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t was late at night, a good few hours after the performance when Christine made her way through the darkened corridors of the opera house. The gaslights had been extinguished when the last performers and crew had left for their dormitories or homes and she had only the small flickering of her candle to guide her, but she didn't mind. She had made the trek from the dressing rooms to the little neglected chapel in the bowels of the opera house nearly every night for the past year and she was fairly certain that she could find the way with her eyes closed.
The familiarity and quiet was a welcome balm after the rush and excitement that seemed to be synonymous with life in the opera house. She paused for a moment as the silence was briefly disturbed by a sound somewhere behind her.
It was unlikely that she would come across any members of the company at this time but she lifted her candle a little higher and stepped a little faster anyway when she didn't see anyone and the sound wasn't repeated. It wasn't that she was afraid of the dark or the shadows the old set pieces cast on the walls as she passed with her candle. It wasn't even fear of the Opera Ghost that was supposedly haunting the building - though most of the corps de ballet would pronounce her foolish for not fearing the spectre, she didn't think he would be interested in her, after all he only went after those who dared to harm his theatre by laziness or arrogance. No, she didn't think the ghost would interested in a perfectly mediocre dancer. Some of the stagehands however...
Christine shuddered and was relieved when she saw the door to the chapel come into view. The sanctity of the place - as well as a solid oak door that could be locked from the inside - promised safety and a moment of quiet that was difficult to be found in the dormitories.
She stepped inside, lighting the candle next to the door and placing her own candle in an empty holder before making her way to the small alcove where a collection of portraits and other memorabilia were carefully arranged under a simple wooden crucifix.
"Hello Papa, here I am again," she said as she traced the old and worn little portrait of her father with her finger. Her father had passed away well over a year ago now but she still missed him terribly and often came to the chapel to talk to him. She wasn't certain he could hear her, but in the tiny chapel she felt a connection with him that she otherwise only found at his grave in Perros and she took comfort in that.
"We practiced the main ballet scene on the big stage for the first time today. Complete with costumes and props." She grinned. "It was one big mess. Meg and Sorelli were great as usual, but the rest of us were stumbling around and bumping into each other as we tried to keep our heads straight and those ridiculous bows with fake flowers up. I nearly hit monsieur Poligny with the thing as he stupidly tried to cross the stage while we were jumping around. Fortunately he didn't notice as he was looking into the other direction otherwise I would have been in for a severe scolding, never mind that he shouldn't have been on stage during rehearsals."
She sobered as she remembered what else happened that day and drew her knees to her chest as she sat down on the cold floor. "I visited Mama Valerius today after practice. The doctor was just leaving when I arrived. She isn't doing well. He prescribed her a new treatment to ease the pain of her arthritis, but it's her mind that is rapidly deteriorating. Just this afternoon she asked me three times who I was, and at first she thought I was the help and ordered me to make her some tea. I don't mind making her tea - you know I would do much more than that if she'd ask, but that new nurse, Marie, doesn't like me and barely tolerates me in the kitchen. I am grateful that she takes such good care of Mama, but it makes me feel like I'm not welcome in my own home."
She paused and looked at the woodwork of the little shrine, her eyes tracing the intricately carved pattern of vines and birds. "I asked the doctor about her prognosis. He didn't want to give me a definite estimate, saying that if she was lucky she could still have a few good months, but she is frail and even the slightest cold could mean the end."
A sob broke from her throat, it's burning claws crawling their way from the depths of her chest. "Oh Papa! What should I do then? I will be all alone in the world!" She sniffed. "Professor Valerius died before he could include me in his will, so everything will go to their cousin. I have a bed here in the dormitories, but I'm afraid it won't be for long. The ballet mistress has been critiquing my dancing for weeks, accusing me of not putting any energy in my moves, no passion. She is right. I know even at my best I'm not as good as some of the other dancers, my strength lies in singing, not dancing, but I always used to love it. I loved to let the music carry me, dictate my movements and found freedom in the choreographed steps. Now it only tires me. Remember how you sometimes used to play your violin on the marketplace if the weather was nice, me jumping around you? Ever since you left it seems those happy days in the sun have left too and a thick fog has taken its place. A fog that only thickened when the professor passed away too. No matter what I do, no matter what I try, that fog is there, pressing down on me, suffocating me, slowly draining me of all my energy. I tried to hide it, to not let it impact my work, but I can't. Not anymore. I'm afraid that if I don't start to improve soon they'll kick me out of the company and where should I go then?"
