The costume's fabric itched terribly against her right side, but both her hands were currently engaged elsewhere. Christine held out her plate as Meg piled pastry upon pastry on top of it, rambling about - she forced herself to briefly pay attention - keeping berries fresh in the winter.

The decorated entrance hall of the Salle Le Peletier was inarguably beautiful. Christine counted at least six gargantuan Christmas trees that stretched the full height of floor to ceiling in addition to the many smaller ones peppered throughout. And then there were the never-ending lengths of garland wound around every single bannister as well as the thousands of wreathes hung wherever space permitted. All around her people danced and gossiped and laughed.

Christine glanced around the room, searching for familiar faces. Monsieur Lefevre was still the manager. He flitted about the room, seemingly determined to make the acquaintance of every single attendee before the night was over. Carlotta and Piangi were together, each with a glass of wine and whispering constant remarks to the other. Every so often Carlotta would sneak a glance at the woman who'd been playing the Queen of the Night.

Not terribly interested in that, Christine let her eyes continue to wander until they spotted Madame Giry. Although her current dress was far more elegant than her usual ones, the woman couldn't quite shake off her preference for black.

Standing next to her was M. Reyer. Madame Giry was talking to him rather animatedly, probably about what a mess the first performances had been and how much more the ballet needed to improve before the next. As before the man was disconcertingly young. Christine tried to ignore him and keep her focus on Madame Giry.

"Christine! Aren't you listening, Christine?"

"What?" Christine drifted back around. "Oh, yes. Of course."

Meg sighed. "Honestly. It's bad enough when your mind wanders off to God knows where. You don't have to lie about it," she said. Christine started to protest, but Meg waved her silent. "Come on, I see a couple open seats by that Christmas tree over there."

Christine followed her, her chin tucked practically to her chest. As soon as they were seated, Meg started tearing into her food. Christine stuck to the occasional bite. She hadn't really had an appetite since that night.

While the three women were out here at the gala, her father was currently at home, resting. That's all the doctor had for advice. Rest.

Her father didn't know how to rest.

The doctor had also recommended that her father admit himself to a sanatorium in the countryside once the weather cleared up enough. With the fresh air and clean living, the people in sanatoriums apparently had slightly improved chances for survival.

Her father was considering it.

Her father also made it clear that if he went, Christine would not be following. It was too dangerous, he'd said. Christine could easily become ill as well.

If was just a matter of her being left behind, that would be difficult enough. But they'd just come from the countryside. Her father had had plenty of fresh air and clean living then, and look when it'd gotten them.

Christine wanted to scream.

She'd hadn't wanted to come with Meg to the gala. Not really. All the laughter and noise and general happiness was making her head hurt, as she'd known it would.

But she hadn't wanted to stay in that tiny flat either. She never said it out loud because she didn't want to offend the Giry's who had really been so nice and supportive, but she was sick and tired of that flat. And Meg had looked so desperate and pleading when she'd asked…

Despite the ten year difference, there was very little changed about her friend. Meg adored spectacle and wonder. Attending galas like these were always her dream. Christine had briefly considered refusing, even after her father had granted her permission, but ended up conceding at the last second.

It was Christmas. At the very least, one of them could find some happiness tonight.

And happy she was.

"Try the strawberry tarts," Meg said, pointing to one on Christine's plate. "They're delicious."

Christine nodded blankly. She slowly nibbled at the recommended tart as their conversation, or lack thereof, once again lapsed into silence.

"Oh, look over there! Isn't that woman's dress lovely?"

Christine looked at where Meg was pointing. A tall, elegant woman with black luscious hair pinned into an extravagant bun was standing fairly near them. Her dress was deep emerald in color and looked incredibly expensive. It had a subtle shine to it, threads sparkling every so often when they caught the light. The tailoring was unparalleled. Christine had always been a horrible judge of price, but she wouldn't have been surprised if the dress cost Madame Giry's entire yearly salary.

However, Christine didn't feel like making the effort to voice all these thoughts.

"Yes," she merely said. "It is."

This clearly wasn't a satisfying enough answer for Meg. Christine heard her friend sniff discontentedly.

