A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) Love seeing where you guys are with this...we shall see... (heh heh heh)-

Chapter XIII

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"There was a fire at the Opera House?" Christine asked in surprise.

"A small fire, quickly contained before it could spread. But even a tiny dragon can inflict damage – it caught on the stage curtain used as a backdrop and destroyed some of the most important props and settings. No one was hurt, but it set the next production back a few weeks. It's not the first fire we've had - too many open flames about, though there are rules about untended candles, but no one really listens..."

They came to the parlor door and Christine led the way inside, gratefully sinking to the sofa, her foot beginning to throb. Normally, she would search for and instruct one of the servants to tend to the Maestro's guests, but she didn't think she could manage at the moment. Picking up a hand bell, she rang it.

Dorothea, one of the downstairs maids, hurried inside. She looked with surprise to see the Girys, then regarded Christine with mild affront, clearly not happy to come to the beck and call of the governess. Though Christine had good reason to suspect such rudeness had more to do with her accusation and not her station. She had never singled out any of the household staff in the theft of her mirror, but it failed to matter since all had been treated equally in suspicion, with their rooms searched.

"We will be taking luncheon in here," Christine said. "Please inform Madame Fairfax."

"As you wish." Dorothea's words came haughty. She spun on her heel and left the room

Though in her role Christine was well within her right to give instruction, especially when in Adrienne's company, Dorothea perhaps thought the Girys only her guests and felt Christine was misappropriating her authority.

"What is her problem?" Meg said in disgust.

"It is nothing," Christine brushed it off. "Tell me more about your life at the Opera House. It must be so exciting! Certainly a dream come true for you."

"It is - and these past three years have been even more exciting than usual." Her eyes glimmered mysteriously in fun.

"With talk of fires, I can see why!"

"Oh, that - the stagehands' carelessness started this fire, no doubt. They're always passing around a bottle and staggering around from too much drink. The owners weren't ruined, but the cost will no doubt be steep to replace what was lost. And they're losing revenue with having to begin the season a month later than planned. Of course, the Opera Ghost sent a note ordering the management to dismiss those responsible, though there are whispered rumors that he started the fire."

"The Opera Ghost?" Christine asked curiously, thinking perhaps the odd moniker was theatre talk for the owner of the musical establishment. But why should he wish to set fire to his own building?

"That is how he signs all his notes –O.G. for short. No one has seen him well, though some have spotted him from a great distance, up in the flies - but only his face appears to float in darkness. Those few who have seen him say it is bone white, like a ghost. Some say he has no body and believe him to be a true ghost - the Phantom of the Opera haunting our theatre. But a ghost can't write notes, can he? And he would have to have hands to pen them, so he must have a body. Don't you agree?"

"I wouldn't know," Christine replied, having no idea how to respond to such a bizarre revelation. Their words brought to mind her frightful encounter with the Maestro on the road to Thornfield that dark night. From a distance, she'd thought him a phantom rider, similar to the headless horseman of lore. But of course, ghosts didn't exist.

"Meg – really you surprise me," Madame Giry scolded in mild exasperation. "You know better than to listen to the theatre scuttlebutt."

"I meant no harm, Maman." Meg sighed in dissatisfaction. "It's just such a mystery, and so intriguing. It's not like he's anywhere near to hear me." She turned in an aside to Christine. "There is an unspoken rule in the theatre for prudent silence, as Maman calls it – we must always be careful of what we say, since he knows and hears everything…"

"Meg."

She was saved another scolding from her mother as the door opened to admit two servants with luncheon. A platter with tea things was set down before Christine, a plate of mini sandwiches with creamed meat fillings beside that, along with a stand with a plate atop that held a small array of iced cakes. Once the servants left, Meg ignored the sandwiches and picked up one of the sweets, taking a bite.

"Ooo- these are lovely."

"They're called trifles," Christine supplied, while pouring and handing each of the women a cup of tea, lastly preparing one for herself. "A British dessert that comes from Monsieur Rochester's roots. The housekeeper and a few others on staff are from England, where his grandparents lived before coming to France."

"Such a bland name for such a sweet dessert," Meg gave her critical assessment. "And what is he like – your Mr. Rochester?" she asked in the same breath. Christine felt a flush of warmth at her intimate phrasing. "Is he as mysterious as he's said to be?"

