A/N: Before this chapter, I just want to say thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and/or followed this story. I honestly don't think I would've made it this far without you. I hope you continue to enjoy!
Christine watched herself as she sat on the edge of the Palais Garnier's stage. Her legs swung back and forth, ankles gently thumping up against the polished wood as she casually ripped off the petals of a large white water lily. The girl didn't bother to look up as Christine slowly made her way down the aisle.
She supposed she was dreaming again. She didn't often realize she was in the middle of a dream while still having one, so she took a couple seconds to study her surroundings. It was indeed the Palais Garnier, but there was something odd about it that she couldn't quite place…
At first glance, everything seemed as majestic and grand as ever, but then she noticed out of the corners of her eyes… cobwebs… dust… The fabric of the seats were threadbare and stained. The wood lay split and rotted.
Whenever she tried to focus on one particular thing, it vanished, leaving pristine splendor once again in its wake.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" her other self suddenly said, keeping her attention on the flower in her hands. "Aren't you happy just the way you are?"
Christine turned her attention back towards the stage.
"I don't know what you're talking ab-"
"Don't even try to play the victimized soprano with me." At that the girl looked up and locked her gaze with Christine. Her brown eyes burned with pure hatred. No alternate words could soften it. "You know what will happen if you go down this path. We both do," she said. "And silly girls who play with fire only get burned."
Christine stared as her other self plucked the last petal and let go. It drifted slowly down to the floor of the orchestra pit and out of sight. An unsettling silence fell over the theatre…
Then from somewhere high above her, came the echoes of hundreds of small crystals clinking against each other. A terrible groan shuddered out as something heavy started to sway.
Christine looked up just in time to see the chandelier plummeting towards her.
She screamed.
Christine rubbed her eyes as she leaned back in one of the many luxurious seats of the Salle le Peletier. Meg raised an eyebrow.
"Was it really that bad of a nightmare?" she asked.
Christine scowled. It was impossible to hide things when they were sharing not only the same room, but the same bed as well. She'd woken up in the middle of the night and had woken Meg up as well. Despite her protests that it'd been nothing, Meg wouldn't let it go.
"It was just a silly nightmare."
"You still haven't told me what it was about," Meg said.
"I already said I don't remember," Christine said.
"Then how do you know that it was silly?"
"Because. I just do."
She glanced at the massive chandelier hanging in front of them. It was strange looking at one from this far up, viewing it from one of its sides instead of from underneath. Despite her dream and previous experiences, this potential death trap of crystal and metal seemed stable enough. And even if it did fall within the next hour - within the next minute, even - it wouldn't land on them.
The two girls were currently lurking in the uppermost balcony. Madame Giry had not been pleased by the sudden request, but true to her word, Meg had managed to convince her mother after several hours of carefully crafted begging and pleading to let both of them in to the preview. The only condition she'd given them was that they were not to be seen by anyone.
And so they'd bundled themselves up in their best clothes. Upon arrival to the opera house, Madame Giry had marched them straight up seven flights of stairs and out of sight. It'd been several hours since then.
Personally, Christine hadn't really seen the point of putting on their best clothes if they were going to spend the entire night practically invisible, but Madame Giry wouldn't have it any other way. It seemed her faith in their ability to follow direct orders only stretched so far.
"What are you going to do if he is a fake?" Meg asked.
"I don't know," Christine said.
"Do you suppose we'll get famous for exposing him?"
"I don't know."
Meg sighed in exasperation. "Fine," she said. "Let me be the mastermind behind everything."
She flopped back in her seat and began picking at her nails.
A couple minutes later, laughter and several loud thumps echoed up from down below. Christine crept to the railing and peered over.
"It's just the orchestra coming in," she told Meg, who let out a "hmm" of acknowledge. She made her way back to her seat as the musicians began to warm up.
"Well, if they're here it can't be more than an hour until the actual show begins," Meg said sarcastically.
Christine gave her a sheepish smile.
"Thanks again, Meg," she said. "I really do appreciate this."
