Unmasqued

'The ghost, specter that he is, does not need a box to sit in.'

Firmin replied with disdain. 'He is a phantom, and he can fly about the stage if he wishes to watch the performance. We shall let the box for this evening's performance.'

Late in the morning after her grand performance, Christine was in her dressing room. The masses of flowers from the night before had been organized onto one small table and the floor next to it. The mingled scents of rose, lily, gardenia, and gillyflower were cloying and sweet.

Three heavy gowns-rose, lavender shot with silver, and sapphire blue-lay carefully arranged over a chair. They were gowns that she never would have been close enough to touch if La Carlotta had not stomped petulantly out of the Opera House.

If the backdrop hadn't fallen and startled the diva, Christine would still be sharing a dressing room with the other chorus girls. There would be no floor-to-ceiling mirror of her own, but instead, a long narrow one, around which the twenty girls would push and shove and gather as they dressed.

If the. backdrop hadn't fallen.

She gasped.

He had done it. He had made the heavy canvas drop to the ground, knowing that it would send La Carlotta into hysterics… certain that it would cause her to stalk away, to act the prima donna and refuse to sing.

Carlotta had expected to be soothed and coaxed back. She had not known that the Angel of Music had made other plans.

Christine had heard about the death of Joseph Buquet, and felt a tremor of fear. Her ange was a strict and demanding tutor, but he had never given her cause to be frightened of him. Even the first time the angel approached her, she had not been frightened.

She had been praying in the small chapel, tucked beneath the grand stone staircase of the Opera House. It was the only place she felt close to her father, even though he was buried in a graveyard near the Bay of Perros. Even after nearly eight years, she grieved for him, missed his absentminded smile and faraway eyes, missed the way his fingers were always moving, always playing something on an invisible violin-even when he hugged her, or sat reading in his chair, or riding in a carriage.

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.'

'Yes, angel.' It was true. She had been able to sing, certainly, before the Angel of Music had come into her dressing room and into her life three months ago, but under his tutelage, she had blossomed and grown like a late- blooming flower unfurling itself under the intense heat of summer sun.

'Now, I wish to hear you sing Marguerite's aria. Carlotta will not be singing it tonight. You will.'

Christine drew in her breath and felt her breasts straining against the corset that lifted and pushed them together. Her nipples were hard, stabbing the light lawn chemise she wore, pushing against the firm boning of the corset.

The music came from nowhere, and everywhere. It filled the tall, narrow dressing room, simmered in her ears, and pounded through her veins. As she began to sing, the lights dimmed somehow… The edges of her image