Phantom of the Opera 1. Void

**A/N: Back by the demand of my muse...seriously, he wouldn't shut up until I wrote this! To all old readers, welcome back, and to new scum, welcome. I hope that everyone has taken their reviewing classes!**

**STORY RATED M FOR VIOLENCE AND SEXUAL CONTENT. LATER.**

**The True Opera Ghost: Prelude**

**Chapter 1—Void**

"Oh, my God, what happened here?"

Such were the words of the policeman when he opened the door of the silent house that fateful night. The woman that most knew lay on the floor, covered in blood. In her hand, she held a crimson knife, and her throat had been slit.

"Suicide," the policeman's partner replied. "Look—there is a note."

The first man picked it up gingerly and read, "'I cannot stand the sight of my child any longer. I am taking my own life because of it. She is to be given to Monsieur and Madame Garnier. You will find her in the second room at the top of the stairs. Do not let her remove her mask. She is a child of the devil.'" There was a key in the envelope as well. The two policemen shook their heads and went to discover this so-called 'child of the devil.'

As he approached the correct door, the first man—Pierre was his name—heard soft violin music, and an inhumanly rich alto voice singing.

"_Shamed into solitude, shunned by the multitude,_

_I learned to listen! In the dark, my heart hears music!_

_I long to teach the world, rise up and reach the world—_

_No one will listen. I alone can hear the music…"_

The soaring violin solo brought Pierre's breath short to his throat. He turned the key quietly in the lock and opened the door.

She had to be no more than seven or eight years old. Her back, which was all he could see, had bones that stuck out through the worn-out fabric of the dress she wore. Her thin shoulders were erect, however, and curved in slightly to support the violin. She swayed back and forth with the rhythm of her playing.

"_No one will listen!_

_No one but I hears as the outcast hears…"_

Pierre took a step forward, and the playing stopped. The girl did not turn, but said, "She killed herself, did she not?"

He was still entranced by her voice, but forced himself out of it. "Yes," he replied.

"It is my fault." Her tone was calm, as though she hardly realized the integrity of the thought she'd spoken. "That is why she locked me in here."

Pierre walked all the way up to her and laid a gentle hand on one emaciated shoulder. "There was a note. It told us where to put you. I am sorry for your loss."

"I am not."

It startled him so much that he stepped back. She rose and began putting the violin she carried back into its tattered case. "I have nowhere to go, so I may as well follow you." It was as though she felt nothing, and when she turned to face him, he thought he knew why. The right side of her face was covered by a black cloth mask, and her eyes stared out at him from deep within it. "Unless you would rather give me up, as she did, so lovingly—exactly as a mother should." She did not smile—no emotion at all showed on her face at this morose joke. She seemed to accept the fact that she was doomed for eternity. What was he to do? Surely he couldn't just leave her here…

So he took her. She clutched the handle of her violin case and followed him, a tattered, black scrap of cloth as a shawl around her skeletal shoulders. She went quietly to the police station and answered all questions asked impassively. All, except one.

When asked the reason for her mask, she looked up, distant hatred burning far, far within her eyes. "I am a monster," she said, "and no one shall ever see my face." They left the tender question there.

The woman was given a simple funeral. Her coffin was plain wood—planks nailed together roughly and quickly by the undertaker. Few attended, and fewer still noticed the small, black figure that stood far back from the grave. Until the end of the funeral, no one knew even who she was. But the local priest, who had been called to say a few words over the grave, beckoned her forward at the very end.

"We share our sorrow with her young daughter, Christine," he said. At that time, heads turned in the direction that he looked, and the girl seemed to glide hauntingly forth to stand at the head of the grave. She held a single, blood red rose, around which was tied a black ribbon, and a beaten violin case. She said nothing, but dropped the flower onto the coffin, then turned and glided out of the cemetery silently, leaving in her wake confusion and pity.

Christine moved quickly, to get away from the mourners as soon as she could. She kept going until she reached a nearby park, where _normal_ children romped in the snow while young lovers held hands. She glared at them all, knowing that she could never be a part of their happy society, then drew her shawl tightly around her and moved to the remotest section of the wintry park.

Her hands were very cold, but they were often that, and though it took some blowing on them to be able to work the fastener of her case, she eventually brought out her violin. It took a very long time, in the bitterness, to keep the pegs from slipping as she tuned the instrument, but once she did, she brought it to her shoulder with practiced ease and began to play.

She played nothing in particular, but invented a sad, minor melody as she went along. Her small, thin fingers pressed the strings down in the perfect places as her bow moved almost sullenly, reflecting her open wound of a heart.

It was not that Christine had loved her mother—far from it. The woman had had Christine from a mistake, a slip-up in her duties at the Moulin Rouge. When the child had been born with her hideous face, the woman could do nothing but despise her—the woman being quite beautiful herself. She immediately made the poor cloth mask that the girl wore, to cover up her shame. She kept Christine inside during the day, and only allowed her to wander at night.

It was at night that Christine had found her instrument. She had been walking an alleyway, and had seen, in a refuse bin, the old case. She had taken it out and found the perfectly good violin inside, out of tune but quite usable, and taught herself to use it, with a good amount of help from a knowledgeable minister in the nearby church.

Her mother had made barely enough money to buy necessities. She gave herself the majority of these, her logic being that if she were very thin or poorly dressed, her customers would be far from satisfied. Christine got only a small amount of food, and her clothes were thin and ragged, not at all a match for the drafts that penetrated the house that had been abandoned by its original owners and taken advantage of by the prostitute. Christine had grown quite used to the cold, and to the constant pang of hunger in the depths of her stomach. The lightly-falling snow did not interrupt her playing in the slightest.

