Unmasqued

Papa had entertained her, and for a time Raoul too, with stories about the Angel of Music. "Every musician, every artist, who is worthy shall be visited by an angel," he would tell them. "Perhaps only once, an infant might see his angel… and then grow to be a child prodigy. Or perhaps the angel would come more than once, and tutor one who has the promise of talent. But to be sure, if the angel blesses one with his presence, the musician is sure to be a success." And then he would pick up his violin and play soft, haunting melodies like The Resurrection of Lazarus with such beauty that Christine was certain her father had been visited by an angel.

When he died, she'd lost her music.

It was only because of Professor Valerius's influence that Christine had been allowed to join the chorus at the National Academy of Music, there at the Opera House, when she was twelve. He insisted that she'd shown great talent in singing, but that grief from the death of her father had suffocated it, and that it would return in time if nurtured.

But the five years she'd been in the chorus, Christine remained a shadow of the quiet, melancholy girl who'd had the angelic voice her sponsor remembered.

Until that day in the chapel.

That day, as she often did, she spoke to her father, talking with him about her memories of their life and travels. She reminded him again of his promise to send her an Angel of Music when he died, so that she might find a way to express her grief in losing him. So that she might find her music again.

And then, she'd heard him call her. "Christine…" Soft, haunting, barely audible. She looked around the small damp room, but saw no one. Her knees pressed into a thin rug, feeling the stones beneath, as she turned back and forth, looking up and down.

And then she heard it again. "Christine… I am your angel…"

And she knew her father had kept his promise.

Now, three months and many hard-won lessons later, and the morning after her grande performance at the gala, she smoothed her fingers over the velvet petals of one red rose, thinking of what Raoul would say if he knew.

Should she tell Raoul about the Angel of Music? Would he believe her?

And then, suddenly from out of her silence, on the faint note of a sweet violin, she heard, "Christine…" Just as she had that first day.

"Ange." She bolted to her feet to close the door, then moved immediately in front of the tall mirror, watching behind her image. But she saw nothing in the reflection.

"You returned quite late last night," came his rich voice. "It will not do for the new opera star to forgo her rest and practice in favor of social obligations."

He was there, but she could not see him. Of course, she felt the way his voice slipped around her, embracing her, and she recognized his breath, moving in the stillness of the room, matching her own. In that way she could feel him. But she yearned to see him.

"I am sorry, angel," she replied. "I did not mean to anger you."

"Anger me you will, if you continue to go about in the company of men until all hours of the morning."

The warning edge in his smooth voice frightened her. "I understand, angel."

"My name is Erik."

"Erik, out."

"Last night I gave you pleasure, did I not?" The coaxing timbre of his voice set the hairs along her arms to rising.

"Yes, you did, ang-Erik." So much pleasure that she had dreamt of it, twisting and turning in her sheets, and awakening damp and panting with the memory. Her fingers trembled as she clutched them into the gauze of her dressing gown.

"I wish to pleasure you in that way again, and more, Christine." There was a wisp of roughness in his words.

"I wish you to as well," she replied, stepping automatically toward the tall, glinting mirror, as though she would find him there. Alas, she saw only herself: wide-eyed, her oval face pale but for the pink of her lips, and her long hair falling loose to her hips. She touched the cool glass with one hand, as if reaching for him. "Angel… Erik… I wish to see you, to touch you, to pleasure you too. Please…"

The room was silent. Still.

"Angel?" Christine asked, suddenly terrified that she had frightened him away. Had she been too bold?

She strained her ears for the sound of his music, the beautiful tones of violin and flute-and, of course, his melodious voice-that would fill her ears and her being.

Silence.

"Angel?" she called again. "Erik?"

Then she felt it again: felt him, his presence. Bold, strong, encompassing. "Christine," he replied. His voice hesitated on the last syllable, then became smooth again as he continued. "When the time is right, we shall be one. But until then, you must practice patience. And you must work hard. And you must remember that I am your tutor, and I am the one who can bring forth your music."