A/N: I think that it's safe to say that you all should expect an update on this story about once a month (unless the chapter is either extremely short or I have a large amount of time/inspiration on my hands, but let's be realistic here). You'll never need to worry about me not completing this story - some scenes are MUCH too strong to remain unwritten - but it will be rather slow-going, so please bear with me (I feel like I say that a lot). I know I said that Erik is going to show up in the chapter after this, but since I don't really count the interlude(s) - or the prelude either, as a matter of fact - as a real chapter, Erik will be appearing in what ffn counts as chapter nine. But don't worry! Our dark knight WILL come!

Thanks to MJ MOD for helping me with my French OCD moment! And more thanks to jtbwriter and Emerald Cloud for being The Only Ones to review the previous chapter, and for being faithful, loving, and supporting reviewers since you both started reading this (I'm hoping that the group of such reviewers will grow larger, hint hint)! Thanks also to silvergenji for betaing this chapter and giving me support! And, while we're at it, I'd like to thank my mom, my siblings, my pet chinchilla (coughdoesn'texistsnort), and the state of California (hardly)...

I have a semi-important question for you all, but if you don't review and answer it, I will decide for myself, and some people may or may not be happy: should Erik be simply Monsieur Ribaldi, or Comte Ribaldi?

Chapter Six:

The Scarlet Scarf

-Christine-

"In those days, nothing was there but the sky, the sea, and the golden shore. And on this particular day there was a high wind that blew away Christine's scarf and dropped it into the sea. She reached out for it, with a cry…Then she heard a voice say, 'Don't worry, I'll go and get it for you.'

She saw a boy running as fast as he could...He plunged into the sea fully dressed and brought Christine's scarf back to her. He and the scarf were, of course, sopping wet…but Christine laughed heartily and kissed the boy."

-Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera

"Class! Class! Come to order!"

Hurriedly, I helped Meg to remove her coat from her thin shoulders. As I hung it on one of the few unused coat-pegs, she rushed to the edge of the crowd of students who had gathered in the aisle between wall and desks, unsure of where to sit. I removed my own forest-green wool coat, taking care to hang it so that it shielded my red scarf – which I had chosen to wear on this day of days, when first impressions were vital – from dust and possibly covetous eyes.

Pulling the sleeves of my gown into place, I joined my cousin just behind this group of students who looked either forlorn or frightened, or both. These seemed to be comprised of either young children who had never before set foot in a schoolroom before, and were most likely thinking longingly of their little beds at home; or teenaged boys who had been away for several years working the fields or the river, and did not know whether the worse disgrace was to sit with the children who were younger than them yet their equal in lessons, or to sit with their peers who were irretrievably ahead of them in book-learning.

The schoolteacher, one Mademoiselle Dupont, set us all to rights. Each of us was sent to our own proper place, and if Meg did cast a wistful glance in my direction as she was ushered to a first row seat, at least she did not openly protest.

My ears involuntarily perked up, so to speak, when I was told that I would be sitting at the edge of the fourth row next to a girl named Gisèle André. It seemed to me to be a certain omen of Fate, that on my first day attending the school of this new place – I still had yet to think of Rouen as my home – I should be sent to sit with a girl who bore the same Christian name as my mother.

I turned to look at her. She was a young, petite thing, with thin blonde curls and a sadly shabby grey gown that looked as if it had seen much at the hands of its owner – and possibly previous owners. But her warm brown eyes were hopeful as she smiled tentatively at me, so I gave a shy smile back as I sternly told myself to never so much as glance below her neck.

Perhaps her family simply lacks the substance needed to dress her as she would like. But that is neither here nor there; it is what is inside that always counts.

As I neared what was to be my seat, a certain something – or rather, someone – caught my eye and put an excruciating stop to these thoughts as my cheeks flushed in frustration, anxiety, and confusion.

In the row behind Gisèle André and two seats to her right, Raoul de Chagny sat behind his desk, his eyes – unsurprisingly – once again upon me. Though his mouth remained in a serene, straight line, his blue eyes danced and sparkled with mirth, as if to say:

"Well now, Mlle. Daaé – and are you as pleased to see me in a schoolroom as you are in a general goods store?"

I could not help it; I lifted my chin a fraction, and my slanting eyebrows met briefly. He raised both of his eyebrows – whether in mock or real astonishment, I could not tell – as if I had just hurled a completely unnecessary and unprecedented insult at him. I pursed my lips slightly in displeasure; then, as we were beginning to draw the attention of the better portion of the room, I gave him a curt nod of the head.

He gave it back exactly, but his mouth finally split into that grin that I was starting to be accustomed to seeing. I turned abruptly to the front of the room as I placed myself at my desk – a beautiful piece of cedar and wrought iron, but I would not notice until much later – hating the feeling of my blush creeping down my neck. Some women blushed beautifully, as if twin dusky roses bloomed delicately just below their skin, but I was not of this fortunate group. Mine was slow and painful as a burn, and darker than an inebriated Irishman's: a gift from my great-grandfather, as my aunt would wryly say.