"Mysterious?" He was, but how could Meg know? Christine took a sip of her tea to smooth the lump that was fast forming in her throat.

"He takes his secret patronage very seriously. Few have seen him. Like the Phantom of the Opera, he maintains distance, and only on the rare occasion will he make his presence known. Usually to Maman and the managers, though I've seen him once, quite by accident. He was leaving Maman's office as I was entering. He nodded in greeting though he was distant and seemed a bit upset to be spotted. Rather strange really. But I found him quite compelling." She sat back against the sofa and regarded Christine. "So what is he like from someone who sees him every day? Do you get along well?"

"I think," Madame softly reprimanded, "A change of subject would be wise."

Meg gave a lovely pout. "But is it not natural to be curious about our host...? Oh, very well. I'll not speak of him." She again turned to Christine. "Now you must tell me, mon ami, how you came by such injuries. Were you burned in the fire you mentioned?"

Over luncheon, Christine carefully shared what she felt would be permissible of the arson she related as an accident, also eliminating the fact that the source of the fire was the master's bedchamber and neither of them had been sufficiently dressed. She did, however, bend loyalty's constraints to share the reason she felt it so important to saunter through empty corridors in the dead of night. They deserved to know at least that much if they were to be guests here.

"A thief?" Meg intoned. "Well, it's a good thing I didn't bring anything of value to covet."

"I am certain the Maestro has everything under control," Madame offered, setting down her cup and saucer.

Perhaps Christine might be more inclined to believe that if the Maestro wasn't so quick to abandon Thornfield without just cause.

"If you'll excuse me, I should like to go upstairs and rest," Madame Giry said. "These last two days have been most tiresome." She gracefully stood to her feet. "I will see you both at dinner."

"Of course. One of the maids will show you the way to your room, Madame. At this time of the day, you'll find them dusting the downstairs chambers." Christine reconsidered. "Or, if you prefer, I can find a servant for you."

"Do not trouble yourself, Mademoiselle Daaé," she said kindly. "I can find my way."

"Please, call me Christine."

Madame Giry left with an acquiescent nod and Christine lifted her teacup to her lips. Meg turned to her, putting a hand to Christine's shoulder, a gleam in her bright blue eyes.

"Now, you must tell me, what exactly is going on between you and the Maestro?"

Christine nearly choked on her sipped tea, setting it down hastily on the saucer. She lightly cleared her throat and patted it, wishing to dispel with the uncomfortable lump too. "What a question! Nothing, of course. Why should you think it?"

"You may have been the most courageous girl at Lindenwood, standing up to our supposed betters at the most nerve-wracking of times, but you could never bluff your way out of a tight spot, Christine. You still have the tendency to blush when you're flustered, and your eyes have always been the windows to every feeling unexpressed. Whenever mention is made of the Maestro, you become more animated, and don't you dare deny it."

Christine cursed the telling warmth that rose to her cheeks.

"There – you see?" Meg laughed. "You're doing it again!"

"Nonsense – how you do go on. He's my employer, and that is all he is." Christine swiftly changed topic before her body could betray her with any other telltale signs of interest. "Now, you must tell me everything that's happened in your life, starting with the day you left mine. You thought you were an orphan, like me, and your parents died in a carriage accident. What happened, Meggie…um, Meg?"

Her friend smiled. "It's alright. It takes some getting used to – just as it does to realize that you're really sitting here beside me!" She laid her hand over Christine's gloved one. "Though once I saw that long abundance of glorious curls – I knew in my heart I'd found you. I'm happy to see you grew your hair out again."

Christine pulled a self-conscious hand through one strand of ringlets near her ear. "Not exactly suitable for a governess though," she mused.

"Oh, who cares? You look lovely, and you're not breaking any laws. So, when do I meet your little pupil?"

"She's having luncheon with her nurse. Normally, we would have lessons at this hour, but this is the first day I've left my bed. You'll meet her after dinner. She dines with her nurse, and I generally take my meal with Madame Fairfax. Her table is rather small," she said by way of apology, "but you and your mother will want to eat in the dining room regardless. I can address a maid to set you places there."

Meg looked at Christine as if she'd just told the most absurd witticism. "Don't be ridiculous. You'll dine with us, yes?"

"It's not my place to sit at the dining table."

"Not your place? What folderol!" Meg shook her head in disgust. "Well, then I shall sup with you and Madame Fairfax, and I'm sure Maman would agree."

