Christine sat perched on a hospital chair, swinging her feet back and forth as Dr. Ahmadi took a sample of her father's blood.

"What kind of tests are you going to do with that?" she asked as he started to label the vial.

For all that M. Khan's letter had labeled him a radical and experimental thinker, Dr. Ahmadi looked as composed, level-headed, and organized as all the other doctors she'd known. The only difference was his skin color, and even that wasn't too noticeable at first glance.

Ahmadi had told them that he'd come from Persia, some distant foreign land to the east. Apparently this was M. Khan's homeland as well.

Persia.

Christine honestly didn't know much about it. The name did sound rather exotic.

Though if she was speaking about foreigners, Christine was hardly one to judge. France had been alien enough when she and her father had first immigrated there; she'd almost forgotten that after nearly twenty years in the country.

Moving to Vienna brought all those half-discarded feeling straight back. Once again she was having to learn a new language. Luckily for them Dr. Ahamdi spoke decent French.

"We'll be checking his iron and sugar levels," he said, finishing his markings and passing the vial off to a nearby nurse. "As well as searching for foreign abnormalities. The underlying cause for consumption is still unknown. I believe the search is equally as important as the cure. I have my experimental treatments, but - given more knowledge - our methods for combating it could be so much less… invasive."

Invasive was one way to phrase it.

The last time Christine and her father had visited Dr. Ahmadi's office, he'd explained in detail the technique that he'd sworn had huge beneficial effects and even managed to fully cure a couple of his patients.

Much of the explanation was very technical and politely worded, but all Christine had gotten out of it was that the doctor was going to cut open her father's chest on a biweekly basis. The procedure would collapse the lung, he'd said, giving the organ time to heal. It sounded ghastly and mad and had there been any other alternative, she would have marched her father out of the hospital right then and there.

"Will it interfere with my work?" was all her father had asked.

Christine had nearly strangled him. Couldn't he see that his workaholic tendencies were what'd led them here in the first place?

Thankfully Dr. Ahmadi had been equally unamused. "Your lungs will be functioning at less than half their normal capacity," he said with all the resignation of one who'd been through this before. "You need rest, Herr Daae."

Towards the end of their current visit, Christine's father tried once again to bring up the subject of payment, but Dr. Ahmadi shook his head, silencing him before he could truly begin.

"As I have said before and will undoubtably say again, it has all been arranged for."

While it rankled her father's pride, the answer suited Christine just fine. She grabbed his hand and started pulling him towards the carriage that was waiting for them outside.

"It's not that I don't appreciate it," he muttered as Christine hopped in. He frowned, hesitating, then followed and shut the door behind him. "But a lot of this is simply more than we need."

"It's all for your health, Papa," she said for what felt like the thousandth time.

"Look at this carriage though. We don't need a carriage. We've always been find with walking. I just don't know what's expected of me… how I'm going to repay it all."

"Papa," Christine said, frustration bleeding through her usually calm tone. "It's freezing outside. The carriage is here so you don't get worse. Everything is here so you don't get worse."

He brushed aside her concerns. "That doesn't change anything," he said. "It's just too much. And the house! What kind of man goes to such expenses for a complete stranger?"

"A good one," Christine automatically replied. Secretly, his words struck a chord. She couldn't tell him that she often thought the same exact thing; it'd only serve to rile him further.

Both father and daughter sat in silence for the rest of the short journey home. Christine drew back the curtains and watched as Vienna passed by.

It wasn't too much of a stretch to believe in simply good people. Was it?

Nadir Khan had appeared as mysteriously as fire-warmed cave in a blizzard. The man had arranged for her father to get treatment here, for their travel expenses, for their residence…

Her father had one thing right. If the Persian ever expected them to pay any of it back, she didn't know where either of them would begin.

The horses stopped and Christine practically leapt out.

Of all the beautiful new things in Vienna, Christine loved the new home that'd been provided for them the most.

It was a little place on the borders of the city, just far enough away to have a bit of privacy from the hustle and the noise, but close enough to the hospital in case of any emergency. There was a spacious garden in the back. Most the flowers were dead, but Frau Schultz assured them that they'd bloom once again in the spring.

