"Christine Daae can do it, sir."

Christine smiles at the memory.

A life changing moment certainly. The words still danced in her ears, even as Adele, then respectfully referred to as Madame Giry under all circumstances, guided her back to her dressing room after meeting with the managers.

"Thank you. I do not know what I might have done without your assistance."

"Still collect the paltry sum of a chorus dancer, I have no doubt."

Even now, she shivers recalling the euphoria of actually singing the aria she and Erik worked on so diligently, perfecting every note and movement, in front of the cast and crew…on the stage of the Palais Garnier in the glorious auditorium was payment enough, in her mind.

"Just to be on that stage – singing. My pappa would be so proud."

"He would be even prouder to know his daughter was being adequately compensated for her performance."

Money, something she seldom thought about – her life was filled with good fortune in that regard, and she is most grateful. There always seemed to be enough – even those days on the road – she and Pappa managed…somehow. If she missed anything, perhaps it was having enough food…and yet, her needs were never great – companionship, warm sweater and blanket when cold – a bathe in a quiet brook, or in the sea when the weather turned hot.

The sea – how she loved the sea. Living here close to the bay or staying at the Eyrie overlooking the Atlantic, was priceless. One of the best part of her life with Raoul were the frequent trips to Perros, one blessing of their sadly poor match. The demand she leave the theater behind, left Gustave to provide the satisfaction and fulfillment she once enjoyed when singing. His gifts kept memories of both her father and his alive. When Raoul needed her to support his vices, her return to the stage was a joy for her. If there was a paycheck to be had, more the better. In an odd way, all were satisfied – superficially at least.

And then she came here. To her home. To him.

Phantasma is very successful, Erik has a way with finances as always. The thought of his notes to the managers about his salary brings a rush of giggles. Those poor men were at the mercy of him and, to some extent Adele as well.

"Of course, she will be remunerated for the role," Monsieur Andre said, when the dance mistress pulled him aside after Christine finished her impromptu audition. "Did you think we would not pay her?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, at least not what she is worth," Adele said, pulling herself up to her full height, both hands propped on the handle of her walking staff. "However new you are to this company, you must know there is as standard for soloists."

"Of course, we cannot pay her the same amount as Carlotta," Monsieur Andre complained.

"People are coming to see Carlotta," Firmin added in agreement. "An understudy is always expected to be less than the appointed star."

"In this case they will be mistaken – you both have ears, you cannot deny Mademoiselle Daae's voice and beauty is superior to Carlotta's," she argued, "and they will come to hear Christine again and again once they hear her sing."

"Still…"

"Still nothing," she sniffed. "Are you certain you wish to tempt your fates yet again by angering the Opera Ghost?"

At the time, she wondered how Madame knew what the Opera Ghost might or might not wish where it concerned her. The falling of the scrim appeared to be another of his pranks – likely to upset Carlotta and having nothing to do with her. It was common knowledge he thought little of the performance skills as a prima donna.

For herself, Christine admired the woman – her determination and her skill, if somewhat lacking in dramatic depth – anger was her strongest emotion – Christine was aware how challenging learning to sing properly was. Even with this perspective, she and the other girls still shared rolled eyes and titters behind their hands when the buxom redhead attempted to play a love scene – or singing the "Think of Me" aria bidding farewell to her love.

"He will never come back to that voice," Meg snorted.

Meg and the Opera Ghost. Meg and Erik. Meg and Raoul. Meg and Gustave. Meg – the enigma. Her closest friend. Even with her rant to "beware the Phantom of the Opera" – Meg always giving off an aura of knowing more than she wished to share. At once frightening everyone but laughing because she held a secret they did not. How that connection would alter all their lives was something Christine could not even begin to imagine in those days.

Of course the night of the actual performance would reveal the Opera Ghost and her Angel of Music were one and the same. Just a man. Ah, but what a man he is.

So many thoughts crossed her mind during the long day in the birthing room. How her life with Erik began. Their son. Their son whose wife was giving birth to her first grandchild. Their son who almost died at the hands of her best friend who would also give birth in this room. Such an odd combination of people – people who often hated one another – still engaged with one another. A group of lone souls gathered together into a strange family.

So much time to think and wonder and be grateful.

"Tired, my angel?" Erik asks, smoothing Christine's bangs from her face. "Your hair is damp."

"Hmmm? Yes, it was both an easy birth, yet difficult," she replies, reaching up to take his hand, pressing it to her lips. Now able to relax on the sage green brocade chaise in their bedroom, she lacks the energy to change from her cerulean linen day dress, indelibly stained with the afterbirth of the tiny girl child. "The birthing room being particularly warm and supporting Julia was a more physical experience than I anticipated."

