It was two days later that Christine saw Sam again. He sat, with a group of ten other children, in the first pew at St. Mark's Lutheran Church during Sunday service. They were all neatly dressed in light colors as was the fashion and sat remarkably still throughout the long sermon.

Christine found herself lost in looking at the them, with their soft hair and quietly bent heads. Yet another ache rose in her heart: the knowledge that children of her own would forever be lost to her. She stifled the flash of pain as quickly as it rose. She would not wallow in her own pity for God's decisions. She must hold fast that there was a reason.

The children turned in her direction during the Sanctus, her voice easily rising above the other parishioners in the stone chapel. Sam beamed and quickly began whispering amongst his gaggle. When their eyes went wide, she smiled and waved.

It was a stout, cherubic women with wild red hair who hushed them into decorum. Christine attempted a small apology with her smile at the women. She received a knowing nod in return.

After church, and after receiving a warm welcome from the pastor – with a pointed request she sing for the church during the coming Lenten season – Christine found Sam's hand wrapped tightly around hers. "Christine! I want you to meet my friends. They didn't believe I'd met you, but now they do, and I want you to meet them!"

Christine allowed herself to be pulled along the outer courtyard before the church. The air in Mauch Chunk had warmed and she could smell the crisp bite of fall tumbling on the wind.

With all the dramatic flair of a great actor, Sam stopped before his troop, thrust out his hands toward Christine, and said, "See. I do know Miss Daaé. Just like I run special errands for Mr. Y all the time."

"Hello," Christine smiled warmly.

"Are you really French?" "You sang so pretty in church!" The troop began and the chorus continued, "Do you think she can really hold a note as long as the river?" "I bet she has hundreds of pretty dresses." "She is so pretty," a small boy blushed a furious red; he'd clearly not meant to say his statement out loud.

"Well thank you all. And what are your names?"

"Late for lunch," the red-haired woman spoke. "We best get back before all the food is gone."

"And where is that?"

"The Phantasma. Do you want to come with us, Miss? There is always enough food to share." At the woman's careful gaze, Christine decided to decline. It would be best another day. She must practice, after all.

"See you tomorrow, Miss!" Sam hollered as they began their walk toward the train station. It was all Christine could do not to holler back at him see you soon.


The knock at her door came before sunup, loud and curt. Christine shot up in bed at the noise, her hands struggling to find purchase. She squinted in the near darkness. For a moment, she swore she was back in the opera dormitories and Madame Giry was conducting a dreaded bed check. She fumbled with the gas lamp as another round of knocking began.

"One moment." Christine's toes curled at the cold wood floors. The fire had long since died in the hearth. She tightened her wrap around her firmly, twisting the ties in her hands as she opened the door.

"Christine Day?" A tall man, all legs, with a tall brimmed hat, a small nick notched into its sad brown trim, stared back at her.

"And you are?"

"I'm sorry Miss. My name is John Sellars. I am one of Mr. Y's lawyers. I'm looking for Christine Day. I believe that is you."

"Christine Daaé." She corrected.

"Ah. Sorry. French." He had the grace to adjust his hat slightly. "I do apologize for the early hour. Mr. Y was explicit I see you first thing this morning and I took the last train out of New York last night." Christine did not move to welcome the man into her room. At the pause, he lowered his voice and pulled out a heavy business card, "It would be best if we spoke in private."

The law firm written on the card was one Christine recognized. She recalled that one of the senior partners had attended the opera often, the ballerinas always eager to meet him and his gentlemen friends after a show. Though improper, Christine nodded and let him in, asking if he would be so kind as to start the fire in the room.

"Would you like me to give you some privacy to change?"

"You believe your information is very important. If it could not wait until sunrise, it should not wait for house clothes." Mr. Sellars had the grace to show an apologetic smile.

He made quick work of the fire and sat down before her in the other armchair. "Mr. Y has become aware that you have broke from your previous management. Is that correct?" She nodded uncomfortably. No turning back now. "In this event, Mr. Y would like to request a new contract with your new management; however, he also believes you currently do not have any representation." She nodded again. "Do you have anyone that would be able to review the terms of the contract for you?" He meant a man. Did she have a man to review the terms of her contract.

"I do not. But I am fully capable of reviewing it myself."

"Mr. Y also stated as much. In these types of atypical matters, he sends me. To help." Mr. Sellars pulled out a pile of papers, neatly tied together.

"Do these matters happen often?" It would be alarming if Mr. Y aided hopeless ingénues frequently.

Catching her meaning, Mr. Sellars clarified, "Atypical. Meaning they require…sensitivity." When Christine's demeanor didn't change, he continued, "I am socialist and approve of female suffrage. Mr. Y finds that my morals align most often with his atypical legal needs."

