled sniff. She rolled over, eyes dark and angry and bloodshot by her crying. She refused to look at her aunt, preferring to stare broodily at a cob-webbed corner.

"I don't resent you," she said softly, "only what this has become. I am reduced to nothing here, when before, in Paris, I could fulfill myself with my dancing and my song…"

Aunt Agnes sighed. "I feel like the wicked witch, dear."

Tora slumped. "Don't. It's not your fault. Only the fault of the pickpocket. And your errant cousin, who refuses to respond to those letters you sent."

"But it is my fault…" said Aunt. "I brought you here, didn't I? I came out of a shadowy past to spirit you away, to a better life, I thought, so much better than those cramped dormitories and the risqué ballet costumes revealing you onstage for lascivious old nobles to see…but all this didn't exactly turn out the way I'd hoped, to be sure." Agnes sighed again and patted Tora's shoulder. "I should have ignored that stubborn impulse of mine and simply gotten the both of us on that ship back to France, that's what I should have done. Older people are often set in their ways…"

"Yes," muttered Tora.

"You're angry, child," Agnes said. "So very angry…don't pretend you're not. And you're angry with me, specifically."

"Yes," said Tora, finally.

"Well then," said Agnes. "This is obviously doing you no good at all, being here in New York and sweating in a hot factory whilst plucking poultry…so if you want us to go back to France, then back to France we'll go."

Tora sighed with relief, hugging her aunt briefly.

"You know," said Agnes, "I must admit that the move to America was…not entirely for altruistic reasons."

Tora looked at her. "Meaning?"

"Meaning that I am quickly becoming a tired old woman," said Aunt, "and I was so very tired of France. That's why I wouldn't go back, at first, when our money was stolen and you were so adamant about packing our bags. I was so stubborn, so set on not going back to the place which had imprisoned me for years under its seductive Parisian spell, so set on forgetting what had transpired there in all the years I'd made it my home…trying to forget…that my being there had caused my sister to die alone, and her child to run away believing herself to be orphaned, alone, with not a family member in the world."

Agnes sighed. "But you are very like my sister, did you know that? A bit more temperamental, to be sure, but Addie always did have a knack for getting her way. So adamant, so opinionated…"

"Rather," Tora said, "like you."

There was silence for a moment before the two of them began to laugh, albeit a little bitterly, and while they packed their bags, a letter came.

"Breathe from your stomach, Christine."

The ingénue complied readily. "Ah—ah—ah!" The first three notes of the simple C scale, for warm-up.

"Now," he said, " 'O, terra, addio' from Aida."

"Must I?" she asked. "It is so sad a selection…and it is for more than one voice."

"I will supply the part of Radamès," he said, and wondered at the sudden smile on her face.

"You do have such a lovely voice, Angel," she murmured. "I should certainly like to hear you sing. But…do Angels feel sadness? You sound…different tonight."

Erik's lips tightened. "Do you want me to go away, Christine?"

Christine blanched. "No."

"Then…" he said, attempting to sound more gentle, though his voice betrayed him, "refrain from asking me such things. You must learn to be more obedient."

The girl stiffened a little, but sighed. "Very well, Angel. I'll not ask. But must we sing O terra, addio?"

"Christine," he thundered.

The girl winced. "Oh, if you insist, then. But it will put me in such a melancholy mood…"

"SING!" he shouted, covering his mouth suddenly, appalled at himself for lashing out, afraid that now she would be frightened and reject him forever, invisible or not.

Her face went white, her eyes wide, and then, she began to sing.

"That's it, Christine…" he whispered. "Forgive me, child. I am harsh, at times…" He began to sing the rich, heartbreaking tenor.

Christine came considerably alive at this, and sang with brief rapture, inspired by his heavenly voice.

Almost immediately, however, her eyes widened again, and her voice shrank, became tinny, forced, though she kept singing despite it.

Erik winced a little. "You have such potential, child, and yet you do not sing out! I need you to sing with your whole soul!"

Christine slumped. "Can't, Angel. I can't."

Erik gritted his teeth. "I will leave you for tonight…"

"No!" she said suddenly, leaping to her feet. "Don't go yet! Oh, please...I was having such a horrible day, and your voice cheered me so..."

"I must, Christine. Heaven calls me…" He winced considerably at the blasphemous lie. But God would not strike him dead, after all, for there was no God.

Erik smiled grimly at the thought. No God? Only devils? What a weary, awful world it was…but there were mortal angels, at any rate, like the lovely creature on the opposite side of the mirror, with no idea that her teacher was a monster…

Christine slumped a little. "Oh, very well, Angel. I am no one to interfere with the business of Heaven…" though he could have sworn that suspicion clouded her features for the briefest moment before he slipped away, uttering an ethereal "Au revoir, ma petite…"

"Au revoir, mon Ange," she responded quietly, sighing a little.

Tora looked at the address on the wrinkled envelope.

It was a letter from Constance Parker.

Aunt Agnes' cousin.

Tora opened her mouth and shut it again. Agnes tore the note open and read it out loud.

My dear cousin,

Forgive me for not responding sooner. It seems by the postmarked date that your letter requesting my help was lost in the mail for quite some time. The postal service simply must be improved…but I digress. You and your new-found niece, whom I am delighted to hear about, must come and stay with me in Boston. The colonel and I would be most happy to receive you in our home.

I have enclosed an amount of money sufficient for your travel by train. I shall expect you soon.

Regards,

Constance

Agnes looked up.

Tora looked back. "We could use that money to go back to France," she said softly.

"We could," said Agnes. "Or we could take two one-way train tickets to a rather luxurious house in Boston, Massachusetts, where we will mingle with high society and receive every comfort imaginable. My cousin Constance is, after all, rather rich."

Tora wrinkled her nose. "Rich…all rich people are the same. The men are lecherous, and the women disdainful. I cannot stand the wealthy…"

"Would you not enjoy the comforts and luxuries of wealth despite your professed dislike?" asked Aunt softly.

Tora snorted. "Much as I hate to admit it…of course I would. And," she sighed bitterly, "I suppose a sojourn in a large Bostonian house would be preferable to another long, cramped voyage to France…although…." She trailed off.

"You miss your man, chérie. I know it." said Aunt. "But think of what you can experience here! The sights, the sounds! It's all so very different from Paris, more than you could imagine!"

"Not so very different," she said. "People remain the same no matter where you go, what language you speak. People…are people."

Agnes laughed. "Oh, come, dear. Give it a chance. Give this one good try. It will be fun!"

Tora did not want to go to Boston. She wanted to go to Erik…

But the excitement in her aunt's face, and the memory of what the older woman had said before, of wanting to forget her terrible memories….Tora clenched her teeth. By God, I'm too understanding by far. I should simply go back to France and let her go on to Boston without me…

The word family floated in her vision suddenly, visions of her dead mother, and her living aunt standing before her, and she knew then that she would torment herself to no end if she did not go to Boston with her aunt. She could not, would not, sever her last link to family ties.

"Very well," she said. "I will go. But," she stipulated, though feeling a bit like a petulant child for doing so, "that does not mean I will enjoy it."