A/N: I apologize for the long wait for me to post anything in any story. Had a lot of troubles come up December- January, including my main computer crashing when I tried to update to Windows 10 - (I got my new one this past week and am now all set up again, writing from it.) The good news is all my stories, including those in progress. were/are saved to external hard drives, etc, before the crash, so I lost nothing. : ) Anyway, I hope your 2024 started well - and continues hale and hearty all the year through.

And now (what you really came here for) …

Chapter VII

.

Christine approached the next day with tentative deliberation.

On the one hand, she was excited, anticipating true vocal lessons that would help further her goal to become a professional singer on stage, as fantastical as it might be for her to aspire to such an elusive dream. A dream helped along by Meg's hopeful invitations of joining her at the Paris Opera House, surely. But such roles were meant for those with means, those who could acquire the necessary education and management and whatever else one would need. Not meant for a poor violinist's daughter who had not even one centime to call her own …

Which made her seriously question why such a thoroughly disagreeable man would volunteer – no – order her to become his pupil in voice as partial payment for a debt her father owed.

It made no sense and caused Christine to ponder, repeatedly, just why, (when he obviously did not even like her), would he wish to make such a grand gesture - also making her give careful consideration as to whether or not she could truly trust him.

Which begged the question, upon dwelling over the matter the entire day, how she could so lose herself within the hours inhabited as to forget the actual present and all it entailed.

"What the devil are you doing down there?"

Startled, Christine snapped her gaze upward, twisting her head around to seek out the annoyed voice. Finding when she did only the usual shadowed balcony with the darker silhouette of a cloaked phantom-like figure looming above her.

Pushing herself up from hands and knees, she sat back on her haunches, her skirt damp and billowing about her hips.

"I should think it quite obvious."

She winced at her own abrupt rejoinder, slightly acidic as his imperious query had been, and quickly attempted to rectify matters, as a servant toward the master.

"That is, I meant -"

"I know exactly what you meant. The issue is why you are down there, scrubbing the floor."

"Why?" She glanced in puzzlement at the black and white checkered marble glistening with water from her laborious efforts. "I am the only maidservant there is…?" she stated as if being tested, a question in her tone.

"Do not play the imbecile with me." His dark, smooth voice came less than amused. "Have you so soon forgotten the change of schedule that I arranged for you?"

She nervously pulled on the bristles of the scrub brush she still held.

"But – is it that late? I didn't hear the music."

A beat of heavy silence reverberated throughout the room, and then –

"What the devil are you talking about?"

Too late, she realized she had once again given herself away as his hidden audience. Feeling her face warm, she swiped the back of one hand over her cheek and tucked a straggled damp ringlet behind her ear.

She addressed the floor. "It is how I mark the time, monsieur. Once you finish playing for the afternoon, I know it is the hour to prepare supper. With your change to my duties, I had planned to proceed once the music began."

Another uneasy span of silence elapsed.

"What of the massive timepiece that stands against the wall behind you?" he asked dryly.

Her face flamed a little hotter. "It quit."

"Quit?"

"I forgot to wind it." Her papa owned no such luxury as a clock that told the hours, only the pocket watch that had been his father's, and Christine was unaccustomed to the daily need to maintain a clock's function.

Her beastly master swore, the sound muffled as if to himself, though she heard him quite well. Quickly she pushed herself up from the tiles and stood to her feet, dropping the brush in the pail of water while snatching it up by the handle.

"I will go and prepare your supper."

"Wait! I did not dismiss you."

His strong voice bellowed out the command before she could take more than two steps toward the sanctuary of the kitchen. Slowly she turned back to face the darkness within the balcony.

"I will forego my supper this once. You will go and seek the rest required. Be in the music chamber at seven o'clock…well, why do you linger?" he added impatiently when she made no move to go.

She gave an abrupt half curtsy and, like a nervous little mouse under the eyes of a great watchful cat, scurried away.

