At last, a new chapter! It's a bit longer than the others but hopefully you will enjoy it. Christine was a fairly minor character in my main story so here's something from her perspective.

Christine could never understand why she screamed when she saw Erik's face. Even later, when she spoke about it with Gerard, she did not truly know why she reacted in that way, never once stopping to consider how hurt he must have been or how much false hope she had awakened in his heart. It was not just Erik's pain that bothered her but what the incident revealed about herself and how she was nothing like the person her father wanted her to be.

She knew a little of his isolation and loneliness, and always had done. Even as a child, she thought of herself as the outsider and in many ways that was exactly what she was.

Although she had only fleeting memories of her native Sweden, she spent her childhood being spoken of at the country fairs as "the little Swedish girl". And no wonder either, when her father had such a strong accent and remained so utterly Swedish to his dying day, always struggling with the language and customs of his adopted country.

She had shadowy memories of the boat from Stockholm and the choppy sea, and the long journeys around the lanes of France with her father. But her memory came blissfully alive with the de Chagny estate, deep in the countryside, with its magnificent parkland and the ancient chateau itself. And yet here she was merely the gardener's daughter, the strange little girl who sang folk songs all the time in that harsh language while nursing a bundle of rags she called a doll. She was merely an observer of the life of the chateau, or what she knew of it, from a safe distance, as she watched her father work or the family boarding their carriage for Paris, or wherever they were going. At night, in the tiny cottage she shared with her father, he would play his beloved violin while she sang, for music meant more to them than the written word and, like Swedish, it was their secret, private language.

They learned some French from a kindly local priest, who would spread his book on their little table, the one where they ate their meals, and enunciate the unfamiliar words for them. She could not imagine the embarrassment of a grown man having to learn all over again and yet he never complained, not to her anyway.

And then, after a little while, there was school. Not that it made much of an impact on her. The cold, overcrowded schoolroom, the hard benches, the older boys pulling her braids, trying to hold her pencil with numb fingers on winter's mornings… No, that brief, terrible period of her life would not hold many happy memories for her, years later. And even then her father was there, like a rock, when she came home in tears on those awful days when she was caned for not knowing her lesson or for speaking in Swedish by mistake.

"I hate M. Camier! I hate him!" she would weep into his shoulder, while he held her in his arms. But Gustave would always dry her tears and bring her doll to her and even sing her favourite songs.

"You know, there is goodness in everyone, Christine, even in your schoolmaster," he told her after a little while, "The more people I meet, the more I believe that. He just doesn't have anyone to bring that goodness out of him."

Soon, the de Chagnys, or perhaps the housekeeper, she was never sure, would decide that she would be of better use in the kitchen, and thus her ordeal ended. Madame Renier, the cook, who was no more a "Madame" than Christine was herself, quickly put her to work and she thrived in those busy years of her young life. She was often required to wait upon the de Chagnys and was obliged to learn how to carry plates and trays without spilling anything, to curtsey correctly and, most of all, to be invisible.

The daughters of the house did not take much notice of her. Once, when they thought she was staring at them, they told her to go back to work and stop dawdling, but that was all. The Comte and comtesse were often in Paris and the times when they were at home and she brought their meals to them, they would thank her briefly and go back to their conversation, or whatever they were doing.

Only Philippe noticed her. He was the youngest child and usually ate with his governess but not only did he thank her, he also looked up and smiled at her. That made her heart leap with happiness for he had the most beautiful smile she had ever seen. The governess, on the other hand was a grumpy old battleaxe who looked like she had never smiled in her life and Christine was rather intimidated by her. She used to see them walking around the grounds together and once she happened to be passing by the schoolroom during Philippe's lessons when she heard him recite a poem. She could never remember what the poem was about but he had such a sweet voice that she had to stop and listen. When he was finished, she hurried away before she was caught eavesdropping but even still, her heart felt a little lighter that day.

Philippe liked to play the piano and sometimes he would come in while she was dusting the room. After curtseying she would return to her work but continued to watch him out of the corner of her eye as he played the simple melodies his piano teacher had taught him. He was two years older than her but she sometimes wondered what it would be like to be his friend and to play with him.

One day he walked in while she was trying to play the piano herself but even then he did not chide her, as his parents would have done. Instead he quietly invited her to play the piano with him and Christine eagerly stepped forward, her heart soaring. The two of them started out playing a song together, with the young Comte telling her which notes to play, but eventually they descended into playing random notes, just for the fun of it, and they laughed heartily at the discordant noise. That was the beginning of it all. They played together constantly after that, at every opportunity, and as they spoke only in French to each other Christine's ability in that language progressed immensely. Once his lessons were over, Philippe would throw his books aside and run out to the orchard where his friend was waiting for him. His torn, muddy clothes were testament to the fun they had together and the governess used to shake her head in despair as she watched them from a distance.

One day Gustave invited Philippe to come with them to a country fair a few miles away where he would be playing the violin and he jumped at the chance. With his parents reluctantly giving their permission and warning Gustave numerous times to take care of their son, the three of them were soon off to the fair together in a rickety old cart. The young boy was just eleven and was more used to the liveried carriage his family travelled about in, but after getting used to being jolted about it felt like a grand adventure.

