Christine followed the faint sound to the practice halls. Finally, she could identify Liszt's Liebestraum played wistfully and infused with a heart-wrenching longing. She knew every musician in the Opera Populaire by his sound, but didn't recognize this playing style. It resonated within her, entranced her. She imagined this mystery person playing accompaniment while she sang. As rude as she knew it was, she decided to open the practice room door and peek in. Perhaps, if she was very careful, she could crack the door without disturbing the pianist.
The door was well oiled; she was able to turn the handle and swing it open a few inches without a sound. Holding her breath, she leaned towards the opening. An unmistakably male form hunched over the spinet, swaying gently with the movement of his hands on the keyboard. Strangely, he wore a fine derby hat and a voluminous opera cape despite the warmth of the little room. Seeing that she had successfully avoided disturbing him, she dared to inch into the room.
A glimpse of white halted her progress. A white mask…cloak...hat; she was alone in this room with the Opera Ghost! Panic tried to force a shriek from her throat, but she swallowed the sound and backed out the door, painstakingly closing it as she left. The moment the door latched, she ran down the hall, not caring about the loud clattering echoes of her shoes on the parquet floors. Once back to the safety of her room, she locked the door and fell into her chair, gasping for breath.
When he heard the practice room door shut, Eric leapt from his seat, fully intending to deal harshly with the intruder. How dare someone intrude on his music! When he saw Christine's fleeing form disappearing down the hallway, his righteous anger met his rising fear both for her safety and his continued anonymity. It was obvious why the foolish child was wandering the corridors at that ungodly hour – it was her fifteenth birthday, after all. A quick glance at the call sheet confirmed his suspicions. He spun on his heel and stormed towards her apartments. Halfway there, he heard her thin and quivering voice calling for her Angel – right after she had run from him. A bitter taste flooded his mouth.
Christine stood in her parlor and began to call out to her Angel; his presence was so comforting. But then she remembered her own early morning transgression. Would he be too angry with her to come? Let him be angry with her, she decided. His presence would calm her, even if he was angry.
"Angel? Please come to me, Angel of Music!" she called, ashamed at her shaking voice.
She stood in the center of the room, arms wrapped around herself, waiting. Not five minutes passed before her Angel's voice rung out in the room.
"Your name is on the audition list." An almost threatening tenseness sounded a discord in the angelic voice.
Christine's already racing heart leapt into her throat. He knew, and he was angry with her. Maybe even furious, considering his tone. She lifted her hands in a supplicating gesture, but the voice went on. "You made that choice without consulting me. Perhaps you feel you no longer require tutelage." Cold fury was evident in every inflection.
"No! Angel, no… I need you… It's my fifteenth birthday, and I only thought…"
"You thought? You didn't think! Only fifteen years old, but woman enough to wander the corridors of the Opera in the dark of night! There are dangers here you know nothing about. When I think what might have happened to you…" The voice thundered through the room, loud enough that Christine wanted to plug her ears with her fingers. She had to explain herself, and quickly, or he would leave her.
"That is why I called to you. I saw him…I saw the Opera Ghost. I'm sorry I signed up without your permission, and I'm sorry to have angered you. Please, don't leave me." Christine made her mouth stop babbling. She whispered, "I only thought you'd be proud to have me in the chorus." Gaining strength, she continued, "And then I heard the piano, so I went to see. I thought Luciana might be suffering from insomnia. I thought she might accompany me. But I could tell from the sound that it was not Luciana. It was the Ghost! It scared me so badly to see him; I ran all the way here. Please don't be angry with me. I did not mean to behave recklessly."
Her pleading tone broke through the fire and ice that was Erik's mind. She wanted him to be proud of her. Through the mirror he examined her. Her hands were clasped together, her face white, and her eyes wide and glassy. It isn't her fault that her Angel is also a monster, he thought somberly.
The long silence unnerved Christine. "Angel? Are you there?"
"Are you sure you saw the Phantom? Was he dripping with the blood of innocents? Were his fangs bared? Was the room cold with the chill of death and evil?" Erik could not keep the sarcasm from his voice as he recounted some of the fanciful rumors favored by the service staff.
"No, he wasn't anything like that." she thought back to the music that drew her into the small room, "But I know it was him, because of the mask. The white mask everyone says he wears. But Angel, this may seem ridiculous…and I hope you will forgive me if I am being fanciful…but I think the Opera Ghost may not be so evil as everyone says he is. The way he played the piano; there wasn't evil in his music. Until I saw who it was, I wasn't at all frightened, I thought he was just very…sad...and terribly alone. He was playing the Liebestraum so beautifully." She tapered off and immersed herself in thought.
Again, silence filled the room. Erik was frantically trying to suppress an irrational wave of joy. Christine had run away, true. But she remembered more than just the terror of the Phantom of the Opera. She had heard his music, truly listened, and she was moved by it. He looked at her again, standing there alone in the middle of the parlor, staring thoughtfully at her father's violin case.
He couldn't justly classify her as a child any longer. Her poise and maturity belied her years, and her eyes shone with keen intelligence. When the Opera teachers declared they had nothing left to teach her and graduated her with honors three years ahead of her class, he had swelled with pride, forgetting that the credit was due as much to her intellect and dedication as to his guidance. He had never really seen her before, except as an instrument he wished to play.
Her physicality matched her unblemished spirit. She had not braided her hair yet; long, glossy, curls of that golden hue peculiar to the Nordic people fell halfway down her back. Her face was sweet with its Cupid's bow lips and large deep blue eyes. She was not tall, but she unconsciously carried herself with a powerful presence. Now he saw her, beautiful, strong, intelligent…musical. And she had seen him, even if she did not know it. He would have to begin watching out for beaus – she was a pretty girl and her innocence would need to be protected. There were more pressing issues, though, than his sudden lyricism over his student's beauty. In two weeks the girl had to audition.
Nonchalantly, Erik jumped to that subject. "Now that you have committed yourself to the auditions, we must choose a piece and prepare you. We have a bare two weeks. What piece would you choose?"
Christine was surprised by the question. Her Angel so rarely left such decisions up to her judgment. She thought for awhile. "I would enjoy singing Bellini," she ventured. "I think it would allow me to demonstrate my range without giving me too much room to fail."
"Not a bad choice," Erik conceded. He thought immediately of seven other pieces that would compliment her voice equally well. "How well do you know it?"
Another surprising appeal to her judgment left Christine at a loss for words. "I…I…know it by heart. You aren't going to leave me, are you?" It was the only reason she could think of that he would suddenly allow her so much choice.
"You are fifteen, now; almost a woman. You must begin to guide your own study a bit." As Erik said the words, he knew them to be true. And then he spoke another truth that shook him profoundly. "But know that I will never leave you."
