When Christine woke the next morning, she realized that Gustave had left early. There wasn't any note from him, but it wasn't unusual. He left early several mornings to run errands. Oftentimes he would be out all morning, but sometimes he would come back just as she was finishing breakfast.

After breakfasting, she attempted to tidy up the apartment somewhat. It required a regular upkeep, as dust and grime appeared to gather at bizarrely-fast rates. Their little apartment seemed to be splitting in half. There were large cracks in the walls and ceilings. The floor was scuffed and scratched, and the carpeted portions were worn down so much that it felt like hardwood as well. Everything in it was old, battered, and second-hand. She felt safe and yet somehow forlorn in this little dingy apartment. They were not friendly with any of their neighbors. Oftentimes Christine heard shouting and footsteps. One late night, she had heard a gunshot. Her Pappa had held her in her bed while she shook, and she had fallen asleep on his shoulder. It had happened a year ago, and she had never told Raoul about it. He would insist on moving them—and they could barely afford the apartment they had now.

Their neighborhood was not that respectable as well. Gustave did not like her walking home alone after dark. Sometimes it was unavoidable, but she hardly ever told him that. He was already so worried. It pained her to see him like that. She didn't want to see his brow furrow. He had permanent lines across his once-smooth forehead. In fact, his entire physical appearance seemed to have…deteriorated. He had been tall and very strong while they had lived in Europe. However, the years in America had thinned him. His clothes didn't fit him properly anymore, yet they were too poor to buy new clothing. His face was thinner, the shadows under his eyes more prominent, and his stride had less confidence. Christine hated it. She worried incessantly for him.

After cleaning the apartment and then scrubbing herself furiously in the shower to get rid of the lingering smell of cleaning chemicals and unpleasant apartment smells, Christine spent an unsuccessful afternoon job-hunting. She knew she shouldn't worry, as it would do nothing, but she did. She worried—about everything. She was fearful of what would happen—to her, to her Pappa, to her relationship with Raoul…She wasn't good enough. She knew it.

When she returned to the apartment to cook dinner for Gustave, she buried her face in her hands and took some deep breaths to refrain from crying, wondering why things had to be so difficult. Why wasn't her father the most celebrated violinist in the world? He was certainly talented enough. Why couldn't she get a job—or, better yet, go to school? And why did Raoul like her—her, an insignificant, poor little Swedish girl?

By the time Gustave returned from the performance, Christine had collected herself, and she presented a smiling face and a small dinner for him. Gustave, however, looked haggard, and he tiredly put away his violin and shrugged off his suit coat.

"What's wrong, Pappa?" she asked worriedly, putting a hand on his shoulder when he sat down at the table. He rubbed his eyes with his long musician's fingers.

"Nothing, Little Lotte. Don't worry so! Sit down and eat with me."

Although she still had the heaviness of anxiety settling in her stomach, she did as he said, and they talked quietly throughout dinner. Although he seemed pensive, Christine realized that she, too, was trying to hide her worry. They were both simply trying to make the best of their little lives, trying to hold on to each other. She knew that she was the only thing he was holding on to. After the death of his wife, he became so distraught that Christine was actually sent away to live with a distant relative for a year while he recovered from depression problems. He never drank or turned to substance abuse, but he was unable to cope for several long months. Christine remembered them as the darkest days of her life. Her relative was a mean old spinster who would not let her sing because it was "noise" and who insisted that Christine wear her hair in traditional braids and follow other old Swedish traditions.

However, when she was reunited with her father, Gustave had vowed to her that they would never be separated again. And they had not been.

After Christine cleaned up the meal, she went into her room and pulled out her fairytale book, holding it to her chest and going into the front room. Gustave had switched the radio on and was currently listening to something by Schubert. Christine leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and listened for a while. The music spoke to her—music had always spoken to her. It must have come from her parents. Gustave had told her that her mother was also a great musician. Music was in her blood, part of her very essence, and it had always been a dream of hers to sing onstage somewhere. However, the furthest she had gone was singing in the parks with her father.