Christine dared not prepare a plate with her own supper, but neither did she wish to attend her first lesson with her belly growling from hunger. She made do with a small slab from the round wheel of cheese, also twisting a crust of bread from one of the baguettes she'd made that morning and put the kettle on for a piping hot cup of tea.

Once she cleaned and dried her few dishes, she pinched another hunk of bread and took her tea upstairs to her room to freshen up. With her skirt still damp, she laid a few sticks from their holder into the hearth and started a fire to help her clothing dry out and to warm herself. Perching on the edge of her bed, she waited, sipping her tea and nibbling the bread, all the while wondering how she should fill the remainder of minutes… Her face could do with a refreshing scrub after the exertions of the afternoon, but that would only cover a fragment of time.

Though she was not well-versed with the practice of the written word, perhaps she should locate an inkwell and paper and jot down her days in journalistic form, to share with Papa. That is, if she could think of anything worthy to pen that would not have her father endlessly worry or again seek out the Vicomte's aid in a reckless attempt to secret her away and make matters worse.

How she was to discern the imminent hour of her lesson without the grandfather clock downstairs tolling its arrival she did not know. And after what might have been a few minutes or many, she decided it wasn't worth risking the master's ire to be anything less than punctual.

She walked over to the corner washstand and scrubbed her face with the water and washcloth there, also retying her wild froth of errant curls back into their black velvet ribbon. Then, after giving one last critical glance into the mirror of the vanity table she had previously unearthed from its shroud, Christine went downstairs to beard the lion in his den.

xXx

Similar to the previous day, his music again beckoned to her, and she halted at the threshold of the chamber, peering around the lintel to watch his obscure form as he played. His mastery was evident with the multitude of keys his fingers struck in rapid succession, never once fumbling or missing a note.

The beautiful waterfall of music ceased, taking Christine aback with the abruptness of its absence.

"Do you intend to make a habit of spying from the threshold like a timid little mouse? Come, you are three minutes late for your lesson."

With no clock to refer to, Christine could only take him at his word, though she found it difficult to believe an entire hour had passed since their last encounter.

"I will tend the clock henceforth," he said, as if reading her mind. "So you need not trouble yourself with the task. Now, come into the light…stop."

As he did the previous evening, he ordered her to halt in the center of the room. Feeling only slightly more composed than the day before when his unusual summons had provided a complete mystery, she took better note of his immediate surroundings. The wall beyond the grand piano made a deep curve so that it was set in an alcove, dense with shadow so as to see only the outline of his form seated in near profile to her. The tall windows all around stood masked with heavy, dark draperies that forbade even a minuscule beam of light to shine through. Whereas the area where he had her stand was bathed not only in candlelight but with the golden-orange glow from the nearby hearth, Christine easily visible from head to hem while he was only shadow.

It hardly seemed fair that he could see every detail of her face and form though she was not awarded the same courtesy, but she kept her discontent to herself.

"I will take you through a series of simple scales," he instructed. "I shall play the notes, and you will sing them. Begin."

Before she could even think to question, he played a succession of keys, his head turning when only silence followed. Sensing his impatience, quickly she repeated the notes.

He took her up a ladder of scales, the notes gradually elevating in tone. He paused only once to turn his head and glance at her, then fingered keys on an even higher scale. Twice more he repeated the process, afterward pulling his hands away from the piano once the last piercing note sailed from her throat.

"Well then," he said quietly, and she could not tell if he was impressed or disgusted. An unnerving span of silence elapsed before he again addressed her.

"As a general routine, more vocal maneuvers will follow, which I shall teach you in due course. Tonight, I will hear you sing, to ascertain the work that is needful."

"What would you have me sing?"

"Whatever you wish."

With the Yuletide so recently passed, she thought of singing a beloved carol, but another thought, a better one, came to mind.

At her first sung words, she sensed his immediate surprise, hers coming shortly afterward when he joined her in accompaniment on the piano. She watched the fire dance as she gave her heart and soul into her song, enjoying the music once again until the notes faded away.

From the shadows he spoke. "How is it that a maiden from the local village knows Faust?"

