The morning of her audition dawned, and she hurried to the downtown theater, her dress, makeup, and shoes tucked away carefully and held in her arms. Erik had insisted on warming her up before her audition, and she was grateful.

It was a chilly, completely clear March day, and Christine could see the hopefulness on people's faces as they anticipated the arrival of spring. Normally the excitement of warmer weather would have made her as hopeful as anyone else, but her father was still in the hospital, and he was worse than ever before.

Although she didn't want to say it aloud to anyone, she had a horrible sense that he was…hanging on…only for her auditions. After he knew that she was successful, he would…

Christine shook her head quickly and rubbed her eyes. She could not think like that, especially today. Any depression or sadness would only serve to weaken her voice, and she could not afford that. It seemed like everything rested on this audition.

She took out her phone and saw that Raoul had texted her a good luck message, and she tucked the phone away after replying with a quick 'Thanks!' She had at last told Raoul about her father's condition, and Raoul had been so outraged that he tried to get her to sue the hospital. But…Christine didn't think she could handle that. She was already so overwhelmed, and the last thing she needed was something as huge as a lawsuit against a major hospital. Maybe Raoul thought that he was helping by trying to get her to direct her anger toward the hospital, but all it did was upset and sadden her.

As quickly as she could, she hurried into the theater, clutching her large garment bag and other miscellaneous items. Erik was lifting up the lid of the piano as she walked to the stage and set her things down so she could climb up.

He turned around while she was picking up her discarded bags, and then he demanded,

"What is that?"

"My dress and shoes," she said. "I want to make sure that I look okay before I go. Do you want me to go change now?"

"No. You will warm up first."

She laid her things down once again as neatly as she could to ensure that nothing wrinkled or broke, and then she went to the bend of the piano, nervously pushing her hair away from her face.

The warm-up was intense and extremely focused. She could feel the nerves in her belly as soon as she started her scales. Still, she knew that if she became too intense then her voice would suffer as a result. Erik had told her that it was less about the technicalities and more about the feeling. Of course the technicalities were important, but when they overshadowed the passion and the drive that the music could create, the true meaning became lost. Christine closed her eyes for a while, trying to get herself to relax and feel the music coursing through her. She was doing this for Gustave…and for herself.

As she was doing rapid arpeggios, Erik praised her again with another murmured, "Good." That small compliment caused a very slight smile to touch her lips.

Finally, Erik lifted his hands away from the keys and said, "You are sufficiently warm. I am pleased that you are in good voice today."

"Thanks," she said, smiling a little and rubbing her arm nervously. Then she looked toward her garment bag. "Should I…get ready now?"

He waved one of his long hands dismissively, his eyes going back to the piano keys, and Christine scooped up her things before going over to the dressing room off the side of the left wing.

The dress fit her just as well as it did last time, and she critically examined herself in the mirror for a few minutes, pulling at any folds or creases and ensuring that everything was flowing down smoothly.

With slightly-shaking hands, she applied her makeup as carefully and precisely as she could, taking great care with the lipstick. Afterward, she stood and looked at herself, lightly touching the gold cross necklace. It didn't really match her dress, but she was unwilling to take it off. Her father was with her this way—supporting her…

When she went back to the stage, she stood slightly away from the piano and turned slowly, feeling herself blush as Erik watched.

"Does it look okay?" she asked, tucking a few curls behind her ears. "Did I miss anything? A tag? Some thread?"

He shook his head, looking disinterested. "Fine," he said. "When you arrive at the Opera House, you will be greeted by a man named Mr. Reyer. He will lead you to your audition."

Christine nodded quickly, adjusting one of the straps on her shoes.

"You will stand tall and speak clearly and calmly—but you will not be overbearing. Do you understand me? You will not be arrogant or domineering. And do not, under any circumstances, do those irritable habits you have with your hair and necklace."

"What do you mean? Oh." She understood as soon as she asked. He was referring to her habit of twirling her hair or touching her necklace when she was nervous. Erik continued as if she hadn't said anything,

"Be courteous to the men listening to you and your accompanist."

"You're not accompanying me?" she blurted stupidly. The idea of someone else playing her piece scared her. She had become too accustomed to Erik's genius technique. Listening to another accompanist was a frightening idea. However, she knew the answer before he said it. It was a stupid question.

"Of course not," he said. "I will not be accompanying you into the Opera House or on the piano. Erik is hardly a figure of gentility and is not suited for those…circles. No. You will go in alone. You will remember my instructions, and you will do well. I have told you before; it is not a question of whether or not you will become a member of the company—you will. This audition is merely a means to force them to notice you and remember you."

Christine nodded again and at her request, he accompanied her through her song once more before he told her that she needed to leave if she was to get to the Opera House on time.

"Okay," she said, glancing out to the theater doors. There was a pause, and she wondered if Erik was going to give her some type of speech to motivate her.