"Would you like me to read to you, prinsessa?" he suddenly asked, startling her out of her music-induced haze. She opened her eyes and nodded, smiling slightly as he held out his hand for the book. It was a favorite tradition of hers, one that had been started since she could remember. As a small girl, she would trundle to him with her book in her arms, push it into his hands, and sit at his feet while he read. He showed her the pictures, and she remembered pointing childishly at the princes and princesses in glee.

Just as she always did, she handed him the book and sat at his feet, resting her cheek on his knee and watching while he opened the book.

"Which one tonight, Little Lotte?" he said, flipping through the pages.

"Maiden Swanwhite and Maiden Foxtail!" she replied instantly, having already picked out the story when she picked up the book. Gustave managed the chuckle good-heartedly, and he read in his deep, warm, rich voice. It soothed her and warmed her, and she closed her eyes as she listened.

When he finished, they sat in content silence for a while, listening to the radio play softly in the background. Christine sighed and settled her cheek more firmly onto Gustave's knee. As she thought of what was required for tomorrow, she groaned childishly.

"Tomorrow is Raoul's party," she said. "I don't want to go…"

Gustave laughed tiredly and pulled on her curls lightly. "You'll go, and you'll have too much fun. You don't know how glad it makes me to see that you've found a good man, Christine. He will make you very happy."

"Pappa!" she said, sitting up and hitting his leg playfully. "We're only dating! You make it sound like we're getting married!"

There was the old twinkle in his eye, and she adored it. "From the way that he looks at you, I would think that that is exactly what he has on his mind. He's—what's the expression? Heels over head?"

"Head over heels," she corrected, grinning a little in spite of herself.

"Right," he affirmed. "I'm just glad that I didn't have to chase away any trolls in disguise. You're like your moder—picked right the very first time." As he said that, a sadness overcame him, and the twinkle was lost. There was silence, and Christine looked at the floor awkwardly. She hardly ever knew how to react when he talked about her mother.

After a long moment, he sighed a little and rubbed his stubbly face. "I'm tired, Lotte. I think I'll go to bed now."

"Thanks for the story, Pappa," she murmured, watching him stand and walk away, leaving the book on the seat of the chair. She took it and held it to her. It was the first present he had given to her after she went back to him following his sickness. She treasured it.

After another minute on the floor, she rose as well, and she turned off all the lights and ensured the door was locked before heading to bed herself.

The next evening, she was critically looking at herself in the too-small, cracked mirror that was hanging crookedly in the tiny bathroom. Gustave was getting ready to head to the performance, and he kept laughing at her.

"You look beautiful, ängel," he said continually, but she would not listen, and she kept scurrying about the apartment, alternately groaning and whimpering and crying out in frustration.

"Stupid hair!" she shouted dramatically. "Stupid, stupid hair!"

Christine tried not to cry in frustration, but she knew that everything on her was a disaster. Her blue dress didn't fit her quite right—it was secondhand, and she could in no way afford to have it tailored. The dress was exceedingly simple, with hardly any embellishments or frills. She had tied a ribbon around the waist to try to give it some flair, but it only made her look more like a little girl. She was wearing fake diamonds—and they looked fake, she knew. Her shoes were old, scuffed and a boring black, and they were only one or two-inch heels. Her hair was not cooperating. It continued to spring out of every bun, coif, braid, or ponytail she attempted. Sometimes it worked fine but not that evening. She pulled on it in desperation and rubbed in more mousse, hoping to manage it in the ten minutes she had left.

Gustave stopped in the doorway and watched her, smiling a little as he buttoned his cuffs.

