The Angel of Music

Dean faced the audience, the lights from the huge chandelier above blinding him momentarily. He continued singing, hitting the notes with perfect grace. Jo and Ellen watched from the sidelines with the rest of the dancers, all of whom were entranced with his performance. From up in their box, Meg moved her hand along to the song, while Ruby nodded stiffly. The audience clapped and nodded their approvement, and even Balthazar clapped from up in the balcony. The Viscountess sat in shock and wonder in box five, clapping loudly.
“Can it be Dean?” She rushed out of the box, pulling up her gloves and grabbing her dress. “It seems so long ago, he may not remember me, but I remember him.” She muttered to herself, smiling as she walked down the staircase to the main lobby. Back at the stage, Dean bowed and received a standing ovation, Meg shouting praises from above.

A few minutes later, Dean was in the chapel at the back of the opera house kneeling on the floor, not caring for his suit. He carefully picked up a splint and lit a candle, below which was framed a picture of a man and a young boy. As he bowed his head and looked at his hands, he heard a faint voice from the walls.
“Bravo, bravo, Dean.” The deep voice he had heard before came again from behind the stone, and he lifted his head.
“Dean, where in the world have you been hiding?” Came Jo’s voice from the doorway. They smiled at eachother and she sat down next to him. “Really, you were perfect. I only wish I knew your little secret; who’s your great teacher?” She frowned a little at Dean, who was still smiling.
“Jo...when your mother brought me here to live, whenever I’d come down here alone to light a candle for my father and brother, a voice from above and in my dreams, he was always there. You see, when my father lay dying, he told me how I’d be protected by an angel, an angel of music.”
“Dean, do you believe...do you think the spirit of your father is coaching you?” Jo sounded uncertain, yet Dean’s face turned warm, his green eyes sparkling in the candlelight.
“Who else, Jo? Who? I used to dream he’d appear. Now I sense him again...I know he’s here.” He said, looking up at a faded painting of an angel on the wall before him. He stood up and Jo stood up with him. “He’s somewhere inside the walls...he’s hiding. He’s always with me, I just know it.”
“Dean, you must have been dreaming. Stories like this can’t come true. Dean you’re not being yourself. Come on.” She grabbed his hand and started pulling him out the door. They walked out into the corridor, and Dean started singing under his breath about an angel of music.
“He’s with me even now...”
“Your hands are cold.” Jo wrapped both of her tiny hands around his. “You're white as a sheet.”
“To tell you the truth, Jo, it...it frightens me...”
“Never thought I'd live to see the day Dean is frightened. Come on, let's get you back you back to your room.” As Jo pulled him down the corridor quicker, Balthazar laughed at the two from above, drinking out of his bottle.

“No. No!” Ellen fended off the crowds of people wanting to see Monsieur Daae as she shut the door of his new dressing room, laden with roses and gifts for the night’s performance. Dean looked around, not believing there were that many roses in the world.
“You did very well, my dear. He is pleased with you.” Giry picked up a single red rose lying on the dresser, around which was neatly tied a black satin bow. Dean ran his fingers over the material and sat down at the table, staring at the petals. Ellen left the room, where she saw the Viscountess take a large bouquet of flowers from the managers, who were one of the many waiting outside the room. Opening the door, she stepped inside, making sure her evening dress was fully in the room before she shut it again.
“Dean. Let his mind wonder.” Dean looked up and smiled at her voice. “Little Dean thought am I fonder of dolls or goblins or shoes?”
“Lisa...”
“Or of riddles or suits?”
“Those picnics in the attic.” Dean turned around in his chair.
“Or of chocolates?”
“Father playing the violin.”
“As we read to eachother dark stories of the North.” Lisa sat down next to his chair and gazed up at him, wondering how little he had changed. They embraced, and Dean breathed in her perfume. “You sang like an angel tonight.”
“Father said: ‘When I’m in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.’” His face fell. “My father is dead, Lisa. So is my brother. And I have been visited by the Angel of Music.”
“Oh, no doubt about it, and now, we go to have supper.” She stood up and walked to the door.
“No, Lisa. The Angel of Music is very strict.”
“Well I shan’t keep you up late.” Lisa laughed.
“Lisa, no.”
“You must change.” She stopped before heading out the door. “I’ll order my carriage: two minutes.”
“No, Lisa wait!” Dean stood up, but Lisa was already gone, the door banging shut behind her. He sank back down in his chair, running his hand over his face. So silent that Dean didn’t even suspect it, a dark gloved hand turned the key, locking him inside.

It became late, and the lights dimmed in the Opera Populaire, the managers finally leaving, the performers finally sleeping. Dean was tying his dressing gown around his frame when the lights in his room suddenly blew out. He looked up at the sudden darkness, the only light coming from a window above the dressing table. He was about to leave the room when he heard the familiar voice.
“Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory. Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph.” He sounded angry, insulted almost, and Dean looked around worriedly.
“Angel, I hear you. Speak, and I listen.” He said.
“Flattering child you shall know me, see why in shadow I hide. Look at your face in the mirror, I am there inside.” Dean turned to the floor-to-ceiling length mirror at the other side of the room, and sure enough, behind it stood a figure in a white mask that covered one side of his face, cloaked in black. Suddenly, there was a knocking at the door, and Lisa’s voice came from behind the painted wood.
“Who’s is that voice. Who is that in there?” The door handle rattled and rattled. “Dean? Dean!” Dean ignored him and instead stared into the passage now behind the mirror. The Angel reached out his hand, and Dean took it willingly.