She had been there before.

The lake like dark emeralds beneath a glass, the lights dim as they rose from the depths—she had seen it all before, in the deepest sleep when dreams seem their realist and reality seems its farthest away. She always began asleep in her bed and awoke in that same cold cot by the window with only a song playing sweetly in her mind. Was it real? She could only trust what she felt. She felt as if she had seen an angel.

"Girls of seventeen years old should not believe in such things," Madam Giry scolded when Christine whispered her stories to Meg at rehearsal. "If you were not day dreaming during practice, you would not still be in the back row where your poor technique is not seen or heard." Then she would lean over her shoulder so that her voice entered only Christine's ear and said very softly, "You must improve constantly, Christine. He has great plans for you."

He.

He sat in front of a choir of pipes, scribbling on a scroll of staffs and clefs. Every descent into the lair of the genius was as if it were the first time. She stood, wrapped in a thick black cloak he handed her for the cool that surrounded the water. Her eyes wandered over the curtains covering mirrors, the chandeliers, and the slender golden pipes that filled the cavern with beautiful, incandescent music. Time seemed to melt away here in this place. Perhaps it didn't exist at all…perhaps he didn't exist.

"Sharp," he sighed over his shoulder once more. Christine looked at her bare feet from her place behind him. "You must hear the note before you begin. Again."

"I can't hear it," she replied gently.

"You must hear it in perfect pitch," he demanded coolly. "Sing it again." He pressed a cracked yellow note on the majestic organ, and a solid E flat sung in full force. Christine closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Her lips parted, and a shrill tone blasted from her delicate frame. The teacher's hand slipped in a moment of exposed frustration, causing a horrid chord to interrupt the exercise. Christine jumped in reaction and began to pace.

"Sharp," he almost snapped with his head bowed between his shoulders.

"I can't get it," she mumbled with a tight frown on her sweet features. "I can't get it no matter how hard I try, I can't." Her teacher stood with the strange grace that was in his every move and stepped down from his operatic throne. When she saw that her failure had made him stop his work, she too stopped. Her pale hands were writhing before her as her eyes, wide in the dreamy state that his presence created, lifted to him. His gaze was warm but stern; she looked away.

"Hear the note in your mind before you sing it," he repeated patiently.

"I cannot hear it unless you sing it for me," she quietly pleaded. When her trembling brown eyes lifted to him again, it was he who had to look away. "You can sing it for me in my head."

One look from her, and he would. He would pull the world inside out for her, write every part suited to her, create an opera only for her…but she did not come for his love. She came for his instruction. He had to push aside the hope that perhaps one day, he wouldn't have to play this part. He wouldn't have to push her until she begged for help.

His lip flattened, and he waited. Christine closed her eyes and tried to recreate his voice inside her mind. She could suddenly feel his grip on her shoulders and shivered.

"Hear it," he beckoned softly. "Hear it." She swallowed. Somewhere, in the darkest place of her thoughts, she would. Somewhere, she kept all his songs secretly. Finally, it was there. Quietly but steadily the note escaped her white throat. Her tutor smiled. Christine's eyes fluttered open, and her heart skipped a beat—to see that smile beneath that strange porcelain mask was all she wanted. Without a word, he turned and leapt back to his place at the organ. That was his praise, that one moment of satisfaction. "Now you may finish the aria without a single note out of place." His fingers brought the instrument to life, and Christine prepared to sing.

"Thank you, Master," she sighed.

On the stage, music was projected forward in pieces. The orchestra below her played, she sang with her fellow chorus members, and the solos rang out above all; each part combined in the audience. However, there, with her teacher, the music came from inside her. She heard each phrase in her mind, and it lifted from her heart already entwined with him because he placed each note within her. There was no chorus, no orchestra, or melody to stay behind. It was only Christine and the Phantom. Two souls forged in harmony resonated above them, surrounding them in music. When he had stopped, she had forgotten to breathe. His hands dropped to his sides as he looked over his shoulder again; one eye was on her, the other behind the mask.

"Bravassima," he congratulated simply. One word included every encouragement she needed. One word portrayed every emotion he needed to while concealing that which he knew had to remain secret.

"Thank you, Angel."

A faint hint of that smile appeared again. It was a thought that entered his mind more than it should: perhaps there was love in her voice now.

Her tears had been agony to hear, falling along with stifled sobs before a brass display of candles lit in distant memories. He had watched her, a bundle of bones and sadness, curled before that poor alter, and sang. In his comfort, she stopped. She listened to his song and began to hum along in a broken imitation. He had heard many talented girls from inside the walls of the opera sing and hum, but only her voice held desperation, need…he sang her to sleep every night so she could not cry anymore.

"You must be my Angel of Music," the girl sighed in her bed with a smile.

"What…what did you call me?" His voice shook in the darkness with affection.

"My…my Angel."