Christine

"Careful, Christine! Don't say that so loud!"

I shut my mouth tightly as Meg's eyes widened, and after a few seconds, I dared to ask: "Why?"

"Because," she whispered. "He might hear you."

I raised my eyebrows. "How can he hear me if he doesn't even exist?"

Meg's hand clamped over my mouth, and I smiled into it. "You don't know that, Christine. Maman says that even if you don't believe in the Ghost, you shan't say it aloud, or he'll come scare you to prove himself."

I pushed her hand away. I had heard lots of whispers and rumours about a ghost haunting the Opera, but I didn't believe any of them. Especially when Meg tried to convince me. I liked to tease her. "Well, I should say that's a very strange ghost, if he wants people to believe in him so."

"He wants people to believe in him so he can get his way," she informed. "He writes notes to the manager so he'll do what he wants."

Oh, Meg. Though she was quite dear to me—how very much her age she acted! "That's not true! A ghost doesn't have a hand, so he could not write!"

"Yes he does!" she insisted, and she glanced around suspiciously. "They say he wears evening dress, but beneath it he's all bones!"

An image came to my mind of a skeleton in a three-piece suit, and I shuddered. "How do you know if you've never seen him?"

"I do know!" she swore. "It's because I have seen him! Lots of times!"

"Meg Giry, that's a lie!" I accused.

"It's true!" She nodded furiously, and then shrugged shamefacedly. "Well, I saw him once or twice—actually it was last year, and I was rounding the corner when I saw him in the shadows, and he was just standing there! And then I looked again and he was gone."

"Did he look like a skeleton?" I asked, and suddenly I was very curious.

"Well…no," she admitted. "It was very dark." She shrugged a second time. "But Joseph Buquet has seen him lots of times. And he says he smells like he's been dead for a thousand years!"

"My goodness." I wrinkled my nose. I would certainly not want to smell a ghost that had been dead for a thousand years—not even a hundred, in fact, or even three. "Well, I think he's just teasing us all."

Meg shook her head solemnly. "Maman says Joseph is going to get it one of these days, because he makes fun of him…and you will too, if you keep saying you don't believe in him! Why, I might as well not believe in the Angel of Music!"

I gasped at her sudden proclamation, and my brow furrowed. "Don't you say that again, Meg Giry!" I demanded, my voice low. She knew how important my Angel was to me, even if she didn't know I'd already met him, and two years before. A thrill ran up my spine as I anticipated our next lesson, but I kept a stern face for my friend—though not even her disbelief could dampen my spirits.

Meg shushed me. "I'm not saying that I don't, Christine. I'm just saying…that it is as ridiculous not to believe in the Phantom of the Opera as it is not to believe in the Angel of Music."

I huffed, sensing the disbelief beneath her words. That Meg really did make me mad sometimes. "You know you were only trying to anger me because I do not believe in your Ghost."

"No, Christine!" said Meg, and she grabbed my arm. "Of course I believe in the Angel of Music! Even if he hasn't come yet, I know he will!"

My irritation began to fade as I listened to her last phrase. I looked at my dearest friend, and oh, how I wanted to hug her and tell her the truth, that I had just spoken to my Angel last night! He was real, and he had come to me, just as Father promised. But he didn't want me to tell her. It was awfully hard keeping such a grand secret to oneself. Why, he didn't even want me to sing in front of anyone until I got better!

But I knew it was a good idea. I trusted the Angel entirely, and just like Father, he knew what was best for me. One day I would surprise them all, when I could sing like an Angel. Papa always said I would, too. Surely he was smiling at me from Heaven, that his promise had turned out so perfectly. It was as if he'd never passed away at all.

"Oh, Meg," I cried, and gave her a hug. "I'm so happy."

"Me too!" said Meg. "Maman said we could have a white cake tonight after supper if we practised well today. Why are you happy?"

I let her go and smiled, my thoughts filled with my Angel. "Nothing," I said, and hugged her again. "I'm so happy you are my friend." I wondered if my Angel could see me now, and if he was proud that I didn't give away our secret.

