It is a bright, sunny autumn day, not unlike the past few, this year the warm golden hues more bright and light than ever before, a great contrast to the dark events that have been unfolding in the recent weeks around the most beloved city that is Paris. Like so often in the history of mankind, when brotherhood makes way for jealousy and envy, when strength and unity are only achieved by proclaiming a neighbour to be a common enemy, when it is proclaimed irrelevant that we all are children of Him, in those moments woe and misery find their way into ordinary life, as do hunger and fear, anger and despair. And while the cannons* are sounding outside the city walls and the possibility of shortcomings is on everyones mind with the approaching winter, a many tries to push away the dread that weights down the proud heart, hoping that if one continues ones daily course the ship may master the storm. That is why, despite great powers being at movement, the city is full of life, the streets busy and crowded, people everywhere going on about their days, the blue skies stretching above them clear and blue. There is no much difference to the life in the grand theatre, the shouts and laughs similar to those in the streets, the rush and exhaustion, the hierarchy that decides how much your voice is heard even though all work is of the same impeccable value in this clockwork machinery. Everything is the same as in the streets outside. Except for one thing. The warmth of the sun is often missing.

Raoul is strolling quietly through the rows of parter seats as not to upset or distract the people currently rehearsing on the scene, the actors, dancers and stagehands, all preparing for the comedic operetta they are to premiere in a weeks time. It is a silly little play and he knows the audience will enjoy it splendidly. There is no harm in uplifting spirits when times are hard. Seignior Piangi has just taken the stage, singing about how well kept his lands and marriage is, unaware of the many things that are happening behind his back. In the background is Christine dressed as a page, pretending to write down all the things the baron says while simultaneously blowing kisses to the baroness, played by Signora Carlotta, who is dressed in her costume but as yet without the face paint and powdered wig. Some dancers and a dwarf enter the scene too early and everyone is asked to go to their first positions once again. Everything begins anew and Raoul is fascinated once more how concentrated and patient everyone is able to go through the same scene over and over again until even the leading lady is satisfied. Nothing seems to take them out of rhythm. Nothing except the letters.

The letters received a fortnight ago and the deep rooted superstition of the Opera's inhabitants concerning its originator are a curious mystery. When he first had received his letter he had been sure it must have come from the new Opera directors as a tasteless attempt to keep Christine as a raising star away from outside influences, but both Monsieur Andre and Monsieur Firmin were blameless, just as he was blameless for the letter send to Signora Carlotta. Five letters. Five letters written by a ghost. Raoul had attempted to ask around the theatre what it was about this mysterious ghost, but no one was willing to say anything about neither Ghost nor Phantom. And then there was this Angel that Christine spoke of.

The rehearsal is finished for the day and Raoul tries to catch Christine's eye, succeeding in receiving a weak smile from her and being asked by gestures to wait in the hallway. Ever since her disappearance he had attempted to speak to her, to learn from her where she had gone, yet only received vague answers, mentions of headache and exhaustion after her first great presentation, having been too overwhelmed to go anywhere out with him. She doesn't say where she had found such solace to not be found for hours, but he doesn't push noticing her discomfort, noticing her sad smile that tries so hard to pretend nothing being the matter. This sad smile is so different from the ones she used to show, so different from the little Lotte that was so full of joy as they would race barefoot on the sandy shore or hide under the dinner table with stolen chocolate from the kitchens. The hallway where he now waits for her is in half shadow, some sunlight coming in from the round windows placed right under the celling and it isn't long before she appears. She has changed her dress from the pageboy costume to a wide green skirt and white blouse, her hair falling freely except where it is held by a single black ribbon.

"You have made it your duty to attend our every rehearsal?" Her gentle voice asks, a hint of mirth in it.

"Not a duty, but a pleasure gladly taken, and not every day, since I hadn't entered this place for tree days in a row."

"Well, you are more often here than the school tutor was for us girls." Her quiet laugh makes his heart flutter, the feeling of familiarity between them having slightly returned.

"Remember once when the tutor for me and my brother wondered about his spectacles always going missing, when it had been you hiding quietly under the table who had been taking them?" He asks, hoping to bring happy memories past back to life, hoping to bring another laugh to her lips.

"Your lessons seemed so boring back then, and they kept us separated." She says and a slight blush comes to her cheeks before she remembers herself and moves a bit closer to the sunlight of the closest window.