Her thoughts, as she played, were disconnected and fragmented, as though her mind were trying to focus and failing. Her music grew wilder and louder as the time passed, until with a hideous scratch, her E string slipped and slackened. She gave up, falling to her knees in the freezing dampness, her body quaking with a repressed scream.

She heard footsteps crunching behind her, and heard a timid voice.

"Excuse me, are you all right?"

"Please go away," she whispered, her throat clenched.

She remained there, silently shuddering, until those behind her moved away. Only then did she slip the violin back into its case and arise. She had to go somewhere.

But there was nowhere to go.

"Miss?" someone called, and Christine recognized the voice of Pierre, the policeman. She did not want to meet him. Her legs began to move at a blinding speed, carrying her away from the park, away from all the _normal_ folk. She ran and ran, clutching her violin to her chest and letting her shawl and her hair stream out behind her like the tails of the wind. Her feet took her to the only place she knew she would be welcome.

She opened the back door of the chapel with silent ease, her body quaking even more from the run. She could hear the chanting song of the monks in the church itself, but directed her steps up a set of stairs to the office of her mentor, Father Coleman. He was there, sitting at his desk, and looked up when she entered.

"I heard," he said quietly before Christine could speak. She nodded, and he said, "Sit down, my child."

Christine sat, watching him get up and go to the fireplace. She watched his hands—they were quite something to see. The right hand was wrinkled and lightly brown, with delicate blue veins tracing paths beneath the skin. The left hand was what had drawn Christine to Father Coleman in the first place. That hand was twisted and gnarled, rendering it nearly useless. There was little, in fact, that the father could do with it, but before the accident that had caused this deformity, Father had told Christine, his hand had been whole, and quite adept at the creation of music, and thus was he able to teach her.

He poured her a cup of hot tea, added sugar, and handed it to her without a word. She accepted it in the same way—such was their custom when Christine came. She held the cup in her hands tightly to warm them before she said anything.

"Father Coleman," she began, "I shall be leaving this place soon."

He nodded, watching her but saying nothing. She took a sip of the hot liquid and let it soothe her clenched throat before she spoke again.

"I will be sorry to miss you, Father."

He smiled gently. "Christine, child, thou art far too young to experience such a horrible thing as a death. Thee should never—indeed, no one should ever have to come through life with such a horrid curse as thou hast. But, my child, _I_ am very old." He leaned back in his hard wooden chair, observing her through his spectacles. "In the Far East, they believe that wisdom comes with age," he said. "But I declare, many men my own age have less wisdom than thou, little one. At six years only, thou art quite an old woman in the knowledge of thy heart."

Christine set down her cup, listening intently to this more reverent form of speaking than he had yet used with her. She had the feeling that something was coming of it.

"My heart grows weak and fails me, dear child. I am dying."

The young girl was suddenly scared. She saw the increased tremor of the holy man's hand as he raised his teacup to his lips. She saw the glaze in his eyes, heard the shortness of his breath, saw the blue tinge to his lips. He, the only one who had consoled her in her hell of a life, was dying.

The teacup smashed to the floor.

"Father!" she cried, hastening to crouch by his side and to take his withered hand in hers. "Father, do not die, please!"

"I have eighty-nine years behind me, Christine," he said weakly. "But thou—thou shalt live. Thou shalt not die for many, many years, and thou shalt remember me, I know it. But, child," he said, suddenly fierce, "thee must never give up thy music. Keep it dear to thy strong heart, for Music shall be thy salvation."

His eyes fell closed, and his hand went limp. He was dead.

Christine let out a harsh wail of despair. He was truly gone.

But her music lived.

Her breath catching in her throat, she ran, crying, to the nearby organ console, and sat. As loudly as she could, she began to play her own composition of the _Dies Irae_. She sang the words with a wondrous passion, not caring who heard, who saw her tears.

It might have been minutes, hours, days, before two men came hurriedly up the stairs. She finished the piece and broke down sobbing as they came into view.

"_He is gone!_" she cried aloud. "_He is dead!_"

--

Nothing could console Christine. She clenched her precious violin to her chest while the kindly monks led her back downstairs and into the vestry, where her agonized cries would not disturb the church's peace. She was made tea and food, but she refused it all. Her life, were it not for her music, would not have mattered. As it was, she was being propelled only by the echoes of the requiem that filled her person.

Her music lived.

It was, the monks informed her, two and a half hours before she fell into silence. At that time, she had bled herself of all feeling, all emotion, and she was spent, at least for the moment. She was curled up on a bench with her violin, and would speak to no one, look at nothing, only exist, empty of everything. Her world was destroyed.

But her music lived.

It did not even matter when the police came and took her away. One man gathered her useless body in his arms, instrument and all, and carried her into the carriage in which they had come. They brought her back to the dismal place—bare as a jail cell—where she would spend her last night in her hometown. She was empty, void, uncaring.

But her music lived.

She fell asleep eventually, on the hard cot in the corner of the room, and hardly even noticed. She dreamed of death, of shadows of her mother and teacher hovering about her. She dreamed of silence and void, nothingness. She dreamed of falling, falling, falling, into dead, dark, blackness. She dreamed of dying.

But her music lived.

