AN: Thank you for the reviews! You're all wonderful.

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I have lived for art; I have lived for love. - - Puccini, Tosca

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Chapter 2

No wonder they prefer to use dancers as supernumeraries, thought Christine. She had been walking here and there and up and down for over an hour. Even now, she was on a balcony standing on sore feet, watching the blocking below. The director was brusk and exacting, quick to yell at a wayward chorus member or stop the entire run to scold a 'super' singing with the chorus. That had been Christine. Her face was still red as a beet from that particular exchange.

Oh, anything to just sit down for a brief minute. Some water would probably be too much to ask for. The electric stage lights were not in use, but the stage was stifling nonetheless, and Christine felt faint in her woolen dress, crushed against the bodies of other women.

But still, when she looked out into the red sea of empty seats, she couldn't help but smile in gratitude.

There was yelling down below, which caught her attention. A large, brightly dressed woman had stomped onto the stage and was focusing her shrill voice toward the director. Uncharacteristically, the man did not scold her back but instead sighed and rubbed his forehead in exasperation. She couldn't quite make out his response, but the woman's voice easily carried throughout the house. "And I said to skip ahead to my entrance! I have been waiting for nearly ten minutes! It is an abomination to have the diva wait! My time is precious and is not to be wasted."

"Signora, please. We just need to finalize this staging. You will come in soon, I promise," the exhausted and exasperated staging director replied.

This was no use, as a man in an elegant overcoat spoke. One of the owners and not a man to be trifled with. "Please, to her entrance!"

This would rile the bass who was on stage. The second act had progressed to the beginning of his aria, which would actually take some challenging movement; that required actual actions of the chorus and supers. The tall, thin man with his thick Russian accent began to retort, "Utterly ridiculous! Signora can wait her turn! You choose her scenes over my scenes!" The Soprano chimed back in, and the scene simply unravelled from there.

"We move on to the quartet. Supernumeraries upper stage right, you are dismissed. Be back at 1:00! Sharp!" the stage manager barked as the argument continued, the bass just enraged even more that the spoiled soprano had her way.

Christine breathed a sigh of relief and followed the other spear-carriers off of the stage. Meg had rushed off with the ballet rats, so she found herself with no one to talk to. So instead, she explored. She stayed close, but walked up and down the house aisles and peeked into dark corners to see what strange equipment there was.

Her wandering took her down a short hallway, into one of the adjacent rehearsal rooms. The sound of the hustle and bustle of the stage faded dramatically when she entered this room, the natural acoustics of it dampening the sounds outside.

The piano was ready, lid up; almost begging her to play it.

She didn't play the piano, but the urge to touch its ivory keys brought her right up to it. With one hand, she caressed the ivory for a moment, then played the one chord she knew- the c major triad. She smiled and started plucking out a shaky tune- an old Irish ditty her father had taught her. As she progressed, she started humming along. After a couple of verses, she shifted her stance and began to sing in a soft, sweet timber.

"...The priest and the friars approach me in dread,
Because I love you still, My Life, and you're dead.
I still would be your shelter through rain and through storm,
And with you in your cold grave-I cannot sleep warm..." she faded off and stared into the distance, half-realized thoughts buzzing around her like flies.

Every practice room had a mirror. They were expected, and essential: Giving the singer the opportunity to watch their form, see how they shaped their vowels, identify and correct any visual tension that might be present.

What she was unaware of was that this mirror stared back at her. The other side was inhabited and a frustrated figure gazed at her from the other side. His gaze had narrowed as he listened to her simple singing. It was so simple, so pure. Innocent, vulnerable. Yet, there was a shimmer present, a depth of core that came naturally. So much potential. So much unused opportunity. Had he seen her before? No, he hadn't. Or had he? A dancer? She looked it, beautiful and fair-skinned with wild dark hair. He had not observed the ballet rehearsals for some time now...Perhaps he should.

Christine was snapped out of her daydreams by the distant calling of the director. She cursed inelegantly and lifted the front of her skirts to run back to the auditorium. She skittered into the room and everyone stopped and stared at her. Face blazing, she curtsied and apologized and attempted to blend into the crowd.

The figure behind the mirror moved to the shadows to observe the rest of the rehearsal. Disorganized. Inefficient. The staging director's vision of the new production was constantly interrupted and disrupted by the soprano who put up a fight any time she was less than the center of attention, despite being a triad of three main characters. This simply would not continue, the shadow thought, it could not.

After another hour of blocking... and arguing and pouting... the leads were sent home and the ballet mistress took over, teaching the supers a simple waltz.

At last, a bit of sanity in a day that was all but frustrating. How could the company - his company! - flourish if they were led and surrounded by such fools? The shadow forced such thoughts away as he began to watch the ballet with growing interest. The girl whom he saw earlier was there. She was a dancer - a good dancer at that- but it was clear that her talents lie elsewhere.

Christine did not leave the theatre until the sky was black as ink and the temperature had dropped. Exhausted, she trailed behind the other ballet rats who lived in the conservatoire. Not all did, but if you were orphaned like Christine or had family far away, there were accommodations provided. These accommodations were... perfectly acceptable. Truly there was nothing to complain about them, but there was nothing to compliment either. The space was just big enough, just clean enough, just crowded enough where no one could complain. But it would be hard for any of them to consider it a home. So Christine walked the two blocks to her lodging and after performing her nightly ablutions at the stern hand of the mistress of the house, she collapsed into bed and fell promptly asleep. For she would have to do it all again tomorrow.

The Ballet mistress, however, would linger behind in the theatre, doing the slightest bit of tidying. Yes, the work was beneath her, but she knew well enough that her presence was needed

.Her patience would be rewarded soon enough. The walls themselves echoed, the sound a strange, hollow reverberation.

"Who is she? The girl you taught. The fresh faced one on her first day?"

Madame Giry startled. She couldn't help it; she did it everytime he announced his presence with only an ethereal voice echoing in her head. Her eyebrows knitted together as she wracked her brain for a moment. "Ah." She smoothed her facial features into a bland expression and straightened up, speaking to nothing and no one in the empty space.

"You mean Christine Daae. She has been at the ballet conservatoire for almost a year now. She was chosen to be a super for this production." Her brow lost its smoothness. "Why? Did she get herself into trouble in just one day? If she disturbed anything of yours, I will make sure it will not happen again. "

"No. Not at all," said the velvet voice, " She proved to be a breath of fresh air in a day full of stagnant, fetid corpses yakking about. Did they forget so soon the entire purpose of this new production? Something bold. Provocative. Treading the thin line of pure and perverse. Yet, they go against my orders and hire that Carlotta...and... him. That bass is as boorish as the soprano."

He calmed his rage for a moment, the voice that seemed to echo in the walls..no, in her head...returning to a more patient tone. "Christine." It was silk on his tongue. "Does she show much promise?"

Giry looked suspicious, but answered promptly. "Not... much. She will most likely make the corps de ballet in a couple of years, but she is not a brilliant dancer. She lacks the drive. And, honestly, the social aptitude."

"Has she been heard for the chorus?" he asked, pausing; the machinations of his mind clearly churning.

"...she has never inquired. Frankly, I don't think she could afford it." Giry continued with a healthy amount of caution, "Monsieur Le Phantom, why are you interested in Mademoiselle Daae?"

"Her voice. It has a...quality that is lacking in the opera of today. A simplicity, an honesty that is notably silent when one listens to the divas that we are hiring." He fell silent for a long moment "See that she returns to this room once more. Tomorrow."

Madame Giry knew she was speaking to an empty room as she expressed her dissatisfaction.