Isn't the thought of guardian angels intoxicating? Someone, unseen, making sure and certain that you're safe, cared for. That there is something higher than yourself, keeping an eye out for you. How bewitching! But then, I shall keep my odd fancies to myself... at least till I can work them into the story. Think Vega of the Lyre....

K.S.

Guardian Angels God Will Send Thee

He was amazed at Christine's progress after only a year. After five, he knew that she would soon be

a star. She began to dance in the corps de ballet when she was twelve, and by fourteen, she was a leader along with little Meg Giry. He felt a warm pride. Not fatherly... oh no, never that. But it was a feeling quite alien yet terribly welcome. He had someone to care about, someone who needed him.

Christine Daae had been a sweet, unassuming child. She had grown from childhood to girlhood seemingly overnight. Now she stood on the threshold of womanhood. He grimaced at the thought. Suitors and patrons would soon be knocking at her door. But they would go away disappointed, he though smugly. Because the only man she needed was the one whom she called "Angel."

Madame Giry, no longer a ballerina, but the ballet mistress overseeing all the Opera's dancers, kept his little angel well looked after. She had treated Christine Daae as a daughter. Giry was a great-hearted woman, despite her sometimes austere manner. The woman had taken to heart his warning about the lecherous Buquet, and guarded her chicks like a jealous mother hen. He himself has given the stagehand a terrible fright to dissuade him from following a certain pair of ballet rats who had snuck away from practice. Afterwards, he decided that he should lurk about more often, Buquet was not to be trusted.

But alarmingly, he kept finding reasons to look in on her, disregarding merely keeping her safe as she grew. More and more, he watched her at practice; onstage- she shined already! He followed her through the corridors, an unseen protector. He would make excuses to prolong their rehearsals. Inexplicably, he smiled at the very thought of her. And it was not because of her voice. Wasn't that strange! Oh, her voice, that pure, crystalline soprano drove him to work furiously on his opera. But it was the way her whole face lit up when she heard him that would leave him strangely breathless. There was suddenly a terrifying desire to be near her always; this ferocious need to reach out and touch her face. And there was an alarming tension, an urge to violence when he saw that other men watched her... wanted her.

He wanted her.

That realization drove him from his home to the very rooftop of the Opera. There he sat, stars wheeling overhead, till dawn announced herself in a blaze. He did not just want her voice. He wanted her. In the way that a man wanted a woman. But there was more than that. And that frightened him. Desire was nothing, easily ignored, easily put aside. The truth dawned on him as he looked up, searching out his favorite constellation, and the star that had been his comfort since he had been a child. He had found out the name of the star, and the constellation it belonged to. Vega of the Lyre. Ironic, and perfect.

He loved her.

"God, no. What will I do?" he whispered. He could see it all, with painful clarity: He would, eventually, reveal to her that he was no Angel, that he was, indeed, a man. And she would hate him for his deceit. Yet she would in time forgive him that. But he knew, from all the operas ever sang, that she would not forgive him his face. The mask, and what lay beneath it ever would be his downfall. Unless...

Unless she learned to love him before she ever saw him. Love him. He had never believed anyone could. Phantom. Monster. Devil's Child. But Christine could. Beautiful, wonderful Christine, who smiled for him. Not even Giry smiled when she saw him. Christine did.

And one day, he would take her hand. Then some day soon after that, she would let him kiss her. He'd never kissed anyone before, nor had ever been kissed. But he knew that it must be something wonderful. There was one place he was nearly mad to kiss her. Just where her neck met her shoulder. Just a little light kiss, like the brush of a butterfly's wing. Perfectly chaste, yet vaguely tinged with the erotic. Promising more, when they overcame mutual timidity and innocence.

Did anyone catch the reference to the Emily of New Moon books? Congrats to those who did.

More to come, I promise...

Warmest regards, etc.

K.S.