A/N: Oh, I couldn't bear to go on a hiatus because I love reading you guys' comments so much, but I've not been completely happy with my writings these past few weeks ): Please forgive me if the story has started to become a little boring and dry!

Savannah White: Yes, Christine is here! Aww, maybe you'll like her, just a little?

Wild Concerto: Mwahahahha. I expect much drama to come -evil grin-

Masked Man 2: I feel like Madame Giry feels a strange sense of responsibility toward Erik, and I've always, always loved the idea of Madame Giry and Erik being really good friends, so I had to make them that way in my story (: And thank you so much, it was my intention to make Amelie's thoughts wild and unstable, sort of like in a television drama when they're able to show quick flashbacks when a character is thinking and realizing something, I'm not sure if you know what I mean. I can't do that in a story, but I tried to play around with the words and how the sentences flowed. I'm really happy you thought so!

I'm extremely busy this week, so lets move on with the story! Enjoy (:

Chapter 19: Christine

Paris, 1894

"Amélie! There you are!"

"Oh, Monsieur Reyer, good day," Amélie replied distractedly from where she was on her knees in the theater, searching under chairs. "I'm a little busy right now, I apologize…"

She jerked back in shock when Monsieur Reyer waved a very familiar looking scroll before her face, hitting her head on a chair and letting out a loud squawk of pain. Reyer clucked his tongue at her disapprovingly and shook his head, stepping back to allow her space to crawl out from under the chair. Amélie stood up gingerly, wincing as pain shot through her knees. She brushed off the dust on her skirts and smiled sheepishly at the conductor.

"I believe you must be looking for this?" Reyer held out the scroll. "Wherever did you get this from, Amélie?"

Amélie stared at him, grasping at straws for an answer—she could not possibly say that the Opera Ghost had gifted it to her, the mere thought of saying that was ridiculous. Besides, Erik's cover would be blown. "Ah… a friend of mine…" She paused. "He sent it to me as a gift for my birthday."

"And who is this friend of yours?" Monsieur Reyer raised his bushy eyebrows. When Amélie stared at him again, he clarified himself hastily. "I do not wish to pry, Amélie, I simply wish to meet this friend of yours. This score I hold in my hands is a piece of superb work! The melody is haunting and sweet, and the emotions in the piece itself… I was stunned to have picked this up in the opera house!"

Amélie could not stop a slow grin from spreading across a face. "Oh, he is talented, isn't he, monsieur?" She said proudly. "But why ever would you wish to meet him?"

"Talented? Talented? The man is a genius!" Monsieur Reyer waved his arms up and down exuberantly, as if to prove his point. "If he can produce much more work of this quality, he is pure genius, and nothing less."

Amélie thought of the stacks and piles of paper in Erik's house, marring his otherwise perfectly neat lair, all filled with scribbles of pianissimo or forte or adagio, covered in his spindly handwriting, of minims and crochets and various other notes, etched lovingly in black ink, and she smiled a little. "Oh, I do believe all his work is of the best quality." She murmured to herself.

Not hearing her, Monsieur Reyer continued excitedly. "My brother owns a publishing house. He publishes manuscripts, music scores from many different composers, and I know he would be interested in seeing more of this work! I can guarantee it! If you'll allow me to bring more of your friend's work to my brother's company, I am quite, quite, sure that your friend will be able to sign a publishing contract!" He frowned, adding as an afterthought, "unless he already has a contract with another publishing house, of course."

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Though I'm sure we can always persuade him over with a larger monetary incentive…"

It came as a little of a surprise to Amélie that the normally calm and composed conductor seemed to be actually excited over a piece of music that Erik had written. This was Monsieur Reyer, the man who could look Carlotta in the face and criticize her bluntly, for goodness's sake! And yet here he was, blabbering on about monetary incentives and Erik's music and publishing houses. Amélie felt a little bubble of anticipation within her.

"Monsieur, are you saying that if I bring more of his work to you, he could very well sign a contract to publish his music?" She asked slowly.

"Now, now… I'm not making any promises." Monsieur Reyer tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I did enjoy playing this piece out on the piano; it is a most delightful song indeed, but I will have to make my decisions after seeing more work of his, of course."

XXXXX

Antoinette sat in the parlour of her rooms, eyeing the shaking girl before her, with tear-stained cheeks and hunched shoulders.

"Do stop crying, child." Antoinette chided as gently as she could, for the girl looked as though she would never stop crying from sadness. "Come now, will you not tell me what has happened? Where is your father?"

At that, the girl sobbed even louder, rubbing at her eyes vigorously with a handkerchief. And yet, even in her bedraggled, sobbing state, one could not deny her beauty, Antoinette mused. Even with blotchy cheeks and red eyes, she looked innocent and girlish, a pretty picture to behold. Antoinette tried to hold in her impatience; there were practices to oversee and dances to choreograph, and sitting down before a crying girl was not helping her to achieve either of those things.

"Oh, madame." The girl stopped crying long enough to gasp. "Papa is dead; dear, beloved papa has left me all alone in this world."