"My father was a violinist with the Paris Opera House, once upon another time. He remembered a few songs performed and taught me their words, stating that rehearsals often were long and plentiful due to mistakes made and that the lyrics had become inscribed in his mind. He had a mind like a steel trap, you see, and could recall even those words that were sung in a foreign tongue." She gave a little nervous laugh, realizing she was speaking foolishly and rambling, without giving true thought to what was being said. Quietly she summed it up in one sentence, "I often sang when he played."

Christine wished she could see the Maestro's face to note his expression...

Then again, perhaps it was better she did not.

"Hmph." He responded at last, his grunt noncommittal. "While your range is remarkable, your elocution is deplorable. It is a mystery that you reach the high notes as you do, though that also requires work. Your posture begs improvement, your carriage is slovenly. You do not round your vowels, clipping them in a most horrendous manner." He shook his head. "Indeed, there are many flaws that you must overcome. Your presentation requires a great deal of work."

She opened her eyes wider as he spoke, trying not to let his blunt assessment sting. Her voice had only ever been praised by her peers, by her Papa, by strangers alike. Never had anyone criticized her and so harshly.

"Is there anything about my singing that you do like?"

She had not meant the words to spout from her mouth, nor to say them so resentfully, and was not all that surprised when he responded with a beastly snort.

"Your problem, mademoiselle, is that you have been praised too highly and too often as to let a crippling amount of pride go to your head and lodge there."

She blinked in shock. "How could you know that or say such things? You don't even know me!"

"It is evident by your reaction to my well-deserved criticism. The first lesson you must learn, Miss Daaé, is the proper manner in which to receive instruction, to listen to what you are told without time-consuming confrontation over every detail, and most importantly to apply all that I shall teach you. I am not your audience to applaud your meager efforts. I am your taskmaster to train you in the correct way to project your voice. Are we understood?"

Not trusting her reply, she gave him a curt nod.

"Injured feelings have no place here," he went on impatiently. "You must develop a thick skin to withstand all necessary correction. I will not abide fits of temper or tears because you do not like the method by which you are taught."

She clenched her teeth and nodded. "I understand."

"That remains to be seen." The silhouette of his form shifted as he swung around on the stool to face her. Save for the slightest light glistening on the right side of his face, alluding to what she presumed to be a mask he again wore, the darkness still encompassed him.

"The first order of business we must address is your carriage."

"My carriage?"

"Yes and please desist from speaking until directed. To sing well and maintain the notes you must hold yourself erect. Clearly no one has taught you this and we must build with that foundation. To begin, you are to go to the library and select Dante's Inferno from the third shelf on the left side of the hearth."

In her confusion at such a bizarre order that had nothing to do with singing, Christine only stared.

He gave a little growl of impatience. "Now, Miss Daaé."

She waited a moment more, thinking to question, then decided against it and left to do as commanded.

She found the slim book where he said it would be, among thicker tomes, yet lingered, not in any hurry to return to his churlish company. Curious, she thumbed through the pages, more than a little mystified to learn its contents. What did the book character's journey into hell have to do with her current music lesson? Though if the unsuspecting Dante had the beast she possessed as his instructor and guide, she might then understand…

The Maestro's impatience fairly sizzled from the darkness, charging the room upon her return, like flame to tinder.

"Did you get lost?"

At his curt words, Christine felt her face bloom rosy with heat, having indeed gotten lost in the unconventional text before she realized that minutes had elapsed, and felt it best not to relay that she had been reading the strange book's pages.

His sigh was terse. "Stand where you were."

She did as directed.

"Now, set the book on top of your head and walk toward the hearth."

She regarded him incredulously. "Surely, you jest, monsieur. Why would you ask such an absurd thing of me?" Christine bit her lip at her rash words, knowing she'd been far too outspoken again but unable to curb her puzzlement.

"I assure you, mademoiselle, I find this evening far from amusing and will remind you again not to contradict me and to do as you're told. However, to quell your rampant curiosity at the supposed absurdity of the task, I will tell you that this is an exercise used in finishing schools for young ladies to attain proper comportment – what you are in dire need of acquiring. Now, proceed."

