Christine

The necklace was beautiful—slender, braided silver chains and tiny pearls at their ends hung from its crest. I clasped it around my neck, and raised my chin to the ceiling so he could see it clearly against my throat.

"It suits you, Christine."

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, very sophisticated in such a piece of jewellery, and grinned in my gratitude. I could not ask him how he had obtained it for me; I could only trust it was a gift from Heaven, I supposed. "I am so happy to hear you," I ventured, unsure if it was wise to bring up the fact that he was twenty minutes late for our lesson—an unusual circumstance.

"Did you fear you would not?"

I could feel him smile as he responded, and I breathed in silent relief that my statement did not anger him.

"Little Christine, such needless worries

"I'll never forsake you!

"Haven't I promised I'd be with you

"Even through these trials?"

I shrugged, still with a delicate, gentle expression about my features, and changed keys slightly.

"Angel, I always fear your absence

"Still, though my faith strengthens!"

His voice rose from the floor to the ceiling as he interjected, "Where was your faith when you doubted?"

"Doubt having fled, I ask for patience," I continued, "guidance and compassion."

My heart pounded loudly, eagerly, at the brief duet—it still unnerved and excited me that he always seemed to know just what I was about to sing so he could match his own harmony to it.

"Even last night as I watched you

"Holding you safe from your fear

"You felt my presence within you

"And knew I was near."

I shivered at the sincerity of his words, as he reminded me again and again of his promise. A promise very, very similar to the one my father had given me just after his symptoms surfaced: "I will always be within you; I will always be near." I opened my mouth to reply, but just as soon I felt my face crumple, and a sudden wave of tears flooded my vision.

The violin ceased, and his stiff, impatient silence spoke volumes.

I shook my head, silently cursing my tears. "I know I am not supposed to cry," I said, blinking furiously. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry, please forgive me."

"Tell me why you are crying."

I couldn't—if I did he would become angry with me. He did not let me cry for my father, and I couldn't bear to hear him admonish me for it again. I sucked at my bottom lip, desperately trying to compose myself, and swept my queue of curls back behind my head. "Madame is upset with me because I am not dancing as well as I should be…" I said truthfully, "which I deserve, I understand, but with the production nearing I feel so utterly helpless under so much stress." It began truthfully; then I was lying through my teeth. I held my breath, anxiously.

"You are telling me that I push you too hard?"

I could detect irritation in his voice, and I rushed to mend it. "Of course not! There is nothing I'd rather do than sing, and especially for you! It is the ballet training that distresses me, not our lessons…our lessons put me at ease."

His voice was still hard. "They are not meant to put you at ease. Clearly I am not challenging you to the extent that I should."

"Our exercises do challenge me, Master," I said quickly, "but our lessons—the time I spend with you, that is—gives me such, such peace." My mind screamed at my tear ducts to cease functioning. "Please…I do not want to fail you."

At last, the Angel softened. I had come to learn how to handle my Angel at times…as good as I was at frustrating him, I was also becoming very good at taming his temper. "You could never fail me, Christine. You may remind your ballet mistress that you have you have responsibilities other than her own indulgences."

I tried to smile as I recognised the words. "You were listening, then."

"I am always watching you."

I nodded, aware that my tears were obediently drying, though they still remained dormant in my throat.

Due to his tardiness, our lesson was over quickly; however, I did exceptionally well. It frightened me a little how an emotion such as fear or sorrow seemed to inspire me musically—unseen tears could accompany my song as well as any instrument. It having been such a successful lesson, and having a great deal of confidence in my voice, a thought struck me. Before his departure, I asked him one question: "What will happen to Die Zauberflöte if the Opera Ghost scares Carlotta away?"

He was silent for a moment, as if thinking. "The chorus is full of sopranos who are just talented enough—in the manager's eyes, at least—to merit such a role. If Signora Giudicelli is not able to fulfil her duty as the Queen, there are plenty of opportunities for an understudy."

I ventured one more: "And Pamina? What if they cannot find a replacement?"

"Do not suffer the matter, Christine. It is even easier to find a soubrette than a dramatic."

My smile remained on my face, but my heart crashed. He still did not think me ready. I nodded, but could not find any words due to this disappointment and the earlier sadness that had not absconded me. Reluctantly I left for supper, determined to eat quickly so I could visit the chapel.