--

**Wow. Intense. Yous guys like it so far? It's Christine's life, all the way up until TTOG, so it's going to be about 50 chapters. Or so. Prepare for a long haul.**

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	2. Masked

**A/N: Ooh...update...!**

**Yeah, guys, I'm just barely having time for this...I'm FREE AS A BIRD today! No rehearsal or performance, no homework, home alone, AND I went to school 2 periods late today! LIFE IS GOOD!**

**But tomorrow, back to it! Hope you enjoy this...wish me luck working on it...**

**Chapter 2—Masked**

In accordance with the note her mother had left, the police took the child to Paris, where the Garnier manor was well known. Monsieur Garnier was a famous architect, and Madame Garnier had a five-year-old boy. The masked young girl's steps were slow as she approached her new home, following the men in uniform. When the master of the house first saw her, he grimaced.

"I had heard," was what he said. "We are prepared, monsieurs."

They were shown inside to a parlor, and the officers were given tea. Christine did not care when she was not offered a cup. She was focused across the room, where stood a grand piano of darkest black and purest white. She ached to go over, to reach out and bring music forth from the keys, but she remained motionless, except for the clenching of her fist on her violin's handle.

She was aware of the staring eyes upon her, but she did nothing in their regard, her head bowed slightly but her eyes drinking in every detail of the piano. She felt very small in the great house, the great room, the great chair she was in. She felt about as massive as nothing at all.

Monsieur Garnier stared at her often during his conversation with the policemen. His eyes viewed her mask, her clothing, and—most of all—her violin, with dark hatred. His sister's child…nothing more than a shriveled whelp.

When the men had left, the master turned to the young girl who sat submissively before him.

"Know this," he told her in a very different tone than he had used with the officers, "we do not want you here. We never expected my whore of a sister to go and kill herself and dump _you_ on our doorstep. We will not tolerate anything but obedience. Is that understood?"

"Yes."

"You shall address me properly."

"Yes, sir," the girl said dutifully.

"Tell me your name."

"Christine, sir."

"Christine, know this also: we do not tolerate music here. Give me this—" he stood and wrenched her violin out of her hands, "—and you are not to touch that piano. Is that quite clear?"

Christine's eyes had widened desperately throughout this entire proclamation. No music? How could she live? How could she disobey the Father's last words to her? She swallowed to hold back the quiver in her voice when she answered, "Yes, sir."

"You are in a very different place now. I shall expect you to do exactly as you are told. We shall get you a new mask—that one is filthy." He gestured to her face and she drew back protectively. "For now…" He called a servant over. "Show her to her room."

Christine was led to a small closet of a room, with no furnishings except for a small pallet on the floor in the corner and a short table with an unlit lamp on it. Once alone inside it, she sat down and laid her head in her hands. She doubted this would be any sort of a life for her to live.

--

It had been night when Christine had entered her room, and she had lain for hours, sorrowfully recalling the past, racing though the possibilities for the future. She was awoken suddenly in the morning by a loud banging outside her door.

She adjusted her mask as she went to open the door, and was met by a girl older than herself, but still quite young, sixteen perhaps. She said, "The master desires your presence," to Christine, who followed her up to a study. Within the study, Monsieur Garnier sat at his desk. He looked up when the servant announced Christine, and gave her his unchanging grimace.

"You will come with me today, Christine," he said harshly, as though reprimanding her. "I have made an appointment with a friend of mine, a craftsman who will make you a mask." He stood and stalked toward her. "I thought to get the thing done as quickly as it could be. You will also be found clothes to wear, for those—_rags_—are preposterous. Come along, now, and look sharp."

He exited the room, and Christine scurried behind him, not daring to speak a word. She was silent throughout the carriage ride, too, and upon entering the building labeled _The Artisan._ She remained Monsieur Garnier's shadow as a man came from the back, dusting his hands to offer one to the gentleman.

"Nice to see you, Charles," he said, shaking Monsieur Garnier's hand heartily. "You have a new project for me, eh? Where is she?"

Christine was drawn forward by her master's firm hand. "Here," Monsieur Garnier said with distaste. "T'will be no great matter for a fine man such as yourself, Lucius. I'll just return in an hour, then." And with that, he hurriedly left.

The man—Lucius—appraised Christine through narrowed eyes, then beckoned her to follow him into the room from which he had come. "Sit, child," he directed the girl, pointing to a hard chair in the middle of the room. Christine sat nervously, perched straight-backed on the chair's very edge. The man walked to a table and gave something in a bowl a few stirs before he approached Christine again.

"Take it off," he said, not unkindly. Christine bit her lip and did as he asked, wincing as her deformed flesh came into his view. He was silent for a moment, staring in concealed shock, but soon moved back to the table and picked something up.

Christine quietly did all he asked as he applied some claylike substance to make a mould of her face. She was then perfectly still, watching him as he brought the mould back to the table and poured something into it. In a few minutes, he brought back a soft mask, which he put onto her and worked gently with his hands, smoothing the edges, smoothing the outside, forming it exactly to the contours of her face so that it would remain in place without the use of string. He stepped back in a moment, and nodded to himself in satisfaction. He removed the mask and took it back to his table, brushing it with white-coloured glaze and letting it harden.

In several minutes, the mask was finished, and he handed it back to Christine. She put it on almost timidly, pressing it to her face. The surface was cool and smooth against the demented skin that it covered so neatly. The artisan held up a mirror, and looking into it, the young girl saw what might have been a ghost, her face half-sheathed by a stark white shield.

