Author's notes: The next chapter will come sooner, from Erik's POV as a counterpoint of this scene + what happened in Persia. But there's still a way to go till the end!

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Chapter XXXII

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"Viva Amina!" the chorus boomed. Carlotta, dressed in a fine costume of a soon-to-be-bride, smiled what she clearly considered a smile of innocent sweetness, but to the performers watching, waiting for their cue, it seemed more like a leer, and a proud one at that.

La Sonnambula had just begun, but Christine, having agreed to play Teresa, had loads of time to spare on her hands. Teresa was Amina´s mother in the story, the only one who believed her daughter was innocent, having sleepwalked into Count Rodolfo's chambers accidentally. Christine sighed. She shouldn't have agreed to do this. She was having trouble with the lower part of her songs, just as Reyer had predicted. She managed it, true, but it was not her best.

Her mind wandered to Erik. It had been almost exactly three months since she had left Persia – three months during which they had rehearsed the opera, during which she had left for Rome for long periods of time to see Giovanni, during which she had triumphed in Fidelio at La Scala. No matter how much Carlotta might rage, the name Daaé became famous throughout Europe, and not only for her marvelous voice, but also her kind personality, which was rare in an opera diva.

Raoul was still her best friend, around her whenever possible, hoping that she could perhaps one day change her mind. Rumors flew around that she was involved with the Vicomte de Chagny or the Count, or perhaps both. But Philippe formally denied any of "that rubbish" in the company of the influential people who visited the opera regularly and Christine confirmed his words.

Crowds of admirers threw flowers at her feet wherever she moved, people recognized her in shops during her time in Rome when she was shopping for her uncle, who she intended to help out as much as possible, since age seemed to catch up with him at last. Young men from all classes flung marriage proposals at her as often as any other gifts, be it jewelry or flowers or dresses.

Meanwhile, Paris debated on building a new, better opera house.

Christine's life was anything but routine, as she was a major star now, but the more she thought of it, the more she realized she would have easily give it all up for a small cottage where she could live in peace with her uncle and Erik, where they would have each other and music. And that would do.

For the first time in years, she wondered why she had fallen in love with him, of all people. By now, if she were vain, she could point her finger at a man she wanted and he would gladly kiss her feet, make her a happy wife and give her a peaceful life. With Erik, that could never be. With him, there would be hiding, there would be pain, inevitably. She recalled his face for a moment and realized that they would be at odds with probably everything in the world.

It brought back the memory of the terrible moment when Luciana had died. Luciana… one of the people dearest to her in the world. She had loved him as well… why couldn't she accept what Christine learned to accept? It would be foolish pride to say that she hadn't been horrified by his face at the first moment just as Luciana was. It would be a lie to claim she didn't understand the horror people felt when they saw him or that she didn't feel it herself, the madness that seemed to take him over.

But with the horror came pity, pity reminded her of how she had come to care for him as one cares for a friend and dear companion in loneliness, how she adored his music. Her angel. Perhaps she didn't love him the night they parted… not fully. She had felt a childish infatuation then, just like Luciana had. It had taken the years of their separation to show her that her Angel had touched her soul far more than anyone else in her life… with the exception of her father, perhaps.

And she found that even an angel hurt during his fall was still an angel to her. She didn't care about the face anymore.

Someone knocked at the door of her dressing room, bringing her back from her world of fantasy. "Mademoiselle Daaé?" The door opened almost soundlessly, revealing a girlish figure behind it. It belonged to Meg Giry, the daughter of the resident ballet mistress, one of the "ballet rats".

Meg was a girl about as old as Christine, but with darker eyes and straight fair hair. She had talent, but was nowhere near being the prima ballerina yet. Still, she was different than the rest of the usual ballet tarts that were present everywhere, drinking and flirting with all men. Christine hoped that they might become friends after time, as she found that she desperately needed someone to talk to besides Raoul, and talking to a girl would be far better, but Meg still viewed her with too much wary respect – she probably thought all sopranos were like Carlotta.

Christine smiled warmly and Meg entered the room. She kept a slightly larger distance between them, apparently still awed and surprised that the diva wasn't snappish. "I found this when I was picking up my costume – it's addressed to you, I don't know how it got to the costume room."

Only then did Christine notice that the ballerina was twirling in her fingers a flower of some sorts. Meg took a step or two towards her and held out the single bloom to her. Christine took it carefully – it was a rose. She often received dozens in fancy bouquets, but this one had a certain beauty to it. It was of a deep crimson color, much unlike the regular rosy pink or white she received. Almost as if the softest velvet had been covered in blood and sewed into a replica of a rose that preceded its model when it came to beauty. When Christine took a closer look, she saw that a satin ribbon had been tied around the flower, so nearly that it seemed that human hands couldn't have done that.

"There was nothing with it, just a paper with your name written on it." Meg said, showing the paper to Christine. The soprano frowned. She didn't recognize the handwriting. "At first I thought someone had misplaced it, but I'm certain it was left there on purpose."

"Strange." Christine muttered. "Usually, I fear that they break down my door after a performance in their eagerness to be introduced to me. This is… new."