…

Meg

Christine sat beside me as our steaming plates were brought to us. I smiled at her and looked at the meal: lopsided ham and boiled eggs and carrots. I made a face in disgust, and Christine grinned at my reaction.

"You know," I said, "Etienne was just here."

"Did you talk?" she asked, smiling knowingly.

I shook my head. He had been looking for Christine, but I certainly did not want to bring that up. "He was speaking with Maman, and then he had to leave."

Christine opened her mouth to say something, but Maman quieted us for prayer. Obediently we bowed our heads and closed our eyes. I was always restless throughout prayers; Christine, on the other hand, was always reverent, and always peaceful. I snuck a glance at her through one eye. Her face was normally so content when we prayed, but now she looked sad; her eyelashes fluttered, and I thought I saw a tear glisten.

"Amen," we echoed hollowly, and grabbed our forks.

Christine stared down at her plate. I nudged her. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, and attempted a smile. "I'm fine."

She never did tell me what was bothering her. I suspected it was her father, but if she wanted not to talk about it, I did not want to bring it up. Maman told me once that she was ashamed whenever she still missed him. I didn't understand that, but perhaps she thought it stupid that after all these years she was still sad.

I poked at the eggs with my fork. I couldn't remember my father at all. He had died when I was only a baby. I did not even remember what he looked like, but Maman's pictures of him were very handsome. He was blonde, like me. In a way, I was glad I was so young when he died; if I had been older, as Christine was, I would probably have turned out like her—sad, and distant, and shy. Except, of course, when she wanted to do something dangerous, or sneaky. Then she could be bolder than any of us—though I was the only one who knew of her hidden courage. But if she wasn't doing something that thrilled her, she was a different person entirely. Christine was my best friend in the whole world, but it must be utterly exhausting to live like that!

And yet, Etienne seemed to find her intriguing. He himself was amazing—a member of both the chorus and the ballet, just like Lisette. Perhaps he had heard that Christine was once a singer, and that was what intrigued him. I had prided myself on the fact that I was the only person who knew just how wonderful Christine was, and I didn't want to share her with anyone, especially not him.

I could sing too, after all.

Christine had hardly touched her food when she stood and took her plate to the kitchens. My eyes followed her as I chewed thoughtlessly on my ham. She threw me a smile before leaving the dining hall. Where on earth did she always go to? Early mornings and before supper she always went off alone…"practising," she said, because she was so behind. Several times I offered to help her, but she declined; I think perhaps she might have been jealous of my talent as a ballerina.

I shook my head, and an annoying thought came to my mind that I was thinking unfavourably of her because of Etienne. But I forced it away just as quickly, calling myself paranoid. I wasn't jealous of her at all. Etienne probably didn't fancy her the way I sometimes thought he did…and at any rate, she didn't fancy him, so I had nothing in the world to be jealous of.

…

Madame Giry

I noticed Christine leave supper early, and I rose to follow her, with every intent in mind to chastise her for not asking to be excused. I held back in the shadows, however, as she turned in the direction of the chapel, and nodded silently at her back. I would not let mere propriety get in the way of her lessons.

Just as quickly, I furrowed my brow. It was not a lesson; it couldn't have been. Her lessons were prior to morning practise and directly before supper. I followed her inconspicuously, wondering at her purpose. I had never heard her sing before, and my curiosity at what he'd done with her voice had led me more than once to eavesdrop on her lessons—or try to at least. But the Phantom had fashioned a soundproof door into the entrance of the chapel, and I had always taken the hour before supper to personally tutor Meg and her dancing.

Now, perhaps, would be my perfect opportunity. If it was not a lesson, she would not close the door. I did not know for sure that she would sing…but I was willing to listen, just in case.

The shadows hid me well enough as I stood on the steps of the chapel. I heard the warm hiss of a flame coming to life, and movement. There was silence for a long time, and I realised that perhaps she had only come to light a candle for her father, and she would not be singing after all.

I turned to leave, bitterly disappointed. Instead, I nearly ran into him, and I stifled a sharp gasp with my fist. He pursed his lips and stared down at me quizzically. Without a word, he moved to the wall opposite me, and leant against it, listening as well. I watched him and stayed rooted to the spot.

