Author's note: This story was written for the Spring Drabble Writing Contest on It came in third and received a couple of Special Awards (shared with everyone else who submitted something - long story).

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from "The Phantom of the Opera". They belong to Gaston Leroux / Andrew Lloyd Webber.

A swallow

Christine had been impatient for her entire singing lesson. She knew that she had to wait for exactly the right moment. If she interrupted the Angel too soon, while he was still giving her instructions, he'd be most displeased. But if she waited too long, he'd be gone, and she'd have to wait till their next lesson.

Finally, the right moment seemed to have come. Standing in the middle of the small room in which she always had her lessons, she heard the Angel say:

"Well, this should be enough for today. For the next time, make sure you know the words of the aria by heart. Good-"

"Can I ask you something?" Christine interrupted him quickly. She was aware that such a behaviour was rude and the Angel wouldn't approve of it, but she didn't know another way. After all, she couldn't see her teacher, but only hear his voice, so it was easiest to catch him while he was still talking.

"Certainly, child," the Angel replied, and the girl breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't sound angry at all, just mildly curious. "What would you like to know?"

"What does it mean if someone says ´Una rondine non fa la primavera´?" she blurted out. The words in the foreign language felt strange on her tongue, even though she had been repeating them under her breath again and again to make sure she didn't forget them.

"A swallow doesn't mean it's spring," the Angel translated. "It's a proverb. It exists in our language as well, you know. ´Une hirondelle ne fait pas le printemps´."

The girl nodded. Of course she knew that proverb. And still she couldn't understand what it had meant in the context she had heard it. Would it be wise to bother the Angel with another question?

The decision was made for her when he asked:

"Who used those words, and when?".

"It was La Carlotta," she answered readily. "M.Reyer made each of us chorus girls sing a little passage from ´Hannibal´ for him on stage this afternoon, to hear how our voices develop. Well, I think I must have been rather good, for he was pleased with me and the other girls liked it as well. But La Carlotta was listening, too, and she didn't seem pleased at all. That was when she said that thing about the swallow. She called it over the stage, and then she left."

"I should have known," the Angel said, and there was something very bitter in his voice. "What La Carlotta meant was that the fact that you sang well once doesn't mean you're a good singer."

"And she's right, isn't she?" Christine whispered, suddenly feeling close to tears. She had known right away that the diva had made a rude remark about her, but she had had no idea just how rude it had been. Maybe it would have been better if she had never asked her Angel about it. Sometimes ignorance was indeed bliss.

"No!" the Angel exclaimed. "Listen to me, child. Carlotta is jealous. She's sensing the competition and tries to scare you. But what she said is not true. You are a good singer, and one day you'll be an excellent one. Do you understand, Christine?"

She nodded meekly, because she knew that it was the only reaction he'd accept. Yet her heart was full of doubts, cutting into it like tiny pieces of glass. What if La Carlotta was right? After all, she was a very experienced singer, who had seen many others come and go. What if spring would never come for Christine?

…………………………………………………………………………………………………...

One week later, Christine entered the stage with everyone else in the morning to find it drastically changed. There were vases with flowers everywhere, on the floor, on every seat in the auditorium, in the boxes, even in the orchestra pit. Red and yellow tulips, brilliantly blue hyacinths, white snow-drops and lilies of the valley, yellow daffodils and pink primroses – the colours were so bright after the dull February morning outside that everyone blinked.

The scent was simply divine, so unlike the normal smell of scouring soap and dust. Christine inhaled deeply, thinking of meadows in May, back home in Sweden. It made her heart leap with joy. She almost expected the warm sun to shine upon her.

And then there were the sounds… the soft, but unmistakable twittering of birds. Amazed, the girl looked up and saw at least a dozen cages hanging from the ceiling. Each of them contained…

"Swallows," Christine whispered, finally understanding. All this was for her only. Spring had come to the opera in February to show her that nothing was impossible, if only she believed in it. And believe she did.

Carlotta Giudicelli was standing at the side of the stage, watching the girls bend down to smell the flowers and reach up to the birds, and there was a frown on her face. She couldn't understand why this was happening, and that was a feeling she didn't like it all.

"Allora, la mia cara?" a voice breathed into her ear, making her jump. She looked around wildly, but no one was there. The diva swallowed hard. She was at the opera long enough to know who was speaking if one could hear a voice, but not see anyone. She forced herself to remain calm as the Opera Ghost went on: "È vero que una rondine no fa la primavera. Ma cento?".

The End

Author's note II: The Italian phrases translate as "Well, my dear?" and "It is true that a swallow doesn't mean it's spring. But a hundred?".