"As long as you remember that if I ever need a favor."
Christine closed her eyes and took in the cacophony of the instruments below, trying to pick out any familiar rhythm or melody. Her efforts were fruitless. It was all random exercises and tuning. She opened her eyes again and glanced at Meg.
"Tell me more about Renaud," she said.
"Again?" Meg asked. "I've already told you everything I know… which wasn't very much to begin with."
"I know, but… possibly… What does he even look like?"
"I said don't know. I've never seen the man."
"But would you say he's ordinary?"
"Ordinary? Ordinary like what?"
Christine wanted to scream at everything. Why did she think that question would lead her anywhere different than when she'd asked the one piano professor? Figuring out whether or not a man had an enormous facial deformity shouldn't have been this hard.
"I…" she said slowly, cautious of arousing Meg's boundless suspicion. "I mean, it's not like there's anything weird about him, is there? That is… it's not like he has a peg leg… or a hunchback… or an evil mustache?"
Meg stared at her flatly. "Christine," she said. "There's no such thing as an evil mustache."
Christine blushed as she cursed herself for her poor choice of words. At least Meg seemed to think she was simply being silly instead of hiding yet another secret.
"It was just an example!" Christine hissed. She took a deep breath. "But you'd say he's ordinary, right?"
"Well…" Meg looked up at the ceiling. "I haven't heard Maman or any of the dancers mention those kind of things, so yes. I'd assume he is. Why do you ask?"
Christine bit her lip, not entirely sure whether that was the answer she'd wanted to hear or not.
"It's… It's just easier to not trust someone when they look bad," Christine said, somewhat shocked at how fast the cover excuse tumbled out. "That's all."
There was a series of thudding sounds as multiple doors were opened at the same time. The auditorium suddenly started to swell with the echoes of a hundred different conversations. The patrons.
Christine began to sneak towards the railing again, but Meg grabbed hold of the back of her dress and dragged her down until they were literally crouching on the floor next to the seats.
"I just want to see!" Christine whispered. "For one second!"
"No! Maman told us to stay out of sight. We're staying right here until they dim the lamps."
Christine tried one more futile struggle, but Meg's grip was firm.
As she gave up, Christine supposed it was for best. She didn't want to get Madam Giry in trouble, and it wasn't like she'd be able to tell which one was Renaud from this distance when she didn't even know what he looked like. Still, it was tempting to yank free of Meg's hold and dash out…
Finally the auditorium gradually slid into darkness. Christine heard M. Reyer tap his baton against his conductor's stand and the orchestra began.
Christine felt Meg's hand release her dress, but she didn't move.
It was, without a doubt, his music. It was his music being played by a full orchestra, being played for an audience as it was always meant to be played.
Crouched on the floor of the balcony, Christine began to cry small, hiccuping sobs.
"I let go. You can get off the floor now," came Meg's voice from one of the seats above her.
Christine swallowed her next sob and quickly rubbed her eyes of any residual tears. It seemed that Meg hadn't heard her over the noise of the orchestra. Christine was thankful for that and said a quick prayer of gratitude. The last thing she need was a new inquisition of why she was crying on the floor. Hoping her friend couldn't see her tear-stained face in the dark, Christine slowly climbed back into her seat.
The overture ended and the opera itself commenced. It was indeed the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice in all its dramatic glory. By the time Christine had first turned twenty, she'd seen at least four different versions and had personally danced in two. It seemed an irresistible source material for composers, containing all sorts of mystical forces, true love, and - most importantly - a tragic musician with a gift so cultured and rare it had charmed the gods themselves.
If some of the parallels felt uncomfortably close to both her own life and that of her old teacher, the beauty of the music made it impossible for Christine to care.
And then somewhere in the midst of all the beauty, Christine felt a cold, stomach-clenching rage.
Charles Renaud. This wasn't his music. He hadn't gotten permission to have it performed, and - even if he had - it shouldn't have had his name on it. He was getting credit for…
She felt unclean just thinking about it.
The old music theory professor had called him the composer of his generation.