"How so?" He asks, sitting next to her, continuing to brush her curls of her freshly cut bob with his fingertips.

"The little one was perfectly willing to be born, but Julia was so frightened, she repeatedly refused to follow the directions of the doctor and the midwife were giving her. He actually stood aside thinking having a woman speak to her would help, but she still resisted."

"What of her mother?"

"Bless her, she was even worse – too many bad experiences, I gather. I suggested she leave, but she would not stray from Julia's side."

"But all is well?"

"Finally – the babe was rather insistent about entering the world." Christine looks up, eyes narrowed focusing on his face – seeing the fear in his eyes. "She is perfectly formed – no deformities. Not even the creased skin our children share at the nape of their necks."

Visibly relaxing, the tension leaves his shoulders, he lets out a whistle of breath.

"Gustave had the same reaction," she says, patting his hand. "While I truly understand your concern, I am not sure what you expected."

"The worst, my love. I always expect the worst," Erik manages a laugh, taking that hand to pull her up from the chaise. "Let me help you out of your dress and I drew you a bath."

"How lovely."

"She has quite a voice already. We heard her through the door. Reminded me of you."

Christine snorts. "I sound like a newborn babe wailing at being smacked on her bottom? Thank you so much."

"No…no, that is not what I meant."

"Well, thank goodness, I should wonder if I would have even attempted to sing if I thought that was what you believed."

"You were just so natural – as if the music was born in you. I am certain your mother believed you to be exceptionally talented when you first cried out."

"Perhaps not then, but, yes, she was always teaching me new songs," Christine says, allowing her unbuttoned dress to fall to the floor. "I recall her knitting and singing and expecting me to do the same. Knitting could be ever so boring. I was so young, my hands so small, I could hardly handle the needles. She could always tell when I missed a stitch because I would go sharp or flat or forget a word."

"Sakta men säkert, min vackra, lilla flicka." *

"I remember the first time I heard you sing – you were alone on the stage for some reason or another."

"You pretended to be my Angel of Music."

"I was afraid to be anything else. And I was correct."

"Only at first." Turning to face him, placing her hands on his shoulders. "You were my Angel of Music – you still are, among other things. I am so grateful you are a man and not a shadow hiding behind the mirror of that dusty old dressing room."

"Do you remember your first performance?"

"How could I not? As a matter of fact, it was those days I recalled while assisting with Julia. Did I ever tell you Adele had to negotiate my salary."

"I could have probably gotten you more," he whispers in her ear as he wraps his arms around her waist, swaying them both back and forth.

"They were terrified of you – the Opera Ghost – the Phantom of the Opera."

"You were frightened as well – sadly. I am still ashamed."

"Not then – not when I first sang Elissa. I sang only for you – my Angel." Stopping the impromptu dance, she stands on tiptoes to kiss him. "I shall always sing for you."

"What brought that memory to mind – during a birth of all things?"

"I remembered how inept I felt – both singing and dealing with the managers," she says, pulling away to kick off her shoes. "It was easier giving birth myself than trying to help Julia. But I remembered hearing your voice then and how you helped me give birth to our children and became very strict with her – yet told her how much I loved her and how wonderful she was and would be."

"You flatter me." Removing his jacket, he tosses it on the bench at the edge of their four-poster.

"Well deserved."

"You do not think me a pompous ass?" he asks, his head cocked, hands on his hips.

"I did not say that," she laughs, tugging at his tie.

"Angel." He feigns a mournful tone.

"Perhaps just a bit pompous."

"Dignified, perhaps."

"No. Pompous," she laughs, slapping him lightly on the chest before turning to scamper into the bathroom. "But deservedly so – you are most skilled."

"Indeed?" he laughs following her.

"Absolutely," she giggles.

"Then I should not take offense?"

"Never."

"Very well then, I forgive you," he says, .

"I would rather you entice me with some of your various skills," she teases, removing her undergarments.

"Singing, perhaps."

"Mmmm. I think perhaps something more with your hands and fingers." Facing him she poses, a hip thrust to one side, arms folded across her now naked breasts.

"Violin, perhaps?"

"In the bath? I think not."

"I see."

"I should hope so," she says, dropping her arms, climbing into the tub. "For someone so brilliant, you are often quite dense."

"I would not wish to presume."

"You, silly. After all these years," she says. "Now please remove the rest of your garments and join me in the tub."

"As you wish."

"I wish."


*Slowly but surely, my beautiful little girl.