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 5

She had been dreading this moment for two and a half months now: her first class.

The idea of it had been nerve-wracking enough when she had had a voice. Now, all she wanted to do was run: run to the ends of the earth and never look back; run home and straight into the loving embrace she knew would be . . . no! Now was not the time for such thoughts, it would only make matters worse – if that was possible.

She had spent two weeks settling into the house and getting to know the area. She couldn't call it her house, because there was nothing other than the fact that she lived there to justify such a claim. And she knew all too well that simply residing in a place did not qualify for true ownership, did not make it a person's home. Occasionally she had seen people in passing whilst going about her errands. Some would smile; she never quite knew what to do with these characters – that knowledge was lost to her. Others would look at her with curiosity: these she resented, no matter how innocent the glances were. Most ignored her, which she was grateful for.

What intrigued her, however, was that she hardly ever heard people going past the house, whether on foot or in cars or whatever, which was strange seeing as the house was on the way into the main section of the campus and should have therefore been passed often. Yet it was avoided by the plague.

She thought of asking Madame about it, but decided that she enjoyed the privacy too much to jinx it.

And so, two weeks had passed. The house had her mark on it without losing anything of its previous character (anything good, that is – the dust was long gone). She had gotten herself well acquainted with the area and no longer worried about getting lost. She knew the tiny forest the house was situated in and had spent many an hour out there, enjoying the tranquil nothingness that it brought to her mind.

And now she had her first class today: advanced vocal performance.

The class was held in the second theatre. The Ravelle Institute boasted two theatres, both of which were excellent for performing in, boasting first-rate acoustics and design. They were ideal for working in, both as a performer and behind the scenes. The smaller of the two was used for classes, rehearsals and smaller scale performances - say for audiences consisting of other classes - and could seat two hundred quite comfortably. The larger theatre could, and did, put many opera houses to shame, with its beautiful, intricate decoration depicting the muses, red velvet curtains and seats, ornate sculptures of angels, the boxes, and of course the massive chandelier that was really the only light necessary in the place.

Christine had seen it on her tour when she had auditioned for a place. To say that she had been blown away was an understatement. She had grown up hearing stories of the theatre where her mother sang, of the various opera houses and concert halls where her father had sometimes played. They were nothing compared to the Ravelle.

Thank goodness her class wasn't in there, otherwise she probably wouldn't have even thought about showing up. But here she was, sat in the shadows of the stage whilst everyone milled about. It was only thoughts of what her father wanted that kept her in her seat and not rushing to the bathroom to empty her stomach – well, and the fact that doing so would only torture her throat more.

She observed everyone as they chatted. They were all new, but already she could see cliques had been formed. Probably they lived in the same dorm blocks, or the same towns back home; or if they were really lucky, had known each other at school.

One girl, she noticed, drew a lot of attention. A small group had gathered around and was looking at her as though she were a star already. She made a show of pretending to be flattered, but you would have had to have been blind not to notice that she was soaking up and thriving on every moment of it. Whilst she had been raised not to judge anyone without knowing them, Christine felt her parents would forgive her for labelling this girl as the resident Prima Donna. They probably would have agreed.

Before her thoughts had the chance to turn mournful once again, the doors slammed open and in swept Professor Gardiner, the school's voice teacher – and reportedly one of the best in the country.

"Fondest greetings to you all! I trust I am addressing Vocal Performance, Level 3 and that no one has managed to lose themselves on their way to instrumental or dance classes? Good, good.

"I am Professor. Gardiner as I am sure you are all aware, as it was my seal of approval you had to earn in order to enter these hallowed chambers that make up our prestigious institution.

"However, that is done with, and you now have me at a disadvantage. Enjoy it, it will only happen once, of that I can assure you. Said disadvantage being that whilst you all obviously know who I am, I am afraid I cannot reciprocate fully, seeing as there were many applicants, a fact which I am sure you can appreciate." All of this appeared to be said in one breath; because Christine was quite sure she didn't hear him really stop at any point. He did pause however and began to move into the centre of the currently empty orchestra pit and continued:

"So, tedious as you will no doubt find it, we shall spend this, our first class getting to know one another. I shall be offering this opportunity within class time only once, so again I say: make the most of it. Gather round, form a circle – standing if you please. You will give your names - and thus ease my burden of having to take the register – and if you would also state where your musical abilities and preferences lie. By this, I of course mean bass, tenor, alto etc. and of course, opera, aria, jazz and so forth." He said this last category with a grimace.

Christine joined the circle with the others and tried to stand where she thought she wouldn't have to start. This ended up being directly opposite Professor Gardiner, and fortunately, her plan paid off.

Unfortunately, the first person to start was the Prima Donna. On Professor Gardiner's nod, she began.

"First of all, I am Carlotta Guidacelli." This received a few gasps, and several knowing looks of admiration. One boy who stood opposite her asked what was on the minds of most:

"Any relation to Luciana Guidacelli?"

"Yes, she's my mother." Gushed Carlotta clearly pleased with the recognition.

Luciana Guidacelli had been the actual Prima Donna in a number of opera houses in both Europe and even America. She was a soprano the critics couldn't seem to find fault with, in spite of the fact she often ended up screeching a few high notes. Amongst theatre circles, her attitude was infamous. She was often the headliner, and boy did she know it. With any luck her daughter would be have some idea as to the definition of modesty, but Christine doubted it.

"My preferences are for opera, naturally, although I am of course partial to a number of musicals. And I shall be singing soprano. I hope to follow in my mother's footsteps." Her last comment was followed by a small round of applause. Christine groaned inwardly – it's not as if she could otherwise, whether she had the nerve or not. She noticed Carlotta had said that she would be singing soprano, not that that was simply what she thought her range to be.

The introductions continued around the circle, though without interruption or applause. By the time the girl stood next to Christine was speaking, her palms were sweating like crazy. She was just hoped her forehead didn't decide to follow suit.

When her neighbour finished, all eyes turned to her expectantly.

She glanced quickly around the circle, then turned to the boy on her left and with her hand, gestured to him to take his turn.

He didn't take the hint. He just looked a bit confused. He looked at Professor. Gardiner in appeal.

"Come now, miss. Everyone gets their turn."

Christine just looked at him, silently pleading with her eyes. He didn't take the hint either.

"Really, it isn't difficult. The others managed, and you're holding up the class."

She looked about her, and then realised: her bag was on the other side of the pit, near the stage. Stupid, Christine, stupid! If she had a pen and paper, then maybe she could ask him-

"Do you have laryngitis?" The Professor's voice cut in with some annoyance. Christine looked at him dumbly a moment, then shook her head.

"A throat infection?" Now she just looked at him stonily: and shook her head.

"Then I fail to see why you can't participate. Now either take part or you can permanently remove yourself from this class."

Everyone was staring at her now; some with confusion, most in amusement. She could feel her cheeks burning – no! turning red.

She stood there a few moments more glaring at him. How could anyone be this cruel to a new student on the first day? He was mocking her and giving everyone else the chance to later!

She marched over to the blackboard that was tucked away to the left of the class and pulled it into view.

"Young lady, the lesson is in the circle, not on a board, and you have been given the choice to participate or leave, now do one or the other and leave that blackboard alone."

She looked around for some chalk and finding it, began to write.

"Miss, you are trying my patience! Now-" He saw what she was writing.

'Christine Day

Opera, Classical

Soprano, coloratura'

"Miss Day, when I asked you to participate, I'm sure you are aware that this is not quite what I had in mind. Now is there a problem with your hearing or your ability to understand, because I do not appreciate having my authority flouted."

She closed her eyes. She had spent the last fortnight promising herself she would not allow any tears to fall while she was there. But they were threatening to fall now. She had hoped to let her teachers know before her classes started, but she hadn't been able to find them, and Professor Gardiner had insisted on arriving on the dot.

"Miss Day, your conduct is most unprofessional and I will not tolerate it in my class! Either give me a VERY good explanation as to your behaviour or-"

He was cut off by Christine smacking the chalk against the board and then furiously scribbling:

'I AM MUTE'

"Miss Day, if this is your idea of a joke, then I assure that I do not find it funny." She continued to look at him. Two months of being mute had leant her a very expressive face, and the seriousness and sorrow written so clearly across her features silenced him further on that subject.

"Stay behind after class. Until then, resume your place."

Author's Note: I know I said I'd try not to ask too often. Over 200 hits! I am astonished that so many people have taken an interest. But could you please leave some feedback. Even if it's just a sentence. Remember: double update for every 10 reviews. Special thanks to CarolROI and Shayril for your reviews. It made my day. Thanks to everyone for reading. Nedjmet.