After much thought, I've decided to start a new multi-chapter PotO fic. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I can't leave the fandom alone just yet. This is a retelling of the story, set in the 1880s. It combines both Kay and ALW elements, so it's a mismatch of ideas put together in the way that makes the most sense for me.

Like all of my multi-chapter fics, this will eventually be rated M for sexual situations.

Onward!

Chapter 1: Foundation

"Here we are." Charles Daaé set down the two bags he carried and fished inside his coat pocket for a ring of keys. He paused, glancing over his shoulder at the young woman standing behind him. "Ready to see our new home?"

"Ready, Papa." Christine did her best to put a smile on her face. Her heart pounded in a combination of effort from carrying their luggage up five flights of stairs and anticipation of what she might find inside.

They had spent months flitting from one hostel to another, usually tiny rooms that shared a single bathroom with the entire floor. Papa had started his new job as a groundskeeper, moving them both to Paris before they had a permanent place to live. Christine pushed aside her remembrances of some nights spent in the train station or a horse stable. At least now they were finally being allowed to move into the attic apartment above where he worked.

Nodding, he turned the key in the door and swung it open. No matter what they found inside, this building was much nicer than what Christine had grown used to. She had spied pipes for running water, and she was already in love.

Charles did not bother searching for a light switch. "This building is wired for electricity," he explained, "but we will make do with lamps up here." He had come prepared for this and found a lantern inside one of their bags. Soon, he had it lit, and he held it aloft so they could walk inside.

The flickering light cast long shadows across the apartment. Their footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as they made their way inside and closed the door behind them. A small parlor opened before them, and beyond that, Christine could see a cozy kitchen and dining area. Charles walked over to a fireplace and quickly started it up, casting enough light so Christine could take the lantern into the rest of the apartment.

To one side of the main living area, she found two rooms – a bedroom and bathroom. Grinning, she ran her fingertips over the porcelain sink. A real sink, bathtub, and toilet, and all theirs! She hurried to the other side of the parlor where another door lurked and found another room.

"Papa!" she shouted.

He rushed over to her. "What is it, Christine?"

She swept a hand at the room, blue eyes shining happily. "A second bedroom!"

"I told you, didn't I?" he said, shaking his head at her incredulity. "You never believe me unless you see it for yourself, do you?"

"I suppose not," she admitted. She eyed the bed in the room with longing. "It looks so comfortable."

"Unpack first before your clothes start to smell musty. But yes, then bed. I have to report to the manager early in the morning."

He left her to unpack, and she took her single bag into her room. She had little to her name: a few changes of clothes and a small framed picture of her mother. She set this upon the little table beside the bed, then tucked her clothing into the dresser. By the time she put on her dressing gown, she could hear her father's familiar snores from the other bedroom.

She padded to the bathroom and washed her face and teeth, then went back to her bedroom and found the little envelope she had been saving until the right moment. Sitting on her bed, she thumbed open the envelope and slid out the crisp white card.

Welcome home, little Lotte!

I cannot wait to see you Wednesday for lunch. I will pick you up at noon. In the meantime, I have a little present waiting for you downstairs. Find the stone bench in the courtyard – the one tucked in the back near the vines.

Sleep well,

Raoul

She pressed the paper to her lips, remembering the last time she had seen Raoul. He had bent over her hand as she had gotten onto the train, his mouth spread wide in a grin, his eyes sparkling with humor. Too many months had passed since they had parted.

But now she and Papa were in Paris; now they would be living in the very building where Raoul himself worked. Raoul had promised that they would spend more time together.

Wednesday for lunch. Only two days away.

Christine clutched the note to her chest, a smile plucking at her lips. Meeting Raoul had been just what she needed after her mother's death. His easy smile and deep chuckle had made her able to get past her initial pain. She thought perhaps her father was relieved that she had attracted the attention of such an influential – and rich – possible suitor. They were not officially courting, but she hoped an announcement would be soon now that she was living in Paris.

Remembering the present he had mentioned, she drew on her slippers and fastened her wrapper tightly around her. The summer nights had been warm, but autumn was quickly approaching, bringing with it a chill upon the breeze.

As quietly as she could, she left the apartment; Papa would not hear her leave over his own snoring. Holding the lantern before her, she crept down the silent stairway. She would not typically sneak around at night, but she knew the building would be empty at this time, and the outside entrances were all locked. And anyway, she would not be truthfully leaving the grounds.

It took her a bit of wandering to find the door that led to the courtyard. She unlatched the door and pushed open the heavy wooden frame, loving the blue tint to the planks. The courtyard loomed before her, empty and filled with vegetation. She could hear the tinkling of a small fountain in the middle of the large section of yard, and she caught sight of its round edge surrounded by cobblestone pathway. The walls of the building rose around her, the rectangular windows that faced inward few and shadowed.

