After a while, Erik finally consented to let Christine leave the catacombs and visit the world above and outside. He taught her how to row the gondola and warned her to always wear the cape with a hood he'd made for her and have the hood on over her head. Every time she left, which was about once a week, he gave her some money to spend. Then she'd return about three hours later with food, drink, paper and ink for composing, occasionally some small trinket for her father, and news, most of which was just gossip, from the outside world, for she, like her father, had a talent for sneaking around and spying without being detected.

One chilly night, when she was just about to arrive back at the Opera Populaire, she saw a group of people clustered nearby. She knew that these were the normal gossipers that she normally eavesdropped on, meaning that it was time to listen for news or gossip, which she thoroughly enjoyed. People living above the catacombs had the stupidest and funniest things to say sometimes.

She hid close to the group, staying in the shadows, close enough so that she could hear but far enough away that she could hear what the people were saying.

An old couple and a young couple stood in a group, talking in quiet voices, and she began to listen.

"Did you hear?" the old woman asked. "Elizabeth LeDean is pregnant!"

"Really?" The young woman sounded fascinated. "Who is the father?"

"Well, the ambassador of Spain, of course. Don't you see the way he looks at her?"

The others laughed politely, as though they thought the comment was funny, and Christine rolled her eyes. Above-grounders. Always trying to be funny or polite

The laughter ceased, and then the young man whispered, "Did you hear about the poor Vicomte deChagny?"

Christine's ears pricked upon hearing the name of the Vicomte deChagny, who was, she knew, her mother's husband. What news was there? She moved a little closer to the group, intrigued. Finally, a piece of interesting news.

"No," the old man whispered. "What of him?"

"Well, apparently," the young man replied, "his wife, Christine, the one who was a soprano at the Opera all those years ago; she was its female star on its last night, remember..."

"Yes, we all remember," the old woman cut in impatiently. "What about her?"

"Well, she... she died of smallpox."

She froze. Her mother? Dead? She listened for more.

"Really?" the old man breathed in obvious shock.

"Yes. Last night."

"What a pity," the young woman replied, clicking her tongue.

"Indeed! The Vicomte is heartbroken."

"I know somebody who might be more heartbroken than he," she muttered, tears in her eyes. Even though her mother had abandoned her, she was still related to her, and it was sad to hear that the woman who had brought her into the world was dead. She listened for more.

"... the funeral date?"

"Three days from now, at ten o'clock in the morning, at the cemetery on the other side of the woods."

She began to walk in the direction of the Opera Populaire, wiping away tears, knowing that she had to tell her father. She was sure he'd be heartbroken, but he had to know.

A few minutes later, she reached the shore of the lake, arriving back at the home that she and her father shared. She stepped off the gondola and removed her cloak, hanging it up and then going to the dining table and beginning to unpack. Her father greeted her, but her only reply was to hand him the paper and ink she'd purchased.

She tried not to notice that he was looking at her in surprise as she rather hastily put away the food and drink she'd bought for them, then placing the extra money she'd had from shopping in a small music box she'd received as a birthday present from her father, as the money was hers to keep.

Then she began to try and busy herself with other things, but her father stopped her, placing his hands on her shoulders.

"Christine," he said gently, cupping her chin and tilting her face upwards so that their eyes met. "You're upset. What's wrong?"

Hearing him say Christine made her eyes fill with tears, but she quickly swallowed them and led him to the dining table.

"I have news to tell you," she began reluctantly, not daring to meet his eyes. She wasn't sure she could handle seeing him upset, as she knew he was going to be.

"News?" he asked, his tone eager as he sat down at the head of the table and gazed at his daughter intently. "What news is there?"

"They were talking about Raoul today," she sighed, running a hand through her hair.

Upon hearing the name of his rival, Erik stiffened. He highly despised Raoul and sometimes regretted letting him live. But, for some reason, despite how much he hated Raoul, he still maintained some level of respect for him.

"Yes, what of Raoul?" he replied, his tone not completely icy.

"He's heartbroken," she informed him, quickly deciding that she was going to stall a bit.

"Pray tell why he's heartbroken," he said, raising his eyebrows and wondering why it was that his daughter cared that his rival was heartbroken.

So much for stalling. She took a deep breath and then looked down at the floor, tears filling her eyes.

"M-Mother's dead," she stammered.

There was a moment of silence that was deafening. But then his voice came, and it was very quiet, almost a whisper.

"What did you say?"

She looked up and saw that he was sitting there, staring at her with a stunned look on his face.

"Mother's dead," she repeated softly, swallowing a lump that was rising in her throat all of a sudden. "She died of smallpox last night."

He stared at her for a moment in stunned silence. Then it was his turn to swallow tears.

"Oh, Christine," he murmured, and then he looked up at the Christine in front of him. His daughter. Her namesake.

"Sit," he commanded, and she obeyed.

"Perhaps," he continued, sighing reluctantly, "it is time for me to tell you more about your mother, how I knew her, and what happened here at the Opera so many years ago."

She nodded, intrigued. What was she about to learn? What had happened here? She sat, these questions reeling in her mind, gazing at her father. Then he began.