Christine didn't know what courage lifted her and carried her down the streets to the Kungliga Operan with nothing more than a calling card and a partly warmed-up voice. Mme. Gunnarson, in her kindness, had painted an entirely glowing picture of how it would all turn out—Christine tried to hold this to her. She remembered the ovations back in Paris and how her dressing room had been filled with flowers. If they would hear her, she had a chance. If they would hear her, and if there was room in the company. For five or six steps she walked in despair. Then, inexplicably, the languid wave of Erik's hand came to her, when he said that he would travel north and make them hire her. It made her smile. Could anything else have made her smile? Even when she had lit the candle in front of Papa's portrait this morning, her hand had trembled. Yet as had so often been, the Angel comforted her, as if his strength reached across the miles to keep her safe.

The opera house was very fine, though it was not as ostentatious as the one in Paris. She was very glad that it had the same sort of smell—wood polish, bow rosin, greasepaint, and a whole host of other things that made up the smell of home to her. And even if they didn't take her, there were smaller companies in smaller theaters; maybe they all smelled the same. This thought got her up the stairs, to a door outside the offices. It allowed her to make a curtsy and to place her card in the hands of the man who stood there. There was a little bench—she sat down with a lump in her throat. She did remember not to twist her fingers.

Christine did not wait for long. Before she had time to even begin to worry, the door reopened, and a red-faced man came through with an expression of astonishment on his face.

"Mlle. Daae? Can it really be Mlle. Daae?"

He reached out, and she laid her hand in his while he stared at her as if she had a frog sitting on her head. This thought, happily, made her grin. At that, the man's eyes widened, and his face split into a great smile.

"Why, bless me! There's your father's smile the middle of that pretty face. Come in, my dear. Come in and tell me everything."

He was, of course, M. Carl Eckman, manager of the opera, and it was only another ten minutes or so until he remembered to tell her this. He wanted to hear all that she remembered about Papa's career in France, however sadly little that was.
"Of course, I didn't even work at the Operan in those days. I was a mere clerk in a trading house, saving my penningar to go to the theatre, or the opera, or the symphony. Ah, my dear—the entire country was sad to see him go. I am so sorry for you, Mademoiselle, that he died."

Just like Mme. Jenssen, he was outraged by the turn her fortunes had taken; he actually spluttered through her telling him of moving into the dormitories all alone.

"Monsieur, please be easy. It wasn't so bad as all that."

"But did no one contact your parents' families? Or your father's patrons here in Sweden?"

"I have never known. I have no memory of aunts or uncles, so there may not be any."

M. Eckman shook his head.

"I find that highly unlikely. Mlle. Daae, will you allow me to make some inquiries on your behalf?"

Was there an unkind person in the country?

"Sir, you are so good. Yes. Thank you."

Then the look in his eyes turned shrewd.

"This can't be why you came, of course."

She shook her head.

"No, it isn't."

He sat back in his chair and smiled at her.

"You have been very patient to indulge an old man's thirst for gossip. You've come to audition, then? Let me call the ballet mistress."

He was awfully fast; by the time Christine called out, he was halfway to the door.

"If you please, sir—you are right. I did come with the hope of auditioning, but not for the ballet. I mean, I will dance if I must—and I must work—but I would much rather sing."

His blue eyes were very bright, and even as kind as he was, she could see the calculation in his gaze. Singers brought in more ticket sales than dancers, and perhaps her name did mean something, after all.

"I must confess that I am curious to hear the voice of Gustave Daae's daughter." He smiled again. "Come, Mademoiselle. Let me introduce you to our Spanish conductor."

M. Peña was a very handsome, very solemn man. He looked like a person whose entire family had died and taken to haunting him. His eyes were two pools of shadow, and he made a very old-fashioned bow over her hand.

"Even I have heard of your father, Mademoiselle, and I have only been here for three years."

He led her to the pianoforte. For luck, she requested the aria from Hannibal that had served her so well before. She was very glad that M. Peña insisted on warming her up first, and he glanced sharply at her at the first scale. This gave Christine courage—she remembered to breathe, and as she inhaled, she reminded herself to relax, to broaden her sound, and she felt the notes buzzing up in her head, just as they should, which opened her range on both ends and sent her voice flying out to the corners of the auditorium. M. Peña had just the slightest lift to one side of his mouth, which she came to know as his smile.

"If you please, Mademoiselle. The aria."

If she could do this, pay for her own upkeep with her voice, Christine thought there could be no greater blessing. These notes, these words, were as familiar to her as breath, and it had been so long since she had been able to truly let loose with her voice—not since Don Juan, which had been the first time she had dug deeply within herself and truly sung with her heart. Having once blazed that pathway, she could easily do so again; that little bit of squeakiness at the top was gone, and her volume was greater without having to push. She could hear how much more rich her voice had become, as if it had grown along with her spirit. Erik would have been so proud.

The aria finished, and M. Peña cleared his throat. One eyebrow was lifted, but he was looking at M. Eckman, not her. Christine took a deep breath. She had sung better than ever before, but that was no guarantee of anything, and now that the music was over, she was nervous all over again.

M. Eckman, however, was weeping. Christine could only gape at him for a moment, until he pulled out a red handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.

"What do you say, Peña? Do we have a place for Mlle. Daae?"

"If you don't give her one, I'm going back to Madrid and taking her with me."

This seemed promising enough that she risked a tiny smile. Then M. Peña bowed at her again, and M. Eckman shook her hand until her arm felt a little numb. By this point she was really smiling. But it was not until some time later, when she had been introduced to a good dozen company members, that Christine realized that she would not be singing in the chorus. When she blurted this out, M. Peña's eyebrow rose again, and M. Eckman laughed outright.

"I would be a stupid man indeed to waste that voice on the chorus, even if my conductor hadn't threatened me. No, my dear. If I know my business at all—and I do—you have every chance of becoming even more famous than your father.

She would cry later, being both relieved and overwhelmed. At that moment, she grinned until her face hurt. To be safe, employed, and surrounded by people who seemed delighted to meet her—it was everything a lonely little girl in a stone chapel had wanted, and already the old wound had begun to heal.