"He wants to marry her."

"No!"

Raoul rolled his eyes before taking a swig of cola.

"Yes. I'm not even kidding."

"You'd better be kidding."

"I'm not. Wish I was." He sighed, shaking his head and staring at the television blankly. "I don't get it. I just don't get it. Philippe's not an idiot-at least, I didn't think he was. He's usually the boring one. Mr. Sensible, right?"

"Maybe it's some sort of phase," I suggested, pulling the blanket more tightly around my shoulders. Raoul shook his head again.

"I don't think so. The guy doesn't shut up about her. It's always 'Alessia said this' or 'Alessia thinks that.' God, Christine, you have no idea how irritating it is. 'You should have heard what Alessia said about the managers. Alessia's hilarious! Alessia's so talented.'" He screwed up his face and started to coo in a mocking falsetto, though why, I hadn't a clue; Philippe had a smooth baritone. "Alessia's so sexy! Ooh! Alessia's hips don't lie! Alessia's a goddess!"

"Alessia's an airhead," I said frankly.

Raoul spread his hands incredulously.

"Exactly!"

"She thought Bulgaria was a body part."

Raoul groaned and ran his hands through his hair. "What should I do? I can't just sit by and let my brother marry that bimbo. I mean, it's obvious that the only reason he's with her is because of the s-"

"Have you talked to him about it?" I asked quickly.

"Why would I talk to him about the s-?"

"Not about that, about marrying her."

"Oh. Yeah, yeah, of course I have."

"He isn't budging?"

"No. I guess stubbornness is his new thing." He took another drink of cola, almost out of frustration, and clanked the bottle down loudly on the side table. "I just don't get it. I told him that he was being an idiot-that he was going to marry an idiot-but he pulled the whole, 'don't be jealous,' thing, you know, 'I'll still have time for my kid brother after I'm married.'"

"Philippe thinks you're jealous? Of him and Alessia Sorelli?" Raoul was the farthest thing in the world from the jealous type. He was brash, certainly; when we were growing up, I had to remind him incessantly to look both ways before we crossed the street. Otherwise, he'd just charge forward like he was some sort of war general. He was quick to jump into things, but mostly because he thought it would help someone in some way. Not because of jealousy. Never because of jealousy. The idea was actually laughable.

Raoul wasn't laughing, however. As much as he complained about his brother, it was no secret that the two were close. Their dispositions differed tremendously-Philippe was usually level-headed, a serious, studious man, a stickler for reason and moderation. Raoul had more energy than he knew what to do with. He was full of ideas and a vivacious sense of humor that was utterly beyond his brother. But their differences complemented each other somehow. Philippe was ten years older, and had always commanded Raoul's respect and admiration. I suppose it was admiration for Philippe's knack for careful deliberation, something Raoul lacked. The elder deChagny always made the right decisions. Brilliant decisions with brilliant results.

Except now. For the first time, Philippe was actually being foolish, incredibly so. And Raoul simply couldn't understand it.

"I don't know what he's thinking," he said. The concern in his tone was painfully evident. "I just don't. I can't…what should I do? He won't listen to me. I've talked till I was blue in the face, and the guy's just so thick-headed these days. He won't listen to me. I…hey!"

My stomach dropped. I'd heard that "hey!" before. I'd been hearing it for years. I knew what it meant. It meant Raoul had had an idea, and I thought I had a fairly good grasp of what that idea would be.

And sure enough…

"Why don't you talk to him?" Raoul suggested.

I groaned. "Oh, Raoul, I can't-"

"No, wait, just hear me out for a second." He turned towards me with an eager expression, every bit the ten-year-old proposing we blow up the tree house to see what would happen. "Philippe likes you-"

"Oh, please, he does not-"

"Sure he does, he just thinks you're weird-"

"Tell him I said thanks."

"Yeah. Anyway, he'll listen to you. You've got this-this thing, I guess, that just makes people listen to you, you know? You're just credible."