"Well, when I'm older, I shall be a world famous dancer and have dresses just like that. Or better. And hundreds of admirers to buy them for me," she said.

"Hundreds?"

"Why not? And what about you?"

"Oh," Christine said. "I shall do something… I suppose."

It was a cruel answer, and in the back of her mind she knew it. All Meg was trying to do was help, to drag Christine back into the bright world of fun and games.

But as much as she tried, Christine couldn't find it in herself to care about any of these silly little topics. She'd agreed to come. Wasn't that enough?

"I'm going to get more food," Meg said abruptly. Christine watched her practically stomp back over to the dessert table.

Shit.

Christine buried her face in her hands and took a deep shuddering breath. She needed air, only this time she couldn't conveniently step into the hall for five minutes. She had to… Perhaps she could…

Each half-formed idea flickered briefly through her head before turning to dust.

She didn't know what to do.

"Of course it seems alright to you. You're focused on the music; you don't see everyone. If you were able to truly view the performance, you'd see that how appalling it really is. In my day, the whole corps de ballet would've been sacked. Or at least reprimanded far more harshly than I've ever been able to." Antoinette sniffed. "They disgrace the name of the Opera Populaire."

"Surely their talent isn't all that lacking," Julien Reyer said with a smile. "We've had several full houses so far, and the men in charge of the box offices assure us that more are to follow."

"Perhaps for the masses, it is enough," she said. She sighed heavily. "I dread the day we attract a true ballet critic for a patron."

Julien opened his mouth for some kind of cheerful rebuttal.

"Madame Giry, is it?" asked a voice. "I'm most sorry to interrupt you like this, but may I have a word?"

Antoinette and Julien turned to see an older, darker-skinned gentleman regarding them kindly. Most kindly indeed. His suit was well-tailored but old fashioned, marking him as a man of wealth, but not of extravagance. Antoinette recognized him from somewhere, but no matter how much she tried couldn't quite place him. A patron, perhaps. Or rather a friend of a patron.

"You must excuse me, Monsieur," she said with a polite nod of her head. "You are in possession of my name, but unfortunately I cannot seem to remember yours."

"Oh, we only met the once, and it was very brief. I would be quite surprised if you'd remembered me. My name is Nadir Khan. I'm-"

All at once the memories rushed back.

"Yes, of course," she said quickly. "You came to one of guest rehearsals back in August and toured the backstage areas afterwards. It is an honor to see you again. How have you enjoyed this year's season so far?"

"Most splendidly. Thank you."

"And your friend? Monsieur Renaud?"

"Absent, unfortunately. He had some last minute business to attend to, I'm afraid. Makes slaves of us all."

"On Christmas?"

"The more urgent the need, the more irrelevant the time."

"I suppose that is quite understandable." Antoinette nodded to Julien as he politely took his leave. "Now, Monsieur Khan. What may I assist you with?"

"Well, it isn't so much a 'what'…" he said. His smile faded slightly. "That girl over there. Is she with you?"

Antoinette followed his gaze towards one of the larger Christmas trees. At first she had some difficulty finding exactly what it was that the man was referring to, and then there. There was Christine sitting in the tree's great shadow, all dressed up with frills and ribbons and hair curled like a Christmas doll, hunched over upon herself and trying very hard not to cry.

"Oh dear."

And where was Meg? Meg who'd so graciously pleaded with her mother to be able come on the sole behalf of Christine. Meg who'd championed the outing as the way to try and cheer the poor girl up. Antoinette's eyes narrowed as they swiveled across the ballroom, coming to a particularly fine point as they found her daughter stockpiling cakes and goodies for herself at one of the many dessert tables.

She'd have to have a sharp word with her later.

"I saw her with your daughter earlier," M. Khan was saying. "At least I think it was your daughter. Anyways, I felt I had to inquire in case there was anything I could do. It's quite upsetting to see a young girl so distraught in the face of all this." He gestured to the room at large.

"Thank you for your concern, Monsieur Khan," Antoinette said. "Unfortunately, I don't believe there is anything either of us can do. Her current troubles are most serious and quite beyond our abilities to solve."