"It is rather crowded," Christine deferred, thinking of the table that barely gave room for two once all the dishes were placed upon it.

"You don't wish to eat with me?" Meg asked, with a tinge of hurt uncertainty.

"Heaven's no - it's not that. The dining room is more befitting of the Maestro's guests, more splendidly appointed, and I assumed you and your mother would prefer to eat there."

Meg laughed at that. "Christine – I'm a dancer in the chorus. I'm not some toffee-nosed diva who insists on eating off the best china with gold utensils and a spotless tablecloth. Hobnobbing elbow to elbow and drinking out of wooden tankards suits me perfectly fine."

Christine grinned in relief that the years hadn't stolen everything away and Meg still seemed like Meg.

"Well, it's not quite that relaxed. We do have a tablecloth." She giggled and her friend joined in. "I'll inform Madame Fairfax to expect two more for supper." She shook her head fondly. "You haven't changed a bit, Meggie. Well, obviously you have – but you still have such a blithe spirit about you. You are all that got me through those first horrible months at Lindenwood."

Meg sobered and nodded. "Was it too terribly bad after I left? I wanted to tell you goodbye, but Madame Dartmeir wouldn't allow it. She herded me out the door as soon as I collected my things."

"I got along," Christine said with a grimace. "There was a terrible sickness that struck and took more than half the children. For whatever reason, I was spared getting ill, as well as a handful of others. That epidemic brought about stringent reforms, so I suppose something good came from it, including three square meals a day. Remember when most days all we had was a bowlful of cold porridge, and bread with butter on a Sunday, if we were lucky?" Christine crinkled her nose at the bleak memory. "But enough of that - tell me, what happened with you, that is, if you wish to..." She was not unaware that Meg changed the subject the first occasion Christine asked, and wondered if it was a sore spot to prod. She had no desire to cause her friend grief.

Meg grew pensive, even melancholy, which was so unlike her. "I never told anyone. Besides Maman and myself, there are very few who know the truth, but I do want to tell you. We once shared everything; had you been there with me, you would have known too."

"Whatever you tell me stays locked inside my heart." She enacted the childhood motion of crossing her heart with her hand in promise.

Meg smiled a little. "I know you wouldn't spread secrets, it isn't that – I just hope you will not think differently toward me when you hear."

What could she possibly mean?

"Differently?"

Meg sighed and gave another slight nod. "Yes, well, you remember I told you that I came to Lindenwood the year before you did, after my parents' accident made me an orphan?"

Christine nodded and smiled in gentle encouragement. That had been one of the most notable days of her fractured childhood, the morning she arrived and gained her dearest friend.

"Well, it turns out they were not my true parents after all. The mother I thought was mine had a sister - Maman. She came to be in the family way, and to avoid scandal, her sister and husband took me to raise as their daughter. When Maman learned of their demise, she tried to find me – but she didn't have enough money to hire a detective and attempted her own search when she could take time away from the theatre. One night, after her work day was done, she found herself in a dangerous situation, accosted by two men in a dark alley. A third man came to her rescue, and as luck would have it, she had once saved him from some dire fate as well! She wouldn't go into details, but she shared with him that she had a lost daughter she was trying to locate, and he searched for and found me. At Lindenwood."

Christine blinked in amazement. "That is…incredible."

"Yes." A hint of apprehension lit Meg's eyes. "You don't think badly of me? For being born, well, illegitimate," she whispered the word as if afraid someone would hear. "It wouldn't be so scandalous among other thespians of the theatre, I suppose – though I've kept it secret – many are quite bohemian in their actions and I suspect some of them share similar circumstances. But it causes Maman grief. She was scorned by her family and exiled by her parents, you see. Her sister and husband took me as their child, but on the understanding that Maman would keep her distance and never try to visit me. I discovered all this, here and there, over the years. Maman was rarely forthcoming, but my father was a bit of a scoundrel and a wastrel. Making promises never kept, then leaving her in the family way without putting a ring on her finger."

Hearing the tremor in her friend's voice, Christine took both of Meg's slim hands in her own. "I could never fault you for another man's foul deeds. You are still as lovely and sweet as always, and I would dearly treasure renewing our friendship. I have missed you."

