#anqemort

There is no Angel of Music; there is only Erik.

It had been an undeniable shock to discover that the voice she believed to be the Angel of Music belonged to the same man that called himself the Opera Ghost. The revelation had occurred a little over a month ago, yet it seemed akin to a lifetime to Christine. Since then she'd made about a dozen trips to the peculiar house beyond the lake to visit with its even more peculiar owner. Her presence had been requested and, feeling beholden to the man who'd coaxed forward her voice, Christine acquiesced.

The more she saw Erik, the less she thought of him as either a false angel or ghost. He was simply a man, one who believed as strongly as her father had in her capabilities as a performer. It had been to him that she'd first told the news of her casting as Siebel in the upcoming production of Faust, even before she'd told Mama Valérius.

With Faust opening in just two weeks, Christine knew time was of the essence. Even though Sunday was a day of rest at the Opera, her lessons could not be ignored. She bundled Mama into a carriage after Mass with the promise that she would be home for supper. Once her foster mother was off, Christine headed in the opposite direction toward the Garnier.

She used the Rue Scribe key upon reaching the street entrance. Returning it safely to the basket on her arm, she then lit the lantern hanging in the vestibule with the packet of matches left near the door. The way down to the fifth cellar wasn't as frightening as it had been during her first journey, but it was still a bit alarming to know how deep beneath the Opera she was traveling. To keep her mind off both the dark and how far below the surface she was, Christine hummed the hymns from church that morning.

The last thing she remembered was a sweet-tasting wine being pressed into her hand to drink. She hadn't questioned it, merely taken it after the emotional upheaval she'd experienced. When she came to, Christine didn't recognize her surroundings.

Her head pounded something dreadfully as she attempted to push herself into a sitting position. Whatever had been in her wine had been enough to incapacitate her. In truth, she should've suspected as such when Erik gave it to her.

It took her a belated moment to realize that the room she was in was not hers in the underground house. The room was sparsely furnished, but elegantly so. The furniture was considerably more contemporary than that of the Louis-Philippe style she was used to.

Christine couldn't stifle the whimper that slipped past her lips as she fully sat up. Her head felt as if it was swimming, her earlier panic and tears made worse by dehydration and whatever drug he'd slipped in her wine.

Reaching out to the bedpost for balance, Christine gave herself a brief once-over. She was still clad in the wedding dress Erik had set out for her before presenting her with the ultimate choice. The hem was dirtied at this point, but the gown was otherwise intact. A glance toward the vanity table mirror by the door revealed her pallid expression, red-rimmed eyes, and mussed blonde curls.

It was clear she'd been sleeping for some time, but for how long? More importantly, where exactly was she?

She felt more sure of herself the longer she stood, which gave her courage to inch toward one of the windows on the far wall. She drew back the curtains of one to find the blackness of night staring back at her. Unable to discern her surroundings from the window, she resolved to exit the room.

Tentatively Christine stuck her head into the hall, only to find it empty of anyone else. There were a few other doors -all closed- in the hall, but it was the staircase that caught her attention.

"Hello?" she called, her voice cracking on the single word from disuse. She crept toward the staircase, her stockinged feet silent upon the wooden floor.

For half a moment she thought it might be Raoul that was waiting downstairs; perhaps he'd spirited her away.