The Opera House was indeed an actual opera house. It sat as an imposing building on a strange triangular street corner at the top of Main Street. The first floor, to Christine's dismay, was the local farmer's market. Open all days but Sunday and Monday. Sunday for the Lord and Monday for the Phantasma, the waiter had told her at breakfast. Though fleeting, Christine's pulse fluttered at the name. She had not the courage to ask its meaning.

The second floor, sat 600. Surely, that would be the entirety of the whole town, would it not?

Madame Molly lorded over all. She was strict, cold, and very much a widow to another infamous type of Molly from these parts. And while she was the Opera's manager, she was not its owner. That singular title went to a mysterious Mr. Y. No formal name, no first name, and from what Christine could gather, no real reputation at all. The other acts spoke of him matter-of-factly and without much fanfare.

One thing was clear. The Opera House had not seen a true opera in some time. Perhaps, ever. And there seemed to be no expectation to. All the acts before her were a wild mixture of classical fundamentals trussed up into the new vaudevillian fad. They were bawdy and loud and a select few could not possibly be appropriate for wholesome consumption.

While Mol had been clear that her attendance at eight o'clock sharp was a requirement, Christine was not bid to the stage until long after the midday meal of cheese and fresh bread. Luckily, her ominous sniffle from the morning had disappeared with her scales.

Before Christine could even set foot upon the stage, Mol's voice pinned her, "I trust no one helped you with your corset this morning, child." A deep flush threatened to bloom from Christine's cheeks down her neck. No. There had been no one to help her dress this morning. Molly Weaver knew that quite well. So yes, of course, she was laced more loosely as the custom required for sopranos. There had been no other choice.

"I am quite prepared for practice, Madame."

"And what will you be practicing?" Christine had the decided impression she'd already offended the women in some way.

"The aria from Eugene Onegin, if your maestro pleases." The old woman tilted her head from her seat in the orchestra. A tense moment yawned before them, until Mol nodded, "He pleases. We hope your New York ways allow for our practice organ. He will play half volume, should he must."

Christine's brow furrowed. "The aria is general played with –"

"Let us hurry. Mr. Y's train waits for no man this evening. Miss Day, begin."

Christine was used to eccentric creatives. At times, she believed the entirety of New York City only consisted of such people. However, Madame Mol was unquestionably a curt eccentric. And that was the nice term gracing Christine's mind as the organ began.

The familiar music washed over her and all at once the odd exchange drifted away. As the melody swirled about the room, she took her breath and exhaled the starting notes of Tatyana's confession of love. The music bid her lose herself to Tatyana and she agreed, offering her entire world over to the woman she pretended to be.

In the aria she felt herself again – all at once powerful and free, as though the world itself clamored for music only she could provide. As her final note soared above to the rafters of the opera house, those within its walls stood still. Christine was not a diva to wield her power, but she was a singer who knew the extent of her talent. It was never as sweet or are captivating as in her youth, but that was to be expected. When freed from the sorcerer himself, the spell dies as well.

Before anyone could move, the opera singer smiled sweetly into the darkness, "I believe, Maestro, that your A sharp is flat in both timbers."

She swore she heard a faint, deep chuckle from the darkness.

Mol was the first to recover her wits, "I believe that was enough for today. Miss Day, if you will please provide me with your performance list we will prepare for your inclusion in show as soon as possible."

Christine waited until the end of full rehearsal to approach Mol. "Madame, we did not have time to discuss terms this morning. I would like to do so now."

"Your terms were provided and agreed upon before your arrival with Mr. Y and your manager in New York."

Christine winced at the causal mention of her former manager, "Well, he is no longer my representation. I would prefer to reaffirm my salary and schedule."

Movement behind Christine distracted Mol, "We will speak tomorrow. The reporter is here for your interview." An earnest looking man, toothy smile and hand extended, approached Christine in all his very American swagger. Mon Dieu.


"Miss Daaé, it is truly a pleasure to meet our new opera diva," Mrs. Mary Packer Cummings' warm smile filled her round face and starved off the chill from the evening air.

"Thank you for inviting me tonight, Mrs. Cummings."

"Mary, please dear. And I did say your last name correctly, did I not? Mrs. Grey's pronunciations are often to be desired." The woman of moderate age took Christine's arm and lead her through the entryway of the grand mansion overlooking the river. "You are French, are you not? I believe Daaé is a French surname?"

"Swedish, actually. But I grew up in Paris and will gladly call myself French."

"How delightful. I hear you did a very French thing today at the Opera House. You sang and stopped time." She looked across the room to a staunch older man with prominent sideburns, "Is that not what Mr. Y said earlier today Mr. Cummings? The French opera diva sang and the world stopped?"

