And then she heard it again. "Christine… I am your angel…"
And she knew her father had kept his promise.
Now, three months and many hard-won lessons later, and the morning after her grande performance at the gala, she smoothed her fingers over the velvet petals of one red rose, thinking of what Raoul would say if he knew.
Should she tell Raoul about the Angel of Music? Would he believe her?
And then, suddenly from out of her silence, on the faint note of a sweet violin, she heard, "Christine…" Just as she had that first day.
"Ange." She bolted to her feet to close the door, then moved immediately in front of the tall mirror, watching behind her image. But she saw nothing in the reflection.
"You returned quite late last night," came his rich voice. "It will not do for the new opera star to forgo her rest and practice in favor of social obligations."
He was there, but she could not see him. Of course, she felt the way his voice slipped around her, embracing her, and she recognized his breath, moving in the stillness of the room, matching her own. In that way she could feel him. But she yearned to see him.
"I am sorry, angel," she replied. "I did not mean to anger you."
"Anger me you will, if you continue to go about in the company of men until all hours of the morning."
The warning edge in his smooth voice frightened her. "I understand, angel."
"My name is Erik."
"Erik, out."
"Last night I gave you pleasure, did I not?" The coaxing timbre of his voice set the hairs along her arms to rising.
"Yes, you did, ang—Erik." So much pleasure that she had dreamt of it, twisting and turning in her sheets, and awakening damp and panting with the memory. Her fingers trembled as she clutched them into the gauze of her dressing gown.
"I wish to pleasure you in that way again, and more, Christine." There was a wisp of roughness in his words.
"I wish you to as well," she replied, stepping automatically toward the tall, glinting mirror, as though she would find him there. Alas, she saw only herself: wide-eyed, her oval face pale but for the pink of her lips, and her long hair falling loose to her hips. She touched the cool glass with one hand, as if reaching for him. "Angel… Erik… I wish to see you, to touch you, to pleasure you too. Please…"
The room was silent. Still.
"Angel?" Christine asked, suddenly terrified that she had frightened him away. Had she been too bold?
She strained her ears for the sound of his music, the beautiful tones of violin and flute—and, of course, his melodious voice—that would fill her ears and her being.
Silence.
"Angel?" she called again. "Erik?"
Then she felt it again: felt him, his presence. Bold, strong, encompassing. "Christine," he replied. His voice hesitated on the last syllable, then became smooth again as he continued. "When the time is right, we shall be one. But until then, you must practice patience. And you must work hard. And you must remember that I am your tutor, and I am the one who can bring forth your music."
"Yes, angel." It was true. She had been able to sing, certainly, before the Angel of Music had come into her dressing room and into her life three months ago, but under his tutelage, she had blossomed and grown like a late-blooming flower unfurling itself under the intense heat of summer sun.
"Now, I wish to hear you sing Marguerite's aria. Carlotta will not be singing it tonight. You will."
Christine drew in her breath and felt her breasts straining against the corset that lifted and pushed them together. Her nipples were hard, stabbing the light lawn chemise she wore, pushing against the firm boning of the corset.
The music came from nowhere, and everywhere. It filled the tall, narrow dressing room, simmered in her ears, and pounded through her veins. As she began to sing, the lights dimmed somehow… The edges of her image in the mirror, her mouth wide, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed pink—all became gray as the illumination faded. Her arms, clad in the sleeves of a pale yellow dressing gown, rose gracefully as though to help express the notes, and the yellow silk slid back, down to her shoulders, baring her slender arms. She became the beautiful lady once again.
True, clear, smooth… she sang, and Erik's music whorled about her, his presence filled her… and then his voice joined hers. His dusky tenor mingled with her pure soprano, and she felt as though she were flying.
Soaring.
She closed her eyes and sang, felt Erik's presence and the gift of beautiful music that he awakened within her. She knew then, in the deepest part of her core, that she could never be without him.
She could never lose him.
For he brought the best of her forward. He prodded, pushed, annoyed, and demanded the very best of her music from the very deepest part of her being. Somehow, he knew her. Somehow, he knew how to draw it forth, to make her feel this way. Exquisite. Powerful. Heady.
The hair on the back of her arms, on the nape of her neck, and on the crown of her head rose, tense and sensitive, and still she sang. And he with her.
Tears shimmered at the corners of her eyes; she felt them, warm and heavy, and then the trail they left down along her cheek. She felt her corset tighten with each gut-level breath, and then loosen as she held on to the highest, longest C note until she thought her vision would fade away, and still she drew in another breath to follow the C with an E.
When the last of her notes faded and there was nothing left but her heavy breathing, and the ending swell of music, Christine opened her eyes.
The room was still dim; not dark, but dim. One gas lamp glowed on the wall next to her, casting just enough light that her form showed clear in the mirror. The rest of the chamber held only shadows and the faint aroma of rose.
"Christine… you have pleased me to no end."
"Thank you, angel. You are my inspiration."
"If you sing like that this evening, you will inspire the entire Opera House to love you."
"I will, angel. Erik." She had thought of him as her ange for so long that it was easy to forget his name.
"Now…" His voice took on a gentle purr. "Now I wish to see you, Christine. All of you. So that when you stand onstage tonight, and I am sitting in Box Five, I will see you in a way that no one else can. And I will know that you sing for me."
A sharp shot of desire pierced her middle at his words. She felt the tingle, the curling pain of lust, low in her belly and then down between her legs. Just from his words. From the image he'd placed in her mind.
"Now… take off your dressing gown, Christine."
Her fingers trembled as she unknotted the tie just below her breasts, and she allowed the ruffled, silky robe to slide from her shoulders and crumple to the floor. She stood in front of the mirror, and saw herself dressed in the loose, light chemise fitted to her curves by the corset over it. Her feet were not bare; thin silk stockings covered them and stretched up past her knees, under the hem of the chemise.
"More, Christine."
She took the top edges of the corset over each breast and wrenched them toward each other, twisting to release the top hook. Her breasts rubbed against the fabric covering them, brushing her fumbling fingers, and they swelled, aching for something more.
The hooks released, one by one, and she was able to breathe deeply, more freely. Christine dropped the corset, and it fell at her feet with a soft thud. She stood in her chemise, with its low, rounded neckline made of fabric thin enough to see her nipples thrusting through. Her hair had fallen half over one shoulder, and half down her back, so that she could see the ends of her curls just coming from around the back of her hip. Her cheeks were flushed, her pink lips parted and moist from a quick lick of her tongue.
"Christine…" His voice coaxed, but there was an edge there… one that hovered just beyond her hearing, but was ready to lash out if she did not comply.