Christine hurried down the street, her coat wrapped around her tightly, wondering just what she was doing and if she was walking straight to her death. The wind was blowing hard, and it was pulling almost painfully at her long curls. She turned up her coat collar and buried the lower half of her face in the thin material, but her eyes were still streaming from the biting wind.

She looked at the numbers over the buildings, counting them down, her heart beating faster as she got closer. 1265…1267…1271…1273…

At 1275, she stopped and stared for a moment. It was a run-down old theater, the empty marquee above it yellowed with age, the glass displays cracked and streaked with dirt. There were several worn pictures plastered around the building, displaying curvaceous women in very little amounts of clothing with coquettish smiles or looks of surprise. Christine blushed a little. The posters were advertising for some sort of…strip tease. Large block letters commanded her to COME AND SEE WHAT YOUR GIRLFRIEND DOESN'T WANT YOU TO SEE and STAY ALIVE WITH AN X-RATED NIGHT OF FUN.

She wondered if she was mistaken with the address, and she looked down toward the scrap of paper again. This was the correct place. Nervously, she glanced around. A few people were hurrying up and down the streets, not sparing her a glance, anxious to be out of the freezing wind. She couldn't believe that she was here, doing this…

When the Phantom had offered his ludicrous bargain two nights ago, Christine had agreed under the intense amount of pressure she felt. However, the long day that followed that horrible night found her panicking, unsure if what had just happened was real or not.

After agreeing to his deal, the Phantom had commanded her to show him where her father was taken. Trembling, she had climbed out of her bed and went to her father's door, pointing toward it wordlessly. He entered the room as if it was his bedroom—as if he had no qualms about strutting around her old apartment. He looked carefully at the broken items, lightly pressed his fingertips against the spot of dried, brownish blood, and opened and closed the window several times. Christine stared, leaning against the doorframe for support. Could it really be that the Phantom was before her…examining the crime scene? She pressed her hand against her forehead, as if to test that she still had some control over her body, to ensure that her mind still worked. Nervously, she twirled a curl around her finger.

Then he looked at her, his mask awful and black in the night, and told her to get him all the files her father had: birth certificate, baptismal certificate, financial records, old letters—anything at all. Christine had scurried around her apartment, her hands shaking fiercely as she gathered up everything she could find that the police had returned to her. The Phantom had taken them and then, to her complete surprise, told her that her first lesson would be the day after next.

"You will come to building 1275 at eleven in the morning. You will not be late. If you attempt to use this opportunity as a means to contact the police about me, I will know, and you will sorely regret it." The way he said 'sorely' had made her shiver fiercely. He gazed at her, his face still obscured by his mask, his beaming eyes narrowed slightly. "Do you understand?"

Christine nodded again quickly, too afraid to say anything. The Phantom had then disappeared, all of the files still in his hands. Christine had sat down on the floor, unable to take another step, and she leaned against the wall behind her, her mind rushing fiercely. However, she was unable to form a coherent thought. She knew she was thinking, and yet she couldn't pull a distinguishable thing from her mind. She sat there until morning, until hunger and soreness forced her to get up. As she was eating, she realized that she had to do this now. If she went back on her word, the Phantom would make her…sorely regret it. He would probably…find her father and do something awful. Christine rubbed her eyes tiredly, and then she found a scrap of loose paper and carefully wrote down the address he told her, afraid that she would forget it if she didn't jot it down.

She had argued with herself all the way to the building the next day, wondering if it might be some awful trick, worried that the Phantom was merely luring her into an easier murdering location. Briefly, she wondered if Raoul would care if she was killed.

