CHRISTINE

It was a long walk from her cottage to the center of town and it felt even longer when the wind bit at her face, never mind the judgemental eyes glaring at her as she made her way. Christine Daae would have been a subject of curiosity even if she had just been a foreigner, but the conspicuous lack of a wedding ring on her finger at age twenty seven made her an object of scorn. The only thing stopping mothers from pulling their children away from her when she passed by was that a few had taken pity on her and employed her as a music teacher, and soon enough the rest had followed suit. Now the married women of the town, some of whom were younger than her, looked down upon her as an old maid.

On that October day, which might have been considered crisp if not for the cold wind, Christine Daaé's thoughts were elsewhere. Her boots were in need of new soles, as they had nearly worn out at the toes. She wondered how she might conjure up a few francs out of thin air, her meager income barely covered enough to keep her fed and clothed as it was. Of course, she could always ask for help from Erik, who seemed to live quite comfortably despite not having a visible source of income or serious employment, but she had always rebuffed any attempts of his to give her money. It wouldn't do to drop her pride and start accepting charity now.

Her first stop was the house of the le Quellec family. Aline le Quellec had hopes of being a high society lady, at least by the standards of this small village, despite the fact that her husband was a fisherman barely eking out a living. Most of the time, Madame le Quellec could only afford to pay her to teach little Bernard with a loaf of fresh-baked bread or a piece of fish, but Christine accepted what she could get. Besides, Bernard was a sweet boy, with no ear for music, but a willingness to learn.

The le Quellecs had no piano of their own, neither did Christine for that matter, so Christine merely taught him voice, armed with only a pitch pipe and determination. Bernard sang in the boy's choir at church, but his mother had dreams of him finally receiving a solo. Christine had faith that he could improve to that point, although perhaps he wouldn't sing on stages throughout Europe.

Christine knocked on the cottage door and was surprised to be greeted by Mathilde Seznec, a busybody and self-styled matchmaker who had found six or seven potential husbands for Christine despite her protestations. Luckily, most of the men were not broken-hearted a bit when she turned them down, excluding one. In fact, Mathilde seemed the most torn up about the matter.

"Ah, Christine!" she said, pinching her cheek. "Come in, Aline and I were just having tea and I have the most delicious news!"

There were two types of people in town: the ones who disdained Christine and the ones who tried to make her into a respectable woman. Christine wasn't sure which ones she preferred, but Mathilde and Aline fell into the latter scarcely had time to take off her coat and scarf when she was offered a spot at the kitchen table. It seemed poor Bernard had a terrible cold and could barely speak, let alone sing. Christine felt resentful that she had made the walk for nothing and now was being forced into a little tea party. Perhaps she enjoyed her status as an outsider for usually it meant people left her well enough alone.

Aline grasped Christine's hand entirely too tightly. "I heard it in the marketplace, only just yesterday. You know that great big house that's been neglected for so long? The old woman who owned it, she's passed-" both women crossed themselves in an over-dramatic fashion.

"And it sat neglected for years," interrupted Mathilde. "But her nephew, the Vicomte of something or other, he's bought the whole estate and wants to live here year-round!"

"How lovely it will be, he's put an advertisement in the paper looking for staff! My poor Gabriel, he's had such a hard time finding a position in the offseason since the upper crust are only here for the summer, and his constitution is so delicate that he couldn't go out on the ocean to fish with his father and couldn't stand the miasmas in any city, but he is so tall and handsome, he'll make such a lovely footman, don't you think, Christine?"

Christine could barely process all the information coming at her in the form of rapid-fire chatter. Yes, she was quite familiar with the house they were referring to, she had spent many hours there as a child, and many more as an adult in the caretaker's cottage, for her only friend in the village lived there. A day hadn't passed without thinking about those three summers she had spent with Raoul.

Feigning indifference as best she could, she said "A vicomte? Do you happen to remember the surname?"

"Carpentier… no, no, it was Changy.." said Aline, furrowing her brow.

