The halls of the opera house were dark and frigid as Christine stumbled down their twisted lengths. Only minutes ago she'd been lying awake in bed, eyes fixed pointedly at the ceiling as Meg's gentle snores drifted the air.

Then her angel had whispered to her.

He'd known about the bullying, of her rather public fight with Marie Perrault earlier that day, how her fellow ballet rat had taken revenge by framing Christine for the sudden, mysterious disappearance of her slippers. In all honesty, Christine would have found it odd if he hadn't known, given the way and speed gossip often permeated the opera house. More importantly though, he'd known that she was innocent, and that the adults were stupid and wrong for falling for Marie's deceit.

It was not an angel's place to punished the wicked, he'd said, but to reward the just. And apparently her reward was waiting in the small practice room off the second floor, stage left corridor.

Her mind already concocting fantasies of sweets and magical creatures, Christine was rather disappointed when she found the room stuffed with its usual boring clutter.

"You seem confused," came the voice of her angel. She jumped slightly at the sound despite expecting it.

"I…" Lying was pointless when it came to him, and yet she wanted so desperately to prove him wrong. That she did indeed understand whatever it was he'd led her here for.

"It is alright," he said, his flippant dismissal only making her feel more unworthy. "I expected you would be. Come. Sit next to me at the piano."

Christine's heart pounded as her eyes shot to the piano bench, but there was no one there. She felt it quickly resume its normal tempo.

She could never seen her angel during any of their other talks. Why did she think this one would be any different?

Biting back a sigh - he could always hear them and almost always questioned her about them, she walked over and took a seat. Christine tensed, straining to feel some sort of angelic presence, but it was to no avail. The piano bench was just as cold and lonely as the rest of the room.

The piano plinked, and Christine squeaked in response. She watched in wide-eyed awe as several keys pressed down of their own accord. Gradually melodies began to form, and before long the invisible player had launched into a full sonata.

"I thought it would be nice for me to play for you," her angel said. "I don't think I've ever had that honor."

Christine merely shook her head, still too stunned for words. Before she could stop herself, she waved her hand over keyboard as if expecting her wrist to collide into flesh and bone.

It didn't.

She heard her angel chuckle, but - mercifully - he chose not to comment. Sometimes she wondered why she still occasionally doubted.

The music had a calming effect, the melody rippling back and forth like the tide. Before she knew it, she was half-sprawled out on the bench, eyes struggling to stay open.

"You had a long day," she heard him say. "Rest."

As she drifted to sleep she could almost imagine the arms scooping around her to carry her back to bed.

The sunlight scorched the back of her eyes as it pierced through her bedroom windows.

Christine jolted awake, sitting up before her mind even processed the movement. Her head pounded. She clutched at it weakly, groaning.

What had happened last night? It all seemed to blur, but there'd definitely been snow and yelling and screaming…

Her eyes widened as the memories came flooding back. Oh, no no no…

She'd completely lost control.

Christine struggled to breathe as panic began to bubble up her throat. Being in this body for so long had affected her more than she'd realized. She had actually thrown a… a tantrum.

Just thinking about the word made her feel sick and childish.

Had she really thought she'd accomplish anything by screaming? In all fairness, a tear or two had - in the past - served a useful purpose on occasion. But those instances had been quite rare and over matters far more trivial than this.

And what did her father think of her now? He had outright accused her of acting strangely. No, it was worse than acting strange. She had been a stranger, an impostor hiding behind the eyes of his cute, little girl.

The accusation, no matter how true, cut at her, further fraying the tattered edges of her sanity when its stitches were barely holding to begin with. Her own father…

If she was lucky, her father would try and act like the previous night had never happened. He certainly hadn't wanted to talk about it once they'd finally gotten back to the house. Exhausted from her continuous screaming and flailing, her father had easily deposited her onto the floor of her room and locked the door behind him before she had time to react. She'd pounded and yelled at it a bit before finally dragging herself to her bed and crying herself to sleep.

No, she didn't think he was at all keen on dredging that up again. And yet, such a choice was hardly in his control.

