And Maman's been working herself to death over the newest production as usual. I keep telling her to take a breath, but that only seems to upset her more. You know how parents are. Anyways, you'll never guess what happened to one of the chorus girls-

"What are you reading?"

Christine glanced up to see one of the girls from her class perched above her on the table. Her name was Sofia, if Christine recalled correctly. She'd see the girl here and there. She had kind smile, and - while not overly talkative like some of the girls - she wasn't a complete dormouse like Christine either.

All around the room her fellow classmates were in the middle of tearing into their lunches and chattering about their days. Christine glanced at her own lunch sitting neglected in front of her, only partially eaten as usual. Not seeing any sort of box or container, either Sofia had already finished her lunch or never had any to start with.

Perhaps the girl was faking interest just to gain some free food. It wouldn't have been the first time since Christine had entered the conservatory. News of her patronage had spread without her saying a word and false perceptions of her wealth with it. Christine could only fathom how. She remembered gossip spreading as impossibly fast back in the Palais Garnier.

"It's a letter from a friend," she said cautiously.

"Oh?" Sofia asked with a curiosity that Christine couldn't decipher as real or feigned. "What kind of friend?"

Christine considered brushing her off, but said, "An old one. She lives in Paris."

"How lovely!" Sofia said. The girl suddenly squinted her eyes and leaned over for a closer glance at the parchment.

Christine clutched it close to her chest in alarm, and then felt rather silly. It wasn't as though there was anything confidential in Meg's words. Still letters were letters.

Sofia looked confused and then her eyes widened. She hastily leaned back with a small giggle.

"Sorry! Sometimes I do things without realizing. I didn't mean to read it without your permission. Although you don't have to worry about me discovering any secrets or anything. I don't know a lick of French outside of your basic 'bonjour!' and 'oui oui!'" Christine cringed at the girl's over-exaggerated accent. Sofia didn't seem to notice. As Christine loosened her hold on Meg's letter, Sofia peered again at the paper. "You can really read all that?"

Christine didn't know exactly what to say, so she slowly nodded.

"Wow." Sofia stroked her chin for a few moments. "Are you going on the exchange trip?"

Christine blinked. "What exchange trip?" she asked.

"The one to Paris. It's happening next month. I think they're still taking applications if you want to go."

"Oh," Christine said. She briefly recalled some teacher or other mentioning it. Christine didn't really have any desire to go, but supposed it was nice that Sofia had taken the time to tell her. "No. But thank you."

"It's with one of the best conservatories in Europe!" she said with glee, as though Christine had just asked. "I really wanted to go, but my mother said it'd be pointless since I wouldn't understand a word anyone was saying. You should really do it though! It'd be a perfect fit!"

"I don't-"

"Just because someone speaks the language, doesn't make them a perfect fit," came a trilling voice. "It's a music trip, not a language one. And she's not even good."

The two looked across the room to see a pale, blonde girl smirking at them from another table. She was surrounded by other students. A couple of them giggled as they locked eyes with Christine and Sofia.

"No one asked you for your opinion, Ilsa!" Sofia yelled.

Ilsa didn't even bother responding. Her smirk simply widened, and then she went back to chatting with her friends.

An irritation Christine hadn't felt since the days of Marie Perrault started stirring in her chest.

"Ugh, sopranos," Sofia said. She rolled her eyes in the direction of Ilsa. "It's bad enough when all they can do is sing back what you've played for them. God help us all whenever one pops up with actual talent."

Christine's stomach fell.

Was that really what other musicians thought? All of the orchestra members she'd known had always seemed a bit distant from the chorus and ballet girls, but she'd always assumed it was because they were busy with their own part of the production. Just like every member of the cast and the back stage.

Sofia suddenly grabbed Christine's hand and offered her a reassuring smile.

"Truly though, don't let her get you down," she said. "What does Ilsa know? If you want to go, you should. Oh. Of course, obviously I'm not saying you have to go."

"No, I know," Christine said, pushing the soprano comment away to somewhere it would sting a little less. "It'd be… It'd be nice."

And as she said it, she realized it wasn't a complete lie.

Christine had held onto the mysterious pink bouquet as long as she could, but the flowers were almost all dead now. Frau Schultz was starting to threaten to throw them away. Dead things in the house, she'd said, be them plant or animal, were only an invitation for further sickness. In all likelihood, they'd be tossed out within the week.

And then what? What would Christine cling to next?

Her father was nearly well again. He didn't need her, at least not as the caretaker she'd been for him this past year. She knew that now, at least in her mind if not her heart.

