A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) Here's more…

Chapter III

A persistent tickle against her cheek roused Christine to consciousness. Without opening her eyes, she used her hand to swat away the intrusion into her dreams. Before she could sink back within the comforting veils of slumber, the tickle came again. She softly moaned, knowing she should forfeit any additional sleep and rise to prepare a pot of gruel for her and Papa's breakfast.

Blearily she opened heavy eyes, gritty as sand, feeling as if she'd not slept at all. She glimpsed a small white moth flutter near her face and then – a room she'd never before seen. Not her cozy loft with its small table holding a kerosene lamp and two volumes of her favorite tales...

And she remembered.

She was consigned to labor in this massive chateau for one full year to work off Papa's debt, incurred by accidental negligence, but a debt nonetheless. Yet once she entered its doors, void of a greeting, she found the chateau dark and hollow, empty of life, the entire household presumably having retired for the evening. Though it had been distressing to find herself alone it hardly came as a surprise since it was some time after midnight when she arrived.

Christine struggled to sit up from the sofa, pushing back the blanket to her waist while staring around the room – a large study with a massive desk, a hearth, a wall of books – then froze and looked down at the soft woolen blanket, truly recognizing its presence for the first time. She'd had no covering, save for her cloak when she softly cried herself to sleep...

Someone had been there to cover her.

Which meant, somewhere in this cavernous labyrinth of towers and stone there existed the presence of another mortal being. What form it took was left to be established…

She chided herself for allowing her imagination to roam, the only part of her that was not in bondage, and rose to her feet, straightening her dress and retying her thick locks back from her face with the ribbon that had gone askew. Of course she was not truly alone in this place. There was the master and in a manor this big, there must be a multitude of servants.

Hopeful to locate at least one of them and the housekeeper to learn what her duties would entail, Christine made a quick, final inspection of clothing and hair, ensuring all was neat and in order before exiting the room.

She found herself in a corridor that led to the foyer - a large round room with a split level staircase and the first room she had come upon last night after entering through the tall doors. With its marble floor, she could imagine splendid balls given here, with a small stringed orchestra and beautifully gowned ladies accompanied by debonair gentlemen, with couples waltzing across its black and white checkered surface.

Instead, her steps echoed with hollow starkness that resounded deep inside the soul, there was such emptiness in this place. No windows had been cut into this huge vestibule, the only light visible from distant gas lamps bracketed high on stone walls.

"Hello?" she called out, certain someone must be nearby to hear.

The faint echo of her voice was the only reply she received.

She moved to the next room and the next, in frustration finding them also absent of habitation. In the dining room, she was just about to exit after a hurried glance inside, when a rectangle of ivory propped against the unlit candelabrum caught and held her attention.

Hesitantly she moved toward the long dining table and what she could now see was a note. Curiosity had her step closer – shock freezing her movements when she saw her name in script on the front.

Mademoiselle Daaé

Her heart beat an anxious crescendo at what the missive would hold. Surely the housekeeper was not writing in lieu of meeting with her… No, this seemed out of character for a servant, though what did she know of such things save for what she'd read in books? Still, she felt certain of the identity of the sender.

She plucked up the tri-fold note and broke the red seal of wax into which were embossed two scripted letters – O.G.

Nervously she unfolded the paper, her eyes skimming over the fanciful script of words contained within, and saw that she had not been wrong:

I bid you welcome to my manor home. If you do all that I request and to my satisfaction, you will find that your stay here shall pass without any unpleasant complication. If, however, you choose to cross me you will find that life here can prove to be quite difficult…

Christine's eyes widened at what seemed a threat. Feeling in sudden need of support, she sank to the nearest chair before she continued reading –

Before I detail the list of your duties, I wish to address the matter of sleeping arrangements. I would prefer that you did not use my personal study as a bedchamber. If the room I prepared for you does not meet with your satisfaction, there are twelve additional rooms at Rosemont from which you may choose.

Christine's cheeks warmed with embarrassment, at the same time she felt surprise that the large bedchamber she had found upstairs had been intended for her use.

You are responsible for the preparation of meals and the upkeep of the chateau. The larder is stocked with enough provisions to last through the winter. You are to leave my portion within the silver domed platter you will find atop the cabinet of china and cutlery, and are to place my supper on the dining table each evening promptly at seven o'clock then return to partake of your own meal in the servant quarters. I do not require you to supply me with either breakfast or luncheon.