Thinking of Raoul then angered her a little, as he had not contacted her since that awful Christmas morning. Feeling a desire to show him and be somewhat reckless, she walked toward the door and gingerly pulled on the handle. The door was very heavy, but it opened, and she squeezed through and into a dusty lobby. The carpets were worn and threadbare, a faded dark red, and the interior of the theater looked as if it once might have been pretty, but it had fallen into disrepair. The moldings were ornate and the trimmings were delicately-carved. There was a staircase off to the side that must have led to the second level, and there were a few doors that she didn't want to look into. Instead, she headed across the lobby and into the only open door. She could see into the dimly-lit theater, with its faded rows of seats and worn carpeted aisles. Still keeping her hands around the material of her coat and keeping it tight against her, she walked in and down the aisle as quietly as she could, wincing a few times when she heard the floor squeak under the pressure.

The house lights were on, and she could see the stage. There were dusty carvings around it—the masks of tragedy and comedy hanging right over center stage, staring down at her. She avoided looking at them and instead focused on the old, scuffed stage. There was a lingering smell in the stale air—she could smell old perfume and sweat, and it made her blush a little.

Clumsily, she pulled and pushed herself onto the stage. There were little tape X's all around, spot markers, and she looked into the wings, noting the complex-looking pulleys and flies. When she looked up, she could see a rickety-looking catwalk. The ceiling seemed to disappear in a mass of floating dust and ropes.

Even on this old, dirty stage, the feeling of being in front of hundreds of seats, waiting to be filled, was somewhat thrilling. She had only ever been onstage during her choir recitals. She could still remember her father sitting in the high school auditorium seats, beaming at her proudly. She had never auditioned for any solos, had never received any special recognition, and yet he had attended her recitals religiously. A few times, he had even scraped together enough money to give her a small bouquet of flowers afterward. It never mattered to her—with her father there, she had felt as if truly she had been the star of the evening in her old, drab, second-hand choir uniform.

There was suddenly a loud scraping sound, and she whirled around to peer off into the wings, feeling terrified. Her fist automatically clenched around the small can of pepper spray that she had in her coat pocket. However, soon she could see a baby grand piano being pushed onto the stage. It was on one of the piano dollies that she had seen her high school use.

With surprise and some feeling of alarm, she then saw that the Phantom was pushing it, bracing himself against the weight. The wheels were groaning with protest, perhaps old and hard to turn. She felt an overwhelming instinct to run—to jump off the stage and bolt out into the cold winter day. She actually took two or three steps backward, but by then the Phantom had pushed the piano fully onto the stage, and he was looking at her.

"Take off that ridiculous coat," he said. "You are slouching in it."

He then disappeared into the wings for just a moment, and he returned with a piano bench. He set it in its proper place and sat down, pressing down on the damper pedal a few times, as if cranking up an old, tired machine. Christine nervously unzipped her coat and pulled it off, trying to keep it close by in case she needed the pepper spray. When she found nowhere to put it, she placed it on the ground next to her.

The Phantom stood then and lifted the lid of the piano, supporting it with the stand and peering into the giant belly. He lightly plucked a few of the strings with his long fingers. Christine watched him, beginning to grow fascinated alongside her original horror.

Under the lights of the house and the stage, he really was nothing more than a man. He was extremely tall, towering over the piano, and she could tell that he was very, very skinny. His slacks and coat hung on him like a tent instead of clothes, and his coat was unbuttoned. His white shirt was tucked into the waistband of his slacks, letting her see more of just how thin he really was. It was almost humiliating to think that he was the spectral who had frightened her out of her wits and threatened to kill her. She was sure that, if needed, she could break a few of his bones with some well-placed kicks. He appeared almost frail.

His hands were covered in dark, thin leather gloves, showing a clear outline of unnaturally-long, bony fingers. They had finished with the strings inside the piano, and he returned to the bench. With a gesture of two long fingers, he motioned for her to come closer, and she obeyed, trying to control her near-frantic breathing. She was nervous and afraid.

Being closer to him did not help her feelings. His mask was strange. It looked to be made out of some sort of stiff leather. There were severe angles shaped into it, and she imagined that he must have extremely sharp features if he could wear it comfortably. His nose was long and straight, and the mask curved just above his upper lip, displaying his lower lip and chin. They were thin, and his skin had an unhealthy tinge of gray to it. She wondered if he was sick. The mask was tied to his face with near-transparent strings, which became lost in his black, shaggy-looking hair.

