Chapter Eight
“No!” Catherine shoved through the crowd outside Christine's dressing room. “No!”

Christine smiled at Catherine's annoyance. She loved it when Catherine was annoyed with someone other than her. The ballet mistress's face grew stone-cold, and her French accent grew thicker than ever. Now was one of those times, and Christine could see the frustration in her mentor's eyes.

Catherine turned around, locking the door and slipping the key into the bosom of her black and gold gown. “He is very pleased with you, my dear,” she murmured, handing Christine the rose that had been left on her vanity. A red rose, tied with a single black silk ribbon.

“Madame Giry, do you know the angel?”

“I haven't heard from him lately, dear. I used to every night, but no more. I don't perform anymore,” she shrugged. “I must go now,” she said, as Christine sank to her knees before the mirrored vanity. “Rest tonight.”

“Yes, Madame.”

Catherine took the key out of her breast and unlocked the door, leaving it slightly open for the vicomte to enter. She chuckled at the whispered words that began to pour from him as he entered. “Little Lottie let her mind wander. Little Lottie thought, 'Am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or of shoes?'”

“Raoul!” Christine cried. She stood excitedly, and began to rush over to him, then suddenly stopped herself. “I'm sorry,” she murmured. “I have to be civilized now.” She smoothed her pure white skirt, looking modestly at the floor. Raoul laughed, sweeping her into his arms and kissing her soundly.

“It's been forever, Christine,” he mumbled into her hair as he set her down. She giggled.
“You're not making this easy, Monsieur le Vicomte.” Oh, God, this is hard. My heart is pounding like a thousand drums and I must feign friendship only.

“That was the point, dear Lottie.” He smiled, and kissed her hand. “Come, we go to dinner.”

“No, Raoul, I mustn't. The Angel of Music is very strict.”

“Oh, no doubt of it!” What angel? She's not still raving about her father's dying words, is she? “Ten minutes, Little Lottie.” He blew her a kiss, then turned on his heel and left.
Christine sank to her knees, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Now what was she to do?
“I am your angel of music. Come to me, angel of music,” came a sudden whispered voice. Christine looked around the room, unable to find the source of the voice.

“Angel of Music, hide no longer!” she begged.

“Look at your face in the mirror.” This time the words were sung, “I am there inside!”

“Angel?” she murmured, moving towards the mirror. She gasped. There stood behind the mirror a tall man in a black tuxedo, white mask, and... a red rose boutonnière. A red rose tied with the same black ribbon was being held out to her, taunting her. She reached for it, and he clasped her hand in his, drawing her through the mirror.

He led her down many steps, through many candle-lit halls of dark stone. They reached a gondola at the beginning of a vast lake that seemed to be the whole world wide. Their journey was punctuated only with commands to sing, which Christine did willingly.

Her voice seemed to work magic, as first one candelabra then another rose from the depths of the greenish-blue lake. She rose higher and higher and they plunged deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Opera Populaire, until, on a high E, they reached their destination: the Phantom's lair.

Christine looked about her in amazement. Everything glittered like a million diamonds in the candle-light. Everything was gilded ~ the many candelabras, the mirrors. Even the organ was covered in gold. Only one thing was not covered in the metal that seemed to flow from every flame. This was Erik. His clothes seemed of a deeper hue than before, and the pearlesque of his mask was a brighter light than all of the candles put together.

His voice overcame them all, though. His perfect, pure voice that Christine in mind of satin sheets. It was so smooth, so rich, and it was something Christine knew she might never hear again. Though her father had promised to send the angel, he never promised that he would stay for long.

Erik lifted her from the boat, and she felt herself relax in his arms. He was so warm, he felt so good! If Raoul made her heart beat more quickly than a ballerina's feet, the angel made it fall to the floor, and she had no interest in picking it up again. How could she feel this way about an angel? A being that would leave her the moment he was called away by someone else. Yet here she was, clinging tightly to a dream that might fade at any moment. And she knew she would never forget this night, and that she would always remember the feeling of his arms holding her tightly to his chest, as one might hold a baby close, for fear of breaking them.