Despite the… setback of last night, Christine was not about to give up. Not in the slightest. Her father could hate her, could fear her, all he wanted. None of that mattered as long as she still had a chance of saving him.

Swinging herself out of bed, she padded her way to her small battered dresser and picked up the old hand mirror laid on top. Like many of her finer things, few in number as they were, the mirror had once belonged to her mother. Despite her best attempts to keep it polished, Christine noticed with a frown that the delicate heirloom was beginning to show its age, tarnish creeping in along the more intricate grooves.

Staring at her reflection, Christine poked at one eye and then the other. They were both slightly puffy despite the rest she'd gotten.

Above all else, she needed a plan. Christine had never been fond of aimlessly wandering with no future goals or hopes to steer towards… even if that was exactly how she had spent the majority of her life after her father's death.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. She'd had many goals and, indeed, a very structured life. She'd just let other people determine those goals and define that structure for her.

Back when there were just the two of them, a young girl and her angel - before Hannibal, before the phantom - she remembered welcoming the clockwork lessons, his exacting standards and grand visions of her future…

It had been a cold world. Crisp and stark and clinical and always mashing so oddly with the beauty of the music that had surrounded her. But at the same time, a part of her had loved it. His tutelage finally provided her the stability she'd been craving for so long.

And even after the chaos had erupted, even after she'd begun to feel that the world was trying to personally unravel her, Christine had to admit that at least it'd been a comfort having something of a script to follow.

Yet here she was, vowing to change the future - the future, for heaven's sake - while still stumbling along, tackling each day as it came with no thought at all for the infinite days ahead.

Christine took a deep breath and tried running through the whole situation in her head.

Her father wasn't listening to her because he was an adult and she was a child and, as an adult, had far too many obligations to stop and listen to the outlandish fears of a child. Other than being positively infuriating and also somewhat untrue because she was really only half a child, that was fair enough.

The obvious solution to this would be to convince her father that she was indeed an adult, or at least was approaching this situation with all the seriousness and gravity of an adult. The obvious solution to that was… unfortunately not so obvious.

For not the first time, she wondered about telling him the truth. It was tempting, as always, and still always absurd as ever. How would she even begin?

Yes, Papa. I am your daughter, only I'm twenty-one years old, not ten. I only look like I'm a child because I was somehow transported back here… What was that? No, I don't know how it happened. Hmm? You, say you want proof? Some knowledge I have of the future that will validate my claim? Sorry, I don't have any. Oh, in ten years time a terrifying, wonderful, murderous psychopath is going to practically burn down an opera house that hasn't even been completed yet, but if you're looking for something closer to this decade, then no, nothing, because after you died I couldn't have cared less about the world around me because wars and famines and affairs of state were nothing compared to that.

Christine stood in silence, staring in vain at her petulant reflection.

Gustave was struggling to reattach the lid to Pandora's Box and was failing miserably. Desperate to restore some illusion of normality, he'd made one of Christine's favorite breakfasts.

The fresh eggs, jam, and toast currently sat untouched on the plate before her.

"You're going to have to eat eventually," Gustave said between his own mouthfuls. He lingered over each bite, savoring the taste and letting the deliciousness seep into his face, a temptation he knew Christine had never been able to resist.

He peered up at his daughter, taking in her stony expression before returning to his own meal.

"No. Not until you agree to listen to me," he heard her say above the clinks of his fork.

"I already have."

He heard Christine fidget and glanced up again to see her apparently struggling for some retort, but the girl ultimately remained silent.

Gustave tried not to let her behavior unsettle him as he continued to eat. Something was definitely wrong; last night had left no doubts about that. And yet despite her outburst, or perhaps because of it, he still had no idea what to do. His daughter seemed to be terrified of direct confrontation, and - to be entirely honest - he was becoming a bit more than apprehensive himself. But simply ignoring whatever was plaguing her wasn't solving any problems either.

Whatever he eventually decided, however, nothing could be done at the moment. His first dress rehearsal of the day was scheduled in just over an hour. He resolved to sit down and talk to his daughter later that evening.