"Chagny!" said Mathilde triumphantly. "That's what it is! Oh, I had nearly forgotten, didn't you used to play with a little Chagny boy?"

Christine froze. The last thing she wanted to do was draw attention to any connection she had with Raoul. She stared down at her teacup.

"Uh… yes. I think it was the Vicomte's younger brother, what was it? Rainier, or something like that. It's so long ago that I can hardly remember," she lied, fidgeting with her spectacles.

"Oh, that's right. What a handsome little boy he was. Awfully fond of you, wasn't he, Christine?" Mathilde took a great big sip of her tea.

"I wouldn't know anything about that," Christine rose from the table. "Now, if you don't mind, ladies, as much as I enjoy this, I must pay a visit to… uh, the confessional." Damn. She should have thought more about her escape plan.

"Oh Christine, having impure thoughts?" joked Aline, immediately realizing she had gone too far with a gasp. Mathilde gave her friend a smack on the upper arm.

"Thoughts, yes, but not quite impure ones," Christine said, hiding her red face as she shrugged on her coat. "Good day, madames. Same time next week for Bernard's lesson, Mme. le Quellec?"

Aline bit her lip, staring down at her teacup as if trying to divine the right thing to say. "Please, let me at least give you something for your troubles in getting here."

"There's no need," Christine said curtly.

Her stomach growled and betrayed her. Reluctantly, she accepted a few raspberry tea cakes in a basket ("For your friend M. Lunel") and a promise of two lessons next week.

She held her chin relatively high as she walked to Erik's cottage. Very few people stared at the thin scar that marred the left side of her face, at least compared to before. Cut by someone's unsure hand, it extended jaggedly from the corner of her mouth to her temple. The same face powder that Erik used to make himself less ghastly looking covered up most of the damage and she liked to believe she could pass for an ordinary woman. The other marks on her body were kept hidden under high collars and long sleeves.

As she walked, she was consumed by thoughts of Raoul. How she had tried to forget about him, even after he had promised the opposite. And now his brother was to take up residence here in Perros, of all places.

She had only met Philippe, Vicomte de Chagny on one occasion, on the day he had come to reclaim his little brother and send him off to boarding school. Christine remembered distinctly that she and Raoul were fifteen, soaking wet from the sea, dripping onto the antique carpet in Aunt Hortense's library. The Vicomte was quite glad to see Raoul, but regarded Christine with a hint of disdain that Christine felt acutely. Raoul, bounding with puppy-like energy, proudly introduced her as if she was a proper lady, not a freckled, impoverished foreigner who still couldn't always remember which letters were silent when speaking French. The Vicomte de Chagny took her hand and kissed it anyways, then asked her if he might have a moment alone with Raoul.

She agreed, but Christine could not help but listen at the door, it was a dreadful habit of hers. The heavy oak of the library door muffled most of it, but she could still make out snatches of the conversation.

The Vicomte's rich baritone voice rang out much clearer.

"... wasting your time on a... you surely must know… school will do you some good…"

Christine had spent many hours in the ensuing years trying to decipher exactly what the Vicomte was discussing. All she knew was that Raoul had shouted at his brother that he didn't know anything about anything and stormed out of the room, smacking Christine in the face with the door.

Her face stinging from both pain and the realization she'd been caught, she fell to the floor. Poor dear Raoul, oh, he was crying too. His aunt was always chastising him for his tears, what a sweet, sensitive boy he was.

Her legs were so used to carrying her to Erik's cottage, that she didn't need to think much about it before she arrived. She was familiar with him that she would have opened it without knocking, but after catching him and Sassan in an intimate moment on the sofa, she had no desire to burst in again after that.

The door opened a crack and Erik's mismatched yellow eyes peered out at her.

"Ah, so La Daaé has decided to pay a visit. What an honor!"

He swung open the door, greeting her with open arms.

"You didn't tell me someone had bought the house," Christine blurted out.

"Come in, you'll catch a chill again."

"You're not answering the question," she said, obliging his request anyway and stepping inside. As Christine unwound her scarf (the more fragile original red one was safe at home in a drawer), she felt a sense of irritation. But why? It didn't make a difference really if Raoul's brother should live here.

