Adelson's Caricatures

by Rue Marie

In the bitter world, there exists a place where many people dare to forget. They refuse to remember the one escape that is offered to them, and in doing so, turn away a chance of salvation. This is the world of dreams.

3. Crusaders

Adelson's Caricatures

With the sound of the young woman's voice, Erik had straightened attentively against the disintegrating statue. He noted immediately that it was discordant, inexperienced, and had potential. Erik had turned against Eros, stepping back carefully as he risked a silent sidestep, to glaze through the darkness to view the girl, whose voice was fraught with emotion. He gazed at her for what seemed like a long moment, as her singing ceased. He inhaled deeply, and though he felt nothing in his lungs, Erik appeared not to have noted the peculiarity. As he inspected the strange girl, he had suddenly been reminded of the sun. He had stepped back absentmindedly with this thought, and when the rocks sounded under his feet, Erik started and promptly turned back into the shadows. He had listened to Christine's voice once more, as she questioned his being, and confidant she had not seen him, Erik surreptitiously made his way out of the open air, and hidden back in the confines of the large Opera house. Erik had paused, looking back to the door, his hand still lightly place on the handle. "Very interesting." He mused quietly, before turning swiftly and fleeing to the lower floors of the Opera house. On his way down, Erik had stopped only once, backstage, to look up at network of unkempt ropes and reeled, decomposing backdrops. He glowered for a moment, then mistrusted his eyes, and shut them for a moment, opening them to find the backdrops were perfectly well. Carelessly, Erik turned and left the stage, down the side stairs, to ensure his rest of his Opera house was being well cared for, and was content to find everything in fine shape. It was only, when his inspect came to tiers, was Erik angered. The arras had been changed; it was obvious, from velvet to crepe, possibly to save money. Erik deciphered, it looked perfectly awful, and reached with a calm hand, to rip away the fabric. How easily it did so! The idea was ridiculous, and it was with great contentment, he went from box to box, ridding them of such, tossing the red crepes over the balustrades. At the first tier, Erik smirked faintly as he arranged the fabric, leaning forward to look down on the sea of seats, before his gaze rose to the rows of tiers, that each delayed a flag of red. It was then, that a voice reached his ears, and he swiftly moved out of sight. The voice was the same as the one that belonged to the young woman he had seen the previous night, or previously in the night. Had morning ever came? Suddenly, the thought was no concern of his, and his curiosity consumed him. Dashing out of the upholstered doors, Erik went to follow the sound of the girl's voice.
On the roof, once again in the open night, he watched the young woman in the manner of a fascinated child from the shadows, as if he had not seen another human in years. Erik dared to venture closer to her, hidden behind the small cut in the wall, created by the meeting of two others. His desire to speak was greater when he heard no noise at all, though he always stopped himself when the correct words seemed wrong, and he afraid to frighten her.

Christine bit her tongue the moment she first became aware of the feeling that she was being watched. The hairs on her arms rose, brushing against her nightclothes. The night passed as slowly as ever, and as the time passed, she became more and more annoyed.
"Whoever you are, come out at once." The girl called. All too often in her life, she felt she was constantly being watched and appraised. She was an orphan, a woman of no value, other then her body. It had always been thus, 'And I can't even escape it here!' She thought with vehemence. The sun was not rising any faster, and the world was not obeying her. She would have scolded herself, if not for the sorrow that shifted to replace the anger. 'Mon Dieu, why must I always think of father when I'm here?' Christine took to pacing, to try and work out the energy that fretted in her mind. The briefest flicker of hope that perhaps it was her father watching her made her survey the roof more properly. To no avail, she could see nothing. There was no comforting arms, or heavenly violins to serenade her. She saw nothing to indicate his promise. "Am I supposed to think you are an Angel? Sent by my father to save me, and teach me?" The girl asked the air bitterly. Her frown became a mocking smile, the sadness eclipsing the youthful innocence of her spirit for a second. Then, as quickly as the sorrow had come, it was gone, leaving her feeling hollow, and incapable of emotion. This too left her as she sat down with her back leaning against the door.
"Of all the places I could dream about, and of all the people I could be in this place, I'm the same me, in the same spiteful place." Christine mourned, self-pity consuming her thoughts. Tiny weeds sprouted from the cracks in the floor, and it was with a significant sentiment of pleasure, she pulled one from its hold, and shredded it with her hands, then blowing it to the wind. The wind that had been a constant reminder that she wasn't alone. Whenever she was, it was calm, and idyllic.
Frustrated, she struggled to stand.
"If you insist on watching me, I will go somewhere else!" The girl fired to the night, turning and wrenching the door open. With heavy feet she pounded down the stairs, and all but ran to the stage. She turned to catch a glimpse of anything, and with a cry of aggravation she saw no one. Suppressing the shudders that threatened to consume her and reduce her to tears once more. Christine moved more calmly, to her dressing room, a mere cell, and locked the door behind her.
"I will spend my evening here." She confirmed with herself.