With a heavy heart, Gustave finished and went to collect his things as Christine remained at the table.

"Christine, please eat your food and get dressed," he called out as he stuffed his sheet music into his case. "We're going to be late."

Music and instrument in hand, he poked his head back into the kitchen to see his daughter sluggishly scoot off her chair and go straight for her coat. Her food was still untouched.

"Ahem," Gustave said when she finally stood next to him at the door, coat buttoned and scarf tied. He looked pointedly between her and her abandoned plate, but she refused to acknowledge his signals.

"Well, Papa? You said we were going to be late." She smiled and nodded at the door, her eyes irritatingly innocent.

He took a deep breath, feeling his temper rise, but forced himself to remain calm. Last night was unacceptable. Even now he still couldn't piece together certain parts of it, how he'd even let them happen, how they'd ended up playing out…

"We are talking about this later."

He searched her face, expecting her to be pleased or upset, any emotion really, but her features were like ice.

She stuck out her hand, he relunctantly took it, and together they set off towards town.

The day passed by slowly. Gustave continued to dwell on his daughter despite his best efforts not to. He lost his place in the music twice and spent the rest of morning mortified at his lack of professionalism. The other musicians had most definitely noticed, even if they'd been too polite to outright condemn him.

As always though, he eventually finished and - with no other commitments scheduled that day - began the trudge home.

If only Christine could understand how impractical the whole thing was. Even with the rail lines having been recently extended out to Saint-Brieuc, it was still a day's worth of travel to the station, another day to reach Paris, and then there'd be the matter of actually scheduling an appointment with, no doubt, an extremely busy physician. A hard-to-schedule, expensive appointment that he didn't even need.

Even by his most liberal calculations, the trip would take at least a week. His first performance was in a few days and only more were to follow, lasting day and night until New Year's.

To drop everything in pursuit of some foolhardy attempt to assuage her paranoia… At the very least, he'd have to cancel on a week's worth of performances. Not to mention that'd he probably be fired from subsequent performances due to missed rehearsals. His reputation would most definitely suffer. No one would ever hire a musician renown for canceling at the last minute.

And if Christine wouldn't understand that, he honestly didn't know what else she could.

When he arrived at Madame Bayard's, the older woman didn't send Christine out to meet him on the front steps as had become custom. No, today she peered at Gustave from behind a cracked door before silently gesturing for him to enter.

"She's in my guest room at the moment," Bayard whispered as she led him into her cramped, yet tidy kitchen. "I wasn't exactly sure what to do. You see, she refused to eat her lunch."

Gustave frowned.

At his lack of verbal response, Bayard continued. "Has something happened? I've never had this trouble with her in the past. Or any trouble, I must say. But she completely refused to listen to me, and yet I didn't want to hit her, the poor child, so I sent her upstairs with her plate and told her she wasn't allowed to leave until she was done. Caught her trying to sneak out, so I locked her in. I thought she'd give up after she realized I was being serious, but it's been hours and she hasn't touched a thing so far. Been going in every so often to check, but it's always the same."

Gustave stared at the ceiling as though he could see through it to his young daughter sitting on a bed, staring defiantly at a wall… hunched over in the darkness and snow… screaming…

He blinked, shaking the memories away. Madame Bayard was obviously distressed, his daughter now on an apparent hunger strike. He needed to deal with what was currently happening, not haunt himself with last night.

"Yes," he finally said. "She's been rather upset lately. I'm still trying to discover exactly what about." It wasn't a complete lie. "Thank you for letting me know."

Madame Bayard fretted some more, and Gustave did his best to brush away her concerns. Something about the whole situation made him want to keep as much of it solely between him and Christine.

The older woman led him upstairs and unlocked - Gustave did wince at that, believing it to be a slightly excessive measure - the door to her guest bedroom. His daughter was leaning against the window, her back to them. On a small powder table in the corner sat an untouched plate of food.