Composer of lies was more accurate.
And yet… How in heaven's name had this Renaud managed to lay eyes on a piece of his music, let alone an entire opera…
And one that she'd never heard a single piece from, when Christine thought about it. The music being played was completely new to her. Over the course of her last life, he had played hundreds of his pieces for her. Granted, the large majority had been small etudes and other single instrument compositions. The only opera she had ever seen him work on was his Don Juan, and it was nothing like the opera being currently performed before her. Don Juan had been full of fire and hate and bitterness, both a mockery and rejection of the world and all the wretched people in it, but this…
This music had a tenderness to it, a languid sorrow and sheer hopelessness that made dwelling on it too much cause her to nearly break out in tears all over again.
When the final note rang out, Christine simply sat there as the rest of the theatre broke out into thunderous applause.
The lamps came back on. Before she could even make sense of reality again, Meg was yanking her beneath the seats.
"So," her friend whispered. "Did you remember the music? Did Renaud take it from somewhere?"
Christine simply blinked at Meg as the world slowly swirled back into focus, her mind not quite free of the music's hold yet. Meg seemed unaffected… Had it always just been her who'd been consistently spellbound? But then again, the current applause - which was showing no signs of dying down - begged to differ.
"Christine! Are you listening? I said, did you remember-"
"No, I heard. I- I…"
She hadn't quite thought this far. All she'd known was that she'd needed to hear his music before she left for Vienna, that if she heard it then maybe some things would start making sense again. Now that she had, it'd only raised more questions and had answered none.
She knew of one person with the potential for answers. Either he'd stolen the music or was working with him… It was ridiculous and ran completely against everything she'd remembered, but perhaps in saving her father's life, she'd changed other things…
If she could just see the man's face, if she could judge him from a safe distance, then maybe. Christine knew she was being delusional at best, but it was the only option she had.
She needed to find Renaud.
Right now.
Christine tore free of Meg's hold before her friend could react and made a dash towards the stairway doors.
"Christine! What the hell are you doing!?" she heard Meg hiss behind her.
Terrified of stopping, of doing anything that would come between her and her answers, Christine flung herself through the doors and practically flew down the stairs, her hand on the rail the only thing keeping her feet from tumbling out ahead of her. If she went any slower, she'd be caught and it'd all be over.
She heard Meg following behind, vainly trying to get her to stop as quietly as possible. The sound of conversations grew the more she descended.
As Christine reached the lowest levels, she could see a long congregation of elegantly dressed people trickling through the large hallways and towards the main lobby. No one seemed to notice as she slipped into the crowd.
"You know, most people - if they had a preview as successful as this - would take it as an opportunity to be happy."
"Really? Well, that's nice for them."
Nadir chuckled and lightly elbowed his companion. His eyes widened in disbelief at the unexpected contact. "Play cold all you want, boy," Nadir said. "I can tell you're pleased."
The two stood side by side, watching the crowd mingle. Every so often Nadir took a sip of his water.
"If they're any indication," he said, nodding at the room in general. "You shouldn't have any difficulty selling out full houses every night."
"That was never in question."
"By you, maybe. The rest of us still operate by mortal rules." He paused again as he took another sip. "The ballet was especially charming tonight… especially that one girl, what was her name? Lucille Dubois."
His companion scowled. "If I had my way, that dimwitted girl would be out on the streets. Giry simply had to interfere… and you had to take her side."
"What can I say?" Nadir said with a shrug. "I have a weakness for giving people second chances."
His companion fidgeted at that.
A group of older men came over and congratulated them on such a wonderful performance. Nadir watched as his companion put on his public persona, acting every inch the graceful host and composer.
"Your smile needs a tad more practice," Nadir said after they'd left.
"Oh?"
"It still doesn't reach your eyes."
Apparently that fell under the rather large list of "not to be joked about" topics; Nadir didn't receive even an acknowledgement of a response. He started again with another.
"So, speaking of the ballet, how is Madame Giry faring these days?" Nadir asked.
"Well enough."