Many of the rooms have not been in use for an extended time and are in need of a thorough cleaning. You may begin with the lower chambers. I do not expect you to complete this task in one day. You will find all supplies necessary in the utility closet near the kitchen.

Another note will follow once you have completed your duties to my satisfaction.

I remain respectively yours, O.G.

The Master of Rosemont Chateau

Christine stared at the words as realization slowly dawned, and with it, a shock so great it robbed her of the ability to exhale.

From the gist of the message, Christine was the sole servant inside this manor. There was the driver, of course; she knew of his existence. But all household duties were her responsibility alone!

What in heaven's name had she taken on?

Familiar only with the upkeep of a humble cottage where she and Papa had lived for much of her life, the enormity of her fate crystallized in her mind, and she wasn't certain she had the ability for such a massive undertaking. Their cottage could fit inside this huge edifice twenty times over! More…

Still, Christine Daaé was no quitter, and certainly not before even making an attempt. Once she adjusted to the startling truth of her circumstances, she stood to her feet with grim resolve and began an unhurried inspection of all he had written.

A room near the kitchen proved to have all the supplies she thought she would need, as per his note, but she put off gathering items, first lighting the stove. A metal device with a handle, what looked like a pump, was fastened near a basin and had been fashioned to attach to the end of the counter. She had seen something like it before, in the village near the blacksmith's stall, and gave it a brief glance before noting a bucket of ice floes near the door, partially melted and filling half the wooden pail.

So, there must be another servant on the premises, to provide her with fresh water, and she did not presume it was the driver. Certainly, it could not be the master who she doubted performed such menial labor, only manipulating others by thinly-veiled threats and impossible bargains into keeping his manor home for him…

She forced a steady breath and briefly shut her eyes at the reminder that she had chosen to take on the challenge of being in servitude to him for a full year. And do it she would and as cheerfully as could be managed, though she did pause to wonder when she would actually meet the man...

After lighting the stove and finding a canister of tea leaves and a kettle to make tea, she took stock of the larder, a small walk-in closet, the air here chill. Her eyes opened wide at the bounty of jars of preserves and dried meat lining the shelves that stood higher than she and traveled down to the floor. She spied a plate of cheese, a basket of eggs and a pail of milk. Did he own a cow and hens then? He must, unless there was a village nearby, but who would have made the visit to procure such necessities? It must be just past dawn; she rarely slept later and usually was up before sunrise. The sellers would not even be open for business yet.

Once she broke the fast with hot tea, a small hunk of cheese, and a spoonful of apple preserves – all she felt her stomach could manage, being topsy-turvy with nerves, Christine decided to take stock of the lower rooms and form an idea of how to begin the gargantuan task. At least he'd given her more than one day to accomplish his first set of orders; there was that…

He must not be completely unreasonable and heartless.

She shook her head in amazement at what her solitary tour of discovery revealed. So many rooms for one man, this chateau would house entire families in comfort without feeling cramped. A corridor on either side of the staircase each led to different wings and a cobweb of additional rooms. She halted abruptly upon entering a chamber that held a piano – the wretched sight across the room causing her to inhale a sharp breath: A window of stained glass, its bottom hit just above her head and towered almost to the ceiling. Nailed and boarded from the center down, all that could be seen of the unsettling image from the torso up was that of a female angel facing down a creature over twice as large that looked half man/half beast.

A chilling portrayal, no doubt this was the infamous window her father had broken, and at once she realized the expense caused from such damage must be considerable. And all for her foolish wish of a rose.

"Oh, Papa…" she mourned softly, thinking how one bad choice had so terribly disrupted their lives.

Forcing herself not to dwell on what could never be changed, she took the stairs to the second floor, surveying the area there. Twelve spacious bedrooms, as he had said, including the chamber he evidently prepared for her use; yet it did not feel right to inhabit a room designed for those with the wealth to possess such an estate. She was a simple girl, drawn to the cramped but cozy cottage she had lived in for so long, and recalling a tiny bedroom near the kitchen, clearly designed for a member of staff, decided to claim it as her own.

In an upstairs corridor she was astonished to come across a scrolled iron gate that covered the arched entrance of what appeared to be an entire wing, which branched from the corridor in which she stood. Curious, she grasped the thin grill of bars and peered through what barricaded her progress, but could make nothing out in the semi-darkness beyond except for two closed doors.

There was no handle on the gate; she saw only an opening for a key.