In that moment, Christine was given a deadly confidence. The mask, accented by her piercing green eyes, red lips, and ebony hair, granted her an ominous, foreboding air. She knew suddenly that she had enough power in her to do anything. She could command the world, if she wished. All she had to do was set her extraordinary mind to it, and she could twist all aspects of her life to her liking.

No music? Ha! She would play, she would sing, and she would do it through any punishment she was given. She would simply defy the rules until she could truly force men and women to obey her.

"Thank you," she whispered, turning her eyes up to look at Lucius with gratitude.

He smiled gently. "So the little one can talk. I am glad that you like it." He gave her his hand to help her to her feet, then continued. "Now, Monsieur Garnier said that he would return in an hour, and it has been naught but twenty minutes. Would you stay here and wait for his carriage, or go elsewhere?"

Christine paused in thought. "I am not familiar with Paris, monsieur. I would rather remain here, if you please, sir."

He considered her for a moment. "Would you like to watch me work?"

Christine's face brightened with a flicker of hope. "I would like that very much, monsieur."

Lucius smiled again. He had sensed the presence of the girl's powerful muse for the arts the moment she had entered his shop. He could tell she would be great, if given the right instruction. "Come along, then," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and bringing her with him to another part of the room. "I will show you the statue I am working on."

He brought her to the very back, and she saw a partially-finished statue of an angel. The body, basic head shape, and arms had been carved, while the wings, fingers, face, and what seemed to be a lyre, had yet to be defined. She thought it beautiful work.

"Would you like to learn about art, my child?"

Christine's breath caught in her throat. "Could I?"

"You can," he said, "but you must tell me your name first."

Christine saw a sparkle in his eyes that contradicted the seriousness of his tone. "Christine," she said, a slight smile twitching the corners of her mouth.

"Christine," he repeated carefully, as though testing the sound of the name. "Watch me, Christine."

He showed her each tool he picked up, and told her its name. She watched him carefully while he worked, and listened closely while he explained every cut of his chisel. She watched in almost perfect silence, speaking only to ask a question or confirm a technique. She saw the delicate, thin fingers emerge, curved around the shape of the harp. She took all the information and stored it carefully away in her mind to remember forever.

"It is lovely," she breathed after what seemed quite a short time.

"_Merci_," he said in reply, then continued, "but you must go now, little one."

Christine started. An hour already? But she had learned so much, seen such beauty, been so accepted…

"Might I come again?" she asked quietly.

Lucius' eyes looked upon her kindly. "Of course, dear child. I would be happy to have you again. But Monsieur Garnier will be waiting. I will see you soon."

Sadly, Christine bade the craftsman good day as he saw her to the door, and exited the shop hurriedly to the waiting barouche.

Lucius, upon returning to the workroom, saw the child's former, cloth mask lying on the table. He picked it up and, after a thoughtful moment, tossed it into the fire. The child had a new dignity, a new life now. There was no use in saving any shadow from the past.

--

**A/N: I like Lucius. No reference to Harry Potter. Seriously.**

**I love everyone who reviewed! And by the way, I recently got a "review" that yelled at me for yelling at people who don't review. Question mark! Yeah, it was weird. But okay, I'll ask NICELY...REVIEW PLEASE!**


	3. Slavery

**A/N: I love Lucius. He's so cool. And to the person that noted the similarity between the name "Lucifer" and his (Lucifer being Satan's name before he fell) I didn't realize it. Sorry for not knowing who you are. But that has nothing to do with anything! Yay!**

**Sorry about the long delay, pholks, but life has been jam-packed. And I've waited longer. Here's a nice relatively-long one for ya.**

**By the way, I have many chapters written, but Chapter Five is currently MIA. I suppose I'll have to write it before I do too much more...REVIEWS WILL HELP!**

**Chapter 3—Slavery**

"Show me."

Christine held in a wince at the command, which was given as soon as the barouche door shut. She turned her face up toward the nobleman, and his hand shot out to grasp her jaw and hold her for his optimum viewing. He glared for several long moments, then released her.

"It'll do," he said gruffly, and ordered his driver on. He sat back as the carriage began to move, and pointed out the window. "That, Christine," he said, "is the unfinished Opera Garnier, which I design and my men build. It is thankless and hateful work, but the Opera Populaire company has provided a large sum of money for me to complete the project."

Christine stared at the partial skeleton of the building, until her guardian slapped her back from the window. She shrank immediately back into the leather seat, her mind racing with questions she dared not ask. Why did he hate music so much? Why would he agree to build a house of it? He had said the pay was good…did he deserve the pay he was being given? What would happen if she were to, one day, play that piano in the parlor?

"When we return to the house," her master continued, "you will meet Edina. She is one of the maids at _l'maison Garnier_, and you will be under her charge. She will give you a set of work clothes, as well as another for the times when you must make a good impression. You will obey her at all times. This means that you will do any and all work that she gives you to do, and do it well. You will also obey orders from anyone else in the house, including my son, Audrey. As long as you get the work done, time you have idle, if any, is yours. Be sure to be on hand at the hours eight, fourteen, and twenty, for meals. These are your duties. Do you understand them?"

Christine did not like the sound of these duties, but she meekly nodded her head. Presently, they reached the Garnier residence, where Monsieur Garnier bade her follow him with a quick jerk of his hand. She kept her head down, hiding it from the cold, cruel sunlight, until they reached the door.

"Edina!" the master called firmly as the door closed.

