With auditions a mere month away, Christine felt her stress and anxiety rising a little bit each lesson. Erik's intense lessons were becoming grueling, and oftentimes she went back to the apartment and simply collapsed on the bed and slept.

However, for all of the flaws he still found in her voice, Erik began to reassure her in the most peculiar way.

"Stop fretting," he would snap. "Straighten up and sing like I know you can."

Erik was assured that her place as a singer in the Opera House was secure. That alone comforted her more than nearly anything. She didn't think that she could bear the shame of spending so much time and energy in these lessons and then being turned away from all that she had worked for.

She was grateful for Raoul, even though their relationship seemed to be at a standstill in a precarious position. She wasn't sure how to proceed with it, and it appeared that neither did he. Still, he was wonderful for taking her mind off of her upcoming auditions, which were looming like some ominous black storm. True to what he had said, she went out with him more often, just as they used to do before she had moved in with him. He took her to one of his friend's party once, and she actually managed to have a bit of fun for a while. Still, he took her home long before it ended, because he could tell that the noise and the heat and the dozens of hyperactive people were starting to make her feel sick. He seemed bent on ensuring her comfort.

As to her relationship with Erik (even though 'relationship' was the wrong word to use), Christine rather felt as if it had improved somewhat. There was an unspoken, silent agreement to never speak about what happened on Valentine's Day, and she took it as a good sign. Even though Erik still frightened her occasionally, it was no longer the bolt-from-the-stage type fear—more like a stand-very-still-and-apologize type fear. He was still mean, but the insults now only came when she wasn't paying attention or when she was butchering her song. He tended to be more helpful and even somewhat patient when she admitted that she was struggling with something or when she asked for his help. When she worked hard, he was pleased. When she slacked, he was irritated. It made sense. She knew they would never be considered 'friends,' but she rather thought that they had an understanding of their teacher-student association.

A few times, to her astonishment, they had had short conversations about things that did not pertain to her voice and career. She remembered each one with a touch of interest and some gladness. It was comforting to think of the Phantom as a man.

One such time had been on a regular Wednesday afternoon. Christine hummed a little and stared off into the wings while Erik scribbled down some vocal exercises for her to practice, memorize, and perfect. As she was looking, something sparkled and caught her eye. She carefully stood and walked over to it, exclaiming in some surprise as she found something glittery and silky.

She went back to the piano and said, "Look what I found! It looks like something from India."

Erik glanced at it indifferently and then said, returning his gaze back to the paper, "It is a repulsive, cheap replica of a traditional Iranian headdress."

"What? Really?" She looked at it with further interest, but she resisted trying it on, remembering just where she had found it. "Have you been to Iran, Erik?"

"Yes," he said, playing a quick, difficult-sounding scale. Christine resisted wincing, knowing that she would probably be expected to know it by the next day.

"Wow!" she exclaimed instead. "That's awesome. What was it like?"

"Hot," he said indifferently, and he made a final notation before looking up at her. "Now put that ridiculous thing away. I will run over these exercises with you once before you are dismissed."

She obeyed, and she struggled with his scales for a few minutes before he finally let her go for the day. Raoul had made her promise to go to dinner with him, and afterward she had him drop her off at the hospital so she could visit Gustave.

"Little Lotte," he said by way of greeting, lifting a hand toward her when she entered. Hiding a worried frown, she noticed that his hand was shaking slightly. Had they given him new medication that they hadn't told her about?

"Hej, Pappa," she said, sitting down and taking his hand between hers. "How are you feeling?"

He shrugged his thin shoulders, trying to smile at her, but it looked more like a pained grimace. To only further her worry, he had a small coughing spell that he afterward tried to wave away.

"It's nothing," he said hoarsely, clearing his throat a few times, pain etched into his eyes. "It's a small cough, prinsessa, and my broken ribs aren't helping. Nothing else, I promise. Tell me about your lessons."

She said, "They're amazing. My audition is so soon, and I can't wait to start. I've been making so much progress. You wouldn't even recognize my voice if you heard me sing now!" She laughed a little and smiled. "When you're better, you can play your violin, and I'll sing for hours. We don't even have to go to the park. We can just stay home all day if we want."

Gustave's hand tightened on hers, and he released a long, tired-sounding sigh, leaning back into his pillows. She noticed how hollow his face looked, and she bit her lip. He was probably tired of all the provided hospital food. Making a mental note to ask a nurse or a doctor whether or not she could bring him some meals, she pulled out her vocal exercises to look over while Gustave rested.

Several quiet minutes later, to her complete horror, he took in a sudden, gasping breath and began to cough violently, without ceasing. His frame was shaking, and one hand tightly grasped the sheets while the other pressed over his mouth. His coughs were raw, throaty, and rasping, and Christine sat there in shock, her hands pressed against her mouth and nose. After several long, awful moments, Gustave quieted, and he sucked in a few long, deep breaths. Christine whimpered and grabbed the cup of water from the bedside table, leaning over him.

