"Can I betray the man who once inspired my voice...?"

Christine, Act 2, Scene 3

To put it simply, the rehearsals were hell, from the very start. The cast treated me with a thinly veiled contempt; veiled because of my apparent connection with the mysterious, dangerous composer. Carlotta especially was unreasonably jealous of the attention I was getting, and vicious in her ridicule of Erik's music. Often I found myself defending the harsh, yet oddly beautiful chords with a surprising ferocity. Perhaps I felt so protective because I recognized the voice behind the music... But in any case, Erik was still a master musician, and as such, deserved a certain amount of respect. Didn't he? I tried very hard not to thiink of him, which was ludicrous, considering I was the principle in his opera. I knew he was thinking of me, that much was obvious. Aminta's songs had been custom-made for my voice, not a note above, nor below its normal range. As mixed as my emotions were, I could not deny the pleasure I felt in singing them. In fact it became my habit, after the tedious, unproductive rehearsals, to lock myself into my room and practice for hours on end. It was almost like a return to the days before my debut in Hannibal, expect for one very important thing; this time I was practicing alone. As far as I could tell there was no 'Angel' waiting behind my mirror, no mellifluous voice urging me onward to perfection. Those arias, though delicate, were challenging, and--I will admit it!--I missed Erik's guidance. It would have been wonderful, I mused, to be able to sing this music with him... And where was Raoul during all this? I had no idea. He scurried in and out of the opera, sometimes alone, mostly accompanied by people who had an 'official' look about them. I could only guess that they were a part of his plan to "take care of everything", as he put it. I should have been glad he was, I suppose, but still...I felt abandoned. But I wasn't.

It had not been a very good day, as far as my emotional health was concerned. I was always in a very melancholy mood on the anniversary of Papa's death but when combined with the anniversary (and the bittersweet memory) of Erik's first appearance, the effect was quite overwhelming. Perhaps that is why I was not as alarmed as I should have been when I saw an envelope addressed by his hand on my dressing table that afternoon. Since that fateful meeting at the masquerade ball I had heard absolutely nothing from him, and had thought myself glad of it. Of course, my name was mentioned in the irksome little notes our managers received on a regular basis, but any direct contact between us had ended the moment he tore my necklace away. I opened the envelope with trembling hands, and gasped as that very same necklace slithered to the table. The broken link had been carefully mended, the gold polished, even the tiny chipped crystal in the crucifix replaced, but Raoul's engagement ring was glaringly absent. There was no message. I sat down with a sigh, consumed by a baffling desire to weep. Why did Erik's company still mean so very much to me? "I miss you, Erik," I murmured softly, bringing the chain that he had touched up to my cheek. God forgive me, but it was the truth.

Suddenly I became aware of an energy pulsing in the air, tingling up my spine. He was here, I knew he would be! Instinctively I turned toward the mirror, half expecting to see him standing behind it. A sigh seemed to caress my ears, followed by a faint, but very familiar whisper of "Christine..." "Christine Daae!" I stiffened as the sound came closer; someone in the hall outside, shouting my name in an impatient voice. I whirled toward the door, and back to the mirror, undecided. The atmosphere in my room had changed abruptly, however. There was no intensity in the silence, no unseen force humming through my body, reviving me as it had done so long ago... I was abandoned again. "Christine Daae, you're going to be late!" Hastily I flung my cloak over my shoulders and scooped up the manuscript, my mind already reviewing the lines automatically. Rehearsal first, the annual visit to my father's grave after. Perhaps in the quiet little cemetary the battle in my heart would end at last. For it was a battle, you see...

I was late. Faced with the glare of M. Reyer, and the positively evil smirk of Carlotta, I resisted the childish urge to stick out my tongue, shrugged back my hood, and opened my music, trying to act like I had been there all along. MY voice trembled faintly as I read off my lines in my turn. Blushing, I focused my attention away from my disagreeable colleagues and onto the score in my hands; the smooth creamy manuscript paper that I had so often glimpsed upon Erik's desk, or scattered across the music bench. Surreptitiously I turned back a few pages to the beginning, using a finger to trace my name, so carefully printed on the first sheet. Not for the first time I tormented...or was it tempted?...myself with the knowledge that not long ago he had held this book as I did, perhaps with his hands where mine were at this moment... "No, no, no!" I jumped as M. Reyer's dry voice cracked across the stage, accompanied by a crashing chord as he brought his fist down onto the battered piano. Much to my relief, he wasn't incensed at me. Signor PIangi apparently was having a great deal of trouble with pronunciation. The man's round face frowned in puzzlement as he stared at his score; he turned it left, then right, then gathered himself and belted out the offending line again. Still wrong. Painfully wrong. I cringed inside as Carlotta laughed scornfully. She wouldn't dare to act so if Erik were here, I told myself, thoroughly surprised when Madame Giry copied my sentiments, giving a cutting rebuke meant to cow the prima donna into silence. Her intimidating suggestion that our composer might indeed be 'here' sent a ruffle of uneasiness throught the all ready nervous company. To give our chorus-master credit, he ignored the rising tension and continued with his job; namely, getting the Signor to sing correctly. It was a hopeless endeavor, and in the uproar that followed Piangi's valiant attempts, I stole a glance up at Box Five. The curtains were closed, thank god. After Madame Giry's comment, I had almost expected... Wait!

