Thank you all again for reading, as well as the reviews/favorites! I hope everyone enjoys the story! I plan to finish it sometime in the next few weeks, aiming it to be somewhere in the ballpark of 30k-40k words. I do not want to overwrite this, and that amount of words seems appropriate for the tale I want to tell.

Anyways, Onward!

July 1887

The night was one of merriment and shared company. Earlier that day, Nadir had worked with Alexandre in the paddock with the newly named 'Rhapsody'. The boy had grown significantly better in that span of just two months, and Christine carried with her a strong sense of pride at her son's progress. She knew Nadir enjoyed the sessions as well, finding joy in her son's presence. She was glad of it.

Following supper, as was custom on Sunday evenings, the small band contented themselves with a few pieces of entertainment. Alexandre had dragged the group outside, before it got dark, to show them his 'tricks'. The dogs followed, most likely to the barn to chase a rabbit of some kind.

"Maman, I have been practicing!"

Christine quirked her eye in question, glimmering interest. "And what would that be?"

"Watch!" Leading Rhapsody from the paddock, without halter or reins, the horse followed by some type of whistle call. Christine shook her head, looking to Nadir and smiling. So he wasn't just teaching her son how to ride.

Placing a foot upon the fence, leaning upon the bay mare, Alexandre situated himself on the horse, grinning all the while. She was only fourteen hands, much more manageable to mount than Traveler's sixteen.

"Maman, watch!" It was then that Christine's curiosity turned to concern. Despite her apparent state of worry, out of her peripheral vision she could see that Nadir had a casual countenance. With a wobbly leg, and then another, he raised himself on the mare's back, stretching his skinny figure in victory.

"Alexandre, be careful!" She couldn't help it.

He ignored her warning. Two clicks of the tongue signaled the pony to demurely step forward, walking in a straight arrow. His arms were spread wide, so as to keep his balance. Tapping the horse's right side with his boot toe, the horse turned that direction, craning its neck towards them. Christine had seen something similar in The Opera Garnier's month-long run of Carmen, trained Arabians performing techniques unknown to Europeans. She had believed Erik had had something to do with it. And Nadir had taught Alexandre. The origins of the gimmick that drew large crowds to the Garnier made sense. Erik had picked it up from the Persian.

Christine gasped as her son practically leaped from the animal, landing resolutely, adding in a bow for good measure.

Cradling his face, Christine began "Oh, that was wonderful! But you must promise me, Alexandre, to do this only when Uncle Nadir is present."

He could only nod excitedly.

Josephine chimed in, obviously a little miffed at her brother's mpressive show, and the bountiful attention it garnered.

"Maman, may I play for you?"

Christine smiled warmly, understanding her daughter's feelings. "Yes, ma cher."

The four headed back to the house, Christine opening the front windows to let the air in. Josephine, who was beginning to learn piano, had performed a short song, which Alexandre had been teaching her. Despite the well intentions of its beginnings, the teacher-student pairing did not end as Christine had hoped. At some point, she was forced to take over as educator, as the eldest brother was not proving to be a very patient tutor, and Josephine not so much the willing pupil.

The small girl had plucked a wrong note, altering the tune of the simple song flat. Her little hands simply could not stretch that far.

"Josie, it's easy! Why are you being so dimwitted?"

Christine whipped her head around at that. Alexandre often grew impatient with his younger sister, a feeling to which Josephine did not respond to in kind. Before their mother knew it, Josephine hit him, a resounding smack echoing in the parlor.

Needless to say, they had both gone to their rooms without supper that night.

That Sunday was much more positive.

Readying herself as her audience awaited her performance, Christine warmed up her voice, preparing it for an Aria from Les Contes d'Hoffmann. It was a comic piece, in which she played Olympia, a doll masquerading as a human. Alexandre had been all too happy to aid her in practicing, and although he struggled a bit, straining his fingers across the wide range the song covered, as well as the fast plucking of notes, her heart soared with pride watching her son mimic the place of his father. She chose it not only for the lighthearted nature and entertainment value, which she knew the children would enjoy, but its level of difficulty. The piece was extremely laborious to master, as it took much concentration to maintain breath support during the nearly endless coloratura runs. Christine, considering herself more of a classical soprano, had studied it for several days before even attempting to sing, marking the sheet music for breath points and where she would place vibrato. Her range had improved significantly over the years, and although the song contained a high G#, meant to be sustained for several seconds, she was confident in her ability, and most willing to face the task.

