After leaving the Chapelle that night, Sara had suddenly felt a headache coming on and had made her way back to the dressing rooms to lie down, hoping it would go away. Sara had always been plagued by low-grade headaches, something she attributed to her poor respiratory condition combined with the dank air of the opera house. Usually, a short nap would fix the problem, but it had caused her some small issues in her dancing days. She clearly remembered having done just that on that night before the opening of Hannibal…

"Sara!" Someone was tugging on her arm. She ignored them, trying to stay warm in her cape. The tugging was not helping, but it didn't stop. "Sara, wake up! Mother will be furious; you're late again!" Late? She didn't think she had any appointments today. She opened her eyes, confused. Meg Giry's shining young countenance was staring at her, anxious and with one hand raised, clearly prepared to slap the life back into Sara if she didn't awaken on her own. Panicking, Sara flailed, pushing Meg back across the room. She sat up and looked around. She was in the dressing room. It was gargantuan; the Opera Populaire had numerous dressing rooms like this, capable of allowing several girls to prepare for the show at the same time. Sara's stomach dropped when she realized that she had been asleep. She had come back to the dressing room to lie down for a moment, to relieve her headache, and had accidentally fallen asleep. Now, clearly very upset by her absence, Madame Giry had sent Meg to find her.

Meg came back over and took Sara by the hand, frantically pulling her to her feet. "Come on, Sara! Mother's going to kill you if you don't hurry! She's already mad about the rumours of Monsieur Lefevre's retirement going around, and she's ready to murder anyone who causes problems!" Sara was up in a flash, a throw falling to the ground at her feet. She mused for a moment that she didn't remember having had anything over her when she had fallen asleep. She was already in costume for the rehearsal, and was deathly afraid of wrinkling or damaging the gorgeous fabric and trimmings. Despite the dangers to the costume, rehearsals were conducted in performance garb, so that any problems involving mobility and voice related to the costumes could be discovered and remedied.

Terrified, Sara scanned her outfit for any signs of damage, but was surprised to discover that whoever had put the throw over her had clearly known the dangers of friction and pressure to the delicate designs, and had placed it very gently, and very carefully, to prevent her costume from being damaged. Of all the people in the theatre, there were only a few who would know enough to do this. All the performers, of course, the costumers, Madame Giry…but she didn't think any of those people would have bothered. It was a little strange.

But she didn't have time to think about it. Meg still had her by the arm, and was still yammering about how furious Madame Giry was going to be. Sara did not need to be reminded; she had faced the Madame's fury before. Although she tended to be very understanding and caring to all the chorus girls, her anger and her tongue could be sharp enough to draw blood and tears. Still, she was as kind and wonderful to them as anyone dealing with dozens of egocentric and uptight young women could be, and she certainly knew more about them than anyone else, possibly because she was the 'mother' they spent most of their time around.

Performing at the Opera Populaire meant you lived at the Opera Populaire. You were either on stage rehearsing, backstage rehearsing, or in the dormitories, preparing to rehearse later. It was as much a prison as it was a dancing school. Sara had been a student of the school for fourteen years, now, and tomorrow was to be her first real performance. She'd had short stints on stage before, simple jétes across the back of the stage, more scenic than active. Tonight, however, she was to be in the foreground, several times. Tomorrow, she would be in the foreground several times in front of an actual audience. To be sure, she would be with Meg and Christine, but in a ballet at the Opera Populaire, with patrons worth millions of francs in the audience, their presence would be little comfort.

Sara had often wondered whether she had chosen the correct career path when she had decided to become a dancer. She had no doubt that her future was on stage, in front of an adoring audience, but in truth, she wasn't certain that dance was the right medium for her. She was not overly talented, like Meg and Christine were, and even though there was no doubt she could hold her own against the more self-centred dancers in the company, she occasionally mused about whether she would have been better off trying to become a singer, instead. She had a beautiful voice, and that wasn't simply her ego talking.