As I looked, one of the curtains rippled, as if brushed by an unseen hand. The movement was slight, but I was accustomed to watching for Ghosts. I shivered, feeling the weight of his invisble eyes upon us all...I, especially. Fool that I was, to think he would stay away from the rehearsals of his own opera... The drapes stirred again, and I could almost hear his soft, derisive chuckle in my ears as the piano suddenly started playing by itself. Gone were the stumbling voices and stammered mistakes as the chorus stared played furiously by invisible hands. Erik's presence-no, the Phantom's presence-was a palable force in the auditorium as they obediently and flawlessly began to sing along. That presence curled around my mind, sizzling through my veins, as dangerously beautiful as summer lightening. I allowed the feeling to carry me, transporting me back to a day when, as giddy and guileless as Little Lotte, I had surrendered to a dream... Dreams, always dreams. Since I was a girl they had been the life-blood of my existence, a gift to me from a poor musical genius who could barely afford to feed his daughter, let alone buy her red shoes. Seeking to give me some kind of amusement, Father had given me his fantasies, weaving them with a skill that was as natural to him as breathing. And in the end, I mused distantly as I opened the gate to the little cemetery where my beloved parent lay, that was the only legacy he had left behind. Clutching my hand and looking up at me with eyes fever-bright, he had promised to send me the Angel of Music...and died. He had promised me. Bittersweet memories tugged me forward, and there before his grave, I stood in the rain and begged him to speak to me again. I needed to hear his voice; I needed the chance to ask him what had gone wrong? Why had he left me alone, with a past that I could not leave behind? Why hadn't he told me that Lotte's dreams could turn into nightmares? Why...? When suddenly I knew. Because they were only stories after all, told to soothe a silly child afraid of the dark. They weren't meant to be depended upon forver. That part of my life had to come to an end-not happily ever after, perhaps-but a sad ending was better than none at all. In this silence I would find the answer I needed, if I would only believe one more time...I would find the courage to grow up at last; to know my own mind and follow my own heart, as Father had always told me to do. The Voice quietly, insidiously glided into my thoughts before I was even aware of it, echoing my desires with an uncanny accuracy. His form hovered over my father's grave like some celestial being, sent to give me the final message I requested. Confused but confident; frightened, but ecstatic, I knew him yet I did not know him; with his mask gleaming eerily in the misty rain, the face was the Phantom's, but the presence...the presence was my Angel!

Hands outstretched, crooning tenderly, He had come again, hodling out the protection I yearned for...the guidance that I sought. Forgiving all my petty fears, He would take me back under His wings, and there would be no more difficult decisions, no more hopeless, helpless grief. Abandoning rhyme and reason, following the command that reverberated to the farthest corners of my soul, I could return to Him, to the knowledge that nothing, nothing mattered but the true beauty and the magnitude of His love... All I had to do was go to Him. "Christine!" The wild, angry cry of Raoul broke the golden haze that seemed to surround me. Vaguely I realized he was at my side, tugging on my sleeves, pulling me away from Erik... Erik? I blinked at Raoul dreamily, feeling for all the world like a sleepwalker, waking to find herself in a strange room. But Erik was my Angel, was he not? Why should I leave my angel? More puzzled then ever now, I looked back at the figure waiting above the grave, trying to reconcile Raoul's frantic warnings with the tender pleading in Erik's voice... It was that fleeting moment of doubt, that hesitancy on my part, which completely shattered the fragile bridge Erik had built between us. Our gazes locked and in an instant I saw his fondest hope fading into an intense, savage disappointment. I cringed away from the terrible hurt in his eyes and Raoul, mistaking my guilt for fear, pulled me against his chest, glaring defiance. Brave Raoul. Brave, stupid Raoul! I turned to him with a cry of despair, trying to tell him that no, this was n ot what I wanted, it wasn't supposed to happen this way...but it was too late. I staggered back a step, watching in horror as the two men I loved more than life screeched at each other like brats on a playground. And all because of me...a ragged sob escaped me when fireballs-produced by some conjurer's trick-began to sizzle on the ground at Raoul's advancing feet. No, this was wrong, wrong, wrong...I couldn't stand this...I wouldn't! I would not allow them to kill each other over my foolish inability to make up my mind! But my pleading was not heard; not by Raoul, firm in his self-righteous indignation, nor by Erik, who was so blinded by his own jealous rage I doubt he saw anything but red...

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