'An angel?' Erik thought wonderingly, turning his back to gaze off into the darkness, as the girl treaded off from the roof. He listened for a moment, to the muffled sound of her footsteps, before walking out onto the open roof, the stone beneath his feet blackening with his steps. For a moment, Erik considered letting the girl disappear in the confines of the Opera house undisturbed. Though, a heavy sentiment of loneliness settled over him, as his gaze left the rooftop door, to the black sky. Had there not been stars only minutes before? Erik took a step toward the door, and as the ground stone around him began to mould into the night, he fled forward and entered back into the Opera house swiftly. Erik stood still for a moment, though with his entrance, the oddity that had taken place not seconds ago, was forgotten, and in its place was the picture of the girl. With light strides, the man hurried silently after her, descending down into the Opera house. It took little time for him to caught up with the girl, and he followed her, careful to remain unseen, unheard. He had been unsurprised, when the young woman had sought to catch sight of him from the stage, and was simply amused, as his position was much more to the left, hidden by a stanchion. He started after the girl when she had begun running again, pausing in the hall only when he heard the door shut ahead. He smirked faintly, as he stepped forward quietly, at the sound of the lock. Much a simple mechanism did not pose as a barrier. Though, Erik met this soon with mute sigh, and paused as he looked toward the neighbouring room. Sparing a glance to the door of the room the woman had entered; Erik noiselessly entered into the one next. Closing the door behind him gently, he promptly moved to the vent on the right side of the room and pressed against the wall. The strange girl was only in the next room; his gaze fixed on the vent. Perhaps she could hear? Erik's gaze left to search the room, and he was excited to find a small, black case. Praising the convenience, that passed without question, Erik strode to the desk, on which the object laid, and carefully flipped the brass latches. The polished spruce glistened in the nonexistent light, as Erik lifted the violin gingerly from the case. With a lithesome movement, he sited the instrument, and took the bow in his free hand. Positioning the bow, he stepped back to the wall, and with curiosity, he inclined his hand, and began to play the sonata of Corelli's La Folia's fifth opus.

Christine willed the world she was trapped in, away. Then, the first few plaintive strings from a violin caressed the air. Suddenly, she knew nothing but pure joy, and true excitement at being so near to such a masterfully manipulated instrument. Almost on their own accord, her feet pushed the blankets away, and hit the floor in one graceful sweep. Then, not so gracefully, she stumbled to the thin wall, and leaned against it. In this state of ecstasy, the young girl remained, until the final plea drew forth silence. Stunned, she shook her head at such an odd occurrence. With this incredulous thought, came another. 'Who was playing that?' Memories of the rumours of the 'ghost' swamped her mind, but, surely with a wall between her and whoever else there was, she was safe, right? This being thought out, she gathered her courage.
"Who is there?" She called into the deserted palace. She crept to the locked door to double check it was still bolted, before returning to where she had heard the violin the strongest.
"Please…whoever it is, I would merely like to..." 'Like to what? Demand to know who you are? Accuse you of ruining my dreams?' Christine scoffed at her stupidity. 'Whoever was here has probably fled by now.' The sensible part in her mind informed her. Scowling at that sensible part; if mentally scowling is possible; Christine eyed the locked door warily.
'This is only dreams, right? I can come to no harm in dreams…' She tried to assure herself, as the Pandora in her rose to take over. She unbolted the lock, and stepped outside. Searching every nook, and cranny, she could turn up neither hide nor hair. Returning to her room, not even bothering to close the door, she collapsed on her bed. Irritated, Christine threw her hands up in a hopeless gesture, and pulled the tousled blankets around her small body. 'Whoever that is, or was, they sure enjoy driving me insane.' She thought sullenly.

