Letter Thirteen - The Diva Cometh


Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide. She is dancing in the hallway, dancing, her small, bare feet barely touching the floor. She sees herself a ballerina, tall and graceful and full of potential. Her hair is fine and soft in the way children's hair is fine and soft, and it floats about her as she twirls this way, then that.

Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide. Light slants in through the hallway windows, glinting off the dustmotes that swirl in her wake, caressing the edges of the ancient vases she's not allowed to touch. Illuminating the petals of the flowers that come fresh every week. He plays as if to say I Love You, and she likes the song he plays.

Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide. She is dancing to him, the way she likes to do on afternoons like these and she will sing to say I Love You Too, just as soon as the hallway is all danced through and

"Stand clear of the closing doors, please."

Christine's head jerked up at the tinny sound of the recorded voice. She pushed out of her seat and slipped through the subway doors just before they closed. The platform felt hot and stale as she pushed through the morning crowd and made her way up the stairs.

The air snapped though, brisk and sharp, as she emerged from the subway and joined the flow of the sidewalk. She let out a long breath to watch it steam.

"It's cold this morning," Christine said as she arrived in her dressing room.

The Angel of Music responded, said something about tea and wearing scarves, but Christine only half listened. Only half sang. She watched herself in the mirror. Her hair. Her eyes. She watched her face go in and out of focus, part of her far away and long ago. Why did the Angel sound like he was behind the mirror? Everything blurry and echoing distantly from that cavern just to the left. She looked like a stranger. Maybe this was all too –

"Are you well, my dear?" The Angel asked, stopping the lesson.

"I'm fine," Christine said, pulling herself away from the cavern and its echoes and trying to anchor herself in the moment.

"Would you like to rest before rehearsal?"

The offer was tempting but Christine did not want to sleep. Not now. She did not want to let her mind wander the same paths it had led her night after night since Buquet's death. She shook her head.

A song started up from the mirror, soft and sweet, making its way across the dressing room in a slow circle. Christine sat at the sound and stared into her lap, where her clasped hands squeezed tighter and tighter and tighter until the Voice seemed to join her on the couch. She turned toward the sound, a flower seeking the sun, but there was nothing to see. There never was. The song ended, and with a cool rush, the Angel withdrew.

Lessons, rehearsal, show, home. Lessons, rehearsal, show, home. Were the days bleeding into each other, or was something precious bleeding out? Whispers at her back as she crossed the stage. Snide looks and sharp laughter when she caught someone's eye. Mr. Reyer's sympathetic smiles in her direction only earned more of the same. Lyla wore a guilty frown whenever they saw each other.

She was tired.

"Miss Daae!" One of the new managers beckoned her off stage as the company was dismissed for dinner. Mr. Firman? Or was it Moncharmin? She crossed the lobby to where he stood "What would you say to singing at the The New York Junior League Annual Winter Ball?"

"For real?" Here was something different. Here was something to be excited about. "That would be amazing!"

"Excellent, I'll get back to you with the dates!"

Amazing. That would be amazing. Right? She was practically nobody, and they were singling her out. She must have done something right at the Gala to-

The thought of Joe's distorted face hits her like a physical blow.

Christine steadied herself against the prop table. Of course, she would need to ask the Angel. She shouldn't have agreed without checking with him first. She hadn't really agreed at all. But the Angel would be proud of her, right? The Angel would think this was a great opportunity.

A peal of laughter cut across the stage, and Christine saw Lana Carlotta toying with the lapel on the coat of the manager that Christine had just been speaking to. The woman threw a look in Christine's direction before laughing again.

Show, home, lessons, rehearsal.

Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide.

"So you are going to want to keep your hands at 10 and 2, ok?" Christine's dad moves her hands to the correct position. "Like a clock. Does that make sense?"

"Ok yeah, but what if I hit those cars?" Her knuckles turn white as she grips the steering wheel.

"What cars?"

"Those ones!" She motions with her head, her hands too occupied with strangling the steering wheel, to where two parked cars are far away and tiny on the opposite side of the field.

"Are you planning on driving straight into them?" Professor Valerius pipes up from the back seat.

"No!" The word is a squeak, maybe a shriek, some combination of the two. Her dad laughs. Professor Valerius laughs.

"Christine?"

The sun slants through the windows and illuminates her dad from behind. The car bucks loudly as she shifts into drive. He smiles at her. His face is mostly in shadow, ringed with the light of the sun setting behind him.

"Christine?"

She can see his smile, though, hear his laugh. There is the smell of the sea and exhaust and Mamma Valerius places a warm, encouraging hand on Christine's shoulder.

Christine looked up sharply at the touch, finally seeing the plate of untouched food in front of her. She placed her hand over Mamma's.

"Christine, sweetie, how are you feeling?" Mamma smoothed her hand over Christine's hair. Christine turned back to the plate of food, pushing at a piece of broccoli, her silence it's own response.