And then Nadir was reminded of someone. It was a someone that did not come up in conversations very often, but was nevertheless at the forefront of Nadir's curiosity.
"She has a daughter, yes?" Nadir said smoothly. "Also set on entering the ballet? How is she?"
"I suppose she is as well as any other girl her age."
Nadir could sense his companion starting to bristle beside him, as though he suspected just where Nadir intended to lead the conversation. Well, there was no sense in dancing around it forever.
"Isn't she the one who's a friend of that Daae girl?" Nadir asked. "The one from the Christmas party?"
"What of it?"
Nadir waited, hoping for some further response from his companion's side. Alas, it was not to be. As always it was up to him to forge on.
"My cousin tells me she's doing well in Vienna. Her father seems to be recovering at a promising rate. Apparently the man's given several concerts already."
"I don't need your cousin to tell me that. The miraculous Gustave Daae is all that the violin community has been talking about for months. Although I must say in this instance their enthusiasm is warranted for once; the man has a gift."
"High praise indeed, coming from you," Nadir said with a smile. "But you didn't do it for him."
"Of course I did. Who else would it have been for?"
Nadir bit his tongue. One wrong word and that would be it for the rest of the evening. He'd made missteps before.
Oh, Nadir had his suspicions. He would've never become a police chief if he hadn't.
But the infuriating thing was that - when it came right down to it - his suspicions were all he had. There was no evidence to support them. If anything, it all seemed to point the other way.
Last year, when Nadir had told his companion of the crying girl at the Christmas party, he'd only become interested after learning her full name; he'd taken action only after hearing that she was indeed the daughter of Gustave Daae, of Daae the violinist; and he'd not once visited the family, preferring to hear only professional chatter about the father instead.
Yes, all Nadir had were his suspicions, and they weren't satisfying in the slightest. Rather they itched. They itched to the point that he wished he could be just another simpleton in the crowd, blissfully unaware.
Another group, this one a mixture of men and women, came over to offer their complements as well. They were dealt with as politely and dispassionately as the first.
Still, Nadir thought as he watched them go, he was nothing if not persistent.
"The young Miss Daae…" he continued. "Oh, I am simply terrible with names. What was it again?" He fought back a smile as he looked up at the ceiling in mock concentration. "Camile? Clarice?"
"Christine," his companion said coldly.
"Ah, yes. Christine," he said. "I heard she enrolled in a music school. Quite the budding pianist from what he tells me."
If Nadir hadn't known him better, he could've sworn that his companion just flinched. Once again he was met with stone silence.
"What is so special about that family?" Nadir continued, hoping a naive hope that maybe this would be the time his old friend finally collapsed beneath his constant - yet always polite - barrage of questions. "You demand that I use my contacts to get her father accepted into an experimental treatment program, and then you spend a fortune sponsoring said treatment…"
"Doctor Ahmadi is your cousin. I'd hardly consider him a 'contact.'"
"Second cousin, if you insist on being technical."
His companion shrugged, making the movement look positively graceful. "As I've said. Monsieur Daae has a gift."
"Are they still staying in your house?"
"Why not? I have no need to visit Vienna for the time being, and it's more economical than renting out an entirely new place for them."
Nadir thought of the small, Viennese house. The last time he'd visited, every last drawer had been crammed with various compositions and blueprints and other personal identifying effects. There had been several personalized, hand-crafted violins and at least one cello as well.
For a man obsessed with anonymity, there'd been an awful lot of things in that house that would've pointed straight back to him.
"How much did you end up cleaning out?" Nadir asked.
"Enough."
"Your instruments?"
"Moved here."
"Even the piano?" Nadir asked. Just thinking about the cost needed to transport such an item without fear of damage made him wince.
"No, the piano I left there."
Nadir considered that. "Do you think that's where Miss Daae found her new passion?"
He was met with silence. Again.
"I hadn't considered that…" he heard his companion say through gritted teeth.
Nadir raised his eyebrows. That level of reaction was new. He opened his mouth to press the-
"Renaud!"
