CHAPTER TWO

(in which our heroine cannot make a decision)

Thus began three months of the sublimest joy I have ever known -- and the keenest frustration. Not from grief: my sorrow faded from my mind like a shadow beneath the sun of the Angel's influence. Rather, the Angel Himself frustrated me, strange though it seems to say. My mind, my heart, my voice, my soul itself, my whole being was absorbed in the worship of my Angel. I was childishly possessive of Him, and refused to tell anyone, even Mme. Valerius, exactly what I did during those long hours in my dressing room. But He never seemed to notice my absorption or obsession, still less return it. He remained detached and remote.

It did not matter. Simply to be in His presence fulfilled me, even if I could not see him. I would record every moment in my mind so I might take it out later in the privacy of my lonely bed and listen to it once more before holding it to my heart as though a lover. My Angel was stern, even cold, as He spurred me on to even greater accomplishments. He rarely praised me. I still obeyed, nay, glories in His ever order. I was a votaress of the Angel of Music, I told myself proudly, and tried to put aside my more human feelings towards Him.

They would not be entirely repressed. I loved my Angel, if one could be said to love an disembodied voice. I adored Him as passionately as I had grieved my father. I sat over my dresses and costumes with needle and thread so they would show me to greater advantage than previously, I took more care with the face-paints I wore on stage, I even chose lingerie of fine linen and laces. But I never dared even ask my Angel if it were He who had watched me over the months, still less admit my love. Of course not. He was one of the highest Angels in Heaven. I was a mere mortal, a chorus girl at the Opera. What would He care for my heart?

Yet He was always waiting whenever I came to my dressing room, before or after a performance. I could feel His presence as though He actually stood before me, a man of flesh and blood. Thus, as I changed my clothing, whether or not my dresser was there, would fell into the habit of talking aloud, as though to myself, about anything that came to mind. No doubt my dresser thought me very eccentric, at the least. I cared not. My Angel was there, and that was all that mattered.

"Messieurs Poligny and Debienne are leaving their positions at last, I understand," Christine said one night, drawing up her skirt to undo her garters. She could afford only one pair of silk stockings, and wore them for performances only; outside, plain wool must do. A pity. Silk felt wonderful against her skin.

Only silence answered her, as usual, but Christine could feel her Angel watching her. She smiled to herself and drew one stocking slowly down her leg, allowing herself to enjoy the slide of silk against her skin. Perhaps it was sinful, but she remembered the same feeling of eyes upon her for long before her Angel spoke. He might be divine, but she was human, and woman, and not unwilling to remind Him of that as often as she might.

"There is to be a great gala performance this Friday," she added lightly, dropping the silk stocking on her dressing table and picking up its woolen counterpart. "I wonder why they are so overjoyed about leaving." Naturally her skirts had to be raised even higher to adjust the garter on the wool stocking, then dropped as she lowered her foot from resting on the chair, then raised again as she put her other foot there.

"I know." The Angel's voice resonated in her head. Did it sound a trifle more hoarse than usual, or was that wishful thinking? "And you must be prepared to sing in it."

"I?" Christine stared down at the silk stocking in her hand, and realized her hand had involuntarily clenched around it. She forced herself to relax. "All the roles must have been assigned weeks ago. Besides, La Carlotta will never --"

"You will sing at the gala, Christine," the Angel said quietly. "No need to fear Carlotta's wrath; it is her role you will sing."

"Carlotta's role?" Christine caught back a surprised laugh. One simply did not laugh at the Angel of Music. "I do not understand," she said, putting down the silk stocking and picking up the wool one to hide her confusion. "Carlotta has an understudy...and even if she didn't, she would never allow me to sing in her place."

"Carlotta's petty jealousies matter not," the Angel said. "It is My will that you shall sing in her place. You need know no more."

Christine shivered at the chill in his voice. "I...I meant no impertinence."

"I did not believe you did." The Angel's voice seemed to retreat away from her, despite the reassuring words.

"No!" A gasp of fear caught in Christine's throat, and she reached out toward the reflection of her window involuntarily. "It has naught to do with You, only my own silly fears, I don't feel ready for something like this..."

"You need not fear," the Angel reassured her. His voice once more filled her mind, gentle and warming as a lover's embrace. "Even as you sing, I shall be with you. Only trust Me and obey Me, and you will sing like an angel yourself, and all Paris will be at your feet."

Despite His assurances, my belly still filled with butterflies as I awaited my entrance that Friday. Carlotta was down with a headcold, her understudy mysteriously fallen ills, and by some miracle of the Angel's doing, M. Poligny had learnt that I knew the pieces Carlotta was to perform, and came to me to replace her.