The shame of these thoughts only made me blush harder.

It was with difficulty that I tried to concentrate on Mlle. Dupont's next words. They seemed to form the usual speech a teacher would give to returning pupils whom she had not seen since the spring, and to new ones that she had never seen before. I did try to focus, especially when she began to list the rules of her classroom, but I found my attention diverted once more when I heard the door suddenly burst open.

Though most of the children in the front kept their eyes dutifully forward, the rest of the students whispered and craned their necks to see who had dared to arrive tardy on the first day of term. After glancing at Mlle. Dupont – who had not skipped a beat of her lecture – to be sure that she was not looking my way, I too looked furtively back towards the entrance to see who had been so bold – or so defiant.

Of the young woman's beauty there could be but little doubt. She looked to be about my age in bodily form, but she carried herself with such confidence – I was almost inclined to call it arrogance – that she immediately reminded me of the higher-minded prima donnas I was used to seeing around l'Opèra Populaire. She certainly dressed like one; her clothes and hat were of exceedingly fine material, and her ermine muff looked as if it was very well taken care of. Her auburn hair was stylishly curled, and her dark eyes held a passionate fire, the glow of which seemed to be reflected further in the strong features of her face.

I immediately felt plain and insignificant, like a woodland finch held in comparison to a grand peacock.

As she began to saunter – there was no other word for it – past the rows of chairs and desks, Mlle. Dupont said sharply, "Tardiness, in any shape or form, will not be tolerated. Any student who chooses to be tardy to my class shall be thrashed five times in the presence of his or her fellow classmates."

There were a few ill-concealed male sniggers behind me. The young woman's face abruptly blanched, then flushed just as quickly.

"Oh, but Mlle. Dupont–" she began as she hastened to step forward.

"As it is the first day of term," our schoolteacher spoke effectively over her, "I will make one exception in your case, Carlotta Giudicelli."

She glared at the prima donna with a baleful eye.

"Do not make me regret doing so."

Carlotta hesitated but a moment, then made a faultless curtsy in response.

As Mlle. Dupont resumed her recitation of the rules, Carlotta Giudicelli came to the row where I was seated. Whether it was by purpose or accident I did not know, but as she began to enter the row, her hip collided rather painfully with my too-bony elbow, which jutted out just past the edge of my desk as I had been resting my arms there. I instantly withdrew my arm with a quiet hiss of pain, and then looked up at her. My expectation of an apology was so tangible that I could almost hear it.

What Carlotta did next both surprised and mortified me. She stared at me down her long nose – the nostrils of which could not have been more flared – then gave a disdainful scoff and bustled behind the chairs down to the empty seat at the other end of the row.

I blushed deeply, painfully again. I bit down hard on my lip to distract myself from the angry thoughts that crowded in my mind against her like a bloodthirsty mob. Breathing was difficult, and I worked to take slow, deep breaths to calm myself. However, after I thought I had gained some semblance of peace, I allowed myself a moment's indulgence to my anger.

I had not quite yet learned that to do so was too often a mistake.

"Is Carlotta always so pleasant?" I whispered out of the corner of my mouth to Gisèle as we were looking over our first lesson.

She gave a small whispered giggle, but there was something about the expression in her suddenly dark eyes – dark, perhaps against the shade of pale her face had become? – that reminded me too much of terror.

I forbore to make any more remarks on the subject.

Instead of rushing out the door like the rest of the students did when Mlle. Dupont announced a mid-morning recess, I briefly rested my head in my hands and waited for the crowd to subside. I had entertained a slight hope that my cousin would wait for me to come out with her – but Meg, being the social butterfly that she is, had already become fast friends with the girls who sat with her, and they were now as eager to get outside as prisoners who had been locked in their cells for decades.

I smiled slightly to myself. Her strong social inclinations could be counted on as an antidote to my own self-importance.

When the last echoes of the stampede had died away, I stood up, smiled politely at my teacher – who had been eyeing me somewhat curiously – and made my way to the coat hooks, most of which were now empty. I slipped on my coat, grabbed my scarf, and walked outside.

It was a brisk, cool day in mid-September. I smiled into the breeze that had begun to pick up, glad that this schoolhouse, considered to have been built upon the outskirts of town, was still far enough away from the real city to have its own open lawn where students could play and enjoy the fresh air.

As the weather was not quite as cold as it had been this morning, I was content to wrap my scarf once around the back of my neck and under my mass of curls – which had been more than usually disobedient this morning, and per their apparent wish had been left to cascade down my back – leaving my throat open to the inviting breeze.

