Page 35 of Our Strange Duet

“Please.” It was less than a whisper, a breath, a puff of air escaping me. But it was everything.

When he finally spoke, his instruction sounded uneasy, as if his own desires were, too, at war. “Look in the mirror.”

With a soaring heart, I glanced up, then watched as my face’s reflection darkened, turning confused and wounded. “I see only myself.”

“See the shadows. See where I hide.” His voice was warm and hypnotic and compelling. It wrapped around me like a thick blanket, cocooning me in a muddling heat. I wanted to bask in it, to revel in its mesmerizing depths like a pagan god of old. “Do you see me?”

I tilted my head, still not understanding. “I—”

“See me,” he hissed, and there was a strange twist of light, a dazzling refraction of candlelit beams arcing across the room in a rainbow burst. Then a gloved hand reached out from behind the frame, sliding through the opening where the mirror’s glass should have been, slipping into this world, and somehow, a figure stood before me, beckoning.

“Come to your Angel of Music.”

Chapter 13

I stared at the hand, panicked uncertainty flaring within me as I took in the highlights limning the black sheen of its leather glove.

It looked so real.

Real and tangible and whole and here and—

The Angel!

I looked past the gloved fingers, up the arm, to the figure they were attached to.

The Angel of Music was here. In my dressing room. With me now.

He’d come, just as I’d asked, just as he had for Father, taking form and appearing in person, and he was…magnificent. He was exactly as I’d imagined, imposing and radiant, powerful and divine. He was…

He was…tall.

I had the urge to laugh. It was such an absurdly prosaic observation, but a strange, otherworldly glow—was that Heaven’s light?—blazed behind him, illuminating his form even as it obscured his features, so that all I could sense was the size of him, and he was so very tall.

“Christine,” he murmured, and his voice…his voice…

It had never failed to enthrall me—so beguiling and hypnotic—but now, this close, this near, it was as much a physical presence as he was. I could feel the force of his syllables stir the air, as potent as a lover’s caress.

“You’re really here.”

He dipped his head, and I could see he wore a hat, a swooping fedora that masked his face. I wanted to bridge the span between us and cast it aside. To have him finally here and to still be unable to see all of him was maddening.

“Come with me,” he said, extending his hand.

It was a command. It was an offering. It was an instruction I could not possibly ignore.

I reached out, unaware that I’d made the decision to do so until I felt the press of leather around my fingers. I marveled at his hand’s weight, its warmth.

Nothing about any of this felt real. The Angel of Music could not possibly be here now, with his hand around mine, pulling me up and through my dressing room mirror.

But he was.

And he had.

And somehow, I had too, escaping the confines of the little room to…Where were we?

There was a long corridor, a tunnel of thick gray stone, lit by a lantern the Angel carried and the periodic glow of golden-candled sconces. They swayed and flickered as we passed by, and that movement was magic, a miracle, proof that something wondrous was taking place and I was here to witness it.

I felt like Hagar or Elijah, Angela of Foligno or Francis of Assisi. My Angel had taken physical form and revealed himself to me. His figure caused flames to dance. His hand could wrap around mine with a tender pressure so exquisite I wanted to cry out. But I didn’t dare. I didn’t want a single thing to obscure this astonishing encounter, even tears of joy.