A maid arrived, an older woman with salt and pepper hair that was tied back into a tight bun. After a few strict sentences from Monsieur Garnier, he retreated into his study, and Christine had been bustled off to a small room. Here she gathered black garments that could hardly be called "new"—they were little better than what she already wore—and one finer dress of the same shade. The clothes were skimpy, leaving her arms, shoulders, and neck bare, and they hung off her, but Edina told her that they would do.

Immediately after donning these, Christine was set to work as scullery maid, scouring dishes in hot water until even her hard-earned violin calluses were soft, her long hair tied neatly up at the nape of her neck. Throughout this lowly work, she was aware of every presence in the room, although her back was turned. Particularly she noted the cook—a man quite large in stature and inclined, it seemed, to make tasteless remarks to and about the various serving girls that came and went. When no others were in the room, she almost always felt his eyes on her, although he never spoke to her.

She washed every dish quickly, having done the job at home. It was an hour before supper when she finished, and Edina appeared.

"Nicely done," the older woman praised absently, eyeing the empty sink and full cabinets. "Now, Christine, what does thee know about serving?"

The small girl answered quietly, "I nearly always served my mother and her—" a slight pause, "—guests," she finished. "I was taught very early, my mother having no servants."

Edina considered the child. She seemed sincere beneath the mask, her eyes emotionless. "Very well, then," she concluded, nodding her head. "I'll give thee the wine service—can thee handle that?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Good. Thee will pour drinks before the meal, and remain on hand to refill as the Master and Mistress require, understand?"

"Clearly, Madame."

Christine was indeed experienced with this, and from it had developed the invaluable skill of seeming not to listen, while truly absorbing everything. She put this into every moment of the meal that night, and heard much.

Charles Garnier barely glanced at her shadowy form as he sat at the table's head, but Madame Nicole Garnier and the young Audrey Garnier stared in blatant surprise. It was some moments before the master spoke sharply to his son, snapping them back to themselves. Christine stood with her head bowed, listening to every word of the conversation, but only reacting when one of the adults called for a refilled glass.

"So far, I've only spoken French to her," Charles was saying to his wife. "I don't think she understands English."

"Haven't you asked her?" the madame said.

Her husband scoffed. "Why should I?"

"It could be important!" the wife insisted. "How can we talk privately if even the _shadows_ have ears, for god's sake?" When Charles did not react, Nicole turned with an exasperated sigh to Christine as the girl approached to renew her drink. "Christine, do you speak English?" she asked in French.

Christine, who had understood every word of the English conversation, said, "Not well, Madame."

Nicole nodded in satisfaction, and turned back to Charles. "You see," she had switched back to English, "now we can converse in private, and she will not understand."

Charles stared sullenly at the filet mignon he had just begun to eat. "I really don't see why it matters," he muttered. "She knows the rules. She's just a servant wench."

The madame glanced from her husband to her son, then to the masked girl. She sighed and fell into silence, passing the rest of the meal that way.

After supper, Christine finished the dishes quickly, and turned to go look for Edina. The cook, who had not been present before, suddenly loomed ahead of her. She tried to sidestep him, but his hand shot out and he pushed her roughly against the pantry door. He laughed at her subdued whimper of pain.

"New wench," he hissed, lifting her chin to examine her better. "Pretty girl, at tha'," he continued, his half-grin not fading. "Certainly too pretty to be th' scullery maid, eh?"

Christine battled to keep the fear from her eyes, meeting his gaze squarely. "Leave me alone," she said quietly, pushing his hand away.

He laughed again, louder. "I do like 'em fiery!"

"Go away!" Christine said more firmly, an order.

"Now," the cook said, "ye've no right t' be orderin' me about, missy. I takes 'em as I likes, and there's no one as tries te stop me."

He shoved her flat against the door with both hands, stepping closer than Christine could stand. She opened her mouth to cry out, but his hand covered it. Christine fought hard, trying to break free, and nearly cried when a voice saved her.

"Nate, get off her, thou filthy bastard!" Edina had come in. She slapped the cook away from Christine, stepping between them. "She's naught but six, leave her alone!"

Nate folded his arms. "Wench," he spat, whether to Christine or Edina, the young girl could not tell.

"Get thee gone," Edina scolded him, already ushering Christine out of the room. "Thee causes enough trouble as 'tis."

The elder maid guided Christine out into the hall, then stopped her to speak. "Hast thou finished the work I set thee?"

"I did," Christine replied.

"Good. 'Tis the twenty-second hour, child, and thee should get to sleep. Thou must awaken early on the morrow. Does thee remember where thy room lies?"

"I remember."

"Good girl," Edina said, smoothing a stray lock of hair back from Christine's face in a motherly way. "The peace of our Lord God go with thee, child. I will awaken thee in the morning. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Christine bade her before turning silently and heading for her room, mentally scoffing the woman's religiousness.

However, once out of the sight of her mentor, Christine turned a different corridor, and paused, looking about her. She remembered the position of the parlor, the dining room, her own room, and the grand foyer. She slid through the shadows, ducking into hiding whenever some late-working servant hurried or staggered past. She memorized her surroundings as she went, noting the location of two bathrooms, another parlor, the garden door, and several closets of supplies.

When she had rounded the house once, she returned to the kitchen area and stole into the pantry quietly. She hadn't eaten properly since days ago, and had had nothing since entering the Garnier household. Her empty stomach filled slowly with the few slices of bread and cheese that she found, and a cup of water quenched her thirst. She left everything that she could exactly as it had been, double-checking before she resumed her nighttime prowl.