…

Madame Giry

"Marguerite Giry," I snapped. "And Christine Daae."

The two small heads whipped in my direction, and their embrace was broken.

"Are you dancers or are you not?"

"Yes, Maman," said Meg, and Christine nodded. They continued their stretches.

In the two years that Christine had been with us, she and Meg had become fast friends. I encouraged their friendship, for Christine's sake especially—it was not easy for her to make friends. The first two months of her stay, she had been easily upset. The slightest snide comment from another girl would have her in tears, but she would not accept consolation—instead, she cried her shame in private, and feigned happiness for my own sake. She spoke of the Angel of Music and asked me constantly if he'd come yet and if I'd seen him. Of course, that was only the first two months.

Then came the violin, and the dressing room, and the tuition.

When first he took the violin, I had thought it was for his own selfish purposes. He did not think stealing below him at all; his twisted logic was that the world had taken enough from him already, and that allowed him to reap what he did not sow and take back whatever he wanted. And of course, the violin belonged to Gustave Daae, a great musician if there ever was one—what better prize to obtain for himself, and what better victim to steal it from than a naïve child who wouldn't know what to do with it?

But then had come the note to M Lefevre, demanding that the dressing room suite be given to Christine. When the manager had called me into his office, I merely expected him to rave a bit, and attempt to guilt me into using my "influence" on the Ghost to make him reconsider his outrageous demands. A thought if ever there was! I did sit patiently as he read, like any proper ballet mistress should, long-since amused at the cynical complaints the notes always surfaced. But then…"one Christine Daae"…and my attention was gained.

Thinking on his theft of her father's violin, I'd concluded that he'd taken some sort of interest in her. Perhaps he favoured her because he knew she was dear to me and I was obliged to her. But what would that prove? And why Christine, instead of Meg? I had so many questions that I dared not ask. If he didn't want to speak to me, it could be dangerous demanding an audience.

Of course he wants to speak with you. I shook the thought from my head, though I knew it was true. His pride wouldn't allow him to make the first move, but I would not indulge him.

Then things began to change. His generous payment of her tuition, of course. But things began to change in Christine as well. From the day she'd been given the dressing room, in fact. The little girl I sent in was not the little girl who came out to join us for practise. Her reservation hadn't left her at all, but it was of a different sort. It wasn't shyness that distanced her from the other girls, but whatever it was, it was trancelike—almost otherworldly. The sadness of her eyes had fled, and she never lost her smile. She would gaze constantly into the rafters, and visit the chapel every morning and her dressing room every night, and though it was clear to everyone that her mind was caught up in fantasies without rest, she never spoke to anyone of those fantasies again.

With the exception of Meg. I learned all I could about Christine's doings from Meg, but even Meg didn't have much to tell me—but that occasionally Christine would tell her dreamily of her father's fantastic storeys. But only to Meg. She never spoke to me about her father, or anything else, for that matter. She was always so quiet, obedient and always lost, in some other world.

At first I blamed him, and worked constantly to sort things together. Christine was nearly always in my sight, but when she asked to pray for her father, and the hour before supper that I tutored Meg and Miss Daae retreated to her dressing room. Over time, I abandoned the suspicion—nothing I had tried had succeeded, and I was certain he laughed at my feeble attempts. Besides; our resident Phantom showed no further interest in the child, and had certainly become exhausted of the idea that his "kindness" would deter me, as I made no effort to approach him.

In all ways but one, I abandoned my suspicion. I still had yet to convince my heart that he had nothing to do with her at all.

