A/N: I love Lucius. He's so cool. And to the person that noted the similarity between the name "Lucifer" and his (Lucifer being Satan's name before he fell) I didn't realize it. Sorry for not knowing who you are. But that has nothing to do with anything! Yay!

Sorry about the long delay, pholks, but life has been jam-packed. And I've waited longer. Here's a nice relatively-long one for ya.

By the way, I have many chapters written, but Chapter Five is currently MIA. I suppose I'll have to write it before I do too much more...REVIEWS WILL HELP!

Chapter 3—Slavery

"Show me."

Christine held in a wince at the command, which was given as soon as the barouche door shut. She turned her face up toward the nobleman, and his hand shot out to grasp her jaw and hold her for his optimum viewing. He glared for several long moments, then released her.

"It'll do," he said gruffly, and ordered his driver on. He sat back as the carriage began to move, and pointed out the window. "That, Christine," he said, "is the unfinished Opera Garnier, which I design and my men build. It is thankless and hateful work, but the Opera Populaire company has provided a large sum of money for me to complete the project."

Christine stared at the partial skeleton of the building, until her guardian slapped her back from the window. She shrank immediately back into the leather seat, her mind racing with questions she dared not ask. Why did he hate music so much? Why would he agree to build a house of it? He had said the pay was good…did he deserve the pay he was being given? What would happen if she were to, one day, play that piano in the parlor?

"When we return to the house," her master continued, "you will meet Edina. She is one of the maids at l'maison Garnier, and you will be under her charge. She will give you a set of work clothes, as well as another for the times when you must make a good impression. You will obey her at all times. This means that you will do any and all work that she gives you to do, and do it well. You will also obey orders from anyone else in the house, including my son, Audrey. As long as you get the work done, time you have idle, if any, is yours. Be sure to be on hand at the hours eight, fourteen, and twenty, for meals. These are your duties. Do you understand them?"

Christine did not like the sound of these duties, but she meekly nodded her head. Presently, they reached the Garnier residence, where Monsieur Garnier bade her follow him with a quick jerk of his hand. She kept her head down, hiding it from the cold, cruel sunlight, until they reached the door.

"Edina!" the master called firmly as the door closed.

A maid arrived, an older woman with salt and pepper hair that was tied back into a tight bun. After a few strict sentences from Monsieur Garnier, he retreated into his study, and Christine had been bustled off to a small room. Here she gathered black garments that could hardly be called "new"—they were little better than what she already wore—and one finer dress of the same shade. The clothes were skimpy, leaving her arms, shoulders, and neck bare, and they hung off her, but Edina told her that they would do.

Immediately after donning these, Christine was set to work as scullery maid, scouring dishes in hot water until even her hard-earned violin calluses were soft, her long hair tied neatly up at the nape of her neck. Throughout this lowly work, she was aware of every presence in the room, although her back was turned. Particularly she noted the cook—a man quite large in stature and inclined, it seemed, to make tasteless remarks to and about the various serving girls that came and went. When no others were in the room, she almost always felt his eyes on her, although he never spoke to her.

She washed every dish quickly, having done the job at home. It was an hour before supper when she finished, and Edina appeared.

"Nicely done," the older woman praised absently, eyeing the empty sink and full cabinets. "Now, Christine, what does thee know about serving?"

The small girl answered quietly, "I nearly always served my mother and her—" a slight pause, "—guests," she finished. "I was taught very early, my mother having no servants."

Edina considered the child. She seemed sincere beneath the mask, her eyes emotionless. "Very well, then," she concluded, nodding her head. "I'll give thee the wine service—can thee handle that?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Good. Thee will pour drinks before the meal, and remain on hand to refill as the Master and Mistress require, understand?"

"Clearly, Madame."

Christine was indeed experienced with this, and from it had developed the invaluable skill of seeming not to listen, while truly absorbing everything. She put this into every moment of the meal that night, and heard much.

Charles Garnier barely glanced at her shadowy form as he sat at the table's head, but Madame Nicole Garnier and the young Audrey Garnier stared in blatant surprise. It was some moments before the master spoke sharply to his son, snapping them back to themselves. Christine stood with her head bowed, listening to every word of the conversation, but only reacting when one of the adults called for a refilled glass.

"So far, I've only spoken French to her," Charles was saying to his wife. "I don't think she understands English."

"Haven't you asked her?" the madame said.

Her husband scoffed. "Why should I?"

"It could be important!" the wife insisted. "How can we talk privately if even the shadows have ears, for god's sake?" When Charles did not react, Nicole turned with an exasperated sigh to Christine as the girl approached to renew her drink. "Christine, do you speak English?" she asked in French.

Christine, who had understood every word of the English conversation, said, "Not well, Madame."

Nicole nodded in satisfaction, and turned back to Charles. "You see," she had switched back to English, "now we can converse in private, and she will not understand."

