Madame Giry glanced about at the walls of her little office and took a deep, peaceful breath. She blessedly hadn't heard from the Opera Ghost for weeks. It felt like his absence had added years to her life - her poor, old nerves could finally rest. When she had heard from him last, he had made relatively few demands, and he had been far more patient in how he spoke to her. She had no idea what had caused such a change in him, but she was grateful for it all the same. Perhaps his soul had nearly completed whatever unfinished business it had here, and was almost ready to move on. If not to Paradise, well, then, at least to someplace where he couldn't bother her anymore. Madame Giry looked forward to that day. She always felt a little guilty at that thought, and whenever it would appear she would quickly wish that he was headed to Paradise and not somewhere else, mostly because she was a little uncertain of whether or not he could read her thoughts or see what she was thinking. Still, surely the Ghost knew he was not easy to deal with, and she could be forgiven for hoping for the day when he didn't speak to her anymore if she was also hoping that he found eternal peace as well.

The holidays were nearly there, and Christine had finished with all of the gifts she'd be giving except for one. She'd been giving them to her friends as she saw them, and today her and Meg's schedules had finally lined up so that they could spend some time together.

She crept into the old storage closet with a large bag in hand, grinning when she saw that Meg was already there, sitting on an overturned bucket. They had been coming to this closet for years to gossip and escape from prying eyes, and the little room was filled with hundreds of memories.

She greeted her friend with a hug before pulling up a wooden crate to sit on - in times past the floor would have sufficed, but they were nearly ladies now and a lady simply could not sit on the dusty old floor while she made fun of her coworkers and recited nasty gossip and vulgar stories - ladies had class, so they made due with whatever they could find to sit on before diving into a conversation.

"I brought you your Christmas present," Christine's eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief.

Meg clapped her hands together excitedly, and Christine pulled an enormous box of cookies out of her bag.

"Oh! Christine!" Meg's eye went wide.

Christine bit her lip, trying to contain her grin, and then pulled out a second box filled with chocolate.

"Christine! Oh, you shouldn't have!"

Christine laughed.

"No, really-" Meg squirmed a little. "You heard what the ballet mistress said-"

"Well, the ballet mistress isn't here right now, is she?" Christine answered primly before rolling her eyes. "I don't give a fig about what she said to you, you're nowhere near overweight for a dancer, you look perfectly fine and a cookie - or five - isn't going to kill you."

Christine opened the box and took a bite of a cookie.

"Besides," she said around her mouthful. "I would still love you even if you were fat, you know. You could be the fattest person in all of Paris you'd still be my best friend and a charming, lovely young woman because you're Meg, and nothing will change that, especially not something as inconsequential as weight."

Meg covered her face with her hands, embarrassed, but Christine could still see her smile underneath. She let her hands drop and shook her head, finally reaching for a cookie.

"Ok, ok, you convinced me. But if come next practice I can't fit into my leotard and they cancel my contract, I am going to blame you."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take," Christine said as she opened the box of chocolate.

She knew that Meg had been in quite a mood over the ballet mistress's comments during the fittings for the new costumes in regards to making certain that the costumes would still fit by the time they had finished being made from the measurements that were being taken. Ever since then she had been terribly careful about what she ate, not allowing herself any sweets or snacks. Christine thought it was absolutely ridiculous that the ballet mistress had put such a thought into Meg's mind, and was determined to not let her get carried away with restricting herself.

She was pleased to see Meg enjoying herself as she tried the treats that Christine had brought her. It was the happiest she had seen her in weeks, and she thought Meg always deserved to be happy.

"Have you seen Raoul lately?" Meg asked, curious.

"No, he's not even Paris at the moment. I don't think I'll get to see him at all during the holiday, probably not until well into the new year," Christine frowned. "But we've been writing letters still."

"Love letters," Meg sighed dreamily.

"Meg! No!" Christine made a face. "It's not like that between me and Raoul, I've told you that before."

"It might not be like that for you, Christine, but I've seen how he looks at you," she teased, then lowered her voice. "He wants to make you his Vicomtess and father a dozen children with you."

Christine pantomimed gagging and Meg laughed.

"He's going to be sorely disappointed, then. I don't even want to think about marriage until I'm prima donna, let alone think about children," she shuddered at the thought.

How many promising young singers had Christine seen get sidetracked by romance? How many bright careers ended because of a marriage or a child? She had sworn to herself that that would never happen to her, that she would put herself and her own dreams first no matter what. She reasoned that if a man truly loved her as he ought, he would agree to wait until she had achieved what she set out out achieve before marrying her. She knew Raoul was sweet enough to agree to that, but she wasn't entirely sure if she wanted to marry him. He could easily provide for her, yes - but Christine wanted more than financial stability from a spouse. She knew she didn't feel about him how she wanted to feel about a husband. Would she eventually? She wasn't sure. She might feel that way in the future. But for now she had enough on her plate to worry about without wifely feelings added to the mix.

