PROLOGUE

(wherein memories are revisited, and our heroine first hears of the Angel of Music)

The Opera Ghost really existed, true. But M. de Chagny's version of the story leaves out certain facts. Poor Raoul! He thought it began at the Gala on the night of M. Debienne and M. Poligny's retirement. For him, perhaps it did. For me, it began as a mere girl, sitting at my father's knee.

I can barely recall my mother. She lingers in my memory as the shimmer of golden hair in the firelight, and a sweet voice singing me to sleep. My father would never talk about her, no matter how much I begged. My mother was dead and gone, rest her soul, we lived in France now, better to forget.

And for nine months of the year, we did forget. But summertime was outside all such restrictions. We roamed the Normandy countryside like a pair of gypsies during the summer, paying our way with my voice and his violin, carefree and content. Best of all, as we walked from town to town, or when a rainy afternoon confined us to a barn with no audience, my father would tell me stories...dark legends of the far North, bold tales of the Sweden of my birth. The Angel of Music haunted them all.


"Daddy, who is the Angel of Music?" Christine asked suddenly. They'd been trapped in this barn for -- well, she didn't know how long, only that the skies had opened and they'd had to run for it, and her father had hardly said a word. She was tired of rainy silence. "You keep talking about Him, but you don't say who He is."

Her father looked up from rubbing a soft rag over his violin, and chuckled, his dark eyes sparkling even in the rain-dimmed light. "There is not much to say, Christine. The Angel of Music is the protector of we musicians."

"That's not right," she said stubbornly. "He didn't protect Little Lotte. She only heard Him in her dreams."

He laughed again, and set aside his violin onto a pile of hay. "But Lotte died at a very old age nevertheless, after all her adventures. Perhaps I chose the wrong word. He is more our patron than our protector."

Christine leaned forward and looked up at her father with the widest blue eyes she could manage. They had been busy the past few days, always in company with no time for stories, and she longed for one.

Her father leaned back against the rough stone wall of the barn and paused with elaborate care, drawing out her suspense. "During Creation, God laughed with joy," he said at last. "From that laughter was born the Angel of Music. He lives in a grand palace made of clouds in Heaven, from which He comes to grant what the unknowing might call genius."

He paused too long this time, and Christine had to prompt him. "To whom does he give it? Everyone?"

He shook his head and smiled at her. "Not to every man and woman, little one. Only to a great musician, or one who will be great. He stays for but a little while, before leaving again, and most often He comes but once in a lifetime. And sometimes," he added, so softly she could barely hear him, "you do not realize He has come until He has left you." He fell silent again, looking down at his hands, his face entirely hidden in shadow. The rain pattered on the roof.

Christine leaned her head against the hay, waiting for him to go on. She recognized the mood. Daddy had learned most of these stories from her mother. He said he remembered her in the telling. Sometimes he would tell her a little bit about Mama, but he didn't seem to be in that mood today -- and Christine refused to give up her story. "Daddy?" she said at last. "When does He come?"

He looked up from his hands, tear tracks on his cheeks. "Sometimes He comes to their cradle, as with Lotte," he said, voice gruff, "which is why young children like you can sometimes play better than old men like me."

"You're not old!"

"Fond daughter." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "That's not all, Christine. The Angel comes later in life, if He sees a child who won't behave, won't listen to the song in her head, or won't practice. Then He waits until she has learned the error of her ways before blessing her efforts with His presence."

"I practice," she said quickly, winding a lock of hair around one finger and tugging on it nervously.

Her father reached up and rescued her finger from her hair. "I know, Christine. But to some, He never comes...those who hate, who joy in evil, those who anger the Angel, they will never hear Him." He sat back again, slowly. "Aye, if their hearts are black as coal, if they have no knowledge of virtue, then the Angel will never come."

Christine shivered and sat up straight, vowing to herself she would never be one of those unfortunates. She'd do her needlework every day, and she wouldn't skip practice any more. The Angel would come to her -- He had to. But how could she tell when He did? "Daddy? What does He look like?"

"No one ever sees the Angel of Music, little one." Her father wasn't looking at her, but gazing at the rain beyond the barn door, eyes distant as if listening to a far-off symphony. "They only hear heavenly voices, divine music, at the moment when they expect Him least. After that, they cannot touch an instrument, or open their mouths to sing, without putting all mankind and his works to shame." He sighed, then looked back at her, stroking her hair back out of her eyes.

Christine sighed also, dreaming of the day when she would hear that heavenly music. "Was that how you heard it, Daddy?"

He bent and picked up his violin again without meeting her eyes, and began carefully rubbing it with the cloth he took from his pocket. "I never truly heard the Angel, Christine," he said quietly. "I've never been able to live up to His dictates." He looked up at last, the old naughty twinkle in his dark eyes. "But that doesn't mean you won't. When I die and go to Heaven, I'll ask him to make a special visit."

"Oh, Daddy!" Christine shook her head at him. He didn't need to make the promise: she already knew it would happen. When her father was dead, if the Angel of Music had not yet visited her, then at last He would come and she would be the most beautiful singer ever.


Poor, silly, vain Christine. I had not yet met Raoul de Chagny, but my life already wound around stories. Long before he ran into the sea after my scarf, I had been brought up on tales of angels and spirits, of the handsome prince who appeared out of nowhere to save the beautiful young maiden from the ugly demon. It was easy to convince myself we two embodied those tales, especially when we wandered about together as children do, and were teased gently for being such a perfect couple, with my fair childhood prettiness and his innocent face under a cap of dark hair.

Poor silly children that we were...