"I don't believe that was actually a question, more of a statement, really," his mouth flickered into an unsettling smile.

"Erik, you know what I mean, you horrible pedant," she laughed in spite of herself.

"I knew nothing until yesterday, and anyway you haven't been here for a week. Tea?"

"Yes, of course," she grumbled, shrugging off her cloak. "What do you mean, you didn't know until yesterday?"

He put the kettle on. "Well, the letter was undated. Monsieur le Vicomte of whatever, the nephew of the woman who used to own the house, intended to bring his family to live here. He had bought the place from his cousin. When they'll come, I don't know, the whole thing seems rather rushed. Hopefully he intends to spend more on the upkeep of the place before it crumbles into dust. I don't think the untitled Monsieur de Chagny, the old woman's son, ever paid a visit, I only met him once when he hired me. What a buffoon."

Erik had lived in Paris for two decades, but the air in the city was so disagreeable to his weak lungs that his doctor insisted that he relocate to the seaside. He took the job as a caretaker to Paradis-sur-Mer, Aunt Hortense's house, to occupy his time, although he seemed to have no shortage of money, skills, or hobbies.

"Monsieur le Vicomte bought the house, but he didn't take a look at it?" Christine perched herself on the sofa.

"It appears so. I suppose he doesn't realize that his cousin had only paid me the bare minimum to keep the sea from reclaiming the house. Every time I wrote to Monsieur Claude about the roof leaking or the mice, he just told me to handle it the best I could without sending any additional funds for workmen or supplies. There's only so much one man can do. Well, caveat emptor , Monsieur le Vicomte."

"So you don't know when he's coming?" Christine tried to act indifferent, dreading Erik's good-natured teasing. Erik was like an older brother or bachelor uncle in that way. In many ways.

"No, the letter said next week, but there was no date," he said. "But he did enquire on my recommendations on who should fill various positions at the house… housekeeper, cook, music teacher…"

Christine looked up from picking at her frayed sleeves. "Music teacher?"

"That got your attention. And you have an 'in' with the family," Erik chortle as he poured Christine's cup.

She snorted. "If Philippe de Chagny even remembers who I am, I'm sure it won't make a difference. But I'll try."

"But more importantly, what sort of treat have you got for us in the basket? I may have a poor sense of smell-" he popped out his false nose for second before promptly sticking it back in, "But I know you've brought some sweets."

Yes, what a much easier topic to discuss , Christine thought.

RAOUL

He found it impossible to not feel pangs of guilt as he carried his sobbing daughter to the train. Poor Clémentine would miss the house overlooking the garden and all the people that would go with it. Maybe it would have been better if Raoul had just told her they were going on an extended vacation and not moving away for the time being. But it really was for the best that they were leaving Paris. He couldn't face another minute feeling like he was under a magnifying glass.

Clémentine seemed less upset once they had settled in their compartment and her governess, Apolline, had produced the brand new doll Raoul had purchased the day before. Raoul tugged nervously on his mustache as Clémentine appraised the doll. As he got older, he felt more and more like he was becoming Philippe, down to his nervous habits. Sometimes he caught himself giving the same speeches and advice to his daughter as Philippe once given to him. And just like Raoul as a boy, Clémentine disregarded most of his "life lessons". But she was also quite young.

"She's got holes in her cheeks, like me!" said Clémentine, wiping her tears away for the moment. "I love her, Papa!"

"Those are called dimples. What do you say when someone gives you a present, Clémentine?" nudged Apolline.

"Oh! Thank you, Papa!"

Raoul had been against having any sort of nanny at first. After being treated quite harshly by his own governess, he had no intention of subjecting any of his children to that. But, in between being a first time father and being bereaved, he was quite overwhelmed in the first days of Clémentine's life, Philippe had stepped in and secured a governess who had been schoolmates with the governess of their sister Amalie-Louise's children. Apolline was a godsend, a warm woman a few years Raoul's senior, and knew just what to do when Raoul did not. Still, he was more involved than the typical father, at least that's the impression he got from his experience with his own father and Apolline's reactions when he did things like give Clémentine a bath or tuck her in at night.