Well. How very modern of a rich man. "Which would explain why you discard etiquette so early in the morning."

He blushed, "Mostly." He cleared his throat, ruffling through the bag on his lap to pull out two folios of paper. "Would you like to review this, and we can talk in a few hours? I have also brought a copy of your previous contract with Rousseau and Chagny to compare." Christine sat dumbfounded before the man, surprise clear on her face. He smiled and rose to place the documents on her writing desk. "I will leave these here and look forward to meeting with you later today. I would like a few hours of sleep."

What a peculiar man.

She finally woke from her stupor when he walked toward the door, "Yes. Of course." She couldn't help but ask, "My former managers…"

"Mr. Y has taken care of it. You have no need to fear their repercussions as long as you sign the new contract."

"How has he taken care of it?"

"He formalized the dissolution of his contract with them, as well as yours. Contingent upon your contract with him. You will find that Mr. Y often gets whatever he wants. He wants you at Phantasma and you wanted free of your other management. A sound decision, given the old contract I reviewed. Enjoy the freedom he provides, Miss. It is rare in rich men."

"That is…" She stumbled to find her words, "What type of man is Mr. Y?"

"I've never really met him Miss Daaé, but I suspect – if the terms in that contract are any indication, he is a generous man beyond measure." He turned the doorknob and bowed slightly. It was an old-world gesture Christine missed. "I'll ask the hotel to bring you up some coffee and breakfast."

He left at her nod, clearly ready to find his own bed.

One thing Christine was sure of – her new contract with Mr. Y was far simpler than the one she had with Andre Rousseau. Pages and pages of vitriol had been removed, much of it she could not understand at all. Her English was passible, but there were large passages she could not decipher, and suspected this must be why the lawyer was here.

Mr. Y's contract on the other hand, was understandable and short: her commitment to his Opera House would be for no less than six months, with an option to continue on indefinitely; she would receive seven percent of all ticket sales on Friday and Saturday nights; two percent on other evenings she sang, to be determined by her no less than two months in advance; in addition, should she sing at Phantasma one day a month, she would receive an additional stipend of twenty-five dollars on top of her twenty-five for her residency; and finally, Mr. Y would pay for her room and board at the hotel for as long as she required its services during the contract. Should she sign the contract today, she would receive an additional fifty-dollar bonus. Should she leave before the end of her residency, she would owe Mr. Y all future moneys expected for the duration left.

Mr. Sellars had been right. Mr. Y's contract was more than generous. In New York she had been a principle diva at the Broadway Opera House. A minor house, to be sure, but still well-attended and known. Her monthly salary had been ten dollars, though she believe Raoul was taking a cut of ticket sales on her behalf. Mr. Y was offering her a fortune and he wasn't even demanding she sing a full opera, just a few selections two nights a week. It was impossible.

A shiver ran deep through her bones. The impossible had been a steady companion in her life since childhood and it had always been a fickle and failing friend. This was too good to be true. It could not be true. Her stomach fell and her face flushed deep. Something about this must be wrong. Men were never generous for no reason. Never. It was not in their nature.

Her mind, unbidden, turned to her lost fiancé. Raoul had been generous: generous in saving her from a poor madman, generous in whisking her away to England and then America when society's whispers had become too much, generous in giving her time during their engagement, and very generous in how he'd left her alone in another small opera house – an ocean and world away from everything she knew. Generous in his shame. Bitter tears threatened to shed from her eyes. She would not let them fall. She'd promised herself she would never cry over him again.

Six months was a manageable engagement. Her employer didn't wish to meet with her and by all accounts, would not in the future. The point, however, that convinced her to agree was simple: she would not allow Rousseau and Chagny to take any more money from her and she could not do that if she did not sign the new contract with Mr. Y.

She wouldn't wait for the lawyer. Christine signed her name on both copies of her new contract with a flourish and dressed for the day. At the lobby she left one copy, sealed in the packaging it had been given in, with a note for Mr. Sellars – The document is enclosed. The trains for Phantasma leave on the hour. Please let Mr. Y know he has my thanks.

As she exited into the now certainly winter wind, Christine felt lighter than she had in years. Her curls twisted in the air behind her. The heals of her shoes clicked on the pavement, crunching fallen leaves underfoot. She could hear the heavy rush of the river at her back. A melody escaped her lips. Soft, at first, but with more voice as she continued. It had been so long since she'd sung the sweet Swedish lullaby, she was surprised she remembered the words. They floated above her like birds on the wind. How proud her father would be of her today, she thought, a self-sufficient woman in the world.