"Raoul, you just told me Philippe thinks I'm weird."

"That won't matter," he insisted. "He does like you, he really does, trust me. He'll listen to you. You've been around forever. He knows you know me better than…probably better than I know myself. So he'll listen to you. He's got to listen to someone."

The little lines of worry gathering between his brows looked utterly out of place on his usually cheerful face. My shoulders heaved in a sigh, sending the blanket that had been draped around them slipping down to the couch cushion. Before I could replace it, Raoul's tanned hand shot down and retrieved it for me. With touching gentleness, he draped it back over my shoulders, pulling it snug and holding it there over my chest for a moment, his hands poised over my chest.

"It's cold. Keep this on," he said softly, "You're still not a hundred percent better."

I swallowed.

"Thanks," I murmured, taking the blanket from him and praying he hadn't felt my heart's traitorous little flutter against his fists.

He smiled kindly.

"Sure…so?"

"So…?"

"Will you talk to Philippe? When you feel better, of course."

I rolled my eyes, the "no" poised on my tongue and ready to go. And then I looked at him. Brows furrowed above those clear blue eyes. The color of the sea he so adored. One side of his mouth was curved up in an uncertain, pleading grimace.

I snorted, shaking my head. His frown deepened.

"What?"

"You look like you're ten years old when you make that face," I laughed.

"What, this face?" He exaggerated it this time, an outrageously sappy puppy-eyes pout-complete with trembling lower lip. "Is it working? Am I persuasive?"

There was a brief pause. Raoul just stared at me like that, eyes comically widened, lower lip trembling, looking very much on the verge of laughter.

I groaned, tearing a hand down the side of my face.

"Alright, alright! I'll talk to your brother."

"Ah, thank you, Christine!" He dropped the hyperbolic pout, his expression now one of earnest gratitude. "Really. Thank you."

"But I can't promise you he'll listen to me," I warned him with a sigh. "Especially if he's besotted with Alessia. And I can very nearly guarantee you that she won't listen to me."

His brows furrowed again.

"Why? I thought you were both on friendly terms."

"It isn't that we're unfriendly," I explained. "It's just that we're…well she's stubborn, for one, dreadfully so. And she's…she's civil to a certain extent, but I'm not…"

I didn't know how to say it without telling him, and I knew he would be upset. Still, there was simply no way around it.

"I don't know her terribly well. I'm not performing with her, Raoul. I…she's a bit of an elitist, you see, and I'm not performing in the ballet with her or the…" I bit my lip. "…in the chorus, so she'll hardly want to hear my opinion."

"Wait," Raoul said slowly. "What do you mean you're not performing in the chorus? I thought you said you were going to audition. Didn't we talk about that before I left?"

"Yes." I grew slightly uncomfortable beneath his incredulous stare. "We talked about it, but I…."

"Never did it," Raoul finished, dully. "But your letters said you worked at the opera. You said you got the job. What the heck are you doing there if you're not singing?"

Oh, dear.

"There's a…there's a café they've recently opened. A restaurant."

"Aw, man, Christine!"

"It's a lovely restaurant," I insisted. "It really is! And the pay is helping me with tuition-"

"Christine, how do you expect to major in opera…things if you won't even audition for the chorus?" he asked, folding his arms.

"Well, I…Raoul, about that-"

"Don't tell me you're not majoring in music?"

"No, no, I am, just—not performance…anymore."

He looked pained. "Then what?"

"Music education," I said quickly before he had a chance to interrupt. "It's perfect for me, Raoul, it is. You know I've always talked about teaching children, and this way, I don't have to sacrifice music. I can still have music, but without…without the…" I gestured vaguely, hoping it would suffice in place of an elaboration.

He sighed heavily, raking a hand through his hair before letting it fall limply back into his lap.

"Christine." His tone wasn't reprimanding, simply gentle. Concerned. "Do you really think that's best? I mean, is that what you really want to do?"