They traveled relatively lightly, bringing only five trunks and two servants, the aforementioned Apolline, and Raoul's valet, Durand. In Paris, he had only a few additional servants, a housekeeper, a maid, and a cook. There was no need for a full fleet of staff as he tried to live simply. When he decided to move to Perros, he didn't want to uproot too many lives. Madame Caron had taken the opportunity to retire, and Lisette, the maid, decided to get married. He had found a well paying job for Madame Dupont, the cook, with his sister. He had already placed an advertisement in the paper in Brittany seeking some more staff. It was a larger house, which meant he would need more people keeping it up.

The house, pretentiously called Paradis-sur-Mer, had belonged to Raoul's aunt. When Aunt Hortense died, she left the house to her son, Claude, who had more interest in gambling and horse racing than real estate. When Claude's debts grew too high and he considered selling, Raoul was more than happy to take it off his hands, sight unseen (although he feigned indifference in order to get a lower price). The purchase just so happened to coincide with the latest embarrassment at the hands of his extended family, and Raoul seized the opportunity to make a clean break and flee for the seaside.

Perros had been the last place he was truly happy. After that last summer, he had the joy figuratively beaten out of him by, in order, military school, a long naval deployment, an arranged but not enforced marriage to a woman he hardly knew, another deployment to the Arctic this time, and a return to Paris only to find himself a father and widower all at once. Clémentine was the light of his life and the only thing that kept him from blowing his brains out years ago. She was five years old, the very image of her mother with reddish-gold hair and porcelain skin. The only thing marking her as a Chagny was the same crooked smile as her father and the same aquiline nose sported by nearly every member of the family.

People close to Raoul (or at least once had been, as he had tried to retreat from public life) had tried to set him up with a new bride as soon as he stopped wearing mourning clothes. When Philippe at last realized he had no intention of marrying again, he tried to set Raoul up with a mistress.

"You deserve a way to blow off steam," he said. "There are any number of girls at the opera who could be whatever you wanted them to be. Redheads, yes, but you always had a thing for blondes, did you not? Remember that skinny little Swede in Perros?"

Raoul might have struck anyone else who had said something like that, but to hit Philippe would have been like a son hitting his father. He had tried so hard to keep his temper cool after the embarrassing incident at his niece Euphémie's engagement party. Raoul felt his face flush at the memory. How dare Philippe remind him of Christine, the only girl he had ever truly loved? She was probably married with several children by now, he realized. If she was still in Perros, and with his luck she would be, her husband would probably never approve of them rekindling their friendship. Ah, yes, he could see it now. Her husband would be a tall, broad fisherman with meaty hands and no qualms about disrespecting the aristocracy. Christine would be too busy looking after her brood of yellow-haired offspring to speak to him. They'd stay acquaintances, perhaps at the most giving each other a distant nod when they passed by each other at Sunday Mass.

Raoul realized he was getting himself worked up to the point where his companions in the train compartment had noticed. He unclenched his fists and cleared his throat. His overactive imagination had got the better of him.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, are you in need of a drink?" asked Durand, offering a handkerchief.

Yes , thought Raoul, a stiff one . He tried to avoid liquor as medication, disliking how it made him feel. But sometimes he needed to take the edge off.

"I'll take some water, if you don't mind ringing for someone," he asked instead.

Luckily, Clémentine had fallen asleep against the window. She was always so sensitive to his emotions, so concerned if her father was the slightest bit unhappy, so he tried to plaster on a smile even when he was miserable.

It was ridiculous of him to get so flustered over a hypothetical situation. Raoul had envisioned some brutish husband for Christine that may very well not even exist. And what was it to him if Christine should be married or widowed or a courtesan or a spinster? It wasn't as if he was in the market for a wife. What did he expect Christine to do, wait eternally at the window, live like a vestal virgin, swearing to never love another until Raoul rode up on a white horse? How are unreasonable, when he had not kept himself pure for her.