"Well, I think that might come up sooner than you think - the director was right, your voice is heavenly. You'll surely be the prima donna before you're twenty five, I'd bet money on it," Meg told her.

Christine felt a shiver go through her. She was turning twenty in a handful of months, and while twenty five sounded so far off, she knew it would arrive quickly. She also knew that Meg was right - if she continued putting in the effort she had been and Erik continued teaching her, then becoming prima donna within that time frame was certainly attainable.

"What did you get Raoul for Christmas, anyway?"

"Cuff links," Christine smiled, shaking her head a little. "He keeps losing his. Hopefully he'll keep track of these better than his last pair."

"I'm sure he'll like them," she nodded thoughtfully before leaning in close. "But not as much as he'd like it if you gave him a son."

Christine shrieked and threw a cookie at her before they both dissolved into giggles.

"While we're on the topic," Meg said after their laughter had subsided, her face turning crimson. "Have you seen Dmitry?"

"Who?"

"The new dancer who just started here for the upcoming season. He's terribly handsome," she fidgeted.

"Oh."

Christine truthfully had barely noticed him, being more concerned with her own dancing whenever she was in the studio. A handsome face alone had never been enough to turn her head, and since she had never had reason to speak with him, she had formed very little of an opinion about him.

"I don't think I've talked to him yet. What's he like?"

Christine fished around in the bag as she listened to Meg talk about Dmitry. She pulled out a piece of wood and a small knife, and began to whittle.

Meg knew Christine could multitask perfectly, and kept telling her about the way the new dancer had been glancing at her during warmups the other day and the butterflies she felt whenever he had looked at her. Christine nodded along, pausing every so often and asking questions, making little noises to show she was still paying attention.

"I doubt if anything will come of it, though," Meg sighed.

"Why's that?" Christine frowned.

"I think Colette likes him too, and I'm not good with that sort of thing... I just know he'll pick her over me if that's the case... And if he's going to scorn me like that, then I don't even want to try!"

Christine looked up from her whittling.

"Boys are more trouble than they're worth," she shook her head and went back to her project.

"That's easy for you to say, Christine - you'll have a career that can pay bills. What about me? I can't dance forever... I'll never be a prima ballerina. I'm just not good enough. My career is an hourglass that's swiftly running out of sand, and what will I do then?" she shrugged. "A husband could provide stability and safety. And an income."

Christine raised an eyebrow.

"Then I highly suggest a husband that isn't also a dancer."

Meg snickered.

"Perhaps you're right on that account."

"You never know, perhaps you'll be the one to end up with Raoul," she poked her friend in the arm. "The Vicomtess Meg de Chagny! That has a ring to it, doesn't it?"

Meg groaned loudly, but her cheeks were pink.

"What's that you're working on?" Meg nodded to the little wooden creature in Christine's hands.

"It's a gift," she held it up. "It's almost done, too. It's going to be a horse."

"Oh, it's darling!"

Meg has always admired Christine's many talents, strange skills that she had picked up from her father and various places across her travels.

"Who is it for?"

Christine hesitated a moment. She had no wish to lie to Meg, but she also couldn't reveal the truth about Erik. A delicate business indeed, that fine line between fact and fiction.

"It's for my voice teacher," she said, a little shy.

"Ah! I knew you were doing something different!" Meg brightened. "Do you think he'd teach me, too?"

"No, I don't think so. I'm quite sorry, Meg, but he's mostly retired," she felt it was mostly accurate, because surely Erik had, in a sense, retired from a regular life. "He's really only teaching me as a favor to my father."

Well, she thought ruefully, they were practically the same age - surely Erik and her father might have been friends if they had known each other when he was alive.

Besides, it was the closest description she could hit on without telling her the embarrassing story of how she had taken the Voice to be that of an angel. But Meg seemed satisfied with her answer, so she left it at that.

Her carving took a few more days to complete, and then another couple days to finish all the layers of paint. It was done just in time for their last lesson before Christmas.

Christine entered her dressing room to find a large pine bough across the top of her vanity mirror, a garland of holly strung over the door, and a vase of assorted red and white flowers on her table. The whole room smelled fresh and crisp, and there were pine cones placed strategically and delicate paper snowflakes hung from the low ceiling. She was delighted, turning immediately to face the large mirror behind her, which Erik quickly rolled back.

He entered the room and pretended like he didn't notice anything different.

"Don't think I'll be easy on you because it's the holidays, Christine, if anything you'll need to work harder to make up for the days you'll be missing," he warned her, pacing the little room.