As the last of the music reverberated from the instrument, Erik's hands stilled, and for a moment, he stood silently. Only, when the same was returned, he felt imperceptibly dejected. It was to be expected; he considered the aberrational sonata had frightened the girl. In a placid manner, Erik stepped lightly to cross the room, to the dresser, only to find the case had disappeared. Looking down to his empty hands; he drew back with a start, throwing out his hands in bewilderment. In another second, Erik turned as if to take to inspecting the room, though was interrupted by the sound of a soft voice. Whirling around to face the wall, he stared vacantly for a moment, attention slowly returning to the young woman. Erik casually ignored her queries, and noted the crack of the door opening. For a moment, he was wary of the girl entering the room in which he currently stood. His eyes fell on the doorknob, as he listened to the patter of the girl's feet, and was put at ease to hear the door shut again. Returning to the wall, Erik leaned against it casually, letting silence rest for a moment before he turned against the wall and placed his face as close as his mask would allow, to the vent. "Had you tried to find me? Hopeless, I am afraid. I am...asomatous." Erik spoke, his voice almost foreign to himself, and though inwardly, his tone was derogatory, it sounded soft and dulcet as it passed from his lips and travelled through the wall to resonate off the four that made the woman's room.

Christine jumped in her sheets, clutching the soft fabric to her chest. "That is not possible." The girl replied to the mysterious voice. 'Of course it's possible, you are dreaming!' She lectured herself. ' Normal laws do not apply in this world, you know that.' Christine wanted to ignore the soft voice; for all that she knew that it had been the shade which she had felt watching her. "How is it that you are a mere voice? It is rather abnormal for there to be a voice without a body." Her voice was slightly mocking, but she bit her tongue rather then continue. If she were perhaps trapped in a nightmare, she would hate for her to bring fear upon herself.
"I mean no disrespect, Monsieur Fantome; however, you must see my scepticism is not entirely misplaced."
'What if this is the Angel papa promised you? If you send him away, surely father would be disappointed.' Christine thought, returning to internal dialogue. ' Besides, it is hardly proper to talk to disembodied voices, alone do you not think?' Growling, the girl cast about her room for a clock. Alas, this time, her dream world ignored her will.
"Monsieur, please, tell me who you are, and if not that, at least why you are talking to me, of all people?" 'A poor, orphaned girl who is not even that good of a dancer.'
"I am no one of importance." Self-pity choked any other words she might have said, from her throat, and with a sob borne on the wings of misery, she clutched the blanket around her trembling form, as if it were the arms of someone who loved her, instead.

Erik frowned faintly at the disrespectful way in which the girl had first replied, and with such, he had twitched as if to move. Though, his curiosity held him, and he was thankful it had done so. The sound of the girl's sob had him sinking back from the wall subtly, as it came as a surprise. Despite how she had been crying on his roof, when he had first seen her. The stranger's words were poignant, and the sadness echoed back at him with more intensity through the vent. For a moment, Erik could think of nothing to do; most of his heart went out to the girl for some indefinite reason, though the remainder scowled at her, disgusted with her display of self-pity. Pausing in consideration, Erik's gaze fell from the vent, to the floor. The girl had said she was unimportant, surely she was just another nameless member of the ballet corp., or perhaps a maidservant? In any case, what a waste of potential! Whatever tragedy had struck this girl, had caused such sentiments that had even him sympathetic, no matter how diminutive said sentiment was. He could make her someone, Erik knew, someone great and renowned. With a sudden twinge of enthusiasm, his attention returned to the vent and the girl who lay beyond it. "Mademoiselle," Erik began gently, tailing off melodically for an instant, as if taking extra care in not frightening her, "I speak with you, because to only you, do I offer my serves." He finished, mind reeling, as he sought to remember what the girl had said on the roof. Something of her father, sending an angel to teach her? What a convenient fairytale! "With only my aid will your voice excel." From here, Erik carelessly felt himself becoming carried away, and the passion in his voice augmented tenfold. "I am...your key to success, to the marvels and fervours of song. I am your angel, your angel of music." The vanity mirror, which sat on the dresser, slowly began to splinter with his words mutely, and at the pronunciation of the last word, the once clear surface, was designed with a network of cracks.