"Here," she whispered shakily. "Drink this, Pappa." Carefully, she pulled away his hand from his mouth, and then she squeaked in dismay. Droplets of blood splattered his palm and fingers, and Christine looked at him, noting some blood smeared on the corners of his mouth.

"Pappa!" she said, and then she completely panicked. She hurriedly set the water back down, but she set it down with so much force that the cup tipped and water spilled, completely drenching the vocal exercises that had tumbled to the floor when she had stood. "Nurse!" Christine shouted in a strangled voice. She dashed from the room and ran to the nearest desk station. "Nurse!" she gasped. "Please—please, my father!"

A short blonde nurse hurried back with her, and Christine watched anxiously, tearfully, as the nurse looked at the machines by Gustave's bed and then examined the droplets of blood. After looking carefully at the chart, the nurse looked at Christine.

"I'm going to go get the doctor," the nurse said. "I'll be back in a minute."

Christine nodded quickly, almost hysterically, and she went over and used the provided tissues to wipe away the blood as best she could.

"Pappa," she said urgently. "What's wrong? Tell me what's wrong!"

He took in several panting breaths, his hand frantically rubbing at the vicinity near his heart.

"My chest," he said, his eyes closed and his brow furrowing in pain. "Lotte…Christine."

"The doctor's coming," she said, trying to sound as calm as she could, which wasn't that calm. "He's coming, and he'll make your pain go away."

Gustave continued to breathe heavily, his hand still pulling at his chest, and his mouth was drawn inward in an apparent attempt to keep from crying out in pain. Christine felt tears stinging the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away, holding Gustave's hand tightly.

A few minutes later, a stocky, middle-aged doctor hurried in, the blonde nurse in tow.

"Good evening," he said to Christine pleasantly, walking over to Gustave's bedside. Christine stepped back immediately, and the doctor pulled out the chart. "Now, Mr. Dye-ee, what seems to be the problem?"

Knowing that Gustave's language skills were not going to be at their best, Christine said quickly, "He said that his chest is hurting him—he coughed out blood! What's wrong with him?"

The doctor frowned. "The chest pain could just be movement while his ribs are mending…but it doesn't explain the blood, unless he's somehow punctured a lung. Yet that's unlikely as well." The doctor turned back to Christine. "We're going to take him in for some tests and X-rays and see if we can't figure out what's happening. It could take a while."

"I'll wait," Christine said immediately. "Just…please let me know as soon as you find anything."

The doctor nodded, and Christine went out into a waiting room, wringing her hands and pulling on her curls in hysterics. She paced and chewed on her lip and rubbed her eyes, still trying to control her tears. After some time, she released a heavy, frantic sigh and pulled out her phone.

Raoul answered with a cheerful, "Hey!"

"Hi," she whispered. "Hey—I'm at the hospital. Something's come up."

There was a pause. "Oh, no," Raoul said. "What's wrong?"

"My dad coughed out blood," Christine said, her voice cracking horribly. "He's getting tests and X-rays right now…It was so horrible, Raoul. He said his chest hurt, and…"

"I'll be down as soon as I can."

It was the answer she had wanted to hear but didn't want to ask for. She sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs, her head pressed into one hand while the other one played with her cross necklace. Horrible thoughts were running through her mind, and she sniffled and hiccoughed on unshed tears that she was trying to control. Even though things hadn't been perfect lately, they had been better than before—but as soon as things were better, something horrible came along. It seemed like that was the pattern of her life. Things were perfect for five years, and then her mother died…Then they moved away from Sweden, and then they moved to America, and now…all of this. Her life seemed to be one huge trial after another.

Raoul arrived just a few minutes before someone came to fetch her. Taking her hand firmly, Raoul led her through the hallways and toward an office, in which sat the doctor. Christine shuddered a little at the grim look on the doctor's features.

After they sat in the proffered chairs, there was a long moment of silence. Then the doctor sighed a little and rubbed the bridge of his nose, saying,

"We did some X-rays and tests, and I'm sorry to have to say this, but it appears that your father's developed a really bad case of tuberculosis."

Christine's breath disappeared from her lungs. Raoul's hand tightened on hers. "What?" she croaked.

"What are you talking about?" Raoul demanded angrily. "No one gets tuberculosis anymore!"

The doctor smiled facetiously. "You'd be surprised," he said gently. "Thankfully, it can be cured with antibiotics, but it takes several months of steady medication, and it can always come back."

"This is ridiculous," Raoul snapped. "He's been in here for nearly two months, and you're just now catching onto this? Isn't this supposed to be a hospital?"