The rest of the journey was more of the same, Raoul ruminating over every failure in his life, as per usual. That seemed to pass the time quite well, and before long they reached their stop. A hired carriage was waiting for them. Raoul spent the entire time gawking at the subtle and sometimes dramatic changes from the Perros of his youth. It seemed there were much fewer trees, and the ones that remained were taller than he remembered. Then they reached the house.

As the carriage made its way down the winding drive, Raoul had the distinct feeling he had been ripped off. The once-proud villa was a shadow of its former self, with loose shingles and chimneys leaning away from the house. The grass was overgrown and the flowerbeds choked with weeds. What used to be animal topiaries were now amorphous blobs. He knew very well that it wouldn't be the same as when he was twelve, but this was a shock. Somehow, in the back of his mind, he foolishly imagined there would be Aunt Hortense to greet him with a suffocating hug and kiss, a hot Breton supper prepared for him by the round-faced cook, Jacques the spaniel curled up by the fire. But there would be none of that, for they were all dead.

Clémentine was asleep on his lap. He inadvertently roused her when he drew a great big sigh. She was always a light sleeper, just like him.

She rubbed her eyes. "Are we there yet?"

"Uh-huh. Look outside the window," he said, pressing a kiss to her temple.

"Oh! Look at it!" she pressed her face against the glass.

Raoul hesitated for a moment, fearing that Clémentine would start to cry and demand to go back home. But to his surprise, she reacted the opposite way.

"It's like a castle! Look, you can see the sea from the house! And oh, it's got a princess tower," she squealed.

"That's called a turret," he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Thank you, Papa! I love this house!'

He ruffled her hair. "I'm glad you do. Let's go inside."

As he stepped out of the carriage, he noticed the cobblestone pathway was cracked and sprouting with weeds. Had Claude really done nothing to maintain the house his mother had loved so much?

He hoisted Clémentine out of the carriage and on to his hip. He dreaded to see what the inside looked like. It seemed there would be even more of a financial investment than he previously thought. At least he could stimulate the local economy.

When they found the door locked. Raoul might have smacked himself on the forehead. Of course, they were to seek out Lunel, the caretaker. Down the hill, if he remembered correctly, there was a cottage where the groundskeeper had lived when Raoul was a boy. Perhaps this Lunel man would be there.

His intuition turned out to be right. There were lights on and a smoke coming out the chimney. He deposited Clémentine, sleepy despite her excitement, in Apolline's arms. He would make this trip alone.

As he stumbled down the jagged steps, he noticed that the caretaker had taken the time to keep up his cottage quite nicely. Sure, it could use a fresh coat of paint, but the leaves had been raked and the roof in one piece. He noticed lace curtains in the window, probably a woman's touch. As he rapped on the door, he felt rather peeved, he was ready to give the caretaker a piece of his mind for neglecting the big house in favor of his own lodgings, when the door swung open and the breath was knocked out of him.

Christine Daaé stood before him, her eyes wide as saucers. In all his dreams and visions of Christine, he had pictured her as she was as a maiden of sixteen, unruly curls loose about her shoulders, her round freckled cheeks flushed. But it was not a girl who greeted him at the door, it was a woman grown, in a modest cotton frock and with spectacles perched on her nose. Her hair, which had darkened to a honey color, had been swept up into a fashionable coif that emphasized the new angularity of her face. A slightly startling addition was a thin curved scar that extended from the corner of her lip up to her temple. But she was still recognizably the girl he had loved.

Raoul realized he had been staring at her for longer than was socially acceptable.

"Would you like to come in, Raoul?" she said quietly, giving him a small smile after what seemed like an interminable pause. She hesitated for a moment and wrapped him in a soft hug. Raoul felt more alive than he had for a while.

"Y-yes," he said. And he followed her into a room so unlike anything he had seen. From floor to ceiling it was packed with curiosities and artifacts. Chinese dragon sculptures, embroidered hanging silks in brilliant hues, a sizable collection of bejeweled music boxes. Raoul looked in wonderment. He was certainly well traveled compared to the average Frenchman, but this Lunel man clearly had seen far more of the world than him. Then he felt a realization and a stab to the gut. Christine must live here… with her husband.