Frau Schultz was their live-in nurse who'd been sent by the hospital to keep an eye on Christine's father at all times, and especially once the treatment began. She was a stocky, older woman with a no-nonsense mood about her. Although she spoke a decent amount of French, she was much more comfortable in her native German. Christine's father had no great desire to learn, but Christine had already started to pick up several phrases from her.

They'd practice in the library when her father took his naps. When he was awake, he tended to hover them, subconsciously scolding them from daring to venture out from the more "common" areas. Her father was determined to use as few rooms in the house as possible to decrease their presence and chances of breaking things.

Christine tried to tell him that all the furniture in the house was of the highest quality and therefore not prone to breakage, but that only made it worse. With the exception the kitchen and one of the parlor rooms, there was a luxury about the house that put her father on edge. It agitated him. Whether it was because of his discomfort towards their supposed debt or feeling as though he simply didn't belong in a rich world, Christine could only guess.

Occasionally she considered writing to the mysterious Nadir Khan to ask for a more humble residence. Perhaps her father would stop wincing every time she touched something other than the floor. Then she'd look around and wonder why the thought even popped into her head.

Despite her equally humble upbringing, Christine felt vastly more at ease with the mahogany bookcases and crystal chandeliers than her father. She'd grown more used to Raoul's practically unlimited wealth during their six month engagement than she cared to admit.

Although all the rooms had their own unique flair, the library was easily the most wonderful in the house.

Books on practically every subject imaginable lined three of its walls while great ceiling length windows aligned the fourth, overlooking the gardens. Curtains blocked them for now to keep the heat in, but she could just imagine how beautiful it'd be in the summer. There was a great fireplace with two high-backed chairs positioned nearby that - she was proud to say from experience - were just perfect for curling up in. One very large and intricately patterned carpet lined the floor, enveloping her toes from the cold on the chillier days.

And in the center of all this was the piano, sleek and black and grand.

More often than not, Christine wondered who actually owned the house. When she'd first arrived, her main guess had been that it belonged to the mysterious Nadir Khan, but now she wasn't as sure. She'd spent her first week poking her nose into all sorts of cabinets and drawers. There were no pictures or portraits on the wall and no identifying papers or documents… although she did find several fountain pens in one particularly fine, antique writing desk bearing the initials "CR."

Unless her knowledge of the alphabet was completely off, the chance of M. Khan being the owner was slim.

Frau Schultz wasn't much use either. The nurse insisted that she was an employee of the hospital first and foremost and knew nothing of the arrangements other than what'd been told to her by Dr. Ahmadi.

Perhaps her first intuition had been right and it did belong to M. Khan after all. Perhaps it'd been chosen solely for its location, and it belonged to some random landlord that she'd never meet.

Either way, the owner had to be a musician. No one owned an instrument of that quality simply to look at it.

Christine's father wasn't nearly as enraptured. She still asked him every so often if he would play something for her, but every time he refused. Just as it was with everything else in the house, the piano wasn't theirs. And if he was worried that Christine would break the house's lamps by lighting them and the house's chairs by sitting on them, he was absolutely terrified at what disasters could be wrought with the piano.

It was part of why the library had become strictly "off limits" unless she was under the watchful gaze of either himself or Frau Schultz.

However, her father was nothing if not doting, and he was always quick to mollify her with a song from his violin after each altercation. At those times Christine finally felt a semblance of peace. Or at least she did until the clock struck eleven and Frau Schultz would start scolding him and hurry him off to bed.

The German woman did her best to keep father and daughter quarantined. She prepared all the meals and supervised their time together. Physical contact was kept to bare minimum. Any time her father started coughing, Christine was banned from the room.

After awhile, Christine began to suspect Frau Schultz wasn't there for her father's health at all.

At least not until the treatment finally began in early February. He'd stayed in the hospital for a week after the initial procedure.

Christine thought she'd go out of her mind with the waiting. While the doctors were more than happy to let her make daily visits, anything past that was out of the question. And so she spent her time sprawled out in the forbidden library, reading random books about architecture on the carpet while the fireplace crackled in the background.

With her father gone for so long, it would've been the perfect opportunity to sneak in some piano playing, but she couldn't find the mental strength to drag herself up to the bench.