"Now," he said, his voice smooth and business-like. She couldn't help noticing how pleasant it was. It had a very rich, encompassing timbre to it.

"Tell me who taught you to sing," he commanded.

Her gaze snapped up to look at him, and she said shakily, "No one, really…I've been singing since I was a kid."

"You have had no proper instruction?"

"No…"

"Your father did not teach you?"

"No—he played his violin and I sang. That's all."

"Your mother did not teach you, then?"

A terrible lump formed in her throat.

"No," she managed to choke out. "She…she died when I was five."

He considered her for a while and then said, "How long have you been living in this country?"

She blinked, astounded that he knew she was not American—nearly no one could tell if she didn't tell them already.

"Six years," she said.

"You hide your accent well," he said. "That will be useful…"

Christine stared at him, bewildered. "How did you…?" Her accent was hardly there. Her English was excellent—better, in fact, than a lot of native speakers'.

"The name of Daae and the slight mispronunciation of some of the more difficult English words…It is not that difficult. No more talk. You will warm up with some simple scales."

He played the pattern for her a few times so she could become familiar with the exercise, and she couldn't help but notice how masterful he was at the instrument. His bony fingers were nimble and skillful, and they leapt over the keys with practiced, exact precision.

For a while, she sang scales, feeling nervous. She stared into the wings so she wouldn't have to look at him. He was silent, continuing to play, going high and then dropping when her voice started to strain—going low and then rising when she started to struggle. She knew she wasn't singing very well. She was far too nervous to release her true voice in front of this man. In fact, she was somewhat marveled that she was able to achieve these scales at all. Her legs were slightly shaky, and her fingers trembled and twitched, ready for flight in case the man suddenly leapt up and charged at her. He was a murderer, after all…he had been described as coming "straight from Hell." He had threatened to kill her, had physically harmed her…He was still frightening—even when she saw his thin frame.

He then tested her knowledge of theory, and she was embarrassed. Gustave had taught her some basic theory, and she had learned some in her choir class in high school, but, for the most part, she was woefully ignorant. He would play a note and then tell her to sing an interval of a major second or a minor sixth. He had started out telling her to sing an augmented seventh, but when she had stared at the floor in embarrassment, he had given up on complex intervals and had only asked for common ones. She had been able to do a perfect fourth using Wagner's Wedding March as her guide. That was the extent of her knowledge.

The Phantom held some sheet music out for her that had been sitting on the stand, and she took it, trying not to shake and avoiding touching him at all. She looked at the song. It was a simple English folksong, uncomplicated in melody and words. He silently began the introduction, and she sang it, sight-singing as best she could. She flubbed a few times, blushed, but managed to recover quickly, and she thought that she ended it rather well.

Then the Phantom stood and said, "The lesson is over for today. You will return tomorrow at the same time, well-rested and ready for real work."

Christine took an instinctual step backward when he stood. She felt embarrassed, but she merely held out the sheet music. He took it silently, put it under his thin arm, and walked off into the wings. It was completely silent. She then realized that he hadn't said a word about her father. What if he went back on his promise? What if he only said what he did to get her to come to this disgusting place?

After a few minutes of waiting, she knew he was not coming back, and so she picked up her coat and quickly slipped it on, grateful for the minimal heat it provided. Then she left the theater, crossed the old lobby, and pushed her way back out into the cold wind. The sky had become overcast, and when she looked at her phone, she realized that she had been in the theater for a little over two hours. It hadn't seemed that long, and she felt as if she hadn't sung that much.

As quickly as she could, she made her way back to her apartment, anxious to pull on three sweaters and a pair of thick, fuzzy socks to warm her numb toes. She would make hot tea, wrap up in a blanket, and maybe listen to the radio for a while. That would be nice. It would help her unwind from being so anxious all morning.

