Meg met her in the refectory doorway, giddy with some news about a date with one of the chorus tenors. As the girls ate, Meg excitedly recounted her story. Christine nodded and smiled frequently, occasionally saying, "Really?" or "How interesting…" but her mind registered not a word of it.

"…down the streets in just my petticoats!" Meg finished.

"Huh?" Christine's eyes snapped wide and she stared at Meg, who was smiling at her knowingly. "Meg!"

"I didn't think you were listening. Christine Daae, what has gotten into you this evening? You're barely touching your food, but I know the bouillabaisse is your favorite. I just told you a very juicy story about a certain tenor and me, but you didn't hear a word of it. I had to mention," here Meg's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "underwear to get your attention. So, out with it. What has so completely captured the brilliant Christine Daae's mind?"

Christine looked down at her fingers which fiddled nervously with her spoon. Her bouillabaisse was thickening and she'd only had one bite. Meg's astute observation brought Christine back to the present moment. "I'm sorry Meg. My teacher gave me some very difficult criticism this morning, and I guess I'm just wrapped up in that." Normally, Meg was her confidant and faithful listening ear when the Angel became demanding or unreasonable. Christine looked at Meg's annoyed expression and decided that this was one secret that would have to remain between them.

Meg ruffled in her friend's defense. "I don't see what any voice coach could teach you, anyway. Your voice is perfect! Carlotta has begun to take notice of you, and she is not pleased with what she sees. If I were her, I'd worry too. Her voice isn't what it was when we were children, and your voice is already what hers never has been."

"Meg, I want you to imagine something. Imagine you are dancing in the practice room. You know every step. Your plie, your pirouette, your glisse, everything is technically perfect. But when the music starts and you begin to dance, the dance just looks wrong to you. Everyone else thinks you are wonderful, graceful. But you know that it is not your best. You practice for years, until your legs are tired and your toes bleed through your shoes, but that feeling that the perfection of your dance is still unrealized stays with you. It's like the mirror is laughing at you. That's me. And only my teacher and I seem to notice." Though her tone was as subdued as always, there was a well-banked fire behind her words.

Meg could not respond. She did understand now. Dancing was her passion. She was the ballet corps' lead dancer; reviewers had spoken of her reverently, calling every step she made "a prayer." Those reviews would mean nothing to her, though, if the mirror told her a different story. She patted Christine's hand sympathetically.

"Maybe you need a break from rehearsal. A little excitement? I have it on the most reliable authority that today is the day Mssrs. deChagny are supposed to tour the Opera house for their annual inspection. And by that same authority, guess who has the onerous duty of guiding them?"

"Meg, how are you ever going to do it? Claire can barely contain herself when she hands him his coat check ticket, and I think you are more smitten than she! You'll giggle yourself sick! They'll have to carry you away." By now both young women were giggling at the prospect of Meg giggling herself into a fainting fit.

"Well, mon amie, I was hoping that you would join me, with your studiousness and self-possession. It's all mother can talk about," shrilly, Meg imitated her mother, "'Why can't you be more like Christine? Christine would have finished her homework before going to town.' I reminded her that you no longer have homework. She sniffed at me as though her point were made. But I'm very serious, Christine. I won't be able to do this without you! I really will have a fainting fit, if you won't come with me."

"Do I have to say anything?" Though she had no problem performing in front of hundreds of people on stage, Christine was plagued with shyness where young, handsome, wealthy, dashing men were concerned.

"Be polite, at least!" This time, Meg's mimicked Christine's delicate, airy tones, " 'Good evening, Messieurs. This is the privy, Messieurs. Do enjoy the performance, messieurs."

Passers by gave them bemused looks as they giggled helplessly at one another.

"I'll come, but only if you arabesque at each stop."

"Agreed. Meet us in the lobby at eight. And Christine?"

"Yes?"

"Wear something pretty. This is the owner of the Opera Populaire, and one of the wealthiest men in Paris."

Christine nodded and headed towards her room. Meg's voice floated after her, high and conspicuous over the low murmur of the dinner crowd.

"And his very eligible younger brother!"

