A brief but strong breeze threatened to push Christine off her feet as she knocked on the door and waited impatiently to be let in. Two more knocks at the door and then finally it opened.

The friendly smile that had been on her face, the one which had been for little Simone, vanished when she looked down and saw only the hem of a long, sober dress. Her eyes slowly trailed up a plump body she did not recognise until she reached two beady blue eyes, narrowed under a heavy brow.

"You must be Mademoiselle Daaé," the middle-aged woman said, her voice gravelly and her tone harsh. Without another word, she bent down, pulled the suitcases out of Christine's grip and into her own coarse hands before stepping to the side, allowing her entrance. "Come inside."

Thankful to be out of the weather, Christine hurried into the warmth but regarded the woman before her with a speculative expression. "Where is Simone?" she asked, watching the stranger move heavily across the length of the room, her body swaying from side to side in a curious little waddle.

The woman sniffed dismissively and turned her gaze slightly over her shoulder. "Who, Mademoiselle?"

Christine frowned as she began to follow her up the creaking stairs. "The girl," she explained. "The girl who has worked for Madame Valérius alongside Madame Dumas for a little over two years."

Another sniff. "Oh, her. I sent her away last month."

Christine very nearly stopped in her tracks at the mention of this news. "Sent away? Why was I not informed?" she demanded.

"Didn't Madame mention it in her letter, Mademoiselle?"

"No," Christine answered distantly. "No, she did not."

"Ah, well, she was simply not up to my standards," the woman replied indifferently. "She was getting in the way and I did not want—"

"Excuse me?" Christine stopped near the top of the stairs, affronted. "What authority do you have to decide this?"

The woman seemed to remember herself after this as she stopped outside a closed door and faced Christine with her head slightly bowed. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but there are things that you do not yet know. It was rude of me not to introduce myself earlier. I am Madame Martin—Marie. I was hired, along with a few others, to help care for your guardian." She shifted uncomfortably. "That girl was not capable of taking care of Madame Valérius, you see, especially considering—"

"Considering what?"

Christine saw Mme Martin's thick fingers tighten around the handles of her suitcases. What was she not telling her? "Your guardian... She did not want to distress you in her letter. She thought it best if you were informed when you arrived... though why, I do not know," she muttered to herself. Her dull eyes flickered up to see confusion written all over the young woman's face and she begrudgingly turned to open the door in front of them, not wishing to be the bearer of bad news. "This will be your room, Mademoiselle." She walked into the spacious room and placed the suitcases down upon the freshly made bed. "If there is anything else that I can do—"

"Yes, there is," Christine said as she slowly removed her gloves, throwing them down onto the pressed sheets before looking up at the strange woman before her. "Instead of acting like I am a stranger in this household, I would appreciate having respect in my own home. Though I am yet to know the reasons, you are here in this household as an employee, and you will do well to remember that."

As the words left her mouth, Christine clasped her hands together to stop them from quivering. Gone was the meek girl who once shied away from confrontation and here stood a woman who was not afraid to unleash the darker remnants of her soul. She had hardly recognised her own voice as it reprimanded and scolded, dripping with the authoritative tone she had never had. "Tell me what my guardian did not," she then said, softening her words so that she might receive a direct answer.

Mme Martin felt as though she were standing on hot rocks. Unwanted apprehension filled her weary body as she briefly considered fleeing down the stairs. Why had Madame Valérius allowed her ward to live here if she did not explain everything beforehand? Foolish! Heaven help her. "Mademoiselle, I would... I would rather not be the one to—"

"Please," Christine murmured, noting Mme Martin's flustered appearance. "I would appreciate it greatly if you would tell me."

"Yes," she said at long last with a nod of her head, unable to look into the young girl's eyes and continue to see nothing but unjustified hurt. "You see, Mademoiselle, this winter has been particularly harsh and I was hired, with two other women, to help with the duties around the house as well as making sure Madame Valérius receives the correct medical attention." Her sullen eyes glanced up just in time to see the colour drain from the ward's face. "Your guardian's health has slowly deteriorated over the past few months."

Christine could scarce believe what she was hearing and when she spoke, her voice was hoarse and but a whisper, a mere shadow of the power it held moments ago. "Where is she? Tell me where she is, I want to know. Now."

"The second door down from this one, but she is sleeping and I wouldn't—Mademoiselle!"

Christine was only vaguely aware of the warnings being shouted at her from down the hallway, but she was already gone. Her coat and dress skirts rustled about as she ran the short length, lurched her hand out onto the cold door handle and opened it.

A wave of heat immediately flooded Christine's senses as she entered the foreboding bedchamber. A large fire burned in the black fireplace on one side of the room, while on the other side lay Madame Valérius. Blood racing, Christine hurried over and dropped to her knees at her bedside, gazing at the woman in dire concern. Her guardian's eyes were closed and her chest rose and fell in slow, monotonous repetition. The frightful pallor of her face was that of the nightgown she donned and a thin layer of sweat speckled her skin like morning dew. Her grey hair was tied in a loose plait which fell across her shoulder like frayed yarn and Christine reached over slowly to stroke it, remembering how soft it had once been. She then moved her hand to rest on top of her guardian's joined ones, those sharply raised bones digging into her palm ever so slightly. She was as cold as death.

