Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 3

She was wandering around the ground floor.

She looked so out of place at first, this creature of life surrounded by the dust of ages. She moved with a quiet grace like that of a dancer. But her step was heavier. As she walked past the doorway that finally brought her into view – her left side anyway – he could see the sadness written across her face.

No.

Sadness wasn't the right word. That would have been the case if she was simply upset about the state of the house. It was more. He recognised sorrow like that. He had felt it for most of his life. It weighed down on her, sapped the light from her features. Suddenly she didn't look so out of place after all.

And yet, she was still stunning. She had her blonde hair tied back into a long, wavy ponytail, and she was hiding behind a pair of glasses and dark, baggy clothes that almost disguised her slim frame; but she was stunning.

She didn't seem distressed by the condition of the house. She went back to Giry, who looked at her strangely as she mouthed something. Then she began to move her hand close to one of the walls. Oddly enough, a look of peace settled over her features, momentarily removing the shadows.

She was staying.

He wasn't entirely disappointed.

She could see the beauty that was hidden.

Maybe. . . no. That was foolish.

When Giry gave her the keys, she clutched them to her heart. She looked as though she'd been given the world.

She started moving in the next morning. He didn't realise until he saw Giry and her daughter arriving, at which point it became clear that she had already been hard at work for a good portion of the morning. And yet he had not heard her. True, his apartments were soundproof, but it was not like him to miss someone else being in his home.

This could prove to be interesting – as long as she remained in her place.

Giry's comments about the cellar did seem to confuse her, but she hadn't even looked in that direction so far.

She remained silent all morning. Even when lifting heavy boxes, she didn't make a sound. The only thing to happen was her breathing would grow more laboured. He had not been lying when he'd said his curiosity had been aroused about this girl. Giry's description of her voice had only furthered that. And yet she was silent! If he ever chose to 'retire' he had no doubt that this girl would prove to be an adequate replacement for the resident 'ghost'.

He wondered what she would think if she knew whose house she would be residing in. No doubt she would learn soon enough. And then perhaps questions? Or visitors? Or would she tell Giry that she would have to live elsewhere?

Time would tell.

Whether she would, remained to be seen.

She worked with Giry and her daughter for a few hours. They seemed to know where things ought to go and merely looked to her for a nod as confirmation. The rest of the time she would simply gesture.

Little Giry was talkative enough. It was a relief when she left.

When Giry left as well, she didn't say anything. The two merely exchanged a look. He was used to being patient, within reason. Having his curiosity peaked in such a fashion and left unsatisfied was not, in his opinion, reasonable. She had some questions to answer about her charge.

The meeting she attended was yet another unproductive introduction to the year. Outlining policies they already knew, debating measures that would not be decided upon for another term, and would be of no use to anyone who didn't aspire to work in an office – a fine state of affairs for Ravelle.

She knew he was there. She wasn't always aware of his presence, but when he wanted her to be, there was no mistaking it. She'd known him too long for that. She stayed behind a little longer to make sure her opinion was heard on various matters, and have a chat with Richards, the orchestra tutor. It would be hard to call the two friends: the strict no-nonsense ballet mistress and the highly-strung, overly precise conductor, and yet, no matter how grudgingly, their relationship could hardly be called anything else.

Once she'd left the block, he called out to her from the shadows.

"Your charge is a most . . . unusual girl."

She spun around to the direction the voice came from.

"Compared with whom?"

"Compared with any other voice student." Antoinette jumped as he spoke from behind her.

"Why must you insist on these childish tricks of yours?" She berated the shadow now towering over her. He had to give her credit. In spite of her petite frame, she still knew how to make a person quake in their boots. Pity he had rarely been counted as a person. It might have worked otherwise.

"You would deny me one of my more harmless diversions? Perhaps I ought to find another source of amusement." Antoinette simply glared at him, too tired and frustrated to decide whether he was making idle threats or not.

"You came here simply to call my daughter unusual?"

"I was under the impression that she was your ward, Madame."

She began the walk home once more, preferring to avoid being seen with her conversation partner.

"Her parents were great friends of mine. She and Meg grew up together. After her mother's death, she would turn to me on the rare occasions when she needed someone other than her father. Legally she is my ward. But she is like a daughter to me also."

"Very touching, Madame."

"Why did you call her unusual?"

"For a voice student, she is exceptionally . . . silent." He searched for the correct adjective, and once again was surprised at finding that the most accurate. She was not just quiet, which - he reluctantly admitted - he would have appreciated. She was silent. How many teenage girls could that be said of? Not Little Giry, that was for certain.

"In case you'd forgotten, that house has more dust in it than the school storerooms. She doesn't want to risk damaging her voice."

"You and I both know that a little dust would not do that."

"True. Just as we also know that we're not talking about a little dust."

"You and Little Giry did not seem to mind." Antoinette stopped and looked at him knowingly. She thought he'd been watching them, but knew better than to question him about it.

"We do not share the same concerns." Her tone of voice said that there would not be anymore forthcoming information on the subject.

"You said her mother is dead."

"Yes." Her voice quavered a little, which did not go unnoticed.

"What about her father?"

"He died two months ago. She has yet to recover." She whispered. To his credit, he said nothing in reply, allowing her to momentarily grieve once more for her lost friends and for her adopted daughter.

"Madame, I-" He stopped short at her look of horror. Then he heard it. It sounded like someone was halfway between choking and sobbing heavily.

"CHRISTINE!"

Giry dropped her cane and ran – no easy task for a woman with a limp. He froze a moment, once more shocked into stillness by this little woman. Then he snatched up her cane where it fell and followed. They reached the door together to find the girl curled up on the floor, hacking wretchedly.

Antoinette grabbed the bag that hung by the door, pulled out a paper sack and moved to Christine's side. Her hair fell over the right side of her face as it was styled to do. Antoinette shifted it slightly and placed the bag over her mouth. After a few moments, her breathing began to become more even and then less heavy.

She opened her eyes and feebly pushed the bag away. Then, to Antoinette's horror, she looked past her.

She looked straight at him and did the strangest thing.

She mouthed 'Angel'.