The one positive thing Christine would admit about Bernstein's concerts was that her father was finally taking in a bit of income again. True to his character, he'd immediately attempted to pay Dr. Ahmadi, to contribute some portion to his treatment, but as always the doctor had refused.

And so, for what was probably the first time in his life, her father had begun to build up some savings.

Of course, just because her father wasn't spending any of it didn't mean Christine had any right to dip into their funds, but - as she thought about it - the only costs associated with such an exchange trip would be for transportation. Bernstein was already sponsoring her tuition, that amount wouldn't change regardless of whether she was here or in France, and as for room and board, she'd easily be able to stay with Meg and Madame Giry.

Meg had only invited her to visit about eight different times since she and her father had arrived.

And her old friend had been getting more and more persistent with each passing month.

"How long is the trip for?" Christine found herself asking.

"Do you really have to go back this Sunday? You've only just arrived."

Christine shook her head in exasperation. "Meg, I've already been here a full week."

"That's nothing," she said with a wave her hand. "Surely you can ask your father to let you stay longer."

"I'm not here by myself. It's a program. I go back when the rest of my school does. Besides it was enough of a challenge getting him to agree to this."

Meg tutted from where she stood over the stove, constantly stirring a thick stew. Despite the late hour, Madame Giry was out yet again and most likely wouldn't be home for another couple hours. Christine could almost feel the stress and frustration of the corps de ballet from across the city as she imagined the older woman drilling the same set again and again and again…

Meg took a loud slurp from her stirring spoon and then grinned.

"It should be ready in just a minute," she said. "Could you get the bowls?"

"Of course."

Christine had to strain on her toes to reach the right shelf. She couldn't wait until she got a bit taller again. How old had she been when she'd gone through her main growth spurt? It'd seemed so inconsequential at the time; she couldn't remember for the life of her.

Despite what she'd kept telling Meg, her father hadn't been entirely reluctant. If anything, she'd say he'd been almost slightly pleased. Oh, he'd fretted about the cost of the ticket as she'd anticipated, but for everything else, he'd offered not a single pushback. Two weeks, he'd said, was a healthy length for a girl to adventure off an a school sponsored trip.

It was almost as if he'd been glad to get rid of her.

Christine sulked while Meg ladled some of the stew into her bowl.

Her friend sighed. "What is it now?" she asked as she ladled some for herself.

"Oh. Nothing."

"Ah, yes. The ever constant nothing." Meg stuck her free hand on her hip. "Always very bothersome that nothing."

"Really," Christine said emphatically. "It's nothing. I'm silly for even letting it get it to me."

Meg frowned.

"Alright," she finally said. "But if you ever do want to talk about it, I'm right here."

"Thank you," Christine said.

She smiled and - after a bit of facial muscle debate - Meg smiled in return. The two girls made their way to the small kitchen table and dug in.

"I really do wish you'd stay a bit longer," Meg said. "You came here to learn from the city's teachers. You could spend more time with them. Not to mention that you've hardly seen Maman."

"I don't know," Christine said, pushing around a carrot. "I'm not sure that I'm really learning anything here that I couldn't have learned back in Vienna."

Even though the trip organizers had been happy to accept students of all levels, Christine couldn't help but feel that everyone else who'd made the effort and monetary commitment to come was vastly more advanced than her. She had to admit that Ilsa'd had a point of not getting all that much out of the different teachers. Not that Christine regretted coming. She did worry about her father, but each night she worried a little less. And it had been wonderful sharing dinner after dinner with Meg.

And she did understand the instruction a bit better. As decent as her German had become, she was inarguably far more fluent in her native French.

Wait, no.

Swedish was her mother tongue.

When had she started replacing it with French?

"Well, if not for school," Meg was saying between spoonfuls, "then for Maman. The show she's been working on opens next week, so we finally might be able to get more than two words out of her before she falls asleep at the table for once."

Christine giggled. "You know," she said. "For all the work your mother does, I don't think I've ever seen her this exhausted over a new production before."

Meg paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth and looked at her blankly.

"Before?"

Oh dear.

"Just from your letters," Christine said quickly. "I mean, you've talked about her working late, but it's never sounded this bad."

"Oh, right," Meg said. Christine let out a small breath as Meg swept straight past her slip-up and continued eating. "I think it's the composer. You know how I mentioned that he's been overseeing the production since it's its big world premiere? Well, Maman told me that he's been quite the control freak. 'Everything must be perfect!' and all that. You know the type. In fact, he gave one of the dancers a panic attack a couple weeks ago. And when she tried to come back the next day, he told her she'd fallen too far behind to remain in the show."

"What? But you said he's a composer!" Christine said. "What does he know about ballet?"