She had never attempted a piece this ambitious since her days at the Opera, and she counted on her experience to allow her to sing it. Over the years, she had taken time nearly every day to at least go through vocal exercises: and it showed. With the training, and her vocal maturity, her voice had blossomed into something even better than her days as Prima Donna. She was still very young then, and even with the continuous training and natural tone, her voice had yet to develop fully. Now, she prayed Erik would be able to hear it soon. She sometimes would muse about returning to the Garnier, perhaps another theater, if they would have her. But there was little time for that now. This marked her steady dedication to her voice.

Before Christine began, she questioned her daughter, clearing her throat. "Josephine?"

They had prepared for a brief featuring of Josephine, and the little girl was more than pleased. She took it most seriously. Running over to her mother, she pantomimed a crank behind her back, so as to 'wind' the doll up. Christine nodded in thanks, assuming the character and completing the piece with nothing less than it deserved.

Whenever Christine's angelic instrument was heard by Nadir, he felt transported. So this was why Erik fell in love with her, at the Opera. It was certainly understandable. Besides, she was the Prima Donna at arguably the grandest Opera House in Europe, she would be breathtaking! Her triumphant voice, meant for the stage, contrasted with the intimate setting, made Nadir feel as if he was granted some special privilege, a private eye into what was meant for the elite of Paris.

Nadir had finished with a folk story, Arash the Archer, which he remembered thoroughly enjoying during the years of his boyhood, despite it seeming so long ago. The children wholeheartedly showed their fascination, their slight forms leaning forward with great interest. Nadir told tales much like Erik - perhaps it is where he acquired the skill, for it was absolutely spellbinding. Christine swore that man could make sweeping the floor seem fascinating.

With a tired yawn from her youngest, Christine put the children to bed, following their example to her own. She was satisfied with her performance tonight, and idly wondered what her maestro would think.

Dusk had made its presence known as the sun rose over La Rochelle. Purple-hued clouds crossed briefly over the languidly illuminating sky, signaling the beginning of a new day. The waves, at low tide, crept up on the shore like a thief, chasing the land. Their sounds could be heard if one turned their ear and listened intently.

This was Josephine's favorite time of day. Although her maman would scold her, (she was only caught twice) the girl often enjoyed creeping from her bed, nightgown still on, and sitting on the front porch, watching the sun come up. She would sometimes pick grass or pat Macbeth, if he were out. She liked the quiet. Alexandre liked to sleep.

Pulling the soft quilt her mother had fitted for her bed, the little girl snuck downstairs, past Uncle Nadir's bedroom. He typically rose with the sun, so she would have to be extra careful.

She liked this time of day for another reason as well. It wasn't as hot. Especially in summer, France's west coast would get as warm as hardly anyone there could stand, and complemented with the smell of fish from the port city, it was not a welcome combination. Fortunately, the salty air proved a worth foe in combating such odors, the wind from the sea aiding the intense heat as well.

The young girl sucked in a gasp of breath when the floorboards beneath her creaked, as if shaking their heads at her endeavor. Her mother would want her to get back to sleep, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't. Sleeping was so boring! At least sitting outside was doing something.

Having successfully completed the task of trekking down the seemingly never ending stairs, Josephine clutched her stuffed pony to her chest. Nadir had given to her as a Christmas present, although she didn't think he celebrated the holiday. It was nice of him. She carried the small spotted pony nearly everywhere she went, despite her brother's teasing. Alexandre was eight, and he enjoyed telling her so. The door, although letting out a soft creak, allowed her passage to the outside. Today would be busy, indeed. The various going-abouts of the farmhouse meant that everyone had to pitch in, no matter how small. And this year, she was old enough to help her mother with more chores. She would be six in the fall.

On occasion she would think about her father. Especially after Monsieur Nadir started living with them, she began to realize the scope of his absence. He would tell them brief stories about her father, ones of battling kings and performing magic tricks. She loved those stories, but it only made the man in her head turn into more of a figure, mythical and untouchable. Although she had never known him, she would think about the mysterious man that she had never met, wondering what it would be like if she truly had a father. It was never with much emotion, though, more like a vague curiosity. Despite this, however, she earnestly wanted him to come. Alexandre seemed excited after Nadir came. She wondered how everything would change. Regardless, if her father were to ever to return, certainly her mother would be happy.

Lost in this train of thought, Josephine decided that she would merely sit upon the porch steps, giving sway to the many unexplored ideas awaiting to be conceived of. She was much like her mother was at her age, wandering in daydreams and possibilities. Josephine, for lack of a better term, was curious.

The porch steps were still awaiting their repainting. Something had always come up in Christine's endless tasks to complete that the time simply could not be afforded. Josephine liked them, in a way. The wear and tear signified life. The constant ebb and flow of various individuals entering and exiting the farmhouse left its mark upon the steps, and somehow the permanence of these experiences was reflected in the old wood. Her father had helped chip away the paint. There was something in that, right? Rickety steps groaning in acknowledgement to the burden of her light form, she sat down.