Holding up his hands in a gesture of a plea for patience, the doctor said, "I can understand your frustration, but Mr. Dye-ee has never complained about any pains before. We can't help patients if they don't tell us something's bothering them."

"It's because he can't complain," Christine whispered, her hand shakily held over her mouth. "His English isn't that great. He wouldn't know what to say…"

"He's responsive to our questions," the doctor said. "He answers the nurses or myself when we ask whether he is in pain or if anything is bothering him."

"He doesn't know what he's saying!" Christine cried suddenly. "He doesn't understand!"

"I'm sorry about this," the doctor said. "It's possible that he thought the pain in his chest was his mending ribs so he didn't tell you about it. Maybe he hadn't felt anything before this evening. All we know is that the tuberculosis is pretty advanced, and we need to start putting him on medication straight away. Tuberculosis is also contagious, so it's possible that you two are infected as well. We'd like to test you to make sure."

"This is completely unprofessional," Raoul said heatedly. "I can't believe that you didn't catch this sooner!"

"I'm very sorry," the doctor repeated calmly. "The circumstances are unusual, and Mr. Dye-ee never said anything to us. The important thing is we know it now, and we'll do our best to treat him."

A long while later, after being tested and told their results would come in soon, Raoul drove her home, ranting all the way.

"It's ridiculous!" he said, smashing his hand into the steering wheel. "I mean, it's a hospital! They just let things like tuberculosis—which is a disease that should be controlled by modern medicine—go around and develop in their patients! Shouldn't they have tested him for it straight away? I mean, it's a poke in the arm! It's not some big thing! I swear, Christine, you should sue them for malpractice. It's unbelievable."

Christine was silent, leaning back into the leather seat, breathing deeply. The doctor had told her that the medicine wouldn't kick in for another two weeks, and until then Gustave was still contagious, meaning that it was in her best interest to stay away from him for fourteen days. She had had a hard time stomaching that—and added to the fact that Gustave was alone and sick in a place full of people he didn't understand…She swallowed oncoming sobs. All she wanted to do was curl up in a bed and never emerge.

Raoul released an angry sigh and rubbed his face. Then he reached over a put a hand on her knee. "I'm sure everything will be fine," he said. "It's not a virus, so they can kill it with medicine. Okay? In a few weeks he'll be fine again. And I'm here for whatever you need. Just let me know."

She nodded, and she was grateful when he dropped her off at her apartment. Without even kissing him goodbye, she ran into her building and made her way up to the ninth floor. The city looked very pretty from her window, and she looked at the Opera House for a while. Was it all worth it? Was all the pain and suffering worth that end goal?

Christine gasped on some whimpering sobs, and she curled up in her bed, staring at the wall until a fitful sleep claimed her.

The next morning, she entered the theater with red-rimmed eyes, trying hard to control herself. Horrible nightmares had kept her tossing and turning throughout the night, and her eyes were sore and tired.

Erik was playing something that was very fast and sounded incredibly technical and difficult. His hands smashed onto the keys to create loud, staccato chords, and his foot jumped up and down on the pedal. Christine watched him, somehow finding herself somewhat calmed by his intense concentration and the music that was ringing around the old theater. After the piece ended, he took in a visible breath and then reached up to smooth back his dark hair. Christine momentarily noted the profile of his mask, and she wondered if he would ever take it off in front of her. They had never discussed it. She knew that he would probably burst into a tirade against her and say that she was stupid and had absolutely no right to pry. However, they were spending so much time together, and if he thought that she was still going to turn her into the police…he was wrong. Christine knew that she could never excuse what he did, but he had brought her father back to her. He was training her to become a star. He had…provided for her. Erik was nowhere near to being a good man, but Christine had no desire to have him in jail. And once he knew that, maybe he would consider removing his mask in her presence. It was probably hot and uncomfortable.

After another moment, she climbed onstage, still aware of how inelegant she was. Then she went over to the bend, and Erik peered up at her from the bench. To her surprise, he heaved a sigh and rubbed his hairline, right where the mask ended.

"You have been crying," he stated, tiredness tingeing his tone. "What could have possibly upset you this time?"

"It's my dad," she whispered, rubbing at her eyes in an attempt to get the aching to go away. "He's sick. They told me that he has tuberculosis."

"Tuberculosis is easily cured with antibiotics," Erik said.

"That's what the doctor said," Christine said, sniffling a little. "It's just…kind of disheartening, you know? He spends such a long time in the hospital to get better, and then this. And he's going to be all alone for two weeks. His English was never that great, and it only got worse when he was…gone, so he has a hard time understanding anyone. I just wish…I just want him to get well. I hate that hospital."

She was embarrassed after she stopped speaking. Erik had told her many times that he only cared about her voice—and there she was, confessing things to him that she hadn't even said to Raoul.

Erik was silent for a moment, and then he said, "That is understandable, I am sure. Now. Your exercises. You will start on C major and proceed up the scale chromatically."