Mr. Cummings, engrossed in conversation with two other men already, merely nodded acknowledgement in their direction and continued talking, a golden glass of scotch and cigar in hand. The dinner party was to be a small affair: the Cummings proper, Mr. and Mrs. – Mrs. Cummings being the true power of the family; her father, Asa Packer, founded the Lehigh Valley Railroad Company and thus she was the town's daughter-heir and first lady – Mr. Cummings' brother Porter, a prominent figure in the railroad company; and his cousin Herbert, a coal mine owner from deeper west in the valley. The last guest was to be a Mrs. Grey, a close friend of Mr. Porter Cummings and resident mainstage act at the Phantasma.

"Of course, I've never personally met Mr. Y. Mr. Cummings deals with the more singular folk about Mauch Chunk. Porter's sweetheart always gets here a bit late." Mary tittered at Christine's side, "She prefers not to force conversation before dinner and wine. Of course, I'm sure you met her early today."

"Actually, no. I didn't have the pleasure. Mrs. Cummings –"

"Mary, dear." Mary ran her fingers lightly over Christine's up-bound hair, "What a lovely broach. Such a unique shade of purple."

Christine thanked her politely, "It was given to me by an old friend."

"An admire no doubt. How very French."

Dinner was hardy fare, filling and rich for even Christine's palette. Conversation between Christine and Mary remained light and welcoming. The men spent much of dinner engrossed in business, with far too much talk of iron and coal for Christine to follow. The group did settle in when Mary asked Christine about her travels from France. All seemed to be ears for tales from Europe.

Herbert was the one pointed enough to ask, "I hear the Paris Opera House never recovered from the terrible fire it had. What was that all over again?"

Christine took a large swig of her red wine. "The fire was after my time there. I only sang for one engagement on that stage. Much more of my training has been in New York."

"It was a damn fine place before that sordid affair."

It was always at this time in such conversations about the Palais Garnier that Christine desperately tried to change the subject. More often than not, American interest in the ten-year-old affair, as Mr. Cummings had put it, came in generalities, not details, and precious few had ever connected her name to the story. It was one of the only beauties about time. It could slowly, inevitability destroy any trace of one's name.

"It was a terrible loss for Paris, but then I hear that no one in America looks to the past, we look toward the future. Like you and your steam engines."

The men thankfully laughed. Hearty, deep laughs. "Not steam, child. Coal. Coal engines."

At dinner's conclusion, the men decided it was silly for the ladies to sit alone, just two of them as it were, and included themselves in the evening sitting lounge. As they gazed out onto the darkened valley, Mary asked Christine how long she planned to stay in town. She replied honestly, "I know my contract extends into the Spring season, but beyond that, I do not know."

Mr. Cummings, new cigar at hand, ambled from his chair to stand by the ladies. "So, Miss Day."

"Daaé, dear."

"That is what I said, Mary. Now, Miss Day, surely you will join us on Sunday for church. What are you? Episcopalian? Moravian? Surely not Catholic."

"Lutheran, Mr. Cummings. I grew up Lutheran."

"Our town is knit together on the foundation of God's great order, my dear. It is important that those seen in our community be seen going to church. Particularly for one unmarried such as yourself."

It was Mary who placed a hand on Christine's and interjected, "There is a lovely St. Mark's Lutheran Church on the road South to Lebanon." The strange weight in the room did not dissipate, even when Christine thanked Mary and agreed to go.

"Will you sing, my dear?"

"I would love to sing Mrs. Cummings, but I fear the hour is very late and I must be at rehearsal early tomorrow."

"Oh yes. Of course. Next time then. And you will meet dear Mrs. Grey. I am so sorry she did not come in time to meet you."

Herbert's mustache frowned into a deep line across his face at the mention of his sweetheart. "If we are to catch the train," his gruff voice far too loud for the room, "we must be leaving."

Properly bundled in a mountain of beaver fur, the men left for Phantasma with no explanation of what they would actually be traveling to, and leaving Mary and Christine alone in the foyer.

"You will like St. Mark's. Apart from the Opera House, it has the only organ in the county." Christine smiled toward the kind woman. In the late firelight she looked tired, her round glasses obscuring a clear view of her eyes.

"I'm sure I will."

"I believe a few of the songs at we sing at our St. Mark's are from your hymnal."

"We do so love to sing."

"And some of us have much more lovely voices to raise to God." A knock at the front door startled the women. "They call Mauch Chunk the Switzerland of America, my dear. We are a vibrant little town. Hardworking men and young ladies who return from school very finished. You will find a good home here, an easy routine to settle into." She opened the door to the night air and Christine breathed in the sweet scent of fall. "James here," a disheveled man walked into the porch's light, "will walk you back to the hotel."

With a thank you to her first true acquaintance, Christine began her short walk back to the Hotel American, James just a few steps behind.