Meg shrugged. "Apparently he's a minor patron as well, so he's been able to get away with a several things that others wouldn't have. Of course Maman stepped in at that point. Because of her the dancer was able to keep her job, but now the pressure's on Maman to show Renaud that she made the right judgement."

"Renaud?"

"Charles Renaud. The composer."

"Hmm…"

The name didn't ring any bells, which was more than slightly odd. Usually the men who had their works premiere with the Opera Populaire were quite renown. Christine knew she had more than a couple knowledge gaps when it came to facts and people and places, but the names of notable composers had always been something that'd been constantly drilled into her.

Of course, Meg had also just mentioned that this Renaud was a patron of the opera house as well as a composer. Perhaps the man had paid his way into securing a run with the most illustrious company in the city. Christine supposed if one was rich enough, that was a sort of thing that had to happen every once and awhile.

"What's the opera called?" she asked, taking a bite.

"Eurydice."

Christine fought to keep down her food as a laugh threatened to bubble up. "There are so many of those," she said once she'd finally managed to swallow. "Does the world really need another?"

"To him, yes. Apparently the first fifty weren't good enough."

Christine did laugh at that.

"Well," she said. "At the very least your mother will get to be done with him soon."

It was their lunch break. Tired of the constant sitting in her classes, Christine had taken to using only the first half of the break to eat and then the second to wander. Sometimes she wandered alone; other times a classmate invited themselves along. Although many of her classmates here were like Ilsa and considered her a waste of time, there were also many that'd sought her out to improve their French. Christine wasn't exactly sure how happy she was with the fact that her most appreciated talent was that of a walking dictionary and grammar textbook combined, but she supposed it was better than nothing.

Today she was accompanied by a boy named Johannes. He was a bit of an over-thinker and was currently making a personalized reference book of phrases for his teachers.

"I am extremely honoring for everything you've taught me," he said.

"I am extremely honored for everything you've taught me," Christine corrected.

"Ah, thank you." He scribbled the correction as they walked. "I will practice everyday."

"But you're already practicing everyday," Christine said with a slight frown. "And I have to say, your French is already very good. You hardly need a book to- Oh, 'I will practice' was next phrase. Yes. Yes, it's correct."

Johannes smiled and continued down his list. "I will miss your teaching when I will be back in Austria," he said.

"I will miss your teaching when I am back in-"

And then she heard it.

The melody flowed sluggishly down the corridor, echoing faintly against the hard stone like a stream of shadow-wrapped starlight. It was so soft at first that Christine didn't even know whether her ears had been the ones to notice it or if she'd simply sensed the music somehow in her bones. It was completely unfamiliar and yet it called to her… pulling…

"Christine! Where are you going?"

Christine blinked. She looked around.

She was already part way down another corridor. When had she turned? There must have been a junction nearby. Johannes's hand was on her sleeve, but that was hardly important. The music was louder here. it had to be coming from one of the classrooms. If she could only find which one…

She brushed free of the boy's hold and continued forward, letting the music guide her path. The corridor was empty. Surely it was safe to let her eyes slip close.

"Christine, what are you doing? That's a classroom! We're not supposed to interrupt."

Once again she felt Johannes pull back on her sleeve, but she quickly yanked free. The melody's source was behind this door. This close it was more entrancing than ever, and yet she could hear - every so often - imperfections? She didn't know how to describe it. Parts of it felt wrong… not in the actual notes themselves, but in the way they were being interpreted.

Christine pulled opened the door.

A single piano lay at the front of the room. A short man with grey hair was sitting with his back to her, his attention purely on the sheet music before him. The pages were nearly black with notes. His hands glided across the keys, fingernails trimly neatly short amidst the many wrinkles.

Christine let out a sigh as the music finally, fully washed over her. Its melodies, its harmonies, its rhythms…

It'd been far too long since the last time she'd heard his music.

Her eyes snapped open.

His music? She'd never heard the piece before. How did she know it was his music? How on earth could it be his music?

How could it not?

A cold weight started to settle in her stomach as Christine realized just how far she'd walked into the filled classroom. Every single student's eyes were on her. Glancing at the door, she could see Johannes hovering uncertainly in its frame. As their eyes met, he scurried away.

Christine was alone.

She was suddenly hyper aware of every little noise she made. The swish of her skirts… The thud of her shoes… They echoed in the silence.

Silence.

That meant the teacher had stopped playing. Christine looked over to see him twisting around on his piano bench, regarding her with a friendly bemusement.

He was an older man. His face was well-worn by time and creased with age, but he most definitely not disfigured.

Not her angel.