Wonderment passed over Christine's face, as she became enthralled in the beautiful voice. "My Angel of Music..." She breathed, her eyes wide. Forsaking the bed completely now, the girl all but jumped up.
"You will teach me? Just as father -"
'No. It's not real Christine. This is all a dream.' Ignoring the splinters falling from the wall, as her cell of a room developed tiny fissures from floor to ceiling; Christine turned from where the voice had originated.
'Still...why forsake such an offering?' "Please, I would like you to teach me very much...but..." A strange sensation, like a tugging feeling, eddied about her body. She had never stayed in the dream world so long, and now, she noticed the pull of reality.
"But I must have some rest. Please, I'll be waiting for you tomorrow night." Not waiting for a response, Christine let herself drift away, realizing that a bed was not needed, when the attraction was so insistent.
"-Daae. Mademoiselle Daae!" Christine's eyes shot open, and sitting bolt upright in bed, she waited for the light-headed feeling to pass.
"Mademoiselle Daae. Finally you grace us with your presence!" "The severe ballet mistress looked down on the dishevelled girl in scorn.
"You have slept in by fifteen minutes, you lazy slut. Up with you, and to dancing we go!" Rushing to dress, Christine ignored the giggles of other ballet girls, and the scowl of her teacher. When she was finally ready, and was able to tie her hair in a strict bun, the Corps de Ballet tiptoed along the hallways, to the practice room. Rigid criticism, and disproving frowns, was all Christine received when she did her fifth position, and grand plies.

With no chance to answer the girl, Erik remained silent as her zealous voice filtered through the vent. His only reply, was a faint nod, which was obviously unseen by the girl. When all fell quiet again, Erik moved away from the wall. For a moment, he questioned his decision; though surly there was no harm. The girl would never see him; however, the world would see him through her; indefinite to their knowledge. Turning from the wall, Erik started, seeing his own broken reflection on the mirror with nearly a state of terror. Twisting aside swiftly, he stood poised for a moment, before the surprise fled, and instead excitement took its place. Erik dashed from the room, veins fuelled with anticipation, as he made the dark descend into the cellars of the Opera house. The lone sound of his light steps echoed through his empty abode, marking his return from the short sojourn above. He entered through the open doorway of his room, and strode impulsively to the organ. He sat at the bench, which was strangely replaced, and gazed vacantly ahead for a moment. "I begin a new project." Erik said softly, as he reached to gather the sheet music gingerly, as if the pieces were so fragile they would disintegrate in his hands. "Ah- tomorrow," he mused, setting the papers on the consol attentively, "Tomorrow; I will be an angel." Erik said, amused by the irony.