"You look—"

"Don't say it!" she snarled. "I look awful…I can't believe I agreed to this…"

He paused, raising an eyebrow, and he shrugged before walking to his bedroom. She heard him begin to warm up a little, and she tried not to dissolve as she examined herself. She wanted to have some kind of pretty shawl or wrap to cover her dress, but the only thing she had to ward off the chilly air was her old coat. For a moment, she wished that she had let Raoul buy her a dress—but then she knew that she wouldn't have been able to even wear it. That charity dress…It looked beautiful in her mind.

Finally, she managed to press her hair into some type of style—using copious bobby pins and clips to keep it in place, and she hurriedly applied some makeup. In her haste, she accidentally drew a long, black line alongside her nose as she swiped up the mascara, and she cried out angrily and rubbed it furiously.

"What is wrong with you?" she demanded her reflection.

The doorbell rang, and her stomach jumped. She gave one last distraught look into the mirror, adjusted her dress a little, and went to the door, trying to quell her hard blush that was attacking her cheeks.

Raoul looked perfect, as usual. He was very handsome in a tuxedo, she couldn't help but notice, and it did nothing to help her blush.

"Hi," she said nervously. "Uh…come in."

"Thanks," he said, smiling warmly. "You look really, really pretty."

"Really?" She nearly choked.

"Really." And then he laughed at what they had just done.

Gustave entered then, and they shook hands.

"Hej, Herr Daae," Raoul said politely.

Gustave laughed warmly at the attempt, and Christine darted away to get her coat, trying not to shake. Sniffling a little, she drew her coat on, checked herself one last time, sighed in defeat, and went back to the front room. Raoul was patiently trying to explain what the purpose of the party was.

"A fundraiser," he said slowly. "People give the company money to donate to charities."

Gustave nodded knowingly, though Christine knew he didn't understand. She translated it into swift Swedish for him.

"I know what he meant," he scowled back, his Swedish grated, and Christine sighed again, resisted rolling her eyes, and said, continuing their conversation in Swedish,

"I don't know what time I'll be back tonight. Probably soon—I don't really want to go, after all. So I should beat you back before you're done with work."

"Have a good time," Gustave said. "Be safe."

"I will, Pappa," she said, still feeling a little miffed, and she let Raoul lead her out of the old apartment, down the stairs, and out into the crisp winter night.

They drove in relative silence, and Raoul tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, glancing at her often, and she could tell that he was nervous about her silence.

"So…did you…have a good day yesterday?" he asked. "I didn't call you—sorry. Things got so busy at the office that as soon as I got home I just crashed."

"It was fine," she said shortly, staring out of the window. The buildings were getting progressively nicer, the streets cleaner, and the people more dignified.

"Are you excited?" he said bracingly. "It should be fun!"

"Yep," she said flatly. Then she felt bad. She knew she should not be ruining Raoul's evening by making him worry about her. So, taking a deep breath, she tried to squash all the negative feelings, and she looked at him and reached for his hand, feeling a little silly. He took her fingers quickly, obviously relieved that she was making an effort.

"It'll be fun," she said. "But you'll have to teach me what to do—I haven't done anything like this before."

He laughed a little and, to her surprise, brought her hand up and kissed her fingers. "Christine, you're really sweet. There's nothing to 'teach' you. You just walk around and talk to people—like any other party, really. All the old guys will talk about business, and all the young guys will talk about sports and money. The old ladies talk about the young ladies, and the young ladies talk about the old ladies. So there you have it. Nothing too interesting."

She managed to smile a little, and she smoothed the skirt of her dress with her free hand. Then she noticed a small spot on her bare leg that she missed while shaving, and her blush returned. Hopefully the lights would be dim and no one would be looking at her legs.

"So my parents are visiting in a few weeks," he said conversationally. "They're flying in. We should all go out to dinner one night. What do you think? You've met them before, right?"

Christine nodded. It had been a very long time ago, but she still remembered the way she had squirmed childishly as Raoul happily introduced her. His parents had an overpowering…rich presence. They were very wealthy, and she had felt insignificant next to them. Still, it had been ten years ago, so perhaps now that she was grown the childish feelings wouldn't be there anymore.

