I spent only a week at the school before I was once again ripped out of familiar (if only a little) place and dropped into a new room. The other students grew jealous, for this room was something of prize in their eyes. It was larger than the others and secluded in its own corridor. The room itself made no sense. The location was undoubtedly strange, like the architect had thrown it in at the last minute with no purpose in mind. It was quite lovely, actually, but I found it odd that I should live there. Why me, and why after a week somewhere else? I didn't understand.

I soon grew lonely. I had made one friend, Meg Giry, a shy girl who lived in the nearest room. Introverted and fearful, we started the relationship cautiously. She was a sweet girl, and I liked her. Some of the other students found it amusing to remind her of her mother's position at the school and doubted how much of Meg's admittance had been based on merit. Of course, those same fools hungered jealously for Meg's incredible dancing ability.

My music lessons were going terribly. My teacher, Monsieur Dubose, hated me. It seemed his vocabulary consisted only of words of criticism. "Dreadful! Hopeless! A waste of time!"

One night I lay in my new bed, contemplating my particularly dreary day. Monsieur had sent me from my lesson early, proclaiming, "Child, there is nothing I can do with you! Your voice died long ago. This school is reserved for those who wish to make a career from their talents, but you have no hope of that. I know there are many youths who are eager to be in your place."

His words drove me to tears. Auntie sent me here with such dreams of glory and fame. How could I disappoint her so? I missed her, missed her so much that it hurt to think of home, but I couldn't leave now. Auntie had given me so much; I wanted to repay her with her wish.

There, in the dark silence of my room, I began to cry once again. All this pain for nothing. I would never grace any stage. What was the point?

Then a miracle occurred. A smooth, sweet whisper swept into the room, flooding my ears with harmonious sound.

". . .Christine. . ."

I sat up, suddenly alert.

". . .Christine . . ."

The voice grew louder, its beauty piercing my very core. Only the softest sound, yet so perfectly pitched! So wonderfully like music. My ears yearned to hear it again - to hear it forever!

"Christine!"

It struck me that the voice might want a response, "Who's there? How do you know my name?"

"Oh, Miss DaaƩ, I know much about you. I know you are miserable here. I know that you cry because your music teacher is a fool. You mustn't weep so. It pains me."

"You flatter me, but who are you?"

"I am there, always, if you need me. No matter where you are, I will hear and come to you if you call."

I was growing annoyed, "Yes, yes, that's all very well and good, but to what name should I call?" I laughed, sure this was nothing more than a thrilling dream, "Only a ghost or an angel could hear from anywhere and everywhere! Which are you?"

"I am both ghost and angel, but to you always the latter."

"Then, Angel you shall be. But of what, pray tell? Mind reading? That's what it seems!"

"The angel. . .of music."

"Very well. Angel of Music it is. I've heard of you from. . ." I paused, pained by the memory of my father, "my father. He spoke of you often. I am much obliged that you visit me!"

I waited patiently for a reply, but all was silent. I laughed to myself. I must have been hallucinating. I had finally going crazy! Angel of Music indeed!