How he would know such things, she dared not question, and realized how little she knew about this man to whom she was enslaved for a year. Had he a wife? A daughter? His voice often reminded her of smooth, dark velvet, sounding too young for him to sire a grown daughter, but then, voices could be misleading and without the ability to see his face, he could be anywhere from his twenties to his fifties, though she did not sense him to be that old…

"Tonight, Miss Daaé!"

Quickly she placed the book on top of her head as if it were a hat and took a step. The book thumped to the floor. With furrowed brow she looked down at it then toward his shadowed form.

"Well?" he barked. "What are you waiting for? Again!"

Once more she tried; once more she failed, this time without even having taken a step.

"Hold yourself upright, shoulders back, chest forward, head held high…you are much too stiff – you look frozen in ice. Relax your spine while keeping your head upright. Yes, that's better. Now walk."

It took numerous attempts before the book stayed in place after having executed several slow steps. However, any triumph was short-lived upon hearing his next words.

"That will do. Now that you understand what is required, you are to practice on your own time. When next we meet, I expect improvement."

His directive sparked visions of her grappling with a pail of wash water while balancing a book on her head and she softly giggled.

"Do you find something amusing, Miss Daaé?" he snapped out like an irate teacher to an unruly student.

"I am only trying to imagine how I will do such a thing while engaging in my duties."

"I am certain you can find time between chores," he countered dryly.

"Oui, monsieur," she said more meekly. "Are we finished then?"

His shadowed form leaned back as if to regard her.

"You are so eager to be done with your lesson?"

She felt the deceptively soft question given as bait, the wrong answer ready to entrap her in his ire, and she carefully formed her reply.

"I am unaccustomed to receiving them. I only ask because I am uncertain of all that a lesson entails."

He huffed as if he disbelieved her excuse. "Expect hard work and long hours each session, Miss Daaé. In the hours we do not meet, I expect you to practice all that I have shown you. And next time, do not eat anything in the hour before your lesson, only at the time I have set forth for your evening meal…" At her evident surprise, he added, "Yes, I can tell."

A little sheepishly, she nodded, and he sighed.

"For tonight, you are dismissed. Tomorrow evening come back ready to work."

"Oui, monsieur."

With a short parting curtsy, Christine escaped her unwanted lord and master to seek out a more peaceful environment.

His music soon followed, the notes rapid and oppressive, many of them striking low on the keyboard, as if he battled some inner demon. She glanced at the book in her hand. Perhaps, like Dante, he did. And it caused her to wonder what levels of hell the Maestro had encountered to make him so disagreeable, so distrustful, so... alone.

Despite the heavy atmosphere he created, his skill was profound on the piano as it was the violin, and she lingered a few moments in the corridor to hear him play before wearily retiring to her bedchamber.

xXx

The following day Christine woke with a brighter mindset than on any day since her arrival at Rosemont and strived to do everything according to plan, congratulating herself when she arrived at the music chamber a few minutes before the scheduled time. She even managed to muster up a smile of greeting for the surly Phantom beast, who once again sat buried within murky shadows.

"Where is the book?" he snapped as she came to stand in the midst of the circle of golden light, assuming that is where he wanted her.

"Book?"

She swore he gave a soft growl and then remembered.

"You mean that horrid volume that describes the seven levels of hell? I left it in my room."

"And how do you presume to show me what you have learned without it?"

Clearly he was in no better mood than yesterday - than any day - and though her confidence had taken a hit, she was determined not to let him sour her own disposition.

"I didn't think – I'll fetch it now," she stated as she moved to go.

Her attempt at temporary escape failed with his barked order to stop and return to where she had been standing. Grudgingly she did as directed.

"We will manage without it this time," he said tersely and immediately proceeded to play scales as he did the previous day. When she only stared, a bit off balance by his swift intro into their lesson, he snapped his head her way. "Well?!"

"Sorry!" Flustered, she swept her hands repeatedly down the front of her skirts in a nervous gesture. "You wish me to sing now?"