Instead she followed Frau Schultz around the house, helping with the cleaning and the laundry. After watching her in fascination for several days, the older woman taught her the basics of knitting. Christine had never been very good at it in her past lifetime, not having the patience, but now the constant back and forth motion of the needles was soothing.

"By the time Papa comes home, I'll have knitted him a whole scarf," she proudly boasted one afternoon. Frau Schultz just smiled and patted her on the head.

Her father eventually was released, but it was hardly a joyous occasion. He was confined to his bed for the most part, the doctors wanting him either sitting or laying down at all times. Christine would sit next to him and read to him from the paper under Frau Schultz's watchful eye. She'd watch him slowly recover his strength, then the two of them would make the journey back to the hospital, and Dr. Ahmadi would repeat the procedure all over again.

Overall, Christine was thankful the treatments had begun in January. Despite every other thing happening in her life, there was no denying that each day brought with it more sunshine and warmth. Snow showers became less frequent and then disappeared altogether. Christine and her father soon celebrated her eleventh birthday… or was it her twenty-third? The more she thought about it, the more it made her head hurt, and so she didn't.

As the temperatures continued to rise, Christine took to wandering the garden out back. All the plants were still rather brown, but Christine loved the breath of fresh air. Sometimes her father accompanied her, but most days he simply watched from one of the upstairs windows. Every so often she'd glance up and wave to let him know that he hadn't been forgotten.

Most of her time was spent reading. Her father hadn't been comfortable at Christine taking the house's books outside, but for once he didn't try to enforce any sort of ban.

Even with his grudging permission however, there was only so much she could read before her eyes glazed over. Once again she cursed the house owner's obvious distaste for novels.

There was really only so much she could do.

Christine finished the scarf for her father and quickly moved onto slightly more complicated projects, but - like reading - knitting only wasted so many hours as well. Once the garden finally started to bloom, she attempted to branch out further into the arts by sketching its flowers. The house seemed to have a never-ending supply of fresh paper and pens packed away into various drawers. Like her yarn creations, Christine's drawings weren't very good, but Christine liked to imagine that she was slowly improving.

As drawing used up house resources that were "not theirs," it was an activity only to be done on days when her father wasn't watching.

He caught her once as she was sneaking out with a new ream.

"I thought I told you." He reached for the paper and sighed as she defensively turned away. "These things aren't ours. You shouldn't be wasting them."

"Monsieur Khan gave us this house," Christine said, bristling. "Why wouldn't he want us using the things in it?"

"He didn't give us anything," her father said exasperatedly. "He's temporarily letting us stay here, and the last thing we want to do is impose upon him further."

He lunged for the paper and Christine dodged again, but she froze as she heard the exaggerated sound of his labored breathing. She glared at him, helpless against his underhanded checkmate. At least he had the curtesy not to gloat as she handed the paper back over. It was a dirty tactic, recently adopted when he'd discovered Christine would instantly surrender.

If her father had any lasting concerns about Christine's foreknowledge, he didn't bring them up. As Christine preferred it that way, she didn't either.

"I don't quite understand why you feel the need to become such an artist," he was saying as he leafed through several of the blank sheets. "You've never shown much of an interest in this sort of thing before."

Christine pursed her lips.

"It gets boring," she said. "I'm just trying to find things to do."

"Why don't you go practice singing then? I haven't heard you in such the longest time. Your voice was always so lovely."

Christine flinched.

It'd happened about a week or so after Raoul had left Perros-Guirec. Her father had been busy practicing, so Christine had wandered down to the coast, fully intending to let all her worries fly loose in a stream of song.

What had come out of her mouth appalled her.

Had she really been that terrible before all her lessons?

Since then she'd been too embarrassed and self-critical to vocalize anything out loud. The raw passion of past performances still echoed painfully in her head, but she just couldn't get those memories to connect with her unseasoned muscles. Christine found herself humming a number of arias from time to time, but that was the extent of it.

Christine avoided her father's eyes. Her lying was bad enough as it was without giving him an open window to see straight through her.

