It was an odd occurrence; a stranger knocking at the Opera Populaire door and the choreographer opening the doors and accepting the stranger into the ballet corp without question. For this reason, I got many strange looks from the ballerinas and stage hands. Mostly untrusting glances, as if they thought I had somehow used black magic to worm my way into the opera ensemble and would use it on them at any given moment.

I ignored them all.

I didn't care what they thought. They might have known the truth which, to me, would have been worse. A humiliation beyond reckoning. So let them dare to imagine the reason I was there. Lies and rumors did not matter to me. The truth did.

The better part of the truth was that the woman in black (who turned out to be the choreographer, Madame Giry) did remember me from the cemetery. One look at my face and she knew something was wrong, too. She didn't ask questions; just let me in, set me up in a bed, and welcomed me to the opera house.

I was eager to start my singing lessons, but Madame Giry told me she would need to discuss the matter with "an acquaintance" before any arrangements could be made. This made the first few weeks of my stay at the opera house rather sour for me as I waited impatiently for my lessons to begin. But Madame Giry brushed me off every time I brought the subject up. I entertained the idea that she merely needed another ballerina and thought I would suit her needs, though I couldn't imagine why.

I never thought I had the body of a dancer, but after a time practicing under Madame Giry's steady guidance, I did begin to notice my arms and legs appeared more toned and I was starting to resemble the lithe dancers around me.

I admit that dancing was rather freeing. Not as much as singing, but it seemed a very close second. But however enjoyable it was I couldn't forget singing. After months of leaving Madame Giry to work out a deal with her friend on her own, I finally strengthened my resolve to confront her again about my lessons, praying that I would not be turned away this time.

One morning I searched for her backstage (which was a mess of wooden posts and rafters, heavy divider curtains, catwalks, and stairways), but did not find her there. Next I went to the dormitory, where I found her scolding a couple of the younger ballerinas who had taken the liberty of sleeping in. Though it looked like any other backstage room, its gauzy white curtains and all the wrought iron beds covered with white sheets, puffy duvets, and colorful bedspreads added a homey comfort to the room. Sunlight was streaming in through several of the round windows along one wall, setting the room aglow. It was warm and comfortable and I found myself wishing that I had been able to stay in bed, too.

I placed myself in a rather large patch of sunlight, distractedly watching the dust motes swirling into the air at my presence. I was trying to lend a little privacy to the tardy girls' reprimands, but they didn't seem to appreciate the gesture, as I received scowls from them as they rushed past me. Once they had scurried away, Madame Giry turned her attention to me.

"Some girls are not born with the responsibility needed to become a great dancer," she said calmly, eying me. "But most can be taught. With proper discipline."

Something about her words struck a familiar chord in me that made my insides tighten. I had never been afraid of Madame Giry, other than a fear of reprimand for sloppy dancing. But those particular words disarmed my determination as quickly as water doused fire. They reminded me of - of him. Despite the knowledge that I was safe here in the opera house, I felt myself begin to sweat. Fingering my skirt nervously, I reminded myself that I was not afraid of Madame Giry. She would not hurt me and yet I found myself warily eyeing her cane. Pushing aside thoughts of the cane connecting with my back, I chided myself for thinking of Madame Giry in such a way. But I only displaced my fear. While I was not scared of her, I found I was afraid my request would be rejected again. That fear made my tongue heavy and unwilling to move. Ashamed and blushing, I stared down at the floor.

"You want to ask me something," she said, while the fear battled me. Frowning, I fidgeted some more and nodded, still ashamed to meet her gaze. "About the singing lessons?"

I nodded again.

I heard her sigh. "I will ask him again. He has been very distracted lately. But I will ask again." I didn't need her to tell me who "he" was. Well, honestly I did. Other than that he was an acquaintance who was a voice teacher, I knew nothing about him. She never said a word about him, never even mentioned his name or where he came from, this mysterious great singing teacher, of whom I was by now certain, did not exist.

Her answer was not a flat rejection, but it still was not the answer I had dared hope for. She must have seen my disappointment and placed her hand on my arm to comfort me. However, she was smart enough to know that words would mean nothing to me at this point and so she said nothing. The only sounds as she walked away were the clacking of her shoes and the scraping of her skirts against the floorboards.

Knowing the only way to forget about my distress was to laugh, I sought out my new friends, Madame Giry's daughter, Meg, and an orphan girl named Christine Daaé. They were nearly the only girls who did not shun me immediately when I had first arrived. They were both sweet and compassionate and utterly in love with being at the Opera Populaire. Their youthful joy and passion were infectious. When I started thinking about my past, going into those dark recesses of my mind, I found solace in Meg's and Christine's companionship.

Meg found me first, hurriedly pulling me into the cramped dressing room and scolding me as though she were my mother, not my friend. I laughed as she dragged me along behind her.

"Relax, Meg!" I said. "I just saw your mother! She knows I'm not in my leotard and she didn't say a thing."

"Nevertheless, she'll be expecting you to be ready," she answered, giving me a stern look. I grinned in reply and accepted her help to get ready.

I was still smiling while she braided my long brown hair and pulled it up into a bun. It was nice to have someone who cared about my well-being. So different from what I had grown used to. This must be what it feels like to have a mother, I thought, watching Meg's serious face in the mirror. My own mother had died when I was very young and I barely remembered her. Maybe my life would have been different if she had lived. I didn't have time to dwell on the thought as Madame Giry came into the room chasing all of us stragglers to the barre for warm-ups.

Soon I was swept away by dance practice, and although my dance-steps were years behind the skills of the others' I felt as if I had accomplished something. The sense of accomplishment came not from anything I did in particular, I was sure, although I imagined that it had. And I couldn't even pinpoint the exact reason for the lightness I suddenly felt. Perhaps it was that I had made friends. Made friends with people who didn't expect me to tell them my dark secrets, lest they be required to share their own. Perhaps it was the feeling I had deep down in my gut that said Madame Giry would succeed in procuring me singing lessons this time. A smile quirked the corner of my mouth. Oh, yes! I felt very surely that I would get those lessons very soon.

"Absolutely not."

"You haven't even heard her sing yet. All I ask is that you at least listen to her."

He glared across the room at Madame Giry. She was being insanely stubborn about this. How many times had she asked now? It was certainly an odd request. Outlandish. Downright impossible, in fact. Christine had the naïveté to believe he was an angel sent by her deceased father to teach her music. She had been easily deceived and manipulated. But this new girl… how would he teach her? Teach her without her screaming and running the opposite direction? Teach her without her seeing him?

"Just one song," Madame Giry pressed.

"No." He could be stubborn too.

"If you heard her you may change your-"

"No!" he said, louder than he meant to, but offered no apology. "I will not do it."

Madame Giry set her jaw, muscles tightening. They stood in frustrated silence for a minute before Madame Giry spoke again.

"I told her," she said quietly, raising her eyebrows and not exactly meeting his steely gaze, "that if she came to the opera house someone would teach her to sing."

He stared at her, utterly bewildered. She had always kept his secret; always protected him. Why was she doing this now? What was she thinking? Surely she knew the danger that put him in.

Before the rage building within him burst out, Madame Giry hurriedly said, "She has been hurt, too, Erik."

Silence descended upon them again while he thought about her words and the deeper meaning that he knew resided in them.

Finally he stood a little straighter, pulled his cloak tight around himself and sighed.

"One song. Tomorrow night. I make no promises."