It didn't seem like she'd heard them come in, not turning until Gustave finally called out her name. Her eyes were glassy, cognizant and yet barely there.

He opened his mouth, intending to flat-out order her to eat her food, but his heart clenched at the last second. He couldn't do it.

"Grab your things, Christine," he said instead. "It's time to go home."

If Madame Bayard had her doubts about the situation and how he was choosing to handle it, she at least had the grace not to mention them in his presence.

"I'm sorry the food went to waste," he said as they headed downstairs, plate in hand. Christine had floated off ahead of them; he could hear her rummaging through the coat rack by the front door.

"Don't you worry. It'll keep. Though I thought I should let you know…"

"Hmm?"

"My friend in town, Emilie Toulouse, mother of Young Jean, you know, the carpenter? Well, seems she's taken a bit ill these past couple days. Nothing too serious, but I've been planning on visiting her nonetheless. Spread some holiday cheer and lighten up that dark house of hers. You'll be able to watch little Christine by yourself tomorrow, won't you?"

"Oh." He mentally ran through tomorrow's schedule in his head. Unless he was forgetting something, he didn't think it was too cluttered. "Of course."

Madame Bayard nodded slightly in approval and that was that.

Christine was all ready and bundled up by the time he reached her. Madame Bayard gave both of them a lukewarm smile, and then they were off.

"Why did you refuse the nice meal Madame Bayard made for you?" Gustave asked as they walked.

"Why are you refusing to go to the doctor?"

"I already went to the doctor. He said I was fine."

She still didn't seem to have a response to this and kept quiet for the rest of the journey home.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, Christine practically tore off her outer garments before fleeing through the house and up into the attic. Gustave followed slowly, coming to a rest at the base of the rough, wooden stairs. If she was making any noise up there, he couldn't hear it.

He put his foot on the first step and paused.

He still didn't know what to say. If he followed her now, they would most likely clash again.

Perhaps some sort of answer would come to him as he prepared dinner. With no breakfast and no lunch in her stomach, she shouldn't have been able to last much longer.

And yet somehow she still persisted.

When everything was cooked and ready and she still hadn't come down from the attic, Gustave brought up a bowl of stew to her. Christine was sitting by the window. He offered her the bowl, and she pushed it away, nearly spilling the contents on the floor.

"Christine, what do you want from me?" he pleaded.

She merely stared at him, as though the answer was obvious.

Perhaps she needed a day or two to herself. He placed the bowl by her feet and began to walk away.

"If you had the chance to save Mama, you wouldn't have argued about money."

Gustave went white.

"That's a terrible comparison and you know it," he said carefully, nails digging into his palms.

"It's a very good comparison."

"Christine!" He took a breath as he searched for words. "It's easy to say these things after they've happened. What you're feeling right now- Your mother's death was the greatest tragedy I've ever- I still feel her loss! We both do. But to imply that this is somehow related, that I could have somehow saved her-"

"But if there was a chance, you would!"

"I don't want to hear anymore of this! How many times must I tell you that I am-"

His last word was lost in a sudden coughing onslaught. His eyes blurred with tears as he hunched over, small spasms racking his body. He remerged to see her glaring at him. A distant part of him suddenly felt as though he'd lost some part of their current battle.

"Eat your food," he simply said. "And make sure to get to bed when you're done."

The next morning somehow managed to be the worst yet. The stew had been completely untouched when he'd returned to grab the bowl, and Christine was now refusing to eat a second breakfast.

Desperate and wits frazzling, he stormed over to her side of the table and tried to force the fork in her mouth. As soon as she cried out in pain, he dropped it.

Horrified at himself, he left the table and busied himself with getting ready for the day. Wrapping a scarf around his neck, he peeked into the kitchen. Christine hadn't moved a muscle. Her back was rigid against the chair, chin held high and eyes gazing out into some unknown space. Her face was a blank slate, but Gustave saw tears sprinkling the corners of her eyes.

"Christine, I…"

"I would prefer it if I could stay here by myself today, Papa," she said, keeping the same marble visage. "I can look after myself."

He opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. His mind was a mess. Her cry echoed in his ears, drowning out all sense and reason.

Gustave nodded emptily and left.

He discovered her game that evening. Preparing to make yet another uneaten meal, Gustave took stock of their pantry and discovered two missing eggs, a potato, and a slice of bread.

He shook his head in disbelief. To make such a spectacle and then sneak away food in secret… well, if that was how she wanted to handle it, he would indulge her.

That evening he cooked for one. Halfway through his meal, he caught Christine hovering near the doorway.

"Did you want something?" he asked.

But his daughter merely shook her head and scurried away.

Gustave frowned. He still hadn't reached the bottom of whatever this was, but at least he knew she was eating now, even if it was completely in secret.

When Bayard returned from her social calls and offered to watch Christine again, Gustave politely declined. As long as his daughter was alone and thought no one the wiser, she'd pinch food to her heart's content. Oh, she continued put on her show during breakfasts and dinners, but as the days progressed Gustave grew more and more confident that that was all it was. A show.

Christine was devoting all her energy towards whatever scheme she'd concocted in her head and thought she was succeeding. For the first time in several weeks, Gustave breathed a sigh of relief as life approached normalcy again.

Whatever doubts he did have disappeared when he received his first full paycheck of the season.

He remembered the months, the years of scraping by with barely enough money in his pockets to feed them. They'd taken each day, each night as it came, begging for shelter in musty barn lofts and dilapidated sheds. He remembered Christine shivering in the dark, her hand reaching out as she slept and finding only darkness. He'd made it a point to fill her head with tales of angels and music, if only so that there'd be no space left for demons.

Even now they hadn't truly escaped. One bad season was the difference between their precariously sustainable existence and being cast back into the mire of poverty and despair.

Yes, whatever was plaguing his daughter, he knew he'd done the right thing.

At least he had until he returned home to find Christine's body on the floor.

"Christine!"

Gustave dropped his case, violin and all, as he swooped to his daughter's side. His heart pounded as he turned her over and felt for a pulse. He felt its steady thrum just as he noticed the slight rise and fall of her chest. Just unconscious then.

What was he saying? Just unconscious?

"Christine!" he whispered desperately, tapping her softly on the side of the head. "Christine, wake up!"

She groaned. Her lashes fluttered briefly, eyes glazed and unfocused underneath.

Terrified of somehow harming her further, he carefully scooped her up in his arms - when had she gotten so light?! - and rested her in his large armchair. If he had any luck, she would've remembered to hang her coat in the proper space this time.

Flinging open the closet doors, he gave a small prayer of thanks when indeed the tiny coat was exactly where it should've been. He made his way back to Christine and quickly dressed her for the cold evening.

It took all too long, his fingers fumbling with the simple button-up front. The second they left the last button, he scooped her up in his arms once again and pushed his way out the front door with his shoulder.

"Your daughter will be fine, Monsieur Daae," Doctor Renard said, pausing as Gustave let out an extremely audible sigh of relief. "She simply needs some good rest… and nutrition."

The two men stood in the children's ward of the town's clinic, a small room with a handful of beds lined neatly in two rows. All of its young occupants were currently asleep, including Christine.

"Nutrition?" Gustave asked. "You mean as in more fruit? Or more meat?"

The doctor eyed him with a suspicious eye. "I mean as in more food. In general. Your daughter is currently suffering from mild starvation."

Gustave was at a loss for words.

Christine. Starvation.

"No," he said. "That can't be right. I checked the pantry. She was taking food. I checked the pantry."

"What are you talking about?"

"She tried… She went on a small hunger strike, but it didn't last long. She started eating when she thought I wasn't looking. The first meal she skipped was a week-" His heart nearly stopped. "Oh, God. Has she been not eating for a week?!"

"A hunger strike, whatever for?"

"I'd just assumed that-"

"Monsieur Daae! What was the strike for?"

"She's…" He mentally cursing every second he'd thought that things were fine. "She's been concerned about my cough."