And yet this stranger had managed to somehow lay claim to his music.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" he asked.

"Who did you get that from?"

Christine nearly winced at the bluntness of her own question. She should've been apologizing profusely for her interruption, but the words just tumbled out. Luckily the old man only chuckled.

"A fan, eh? It's one of Renaud's," he said. "A snippet from the overture of his newest work, Eurydice." He turned to address the class. "As I mentioned, it's opening next weekend at the Salle le Peletier. As your papers are due at the end of the month, I recommend anyone who has not yet seen a modern work in the last year to see it."

"Renaud," Christine blankly repeated.

"Yes. This is a class on modern music theory, and he is the one of the up and coming composers of this generation. Is this your first time hearing some of his work?"

"I… That is…" Christine's head was starting to swim. "I'm not sure, sir."

"Hmm. Well, since you seemed to enjoy my mediocre rendition so much, I'd definitely recommend that you, most of all, should hear it in its full glory. I had the honor of seeing some of the rehearsals. Wouldn't be surprised if it becomes a new standard."

"And he… That is… Does Monsieur Renaud…"

"Yes?"

Chistine fought to connect even two words together and failed.

What could she even ask?

Does Monsieur Renaud look normal? Or does he have the face of a corpse which causes other people to turn and scream in horror? Does he cares to haunt the managers of the Opera Populaire, asking for twenty thousand francs a month? Does he live in a regular house or apartment somewhere innocuous or does he prefer the bowels of the opera house itself? How does he feel about lassos?

Each and every one of her questions only made sense if one took into account that the asker already knew the answer, and even then they still sounded mad.

"How old is he?" she heard herself asking.

"How old? Not entirely sure. Far too young for what he's accomplished though," the teacher said. "Puts an old man like me to shame."

"And… and his face?" Oh God. It sounded terribly awkward even as she said it, but Christine just had to know. Now that she'd started, she couldn't stop herself. Perhaps this lifetime had differences she wasn't yet aware of. Perhaps this time he'd been able to find acceptance beneath a mask. "I take it he looks just like any other composer?"

"What do looks have anything do with it?" came a snide voice from the back of the classroom. Several students chuckled while others seemed to experience a inexplicable onset of coughing.

Christine's cheeks burned, but she held her head high. Let them laugh and think her an idiot if that was what it took to get her answer.

However whatever good graces she'd had with the teacher considering how she'd burst into the room uninvited were quickly vanishing.

"I'm afraid I don't understand your question," he said with a frown. His gaze was starting to become rather uncomfortable. "Charles Renaud is a musical savant. His face is the same as any other, but that is not where his talent lies. And if that's all, I must remind you that I do have a class to teach. If you wish to hear more, you can enroll next semester."

More giggles. Christine bowed her head.

"Of course. Forgive me."

She hastily backed out of the room, keeping her eyes locked on the ground in an attempt to protect herself from any further laughter, and practically slammed the door shut behind her. She stayed there, heart hammering out all other sounds until she finally heard the creak of the piano bench as the old teacher stood up. Several seconds later she heard him start to drone, his words muffled by the thin layer of wood between them.

Christine's knees gave out and she sunk to the floor.

What in all of heaven and hell was going on?

One thing was certain. Charles Renaud and her angel were not the same man. The old teacher's reaction - or lack thereof - had made that perfectly clear. For several moments though, it'd seemed possible…

All of it would have been much much easier if she'd actually ever known his name. That gap in her knowledge always stung when she thought of it, a stark reminder of the extent of her previous foolishness and naiveté. Not that she hadn't tried. The first couple months she'd used to ask whenever she'd spoken to him, convinced that even angels had names. But slowly and surely he'd weaved his magic over her. Her tide of questions gradually began to ebb… and then one day ceased entirely.

He'd been simply her angel long before the first time he'd heard her sing.

Of course now she knew he'd been hardly an angel. Farthest thing from it really… which was honestly quite annoying as it hadn't left Christine with much to refer to him by.

Names were far more practical. And considerate too.

Christine gave a tiny indignant sniff and then slowly started to stand again. The last thing she needed was for someone else to wander past and see her huddled pathetically in the doorway of a random classroom. Once she was sure her legs were steady again, Christine slapped her cheeks lightly to put some color back into them and started off down the still empty corridor.

Though nothing yet explained who this mysterious Renaud person was.

As Christine highly doubted there were two Charles Renaud's both working on a production of Eurydice that was to premiere within the following week, she assumed Meg and the old teacher had been talking about the same man. An ordinary-looking composer with control issues that was also a minor patron.

Well… At least one of those things sounded familiar. But one out of three was hardly evidence to condemn a man by.