Meg gave a watery smile, and flicked away a tear from her lashes. "I should have known I could count on you always to be there. Oh, Christine – I have missed you as well! We have so much to catch up on!" Her eyes again glimmered with excitement. "Where shall we start?"

"How long will you be staying at Thornfield?"

"A couple of weeks at least – the production won't get underway again until late next month, according to the management's predictions."

Christine smiled, the first real piece of good news she'd heard in a while. She was delighted to have her friend near again, to reminisce and form new memories as dear as the old ones, but she couldn't help think of the Maestro and wonder how long he planned to stay away from his home, while invited guests dwelt under his roof. She almost asked if Meg might know, but refrained, having no wish to deflect further outlandish conclusions with regard to herself and the Maestro that just weren't true.

xXx

During supper, Meg told Christine all about life at the Paris Opera. Christine listened in wide-eyed wonder to enthralling accounts of a gilt and crimson chamber so tall that the images of angels painted on the ceiling were obscure to see, with walls so wide, the room could fit more than a thousand people at once! She spoke of a mammoth chandelier that sparkled with hundreds upon hundreds of crystal prisms, and the colors that danced when caught in the brilliant glow of theatre lights. Of tiers of balconies and rows upon rows of velvet-covered chairs…and a stage toward which white limelight was cast upon the star, with music from a multitude of instruments so powerful, their reverberations could be felt from every area of the enormous chamber, leading even into the foyer outside its doors. She told of daily rehearsals, and costume changes, and hair dressings; of choreography to learn, librettos to memorize, and scores to sing…

And in that one moment's enchantment, Christine felt she would give all she had, anything asked of her to take the stage and lift her voice in song, to know all of what Meg described firsthand… As soon as the old dream lit a flicker within her soul and she dared to hope again, logic blew out the tiny flame with ruthless contention. A tool of the devil, she'd been told; and while she no longer was a malleable child who, at times, questioned the validity of those stern claims laid against her, as vicious and pointed as the lashings of a stick, her singing voice had created nothing but problems ever since her Papa died. It was best to bury that part of herself to others, her faded song the epitaph of a silly child and nothing more.

After dinner, the three women adjourned to the parlor. Madame took a chair before the fire, seeming distracted, her attention on the low flames. At Meg's urging, Christine returned the favor and told her more of what happened at Lindenwood up through her time there as a teacher.

"It is criminal that they discharged Mademoiselle Talbot like that. She was the only decent instructor there. Have you any idea why?"

Christine lightly shrugged. "At first, no. Later, I heard whispers of a young man she was seeing, though I have no idea if they were true. It was forbidden then – still is – for the instructors to have any association with members of the opposite sex."

"Their litany of rules could confound a judge." Meg settled back against the sofa, critically eyeing Christine. "I must admit, I'm surprised that you followed in Mademoiselle Talbot's footsteps and became a teacher, and now a governess. I always thought you might take a different course, one more suitable to your natural talent …"

Before Meg could expound on a subject Christine suspected and wished to avoid, there was a stir in the doorway, followed by a sky blue cloud of chiffon in the form of Adrienne. Christine's smile was bright with relief at the interruption.

The child swept into the room with all the aplomb of a prima donna, ready to receive her admirers. Material of the same chiffon and sequins in the shape of a bow was fastened to her hair, and Christine realized the child wore what appeared to be a costume, in miniature, from those that might appear on the stage. Certainly nothing she had seen in Adrienne's daily wear, and Christine also wondered if the spangled dress was Parisian in design and from the Opera House coffers.

"Bon Jour, mademoiselle," she said with a pert curtsy before Meg, "Madame." A curtsy was given to Meg's mother as well. "May I entertain you?"

Meg softly clapped her hands together in delight. "What a splendid idea! I am always the one to entertain. What is your name?" she asked with an inviting smile.

"Adrienne, mademoiselle." Dark eyes sparkled with excitement as much as Meg's did. "Do you really work at the theatre like I heard one of the maids say?"

"Yes, I do, and my mother is my ballet teacher."

Adrienne clasped her hands in her puffy spangled skirts as if to try to contain herself from prancing about the room with glee. "And do you perform plays, like Shakespeare? Shakespeare is my favorite bard, though Romeo and Juliet are rather silly."

"We actually have performed a version of Romeo and Juliet. What we do at the theatre is called opera – it's a story told through song, acted out on the stage."