Mamma Valerius pressed a kiss to the top of Christine's head before whispering "I'm around if you need me."

The clock on the mantelpiece click, click, clicked out into the silence. Christine stared at the chair next to her for a long time, her fork limp in her hand. When the little chimes sounded the hour, she caught a glimpse of her translucent reflection on the night-dark glass of the windows. Pale and hollow and all alone.

She pushed up from the table with a clatter, scraped her food into a container, and shoved it into the fridge. The muffled sounds of one of Mamma's ghost shows followed Christine down the hall as she headed to her room. Her bed was soft and warm, and the night beyond her window calm and clear as she watched for dawn to warm the sky.

o...oOo...o

Good morning! I thought you might think this was cool!
15 Swedish Creatures That Will…

Christine clicked open the link and smiled. He remembered. She read the article as she ate her toast, brushing the crumbs from her fingers before she headed out the door. She typed a response as she headed for the subway.

See, I told you they were real.

The hot air tangled in her hair as she tapped lightly down the steps. The stream of people entering the train dwindled to a trickle, and she made it through the doors just before they shut. The space was crowded with the morning commute.

I never said they weren't!

She removed her glasses and took a picture of them before hitting send. The response was quick.

Just because you can't see doesn't mean I didn't believe you.

I'm not blind Raoul! I am nearsighted. Which means I can see when something is there.

It just might be blurry.

She could feel the smile on her face as she pushed through the crowd, lingering as she climbed the stairs and jostled through the human traffic. She felt the buzz of a new text as she caught sight of the Opera, and the smile left her face. She turned the sound off without looking at the message. She was allowed to talk to him. The Angel had said as much.

Christine pushed open the Employee Entrance doors, and was surprised to see the space beyond was occupied by a group of dancers. They fell silent at the sight of her until one whispered something Christine could not make out, causing a wave of cruel titters from the rest.

"Excuse me," she almost whispered as she slipped past the group. She bumped into one of them as she passed and made a quick apology before realizing it was Lyla. The two made eye contact briefly before the dancer looked away. At least Lyla had the decency to look ashamed.

Christine felt her phone buzz again and ignored it. The Angel was there when she got to her room, but the fact, usually so comforting, made her nervous. Her phone weighed in her pocket like a tiny anchor, and she still had not told the Angel about the offer the manager had made the day before. She wasn't quite ready to tell. She didn't know if she wanted to accept, she didn't know if she wanted to decline, and she wasn't ready for the Angel to tell her either way.

The lesson was stilted, strained, her mind vacillating between work and Raoul and work and Papa and work and...the little anchor in her pocket pulled.

She was allowed to talk to Raoul. It would be weird if they didn't. Friends talked to each other.

Christine tried to move through the backstage area as quietly as she could. Tried opening the door softly so it wouldn't creak, tried putting her put folder down gently, tried to join the fringes of the crowd unnoticed…but the door was heavy and thudded shut behind her, she tripped over a rope and dropped her folder, and everyone looked to see who the loud latecomer was, so joining the fringes unnoticed was out of the question. She needn't have worried. In the same way a great gust of wind sweeps snow over the tundra, so too did the company turn from her as one, freezing her out. Mr. Reyer, bless him, gave her yet another sympathetic smile as he ended his morning speech. They were in the process of blocking their next show, and the group split into sections, alto, tenor, bass. Christine joined the fringes of the sopranos and stood near Kelly, the girl who had been kind to her during dress rehearsals. Kelly gave Christine a long, appraising look, a small shake of her head, and turned her attention away as well.

There were those who believed the rumors, Christine had figured out, and those who weren't sure. She had heard more whispers. She'd seen Carlotta's sly glances as she made the rounds. Until a verdict was decided, the company seemed content to ignore her. Rehearsal dragged on, and then the evening's performance. Christine tried her best to sink into the comfort of the music. The rest of the cast could ignore her, but the music was there, familiar as air, to buoy her.

A little over six weeks had passed since her first lesson. So little time, and already the Angel had done so much. He'd given music back to her. She had feared it had gone from her life forever. So now she had to sink her teeth into the music, dig her fingers in. Hold on to it as tightly as she could, because even the comfort of the music seemed fleeting, and the hallway to the dressing room felt a million miles long.

Her phone pinged, alerting her to a new email. She paused with her hand on the doorknob and clicked open the email.

Christine,

Attached is the date and time for the New York Junior League Annual Winter Ball. I expressed your interest in the event, and the coordinator was very pleased. She was at the Gala, and was immensely impressed with your talent. Please contact her directly to confirm your availability to rehearse and go over what will be expected of you.

Despite our unfortunate beginnings, we are very glad to have you on our team!

Richard Firman

With everything that had happened the night of the Gala, the unexpected opportunity, the rush, the anxiety, the whole situation with Buquet, one simple fact had never quite settled in her mind.

She had debuted at the Metropolitan Opera.

