Author's Note: Thank you so much to my reviewers! I deeply appreciate the comments that you sent in! Now, the very first set of lyrics that you'll come across here goes to the tune of 'Angel Of Music.' That part where Christine sings, "Father once spoke of an Angel / I used to dream he'd appear / Now as I sing I can sense him / And I know he's here." Other than that, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. To those who'll leave reviews, you'll receive my undying love.

( five )

BEFORE THE STORM

Their nights of performing La Albinia were finally over and their week-long break had begun. Most of the chorus members had left to return to their respective families while the older ballet girls were whisked away by their lovers and fiancés. Only one-third of the entirety of the Opéra Populaire's staff were left to their own devices within the opera house. Nothing but silence occupied the auditorium, and fine layers of dust had began to gather everywhere.

Christine was in the chapel, again. Ever since the week began, she'd found that the emptiness in her chest had grown, and most of her nights were spent staring at the ceiling of her dormitory while the rest of her roommates were sound asleep. More frequently than she desired, her thoughts drifted to the days of yesterday, long before she arrived at the Opéra Populaire. Days when everything was still perfect, when she still lived in her home by the sea, when she still spent afternoons playing with a boy who called her Little Lotte...

She stopped herself before her thoughts could further but she failed, and they strayed to a kind face whose very picture she now held in her hands. She could still remember him, when he was still full of life on afternoons when he'd play the violin for her. Then those memories were violently ripped away from her and replaced with a cold morning she spent wearing black, remembering an ashen face whispering to her moments before life left him, a deathly still body lying on a bed...

Father.

Tears pricked Christine's eyes and she let them fall. In her solitude in the chapel, she was safe from any scrutinizing gaze and was free to cry her heart out until she ran out of tears. But she seemed to have an endless supply of those ― tears of sadness, anger, loneliness, and despair. Then, sometimes, the tears she shed were a vile mixture of all of those.

She lifted her head and stared at the candles in front of her. Only one of them were lit. It reminded her of how cold it was that morning and she found herself wishing that she had brought a shawl with her.

Her voice trembled when she began to sang, something she only did now during her visits to the chapel.

"Father, you once spoke of an angel.
You said that he would appear.
Yet here I sit and he's nowhere,
Won't you send him here?"

Her body shook with sobs as the last note slipped from her lips. She sounded like a rusted hinge. She remembered the day that her father died ― she not had only lost him on that day but she had lost her voice as well. She didn't care about it much during her mourning period, but now that she lived in an opera house, she couldn't help but long back for her passion for singing. All the music around her were nothing but a reminder of what she had lost, and if there was still one thing that she could retrieve, it would have to be her voice.

The morning light filtered through the stained glass window. She was surrounded by angels painted on the walls but none of them were the angel that she sought out. Christine wiped away her tears with her sleeve when she heard it, a soft whisper from a low, melodious voice.

"Christine... Christine..."

Her breath hitched as she quickly rose to her feet, scanning her surroundings with quick, sweeping glance. There was no one there and she didn't hear any approaching footsteps.

Where did the voice come from?

"Christine..."

Christine approached the window but saw that there was no one on the other side of it. Her brown eyes began to scour the walls of the chapel but they saw nothing. Her hands trembled at her side and her heart was hammering in her chest. She blinked away the tears that sprang to her eyes.

"Father?" Her voice bounced off the chapel's walls. Could she bear to be this foolish to hope? Her father was long dead! So what was this spark that had appeared in her soul the second she heard that voice? No, she couldn't bear to do this. She dabbed her eyes with her sleeve once more and tried not to stutter in her words.

"Who are you?" she asked this time, hoping her choice of words would gain her a reply from whoever was watching. The voice sang out her name once more and Christine felt herself shiver. It was a surreal feeling, hearing a voice speak to her from nowhere with such warmth and gentleness, an ethereal quality to the voice. As if it belonged to an...

"Angel?" she said, her voice sounding small. "Angel of Music?"

A beat passed and Christine began to grieve once more until she heard her reply.

"Yes, Christine. I am your Angel of Music."

Those six words sent tears to her eyes again, but, this time, they were filled with nothing but happiness. Her heart soared and a smile lit up her features, elation sweeping her off her feet.

Her father had not forgotten his promise after all.