She stepped into the courtyard and soon found the section that curved away from the rest in the back, the stone walls here covered in thick, crawling vines. Like Raoul had said, a white bench rested here. As she drew nearer, the light from her lantern fell upon a red rose laid across the seat of the bench.

Grinning, she picked up the rose and found a white card attached with a ribbon. The card matched the one from upstairs.

A rose for a rose, it read in Raoul's sloping hand. Enjoy the bit of garden.

Sitting on the bench, the stone chilly beneath her thin chemise and gown, she took a deep breath of the night air and let it out slowly, feeling herself relax. This was just what she needed – a place to escape on her own. Tucked away within the walls of a Parisian office building, she could almost pretend that she was back on the coastline that she so missed.

As she gazed around the courtyard, a slight shift of movement caught her notice. Just beyond the light of her lantern, she stared at a low window sunken into the ground.

In the window, she saw the slow blink of glowing, golden eyes.

Then the shifting of shadow upon shadow, and the eyes were gone as though she had only imagined them.

But her heart was now racing thick and fluttery within her chest. Taking hold of the rose and note, she bolted across the cobblestone for the door that led back inside. She took the stairs two by two, and she was gasping for breath by the time she made it back inside the apartment. For a moment, she heard only her own panting, and then her father's snore cut through the oppressive noise.

She let out a noise that was more relief than humor. She was obviously tired from traveling, and her eyes were playing tricks on her.

Toeing off her slippers, she crawled into bed and blew out the lantern. The scent of the rose wafted up from where she had laid it on the little table beside her bed. She needed this fresh start in the big city, and she could not wait to see Raoul in two days.

She awoke to the sharp smell of coffee. Her eyelids seemed stuck together in the clinging remnants of sleep, and she rubbed at her eyelashes to brush away the fogginess. Based on the hazy, early-morning light shining around her curtain, Papa was up at dawn. Yawning, she pulled on her dressing gown, shoved her feet into her cold slippers, and stumbled into the kitchen.

Her father sat on the loveseat, halfway in the process of tying his shoes. He frowned a bit when he saw her. "Sorry to wake you, Christine, but I have to start my rounds at daybreak before anyone else arrives in the building."

"No apologies, Papa," she said after clearing her throat.

"How did you sleep?"

"Not as good as you." She grinned at him. "But good enough."

Standing, he crossed to her and took her by the upper arms, his brown eyes warm. "We have spent too much time traveling, you and I. This change is a fresh start for us, dearest one. You will get used to this new routine, and to this city." He pressed a few coins into her hand. "There is a market a block away. Buy us something to eat for the next few days, will you? Just enough to tide us over until my first paycheck. Then we will go out and properly celebrate."

"I will, Papa." She watched as he quickly drank down his cup of coffee and helped him shrug into his coat, smoothing his lapels. "I hope your first day goes smoothly."

"So do I." He bent and kissed her on the forehead, then put on his hat and strode from the apartment.

Left alone, Christine did what she had longed to do ever since she saw that private washroom – take a long, hot bath. She even used some of the special rose-scented soap she had been saving. The grime from the past few weeks melted away in the heat of the bath, and the steam eased the nervous tightness in her chest.

Such a huge city… she had been to Paris before, several times, in fact, but never for very long. Back when her father played his violin as a vocation, they had spent only a night or two in a town, attracting a crowd wherever they went. Papa had played the violin. Her mother had played the piano.

And Christine had sung.

Those happy days had ended when her mother had contracted an illness and suddenly passed away. Papa abruptly sold his violin and used the money to buy them train tickets back to France. They had remained in this country ever since, going from town to town while he searched for work. Finally, on the southern coast, they had met Raoul de Chagny while her father worked as security at an inn. Raoul, impressed with her father's work ethic and more than a little bit smitten with Christine, had promised to find Papa a proper job in the city.

Months later, Raoul had delivered on his promise, and now here they were.

Christine finished her bath and contented herself with brushing out her hair and smoothing her skin with a little of her almond lotion. Then she dressed, wishing she had something more suitable than her brown traveling clothes. They would have to do, but maybe in the future, Papa could find her a little extra money for a new dress or two. For now, she was the picture in brown – her curly locks of hair nearly matching her bodice. At least her eyes were a vivid blue, a trait she had inherited from her mother.

After pinning her hair and tying her shoes, she took up her small purse of coin for food and headed out of the apartment. She heard the building bustling anew with life as soon as she climbed down the first flight of stairs. Now that it was daytime, the offices had filled with workers hurrying around. She wondered where Papa was currently working in the mix, but she would not bother him while he was on duty.

