I am not yours, not lost in you,

Not lost, although I long to be

Lost as a candle lit at noon,

Lost as a snowflake in the sea…

"I Am Not Yours" by Sara Teasdale

When I went down breakfast, Meg and her mother were already there, dining on eggs and toast. Raoul was conspicuously absent, but I was too exhausted to pay much attention to what that meant. "Tea, miss?" The servant asked as soon as I entered the room. He was fairly new to me, but I'd seen him before and I felt a stab of guilt for not learning his name.

"Coffee, please," I told him as I sat at the end of the table, opposite Raoul's.

"Coffee? Christine, I thought you hated the stuff?" Meg asked. I glanced at her to find her normally bright eyes rather dull and I noticed that her place was quite a bit less empty than her mother's. On any other morning, I might have found her hangover amusing, but not today.

"I didn't get much sleep."

"Ugh, me neither. I swear it, I'm never drinking wine again," Meg whined.

Madame Giry chuckled. "Ah, everyone says that the first time they over-indulge. It just teaches you to be more careful next time."

Meg said something in return, but I didn't hear it. I'd pulled Marie, one of the servants I did know, to my side and asked in a whisper, "Where is le Vicomte?"

"Mademoiselle, I believe he's gone to confession," she whispered back.

I nodded and she left to fetch me a plate of breakfast, though I wasn't sure I could eat it. Confession? It made sense and I was a bit relieved that he could see his wrongdoings from last night. Mostly, I was relieved that I had more time before I had to see him. My vision of the man I loved had been shaken last night. I know that drink can transform a man, bring out the worst in him, but I thought I knew every bit of Raoul. Ask me yesterday, and I would have said he would never hurt me. I'd have said he was incapable.

"…don't you agree, Christine?" I was shaken from my dark thoughts by Meg's voice.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"My, you must be tired. I said, don't you think that the singers at the Populaire were much better than the ones last night? Why, you on your worst day could out-sing any—"

"Meg." Madame Giry cut her off with a stern voice and I was grateful. I certainly didn't want to talk about the Populaire, didn't even want to think about it, in fact, but the damage was done. My thoughts wandered back to where they had been held hostage all night. Was it the phantom outside on my balcony last night? I hadn't heard a word of him since the night I gave him my ring, since the night I chose Raoul. Hundreds of people, both police and citizen alike, hunted him for days, but he was never found. He was chased from his home and, no matter what he'd done, my heart panged with pity for him. He was right when he'd told me that no matter which path I chose I could not win. He took the choice out of my hands in the end… but it didn't feel like a victory. If it was him last night, why wouldn't he speak to me? After all, we'd been so close for so long.

But no, we weren't close, I didn't know the man under the mask at all. He was no angel; he was a murderer. But then, why let me leave with Raoul? I pushed the eggs around on my plate, my mind miles from here, in the caverns below the Populaire. Suddenly, I surprised myself with the taste of blood. I'd been chewing on my lower lip without realizing it. I took a sip of coffee to wash the taste away- I despised blood. It was clear that my mind was too full to stay there with Meg and Madame Giry, so I excused myself from the table, claiming a headache.

"Lie down, my dear," said Madame Giry. "You don't look well."

I gave her a grateful nod, but rather thought sleep would be just as elusive as it had been the night before. At the doorway I turned to say, "Oh, and if Raoul should ask, please tell him I may be indisposed the whole day." Meg and her mother both raised their eyebrows at me, but nodded. As I turned, I noticed them shoot each other a suspicious glance and, horrified, I wondered if they'd overheard any of last night.

It must have been at least a couple hours of me lying on my bed, staring at the balcony windows when I heard a soft knock on my door. "Christine?" Came Raoul's soft voice. "Are you awake?" I lay perfectly sill, hoping he'd think I was asleep, coward that I am. "Christine, please, I must speak with you." His voice broke on the last word and it went straight to my heart. I owed my love, the man who saved me, at least a conversation. I shuffled to the door and opened it a crack, allowing a strip of Raoul's perfect face to peek through.

