Author's note: Hey guys, sorry for the long wait, too much work, to top it all off, I've got the flu, been feeling really yucky recently. I decided to post an update regardless, and am happy to announce a long chapter -an Erik fest- will be following this one tomorrow.

Morgan LeFay:Yes, the spacebar is evil and it hates me:)

Disclaimer: Don't own POTO. Enough said.


"What difference is there between us, save a restless dream that follows my soul but fears to come near you?"
-Kahlil Gibran, "The Captive King"


Roses…Bouquet upon bouquet of roses from admirers filled the Prima Donna's dressing room, surrounding the young soprano seated at the vanity with their heady, pale pink perfume.

No striking red locks were reflected in the gilt-framed mirror, for the first time in these many years, no heavily made-up face set in a perpetual scowl of dissatisfaction, or perpetual smirk of vainglory, amidst the glittering jewels or expensive furs.

No, the image captured within the crystal depths of the mirror was one of youth, of northern beauty.

The soft glow of the candles glimmered in the tiny, star-shaped hair pins in thick auburn hair curling softly around an ashen, thoughtful and unsmiling face, in the elegant silver embroidery of the white dress, in tawny brown eyes, as their owner stared back in blank, morose contemplation.

The whole day had passed like a whirlwind of motions, a miraculous play in itself it seemed, in which Christine had been both the player and spectator, delighting in the role thrust upon her and watching from afar at the same time.

It began with Monsieur Lefevre's sudden announcement of retirement, the arrival of the new managers Monsieurs Firmin and Andre, then the "accident" where La Carlotta nearly crushed to death, followed by the little drama of her stormy departure, the embarrassing audition before the new managers, fuming older ballet girls and an encouraging Monsieur Reyer, Mme. Giry and Meg, with the grand climax of her first solo performance in front of the whole Parisian society; a startling success.

Christine stared at the one rose that lay so innocently on the vanity's polished tabletop, petals of velvet blood, a strip of black silk…

If it wasn't for Erik's deviously orchestrated interference, would she still be the shining star of the night, would Raoul still recognize her from the assembly of faceless shadows that populated the opera house?

Raoul.

"Little Lotte, let her mind wander…"

As though her thoughts had conjured him up, Raoul appeared in the doorway, with flowers. So wrapped up she had been in her reverie, that she didn't hear him knock and slip inside.

Christine tore her gaze away from the blood hued, dark ribboned rose, and turned in her chair to see Raoul.

Vicomte De Chagny.

A tall, young man filled her vision; from his tasteful, impeccably tailored navy blue clothes to the way he carried himself with such urbane grace, Raoul was an image of noble beauty.

Teal blue eyes found deep brown, twinkling with obvious delight at seeingthechildhood sweetheart; unforgotten.

A soft cherry blush stained pale cheeks, Christine's heart stirred with a merry beat.

"Those picnics in the attic…" A faint smile crossed her lips.

White gloved hands set the flowers on the vanity, atop the black ribboned rose, concealing the dark scarlet completely.

"How can I forget, Little Lotte?"

"An outlandish knight came from the North lands, and he came wooing to me, He told me he'd take me unto North lands, and there he would marry me." Christine's voice was a cheerful melody as she recited the ancient ballad, her smile bright.

The young man crouched by Christine, eyes clouded with sweet nostalgia. Their eyes and hands met slowly, softly. A silent moment was shared, sweetly so, as the childhood memories were remembered.

"And the Angel of Music would sing songs in my head…" They said in unison, laughing softly.

A gentle hand, warm through the glove, cupped her cheek, Raoul leaned in and gathered Christine in a warm embrace where all awkward barriers of shy modesty were overcome by the unspoiled, precious past they had shared. Christine's eyes slid closed as she breathed in Raoul's clean, fresh scent, enjoying the warmth and attention, losing the world around them.

Now only the two of them were in existence, the one moment so fleeting, but always remembered.

"The Angel of Music has come to me, Raoul just as father promised. He taught me to sing." Christine said quietly, a shadow passing over her eyes.

Raoul tilted his head, a rogue strand of brown and gold fell forward, only to be smoothed back from his high forehead by Christine's slender fingers.

An affectionate smile played upon his lips as a quick kiss was dropped on Christine's knuckles, politely.

"Come, I know a delightful place we can chat by, and have our supper. You can tell me all about it."

"I can't, Raoul." Christine's voice was scarcely audible, her smile dissolving as she peered up into his eyes pleadingly.

A golden eyebrow arched up slightly. "Why not, Christine? Are you unwell?"

Christine made no immediate reply, her rosebud lips remained sealed. Her head shook.

Teal eyes narrowed slightly, questioningly, studying the beauteous, downcast face a long moment.

"Do you have a suitor?" His voice was low, etched with sorrow.

"No, Raoul." She said quickly, her heart aching at the sight of his disheartened expression.

"Forgive my forwardness, Christine." He murmured apologetically.

A brief smile returned to Christine's lips. "It's all right, really, you weren't forward."

He stood, heading for the door.

"I'll leave you to change. My carriage will be ready in five minutes, I shall return for you then. Don't be long, Little Lotte." His smile was like the first ray of dawn breaking through the grey storm clouds. Then the door closed behind him, and sunshine faded.

Moments later, outside, a key turned in the lock, twisting it into place, quietly so.


"Insolent boy! How dare he share in my triumph!"

The familiar dark voice echoed through the room with ill-concealed anger. Anger that was substantial, touchable in the gauzy tendrils of smoke that rose and swirled about the full-length mirror.

Gaslight and candlelight surrendered to the omnipresent, potent darkness that blanketed the room with an ominous purpose.

Christine's blood turned to ice, as Erik's wrath enveloped her soul like a filmy, but impenetrable veil.

"Angel of Music, I hear you. Enter, at last, master."

"Look into the mirror, Christine." Was the softly spoken command, piercing through Christine's fears and doubts, and snaking its way into her mind with its alluring promises.

Obediently, dazed, Christine stepped through the looking glass. The black gloved hand closed over hers tightly and pulled her into the narrow passage.

"Did I not make it clear you were to call me Erik?" He brought his lips to Christine's ear and hissed in a darkly luciferian voice.

"Forgive me, Erik." Christine mumbled dreamily.

"Save your apologies until we're down in my abode." Said he, his hard lips bearing no smile.

And descended they did once more, into the subterranean haunt of the Phantom.


Meg stepped into the Prima Donna dressing room, her eyes adjusting gradually to the dim light of the gas lamp on the vanity, casting an eerie play of shadows across the large mirror.

Her eyes searched Christine, seeing the room's only occupant was deep empty silence, the ballerina turned to leave.

Glancing over to the ghost white orchids atop the vanity, she recognized them to be the bouquet she had seen earlier in Vicomte de Chagny's hands.

Where was Christine now? With the Patroun, or with the Phantom?

A tiny barb of envy pricked her heart, but it was sharp enough, her friend was indeed much loved.

At least with the arrival of the Vicomte, her childhood love, Christine would be preoccupied.

Meg knew of the quickening of Christine's untutored heart when the Vicomte had made his grand entry.

A twisted pleasure it would be to Meg, should the Phantom be incensed with lover's jealousy.

Let him burn with the scarlet flames of unrequited love.

Where did these wicked thoughts come from?

From which fouled fountain did these secret unspoken yearnings flow forth, to fester slowly within her soul?

Meg shuddered.

Her heart hardened.

At last, her prayers were answered.


I know I kind of rhymed at the end, but it was all unintentional. Anyways, reviews I love and live for!