"Wandering child..So lost, so helpless..Yearning for my guidance.."

Christine rolled over in her bed, her slim body twitching anxiously as she murmered "Angel or father? Friend or phantom? Who is it there, staring?"

Beautiful eyes glowed at her as his perfect lips sang soulfully "Have you forgotten your Angel?"

No! She wanted to scream. Christine's head thrashed wildly into her pillow. No! No! No! In her sleep she whispered "Angel, oh, speak,What endless longings,Echo in this whisper.."

"Too long you've wandered in winter..Far from my fathering gaze.."

"Wildly my mind beats against you.."

"Yet your.."

"Yet the.."

"...soul obeys!"

"CHRISTINE!"

Christine jerked awake. Her chocolate brown eyes widdened with shock, then disappointment.

"You were dreaming again, I assume." Christine's stepmother stared at her with a deep scowl from the doorway.

"Apprently so..." Christine sighed in exasperation then ran her hand though her curly hair as she gazed dejectedly at the women she loathed.

Her stepmother's lips curled into a snicker. "Well keep it down, Angel of Music!" She spat as she turned and strutted down the hallway.

Christine turned her chin to gaze out the window. Although she was burning up because of the fireplace in her room, she pulled her covers to her chest. Lately, she had been getting very little sleep. Part of it was due to these tormenting dreams. The other part would be that her father had been gone for the past two weeks.

Since she was little, her parents used to sing her to sleep. Her father would play his violin, and her mother would sing. Her mother would also tell her stories of Little Lotte, the child who possessed unearthly singing skills from a mysterious man. This comforting routine continued for several years, however, fate can't be to kind. Christine's mother had been trying in vain to have children for years, with no success. If she did get pregnant, the child miscarried. When Christine was nine, her mother passed from giving childbirth to her second child, and the child didn't make it through the night. Fate left Christine and her father alone, and that day, something changed permentatly. was a famous wedding violinist, but after her death, he never played the same. Christine's grandmother had died, she had told her that the music in his heart was gone, and even Christine could not fill it again. When Christine turned thirteen, remarried Carlotta Giudicelli, an Italian opera singer. However, even the busty opera singer could not make play the same. Nobody, except Christine, really noticed that anyways, though.

Christine slowly laid her head back to the cool pillow. It was a crisp fall night, going on winter. They had moved to Paris when Christine was sixteen, because Carlotta wanted to spread her fame to the famous Paris Opera House. It took Carlotta several months to get in with the opera business in Paris, but she had succeeded, and the family had just recently moved into the opera house itself.

You'd think, since Christine came from a wealthy family with big names, she'd be happy. Instead, she was restless and often depressed. Her father rarely noticed her and her stepmother was a witch beyond Hell imagined. Carlotta's voice, contrasting to popular opinion, was god-awful. Christine smiled weakly at this. People had told Christine that she had a voice like a beautiful mockingbird. It was pure, strong, and rang like melodious bells in a church. And her stepmom hated her for it. However, because of her Stepmother's fame, Christine was overlooked as diva. Instead, Christine danced. She wasn't the best ballerina, but she was graceful and coordinated. And this was mainly due to the fact that music soared in her blood.

Often after rehearsals, Christine would excuse herself into a world where nobody but stone knew her. It was in an old watch tower, about 3 miles from the Opera House, but far enough away that people couldn't hear her. It's not that she didn't want them to hear her...it's just that she wanted to be alone. She wanted to pour her soul out to her descesed mother in the silence of music.

And that's when she'd heard him. The voice of her dreams. He sang to her in a deep, masculine tone. His voice was intoxication from the first note. Everytime since she'd gone back, she heard him, and they'd sing their duet. And ever since that night, she'd dreamed of him. Although she'd never seen him, she imagined what he looked like. Intense blue eyes often glowed out at her with perfect lips and gorgeous blonde hair. He was an angel, her angel of music, just like Little Lotte.

But the tower had been destroyed three months ago. The town had decided to knock it down, since it really wasn't of any paticular use anymore except for storage. Plus, rumors had started that a ghost resided there, and the people of Paris were extrememly supersitious. Anyways, the place shattered. And along with the broken tower, Christine's dreams shattered. Her angel gave her hope that someday, she could be a world famous diva. But she hadn't heard from her angel since-except in her dreams.

A silver tear slid down Christine's porcelian cheek. Her hands cradled her face. Oh, how she wished her mother was here. She'd sing to her, and help her find her angel of music. Christine wiped her tears and crawled out of bed. It was almost dawn anyways. She sat down in front of her mirror and perused her face. It was a bit splotchty from crying, but nothing that required make-up. Christine hated make-up, for she really had no need for it. The natural beauty had her mother's slim build, her mother's dark curls, and her mother's porcelen complexion. However, her dark eyes and long lashes came from her father. It was a blessing; she never fretted with mascara. Often Carlotta glared at her, green with jealousy. Carlotta was a beauty, done in make-up and fake hair. Christine was a goddess, dressed in a doll's complexion and long eyeslashes.

"Christine, hurry your lazy ass up! We have to leave in fifteen minutes!"

Christine rolled her eyes, but raked her room for a dress to wear. Today was a big day at the Opera House. They were receiving a new Vicomete and a Composer. All vicomonte's are rats ass', and composers are disgusting old men. Even though rumor said The vicomte Raoul de Changy was gorgeous, Christine would turn her cheek. No man could interest her, unless he could sing like a god, had blue eyes, had blond hair, and used to live in a tower...