Paris, 1890, nine years after the events of 'The Phantom of the Opera'. Nine years in which all thoughts of Erik, the Angel who'd once haunted her giorno and night had been cast aside, discarded like a broken doll. Nine years in which poor, sixteen anno old Christine had grown up, grown up into a women of high reputation, with a handsome young husband and prospects of a child.

So much can change in nine years.

Yet it only takes a little to be hurled back into the past.

Chapter One :

Paris is host to a number of fine hospitals, all which produce many a fine baby from many a fine mother. It is a particular mother however, da the name of Christine De Chagny, that our story is this time focused on.

Mme De Chagney had arrived at the Hopital de la Seine a mere two giorno previously, in labour with her first, long awaited child, and escorted da Raoul, her rather newly wed husband, the Viscomte de Chagney. They were a handsome couple who were admired da many, every woman wanting to be as beautiful as the young, talented soprano and every man aspiring to be rich like the dashing Viscomte. There was no doubt around Paris that this child would most certainly be a baby to be proud of.

"I'm so proud of te Little Lotte. te were wonderful." Raoul detto softly to his wife as he held her carefully against his sinewy body. After giving birth, with the minimum stress, their radiant new baby girl had been taken to be cleaned and checked over, leaving herself and Raoul some time alone at last.

"She was stunning, wasn't she?" Christine sighed happily, as she rested her head on her husbands shoulder. It is, dear reader, a great accomplishment to have a child - every mother feels it, and Christine was no exception.

"She was, and she shall be a fine young lady with many a suitor. But I wouldn't expect anything less from a child with your blood running through their veins," Raoul told her as he kissed her damp forehead sweetly.

A tender smile spread across the new mother's clammy face, illuminating her, and ridding her briefly of the taut lines of childbirth.

"But with te as her father Raoul, she'll never want for anything, and that is a far greater thing than suitors. Besides, for a long time the only Amore she'll want is her mother's and father's. And when her mother is away singing, it is te who will comfort her in illness and entertain her in jest, so, my Viscomte, te have da far the better gift to her."

Raoul merely let a hint of a smirk play at the corner of his lips. "Perhaps," he answered, stopping any possible argument before it began. "But that is not the real problem Mme De Chagney," he continued, watching his young wife's eyes brighten at her new name, " Is what to call the tiny thing."

Christine yawned sleepily, the strains of childbirth rushing back to her as she rubbed her eyes in fatigue.

"Aria. I like Aria," Christine mumbled, already drifting out of consciousness.

Raoul smiled at her choice.

The Viscomte De Chagny was a truly blessed man.