The journey down the five levels of stone stairs passes quickly. The use of his voice maintains her trancelike state. Never has he felt so close to another being as if they are one in spirit. The touch of her makes him feel human.

It was quite by happenstance he came to speak to her at all, much less tutor her. One of those life's accidents or karma as his mentors in the Orient call it. Fate. Whatever name, he is grateful for the day he was walking along the inner walls next to a dressing room now used only for storage. This was the perfect place for him to come and go through a doorway disguised by a tall mirror. The sound of a young girl crying stopped him before unlatching the door to enter.

Young girls crying in dressing rooms at the Palais Garnier were nothing out of the ordinary. If anything, not hearing one of the "rats" bemoaning her fate – either the pain in her feet, the ache in her empty stomach or the lack of a patron – would be a reason for curiosity, if not concern.

Sadly, this was the nature of the ballet. Over time the dancers' feet were quite literally destroyed. The salaries paid were seldom enough to cover lodging and adequate food – besides, their feet lasted longer the thinner they were. As far as patrons – they did provide welcome dinners and often a respite from the need to dance at all. Thus, no crying, no dancers…and no performance.

This girl, however, was singing through her tears. A gentle sob found its way every so often in her song – a hymn sung in a language he was unfamiliar with – the sound becoming so rough at times he cringed. The clear moments, however, revealed a moving soprano evolved both from the beauty of the music itself and from her soul.

Was there more to her, he wondered? Oh, to be given the opportunity to help the bud blossom into the full rich soprano he sensed was there. Could music be to her what it was to him?

A fleck of dust tickled his deformed nose and he sneezed before he could stop himself.

The singing stopped immediately, and the girl jumped up, looking wildly around the empty room for the creator of the noise.

"Who is there?"

Panicked for a moment, he replied, throwing his voice to divert her attention from the mirror, "I apologize for disturbing you."

"Where are you?"

"Nowhere you need be concerned about."

"I thought I was alone here."

"I shall leave then."

"No. Please. I shall leave."

"No. Stay. I heard you singing…and was moved by the sound. It is I who is in the wrong. Please continue."

"Are you the Angel of Music?"

The question confused him. What an odd thing to ask of me of all people. Any number of people met during his life would certainly find the idea of him being an angel amusing if not sacrilegious…but Angel of Music. Well, why not. Playing his violin or singing were the only times anyone was able to see past his disfigurement.

"I suppose you might say music is of great importance to me."

"Oh, I knew it. Pappa said he would send me the Angel of Music. I was giving up hope, but here you are."

"Yes. Here I am."

Why not indulge the girl? What harm was there in a little masquerade? He could teach. She could learn. The pranks were no longer engaging and his opera…well, what was another year or ten?

With the exception of a stray cat he adopted – a poor soul wandering down from the street – he felt little or nothing for any human creatures who crossed his path. The cat repaid him by keeping the sewer rats out of the small house he built in the fifth cellar. Madame Giry would be the only person he found any rapport with. They recognized one another immediately, even after years and both of them aging. Not friends, by any means, but compatriots, each providing for the other when necessary.

As with many young dancers, Adele, her given name he learned, fell prey to one of the ballet's patrons and when she became pregnant was cast aside. Being older with a sharp mind and tongue to match, the managers at the time kept her on to teach. Year after year, her knowledge of theater and strict, but even manner, made her invaluable when the owners changed every five years or so. Marguerite was an easy baby…or so Adele said and grew to be quite a fine dancer in her own right. Life under the opera house would be impossible without the dance mistress.

"Christine Daae. Student at the Conservatory. When her father died, she had nowhere to go, so I took her in."

"She lives with you?"

"Leave her be. I will not have you frightening her."

"I only wish to teach her, woman," he spat. "Have I ever harmed you or any of your girls?"

After a quick appraisal with her dark eyes, she said, "Anything more and I will take measures."

"I am sure you would," his laugh was bitter. "Just make certain the far dressing room is safe for us to have lessons…and no patrons. An extra fee will be added to your weekly envelope."

Living a life traveling the world, primarily in carnivals taught him many tricks – ventriloquism, sleight of hand and…hypnotism. His Christine, as he discovered, was so innocent and trusting little effort was necessary on his part to allow him to maintain a relationship with her without showing himself.