She had sung to an audience and they had heard her! She had sung in front of people, real people with real ears, who had listened to her singing and liked it! Liked it! Liked her! Someone, at least one someone, had listened and heard and liked her well enough to hire her. Someone had been immensely impressed.

By her.

All her life, music had been like oxygen. Necessary. A constant. All around her. In all of her dreams, in all her hopes for the future, fame was a possible consequence, never the goal. The goal was a life made of music, a life where she brought more music into the world. She sang because she needed to, because singing was breathing. To be silent was to drown, and for the past year she had been drowning. Even under water, the weight of everything pulling her down, down, down and that screaming silence in her lungs, she pursued opera, she pursued the stage, because she couldn't imagine her life going any other way.

Oh, she loved the idea of those plum roles, roles like Marguerite, Aida, Carmen. Of course she'd love to sing them if she could. She knew though that she could be just as happy in the small roles, as long as she could spend her days singing. She had always figured that hers would be a slow ascent, and she was fine with that. Had been fine with that. Now though, staring at the email glowing up from her phone screen, she felt a thrill of ambition, of drive, of hope that she could be…

What the Angel of Music had said she could be.

She pushed open the door and felt the warmth of the Angel. A soft laugh reverberated around the room.

"You seem quite pleased, Miss Daae. May I inquire as to why?"

"You're never going to believe this," Christine started, holding up her phone. "Okay, maybe you will, but anyway, yesterday, Mr. Firman told me that the New York Junior League wants me to sing at their annual winter ball."

The Angel responded with an unimpressed hum, but Christine was too excited to register the sound. Where she had been scared before, she was certain now. She wanted to do this. She wanted to be ready to do this. She wanted to push aside her doubts.

"He just sent me the email with the date and everything, and said I just need to confirm with the coordinator. I'm excited. I think it's crazy," Christine said, building steam, "and I can't believe they want to hire me to sing solo, already, but it's a really cool opportunity, and I'd love to be able to try it. I'd also love to have a solo experience that doesn't end with me unconscious, you know? It's coming up pretty soon, I think, I haven't checked the exact dates, so I'd need to practice a lot. Is it too late to respond to the email tonight? Or should I wait for tomorrow to confirm?"

She looked at the mirror expectantly, but was met with a silence that stretched thin as the moments dragged on.

"You won't need to concern yourself with the time of the response, as you won't be confirming anything," the Angel finally said.

"You don't think it's a good idea?"

"I think it's a wonderful idea, and the event coordinator showed great taste when she came up with said idea, but no. You will not be accepting this offer."

Christine's excitement fluttered away like scraps of paper on a breeze. "You don't think I'm ready?" She sat heavily on the couch.

"Oh my dear, my dear," the golden Voice slipped softly around the room and to her side, almost a whisper in her ear. "You are more than capable of singing at such a function. You were ready for that sort of thing before we even began lessons."

Christine said nothing, merely fiddled with her nails, and the Voice continued.

"But you, Christine, are made for finer things. You are not cheap, restaurant entertainment. You are not meant to be background noise." The Voice grew warmer, sweeter. Sunlight gilding a garden, leaves and petals of gold. "You are meant to be–"

"Christine?" The Voice cut off abruptly as Meg peeked her head around the door. "Knock knock."

"Hey Meg," Christine said, somewhat warily. The Angel was still there, she could practically feel him sitting next to her, and she knew he wouldn't be pleased with the interruption. "What's up?"

"I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out tonight? I know things have been kind of tense lately, so we could just do something chill. Go out to eat, maybe, or order food and watch something at my place?"

"Uh, that sounds like fun," Christine said carefully, anxious to not agree to anything. She gestured to the costume she was still wearing. "Let me finish up here and I'll let you know."

"Ten minutes?"

"Fifteen?"

"Ok cool, I'll grab my stuff and swing back."

"Sounds good," Christine said, her shoulders dropping as she looked at her friend. "And thank you, Meg. I really appreciate it."

"Of course," Meg smiled sadly before shutting the door. Christine took a deep breath before turning back to the mirror.

"I'm sorry about that, I didn't know she was coming."

"I am not angry with you, Christine."

Christine pressed her lips together and nodded. She wasn't sure why, but hearing the Angel say that made her want to cry.

"You should go with her. You have been under enormous pressure. I am not...unaware of what happens outside the walls of this room. The Giry girl is trustworthy. You can accept her kindness for what it is."

"Thank you, Maestro. I've been so…" Christine trailed off, unsure of what to say, but relieved. Relieved that someone at the opera still wants to speak to her. Relieved that the Angel understands. Relieved to be seen.

"Tomorrow I will help you craft a response to the manager's offer. A way to give your regrets without being insulting. For now," The Angel said warmly, his voice retreating, the room cooling around her, "enjoy your evening, Miss Daae."

Christine met Meg in the hallway, and the two picked up Chinese food on their way to Meg's apartment. Meg picked up the remote as they settled onto the couch.

"So, what're you feeling? Action? Rom-com? Something classic?"