She tried to bite back her grin as her eyes darted back and forth between his aloof figure and the decorations that could have only been placed by him. He was her Herr Drosselmeyer, her dark magician who had conjured a winter wonderland for her, and she was Clara, enraptured by it all.

Suddenly the spell was broken as she remembered.

"Oh! Before we begin - I have something for you."

Erik stopped dead in his tracks. Whatever could she possibly mean?

She produced a box tied with a ribbon and held it out to him, smiling widely.

He stared at it for a moment, uncertain of what exactly he was supposed to do, before he hesitantly reached out and took it from her. He simply stood there, staring down at the package that was now in his hands.

For him?

"Open it," Christine urged him.

He sat down in one of the chairs, and carefully undid the ribbon that was holding the lid on. There was a mass of tissue paper inside, and once pulled out it revealed a carved wooden animal underneath.

This was for him?

He gently picked it out of the box and held it up. It was a horse, painted a shiny red with a carefully detailed saddle painted in colors of white and orange and blue and green.

"It's a Dala Horse," Christine explained eagerly.

He looked from the horse to her, interested.

"It's a Swedish tradition. My papa taught me how to make them. It's been a while since I've made one, but I think it turned out pretty good overall. It's supposed to bring you good luck."

"You made this?" Erik asked, his mind feeling like it was moving too slow to keep up.

She put her hands behind her back and nodded, suddenly feeling bashful. He acted like a man who'd never been given a gift before.

"I made it just for you," her eyes traced the pattern on the threadbare carpet.

Christine made this for him?

He swallowed a few times, unsure of what to say or do.

"Oh, Christine... It's lovely. Thank you, my dear."

The syllables of the term of endearment tasted strange in his mouth, words he'd never said before, but they were out before he could stop them or think the better of them. Christine's cheeks turned pink as she found she quite liked to be called that affectionate name, but Erik didn't notice as he was once again absorbed in studying the little horse.

No one had ever given him a gift before. He supposed, perhaps, that the mask his mother had made for him when he was small counted as a sort of a gift, but she had given him that because she couldn't bear to look at him. No one had ever given him a gift that was for him alone, a present for the sake of his own enjoyment of it. It was a terribly novel concept, and he could scarcely believe it.

The little horse, just the right size to fit in his long hand, seemed magical. It wasn't particularly lifelike or detailed, and from a technical standpoint the paint was quite simple, but this was something that used to be a plain chunk of wood until Christine's marvelous little hands had worked to bring it to life, sculpting it into the animal it now was, lovingly and painstakingly picking the colors that would adorn it until it looked like how she had envisioned it in her clever mind, and she had done it all for him, all while thinking of him, and if that wasn't magic, Erik didn't know what was.

He ran a finger across the glossy paint.

"Red is my favorite color," he told her.

Her smile widened and she felt warm inside. She was happy that she had given it to him after all - there had been occasions that she wasn't certain if she should give him a gift or not, if it was overstepping their boundaries or if he would even like the horse if she did give it to him. But he seemed to truly enjoy it, and that pleased her to no end.

They somehow got through their lesson, Erik's mind still in a haze.

"I'll see you again after Christmas, Christine," he said at the end of it, picking up the box that held the Dala Horse. "I hope you have an excellent holiday, and thank you again for the very thoughtful gift."

"Thank you, as well," Christine nodded towards the decorations.

Erik paused as he was about to step through the mirror, staring at the paper snowflake nearest him.

"Why, Christine," he said gravely, but his lips were twisting into a mischievous smile. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

She giggled a little.

"Goodbye, dear. Until next time."

"Goodbye, Angel."

Christine could not account for the way her heart fluttered when he called her that, completely unaware of the similar feeling she stirred in him when she called him angel.

All the way back to his house on the underground lake, he clutched the box close to his chest as though it were an expensive, precious treasure. Once settled inside his house, he set the box and ribbon aside on a shelf (they were part of the gift, too, he couldn't just throw them away) and sat down once more to examine the carving.

He turned it over and over in his hands, in the same way his mind turned over and over the curious new concept of receiving a gift. He sighed.

Christine was truly a never ending fountain of forgiveness and kindness and blessings. To think that after everything, she could still smile at him and call him an angel and now - now she had taken the time to make something to give to him. And not just any old random thing - this little horse was a part of her culture, a part of her heritage, something she had made with the skills her beloved papa had taught her, and she had seen fit to share all that with him. He was overwhelmed by just how touching it was.

Before he went to bed that night he set the wondrous little horse on the stand above the keys of his organ, where he would be able to look at it each day as he composed and played, a place where he'd see it often and think of her.