"Your cough?" the doctor asked incredulously. "The one you came to see me about before? You did mention she'd been concerned, yes, but I told you I found nothing terribly wrong. Didn't you tell her my diagnosis?"

"I did. She didn't listen." He looked at his daughter, his brow furrowing. "That is she listened to the parts she wanted. I accidentally mentioned Paris. She… latched onto the idea. Wouldn't leave it alone."

Gustave had half hoped the doctor would have some magical cure, but the older man remained silent and pensive.

"How long does she need to stay here?" Gustave asked.

"Not very long. I'd recommend she stay the night, to ward off any unexpected complications, but she should be fine to return home tomorrow morning." Renard sighed. "The trouble of course is not her current state, but letting it degrade further. If she is on a hunger strike, you must get her to eat again. One way or another."

"What am I going to do? Tie her down and force her?" His mind was aghast at the thought.

"She is your daughter, Monsieur Daae. I am sure you two will be able to come to some solution…"

He trailed off as a nurse approached and informed him that he was needed elsewhere.

"Ask for me if you require anymore assistance," Renard said before he left. "You may stay awhile if you wish."

Gustave nodded, sitting down on the plain wooden chair stationed next to Christine's bed. He looked at his daughter's face, pale and unassuming. She seemed frailer than usual, though in the current circumstances that was hardly surprising. Her reached out to brush the curls from her face when he suddenly felt his chest seize.

He quickly turned away, covering his mouth with his fist just before another attack begun. He tried to be as quiet as possible, thinking both of Christine and the other children in the room, but his lungs weren't abiding by common curtesy.

"Papa?" Christine's voice croaked.

He tried to hide his hand, mask his final cough with an abrupt clearing of his throat, but it was too late.

"You were coughing again," she said with a frown, indignant despite being the one laid up in bed for starving herself.

Starving herself!

"Christine," he said, bringing his clean hand to her face, laying the back of it against her soft cheek. "You have no idea how much you scared me today."

She was silent, and Gustave wondered whether her next words would be ones of argument or apology.

To be honest, he wasn't sure how he'd respond if they were the former. Despite his frustration, his terror, his desire for her to never frighten him like that again… Her sheer stubbornness was what had led them to this point. Arguing would lead them nowhere, and yet by conceding she would never understand the sheer gravity and risk of what she'd put herself-

"Yes, I do," she said, the words soft and haunting.

A cold shock swept through him.

"Why, Christine?" he finally asked.

"Because you're sick."

She said it matter-of-factly, the same way someone would say "because the sky is blue" or "because the sun is warm." It was more unsettling than he cared to admit.

"The doctor said you'll have to stay the night," Gustave said instead. "I can stay as long as you want me to though."

Christine glanced past him at a window. It was still relatively early in the evening, but the sun had set nearly an hour ago.

"Thank you," she said. "But it's already so cold outside, and you should be going home before it grows colder."

"Christine…"

His daughter was too mature for her age. Hell, she was too mature for the girl she'd been only months ago. Innumerable questions danced on his tongue, but he had no idea how to ask any of them.

"The food in the pantry," he heard himself saying. "It was disappearing."

She flinched at that.

"I've been storing it under a loose floorboard in the attic," Christine said so softly it was nearly a whisper. "I thought about just tossing it outside, but I didn't want to waste it. I had to, you see. You would've found a way to stop if you knew. I had to…"

"Had to what?"

"Let it come to this."

Gustave stared at his daughter. She stared back.

Christine eventually broke the silence, clutching her blanket tight as she leaned close to him. "Please, Papa!" she pleaded. "You must go to Paris! You have to be properly examined!

"Christine… I…"

He didn't know whether to be outraged or terrified. Terrified for both her and her pure conviction that he was to indeed suffer some ominous fate. She was a ten-year-old girl. A simple ten-year-old girl, staring down a grown man. Her father.

Gustave wrapped her up to him and kissed her on the forehead.

"We'll talk more in the morning."

"But-"

"In the morning."