His curt laugh sounded pained. "Yes, mademoiselle, if you please. I am not playing for my own amusement."

His dry rejoinder made her wince - though she realized hers was a foolish question - and Christine did her best to follow through her warm ups. Silently she applauded her efforts when he made no harsh criticisms at the conclusion of this practice stage.

He instructed her to sing vowels and how to round them out, again moving up the keyboard - always striking out from the beginning each time she failed to meet his exacting standards.

She never realized that singing could be so exhausting. Perhaps he possessed a sliver of mercy for when the moment came for Christine to perform a song with actual lyrics, he gave her new instructions.

"Tonight we will dispense with any arias from an opera until you have learned fully how to breathe and stand."

The words sounded ridiculous and she could not help the nervous giggle that escaped, immediately clapping her hand over her mouth to block more from tumbling forth.

"You find something humorous, mademoiselle?" he asked sternly.

With her hand still over her mouth, she shook her head like a child might.

He gave a world-weary sigh. "Very well. I assume you know another song not associated with opera? A folk song of your people perhaps?"

The words, themselves, were not cruel, but the tone of his voice was decidedly disparaging. Determined not to rise to his bait and snap back at him, she chose tonight to sing her favorite carol, previously overlooked in favor of last evening's operatic tune. Hoping it might somehow instill an atmosphere of sorely needed peace.

She dropped her hand to her side. "Shall I begin?"

"Please, if you would. That would be lovely."

Christine frowned at his customary manner of sarcastic retort, and though he sat, a dark silhouette encased in shadow, closed her eyes to block him out. She took in a deep breath and expelled it softly with her first notes.

"Minuit, chrétiens,
C'est l'heure solennelle
Ou l'Homme Dieu descendit jusqu'à nous
Pour effacer la tache originelle

Et de Son Père arrêter le courroux.
Le monde entier tressaille d'espérance
En cette nuit qui lui donne un Sauveur.

Peuple a genoux, attends ta délivrance!
Noel! Noel! Voici le Rédempteur!
Noel! Noel! Voici le Rédempteur!

Le Rédempteur a brisé toute entrave:
La terre est libre, et le ciel est ouvert.
Il voit un frère où n'était qu'un esclave,

L'amour unit ceux qu'enchaînait le fer.
Qui Lui dira notre reconnaissance,
C'est pour nous tous qu'Il naît,
Qu'Il souffre et meurt.

Peuple debout ! Chante ta délivrance,
Noël, Noël, chantons le Rédempteur,
Noël, Noël, chantons le Rédempteur !"

Perhaps it wasn't her best performance, but Christine was pleased, indeed felt feather-light with her presentation, and was confused by the silence that followed and lengthened. She had hoped to bring a more peaceful, congenial atmosphere, yes, but didn't count on this. Had he fallen asleep?

"You chose a Yuletide carol?" he asked very quietly at last.

A bit anxiously she nodded. Had she chosen wrong? Instead of pacifying his boorish spirit had she further annoyed the phantom beast?

"I sang the song to Papa's violin on Christmas night. With the season so recently having passed, it was the first idea, other than opera, that came to mind."

"I see."

The Phantom sat within his protective cloak of shadows and regarded his recalcitrant student pensively. Her appearance deceptively fragile, though she stood tall for a woman, she had an unrelenting fiery spirit that could lead many a man to surrender his will in battle, no doubt, though he did not count himself in that number.

She required a great deal of vocal training, it was true, but never had he heard such a voice, its crystalline purity rivaling the angels with its beauty and stirring something deep within the core of his dark soul. The words, themselves, affected the Phantom strangely, though certainly did not apply to a monster. He had long realized that God wanted nothing to do with the scarred outcast he was – indeed, having made him that way.

"I will choose a more appropriate song for your instruction," he decided, having no wish to deal with unwanted emotion he had long thought to have suppressed.

She did not respond but even from this distance he could see the disappointment cloud the sparkle in her wide brown eyes. Strangely disturbed, he quickly returned his attention to the shadowed keys.

