A/N: Sorry it has been such a long time. I have been really busy lately and a small bit of writers block has crept in over the last few weeks. I'll try not to make you guys wait so long in the future. : )

Please try to plow through this chapter. Erik will be in the next chappie...I promise (scout's honor!...Wait...I'm not a scout. Oh well.)

Special thanks to Gondolier (My own personal Angel of Writing) and CStarling for being such wonderaful beta readers!

This is dedicated to my very special most bestest friend in the world, Tilly. Thank you sooooo much for sticking with me through thick, thin, headaches, tummy aches, and (alas!) BOB. Everything I write, I write for you.

Two weeks, Papa. Two weeks since you left me. Two weeks without my promised Angel. Where is He Papa? You promised! Promised…promised you would always be there. Where is he, my Angel?

Where? Where? Where!

I balled my fist and hit the ground, ducking my head and hunching my shoulders.

Please don't be a liar, Papa. You said…you said we could go on a picnic! You said you would send me an Angel, an Angel to sing to me and play your music. Why hasn't he come yet? Did you forget? Why would you forget me… how could you forget me so easily? Oh, Papa…

I need you Papa.

I didn't cry. My tears had run their course a long time ago, leaving nothing but what seemed an empty shell. Instead dry, merciless sobs wracked my small body. No one was there to hold me, sooth the desperation from my face. No one was there to love me.

His death had left me so lost. So incredibly, undeniably helpless. Never again would I feel my father's strong arms holding me, or crooning me to sleep with his soft voice. His haunting music would not fill the dark, dusty hallways. I couldn't, wouldn't, grasp this…much less accept it. So, I clung to the only hope offered me. It was the only hope that I actually believed in, simply because my father had set it before me. Mon Ange de la Musique. My Angel of Music.

I squeezed my eyes even tighter as I knelt in silent supplication before the abbeys altar. The rain pattered on the roof with musical drops, but I paid no heed. I was too busy pleading, praying to my father with all my heart, urging my words to reach his ears…wherever he was.

The humble chapel had never held any special meaning for me, but the last two weeks would have found me no where else. I figured if my Angel were to find me…well, I wouldn't make it hard for him. But the weeks wore on and I grew uneasy as doubt crept in. Then fear began to eat away at me. What if my Angel had gotten lost? Or worse yet, what if Papa forgot to send him to me?

And so my two week vigil in the tiny chapel had begun. I did not notice the worried glances the nurses shot my way, nor did I hear the snickers that followed me every time I passed the maids' quarters on my way to the chapel.

"…silly child…"

"Thinks she's the first one to lose a father, she does…"

"…unnatural quietness about her…cross me self every time I see her…"

"… all pale and drawn…poor lamb…"

"Stupid girl…needs a sound whipping to snap her out of it…"

"…don't do her fair share, little runt that she is…"

So wrapped up in my own little world of waiting and mourning, I didn't hear a word. I would march past them all, thinking of nothing but the last spoken words of my father. An Angel, Christine. Angel…an Angel…Angel.

Maybe I should find you…then we can be happy together. Is that what you want Papa? Is this why you haven't sent my angel? Did you forget that part, some unspoken agreement between you and God? Must I find my Angel before he can sing to me, make me sleep… I can find you Papa!

This is how that cheerless rainy afternoon found me; kneeling at the altar, pleading with my father to find his way back home…to me. Either that or I would find him. My Angel or him, whoever showed first.

………………………………………………………

My knees began to ache and I shifted uncomfortably. The dusty floor was hardly the accommodating cushion I would have liked, but no matter. Opening my eyes, I watched absently as small droplets of sunlight played a vigorous game of tag with one another. The scarce light illuminated the tiny pebbles and hard specks that littered the floor, adding to the general neglect that filled the air. My gaze traveled up the aisle to the intimidating stone altar dominating the room.

Its marble façade was cracked and the once shiny surface had dimmed with age. The large grooves that adorned the thick pedestal were grimy with years of dirt and muck. Two thick candles were perched precariously on the edges of the marble slab and their weak, flickering glow created an uncertain pool of light that I knelt in.