"For the past fortnight, she has not moved from that bed," Mme Martin explained from the doorway. "That is, under our orders, she has been confined to her bed. The stairs," she explained. "She would only exert herself. It is better that she rests."

Leaning against the soft covers, Christine rested her spinning head on her outstretched arms, the roar of the fire creeping over her back felt like a suffocating blanket. Focusing on the tiny threads beneath her, she was able to calm her mind enough to push a question out of her dry mouth. "What is wrong with her?"

Mme Martin, who had not moved from the threshold, stood watching the pitiful scene before her, almost feeling like an intruder. When she heard the ward speak up, her head bowed solemnly as she uttered one inconsolable phrase, "She has consumption."

Fear ensnared Christine as she sprang to her feet. "What did you say?"

Mme Martin looked at the young woman with clinical coldness. "I am sorry to be the one to tell you this."

She will not recover, she will not recover, she will not recover, was all that was circulating round Christine's mind at that moment. There was not even any point in asking if there was a chance that she was merely overreacting. This illness was not new to her.

"She is sedated at the moment," Mme Martin explained. "The night is the worst time for her. She breaks out into a sweat and—"

"Yes," Christine murmured, holding up a hand to silence her. "I am... very much aware of the details, thank you." Her head was starting to spin again, her vision becoming blurry with each second she stayed in this room. "When will I be able to speak to her?"

"Tomorrow morning at the very latest, I am afraid." Another pause. "I am sorry, Mademoiselle Daaé. We are doing all we can to make her comfortable."

"I am certain you are, and I appreciate it. I really do," Christine replied almost instantly, though her words were devoid of any sentiment or proper appreciation. Her eyes kept to the floor as she made her way out of the room. "If there is anything I can do to help with her condition, anything at all, please... Allow me to do what I can," she told Mme Martin and was grateful to see her nod in passing.

Closing her own bedchamber door behind her, Christine did not have time to take in her surroundings as her legs began to weaken. Seconds later, they buckled under the weight of her body and she stumbled, clutching violently at one of her bedposts to keep her upright, her knuckles turning a ghostly white as her fingers all but dug into the fine wood. With eyes screwed shut, she let her mouth hang open as half strangled moans escaped her.

After she failed to compose herself, she rid herself of her overly warm attire and scrambled to the floor. Rising to her knees, made uncomfortable by the thin material of her chemise between her legs and the hard flooring, she reached around her neck until her fingers were able to wrap themselves around her mother's prayer necklace. Once it was secured between her shaky palms, she began to mumble underneath her breath, over and over again, praying, praying for strength, praying for guidance, for answers, for a miracle.

Mamma Valérius would live, Christine vowed to herself. She would live through this. She was certain of it. She had to be certain of it. She had to be...

o0o

A few hours later, everything had settled into a quiet sense of acceptance. Christine was acquainted with the rest of the staff, their names and their purposes. She glazed over the introductions with a polite smile and then took a great deal of time unpacking, solemnly placing her clothes and a few trinkets around the room which she would again call her own. A few slices of bread and butter made up her late dinner and it astounded her that she was able to swallow anything while her stomach still churned and taunted her.

Climbing into a new bed in a new room simply caused Christine to compare it with her old one. And sleep did not take her until far into the night, until her mind had detached itself from the stress of all that today had brought, and only then was she free to dream...

A single tear runs down my painted cheeks and my feline-like eyes stare back at me in a gold rimmed mirror. Rose petals are strewn across the dressing room I sit in. It is my dressing room. Bouquets of flowers, varying in size and colour, each giving off a new and intriguing scent, are also placed around the room.

I see success reflected behind me. I see sadness reflected in my eyes.

I stand up. My gown spills around my form and trails along the ground behind me. It matches the rest of the room with blazing decadence.

I look up to see shadows dancing around me, pale ghosts twirling through objects, flying through walls, whispering to one another and laughing. The laughter stops when they all turn to look at me, their immaterial faces flickering and fading with each breath. A whisper or two is again shared between them before I become uneasy. I begin to back away until my back hits the door. Fumbling around for the doorknob, I see them advancing on me and only when I firmly slam the door behind me do I feel safe again. I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the frame. My palms rest on the wood. Though they are ghosts, I somehow know that I could have been hurt by them. But I am safe. I am safe now and something is protecting me from harm.

And then I hear it—a voice, a glorious voice.

I open my eyes to see a thick layer of mist gathering at my feet, gradually spreading down a corridor. A path. I suddenly feel cold but the voice is calling to me, coaxing me with its rich tones and redolent phrases.

I am then being pulled forward by the mist. The call is undeniable. Irresistible. I have to follow it. I should feel nervous, but I do not, not when the shroud of mist carries such a beautiful voice in its wake.