M. Khan looked thoughtful for a moment.

"I know it is quite ungentlemanly for me to keep imposing like this," he said. "But may I ask what those troubles are?"

Antoinette regarded the man with a slow, critical eye. If he had any ulterior motive, he was hiding it well. His face was a picture of perfect sincerity, painted with nothing but the finest shades of tenderness and concern. Perhaps there really were people out there in the world who genuinely cared for complete strangers, even if Antoinette had only encountered them in stories until now.

A man's health was a private matter, and it really was none of her business divulging what she knew to anyone who asked, and yet… Antoinette couldn't find any terrible harm in telling M. Khan.

What could the man honestly do with the information?

"Her father is quite ill," Antoinette found herself saying. "And it doesn't appear as though he'll recover."

"I am sorry to hear that," M. Khan said. He frowned. "But surely there is always something. If it's a matter of money to see the right doctor…"

Antoinette shook her head. "It's…" She'd already revealed this much. Might as well reveal the rest. "It's consumption," she said. "Even if her father were the richest man in Paris, he'd be looking at the same fate."

"Consumption isn't always fatal," he said, stroking his chin. "They've made some great strides in recent years. This city living… They've started a series of programs in the countryside."

"Sanatoriums, yes. Her father and I have spoken, and we have considered it." Antoinette frowned. "I believe it is his best chance for recovery, but…"

"But?"

"Oh, it's silly. A fool's hope is better than none, right?" she said with a small wave of her hand. "And yet, I can't see him in one of those houses. He's not a man to sit and breathe and wait for his body to naturally recover. He's a born musician, no better than I. He'll drive himself mad, forced to a bed when he could be out performing and making his keep. Not to mention that if he goes, he's already adamant that his daughter stay here with me."

"Very reasonable. But either way, she loses him," M. Khan said, still staring at Christine.

He didn't say anything else, and Antoinette didn't feel like continuing. A part of her already felt like she'd said too much.

"If you'll excuse me, Monsieur Khan," Antoinette said, nodding her head again. "I must speak with my daughter."

"Oh," M. Khan said snapping out of whatever pool of thought he'd immersed himself in. "Yes. yes, of course. My condolences to the family."

"They're much appreciated. Thank you."

Antoinette had hardly taken two steps before he stopped her again.

"What's her name, by the way? The girl's."

"It's Christine," she said. "Christine Daae."

A sharp cackle echoed in her ears.

Christine whipped around. She was in a long, empty corridor, the end lost to darkness. It was also freezing. Her breath came out in small puffs as she rubbed her bare arms for warmth. She didn't remember getting here.

She didn't remember much of anything.

Christine turned back around and saw her staring back at herself in a full length mirror.

Then her reflection smiled coldly, and Christine realized there wasn't any glass.

"So," the other Christine said. "How does it feel to be completely powerless?"

The words stung.

"I'm trying the best I can," Christine said. It wasn't really an answer.

"What a lie." The other Christine placed her hands on her cheeks and adopted a look of faux concern. "Poor, little Mademoiselle Daae. All she ever does is sit and cry and everyone hands her everything." Her lips curled into a scowl.

"That's not…" Even as Christine said them, the words sounded hollow. "That's not true."

"Why then the hesitation?" The other Christine's eyes twinkled with smug satisfaction. "You've been dreaming for too long. It only seems fair that you should finally suffer."

The corridor exploded.

Christine woke up, her heart pounding with adrenaline.

It was just a nightmare. Just a nightmare.

Although, that meant even her subconscious was now doubting her ability to do anything right.

Wonderful.

It'd been a couple days since the Christmas gala. New Year's was just around the corner, and she had no idea what the future held. Christine supposed that was its own victory of sorts, having changed enough that she could no longer see where the tracks led. Not that it gave her any comfort.

Christine dragged herself out of the bed that she now shared with Meg. The room was empty, meaning that both Giry's were already up. For once she was glad of that; she didn't want to bother them with her nightmares on top of everything else.

Meg still hadn't quite gotten over Christine's attitude at the gala. Not that Christine entirely blamed her. Madame Giry had come around shortly after Meg had stormed off and practically forced the two to stick together. The spent most of the rest of the night mired in awkward silence.

