Madame la Vicomtesse de Chagny was commonly held to be a very beautiful woman, but most would praise her heart before her appearance. Her deep brown eyes shone with the kindness of one who never expected to be a member of the nobility. As she stood by the railing, gazing out at the wide expanse of the sea, many of the couples who passed by smiled at her far-away expression.

Christine de Chagny had always been a dreamer, even when nothing seemed more foolish than optimism.

She turned when, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a young man heading towards her across the deck, fair-haired and smiling gleefully in his sharp gray suit. Raoul de Chagny stopped by her side, leaning over the railing and breathing in the salty air.

"It's so beautiful," said Christine.

"Mmm," hummed Raoul in agreement.

"I can see why you miss the Navy!"

He turned, gently touching her cheek, still leaning over the railing in his nonchalant manner. "You know I would never trade it for my life with you."

"We could always run a ship together," said Christine, capturing his hand in hers. "I think I'd make an excellent pirate!"

"You are quite skilled with a sword," Raoul chuckled. The only sporting activity that particularly interested Christine was fencing, and despite the bemusement of the other de Chagnys, Raoul and Christine often took to sparring on the grounds of their Paris estate. Christine often won, which delighted her husband - Christine suspected that he was equally proud of this as he was of her musical talents. He went on: "My darling, I think you would be the terror of the Atlantic."

Christine laughed, the sound almost immediately lost against the hum of the ship's engines. "What would our ship be called?"

Squinting, Raoul looked up, thinking. "La Daae, of course."

"That's not very frightening."

"I think it's quite elegant."

"We are pirates, Raoul, we have no need for elegance."

"Aye aye, captain," said Raoul, bowing to her dramatically, and she laughed, turning back into the wind. "Madame, may I interest you in accompanying me to luncheon?"

"Gladly, my good sir," she said, mimicking his tone of exaggerated formality, accepting the arm he offered her. They continued to bicker and laugh over the details of their imagined pirate ship as they made their way down one flight of stairs, sobering up only when they reached the formal dining room of the ship.

"Oh, good," Christine whispered to her husband as they entered. "That snobby banker and his wife aren't here. They were quite annoying, weren't they?"

Raoul nodded, scanning the room. "They were unpleasant. I believe they have their luncheon later, so if we stick to an early schedule, we'll be able to avoid them."

The Vicomte and Vicomtesse seated themselves near the fireplace, a waiter approaching them immediately, presenting them with glasses of water and ice and placing a menu in front of each both.

"What's the very first thing you want to do when we reach New York?" asked Christine as she carefully removed the pins that fastened her white sun hat to her hair, dark and braided in an elaborate pattern that fascinated Raoul to no end.

"I'd like to take my wife to a fancy Manhattan restaurant," said Raoul, "and absolutely embarrass myself in front of some kind American restaurant patron for having absolutely deplorable English."

"Well, you're better than I am!" Christine insisted, setting her hat on the chair beside her.

"Ah, but you're a musician, cherie," he said. "You'll pick it up immediately, I know it. My ears are not so strong."

"Shall we practice, then?" she asked.

"No," said Raoul. "I'll save my embarrassment for the Yankees."

Christine smiled, resting her elbows on the table and setting her chin on her hands, a posture that would have raised eyebrows at home. Both Christine and Raoul enjoyed the freedom from propriety, a freedom they rarely had received since their honeymoon.

"What about you?" Raoul asked, taking a drink from his glass of water. "When you get to America, what's the first thing you'll do?"

"Find a bookstore," Christine replied. "I've already finished both books I brought with me. I'll need something new to read."

"Won't they be in English?"

"I suppose they must sell some in French as well, mustn't they?"

"I've no idea," said Raoul. He grinned. "I don't know the darndest thing about American life! Does this make me closed-minded?"

"I'm sure we'll find out," Christine assured him, reading her menu. "Many people never get to visit America at all."

"Will you sing there?" Raoul asked.

"Ah, probably not."

"Why not? I'm sure you're still in great shape. It hasn't even been a year since you retired from L'Opéra Garnier, and the American press is all over our visit," Raoul said, reaching across the table to take her hand.

Christine squeezed his hand. "This is a vacation, Raoul."

He nodded. "I know. I did not mean to pressure you, darling. The land of opportunity would be blessed by your beautiful voice, but if a vacation is what you desire…" Raoul raised his arms dramatically. "...then a vacation is what you shall have?"

"Do you think we ought to visit your uncle Ralph?" asked Christine.

Raoul's expression grew very serious. "I don't know. He's an odd duck. I may pay him a visit, but I don't want to subject you to a household as unpredictable as his must be."

"Oh, come off it," Christine teased. "You know I like a good adventure just as much as you do! And it's not as if my life has been without unpredictability."

Their eyes met, and Raoul smiled sympathetically. "Then we shall experience that adventure together, as you wish, Madame."

"Thank you, my good sir," said Christine, squeezing his hand once more before letting go and returning to her menu. "How betrayed would you feel if I had the croque monsieur again today? I know variety is essential for good health, but I am a creature of habit."