The news did not shock Antoinette as much as it should have. Before he had left the Palais Garnier, Gustave Daae had promised to write occasionally—he had been a good friend of Everard's. The letters had been few, but contained enough information for Antoinette to glean that Gustave had met and married a young Swedish woman, and had a fine young daughter who he described as having 'the face and voice of an angel'. There had been no doubt about the fact that Gustave loved his daughter dearly. However, toward the end, the handwriting in the letters had become increasingly shaky, as though the writer had had to put in tremendous effort to simply write a few sentences, and had detailed the information about Gustave's sickness and impending departure from the living world. Gustave had promised Antoinette in his last letter a couple of months ago that he had a little longer than a year to live, and had beseeched her to take his Christine in when he was gone.

She is my one and only daughter, Antoinette, my only precious daughter, my little songbird. Her voice could rival that of an angel's; I swear it is beyond anything you have ever heard before. It is my one and only wish that she stand on the stage of the Palais Garnier, as I once did with my violin, and sing for the world to hear. Let the world know of the one and only Christine Daae and her voice of an angel. Please, Antoinette, please, I beg you, if I am gone, help my little songbird take flight. Someday she will stand on the stage of Paris' finest opera house, with all the audience at her feet clamouring to hear her voice.

Antoinette had not expected that little time he had left to live to be so short, but there was nothing she could do now that the girl had shown up on the doorstep, all alone in the world. Through an interrogation that bristled at Antoinette's nerves and threatened to break the boundaries of her patience, she managed to find out that Christine Daae had travelled here with the companionship of a neighbour who had been so good to follow her on the long journey here. She was now all alone in this world.

"Madame Giry, papa promised me that one day I would stand on the stage of the opera house, to sing for the world to hear. Will it happen, Madame?" The girl asked through her tears. "I do so love to sing."

Antoinette sighed grimly. There was no space in the opera house for more than one lead singer, and it was obvious that Carlotta had no intentions of leaving her career any time soon; the rotund, flame-haired singer still commandeered crowds of audiences for each and every of her performances, perhaps infatuated fans of a glorious past long gone, since her voice could no longer compare to what it had been many years ago. No, there was no place for Christine Daae on the stage of the Palais Garnier, so long as Carlotta was still around.

"We'll see, child. For now, shall we place you in the ballet corps as a new ballerina? You may be a little too old to start ballet training, but there is space for a new ballerina, and in time you may even be able to sing." With that, Antoinette ushered the girl out of the room, knowing in her heart that the chances of the girl ever making it to the stage within the next few years were slim, if none at all.

When they reached the dormitories, Antoinette tapped on one of the doors and opened it to reveal a room full of little ballet rats, eyes turned toward the open door expectantly, curious looks on their round faces. Antoinette pushed Christine forward gently. The girl stumbled forward, her head down, curls falling forward to hide her shy face from view. Murmurs instantly filled the room, the sound of curious little girls whispering about the newcomer, about her pretty curls, her shy smile. Antoinette clapped her hands sharply.

"Girls, girls, please calm down and cease your chattering! Why, one would think that we were at the marketplace." She gestured to Christine. "This is Christine, and she will be joining the ballet de corps from now on, and I trust that you girls will welcome her happily. Yes?" She granted them with one of her piercing stares, which guaranteed that every ballet rat in the room would nod frantically to agree with her order, if only to escape from that stare.

One ballet rat rushed forward to pull Christine toward them eagerly. "Oh, welcome, welcome! I'm Régine! What is your name, and where are you from, and oh, will you be here with us for a long time? You have such pretty curls!" She said all this in one long breath without a single pause, and Christine looked up, a little startled at the girl's exuberance. She offered a small smile, and curtsied as best as she could.

"My name is Christine Daae, and I am Swedish." She said softly. Encouraged by her response, the other ballet rats swarmed forward, eager to learn more about the new girl, tugging at her curls excitedly and chattering loudly.

Antoinette, assured that Christine would be in good hands, sighed and left the room, wondering what she would do about little Christine Daae and Gustave's dreams for her.

Back in the room, Christine was being guided to one of the empty beds in the dorms, eager voices clamouring to hear more about her. She tucked her feet under her skirts prettily, and smiled shyly at them.

"My papa used to say that one day I would sing on the stage of the greatest opera house in Paris." She dimpled prettily at the remembrance of her dear papa. "I do so love to sing! He promised me that one day large crowds would flock to the opera house to hear me sing."

"Oh, you will, you will!" One ballet rat said enthusiastically.

"How will she do that?" Francine, another ballet rat, wrinkled her nose. "There's always Carlotta around, and she sounds terrible. I'm not sure we need another of her in this opera house…"

Her comment was rewarded by a loud whack on the arm from another ballet rat. "Of course not! But Christine will be better than Carlotta, and oh, I can just imagine it! Gowned in white, with lovely silk flowers woven through your hair… singing… oh Christine! What a lovely dream!"

Christine smiled, perhaps the widest she had smiled ever since her dear papa had died. "It was what papa had always wished for."

She fiddled with a piece of stray thread on her skirt. "For me, I would be happy to just sing what I wanted to, and whenever I wanted to. But it would make dear papa in heaven so very happy to see me on stage, and that is my dream."

Her voice was soft and lilting and her expression dreamy, and for a few moments, Christine Daae forgot about her sadness and focused only on her future in the opera house—she had dreams, of flashing lights, of applause, of flowers, but most of all, she had a dream that one day, she would be able to stand on a stage, her stage, to sing for all to hear, to sing to her heart's content, to do what she had always, and would always love to do.

Sing.

A/N: As usual, please read/review/favourite/follow/let me know what you think! More to come next week, hopefully. xx hazel