However, apparently she had already forgotten just what type of man Erik was, for he soon snapped,

"What are you doing? Get out of here."

Without another word, she left the theater and was soon on her way to the Opera House. She tried to keep her nerves somewhat calmed, and she distracted herself by looking out the window and watching all the people. There were so many. Every day she saw people she had never seen before, never knew existed, and yet they were human. They had struggles and trials and heartbreak, just as she did. Each person led a complex life of happiness and sadness intertwined, yet she would never know, because she probably would never see those people again. Tomorrow would be a new day, filled with new faces and new unknown, unspoken stories.

Before she even realized where she was, the bus jerked to a halt, and she looked and saw that this was her stop. The door opened, and she stood. The suddenness gave her no time to gather all of the courage she would have liked, and she stumbled out of the bus, tripping slightly. It was hardly the picture of elegance she wanted to maintain. After she stepped away, the bus rolled away, and her stomach lurched slightly. The following hour could ruin her...or make her wildest dreams come true. This moment, the one she had striven for, was here at last.

With shaking knees, she walked the block to the Opera House, gazing up at it in horrified fascination. It was much bigger than she remembered. It loomed over her, ready to swallow her up in its depths.

Christine entered the grand doorway once again, the mouth eating her up, perfectly willing to crush her into nothing as it had her father.

The scene behind the doors was grand and beautiful. For a moment, she simply stared, gaping at the splendor and magnificence of it all. Grand draperies, sweeping staircases, polished marble, gilded doorways…Everything was lush and shining. She was overwhelmed. It was more than she remembered. She recalled a comment made by her father on the day that he had tried to audition; the Opera House had been modeled after the older European ones, and even though the modern critics had turned up their noses, it was loved and appreciated by the performers and the patrons.

A thin, harried-looking man approached her, and she looked at him warily.

"Miss Daae?" the man said, his tone brisk and yet somehow cautiously respectful, as if he would reserve his judgment of her until after she sang. She was faintly pleased that he pronounced her last name correctly.

She nodded, afraid to speak lest her voice would crack or wear. He looked at her closely, then at her dress, and she blushed lightly. It was never something she would have picked to audition in, and yet Erik had selected it for her. He knew best…didn't he?

"Follow me," he then said, turning and walking. She obeyed silently. He led her through the grand entrance and through several rooms, each as plush as the last. Christine did not want to linger and become enthralled once again. She focused on the man's footsteps and followed them.

He then showed her into a large room, and she entered timidly, looking around. There was a large, beautiful piano—much larger and shinier than the one at the rundown theater in which she practiced. An oversized red sofa was near it, along with several hard chairs, on which two men were sitting, conversing quietly. They stopped when Christine's footfalls echoed around the room.

The man leading her—she suddenly remembered that Erik said he was Mr. Reyer, the chorus master—continued on into the room, and she stood near the door, her hands clasped tightly in front of her to keep from fidgeting.

"Gentlemen, this is the girl I was talking about," Mr. Reyer said to the men, who stood. One of them was rather corpulent, and it took him a moment longer than the other. Mr. Reyer turned his head, apparently expecting to see her there, but when he saw that she lingered at the entryway, his mustache curved a little with displeasure.

"Come over here, Miss Daae," he called to her. She obeyed again, approaching the three men who were looking at her—two of them curiously and another with apparent skepticism.

Mr. Reyer spoke to her: "Miss Daae, these two gentlemen are the managers of the Opera House: Mr. Poligny and Mr. Moncharmin. They like to oversee most auditions."

The two men dipped their heads at their respective introductions. Mr. Poligny was the short rotund gentlemen with a shining head and small glasses. Mr. Moncharmin was several inches taller than she with dark silver hair and matching bushy eyebrows. He was the man eyeing her with doubt.

"Mr. Reyer has spoken highly of you, Miss Daae," Mr. Poligny said. "He insisted that you audition, and he's the expert at the chorus, so we indulge him from time to time."

Christine was not sure what he was saying. She did not know Mr. Reyer at all. Why would he insist that she audition for the Opera House? She looked at him and was somewhat startled when she saw the hard, steely gaze. He looked almost threatening.

She then realized that they were expecting her to say something, and so she opened her mouth and said quietly, "Oh."

Mr. Poligny chuckled deeply. "Shy little thing you've brought us, Mr. Reyer!" he said.

"Yes," Mr. Reyer said, once again looking stressed. "Maybe…we can go ahead with the audition?"

"Yes, let's," Mr. Moncharmin said, sitting back down. Mr. Poligny followed suit, though much more carefully. Mr. Reyer went over to the piano, and Christine suddenly realized that she hadn't brought her music with her. Erik hadn't given it to her! Feeling panicked, she hurried over to the piano and said quietly,

"Sir—Mr. Reyer—my music…!"