"Well, I would surely never speak to you again," said Raoul cheerfully, and they both laughed as he waved the waiter over.

That evening, they sat in their cabin, which was small yet comfortable. Christine lay on the bed with a journal, scribbling impatiently, and Raoul sat by the window, contentedly reading one of the books Christine had finished.

Breaking the placid silence, Christine tore one of the pages from her notebook, crumpling it and throwing it across the room; it missed the wastebasket by nearly a metre. She sighed, laying face-down on the bed with her arms outstretched.

"Everything all right?" said Raoul amusedly.

"I'm still trying to write that piece in honor of Father," said Christine, her words muffled by the duvet. "But without an instrument, I keep writing the stupid rhythms wrong."

Raoul smiled at his wife's frustration. "They have a piano in the ballroom downstairs."

She looked up at him, faint lines on her face from the duvet pattern. "I don't know that they would allow me to play it."

"I think they would. You're a beautiful, elegant lady, and what's more, you're very good. I'll stand around to tell anyone off if they try to stop you."

Christine smiled lopsidedly at the thought of Raoul being cross with anyone. "I don't think they'd be very afraid of you."

"Then I'll simply charm them away!" Raoul shut the book. "What do you say?"

"All right," said Christine, closing her notebook. "But if there are people there, I won't."

"Of course." Raoul put on his jacket, and she put on her shoes, and they left the cabin. It did not take long before they reached the ballroom, which was mercifully empty. The piano, a small upright, sat in the corner, and Christine sat down, lifting the cover almost reverently. Raoul sat in a stool nearby, leaning against the wall and facing the rest of the ballroom as if on the lookout for anyone who might approach them.

Christine meticulously set her journal on the piano, her pen beside it, and began to play the melody that had frustrated her. She continued for some time, pausing every few seconds to scribble bar lines and note heads. Raoul watched her work distantly, as if the sight calmed him. Before long, she added a left-hand accompaniment, playing both parts with a careful slowness.

"That's very beautiful," he said. "He'd love it."

Smiling up at him, Christine said, "I'm hoping to add a violin part as well."

"He'd be exceedingly proud of you."

"I believe that he can see me," said Christine. "And I hope you're right, and he is proud."

"How could he not be?" said Raoul.

Christine stared into space with a sad smile, continuing to play the same melody once more. Raoul sensed her melancholy and sat down beside her on the bench.

"Do you think about him at all?"

"Oh, all the time," said Christine.

"Not your father," said Raoul quickly. "I mean - him. The ghost."

Christine stopped playing. "I suppose so. He was my first teacher. And he quite wreaked havoc on my life," she said. "Such things are not easy to forget. Do you think about him?"

"Sure," said Raoul.

"What do you think of?"

"I wonder what would have happened if you hadn't stopped him from killing me," said Raoul. "I think about - I think about what would have happened if we had stayed long enough to protect him from the mob."

Christine nodded, staring down at the keybed. "I suppose if we'd stuck around, he wouldn't have died. What he did was wrong, and it was terrifying, but I wish - I wish so many things had happened differently."

"Me too," said Raoul, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into his shoulder. "I wish the world had been kinder to him, and I wish he had been kinder to us."

"I suppose he'd be glad that I continued to sing, in the end," said Christine.

"Of course," Raoul said. "And I did not know him well but I imagine he would have also been pleased that you have been composing, as well. Or is it because I am not a musician that I am so daunted by the difficulty?"

"Not at all," said Christine, staring fixedly at the journal with its diagrams that were no more legible to Raoul than if she had been writing in Mandarin. "I can't believe he wrote an entire opera, with many voices and many instruments. I would have broken many pianos in my rage, and I am not an angry person."

Raoul laughed. He turned and kissed the top of your head. "Are you all right, Christine? I didn't mean to make you sad with talk of the ghost."

"You did not," said Christine, looking up at him, and her eyes were sad but confident. "I believe that it is good to talk about such things from time to time. And even though he tried to do us harm, I think it is the proper thing to do to remember him, since surely no one else does."

Raoul felt his eyes water as she returned to her piece. Christine continued to move him with her compassion and her grace. Although he could feel the burn of rope around his neck as if it were yesterday, he knew that Christine's pain at the betrayal and loss of her mentor and friend had been far greater, and yet she mourned him and honored his memory with a capacity for forgiveness Raoul could only imagine.

Although his wife now fixated on her composition, Raoul murmured, "I love you, Christine."

"I love you too, darling," said Christine. And as if she had read his thoughts, she remarked, "You know, despite everything Erik might have done, I believe I still bear a greater grudge towards dotted eighth notes."

Raoul smiled, content with their acknowledgement of the darker moments of their past and the knowledge that the evening would be happier, with no more adversity than Raoul interjecting upon Christine's composing by playing miscellaneous notes on the piano until he found the true limits of his wife's patience.

I was so excited to see that people are reading this! The title comes from a lovely Mass setting by Dan Forrest. I hope you enjoyed these two chapters so far!