"Oh! That sounds delightful! I wish to be in a play one day ... I can sing. Do you wish me to sing for you?"

"Adrienne, perhaps another time," Christine chided softly. "The Maestro might not agree."

"Oh, but it's alright," the girl was quick to defend. "The Maestro lets me entertain. He's teaching me to sing," she explained to Meg and her mother.

From what little she had seen of the Maestro and his passion for music, Christine had no cause to disbelieve the child, though still had her doubts if this was appropriate. Many believed children were better seen and not heard, as she'd been taught at Lindenwood, and she had no wish to offend the Girys.

"I don't mind," Meg assured.

"Madame?" the girl asked Meg's mother hopefully.

A hint of a smile lifted her lips. "I should be honored."

"Oh how lovely!" the child exulted and turned to Christine. "Mademoiselle Daaé, will you play for me?"

Christine faintly snorted. "I can scarcely play, Adrienne. You know that."

"I will sing a song you know. Like I heard you play for the Maestro on the night you met him."

Christine was well aware of Meg's avid interest in their conversation.

"I cannot read the sheet music to play it. I only know a few hymns."

"I know those too. Madame Fairfax sometimes takes me with her to the church. Please, mademoiselle, I should dearly love to sing for your guests…"

Surprised to hear that Adrienne's religious instruction wasn't entirely lacking, Christine surrendered with a weary chuckle. "Oh, very well, Adrienne. This one time." She rose from the sofa and moved toward the small upright piano, taking a seat and placing her hands on the cool, ivory keys. "Do you know this one?"

Christine played the intro to a hymn she remembered sung at the little village church, and Adrienne nodded in excitement. "Si. I know this…."

Christine continued to play, congratulating herself that she did not once falter as she picked out chords. She could never be called skilled, but found it a pity that the Maestro couldn't hear her flawless execution now. At the thought she almost missed a note, and sharpened her focus.

Adrienne stood straight and tall, with chin lifted, holding her hands palm up at her waist before her, one hand loosely cupped inside the other. Her alto voice was sweet and soft and calm, contrary to her whirlwind nature, and pleasant to hear. Christine sensed even the Maestro would have been pleased with his pupil's performance.

Once the impromptu aria ended, Meg clapped for the girl. "Bravissima!" she exclaimed, and Adrienne beamed, regarding Meg in surprise.

"You know my language?" she asked in delight.

"You are Italian?" Meg returned in mild surprise then explained, "That is how the audience gives praise to an opera enjoyed. Some lines sung are even in that language, depending on the opera."

"And you said an opera is like a play?" At Meg's nod, Adrienne enthused, "I love the stage plays, though I've never seen one and only have read them, but I picture them in my mind as I read. Did you ever read A Midsummer Night's Dream?" Without waiting for an answer, she barreled ahead, "It's quite a lovely story by Shakespeare. There is a king of fairies, called Oberon, and his wife and a mischievous fairy named Puck. I like Puck – he's funny but sometimes mean, like when he cursed the man and gave him the face of a jackass. Have you read the story too, mademoiselle?"

"Breathe, Adrienne," Christine chided under her breath in amusement.

"Actually, we did a production of that story five years, I think...yes that's right – five years ago. I wasn't much older than you. I danced as one of the queen's fairies."

"Truly?" Adrienne clasped her hands beneath her chin and whisked around to the piano, to observe Christine. "Oh can we do the same? Not to dance – but to perform the story in a play?"

"A play?" Christine took her hands from the piano's keys and blinked. "Surely you're not serious…"

"Oh – but I am! The mademoiselle said she has performed it. She will make a lovely Hermia, with her long fair hair."

Christine played along with the impossibility, curious as to the child's train of thought while hoping to get her to see reason. "And who would play Lysander, Oberon, and Demetrius?"

"Well…" the girl scrunched her brow in deep reflection. "You could play Lysander and Madame could play Oberon, and we would need to double the roles – you could play Helena and the mademoiselle could play Demetrius. There are many times when it is scenes with only them…"

"We play the male roles?" Christine asked with an incredulous little huff.

"It is actually done all the time," Meg intoned, not helping at all. "In fact, the operetta of five years ago, females were cast in the roles of Oberon and Puck."

"There, you see – and we can put the play on in the fairy gazebo."

"The fairy gazebo…?" Meg repeated, sounding both amused and intrigued.

