Page 16 of Our Strange Duet

“I don’t want the Angel!” I’d shouted, surprising us both by the ferocity of my resolution. “I want you! I want you with me always. You can’t go. You can’t leave me!”

He’d smiled then, regret clouding his eyes. “I’ll never be far. I’ll always be here,” he’d swore, reaching out to touch my temple. “Inside your mind.”

I traced along my forehead, a poor echo of his final moment.

Signs.

Father had said there would be signs.

I’ve come for you at last.

I released a long, shaky breath, struck dumb by the fierce yearning lighting my insides. I so badly wanted to believe the voice. Because if it was who it claimed to be, it meant that Father hadn’t lied. It meant he really was in Heaven, with Mama, watching over me, just as he’d promised. It meant I wasn’t alone. It meant I was still cared for.

I would do anything to feel that way again.

That included suspending my disbelief, ignoring the logic which reared up, wanting to dispel the magic, to repute the impossible. I would let them slip to the wayside and choose faith instead. Faith in my father, faith in a benevolent God who would allow him to send me his promised signs. Faith in the Angel who had carried them to me.

It was faith which made me douse the stove’s fire.

Faith which brought me back to the opera house.

Faith which drove me down its dark corridors, to my even darker dressing room.

And faith which made me call out, crying for the Angel’s return.

“I’m sorry!” I all but shouted, bursting into the room. The gas lamps flared high and bright. “I’m sorry I ran. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. Please come back. Please forgive me. Please—”

“Christine.”

I let out a cry of relief as the Angel’s voice washed over me, every bit as wondrous as I’d remembered it. Gratitude filled my lungs with so much buoyancy I felt dizzy. “You’re still here!”

“I am.”

“But…where are you?” I asked, unsure of where in the room to look. “I don’t see you.”

He made a soft sound of consideration. “For now, it is enough that you hear me.”

“Yes,” I agreed fervently. “I…I wasn’t sure if—”

“I’ll never leave you,” he promised. “Now that I’ve come, now that I’m here, you’ll never be alone. I’ve come to be your teacher, your tutor. I’ve come to offer you the most precious treasure this world has.”

“What’s that?” I whispered. I felt myself drawn to the mirror, hungry to have a person to address, even if it was my own reflection.

“A chance.”

The words hung in the air before us like a sparkling jewel, as bright and burning as a fine diamond.

“A chance,” I repeated, feeling cowed by the enormous possibility of such a simple phrase.

“A chance at greatness,” the Angel murmured. “A chance to be more. A chance to become exactly who you were meant to be. You are destined for extraordinary things, Christine. Your voice was meant to sing for courts and kings, to dazzle, to take on the finest music and make it even more lovely, more beautiful, more empowered. Together, we will achieve it all. Close your eyes and picture it.”

I did as he asked, shutting my eyes against the drab reality before me: the dusty, spare dressing room, my current role as a dancer confined to the same precise identicality as everyone else around her. From behind closed eyelids, I dared to imagine all that the Angel spoke of. A confident voice, soaring over every seat of the Opéra Populaire, of any theatre I could dream of. The Royal Opera House in Covent Garden, La Scala in Milan, the Metropolitan Opera House in New York. I imagined the roles I might take on: Elissa and Carmen, Tatyana and Rosina. What worlds would open to me if I could sing as the Angel promised? What sights would I see? What fame could be mine?

I closed my eyes and listened as he told me of all the wonders that we would claim. He laid out every detail of my ascent, explained exactly how we would work together to accomplish it. And then he asked me if it was what I wanted. He asked if I understood what such instruction would entail.

I would have to be focused.

I would have to be dedicated.