Page 38 of Angel's Mask
“I can,” Christine was proud she could speak because she felt as if she might faint.
“And do you know any of the chorus parts already?” Again, she nodded, and Gabriel’s grin widened. “And, well, I’ll just ask it to see if this truly is a miracle...how well do you know the role of Siébel?”
“Siébel? InFaust?” Christine echoed in shock. She’d never given the mezzo part too much thought, though she liked it. “Quite well, not perfectly. But...”
“Miraculous,” Gabriel breathed and clapped his hands together. “We’ll have you with the second sopranos and you’ll be replacing Nicole Duval as the understudy for Siébel. You can have her dressing room too, just tell the stage manager. I’m rehearsing with Adèle Valerius tomorrow morning. In the small rehearsal hall at nine. Can you be there?”
“Uh, yes, Monsieur,” Christine stammered.
“The library will have a score for you, get one forRigolettotoo, we’re beginning rehearsals for that as well next week. I’ll get you sorted out with all the boring bits tomorrow.”
“Alright...” Christine stammered, still blinking in wonder.
“Very well then. Oh dear, what did you say your name was?”
“Christine. Daaé.” Gabriel nodded, satisfied, and looked her over one more time.
“I shall certainly be interested to see what other surprises you have in store for us, Mademoiselle Daaé.” With a final nod, the chorus master turned on his heel and continued down the yellow and red hall, obviously pleased with himself.
Christine collapsed against the wall, covering her mouth as she broke into laughter that was close to sobs.
“Do you like your gift, my dear?” a ghostly voice whispered in her ear. “Get some food and daylight, and then meet me in your new dressing room when you are done.”
“Yes, my angel,” Christine whispered with a grin.
––––––––
Erik waited behindthe mirror, trying to simply breathe. He’d done it. It was almost as if he’d planned everything to get to this moment. He hadn’t, of course, but he liked to think that he was still as adept at riding the shifting winds of chaos as he’d been in his youth. How he’d come to this point didn’t matter. Christine’s career had begun in earnest. It would take time to get Carlotta off the stage, of course, and Christine was not quite ready but...it was all so much closer now.
And oh, how she had sung today. It was as if her absolute surrender to her angel the night before had released something incredible. Or perhaps it was simpler. He’d heard more than one singer boasting that a good fuck was the best thing for the voice and while he had little experience of his own to judge by, the same could certainly be true of whatever it was they had done. He still couldn’t find a word for it, in any of the many languages he knew. But here he stood, determined to do it again if she would allow it.
The door creaked as it opened, and Erik’s heart jumped. Christine was radiant, her cheeks still red from the December wind, her shawl clutched tight around her shoulders.
“You know, Mademoiselle Duval was so quick to leave, she left a few dresses and other things,” he said, hating the thought of his pupil in the cold.
Christine smiled, bright and reverent. “I do think she and I are close to the same size. I shall have to see what she left.” She looked around the dressing room, awe in her eyes. “I can’t believe this is mine now.”
“It will serve us well for some lessons too,” Erik replied, and Christine raised an eyebrow. “You’ll certainly have better light to read your scores.”
“What about accompaniment?” he could tell already that she was entranced, under a spell only her angel could cast. In the dark, he raised the instrument he had brought to answer that same question.
Christine’s breath hitched as the first note from Erik’s violin vibrated through the dressing room and blossomed into an intricate phrase. She drifted to the mirror and, to Erik’s shock, knelt before it in wonder as he finished.
“The way you play, you sound...” Christine’s face was overcome. “It reminds me so much of him.” Erik had known the violin would remind her of her lost father, but not that it would affect her so deeply so soon.
“What was your favorite thing he played?” Erik asked, perhaps stupidly.
“The Resurrection of Lazarus; it’s an old folk tune, no one knows it...”
“I know it,” Erik replied, fascinated. It wasn’t just a folk tune; it was a Romani piece passed down through their masters of the fiddle. Erik had learned it from them decades ago. How had the elder Daaé come by it?
The mystery was unimportant. All that mattered was the utter emotion on Christine’s face as he played the sweeping, swooning tune for her. His violin was Christ calling on the dead to arise, just as he had brought his student back to radiant life a month and a half before when he appeared to her the first time.
Christine looked as moved now as she had then, her hands clasped to her chest as an angel’s music played just for her. Tears streamed down her face, and Erik understood why. In this one moment, he was giving her back her father in a more profound way than ever before. As the air at last came to a close, Christine heaved a sob.
“Thank you,” she whispered through her tears, and to Erik’s shock, he felt tears below his mask as well. “Thank you. You’ve given me so much. I can’t ever repay you. I can’t ever thank you enough.”
“You repay me with each note you sing for me, my Christine,” he replied, entranced by her. She was so close to him on the other side of the mirror. And yet so very far. “When you give me your song – when you give me your trust and your surrender – it is I who cannot repay.”