"Yes," I said automatically, and perhaps a bit too defensively, for Raoul adopted somewhat of an apologetic stance.

"It's a noble pursuit, teaching, don't get me wrong," he said, "Really, it's great. But what…what about you? Your singing? I thought you loved singing."

"I did."

"Did?"

"I do," I corrected hurriedly. "I do, Raoul, it's just…"

"Just what?"

I felt so very foolish, so terribly weak. For goodness' sakes, I'd already ruined his homecoming with fainting and vomiting spells. Was I utterly incapable of showing any hint of strength? Any at all?

"It's just…hard," I finished quietly, silently pleading that he would let the subject drop.

Raoul's expression went from baffled to understanding. He knew. We'd known each other most of our lives. He knew.

"Your dad?"

"I know it's stupid," I said hurriedly. "I know it's stupid, I know it's been a long time and it's stupid, I know, I do, but I just…I can't, Raoul. Every time I try, I can't concentrate because…because it-it just-"

"Reminds you of him?"

I nodded wearily. Foolish.

But Raoul didn't seem to think so. He put one hand on my shoulder and squeezed lightly, kindness ingrained into every angle of his handsome face.

"It's not stupid," he said firmly. "You miss him. You've got every right to miss him. He was a good man. A great man. I…I miss him, too."

I smiled, looking at my hands. Dad and Raoul had just clicked. Both loved to laugh, often good-naturedly at the other's expense. One summer, Dad taught Raoul how to play an Edith Piaf song on the guitar. They'd worked on it painstakingly for several weeks because Raoul was adamant that he wanted to perform at one of the street fairs Dad frequented. The day of the fair came, Dad and I watched as Raoul walked to the stage, awkwardly extracted the guitar from its case-it was almost as big as he was-sat down, placed it on his lap, and promptly forgot every chord but one. So he'd played that chord, simply singing the song in one droning note and making up the lyrics whenever they escaped him. The crowd gave him a standing ovation, and my father laughed for an hour straight afterward, clapping Raoul on the back and quipping, "Maybe you need to teach me a thing or two!" Raoul had been elated.

He'd looked up to my father. His own was always distant. Loving, but distant, engrossed in navy life and business ventures and his rapidly growing wealth. Like his brother, Philippe, Raoul's father was schooled in formality, and his son had longed for a break in the endless parade of dinner parties and private lessons and cloistered privilege. And Gustave Daaé, weatherbeaten, scruffy, and sitting under a tree while he played the violin with his daughter, had taken Raoul under his wing and schooled him in fun-in pure, getting-your-jeans-dirty, laughing-until-it-hurt, eating-candy-for-dinner fun. My father always listened; he was genuinely interested in what we had to say, no matter how ludicrous it was. And Raoul still appreciated that. He was never listened to in his own home. Coddled, perhaps, by his doting mother. Distantly admired by his father and brother. But never listened to.

I wondered if, in a way, Dad had been the father figure Raoul had always wanted.

"You'll always miss him." Raoul said after a lengthy, contemplative silence. The warmth of his hand upon my own was comforting. "Of course you will. But Christine?"

I knew what was coming. "Mm?"

"Do you think he would have wanted you to stop singing? To stop doing what you love? I mean, he did what he loved."

"Playing the violin?"

"No. Playing the hippie."

Raoul's ten-year-old grin was back, and I snorted, squeezing his hand.
"He was not a hippie, Raoul."

"He so was a hippie. Wandering around the countryside, 'love nature, strum your guitar, kids,' and all that jazz. You had a hippie dad, Christine. Which I guess makes you a flower child, huh?"

Raoul fluttered his hands around his head and breathed, in the airiest voice imaginable, "Express yourself, flowerchild! Go where the muse takes you! Do what the muse tells you, man!"

"Right now, the muse is telling me to tell you to knock it off."

He smiled, heaving a sigh and shaking his head.

"Look, your dad just wanted you to be happy. I'm sure he still does. And Christine?"

