Christine woke with a start from a nightmare she couldn't remember to find the house cold, dark, and empty. The fire had burned down to a few glowing embers and though she felt around in the darkness for her father's sleeping form, all she found was empty space.

"Papa?" she called, her voice trembling. Silence. "Papa?" Her voice was thin and reedy, nothing at all like what her parents had imagined. Her father feared that she hadn't inherited a singing voice as lovely as her mother's and he hadn't the heart to find out.

She sat up, looking around in the darkness for any sign of her father, but she couldn't see anything.

She could hear the howling of the wind outside and the creaking of the floorboards as she pulled herself to her feet, wrapping herself in a vain attempt to keep warm.

"Papa?" she called as she slowly walked toward the front door. She gave a small shriek as her bare foot came in contact with something cold and crunchy on the floor.

Snow, she thought as she shook it off her foot. Her head swam with terrible possibilities as she realized that the floor by the door was covered in snowy footprints.

What if he's hurt? What if he's leaving like Mama left? What if I'm all alone again? Her eyes brimmed with tears as she tried to push the thoughts from her mind.

She shivered as she padded over to the window and stood on her tiptoes to peek outside. A few pale snowflakes drifted past the glass pane, glowing dim under the light of the moon. She could see nothing more.

Panic rose in her chest with each breath she drew. She was too little to stoke the fire. That had been drilled into her since she'd been old enough to walk. Without her father there, the fire was sure to go out completely. How long has he been gone?

She shivered as she turned away from the window, pulling the blanket more tightly around her little body in a vain effort to warm herself.

Thump. Something hit the outside of the house near the door. Christine jumped and looked at the door expectantly. "Papa?"

The door flew open then, giving way to the bitter wind and snow. She gave a small shriek of fright and scurried away into the shadows.

A dark figure entered the house and approached the fireplace. As he passed the makeshift bed, he dropped the load of firewood he'd been carrying.

"Christine?" Papa Daaé's voice had never sounded so wonderful to his daughter. She ran to him, stumbling and nearly falling as her short little legs tangled in the blanket that covered her.

"Papa!" she cried as she wrapped her arms around his waist, determined to never let him go again.

"Oh, sweetheart," he breathed a sigh of relief, "don't frighten me like that again. I thought you'd wandered outside!"

"You left me," she accused him with a sniffle as he wrapped his strong arms around her.

"I'm sorry," he said. "We ran out of firewood and I didn't want us to freeze. You were asleep. I hadn't thought it would take me so long to get back after I knocked over my lantern."

"I woke up and you were gone and— and—and—" Christine began to sob and the rest of her words were lost to the damp fabric of her father's jacket.

For three years he'd kept her close, leaving her alone for only a few moments while she slept or ate. The few times he'd been gone longer than a few minutes, he'd come inside to find her a blubbering angry mess on the floor.

"Christine," he said, trying to pry her away so that he could look her in the eye. He never ceased to be amazed at how strong her tiny arms were. "Christine, look at me."

"No," she replied, shaking her head as she held onto him more tightly.

"Christine, I need you to listen to me," he said as he finally pried her away. Before she could protest, he knelt in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders. "I need you to understand that I'm not going to leave you like Mama left us. Not for a long, long time."

"But Mama—"

"Mama was very, very sick," he said, his voice cracking as he spoke of his wife. There wasn't a day that passed that he didn't visit her grave. Sometimes Christine visited as well, but he found it was far easier on both of them if he went alone.

He'd buried her by the woodshed in the springtime and built a cross out of wood to mark the spot.

"I know I promised I would never, ever leave you," he said. "It's not practical for you to expect that to mean I will never leave you alone. There are always going to be times in life where you will have to be alone."

"But—"

"I'm sorry I frightened you," he said, kissing her forehead.

"Papa—" She wanted to say more, but her father pulled away. She stared at his shape in the darkness as he stood and turned to tend to the dying fire.

"I never should've let it get this bad," he mumbled as he stacked fresh wood in the fireplace. He cursed himself for letting some of the wood fall into the snow. It was wet now and his daughter was shivering uncontrollably and this was all his fault.

"I should never have allowed you to become so afraid of being on your own," he said as he worked. A tiny flame had sparked to life for a moment before being snuffed out by a wet spot in the wood.

He looked at the sad pile of music he had gathered and stacked on the mantle. In his youth he'd collected pieces from his favorite composers.

Now they were nothing but kindling. He took a few sheets in his hands and stroked them lovingly before crumpling them mercilessly for the fire.

Within a few minutes and with a few well-placed pieces of kindling, the fire was roaring once more and the house had begun to warm.

"I'm sorry, Papa," Christine said as she curled up in front of the fire.

"Oh, no Christine. You have nothing to feel sorry for."

"I should know you won't leave me," she said, shaking her head. "Not like Mama."

"Not until you're older."

"How much older?" she asked, her eyes widening once more in terror. Her father sighed and kissed her forehead.

"Many, many years."