Christine made her way to the kitchen. There must have only been an afternoon rehearsal that day since Madame Giry was cooking breakfast. Christine sat down at the table across from Meg. The two locked eyes briefly before Christine hurriedly glanced away.

Her father was still sleeping on the couch. He seemed to be doing okay so far in terms of heeding the doctor's advice to rest, but Christine had no idea how long it would last. Soon or later his hands would start twitching, and he'd want to get back to work. He'd work his way straight into the grave.

The thought almost made her burst into tears again, but at this stage she was too worn out to cry.

Madame Giry pushed a bowl of porridge in front of her with a soft clunk. Christine thanked her and began to eat.

She'd tried thinking ahead, using her knowledge of the future to tackle huge life events. Life and death events. And she had failed miserably.

Christine suddenly thought of all the tragic heroes in ancient Greek legends. They'd all had visions and prophecies of the future and always ended up causing the very things they were trying to avert. Macbeth too. Why on earth had she thought she could do any better?

She just wanted to go back to concentrating on one day at a time again.

A knock on the door signaled the arrival of the day's mail. Meg shoveled in the last couple bites of her porridge and ran to grab it. Christine had barely touched hers. She knew she had to eat it. She was starting to lose some weight, and the last thing she or her father needed was for her to end up in the hospital again too.

Still, she couldn't force herself to be hungry and the porridge that morning was looking particularly unappetizing. She played with her food, lifting up a spoonful only to turn the utensil and watch it sloop back down into the rest of the cream colored muck.

"You've got a letter, Christine."

She was so wrapped up in the repetitive moments and the phrase so unexpected, that Christine didn't realize Meg was talking to her at first.

Then it clicked.

"What?"

"There's a letter here," Meg repeated. She held up the offending envelope in question. "For you."

Christine ignored Madame Giry's look of suspicion and plucked it out of Meg's hand.

The envelope was indeed addressed to a "Mademoiselle Daae." It had no return address.

It'd couldn't have been from him, could it? Rationally, she was a stranger to him now. Even if he had seen her, she'd done nothing to make herself stand out of the crowd. Not to him anyway.

But before she could work herself into a frenzy over that line of thought, Christine realized she didn't recognize the handwriting. If there was one person's handwriting imprinted onto the back of her skull, it was his. He'd certainly written enough notes.

"Who else knows you're here?" Meg asked.

That was a good question as well. Christine and her father hadn't publicized their current residence to anyone.

"I don't know," she heard herself saying lamely.

"You might as well open it, dear," Madame Giry said. "There's never been any harm in opening a letter. Not physically at least."

Christine nodded and quickly tore it open. A single piece of parchment lay folded inside. She took it out and read:

Mademoiselle Daae,

You are no doubt confused by the presence of this letter, and I apologize for the unorthodox approach I've been forced to take. I happened across you this year at the Salle Le Peletier's annual Christmas Gala. It always pains me to see a young girl such as yourself be so distressed, especially surrounded by such festivities.

Once again, may you forgive me my ungentlemanly intrusion, but I inquired after you and heard of your current and most sorrowful plight.

More than anything, I do not wish to give you false hope. I understand the pain it can bring.

Despite this, I cannot stand by when I believe that I may be able to help. I happen to have a relation in Vienna who specializes in experimental treatments for pulmonary diseases. I must warn you, his methods are radical and forward-thinking and not yet accepted by the greater medical community as a whole. However, if you and your father are willing, I'd be more than delighted to contact him and recommend your father as a patient.

Do not worry about expenses.

Madame Giry should know how to contact me if you accept. Whether or not she decides to disclose my identity is up to her.

- A Friend

Christine was speechless. She quickly read the letter again, confident that she had missed something. This was surely a jest, some kind of trick. Maybe she'd read it wrong. Or she was hallucinating. She wouldn't be surprised at hallucinations after all she'd been through the past couple of months.

Surely anything other than an honest to God anonymous benefactor.

She checked the handwriting again. It was most definitely foreign.