"Christine, who did you invite in?" remarked a pile of blankets in the corner chair. The lump underneath the blankets stirred and Raoul realized there was a man. Raoul prided himself on not judging by appearances, but this man must be very sick, judging by his pallid complexion and gaunt face.

"This is Raoul, he was a childhood friend of mine," said Christine.

Was . Past tense.

"Pleased to meet you, you must be Lunel? I'm Raoul de Chagny" he said, biting his lip. "I'm so sorry to trouble you and disturb… whatever you were doing, but we've traveled a great deal and would like to go into the house."

"Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte, please call me Erik," the man said, throwing off the blankets and rising to his full height, perhaps two or three inches taller than Raoul. "Forgive the lack of a warm welcome, we weren't expecting you until next week. I'd be glad to let you in-" he fingered the ring of keys at his belt. "-but it might be chilly in there. I'll go light the fires, and you and anyone in your party can keep warm in here."

"Oh, thank you. I'm sorry about the mix up, my telegram must not have come in time."

"It doesn't make much difference to me, you needn't worry," the man's thin-lipped mouth contorted into an unsettling grin. "Excuse the inconvenience."

The caretaker tugged on an expertly tailored wool overcoat, rather extravagant for the humble salary Lunel received. Or perhaps Claude had paid him more.

"I'll send your traveling companions down," Lunel put a cap over his thinning jet colored hair. "There should be enough tea for everyone, and Christine has brought some delicious cakes."

With a nod, he left, leaving Raoul and Christine alone. There was a long pause, and then both spoke at once.

"I believe-" said Raoul at the same time as Christine said "How long-".

They both let out nervous giggles and Raoul felt more at ease.

"You go first," he chuckled.

"How long has it been? Nine, ten years?" she asked, taking his hand in hers. God, her touch felt exquisite, even a chaste brush of fingers was enough to make him dizzy.

"Twelve," Raoul said. "Thirteen in June." He went bright red, dropping his hand from hers. He must sound like a desperate idiot, immediately knowing the last time they saw each other.

"You always had a better head for dates than me," she grinned. "Most of the time I can't even remember what day of the week it is."

"Little Lotte let her mind wander…" he murmured, regretting it immediately. She must think him so awfully foolish.

Christine snorted. "Yes, always with my head in the clouds. When I heard that the Vicomte de Chagny was moving in, I figured the title still referred to your older brother. I hoped that perhaps I might catch a glimpse of you, never that we might meet like this."

"Ah… yes, Father has been dead nearly eight years now," he said, yanking at his mustache again."But you know, titles are meaningless anyway. We have no king, and no emperor for that matter, why should it make a difference who my ancestors are?"

"I'm sorry to hear about your father-"

"Don't be," he said. "He certainly would have shed no tears if you or I were in his place. How is your father? I would love to see him again."

"You'll have to visit the churchyard. My papa died not long after I last saw you," she cast her eyes downward.

"Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry.. I can't imagine…" he felt a lump in his throat and tears welling in his eyes. He had been so dismissive of his own father's passing, but Papa Daaé? The man had always been so kind to him, spending endless hours helping him scratch out tunes on the violin, despite the fact it was a futile effort.

Raoul tried to compose himself, ashamed that his emotions had gotten the better of him, but it took an embarrassingly long time. In reality, what seemed like hours was only a half a minute.

"There, there, Raoul," she laid a soft touch on his shoulder that sent a shock to his core. "He is at peace."

How twisted, that Christine had to comfort him over the death of her own father. He had been dead all this time, and he had no idea.

"If I had known… I would have come, I would have tried to do something," he finally choked out.

"Well, you didn't and there was nothing you could have done. It's perfectly all right. Papa wouldn't want you to mourn over him. At least, not for long," she cracked a tiny smile.

Raoul was about to take her hand again when the Chagny contingent burst through the door.