Back in her room, Christine looked over her scant collection of dresses. Since her father's death, Mme Giry had scrupulously doled out the money he left behind, knowing that it would be years before the girl could earn her keep. The chorus position did pay a bit, but not enough to keep a young girl dressed in the height of fashion. Most of her clothes were sober and modest, which matched Christine's quiet, modest lifestyle. After debating for many minutes, she decided on a white silk Gibson Girl blouse with some puff to the sleeves and her dove grey full skirt. She silently thanked her Angel of Music for flatly refusing to allow her more than minimal corsetry. Her waist would never achieve the "wasp" shape many other girls were proud of, but she could breathe and sing without pain.

A brooch, necklace and small watch rounded out her look. She was very pleased until she passed the parlor mirror and saw her hair in its tight braid. After thirty minutes spent wrangling her obstinate curly hair into a low coiffure, she smiled at her image in the mirror, preened a bit and skipped from the room to join her friend in the lobby.

Meg raised her eyebrows as Christine approached. "My goodness, Christine! You should go change back to your schoolgirl clothes and pin your hair down again. If you wander around like that, you'll have to fight men off to walk down the hallways."

Christine blushed and smoothed her skirt. "Is it too much? I could go change…"

"Don't be ridiculous. You look very nice. Oh, here they come. If I get silly, kick me."

The approaching deChagnys stopped in the center of the lobby and looked around, clearly expecting someone.

"They must be looking for Mother," whispered Meg. "It looks as if we'll have to go to them. Thank goodness you're here. I never could, on my own."

Meg and Christine approached the gentlemen, who removed their high beaver hats and bowed. The ladies dropped low curtsies, and after a moment of blushing, Meg found her voice. "Welcome Messieurs. I am Mlle. Giry and this is Mlle. Daae. We have been asked to guide you through our Opera house. Where would you like to begin?"

"And an honor it is to make your acquaintance," began the elder deChagny. "We rather expected Mme Giry herself, but I am sure a tour conducted by two such charming ladies will be…a pleasant way…to pass the afternoon." He turned to his brother. "Raoul, you know this place. Where would you have us begin?"

"I would have our guides decide. I am sure I will not see a thing on this tour more interesting than the beginning." His debonair smile infused the girls' cheeks with warm hues of rose.

They began in the attics and steadily made their way through living quarters, practice rooms, servants' quarters, administration offices, and ballrooms to the stage. Fortunately, neither of the gentlemen was interested in seeing the basements this time. They decided they would come back at a later date to view the storage areas and get some idea of the inventory. This pleased both guides; Meg had a horror of basements, and Christine saw the hour getting late. Back in the lobby, the gentlemen kissed the hand of each lady, thanked them for a thorough tour, and left.

"There Meg, you see? That wasn't so bad. They are both true gentlemen, nothing like the silly tenors you date."

Meg looked a little sulky. "At least I date." She stated flatly.

"What's wrong?" queried a very confused Christine.

"Nothing." Meg brightened a bit. "Did you notice, Christine? Raoul looked at you at least three times!"

"Did he? I didn't notice. I was too busy trying to think how to get them to end their tour early!"

Meg rolled her eyes and hugged her friend. "And now I suppose you must be getting to bed, lest your teacher descend from the heavens and take a cherry switch to you, no?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Goodnight, and don't dream anything that would embarrass you in confession!"

The idea of Meg embarrassing herself in confession kept a smile on Christine's face all the way back to her room. It was nearly eleven o'clock and she had a very important meeting at four in the morning. Instead of hanging her clothes, she laid them smoothed out on her bedroom chair. Her meeting in the morning was surely at least as important as the silly errand of this evening. These clothes were proving more useful in one day than they had in the entire preceding year she had owned them. She briefly considered wearing her Sunday white dress for the morning meeting, but decided against it. This was only the Angel of Music, not Mary or one of the Saints, after all.

The bed was cold. She had forgotten to put the bedwarmer on the hearth earlier, so she shivered while her body heat slowly warmed the sheets and down comforter. Her mind refused to quiet down and let her rest. Had Raoul looked at her? She did not remember anything unusual. What if he had, though? He was very polite, very handsome. She had never had a suitor, thanks to her Angel's strict rules of comportment, and wondered what it would be like to receive calling cards as some of the other girls did. He had not even heard her sing. She fell asleep wondering what it would be like to be noticed for something other than her voice.