Christine was a mix of emotions. She wasn't sure what to feel. As she pulled open the heavy door to the theater, she let herself pause a bit, and she took a deep breath. It was time for her lessons, and she knew that she needed to be at least a little collected. If she wasn't, then she knew that the Phantom would probably yell at her. He was scary when he yelled.

He was waiting for her, playing a sad waltz. She had never heard it before, but it was incredibly beautiful. His hands were jumping back and forth over the keyboard, but he pressed so softly and delicately when his fingers landed. It was like a gloomy, beautiful cloud hanging over the entire house. She stood by the stage and put her chin in her hands, closing her eyes and letting herself listen. The swells and sweeping runs in the melody gave her chills and set her heart racing, but the somber tones that always followed made her feel slightly melancholy again. The piano looked to be old and out-of-tune, but the Phantom was coaxing only pure, beautiful sound from the keys.

When he finished, she sighed in disappointment and appreciation. Then she opened her eyes and clapped for him. His gaze flashed down to her.

"What are you doing down there?" he said. "Get onto the stage."

Awkwardly, she pulled herself up and then took off her coat, trying not to blush at the ungraceful picture she must have been. She went over to the bend and cleared her throat a little. She knew that if she waited, she would lose her nerve, and the entire lesson would go by without one comment from her.

"Thank you so much," she blurted quickly.

His fingers paused, and he looked up at her. Under the dim stage lights, his eyes were somewhat visible behind his mask. They appeared to be a strange…golden color, bordering on yellow. She resisted grimacing, reminding herself that he was probably ill with some sort of disease.

She swallowed and continued. "Thank you so, so much. You don't know what this means to me." Her throat began clogging up, and the tears were coming. She sniffled a little. "My dad is my whole world. I just can't think you enough for bringing him back to me."

He watched her silently as she forcibly calmed herself. She wiped her tears away with the sleeve of her sweater, and she took several more deep breaths. Then she smiled embarrassedly.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to start crying. I was just so happy to see him again."

Encouraged by the fact that he wasn't yelling at her to shut up and sing, she folded her arms on top of the piano and leaned a little closer.

"So where was he?" she asked softly, suppressing a hiccough. "Where did you find him? Who took him?"

"That is none of your concern," the Phantom said, his voice short.

Christine bit her lip a little. "But it is my concern. The police should know! Whoever took him needs to be arrested and put in jail!"

"No," he said firmly. "You will be grateful that your father has returned, and you will not pursue the matter."

A horrible thought came to her. She stood straight up and covered her mouth with her hand. "Were you…?" she whispered. "Are you…do you…know the men who took him? Are you working for them? Is that why you don't want them to be put in jail?"

She could see that he was becoming irritated. "Don't be ridiculous," he snapped coldly. "This matter is entirely too dangerous for you to involve yourself in."

"But please," she whined, and she knew she sounded very annoying. "Please, I need to know. I need to know at least why he was taken from me!"

The Phantom fisted his hand and swiftly brought it down onto the keyboard, creating a loud, unpleasant, jarring chord that made her jump. His gaze was cold and calculating.

"You really wish to know?" he said. "Well then! I shall have you know that your father borrowed money from a rather unforgiving drug lord. When he was unable to meet his payments, they grew rather upset."

Christine felt air disappear from her lungs. She took several steps backward, though she still held onto the piano for support.

"What are you talking about?" she managed to say. "What—you're lying! You're lying to me!"

"Am I?" he challenged, standing as well. "Just think for a moment, stupid girl. Your father takes your paychecks, yet he doesn't give you access to the bank account. His meager income playing for the theater orchestra would not give him enough to support both of you, so you are required to work as well. However, as soon as you become unemployed, he falls behind on his payments…And mere months after, he is taken—no doubt his reassurances had begun to lose their effect."

"Stop it!" Christine said loudly. "Stop it! He would never do that! My dad is a good, honest, hard-working man who would never even talk to—to people like that!"

"Do you want to know where I found him?" the Phantom sneered, gripping the edges of the piano. "I found him in a filthy basement—a basement owned by the same said drug lord! Do you think it to be simple happenstance that he was found there?"

Christine felt as if her heart was dropping into her stomach. She wanted to yell until her throat was sore, but she could find nothing to say. All she could do was pitifully whisper, "No." And she slumped onto the stage and cried, burying her face in her hands. What if it was all true? How could Gustave do this to them? How could he borrow money from a criminal? Why hadn't he borrowed money from their bank? Why hadn't he told her to go find another job? She could have helped him! Why didn't he go to the police?

But the Phantom was lying to her! He was a murderer, and he would just as easily lie to her! He didn't know Gustave like she did. Gustave would never put them in a position like that. He would never approach dangerous criminals for money!