"Will you tell me before you go?"

He hesitated. That was a promise he wasn't sure that he could make and keep. Death wasn't exactly something he would see coming. His wife was the exception, not the rule.

"I will try," he said.

He waited until she was fast asleep once more to finish bringing the firewood in. It was only midwinter and they were down to only a few armfuls of wood. With the bitter cold that had accompanied January thus far, he knew it wouldn't last them long.

His music no longer drew the crowds it had in his youth once his most recent job had dried up, and nearly all of what he'd been paid for playing his violin went toward feeding himself and Christine.

He sat near the fire, watching his daughter sleep as he thought about how horribly he'd mucked things up for her. He'd been jobless for months now. When her fifth birthday had passed earlier in the month, he'd been unable to give her any gifts or even a special meal.

She'd proclaimed that she was happy with the songs he played for her on his violin, but he still felt like a failure.

His heart ached at the idea of leaving their home. He didn't envision a future where they would be able to return once they took their leave. Who would remember to visit his wife's grave? The house would sit in slow decay, and he was sure what they wouldn't be able to carry with them would be looted in their absence.

Christine is more important, he reminded himself. You can't support her anymore here.

He glanced over his shoulder at the bedroom door. It hadn't been opened since the day his wife died. Even if they left as soon as possible, they would need a few days to prepare.

He wondered if he'd be strong enough to break Christine's crib down for firewood. He wondered if he'd be strong enough to go into that room again at all.

At some point in the night he must've fallen asleep, because he woke to find Christine draping her blankets across him and trying to jam a pillow under his head. The fire had begun to die again, but it was also well after daybreak and it didn't need to be as bright for them to see.

"Good morning, Papa," she said with a smile. "Did you like the lullaby I was singing for you?"

"You were singing to me?" he asked as he sat up. His back was screaming at him and his neck was so stiff he could hardly turn his head. He chastised himself for falling asleep in such an awkward position. "What were you singing?"

The little girl shrugged as she stood and picked up her pillow, offering it to her father. "I don't know the name of it, but I think Mama used to sing it to me," she said.

"Would you sing it for me again?" he asked, curious to know what lullaby she could possibly remember from that early in her life.

Without hesitation, she straightened her back and smoothed out her skirt before opening her mouth and beginning to sing a simple tune. Papa Daaé was taken aback by the little girl's voice.

Her singing voice was light and airy, and she stayed in key with what appeared to be quite little effort. With a little practice and another year or two, he felt confident that she would sound like an angel.

"Christine!" he breathed as she finished her song. "Where did you learn to sing that way?"

"I do not know," she said with a shrug. "It's just how I sing."

"Do you like to sing, sweetheart?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "Very much, Papa. I love music!"

His mind swam with possibility at her words. Within months she would be able to perform with him, he was certain of it. And as her voice improved, so would their income. They could find a patron—

—He shook his head, not wanting to get ahead of himself. He slowly pulled himself up to his feet, wincing witch each pop and crackle of his joints as he moved.

"I believe we have something to discuss after breakfast, my dear," he said with a smile. His daughter looked up at him, confused, but didn't say anything. She followed her father to the kitchen and climbed into one of their dining chairs as he prepared their breakfast.

Christine ate the meager meal placed before her as though it was the finest that had ever been placed before her, and her father watched on as she ate. They were nearing the end of their food supply and so he refrained from taking a meal himself. Instead he had eaten a few bites of what he'd prepared for his daughter as he'd cooked.

"Would you like to go on an adventure, Christine?" he asked as she ate the last bite of her toast. Her eyes lit up.

"Like the little princess in my storybook?" she asked.

"Well, not exactly. On our adventure, we wouldn't be coming back here. And it might not always be fun, but we'll be together—"

"Papa, I'd love to!" she exclaimed. Her eyes were sparkling as she danced around the kitchen. "When can we leave?"

"Now, now, we shouldn't get ahead of ourselves. We'll need to pack and plan and I'll need to earn us some money before we can go anywhere."

"Can I bring my pink dress and my doll?" Christine asked, her eyes wide as saucers as her thoughts swam with all the combinations of her things she could possibly bring with her. Her father laughed.

"Of course you can, dear heart. And perhaps you can help earn us some money," he said. Her mouth formed a small 'o' in surprise as she stopped moving and stared at him.

"Really?" she asked.

"You'll have to learn a few songs," he said.

"I can do that!" she said, nodding enthusiastically. "Can we start right now?"

He couldn't say no to her, not when she was so excited about the one thing he loved nearly as much as he loved her: music.

"If that is your wish, dear heart. Let us go and practice. I want to hear more of your voice."

Over the weeks that followed and with her father's help, Christine learned new songs and even performed in front of crowds. At first, her voice was small and timid, but as they continued to perform her confidence grew.

Her father couldn't have been prouder as they brought in enough money to afford passage across the sea to England. Seeing how happy his daughter was to perform with him brought more joy to his heart than he had felt in more than two years.