Another excerpt from Christine's diary. A few excerpts, actually. Enjoy!

(From a few days before Erik, as the Angel of Music, made himself known to her)

In the days of my childhood, my father used to tell me such fantastic stories, filled with creatures like tomtes being helpful to kind people and gnomes hiding in gardens and beings made of pure music.

He told me of angels of music who sometimes left the spheres of the heavens to grace mortal ears with their glorious songs. It is those lucky, blessed few to whom the great gift of music is granted.

I used to dream that I was one of those fortunate few, in those days after my dear mother died and Poppa and I went from village to village, when I used to sing along to his fiddling at weddings. There are times I can almost imagine myself there again, sleeping, nestled in my father's warm embrace, in a barn, in Sweden, in winter.

I know my voice has lost its soul, the vibrancy it had in my youth, but I fear there is nothing to bring back the passion I once felt. If any angels of music really did exist, I fear none would deign to bother with me.

(The night when Christine first heard that heavenly voice)

Earlier tonight, the angel of music made himself known to me. Oh, I know it wasn't really an angel - I am not so silly to believe in the supernatural; perhaps in my younger days, I might have - but, whoever he is, he is a godsend (for lack of a better term). When I heard that beautiful voice, I could almost allow myself to succumb to the belief that he had been sent by my father, as he claimed when we spoke. I wonder if Poppa would be terribly disappointed to know that my faith died with him?

Oh, I still have faith in a higher power and an afterlife where the good are rewarded and the unjust are punished, but I find it difficult to put complete trust in a Creator that would allow something as dreadful as consumption to claim my father and, years before, to take my mother from us. I fear it was her death that left him heartbroken and weakened him and led him to fall prey to the illness which wracked his body for so many years.

I can never say any of that aloud, of course, not amongst these devoutly religious and terribly refined Parisians. I had enough trouble finding a plausible excuse not to accompany the other chorus girls to church. Not knowing anything about Catholicism, I would be lost in their service. I am not at all familiar with their prayers. I only know the Lutheran service, and that, only in Swedish.

I just don't know. I don't really know myself anymore. No one at the opera knows me very well, not that I've allowed anyone to get close to me. I keep myself to myself. I'm sure they all think me a bit odd.

And yet, there is one who felt me worthy of his attention.

He promised me that, one day, my voice would soar as his does. I doubt that mine will ever sound quite so heavenly, for his voice brought me to such ecstasy that I nearly thought myself in the presence of God Himself! Why, why did this man choose me? His voice sounded rather sad, as though he were as lonely as I have been.

Maybe we crossed paths for a reason. Maybe, just maybe, my father did send him my way.

(During her stay in the house by the lake, after Christine truly saw Erik's face)

I finally saw my dear Erik's face! It was not nearly so terrifying as he'd led me to think. True, there is hardly a nose to speak of, and his eyes are quite sunken in, and his lips are dreadfully thin, but it was nothing so terrible to look at.

He is my Erik, and his face is a face I cherish because it is his. I even told him so before he left this afternoon to attend to his business affairs. I wonder just what business it is that he does? He only leaves occasionally and for brief periods. Yet, he always seems to have enough money to not have to worry about taking care of me.

Perhaps he sells his music or gives lessons? No, I rather doubt that.

He does know an awful lot about the opera, but he has lived here for many years. I wonder if moving out to the country might not help his health? Before we are married, I shall have to talk to him about that.

What am I thinking? He has not broached the subject of courting me! He has only met Maman once, and he never spoke to her of that! Of course, I did leave the room to fetch my muff, and I did hear them continue to speak, but I didn't dare hope that - Oh, my dear sweet Erik! Do you feel the same way about me as I do about you?

(After their conversation over supper when Erik told her more about his journeys)

Oh, how I adore hearing Erik tell me about his life! That voice is one I could gladly swim in. All the places he has been utterly fascinate me. But I know there are things he is not telling me. He admits as much by saying there are parts of his life that he is not proud of.

What could be so horrible that he would hide it from me? I can't imagine him being capable of any crime for which I could not forgive him! Surely, he will tell me in time. There must have been mitigating circumstances that led him to do . . . whatever it was he did.

I must stop letting my imagination run wild like this! I let myself begin to think the worst - that perhaps he has hurt people before - without cause. What silly thoughts course through my head! I can only imagine what a foolish little girl Erik would think me if he had any idea the things I have come up with!

His tales of the buildings he created are full of wonders, though! Mazes and secret corridors and machines that walk about and mimic kings . . . I wonder how much of that is actually true?