"I… I just don't feel like it…"

From the way he raised an eyebrow, Christine knew it was a far from satisfactory answer. But what else could she tell him? She dashed past him and locked herself in her room. The last part was probably unnecessary - he didn't even stop by to knock - but it made her feel more secure all the same. When Frau Schultz later announced that dinner was ready, Christine dragged herself downstairs, prepared for all manners of an inquisition, but her father didn't say a word about it.

And that seemed to be the end of it.

Despite Christine's initial vow to never let her father out of her sight, the hospital visits did grow a bit monotonous. They happened twice a month in addition to Dr. Ahmadi's occasional house visit. Sometime around May, her diligence began slacking.

The first time she intentionally left herself behind was nerve-wracking. Despite resolutions to herself that everything would be fine, that her father had been going through the exact same operation for over four months now with no serious or unexpected complications, she regretted it the second she saw the carriage's driver flick the reins.

Christine paced the downstairs hallway, too jittery to immerse herself in any of her projects, checking the grandfather clock that stood in the entrance way every other minute. She took a nap, if only to pass the time faster, and began to fret again the instant she woke up. At last there was a knock on the door: a messenger from the hospital to tell her that her father's operation had proceeded like usual and that he'd be back in the morning.

Frau Schultz had already left to accompany her father home by the time Christine woke up the next day.

She yawned, stretched, and had only begun to wander the house when she realized that she was entirely alone for the first time since the New Year.

Although still deeply concerned for her father, the thought was like a lightening storm. Ideas buzzed through her head. Her father had so many taboos… Christine picked one and immediately went to the study, grabbing a fountain pen and several sheets of papers before making her way to the library.

She grabbed a large book on the history of the Ottoman Empire to serve as a hard surface and sprawled out on the carpet. She'd gotten tired of drawing the same flowers over and over and over again. This would be a welcome change of pace.

Christine started with basic outlines: several rectangles for the bookcases, some complex ovals for one of the nearby tables and the lovely little floral lamp resting on top, a strong solid square for the fireplace, another series of rectangles for the piano…

Christine's pen paused. She glanced up.

The piano…

It loomed over her, as always, dark and enticing.

Even on the days when her father wasn't around she never dared to play it. Frau Schultz was always lingering nearby, and - although the woman never seemed to care all that much - Christine knew she'd tell him if he ever asked.

She slowly put her pen down and stood up.

Christine glanced at a nearby clock. If today was anything like past days, her father wouldn't be due back for at least another hour, if not two… and it'd been so long.

Before she could stop herself, Christine sat down at the bench and pushed open the fall board. She let her fingertips ghost over the keys.

She'd never been very good at the piano, knowing only the very basics that allowed her to practice the melody of whatever she was singing on her right hand. And she only knew one actual song from memory.

She slowly pressed down a key, sighing as she did so. The tone was pure; the piano itself perfectly tuned.

E, Eb, E, Eb, E… what came next? C? She tried it and instantly winced.

Perhaps her memory wasn't as good as she thought. Still, there had to be some sheet music somewhere.

She looked inside the piano bench and gave a little internal cheer. However, her enthusiasm quickly deflated as she flipped through the music. It was all far too complicated for her abilities. Many of them were in complicated keys with constantly changing time signatures and littered with four to five note chord runs. Christine frowned at a particularly difficult looking one; she'd probably spend a whole hour just getting through the first eight bar phrase.

She sighed, putting the music back where she'd found it. Perhaps the shelves had something to offer. It had more than enough books on musical theory and past composers.

After a short search, she found a decent enough book on some of Handel's earlier pieces. Most of it was devoted to scholarly analysis, but there were a few pages of physical music. Christine supposed it would have to do.

She started to play. Her right hand was clumsy enough, but getting her left hand to do what she wanted it do was pure torture. Reading bass clef was as frustrating as ever; she kept having to stop and count the notes down from Middle C. By the time she had her left hand positioned correctly, she'd forgotten what the piece was even supposed to be sounding like. After awhile she gave up on it entirely and began using both her hands to play the top line.

"Christine! We're home!"

Christine practically slammed the fall board shut. She twisted on the bench and surveyed the room. Her sketching papers were still scattered all over the floor. There was no time to clean up.