She fell forward, her forehead pressed against the unforgiving stone, her arms wrapped tightly around her as if to mimic the warm embrace of the one she so longed for.
"Papa I miss you. Why did you have to leave me? I miss you so, so much. I miss your music, your stories, your smiles. I miss how you would teach me songs, you on the violin and me singing. I miss those dark winter nights, huddled near the fire with a mug of tea as you told me tales of the North, of goblins and elves, fairies and orcs, the Angel of Music. You promised me to send me the Angel when you were gone. You promised me..."
Allowing herself no more than a few moments to wallow in grief, Christine snivelled and slowly straightened up, wiping her eyes and nose in the handkerchief she had taken to always carrying with her in her pocket.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I know you're in heaven and I should be happy for you. But I will always keep missing you. I heard a song today, it's not for the next opera I think, but one of the singers was practicing it in their dressing room. I nearly starting crying in the hallway right there because it was exactly how I felt. I wanted to ask what the piece was called but Meg dragged me to practice before I could find the courage to knock on their door, so I only know part of it."
Subconsciously, she sat up straight, assuming a better position for singing. Her first words were hesitant, broken and muffled, as her throat was still swollen from crying and she had to fight back a new wave of tears. By the time she proceeded to the chorus, however, she became more confident and her voice gained strength. She poured all her emotions in her song - her grief for losing the one she held dearest, fear for the future, anger for the unfairness of the situation, despair for the hopelessness she found herself trapped in. It was purging to let it all out, to stop hiding her emotions but proclaiming them with all her might to the world.
So lost was she in her lament that she didn't notice as another voice joined her. A few octaves lower than her own it balanced her higher soprano, giving strength to the piece as it brought a velvet darkness that her own voice couldn't attain. When her voice finally trailed off because she didn't know the rest of the verse the other voice took over the melody and seemed to amplify until it filled the little chapel and bounced back from every wall. Eventually that voice stopped too as the song reached it's crescendo. For a moment of eternity silence reigned and the fog that pressed her down so much seemed to lift a little.
She returned to the chapel the next night. And the next. And the one after that. And every night the voice would join her in song and share in her grief. After that first night she had searched for the origin of the voice, she didn't recognise it as belonging to one of the principals, but couldn't believe that one of the lower cast members could have gone unrecognised for long with such a gift. She had run into the hallway after the voice had stopped singing, checked the confessional, searched the chapel for hidden spaces, even checked under the few pews as if somebody could have fit under there, but had found nothing. For all intents and purposes it appeared the voice didn't belong to an owner.
After a week she couldn't take it any longer. When the voice joined her again she cried out: "Please, please, whoever it is that is singing with me show yourself!" At her cry the voice broke off abruptly, the candles near the door flickered dangerously, and the temperature seemed to drop several degrees. She wouldn't be able to tell how, but she knew the voice was furious. That didn't deter her.
"Please, let me know who you are. These last few days... You brought a light and warmth that had been missing in my life for so long. I couldn't bear it if you where hiding here to have some fun at my expense. Please, let me see you, talk to you. I need to know I'm not alone." She sniffed. "Not alone in the darkness."
The oppressiveness seemed to retreat and the candles returned to their dancing bright flames. The voice spoke, a soft velvet that curled around her in an embrace and settled just above the hands she had pleadingly stretched out before her. "You will never see me. But you are not alone, my dear."
She choked in relief. He spoke to her, hadn't abandoned her! "Thank you, thank you so much. You have no idea how much your presence means to me. Please don't leave me."
"Hush, my dear. As long as you don't speak a word about what happens here I won't." The voice took up a new song, a wordless melody of gold and silver threads that spun around the room and soothed her fears.
She returned to the chapel nearly every night in the weeks that followed and, as he had promised, the voice would always join her. After that first night he hadn't spoken to her anymore, but that didn't mean he didn't listen. As Christine slowly started to crawl from her depression she started talking to him more and more, requesting songs and sharing her opinions of the new pieces the ballet was rehearsing. It didn't really matter to her that he didn't respond to her stories, though he always obliged her requests for songs and occasionally started with his own selections that she joined whenever she could.
