He stepped forward and the sea of girls parted before him like he was Moses. He removed the tasseled key from her hand. "Allow me, Miss Daaé."

He unlocked her dressing room door, sending it open with a flourish. She brushed past him, noticing how the heavy gown dragged against his shiny boots and cuffed jacket.

He closed the door and they were alone.

Lamps glowed, and the shadows that seemed so often to be dramatic were now low and brown, and did not lurk in the corners as they were often wont to do. Flowers had already been brought into her room, and vases rested on every surface—the floor, the dressing table, the tea table, even the sitting stool. Roses, daisies, gillyflowers, lilies… filling the air with their perfume.

"Christine, you were magnificent." Raoul came to her side, clasping her hand with his and drawing it to his perfect lips.

"Raoul, how lovely to see you again," she replied, slipping her hand from his and brushing her fingers over his fine cheek. It was warm and smooth.

"You have grown up so. I could not believe it was you, my little Christine, singing like an angel."

An angel.

Christine stepped back, suddenly nervous. "Raoul, I am no angel."

But he did not seem to notice her apprehension. "You are, you are, beautiful angel. I shall have to make a point of returning to the opera every night, now that Philippe and I are the patrons and now that you are to be the new star."

"I hope that I shall see you often," she replied, and felt a change in the air. It was him. For some reason, she didn't want him to know about Raoul, that she had an admirer. "Raoul, shall we leave here? I must speak to Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin, and I am hungry, and we have so much to talk about. It has been so many years."

"Yes, indeed, I would be happy to escort you to dinner."