Christine hardly slept that night. Her thoughts of Raoul were accompanied by a mix of elation and skepticism over the Voice. Despite how late she had arrived home, she rose early. The first thing she did was check her forehead in the mirror – it looked truly awful. She didn't know what trick she could possibly use to make herself presentable. She couldn't quite understand the impulse that had driven her to smack her head against the floor. Whatever it was, she did not want to think about it too closely. There was no performance that night, but the bruise would not be gone by the time there was. In the meantime, she styled her hair to cover it as much as possible. She would have to tell people she'd walked into a wall, or some other white lie, and hope it was faded enough to cover adequately when she had to be on stage again.

Once she was satisfied that she couldn't do anything more for her appearance, she went to talk to Mamma Valerius. It was true that the old woman was not nearly as sharp as she used to be, and Christine could never let slip what had happened with Raoul, but surely she could still trust Mamma's advice on what had happened the night before. Since her father's death, Mamma had been her adviser in all things spiritual. Even with her slowly deteriorating mind, she would know the gravity of such a thing, and stay quiet... And if she did not, she most likely would not be believed. Christine was very aware of how ridiculous the story would sound to most people.

"Good morning, Mamma," Christine greeted her, kissing her cheek before sitting beside the bed.

"What happened to your head?" Mamma asked. She reached a frail hand forward and touched Christine's bruise.

Christine winced. "It's nothing; I was clumsy and walked into a door frame."

"Repeatedly?"

"No," Christine smiled, near giggling at her adoptive mother's incredulity.

"I haven't seen you smile in days," she observed.

"Because... Oh, maybe you will think I hit my head too hard," the young woman began animatedly explaining what had transpired in her dressing room the previous night. She was very careful not to utter the phrase that had been in her head since the moment she first heard the Voice. She did explain the impossible beauty of his speaking alone, and how when he had sung, she thought she could die quite happily. It had actually made her physically ache. She wished that the Voice had feet, so she could throw herself at them, and proclaim that she was not worthy. "And Mamma," Christine concluded, "He has said he will give me lessons, and I should be there today. Should I go? Have I gone completely mad?"

"You are not mad! Of course you should go; your father did say he would send the Angel," Mamma Valerius reasoned.

"But why did he wait so long? How do I know it's the Angel?" Christine asked.

"I imagine time runs differently in Heaven, if there is time at all. Don't doubt your own senses - you said yourself that the voice was like nothing on Earth. Who else could it be?"

After that conversation, Christine went to meet the Voice, feeling it was more probable that the Angel of Music had come to teach her than that someone was playing an elaborate trick. She knew of no way voices could move around a room of their own accord, and she knew of no voice that sounded half as sweet as the one she had heard the night before. She arrived early, sat down on her fainting couch, and waited while fidgeting nervously with the fabric of her skirt. She began to hear the voice singing softly from somewhere. Just to be sure, she went into the hallway so she could check the other rooms. As she had suspected, there was no one around. She returned to her room, her hands pressed to her chest as though she could slow the the excited pace of her heart by applying pressure. The Voice grew closer until it was directly beside her. She wanted to try to touch it, to see if there were some tangible force in the room with her, but she left her hands where they were for fear of looking foolish. When the singing stopped, she felt as though she had just lost something precious.

She wanted to beg for more, but before she could find the words, the Voice greeted her, "Good morning, Christine."

"Good morning," she replied, and summoning all her nerve continued, "May I ask you a question?"

"Certainly."

She took a deep breath. "Did my father send you? Are you the Angel of Music?"

"Of course, dear child." Something in the tone of his response made her believe that he was smiling as he answered. Hearing that gentle smile, the affection evident in that unfathomable voice, both set her at ease and fostered a sense of awe akin to what she had felt when she first heard him sing.

It was much easier to accept the lessons after that reassurance. As much as she did not think she was worthy of the attention, she was grateful and enraptured. She had doubted the Angel; she had doubted her father. It terrified her to admit it, but at times she had even doubted God. All that was changed. Her faith in all three was reaffirmed, and she was deeply ashamed of her doubt. Feeling the need to confess to him, by the end of the first week, she had told the Angel as much. She was terrified that he would end his contact with her then and there, but he surprised her.