Her father, Gustave Daae, was quite the dreamer, a quality passed along to his young daughter. For all their travels, she was either unaware of the failings of humanity or completely forgiving. In either case, she accepted him as an angel. Both blessing and cursing Gustave for allowing his child to be so unaware of human foibles. Who removes a child from a safe home to travel the highways. What if something happened to him? What fate might have befallen her? Did the man have no common sense?

In his own case, he was at least male. While there was the occasional man who tried to fondle him – that man learned soon enough to leave him be. Even at his youngest, the muscles he developed gave him the courage to fight back against such assaults. Most of the time, though, all it took was a look at his face caused others to keep their distance. The removal of the cloth bags with holes cut in them for his eyes, nose and mouth did the trick – terrifying the boldest of men.

This would not be the case for a young woman of Christine's purity. Likely she would not be considered a stunning beauty to anyone but himself. Not a Sorelli, certainly, but to him she was quite perfect with a delicate prettiness.

"Oh, Angel, what a pretty color," she said, pulling her hair back to tie it with the bright blue ribbon she found on her dressing table along with sheets of music for her studies. The color of the ribbon matched her eyes as he intended. Clear skin smooth as the porcelain of his mask blushed bright pink as she checked herself in the mirror.

"You seemed to like the color…your dress…" His tone gruffer than he intended. How difficult it was talking to her. "You often seem bothered by your hair becoming unruly, fussing with the curls, taking your attention away from the music." How could he tell her he thought her hair was lovely?

"Of course," she said, "I did not think…"

"Never mind, then. The issue is resolved," he replied, placing his violin under his chin. "Now to your scales."

The idea of an Angel of Music coming to her aid was as much a folly as anything else, especially one who left gifts. In odd moments he felt a sense of shame over his own deception, proving his point about Gustave's ignorance. Despite this awareness, the guilt, although present was not strong enough for him to stop.

The sound of her sweet voice – not just when singing – but in her words and manner warmed his dark soul. The time not spent practicing, she would regale him with stories about her Pappa and their time on the road. Most of the tales he believed were the product of Gustave's imagination, but no matter. He found he was happy just listening to her speak with the odd accent he learned was Swedish, so set about learning to speak to her in her home tongue.

"Stå rakt upp."*

"You know Swedish?

"What sort of angel would I be if I could not talk to my ward in her native tongue."

"If I may be so bold, you sometimes, um, use the wrong words or say something incorrectly. You could have simply said stå rakt, since I am already standing up – although both are correct," she dips her head with a shy smile.

Clearing his throat, fighting the rush of blood to his face, he mutters, "Those I have taught in the past have been French, so my other languages are weak."

"Well, my French is weak, so we can teach one another," she laughs. "I would be so happy to help you learn. The music means so much to me…I am so grateful."

"Yes, that will be fine. After your vocal exercises, but now you must repeat the last line of the chorus – your D was a tad sharp."

"Yes, Angel."

How he loved their lessons.

Ultimately, though, what deeply touched him most about Christine, if he was being truly honest with himself – was her loneliness. Being alone for so long without companionship, sensing the same feeling in the girl's voice shook him to the core. They filled a need for one another.

Finally someone he could live for…wanted to be alive for. They need never meet. His face could not poison what they shared because she would never see him. Being the Angel of Music was the answer to his prayers – the ones to a god he refused to acknowledge.

The safety of being an angel came to an end tonight with the presence of the boy who came to call. Raoul.

The feeling of her hand in his is almost more than he could bear. Every ounce of longing for the gentle touch of someone…anyone rose inside him. For the person to be Christine, the woman he would have adored from afar forever, shakes him deeply.

Another sensation…the scent of her as a sweet as he supposed…gardenias. So different than the dank air of the cellars he breathes in when they take their lessons – him behind the wall, her in the dressing room. Even as they walk down the stone steps, he feels lighter returning to his small house with someone…with her.

"What of the future?" A challenging voice speaks in his mind. Erik waves the thought away with his hand. "Step carefully, my dear," he says, guiding her into the skiff, "we are almost at our destination."

*Stand up straight.