When she looked up through tear-filled eyes, she saw that the Phantom was back at the piano, calmly writing on some staff paper. She hated him—hated his stupid logic and his awful, valid points about Gustave. He knew nothing! He was simply a heartless criminal who did not understand basic human emotions, like love and forgiveness. He did not know that Gustave would never do what he said he did.

"It is apparent you will not progress today," the Phantom then said, not even bothering to look at her. "You will compose yourself, and then you will return tomorrow, ready to sing." When she hesitated, he snapped, "Yes?" And she jumped a little and nodded quickly. Then she scrambled to her feet and fled from the theater, never wanting to return.

When she arrived back at the hospital, she headed straight for Gustave's room. He was still sleeping, but she did not have to wait long, for less than an hour after he arrived, he stirred, and his eyes opened. She felt her heart ache with love and sorrow and confusion, and she took his hand and held it to her cheek.

"Pappa," she said softly, kissing his palm. "It's me."

To her shock, the patient on the other side of the screen suddenly hollered, and a few nurses hurried in. One of them saw that Gustave was awake, and she pressed a button on the nearby machine. Less than a minute later, another nurse entered, and she smiled widely with crooked white teeth.

"Feeling better today, Mr. Day?" the nurse chirruped, picking up the clipboard and flipping through a few pages. Christine resisted the urge to correct the nurse's pronunciation, and she also tried to ignore the sounds coming from the other side of the curtain. It sounded like an emergency of some kind. A machine was beeping loudly and rapidly.

"Are you feeling better today, Pappa?" Christine translated for him. He looked at her and then the nurse, and he nodded slowly. It looked like it was a little painful for him.

The nurse checked the visible bandages, pushed a few things on the machine that was hooked up to the needle in his arm, and she scribbled a few things on his chart.

"When will he get better?" Christine then asked.

"It's hard to say," the nurse said. "He just needs to get his strength back up. He'll need lots of rest and nutrients, and he'll need time for his broken bones to set and heal. So you're looking at several months, at best, before he's completely okay again. Still! It must be nice to have him back, isn't it?" The nurse smiled again, put the clipboard away, and left the room.

"She says that you'll be okay in a few months," Christine said in Swedish. "I'm so glad, Pappa. I can't wait until you come home with me!"

Gustave smiled a little in response, saying hoarsely, "I missed you so much, Lotte."

As Christine watched him, she felt her heart suddenly start beating in her chest again, and it was frantic and insistent. It needed to know. How was she to ask him? How could she say that she wanted the truth, when she wasn't sure that she did? A large part of her wanted to remain his Little Lotte, to never know of the terrible things that happened. She wanted to return to the days of them living in their awful little apartment, him playing his violin and her working at the bookstore. But those days were over. She was here, training to sing for the opera company, and her father had been given back to her after weeks of panic and alarm.

"I want to talk about something." She held his large hand in her own small ones, pressing on the clammy flesh and memorizing the feel of his fingers.

"Anything, prinsessa."

"On…" She was already having trouble forming the sentences. "When you—when…Pappa. That…that night…why? Why?"

A look of worry passed over Gustave's eyes, and he shifted uncomfortably in the hospital bed, grimacing and putting a hand on his chest, his broken ribs apparently hurting him.

"Christine, you should not worry so," he said softly. "Some people are…simply evil. You understand that, don't you, Lotte?I—" He suddenly choked and began coughing, almost violently, and Christine hurriedly pushed a nearby cup of water into his hands, helping him lift it to his mouth and drink thirstily. He gasped and heaved for a few moments, leaning back into the pillows with an exhausted and pained groan. Christine was nearly driven to tears by the sight. He had once been tall and strong, and now he looked weak, frail, and completely helpless.

"So—so you were taken from me for no reason?" Christine asked, smoothing the sheets of the bed in anxiety. "Pappa? What did they want from you?"

"It is not for you to hear," he said, keeping his eyes closed.

"I don't understand!" she cried. "Why? Why won't you tell me what happened?"

He reluctantly opened his eyes, and he looked at her. "You are too good to understand, ängel."

"I need to understand," she insisted. "I was…you have no idea how scared I was! I need to know who took you and why!"

"No!" he said loudly, and then he winced in pain. "No, Little Lotte. We'll forget that…this ever happened, yes? I'm with you now—and that's what really matters."

The nurses were leaving the room, and the patient on the other side of the curtain was silent. The machines were beeping regularly, and she could hear a distant radio, playing soft rock ballads. She wanted to get her father away from this awful place. He needed a place with life, not this overwhelming atmosphere of death and disease.