"Clémentine is cold," said Apolline. "We passed that interesting looking man on the way down, he said we were welcome to come in here and warm our bones."

Raoul could have struck himself. He should have thought of that earlier, God, how stupid he was. He noticed that Christine seemed uncomfortable all of a sudden . Probably at all the strangers in her home.

"Christine, this is my daughter, Clémentine. And that's Apolline holding her. And my valet Durand."

"Oh, you two know each other?" Apolline smiled.

"Yes, we used to spend summers together," said Raoul.

"As children," Christine added, an edge to her voice.

Why did she feel the need to tell her that? Raoul wondered. Never mind.

"I'm sure we will get along," Christine broke into a smile.

"I'm sure we will," Apolline curtsied, prompting Christine to raise an eyebrow.

"Is it all right if they sit down… Christine?" He wasn't sure if he should address her by her married name.

"Of course, Erik would want everyone to be comfortable."

Clémentine seemed to perk up again by the warmth of the fire. She gazed around the room in wonderment, finally fixating in the music boxes.

"Do children live here and play with those toys?" she asked Christine. Clémentine was being unusually bold today, usually she shied away from strangers.

Christine laughed. "Only the overgrown one who made them, Monsieur Erik. I think he would like you, he's always looking for an audience for his magic tricks. Would you like to play with one?"

"Oh, she might break it," Raoul interjected. He regretted saying anything by the frown on his daughter's face.

"Good thing that Erik is also a master tinkerer and repairman. I think he'd be delighted to have a child play with one. And Raoul, you were always interested in automata, weren't you?"

"Yes… I suppose. Well, if you're sure, Christine."

"Of course. Which one would you like? The monkey?"

Clémentine gave a little nod. "Yes, please, Miss Christine."

Raoul wanted to correct his daughter, perhaps Clémentine should call her Madame Lunel. But Christine seemed to take no offense.

Christine made her way over, carefully placing the music box on the table. The monkey perched on top of the silver box was recreated quite realistically, only in miniature. It honestly could have passed for taxidermy if it wasn't quite so tiny. When Christine wound it up, it began to crash a pair of cymbals together. Clémentine was delighted, clapping her hands along with the monkey. Raoul, always interested in mechanical creations, found himself enjoying how fluid the motions were.

The fiver of them were so engrossed in the music box, they didn't hear Lunel enter.

"Ah, so you like the monkey, Mlle. de Chagny?"

Clémentine, the only one not startled by his entrance, grinned. "Oh yes, Monsieur Erik! Does he have a name?"

"Truthfully, I never got around to naming him. Or deciding if he's a him. Would you like to take it with you?"

"We couldn't-" protested Raoul.

"Truthfully, he's just sitting there collecting dust. I don't really hold much of an attachment to the thing, he's not my best creation. I'd be much happier if someone who appreciated the monkey could have him instead."

Raoul felt deeply uncomfortable. "Let me at least give you some money for it…"

"There's no need," Lunel said firmly. Raoul found it hard to disagree. "Now, I will warn you, the house is in need of significant repairs. I've gotten rid of the mice and patched the roof, but unfortunately your dear cousin… prioritized other expenses."

"We've had a long day traveling, I think as long as it's warm enough, we'll be fine," Raoul said. He could not find it in him to hate Christine's husband.

"Well, in that case, perhaps you'd like to go inside. I'll let you in."

"Thank you," Raoul cast a glance at Christine. She was fiddling with her sleeves.

"I suppose I will see you soon, Christine?"

"Yes, I expect so," she smiled warmly. "Perhaps I will pay a visit tomorrow, if you don't mind?"

"Yes, I'd like that very much."

The rest of the traveling party gathered up their things, Clémentine refusing to let go of her new toy. Raoul pressed a kiss to Christine's hand, noticing there was no wedding ring but instead a red scar around her ring finger. Peculiar.

As they walked up the hill, Raoul couldn't help but look back at the cottage. Christine's face was pressed to the window. He waved again, but she ducked out of sight once she realized she'd been caught.