"You were talking in your sleep you know." Jammes teased Christine, as the girls did a cool down stretch. For a moment, the small ballerina did not know to whom she was talking, but Christine promptly coloured when she did.
"Really?" She queried, trying to make her voice level, and emotionless. She waited a moment, holding her breath as she grabbed her feet with her hands effortlessly
"And what did I say, mademoiselle?" Covering her titter with a hand, Jammes made some inarticulate motion. By Christine's puzzled expression, she realized it made no sense, and switched to laughing again.
"All right…." Shaking her overheated head, Christine finished her stretches, and grabbed a towel to take with her to the baths.
"Oh! Angel of Music! Come take me away!" A shrill voice resounded off the walls. Hunching her shoulders, Christine realized that it was Jammes, and the younger ballet girls were crowded around her, sharing in her cruel laughter. Hunching her shoulders, as if to block out the sounds that cut her deeply, she scurried away. No matter how fast her dancer's legs carried her though, she could not escape such a taunting sound. Stopping by her room to pick up some bathing supplies, then headed to the private baths close by.
It took only a few minutes before Christine was soaking in a warm tub of water, her hair floating just on the surface. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to imagine what she would do. 'What if I go to sleep tonight and he isn't there again? Or what if I don't even dream of the Opera house?' Pushing the doubts from her mind, and relaxing, Christine drifted between the two realms of sleeping and consciousness. Away from her room, and the Opera house, the sleeping realm felt different, less solid.
'And yet…I can feel the Opera house too…I wonder if the Angel is in the real Opera house too?' Groaning, she sunk her head beneath the surface, and scrubbed as if to rid herself of all her troubles that followed her. The hard sponge worked to wash away the dirt, but the resentment at Jammes teasing, and her own outcast status, was harder to purge. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was return to her angel, and learn how to sing. Sing properly, and then maybe, 'Maybe, one day, they will have no choice but except me. I'll be better then La Carlotta. I'll excel past everyone, and all they will be able to do is stare at me, as I surpass their expectations. I'll be the greatest. Then, I can laugh at whomever I please too!' Spurred by this, she stood abruptly out of the tub, covered her nakedness with a towel, and dressed in a contemplative mood.
'The Angel…must only be able to appear to me in my dreams, because he does not know the way back into this world. If I showed him…maybe he could teach me awake and asleep!' Tightening her loose, corset on her own, and arranging her skirts suitably, Christine walked back to the Opera Garnier, teeming with life, and swept among them, a renegade eddy in the tide.
Her small appetite was diminished even more, with eagerness, and anticipation. Purposely, she took the long way to her room, so she would not have to pass the practice room, or the eating hall. The mere slip of a girl, opened her door, and shut it more quickly then most people can open their eyes. She locked it, and in case the ballet mistress came to wake her, she left a note saying she was ill. Then, as an added measure, she backed a chair up to the door. Christine truly hoped she wouldn't be gone for so long, that it would come to her precautions, but nevertheless, one couldn't be too careful. Changing into a fresh nightdress, the nicest she owned, Christine tried to fall asleep many a time, and found she could not. Only when she truly despaired at sleeping, did her eyes lids grow heavy, and sink.With a relieved huff of breath passing over her lips, Christine pushed the blanket off her body, and waited for the courage to come. "Angel? I've returned!" The girl called, not bothering to move off her bed. If he weren't there, she knew that the disappointment would be too great to sleep once more.