She flinched as her father walked through the library door several seconds later. Their eyes locked. With her still on the piano bench and the Handel book still propped wide open, there was no use even pretending that she'd been doing something different. Christine braced herself, waiting for the inevitable argument, but her father only sighed and turned away.

At once she felt her face growing red.

A part of her felt embarrassed and chastised. She knew from the start that opening the piano would be a direct violation of her father's orders. The silent disappointment in his eyes hurt more than an actual argument would have. And yet she was also fuming, her hands nearly trembling with frustration. Her father's restrictions were ridiculous and stifling.

If M. Khan hadn't wanted them in a house with a piano, the man wouldn't have put them in a house with a piano.

Christine pushed herself off the bench, returned the book to its proper place on the shelf, and tidied up the floor. Her father was sitting in the kitchen as Frau Schultz talked to him about God only cared what. She grabbed her knitting bag and pushed past them both, retreating outside to the garden.

She sat in the balmy sunshine, furiously clacking her needles. In her anger, she dropped a stitch, fouling up the whole row. She cursed under her breath and very nearly threw the whole thing into a nearby rose bush.

Christine felt trapped, a cage bolted shut around her mouth. Her father sometimes complained that he felt walled up inside the house… Christine was walled up inside herself. She need to sing. Not the breathy warbling she was stuck with now, but the pure, open-throated tones of her past. Her father's occasional violin song for her only made it worse. She was tired of listening. It taunted her, itching at her skin.

She wanted to scream.

She didn't even have that luxury though. Her father and Frau Schultz would be frantically at her side in seconds, demanding to know what was wrong.

And so she sat and read and knitted and sketched.

Oskar Bernstein called on them several weeks later.

Shortly after they'd moved to Vienna, Christine's father had written to the German man to thank him for his offer and politely declined for the present, explaining their current circumstances while he was at it. Bernstein was more than understanding and wished her father all the best recovery.

Christine hadn't thought too much more about him after that.

In retrospect, it seemed obvious that the man would've visited them sooner or later. Vienna was the German capital of music. A musician's path was easily crossed.

As her father greeted the older man at the door, Christine realized that she'd never actually seen him before. He was rather ancient, but spry at the same time. After dinner, her father gave the man a short, private concert in the library.

Bernstein applauded at the end, his eyes glistening with tears.

"Simply masterful," he said. "It would be my delight to showcase you. When," he quickly added. "You have recovered more thoroughly, of course."

Gustave thanked him. Christine held out his case for him as he went to put his violin away.

"And what about you?" Bernstein asked.

It took Christine several moments to realize that his question had been aimed at her.

"Me?" she asked blankly.

"Being the daughter of such a talented musician, surely you must have aspirations of your own."

"Oh, I'm quite fine here," Christine said, as her father shut the clasps.

The last thing she needed right now was to be shoved into some expensive music school where she'd have to listen to her own abominable squeaking for hours on end while Bernstein taunted her father with the promise of future concerts like a carrot to a poor mule.

You won't ever get any better if you keep your mouth shut like this, a nasty part of her teased. And what little lasting memory of perfection you had will slowly wither away…

She squashed that part of her down.

"Are you sure?" Bernstein asked. "A girl of your age and position should be out culturing some beautiful talent, not shutting herself away in a little house like this. There must be something that catches your interest: music, language… painting perhaps?"

"Thank you, but I'd truly rather-"

"She likes to sing," her father said.

Christine glared at him.

She'd thought he'd finally started to respect her. That her choice to stay silent was something she'd made and simply didn't want to discuss with other people. But here he was, perfectly fine with disregarding all of that and throwing her to a stranger.

Is this how he felt about everything they didn't talk about? What other words would he try to shove in her mouth?

Bernstein appeared not to notice.

"The vocal arts! Wonderful!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "A soprano then? Or alto?"

"I'm really not much of a singer," Christine muttered. "You wouldn't want to waste your time on me, and Papa needs me to-"

"I need you to do what's best for you."

Christine squirmed underneath his stare.

"But-" she started.

"Do you want to sing?"

"I…"

Yes.

No.

Not at her current level.

Besides, her father had no right to try and decide something like this. He knew she didn't want to, and he'd just talked right over her.