She didn't expect anything more, and so the lesson began without any other comments. Surprisingly, she felt herself begin to feel marginally better as she sang. Maybe Erik knew that comforting words wouldn't do anything for her except make her feel sorry about herself. Perhaps he was aware that hard work and music could help her.

Or maybe he was just annoyed with all the talk and simply wanted to work on her voice and auditions.

Still, by the time the lesson was over, her tears were gone, and she managed to hold a conversation with Erik that did not involve confessions of feelings or tearful sniffling.

"Now, for your audition itself," Erik said, straightening his pile of music neatly. "What are you planning to dress yourself in?"

"Oh," she said, somewhat thrown. "I haven't really thought about it…Um…Maybe this blue dress I have…and my black heels…?" She ended it in a question and looked at him for approval.

The visible portion of his mouth and chin gave her her answer—no.

"I will have something for you tomorrow," Erik said, his tone making no room for argument. "Tell me your dress and shoe size, my dear."

She started a little at 'my dear,' though she resisted thinking on it too much. It was Erik—he probably said it to mock her. And as usual, Christine attempted to protest, a little ashamed that he even had to pick out her audition outfit. "No, Erik—you shouldn't have to—"

"Tell me," he interrupted shortly.

Blushing a little, she gave him the required information, and he dismissed her. As she wasn't allowed to see her father, she spent an evening in her little apartment, sitting in the bay window and staring out over the Opera House. Raoul texted her, but she the last thing she wanted to do was get up and be around strangers for the evening. She feigned exhaustion and replied that she didn't want to go out that evening. Instead she made herself hot tea and read a few chapters of a novel before falling asleep.

When she returned to the theater for lessons the next day, she was nervous and somewhat excited to see that Erik had a garment bag and a shoe box waiting for her. She was a girl, and she did enjoy pretty dresses…even if she never had the opportunity to own or wear any.

"There is a dressing room off the side of the left wing," Erik said. "You will put these on."

Christine nodded and carefully picked up the clothing before going off into the wings. She looked around curiously, never having been this far backstage. There were some large set pieces leaning against the wall, several things covered in sheets, and a few chairs and stools sitting around. With little trouble, she located the dressing room and walked in, immediately overwhelmed by the stink of musky perfume. She coughed and gagged for a minute, reaching around for the light switch.

It was a long, thin room with a mirror that ran the entire length of the wall. A long table had been built into it as well, and it was covered in loose articles of clothing and toiletries—hairbrushes, toothbrushes, old tubes of lipstick, empty perfume bottles, discarded hair clips and pins, and a few plastic water bottles. Carefully, she hung up the dress bag on one of the provided hooks and unzipped it, squealing in delight and shock when the glare of red met her eyes. The dress was smooth and soft under her hands, and she hurriedly pulled it off the hanger, anxious to try it on.

The dress slid over her frame easily, and it fit her well. Christine inspected herself in the brightly-lit mirror, turning a few times so she could see herself from all angles.

Her reflection was somewhat pale, and her eyes were wide. Gustave had often said she had eyes like her mother. The red dress she was wearing gave shape and form to her frame, and for one of the first times she realized that she was a woman. Of course she had always known that she was female, but it was one of the first times she looked at and acknowledged the curve of her breasts, the bending at her waist and then the expansion at her hips. It was one of the first times that her shape wasn't hidden behind ill-fitting, second-hand, ugly, faded clothes. This realization was somewhat startling. She ran her hands down her waist and over her hips a few times, feeling the material slide beneath her fingers.

Christine then opened the shoe box, looking at the sensible nude flats and feeling a little disappointed. However, she grudgingly acknowledged the wisdom behind this choice. It was clear that there was no desire for attention to be drawn to her feet by anything. In the box was also a small tube of lipstick, and Christine picked it up and twisted it open. Using the mirror as a guide, she carefully applied some, noting that it matched perfectly with her dress.

Then, pulling on her dress a few more times, she exited the dressing room and went back to the stage. She tugged at her hair, wishing that she had done something with it instead of leaving it wild and frizzy, but there was nothing to be done about it, and so she pushed it behind her shoulders and hoped for the best.

Erik was playing something, and she walked closer to the piano, feeling inexplicably…shy.

She cleared her throat softly, and Erik glanced up at her. To her shock (and faint pleasure), he did a somewhat bizarre-looking double take, as if he had convinced himself that she was not worth looking at twice but still looked anyway. His yellowish eyes swept her up and down, and it was the first time that such a look didn't make her feel objectified and embarrassed. Instead, she felt…flattered.

"It's a really pretty dress," she said quietly, swiveling her hips back and forth a little so that the hem swished around her knees. "What do you think?"

He was silent for a moment, and then he said, "Perfect."

She blushed.