She woke up with a start that morning, unable to shake off the feeling of hands caressing her limbs in her sleep. At the last second, as Jovan blinked her eyes open, she pushed down the urge to scream and sat up in her bed.

Relief shot through her when she gave the dormitory a quick scan, noticing that the only occupants were herself and Christine and Meg, who were oblivious to her. The two girls were chattering excitedly behind the drawn curtains of Christine's bed. Jovan blinked in surprise ― she recalled just hours earlier, through half-lidded eyes, the Swedish ballerina running out of the room with tears running down her cheeks. Seeing Christine in a good mood at that moment forced Jovan to wave off the memory as either a dream or a hallucination of her sleep-addled mind.

The other beds were empty and Jovan assumed that the other girls must have already gone out for the day. Either that or they must have traveled back home to their families for the week. Jovan glanced at the lone clock on the far wall. It read half past ten. She tore off the sheets from her body and climbed out of bed.

Christine must've noticed her at that point. "Good morning, Jo," she greeted cheerfully, pulling aside the curtains of her bed to give the redhead a smile.

Jovan mustered what she could of a smile. One of her cheeks was hurting for some reason. "Morning, little lady."

She decided to forego her vest and her beret when she began to dress for the day ahead. Opting for a blouse with a high collar instead of her usual button-up shirt, she was left looking far more formal than she usually did during production, but it suited her intents. Jovan grabbed her cloak and a box of matches from the drawer of her nightstand before she slipped out of her room.

Not long after, she found herself entering the chapel. Her eyes darted around the empty space and the walls where paintings of angels and saints were beginning to fade. She felt herself shiver as she went through the doorway. She did say that she wasn't on the best of terms with God right now but that didn't mean that she had abandoned the dead. Jovan didn't get along with God but that was not a reason for her to forget about the deceased.

She quietly made her way to the altar and knelt before it, placing her cloak down by her side. An urge to do the sign of the cross came upon her but she pushed it down ― old habits did die hard, she thought. She pulled out the matchbox and took out one of the matches, lighting it against the side of the box. One by one, she lit a few of the many candles before her. Three of them shone with small, dancing flames when she was done.

There was one for every person that she'd lost. One for her father, one for her mother, and one for her brother.

A sigh escaped her lips and the flames wavered for a second. I miss you, she wanted to say. I miss you all, and I'm sorry.

Her heart throbbed with grief. If only they could see her now, how she had fallen so far from where she used to be. What would they say? Would they be dismayed? Would they be happy? If there was one thing she was sure of though, it was that this was not what her father had meant years ago when he said that he wanted to see her working in an opera house.

Well, Father. Here I am, working in the world-renowned Opéra Populaire. Just not quite in the way you wished. A rueful smile crossed her lips. When her father had learned from her music tutor that her limited vocal range would not enable her to follow in his footsteps along with the realization that she had no interest in learning how to play any musical instrument, she'd expected him to disown her at that very moment. But instead, he had bent down on knee and placed a soft kiss on her forehead, a gentle look in his eyes. He didn't mind, he had said. He'd love her all the same and he'd support her in whatever her heart desired to do in this world.

Jovan couldn't help but cry out of happiness then. At the present, she felt moisture gathering in her eyes and she took a deep breath to refrain her tears from spilling. She knew they wouldn't like to see her cry.

So she took in another steadying breath and straightened her shoulders. She would be brave, she would be strong. Not for them but for herself, no matter how far she had fallen from grace. She'd carry on.

But at the moment, she simply needed air. Without another glance at the altar, Jovan grabbed her cloak and marched out of the place.

Erik found himself needing a change of scenery. The idea of lurking in his lair all day just didn't appeal to him at the moment. Not after his... encounter with Christine in the chapel, no. Suddenly, his home took on a depressing and dreary air that became too much for him to bear. He put on his cloak and raised its hood before he slipped out of one of his numerous passageways and silently made his way to the rooftop.

A cool breeze welcomed him as he stepped out, the air caressing the unmasked side of his face as Erik ran a hand over the foot of one of the statues that stood near the entrance of the rooftop. He sucked in a deep breath, recalling the last time he went out to feel the wind and see the sun at its peak. Visits before sunrise and during the night were quite common but he rarely visited the rooftop during daytime in fear of someone spotting him in broad daylight, but he found himself brave enough to take the risk today. However, he did not dare to stray too far from the statues, making sure he had positioned himself in a spot that easily concealed him from any wandering eyes.