"Ooh, let's do something classic!" Christine tried to sound chipper. She was going to have a nice night, and that was that.

"Classic it is!" Meg said, before hopping off the couch and plunking herself next to a low shelf full of dvds. She ran her finger along the cases on the bottom shelf. "Hmm, ok, there's Gone with the Wind, Some Like it Hot, The Maltese Falcon, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, and ooh!"

"What?" Christine asked as Meg plucked a DVD off the shelf and spun to her knees, waving the case at Christine.

"Casablanca."

"Oh. Ok."

"Are you not feeling Casablanca right now?"

"No, no. Let's watch it. That sounds fine." Christine said, trying to infuse her voice with enthusiasm. Meg was trying to be kind. Christine didn't want to make things weird.

"You sure?" Meg asked again. "We could find something else. I'd be totally fine with a different movie. I love Gentlemen Prefer Blondes."

"Casablanca's great, let's start it. The food is getting cold."

Meg gave Christine a searching look before nodding, and popped the DVD into the player. Christine shoveled a forkful of lo mein noodles into her mouth in an attempt at nonchalance. The food occupied Christine until Ingrid Bergman arrived on screen, and Christine's appetite disappeared. She set her food on the table and scooted back on the couch, tucking her legs beneath her and holding a pillow to her chest like a shield. She kept her jaw clenched as she watched, until the flashback scene of Rick and Ilsa in Paris.

"My dad always said my mom reminded him of Ingrid Bergman," Christine all but whispered.

"Really?" Meg turned the volume down. "Did your mom look like her?"

"A little bit, I guess. He said he was her Rick and she was his Ilsa, only with a better ending."

"That's cute," Meg said, then paused long enough that it was clear she was debating saying more. They watched the movie in silence for a few minutes. "Do you miss her?"

"I mean, yeah. Of course I do," Christine picked at her nails, "but she's been gone for a really long time."

Christine could feel Meg's eyes on the side of her face. Feel her sympathy. It had been a long time, though. A very long time. As hard and sad as it was, it was also familiar. An empty seat at a table in a house she no longer lived in. A Christmas stocking hung each year but not filled. Old wounds only hurt when you press them, right?

Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide. Her mother is crouching in front of her, brushing her hair off her face. Her mother is kissing her hand where it's scraped. Her mother is dancing in the kitchen with her father as the two of them laugh.

Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide. "Do you know how I met your papa?" She asks Christine in her lilting voice as the two lay on the bed. Christine shakes her head no, even though she's heard the story a dozen times before.

"How mama?"

"Once upon a time, älskling, I lived very far away in a place where the sky is blue, but the sea is bluer, and the mountains are covered in ice. I worked in a restaurant on the docks with your mormor and morfar, and everyday we fed the fisherman. One day, I received a letter. Do you know where the letter was from?"

"Paris!" Chrsitine says.

"I thought you didn't know this story?" Her mother laughs before continuing. "Yes, the letter was from Paris. Your mama had been invited to audition to sing at the Paris Opera, which was very exciting because…?"

"You love to sing, just like me!"

"That's right! So I hung up my apron, kissed your mormor and morfar, and flew all the way to France. Do you know what I found there?"

"Papa!"

"Yes! Your papa was studying in Paris at the time, and he played violin at the Opera. He was very handsome and kind, and I loved him straight away. We got married, and moved here, and had you!" Her mother tickles her, and Christine shrieks with giggles.

"But mama, what happened with your 'dition?"

"My what?"

"Your 'dition. You said you were going to 'dition at the Opera. What does that mean?"

"Oh, the audition. Yes. Well, an audition is when you sing for someone, and they tell you if they want you in their show or not."

"Did they want you in the show?"

Her mom pushes off the bed and tucks the blankets snugly around Christine. She presses a kiss to Christine's forehead. "Sweet dreams, älskling."

Her mother is holding her hand as they walk along the beach. Her mother smells like laundry detergent and sunshine and flowers. Her mother runs out into storms to catch raindrops on her tongue.

"Have you ever heard of a message in a bottle?" The sun glints off the sand in Christine's plastic shovel as her mother beckons for Christine to join her. An empty bottle of yellowish green sits on the sand near her father and he props himself up on his elbows to watch as her mother squirts sunscreen into her palm and begins applying it to Christine's arms and back.

"A what?"

"A message in a bottle. People, like pirates and shipwrecked sailors and heartbroken maidens, write notes and put them into bottles and throw them into the sea."

"Why?" Christine scrunches up her face as her mom smears sunscreen on her cheeks, nose, and chin.

"Sometimes it's a treasure map, sometimes it's a desperate cry for help, and sometimes it's just a nice way to say goodbye. Or hello, because when you throw something into the sea, you never know where it will go, or who it will go to." Her mother rubs the excess sunscreen into her own hands. "Do you want to write one, Christine?"

Christine nods, and her mother pulls a notepad and pen from her purse. An orange pill bottle tumbles to the sand, and her mother quickly shoves it back into the bag. "What should we write, Gus?"

