The Violinist's Daughter

Chapter 7

Christine stared up at the sky, straining her eyes searching for stars in the dark sky.

There were so few, the smoke and the lights blocking her view, but the few that were visible twinkled down at her, reminding her of her father's eyes, which made tears well up in her eyes as she remembered that he was gone.

Her hands crumpled the black silk of her dress, ruining it's perfectly ironed front. Papa never liked to iron his shirts, he said they would feel too stiff. He would always hide his rumpled dress shirts underneath a tuxedo jacket and a dashing bow tie. It had been their little secret. Now, without him, it was impossible to find bits of humor and goodness in amything. All hope felt lost for her and despair swirled in her head as she stared at the unfamiliar city that was not her home. Her home had been Papa. And Papa was gone.

Christine shoved the blinds down agressively, making a painful metallic sound echo across the room as she flung herself on the bed and cried.

As she cried, all she could think about was how her father would comfort her whenever she cried.

"It's okay, äskling. Things will get better."

She could still hear his voice, warm and kind as she hugged her knees to her chest. It had to get better, she resolved, and she stumbled out of bed and wrapped herself in a blanket. She walked slowly through the halls and trudged her way to the basement of the Opera House. It was dark and lit only by candles on the candlebra of remembrance. On the front, there was a tiny bronze plate with the encryption "Light a candle to celebrate the ascension of a soul"

Christine let a tear fall from her cheek and let her trembling hand reach for a match. It took four try for her to light the match, but the light it emitted was more beautiful than anything she had ever seen.

As the flame was absorbed onto the wick, Christine closed her eyes. She thought of how when her father was still alive that he would promise to send her the angel of music once he was in Heaven. It was probably ignorant of her, but she still held onto the effervescent idea of an angel saving her from this misery.

"Papa," She whispered, squeezing her eyes tight, "If you're there, please, please come back. Or send me the angel of music. I can't live without you. . . please! Papa."

She took a ragged breath, pressing a hand to her temple, "I can't live without you. Your love, your kindess, your music; I'm nothing without them. Oh, Papa!"

She sobbed, tears rolling freely down her cheeks. Painful breaths shaking her body and she trembled with sadness.

A voice began to sing to her and she froze. It was coming from all around her, and she was stunned beyond belief by the beauty of the voice. It was as rich as gold and as soft the first breeze of spring. It enveloped her in warmth and made her heart swell with a nostalgic sadness.

It was a tenor voice so beautiful that she felt as if she were melting into the ground and becoming a part of the Earth. She gasped falling to her knees in awe of the great voice.

She had never been completely invested in the Church, in fact, she and her father only visited churches to admire the architecture, but this voice. . .it called to her. Like an angel. Like the angel of music!

A voice in the back of her head chided her for believing such childish nonsense, but all her other senses bowed to the voice.

Breathless on the floor, Christine looked up, wide-eyed. "Hello? Who's there?"

In her mind, she knew it couldn't be who she thought it was, but she asked in spite of it.

"Angel?"

Erik

Erik grimaced as he saw Christine weep. It was a painful sight, a girl stolen of her father. She crawled out of her bed, pulling her blankets around her fervently.

Erik followed her through the rafters, opening the hidden passageway that led down. He knew she was going to the Chapel. It was where all believers went when someone died. And, indeed, it was a beautiful place. The architecture of the Chapel was beautiful, designed acoustically for the singing of a choir.

He moved swiftly to the portrait of Saint Cecelia, swinging it open to the room behind it and watched as Christine entered, clutching her blanket close.

Erik listened to her voice intently.

"Papa," She said "If you're there, please, please come back. Or send me the angel of music. I can't live without you. . . please! Papa."

Immediately, Erik recognized the fact that Christine had been speaking of the Angel of Music in the Swedish folk story, "Little Lottie and her Angel of Music." It was popular amongst musicians, and he immediately connected the dots between Christine and her nickname "Lottie".

It seemed completely mad, but Erik's interest in this girl drove him to seize this rare opportunity into her life.

He watched as she wept, and a tiny feeling of pain edged at him in the back of his mind. She shouldn't be crying.

He began to sing, softly at first, but increased the volume as Christine stopped crying. She fell to her knees and Erik smiled. He knew he had a good voice, it was one of the only good things about him.

Her shock was apparent as she looked around. He relished it. Slowly, she gazed up at the ceiling, her hands instinctively clasped.

"Angel?" She asked.

Erik felt himself smile and he answered softly, "Yes, child?"

She gasped, and looked as if she might have a heart attack, which would have been mighty inopportune for him, after all, he finally had her attention.

"Naj," She muttered under her breath, shaking her head, "I must be dreaming."

Erik chuckled, "No, Christine, I am your Angel of Music. Your Father has sent me from Heaven to teach you."

Christine closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Erik watched curiously. "If you are really my Angel of Music, you will know what my favorite piece on the violin is."

Erik almost laughed, but he kept his composure, he remembered this from when Christine was first here. She had told him backstage. "Sarasate's Carmen Fantasy, but I'm not here to teach you violin, äskling, I'm going to teach you how to sing."

Christine opened her eyes, a newfound wonder in them. "I'm so sorry, Angel. I-"

Her voice broke off, and she looked down, embarassed.

"It's alright, älskling."

She turned her head to the side, playing with her hair. "It's just- I cannot sing."

Erik laughed, "Christine, you have a gift. . . You must simply  learn how to train it."

Christine's eyes glowed, and her lips parted, breathless. "Thank you, Angel."

Erik folded his arms, "Of course. Now, tomorrow, at eight thirty, go to the practice room next to the library. The key will be beneath your pillow.