I meandered across the ageing grass, watching the little children run races and the older boys play ball, with more than a few sidelong glances at the group of girls who stood to one side talking and laughing. I was in a quieter, introverted mood, so I was happy to watch in this way for a few minutes…until something in particular caught my eye.

The girl named Gisèle was standing against one of the outside walls for the schoolhouse, her head bowed and shoulders hunched as if she were bracing herself against a storm – which, in a way, she was, as I saw when I began moving closer. Even though she seemed to have the support of a glowering young man who stood next to her – his shirt and trousers as dirty and threadbare as Gisèle's too-short dress – the battle already looked to be half-lost.

And who was the attacker?

None other than Carlotta Giudicelli herself.

I began to walk more purposefully towards them.

"–your maman wouldn't tell you; she probably can't even remember when she made it," I could hear Carlotta say as I approached. It both surprised and annoyed me how unpleasant were the nasal tones of her voice, and her Italian accent seemed to only make it worse.

"L-l-leave off, C-c-c-carlotta!" the boy at Gisèle's side responded as she blushed and lowered her eyes to the ground.

Carlotta's head immediately whipped to face him, like a snake will when it smells easy prey. "Mind your tongue around me, boy! That should be easy for you, as you don't have much of one to begin with."

My palms tingled and trembled, and my breathing became shallow with fury. I was near enough to them now that I thought I could make myself heard. I was about to do so – and very audibly, as I had caught every word that Carlotta had thrown in the pair's faces – when a high, traitorous wind suddenly picked up.

And took my scarf with it.

"Wha–!" Carlotta tried to shriek as my scarf entangled itself around her head and across her eyes; I could only watch, mortified at what had happened. After a moment of confusion, she pulled it off of her, and none too gently – I clenched my jaw. She looked around wildly as she turned…then her snapping eyes fell upon mine.

I blanched. Though I had only been aware of Carlotta's existence for the space of a few hours, I invariably knew what would come next.

"Do you not know," she said in a quiet hissing tone that was more dangerous than if she had screamed, "that it is impolite to listen in on other people's private conversations?"

I wanted to say something brave and witty, something about how it was "impolite" to bully others – especially in private – but it was difficult to think clearly when all I could see was her large hand holding my mother's scarf in tight captivity.

It was a mistake. She followed my fixed gaze, and a strange glint came into her eyes.

"This is a very beautiful scarf," Carlotta continued in that same quiet tone. She cradled it the way a python cradles its helpless prey, and then began to stroke it softly.

The sight of her touching my mother's scarf so intimately strengthened me enough to find my voice at last.

"Please give it back to me."

I winced; my voice sounded high and weak in my ears.

What had been cause for embarrassment on my part seemed just as much a cause for amusement on Carlotta's. The corners of her full lips twitched upward, and I thought I saw the glint of teeth behind it.

"Oh, but Christine, it's so soft! Do let me hold it, just for a while? After all, it was you who interrupted my conversation with my friends, so you should allow me something in return."

The blood began to pound in my ears, and I clenched my fists against the sudden desire to throw them both in her face.

Unbidden, the image of my mother's face flashed before my eyes. She had always taught me to be as kind as I could to everyone I met, no matter how they treated me, and that everyone had both good and bad sides to them: no one could be completely bad. In such a situation as this, she would have been highly disappointed in me if I did not take her teachings and advice to heart. Thus, I decided to try a different tactic.

Even Carlotta must have a better nature to appeal to.

"Carlotta, please give it back. It was my mother's last gift to me!"

The grin grew wider. "Even better! Perhaps next time you will think twice about throwing your mother's scarf at someone!"

The moment her accusation had registered in my mind, I lost control over my increasingly straining temper.

"Bully!" I hissed loud enough for half of the students to hear. I began to stomp towards her, a red haze clouding my vision.

"I demand that you return it to me!"

Carlotta took a step backwards, all trace of sadistic amusement gone.

"I don't think so, mademoiselle," she whispered back, hurling the last word as if it were an insult. "I might have been more inclined to eventually return it to you, had you continued to behave kindly towards me. But I think you'll find that I don't respond very well to name-calling and orders."

I stared at her in trepidation, my anger momentarily kept at bay. A slightly sick feeling uncurled in my stomach as I wondered what she had meant. I inwardly cursed my temper for causing me to speak so soon and so hotly, and I watched…

Carlotta gave a small, dangerous smile, her hand lingering longest upon the one hanging thread which marked the place where my scarf could be most easily unraveled –

"Carlotta Giudicelli, you will return that scarf to its rightful owner!"

Carlotta and I both turned, shocked, to see who had interrupted our tense exchange.

Raoul de Chagny was walking towards us: taking large, powerful strides, lightning bolts striking out of his blazing blue eyes. Much as I desired aid in this increasingly frustrating and impossible situation, I felt myself blush – again! – in his presence, ashamed: both of myself and of him.

