Author's Note: Welcome everyone! I had originally planned on publishing the first chapter for this on March 1st, but I am impatient, so it's coming early! This is my much anticipated Maid AU that I have been planning like crazy. Currently, 52 chapters are outlined, but I have not completed my outline. I will very soon, but it will not affect the events of earlier chapters. I predict there will be around 75 chapters, so I am setting the count to that number. It may or may not change depending on how the outline goes. Chapters are going to be shorter than my usual ones as well.

Just a warning, this is a very very slow burn so yell at me as much as you want. I'm looking forward to the frustrated comments from anyone who feels the need to get irritated that these two are taking so damn long to...well...I can't say much otherwise it will be spoiled, so enjoy!

Much love,

Madame Destler

Chapter One

"Monsieur, please," Christine Daae cried in desperation, leaning forward and gripping the edge of the mahogany desk. "If you would allow me an audience, if only for a moment, I can prove to you that I can sing!"

Across from her, in a chair far too grandiose for even a manager of the Opera Populaire, sat a short, snowy haired man. His eyes were screwed shut and he was rubbing his temple as if he had a headache. In his defense, she had been pleading with him for nearly a quarter of an hour to give her a job, but at this point, she would take any job.

The man sighed and said, "I am very sorry, Miss Daae, but we are not accepting new chorus members. We are over-staffed as I have said numerous times."

"But I can sing! One song, I'm begging you!" she blubbered as hot tears fell down her cheeks. Gods, pull yourself together! "I–I can sew! I can cook!"

"Mademoiselle, if I humored every girl who claimed she could sing, I would be a lunatic. I do apologize, but I am declining your request for employment in any form. We do not have room for you," the manager insisted, rising from the chair and walking past Christine. He opened the door to the tiny office and gestured for her to leave, clearly impatient to be back to his own business.

Christine's heart fell to the pit of her stomach. She was foolish for even believing that anyone would hire her, after all, it wasn't as if she were a local. Why had she even bothered selling her father's caravan back to the gypsies? She would have been better off if she had stayed exactly where he had left her, but she wouldn't have been able to bear it for much longer. Constantly traversing France was not what she expected when her father purchased the caravan from Damien without telling her that she would be the one used for profit.

There was nothing left for her with the gypsies any longer. Any friendships she thought she had acquired in the Roma were built on falsities and exploitation. She was ashamed that she let several months pass, completely oblivious that the other girls only wanted to associate with her because she was a high earner. Without the Opera Populaire, she would have nowhere to go, nowhere to call home…

Christine pivoted on her heel right outside the door and dropped her head, whispering, "I have nowhere to go, monsieur. My bridges with the Roma are burned. If there is anything you can do for me, anyone you know of looking for an honest worker, I would appreciate the help."

The man eyed her cautiously and nodded slowly before rummaging over the top of his desk, producing a pen and parchment. A quiet scratching filled the silence as Christine waited patiently, a miniscule sense of hope coming over her. After what seemed like an eternity, he returned with the piece of parchment and tucked it into her hand.

"There is a man, a patron of this place, who resides at this address. His current maid was due to start here as our new ballet mistress a month ago, but she has yet to find her replacement for his estate," he explained, placing his hand on the small over her back and leading her to the servant door by the stables. "Upon your arrival, ask for Madame Giry and tell her Andre from the opera sent you."

Christine stared at the parchment and memorized the address in case she lost it like she did most things. With it committed to memory, she stuffed it into her bosom and said, "Th–thank you, monsieur."

"I could not, in good faith, throw you on the street when you have nowhere to go, Miss Daae," he said, ushering her out the door and into the frigid Paris air. "Now, be on your way. It's nearly evening and catching a coach this late is close to impossible."

"Of course," she said with more vigor, excited for at least some place to go. "If there are auditions in the future, I hope you will grant me an audience then."

"Yes, indeed," Andre mumbled before turning to disappear down the corridor. Christine watched after him, wondering if she was truly a terror to speak with, or if he was just an overly impatient man.

