"Now, again," he whispered.
"But I have been doing these runs for hours." Christine whimpered.
"But they are not perfect. You must be perfect."
"But, Angel, how can I? I am just a child. Perfection is something I cannot accomplish."
The Angel gave a laugh. "You must be perfect, child, as the Father is perfect. Am I not here to help you?" he said. "Your father would be disappointed."
"Papa…" A pain stabbed her in the heart. "Yes. I shall be perfect," she whispered to herself. "For papa."
"Christine," spoke Meg, shaking her room mate, "Wake up. You have been talking in your sleep again."
Christine groggily sat up in her bed. Her blanket was missing, but she was too disoriented to notice.
"Wha…what happened?" she asked.
Meg frowned. "Can you not hear me? I said you were talking in your sleep again. Something about an angel…"
"Oh," said Christine. Suddenly, she burst into tears, much to Meg's concerned confusion.
Immediately Meg sat on the bed and put her arms around the distraught Christine. "What happened? Are you alright? Was it a nightmare?" she asked, not sure of what to think. It was not normal for her friend to be so emotional.
"I…I am a failure," she wept.
"You are not a failure," stated Meg, attempting to comfort her friend. "You are the best dancer in our class, you are very pretty, and everyone loves you. How is any of that even close to failure?"
It was true. Christine had become the beloved favorite of the opera house. Since her father died she had come to live in the dormitories and study ballet. Meg's mother, Madame Giry, was her teacher and was continuously speaking proudly of her progress. But she was not concerned of her studies in dance.
Just before he died, her Papa promised to send her an angel to watch over her; the Angel of Music. Christine knew she could not tell Meg of her visits from the Angel. Her friend would not understand how much the visits from this supernatural being tormented her, and yet gave her the joy of being close to her father. The tears on her face would remain unexplained for now.
"Never mind," she said, wiping away the salty wet streaks from her face. Finally noticing the chill in her bare legs, she asked, "Where is my blanket?"
"I thought you would never ask," said Meg, grinning. "The girls in the upper rooms took all of our blankets. Jemima and Kirsten have already left to take their shoes. If we hurry we can join them."
"That would be good fun," said Christine, a faint smile appearing. "But I must write my letter—"
"—to Raul. I thought you might say that," said a disappointed Meg. "Maybe next time? The girls in the upper rooms will probably play another prank on us soon."
"Perhaps," said Christine.
Meg stood up and skipped toward the old door of their room. She was just about to leave when she turned to face Christine, as is remembering something. "You know, you need to have fun more. You cannot be serious your whole life."
"I know," was all Christine said.
Meg looked at her friend, as if about to say something else, but there was only silence. She turned and closed the old, creaky door behind her and began her run toward the upper dormitories. Christine waited until Meg's footsteps faded into the hall before taking out her pen and paper.
My Dear Roul,
I received your last letter, but have not found the time to write back until now. I hope that your cold has left you by now, and that you are playing by the shore again.
Life here at the opera house is as it was when I last wrote to you, but I have been having more frightening dreams. They are not nightmares, but they upset me. I dream that the Angel of Music is with me, and teaching me, but I cannot please him. I sing for him, but I must always sing again. I wake in the morning covered in sweat, shaking. I like to think that I am quaking from being so close to the presence of God, but there is a coldness in being near the Angle that I cannot explain. The runs I must sing are complicated, and such that I have never heard sung by those in the company here. But after each lesson I improve.
He is strict, but he is an Angel, so I know that what he is having me do it only for the praise of God and the love of my Papa.
Collect some shells for me and give my love to Nana. I hope you write to me soon.
With love,
Little Lotte