Soon, they were at the venue, and a teenage boy came to park the car. Raoul opened the door for her, took her arm, and led her into a large building. The entrance foyer was grand and marble, and lights were splashed everywhere. Christine clung to Raoul, staring around as he led her through. A few people were milling about, talking quietly, and she noticed that a few dozen servers were walking around with small silver plates, some with tall champagne glasses and some with bits of food.

He took her into the main area, and she looked around in horror and awe. There was a couple hundred people there, all dressed beautifully. A string quartet was playing (one of her favorite pieces by a late British composer), and a large ice sculpture was surrounded by more glasses of champagne and other alcoholic drinks.

"It's nice, isn't it?" Raoul said to her, squeezing her arm affectionately, and she looked up at him and nodded, trying not to look too overwhelmed. He helped her take off her coat, and she was glad she was rid of it. But that left her cheap dress exposed, and she once again took Raoul's arm, pressing herself next to him tightly. Perhaps if she was close to him, people couldn't really see her dress and see how it was obviously low-quality cut and material.

As soon as they were coatless and moving, a woman approached them. Her hair was a vivid, dyed orange, and her teeth were too big and too white. She smiled widely at them, and Raoul smiled as well.

"Raoul!" she called out shrilly. Her dress was covered in sparkles, and her heels were high. "I'm so glad you made it."

"I'm glad I did, too," he said. "This is my girlfriend, Christine. Christine, this is Angela Garden, the CFO's receptionist."

"Hi," Christine said, unsure of what else to say. She continued to clutch at Raoul's arm, feeling it beneath the clothes. He was strong.

"You have made quite the catch, young lady!" Angela Garden trilled, somehow managing to show all of her teeth while talking. "Raoul here is one of the best junior associates we've ever had—and fresh out of college, too! He's certainly going places!"

"Ha," she said weakly.

Raoul and Angela Garden talked for a few more minutes, and then she said goodbye in order to jump on another entering couple. Raoul led her off.

"You okay?" he said quietly, stepping in front of her took look her in the eye. "You look a little sick."

"I'm fine," she insisted.

"Are you sure? You nearly squeezed my arm off!" He moved his forearm up and down as if to emphasize his point, and she blushed again.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "I guess I was a little nervous…"

"Why? There's nothing to be nervous about. You're no different than anyone here." He touched her arm lightly in reassurance.

"Yeah," she agreed vaguely. "Okay."

"Ready to try again?"

She nodded, and he took her arm and led her off once more. He introduced her to a bunch more people, and the names and faces swirled past. There was Robert Christiansen, who was in charge of the accounting department—no, wait, that was Adam Ellis. And then Michelle Lake, who had something to do with publicity…And on and on. Christine did not speak much. She said the obligatory 'hello' and 'goodbye,' and that was about it. Raoul did not pressure her to say anything more, and she was grateful.

Some people did ask her questions. A woman from the human resources department asked where she had gotten her dress, and she had turned red and stammered that she didn't remember. The woman in question had been wearing an exquisite purple silk gown with beautiful white heels and real diamonds. Christine didn't want to know if the woman had asked to be kind or to mock her.

After a while, Raoul pulled her aside.

"You should probably eat something," he said. "You're looking a little white. Sorry—I know this is probably all overwhelming and stuff."

"No, it's fine," she said, though she was thankful for his thoughtfulness. A server came by and stopped by them, and Christine gratefully reached out, but Raoul took her hand.

"I don't think you'd like that," he said.

"What is it?" she asked, somehow feeling a little indignant.

"It's…well, raw fish, basically," he replied.