Charles stared sullenly at the filet mignon he had just begun to eat. "I really don't see why it matters," he muttered. "She knows the rules. She's just a servant wench."

The madame glanced from her husband to her son, then to the masked girl. She sighed and fell into silence, passing the rest of the meal that way.

After supper, Christine finished the dishes quickly, and turned to go look for Edina. The cook, who had not been present before, suddenly loomed ahead of her. She tried to sidestep him, but his hand shot out and he pushed her roughly against the pantry door. He laughed at her subdued whimper of pain.

"New wench," he hissed, lifting her chin to examine her better. "Pretty girl, at tha'," he continued, his half-grin not fading. "Certainly too pretty to be th' scullery maid, eh?"

Christine battled to keep the fear from her eyes, meeting his gaze squarely. "Leave me alone," she said quietly, pushing his hand away.

He laughed again, louder. "I do like 'em fiery!"

"Go away!" Christine said more firmly, an order.

"Now," the cook said, "ye've no right t' be orderin' me about, missy. I takes 'em as I likes, and there's no one as tries te stop me."

He shoved her flat against the door with both hands, stepping closer than Christine could stand. She opened her mouth to cry out, but his hand covered it. Christine fought hard, trying to break free, and nearly cried when a voice saved her.

"Nate, get off her, thou filthy bastard!" Edina had come in. She slapped the cook away from Christine, stepping between them. "She's naught but six, leave her alone!"

Nate folded his arms. "Wench," he spat, whether to Christine or Edina, the young girl could not tell.

"Get thee gone," Edina scolded him, already ushering Christine out of the room. "Thee causes enough trouble as 'tis."

The elder maid guided Christine out into the hall, then stopped her to speak. "Hast thou finished the work I set thee?"

"I did," Christine replied.

"Good. 'Tis the twenty-second hour, child, and thee should get to sleep. Thou must awaken early on the morrow. Does thee remember where thy room lies?"

"I remember."

"Good girl," Edina said, smoothing a stray lock of hair back from Christine's face in a motherly way. "The peace of our Lord God go with thee, child. I will awaken thee in the morning. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Christine bade her before turning silently and heading for her room, mentally scoffing the woman's religiousness.

However, once out of the sight of her mentor, Christine turned a different corridor, and paused, looking about her. She remembered the position of the parlor, the dining room, her own room, and the grand foyer. She slid through the shadows, ducking into hiding whenever some late-working servant hurried or staggered past. She memorized her surroundings as she went, noting the location of two bathrooms, another parlor, the garden door, and several closets of supplies.

When she had rounded the house once, she returned to the kitchen area and stole into the pantry quietly. She hadn't eaten properly since days ago, and had had nothing since entering the Garnier household. Her empty stomach filled slowly with the few slices of bread and cheese that she found, and a cup of water quenched her thirst. She left everything that she could exactly as it had been, double-checking before she resumed her nighttime prowl.

She walked about the house once more, and this time encountered no one at all. It was nearly eleven-thirty. She ventured back to the parlor and into it, casting a nervous glance around as she approached the piano.

Despite being despised, the instrument was in perfect condition, dustless and tuned. She slid back the key's cover carefully, and with a deep breath, pressed a nearly silent chord.

There was no reaction, no other sound at all. Stupid, Christine's mind mocked her, to think that anyone would come running at this time.

She released her breath and relaxed, her other hand drifting up, her fingers pressing down the keys to begin a song, a Mozart symphony. The song was soft and sad, but it filled her soul and strengthened her, every note reminding her of Father Coleman and his final words. She needed hardly think about her playing at all, only to let her heart find its way through her fingers. She played with her spirit, until the famous composer's notes had warped into a soft curse that ensnared her completely.

--

Days passed, one much the same as the other. Christine would awaken quite early, neaten her sleeping pallet and change into her work clothes, serve at each of the three meals, and take instructions from Edina and complete them in between. Once the woman discovered the extent of Christine's housekeeping training, Edina set her to more and more complex tasks, and Christine spied more and more other servants lounging about when they ought to have been working.

She did not care. She completed every task, and even found time to disappear—to her room, to the garden, to the spacious rooftop, anywhere. At night, she often stayed up quite late, into the morning, hiding in the parlor or venturing out to explore the city. She needed no practice in this, of course.

Most often, when out, she visited the unfinished Opera. She had a great appreciation for architecture, and ventured around the lot, climbing into the hole dug for the foundation and exploring the bit of land.

Once, as she emerged from one such expedition, she saw a light in a shop across the way. She recognized the place—it was The Artisan, where the man Lucius worked. She darted past a group of men and prostitutes to the window, and looked inside. She saw him there, pacing back and forth, a scrap of paper clutched in his hand.

She opened the door quietly, not wishing to draw any outsiders' attention by knocking, and slipped into the workshop. Lucius did not notice her until he had passed her twice, then whipped around in surprise when he did.