When practise ended, I retired to my flat, but even there, I knew I might not be alone. I hadn't felt his presence as frequently in these past years, but he often watched me. In fact…his lack of attention toward me bothered me a bit. I was not sure why, exactly; it was not that I wanted it—heavens, no, I never did!—but it was such a change, a strange one, and unsettling. I sat at the divan in front of my vanity, staring at my reflection. My hair was long, a pale red-gold, bundled atop my head to heighten the strict image I worked hard to create. My skin was clear and smooth, but with definite lines from my nose to the corners of my mouth, and creases between my brow, made permanent by the constant stern expression I always cared to wear. And then, my eyes. I loathed looking into my own eyes; all I saw within them was regret, and sorrow, masked by hard indifference. But I could see effortlessly through that front, and I didn't like anything beneath it.

"You aren't the only one who wears a mask, Erik," I sighed.

Erik. Oh, Erik.

He knew me well. In fact, he was the only living person who knew me at all. I smirked. Calling the Ghost a living person now, are we? He'd known me longer than…anyone. How long had it been? Sixteen long, long years. That one horrible look between us, as he stood over the lifeless body of his Gypsy master, and I, halfway out of the tent, looking on in dismay, had sealed our fate. He hadn't known what I would do, and neither had I, until I did it, and sprung him free of the cage, to lead him to what would become his home and his domain to haunt.

I hadn't known it would be like this. If I had….

"Oh, I don't know what I would have done," I cried, and my head fell forward into my hands. I leant on the dresser, heaving, and shocked at myself, biting back my tears. How long had it been since I last cried? I had never wanted Erik to see me cry, and thus I never did. I should not have cared now. If I cried, it was because of him. But that morbid comfort did nothing to give me release—the tears remained standing within my eyelids, and I held my head soundlessly, knowing perfectly that it was my own fault that he loved me, and that it was my own fault that I didn't love him back. Can't you see? I wanted you to be like my son! I wanted my Henri back! Why did you have to make it so hard for me to see you that way?

Behind me, the door creaked, and I froze. It's him.

"Madame Giry?"

I whipped around, my heart flooding with relief, to see that it wasn't him at all, but little Christine. But why does that disappoint you, Madeleine? I turned back to the vanity, swiping at my face with a handkerchief, though no tears had fallen. "Yes, Christine."

"Oh Madame, you look as if you might cry!" She rushed to me and took my hand.

I smiled at her, knowing full well that it shocked her to see me in such a state, my eyes red and my hair mussed. "Sometimes, people have to cry, Christine." I forced the words to register in my brain, irately trying to convince myself that a good cry every once in awhile was natural—not something to be ashamed of.

She nodded sympathetically and stroked my hand. At least I could convince her.

I sniffled and straightened, ordering myself to regain my composure. Laughing a little through a sigh, I stood. "Was there something you wanted?"

Christine hesitated. "Actually…" she began, and then stopped. Hesitated. "Well, I wanted to know something, but it really isn't all that important."

"Nonsense," I said, and turned to her. "Young minds must ask questions. That is a very important thing. It is the only way you'll learn."

She grimaced, and nodded. "Well, I was wondering…about the Phantom. The Phantom of the Opera."

I knelt before her quickly, my sorrow forgotten, recognising this as my chance, to put all of the unease that had accumulated for two years to rest. "Have you seen something, Christine? Has something spoken to you?"

Christine's eyes were wide, and she stiffened beneath my grasp. "Why, n-no," she stammered, and I relaxed my fingers, unsure. "But all of these strange things always happen, and the chorus boys whisper about the Phantom, and M Buquet always tells such storeys! And Meg tells me that there is a ghost, and she says that you believe in him…well, I just wanted to ask if he was real, because I think Meg is only teasing me."

I searched her eyes. Dilated with wonder and curiosity, but masked with forced disbelief, as if it would be a foolish thing to hope for. Hope for? Purely innocent and sincere. So then, Erik, I thought. You haven't revealed yourself to her at all. "There have always been legends," I said to her, carefully, and probed her gaze one last time before standing. "But legends always stem from truth."

"Then there is a ghost!" she cried, tugging at my hand.

"There is a ghost here," I agreed matter-of-factly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "And he does not like to be bothered, or talked about."

"Is that why you say Joseph Buquet is going to get it some day?"