One night, when she was alone in the dressing room, finishing preparations for rehearsal, she had been singing to herself. She couldn't remember the name of the song, or where she had even learned it, but it was so beautiful that she couldn't get it out of her head.

Suddenly, the door to the room opened, and Madame Giry stepped inside. "Christine, why are you still back—" She broke off when she realized that Christine was still where she'd left her, on stage. Madame scanned the room quickly to verify that Sara was indeed the only person left before closing the door behind her. "Sara, was that you?"

Sara nodded apprehensively. "Yes, Madame. I was just singing to…ease my nerves. With rehearsals and all—"

"Who taught you to sing like that?" Madame Giry started towards Sara, a mix of surprise and confusion still present on her face.

Sara blinked, nonplussed. "N-no one. I have never had a teacher."

"Nonsense. Talent must be cultivated into skill. No one, not even La Carlotta, can sing like that without coaching."

Sara smiled faintly. "La Carlotta cannot sing with coaching, either."

Madame Giry's face remained neutral. "She can when she's not trying so hard. As can you. But as I said, no one can do it without a tutor. So, who is it?" She sat next to Sara and leaned forward, her voice softer now. "I promise not to reveal this to anyone else, if you don't want me to. I simply wish to know how you achieved such amazing progress so quickly, without anyone else's knowledge."

Sara flushed and looked at the hairbrush in her lap. "I told you, I don't have a teacher. No one will give me a second thought. They always tell me that no one can sing with breathing problems like mine." She looked back at Madame Giry. "I'm sorry."

Madame Giry looked at her for a moment or two longer before settling back in the chair, a pensive look on her face. Nervous, Sara sat next to her, silently waiting for her to say something. One did not simply walk out on Madame Giry. She would let Sara know when the conversation was over, and only then would she feel comfortable standing and leaving. She let Madame sit and think for a minute and a half before finally breaking under the pressure of the silence. "Well, what I mean to say is that…I don't have a living tutor. At least, not a physical, tangible one."

Madame Giry looked up with surprise. "Oh? How is that possible?" She did not look so much disbelieving as she looked simply curious.

Sara took a deep breath and continued. "Well, you see, sometimes when I am sleeping, I dream I am in a studio, alone, singing with the accompaniment of an organ behind me. It is always very quiet, so I can hear myself singing, but every so often, I will hear a voice behind me, and he will tell me what to do to improve. So I do what he tells me in the dream, and I improve. I never see his face, because he is always wearing a hood, and all black. Sometimes, he will come around so I can see him, and he will sing with me, and teach me new songs, like the one I was singing when you came in. Songs so beautiful and so sad that you can't forget them, no matter how hard you try. And his voice is so beautiful, but contains so much sadness…" She trailed off, lost in memories of the man in her dreams.

Madame Giry asked very quietly. "Do you know his name?"

Sara nodded. "Yes. I asked him once what I should call him, and he simply told me to call him the 'Ghost of Song.' I told him that was a title, not a name, and he was very quiet for a long time before finally telling me that I was right, and that his name was Erik, but that he preferred if I called him the 'Ghost of Song' just the same." Sara stopped herself without explaining the rest of what Erik had told her. He had also said it would be better all around if she never questioned his advice, but simply did as he commanded. He explained that if she didn't do as he said, he couldn't come visit her anymore, and she would never get better. Sara knew that no one else would ever take on such a daunting task as to try to instruct a hopeless cause like her, and she had agreed fervently that she would follow his instructions as best she could.

Madame Giry considered Sara's words for a beat. Sensing disbelief, Sara jumped in with an explanation of her own. "Maybe I just…tapped into some subconscious well of talent? I mean…I know it sounds odd, but I have heard of things like that happening to people." She blushed again. "But I won't tell anyone about this if you don't think I should. I can stop singing, too, if you think it would cause problems…"

Madame Giry shook her head and slowly stood up. "No, I don't think there's any need for all that. I think you may well have done just that. But don't go telling everyone about this…Erik fellow, okay? I would hate to lose one of my favourite dancers to an asylum." She smiled weakly and immediately started towards the door.