He played a few chords then asked her if she knew the song. At her denial, he tried again with a new tune. Twice more he played, twice more she shook her head in ignorance of the melody.

Impatience again threatened to rear its ugly head, but he gave it one more attempt, certain she had to know this song …

He played and she laughed.

No giggle this time, the airy brightness of the foreign sound stunned him so that he ceased playing a moment to regard her where she stood, the fire from the hearth casting her in its rosy-golden glow.

"Partant pour la Syrie? The national anthem of our country? Well, I should hope to know it!"

He blew out a soft breath of relief. "Excellent. It will suffice for the foundation of your primary lessons. Once you have learned the basics of all that is required in your presentation, we will progress to true opera, with its more difficult demands. Now, since you did not consider it important to bring the book, you will have to endeavor to excel without it. Assume the correct position, if you please."

She stared at him like a cornered doe caught in the flame of a hunter's torch.

He bit back a sharp retort – barely.

"Now what is the problem?"

"I… You wish for me to sing and walk as I did with the book on my head?"

"That is the desired outcome, but no, not tonight. However, I do expect you to stand there and utilize what you have learned while you sing."

She looked at him uncertainly. "Without the book?"

"Yes, of course," he said somewhat testily. "You will need to pretend, Miss Daaé. Surely that is not beyond your capabilities? You will not always have the blasted book! It is only a guide by which to learn."

Was she purposely being obtuse? He watched her hand flick swiftly upward to swipe her fingertips near her eyes and felt a peculiar sense of panic. Oh no, that would not do!

"I will not have tears!"

His directive came out sharper than intended, causing her to startle a small step back.

Noting the beginnings of trepidation in her eyes, he quickly brought the subject back to the lesson.

"Again, if you please, mademoiselle."

Immediately he began to play. Much to his relief, she began to sing.

She managed two lines of the song before he spoke in instruction –

"You are standing too stiffly – your shoulders are absolutely rigid," he corrected as he played but was not satisfied with the result. "No, no, do not bring them forward in a slump. Stand as if someone is pulling you up by a rope – think of yourself as a marionette…have you never seen a puppet show? No, no, no - do not arch your back and push your chest forward. Damnation woman!"

He ceased to play and her song just as abruptly ended. She brought her hands to clasp at her waist and interlaced her fingers, fidgeting nervously with her thumbs.

"In all your life, did no one teach you to stand correctly?" he snapped in impatience.

"Well, Meg, I suppose. She taught me ballet positions and dances she had learned when she visited."

"Did she?" he asked in surprise. "Excellent. Apply that knowledge to today's lesson."

He noticed her shift as she assumed one of the stances, bringing her feet together, heel to arch. As long as she did not fall over, he approved, his satisfaction in her improved posture fleeting when they resumed and by her breathy notes the problem was not rectified. The hindrance was slight but grating on his demand for excellence.

There was nothing for it; he had little choice. He had tried everything else that came to mind.

His heart beat with dread uncertainty as he issued his next command –

"Turn to face the door."

x

His words came low, softer than any spoken thus far, and prickles of nervous uncertainty raced along Christine's spine. Why he should instruct such a thing she did not question. Experience with this man had taught her it was best not to hesitate, and slowly she pivoted and stared at the opposite wall.

An uneasy stretch of silence ensued. She heard nothing but the crackle of flames, paired with the occasional snap as fire found sap in the tinder - and then - the slow approach of footsteps.

Her eyes widened as she realized that the Maestro had left his piano and was drawing near. A surge of rampant curiosity made her begin to turn her head.

"No - don't move!" he ordered abruptly, his steps coming to a halt. "Continue to look ahead of you."

Christine could barely think, scarcely breathe. Clearly he did not want her to see him - because of the mask? Perhaps he did not know that even in the shadows she had seen its paler glimmer…

"Assume the position," he said very softly, and her eyes opened wide when she realized he stood directly behind her!