"I could write my name, papa!" She had learned how in kindergarten. Her father pulls her onto his lap.

"That is an excellent idea, Little Lotte! Here," her father says as he takes the pen and paper from her mother. He speaks the words aloud as he writes them. "Hello, my name is...write your name here, Christine."

Christine's tongue pokes out of her mouth as she concentrates. When she is finished she hands the pen back to her father. He continues.

"And I am...how old are you Christine?"

"Six!"

"And I am six years old. I live with my mama and my papa–"

"Who love me very much." Her mother adds, pointing to the paper. Her father obliges and writes the words.

"Who love me very much. My favorite snack is ice cream, my favorite food is mac & cheese, and my favorite color is?"

"Blue!"

"Blue. If you receive this message, please send it back to me with a note saying where and when you found the bottle. Love, Gus…"

He hands the notepad to her mother, who picks up the pen. "Ina…" She adds their P.O. box address before handing the notepad to Christine. "Write your name again, älskling. And draw a picture for them if you want. I'm going to go clean the bottle."

Her mother stands with a small grunt, her hand on her round belly, as Christine writes her name once more and begins drawing stick figures of herself, her mama, and her papa. And lots of flowers. She's in the middle of drawing a cat, she likes cats, when papa lifts her off his lap and sets her on the towel.

"Wait here, Christine." He runs over to her mother, who is standing perfectly still with her feet in the sea. Water drips out of the bottle dangling from her fingertips. Christine finishes drawing, and then goes to the pile of shells she found to pick out the prettiest one. Maybe the person who finds the message will like it. She has the best one in her hand when she hears a cry. She looks up and sees her mother doubled over, her hands clutching her stomach. Papa hustles mama towards the towel and begins picking up their stuff.

"Come on, we've gotta go. Right now."

"Wait, Gus, let's finish the bottle," her mother says.

"There isn't time," her father replies, his arms loaded with the umbrella, beach towels, and her mother's bag. "Let's go."

"Gustave. It will take one second." Her mother glances at Christine. "Today is about making memories."

Her father's jaw moves as he glances between Christine and his wife. "I'll go get the car. Throw the bottle and then we leave, ok?"

"Ok!" Her mother's voice is happy, but the sound doesn't match the look in her eyes. "Come on, Christine, let's do this!"

Her mother rolls the note up tightly, her fingers shaking, before slipping it into the bottle. She compliments the shell Christine chose and drops it through the open mouth with a musical clink. She stoppers the bottle with the cork and leads Christine hastily to the water, her breathing shallow and ragged.

"You ready?" Her mother asks. Christine nods, and her mother hurls the bottle into the sea with a small cry. Christine sees it bobbing in the waves, winking yellow in the sun, before it disappears.

Her mother is grimacing in pain in the front seat. Her mother kisses Christine's forehead. Her mother listens, still and quiet, in the bed as the doctors speak.

She and papa leave the room. Her mother stays.

The hospital is cold and white, and her feet don't touch the ground. They sit for a very long time until a doctor comes to speak with her father, and a nice nurse with pictures of Disney princesses on her clothes shows her a stethoscope and explains how it works. Christine isn't listening to the nice nurse, though. She is paying attention to the doctor her papa, but she can only hear a few words. Words like complications, significant bleeding and her father saying both? Both are gone?

The nurse tries to ask her another question as her father begins to wail.

She goes on a plane for the first time. When they land, she sees the blue sky and the bluer water, and the mountains covered in ice. An old man and woman she does not recognize give her big hugs, and papa helps button her new black dress. After a long time, lots of talking and standing outside in front of a big hole in the ground, she eats at the restaurant on the dock.

She goes on a plane for the second time. The house seems empty with just the two of them inside of it, with no one to catch raindrops on their tongue during storms. No one to sing songs that sound like home. No one to tell her of blue waters and bluer skies and mountains covered in ice.

The sign in the yard is very red and she can puzzle out the words "for sale."

She goes on a plane for the third time. Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide.

"You seem distracted, Miss Daae."

The Angel's voice cut through Christine's thoughts, and he was not wrong. She'd been off for hours, barely registering the rest of Casablanca, ignoring texts from Raoul, making her way home to sleep, making her way to work, all on autopilot.

"I guess I'm just…" she trailed off, unable to find the words.

"Is it about your father?"

"Yeah?" The word came out like a question. It's not the right answer, but it's not the wrong one either.

"Would you like to discuss it?"

"I don't know, it's...hard to talk about."

"Your father is a wonderful man, Christine, I'd be honored to listen."

"Is?" Christine's heart kicked strangely at the word.

"Yes, of course. He's the one that sent me to you, remember? We speak of you often." The Angel's voice was warm, kind, and Christine felt almost dizzy at the implication.

"Is he...um, is he ok?" Her voice cracked as she asked the question.