Christine was sick and exhausted of various men telling her she had to do this or that.

And in the end, it always came down to her voice.

Sometimes, on her more aggravating days, she swore he had cared more about it than her.

Both her father and Bernstein were staring at her. She avoided their gaze, trying to focus on something… anything else. Her eyes swept the room and then widened slightly as they fell on a certain something.

Of course.

Christine smiled.

"I want to play the piano," she said.

That shocked him.

"What."

"Excellent! No one ever had anything terrible to say to a girl who knows her Chopin," Bernstein said. "I, myself know of several wonderful schools here in Vienna itself. Most of the girls are usually boarders, but seeing as how you are so attached to your father, I'm sure we could work something out."

Christine kept her smile strong as Bernstein started going over other details, nodding in confirmation every now and again.

What had she just done?

Something fun. She was getting back into music, and it was going to be on her own terms.

But she didn't know how to play piano. Piano wasn't her… her… thing!

Well, now it would be.

If this was all some attempt to avoid singing because how terrible she was, fleeing to the piano would only make it worse. She was an utter novice at the instrument. Most of her future classmates - should she actually go through with this - would've probably been playing since they left the cradle. The knowledge gap would be enormous and her experience even more so.

Ah, but the difference was that she'd always been terrible at piano. Christine had no professional past to compare it to and the only direction she'd be able to go was up.

She was changing everything!

Bernstein yawned and soon made his excuses to go. Christine's father asked her to grab the man's hat and coat from the front door. She watched her father raise a quizzical eyebrow at her as she handed them over, no doubt as perplexed by her sudden decision as she was.

If she was starting to worry about change of all things, it was a little too late for that.

"No! No! Imagine there is an egg under each of your fingers. You are squashing the egg!"

Christine yelped softly as her piano teacher, Fraulein Ludwig, barked yet another command at her, but she quickly adjusted her hands. Between the next couple of measures, Christine stole a glance and was somewhat pleased to see Ludwig giving her a firm nod. She shakily made her way through the rest of the piece.

Her bass clef reading was still horrendous. Her treble clef was passable. Christine was slightly better than her fellow truly beginner classmates, but that honestly wasn't saying much. Most of the other students her age had been studying for years and could play circles around her.

It didn't help that her father still disapproved of her practicing on the piano at home. He'd relented after Bernstein assured him it'd be fine, and really Christine had to have some instrument to practice on if she was to keep living with her father instead of at the school itself, but that didn't stop him from giving her pained glances every time he saw her sitting on its bench, as though she were some feral gorilla from the jungles of Africa ultimately destined to smash her fists down upon the lavish instrument.

Christine was able to ignore him for the most part, but it was still distracting.

It also didn't help that the school had a mixture of music students. There were pianists, like her, as well as string and woodwind players, and then on the floor above… the vocalists.

Christine's fingers reached the last note and she let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

Ludwig didn't applaud or offer any kind of congratulatory word for finishing, but Christine was used to that in a teacher. After one or two more notes on what to work on before the next day's lesson, the woman sent Christine on her way.

Out in the hallway, the school was even noisier. Christine listened briefly as a hopeful clarinetist made it half way through an etude before his teacher cut him off in a particularly harsh volley of insults. Christine cringed slightly even as a simple eavesdropper. For not the first time she was glad that, while strict, none of her teachers had much of a temper. Herr Klose who taught music theory never seemed to be happy about any of her or her fellow students' work (or anything really), but at least he never yelled at them for it.

Christine reached the main staircase and began to make her way down. Fraulein Ludwig's class had been her last of the day. She couldn't wait to get home and simply unwind. Frau Schultz had promised to make Pichelsteiner tonight, one of her specialties.

Despite her current frustration with her voice, Christine had never been comfortable with remaining completely quiet, so she began humming a short aria.

Her father was waiting for her on school steps with a smile and two open arms.

Her eyes widened.

"What are you doing here?" Christine blurted out. "You know you're not supposed to overexert yourself!" But she let him step forward scoop her up all the same.

"Aren't you happy to see me?"

"That's- That's not…" she said. Her initial indignation slowly mollified as his hands patted the top of her head and began running through her curls.