The violinist and his daughter were welcomed to the fair, as always; it was Philippe who was the outsider this time, even in his most casual clothes. When an acquaintance of theirs asked what "that spoiled brat" was doing here, Gustave was quick to jump to the child's defence.

"He's as much right to be here as anyone else," he replied immediately, and such was the respect for him among those present that no-one else made any objections.

That was a wonderful day for Philippe; meeting the kind of blunt, unpretentious people he never met in his cloistered, privileged life, learning to play a little song on the violin, dancing with Christine… And the two of them felt so happy in each other's' company, away from the governess's beady gaze. Back home, he would occasionally sneak over to their cottage to listen to Gustave's violin and they would all sing together, the outside world forgotten.

It could not last. The Comte summoned Gustave to his study one day and demanded that he end his daughter's "unsuitable" friendship with Philippe.

"But sir, they're only children!" he protested, "And, if you'll forgive me, your son does enjoy playing the violin so much."

In the end, his attempts at reasoning were all in vain. The two of them were forced to leave their tiny but beloved cottage and Christine was parted from her dear friend, the only child who could make her feel as though she were not merely that little girl in the kitchen.

oOo

With her father's death several years later, she lost the only person she could turn to for comfort in times of sadness. Her one rock vanished from her life forever and she was the outsider yet again in a frightening world. Her loss made her more determined than ever to sing, but the old lady she worked for did not appreciate her kitchen maid singing folk songs while on duty.

It was the travelling fair that reunited her with her old friend. She had gone there on her afternoon off and while wandering around she found a group of musicians who were looking for people to sing with them as their usual singer was ill. Something made her volunteer; she knew it must be her father prompting her for everything changed that day. It felt so good to sing in public once more and to see that people enjoyed it so much.

Afterwards, a well-dressed young man approached her. She recognised him immediately as her old friend from the chateau but he remained oblivious as he complimented her on her fine singing and how much he had enjoyed it. "You must take lessons, Mademoiselle. All the best singers have trained at the Opera House in Paris. You should go there and ask for my good friend, Gerard Carriere; he will look after you and arrange for a good teacher to coach you. Tell him I sent you and give him my regards, won't you?"

His flirtatious grin unnerved her a little but she took his calling card and thanked him shyly.

"And perhaps I can visit you there? Just to ensure your lessons are going well?" That knowing wink made her blush but she agreed, and he kissed her hand before leaving her. The disappointment she felt at not being recognised was quickly replaced by excitement as she considered Philippe's words.

Lessons at the Opera House! She had never dreamed of such a thing. Once, she and her father had stood outside that grand building and he had put his arm around her and told her that one day she would sing there, or there was no justice in the world. Well, she would do it for him. She would make him proud as he watched over her from Heaven. With some relief, she left the employment of the cantankerous old woman who complained at length about all young girls being flighty and irresponsible nowadays, and left for Paris.

It was not the musical director who gave Christine lessons in the end but Erik, although in those early days she knew him simply as her maestro, respecting his wish to remain anonymous. But it hardly mattered. Her childhood friend may have let her down with his vague promise of lessons but this mysterious teacher, whoever he was, shared so much of his time and talent. The distant memories of the village schoolroom faded as he taught her with patience and encouragement, always wanting only the best for her and treating her with the utmost courtesy. She always looked forward to their lessons together and always enjoyed their conversations at the end, before they parted.

Both of them were lonely, she knew that. She had no real friends in the costume department where the girls liked to remind her of their dalliances with Philippe and every night she would return to her dusty storeroom to lie down for the night, wishing her father was still with her. And she wondered about her maestro and where he lived and most of all, what lay behind that mask.

She hated herself for abandoning him after her performance at the Bistro in order to spend time with Philippe. Even though she enjoyed being with the Comte and was glad that he finally remembered her she could not quite forget those kind, hopeful eyes that watched her with such devotion. Nor could she disguise her disappointment at how that sweet young boy had turned out and what her father might have thought of him.

The night of her debut, that disastrous debut thanks to the two-faced Carlotta, was frightening for her, not just because of the audience's reaction but of the way in which her masked friend had pulled her away from the stage and down below to the catacombs. And yet, despite Christine's fear, she soon came to realise that he would not hurt her and that he was so eager to show her his world, and to share it with her.

She trusted him, and yet she was afraid when she saw his face. Even after Gerard warned her about it, and Erik begged her not to look upon it, she was still afraid. But that face was not half as frightening as the anger she awakened in her normally debonair maestro.

As she cowered in her bedroom she knew she was not a child any more. Her father was not here to make things better with his music or to reassure her that everything would be all right. She had depended on him so much and now she was a young lady of nineteen who must stand or fall on her own.

That final, belated kiss was still a long way away. The realisation that she loved Erik and always would; that would only come to her on that fatal night, as he died in his father's arms. And in Gerard she would soon find the father she still longed for and the friend she badly needed.

But that was still in the future. And as Erik destroyed the home he loved Christine knew that she was still that scared child at heart, painfully facing up to the consequences of her actions and the weakness of her love for the man in the mask.