How was she supposed to plan for things when they hit her out of nowhere? This… person had been nowhere in her original past. What was he doing here now? Did he want something from her?

"Christine?" Madame Giry asked. "What did it say?"

The words startled her. Her father was still asleep, but Madame Giry and Meg were both now staring at her intently.

"It said to ask you," Christine said blankly. She passed over the letter with a trembling hand.

Madame Giry's eyes flew down the page. Halfway through she gave a little gasp.

"Impossible," she breathed.

"Do you… do you know who wrote this?" Christine asked

"Yes. I think, no, I'm quite sure it was him."

"Him who? What did he write?" Meg asked.

"I do hope you'll forgive me," Madame Giry said, still not taking her eyes off the letter. Meg hovered next to her, trying to read its contents. "I know it wasn't my business to tell, but he seemed very concerned when he asked about you at the gala. And yet, to offer something like this…"

"Offer what?"

"Who is he?" Christine asked. "Do I know him?"

How many mysterious opera men did Madame Giry keep contact with?

"No," she said. "In fact, I barely know him. He's a patron, or rather a friend of one. I gave him a tour of the opera house several months ago. He was very kindly with a good humor, if a bit quiet overall." She paused, skimming over the letter again. "He says it's up to me… His name is Nadir Khan."

"Nadir Khan," Christine repeated, trying out the syllables. It sounded foreign. Maybe… No. It didn't ring any bells whatsoever. She looked Madame Giry square in the eyes. "Why me?"

Madame Giry's brow wrinkled in thought. "I have no idea," she finally said. "Perhaps it's simply the Christmas season. It does strange things to all of us. But we should probably wake your father."

"Wake him for what?!" Meg cried out, practically straining on the very ends of her toes to take a peek.

Christine turned to her young friend. "My father's been ill," she said. "I was starting to lose hope. But now…"

The mysterious Khan had warned her not to get her hopes up. Whatever treatment he or his relation had to offer, it was only experimental. The letter never offered a guarantee. It was quite clear about that.

And just who was this Nadir Khan? Why was she trusting his words so quickly? Madame Giry admitted that she barely knew the man.

It was a single letter. She hadn't even woken her father yet to hear his opinion.

And again. Why her?

The Christmas season. Christine nearly laughed. It'd never given her any miracles in the past. It made no sense for them to randomly happen now. There were no angels. Not true ones anyway.

Then again, maybe she was being too harsh. She'd had one mysterious benefactor, and now she had a second. From Madame Giry's brief description, they sounded like two very different and separate men. If the first had been a false angel, perhaps this time the offer was truly selfless and genuine.

Perhaps she was owed this.

Poor, little Mademoiselle Daae. All she ever does is sit and cry and everyone hands her everything.

Christine suddenly felt very cold. But that couldn't be… she only knew what had already happened, not anything past the point where she'd changed things. Her dream and the letter arriving this morning was just coincidence. She had nothing to do with it.

And that was the whole problem, wasn't it. Once again someone else's solution was dropped at her feet.

No. It wasn't, another part her argued.

She was the one who'd made the plans to get her father here to the city. She was the one who'd fought. She was the one who'd starved herself. If it wasn't for that, they'd still be in their little house by the sea, Christine would've never attended the gala, and Monsieur Khan would've never stumbled across her.

Maybe the girl who sat around waiting for life to happen to her was who she'd been, but not anymore.

She deserved this.

Christine took a deep and smiled. "Maybe I can hope after all."

A/N: Thank you once again to everyone who's reviewed so far. And a special shout out to tuberculous!anon since I can't reply directly to their review. In my original draft, I was going to have Christine persuade her father to go to the doctor, the doctor give a shot of antibiotics, and boom. Onto the next plot point. Then I started researching TB and found out, "Oh yeah, they didn't really have a cure back then. Just rest and fresh air and prayer." So it morphed into the thing it is now.

And while most TB infections occurred in cities, there were a number that did not. For the purposes of this story, Gustave just has a slightly weaker immune system and is also a workaholic. But yeah. Thank you for the review! I appreciate more detail/corrections whenever I get it; I tried to work some clarifications into this chapter. Maybe they worked. Maybe they didn't.