"May I come in?" he asked, his face open and pleading.

I took a deep breath. "It's your home, Raoul."

His head hung forward. "No, Christine, it's ours. May I come in?"

I stepped back and let him enter, leaving the door open behind me. His firm steps echoed as he strode to the fireplace, looking into the flames for a moment before turning back to me. "Christine, I am so sorry for my brutish behavior last night," he said in a rush.

My eyes trained on his, I moved to stand beside him. "You scared me last night, Raoul."

"I know I must have, but Christine, I would never hurt you. You must know that."

"I did…" Slowly, he reached for my hand, which I was hesitant to let him take.

"Forgive me, Christine. I never wish to harm you, or dishonor you."

I stared into his eyes for a long while, but he never wavered. Finally, I let out the breath I'd been holding. "Why did you… that is, do you expect me to…?"

"No!" Raoul brought his hand up to stroke my cheek. "No, Christine. I only want to marry you. I expect nothing, I was mad with drink and loving you."

"Love?" I asked, suspicion plain in my voice.

"I know it may not seem that way, but yes." He bit his lower lip between his teeth for a moment. "Christine, sometimes it feels as though you… regret being here." I opened my mouth to object, but he placed his hand gently against my lips. "It may just be my hurt pride or sensitivity, but… you don't sing anymore. It seems as though you're just going through the motions. Please, you don't have to say anything. You've been through much these past months, and I'm willing to wait for you. As long as it takes for you to… adjust."

His hand finally left my mouth and I said, "That doesn't excuse—"

"I know. What I did was out of line, but Christine, do you understand how I feel?"

"My life was shattered, Raoul. I'm in a strange house, with strangers waiting on me, my entire life is different. A month ago I was sleeping on an ancient mattress in a dorm with twelve other girls and now I have servants asking me if my sheets are warm enough. I'm so grateful to you, but I can only give so much right now."

Both of his hands grasped mine as he said, "I understand. I'll spend the rest of my life earning your trust back."

I slid my eyes to his with a smirk. "Then you had better not touch the wine anymore."

He laughed, grasping onto my humor. I rose up to kiss him and this time, the familiar butterflies were back. When we broke apart, I stepped back to say, "I do think I will stay in my room today, though. I really am exhausted."

"Of course, my dear. I'll have the servants bring your lunch up here." With another kiss to my hand, he left me.

""""

The stage was empty save for me, a piano, and the man seated in front of it. The jarring notes of Don Juan were ringing out of it; the man was slamming his hands on the keys, his back to me. Candles were suspended above the piano, lending the only light in the theater. Like a moth to the flame, I was drawn to him. His black hair was neat, his white shirt crisp and clean across broad shoulders. He was obviously immersed in the music, swaying and rocking with the sounds, but seemed to sense the moment I stepped into the circle of light from the candles. Those shoulders relaxed, the music softened, and the sensual notes of Point of No Return echoed from the piano. I stopped just behind him as he continued to play.

"Won't you sing for me?" I asked. "This is your verse."

"I would do anything for you, my angel," his rich voice began to pour out of him, singing the song that was written to entangle me. My head fell back and my eyes closed as I let his voice wash over me. As my part came closer I moved to the side, around him. Still singing, my Angel turned his gaze to me. His hair was brown and wild, the right side of his face a marred parody of his left. Still, I hardly noticed it. His voice was all that mattered. Distracted, I joined in too soon. Captivated by the longing, the love in his eyes, I sang with him, "What warm unspoken secrets will we learn… Beyond the point of no return." My angel let the note hang in the air, slowly rising from his seat. As he rose, his hands traveled up and over my skirts, barely touching. I followed their progress with my eyes, enraptured, until they rested on either side of my waist. Then, glancing up, I met his eyes, beautiful though mismatched, and tilted my head as he leaned in. Our lips met and I was made of fire, throwing my arms around his shoulders and pulling him close. Our passion grew and he spun me until my back was at the piano and the keys clanged at the impact, a shocking contrast to the harmony that had filled the stage moments before. His mouth moved down my neck and I felt him growl, "Have you forgotten your angel, Christine?" His teeth bit softly at my skin and my gasp echoed around the empty stage.