She walked about the house once more, and this time encountered no one at all. It was nearly eleven-thirty. She ventured back to the parlor and into it, casting a nervous glance around as she approached the piano.

Despite being despised, the instrument was in perfect condition, dustless and tuned. She slid back the key's cover carefully, and with a deep breath, pressed a nearly silent chord.

There was no reaction, no other sound at all. _Stupid_, Christine's mind mocked her, _to think that anyone would come running at this time_.

She released her breath and relaxed, her other hand drifting up, her fingers pressing down the keys to begin a song, a Mozart symphony. The song was soft and sad, but it filled her soul and strengthened her, every note reminding her of Father Coleman and his final words. She needed hardly think about her playing at all, only to let her heart find its way through her fingers. She played with her spirit, until the famous composer's notes had warped into a soft curse that ensnared her completely.

--

Days passed, one much the same as the other. Christine would awaken quite early, neaten her sleeping pallet and change into her work clothes, serve at each of the three meals, and take instructions from Edina and complete them in between. Once the woman discovered the extent of Christine's housekeeping training, Edina set her to more and more complex tasks, and Christine spied more and more other servants lounging about when they ought to have been working.

She did not care. She completed every task, and even found time to disappear—to her room, to the garden, to the spacious rooftop, anywhere. At night, she often stayed up quite late, into the morning, hiding in the parlor or venturing out to explore the city. She needed no practice in this, of course.

Most often, when out, she visited the unfinished Opera. She had a great appreciation for architecture, and ventured around the lot, climbing into the hole dug for the foundation and exploring the bit of land.

Once, as she emerged from one such expedition, she saw a light in a shop across the way. She recognized the place—it was _The Artisan_, where the man Lucius worked. She darted past a group of men and prostitutes to the window, and looked inside. She saw him there, pacing back and forth, a scrap of paper clutched in his hand.

She opened the door quietly, not wishing to draw any outsiders' attention by knocking, and slipped into the workshop. Lucius did not notice her until he had passed her twice, then whipped around in surprise when he did.

"Oh," he said, "Christine. You frightened me. I thought that you were a cutthroat thief, come to rob me."

"No thief," Christine replied with a bit of a smile. "I simply saw your light on, and wished to ask you what the matter is with that paper in your hand."

He blinked, then stared down at the scrap as though he'd forgotten he was holding it. After a minute, he looked back up.

"The same angel," he explained. "You remember it?"

"Aye," said Christine, "well."

The craftsman sighed. "He will not show me a face. I cannot see anything when I look at the marble. It has been this way for—god, days on end."

Christine nodded, approaching him. "I know the feeling, Monsieur."

He looked at her for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Call me Lucius, child. I don't prefer such formality."

Christine, although a bit taken aback, nodded in acceptance. "Can I help you, Lucius?" she asked, testing his name as he had once done to hers.

He regarded her, a thoughtful look on his face. "Perhaps you can. Come."

He led her into the back room, where the angel statue stood, silently beautiful. Its face remained smooth stone, yet unrevealed. The small girl, however, looked with the eye of her youth and the wisdom of her age-old heart. She saw beauty there, finely shaped features, a rapt expression, devotion to the invisible music that sang from the immobile harp. She itched for a tool to create this vision, and glanced back unsurely at Lucius.

"May…may I?" she asked him, hoping.

He started a little. "You see it, child?"

"Yes," she said, wishing, wishing…

He drew back and cast an arm at the set of tools on a nearby table. "Please, do."

No word passed between them from the time Christine reached for a chisel until the last stroke of her hand smoothed the angel into completion. It had been just over an hour, and when Lucius finally moved, his legs were stiff. He hardly cared.

Such _beauty_ did he see! He hardly needed step forward to see the exquisite detail, the perfect symmetry, the amazing expression that the young girl had given the piece of marble. He stared in wonder for what might have been an hour or a heartbeat, until he remembered the presence of the work's artist.

He turned to her slowly. "You, Christine," he said, "are what we call a prodigy."

She frowned a little, in thought, not displeasure. She seemed to consider his remark gravely, examining her own work. "You think so?" she said finally.

"Christine, this is the most amazing work that I have seen in my life," Lucius said, approaching her with reverence, "and I have seen the greats of Europe." He turned back to the angel happily. "Monsieur Garnier will be quite pleased."

"Monsieur Garnier?" asked Christine, surprised.

"Yes, did I not tell you?" Lucius nodded over his shoulder to the rest of his workshop. "This angel—all of the work that you see—will be part of the Opera that he is building."

Christine cast her gaze over the room, seeing many statues of all shapes, many duplicated, most of artful women—angels, nymphs, and the like. She could see the positions of each piece mentally—in fact, in Christine's mind, the Opera was entirely complete, right down to the gold-embroidered stage curtain.

"Is there any one thing that I can do for you?" Lucius said, placing a gentle hand on Christine's shoulder. "I would much love to repay you, my child."

Christine smiled with a mysterious air. "No, Lucius, you can give me nothing, excepting allowance to return again."

Lucius returned the smile warmly. "Of course, dear child! Come again, and come often!"

"As often as I might," Christine sighed, her expression becoming wistful. "I have much that I must do at _l'Maison Garnier_."

Lucius frowned. "How came you to him? He told me that you were simply a servant, but I feel that there is something more."

The young protégée sighed again. "I am his niece, but he hated my mother. She killed herself and willed me to him. I am a servant in his household—nothing more than a bothersome shadow."

