Back with another chapter! The third one will probably come soon after this- I'm in quite a writing mood now- I just finished this and I really want to keep going; to get to the good parts! Yep, that's right- I've got some stuff planned out for you.
Disclaimer: No need. You guys- it's FanFiction. It's just a giant disclaimer in itself. All these stories are quite obviously not ours.
Well, that's it, really. Enjoy!
True to their word, Mother and Father began their arrangements for a six- or seven-month tour of the East—anywhere and everywhere they hadn't been before, plus some of the places they'd always longed to revisit. Throughout their planning they constantly reminded me of how I would have to listen to them and obey their instructions lest something dangerous happen, and how I wasn't to complain should the heat become too much for me or if I tired of walking. I understood and agreed; I'd waited so long to travel, I wouldn't dare ruin it now!
But still, another part of me dropped the desire like a hot coal, in favor of staying in that house on the beach, where I could be near to Christine. There were a lot of pretty little girls my age, but I'd hardly batted an eye at any of them until Christine. And it wasn't just that she was pretty—there was something in her face, her eyes, that just exuded a kind of pure, sweet innocence—she was the kind of girl who still believed in fairy tales and angels (though she could very well have been one herself, in my eyes!), and wished for no mortal desire as such. All she wanted was to live on her little cloud, surrounded by unicorns and rainbows—and though it made me smile despite myself when she said so, it also fascinated me, and made me wonder—why couldn't that happen? Why couldn't one go live in their own fairy tale?
And being with Christine was indeed a fairy tale. When we sat together on the beach or went walking in the town, the innocence was still displayed, but with a smatter of common sense, too—she kept her head in public. But, at her house…once inside, the normal world ceased to exist entirely, and there was only me, slowly suspending my disbelief; Christine, lost entirely to her dreams; and her father—the man that wove all these dreams for her.
Her father was a remarkable man. Like Christine, he had the ability to appear perfectly grounded with his fellow men. But for his daughter, he was full of adventures and stories and mystery; all coated with pixie dust. He was the one who slipped the rose-colored glasses on Christine when she looked about the world. But it was a good thing—without her father and his extraordinary imagination, she would be—I hate to say it—utterly dead inside. The beauty and innocence I recognized in her soul would no longer be. Her father was the one thing—the only person in her life who brought her to life as he did. The reason for this was the death of her mother: Christine had been alive and alert and about six years old when her mother passed away. It had nearly killed her (and her father, too, but he was the kind who would never let on how badly he felt), but with her father's help—and her father's music—she remained 'alive' and full of hope and love…and music.
Music was another thing about this family that never ceased to amaze me. Her father was an incredible violinist—and from what I gathered, he'd been a legend in his day. And now, it seemed, he was passing on everything he knew to Christine, who shared his same complete devotion to the art. She played violin beautifully, and piano, the same—but her voice was her true gift; that was quite apparent. She was a little lacking in volume, and still wasn't completely in control of her own instrument—but it was all there. I knew this talent wouldn't go to waste (and how right I was! Ironic, isn't it?), and I told her so frequently.
"You'll be famous, Christine! You'll sing for kings and queens one day!" I would say, after she finished a piece, with her father on the piano as accompaniment. (I myself wasn't entirely musically inclined, but I had an enormous appreciation for it, and recognized whether it was good, bad, or absolutely extraordinary.)
She would always smile modestly, but I knew she was bursting with joy inside at the praise—and at the exhilaration that her song gave her. And then she'd join right in the fantasy, as always.
"Yes, for kings and queens—and I won't be paid like everyone else is; they'll give me a palace to live in!" she would giggle.
"With servants who sing to you at breakfast!"
"Oh! And a dog trained to carry my violin!"
"With a cat to tune it!"
"And a piano that plays by itself!"
"And the Angel of Music to instruct you," her father put in, in his soft, deep voice. Both Christine and I turned to look at him quizzically.
"Who is the Angel of Music?" asked Christine. But I could already see her mind reeling in delight. Angel! Music! Those two words were enough!
"Well, my child…when I am gone—" Christine tried to interject, but her father held up a hand to silence her— "and I am no longer there to instruct you in your music, I will send the Angel of Music to you: he is where all music comes from. He created it, in the beginning, with God at his side. Music is one of the most precious pieces of Heaven to be gifted with, Christine…some are born by the angels of art, or stories, or knowledge to teach. But you, my child," he put a hand to her chin and gently turned her face back to him, as she had been staring off into nothingness in wonder, "were born to the Angel of Music. As a father my task was to teach it to you, as I was born to him, too. But when I am gone…you shall receive instruction from the greatest musician of all. Your Angel."
Christine and I sat there before him, dumbstruck.
"Am I…am I the only one who will be taught by the Angel of Music?" she asked him breathlessly.
"There are indeed few who are taught by the Angel, but no, you are not the only one: I don't believe I've ever told you of Lotte, little Lotte?"
Christine shook her head, and snuggled down into the armchair where she sat to get comfortable for the story. Nothing delighted her more than a new story told by her father.
"Well. Little Lotte, as she was known, was a young girl—like yourself—who lived with her grandmother, because both her parents had passed away just after her birth. But it was clear from the start that she was one for music. She loved her stories; she loved her fantasies; she loved her imagination—but there was nothing she loved more than music. Why? Because, since her parents weren't there to teach it to her, she was taught by the Angel of Music—and with the Angel, music isn't just music—it's an incredible dream from which the pupil never awakes."
Christine's mouth was slightly open by now, as she listened to her father's tale. I smiled at the sight, but in all honesty, the story intrigued me just as much as it did her.
"And Lotte lived in this dream her whole life, with the Angel of Music by her side. There's a song, in fact…" he added thoughtfully, and sang softly (for he, too, was gifted with quite a voice): "Little Lotte let her mind wander…Little Lotte thought: Am I fonder of dolls…or of goblins, of shoes…or of riddles, of frocks…or of chocolates?"
Christine giggled, and her father winked at me. I smiled, too, but I was still too awestruck by the whole thing that all I wanted was for him to go on.
"No—what I love best, Lotte said, is when I'm asleep in my bed: and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head…"
Christine echoed softly, "The Angel of Music sings songs in my head…"
I don't remember much else about that night, but my family arrived shortly afterwards to collect me (while they planned, they let Philipe play ball on the beach with his friends, and I stayed with the Daaés). I said my goodbyes, and as the door closed behind me, I heard Christine speak in a dreamy voice: "Shall I meet him tonight, Father? Shall he come tonight?"
If he was to come that night for Christine, I did not know—I didn't hear her father's reply. I got in the waiting carriage with Mother and Father and Philipe. During the ride my thoughts dwelled only on Christine and the Angel of Music…whoever that divine being was.
At the time, I listened to the story as avidly as she, and believed in it just as much. But somewhere inside me, I did know that the day would come when I would have to give these fantasies up.
My only worry was that Christine didn't know that, and I couldn't imagine the state she'd be in when she finally had to….
Eh oui. Review!