Christine didn't want to risk agitating him further, and so she let the looming question go for the time being. She quietly told him about what she had done in his absence: about her 'wonderful' Christmas with Raoul, and how he had been so supportive of her, and how everything had been fine while he was away from her.

"I just missed you so much," she ended, managing to smile a little.

He wheezed out a laugh or two and then said, "I am sure you were so busy with Raoul that you…hardly noticed my absence."

"Pappa!" she exclaimed. "That's an awful thing to say! I prayed for you every night—I went to Mass every Sunday and prayed for you. I missed you more than you can even imagine."

He smiled a little and closed his eyes again.

After it was dark, there was a knock on the door, and she turned to see Raoul in the doorway, smiling at her and holding up a brown paper bag in one hand and a small bag slung over his other shoulder.

"I brought you dinner," he said, entering and sitting down. "How's he doing?"

"He talked to me for a while, so that's good," Christine said, gratefully taking the bag from him. She opened it, and her stomach instantly growled at the smell. "Thank you. It smells great. I didn't even realize how hungry I am!" She pulled out the warm tin of pasta, pried open the lid, and began eating hungrily. Between bites, she asked him about work and such, and he answered positively. She wanted to ask him about the promotion that his mother had mentioned on Christmas Eve—but he had never told her about it, and he would want to know how she knew, and she would have to tell him that she was eavesdropping, and…She didn't ask.

As she finished up, she watched Gustave, and the worry began to creep back in. She wanted him to trust her, to tell her what had happened to him. But she was afraid that the answer would hurt her.

"Raoul," she said, looking over at him. "Can I ask you a…kind of a weird question?"

"Uh. Sure," he said. "What is it?"

"I was talking to my…voice teacher," Christine began, trying hard to phrase it right. "And I was telling him about my dad—about his…um, disappearance and stuff. He wanted to help out, so he asked me some details. Anyway, he said that he thought…Well, he thought that my dad had…borrowed money…from someone and—and he couldn't make his payments, and that's why he was taken." She chewed on her lip, watching Raoul's eyebrows rise in skepticism. She had asked him because he was intelligent. He knew a lot about business and finances. Maybe if she showed him some papers…or receipts…or something, he would be able to verify the accusation.

"Your voice teacher said that he thought that your dad had borrowed money he couldn't pay back?" Raoul said incredulously. When Christine nodded, he shook his head slightly and ran a hand over his blond hair. "Christine, that honestly sounds completely ridiculous to me. It's like something out of a bad movie. Things like that don't happen in real life, okay? I don't know what your teacher's deal is, but he's a little turned around on some things. The people who took your dad were probably just weird, twisted screw-ups. Don't listen to your teacher anymore about this. He's only getting you worked up. Okay?"

Christine hesitated, but then she nodded. "Okay."

The loud banging of chords echoed around the theater.

"No!" he said loudly. "No, no! You are not trying!"

Christine trembled, but she resisted taking a few steps away from him. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Can I try again, maybe?"

The Phantom stood abruptly, sending the bench clattering to the stage, and he walked away several paces, putting his hands on top of his head in a gesture of frustration.

"What is the point?" he said, his back to her. "Why should I teach you if you are not willing to try?"

"I don't understand!" she confessed suddenly. She had been sleeping on the hospital chair for the past two nights now, and she was exhausted beyond tears. She was angry with herself and frustrated with her father, and she didn't seem to be able to cry at that moment. "I am trying! I'm doing everything you want me to do! I'm breathing and standing and singing on-key and keeping the rhythm and remembering the counts and remembering diction! I don't know what else you want me to do!"

"Do you think that the Opera House is looking for a lifeless little singing doll?" the Phantom said, spinning around the glare at her. "Do you think that they do not have them coming in in droves, singing gaudy renditions of the Jewel Song or O Mio Babbino Caro? Revolting! I am not teaching you to become one of them! You have the potential to become more valuable than the entire Opera House, yet you are squandering it by screeching out flat, lifeless notes."

"What am I doing wrong?" she demanded, somewhat hysterically. "Tell me what to do!"

"You have to feel the music, girl!" he said, his voice rising dramatically in volume and pitch. In a moment, before she could even blink, he was next to her, and she squeaked in terror. He put a fist next to her stomach and pulled it up to her throat. "I know you have felt it. I have seen you feel it! I have seen it in your eyes—you know what it's like, yet if you cannot find that again, you are worthless."

He scared her—he terrified her, yet the intensity and sheer passion in his eyes when he spoke about music seemed to…speak to her as well. She watched him, staring widely, as his chest went in and out rapidly. He backed away from her then, and he set the piano stool upright before sitting on it.