"I think it's romantic." Meg said joyfully, "It must be from someone who knows you'll recognize them!" Christine shook her head. Then, however, she began to wonder. Not by human hands… but surely not… "Forgive me, mademoiselle, but I think I'm right. Do you… know who it could be?"

Delaying her answer for a moment, Christine smiled. "Please, call me Christine. We are colleagues, I would like us to be friends – you seem sincere and kind, which is rare these days."

Meg seemed stunned for a moment. "I… I would greatly like that, mad-… Christine." She smiled. "I'm sorry, I've known Carlotta for too long to believe other sopranos are different from her."

After Christine laughed and Meg sat down, their conversation seemed to be far easier. But even as the minutes passed, Meg couldn't help but remember her question and observe the other girl slightly questioningly. She was certain something had happened when she had suggested that she should probably know who was sending her the strange gift.

All too soon, however, Madame Giry stormed in and informed Meg that she had to get on stage in about half a minute or risk several hours of extra practice a day for the rest of the month, and the pair departed. By the time Christine was required on-stage, she figured that whoever had left the rose for her probably knew her, as Meg said, and thus she would find out who it was.

The comedy on-stage was only supported by the fact that a girl younger than twenty was to play the mother of a woman over thirty. Carlotta's voice ran through Christine's ears like a shriek, and it was hard to be sympathetic when it came to her "daughter" when it was more than obvious that the "daughter" despised the "mother", because the crowd was giving her lyrical and pure voice far more attention that that of Carlotta.

The first act ended rather unceremoniously, because Carlotta stormed off, head high, right after the curtain fell and everyone seemed uncertain whether or not they were permitted to laugh, since the main tenor, Ubaldo Piangi, the oh-so-secret lover of the shrieking diva, was still there. Christine decided to be professional and spent the break talking to the basso playing the Count, whom she knew from La Scala, when she had performed in Rigoletto.

The second act went less smoothly, because Christine's presence was required more often, and so, instead of appearing naïve and sweet, as Amina was supposed to be, Carlotta was snappish and coquettish, always the extreme. During the final sleepwalking scene, however, she slipped on the platform she was supposed to be walking on and fell flat on her face. Everyone on-stage except Christine didn't suppress smiles, most of the audience laughed, only the managers and Reyer seemed horrified.

Carlotta struggled to stand up, but discovered that she couldn't. It took Piangi and two other men to literally tear her from the platform – it seemed as if she were glued to it. And still she seemed to be pulled towards it strangely, back into the lying position. Not only that, but her nose seemed to be broken by the fall – there was blood on her face and her voice was somehow muffed. Since no one knew what was going on, two pale managers rushed on-stage, quickly saying that La Carlotta will unfortunately be unable to finish the scene and that Mlle Christine Daaé will finish the scene as Amina, and grabbed the nearest chorus girl – Meg – telling her she would finish the scene as Teresa.

Again, everyone except Christine was awed by this turn of events. But to her, it seemed somehow too… like Erik. Too much like him. She didn't like the cold efficiency with which all this seemed to have been done, the calculated precision. It was too much like the tortures she had seen in Persia, though not fatal this time, fortunately.

Christine, as Amina, sang "Ah! non credea mirarti", but with unnecessary caution. She was slightly paranoid by now, especially since nothing happened to her when she walked on the platform. After the scene ended and the opera was finished and the applause began, Christine was far paler than she would be after a usual performance, since she had not exhausted herself that much. Her eyes went from box to box – Erik would never sit with anyone, least of all the mass of people directly in front of her – but found nothing.

Actually, she would have been disappointed to find anything. Erik was, if anything, a magician that didn't allow anyone at all to see how he did his little tricks. Then again, she thought, perhaps it was just a set of coincidences… very suspicious coincidences.

She raced to her dressing room, knowing that in a matter of moments, entry would be impossible, due to the crowd of admirers that was bound to gather there. Gathering up her skirts, she ran through the corridors, never stopping, and with the aid of the helpful Madame Giry, she fought her way to her door, shutting it behind her.

Bowing her head with a sigh, Christine relinquished her hold on the door. She knew Giry would deal with the crowd far better than she could. She felt sorry for Carlotta, despite her selfishness and snappishness, because she knew that public humiliation like this meant a major fall from grace to an opera singer.

The silence was interrupted only by her breathing… and the soft, quiet clapping from behind her. Once Christine emptied her mind enough to sense that she was being watched, she turned around slowly and fell faint. Fortunately, Erik apparently foresaw this reaction and had his arms around her to catch and support her in time.

A moment later, when Christine came to her senses and, seeing that she wasn't imagining things, she didn't smile before she said: "Must you always be the enigma, cryptic and mysterious in every aspect, Monsieur Ghost?"

"A ghost you say? Perhaps it would suit me. But understand, my dear, that I wouldn't want to disappoint you." Erik noted as she found the strength to embrace him. "You see, I kept my promise. Now keep yours."

"Does that mean that I'm now allowed to say that I love you?" Christine asked, with the slightest unintentional sarcasm that Erik caught. It made him laugh for the first time in… a very, very long time. It also added the unquestionable loving caress to his next words.

"Christine, permit me to say I consider it your duty."