Time slipped by insignificantly, as Erik paced his room, mauling over and situating lessons he would teach the girl. For the most part, his ideas jumped around in his anticipation, and it took him some time before he realized the scarce while they would have. Periodically, Erik would close his eyes for a moment, and find himself sat at the organ bench again. And though he did not remember sitting, he ignored this as if it was a normal occurrence, and stood to pace again. It was with much zeal that Erik deciphered the time of his leave, and he fled out into the open cellar to cross the lake. It was during this cross, some worry rose in him, though he stifled it by assuring himself the girl would never see him. When Erik had finally emerged from the dark catacombs under the Opera house, he dusted his dinner jacket off idly, as if working to control his eagerness. After a short pause, he dashed off to the right, and in a silent run, began to careen around the hallways of the large Opera house to locate the corridor in which he had been in some time ago. Erik stood still for a moment, listening warily, before stepping to the door of the room he had been in before, and slipping in without a noise. Moving to the vent, he leaned against the wall lightly, and heard nothing. He figured the girl was not in the room, and with an instant stab of impatience, he slumped against the wall. When finally he had heard Christine's voice, Erik had begun doubting her existence, and so he found himself pleased to know better. "Ah, good evening Mademoiselle. I had begun to imagine you had forgotten me." Erik greeted softly to the young woman. After some formal exchange of conversation, Christine had insisted on introducing herself, and he had responded in such a way that the impression was given that he had already known. The lesson began with hesitation on Christine's part, and halfway through her scales, when her voice caught, she would apologize profusely in a way that both irked Erik and entertained him. He would interrupt her by calmly instructing 'let us start again from the beginning'. When the first lesson was over, Erik had only murmured a polite goodbye to his student and moved out into the darkness, feeling content with the improvement she had shown in their time.
Soon, when numerous nights had come to pass, Erik found himself more eager to hear Christine with every lesson. Their conversing became less diffident, and Erik was proud to say that Christine's voice had begun to show definite improvement. Certain evenings, the lessons would go on much too long, and when Erik exited the room, he found the halls lit dully with morning light. Sometimes, he would hear the sounds of the waking Opera house, always soft, and always unexpectedly distant.
By the end of the third month, Erik had taken to melodiously complimenting Christine at the end of lessons, and though she was constantly self-effacing in accepting them, he always insisted he was being perfectly sincere; it was the truth. Christine learned quickly, and though he would occasionally catch mistakes, she accepted the critique well, and corrected it promptly. With no comprehension on his part, Erik failed completely to take notice of the constant thoughts of Christine that held to his mind. Below the Opera house, sitting at the expansive organ, he would think on her. The thoughts had first been simply concerning the lessons, though slowly, they slid into more sentimental reflections on her manner; times when she was sure she pulled a flawless note and how he would have to correct her, and have her reply be tinted with the sound of childish disappointment.
As the leaves on the trees began to change to shades of orange, and tints of red and yellow outside, marking the beginning of autumn, Erik sat alone, at his normal seat at the bench before the organ, in complete silence. The world outside the Opera house seemed as it always had, distant, cold, and unimportant to the man who twisted the quill between his fingertips with little attention. Anxious for his lesson with Christine, his attempt at composing anything was hopeless. At their previous meeting, Erik had told Christine, without explanation, that their next session would be on the roof. He did so frankly, on the grounds that he longed to see her again. He fought to remember her face clearly frequently, and began to curse himself for not putting his attention in such sooner. As the plume of the quill brushed over his mask, Erik's mind began to wander again to the subject. As he gazed vacantly forward, mind engrossed in thought, the black tapestry, which decorated the adjacent wall, fluttered. The movement slowed, and as if the fabric turned to oil, it began to drip as it swayed. Placing the quill aside, Erik stood, mind set to ascend to the roof as he moved to the door, with no attention to Christine's name, that had been written on the floor in black liquid.
Aware that he was early, Erik strode onto the roof, immediately being met with a cold chill. Had Erik not been so keen on his visit with Christine, he would have promptly noted the eerie, forlorn air the dark, empty roof gave off. Moving away from the roof door, Erik made to hide completely in the shadows, and watched the door attentively, waiting for Christine.

Christine shivered as she paced the floor of her bedroom. It was cold in her world, and still, she felt apprehensive on approaching her angel. 'Does he have a surprise for me?' She wondered. Her evenings had been consumed by her music lessons, and though her singing improved, she could only realize that in private, when no one could hear it. Her dancing on the other hand had begun to suffer, as her mind drifted farther away from graceful steps, and lingered on graceful phrases, and beautiful words. With various lectures, and many hours spent working on her en Pointe, Christine was able to redeem herself. It was also because of this, that her connection to the realm of dreams was much more distinct. Exhaustion made her body ache for rest, and her mind for escape. Though, waiting for her particular evening's escape, she lingered on what to wear. She had a modest wardrobe of clothes. When her father had lived, he had spared no expense on his beloved daughter, though that might have been the reason for his death. Caring too much for her, and his music, and not enough for himself. Christine herself had fretted over what to wear so much, that in the end, she gave up, and went to bed in a simple taffeta gown, with the bodice a visible corset. 'Why should I worry? He is an angel after all, though I do want to impress him. He's been so good to me.' Smiling at this thought, the brief moment between awake and asleep passed by in a flash.
Her entire person quivered with excitement as she raced up the stairs, though she composed herself before opening the door to the roof. For a simple moment, Christine took in the view of the stars, though they seemed less bright. Smiling at Eros and Psyche, and making her way among the other statues as if they were old friends, the girl reacquainted herself with the roof and its patrons.
'Some little girls, got pretty stories of happily ever after, and I got Greek mythology.' Smiling at the strange way of the world, Christine finally summoned her courage to call on her teacher.
"Angel? Are you here?" Her voice echoed across the wide expanse of concrete and shining gold. A cool breeze, told her he indeed was, though she knew she would never be able to see him. 'Not for lack of trying though.' She thought ruefully.

