"...cloudy again today with a chance of freezing drizzle. A high of 34 today and a low of 29 tonight, be very careful on those slick roads folks. We have reports of accidents on I90 heading south..."

Christine Daae groaned as she fumbled for the snooze button.

"Crap. Thursday," She swore. "Tomorrow's Friday. Tomorrow's Friday. One more damn blasted day 'till the weekend," she dragged herself out of bed. Consciousness and cold reality slapped her just as cruelly as the cold water of her shower.

It was just a dream. Albeit weird dream, she thought as she looked blankly into the mirror reflecting a woman about twenty-something years old dressed in a gray suit, a secondhand piece that was maybe a size or two loose in a few spots.

She was editing another Guidicelli book today. She hated the books about as mush as she hated the author. Senora Guidicelli (as she told every one to call her, as she was trying to "get in touch with her Italian roots") was the most arrogant writer Christine had ever had the misfortune to talk to. Christine shuddered as she thought of the woman and, after briefly considering calling in sick, sluggishly walked out to catch her bus.

---------((0))

"They had the most expensive salad's at GiJoe's but, oh my God, I cannot gain another pound before the signing. I have to lose those five pounds from Christmas of I won't fit into my outfit. It's so cute, Sorelli told me that I look simply ravishing on it. I am a bit worried about the material. God-awful stuff. Bruiser's hair gets all over it, but it's the only outfit that goes with those shoes I bought a few months ago," Carlotta Guidicelli sighed.

"What do you think-"

"And, of course I'll have to go shopping for a new bag. The purse that goes with the outfit – it simply is not big enough to give my poor Bruiser-pooh enough leg room. What? What do you need?" Carlotta barked finally noticing Christine for the first time.

Christine gritted her teeth. "Nothing. I can take care of it." Anything to get rid of this woman and her high-pitched and raspy voice.

"Ha! You are just wasting my time! I will complain to Richard! Maybe you won't be here to edit my next book! Ha!"

What I would give never to edit another of your acclaimed "poetic" books ever again. But, Sra. Guidicelli was a well-read and popular author. Christine knew there would be more. She had been dubbed as the unlucky one to deal with Sra. Guidicelli. She was stuck.

---------((0))

"She's so horrible. I could just... argh!"

"Have you tried to get your book published recently, Christine?" Meg was the one person Christine trusted with everything. They had been best friends throughout high school and had even roomed together in college. Meg had gotten her degree in ballet performance, though and was now performing in London. She knew that Christine had been trying to get published for two years now without any luck.

"No. I just kind of gave up."

"Like you gave up on singing?"

"No! You know that was different. My father -"

"Yes, you father died and told you he'd send you the Angel of Music, and the Angel would continue to teach you to sing. I know. But – he would not have wanted you to just give up like that."

"You don't understand. I just – couldn't sing after that. It was like that part of me was just... missing." Christine choked out a sob.

"It's O.K. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. You will forgive your favorite prima ballerina, won't you?"

"You know you're only my favorite because you're thee only prima ballerina I know right?"

"So I'm forgiven?"

"Of course you're forgiven," Christine said in a soft tone. "Good night, Meg."

"G'night Christine. Don't let the bedbugs bite."

Christine was still laughing as she pushed "end."

---------((0))

"May I have this dance, Christine?" He was there offering me a dark red rose. I nodded weakly and he swept me into his arms waltzing effortlessly with me. His arms were cold, cold as ice. Even through his gloves I could feel his freezing hands on my back. They contrasted greatly with the comfortable warmth of the ballroom around me. An invisible quartet was playing softly in the background.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"Somewhere between here and there, between now and then," he answered cryptically.

"And what does that mean? I am sleeping, right?"

"So you say."

"Then, you are just a dream, no?"

"Am I?" I could tell he was smiling.

"Why, then , can I feel your hands if I am, in fact, dreaming?"

"Let's just say, that I am a little more than just a dream."

"What are you?"

"I told you did I not?" I looked at him, confused. "I am you Angel of Music."

I raised my eyebrow. "Really?" I asked skeptically.

"You did not believe me?" he said woundedly.

"Fine. Are you really going to teach me to sing?"

In stead of answering, he pulled me away from the dance floor into the dark hallways. I looked at the shadows, stretching endlessly down the infinite hallway. He led me down the hallway, through several twists and turns stopping at a door that looked exactly like the hundred we had already passed. He pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door.

---------((0))

I felt bad about only giving you one chapter. I think that the idea for this story came from some episode of Blood Ties. The strange places my mind goes... I am not quite sure myself exactly what Erik is, so I welcome any ideas.

Toodles,

~Raven Sharpe

(posted 01-25-10)