I am possessed, both body and soul.

I seem to glide through the dark hallways, like one of the shadows, just another ghost among ghosts. The men and women around me are mere blurs to the eye—they move so quickly compared to me. I hardly notice the large crowd of men with expensive cigars, the smoke from which wafts my way. I barely notice my co-stars rushing to their positions. I do not notice my beautiful gown, slowly peeling away to reveal a modest black dress beneath it, the small flakes floating away behind me like leaves upon the breeze.

A curtain soon appears in front of me and I know it is time. Time for what? The mist envelopes me and whispers in my ear. It is calming.

Another voice announces my name and commands that I step forward. I obey and when I step forward, the mist follows me. My feet come into contact with a hard surface. A stage? A platform. My eyes search the space beyond and see the faces of many people, blurred, yet expectant. I steady myself as I begin to hear music—sombre strings, crying a tale of woe. I swallow and prepare myself for my opening note... and nothing comes out. My hand flies to my throat, beguiled as to why my voice has failed me. I panic when all but a squeak escapes my mouth. The orchestra continues without realising my fault.

Fear strikes me and I begin to tremble as the mist pushes me forward and forward and forward. I struggle, but I am no match for its strength. My shouts are silenced and I suddenly realise that I am helpless. I am voiceless. But why?

My hand rubs my throat as a strange pain starts to grow inside. I try to speak, but I cannot. Why? I can barely see the audience now. The light is so bright and the mist, now more like a fog, has risen and spread down into the auditorium.

The pain intensifies in my throat, so much so that I am gasping for the relief which never comes. My hand is then roughly yanked downwards and away from my neck. It disappears beneath the fog and, for a moment, my breath catches.

I cannot see anything. I cannot hear anything. I am terrified.

And then I feel it—the restricting feeling surrounding my hands, and I realise that I cannot separate them. I raise them and I want to scream when I see that they are bound tightly with thick rope.

The pain in my throat suddenly disappears, but is replaced by something just as uncomfortably constricting.

A noose is around my neck.

I move my head and I am able to feel the rope rubbing against my skin. Once more I try to scream, my cries of help silenced by the tightening of the rope.

My body rises above the stage slightly and I am left suspended with only a stool beneath my feet. It is the only thing now stopping the noose from claiming me.

As my feet struggle to find stability on the small stool, the fog below me begins to clear. Slowly, my eyes adjust and I am able to see that the auditorium is empty. Empty, that is, save from one thing.

A looming figure, cloaked in black, stands at the front of the stage. I can see its piercing eyes glaring at me and the sight alone nearly makes my heart stop.

This is surely death coming for me, but a flash of white contradicts my assumption. My eyes widen and a relieved smile breaks out on my trembling face.

Erik!

I attempt to shout, to call out to him, but there is no hope. The noose is too tight. In my frustration, I wriggle, but my movements only make me lose my precarious balance on the stool.

I very nearly topple over.

I blink, and Erik is gone.

Frantically, my eyes shift from side to side until I finally spot him again. He now stands on the stage with me, but he is far away. Why is he so far away? My heart pounds.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I try to mouth cries of help in his direction, but it is no use. The rope only tightens its hold around my neck and Erik only stands there and watches.

Thump. Thump.

Erik is not doing anything to help me. Why does he not do anything? Why does he just stand there? And then...

Thump. Thump.

...And then he begins to move. Slowly at first, with precise and deliberate movements until he is standing right beside me. He stares at me before whispering, "Why?"

Thump. Thump.

I continue to struggle and watch him reach forward towards the stool leg. I fear he will remove it, but suddenly I am no longer on the stool.

Thump.

Erik is now in my position, his neck held tightly by the rope, and I am the one standing next to him. "Why?" he asks again, and it is all he says. Over and over and over again. It is all I hear when I begin to bend down.

Thump.

It is all I hear as my fingers wrap around a stool leg.

Thump.

It is the last thing I hear before I—

A chilling scream pierced the night air and perspiration dripped down her face and neck as her chest heaved at the memory of the nightmare. Shock had propelled her body upright and Christine sat there limply, her weak arms trying their best to hold her weight up as she stared into the blackness in front of her, strands of loose hair sticking to her face.

Opening her mouth, Christine allowed the cool night air to enter her lungs. She raised a hand to her throat, rubbing it gently and wincing at vivid flashes of the memory of the noose. Betrayal had surged through that dream and she slowly laid back down, succumbing to her troubling thoughts. Very soon, she began to tremble, her fingers unable to keep still, laying upturned on her pillow, grasping for something that was not there. She pried open her strained eyes and glanced towards the moonlight shining in through a tiny gap in her curtains.

No one came to her that night. Mamma Valérius had surely not heard her in her state, her staff had all retired to their own homes besides the night nurse who most likely had drifted off into heavy slumber, and Erik... Not even Erik came to her.

The only comfort she received that night was from the knowledge that her heart was still beating.

It was the first time in many months that Christine felt completely alone and she hoped desperately that tomorrow would be brighter.