After a few moments, I received the distinct impression that she was not going to speak her prayers aloud.

As I made mind to depart, the Phantom moved around behind me. His determined, husky words came to my ear. "Go to her. Ask her what is troubling her spirit, and I will be listening."

I nodded brusquely and entered the chapel. Christine looked up at me, and her reddened eyes met my own. She stood and breathed heavily. "I didn't mean to leave early…but I just—"

I quieted her and took her hands. "Tell me what is wrong."

Her eyes flicked to the ceiling, and she shook her head.

I pursed my lips and blinked deliberately. "Why can't you tell me, Miss Daae?"

Her gaze fell to the floor. "I am not supposed to be sad," she whispered.

Indignation filled me, and I spoke loudly, for his benefit, while touching her cheek. "Don't you ever let him dictate your emotions." She stared at me, frightened. "If you miss your father, you have every right to."

She shook her head, silently begging me to stop. "He'll hear you," she mouthed, and she shuddered, rubbing the goose bumps from her arm, as she glanced around the walls. I sighed—he haunted her, and she knew it. "He is always watching me," she murmured, her voice trembling.

"I do not care if he hears me, and I do not care if he is watching," I assured her. "Sometimes even Angels need reprimanding."

Christine smiled a little. "It is only because he does not want me to feel sorrow—he worries for my happiness."

"Then he needs to learn that sorrow is akin to joy," I continued. "One cannot be without the other, and it will do you no good to keep your sadness hidden." My anger at him was not for Christine's sake alone—I was furious because he had done the same thing to me, and I no longer knew how to cry. But I would not let that happen to Christine, the way it had to me.

She nodded, finally, and I led her to the great window of stained glass. We sat beneath it, and she took a deep breath. "I suppose I feel guilty," she admitted.

I squeezed her hand in encouragement.

"It's really a whole stupid mess," she laughed a little, "and I just suddenly feel, with some of the things that have happened…I'm not sure, actually. But though he tells me often that I please him, I know I am failing somehow, because I am still not ready to perform." Her eyes fell to the base of the stained glass. "It isn't that I am impatient, but it brings back so many old feelings…you see, when Father lost his voice, he still wanted me to sing, even without him." She met my gaze again, and tears again began to forme in her round brown eyes. "But as his illness worsened, I could hardly sing at all. While he could still play the violin, people would come to hear us, but not as many…when it was only me singing, it was not enough. The two of us singing together in our concerts was what they wanted to hear. We performed less and less, and I knew I had failed him. I wasn't good enough for our audiences."

Her voice had begun to waver, and she took a moment to collect herself.

"I wasn't good enough to bring in the money we needed to support us, even with his playing," she continued. "When he was too weak to play, I knew it was all over, and I told him that I was sorry that I couldn't save us. He told me never to blame myself, but I could not help it. I was so adamant that my voice should have been perfect, that I made him promise to send the Angel of Music, so that I one day could be." The muscles in Christine's face tightened. "Even on his deathbed, I would not let him forget that promise. He didn't forget, Madame Giry, but I have failed him again somehow. I should be ready, but I'm not."

I felt such sympathy for her. That incorrigible Angel! I hoped he was hearing everything she said. "You haven't failed anyone, Christine. Not the Angel, and most certainly not your father."

"Yes I did!" she assured. "He died and we hadn't even enough money for a proper funeral. He was so talented, he should have had a procession with the greatest musicians in the world!" She lowered her voice. "I'm sorry, Madame. I must not be making any sense. I suppose I have just kept this inside so long…."

Her voice trailed.

I squeezed her hands once more. "But think of his memory. Nearly everyone in France remembers the famous violinist Gustave Daae. And that legacy is far more of a tribute than any material thing."

She nodded, and forced a smile. "Thank you."

We left the chapel together, and I noticed, as she cast one last look into the holy room, that she was shaking. As much as she loved him, she was afraid of him. And he was a fool to instil such fear in her, and suppress her emotions the way he suppressed his own. I wished again, as I had for years, that I had the maternal authority to rebuke him for such a thing. I only hope he heard it in my voice as I spoke to his student.