She had not heard his tread this time, perhaps because her heart seemed to be beating in her ears. Never had she stood so close to him, though still he remained shrouded in mystery, and it took everything within her being not to turn and finally take in his countenance. And though she wished to - had she the temerity to defy his wishes - she felt frozen, in direct opposition to the heat to the left of her and from behind, both of which fairly scorched her. He stood so close that she could feel the warmth of his body, rivaling the heat of the nearby fire… yet for all that, no part of him touched her.

This was not fear - not completely. This… she did not know it to name it.

"You need not fear. I will not harm you."

As if he could read her mind, his voice came low, quiet, though she detected a note of sarcasm beneath his words. That he should correctly surmise her apprehension when she had yet to speak did little to reassure, but Christine gave a tight nod.

"Why will you not let me see you?"

The question slipped out of its own accord, as many had that night, and she sensed the mirror of her tension in his indrawn hiss. She prepared for a slew of hurtful words, but they did not come.

"It is not needful," he said at last. "Shall we begin? Sing!"

His forceful command gave no room to do anything but obey, and she opened her mouth, forcing the notes to come through a strangled throat.

He was far from pleased.

"No, no, no! That warbling is not singing - you are not a pigeon. Again!"

She closed her eyes and took a stabilizing breath, forcing herself to recall his previous instructions on how to stand, forcing herself to relax as she stood, forcing herself not to acknowledge how close he was still standing …

"Better," he allowed, "Sing from your diaphragm - your center. Breathe deep and allow the notes to rise up from your belly and pour forth from your voice…"

She tried to do as required but could not seem to think to follow his instructions. Even she could tell she was singing poorly and mentally prepared herself for his next chastisement.

"Watch my hand as you sing. As it rises, imagine yourself rising with it."

To her utter shock he brought his arm around her, a hair's breadth from touch. And though he took care not to initiate any physical contact, she felt his presence to the depths of her soul.

"Begin."

His breath stirred her hair with his soft-spoken command, and her eyelashes fluttered at the sensation. Her mind's focus again became difficult - this time to see and feel physical evidence of the master so close, so clear. His hand rested in a loosely closed fist in the air a few inches from her belly. Incredibly pale, almost white - like the cuff of his shirt that peeked out from the black sleeve of his frock coat.

Fascinated by that hand, she could not take her eyes from it. While she sang, she felt strangely connected to its slow ascent as he brought his upright fist in the air to the level of her breasts.

"Now, extend the last note..."

He spoke closer to her ear to be heard, and she felt the warmth of his breath brush the shell of it. Christine shivered to her core, her heart increasing its beats. She continued to watch, mesmerized, while his fist unfurled and revealed long, slender fingers... the fingers of an artist, a musician. As though her soul were connected, she rose with their ascent, the high note coming clearer and more powerful, as if he were a magician pulling the purest music from deep within the center of her being. Breathless, she felt both dizzy and exhilarated, watching the hand lift to the level of her eyes, tilting her head as he raised it high above her, watching, ever watching …

When suddenly, with a swift wave, he snapped his hand away and from her vision. The cord between them broken, she abruptly ended the note.

The seconds sizzled and danced while they stood motionless.

Christine fought to retain what strength and presence of mind she possessed and not collapse to the floor at his feet…

When once again without warning he retreated, taking a swift step back and shocking her so that she did lose hold on her balance and swayed.

Instantly his large hands clapped around her arms beneath the shoulders, and she gasped to feel his physical presence, to feel the power, the warmth of them burn through the material of her thin sleeves. The contact lasted no more than seconds before he pushed her from him. She stumbled slightly but managed to remain standing. In her hurt confusion, she forgot his bizarre preference and turned.

"NO!" he barked, again stopping her before she could fully face him. "Get out - go now and leave me! The lesson is finished."

Not waiting to be told twice, Christine picked up the hem of her skirts and fled the music chamber.

xXx

The Phantom clenched and unclenched his hands in anxious frustration as he watched her swift escape.

A conflict of emotions twisted inside his gut, dread and anger vying for top position, but closely following - fear, despair, and the vicious memories of betrayal ultimately leading to rejection.

