Christine's father became a legend in a mere two and a half years. Word of his virtuosity spread and fulfilled the managers' dreams of greater reviews, greater fame, and a greater reputation. Privately, though, the man had finally begun to fall to the quiet killer that had lived dormant in his body since his wife's illness. The ache of his chest when he coughed, the creeping fatigue, and the night sweats forced him to admit that his time as the legendary first chair violinist of the Opera Populaire was drawing to a close. He also realized that he could not stay at the Opera Populaire any longer.

The disease that was killing him was an effluvia. It could spread to others by the vapor of his breath. He would have to go to the sanitarium. It is good, he thought, that the managers heard Christine audition. She had proven her future worth to the opera house and would have a home even when he was no longer there to care for her. Hopefully, the money he had saved from his generous salary would help convince the managers to let Christine keep this same suite of rooms and their furnishings.

Christine was nine years old now, and had made herself much beloved among the denizens of the Opera house. Her French had smoothed and become quite natural, though she would always carry a slight Swedish lilt. She was too young to either dance or sing onstage, but she was often called upon to perform for the House at parties and other gatherings. Twice, she had sung in the chapel to the delight of all the parishioners.

Meg was her constant companion. The two girls were a common sight, running and giggling in the hallways and generally getting underfoot. Meg was not a singer; her voice was "flat as a pancake and not nearly as interesting" according to Christine. Likewise, Christine danced as though "she had learned from the drunken stable boys, and never practiced." They considered themselves very lucky that Christine could sing while Meg danced.

"Otherwise," laughed Christine, "we should have to play with dolls and knit, like other little girls."

One night, Nils called Christine into the parlor after dinner. His voice was ragged from coughing all day; his face was waxy and tired looking. Christine knew he was sick, had known for a long time, though she carefully avoided thinking about how similar his symptoms were to her mother's. She tried, as she had tried with her mother, to lessen the impact of his illness. She made sure he wore warm clothes when it was damp; she made him eat three meals and tea every day. Only in the last few months had her father worsened so much that neither of them could avoid the issue any longer. She tried to pretend that she didn't hear the "serious talk" tone in his voice.

"What is it, Daddy? Do you need your slippers? Or some tea?"

"No, cherie. We have to talk about something very serious. Come here and sit beside me." He punctuated his sentences with dry, clacking coughs. When his daughter had perched on the footstool near him, he continued. "You know I'm sick, and I think you also understand that I have the same illness your mother had. That means I will most likely not get better."

Christine bit her lip and looked studiously at her hands. She didn't want to talk about this, and she didn't want to hurt her father's feelings by crying in front of him. If they didn't talk about it, it didn't have to be true, and she wouldn't need to cry. The careful look of voluntary ignorance did not pass her father's scrutiny. In truth, Nils sympathized with his daughter's desire to pretend nothing was happening, but if he allowed her to ignore this reality, she would be completely unprepared when the inevitable happened.

"That also means that, to be safe, I will be moving…" he paused. Christine hadn't cried since the day of her mother's funeral, he didn't want her to start tonight. "I'll be going to the sanitarium."

"But Daddy! I can take better care of you right here than they…"

"No arguments, now. It's safer for you, and it's safer for everyone who lives here. They tell me the sanitarium is a very nice place, with gardens and nurses who bring your dinner on trays. You may come and visit me on Sundays. We'll go walking together, and you can tell me all about how you are enjoying life here and becoming a great lady of the stage."

"I don't want to stay here without you. And what will Maestro do? Gasquet sounds like his fingers are numb, compared to you. Maestro will be angry. He may not let us do Faust without you. How would you like it if Faust were cancelled!"

If her eyes hadn't held such pleading misery, Nils would have laughed at the absurd excuses. As it was, he gathered her in his arms and made the promise that would haunt her dreams for years, "Courage, mijn kleine zangvogel, if I could, I would stay with you forever. But I promise you, if you study hard and practice everyday, I will send the Angel of Music from Heaven, and he will give your voice wings."

Christine felt her eyes flooding. She didn't want any Angel of Music, she wanted her father. She returned his hug, but instead of clinging to him, she disengaged herself and walked to her little room, where she proceeded to pull the covers over her head and silently cry herself to sleep. In the next room, her father pressed his hands to his eyes, feeling the fever that burned there. He could not follow his daughter to comfort her. He was simply too weak. In a way, he thought miserably, that was a good thing. He would not be there to comfort her in the future; she would have to rely on her own strength.

In the tiny compartment behind the gilded full-length mirror in the parlor of the suite, Erik knelt with his fists pressed to the wall, his eyes closed, and his mind awhirl. He had listened to the entire exchange and was wrestling with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, his heart ached for these two people with whom he had come to feel a kinship. He knew what it was to lose the only person on Earth who cared for you. On the other hand, Christine's father had just unwittingly handed him the key to his daughter's confidence. The Angel of Music! It was a role for which he was peculiarly suited. It would make her happy and she wouldn't question his existence; after all, her father had promised her.

Erik watched the man sit in his old leather chair, quietly playing a sorrowful tune on his violin. I will take care of your little songbird, Monsieur, he vowed. No one will harm her. Having made this promise, he dragged himself away from the pitiful scene. There was work to be done.