The two men turned to see an older gentleman approaching. It was the director from one of the local junior conservatories, a Monsieur Jean Dupont. A young girl stood beside him, willowy and blond. Her smile was thin and composed in contrast to the Dupont's broad one.
"What a marvelous performance!" Dupont said. "We were all stunned. Miss Reinhardt included. Miss Reinhardt these two gentlemen are Charles Renaud and Nadir Khan. Gentlemen, this is Ilsa Reinhardt. She's been studying briefly with us. Originally from Vienna and, might I say, one of the most talented students I've seen in ages."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Miss Reinhardt said as she gave a small curtsy.
"The pleasure is all mine," his companion responded automatically.
Dupont continued smiling. "Miss Reinhardt is only here for a few more short days. And she has just been fascinated by your work, as have we all…"
As Dupont continued to talk and talk, his companion flicked his eyes towards Nadir, an unspoken plea to help him get rid of the exuberant pair. He still hadn't mastered the art of directing unwanted conversation to its swift end without being completely rude about it.
Nadir simply smiled. While he was often more than willing to help out, his old friend deserved this one for how relatively unsociable he'd been this evening.
Nadir raised his glass in a mock cheers and took his leave.
Christine ignored Meg's feeble protests as she pushed her way through the crowd. The lobby of the theatre was absolutely packed with people. Every so often Christine spotted someone who looked familiar. It was impossible not to. At one point she saw a young M. Lefevre; he was laughing with a bunch of young women. Christine briefly wondered if he was already the opera house's senior manager or if the position was something yet to come for him. Perhaps he'd appreciate it he she warned him of the dangers and stress to come… and then she pushed the thought out of her head. She'd had enough difficulties convincing her own father of all people to go and see a doctor, let alone convincing a near stranger to not take an illustrious position.
Besides, she had her own mission right now.
Renaud had to be here… somewhere…
Christine paused long enough for Meg to catch up and grab her arm.
"Have you gone mad?!" she whispered.
"Which one is he?" Christine whispered back.
"Who? Renaud?" Meg frowned. "How many times must I keep telling you? I don't know what he looks like!" She tugged on Christine's arm, albeit lightly as to not draw attention. "Now come on, we need to get back upstairs!"
"I'm not leaving," Christine said.
"Christine, we're going to get caught! They'll toss us out! They'll tell my mother!"
Christine stood her ground as she continued to search the hall, her head constantly pivoting. Maybe it was a hopeless quest. Although the current crowd wasn't as thick as it tended to be during the annual opera Christmas and masquerade parties, it was still rather dense. People swirled about from conversation to conversation as if moving with an unseen current, making it hard for Christine to remember who she'd already examined and who she hadn't. The women were all dressed in various, indistinctive blues and greens, and the men were dressed in an even more uniform black.
She tried to pick out some sort of differentiation that would help her. Perhaps there was a cluster of socialites somewhere thicker than all the others that she just wasn't seeing. People had to be congratulating him, didn't they? After all, if she'd been a completely ordinary and unknowledgeable patron after a performance like that, that was where she'd flock to.
Much to her dismay, not a single group stood out.
And then Christine heard an obnoxious, high pitched laugh that was shudder-inducingly familiar.
She turned to see Ilsa standing with the director of their current school and another man. The director was talking with a speed and enthusiasm of a steam engine while Ilsa simpered at his every word.
Christine scoffed, rolling her eyes.
In truth, she'd never paid attention to the blonde girl back in Vienna, but since they'd arrived in Paris she'd become infuriating inescapable. Their various French professors had been quite candid about their preferences and indifferences towards their class. Christine supposed she should've been happy with falling straight in the middle; what she lacked in talent, she made up in good nature and adaptability. Her fluency in the language didn't hurt either.
But Ilsa on the other hand…
While the rest of them had spent the last two weeks studying with their instructors during the day and either resting or studying some more at night, Ilsa had been paraded out to various dinners and social gatherings. She'd come back in the morning all full of gossip and scandalous tidbits that Christine supposed had to be interesting, if only because most of her other classmates found them so.