I drew a deep breath, and heard in my mind, my heart, His voice. It filled me like a growing child, and I had a momentary vision of myself swollen with a babe, and a faceless man standing before me, a man who was nonetheless my Angel. For a moment the vision calmed me...and excited me, recalling my dreams that bewitched me with memories of His voice, tantalized me with shadows and frustrated me as I reached out to Him and found only mist beneath my fingers.

Then I heard my cue, and slowly walked out on stage.

'Tis strange. I remember with perfect clarity what I was thinking about just before the gala. I can also recall what happened after the gala. But the gala itself, my first triumph, I cannot describe with any great degree of detail at all. I remember tensing with fear for a moment, just before I first began to sing -- not fear of Carlotta, though she would certainly make my life a misery for this triumph in her place, but fear of failing my Angel. As He had bidden, I relaxed my muscles, clung to His teaching, and lost myself in the joy of singing. And when I finished the final trio of Faust and stood breathless between the other singers, listening to the applause and watching the entire auditorium rise to their feet in tribute, it was certainly not fear that filled my heart.

I glanced up at Box Five, half-expecting to see even the infamous Phantom applauding -- but as always, there was no sign of anyone in the box. For a moment I actually felt disappointed, before my mood swung to hysterical amusement at my own vanity. Expecting a ghost to applaud me! I nearly burst out laughing there on stage...but then my head began to swim, and Meg Giry helped me off-stage, applause still ringing in my ears.

"Mademoiselle Daae, there's someone here who wants to meet you!"

"Christine, the managers sent their congratulations!"

"Carlotta will be livid with jealousy -- the Comte de Chagny --"

Meg shut the door of Room 13 on the crowd outside as Christine sank into her dressing-table chair. The mirror reflected back her pale face, without revealed the turmoil behind her eyes, the near-panic that made her hands tremble in her lap and her breathing catch and flutter in her throat. Her voice seemed beyond her control now: she barely knew it herself. Where was her dresser? Had Meg sent the woman away? Oh, if only her Angel could appear, right then, in front of her, and take her in His arms, and say --

"Heavens above, Christine, you've been hiding your light under a bushel," Meg said, her slightly nasal voice breaking into Christine's thoughts as she came up behind Christine and bent to unlace the singer's costume. If she had sent the dresser away, at least she meant to take her place. "I've never heard so beautiful a voice from La Carlotta, for all her posturing and airs." Her hands on Christine's laces hesitated a moment, and she sighed wistfully. "What's your secret? Do you have a secret alchemist who spins sound into gold for you?"

"No alchemist," Christine said, smiling at Meg in the mirror, though the younger girl didn't look up to see it. "Besides, a golden voice would be too heavy to use."

"That's not what I mean," Meg said, looking up at the mirror in her turn to meet Christine's eyes with a would-be stern look. "Who taught you to sing like that? You used to sound..."

Like a rusty hinge, Christine thought. But she would not embarrass Meg by saying it.

"...not as well as now," Meg finished instead. She looked away a moment, then leaned forward, her chin resting on Christine's head. "Could he teach me?"

Christine opened her mouth to say no! , then hesitated. No, Meg -- sunny, superstitious Meg who loved dancing but also loved a glass of wine and the attentions of a handsome man -- would never hear the Angel of Music. But surely she deserved more than 'no'. Meg, of all people, might understand... "No," she said slowly. "But...it's hard to explain why. Meg, do you believe in stories?"

"Stories? Like fairy tales?"

"I suppose so." Christine reached up and took Meg's hand where it rested loosely on her shoulder. "My father always told me stories of an Angel of Music that would come to me when he died. For years I dreamed He'd come to me in a flash of light. But it wasn't like that."

"Angel of Music?" Meg shook her head and quickly finished unlacing Christine's gown. She clucked her tongue disapprovingly, either at the story or at the lacing, Christine wasn't certain which. "Christine Daae, what sort of daydream is that?"

"It wasn't just a dream." Christine twisted around to look her friend in the eye. "That is who teaches me. I hear Him, here, in this room, every morning."

Meg stared at her. "But...stories don't come true like that." She sounded like a bewildered child. "Even I know that."

Christine turned back around, her eyes falling on her reflection yet barely seeing herself. "Oh, Meg, I can't explain it properly, I don't have the right words! I can hear Him calling me sometimes, beckoning me to ever-greater heights from Heaven itself...and yet He's always down on earth with me, no matter where I go, close as my shadow..."

"Christine, you're making no sense," Meg said, putting her hand back on Christine's shoulder and shaking her slightly. "It isn't like you to...to talk like this. Are you feeling well? You did faint, after all --"

"I don't know." It hadn't worked. Meg hadn't believed her. For a moment, Christine let her eyes close on a greater darkness: a friend bemazed, her voice beyond her own control, her Angel beyond even her dreams --

Then...a ripple of fire along her skin and within her heart, as if she'd heard His voice. He was there, she knew it -- there, watching, listening.