"It is such a wonderful day out there. Would you like to take a stroll? I promise, I´ll have you back again safe long before the sun begins to set."

He can see her considering it, and when he already thinks she'll say no, she says yes.

"Alright, a bit of fresh air would do me good, I suppose."

Gallantly, he offers her his arm, overjoyed when she takes it and follows him out.

She doesn't know why she agreed to join him for a walk. The many unfamiliar faces, the noise and the commotion make her anxious, but also make her exited. With the warm autumn sun her thin cape is enough to keep her comfortable and able to look about in this rarely presented opportunity. There is not much need to go outside the Opera when everything can be found inside its strong walls. Meals are served and prepared there, dresses sewn, shoes made. Except the weekly visits to the bathing house all living happens inside one grand building, a house with a life of its own, where rehearsals and performances give the rhythm of day. And yet she had agreed to leave its premises, walk the streets, Raoul only a hand-width away from her walking along. Whenever he is nearby she feels her heart beat faster, whenever he is nearby her heart feels lighter. He buys her warm maroons and returns her to the side entrance just like promised as the first shadows begin to fall upon the city. She fears the shadows.

There hadn't been any accidents nor letters in a fortnight. He hadn't spoken to her in a fortnight. She never would have thought the prospect of hearing the Voice would have filled her with so much dread. Dread of what, she did not know. He had never done her any harm, even when his fury was turned upon her he had kept his distance until the tempest had subdued. She had been filled with fear at his rage, and with pity at his tears. He hadn't done any harm to her, but he had kept sabotaging the rehearsal in nearly four years. Had it been back then that he had set his eyes upon her, in a different way than of a mere tutor? It was hard to comprehend that the Angel and the Phantom were only different masks. It was cruel.

Tears begin to fall upon the half empty paper bag of cold maroons as she draws her legs close to her upon the bed, as she clutches the package close to her chest, happy for the solidarity of the yet empty attic, glad for the silence it offers.

Two days, two days left until the premiere of Il Mutto. The whole theatre is in an uproar so close to the opening night, for although performances are a routine everyone involved has gone through multiple times, opening nights are still special events. Especially with a war raging not many miles away. Costumes are adjusted one last time, backdrops put into place to be ready, the orchestra perfecting its symphony and the performers going through their lines over again.

Meg is waiting for her cue to enter the scene in her maid costume, the frock and skirt short enough for her feet to move freely. Later on in the actual performance she will have to slightly paint her face too and then change her whole dress again for the ballet number of the peasants. She has come used to those fast changes and doesn't worry about lack of time. What she worries though is her best friend being even quieter than ever before.

"Say, why the long face. I thought you like dancing alongside me." Frederic, in his baby-blue coat, wig in hand, says as he makes an elegant turn around her.

"No one likes to dance with you, because you step on everyones toes, that's what." Pierre walks towards them from behind the curtain, his wig wobbling loosely on his head.

"Oh, hush. You're the one talking. Its easy to be in everyones way when your stature doesn't even reach its eyes-sight over an ordinary table." At that insult Pierre draws his brows together, huffing in anger, but waving the insult away, used to all forms of jests on his hight.

"Calm down, boys. We are all nervous before a premiere. No need to spill blood on the floor." Jacque says putting a hand on the younger man and bowing down to set Pierre's wig right, earning nothing but disapproval from both before they leave to take their places.

"You alright Mademoiselle Meg? Been a while since we saw you cheery."

"I am alright, thank you. It is just the excitement before the premiere. New managers. Nothing more." She says as she fidgets with the golden cross around her neck, a habit that usually says that she is deep in thought.

"Well, I will never be as nervous as before my little Micheal was born. What a charming boy he is growing into! Already walking about the apartment. Have you met him when my wife brought him last?"

"Yes. An adorable little boy." He really was, having inherited his mothers red hair and his fathers cheerful nature. When there was tension between the actors it was always Monsieur Jacque who would bring back the calm.

She wished he could calm her. For she felt deep down that this premiere would not be a cheerful one.

*Franco-Prussian War
Did you know there was a war going on during the main events of the movie? Neither did I (although I was aware there was something going on between Bismarck vs France), but, history buff that I am, I had to check for historic accuracy while writing and lo and behold, from July 1870 till late January 1871, the French and Prussians were fighting. The more you know.

Also, during the time I started this fic I had been reading Tolstoy's War and Peace, and probably some writing influence may be visible in some of the chapters XD