No one paid her much mind as she found her way to the bottom floor and out into the courtyard, which was so different in the daytime. Instead of the inviting stillness of last night, she found a loud cacophony of sounds. The windows lining each section of wall were almost all open to let in the fading summer breeze, and she could hear a mixture of conversations.

Finding her bench, she sat. This was to be her new home, and she wanted to enjoy her time here. But clearly, this courtyard could only be hers at nighttime. She could come back later, when everyone had gone home, her father was asleep, and she could be alone with the stillness.

Standing, she went to leave and noticed the little window that had startled her last night. A black curtain covered the windowpane now. Perhaps the weirdness of the lantern's glow had caused a reflection?

Whatever it was, it was gone now, and she had a city to explore.

The city was no less alive and busy as Papa's new place of work. Christine, making certain her hat was pinned properly, stepped onto the sidewalk and marveled at the bustle of carriages and people walking on either side of the street. Parisians in this area of the city were immaculately dressed, some women with furs adorning their shoulders and hats larger than their coiffed hair. They all carried parasols, which Christine did not own. She would have to make do with the unfortunate freckles that already adorned her cheekbones and nose.

She easily found the market Papa had talked about and managed to buy some bread, cheese, and a few vegetables to make a stew. Their small amount of coin did not stretch far, and they would have to make do the best they could until her father's first payment from work. The baker offered one of last night's croissants with her purchase, and she picked off bits of the flaky crust as she walked, stuffing it into her mouth and ogling at the architecture rising around her.

Paris was truly a vast city. She wandered around for nearly an hour before finding an expansive garden laid out alongside an extremely large building. After walking closer to the structure, she saw that it was the famous Louvre, a museum containing wonders she had likely never even heard about. How she wished she could venture inside, but a man standing at the door was taking tickets. She would not be able to waste any of their meager funds on something like this.

Instead, she had to content herself with strolling the gardens. Even on the cusp of autumn, they were beautiful with huge stretches of lawn, rows of plentiful flowers, and sculpted shrubs.

Eventually, she made her way up the Seine, which flowed beside the gardens. She had gone too far off course to trace her steps back to her father's building, so she had to check around each intersection to see if she recognized any landmarks. So many of the buildings looked the same, however, and she struggled to orient herself.

Finally, she rounded a building's corner and the street opened into a large courtyard with multiple lanes of crisscrossing carriages. Beyond the traffic stood a magnificent structure rising stark against the light blue of the sky. Golden statues of what looked like angels glinted in the beams of sunshine.

Christine was transfixed.

She made her way to the building, entranced enough to find out the purpose of such a place. Rows of giant columns rose in front of her, and she hesitated only a moment before carrying herself up the steps and to a door in a row of doors that seemed like the entrance.

No one stopped her, so she opened the door and stepped into a long hall that took her breath away.

Christine had never seen such an elaborate place before. She felt like she had stepped into the castle of a fairy tale. Mouth agape, she looked around wild-eyed, taking in the gilded golden walls and intricate woodwork before her. Looking up, she gasped at the paintings on the ceiling.

What was this place? The hall was empty, so she hesitantly strode further in, crossing the room to step into the interior chambers. Everywhere she looked, she saw details upon details. The flooring in each room alone could have captivated her for hours. Her shoes clicked on the marble as she made her way further into the maze of pathways.

She passed through a hall that opened into an expanse of interconnected stairways. Across the way, she saw two women walking together. They were too distracted with speaking with each other to notice her, so she kept going.

Her heart thudded in her ears, but another sound drifting from somewhere in front of her overcame her own nervousness.

Cupping a hand to one of her ears, she followed the sound to a curve of dark wooden doors, each framed by the bust of a different man. Her hand reached for one of the door handles, but she froze.

She knew what the sound was – music.

Voices rose up beyond the doors, voices collaborating together in a way that could only mean that this was an opera theatre. Her heart soared, her hand still paused halfway to the door. She had never been inside a theatre this grand before. Back when her mother was still alive, Papa had performed on stages across Europe, but none had come close to this kind of grandeur.

The music called to her, tugging her forward in a way she had not felt in years. The voices melded together, harmonizing and causing the hairs on her hands to stand on end. She recognized this song. Often, her mother had played it on the piano with Christine standing at her side, singing.

"Can I help you?"

One of the pair who had been walking across the staircases now stood halfway down the hall from Christine. The young woman was dressed in a robe that clearly covered a ballerina costume. Her wavy blonde locks hung down her back. A pair of pointe shoes dangled from one of her hands.

"S-sorry," Christine said, caught off guard. "I was only listening."

The girl smiled kindly. "We don't let outsiders hear our practices. I'll have to scold the guardsman for not noticing you slipped in."

Christine felt her face grow hot, but the other woman continued to look more amused than angry.

"Our opening night of Carmen is in a week. Please consider coming to see it."