There was no hint of emotion—of any sort—in Christine's voice. Lucius pondered this, but the child spoke again.

"In any case, it is quite late," she said, "and I should return. I will have work in the morning."

"Yes," said Lucius absently, watching the girl dust her hands as she moved to leave. "Christine," he said, and she turned. "Have you no wrap, no shawl, on this night?"

Christine shook her head. "I am allowed very little."

Lucius nodded. "Wait a moment," he said, hurrying to the back of the shop, where there was a small office. He emerged with a black cloak—a simple affair that a customer had left one day and never retrieved. He handed it to the silent girl. "Take it," he said when she began to refuse. "It is the least that I can do."

Christine held the cloth for a moment, unmoving, not speaking, then quietly said, "Thank you." She swung the cloak around her thin shoulders and fastened it neatly beneath her chin. Its hem just swept the ground. "I will see you again," she added, "but I do not know when."

"That is fine," Lucius replied. "Until then, little one, adieu."

Christine's eyes narrowed, and she gave a dry smirk. "What has God to do with it?"

**A/N: Ooh, smooth, Christine. Sweet, in fact. Hooray. For those of you who didn't get it, "Adieu" literally means "with God", and is used to mean "God be with you". Clever, eh?**

**By the way, I am FINALLY reading Susan Kay's novel. Yes, it is awesome. Awesome-tastic, in fact, which is a word COPYRIGHTED by me. Yay.**

**Thank you for reviewing!**


	4. Scarlet Ink

A/N: I know it's been a while…so sorry…but I've been very occupied with a role playing site this summer and have just not gotten the chance to update. No, Chapter 5 is still not done, but it will be soon, and hopefully posted before I get back to school. 

**Been having some questions/complaints about the language that Edina uses. I envisioned her character as being almost from Yorkshire, and if you've read "The Secret Garden", you know how they talk. I wanted to set her apart, also, as a religious woman, the type who would be a nun if not her current profession. If there are any other questions, please hesitate to ask.**

**Remember to review! Your flames keep us warm at night!**

Chapter 4—Scarlet Ink 

The next day, at teatime, Christine was carrying a large tray to the parlor for Monsieur Garnier and a guest of his, a baron by the name of William von Trappe. Intent on bringing the tray through the door, she did not notice the lurking little shadow that had positioned itself across the hall.

As she stepped over the threshold, she felt two young hands shove on the small of her back. Startled, she dropped the tray, keeping her balance only just barely by grabbing hold of the nearby Monsieur Garnier. Everything smashed to the floor with a loud crash.

"Audrey," she hissed beneath her breath, whipping around. The hall was empty, the boy gone.

"Christine!" Monsieur Garnier said sharply. His shoes and trouser legs were now splashed with tea, and his sleeve unbuttoned from her wild grasp. His hand lashed out and slapped her across the face. "Clumsy girl!"

Christine was burning with fury, but swallowed to keep it under control. "Apologies, sir," she said through gritted teeth. "I must have tripped…apologies, sir."

He struck her again, the other cheek. "Clean it up straightway!"

"Yes, sir." She bent to begin picking up the pieces, seething over how much she hated her duty.

"William, forgive me," Monsieur Garnier said to his guest. "I must go and change—wait here, won't you? I'll send a new tea tray…with a more _graceful_ servant."

Christine's fist clenched, and she opened a small cut across her palm from a shard of broken china.

"Of course," said the baron with a nod and a smile. "Make no haste on my account, Charles."

When the master of the house left, there was silence in the room save the clinking of the shattered tea set as Christine piled it back onto the tray. She was constantly aware of the baron's eyes on her, watching her every more. It unnerved her, but she was occupied with the work at hand and with fuming at the five-year-old mischief-maker.

What could she do to him in return?

--

Many weeks passed. Audrey played daily jokes on Christine, often directly under the unobservant eyes of his parents, when they bothered to be around, or the senior members of the household staff. She acquired bruises from their open hands, and even closed fists, or whatever instrument happened to be in their reach at the time. Her shoulders turned into sickly havens for the black and blue splotches. Once her eye was blacked by an angry Nate with a soup ladle.

Nate…

He was more than a disturbance to Christine. He stalked her whenever he wasn't working. He even followed her at night, in a drunken stupor. Several times he cornered her, shoving his body roughly into her space, once going so far as to tear the thin straps that held up her dress at the shoulders. She had broken away, clutching desperately at the garment until she could retire to her room to fix it.

Christine found a little refuge in her music, but in the nighttime stillness, she could not play to her heart's content. Quiet requiems and minuets were all that she allowed herself, all written by former composers.

Christine wrote nothing quiet.

She often left the house entirely at night, monitoring the progress of the Opera, exploring Paris, and simply being by herself. Several times she visited _The Artisan_ and found Lucius working late, and always happy to involve her in his projects.

But there was Monsieur Garnier…

Christine soon learned how very much he hated his project.

Often, she learned, after a day's work, he would not come home, but go to a local tavern to drink the day away. He came home each night staggering drunkenly, often not till one or so in the morning—about the same time that Christine would return from her wanderings.

He was an angry drunk. The first time that they crossed paths coming in, he growled swearwords at Christine before pinning her against the banister of the stairs by her neck. He threw her headlong halfway across the room then, and she hit the cold marble floor with a bruising _thud_. He disappeared.

Often, it seemed to Christine, that although she tried to avoid him, he would hunt her out to make a scapegoat, to take out the stress of his project on her. One terrifying night, she had been taking her only meal of the day in the pantry, and he had found her.

