A/N: Well I'm back from camp, albeit down with a sore throat and a raging fever... Please do forgive me if I sound delirious while typing this!

Savannah White: Patience, patience! Buquet will be gone soon enough (;

Masked Man 2: Erik didn't kill him, he just knocked him out, but Buquet will be dead pretty soon haha. I'm so glad you liked the chapter, I did have a lot of fun writing it and describing Raoul's foppish outfit!

lydia: Yep she did! Hehe. Thank you!

Nikki1991: I'm glad you liked my portrayal of Meg! It does get a little tough trying to portray so many different characters accurately.

Guest: I have no idea, actually! I don't base my characters off anybody in particular, I just write them. I think that's the beauty in words- it leaves everything to your own imagination, with no particular boundaries or pre-determined images in your mind.

LacyRae: It hasn't happened yet! :'D I think I confused a few people haha, Buquet's not dead yet.

DreamaLirit: Thank you (:

kitkat: Aww, thank you! I love fluff too, and don't worry, I try to update every Monday!

Wild Concerto: Our dear Meg is a veritable Sherlock Holmes hahaha.

Thank you to Shopaholic-Pixxie, KristineDaae, kenpachi zaraki 96 & FishFingeresAndCustard for all the favs and follows! xx

I've been pretty displeased with my writing style recently... I hope it's still ok for you guys! Writer's block and a lack of time tend to mess with my writing ):

Chapter 40: The New Production

Paris, 1896

Christine stood in the practice room that she had always met her teacher in. She twisted her skirt in her hands nervously. It was time for her music lesson, and she had turned up, like always, though she had no idea if her Angel would be there.

"Angel, are you there?"

There was silence. Christine sighed. She had thought that he might be there; after all, he had never missed a single one of their lessons before. She wondered if perhaps he held a grudge against her. She would not blame him if he had. She sat on a chair and waited, but still there was silence.

Fear. Guilt. Unhappiness. Remorse. Christine felt all these feelings in a great turmoil of emotion, swirling within her and hammering upon her heart. She feared that her teacher had left her forever, and she would now be all alone, and perhaps, she also feared him a little. Yet she felt guilty for having reacted so drastically, and a deep remorse for that.

It had been a full twenty minutes of nerve-wracking emotional turmoil, and she was about to leave, when she finally heard him. His voice sounded heavy and tired. "I am here, Christine."

"Oh, Angel!" She dashed back to the centre of the room. "Angel, you are here!"

"I have never missed a single lesson yet, Christine. However, I am surprised that you are here."

She winced, remembering the cruel words she had thrown at him. "Angel, I… I am so terribly sorry. I did not mean… I was frightened…"

He laughed a rather humourless laugh. "Oh, Christine. You meant it. Whether or not it was said in fear, you meant what you said. In that moment, you saw me as a monster. But it does not matter, for you have apologized, and I have forgiven you. You have done much more than so many others ever did, for you said you were sorry."

Christine felt a lump of guilt, a leaden piece of metal, settle within her chest. She must not have been the first one to have called him names, and yet he had chosen to forgive her despite her naïveté. "Angel, it matters! I… I may have meant it at that moment, but I sincerely regret it. I said it in a moment of fear, and upon thinking it through… nothing I said about you was true. You have always been so good to me, and I… I threw it back into your face."

Silence.

Christine wondered if she should have just left the matter untouched, instead of poking at it like a stick prodding the wound of an injured animal. Perhaps her Angel would have been happier if she had just pretended that the incident had never happened.

"Christine, you do not have to call me your Angel any longer. You never had to; I had never deluded myself with the idea that I could possibly be an angel. Hearing you call me your Angel merely emphasizes my deception, and it almost shames me, to a certain extent." His words were bitter and angry and held a hint of remorse. "I sought only to take the place of your supposed Angel of Music that you had been waiting for, but I am not, and will never be an angel."

"No," Christine whispered. "You are my Angel. When I arrived here at the opera house, I was alone, even though I was surrounded by so many people. I ate and slept and danced mindlessly, because it was all I could do to make myself forget the sadness. I sang in secret because my heart felt choked up every time I sang and I cried afterward. And every night, I prayed that the Angel of Music would come to me, so that I would have something to live for. And you were the angel I prayed for. You taught me, and gave me the ability to realize my own dreams. You helped me put my sadness away and for the first time since my papa left me, I was happy when I sang. You gave me something to live for, Angel, and for that you will always be my Angel." Please believe me.

He sighed, a long and heavy sigh, one that implied that he did not believe her wholly but did not wish to discuss the topic any longer. "Very well, Christine. I believe you. Now, let us behave as though this never happened, and move on with our lessons."