I made a faint inquiring noise.

"You've got a great voice," he said eagerly . "You could make it big."

A blush crept up my cheeks.

"Thank you. But this does make me happy. Working with kids. I love it, I do. And it isn't as…hectic as a singing career would be."

"I don't know about that. If we were any indication, kids can be nuts."

"They do have their moments," I conceded.

"But as long as you're doing something you love, I guess." He grimaced. "I'd hate to see you in some dead-end job. So would your dad."

"It's not dead-end," I assured him earnestly, shifting in my seat. "It's wonderful. You know what the best part is?"

"Cleaning up spilled juice off the nice, new white carpet during my seventh birthday party?"

"Raoul, that was one time!" I chided, pursing my lips. "Your mother forgave me."

"After she finished sobbing, sure."

"At least I only spilled once—you spilled spaghetti sauce on something every time your poor mother turned around."

"Alright, alright." He rolled his eyes and reached for the soda can again, emptying the contents before crinkling it flat and tossing it deftly into the wastebasket. "What were you saying about the 'best part' before you started your vicious attack on my love of spaghetti?"

"The best part about teaching is seeing the looks on the kids' faces when they finally understand," I answered, feeling a sudden burst of energy. "When they just get it for the first time, you know? When they discover that they love an instrument or hit a note they've been striving for, or start asking questions about this composer or that because they truly love it and they can't get enough…I'm sorry, I'm rambling."

"No, no! No, I like seeing you excited about something, Christine. It's great. It really is…It's…" He tilted his head and stared at me for a moment. Unnerved by his unusual intensity, I squirmed under his gaze and laughed.

"What?"

For a second, he looked as if he was about to say something, but the moment quickly passed, his curious expression faded, and he only gave me a soft, close-lipped smile.

"Nothing. Nothing. You look so…I'm just glad you're okay."

"I'm fine," I said. Notes etched in red briefly flashed before my mind's eye, screaming contradiction, demanding vindication, but I squashed the image as swiftly as I could. My stomach lurched nervously. No. No. "I'm fine, I just want to hear about your tour, Raoul. We haven't even talked about it! A world tour! That must have been incredible."

We had called each other and written letters when he'd been traveling with the navy, but I was desperate to hear the story first hand because I knew Raoul's enthusiasm would make it all the better—and would vanquish that red ink from my thoughts.

"Oh, it was amazing, Christine," he said, looking nearly ready to jump up and dance, so obvious was his excitement. "I mean, obviously, I had to work, too, but I kind of didn't care, because at night, I could just go out on the deck and watch the water and the stars—I bet you've never seen so many stars, Christine, even when we used to go camping. It was unreal, I mean, just unreal. And the cold air on your face…there's nothing like it. I wish you could have been there. You would have loved it."

"It sounds wonderful," I agreed, swelling at the thought of a swath of endless sea and stars. "What about the Cape of Good Hope? You mentioned something about penguins? Did I read that right?"

His eyes lit up. "Yes! How random is that? Penguins and emus and—I remember once—did I tell you about the elephant?"

"No! There was an elephant?"

"A bunch of them! We had a day off, so we all decided to do the tourist thing and went to a wildlife preserve. We were driving down this road and these elephants just walked right in front of us! And they were totally cool; they're obviously used to people because they just kind of looked at the van like, 'whatever,' and went on their merry way. So after that, we drove a bit and there were lions on the side of the road. They're huge, Christine, just massive, paws the size of your head, it was awesome…"

We'd both unconsciously scooted closer to one another during his recounting of the trip, but there was nothing awkward about our close proximity. He draped one well-muscled arm over my shoulders and I'd snuggled in closer, leaning my head on his chest as he chattered on about South Africa. Occasionally, he paused to show me pictures of rogue zebras or exotic birds on his phone, and I could only smile, feeling the steady vibration of his familiar voice and his safe warmth and feeling utterly at home.