My voice soared through the grand theater, reaching its zenith as I hit the soaring final note of Hannibal's "Think of Me." The audience rose to their feet, a cacophony of applause and cheers filling the air. Pride swelled within me, and a wide smile graced my face. The lessons from my Angel had well and truly paid off.
Roses and carnations showered the stage as I gracefully acknowledged the standing ovation. This moment, as the star of the show, was something I'd never dreamed possible. Every chorus girl's aspiration had come true for me. The transition from blending into the background to commanding center stage felt like a dream. I sent a silent prayer to the Angel of Music, the architect of my transformation.
"Thank you," I thought fervently as I continued to smile and bow, "Thank you for your guidance. This success, every moment of it, is because of you."
Eventually, the applause waned, the final flowers landed at my feet, and the curtains gently closed. I collected the gossamer fabric of my voluminous white gown, making my way carefully offstage to avoid any mishaps.
"Christine!" Meg's voice rang out before I even saw her. She dashed toward me, emerging from the crowd of actors gossiping offstage, deftly avoiding stagehands as they cleared props. With enthusiasm, she threw her arms around my neck, nearly toppling me backward. I steadied myself and reciprocated the embrace, looping my arms around her waist.
"You were absolutely incredible out there," Meg exclaimed, her radiance matching her pristine white gown with its daring neckline, even more audacious than my own. "You look stunning, Christine."
I returned her radiant smile. "You do too, Meg. Thank you."
Meg and I continued walking backstage, navigating through the cast members who chatted and exchanged congratulations after the show. A mere few weeks ago, these very people hardly knew of my existence. Now, all eyes were on me as we made our way down the corridor toward my dressing room.
"I wish you could be the Prima Donna every night! Your voice is far more pleasant," a stout man whose name eluded me called out from the midst of the gossiping actors.
"Thank you so much," I replied, "I wish so too!" The warmth of their acceptance was invigorating. Meg gave my arm an encouraging squeeze as we strolled, and I couldn't help but glance upward, offering the Angel above another silent expression of gratitude.
As Meg and I reached my dressing room, a throng of admirers had gathered outside, pressed against the door like sardines in a tin. Madame Giry stood guard in front of it, diligently fending off the ardent well-wishers.
With Meg's help, I reached the dressing room door, where admirers shouted my name and presented me with roses and flower bouquets. The combined scent of the flowers filled the air, almost suffocating me. While their adoration was flattering, I still felt unaccustomed to such attention from strangers. It was one thing to receive congratulations from fellow cast members, quite another to be scrutinized by a sea of unfamiliar faces.
I began to feel like a spectacle as we pushed our way through the crowd.
"She doesn't have time for all of you!" Meg snapped at the persistent admirers while handing me over to Madame. I was genuinely grateful for her steadfastness.
"Shoo! No!" Madame admonished, swatting away yet another group of well-wishers as she guided me into the dressing room. I mouthed a quick goodnight to Meg over my shoulder, and she did the same before vanishing into the crowd.
I entered the Prima Donna's dressing room, which was adorned from floor to ceiling with roses, lace, and opulent finery. The room's extravagant decor far surpassed anything I had experienced in the ballet dormitories. Madame Giry, her hand warm on my cheek, offered words of praise.
"You performed brilliantly, my dear," she said, her reassuring tone a balm to my soul. "He is pleased with you." She then handed me a red rose, its thornless stem adorned with a black silk ribbon. I accepted it with gentle reverence, my eyes fixed on the radiant blossom. Madame saw herself out, the soft click of the door shutting behind her barely registering in my ears as I slumped into the stool by the vanity. Madame's words had hinted at something more significant—something about the Angel being pleased with me.
My fingers caressed the petals, velvety soft beneath my touch. What did this gift signify? It was my first ever present from the Angel of Music. While I pondered its meaning, a mellifluous voice interrupted my thoughts.
"Little Lotte, let her mind wander," the voice began, and my gaze darted up to behold a figure I knew well—my childhood friend Raoul, his blue eyes gleaming as he sauntered toward me.
"Raoul!" I exclaimed, my heart lifting at the sight of him. He had not forgotten me after all.
I appraised his elegant evening attire, a champagne flute in one hand and a vase filled with pink roses and winter lilies in the other. The memories of a distant summer echoed in my mind as he continued his jesting words.