Although the surface of the altar was dull and hardly a proper mirror, I could still see a weak, shadowed reflection of myself.

A reflection that was abruptly joined by another.

I whirled around, startled by the unexpected sight that greeted me.

A tall, imposing woman stood in the doorway. Her stark black clothes stood in sharp contrast with the whiteness of her face. Honey-colored hair was pulled into a severe bun, but a few wayward curls were plastered to her face with rainwater. Her eyes held a cold fire that made my insides go slightly numb. Her gaze flicked up and down my slight form, and I unconsciously stood straighter under her scrutinizing gaze.

What she saw obviously pleased her well enough, because her face softened, and she stepped towards me. In that instant I saw something familiar in her that jolted my memory.

"I came as soon as I heard. I'm so sorry, Christine. Your father was a good man, and an even better musician." She looked at me with such pity then, that I had to look away quickly.

"The world has lost something extraordinary in his passing."

I had thought my tears were gone. Apparently I was wrong.

I dashed a hand at my eyes and looked back up at her. I was startled to find that she had come even closer and was kneeling down to my level now. Backing up slowly, my jaw dropped slightly. Who was this woman who felt so familiar, yet was so strange? Why did she talk to me as if she knew me?

I must have looked properly shocked because she stood up and sighed sadly.

"Forgive me, child- " She murmured, "These days have not been easy…"

She shook herself. Glancing around at our surroundings, she smiled wryly.

"So that bumbling cleric did not lie." Her eyes rested again on my face. "He said I could find you here. Dirty place, this." She wrinkled her nose at the dusty floors and neglected altar. "A house of God, such a revered place of worship…so dirty." She shook her head at the irony.

"Did you know that where I live, we have a splendid chapel? It's small, yes, but more importantly, clean. And I don't live in an abbey."

My curiosity got the better of me. "Where-" My voice cracked from disuse.

Coughing, I started again. "Where do you live, Mademoiselle?"

She frowned and I suddenly felt the urge to hang my head and feel ashamed. Her frown was scary.

"It's Madame, child, and I live in an Opera house."

I felt my eyes widen and my heart started to pound wildly as she continued, unaware of my unease.

"It's in Paris. You know of Paris, surely. Of the Eiffel Tower? The Rouge? The glittering jewels that call themselves nobles? They are nothing compared to the Opera Populaire. The chapel is just a small part. Can you imagine an auditorium so large that all of society can fit in it? Statues so pretty, it is said Angels came from Heaven to carve them. All of it, from the statues to the lowliest stone in the floors, a tribute to music." Her smile had grown larger and her eyes more distant as she recounted her memories. Now she again focused on me.

"You will like it there."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, I felt my heart go numb. I backed up, shaking my head violently.

"N…no."

Her eyes turned puzzled. "What?"

"I said, Madame, no. I will not go. I…I have," I took a fleeting look around, "p…people to meet."

I couldn't stop shaking. My mind was reeling. Silently I cursed my voice for its tremulous stutter.

"Please." I said desperately. "My father, he…he…"

Her eyes softened. "I know it is hard to leave. But I promise… you will like it where you are going." She spread her hands out in a pleading gesture.

"Why? W…why do I have to g…go with you? Who are you? I don't even know your name!"

"You must go because your father wished it." Her voice hardened. "He had plans for you, Christine. He wanted you to perform at the Populaire. And I did not come all the way to this god-forsaken place to drag an unwilling child back."

Sighing in resignation, she sat down on one of the pews, her back ramrod straight and mouth compressed into a grim line.

"Just before he died," she ignored my deep intake of breath, "he wrote a letter. In this letter he expressed his desire for you to come to the stage. We have a prestigious ballet corps. Many families try to place any young girl with a measure of talent in our halls.

Your father performed in the Opera House with his violin for many years before he met your mother, so as a special favor, Monsieur Lefevre, has accepted you. With your father's recent death, the Populaire is now your guardian."

Oh God! Angel…how will I find you now?

I bowed my head in resignation. I was tired. Worn down by grief and crushed hopes together, I was no match for this imposing woman who sat before me.

"Your name, Madame?"

"Giry. My name, child, is Madame Giry. We leave in an hour. Go. Gather your things."

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