"A place in the forest," Christine said, with a dismissive wave of her hand, "and much too cold this time of the season for putting on a performance."

"Well," Adrienne said hesitantly, "there is the theatre room…"

"Theatre room?" Christine had not seen all of Thornfield, but she would think that such a room would not have escaped her notice.

"Madame Fairfax told me that the old master had the room built for his ward, Adele. She liked to dance. It has a stage and curtains, but not much else. There are chairs in there as well."

"And who do you presume would fill those chairs?" Christine asked. "Who do you plan for an audience?"

"Why, the Maestro, of course. We can put on the play for his return!" The more the girl spoke, the more excited she became, sparkles glowing in her dark eyes. "And the servants can watch too."

"Adrienne." It was time to put a stop to this. "We cannot possibly hold the play with only the four of us to perform it, even playing dual roles. It simply won't work. We would need at least three more people, and the servants are much too busy keeping Thornfield running to get involved with something like that."

The girl looked crestfallen, her eyes downcast. Christine hated deflating the child's enthusiasm, but as her governess, she felt the need to inject some amount of reason and discipline and wasn't at all certain the performance of the bizarre play Adrienne proposed would even be welcomed by the Maestro.

Meg studied the child, pulling her brows together in empathy. "I think one good turn deserves another," she said. "I packed my ballet slippers in my trunk, and if you show me this stage, I could show you the dance."

Adrienne swiftly lifted her head, her eyes hopeful and surprised. "You would do that, mademoiselle?"

Meg grinned. "I would."

"Oh, yes, I should love to see you dance! Will you dance tonight?"

"Adrienne, you must be patient," Christine said. "I am sure Mademoiselle Giry is weary from traveling. It can wait until tomorrow. Besides, isn't it soon time for you to be in bed? I'm sure your nurse will be wondering where you are."

The child stuck her lip out in a pout. "Oh, very well."

"Say goodnight and run along."

She gave a slight curtsy to both Girys. "Goodnight." Her eyes twinkled as she hesitated. "I look forward to seeing you dance tomorrow, mademoiselle."

Meg grinned. "I look forward to dancing for you, Adrienne."

The girl's smile was wide as she skipped from the room.

"Please don't feel obligated," Christine began, but Meg cut her off with a laugh.

"I welcome each and every opportunity to dance, and this would be lovely, since I really don't wish to go two weeks without practice. I have no desire to get rusty in the joints."

Christine gave a grudging smile. "Well, if I'm honest – Adrienne isn't the only one who would love to see you dance."

"Oh, très bonne!" Meg clapped her hands together in delight. "And will you sing? I remember you had such a sweet voice."

Christine expected the issue to come up at some point, after their dreams shared as children, but it arrived so swiftly she was taken aback. She rose from the piano bench and approached the sofa, woodenly sitting down next to her friend.

"I no longer sing, Meg, and I would consider it a favor if you don't mention my former diversions to anyone, especially Adrienne."

"She is a little firecracker, isn't she?" Meg agreed, her eyes curious, but thankfully she didn't ask why.

"She is that."

"Indeed," Madame put in with a smile, "she reminds me of someone I know quite well." Her pointed look at Meg left no doubt who she had in mind.

The evening ended on a high note, with more giggling and reminiscing of those happy moments shared in their childhood, few and far between which made them more memorable. They parted for the night, and alone in her chamber, Christine felt the first bliss of peace she'd known since coming to Thornfield.

She should have known then that such good tidings, for her, were not meant to last. Had she known, she might have stayed alert and treasured the experience instead of falling into immediate slumber.

xXx

It was with a shock that their companionable breakfast in the sunny nook of the morning room was interrupted by a woman's screeching from somewhere within the manor, a high-pitched call in demand for immediate assistance. Had they been in Jericho, the walls would have come tumbling down…

A string of what sounded like possible obscenities in a foreign tongue caused Meg to drop her fork to her plate and seek her mother's eyes in horror. Madame Giry likewise tensed and frowned.

"What is she doing here?" Meg asked. "Tell me she wasn't invited!"

"No, he wouldn't have invited her," Madame agreed. "I must see to this at once."

Christine felt curious alarm by their unfavorable reactions and when Meg followed her mother, rising from the table to head toward the clamor, Christine followed, thankful her foot gave her little pain today and she could match their swift pace.