Unluckily for her, the object in his reach happened to be a sharp cutting knife with a blade the length of his hand.

His aim was good, for a drunken man, and the knife flew toward her. With a shriek that she could not bite back, Christine felt a searing pain streak across her thigh. She heard the knife clatter, heard him stumbling out of the felt her blood running, felt her head spinning…

_Darkness._

--

Edina heard the high-pitched scream that penetrated her sleep, and rushed to the pantry with one arm in her dressing gown. She nearly screamed herself when she saw the blood that stained the floor, and the heap of black, white, and crimson that was Christine.

The _dottore _was called. The wound was deep, he said as he prepared to stitch it closed. Christine would not be able to stand for, he told them, at least one month. She was also malnourished, he said, practically starved. She would live, but she must be properly fed and get plenty of rest.

Edina stayed by the girl's bedside for the remainder of the night, waiting to see her awaken. However, when morning came and Christine was still deep in oblivion, she had to settle for a later return, and could only pray that her good little servant would be okay.

--

Horrifying, dissonant symphonies haunted her in the torpor that swamped the cursed girl. Pain blazed through the music, wracking her heart. Battle raged within her—horrible, bloody battle that music notes fought across three staves. It terrified her subconscious that the very substance she was made of could behave so raucously.

Her mind's eye saw herself, her body, lying sprawled across the lines of one staff, covered in black ink, which, as she watched, seeped from a wound across her chest and turned to scarlet blood.

Death, personified.

_Her music gave her life, and it would kill her as well._

--

Christine's eyes opened many hours later. Her body ached, her throat was dry, and her left leg seemed to be tied in place. Her room was lit by a single candle, but it seemed overly bright to her after the darkness of her torpor. She turned her head away from the light, but the door opened then, letting in more. She winced and blinked, and heard a gasp from someone—Edina.

"_Dieu bon, charitable!_" she cried when she saw Christine move. "She lives!"

Christine tried to speak, but her voice only rasped.

"Now, now," Edina said, bustling over with a tray, "just stay right where thou art, dear child. We thought we would lose thee!"

Christine hurt too much to fight. She let Edina's arm prop her up enough to sip a cup of bitter tea. She began to cough as the last swallow went down, harshly, tearing at her throat viciously. The elder woman patted her back and held a handkerchief out for her.

When the attack was over, Christine barely had the energy to breath properly. She fell back against the pillows, this time into dreamless, deep, natural sleep.

--

The next time that Christine awoke, her body did not hurt her so badly. She felt weak, though. Her leg, she saw as she looked down, had been bandaged tightly and weighted down at the ankle by what might have been a lead compress. Her room was again dark, with no light coming though the door at all, and she perceived that it was night. She couldn't bear to move very much, but lay still instead.

There was so little reason for her to exist.

_I_ _have no purpose_,she thought to herself,_ except to be wretched and shamed. Here am I, without what gives me life—music. Trapped in this hellish house, where I can be of no good but as a scapegoat. And_, she added grimly, _a victim._

Her mind, as it sometimes did, suddenly turned her thoughts around. She began to remember what she had done for herself—most importantly, she had learned to speak, read and write on her own, not only in French, but in English, Spanish, and Italian. She had discovered the power of her voice on her own as well. She had sought Father Coleman when the rich strains of music that floated down from the church windows had rendered her captive to their beautiful sound.

She felt slightly better at this, knowing that she, at least, had _some_ power. She bit her lip in thought, then tried to push herself to a sitting position. Another bout of coughing overtook her, and she quickly collapsed back onto her pillow. The sound brought a sleepy-eyed Edina to her doorway.

"Awake again?" she said when Christine's attack had subsided. Christine nodded. "And feeling better, art thou?"

The girl nodded again, resting. It was true, she was in better health. "How long must I lie here for?" she asked the woman who hovered over her.

"The _dottore_ said thee wasn't to stand or walk for a month," Edina said, stroking Christine's hair gently. "Now, thee should sleep till the morn, and then I'll check on thee again."

Christine nodded for the third time as the elderly maid exited. _A month_. Four weeks of immobility—how would she stand it?

"What is pain to you, Christine?" she asked herself aloud, sneering to the darkness. "You've endured it enough. What is it? An annoyance, merely," she conceded, "if that. A fly to be swatted. Nothing important."

With this decisive remark, she steeled herself and pushed her torso up. Her leg burned as she unknowingly clenched the muscle, and she jerked. She would allow her leg to heal, but she doubted that it would take a month. As soon as she felt able, she would stand and walk about the room to strengthen the wounded limb. Who should know her body better than herself? The _dottore_? Hardly.

Her mask, which had been in its place, dropped as she shook her head slightly. This was odd. She replaced it, noticing, indeed, that its contours seemed not to fit her as exactly as they had. _Of course_, she thought, _I have managed to grow some._ She would need Lucius to visit her soon. She made a mental note to tell Edina, then reached for her bedside table. There lay a small basin of water and a cloth.

She dipped the cloth in the cool water and wrung it out, then removed her mask again and laid it against her deformity. It was a welcome sensation—it relaxed her, and for a moment, she imagined what it would be like to be…

Whole. Complete. Perfect.

These thoughts dismissed themselves airily, almost before she noticed them.

She could learn to accept her face, and her fate.

She could learn how to make her life worth living.

It was all she had to live for, after all.


End file.

Phantom of the Opera, Drama, Suspense