"He's in heaven, child," the Angel said simply. After a moment of silence, he continued. "Please, Miss Daae. If it would bring you comfort, I'd like to help."

"Ok."

"You will find a blanket in the bottom drawer of the dresser behind you. Wrap up in it, seat yourself, and we can begin."

Christine did as the Angel bid, pulling a blanket from the drawer. The blanket was fuzzy, soft against her fingertips, and smelled of laundry detergent. She'd never seen the blanket before. Not even while cleaning the room. She wrapped it about her shoulders, and caught a whiff of something else, something damp, like clothes left wet for too long. She settled onto the couch, pulling her knees in close.

She deliberated where to start, or even if to start at all, when the Angel began to sing, softly. No words, nothing distracting, just long, prolonged notes. A sweet melody, that made her shoulders drop, her jaw unclench, and the words began to pour out of her.

"After my mom died, my dad sort of lost himself for a while. He'd been born in Sweden, but his parents moved to Port Jarvis when he was really little. He grew up there, and came back with my mom after they got married over in Europe. She was Swedish too. My dad, when he would get excited or mad, his Swedish accent would actually get pretty thick, which was funny because he didn't usually have an accent at all." She could feel herself starting off on a less painful tangent, but the Angel's song reminded her to stay on track. "Anyway, he bought his parent's house from them when they moved to Florida. They died when I was about three. My mom died when I was six."

"That must have been difficult for you," The Voice said, before slipping seamlessly back into the song.

"Uh, yeah. It was. I remember some stuff, but I was really little. But after she...my dad sold the house and we moved to San Francisco. We had a hard time there."

"Ah yes, your father mentioned that to me. What do you remember of that time?"

Memories began to spill out of Christine. It was easier to do so than she thought, especially knowing that the Angel knew most of this already. She didn't tell many people about her time in San Francisco, or afterwards. Or anything, really, about before she moved to New York City. She worried they would get the wrong idea.

Gustave Daae had been a good man, a kind man. And he loved her. He just lost himself a little when her mom had died. He'd taken them both to San Francisco to start over, to be as far away from Port Jarvis as he could get. He had no one, he was an only child who had married and only child, his parents were dead, his in-laws were a world away, and he had a six-year-old to take care of. So he took his violin and he tried to get a job. He had played in opera houses around the world. It should have been easy for him, but things had been rough at that time, and Christine had a feeling that she understood now why so many places had turned him down.

If he had felt anything like Christine had felt for the past year, Christine was surprised he'd been able to pick up a violin at all.

He'd get the occasional gig, but nothing that lasted. For a while they had a tiny apartment. She remembered the paint peeling away from the wall near the baseboard in the corner of the living room. After that, they'd stay in a variety of motel rooms, each slightly dingier than the last. There was the one with the weird stain, the one with the cockroach in the bathtub, the one where she got lice. Then there was the one with bed bugs.

That had been the last motel.

It had been summer then, and for a while they would sleep outside. Park benches or a quiet stoop.

On those nights, he'd make her a bed out of her favorite blanket and his jacket, and he'd tell her stories about the Angel of Music and other fantastic creatures he had learned about from her mother. They had their run-ins with the cops. Slept one too many times on the same park bench, and people started recognizing them. An officer threatened to call Child Protective Services, and after that, she and her dad had begun to travel. He would play on street corners and boardwalks, getting enough for dinner and a bus ticket into the next town, where they would stay for a few weeks. After a while, Christine joined in on her father's perfromances. She would sing the songs she remembered her mother singing to her, and her father would play.

"People paid good money when a little kid was singing," Christine said as she picked up her phone and checked the time. She stood quickly, but stumbled, nearly collapsing back onto the couch. Rehearsal would start in five minutes, and she hadn't warmed up or anything. Pulling herself out of the past, out of the lull of the Angel's voice, was more difficult than she expected. "Oh my gosh, I'm going to be late, I've gotta go."

She tossed the blanket onto the couch and scooped up her folder. She leaned against the vanity table and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Taking stock. She didn't know if she felt better, but it had been nice, talking about her father. Out loud. With someone who seemed to know him. Someone she knew she could trust. She felt slightly off balance, half stuck in the past, but if she was honest, she'd felt that way all week. She pushed herself off the table and crossed to the mirror, placing a hand on the glass.

"Thank you, Maestro." She said quietly. "I think I needed that."

"Of course, Christine. It was my pleasure."

Christine tried to right herself as she made her way to the stage, but she still felt slightly sideways, tilted. It was as if she'd been tipped over, half of her poured out onto the floor like sand from a bucket, and the only options were to remain half empty or pour the rest out and start again.

The cast continued to ignore Christine. It was as if some invisible buffer separated her from the rest of them. She the rock, they the stream, close enough to see and feel but always aware of the fact that she was not one of them. Not anymore. And it wore on her, was beginning to wear her down, this constant flow around and around and around her, eroding her patience, eroding her. Lana Carlotta was constantly in Christine's line of sight throughout rehearsal. Whispering to others, shooting pointed glances at Christine. It was just, so…

Frustrating.