Erik glanced above at the skies and saw clouds clustering together around the sun, various shades of blue gathering to create a haze over the sun. A sigh escaped his lips as he recognized the onset of a downpour. He would just have to enjoy what little time he had left before the rain would start to fall.

He moved a few feet away from the entrance and the statues looming over it, knowing that the people below would start to hurry indoors for shade once they spotted the clouds beginning to darken above them. However, Erik was stunned to see a lone figure by the ledge who had been obscured from his sight by a statue earlier, standing still as if she were a statue herself while the wind blew her short hair in different directions.

Erik stopped in his steps to observe the girl. She had a cloak on her as well that began to billow around her with the assistance of the wind. The last time they had met, it was in the dark. Now, at the very moment, they both stood under the light.

"You shouldn't be here, mademoiselle," he said.

Jovan felt ice shoot up her veins when she heard a calm, low voice speak behind her. She didn't think that anyone would be able to find her if she chose the rooftop as her hideaway for today. She had longed to visit it again ever since Mateo brought her up there and it had seemed the perfect place to go after her visit to the chapel.

"Apologies, monsieur. I do hope you don't mind sharing the roof, if only for today?" she answered, not bothering to face the stranger behind her as she kept her gaze on the streets below instead.

A brief moment passed in which she received no reply. Jovan gave a silent sigh before she slowly turned to face the newcomer. Her pulse escalated at the dark figure that crossed her line of sight, the shadows of his hood shrouding his face. If it weren't for the way the wind was blowing his cloak, Jovan thought she could've mistaken him for a shadow.

"Who are you?" she asked, her tone growing stiff.

"You know very well who I am, Miss Rousseau."

Jovan turned her full body towards him as she struggled to see any trace of a feature in the darkness of his hood. Her temper flared; was this man mocking her? How was she supposed to recognize him when she didn't even know what he looked like? She took in a steadying breath. Perhaps she did know him, in another way besides knowing his face. Perhaps she simply had to look past his ominous appearance, past the dark cloak and hood and the assured way he carried himself...

Wait.

The way he carried himself ― now that rung a bell. The composed and sure way that he stood and the air of authority around him. His presence was a commanding one that always demanded the attention of everyone within his reach. She found herself traveling back to the opening night of La Albinia and, there, recognition finally dawned on her.

"Phantom," she whispered.

She couldn't believe how long it took her before she recognized him. Jovan felt like hitting herself. How come she didn't recognize him by his voice alone when she had singled it out that night as having a richness like no other? Perhaps it was the fact that when he spoke to her for the first time that day, his tone had been so placid and lacked any trace of amusement and sarcasm, a staggering difference from the night they first met. But as he spoke to her now, his voice took on a calm and cool tone.

"Yes. We meet again, mademoiselle."

The Phantom began to take steps towards her, his every move fluid. She wanted to turn away but she found herself rooted in her place. Her heart raced yet Jovan was unable to take her gaze off of him until he stood a mere foot away from her. She couldn't decipher the emotion that was filling her chest ― was it fear or wonder? A mixture of both?

Erik couldn't be any more confused than he was at the moment. She had stood still in her spot until he had stopped right in front of her, her gaze never leaving him. She wasn't cowering, she didn't even take a step back! Wasn't she afraid? Why wasn't she scared? She stood still in her place but she didn't look defiant. Instead, when he looked into her eyes, he only saw... curiosity.

It was not until that moment did he seriously consider Jovan being sober on the opening night of La Albinia. He had thought that her mind had been clouded by alcohol when they had spoken that night but it seemed that he was terribly wrong. She had not been drunk.

Above them, the sky gave a deep rumble.

"Still brave as ever, I see. You haven't run... yet."

"And why would I run?"

"Any sensible person would run at the first sight of a rumored ghost."

"Rumored ghost. But see, you are not a ghost. All I see before me is a man. Even though, once again, you shy away from me and cower in the dark."