Perhaps Renaud was an impostor. A fraud who'd somehow managed to steal some of his music and slap his own name across it.

That didn't seem at all likely though, regardless of all the elaborate scenarios Christine tried to concoct that could maybe make it plausible.

No. She didn't think he'd let anyone who tried that live long enough to even cross the lake.

So who was he?

Christine really had only one clue. Before she returned to Vienna, she had to see that opera.

"Absolutely not. I thought you weren't even interested!"

"Please, Meg! You got me into that other rehearsal last Christmas. You practically dragged me. Why is this one any different?"

It was dinner and Meg was cooking again. Her friend had been feeling confident and was currently attempting to make three separate dishes. The level of skill required kept her chained to the stove. It should've been the perfect setup to pressure her into such a request, but Christine was having less success that she'd hoped.

"The last one was a classic. It's been performed hundreds of times. No one cared whether we were there or not. This one's never been seen before. Besides, you don't finish with your classes and I don't finish with my lessons until after the actual dress rehearsals are done. If you went now, all you'd see is Maman yelling at a bunch of poor dancers and Monsieur Reyer yelling at a bunch of slightly less poor musicians. And that's if you were able to get in," Meg said. She paused as she checked the oven briefly before turning her attention on a sauté pan. "There is a dress rehearsal this Friday for a bunch of the patrons and other donors, but Maman would kill us if we snuck into that and screwed it up somehow. If you want to see it so badly, why don't you just stay an extra week?"

"Because it doesn't work like that. I'm going back when my school goes. Train tickets are only for specific days, you know. Besides what would my father think if he went to the station and wasn't there?"

"Well, the opera doesn't work like that either. People can't just 'get in' for free just because they know somebody. Everyone knows somebody."

"Please, Meg," Christine pleaded, leaning in as close as she could to her friend without getting burned. "Just this once. I won't ask for anything else! I swear. I'll even owe you. Anything you want. Just ask."

Meg opened her mouth for what was most likely some biting retort but then suddenly closed it. She seemed to think, keeping unusually silent as she stirred a small saucepan. And then…

"Anything I want?"

Meg clearly had something specific in mind, and Christine was more than a bit apprehensive, but she confirmed, "Anything."

"Fine," Meg said. "I want to know why you suddenly want to see it this much. Yesterday you'd never even heard of thing and were laughing about how much of an idiot the composer is, and now today you're here literally begging me to get you into a preview. And before you even think of it, you're not allowed to say 'no reason' or 'never mind' or any of that. If you try to lie to me, that's it. I'm never helping you again. Something's happened. I know it."

For the second time that day, Christine was shocked speechless. Meg looked practically triumphant as she moved back to the sauté pan.

She couldn't think of a lie. At least not a convincing one that could hold up to even a single round of Meg's scrutiny. But at the same time, it'd be ludicrous to attempt to tell her the truth.

Then Christine had an inspiration.

"I heard one of the professors play a snippet from its overture today. I think…" She had to be timid. Unsure. She had to act the part. She motioned for Meg to lean in closer. "I think I've heard it before," she whispered.

Meg's eyes widened. "What? Are you saying- No! Are you sure?"

Christine glanced at the wall in what she hoped looked like hesitant doubt.

"Nearly positive," she said.

"But that's- Where have you heard it?"

And the bait was laid.

"I don't know! That's the thing. I only heard a little piece of it this afternoon. I really can't be sure. But if I was to hear the whole thing…"

"Do you what this means?" Meg asked, oblivious to the sauce now bubbling beneath her. "How much trouble Renaud could be in? If we told Maman-"

"No!" Christine yelled instinctively. Why did Meg always have to come up with her own ideas? "I mean. I'm nearly sure, but not entirely. I know it's a very serious accusation. That's I need to hear more of it before I tell anyone anything."

"You told me."

"Yes. Because you forced me to."

"True."

As Christine gave Meg a bit of time to take everything in (as well as quickly save what she could of her cooking), she felt a couple pangs of guilt. Meg was clearly pleased to finally be privy to of Christine's many secrets, only… she was still so far from the knowing the actual truth. Christine had successfully used her friend's desire to get involved against her.

She tried to mollify the guilt by telling herself that it hadn't been a complete lie. Sure, Christine hadn't heard that exact piece before, but she knew its composer and she knew it'd been plagiarized.

Meg would understand the need for deception.

"So," Christine said. "Do you think you can get me in?"

"Well…" Meg bit her lip. "I'm not promising anything. But - seeing as this is a scandal in the making - you have my full support. I'll ask Maman."

A/N: *starts placing the last couple of narrative dominos*