None of this made any sense to Christine. She hadn't done anything, to anyone, and yet here she was. Isolated. Cut off. A pariah at her dream job only three months in. She had barely had a grasp on things to begin with, and Lana Carlotta seemed determined to rip what little she had left from her hands.

Anger was not a familiar feeling to Christine. It was not something she slipped into easily, but as the day progressed and the cast flowed around her and Carlotta threw her pointed looks, slip into it she did. Her frustration, her irritation, her anger and annoyance grew, and for once she let them. She let her tumbling emotions fuel her throughout rehearsal. If the others wanted to ignore her, fine. She would ignore them. If Carlotta wanted her to sing quieter, to disappear into the background, to give up, Christine would sing more passionately. Shine brighter. She was angry at Carlotta, fed up with the woman, but she was almost more angry with herself.

For not trying harder.

For not wanting it more.

For feeling trapped in something so deep and sticky that Christine feared might not ever get back to who she used to be.

Reyer gathered the company for a few notes on the rehearsal. He pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket as he was finishing. "And Christine Daae, please report to the manager's office before heading out."

Carlotta's head snapped up like some beast of prey catching a scent, but Christine simply nodded, held her head high, and made her way up through the auditorium.

Her posture slipped as the theater doors closed behind her.

The Angel had dictated a response to the manager's email first thing that morning. She had typed it automatically, sent it without any emotion at all, really, lost as she had been feeling at the start of the day.

But now she was nervous. She had a feeling the managers were going to ask her why she was turning down the offer, and she didn't know what she was supposed to say. She knew the Angel had instructed her how to respond if asked in person, but she couldn't remember what the Voice had said. She paused in the middle of the lobby and opened the email from the day before, re-reading it quickly and clicking on the attachment for the first time. An invitation to the event popped onto her screen, all clean lines and modern design. She read through it quickly, skimming the location and menu until her eyes caught on the date.

Oh.

She had known the event was coming soon, but she hadn't realized it would be on that day. Any lingering hopes she'd had of convincing the Angel to let her sing at the event dissipated. She crossed the lobby and made her way to the office before knocking timidly.

"It's open!" A voice called from within. Christine pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"You guys wanted to see me?"

"Ah, Miss Daae, yes. Come in." The man talking was not the same one who had told her about the opportunity. That, she was almost certain, had been Richard Firman, and Richard wasn't in the office. The man speaking now was the other manager. Arnold, maybe? Andre? She cast a glance at the nameplate on the desk as she sat. Armand Moncharmin.

He was the manager from the night of the Gala. The one who had practically forced her onstage and brushed off her announcement of Buquet's death.

"We received your email this morning," Moncharmin continued once Christine was seated. "I'm just looking for a little clarity. Richard tells me you seemed quite enthusiastic when he initially proposed the idea."

"Well, uh...the thing is-"

"I just find it very surprising, given the circumstances." He began ticking the reasons off on his fingers. "How new you are to the opera. How you were given a solo at the Gala in the first place. How much this opportunity could do for your career."

"It's not that I'm not grateful-"

"Furthermore, think of how it could benefit the opera. You caused quite a stir that night, and if members of the New York Junior League enjoy your performance, they may choose to become patrons here. I don't want to have to insist, Miss Daae, but surely you can see that-"

"My dad is dead!" Christine blurted out, and immediately regretted it. Moncharmin stared at her blankly. She scrambled for some way to salvage the situation. "I...I didn't mention it in my email, I don't know, I wanted to sound professional, but I had actually already put in for a few days off?"

Her statement sounded more like a question, and Moncharmin continued staring, though his eyes seemed a modicum kinder. She pushed on.

"I didn't realize initially, but the date of the event coincides with the days off that I'm taking. My dad, he uh...passed almost a year ago. I'm travelling upstate to visit his grave." Christine rubbed at a spot above her eyebrow and sighed. "I'm sorry this is so awkward, things have just been so off lately, especially after everything that happened with Buquet-"

"Ah, well. Buquet. Yes." Moncharmin looked mildly frantic at the mention of the sceneshifter. He shuffled some papers around before looking at Christine. "The situation with Buquet was tragic, and I may not have acted with the most...tact in the moment. I now have the, uh, clarity I was looking for. Thank you. I hope your trip is...therapeutic."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate that." Christine stood to leave and crossed to the door.

"Oh, and Miss Daae?"

Christine paused with her hand on the knob and looked back at the manager.

"I hope you'll be more amenable in the future, should other opportunities present themselves."

She only nodded before shutting the door behind her. As the latch clicked, she began to stew. She felt almost sick to her stomach. She couldn't believe she'd just used the…the...dead dad card. She couldn't believe she'd used his death as an excuse. She felt almost dirty, and all she wanted was to speak to the Angel. The Angel would know what to say.

The Angel would help.

