There were times during the performance when the creeping feeling that her voice was not her own nearly overtook Christine, but she pushed it down and kept going. She could not allow herself to fail; she owed it to the Angel, not to mention the public humiliation if she did. Now that it was over, she knew he must be happy with her. How could he not be? She had poured her soul into the music, she had become Violetta, and there was nothing more she could give. The applause were deafening. Her head spun from the heat, the sound, and the feel of so many eyes upon her. She struggled to breathe as her limbs became heavier and heavier; she didn't have the strength to fight as they weighed her down, pulling her to the floor.

She slowly became aware of male voices all around her, and of the familiar feeling of the couch in her dressing room beneath her. Someone's hand rested on her forehead. She could have opened her eyes at that point, but she chose to keep them closed, willing the crush of men to depart. She could not imagine the amount of attention she would be enduring if she hadn't fainted.

"Don't you think, Doctor, that those gentlemen ought to clear the room?" A voice she recognized, but could place cut through the din.

The doctor agreed with the speaker, politely but firmly insisting that everyone leave. The man who had spoken was not obviously not included in the doctor's edict. She wondered if he were someone important, or if the doctor thought he had the right to be there. Once she heard the click of the door shutting, she reluctantly opened her eyes, looking first at her maid and the doctor to reassure herself, before turning to face the owner of the authoritative voice. Christine jumped a little when she saw that it was the Comte de Chagny. She could not fathom a reason for his being there. He made her nervous in ordinary circumstances, and now she was almost afraid of finding out why he was there. She wasn't sure what she should have expected after the performance, but she had hoped to share her triumph with the Angel, then go home, write a long letter to Raoul, and go to bed. She did not envision having what was bound to be an uncomfortable conversation with Raoul's brother.

She knew she should say something to him, but she didn't know what. She chose to address everyone in the room instead.

"I think I am well now; I was only overwhelmed." She pushed herself up to a sitting position and hazarded another glance at the Comte. He was regarding her with an expression of curiosity. He looked less stern than usual, so perhaps whatever he wanted would not be so bad.

"Mlle. Daaé," the Comte began, "I wanted to speak with you privately."

Before she could respond, the doctor said, "Perhaps there is a better time? The young lady is ill."

"I'm fine." Christine smiled at the doctor. She appreciated the effort, but whatever he wanted to say to her, she'd rather know now, than have it hanging over her head. With far more confidence than she had, she continued, "I'm sure it is perfectly safe to leave me with the Comte."

"Very well," the doctor agreed with some reluctance. The maid started to leave, too, regarding Christine and the Comte with round eyes. Christine shook her head, signalling to the maid that she should stay. The other woman's face relaxed as she shut the door, and took up a position in the farthest possible corner of the small room.

"You must forgive me," Christine said to the Comte. "I am not in the habit of entertaining men in my dressing room. I cannot have you in here without someone else being present."

He shrugged his shoulders. "That seems consistent with what my brother has told me, and you must forgive me; there is no reason this could not wait until later. It's only that I don't like waiting. All I want is to know if my brother knows you can sing like that?"

Why would he want to know that? Why was it so important that he needed to know right now? She answered him all the same, figuring that if she cooperated, this would be over sooner. "I couldn't sing like that when he was still here."

"You are studying with someone new then?"

How to answer? Mamma knew all about the Angel, and she'd mentioned her new instructor to Raoul in a letter. But if she told this man she did not really know about a new instructor, he would want to know who it was, and then what would she say? She had to say something, and the only answer that came to mind was, "I've been studying on my own."

"Indeed?" he inquired skeptically.

"Yes," she answered, "It is something to occupy my mind."

He continued to regard her with skepticism. She schooled her face into the most guileless expression possible. If Christine had one effective defense mechanism, it was her ability to look completely innocent and earnest in almost any situation.

To her surprise, it appeared to work, or at least he chose to play along. "On your own, truly?"

She looked down at her hands in her lap. "Well, using the training I have had as a guide... Not entirely on my own. It really was only a matter of effort." She endeavored to say it in a way that would be believed, but she knew her lie was thoroughly absurd.

He smiled. It was not an unpleasant smile, and though his face would never hold the warmth that Raoul's did, he looked very much like an older version of his brother at that point. Ever so slightly, it put her at ease. "So this is only the difference between trying and not trying?"

She nodded. "I have more time on my hands now. I might as well push my capabilities to their limits."

"Why would you keep your genius hidden like you did for so long? And here I was wondering how you were paying for instruction..."

She started. Just what was he suggesting? She was very aware that he wanted to separate her from his brother. Had he really come here looking for something with which to accuse her?

"Since I have no instructor, there is no one in need of payment," she answered quietly, studying her hands.

"I did not mean to imply anything untoward," he said.

"Of course not." Perhaps he had not realized how it sounded until he said it. "Again, you must forgive me, it has been a long day, and I am quite tired."

"I should take my leave, then."

After he bid her goodbye and left, the maid helped Christine out of her costume and into her street clothing. She felt like she owed the other woman now, but she wasn't sure what she could do to thank her for staying in the room, so she simply thanked her profusely for all of her assistance.

Once she was alone, she called out, "Angel?"

With no greeting, in a tone so cold it made her shiver, his voice filled the room. "The nerve of that man - demanding your time, only so he can ask ridiculous questions, and then deny the implications of what he was saying."

"He is only looking out for his brother," she tried to justify the Comte's words.

"I don't care what he was doing. He shouldn't have suggested those things about you!"

Wanting to steer the topic of conversation away from the Comte de Chagny and his perceived behavior, she said, "It is no matter; if he meant to imply something, I'm sure he realizes now that he was wrong. Don't we have more important things to discuss?"

"Of course, you are right; he is of no consequence." Christine knew that certainly wasn't true, but she didn't want to argue. "Are you very tired?" He asked with a complete shift in tone.

"I gave you my soul, and I am dead," she answered, lying back down.

"Your soul is a very beautiful thing, my child," the Angel replied. "No emperor ever received so fair a gift. The angels wept tonight."

She didn't know how to respond to that much praise; saying thank you certainly wouldn't be sufficient, so she stayed silent.

After a moment, he said, "Are you sure you are fine?"

"I think so... just tired." Christine could never tell him that singing like she did sometimes frightened her. "I don't know if I even have the energy to get up and go home." Becoming pensive, she asked, "What do I tell people when they ask about an instructor? I'm sure he won't be the only one, and I know I sounded ridiculous telling him that this voice came from practicing on my own. I can't very well say who you are. They'd put me away."

"I would never let that happen," he replied, offering no solution to her problem. "You should get up and go home before you fall asleep here."

"Oh, you are right," she agreed stretching as she stood. "I wouldn't want to worry Mamma."

"I could not have imagined a more perfect student than you; you've made me happier than you could ever know. Goodnight, my dear."

She paused on her way out the door. The words were themselves were effusively kind, but nothing terribly remarkable, given the circumstances. The tone with which they were uttered, however, was filled with such warmth, such obvious affection that she found herself blushing. If her teacher were a man speaking thus, she would be very suspicious about the nature of his feelings toward her.

"Thank you," she stammered before leaving the room. It was absurd. He was an angel; he was the only being other than Raoul, herself, and the priest, that knew of their marriage. Surely angels did not develop inappropriate attachments to humans. She shook her head. No, she was merely reading into it because the Angel's voice sounded like a man's. If the Angel spoke with a woman's voice, the idea never would have occurred to her. She must be overtired, and would no doubt stop having such ridiculous notions after a good night's sleep.

Note: I'm sure this is riddled with errors, and I apologize. I've tried to proofread as effectively as I can, but I've been very easily distracted of late.