Chapter 3: Guidance

It had been days since their spat, yet Christine couldn't think about anything else. She writhed around in the bedsheets; Her Angel of Music had killed again, and she knew that somehow it was her fault. I could have done something, she thought, I don't know what, exactly, but I could have stopped it. If I had stayed with him that night, if I had just agreed to marry him, then we wouldn't be here right now. Raoul would be happy with some other woman, and all those people wouldn't be dead.

These thoughts had become compulsive. Christine couldn't stop them, though she tried. Even so, she wasn't completely sure she wanted to. Thinking about the Phantom was something she had avoided doing ever since she got married. She had worked so hard to push him back into the farthest recess of her mind. But now it seemed this work had been in vain. The visit from the policemen had triggered a restlessness and anxiety that she hadn't felt since the passing of her father.

Raoul was at a loss. His wife hadn't left the house since she heard about the fire. All he could do was watch her stare into space during the day, and toss and turn at night. Well, watching her was all he could bring himself to do.

I'll never understand her, Raoul thought, no matter how hard I try.

He shifted his body so that he was facing her. She was lying on her back with her eyes fixated on the ceiling. He watched her breast rise and fall at a quickened pace. Her long hair was splayed out across the pillow, staying mostly in place. But Christine's expression looked so dreary, so miserable, that it hurt him to see. Raoul opened his mouth to speak, but shut it immediately.

What can I even say?


It was still dark out―so early that the birds hadn't started their song. Christine got out of bed slowly, hoping not to rouse the man asleep beside her. Of course he hasn't had any trouble sleeping, she thought.

She carefully made her way over to her vanity, and picked up her rosary. Christine lowered herself to the floor, rested on her knees, and whispered the prayers whilst gripping her beads tightly.

"Amen," she uttered.

She rose and turned to make sure Raoul was still asleep. Once she heard a quiet snore, she went to the wardrobe and grabbed her thickest cloak. Christine put it on over her nightgown, making sure she was mostly covered. She picked up her silk socks, sat down, and quickly put them on, followed by a pair of old, worn boots.

The oddly dressed Viscountess went downstairs and was, thankfully, greeted by no one. She rushed outside through the back door, and went directly to the stables. The door to the stables was closed, so she knocked―to which there was no response. She hit again, louder, and soon heard muffled footsteps coming near.

A boy in his mid teens opened the door, "Viscountess? Is there something the matter?"

"I need to go somewhere," She said.

"I'm just the stable boy, Viscountess, I'm not allowed to take anyone anywhere," He yawned, "I can wake the coachmen if you'd like?"

"But you do know how to drive the coach?"

"Yes, Viscountess, I do. But―"

"Please," Christine pleaded, "I'd much rather you take me. Please?"

The coachmen was a true professional. He would never dare take Christine somewhere unaccompanied. If she wanted her husband involved in this, she would've just woken him up in the first place.

"But you're in your nightgown and I don't think―"

"Well I'm the Lady of this house and I'm saying you can. Now, please, get the coach together. And please hurry. I really must be going."

The young man looked at a loss, furrowed brow and all. Then, in a snap decision, he turned to go prepare the coach.

Light was just beginning to dawn when the pair arrived at the frost-covered graveyard gates. Christine walked at a quick pace towards the entrance, taking the icy morning air into her lungs. The boy was seated at the front of the coach, waiting for some instruction from his Lady, but received none. So he remained, watching her disappear into the graves beyond.

Gustave Daae

His name was carved into the stone of the mausoleum; it was still unchanged by time, untouched. For the second time, Christine found herself on her knees, kneeling on the steps just below her father's capsule. She was not praying this time, though, she was speaking.

"I don't know what to do, papa. I don't know why he―I don't know how to stop it," she said through tears, "I wish you were here. You'd know what to do. God―"

Christine's tears turned into gasps and sobs. She let her whole body fall to the ground. I'm so stupid, she thought, such a fool. Papa can't help anyone. He's dead. He's gone.

And so was her other protector. In the past, she spoke to her father through the Angel of Music that he'd supposedly sent. The Angel that turned out to be worse than a demon in disguise; the Angel that was nothing but a man. What comfort did she expect to find at the grave of her father, now?

I shouldn't have come here, she thought, this was a mistake. This doesn't help me or anyone else. And now I've gone and made my husband worry about me. I'm so selfish. So stupid.

A large lump pulsed in her throat, and she struggled to breathe for a few moments, but she worked hard to pull herself together. She wiped her face with her hand and took deep, long breaths. She shivered as she stood up, then she saw it.

A slightly wilted red rose with a black ribbon rested on the stone floor, perfectly centered in front of the mausoleum entrance. It was calling card―or was it more of a warning? Christine didn't think it possible for her to fall deeper into numbness, but she'd been wrong. She stared at the malicious flower; the symbol that carried the power to make time stop in its tracks.

Christine was released of its hold eventually, and started turning her body in circles.

"What do you want?" She yelled, her eyes scanning her surroundings. She clumsily walked up the mausoleum steps and picked up the rose. She held it up, waving it as she repeated herself, "What do you want?"

She waited for her ghost to appear, to hear his voice, or feel his presence. But he was not there. Feeling now even more cold and foolish, Christine squeezed the bud of the rose, mutilating it, and threw it on the frozen earth. She then ran back towards the coach, her right hand stained red, and her dark cloak thrashing behind her. Little Lotte left far more disturbed than she had arrived.