Still amongst the shadows, Erik took a moment to assure he was properly concealed, situated in the same position he had been the second night he saw Christine. Though, that night Erik's only interest in her had been sparked out of pure curiosity. Shifting against the wall mutely, he leaned forward to view Christine. As he watched her meander between the golden statues, Erik's heart palpitated, unexpectedly feeling some strange warmth, which caused him to absentmindedly shiver. He took a short moment to study her features carefully; burning them into his mind precisely before his attention reluctantly turned to ensuring he was still hidden. As soon as Erik's heart was allayed of his ardour, he almost wished he had not dared to view her. "Yes, I am here." Erik spoke softly, his dulcet voice seeming to emanate from all directions of the roof. There was a pause, as his echo settled before he continued smoothly. "Mademoiselle, you have made such a palpable improvement, and as your mentor, I am quite proud. There is still much work to be done, but my confidence in your voice is exceeding. Christine, very soon the world will hear you sing." The emotion in his voice rung pleasantly through the air, and tampered off soon after, leaving a lingering silence. "But at present, let us enjoy the evening, Mademoiselle. For tonight, we let your throat take respite." From there, Erik began to explain the outline of Jerusalem, an Opera full of crusaders, love, and assassination, on which production had already begun. "You have only practiced as a harem girl," Erik explained, with a hint of distaste in his voice, before continuing, "but you will not be seen as one." He guaranteed, prior to enlightening Christine that she will be practicing the role of Helene the duration of their next lesson.
Throughout the lessons that followed, Christine met her angel on the roof, more and more often. He claimed this would be a beneficial way to make her project her voice. Helene had become a warm up for their music, and it was heavily emphasized as the date for the casting drew near.
The Opera Garnier was always casting strange people for new roles; however, the leading roles were usually reserved for the active Prima Donna. Christine constantly shied at the upcoming auditions, and every time she even mentioned she might not sing, her Angel would acquire a hint of anger in his voice. This would banish any thought she had to not trying out. Then, finally on the eve before she would try out, there was a satisfied silence. Holding her breath, she waited for any criticism. None came, but instead, her Angel's voice came from everywhere with the words of 'You are ready.' Bliss and fear mingled within her being, as she sought to preserve the words inside her heart. 'Ready. Soon, I'll make him proud. Father, you will be proud of me.' With relish, Christine turned to the door leading back to inside. The sun tinged the entire roof a golden colour, and a strange shadow cast itself from Eros. Thinking it was her imagination; the girl addressed the sky. 'You will be there for my audition, will you not?' She asked. Receiving no answer, thinking her Angel had already left, she retired to her bed, to wake up once more in the real world.

