Unmasqued

Her heart beat faster and she felt a rush of joy. Her father had not forgotten her! She had waited for years, but he had finally answered her prayers. "Papa!" she said. "I have missed you so."

There was a long silence, so long that she feared she'd frightened him away. Christine felt as though the air crackled with her nervousness… Could she have driven him off? At last, after being alone for so long, was her chance at comfort gone so quickly?

Then, finally, when she felt as though she'd held her breath for hours, the voice spoke again. "I am not your father, Christine. But I am the Ange de Musique. And I wish to help you feel again."

"To feel again." She repeated the words dumbly, considering what they meant.

"You miss your music, do you not? You feel lonely, different from the other girls, yes?"

She nodded, and then realized he might not be able to see her. "Yes, angel, I have found little joy in my music since Papa died. Do you… speak to him?"

"I do not speak to him, Christine, but I know that he misses you as much as you miss him." The voice was so smooth and calm, lulling, and yet titillating. Elegant. Beautiful. Sensual. It made the hair on the back of her neck and arms lift, and something in the middle of her stomach tingle. "I would like to be your tutor. Would you like that? Would you like to feel your music again?"

"You would help me?"

And so it had begun.

The Angel of Music would come to her at least once a day, at a time when she was alone, and he would sing to her, and with her, and play for her. Christine looked forward to those times, and because she was never certain where or when he would come to her, she was often in a state of expectancy and happiness.

In time, her lessons about music would become more than just lessons. Yes, he had high expectations and he drove her toward perfection, but as the weeks went on, the disembodied voice seemed to relax. He allowed himself to speak of things other than notes and breathing and timing.

Christine found herself becoming more comfortable with her mysterious tutor, and the strange way in which he taught her as well. Perhaps it was because she couldn't see him that she felt better able to talk of things deep inside her, of her opinions and dreams. It was almost like praying, or like daydreaming, this speaking into a room where there was no one's face to frown at her, no stiffening of a body to disapprove.

One day Christine remembered in particular. She had had a horrible day-it started when her very last pair of wearable stockings got a huge ladder along the outside of one leg; it was so wide and long that it could not be hidden, nor twisted around to the back of her leg, for then the two ladders on the other side would show.

Because of that, she was late for dance practice, and had to endure what the ballet girls called Madame Giry's "hairy eyeball" glare along with her silent treatment as Christine attempted to catch up on what she'd missed.

After that, in an effort to return to the dormitories to beg or borrow another pair of stockings, Christine had hurried along the backstage hall and came face to face with La Carlotta. The diva was wearing a monstrously tall hat, a nest of birds and butterflies and flowers, and the panniers of her impossibly wide gown that put her in the fashion of Marie Antoinette blocked the narrow passageway so that no one could walk by.

Christine curtsied and tried to brace herself against the rough wooden wall to allow the other woman to move past, but Carlotta was not to be hurried. In fact, she moseyed along, chatting with a wide-eyed composer, until she came just to where Christine stood… and she stopped.

Turning her back to Christine, Carlotta cooed and flirted and practiced a few soprano trills at the top of her powerful lungs, whilst Christine remained pinned between the wire-shaped gown and the wall. There was no way for her to get past without brushing roughly against Carlotta's gown, and she did not dare attempt that.

At last, Carlotta seemed to notice her. She turned, the pannier of her skirt bumping into Christine, and focused an angry look on her. Despite the fact that she was not a bit taller than the younger girl, the combination of her outraged expression and her towering hat made her seem gigantic.

"What you are doing, listening to my private conversations, little rat?"

"I was-I was merely trying to pass by," Christine stammered, trying once again to slink past the obnoxious wire-framed skirt.

Carlotta thrust her face into Christine's, her rouge-and powder-scented face, and rose-scented breath, overwhelming her. "Get out of my sight, you little rat! And you mind your own business!" The diva's Spanish-flavored r sounds rolled and spit in Christine's face. "You do not have any business with me!"