She really couldn't be too judgmental though. Ilsa was four years older than Christine. Unless she came from a wealthy family, the girl needed to start making connections if she wanted to continue her studies, and even if her family had money, connections at her age were still incredibly valuable. As much as Christine hated to admit it, Ilsa had a decent amount of talent.
Christine pursed her lips as she scanned her up and down.
Oh, yes. The girl was definitely another Carlotta in the making… but who were they even talking to right now?
Christine finally turned her attention to the other man. He was relatively young, though still significantly older than she'd been before the time reversal. He loomed over the other two, extremely tall and slender to the point of being stickish, but with strong, gaunt, almost bonelike features. His black hair was immaculately cut and slicked back, as was his suit. In fact, everything about his manner of dress - from polished shoes to crisp gloves to straightened tie - was impeccable.
Christine narrowed her eyes, unable to stop staring. The more she studied him, the more he seemed awfully familiar. There was definitely something about those eyes…
At one of the director's remarks, the strange man put a slender hand to his chin and then gave him a wry smile she knew all too well.
Christine took in a short breath as some metaphysical force punched her in the stomach.
Impossible. It was impossible.
It was him.
It couldn't be him.
The world swam, everything suddenly far too bright and far too loud. The perfumes and colognes of a hundred different patrons suddenly clogged her lungs, and she felt her self getting dizzy. Her vision blurred and darkened for several terrifying seconds before she forced it all back into focus.
"I need to get out of here," she whispered to herself.
"That's what I've been saying," Meg hissed. "Come on." She tightened her hold on Christine's arm and began to steer them back through the crowds, Meg moving with purpose and Christine stumbling after her. "And just so you know, I'm never doing anything for you again."
Christine nodded blankly.
As the two tried to sneak past a particularly rotund and heavily perfumed lady, Christine's legs gave out, causing both of them to lose their balance and bump into another man.
"I'm incredibly sorry, monsieur!" Meg quickly said, bending slightly at the knees in a half-curtesy. "Forgive us."
She started to pull Christine forward again, and then-
"Christine?" the man said. He blinked at the pair of them.
Meg paused.
Christine blinked back. He was older, older than her father, but still relatively fit. His eyes were sharp between his half-moon spectacles, and his beard held only the starting tinges of grey. He wore an odd cylindrical hat on his head.
She'd never seen the man before in her life.
"What a surprise!" he was saying. "What in Allah's name are you doing here? Is your father well?"
Christine glanced at Meg. Her friend looked as confused as she was.
"Pardon me, monsieur," Christine said slowly. "But I don't think we've ever met."
The strange man blinked again and then laughed. "No," he said in between chuckles. "No, of course not. My apologizes." He gave the pair of them a small bow. "We haven't met in person. My name is Nadir Khan. Your father is a current patient of one of my cousins, Hussein Ahmadi."
"Nadir… You're Nadir Khan?" Christine cried. She stared in disbelief as he nodded. "I- I cannot thank you enough!"
Christine detached herself from Meg's grip and dropped into the lowest curtesy she could manage.
"Oh, that's not necessary," M. Khan said. "It was always my pleasure. And I trust your father is doing well?"
"Yes," Christine said, returning to normal height. "Quite well, thanks to you."
"Very good. I'm pleased to hear it." He smiled, warm and genuine. "And I'm pleased to see you again as well, Miss Giry. Your mother does such wonderful work for us. Be sure to pass along my regards."
"I'll be glad to," Meg said rather stiffly, her eyes wide with nervousness.
Christine suddenly realized that she'd unintentionally sealed her friend's fate. Even if Meg didn't pass along M. Khan's message to her mother, the man would most likely bring it up the next time he saw her. One way or another, she'd find out that they'd left the box against her direct orders. Christine would most likely be back in Vienna by then, spared from the woman's wrath, but as for Meg…
"So Miss Daae," he said. "What brings you to Paris?"