"What? My dad loves fish—I mean, I'm Swedish. I eat fish." She reached for it again, and this time he didn't stop her. Instead he shrugged, took one for himself, and watched her closely. She glanced at him again before biting into it—and then instantly regretting it. It didn't taste like any fish she had ever eaten before. It tasted like raw fish, even worse than the fish paste Gustave liked but she could never bring herself to eat. It tasted like salty ocean water mixed with the stink of rotten fish. She held it in her mouth, not wanting to swallow, not wanting to chew, not wanting it in her mouth anymore. She made a whimpering sound and looked to Raoul for help. He laughed a little before leading her over to the table with the ice sculpture and handing her a napkin. Christine looked around before turning her back and spitting out the bite onto the napkin, nearly gagging.

She moaned softly, wanting to wipe her tongue with her fingers to get rid of the taste. Raoul asked a passing server for some water, and she soon had it. She downed the entire glass in a few seconds.

When she looked up, she saw that a woman was staring at her with a curled upper lip and a raised eyebrow. From the expression on her face, she had seen the entire ordeal. Christine's face lit up with another blush, and she turned to Raoul in embarrassment.

"That woman saw me," she groaned. "I'm so embarrassed…"

"Who? Oh—Margery White? Don't pay attention to her. She's crazy."

Still, Christine kept her back turned, covering her face in horror. It was all worse than she had envisioned—so much worse.

"Here, watch this."

Christine looked up, and Raoul put the entire hor d'oeuvres in his mouth. He chewed it once, made a disgusted face, grabbed a napkin, and spit it out as well, sticking out his tongue and wiping it on the cloth. Christine covered her mouth with her hand and then suddenly broke out into giggles. Raoul proudly displayed the half-masticated fish to Margery White, who looked horrified at such a display and turned her gaze away in disgust.

"Aww, thanks," Christine said sincerely, and she leaned in. He got the hint and kissed her swiftly.

"Gross," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Fish breath."

Raoul reached into his pocket and pulled out a little green hard candy, which she then recognized to be a breath mint. She took it in wonder.

"How is it you think of everything?" she asked, putting the mint into her mouth and savoring the taste.

"I never come to one of these things without these," he said, popping one into his mouth as well. "They've saved me from tasting rotten fish all night too many times to count." Then he kissed her again, and this time she liked the taste of the mint on his breath.

He took her hand and led her out. Nothing occurred until sometime later, when Raoul introduced her to Henry Maguire, who was older and balding severely. His face was very red and shiny, and his head seemed to sit squarely on his collar—no neck in between. He was some kind of senior associate, and Christine was gazing around the room as he and Raoul talked about things she didn't understand.

Then a waiter came by, and he and Raoul took champagne from the platter. Mr. Maguire tried to hand a glass to her.

"Oh—no, thank you," she said, trying not to blush.

"Whatsa matter?" he said, holding it out. "You religious or something?"

"No—well, yes, but…uh…" She looked up to Raoul for help. He calmly took the glass from Mr. Maguire's hand and put it back on the tray.

"Christine isn't old enough to drink," Raoul said firmly, clearly wanting that to be the end of the matter.

Mr. Maguire's bushy eyebrows rose. "Not old enough?" he said. "What? How old are you, girl?"

"Twenty," she said, suddenly feeling hot and confined in the room.

"Twenty?" he crowed. Some people turned their heads at the sound, and Christine resisted burying her face in Raoul's arm. She felt him tense a little. "You sure do pick them young, de Chagny!" Mr. Maguire continued, his voice too loud. "How old are you? Twenty-six?"

"Twenty-five," Raoul said shortly. "It was nice talking to you, Henry, but—"

"Now don't run off!" he interrupted, drinking some of his champagne. "I didn't mean anything by it. I understand. Once I met this girl in the Bahamas a few years back. She must have been nineteen—a real looker, you know, one of those tanned beach blondes. Anyway, she was so happy to join me on my cruise around the islands. We had a good time together. You know how it is."

Raoul was red in the face. That was not a sign of embarrassment for him—it was a sign of anger. Christine had only seen it once or twice. He usually had such a sweet disposition, and it took big things to set him off.