Shrugging it off, Christine turned, intent on hailing a coach so she could get to this potential employer's estate as soon as possible. To bother him so late in the day would not be a nice start to a good working relationship. At the base of the small set of steps, several chickens darted out from around a corner, clucking and running amuck around the stable yard.

Christine giggled when one of them came up to her and pecked at her shoe. "That is not food, my little friend," she laughed, nudging the thing away from her so she wouldn't step on it. "I wonder if there is food around here for you. I would hate to see you all hungry."

Upon inspection, she was able to find a large sack of dried corn, so she set down her father's violin case and her suitcase and dug into the bag. She tossed a couple generous handfuls to the little creatures, obviously starved by the way they were behaving, and observed them for a moment. She had always begged her father for a pet, though chickens were hardly appropriate for a girl, a dog would have sufficed. Now, as a woman in her mid-twenties, caring for any type of animal seemed like a dream.

Once she was certain the chickens had their fill of the corn, she picked up her cases and strolled out into the road, hoping that her delay hadn't affected her chance of hailing a coach. Holding up her hand, she waved to each of the passing carriages, her smile diminishing as she was ignored time after time.

Finally, after nearly half an hour, a driver pulled off the street and parked by the curb.

"Where to, mademoiselle?" the coachman shouted over the buzz of the city.

Christine recited the address from memory and tossed her cases onto the floor of the coach before climbing up and settling into the plush seat. She dug into her pocket, producing her tiny watch and found that it was nearly four o'clock. It wasn't as late as she thought it was, but she was worried that, by the time she arrived at the estate, she would be asked to return the next day.

"How long will the journey take, monsieur?" she asked, moving forward to ensure she would hear his answer.

"Fifteen minutes, mademoiselle. It's just across the river. I know of the place you speak of," he replied as he urged the two umber horses forward.

Satisfied, Christine sank into the cushions and relaxed as well as she could. Her shoulders were tense from the stress of the day, so she rubbed them gently, coaxing her mind to believe that everything was going to be just fine.

He will hire you, she assured herself, smiling at the thought of being a maid. It wasn't the ideal job, but she cooked and cleaned enough at the gypsy camp so she was certain she would be hired.

Her mind wandered and she thought of music, how terribly she wished that Andre would have at least listened to her sing. All of her practice to attain an almost perfect voice, all the endless hours she poured her heart and soul into her music…was it all for nothing? No, she would only need to wait for auditions to open and they would surely offer her a spot in the chorus…or even Prima Donna.

The coach jolted and Christine's eyes shot open as she fell forward, narrowly catching herself on the seat across from her.

"Apologies, mademoiselle. His drive could use some maintenance," the coachman chuckled, glancing over his shoulder only once.

Christine agreed with the observation as she looked behind her to see the drive for herself. The gravel path they were heading down was littered with holes and several fallen branches were strewn across it as well. Perhaps there was a second entrance that was used more often, but why would the coachman not use that one instead?

Wait…they were already there? How long had she closed her eyes? It seemed to be only a minute or two! She must have fallen asleep or simply had an embarrassing lack of appropriate time-keeping.

With a sigh, she faced forward, gaze instantly landing on the chateau at the end of the gravel path. It was remarkable, a pale taupe with a charcoal roof. Over two dozen windows were on the front facing side, each framed with ivory shutters which were oddly closed. Why not leave them open to welcome the natural light? Regardless, the chateau was lovely and she had little doubt that the man who designed the home was skilled in his field of work.

The coach stopped at the base of the grand steps leading up to the even grander entrance door. Without looking away from the chateau, Christine leapt from the coach and grabbed her cases. Before she could thank the driver, he had already set out, so she took a deep, steadying breath and climbed the steps.

/

Author's Note: Erik's residence style and location is based off the Chateau de Malmaison, which is a few miles west of central Paris. Chateau de Malmaison was the last residence of Napoleon Bonaparte and his wife, Josephine, who had a prized rose garden which I adore because Erik loves roses. It just fit perfectly into what I believe Erik would design for his own home and of course, for his source of roses, which he will need in this fic!

I hope everyone enjoys this as much as I will enjoy writing it! Please let me know what you think, I would love to hear your thoughts!