"Our passion play has now at last begun...

Christine, Act 2, Scene 7

I stood in front of my dressing room mirror for the last time, smoothing down the bodice of my lavish costume. The black silken fringes slipped through my fingers, as cool and weightless as water. How delicate my fingers looked, pale against the dark fabric, like fragile twigs blighted by frost... I shook my head slightly, pulling myself away from my random thoughts and focusing on my reflection again. Everything about this dress suited me. The heavily flounced skirt; the exquisite lace and embroidery; the way the material clung and moved and sighed...I could see him in every detail, from the soles of my shoes to the red flower pinned into my curls. I could almost envision him bent over the patterns, rejecting one after another, searching for perfection...

A single crystal tear tracked down my cheek, and I watched dispassionately as it fell onto the dress, blooming into a patch of darker red. Odd...I thought I had cried myself dry last night. Tears were so very useless, serving only as a reminder of the deeper grief I refused to face today. The storm that had consumed me was gone, leaving me drained, listless, and as remote as a phantom myself. Was this how Erik felt, I wondered absently. Cold? Empty?

Dead?

My maid murmured softly and obediently I turned, letting her drape the shawl over my arms. That was how I felt...Dead. A solitary lamb, sacrificed on the altar of a schoolboy's jealousy, and a prodigy's vivid imagination...

But was I really the victim?

There was a faint movement behind me and I turned to see Raoul in the doorway. He was dressed in his own opera finery, with a top hat in his hand. For once there was no gushing about how lovely I was, or how well he wished me. He stared at me with the same sad speculation of last night; something in his somber gaze reminded me of a child who knows his favorite toy is breaking, and does not know how to mend it. I felt a sudden wave of pity for him. Somewhere along the journey to this point, the little girl with the red scarf had disappeared, blowing out of his grasp and far out to sea. And I didn't think he was the swimmer he used to be...

"Raoul," I could not believe how calm and...indifferent...I felt. Where was the fluttering young chorus girl, with the timid smiles and blushing cheeks? "You really shouldn't be in here, you know."

"I know, I just..." he took my hand and placed a kiss on it. "I just wanted to see you before you go onstage." He stood back, still holding my hand possessively, and studied me. "You look beautiful."

Beautiful? I didn't feel beautiful. I felt like a mouse playing a very dangerous game with an equally dangerous cat. This was no time to tell me how beautiful I looked. When I did not respond he reached out, turning my chin until I was forced to meet his eyes.

"Christine," he said, in a tone meant to be reassuring, "darling, please don't look at me like that. Everything will be all right, believe me." I shook my head slightly and he made a sound of exasperation. "Look, my coach is waiting outside; after tonight you'll be free, I promise."

Freedom. If words were colors, freedom would be as pale and translucent as a rainbow, and just as unattainable. I laid two fingers on Raoul's lips, silencing him. "Give me no promises," I replied softly. "They are far too easy to break."

"But why not?" His voice rose irritably; my odd resignation was worrying him, I could see that, but I could not summon up the energy to care. "Christine, I don't understand!"

"I know." I glanced at the tiny ticking clock on my dressing table. Almost time. "You should go."

Raoul started to speak, thought better of it, and instead, kissed my cheek lightly. "Good luck."

"Good bye." I watched him leave in the mirror; he paused at the door, looked at me for a long moment, then was gone. Music drifted through the hallway, snatches of melody as the instruments tuned up. The disjointed notes danced around me as I made my way to the backstage area, swirling into my head, plucking at my sould like restless children. Such music it was! Never still, never calm, always moving and beckoning and possessing... It was alive; it breathed - it burned.

M. Reyer nodded to me  as I took up my position with the rest of the cast members. Beyond the heavy curatin I could hear the humming of the audience. Their excitement hung so heavy in the air, I could almost taste it. And no wonder; a mysterious new opera, written by an unnamed composer, performed in a haunted Opera House....

With a crash the overture began, and I felt a shiver trace along my spine. I could hear my own theme, weaving through the chaotic music. The wistful, melodic refrain spoke of youthful daydreams, girlish fantasies - and hinted darkly at the eventual end of innocence. It was perfectly in keeping with the persona of my charater. Aminta was a true enfant de boheme; fresh, young, innocent yet curious about the mysteries of love and passion. A full-blown rose waiting to be plucked by the right hand... A difficult role for me to play tonight, when my heart and my limbs felt as heavy as lead. But being an actress meant being a liar; Erik had taught me that.

