Many nights were rainy that year—not as frigid as they had been previously, but with torrential downpours. Her coat was too thin, her scarf too short, and her hat heavy with water. She'd have to talk to her employer. Reticent as he could be, he had told her in no uncertain terms that if there was something she needed, she should inform him of it straight away. She didn't care about the way the clothing looked, but she did care about not contracting some sort of dreadful illness and dying. Or worse, being unable to sing. After all, her voice was the only thing keeping her employed. She was not saucy, she hadn't the foggiest clue how one made a martini, and she certainly wasn't proficient enough as a dancer.

So, indeed, death and voicelessness were entirely off the table.

The lights were not up yet, but Gabriel, the doorman, was standing outside. She unwrapped her sodden silk scarf from her neck as he opened the door and gave him the warmest smile she could muster with numb extremities.

"Evening, miss." he said in his rough low voice. She nodded as she went past him. She was early, as usual, and headed towards her employer's office. It was concealed at the very back of the building, and was as opulent as such a thing could be. It was all mahogany and red velvet and dark, heavy curtains behind which she wasn't even sure there was a window. She'd certainly never seen it.

She knocked, as tentative as ever, and heard a grunt that meant she was allowed in. Perhaps visiting her employer was somewhat more of a habit than she would care to admit. She pushed the heavy door back and again tried to force a smile as she saw him writing at his desk. He looked as sombre and serious as ever and she was instantly and instinctively uneasy. "Good evening, Christine." he said when she had closed the door.

"Hi!" she replied, strolling towards the seat opposite him. "How're you?"

"Well." he said, his voice clipped. "And you, I trust you are well?"

"Yeah," she said, wincing slightly. "But that's also why I'm here."

The masked face tilted upwards towards her. "There is a problem?"

"Oh, not a big deal. It's just, well, in this weather, when I get here I'm freezing, every night, but I can't afford a coat… Not that I want to exceed my rights…"

"Don't give it another thought." he said. She frowned.

"What, I'm just supposed to go freezing? I…"

"No, silly child." he said, inspecting whatever it was he was writing. "I will take care of it. I do not suppose you are in possession of a working umbrella?"

She looked down. "No. Don't worry about that."

"My leading lady is not much use if she cannot sing, now, is she?"

She blinked and wet her lips. "I suppose not. Nevertheless…"

"I will take care of it."

And he waved his hand dismissively, returning to his work.

She awkwardly made for the door. As she opened it, he said: "I will be watching this evening. I am not in a mood for being disappointed."

She nodded and went out.

No pressure at all.

x

She sat in her dressing room upstairs—she'd been told by various sleazy gentlemen that the establishment was not unlike a brothel in the way it was set up; the same gentlemen were usually thrown out if their words were overheard by a bartender or doorman—and was attempting to make her hair look elegant. It had a habit of refusing to behave, and that evening was no exception. She thought about the way her employer unashamedly called her "child"—he always had, since they came to an agreement on her employment a few months before—and concluded that perhaps it wasn't a grossly inaccurate term to apply to her. She didn't know much, she hadn't experienced much, and she was hardly the epitome of human strength. She was a lost little girl.

A hairpin slipped from her fingers just as she was about to secure a tendril of hair and she grunted with annoyance, reaching down to pick up the pin and, on the way, hitting her pale forehead on the edge of the table in front of her.

She hissed a curse under her breath and rubbed her forehead vigorously. Sighing, she made a second attempt at securing the same bit of hair, however this time, she succeeded. She took a deep breath, steadied her nerves, and continued. Her first performance of the week was usually accompanied by such nervousness and clumsiness, however she didn't normally bash her head against things. There was a red line forming on her forehead and with another exclamation of irritation she reached for her makeup.

She managed, eventually, after many more curses and twenty minutes of removing foundation paste from her hair, to make herself look vaguely presentable. She slipped off her silk robe—it was a luxurious setup she had, when she really thought about it—and picked up the dress she'd chosen for that night. It was pure white, and simple, but as she slipped it on, she felt elegant and pretty. Next were her simple but heeled shoes—she was much more comfortable in her everyday shoes, but she accepted the obligations of being onstage. She had to be pretty.

But despite that, she was well protected. Her employer was almost absurdly so; he was always quick to weed out unsavoury patrons and ban them for good from the establishment. And when she was in the bar itself, Gabriel watched out for her. As a rule, unless they were friends, men were not allowed to speak to any of the girls who performed. A few times since the beginning of her employment she'd been approached by particularly amorous (and drunken) men—one had even brought a ring when he proposed to her.

She pawned the ring the next morning and was only able to buy a new pair of lace-up shoes.

Her appearance was now as decent as she was going to get it. She moved to sit, but there was a knock at the door.

"Yes?" she asked, suppressing a sigh.

"It's me." said her employer. She went to the door and opened it, smiling slightly. The eyes behind the mask brightened almost imperceptibly. "Hello." he said.

"Hi." she stepped away from the door and returned to her chair. He walked into the room and she noticed the big black umbrella in his hand. She smiled. "That for me?"

"Yes." he said, leaning it against the table beside her. "I wasn't able to find a suitable tailor this late. Tomorrow."

"Thank you." she said sincerely, smiling warmly into the mirror. She watched his reflection reach and tremblingly pat her shoulder. Then, he withdrew.

"You are very welcome. And you are on in fifteen minutes."

And with that, he walked out and closed the door behind him.

x

Her face was hot, her hands were icy, and the adrenalin was so strong in her that she was panting. She bowed her head in thanks and the applause did not subside until she left the stage. Gabriel was waiting for her against the wall nearby, a drink in his hand.

"Amazin', miss." he said. She grinned and shrugged casually.

"Nothing special."

He laid a hand gently on her arm. "Better than this." And he nodded towards the stage from which Christine had just descended.