"Perhaps a demonstration," he said, more to himself, it seemed, than to her. He began without another word, his hands running up and down the keys, and she saw the bottom of his mouth open, and for a split-second, she imagined a thin, reedy voice to suit his frame—but she was literally floored when she heard it. She fell down to the stage, staring at his legs underneath the piano, her mouth wide open.

It was as if the voice of God was singing to her. She had never heard a male voice so incredibly rich and beautiful. It spoke to her, called her, enticed her, and she was too moved to even shed a tear. She had to simply sit there and listen, allow the voice to overwhelm her. It demanded her complete attention, and it forced her into silence and stillness. Christine had never known that such things were possible with a singing voice. She had never imagined that something so abstract and intangible could have such a powerful effect. Yet that voice could have coaxed her to do anything…She would have done anything for that voice.

She could not remember the name of the song he was singing, though she recalled understanding some of it and recognizing that it was French. The words didn't matter then, though. All that mattered to her was listening to the voice calling her. He could have sung for days, and she wouldn't have had the slightest inclination to move.

However, he didn't sing for longer than a few minutes, and when he was finished, there was a long moment of silence. Christine was trying to gather herself, and she shakily grabbed the piano and pulled herself to her feet, too overwhelmed to be embarrassed that she had spent the entirety of the song on the stage.

"I…" she whispered quietly, and then she was quiet. She couldn't think of anything to say that would express her feelings at the moment.

She thought he was going to say something, but there seemed to be no words to say. He merely gestured to the music she was singing and began her introduction once again. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and sang.

She could feel the difference in the first few notes. This was…ecstasy. It was more than she had ever experienced, and she was afraid to stop but afraid to continue. She knew her voice was nowhere near the Phantom's—it would never be…but she knew she sounded better than she had ever sounded before. It felt better. Singing had always been a joy, and now it was becoming something more. It felt like a necessary part of her. The song felt like oxygen. She needed to sing it to live. She needed the music in her head and the song in her mouth to stay alive.

She stumbled over a few of the words and could hear her pitch problems on some of the higher notes…but it didn't seem to matter right then. The Phantom didn't stop, anyway. He continued playing, and she continued singing. There was no stopping until the song was exhausted, finished, complete.

With an aching feeling inside, she finished the last phrase of the song, the sound coming out pure, and then she stopped abruptly, standing there, a hand on her throat, still unable to believe what she had just experienced. It was foreign and terrifying and enthralling.

The sound hung in the air, whispering around the roof and catwalks, the faint overtones hovering over them and disappearing slowly. She was afraid to look at the Phantom. What if he was still displeased? She had given everything. It felt as if she had just exposed her very soul. If that was not what he had wanted…then she knew that she would never live up to his expectations for her.

He stood, and the movement caused her to look over. She watched him anxiously. He was silent, gathering his music, and she felt her heart leap in fear. After such an experience…knowing what she could sound like…knowing how she could feel while singing…she wanted to continue. She knew what he meant now. She was committed to this.

"I'm sorry," she then whispered softly.

His gaze snapped to her. "The lesson is over for today," he said simply. "You will return tomorrow remembering what you just experienced. I can make you even greater than that."

She shivered at the thought. Greater. How could she be greater than that?

He finished gathering his music and buttoning his coat, and she watched him. She had shared something so…intimate with him. It felt as if she had given part of herself over to this…man. A murderer. A man whose name she didn't even know.

As he began walking into the wings, she called out after him.

"Wait!"

He stopped after a couple more steps and turned back around. "What?"

She bit her lip and then said hesitantly, "Will you…will you tell me your name now? Please?"

His yellow eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why would you wish to know that?" he said, his voice sounding colder with each word. He was quickly sinking back into his cruel Phantom persona. The man who taught her music…he was not the same as the murderer. They were both harsh, yes, and both cruel, but the man who taught her to sing only seemed to strive for her perfection.

"I just want to know," she said simply. "I feel a little silly not being able to call you by name."

For an awful moment, she thought that he was going to yell at her and tell her to never ask such a stupid question again, but he then said quietly, "Erik."

The name emboldened her. He was no longer just the deadly Phantom. He was a man with a name, and she walked over to him and put out her hand, trying not to betray herself and shake. He stared at her fingers with disdain.

"Thank you, Erik," she said quietly.

The moment stretched on and became incredibly awkward, as he made no move to shake her hand. Then he said,

"I do not…touch people." The last word came out like a vile curse.

"Oh. I'm—I'm sorry." She took her hand back quickly—suddenly remembering his terrifying threat the first time she had encountered him. If you ever touch me again, I swear that I will kill you. "I didn't mean to…make you upset. I'm so sorry."

"Stop sniveling in front of me," he said impatiently, as if frustrated. "Now get out of here."

She didn't need telling twice. She turned, grabbed her coat, and ran out of the theater.