"I will." Christine knew she could never afford the opera on her own. She was at once aware of her own drab clothing and that her shoes had tracked in mud from the sidewalk. Mortified that she appeared to be a vagrant off the streets, she excused herself and fled from the building.

On her way out, she caught sight of a poster promoting the next production at the Palais Garnier. This opera house had forced her to recall years passed when she used to sing alongside her parents. She envied the people in the poster, dressed in their costumes, their mouths open in song. Her throat closed up, and she wondered if perhaps it was not only due to rising tears. Her voice had wanted to join those upon the stage. She thought she had moved beyond such longings.

Not wanting to wander around any longer, Christine asked a cab driver for directions and made her way upon tired feet to the building she now called home.

She supposed it had been a number of hours since she had stepped out, but she was still startled to find her father waiting for her in their apartment. He sat in one of the armchairs in their living room, and he stood when she entered.

"Papa?"

Brows drawn together, he asked, "Where have you been?"

"In the city." She sat her bag of groceries on the kitchen table and began to unpack. "Are you off work already?"

"Of course not. I came here on break and found you missing. No one had seen you since this morning."

She winced. "I apologize, Papa. I didn't mean to be gone for so long, but I was exploring and I got turned around. But Papa, I found the most amazing place-"

The sound of his fist crashing upon the wood of the table made her jump. Instantly, tears sprung in her eyes. Her father was so rarely mad at her, but she had done little than disappoint him lately.

"Papa, I am sor-"

"I do not need apologies, Christine," he said, running a heavy hand across his weary face. "I need this job – we need this job. I cannot have my only daughter, my young daughter, scurrying about the city unaccompanied. Do you have any idea of the image you create for yourself if you behave in this way?"

She jutted out her chin. "I do not care what people say. I did nothing wrong."

"I care what they say! I am certain the Vicomte cares as well."

Oh, that was low of him! He knew how much she wanted Raoul to officially announce their courtship. She stared down at her feet.

His voice softened. "Christine, I must keep this job, or we are back onto the streets. Do you understand that? Do you want to go back to how things where, jumping from inn to inn, barely scraping by?"

She shook her head, too choked up to reply. Of course she did not want them to want for money, but a not-so small part of her did want to go back to times long since passed. She desperately wanted to tell him about her discovery of the Palais Garnier, of the singing she had heard in the opera house, but she knew bringing up music would only anger him further. It was a small comfort that he brought his arms around her after she threw herself against him, burying her face in his chest. She had never meant to upset him.

"I will not do it again, Papa."

"No, you will not." He heaved a sigh. "You will not go anywhere but the market from now on. Do you understand?"

Gulping, she nodded. Then she turned away quickly so he would not see her tears. He was soon gone anyway, heading back to his work. After unpacking the groceries, she shut the door to her bedroom and laid down. No more tears would come, but she lay there without moving for a long time, listening to the bustling city street five stories below her.

For a moment, in the theatre, her heart had soared. If Papa could only hear music like that again… maybe he would remember how much he once loved it too.

Now she was to be trapped, unable to venture outside of these walls.

At least her father had said nothing about exploring the building itself.

Rising, she set a stew to bubble on the stove. It was late before her father stumbled back inside the apartment. He could do little more than eat a bowl, thank her for the meal, and head off for a quick bath before crashing into his bed. She cleaned up and spent some time beside her open window, watching as the streetlamps gradually turned on. The Parisians walking to and fro did not cease for many hours after dark, but eventually, even they ventured to bed.

Christine was too restless for sleep. Her mind had been spinning songs within her head ever since she had heard the opera singers at the Palais.

Pulling on her wrapper, she slipped from the apartment and headed to her secret little alcove in the courtyard, a lantern highlighting her way.

Once she reached the stone bench, she sat and set the lantern beside her. Crickets rose up around her, but otherwise, the night was silent. She hummed for a while, letting her throat grow used to the vibration.

Closing her eyes, she breathed out a deep lungful of cool air. Then she took a long drag of breath and began to sing. At first, she was too tentative to let loose her song at full volume. She had learned how to project at an early age, joining her mother and father upon the stage. But it had been so long since she had sung…

Many of the words escaped her memory. The melody remained, however, and she clung to that now, letting it envelope her with its familiarity and ease her aching soul. She kept her eyes closed, there was little to see in the dark anyway, and focused on the feel of song in her throat, the press of her expanding ribcage against the linen of her chemise.

When she finished, her voice echoing off the shielding walls around her, she brushed away the tears that dotted her cheeks. Her throat ached a little from being unused to singing, but now that she had, she had no idea how she had ever stopped.

Then, as if carried upon the night air, a voice spoke in her ear, low and dulcet:

"Brava."

Please leave a review to let me know your thoughts! I'm nervous about this fic and need some encouragement. :)