The Christmas Angel

At seven years old, Christine Daae wanted only two things—a loving family with which to share the holiday, and a porcelain doll.

But as of the moment she had neither and was feeling quite sad. Yes, Madame Giry was very kind to her, as was little Meg, but they were not her Papa. She could hear the chatter and bustle in the busy corridor outside her dressing-room door; it only increased as the 25th of December drew nearer. As of late all the commotion had been preventing her from getting much sleep at night—indeed, she was quite a sad little sight, curled up all alone on her bed's faded quilt in the drafty room lit only by watery shafts of sunlight.

And that was when the Angel appeared to change little Christine's life forever.

"Why so downcast, child?"

The girl sat up, looking this way and that with wide, bleary azure eyes. She had heard the voice as clear as day, but to her bafflement there was no one in the room. A low chuckle vibrated through the air, as if the owner of the voice saw her bewilderment. "Don't bother looking for me."

Christine kept scanning the walls and trying to find the source of the voice, but it seemed to be all around her; an encompassing thrum of energy. "What are you?" she breathed, her own tiny voice sounding ever so frail in the wake of the other.

There was a long pause, and when the voice spoke next it sounded mournful. "Not a man…sometimes I feel as though I myself cannot know the answer to that."

"Then you must be an angel," Christine decided. "Someone with such a pretty voice as yours could not be anything but an angel."

A laugh rang out at that, sending gooseflesh rippling up the little girl's arms. The sound only solidified the truth of her words—that disembodied voice was incomparably beautiful; its deep richness caressed the ears and each word curled with a mellifluous note quite like that of a finely-tuned bass cello. "Such flattery," he chuckled.

Then a thought hit the girl—"Wait—you're the Angel of Music!" she gasped, her small, round face paling several shades and then abruptly flushing with excitement. "My Papa said you'd come!" she trilled joyously, bouncing on her haunches and clasping her hands together. "Oh, have you seen him? Did he speak to you and tell you where to find me?"

"I did not have to find you," the voice replied with a hint of amusement, "I was already with you. It is simple—as long as your father's memory is in your heart, I am there as well."

Little Christine beamed. "I will always love my Papa," she said earnestly. "And I will make sure my Angel stays with me too."

"You are a good girl," admonished the Angel. "Your father smiles down on you from Heaven."

"Tell him I love him, please!" pleaded Christine.

Another low chuckle. "He already knows, child…trust me."

And thus, the Angel of Music made his entrance into Christine Daae's life. The two of them talked for hours every day leading up to Christmas with the girl doing most of the talking and the "Angel" sitting behind her dressing-room mirror, listening contently. Over the next few weeks he unconsciously became attached to Gustave Daae's daughter with a fierce and compassionate bond—when she admitted her fears and worries, he was quick to soothe them with warm words; in the rare cases of anger, he extinguished her temper with cool and logical advice. The lonely little Swede had found a friend to confide in, and soon her hours of sorrowful languishing in her dressing-room became a time to which she looked forward the most out of any in the day.

On the 25th day of December, Christine awoke to find three items lying at the foot of her bed—a beautiful porcelain doll, a fresh red rose, and a portrait of her father.