She pulled up short at sight of the fiery woman who stood and vibrated with anger in the foyer. Her mauve and pink dress was wet, the hat perched atop her head a ruin. Feathers as pink as the dress she wore drooped and dripped with water, as did bedraggled strands of her russet-red hair. Behind her stood what Christine assumed were her two servants, arms full of parcels and trembling in their shoes.

"Jeest look what has been done to me!" the redhead wailed in a voice that rubbed Christine's eardrums raw. "Someone threw the wash water out of the window without looking!"

Christine recalled, when in her sickbed, Madame Fairfax correcting one of the upstairs maids to lug the full basin downstairs and not use the shorter method of tossing it out the second-story window. Idly she wondered if the blunder in conduct would result in the rebellious maid's discharge.

The newcomer violently motioned to her hat, pulling a hatpin from the sopping mess and removing the wilting construction from her head, ruthlessly poking the pin inside the band and making a sour face. "And look what the fool did to my hat!"

Spotting Christine, who stood near Meg, the angry intruder swept toward her and shoved the hat at her chest. "You! Take thees." Christine automatically lifted her hands to catch the sopping mess before it hit the marble floor.

Meg scowled. "Why are you here?"

The woman lifted her chin in haughty appraisal and sneered, "I need not explain myself to an insignificant little ballet rat!"

"Perhaps then, you will explain your presence to me," Madame Giry said gravely, and Christine saw a glimpse of the authority Meg's mother must wield at the theatre.

The irate woman turned her eyes to her addresser. "Why, by inveetation, of course. You were there…"

"She must have been eavesdropping outside Maman's office door when the Maestro was inside," Meg whispered to Christine. "The gall of that woman!"

That woman briefly turned insolent eyes her way, as if having heard them. "I am a guest of Monsieur Rochester, just as you are, Madamoiselle Giry. And I wish to change into dry clothing now. Take me to my room." This, directed to Christine. "Andiamo, Maria – bring my things."

Christine squared her shoulders, having had enough. "You are mistaken, Madame, I am not the maid. I am the governess, Christine Daaé." She shoved the hat back at the sodden pink creature, and the woman's dark eyes bugged wide. "And I have yet to know who you are."

The woman drew herself up as if she were the Empress of France. "I am Signora Carlotta Giudicelli, the leading soprano and star attraction of the Opera House in Paris…"

Before Christine could respond to the woman's glorified introduction, a man of slender physique stepped into the foyer. With golden-brown hair that waved nearly to his shoulders, he bore the dignified look of an aristocrat.

Meg pulled Christine a quick step back as all eyes went to him. "The Maestro isn't going to like this one bit," she whispered for Christine's ears alone. "He can barely tolerate her presence, and he certainly won't want his!"

"Bon Jour, ladies," the young man said with an engaging grin. "Signora Giudicelli told me of the open invitation to visit Thornfield during this respite. I thought to escort her here, so as to meet my co-patron." Catching sight of Christine, his brows lifted and he looked in pointed question toward Meg's mother. "Madame, if you would do the honors?"

Christine thought she saw Madame Giry's jaw tense but wasn't sure. "Mademoiselle Christine Daaé, the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny."

"Daaé…" the Vicomte said as if working out a puzzle. "Have we met, mademoiselle?"

"No, sir. I am most certain we have not."

"She is only the governess," the proud Carlotta spoke, slipping her hand through the Vicomte's arm possessively, and turning narrowed eyes on Christine. "If you will see to finding a maid to take us to our rooms, I would be grateful," she said superciliously, her tone bearing no gratitude.

"Of course. If you will excuse me," Christine managed through tight lips, finding the opportunity a coveted escape. Anything to put distance between herself and these latest guests and intruders. The Vicomte had been charmingly civil, but Christine felt the first flutterings of misgiving to feel his eyes on her the entire time she walked from the room.

She had no say in the matter, of course. Could neither ask them to leave or welcome them to stay; she was neither mistress of this manor nor a member of the family. But after Meg's whispered warning, Christine couldn't help but be concerned with how the Maestro would respond to return and find his home thus invaded.

If only she knew when that day was to be…

xXx

A/N: And so, the plot does thicken…wonder what the Master of Thornfield will have to say when he returns; perhaps we shall find out in the next chapter… ;-) And what do you think of the newest guests to Thornfield? (I do so love to stir the pot!)