""""

"Madame Giry, I must speak with you," I whispered.

Madame Giry started at the sound and turned to find me leaning over the back of her chair. With a soft snap she closed her book and said, "Of course, child." Her hand waved at the chair opposite hers, but I shook my head.

"No… Will you walk with me? Just around the garden?"

Her shrewd eyes narrowed at me, just as they had when I was a girl shirking dance practice or stealing an extra biscuit from the kitchens. I swallowed, but didn't look away. Finally, she shrugged on her coat and let me lead her out the door.

"Christine, it's freezing out here. What is so important?"

I ran my gloved hand over a pine branch, absentmindedly admiring the needles. Even in the cold they never lost their color.

"Madame," I said, still looking at the needles, "I don't know who else to talk to. I fear that Meg won't understand and Raoul… Raoul can't know."

"What have you done?" Her voice was low and serious. I spun around with wide eyes.

"Nothing! Nothing, Madame."

Her shoulders slumped slightly with relief before straightening again. Her dancer's discipline never wavered for long. "Thank God."

I licked my dry lips, but the cold only attacked them more. "I haven't done anything. But, Madame, I'm so confused. And I thought… you seemed to know so much about him… I thought if you told me, I'd stop wondering at least. Endlessly wondering. And perhaps I could move on. No matter how I try, the wondering never stops—" Madame Giry stopped me with a hand to my lips.

"Hush, girl. You must put everything that happened out of your mind. Everything."

As soon as her hand left my mouth, I said, "Don't you think I've tried? The memories, they hit me like rain. Only one at first, and then a downpour of them. I can't escape. When I think I've succeeded, they break into my dreams. And, Madame, my dreams…" My voice shook and I'm sure Madame Giry could see the shame in my eyes.

Her fingers snapped under my nose, surprising me into silence. "Christine, no. You went through a terrible ordeal, and I'm sorry for my part in it. But you are not tied to him. It would not help you to know more. Marry le Vicomte, sing, move on."

"I'm afraid, Madame… I'm afraid I cannot sing without him."

"Silly girl, of course you can." She grabbed my arms tight. "You must. The Opera Ghost is gone, and his power with him."

I was so close to telling her about the shadow on my balcony, but I held my tongue. She didn't understand and I was alone again. So, I nodded and whispered, "You're right. Of course."

Once inside again, I lost myself in thought as Madame Giry turned back to her book. Move on, she'd said. So easy to say, but she didn't understand. I didn't even understand, I just knew that there was a void in my life where music used to be. Without music, there was no connection with my father, with myself. And without my angel, there was no music.

Father, what do I do? You told me, you told me to wait for an angel. Surely you know what that would mean for me? Is he a murderer, heartless and cruel as everyone says? I feel as if I'm splitting in two. He spoke of love so tenderly, and I believed him. I felt loved, but I also felt great danger. Phantom or Angel? I couldn't decide, and my conversation with Madame Giry had only made me feel worse.

My head fell back against the chair as I thought of my father. I tried to focus on his face, but it was fading, had been for some time. I remembered a particularly cloudy afternoon by the sea, hoping to dredge up every detail. My dress was yellow, the day was unseasonably cool and I wasn't dressed warmly enough. I was shaking, but trying so hard not to let my father see because he would make us go back to the cottage and I was having so much fun. We were standing on the rocky shore having a competition to see who could throw a rock the farthest into the waves. He let me win, but I was too young to see it at the time. I can hear his laughter, his shouts of "You're getting so strong, little love!" But I couldn't see his face. I felt my eyes prick with tears. I was losing him.