The anger completely disappeared from Carlotta's face and frame, although the tension did not.

"Of course, Raoul!" she cried in a nearly convincing show of good spirits and humour, her bold black eyelashes fluttering much more than they had a few seconds ago.

"In fact, I was just about to return it to Mlle. Daaé," she continued as she stepped towards me and began to wrap it awkwardly around my neck. I stared directly at her, hoping to call forth some symptom of remorse – or, at the very least, embarrassment – but none appeared.

"There," she said in a sad attempt to sound motherly as she finished – I impatiently uncovered the one ear and corresponding cheek that had been wrapped in as well. She turned to smile most alluringly up at the mayor's brother. He, however, looked at her steadily and unblinking: open disapproval showed in their sky-clear depths. She flushed – a member of the more fortunate group, I noticed – and walked quickly away.

I pulled off my scarf, folded it, and placed it into one of my coat's larger pockets, suddenly thinking that it was high time the poor thing be washed.

Raoul de Chagny turned to me after staring none too angrily at Carlotta's retreating back. An amicable smile curved his smooth lips, but his eyes still held remnants of their former indignation. I smiled hesitantly back, though I was still somewhat ashamed of having to be rescued by him.

"Merci, monsieur, for rescuing my scarf," I said demurely as I bowed my head. "My mother would thank you as well, I'm sure, if she could," I added in an undertone to myself.

He cocked his head slightly, but if he had indeed heard my last words, he said nothing to indicate so.

"You are a newcomer, so I would not expect you to understand the many different temperaments of Rouen's more…prominent citizens." With a somewhat derisive tone, he added as an explanation: "La Carlotta is one of those who – well, let us just say that she needs to be reminded of her own insignificance every now and then. As I am the mayor's younger brother –" his smile became more wry "– I am often the only person fit to do so."

In happier circumstances, the humor of such statements would not have been lost on me as it was in that moment. My temper still simmered under the surface, and my eyes and lips tightened marginally as I said, lowly, "She is a bully, then."

The expression on his face became more approving. "Yes, but few have been brave enough to call her such, and only one has escaped unscathed."

I smiled self-effacingly, not quite meeting his gaze. "So far."

He continued to smile down at me for a moment longer, then suddenly broke out in an exclamation. "Oh, but pardon me!"

I looked at him questioningly.

"I have been remiss in my manners," he continued; "my brother would have had my hide were he here now. Allow me to introduce myself."

He swept a grand bow, one that ill concealed the fact that his expressive eyes were once again dancing with mirth. "I am Raoul de Chagny, à votre service."

I quirked one eyebrow.

All right, if that is how he wants to do this. I too will pretend that I do not already know his name.

I curtsied and extended my hand for him to take.

"And I am Christine Daaé."

He raised my hand to his lips, his eyes lingering on mine in a way that pleased me, for all that it made me uncomfortable as well.

"Enchanté, Mademoiselle Daaé."

I smiled politely back, trying hard not to betray the fact that the back of my hand tingled lightly where his lips had brushed against it. He gave another smile as he straightened, and then said, "And now that we have been properly introduced, I would like to present to you the two people whom you so bravely rescued from the mouth of the dragon."

As I followed Raoul towards my two classmates who had remained against the wall – they had been paralyzed by the scene between Carlotta and me, too shocked to move or interfere – I sent him a disapproving look, tingling and shyness be forgotten. His mischievous grin, however, persisted.

"Mademoiselle Daaé, this is Gisèle André –" she and I curtsied to each other, "– and her younger brother, Michel André. Gisèle, Michel, you see before you your rescuer, Christine Daaé."

"B-b-bonjour," Michel said to me as we bowed to each other, his eyes daring me to poke fun at him. I was not sure whether his stutter originated from anxiety or some sort of speech impairment…but either way it did not matter. It was only his mind, his personality, his heart that mattered, and I was determined to take everything else as a matter of course. As Raoul had said, I was the newcomer, and thus could not be petty in my choice of society.

"You really were very brave to come to our aid," Gisèle said in a sweetly emphatic and yet honest way that went straight to my heart. "I saw you," she added quickly, "before the wind picked up and…well…"

I looked down, ashamed that I had not spoken more – at all! – in Gisèle's and Michel's defense. "I was not very brave once it came to speaking to her. I didn't say even a fraction of what I had planned to, were it not for – well, for my scarf."

"No," she granted in a thoughtful tone. "But you would have."

I looked back up at her, suddenly grateful for the faith she had mysteriously decided to place in me, when I had less of such for myself.

She laughed merrily at the expression on my face, then gathered my two hands in hers.

"I like you already! I sincerely hope we shall be the best of friends."

I smiled back at her, then let my gaze roam over her, Michel's, and Raoul's faces as I replied: "Yes; I do hope we shall all be the best of friends."

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