"What do you think Jesus meant by saying you must become as little children?" The Angel inquired, then answered his own question, "Children question everything."

"You are not angry?" she asked. "You will still teach me?"

"Why should I be angry? Of course I will still teach you," was his response.

She was so relieved she could have cried.

If she had still doubted in the slightest, her trepidation would have been eased by her own progress. It was immediately apparent that the Angel understood her voice in a way that no one else ever had. She could already detect a noticeable difference.

"Those amateurs at the Conservatory obviously had no idea what they should have been doing with you," the Angel complained to her.

"But they are only human," she reminded him, "You can hardly hold them to your standards; that's not fair."

"I suppose I should be simply be happy they didn't do any irreparable damage, though it is very annoying to have undo all of their incompetence, as well as fixing your bad habits." His grousing sounded so completely mortal that she found it amusing.

Christine threw herself into singing with a passion she hadn't known she'd possessed. The lessons were her only distraction from thinking about Raoul, but it was apparent that even the Angel could not keep her tumultuous emotions entirely at bay. She worried about Raoul to the point of dizziness, and it was exhausting her. At three weeks in, she had one letter from him, penned the night before he left - hardly an indication of how things were fairing. She wrote him letters every day, but so far she had only sent the first one. She was afraid she would seem like a lunatic if she sent all she had written, so only the letters she deemed truly important would be sent. It wasn't as if he would be receiving mail once he was in the Arctic Circle anyway. She considered sending him a letter about the Angel, but other than a brief mention of a new instructor in her first letter, she decided that was a tale best told in person. Instead, she wrote mundane things about her day to day life, about how much she loved him, and kept the letters to herself. Perhaps she would give them to him upon his return.

She tried to be reasonable by telling herself that the Angel of Music was her personal proof that God was watching out for her. If God was watching out for her, then God must be watching out for Raoul. It only made sense. She attempted discussing it with the Angel, but whereas he was generally quite patient with her, the subject of Raoul seemed to annoy him.

"You are worrying far too much," the Angel scolded her. "If God takes care of the sparrows, surely He will take care of Raoul as well. Where is your faith?"

She'd hung her head, and blinked tears from her eyes. She was ashamed of her anxiousness and a bit hurt by his rebuke.

"Don't cry, Christine," he said, his voice gentler now, "I did not mean to upset you. It is only that excessive worry does no one any good. Concentrate on your music, instead of your fears. It is a gift that will help you if you let it."

She dried her tears. "I'm sorry," she sniffled. "You see? I am not worth your trouble."

"That is for me to decide," he replied.

She had been instructed not to incorporate any of the Angel's teaching into her performances, and she was very careful to do as he said. Even with her old techniques, she thought her performance was better that night than it had been. She had made an effort to concentrate more on the task at hand, and her acting did not suffer as it had before. She wanted the Angel to be proud of her. When he was pleased, he would sing or play the violin for her. She needed him desperately that night. After she was back in her own clothing, she sent the maid away, and hoped the he would come. She was not disappointed.

"Your concentration is improving." The voice that met her ears sounded pleased.

"Thank you... I think it was your reassurance that Raoul is being watched over," she answered, then hung her head, afraid he would be annoyed with her for bringing up the subject of her husband again.

"Dear Christine, she has so much on her mind," the Angel said. "Shall I play something for you before you go home?"

"Yes, please!" she agreed enthusiastically. She sat at her vanity, elbows resting on the little table, and her chin in her hands. She closed her eyes. "The Resurrection of Lazarus," imbued with more passion and played with more skill than even her father had possessed, filled the small room. Her longing for her father, her distress over Raoul's departure, her concern over Mamma's health – these things would not go away – yet, the Angel, and his music, soothed her troubled soul. If only he could cure it, she thought, as the tears rolled down her face. That was too great a task, she knew, even for a divine creature like himself.

Note: Thanks for the reviews, follows, etc. If you didn't do any of those things but are still reading, I appreciate that was well.