She checked her phone as she made her way up the hallway and sighed.

Break a leg Christine, I know you'll do great tonight!

Another text from Raoul. She paused for a moment, weighed her decision, and sent a simple text back.

Thanks!

It didn't make her feel any better.

She checked the clock before slipping the phone into her pocket. The Angel could show up at any time, but it was Tuesday, and she could at least try and film a letter as she waited. The events of the past week ran through her mind as she set up the camera, and by the time she hit record, her unease had shifted into anger.

Just as she began to speak, her phone dinged again with another text from Raoul.

Any chance you'd like to grab a bite to eat after the show? My treat!

She groaned and put the phone down. She didn't know what to do about Raoul. She didn't know what to do about work. She didn't know what to do about all this pain and anger that kept threatening to spill out of her. If that started pouring out of her, she didn't know if it would ever stop. She didn't even know if the letters were helping, but she tried anyway, talking about her week and sharing her doubts. There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Christine said, trying to sound pleasant but only managing to sound tired. The door opened.

"Oh, so this is the hole they stuck you in?" Lana Carlotta said as she pushed into the room.

"Lana?"

"Yeah." Lana's expression was cold and haughty as she crossed the room to stand in front of Christine. "Aren't you going to offer me a chair?"

Christine stared at Carlotta for a moment in disbelief before rolling her eyes and standing to grab the spare chair by the vanity. "Sure, uh...let me get that for you."

Whatever this was, Christine would rather just have it be done. As she pulled the chair across the room, Carlotta sat in the brocade chair Christine had just vacated.

Christine shot a look at the still-rolling camera, feeling very much like Jim from The Office, and regretted not turning the camera off while she was on that side of the room. Her hands made a futile gesture, and she sat heavily.

"I bet you're wondering why I'm here." Carlotta said, bored and superior in a way that set Christine on edge.

"Yes, Lana. I am wondering what you're doing in my dressing room." Christine's voice sounded pleasant in the way a barista's voice is pleasant during the morning rush, or a Walmart employee sounds pleasant on Black Friday. "Please tell me."

"Well," Carlotta looked around the room in mild disgust before spotting the camera. "Is that thing on?"

"Yes. It is, actually. I'm in the middle of something." She should have turned the camera off. She should have turned the camera off. She should have turned the camera off. "So...is there anything I can help you with?"

"Well...dear. I just wanted to congratulate you on your performance a couple of weeks ago."

"Um...thank you?" That hadn't been what Christine had expected, and Christine was pleasantly surprised.

"Yeah, the audience loves that sort of thing, you know."

"The audience loves what kind of thing?" Christine repeated. Her pleasant surprise disappeared. Now this was beginning to feel more like what she had been expecting.

"Charity. Helping people fulfill their dreams." Carlotta's pleasant tone matched Christine's. "You know, listening to you sing probably filled their philanthropic urges for at least a month."

"What do you mean?" They were almost there, almost to Christine's expectations, she could feel it.

"Your performance? You really don't have the skills to lead an opera house, so they must have thought it was some sort of Make-A-Wish thing? Is that it? Are you sick?"

And there it was.

The word sick hit Christine like a punch to the gut, and she dropped any pretense of being polite.

"Are you serious? No. I didn't ask to sing that night. I didn't want to sing that night. It was the managers' decision." Christine's voice shook. Her words came out hard and fast. "The managers' who, by the way, thought that the person best qualified when you didn't show up, was the girl who's been working here for two and a half months. What do you think that says about you, Lana?"

"No, you know what? I'm glad that camera is on because you'll have to remember what I'm about to tell you."

"Please tell me," Christine bit out sarcastically.

"I don't care what kind of stunt you and your lover boy are trying to pull–"

"Lover boy? What are you talking about?"

"Don't act like you don't know. I've been getting emails for weeks telling me not to show up at the Gala, and then conveniently, the night of, I get food poisoning?"

"Wait, you really were sick?" Christine had assumed she'd been throwing some sort of tantrum. In truth, she hadn't thought much about why Carlotta had been gone.

"Of course I was sick! Do you really think I'm going to let someone else waltz in here and take over my role? No." Carlotta's voice grew hard, but Christine barely heard her. Her gaze shot to the looming mirror, and her gut asked questions her mind didn't want to answer. The Angel had told her to be ready. The Angel had known what would happen that night. "I'm not leaving. This is my opera house, and if you and your pretty little boyfriend try to pull another stunt like this, you will regret it."

Christine snapped back to the conversation at Carlotta's words. Pretty little boyfriend? She'd regret it? "Are you threatening me?"

"Oh sweetheart, you're not important enough to threaten." Carlotta stood and began walking to the door. "So, I think I said everything I came here to say."

Christine watched her go in silence, shocked and perplexed by the whole interaction. What had just happened? Why had this happened? Carlotta opened the door and looked back at Christine.

"And I'm glad they stuck you in this dressing room. They've always used it to store useless props."

Carlotta slammed the door behind her.