"It's right here, Miss Daae," Mr. Reyer replied in the same hushed voice. "Please stand over there and…sing."

Christine felt relief wash over her, followed instantly by more nerves and panic. It was time…time to sing. She impulsively ran nervous hands over the stomach of her dress. Mr. Moncharmin leaned over and whispered something into Mr. Poligny's ear, and she was certain they were speaking of her. She did not know how to react, and so she stood there silently, staring at them.

The accompaniment started behind her, and she jumped slightly. The piano was loud, ringing in her ears, unlike Erik's interpretation. He always began the beginning soft, as if asking a question, and the voice would answer. Mr. Reyer was playing it differently. Christine forced herself to close her eyes and breathe. She could not fail with this. This was…her. This music was her life now. When Gustave was gone, it would be all she had left.

It was difficult trying to be calm while so incredibly nervous. She thought of her dreams, of her struggles, of her sorrows and sufferings, how they had all pivoted at this moment for so long. Her father had been taken from her and then found for this price. He was dying.

She would sing. She would sing and she would sing well. She would do what Erik taught her—what he engrained in her. This song lived in her. She was this song. Erik had ensured perfection, and she would sing perfection.

As she sang, she did not look at the two men in front of her. They were not there. She was alone, nowhere, and she was singing. There was nothing there to harm her or help her. She was simply…there. She sang because she needed to, because she wanted to, and it was only Christine.

After she was finished, she suddenly could not remember the past five minutes. She could not remember singing the song. She could remember the panicked feeling when the introduction started, but as soon as she opened her mouth to sing, her memories disappeared.

Mr. Moncharmin and Mr. Poligny were murmuring quickly, quietly, between themselves, looking at her often. Mr. Reyer was still sitting at the piano, watching her closely. She was unsure if this was a good or bad reaction, and she tried to keep her face neutral, not wanting to show the panic that was rapidly bubbling up in her stomach.

After a moment, Mr. Moncharmin stood up, and he smiled a little at her—though it was somewhat forced. She could tell. She had seen so many forced smiles.

"You did a good job," he said, inclining his head. "We're impressed. We'll contact you in a few days about your rehearsal schedule. Thanks for your audition. You're free to go."

Mr. Poligny stood as well, and the two of them left the room. Mr. Reyer gathered the music into a thick folder, and she looked at him for guidance.

"Come on, then. I'll show you to the doors."

Christine was relieved, and she followed him gratefully. She was very glad that the audition itself was over. She had sung, and she had done her best. It was all she could have done. And they had said something about her rehearsal schedule. So did that mean…?

"Mr. Reyer?" she said nervously. "Did I…? Um—am I…?"

"You can consider yourself employed with us, Miss Daae," Mr. Reyer said, somewhat curtly. "We're all very impressed. As Mr. Moncharmin said, we'll be contacting you in a few days with your rehearsal schedules. Thank you for taking the time to audition for us."

"Yeah, thanks for…having me," she replied stupidly, her brain seemingly going numb.

She had done it. It was over, and she had done it. She rode the bus in a somewhat dazed stupor. The audition had seemed like such a huge thing. She had been training for it for three months, but now it was over, and she felt a little stunned. Erik had taught her well enough for her to sing at one of the most renowned Opera Houses in the country. Three months, and…She rubbed her cheek in awe. Many singers trained their entire lives for chances like this. She had been taught enough in three months. That meant that either she was truly an extraordinary singer, or (more likely) Erik was a genius instructor.

As she went through the long process of being able to see her father, Christine let a small amount of precious and rare happiness bubble up inside of her. She had done it! She had at last succeeded at something. She was no longer unemployed. She belonged somewhere and had somewhere to be each day.

However, as she pulled on the gloves and the medical mask required, she felt the little happiness drain away. Her father was in here…dying.

He looked worse than ever, pale and gaunt, and she felt her eyes well up with tears as she saw him. His eyes cracked open blearily, tiredly, and she saw his fingers twitch a little, as if he was trying to lift his arm in greeting but couldn't manage.

"Lotte," he rasped softly, and she lightly touched his hand. However, that resulted in a similarly-masked nurse hurrying up to her and firmly requesting that she not touch the patient for fear of transferring the disease. Needing to be close to him anyway, Christine knelt down so she was eye level with him. With great effort, he turned his head to look at her. His skin was papery and thin, and his lips were an unnatural shade of red. His eyes were dull and exhausted, and she could see the effort it was taking him to keep his eyes open and to focus on her.

"I did it, Pappa," she whispered tearfully. "I did it. I'm singing in the Opera House now."

His lips twitched, perhaps his attempt at a smile.