And Christine relented, as if suddenly remembering that she was a child again. The whiplash was almost as disconcerting as everything else, but by then he was too hollowed out to notice.

The postman met Gustave on his way back into town the next morning. As the man carried only a single letter and Gustave still had a fair ways to go, he decided to read it as he walked.

The envelope was postmarked with a curious name, Oskar Bernstein. There was a familiarity about it that only grew and grew as he opened it and read.

It was though he'd entered some alternate universe. There was an offer to tour Germany. A sponsorship. Finally recognition at last. Gustave's heart swelled, his mind turning with the possibility of it all.

If the letter was in earnest - and he failed to see why it wouldn't be - it signaled the opportunity of a lifetime. Of course, he and Christine would have to move. They'd have to sell many of the belongings they'd slowly begun to accumulate. The landlord would have to be notified of their eventual departure, although that was the least of Gustave's worries.

His thoughts scattered briefly when he reached town's first intersection.

Christine.

How would she even begin to take this? If a simple cough had led to all this, what would a move to a completely different country hail in? He hadn't even written back yet to accept. Would he be able to accept? How could he refuse?

Gustave greeted Doctor Renard near the entrance of his small clinic and then walked upstairs. Most of the other children were still asleep; one was reading a book. Christine was up, sitting complacently in her bed and humming a tune he couldn't quite place. He'd thought he'd known all her songs but figured she must've picked it up somewhere else, as all children eventually did.

She stopped when she saw him and smiled, but it was a thin, toothless smile.

Gustave suddenly felt like some clockwork man. He sat down next to her and let his body carry him through their - now - normal routine. He asked what was wrong… she avoided the question…

He was beginning to prepare himself for yet another round of arguments when Christine stopped in mid-sentence.

She twisted, staring at something. Gustave followed her eyes to the corner of the envelope sticking out of his trouser pocket.

"What is that?" she asked.

He hadn't quite planned on bringing it up so soon, not when he hadn't had the time to properly think the entire offer over, but surely there wasn't much damage the letter could do that hadn't already been done. Perhaps it had the power to break their current statemale.

"It arrived in the mail this morning," he said, pulling it out of his pocket. "It's from a Monsieur Oskar Bernstein."

"Stop!"

Unlike all the other times she'd caused him to struggle for words this week, he felt no tremor of fear or shock, simply confusion. His cold was one thing, but now she objected to… letters? Perhaps…

"What is it, Christine?" he asked as gently as possible. "Do you know of this Bernstein?"

"No- I… That-" Her eyes darted back and forth as she stared down at her covers, her mind trapped in some incomprehensible war.

She jumped out of her bed before he could catch her and began to pace the short distance between her small bed and the next. Her eyes were squeezed shut now, hands softly shaking with the barest of movements. The book-reading child was opening staring at them, but Gustave paid him no attention.

Christine eventually stopped at the window, placing her hand on the frozen glass.

"Will you continue to ignore me?" she whispered.

"Christine," he groaned. "I'm not ignor-"

"Paris, Papa. Will you keep refusing to go?"

"Christine, we've been through-"

Christine whipped to face him, face stark white and hands clutched in front of her in a shade to match. She met his eyes briefly before tearing them away again.

"That letter," she began. "From Oskar Bernstein. It's an invitation to Germany, isn't it?"

What…

"He's offering you a full sponsorship. It's everything you've ever dreamed of. It was everything I ever dreamed of… And you're going to accept. You act like you still have something to think over because it is such a big decision, but you're going to accept."

Distantly he felt his mouth hanging open.

"Don't ask me how I know all this. Please, don't. But, God…" She closed her eyes. "Please believe me when I say you need to go to Paris."

That seemed to be the end of what she had to say, but Gustave continued to stare at her well past that.

He tried to think, to form some sort of question, any kind of question, but he was unable to string a single word or thought together. Some enormous scale began to tip…

"I'll- I'll write to Antoinette," he finally managed to choke out. "I'll tell them we'll be in Paris before the fortnight is out."

A/N: This chapter was perhaps the most emotionally difficult and draining thing I have ever written.