Christine couldn't help herself from glancing in the direction of where she'd seen… him, but the crowd was too thick. There was no way of knowing if he truly was some impossible existence or if he'd simply been a figment of her over-strained imagination. Either way, it wasn't good.
She didn't really know what she'd been expecting. Perhaps a slight difference in timelines caused by something she had inadvertently done… an opera ghost that had latched onto an ordinary person with an ordinary face, sacrificing his name and identity for the sake of sharing his music with the world… or a man who wore a mask who'd been surrounded for once by people who didn't ask questions…
Anything but this really.
Christine had to get out of there as soon as possible. She needed time to collect her thoughts. However, she also couldn't disrespect M. Khan after the tremendous service he'd done her and her father.
Two minutes. She could give him two minutes of polite conversation.
"I'm here on a short school trip," she said. "It's almost over, I'm afraid. We return to Vienna on Sunday."
"A school trip? Not for primary school, I assume."
"No." Christine blushed. "I haven't gone to primary school for several years."
Several years… more like over a decade. She'd never had good attendance even when she'd still lived in Sweden. Her father traveled for work and she'd traveled with him. After they'd moved to France, she'd bothered even less. What could they have possibly taught her? She hadn't understood the language and her skill with numbers had always been appalling.
She'd briefly considered returning this time around after they'd first moved to Vienna, but she hadn't really seen the point. Not after half a lifetime away. Besides, her father had needed her.
"Then what are you studying, if not the basic subjects?" M. Khan asked.
"The… the piano, monsieur."
"How wonderful. Have you enjoyed your stay here?"
"Yes," Christine said. She put on her best smile. "It's been delightful."
"I'm glad to hear that. And how did you enjoy the opera just now?"
"Oh, it was absolutely beautiful," she said automatically.
"Really?" His eyes twinkled. "Then how about telling the gentleman yourself?"
Christine blanched.
"What."
"Surely you must have heard that this is a new production and that the composer himself is here in attendance. Come, I'll introduce you."
"No," she said, more forcefully than she'd intended. "I mean… I couldn't possibly… Madame Giry is expecting us backstage. She'll start to worry if we stay much longer. Isn't that right, Meg?"
"I thought you just had to see Renaud," Meg whispered. "That you just had to drag me with you."
"Not now, Meg," Christine hissed back.
"It will only take a minute," M. Khan said, seemingly oblivious to the girls' quarrel. "Surely Madame Giry can wait that long. Besides, from what I've learned of her she will most likely be lecturing the ballet for at least the next half hour."
Christine didn't have an argument there.
"I…"
"A bit of praise from a girl as lovely as you would do him a world of good. Ah, there he is!"
Any final hope Christine had of Charles Renaud and the impossible man she'd just seen being miraculously, completely unrelated was trampled as the crowd opened up and Christine caught sight of him once again. She tried to swallow her stomach back down as she was herded straight back into the path of the one person she did not have the strength to face tonight.
Her mind had stopped working. How could it even make attempts after the world had stopped making sense.
Perhaps he wouldn't recognize her. No, of course he wouldn't recognize her. She was still only eleven years old. They hadn't met yet… assuming "he" was even "he."
She stretched her smile as far as it could realistically go and hoped for the best. All she had to do was act her part and no one would suspect a thing. She'd been a professional actress. She could do this.
Christine glanced at Meg being pushed along beside her. Her friend looked cheerful at first, but shot hateful glares at Christine every other step.
For once, Christine couldn't blame her. Their current mess was all of her own doing.
The man… Renaud… didn't seem to notice them as they approach, his back half towards them, still engrossed in whatever conversation he was having with the director and Ilsa… or, more accurately, the one-sided conversation they were having with him.
"Charles!" M. Khan called out. "I've discovered a new admirer of yours. I think she's your youngest one yet."
The man turned.
His wine glass dropped, liquid splashing everywhere as it shattered on the floor. Ilsa let out a screech as the droplets stained the bottom of her dress.
His eyes were wide with shock as he stared directly at Christine.
He remembered too.