Sara stood up. "Well, can I at least tell Meg and Christine?"

She paused and mumbled something to herself before looking over her shoulder and replying, "I wouldn't tell them just yet. I fear they might become jealous." Sara could see in her eyes that Madame Giry feared no such thing. But the Ballet Mistress said nothing more before leaving again, closing the door behind her.

From that moment on, she lived for those dreams, in which the dark man would treat her like the budding diva she dreamed of being. He was the only person who truly seemed to know and understand her heart's deepest desires. One time she had even asked him his name, and he had responded in a very irritated tone, saying that in time, she would come to know him personally, but only if she followed his instructions to the letter. Ever since, Sara had tried very hard to maintain the sort of perfection her imagined maitre would approve of. And it may have been her imagination, but it seemed to Sara that Madame Giry had treated her differently after that night, perhaps just a little more gently than before.

Now, though, no amount of fine singing or dream-borne talent would save her from her impending fate. Still, as she ran down the hallways of the opera house, dodging maintenance men and stagehands, she was glad Meg was with her. Madame never killed in the presence of her daughter. In truth, she had never really killed anyone, but she had caused quite a few girls to quit dancing. One expected that Madame Giry would feel guilt over those poor girls, but Sara knew better. Madame Giry may have loved and cared for the dancers like daughters, but she was still the Ballet Mistress. Madame knew the pressure the girls were under, but she also knew that young girls like Sara and Christine could take verbal abuse like that and bounce back. Anyone incapable of doing so was probably better off not dancing, anyway. The Madame felt no guilt.

Running past actual costumed people now, Sara knew they were getting closer to the stage. Some performers were coming from the stage, some were preparing for later scenes in the opera. Several dancers were standing in a corner, still stretching their long legs past what would seem humanly possible. The dancers at the Opera were like living rubber. They had to be, for some of the positions and moves required inhuman physical movement. She smiled at them as she passed, one of them calling out her name and yelling that she had something for her in the dressing room. Sara waved back, acknowledging the other girl before turning back to follow Meg.

Near the stage, Meg paused to rub her slippers in a tray of chalk at the bottom of a staircase. Sara did likewise before continuing to where a group of girls was standing, waiting to go on stage. Meg got to the group first, stopping and leaning over to catch her breath for a moment. Sara stopped next to her, also leaning over to catch her breath whilst scanning the nearby area for any signs of Madame Giry. "I'm lucky for once; she's not here."

"Um, Sara?" Christine Daaé, another of her best friends here in the opera house, looked down at Sara with a frown and pointed past her, in the direction she and Meg had just come from. Fearful, she turned halfway around and immediately looked back at Christine, terror in her eyes. Madame Giry was coming up to the group at full speed, with the Angel of Death struggling to keep up. Christine stifled a giggle. "You're in for it now."

Meg straightened and bent backwards a little, stretching to loosen her muscles back up after her unscheduled run. "She was asleep. Can you believe it, Christine? Sleeping during a rehearsal!"

Sara whispered to her friends. "We weren't rehearsing when I went back there! We still had half an hour."

Christine was still giggling. "How can you sleep in that costume?"

Sara shrugged. "I really don't know. I didn't intend to sleep at all. I must have dozed off."

Christine motioned in the direction of Madame Giry's approach. "Well, now you're going to die off. It really was wonderful knowing you, Sara. Do say hello to my father when you get to heaven. Assuming, that is, that Madame leaves enough of you for your soul to still be able to fly."

Sara made an unpleasant face. Suddenly, a hand made of iron came down on her shoulder and slowly clamped shut. "Mademoiselle Reynolds. Dare you even try to explain your tardiness?"