I stared at her, realising that I would have to make my point clearer. "Joseph Buquet does not make the Phantom happy with all his talk…and you would be wise not to speak of him either."

"Oh," she said, and then continued in a whisper: "But Meg and the other girls talk about him all the time. And some of them say you know him. Is that true? And will the other girls get it some day as well?"

I closed my eyes. I spoke of my relationship with the Phantom to no one. "The other girls will need a warning, then."

Christine let out a tiny gasp. "Oh, don't tell them that I told you! They don't like me much, Madame Giry."

I squeezed her hand. "Why do you suppose that is?" My words mimicked Erik's, as he once often said the same to me when we were on speaking terms, when I would try fruitlessly to reason with him on the basis of the natural things of the world. He, of course, was never one to understand what was natural. And neither of us were excellent judges of the world.

Christine's shoulders lifted in a shrug, and she was silent for a moment. "I suppose it is because I like storeys, and fantasies. But Meg does, too, and they don't mind her a bit! They didn't like it when I talked about the Angel of Music, but I think they're just jeal—"

At Christine's abrupt halt, I turned to her. Her mouth was fixed in a perfect "o" and her eyes were wide open. She quickly clamped her jaw shut.

"You haven't spoken of the Angel of Music in a long time," I observed, wondering at her odd reaction, and being a naturally suspicious person….

"No, that's because—" She scrunched up her face, as if desperately searching for an answer. "That is because he doesn't like being talked about." And then she closed her eyes. "I mean, that's what Father always said, that he doesn't like—"

"That never stopped you from going on and on about him before," I said lightly, as strange new thoughts began to forme in the back of my mind. New thoughts that I had been suspicious of before—two years before.

"Well—" Again she stopped.

She was at such a loss for words that I knew something was wrong. "Tell me the truth, Christine," I demanded. "Why don't you speak of the Angel anymore? Why don't you speak of your father?"

Her bottom lip was trembling. Her eyes were furiously thrown about, and they landed on the door. "I don't miss my father anymore."

Her words struck me. That couldn't be true—Christine could never be that heartless. "Of course you do, silly girl! It is entirely acceptable to miss him, you know," I said, kneeling again before her. "You do not have to forget about him."

"No!" she said, and she bit her tongue at her sudden harshness. "I suppose, I haven't forgotten about him. And I haven't forgotten about the Angel either. But all I have to do is think about the Angel and I don't miss him anymore."

"Why not think about your father instead of the Angel when you miss him?" I enquired, rubbing her shoulder.

"Because," she said pointedly. "Papa left me a memory. I can talk to the Angel, and he talks back."

My eyebrows raised sharply, and somewhere in my chest I felt a sudden sense of dread, that struck with every heartbeat. "He talks back? Has the Angel finally come to visit you?"

"No," she insisted. "In my dreams, he talks back." And she reddened, and her eyes would not meet mine, as if she had been caught in a lie. "Madame Giry, can I go find Meg and play?"

I beheld her for a moment silently, and then nodded. "Of course, Christine."

I released her shoulders and stood, and she bolted for the door. A second later, though, she peeked her curly head back in. "Madame? Are you still sad?"

My heart thumped at the compassionate child. "I am, Christine. But it is entirely acceptable to be sad sometimes."

She nodded solemnly and gave me a small smile.

"And Christine?" She glanced up. "If you ever want to talk to me about your father—or the Angel of Music—I will always listen."

She nodded again, and disappeared.

I sat again before my vanity, and again I put my head in my hands—but this time, there were no tears begging to spring from my eyes. Only thoughts. Thoughts that filled me with wonder, and apprehension. Thoughts that had begun when Christine had mentioned the Angel of Music.

Gustave's violin.

No. I shook my head. "No, that's not possible." And I would prove to myself that it was not possible. A plan had formulated throughout our conversation, and I would put all doubts to rest through it. "God, protect me," I prayed silently, and I forced myself not to think of his temper—his dangerous temper. I swiftly stood, checked my reflection in the mirror, and left the room.