Her grief didn't diminish and still had the ability to creep up on her and overwhelm her when she least expected it, but it was getting easier to compartmentalize and push it to the side when she was working or singing. Her energy returned and her dancing improved as she slowly regained her ability to find happiness in the mundane and her late night song selections reflected that. She didn't think she would ever return to be the carefree child she used to be when her father was still alive – never mind that she had recently passed her twentieth birthday and couldn't be considered a child anyway- , but she was living again instead of merely existing. The late evenings in the chapel were no longer an escape to express her grief in solitude, but quicky became her favourite moment of the day.
She hadn't given up on discovering whom the mysterious voice belonged to, but after several months she was certain it was not a chorus member, principal singer, voice teacher, musician, or any other performing member of the company. Of course, that still left a few hundred people who made their living in the opera house, but she doubted the voice belonged to one of the men working the furnaces, the carpenters, or any of the other craftsmen. The man behind the voice had an extensive knowledge of the arts that would be impressive even under the most well-trained performers and must have required extensive study. Eventually, she came to the conclusion that there was only one man left that could be her mysterious singing partner: the Phantom of the Opera.
It was the perfect explanation. The Phantom had time and time again proven to have excellent taste and judgement in any artistic aspect of the opera through the notes he left for the managers and performers. Nobody had ever heard him speak, but it wouldn't surprise her if a man that was obviously passionate about music was musical himself. He knew everything that happened in the opera house, and it thus stood to reason that if there was one person that was aware of a secret passage or hide-out that allowed somebody to hide themselves in the chapel, it would be him. And lastly, it would explain why he didn't want to show himself to her.
Maybe this revelation should have scared her. Tales about the misgivings and deeds of the Opera Ghost were a popular topic among the corpse de ballet - the more gruesome the better, and there were enough girls that carried talismans with them to protect against any potential curse should they ever come to meet him. It didn't matter that there was very limited truth in the stories, and most of the stories found their origins in the drunk minds of the stagehands. Christine didn't feel particularly scared. The Phantom had never truly harmed someone and had shown more understanding and kindness for her circumstances these last few months than some of her so-called friends. Still, she was cautious to share her new-found understanding, fearing that the loss of his anonymity would anger him and drive him away. Yet she didn't want to continue as they had, she loved his, albeit severely limited, contributions to their conversations and hoped to get to know him better.
She thought long and hard about how she was going to approach him. Outright asking who he was hadn't worked before and she didn't want to risk his anger again, those few moments in which she thought he had abandoned her had been terrifying enough. She also couldn't imagine that insinuating she knew he was the Phantom would go over much better. No, she needed to come up with something that provided him with a cover to remain anonymous yet also pushed him to speak with her. She would like to meet him in person but for now she would be satisfied if their interactions involved more than the exchange of music, just a conversation about the opera, gossip about Carlotta's latest tantrum, or even the weather would be a welcome change and a chance to get to know him better. Moreover, whatever she did, she had to give him the impression that it was his idea, that he was in charge, or else she feared he would bolt.
After much thinking she finally came up with a plan and set it in motion the next evening she went to the chapel.
"When I was younger my father often spoke of the Angel of Music. This angel was given the task to find all the people in the world who held music in their heart. Not just good musicians, or people who happened to enjoy music, but those people who lived and breathed music, for whom music was as essential to living as air or water. The angel would visit them and if he saw that they were good people and worked hard for their music he would teach them so that their skills would reach unimaginable heights and they could share a piece of the heavenly music with the people on earth. My father promised me that when he went to heaven he would ask the angel to visit me as he was certain I was worthy. When I grew up I lost faith in the Angel, believing it was just one of the many stories my father used to make up as bedtime story. But now… I'm not so sure anymore. I've started to hope again. Dear Voice, are you the Angel of Music?
For a moment there was silence. A suspenseful waiting in which Christine wondered how the voice would react. She nervously twisted a ruffle of her sleeve between her fingers as she expectantly stared at the voice most often seemed to originate from. Would he believe her?
His response came as a whisper, softly and hesitant, yet with a barely disguised hope that had Christine feeling guilty about her deceit:
“Will you let me teach you?"