Lysandre burst into her dressing room, sobbing in anger and frustration. This was only her second month at the Opera Garnier, and for what seemed to be the millionth time she had been the butt of all of Carlotta's jokes. No matter how many times Lysandre had told her to shove it up her oversized ass, the prima donna had been relentless. Now, she had gone too far in insulting Lysandre's voice. True, Lysandre was painfully out of practise, but she still sounded alright in the chorus. Besides, who asked Carlotta? Someone needs to tell that bitch the rule of opinions, thought Lysandre bitterly, Opinions are like asses: everyone has one and personally, I think her's stinks. Wiping the tears from her eyes, Lysandre forlornly sat down at her vanity.

"Great," she muttered, "Now my eyemakeup is going to smear. Just what I need." Sniffling, she took a hankie and wiped the smoky makeup from her eyelids, not really caring if she looked like a hot mess. "What does La Carlotta know about singing anyway?" She asked herself, "It's not like she can sing herself!" Lysandre broke down again, weeping and feeling like a total child. She never was much of a crier. She thought that sadness was a total waste of time. But sometimes it was an emotion that was very much needed. Her hands fingered the locket around her neck, containing the black silhouette of her father.

"Oh, Papa," she said, "Where is the Angel of Music you promised me? Granted, I would expect something more of a faerie or nymph, but if Angel works for you then that's fine with me." She smiled briefly, remembering the dark stories of the north that her father used to tell her when she was a young child.

Suddenly, Lysandre's head snapped up. What was that sound? It sounded like someone was singing...and it seemed to be coming from the mirror! Lysandre hopped up and grabbed the first weapon she saw: a parasole. Holding it up like a sword, she glared at the glass in front of her.

"Creeper!" She exclaimed, "What are you doing behind my mirror?"

"My dear, surely you would recognise the Angel of Music?" He said, in a voice that was, admittedly, lovely, "I have been watching you for quite some time."

Lysandre blanched. "You've been watching me undress?" She screeched.

"No, of course not!" He retorted, "The Angel of Music is not so low as to give in to earthly lusts!" Not very reassurred, Lysandre lowered her mock weapon.

"What do you want from me?" She asked.

"I only wish to tutor you," he said, "Your father sent me to be your Angel."

"Odd," said Lysandre, "I was expecting a faerie or a nymph. But, if Angel works for you then that's fine with me."

"You should know that there must be rules, then," said the voice.

"Alright," Lysandre grumbled, none too thrilled at the thought, "What are the rules?"

"You must devote yourself entirely to music," he said.

"Fair enough."

"You may not allow your mind to wander. You are to give up all social events, be it going out with friends or attaining a suitor."

"Fuck that!" Lysandre exclaimed, "Listen here, Bigshot, you aren't keeping me from my friends."

"If you disobey me, then I shall leave and you will never hear from me again."

"So?" She scoffed, "See if I care. You aren't the only voice teacher in Paris, you know. Angel of Music be damned, you can't keep me from seeing my friends or gentleman callers. You see this face?" She pointed to her visage, "It's well-liked, and I have inalienable rights to keep hold of. If I want a suitor, then I'll have one!"

The next time the voice spoke, it seemed farther away than before. "Clearly, Lysandre, upstaging Carlotta means nothing to you. I could make you the most famous woman in all of France, but if that's not what you want..."

Lysandre folded her arms coolly. "Look mister, if you want to make me a singer, by all means, go ahead. But I have some rules for you. You cannot and will not control my life. I'm a woman, not your dog. I know how to listen and follow directions, but let's keep the schooling as schooling and not rule my personal life. Who I go out with is no concern of yours. You're high if you think otherwise."

There was a long silence, and Lysandre thought for a minute that it was a lost cause, and that she really did just give up a chance to be taught by the Angel (or faerie or nymph) of Music. She crossed over to the divan and lay down upon it, not really caring if she never got an answer from the mysterious voyeur who hid behind her mirror (why would she want lessons from the pedo-bear, anyways?).

Finally, she heard him speak again. "Fine," he snapped. Lysandre smirked. She knew she would get her way.

"Here's a little something you should know," she said, "I am always right."