Carlotta, as she called herself, was taking the stage. She was redheaded, buxom, and perhaps the biggest cow that Christine had ever had the misfortune of encountering. Everything about her was brutal, offensive, as if she was ready to take anyone on for battle at any given moment. She looked haughtily about the room and showed her teeth in something that wasn't what one could easily label a smile. "Hit it," she demanded of the musicians around her in a manner that was almost military. The bright and brassy sound of trumpets blared into the room and Christine winced, signalling to Gabriel that she was going to return to her dressing room upstairs. Gabriel nodded, sipping his drink casually as if the deafening music had no effect on him at all. With one final look at haughty, brutal Carlotta, Christine slipped out of the room.

x

Raoul watched in wonderment as she left. He was quite positive he'd seen her somewhere before—in his dreams, perhaps—and he was completely captivated. That voice—that voice—was one of the most spectacular things that he'd heard in a very long time, and he shook his head disbelievingly. The singer onstage now, a middle-aged harpy of a woman, was singing in a voice that, while not unpleasant, was much smokier and much older than the one of the girl who'd just left.

"Sit down, Raoul." hissed Philippe, his brother, beside him. Cheeks suddenly flaming, Raoul looked around as he realised that he'd been standing since she finished singing. He sat down and leaned towards Philippe almost conspiratorially.

"Who was she? That girl?" he demanded desperately. "She was incredible."

Philippe rolled his eyes. He was hoping Raoul had skipped the phase of childish infatuation with every pretty girl that caught his eye and moved straight on to the sobriety of middle age. Alas. "Damned if I know, kiddo."

Raoul looked about and without another word to his brother dashed over to the man she'd been talking to. He was forbidding, intimidating, and dressed in shabby clothing. Raoul adjusted his bowtie idly. He cleared his throat and the man looked away from the stage and languidly in his direction. "May I help you with something, sir?" he asked, eyes narrowed. There was no respect or obligation in his voice. Raoul shrank minutely.

"I was wondering what the name of that last singer was. The blonde."

"You'll keep wonderin'." said the man, sipping his drink and turning his head back to the performance.

"Please, sir, I need to know!" Raoul hissed, clasping the man's forearm.

The man shrugged out of Raoul's grip and tilted his head. "We got a problem here?"

"N-No, sir, no disrespect." said Raoul, a sweat breaking out beneath his collar. The man was shorter than him, but muscular and aggressive-looking. He took a step backwards deferentially. "I just… is her name Christine Daaé?"

The man's eyes narrowed further. "Who's askin'?" he spat.

Raoul's eyebrows rose. "That's her? That is Miss Daaé?"

The man did not reply.

"Thank you, sir!" he said brightly, returning without caution to his seat with his brother and their friends.

So delighted was he that he barely noticed when he managed to tip a woman's martini glass all over her.

Philippe apologised profusely to her and grabbed Raoul by his shoulder, dragging him out to the back of the establishment and through the back door. Raoul rubbed his shoulder when Philippe threw him away, taking out his cigarette case. "Have a damn smoke." he demanded, thrusting the open case towards Raoul. He raised his hand to decline. "I wasn't asking."

Raoul took a cigarette and accepted his brother's help in lighting it. Philippe sighed, letting his head droop, and rubbed his forehead. "What the hell was going on in there, kid? You nearly get yourself beaten up and then spill that drink and don't even think to apologise? What's gotten into you tonight?"

His tone was not so much angry as beseeching, and he looked tired—their father had once looked exactly the same way when Raoul had sent a baseball flying through the floor-to-ceiling window of the front room. As he had when he was ten, Raoul bowed his head in apology. "It was Christine." he said quietly, and Philippe groaned.

"You have got to be joking, Raoul."

He looked up with sad eyes.

"Don't even try that look on me, I'm not a dame." To steady himself, Philippe took a long draw on his cigarette and exhaled slowly before speaking again. "I had enough of that girl when you were a kid. I'd really rather not deal with her again."

Raoul frowned. "She's not bad, Philippe. She was my best friend, and I…" He paused. "I…"

"Don't you dare say you're keen on a singer from a speakeasy. Don't even think about it."

He looked down and lifted the cigarette to his lips, sucking the smoke in without inhaling and blowing it out again. He looked at his hands and began picking at his nails.

"Quit it." Philippe barked.

Raoul sighed, feeling subdued, and let his hands fall to his sides. He thought about all the memories of Christine. Of days spent on the beach, nights spent watching summer storms; of telling one another stories and listening to her father playing music; of holding one another's hands as they walked about that little seaside town and—his heart still raced—his first kiss on the day they left each other.

The crisp cold of the air after rain cleared Raoul's head. Did Christine's father even know where his daughter worked? Did he allow it?

He missed her father too—he was a good, kind man, who had charitably tried to teach Raoul the violin when he was a child.

He'd never been a particularly talented musician.

"Gentlemen," said a deep voice from the doorway. There was bright light behind him, preventing either of the Chagny brothers from seeing his face. "I am afraid I must ask you to go inside."

Philippe moved from his place leaning against a wall. "Why is that, sir? We're not bothering anyone."

The tall silhouette tilted his head. "I would very much hate for the authorities to discover that Philippe de Chagny has been engaging in illegal activities."

Raoul watched Philippe. Slowly, he took a last drag on his cigarette and dropped it, stepping on the butt. "Come, Raoul." he said, walking towards the door. He stood in the doorway beside the silhouette and extended his hand. "Ah, it's an honour to finally meet you."

Raoul watched them shake hands. There was something odd about the man's face. His profile was almost lumpy. And there was a shine to the way the light hit his skin. Quietly he followed his brother back through the door, and felt the dark silhouette's eyes on him long after he'd returned to the smoky bar.