"No, I don't. I do not appreciate you insulting my fiancée in front of me. You can insult me all you want, but don't you ever say anything like that about her again." He pulled her away, and she stumbled a little on her short heels as they went. Her heart was beating in her throat.

They were silent, and he took her to their usually-abandoned corner. He needed a moment to calm down, she knew. However…her head felt strangely heavy.

"Raoul?" she murmured, reaching for his hand.

He looked at her. "I'm so sorry, Christine," he said. "I really…I am so sorry."

"No," she said. "You don't have to apologize for what that jerk said. He was just dumb."

Apparently she said something amusing, because he smiled. "'Jerk,'" he repeated. "That's polite."

"Heh, yeah. Uh, anyway…" She pushed an errant curl behind her ear. Her hair was starting to become undone. "I was just—well, when you were—um. You called me your fiancée."

"Oh." He paused for a long while. "Sorry. It just…it really just slipped out, you know. I didn't mean—I was just so mad. You don't have to…think anything of it…because—you know. I was just…"

"It's okay," she said, sensing his embarrassment. "I understand."

After a few deep breaths, his face was clear once more, and he suggested, "How about we leave and go get some real food? I'm starving, and I don't want to be here another minute."

"Yes, please," she replied immediately, and he laughed and kissed her.

Forty-five minutes later, full of cheeseburgers and chocolate milkshakes, he was driving her home, and she had scooted over and was leaning her head against his shoulder as he drove. She grinned a little as she thought of the stares they had received while ordering their meals at a run-down little burger joint. It wasn't exactly a place to wear a tuxedo and any sort of dress with heels. However, they had enjoyed themselves, and Raoul had gorged himself on cheese fries for her amusement, proving that he was a stereotypical young man and could eat as much as he wanted with pretty much no negative side effects. And somehow she was more enamored with him than ever.

"Tired?" he asked her softly, and she nodded, stifling a yawn behind her hand.

"I'm sorry that the party was such a disaster," he said. "I really…I wish it had gone differently."

"You were fine. It was the other people who made it into such an awful place." She snuggled into his shoulder more, feeling the fine material of the tuxedo jacket press into her cheek.

"Yeah. Well, at least we got a good laugh out of it. I'll always remember Margery White's face when I spit out the fish. She'll tell everyone she knows."

Christine giggled at the memory. "Thanks."

After a few more comfortable minutes in silence, they arrived at the apartment complex, and he helped her get out of the car and escorted her up to her door. He kissed her for a while, and she enjoyed it, especially when he put his hands in her hair. Then he broke away, wished her a goodnight, kissed her again, thanked her for accompanying him, kissed her once more, promised to call her the next morning, and kissed her one last time. She unlocked the door and shut it behind her, feeling her heart beating loudly against her chest. Even though the party ended up being the horror affair she knew it would be, she somehow didn't regret that evening. Raoul had…been such a wonderful man.

She flicked on the lights and checked the time. It was late. Gustave was probably already home and sleeping. She picked up a book that had fallen to the floor, changed into her pajamas, brushed her teeth, and combed out the gel in her hair before getting a glass of water and tiptoeing to Gustave's room. He would appreciate it if she checked in so he knew she was all right.

"Pappa?" she whispered, opening his door a little. She peered in. It was very dark. "Pappa?" she hissed again, a little louder. "I'm home."

There was no answer. Frowning a little, Christine opened the door wider, flicking on the dim hall light so she could see inside.

His bed was empty, and his violin still lay at the foot of it from earlier that evening. As she looked around in shock, she could see that something terrible had happened. His night lamp was on the ground, broken, and the framed picture of his late wife was also shattered and on the floor. The pillows on the bed were scattered, and when she looked close at the ground, she could see a dark patch…a red patch…blood. Christine screamed, dropping her glass to the ground and backing out of the room.

He was gone.