"Perhaps I am mad," she said softly, rising to her feet. "But I prefer madness with my Angel to the sanity I suffered before."

Silence fell for a moment. Christine carefully drew her costume down off her shoulders, off her hips, the soft fabric caressing her skin like His hands, then stepped out of it entirely. She turned away from the tall mirror almost reluctantly, going to the wardrobe to hang up the costume and take out her street-clothes. She jumped when she heard Meg sigh.

"Have it your way, then, Christine. I only wish this Angel of yours weren't so secretive. I could use a private angel myself. Where did you find him?"

Christine smiled to herself, holding her dress to her breast with one hand. "He found me," she said quietly, shivering with a dark joy. "He's here now."

"Christine? Christine!" Meg seized her free hand, eyes going from the hand to Christine's face. "Merciful heavens, Christine, your hand is chill as a corpse!"

Christine turned away, gently pulling free her hand and laying her dress on the dressing table. "At least my spirit is no longer dead," she said softly.

"And your face is pale as a ghost...Christine, are you certain you're well? Do you want me to call back your dresser, or fetch you a glass of wine?" Meg glanced at the door uncertainly.

"Quite certain." Christine summoned a smile for the younger girl. "You'd better go, or you'll miss the dinner entirely."

Meg reluctantly left, and Christine picked up the gown she was to wear to that same dinner...then laid it back down. The Angel was with her here, now. She had little desire to go down and face the jealous or curious stares of the other singers at the dinner, little desire to leave His presence.

"Are you well, Christine?"

Christine smiled despite herself, and stretched sinuously, feeling a pleasant exhaustion creep into her awareness as tense muscles and vibrating nerves began to relax at last. "Only tired. Keeping up to Your high standards would wear out any woman."

"So long as you love only Me."

"I sing for You alone." Christine felt her cheeks heat, and bent to pick up her gown again to hide her embarrassment. Love only the music, He had said often enough before now, but never had He demanded what she truly wanted to give. "I have given You my soul..." she dared a look at the mirror, but it remained inscrutably blank except for her own reflection. "...and exhausted myself."

No answer. Perhaps He had left after all, though her skin still prickled with the sense of His presence. Christine bit her lip, and irritably threw her gown back on her dressing table. She must take off her face-paints before she could dress, at least if she thought to dress alone. She sat down in front of her dressing table and began to wipe her face clear with one of the rags she kept there.

"No emperor could have so rare a gift."

Her hand froze at the rich murmur of His voice.

"The angels wept tonight, Christine."

She put down the rag, clenching her free hand as she felt herself blush again in unwilling pride. Such praise -- oh, she felt giddy, as if the words had gone to her head. No wonder He so rarely spoke thus to her.

A moment of silence passed while she collected her composure, and finished removing the paint from her face.

"Christine."

The whisper was so soft Christine was scarcely certain she heard it. She raised her head slightly.

"Get dressed, ma chere," the breath of Voice advised her. "Even an angel may be tempted at last."

Christine looked back over her shoulder at the tall mirror, eyes wide. Nothing, only her own surprised expression looking back at her. No sign of the Angel, no sense of His immortal presence any longer.

Maybe she'd imagined it.

Christine rose to her feet and picked up her dress again, smiling to herself.

Then again, maybe not.

This does not, of course, correspond with Raoul's account of that evening. He would have you believe that he entered my room, spoke with me, and tried to soften the hard heart of cruel Mademoiselle Daae. Raoul was ever overly fond of his own importance. And yet...and yet...he was young, and handsome, and the first man who spoke of love to me.

In truth, I did not see him in person until nearly a month after the gala.
"Christine! Christine Daae!"

Christine turned quickly, half-expecting to find herself finding herself facing another stranger who wished to belatedly (very belatedly) compliment her on her triumph at the gala while ogling her body, another obstacle to avoid. Instead, she saw Raoul de Chagny, running down the hallway to catch up with her. Once at her side, he smiled down at her, catching his breath. "You walk faster than you used to, Mademoiselle Daae."

"Perhaps," Christine said, looking away from him. "What are you doing backstage, monsieur?"

"Renewing an old acquaintance," he said with slightly petulant cheerfulness. "My elder brother has brought me here several times recently; he's enamored of the principal danseur and wants the excuse. And I saw you, and wanted to speak with you. I came with him on the night of the gala, but your door was closed --"

"So you have spoken with me," Christine said, trying not to sound as impatient as she felt. She had no desire to talk about the Comte: she'd heard more than enough about his courtship of Sorelli, and the one time she had met Phillipe de Chagny, he had looked down his nose at her and turned his back as if she were not worth even the looking. More importantly, the Angel waited for her even now, in Room 13. "You have no reason to linger, I have not lost my scarf."

Raoul's face crumpled as if she had called him hard names. He did not protest, only looked at her with the same lovely brown eyes that had won her heart years ago, and held out one hand beseechingly.