How strange… did all chateaus contain locked gates that closed off entire wings? And if so, why…?

Even as she pondered the question, she realized one undeniable truth. In her discovery of the upper floor she had seen no bedchambers that appeared occupied, bed sheets covering the furniture to keep those possessions free from dust. Any personal belongings had been absent –

Which meant the master's private chambers must be beyond this sealed gate. And for whatever reason, she was unwelcome there.

She gave the dark, shadowed corridor one final, lingering glance of curiosity, then turned away and returned downstairs to begin her day's work.

xXx

After dusting all of the lower rooms, Christine took a respite from chasing away the thick motes to prepare the evening meal. She would open a jar of preserves, certainly would need to find some flour to bake bread for tomorrow's meal, and stopped short when she entered the kitchen and caught sight of a new item lying on the counter – a dead fowl.

Besides the driver, there must be a gamekeeper who lived somewhere on this vast estate and hunted to provide their supper. She felt a little brighter at the idea of a meal with meat involved. Too long she had needed to exercise thrift when purchasing goods from market vendors and often made do with a stew of vegetables, or even nettle soup in the leanest of times. Meat was a rarity, procured from the butcher only when they could afford the coin. Papa was a wonderful violinist but a terrible hunter. Besides which, there were laws in effect, hunting for food prohibited in the woods beyond their home, the Comte de Chagny owning the land there. Poachers were strictly dealt with, some even shot.

As Christine plucked the bird, she thought fondly of her dear Papa and prayed that he was well and would not be too upset when he read her short goodbye letter. She hoped he would remember to eat and not lose himself to drink, as he was wont to do in the most difficult of times…

Shortly before seven o'clock – according to the ornate timepiece that sat on the mantel of the empty dining room – she set a silver platter with the master's meal tucked beneath its dome at the head of the table. A carved box of polished wood occupied another table against a wall and within its velvet-covered interior she found silver utensils she placed near the cloche platter, along with a folded napkin. He had said nothing about supplying wine, a beverage the wealthy drank while dining, according to those tales she'd read, not that she knew where to find a bottle or if he even possessed a vintage.

With nothing more to prepare, Christine returned to the kitchen and her own meal, tearing into the cooked bird with gusto.

Her first day in servitude had gone surprisingly well, certainly different than expected, though proved to be quite lonely. It had been so strange to have no one to speak with for an entire day; she could not recall a time when she was not in someone's company for more than a few hours. Even during those rare occasions when Papa traveled to nearby towns and cities to try to find work, she had spoken to acquaintances she had run across in the village every day. Sometimes no more than a brief exchanged greeting, but there had been contact made.

Once her supper was finished, though she felt quite weary, more from emotional distress of homesickness than any physical labor endured, she gathered tableware and cooking utensils to wash them, not relishing the idea of waking up to soiled and crusted dishes. Heating water, she pondered if she should return to the dining room for the master's dishes when a stir from behind, where there had been only silence the entire day, startled her into spinning around.

Footsteps – swift and determined – followed by the sight of a man coming through the doorway had her drop the slippery wet plate from her hands. It went crashing to the floor at her feet.

"Papa…?" she breathed, certain he must be a mirage.

"Christine, my girl." His words rumbled with barely contained emotion to find her whole and unharmed. He cleared his throat, his next words more forceful. "Come, we must be gone from this accursed place," he said as he covered the distance and took hold of her arm, pulling her out of the kitchen and down the corridor toward the foyer.

Numb with shock over his arrival she gave no resistance. Her mind spun in a daze of confusion as she struggled to find her voice.

"Papa – wait. I can't."

"Of course you can and will. You should never have come here, child."

He released her arm to brusquely move toward the coat tree and snatch her cloak from the rack then returned to her side, wrapping the woolen mantle around her shoulders. She was still trying to find emotional balance in a world abruptly tilted on its axis.

"But – how did you get here? Surely not on foot?" From occasional glances out of curtained windows, it had been snowing all day. "And in the dark…?"

"A carriage is outside. I ran across the Vicomte de Chagny in the village and begged his assistance. He was pleased to come to my rescue. His driver will take us home."

Rescue…? Escape!

Her heart gave a hopeful buoyant beat before she realized the futility of his gesture.

"Papa, wait…." She struggled to be heard above his iron-clad will as he practically dragged her to the front door. "I cannot leave yet – what of my things!" She blurted the first deterrent she could think of in an attempt for him to pause and see reason.