Erik wasn't quite sure what to think of her words but he did feel his temper rise in the slightest for some reason he could not identify. Perhaps it was her insinuation that he was a coward for hiding in the dark ― he was unsure. Then the desire to challenge her perspective rose within him. A man? Would she still think him as a man once she saw him? Lightning cracked in the skies overhead, but Jovan's focus on him didn't waver, and that gave him all the courage he needed. Breathing in, he raised his hands and pulled down his hood to reveal himself to her.

"I do not cower, Miss Rousseau. The dark is simply where I belong."

He watched as her eyes widened into saucers, her lips parting in surprise. Green, he thought. Now that he was up close, he saw that her eyes were a shade of green.

He braced himself for a scream, a gasp, a word of hatred. A look of spite. None of those came. For a moment, it was unclear who was more surprised ― Erik, or the girl who stood before him.

"I admit, the mask makes you look spectral, but that is all," she finally said, one brow arched at him.

Erik tried to keep a straight face, stunned. "The last girl who saw me screamed and ran."

"The poor girl must be terrified of masks." She sounded amused, her tone sarcastic.

"It was not only the mask, mademoiselle. I tend to give off a sinister vibe."

Jovan pressed her mouth into a thin line and arched both brows at him. "Sinister? I recall exchanging banter with you the first time we met."

"And now we have a second encounter of which you can brag about, once again. Honestly, we should stop meeting like this. I fear the stories you spread about me might diminish my reputation as the fearsome Opera Ghost."

"Oh, but I haven't told a single soul. I promise not to."

"Thank the heavens then. I'd hate for you to be taken away to an asylum once you begin babbling about conversing with a polite Phantom."

"Polite? Is that what you are?"

"I did say I was a gentleman, didn't I?" A grin tugged at his lips.

"Monsieur, you must be mistaken. A gentleman would introduce himself to a lady," she pleaded dramatically with a slight air of playfulness.

"Mademoiselle, you must have forgotten. I have introduced myself ― I am the Opera Ghost."

There was no sinister edge to his voice when he spoke. Instead, his tone was ripe with amusement and Erik found himself actually enjoying his conversation with the eccentric red-haired stagehand. He was right about his impression of her as well ― sober or not, she had not been fooled into thinking that he was a ghost, nor did she panic at the first sight of him unlike the majority of the opera house's staff. Not only that, she had also called him a man. Not once did she bend to the superstitions or the outlandish stories about the Opera Ghost.

The heavens roared once more. Jovan raised her chin to the sky and Erik mirrored her. He saw that the clouds above them had significantly darkened.

She returned her gaze to him, her tone growing sincere when she spoke.

"I apologize then, monsieur, I'm a fool. To ask a masked man who he is... I realize I can't be guaranteed an honest answer. Not when I don't know which answer he will give ― the name of the mask, or the person behind it. And so far, all you've given me is the name of the mask you wear."

A single drop of rain landed on her cheek. Jovan focused on the cold sensation on her skin instead of the Phantom's stare on her. She felt a few more drops land on her head as lightning flashed once more, accompanied by the rumble of thunder. She pulled up the hood of her cloak and watched as the Phantom did the same, this time not pulling the entirety of it forward. The outline of his features remained clear despite the dark skies, the details of his own face along with the porcelain mask that covered one side.

Jovan had curiosities about the mask but there would be another time to ask about it. She imagined it would be impolite to ask about it only on their second meeting. Besides, she was perfectly sure that he had his reasons for wearing it. The stark white mask against his skin gave off an unearthly feeling, but it paled in comparison when she saw his eyes. Heavens, his eyes. They were differently colored ― one was a brilliant green while the other, the one on the side of his face that was masked, was a warm amber. Both were unyielding in their intensity as they bore into her and she felt like an exposed nerve under their stare. She feared if she stared too long, the fire blazing in them might actually burn her.

She shook her head and tore her gaze away. She didn't want him to feel uncomfortable with her staring too long. He probably felt uncomfortable enough with her last spoken words. The silence grew. A moment passed and still, he only stared back at her, the smirk long gone from his lips. She thought she saw his features change, as if they had softened, but she couldn't be sure. She began to wring her hands beneath her cloak. Was he even going to answer her or was he willing to let them drown in the suffocating silence?

Jovan had had enough of the heavy air around them when she parted her lips to break the silence, but the Phantom beat her to it.

"Erik," he finally answered, his voice barely above a whisper. "My name is Erik."