"Oh," he said, "Christine. You frightened me. I thought that you were a cutthroat thief, come to rob me."

"No thief," Christine replied with a bit of a smile. "I simply saw your light on, and wished to ask you what the matter is with that paper in your hand."

He blinked, then stared down at the scrap as though he'd forgotten he was holding it. After a minute, he looked back up.

"The same angel," he explained. "You remember it?"

"Aye," said Christine, "well."

The craftsman sighed. "He will not show me a face. I cannot see anything when I look at the marble. It has been this way for—god, days on end."

Christine nodded, approaching him. "I know the feeling, Monsieur."

He looked at her for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Call me Lucius, child. I don't prefer such formality."

Christine, although a bit taken aback, nodded in acceptance. "Can I help you, Lucius?" she asked, testing his name as he had once done to hers.

He regarded her, a thoughtful look on his face. "Perhaps you can. Come."

He led her into the back room, where the angel statue stood, silently beautiful. Its face remained smooth stone, yet unrevealed. The small girl, however, looked with the eye of her youth and the wisdom of her age-old heart. She saw beauty there, finely shaped features, a rapt expression, devotion to the invisible music that sang from the immobile harp. She itched for a tool to create this vision, and glanced back unsurely at Lucius.

"May…may I?" she asked him, hoping.

He started a little. "You see it, child?"

"Yes," she said, wishing, wishing…

He drew back and cast an arm at the set of tools on a nearby table. "Please, do."

No word passed between them from the time Christine reached for a chisel until the last stroke of her hand smoothed the angel into completion. It had been just over an hour, and when Lucius finally moved, his legs were stiff. He hardly cared.

Such beauty did he see! He hardly needed step forward to see the exquisite detail, the perfect symmetry, the amazing expression that the young girl had given the piece of marble. He stared in wonder for what might have been an hour or a heartbeat, until he remembered the presence of the work's artist.

He turned to her slowly. "You, Christine," he said, "are what we call a prodigy."

She frowned a little, in thought, not displeasure. She seemed to consider his remark gravely, examining her own work. "You think so?" she said finally.

"Christine, this is the most amazing work that I have seen in my life," Lucius said, approaching her with reverence, "and I have seen the greats of Europe." He turned back to the angel happily. "Monsieur Garnier will be quite pleased."

"Monsieur Garnier?" asked Christine, surprised.

"Yes, did I not tell you?" Lucius nodded over his shoulder to the rest of his workshop. "This angel—all of the work that you see—will be part of the Opera that he is building."

Christine cast her gaze over the room, seeing many statues of all shapes, many duplicated, most of artful women—angels, nymphs, and the like. She could see the positions of each piece mentally—in fact, in Christine's mind, the Opera was entirely complete, right down to the gold-embroidered stage curtain.

"Is there any one thing that I can do for you?" Lucius said, placing a gentle hand on Christine's shoulder. "I would much love to repay you, my child."

Christine smiled with a mysterious air. "No, Lucius, you can give me nothing, excepting allowance to return again."

Lucius returned the smile warmly. "Of course, dear child! Come again, and come often!"

"As often as I might," Christine sighed, her expression becoming wistful. "I have much that I must do at l'Maison Garnier."

Lucius frowned. "How came you to him? He told me that you were simply a servant, but I feel that there is something more."

The young protégée sighed again. "I am his niece, but he hated my mother. She killed herself and willed me to him. I am a servant in his household—nothing more than a bothersome shadow."

There was no hint of emotion—of any sort—in Christine's voice. Lucius pondered this, but the child spoke again.

"In any case, it is quite late," she said, "and I should return. I will have work in the morning."

"Yes," said Lucius absently, watching the girl dust her hands as she moved to leave. "Christine," he said, and she turned. "Have you no wrap, no shawl, on this night?"

Christine shook her head. "I am allowed very little."

Lucius nodded. "Wait a moment," he said, hurrying to the back of the shop, where there was a small office. He emerged with a black cloak—a simple affair that a customer had left one day and never retrieved. He handed it to the silent girl. "Take it," he said when she began to refuse. "It is the least that I can do."

Christine held the cloth for a moment, unmoving, not speaking, then quietly said, "Thank you." She swung the cloak around her thin shoulders and fastened it neatly beneath her chin. Its hem just swept the ground. "I will see you again," she added, "but I do not know when."

"That is fine," Lucius replied. "Until then, little one, adieu."

Christine's eyes narrowed, and she gave a dry smirk. "What has God to do with it?"

A/N: Ooh, smooth, Christine. Sweet, in fact. Hooray. For those of you who didn't get it, "Adieu" literally means "with God", and is used to mean "God be with you". Clever, eh?

By the way, I am FINALLY reading Susan Kay's novel. Yes, it is awesome. Awesome-tastic, in fact, which is a word COPYRIGHTED by me. Yay.

Thank you for reviewing!