The mood among my fellow performers altered dramatically as the music drew to a close. Tension leaped like electricity from one to another. The chorus exchanged nervous glances; Piangi shuffled past me onto the stage; M. Reyer examined his score one last time. I took a deep breath, suddenly afraid as the curtains trembled and moved aside...

Act 1 passed by in a blur, moving swiftly and - to my relief - relatively smoothly. Aminta was met and tempted, the invitation was extended, plans were made, all without mishap. Somewhere in a remote corner of my mind I knew I was doing well. I could not last very much longer, however. I had felt the strain in my voice as I struggled to maintain my control, had felt my nerves snapping one by one, like a badly frayed rope. The core of ice that had sustained me thus far was beginning to melt, leaving me once again a very frightened, very vulnerable child. Unnoticed in the backstage bustle, I huddled on a stool and waited for the final scene, clutching the flimsy shawl tightly between my fists.

Where was Raoul? I would listen to his promises now.

Suddenly Meg appeared beside me, dropping to her knees in a flurry of gaudy skirts. Under her stage paint her normally pale face was even paler. When she touched my sleeve with trembling hands, I realized why; she was terrified.

"Christine," she exclaimed in a whisper, "there's a marksman in the pit!"

I stared at her, uncomprehending. "What?" I faltered.

Apparently intending to shock me with that news, Meg looked rather surprised.  "Christine, didn't you hear me?" She gave me a little shake, her voice rising on a note of hysteria. "There's a man with a gun in the orchestra pit! Jammes says he's here to kill the Phantom...that he could be with us, even right now!"

I started, something inside me cringing in reaction to those words. As if in a trance I saw Meg reaching out to me, her face and voice fading, swirling and blending with my memories into a kaleidoscope of color and sound...

He's with me even now...

"Christine, your hands are so cold!"

All around me...

"Are you all right?"

It frightens me...

"Don't be frightened, I'm sure nothing will happend to us..."

"Meg Giry!"

My surroundings came back into focus with a dizzying jerk; I looked up to see Mme. Giry standing over us, a grim smile curving her thin lips.

"Your place, Meg, " she commanded quietly, then waited until her daughter scurried away before turning to me. "Are you ready, child?"

I bit my lip, unable to meet her eyes. "I must be," I whispered. "I have no choice."

"You always have a choice, do not doubt that." She gestured toward the 'door' of the 'inn'; behind the curtain I could hear Signor Piangi merrily slaughtering Don Juan's lines with his usual lack of skill. Pausing with me just beyond the view of the audience, Mme. Giry reached forward and placed her cool, dry palm on my cheek in a brief caress.

"Take care, Christine Daae," she whispered.

I nodded wordlessly, too stunned by her unexpected affection to contemplate her cryptic comment. There was no time, at any rate. If I did not pay attention, I would miss my cue. Shuddering at that thought, I listened to recitative, concentrating until I could see the blood-red notes hovering before my eyes. And suddenly I realized what it was about Piangi's performance that troubled me so. The character of Don Juan - his music, his dialogue, everything - had been written for one Voice, and one alone. It was no wonder the Italian tenor was having so much difficulty...

Erik had written the role for himself.

Oddly enough, with that astonishing revelation came a sense of relief. Now I knew how I would surivie this, the most important, most dramatic scene in the whole opera. I did not have to be distracted by Piangi's voice any longer...because I knew the composer's! Murderer, stalker, and Phantom though he was, Erik was still in my mind; the memory of his angel-voice could and would inspire, this last time.

M. Reyer hissed warningly, and I spared him a glance. His prompting wasn't needed - I was ready now. Somewhere between the sigh of one breath and the rush of another, I had left my insecurities behind.

There was a lull in the music, then the faint delicate ring of chimes. Taking a deep breath, I opened my mouth and sang.

"No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy; no dreams within her heart but dreams of love..."

Perfectly pitched, perfectly clear, I let my voice float up to the last tender note, lingering as I walked out of the shadows and into Aminta's world. I skipped across the stage, eager anticipation showing in every movement; abandoning the shawl, examining the table with wide-eyed greed, playing catch-and-toss with an apple. Acting the flirt, I did not look up when I heard the curtains snap open, and Don Juan stepped onto the stage. No, he must earn my attention; he must entice me, coax me into submitting to his desires...

Then he began to sing.

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