Had she seen? She must have seen. Would she let it go and never speak of it again? Undoubtedly the answer was no, the human species an inquisitive lot - how well he knew - and he grimaced to understand what that would entail. Questions, endless questions, leading to the ultimate terror should he, in his frustration to end them, satisfy her damnable curiosity - and he could not abide for a year a maid who ran and hid from him or trembled in his presence. As she had just done, and without knowing.

Not now, when he had found such a promising voice to shape to his mode of perfection…

Not ever, when for a few coveted, unexpected moments of pretense, he had been nothing more than a man standing near a beautiful woman ... a woman whose scent continued to tantalize…

Whirling back to the piano, he sought out the darker music of Bach's Tocatta & Fugue in D minor to ease his pent–up frustrations. The music usually soothed his roiling emotions but tonight his irritation still simmered from their unsatisfactory encounter, that final moment both upsetting and exhilarating, and once he struck the final chords he snatched his fingers from the keys.

He had brought his face near the softness of her hair, breathing her in, before realizing his audacious and undesired behavior and ending the lesson with a frantic rush that upset her equilibrium. The memory would not depart, nor his exasperation that the recollection of her countenance, of her earlier delight and confusion, of her smile and her giggle all rose to take position at the foreground of his beleaguered mind.

Since she had come to his prison, she rarely laughed, but when she did, her laughter, like her song, seemed to brighten the room, even pierce into his protective armor of darkness…

No, this would not do!

Plucking up his pen, he attempted to compose his burgeoning opera, but that did nothing to scatter the images of the girl either. Indeed, he actually saw her in the role as Aminta, his character whose aria he struggled to create - and finally accepting any attempt at work as useless, he threw down the pen across the half-finished score and quit the music chamber.

Intending to take the winding staircase to his private wing, the Phantom halted at the top of the landing upon hearing a curious sound and turned his attention toward the direction of her bedchamber. Twice he had dared to draw near as she slept: once in surprise to find her in his library, once in his angry desperation to seek her out when he could not find where she went, thinking she escaped. A third time he quietly covered the distance, noting the golden glow of lamplight on the floor, proving the door stood ajar.

Her privacy hardly a consideration in light of that fact, he looked through the crack toward the four-poster bed. Fully dressed, she lay on her side away from him, clutching a pillow to her chest with her face buried in it. A foolish way to find slumber, but then, he could hardly judge given his alternate sleeping arrangement.

As he watched, her shoulders shook, followed by the piteous sound of a muffled sob.

Inwardly he cursed and took a silent step backward to realize she was crying …

Frozen with the discovery, he stood in hesitation, then made a hasty retreat back in the direction he had come, continuing to his own quarters and taking care to be as silent as when he arrived.

The misery of mortals had never moved him, due to the immutable lack of compassion he received in the few decades of his existence. But to witness her distress brought an unsettling discomfort to his black heart, the experience felt with her before, and he realized he had no true wish to see the young woman unhappy.

Too set in his ways to change, The Phantom could not even entertain the idea. And certainly he had no inclination to cancel her father's debt or allow her to depart from his service, to depart at all...

Yet in some manner, indeed - change would have to be made.

xXx

A/N: And so, it begins. ;-) Thanks for the reviews!

English translation of original 19th century French carol Christine sang, a poem, which altered over the years into lyrics we know as 'O Holy Night' -

Midnight, Christians, it's the solemn hour,
When God-man descended to us
To erase the stain of original sin

And to end the wrath of His Father.
The entire world thrills with hope
On this night that gives it a Savior.

People kneel down, wait for your deliverance.
Christmas, Christmas, here is the Redeemer,
Christmas, Christmas, here is the Redeemer!

The Redeemer has overcome every obstacle:
The Earth is free, and Heaven is open.
He sees a brother where there was only a slave,

Love unites those that iron had chained.
Who will tell Him of our gratitude,
It's for all of us that He is born,
That He suffers and dies.

People stand up! Sing of your deliverance,
Christmas, Christmas, sing of the Redeemer,
Christmas, Christmas, sing of the Redeemer!