Pretty in Pink to Beautiful in Black

As a little girl, Aminta had loved wearing dresses, especially fancy ones. After she ended her withdrawal from the world, she took to wearing masculine clothing, and all in black: black shirt, black leggings, black boots, even the ribbon she tied her long dark hair back with was black (the ribbon was actually tied around a blood-red rose that she found in her mother's vanity. One of many. She knew where they had come from). All this contrasted starkly with her pale skin and now-cloudy sapphire eyes. She returned to her piano, trying to teach herself to play without being able to see. With practice, she became quite good. But she never sang. For though she had inherited most of her mother's looks, she had not received her angelic voice. Her parents encouraged her to keep trying, but she gave up. But, for their sake, she tried to be more pleasant than she had been since the accident that took her sight. She attended her mother's performances and learned to paint a picture of the play in her mind from what she heard. It wasn't the same as seeing, but it was as close as she was going to get. She discovered that, if she held an object long enough, running her fingers over every inch of it, she could picture it in her mind. Often she could be found holding something and turning it over and over in her hands so she could "see" it. She started a game with her parents where one of them would close their eyes and the others would place an object in their hands and they would have to guess what the object was. Eventually, though, Aminta tired of the rather childish game when it became too easy for her. More and more she immersed herself in her books.

Books Aminta had always loved because they challenged her already wild imagination, and she had made a supreme effort to learn Braille as quickly as possible to read them again. Blind as she was, it was easier now for her to imagine what was happening in the book. They were all she had, and this scared her parents. They were afraid that she would completely forsake the world and everyone in it. She couldn't live in books and dreams.

"Aminta, my dear, we need to talk."

Aminta sighed. She had heard her father's breathing in the doorway for the last twenty minutes. She had hoped that she would at least be able to finish the chapter she was reading before he spoke. Oh well, she could get to that later. She marked her place in her book with a strip of silk and looked up in the direction her father's voice had come from. "About what?"

"About you." She heard the armchair in front of her creak as someone sat in it. "Dearest, you spend far too much time in your books. You need to come out and socialize sometimes."

"I eat with you, don't I?" she replied with a smile.

"You know that's not what I mean," Raoul said, but she could hear the smile in his voice. "You should go out with us more, make some new friends."

"My books are my friends," she said patiently. She frowned. "Did you just put out my candle?"

"Um, yes," said Raoul a little uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, but you know that your scented candles give me a headache."

"All the more reason for you to stay out of my room," she said amiably. She could almost hear her father frown.

"Aminta," he said warningly. "It's not good for you to spend so much time alone."

"But I'm not alone," she said mysteriously, deciding to have some fun at her father's expense.

"Oh really?" Raoul asked. "And whom are you with?"

"The Angel of Music," she replied with a sly smile.

"Aminta!" he said sharply. Aminta blinked in surprise. "You know that your mother and I don't like it when you talk that way. There is no Angel of Music."

"No indeed, not since you tore his wings from him," she muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." There was a long pause. "If there is nothing else, I'd like to finished this chapter now. I'll be down soon for dinner." Whereupon she opened her book pointedly. Raoul sighed, as did his chair when he rose.

"Just think on what I said," he said as he left. Aminta sighed in irritation. This was not the first time this particular conversation had come up between them.

"Why can't he just leave me alone?" she said to herself. She began to read again. By and by, she heard someone humming a beautiful tune she could've sworn she had heard before. It took her a few minutes to realize that it was she herself humming. She remember the tune now, she had heard it in a dream once. But the name eluded her. She didn't care. She just kept humming and reading, until she heard hurried footsteps coming towards her. From the lightness of the steps, she could tell it was her mother. And she was worried for some reason. Ah well. Christine was always worried about something. She ignored her and continued reading.

"Where did you hear that song?" Christine demanded when she had reached the doorway.

"A dream," replied Aminta. "Why are you so upset?"

"I'm not upset," said Christine, trying to compose herself. But she was. Aminta had been humming "Music of the Night".

"You sound upset."

"I'm not."

"All right." There was a pause. "I take it you'd like me to come down for dinner now?"

"Please," said Christine. "We're waiting for you." She turned and Aminta heard her footsteps fading away. She sighed, marked her book again, took her walking-stick, and made her way downstairs.