"It's a beautiful day," he said. "Dr. Ahmadi said it'd be beneficial to my health."

"Very well," Christine said, smiling despite herself.

Her father held out his hand and they started making their way down the sunny city streets. A breeze curled around them as they passed by one of the many flower stands operating at this time of the year. Christine breathed deeply, soaking in all in.

For the first time in very, very long time her mind felt… uncluttered.

"How was your lesson today?" she heard her father ask.

"It was alright," Christine said. "Maria Humbolt's already mastered half of Carnaval, while I can't even play half a section."

"Didn't you say Maria had been playing since she was-"

"Since she was five. Yes."

"Then why are you letting it get you frustrated?"

Because I was a professional already!

Christine bit her lip.

"I don't know," she mumbled. "It's just… never mind."

Her father frowned. He was undoubtedly concerned, but mercifully kept his thoughts to himself. He'd been doing more and more of that recently. Christine supposed she should be glad that he was finally taking her oddities in stride… but it made a part of her sad.

No. It was beautiful and warm and sunny. She wasn't going to dwell on that.

"What about your day?" she asked instead.

"Actually… I wanted to talk to you about that. Monsieur Bernstein is in town again. We talked earlier today. I think… I think I'll be giving a concert."

Christine stopped.

"But your health."

"It will only be one. He's arranging everything. One single song at the end of one single concert. It's been five months since I began my treatment. It's time, Christine."

Everything in her head was screeching in protest.

"But…"

"Christine, I'm your father. Not some porcelain tea cup. I'll be fine. You can even protest to Dr. Ahmadi if you wish. I consulted him on the way over, and he's already approved it."

That stung. For him to have already planned so much without her…

What was she even expecting though? For her father to stay bundled up inside for years and years and years until she finally decided that it was safe for him to come out.

In the end, he was an adult and she was a foolish woman trapped in a child's body. She'd managed to drag him all the way to Germany. How much more could she control?

"…alright."

"You approve?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Christine fought the urge to glower and settled for a non-committal shrug. "It's your concert."

"You'll come?"

She looked at her father and instantly felt guilty. He just wanted her to be happy. He wanted them to be happy.

Christine sighed with a soft smile. "Always."

For once, her fears were proved completely unfounded. On the 26th of June, her father gave his first performance since falling ill. It was perfect.

So perfect that Bernstein immediately began plans for a second. Christine openly scowled at him before her father gave her a sharp nudge.

"I'll, of course, need to consult with my doctor first," he said. Christine felt some satisfaction at that at least.

Unfortunately Dr. Ahmadi didn't have nearly as many concerns.

"While I can't say it'd be beneficial, I don't see very much harm in it either," he said one afternoon. "Provided, of course, they don't become too constant." Ahmadi smiled at Christine. "Do tell me if he starts breaking these rules, won't you?" he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Swallowing back a lump of protest, she nodded and it was done.

And that was how the first summer of her father's extended life came to pass. He gave two more concerts over the next three months. Christine attended all of them. She'd watch from a small chair hidden in the wings as she'd always done in the past, a tense ball of worry and delight.

His pieces were slowly getting longer and longer, as though he thought she wouldn't notice if it happened incrementally. Christine pursed her lips, torn between letting him get away with it and running straight Ahmadi.

She watched his bow continue to fly over the strings and sighed. Of all things she'd expected to feel regarding the return of her father and her triumphant cheating of death, jealously hadn't been one of them. Oh, the feeling was very tiny. And it was only slightly irksome as opposed to some monstrous ravening beast, but it was there. And at times it ate at her chest, leaving her strangely hollow.

Christine was slowly coming to terms with the fact that she had indeed saved her father, or at least gone as far as she possibly could. Perhaps there was a second part to this relay. That she'd done her part and it was time to pass him off to the next person in his life, so she could get back to hers.

Her eyes snapped open at that.

Next person? What was she even saying?

If Christine didn't keep an eye on him, her father would most definitely work himself back into a sickness in not even a week. No, "passing him off" was not an option, and she cursed herself silly for even thinking it.

Thunderous applause signaled the end of the piece. Christine stood, joining in with the rest of them as her father took his bows. After a minute and then a final bow, he took his leave of the stage.