She knew better than to argue with him, and so she kept her mouth shut. His attitude throughout the lesson was the same—brusque, demanding, and strict, and Christine found herself suddenly grateful that he was still the same, that he still treated her the exact same way.

When the lesson was over, she suddenly thought of something. "Angel, wait. If I already know who you are, can we not have lessons face to face, rather than through a wall?"

"It would be difficult for me to conceal myself should someone enter the room, Christine," he said gently. "Perhaps, someday, we may take lessons together yet."

"We will be able to do so if your plan works, will we not?"

"Yes, we will. The day will come, Christine." His voice was fading already. "I promise you that."

XXXXX

"May we have your attention, please? Quieten down, quieten down!" Firmin clapped his hands, attempting to gain the attention of the noisy employees gathered in the theatre. He rolled his eyes in frustration, prodding Andre in the side. Andre sent a beseeching glance toward Madame Giry, whose lips thinned in annoyance. She raised her cane and slammed it hard on the wood floor, creating a loud thud that reverberated through the room. The murmurs and chattering died down immediately; they had all been victims of Madame Giry's scoldings before, which were normally preceded by the sound of the cane thudding on the floor.

"Thank you, Madame Giry," Firmin said primly, before turning to the employees. "Now, it is my great pleasure to announce to you the new production of Il Muto. The previous production, Hannibal, ended with a brilliant success, albeit with a few minor setbacks," here he gave Christine the gimlet eye, before continuing, "and I hope that this new production will be equally as successful."

The murmurs began again as everyone started to talk about the new production. Il Mutowas a production that had not been performed in quite some time—a comedy about a mute pageboy who was the paramour of a countess with a old and ugly husband. The Rococo costumes were outrageously frivolous and overdone to add to the humour, and cast members wore large powdered wigs. Most of the ballet rats tittered happily, excited over the opportunity to wear the decadent, beribboned costumes of the supporting members in the production.

"Now, now, settle down." Firmin waved his hands about. "We will now announce the cast members and audition slots."

Andre pulled a scroll from his pocket and unfurled it, pulling it straight. "The role of Donna Bianca, the Countess, is to be played by our prima donna La Carlotta." He winked at the beaming prima donna, who giggled and blushed flirtatiously. Christine looked away in disgust; she had not expected better from the managers. Her teacher would most certainly be unhappy, though, and she wondered what he would do about that. "Don Attilo will be played by Piangi, and Serafimo by Mademoiselle Daae."

At once, snide whispers and surprised chatter filled the room. Some of the cast members were surprised to hear that Christine Daae, who had brought the production of Hannibal to fruition with a brilliant success, had been relegated to a mute role for Il Muto, never mind the fact that she had not even been given a supporting role. Others who had been secretly jealous of Christine's success made biting remarks of how it was appropriate action for a ballet rat who had thought herself better than the rest of them, who had thought herself capable of singing a leading role. Christine heard all the remarks whispered behind her back, and she closed her eyes. Think only of your future success, and not these gossipmongers.

"Auditions for the supporting roles of the Countess's main companions will be held the day after tomorrow, though of course it is merely a formality for you, La Sorelli," Firmin grinned at Sorelli, who sat in the middle of the gathered ballet rats, surrounded by her adoring posse. Christine rolled her eyes silently. Of course, such cronyism was rampant in the opera house –namely, Carlotta, the overbearing prima donna – but she had to admit that La Sorelli danced like a fairy and had a pleasant enough voice.

"The roles of the other two companions will be up for two other members of the ballet de corps. Auditions for the ballet performance in Act Three, the 'Dance of the Country Nymphs' will also be held. We wish you all the best in your auditions." Firmin rolled up the scroll again, indicating that they were dismissed.

As Carlotta swept past Christine, she sniffed pompously at her. "Well, it looks like you did not do such a brilliant job after all, if the managers decided to give me back the leading role. Stay in your unnoticed position in the ballet de corps, little girl. You belong there."

She sashayed off, leaving behind only the strong odour of her flowery perfume. Meg made a rude gesture behind her back, and Christine laughed despite her falling spirits.

"Oh, do ignore her, Meg."

"She is such a witch!" Meg scowled, waggling her fingers before her face to imitate a witch casting spells. "You sing so much better than she does, and she knows it. Everyone in this room knows it, though only half are willing to admit it. The other half of the people are just jealous, so you should not take their words to heart, Christine."

"I know, Meg, I know. But someday I will be prima donna."

Meg eyed her suspiciously. She had been tailing Christine around all day, never leaving her side, and Christine had to admit that it was a little strange that Meg seemed to be following her around like a shadow. "Is something wrong, Meg?"

"Oh, I was just wondering about this mysterious teacher of yours." Meg shrugged and moved away. "I sometimes wonder what his true identity is."

Her words left Christine cold, for there had been something strange about the contract between Meg's nonchalant words and her insistence on following Christine around. Has Meg found out?