"I will find a way to replace them. We dare not linger in this madman's dwelling another moment!"

If only she could go, but she did not see how it was possible and did not know how to make him understand. He could be so stubborn. And though under normal circumstances, it would not have been her first choice nor her second nor her third, she felt duty-bound to abide by the pact Papa had so recklessly made. Not only was it the honorable thing to do, it was the wisest.

Before she could explain her intent and her reasons – what she should have stated in her letter to avoid this – a low, deep voice filled the foyer from above –

"We had an arrangement, Monsieur. Will you now betray your word?"

Christine shivered from the flow of velvet syllables that floated downward, that voice rich and smooth, like dark honey, and anxiously looked all around and up the staircase. The words were not elevated in volume but, even quiet as they were, held such power. In the shadows, barely discernible, a cloaked figure stood beyond the balcony rail of the second landing.

She stared, speechless, at her obscure and thoroughly unsettling first sight of the master of Rosemont Chateau.

"I will do anything you ask," her papa stated in desperation, "Only do not take my daughter from me."

"Am I to understand that your agreement to allow your daughter to work for me was a deceptive maneuver on your part to quit my company?" The question came with disdain and a strange undercurrent of dry humor.

"I was not thinking clearly when I said it – please, I will do anything. I will pay for the window. I will sell all I have, my violin, and work my fingers to the bone if I must to do so."

"Papa, no –"

"I will do what I must," he stressed, ignoring her, his eyes glowing like steel in his determination.

"Mademoiselle, you will decide," the master of Rosemont surprised them both by saying. "Stay here, to serve me, or go back with your father and abide by the resulting debt that will incur."

"Christine should not have to make such a decision! This is between you and I."

"It was, until you reneged on our agreement by attempting to steal her away. She is now part of my household, and she will have the final say. Choose wisely, mademoiselle. I need not remind you of what lies at stake…"

Christine listened with a sinking heart. She had seen the extent of damage to the spectacular window and realized the great expense it would take to fix the panes of colored glass. More than a poor musician could afford. Even if her father should go against her wishes and manage to find coin for the instrument of his livelihood, she felt certain it would not be enough. If he could not pay his debt, he would end up in debtor's prison, she was sure of that as well, perhaps lose their cottage, and with his ailing health he would not long survive such an ordeal.

"What kind of monster are you?" her papa asked gruffly, "That you would take a child from her father…?"

"She hardly seems a child, but I pose a question to you in return: What kind of man freely enjoys the hospitality of his accidental host, then incurs vandalism and turns tail to run off like a thief in the night?"

"I did not mean to break your window! I will pay for it, somehow – I swear I will."

"Do you have twenty thousand francs to give?"

"Twenty thousand," her father repeated in a shaky voice, his weathered face suddenly grey.

"Because the cost will be at least twice that. For the imported glass, more than one panel cracked from your clumsy endeavor with the hoe to steal a rose. For the craftsman I will need to acquire. Shall I go on?"

"I cannot cover such a cost," her father admitted glumly. "Take me in her place. I will work for you to pay off the debt."

A chuckle came from above, dark and thoroughly disturbing.

"What need have I for an old man as a servant when your daughter is young and twice as capable, beautiful to observe, and skilled in all the areas I require?"

His silken words sent uneasy prickles down her spine.

"You, sir, are a beast!" her father shouted. "A monster of the most despicable sort! What nefarious designs do you have against my daughter?"

"Thrice now you have dared to stand there and insult me in my own home!" the voice bellowed, causing Christine to give a little jump. "Very well, I shall not disappoint. Let this be a revelation of all that you claim me to be: You are no longer welcome at Rosemont, monsieur – leave at once!"

"Come, Christine." Her papa tried to grab her wrist and make a quick exit, but she evaded him and stepped back.

"No, Papa."

The astonished misery in his blue-grey eyes distressed her, she so rarely disobeyed him, but she resisted the impulse to surrender. Forced into a choice that was no choice at all but surely a manipulation contrived by the hidden master to receive an indentured servant to cook and clean for him, she balled hands into fists at her sides and stood taller to somberly address the shadows at the top of the stairs.

"I will stay."

xXx

A/N: I decided to end the chapter here so you wouldn't have to wait another week. See, I can be nice. :) And it really isn't a cliffie, since she aired her decision… (muwahaha) ;-)