"Little Lotte thought, am I fonder of dolls, or of goblins, or shoes..." I joined in, fondly recalling the picnics we used to enjoy in the attic. "...or of chocolates?"
As he knelt to meet my eyes, I confided in him, "I have been visited by the Angel of Music, Raoul."
His response carried a hint of indulgence, as if humoring a child. "Oh, no doubt about it."
With the promise of a supper invitation, he rose to his feet, adding, "Now, we go to supper."
"Raoul," I interjected, my voice laden with hesitation. "The Angel of Music is very strict."
"Then I shan't keep you up late," Raoul assured me, moving toward the door. "Two minutes, Little Lotte."
A sudden frisson of panic surged through me as he exited, leaving me to grapple with my anxiety. Was I overreacting? I had performed well, hadn't I? I gazed at my reflection in the gilded mirror, glittering in the room's opulence. My original intention had been to visit the chapel, to light a candle for my father.
My eyes, however, drifted back to the red rose on the vanity. I picked it up delicately, my fingers tracing the perfect, velvety petals. The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows, as if affirming my unspoken thoughts. I stood, preparing to change behind the dressing screen.
Raoul could wait.
As I ventured out of my dressing room, a pervasive chill seemed to envelop the corridor. Unsettling thoughts crowded my mind, and it felt as though hidden eyes were upon me, scrutinizing my every move. Goosebumps pricked at my skin as I tightened the belt of my flimsy white nightgown. The room felt different, though nothing had visibly changed. I shook my head, attempting to dispel the irrational fears.
I grasped the brass door handle and slipped into the hallway, where the admirers had long since departed. Glancing in both directions to ensure the corridor was clear, I made my way toward the small entryway leading to the chapel.
Entering the cramped chapel, I sank to my knees before the altar adorned with candles and a faded photograph of my father. I folded my hands in prayer, gazing up at the stained glass image of an angel overlooking the chapel. I closed my eyes and sent a quiet prayer heavenward.
"Father, I hope you saw me tonight. I hope I made you proud."
The chapel's serene silence was suddenly pierced by a gentle song, a voice resonating through the tiny space:
"Brava, bravissima..."
My eyes snapped open, and I scanned the room in search of the source of the ethereal melody. The voice continued, deep and smooth, like rich velvet caressing my senses:
"You are the music of the night, Christine..."
The candles flickered, their flames dancing in time with the voice. An inexplicable sense of tranquility and warmth enveloped me, and I felt as though I could spend an eternity in this divine presence.
"Christine, there you are!" Raoul's impatient voice shattered the enchantment. He barged into the small doorway leading to the chapel, his tone laden with irritation. "I said two minutes, Christine. Not twenty!"
My heart sank at his irate tone. "I only wanted to light a candle for my father," I stammered, taken aback by how pitiful I sounded.
"Well, are you finished? We need to go," Raoul demanded impatiently, his harshness unsettling.
"I need a few more minutes," I replied, my voice quivering.
"We're late already, Christine. Now," he urged, his patience waning.
"Raoul..." I began, but before I could finish, his fingers closed around my upper arm in a vise-like grip. Panic surged within me as I tried to regain my balance, his grip bruising my arm.
"Let go, please," I implored, my fear becoming palpable.
"I will not—" Raoul began.
"You will release her this instant if you know what's good for you, Vicomte," a chilling voice interrupted. It was the voice I had heard earlier, now laced with venom and fury—the voice of my Angel of Music.
My eyes darted about the small chapel until they landed on a black-cloaked figure that seemed to have materialized out of thin air. If I had thought Raoul appeared too large for the chapel, this man dwarfed it entirely. Towering at least a head above Raoul, he exuded an ominous, otherworldly power.
The man wore a white mask that concealed the right half of his face, his slicked-back hair framing his eerie pitch-black eyes, which bore a deep-seated hatred as he glared at Raoul.
Before I could comprehend the situation, Raoul's grip on my arm suddenly released, and I heard his startled cry as the masked figure effortlessly tossed him to the opposite end of the chapel, as if he were no more than a ragdoll. Raoul landed in a disheveled heap, clutching at a wound on his forehead. All I could do was stare, paralyzed with shock.
Then, in a swift swirl of black fabric, the masked figure turned his attention to me. He uttered something in that mesmerizing voice, but I couldn't discern the words through the ringing in my ears. His brilliant red eyes were the last thing I saw before darkness consumed me.