It was misty that day, the morning dew seemingly rising out of its nightly captor, the grass. Hopefully it would be cooler today. Last night maman had sung one of her songs. Josephine loved it when her mother sang. It was as if someone were wrapping you in a warm embrace, comforting and familiar. The young girl hoped to sound like her mother one day, strong yet light, powerful yet gentle. Although Christine had taught her simple technique, she longed to learn more. Alexandre hogged the piano anyway, why shouldn't she sing?

Her mind drawing back to her surroundings, the young girl eyed the grass. What would it be like to run barefoot in the damp ground? Horses did it. Taking note of her small toy in her lap, she decided that the two were not so different, after all. Quickly collecting herself, although not so quickly as to forget her small pony, she scampered across the field, laughing in her adventurousness. Its soft hoof gripped firmly in her palm, the pony was violently whipped to and fro as the pair traveled across the knoll. Her nightgown flowed wildly around her, its white color browning towards the bottom. Maman would not be happy. Still, she ran, out farther and farther, until she would not have been able to see even the outline of the house, all the while uttering vocalizations of glee.

As the ground proved to be slick in its dampness, she made sure to watch her steps, keeping her eyes focused towards the ground. This position, however, limited her view of what was in front of her, which the morning fog did not help. Gallivanting along the French countryside, in lieu of its liberating perks, was not a permanent venture for a young girl.

A large figure, as if out of nowhere, appeared in stark definition to the misty cloud which hugged the ground. In shock of its apparent suddenness, a misplaced foot led to an abrupt tumble to that very ground. Her white nightdress would soon be indistinguishable. Roughly throwing her hands out, so as to catch her falling weight, she let out a cry of surprise. Mud splattered tiny droplets over her pale face, a few drops catching in her raven hair. She must have looked a mess. Adjusting to her present state, she seemed to be fine. Not being the most graceful child, she was used to such falls. Breathing heavily, as if just now becoming aware of her body's need for the air, she glanced forwards.

The large figure appeared to be a horse. White stockings, caked in mud, like her, made up the lower portion of the animal's legs. Upon further inspection, though, looked like another pair of legs, most definitely not belonging to a horse. A black pant hemline, ratty and torn, encircled again, black, boots, their dirt stains matching that of their mount. This inspection did not satisfy her, and so she looked upwards.

The man's legs seemed to reach upwards forever to a child of her stature, who at the moment was placed in an even lower position than normal. The two legs turned into a tucked waistcoat, a jacket hanging loosely from the figure. At some point, the man must have picked up her toy horse, a silly comparison to the real giant before her. It was dwarfed by the man's large hands.

Gazing at her prized possession, though still wary of the figure before her, she hastily rose, automatically backing away a few steps. This allowed her to fully take in who she had nearly run into, and most importantly, who had her horse.

The man's form stretched on, she had to crane her head to get a proper look. He seemed normal enough, Maman had always been warning her of hooligans and highwaymen in the country. The first thing she noticed were his eyes. They practically glowed. Held in an unknown fashion, they were slightly squinted as he looked upon her. Strange. She had never met someone with the same color eyes as her. Even Alexandre's were more brown than golden.

The second thing she noticed was the individual's mask. It contrasted sharply against his tanned skin, weathered from years of travel. Black hair was pushed back, the sides twinged with grey, forming slight waves upon the nape of the neck. Though the majority of the man's face was covered from view, expression was evident, of what she was not sure. After a few exasperated moments, the man proved to have a voice.

"Mademoiselle, I must inquire as to the state of your health." His voice seemed strained.

Health? She wasn't ill. One winter a doctor had come, she had contracted smallpox, and he had asked the same question. But this was nothing like that, surely. Taking a few moments to register exactly who the man was, she finally realized. He certainly was no doctor. She briefly remembered the conversation her mother had had with her and Alexandre, about their father. It was something about a mask. The presence of such an object wasn't mentioned again, so she had almost forgotten. The man still didn't fit the gallant gentlemen type- attire being covered in patches, his hair was much too long to be proper, and patchy stubble poked through the visible side of his face. But now, other descriptions aided her. Her mother had mentioned his height, and his dark hair. It must be her papa, arriving home at last! Oh, maman would be full of joy today, singing with delight!

Disregarding his question completely, though assuring her lack of injury through her demeanor, she smiled brightly, latching onto his free hand with mirth.

"You must be my Papa, I am sure of it!"

The man looked at the entwined hands, then upon the child. His stance indicated a state of paralysis. As if not knowing what to do next, he handed the girl her muddied toy back, gingerly.

Seeing her original goal, her smiled turned upwards even more. Hugging the stuffed toy tightly to her chest, she watched in fascination as the man crouched down.