XXXXX

"Those two fools think that they can go against my decisions," Erik said bitterly, downing his cup of tea. "I, who have made such decisions for Debienne ever since I arrived back in Paris! First, they choose a comedy, a mere trifling laugh for the audience, to be performed, and now they cast the most talented singer in this place as a mute. They will run this place to the ground! The idiots!"

Amélie sat back in her chair and allowed him to complain about the managers to her, exchanging a wry glance with Nadir, who sat across the table. When Erik set about on one of his long rants, it was best to simply let him get it over with. She sipped her tea leisurely, making the appropriate distressed noises when Erik spat his words angrily. She had heard the same complaints about the managers' inadequacies enough to remain unaffected by them, but Nadir looked rather amused at Erik's tirade. Amélie gathered that Erik had never been quite so vocal back in Persia.

When at last he had exhausted his complaints, Amélie put down her cup of tea. "What do you plan to do then, Erik?"

At once, a mischievous look stole over his face. "I plan to set Carlotta in her place once and for all. She will know that she should never ever challenge the Opera Ghost to a game. She will always lose. But no, Amélie, I will not tell you what I intend to do. It will be a surprise, a pleasant one indeed. Mark my words—Christine will sing in the opening production of Il Muto."

"Erik, I hope this plan of yours does not include hurting anyone." Nadir scowled. "You know that whenever you refuse to tell us your plans, you always give me the impression that it will be something I do not approve of."

Erik frowned at him. "Stop being so odious, you tiresome man. It will not harm anybody. You can come watch the show to settle your damned conscience; I daresay you will be quite entertained."

Nadir grinned, flashing pearly white teeth. "I believe I will do just that, Erik."

Erik snorted, before turning to Amélie eagerly. "And you? Are you auditioning for any role in particular?"

Amélie wrinkled her nose. "I do not think I will be trying out for the role of one of the Countess's companions; I sing far too terribly."

"You sing well enough," Erik said loyally, though his expression did not quite match his words. Once, while lounging on the divan, Amélie had attempted to sing one of Erik's music scores out loud, much to Erik's horror. She could still recall the aghast look on his face, the warring expressions of horror and amusement, as he had not wanted to hurt her feelings by criticizing her singing. Amélie laughed.

"Even I can tell that is a lie, Erik. I will be auditioning for a role in the ballet in Act Three. Practising for the new production will give me something to do besides sitting around worrying for you all day long."

He scowled at that. "I do not give you cause for worry."

Amélie raised her eyebrows at him and made a non-committal noise, picking up her teacup again. Erik sputtered in indignation, and Nadir had to laugh at the expression on his face.

"Do you intend to try for the lead role in the ballet, Amélie?" Nadir asked curiously. "I must admit that I never took notice of you in the ballet de corps before, as I was more interested in the singing parts."

"She's one of the best dancers in the ballet de corps, and naturally that position would go to her," muttered Erik. Amélie turned red at his compliment, but could not stop a smile from creeping across her face,

"He's simply biased," she told Nadir. "However, I will be auditioning for the lead role in the ballet. The choreography for the piece is simply divine, and I cannot wait to dance, to bring the piece to life."

Nadir stood, brushing crumbs off his clothes. "I will look forward to your performance as well, then. Now I shall make my move; I have imposed on you for too long, Erik."

"It's a pity your consideration does not extend to you not coming here at all, then," remarked Erik sardonically. Nadir laughed, and clapped Erik on the back, winking at Amélie before leaving.

Now alone in the house with Erik, Amélie was suddenly at a loss for words. His presence seemed too large for the place, crowding her, and making herself all too aware of the red flush creeping up her neck.

He noticed it; very few things escaped Erik's sharp eyes. His brow creased in worry as he leaned forward to place a hand on her forehead. "You look flushed, Amélie. Are you falling ill?"

She squeaked in shock and jerked back, pressing the back of her hand to her hot cheek. "I'm fine, Erik. Perhaps just a little tired."

"You give me enough cause for worry as it is," he grumbled, parroting her words. "Come now, I will walk you back to your room; you should rest more."

He held out a hand, and she took it, feeling his warm palm in hers. He did not wear his gloves that often around her any more, she realized in surprise. When had he stopped wearing those gloves? The scarred tissue on the back of his wrists stood out against his flesh, exposed and raw. He saw her looking at his wrists, and when she looked up at him, he held her gaze for a few moments. Amélie rubbed her thumb gently over the bumpy flesh in a soft caress.

His face broke out into a small smile, and he relaxed. Amélie tilted her head toward the exit, indicating that they should go, and together, they walked back to the surface of the opera house, through the numerous passageways, just like always.

A/N: As usual, please read/review/fav/follow/let me know what you think (: