When Christine awoke the next morning, it was to a dark cloud rising through the sky, much like her mood. She dragged herself out of dead barely before Madame Giry stormed in with cane in tow.

"Where have you been?" she demanded in a strident tone that thundered almost as much as Erik's had. Christine winced.

"Never mind that," Madame Giry waved her hand in dismissal before Christine could even answer. "The directors have been waiting for you, I suggest you don't keep them waiting any longer. Then she left with a swish of her dark dress. Well, that was helpful. Christine thought, disgruntled.

She hurried to dress herself, expelling her breath in a whoosh of air as the laces for her corset were laced unbearably tight. She grumbled under her breath as she pulled on her dress.

"Sorry Miss, did you say something?" Asked a round, fey-like maid.

Christine glared, "No." Loss of sleep was not good for one's mood. Neither was a guilty conscience.

Christine stalked across the stage, her footsteps unnaturally heavy. For the first time since hiring her, people took a step back, because, to their apparent horror, she wore an expression quite similar to the one Carlotta would wear right before a fit. Christine paid them no heed and started her warm ups.

"Mmmee me me memo me!" She started low, progressively getting higher.

"ah aha aha AH, ha ha ha ah ha ha AH, Ah AH ah, ha ha, aaaahhhhhh aaaaaghhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHH-" suddenly she choked. Christine gasped for air, clutching at her throat as it slowly closed off. She fell forward, her hands breaking her fall.

"Christine!"

"Christine!"

"Chrissy!"

The last impassioned, worried call came from Meg as she launched herself from between two side dancers. Meg kneeled down next to her.

"What's wrong?"

Christine shook her head in confusion. "I'm not sure, I-"

Christine gasped as her throat convulsed. "I can't," she croaked.

She looked at Meg with wide eyes, horror in her face.

"I can't sing."