Dearest Cecilia,
Now, as I watch you, sleeping in your cradle, I cannot believe I was blessed with you. My entire life has been spent escaping the tragedy of my father's death. I pray you never feel that pain yourself at so young an age. I realize that all the roads I've taken and been taken down have lead me to this place, your father as my husband, a man who would rather die than see either of us harmed or pained, and you, our first child.
But I fear for you already. I know one day, you'll hear his voice too. You'll hear his words, his song, his music, and so deeply in love with it, the rest of the world will fall away. I know this because I did. I escaped him and he has let me go. You, however, are within his sight and I know he will find you one day. Your dreams will be delirious with the music that only he can write. He'll write for you one day too. A song for you, for your grace, for your beauty, for your love.
Despite what my mind tells me, I tell you what my heart says: follow that music. Follow it, be one with it, and your heart and soul will go higher than anything any physical pleasure could ever achieve. I know you will not be sucked into his world and become a prisoner of it like I did. You will be stronger and you will follow your dreams without inhibition.
I love you, Cecilia Erika, more than you could ever know. You will sing and the world will fall at your feet.
The Angel of Music will fall at your feet.
With All My Heart & Soul, Your Mother, Christine Daae
Cecilia read the letter for the thousandth time. The paper still smelled like her mother's rose oil perfume, the crease lines from reading it so many times only magnifying the beautiful handwriting. She folded it again and placed it in her box. A knock came at the dressing room door.
"Cecilia? Five minutes to curtain," Mademoiselle Meg, the new ballet mistress, said through the door. Cecilia turned back to her reflection and double checked her hair. The stars in her hair glistened beautifully. She rose and started for the door, her long white dress for Act Three trailing behind her.
At the last minute, she turned and went back to her box. Opening it, she pulled out its contents. Her mother's letter, the article about her father's opera house going up in a fire, the announcement for l'Opera de Paris' performance of Hannibal. Finally, she reached what she wanted to get. Lifting it gently, she kissed it, holding it close.
"Guide me tonight," she whispered, placing it back on her table. She returned all the other things to her box. She quickly exited the dressing room to the stage.
When she returned to her dressing room, that of the resident prima donna, she exhalled deeply. Outside her door, the celebration began for the successful premiere of the show. Her eyes caught a welcome sight on her vanity, tears she stopped from her successful performance welling up again.
A red rose with a black ribbon rested beside the white mask. Her Angel was pleased.