The Opera Garnier was abuzz with chatting and voices, as people dashed to appointments and instructions were bellowed. A line of dancers waiting to be cast stood to the side, while the singers stood to another. Moving inconspicuously to the singing line up, Christine waited. Waiting for a woman to come around the line with a list, Christine signed up tryouts, and put down Helene as the character. Receiving an incredulous look from the list mistress, before she moved on, Christine bit back her urge to run as far as she could from that very spot. Nervously pleating her skirt, the girl gave up the idea of pacing, and merely nibbled on her lips.
'Christine Daae?' A droning voice called. Swallowing her doubts, she rose.
Some of the ballet girls giggled at the thought of 'Bete Christine' trying out for singing.
"It must be because she can not dance, that she has to sing." Jammes said maliciously. This made Christine stand taller. 'My Angel thinks I can do it. This stupid human says I can not?' Eyes full of intense passion, Christine walked assertively to the room, and shut to the door herself. Her bravado faltered slightly, at the disproving glares of all who looked on her.
"Ca-hem." Clearing his throat, the director of the Operas new production cast her in a cold glance.
'It says that you will be trying out for the part of Helene.' He spoke monotonously.
"Oui." 'Simplicity is the best Christine. Try for simplicity.' She coached herself. Looking her over, and making some scribbled notes, he gestured for her to begin. Taking a deep breath, and praying that her angel was somewhere.
"Que m'importe la vie en ma misère
extrème lorsque, hélas, pour jamais
je perds celui que j 'aime? Comblant
mon malheur, sur moi va d'un père
tomber la colère... Seigneur! Seigneur!
Ton bras m'accable! Sois secourable à
ma douleur..." Her voice was powerful, as she, Helene, lamented her misfortune.
"Mes plaintes sont vaines! Mon Dieu,
brise mes chaines; termine mes peines!
À toi rappelle-moi... Des jours pleins
d'orages, voilà mon partage leurs
triste présage me glace d'effroi!
Termine mes peines, mon Dieu, brise
mes chaines! À toi rappelle-moi!" She had, during her performance, moved from the door, to the front of table in which the casting crew resided.
Eyes clearing, and her anxiety overwhelming her once more, Christine stepped away from the men. Silence eclipsed the reverberations of her voice, and the girl, now feeling the smallest thing, did a swift curtsy, and swept away from the room after they said their thanks for her audition. The ballet girls jumped away from the door, as Christine all but ran back to her room. Then her breathing, having been so controlled during her flight, began to become erratic.'Mon Dieu! I did it!' She knew then, that no matter how hard she tried, rest would not come easily that night.

On the day of tryouts, Erik had been on nerves end, half in anticipation, and concern for his student. Because he was unsure of the time Christine would show, Erik had assured he was settled in the tight passageway that ran between the audition room, and the opposite wall of a corridor. Shifting against the passage wall, the other only half a foot from his face, Erik found that he strangely could not remember the last time he had moved about in his own Opera house so freely. Erik was wary of the thick dust that layered the passageway effecting his breathing, though this passed, when he noted carelessly that the dust laid as if it was completely undisrupted. Time passed slowly, as Erik scrutinized audition after audition. Some, he sincerely hoped would receive their aimed roles, and forcing himself to sit through certain others made him feel like a masochist. It was with a start, that Erik rejoiced at hearing Christine's name, and waited impatiently for her to begin. When Christine's voice first filled the room, and resonated through the wall, Erik placed his hands elatedly to the wall and leaned forward subtly. Immediately, he took to listening intently at every articulation, searching for some fault he should have mended. It was with a rush of delight, Erik was sure there was none blatant. The song resounded with skilled excellence and passion, and as her voice faded after the hurried tapping of her footsteps, a silence laid over the persons inside the room. It was with a swell of pride; Erik listened to the soft sound of a man murmur, 'unbelievable'. Erik turned swiftly on his heel and hastily strode through the darkness.
The evening was filled with subtle disappointment. Christine had been incredibly late, and while he chided himself for waiting so long, with such a heavy sentiment of dejection, and it took all of his self-will to leave the roof.
At first, Erik had been nearly angry with Christine, though in the emptiness of his home, he had forgiven her; and felt guilty at feeling such. He excused her absence, on the grounds that her reticent nerves were probably badly shaken. Erik spent the remainder of the night scrawling idly, his attention wavering to thoughts concerning Christine, and while he was sure the role was hers, Erik was worried the reigning Prima Donna would protest fierily. The producer would certainly not even try to snub her objections. "We will simply have to be rid of her then." Erik mused allowed, as the quill dropped from his hand, and he crossed the room to retrieve the mahogany apothecary box, placing it on the closed casket and opening it to take out a glass bottle and unstopped it. Taking out a porcelain mortar and pestle, he turned the white contents into the mortar and spent the rest of the evening concocting a heavy opiate.