"Please, Raoul." Her voice softened despite herself. "I must be going."

"You weren't like this before," Raoul said, not petulant but wistful. He let his hand fall back to his side. "You always had time to spend with me."

"But I am a grown woman, now, who must work for her living," Christine said. "Just as you are a grown man."

"Of course." He bowed to her, hands correctly folded behind him. "I am honored to have seen you again."

"The honor is mine. Perhaps I shall see you later." Christine turned and hurried down the corridor before Raoul could answer, as quickly as manners would allow.

The Angel was indeed waiting. No sooner had Christine locked the door than He demanded, "Why are you late?"

"An old friend wanted to greet me." Christine went over to her dressing table and began idly rearranging the pots there, trying to pretend she wasn't avoiding looking up at the window or the mirror. Raoul had been more than a friend for just a little while...but that was long ago, she assured herself, and sat to hide the fact that her legs trembled.

"The Vicomte Raoul de Chagny is an old friend, is he? How charming." The Angel's voice cut with a cold fury Christine had never heard before, not even when she sang her worst.

"I knew him when we were children," Christine said quickly -- too quickly, she realized as she heard herself, but the words were already out. "My father used to tell us stories, and give him violin lessons. We were children."

"Your face is flushed, Christine," the Angel said, voice still sharp as winter wind. "What are you hiding from Me?"

Christine felt herself flush even more, but paused a moment before answering. "Nothing," she said finally. "Monsieur le Vicomte hasn't...grown up...well."

Another, longer silence. Christine held her breath. When the Angel spoke again, He spoke only of music.

With that encounter, the fat was well and truly in the fire. Silly, inexperienced, ignorant girl! Raoul took my 'perhaps' as a promise rather than politeness: as the weeks passed, I could scarcely turn around without encountering his expensive gifts, his charming words, his reproachful notes, or Raoul himself, watching me with those brown eyes that begged for attention like a puppy's.

I felt flattered -- who would not, pursued by such a devoted admirer? Besides, once, years before, I had fancied myself in love with him. A suitably tragic affair, since our stations in life separated us, until the more practical separation of distance broke it off. Now we had more still to divide us. Even if we had been of the same rank, even had I wished to take Raoul for my suitor, my bond with the Angel of Music forbade any admirers that might take me away from the music.

Alas, I had little choice about listening to Raoul's suit. He became more and more insistent, sensing my hesitation...for after a while, in spite of my better judgement, I began to thaw to his courting, remembering the boy he had been and seeing him in the man he was now. The Angel of Music, in turn, more and more often seemed to forget Himself, and spoke in cold anger that at once terrified me with the prospect of His leaving me alone, and thrilled me with the childish thought that He spoke so out of jealousy.

It should have been a simple choice, perhaps. My invisible Angel laid all Paris at my feet, and made me feel feminine, sensual, even wanton, in ways that Raoul could never begin to approach. But how can one have a love affair with a man -- a Being -- one has never seen and cannot touch? How can such a love last? I had loved Raoul once, after my youthful fashion, and he wanted to make me love him again. But he seemed so young, as though he were still the boy I had loved, and I -- I did not know if I were still that girl. And so I hesitated, trying to choose which path to take, what to do...

"Have you decided?"

The quiet finality of the words froze Christine in the act of removing her face-paint. He slowly put down the rag, and studied her reflection as though she'd never seen herself half-made-up before, trying to keep her eyes away from the accusing image of the tall mirror "Decided?"

"You must do so eventually," the Angel reminded her, oh so gently...yet Christine could hear the steel anger beneath the velvet of His voice. "You have not sent your lover away as I bade you. I do not make empty threats, Christine."

"Wait!" Christine turned hastily to face the tall mirror. "I beg of You, don't leave --"

"Then decide."

"I..." Christine sighed. A headache pressed at her temples. If only -- oh, if only her Angel were real, were a mortal man, then this would be simpler. And if wishes were horses...stop wishing for what cannot be, Christine Daae. "I go to Perros tomorrow." The new managers had quickly forgotten her again, so permission to escape for a day had been easily obtained.

"For the anniversary of your father's death, I know," the Angel said, His voice gentle once more. "He smiles on you every day, I swear it." He paused for a moment, then His voice hardened. "But you wish to ask him about your lover."

"Raoul de Chagny is not my lover," Christine protested, but hesitated before going on, summoning her courage. "I did send him a note, telling him where I am going. Please, I am trying to make up my mind to send him away..."

"I know," the Angel said, His voice soft as a lover's touch once more. "Only be faithful to Me, resist temptation...and I shall play for you, on your father's violin, at his tomb at midnight."

Christine bowed her head to hide her relief. She would have to succeed somehow. She had loved Raoul once, when a child. Now she was a grown woman, and the Angel held her heart and soul. She could never give Him up.