"Good," he managed to grunt. "Your moder…she sang…"

"I know," Christine said, feeling some tears slide out as she tried to find something in her father's once-clear blue eyes. "You told me, Pappa. And when I sing, I'll get you a seat on the first row, center stage. You don't have to play your violin. You can just sit there and enjoy it."

"She sings…to me…" he said, hoarsely and with a throaty, painful-sounding rasp. His eyelids flickered. "She sings."

"Moder?" Christine asked. "Moder sings to you? Pappa?"

But his eyes were closed, and Christine could tell that he had dropped off into unconsciousness once again. His chest rose and fell weakly, and she knelt there until a nurse approached and helped her stand. She felt awful standing there in her beautiful red dress, looking at her weak, helpless Pappa.

The nurse led her out of the room, and she washed her hands carefully with special provided soap. Even though the disease was passed through the airway, the nurses had told her that every precaution had to be taken, especially as it was a resistant strain of tuberculosis. Before she left, she listened in silent despair as the doctor gently told her that her father did not have much longer, and that it would probably be best if she sorted out Gustave's affairs as soon as possible.

When she returned to her apartment, she sobbed for a long while, sitting on the floor and resting her head against the side of the mattress, simply wailing and feeling her makeup run down her cheeks and chin. What did it matter that she was singing in some silly Opera House? The person she loved most in the world was dying, and there was nothing to be done about it. She would have to accept his death and acknowledge the fact that he had left her…but she couldn't. She didn't want to. She had prayed to God that He would bless her with her father's companionship for her entire life, yet Gustave was leaving her when she was only twenty years old. How could God do this to her? Hadn't she been faithful? Hadn't she been righteous? She prayed often and attended church every Sunday. She tried to do all the good things she could…She didn't break the law and she tried to be kind to everyone. She kept the Commandments. Yet why would God punish her with the thing He knew she dreaded most of all?

After she had exhausted herself and her tears came in bouts of sniffles, she heard her phone ring, and she reached for it.

"Hey!" Raoul said, sounding cheerful. "How did your try-out—I mean, how did your audition go?"

"It went well," she said softly. "I got the job. I'm singing for the Opera House now."

"Really? Christine, that's great! That's amazing. Hey—let me take you out to dinner. You can tell me all about it."

The thought of going out had never been more repulsive. She said, "Sorry, Raoul, but I don't…I don't really feel like going out tonight. I'm sorry."

"That's fine. Are you okay, Christine?"

"Fine," she whispered, rubbing at her eyes. How could he ask her if she was okay when he knew her father was dying? That was the question, wasn't it? Are you okay? She didn't think she would ever be okay.

"Are you sure? You sound upset."

"I'm fine," she repeated.

"All right. Well, if you don't want to go out, do you want me to come over? I'm in town right now, actually, and I could grab you some dinner and swing by."

She was always touched by his thoughtfulness. After a moment of thinking, she realized that she did want company. Didn't she deserve to be a little happy on the day she got a job singing for the Opera House? Raoul usually always made her happy.

"Yeah, that'd be great," she said at last. "Just whatever is fine."

"See you soon."

As she cleaned herself up in the bathroom, she looked at herself in the mirror. She wanted to let herself be happy, but it felt disrespectful to her father to do so. He was dying, and she was having her dreams come true. Why did it all have to happen simultaneously? It was confusing her. She was happy, and then she wasn't…She was sad, and then she wasn't…Christine groaned and pulled her hair away from her face. She was probably driving everyone crazy with all of her mood swings.

Raoul came with take-out and sparkling cider and a hug and a kiss. She instantly felt marginally better.

"It's a congratulations drink, but it's a non-alcoholic one since you're still a baby," he said to her, pouring her a cup. "Though not for long, right?"

She took the glass and sipped on the fizzy drink, crinkling her nose as it popped in her mouth. "Yep," she said. "I'll finally be a grown-up in May."

While they were eating, he reached over and took her hand. "Hey, I know you're gonna hate me for asking, but…you did sound pretty rough on the phone. Are you sure things are okay?"

She paused, setting down her fork (she had never been able to master chopsticks). After glancing at him, she said quietly, "I'm fine now. I went to see my dad after my audition got over. He's…really bad. The doctor said…yeah. Not much else to do."

"I'm really sorry," he said, squeezing her fingers. "I'll do all that I can, okay?"

"I know," she said honestly. "Thanks. You're a life-saver."

And he really was. When the dinner was cleaned up, he let her snuggle him. She hoped he didn't mind, but it was comforting to be physically close to someone after such a long, trying day. She wrapped an arm around his waist and leaned against him, finding some semblance of peace in his steady, strong heartbeat. He put an arm around her as well, and they spoke quietly for a long while, keeping the conversation away from Gustave and her singing. She felt herself thrumming with sadness and also with a sorrowful conviction: even if Gustave didn't want to stay with her, it seemed that Raoul did.