Little Lotte
Christine sat at the vanity, thoughts leaving her mind as soon as they entered it. She feared that if she convinced them to stay, her head would become too crowded and she would go mad. So instead, she let them come and go as they pleased, while she gently stroked the ribbon tied to the rose from her Angel. She occasionally raised the flower to her nose, breathing in the glorious scent. The blossom was perfectly formed, its shape balanced and its color bold. Still, no matter the perfection of the rose in her hands, her gaze and fingers always traveled back to the simple black ribbon tied with such care around the green stem.
He is pleased with you… She let Madame Giry's words trickle into her mind. The thought that she might have pleased her master sent a thrill that raced through her and coiled warmly in her center.
Imagine, being taught by an angel, then pleasing that angel! Christine couldn't fathom it, thought she tried earnestly. A memory came to her, something she had heard once from one of the members of the ballet corps months ago. A single rose, the dancer had whispered one night, was the sign of a secret tryst between the giver and receiver. An Angel, though, could never fall in love with a corporeal being like her, could he?
Her concentration was broken when the door opened and the noise from the hall spilled into the quiet room. Her hand stilled, the silk ribbon still entwined in her fingers.
"Little Lotte let her mind wander…"
The voice, a man's, was pleasant, and intensely familiar. Christine froze in shock. It couldn't be, could it?
"Little Lotte thought, 'Am I fonder of dolls or goblins or shoes?'"
"Raoul!" she exclaimed, and turned in her chair to face him.
Raoul smiled at her and continued the poem as he placed a bouquet of flowers on an arbitrary table. "'Or of riddles or frocks?'"
Christine, too, smiled, remembering the days of precious, innocent youth gone by. "Those picnics in the attic," she trailed off, recalling the treasured memories.
"'Or of chocolates?'" he finished, raising an eyebrow.
"Father playing the violin…" she said wistfully.
Raoul knelt before her, meeting her eye. "As we read to each other dark stories of the North," he added.
"No," Christine whispered. "'What I love best,' Lotte said, 'is when I'm asleep in my bed…'" Christine let her word trail into song, Raoul softly echoing her. "And the Angel of Music sings songs in my head; the Angel of Music sings songs in my head."
The moment enveloped them for an instant, and then Raoul leaned in and embraced Christine tenderly.
"You sang like an Angel tonight," he said, his warm breath whispering in her hair.
She let her eyes flutter closed for an instant. She had always felt safe in his arms, even when they were children. Reluctantly, she pulled away, intent to share with him what she had told Meg earlier.
She caught his gaze and looked straight into his deep brown eyes. "Father said, 'When I'm in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.' Well, Father is dead, Raoul, and I have been visited by an angel…the Angel of Music!" She couldn't help but let the excitement prance into her voice.
"Oh, no doubt of it," Raoul said, nodding his head firmly. "And now, we go to supper." He rose and started for the door.
"No, Raoul-the Angel of Music is very strict!" There was a slight glint of panic in her tone, but Raoul seemed not to notice it, though he did halt his steps.
"Well, then, I shan't keep you up late!" He chuckled at the joke, but Christine's panic turned to dread.
"No, Raoul…"
"You must change. I'll order my carriage. Two minutes, Little Lotte." He was out of the room and shutting the door behind him before she could rise from her seat at the vanity.
"Raoul! No, wait!" she called, but her efforts were futile-he had already gone.
She bit her bottom lip to keep the tears from trickling down. She had tried so hard to help him see just what the Angel of Music meant to her, but Raoul didn't understand. Perhaps it was her fault; maybe she hadn't explained herself well enough, and he thought she was still playing games of make-believe. She hadn't been, though, and still wasn't. Her Angel was real-she knew it.
She built a dam within herself to keep the flood of emotions at bay. This had been quite possibly the longest day of her life, and she felt enervated, as though she had already aged a dozen lifetimes. Some part of her wanted to go to dinner with Raoul, but she knew she wouldn't be very good company-she felt too weary and empty. She didn't have anything more to give anyone tonight.
Raoul would just have to understand.