When she got to the door of her apartment, she saw, to her surprise, a bouquet of flowers on the doorstep. She looked around and then bent down to pick them up. The flowers looked a little battered, presumably from the wind, but they were still pretty. The perfume wafted up, and she lightly touched one of the cheerful daisies—her favorite flower. Then she noticed a small piece of paper haphazardly stuck in the flowers, and she plucked it out and read the hasty handwriting.

Can we talk, please?
Raoul

She paused for a second, looking between the paper and the flowers. Christine wondered if she had enough willpower to toss the flowers down and leave them to shrivel up in the hallway in their plastic wrapper, but she knew she would never be able to. Raoul had given her some kind of hope—and she would cling to it. She was needy, pathetic…She pressed the flowers to her chest, the plastic crinkling in protest, and then she hurried inside to put them in a tall plastic cup—the only vase-like thing she had. She cut the bottom of the stems and filled the cup with filmy tap water before placing the bouquet in the center of her small dining table. Then she sat down and stared at them, twisting the scrap of paper between her fingers.

To prolong the time before contacting him (she knew she would eventually cave in and talk), she reached out and pulled the small pile of unopened Christmas presents across the table toward her. One by one, she picked them up and felt them beneath the wrapper. It was useless—they were all in varying-sized boxes. Then she looked at them, picked up the smallest one, and tore off the paper.

It was a pair of very pretty earrings, and she touched them slightly, feeling the metal warm at her touch. She wanted to wear them immediately, but she pushed them aside. With a sigh, she rubbed her face, pressing her fingertips into her eyes.

She had just survived a voice lesson from a murderer. He had been…startling, disarming…The next day she would ask him about her father. She vowed that. She would march right up to the stage and demand her father's whereabouts. If he didn't have them, she would turn around, and she wouldn't return until he did. That was the deal—her father for her voice.

The next present from Raoul was a book about several famous composers. She flipped through it excitedly. There were photocopies of the original music and notations, and she ran her fingers over a piece by Chopin, looking at his careful notes and markings. The pages held the delicious scent of a new book, and she smelled it carefully, letting herself smile a little.

What would her father say when he was returned? Would he approve of her actions? He would probably be worried about her. He was selfless, a good man. He would probably tell her that she never should have even approached the Phantom—she should have stayed far away from him. Her poor Pappa! She would have so much explaining to do when he was with her again.

Raoul was so thoughtful. She opened the presents. There was a pretty silver bracelet, a pair of warm blue gloves (her favorite color), and then, to her embarrassment, a beautiful framed picture of the two of them. She was smiling happily, embarrassedly at the camera, while Raoul was kissing her cheek. She couldn't even remember where and when the picture was taken. Maybe by one of Raoul's friends…She had been introduced to some of them once or twice when they had come over to Raoul's apartment for an important sports game.

After staring at the picture for a while, she pulled her phone out and played with it, staring, wondering. She was slightly hungry, but she didn't want to get up and make herself something. She needed to worry about the bills. Rent was coming up soon, and she had to pay for her utilities bill by next week…But she continued to stare at the phone. Finally, she sighed and composed a text message to Raoul.

What's up?

There—simple, noncommittal…Aloof if it needed to be and intimate if required. She hesitated for a second, and then she sent it. Then she grew angry at her lack of self control, shoved all the presents Raoul had given to her under the couch, curled up in a blanket, and listened to classical music on the radio for several hours, resolutely avoiding getting up to check her phone that she had left on the table.

After a while, her eyes grew heavy, and she sighed, closing them and nestling into the ragged old couch. It had been a place of happiness for her. Her Pappa told her stories on that couch…listened to music with her…spoke to her about her troubles. She sniffled a little at the thought, missing him fiercely.

While Grieg was played to her soothingly, she burrowed deeply into her blanket and fell asleep.