"That was wonderful, Papa!" Christine said as he made his way over to his violin case.

"Thank you, Christine." He paused, fingers ghosting over its strings after he'd laid it down. "If only they weren't so short."

She didn't even have to say anything at this point. He didn't even have to look.

"I know, I know," her father said. "My treatment… my recovery is more important. You think I don't know that? Here."

He stuck out his hand and Christine grabbed it. The two made their way over to his small dressing room. A number of letters and flowers were already waiting for them inside.

Christine glanced at father for approval. He nodded and she immediately began tearing them open.

It'd become a habit. As word of her father's playing spread, so did the letters of admiration. Her father had never been the best reader, even in his native Swedish. He claimed that French and German made his head hurt. And so Christine had become his personal assistant in this as she had in so many other aspects.

"This one's from a Herr and Frau Schneider," she said, reading the tiny scrawl. "They wanted to thank you. They say you remind both of them of Paganini. They saw him when they were young."

"Surely their hearing must be going," he said with a small laugh.

But Christine was already reaching for the next one. She liked reading her father's letters. Each envelope was tiny glimpse into a much bigger world. They reminded her just how much she'd been able to achieve this time around… and of all the potential still waiting.

Her father's admirers were only growing in number. There was a note of awe from a struggling student. Another came from an older Italian gentleman who'd traveled all the way from Milan. And then a heavily scented letter from a younger woman who'd wouldn't stop gushing about how much her father had apparently "inspired" her. Christine nearly stuck out her tongue at that one.

"Now now," her father said, apparently noticing her grimace. "What's the matter with this one?" He took the letter from Christine, slowly swept his eyes left to right then left again, and chuckled.

"Jealous?"

This time Christine did stick her tongue out.

A knock at the door shook them both out of their thoughts.

One of the stagehands entered with a basket of yet more flowers and letters. One bouquet in particular stood out. It wasn't any bigger or smaller than the others, but something about it just seemed lovely. The arrangement perhaps… or the flowers themselves, a delicate combination of pink roses and hyacinth.

"Gathered these just now," the stagehand said. "Wonderful performance, if I might say so myself."

"Yes, yes. Thank you."

Christine was already at the basket, pink bouquet in hand. She sniffed the top and smiled. They had to have been just cut. She moved to the accompanying envelope.

"What does it say?" her father asked, watching her.

To a lovely young lady-

She wrinkled her nose in slight confusion. "I think he might've gotten this one mixed up," she said. But her hands were already going through the motions of ripping it open.

I was quite charmed by this evening's performance. Your father has a wonderful gift.

But as we all no, the performer is nothing without his supporters in the wings. A loving daughter deserves her own praise for such devotion and deserves her own beautiful gifts for the beauty she bestows upon others.

Christine didn't realize she'd started to cry until the first tear splattered on the fine paper. She let her father pull it out of her hands and read it himself. She watched him frown out of the corner of her eye.

"Christine…" he said hesitantly, still staring at the paper. "Are you… Are you happy?"

"Yes!" she said automatically. She gripped her bouquet closer to her, nearly crushing it. "Of course I am! I… I'm…"

She had everything she ever wanted, didn't she? Her father was alive. Her father was performing. The two of them didn't have to worry about money. Even though it wasn't for singing, she was taking music lessons again.

Of course she was happy. Who wouldn't be happy?

To be anything less would be… well, practically disrespectful.

But the more she tried to ignore it, the more Christine realized that there was a certain unease that she just hadn't been able to shake. She tried to think back to the last time she'd felt completely free. There'd been a couple moments this summer, but they'd been all too fleeting. No, she'd been discontent in this timeline… and her in her original timeline too. Even before Raoul showed up, she'd been grieving for her father, and before her father died she'd been sad about her mother… and past that it was honestly hard to remember.

Maybe she'd never been happy.

"Christine…" she heard her father say. "Surely you must wish for something more. I can see it sometimes in your eyes. I feel… Sometimes I start to worry that I'm holding you back, but from what I don't know."

Christine fought for some response as her fingers ghosted over the petals, but her mind kept coming up blank.

By this time he'd already died.

A/N: I need to stop getting bogged down in the larger chapters.