The soft swishing of his cloak was the only sound Erik allowed as he stalked down the narrow side corridor known only to him. The noise surrounded him like a swirling wind, putting him in mind of freedom beyond the Opera House's walls.

No footsteps resounded on the floor. No harsh breaths escaped his lips. No part of him brushed against the sides of the passage. Even the cold material of his mask didn't rub his face.

The flickering silence was broken a moment later by footsteps and chattering voices on the other side of the wall. Erik hurried his pace, disinclined to listen to idle prattle.

Then the singing started.

The pure, sweet voice filled the small corridor like music straight from heaven. Erik froze in place, captivated. He ignored the bustle of the rest of the world as a general rule, unless it benefitted him, but music was one thing he could not resist.

He moved to the side of the adjoining passage he was in and pressed his hands to the wall. He wanted desperately to know what could be making the beautiful sound - most music in the Opera House was barely passable.

This music, however, seemed to be inside him, stopping his breath and filling his heart with lightness. This was how he made others feel with music; he had read it on their faces and heard it in their voices, but had never felt it himself. This music was everything.

Then the song died away, replaced by a soft laugh and animated voices.

Erik peered through gaps in the wall, fixing his eyes on a pair of girls walking down the adjacent corridor. One was taller, with brown hair and soft grey eyes, but he hardly noticed her. His gaze was instead full of the girl who had been singing.

She was small and delicate, and carried herself as though she was about to sprout wings and take to the air. Hair like molten shadows tumbled down her back, curling into the folds of her deep green cloak. Her porcelain-doll face was captured in a smile of the same elation Erik himself always felt when captured by music. Her eyes were as brightly blue as sapphires; they seemed to shine like a pair of beautiful beacons, beckoning him forwards.

The girls continued down the corridor, walking inches away from where he was standing, and he couldn't help but follow as though he were in a trance.

Erik's mind was spinning. He could still hear that gorgeous voice in his head. Nothing else seemed to matter. All he wanted was to hear that sound again, to be part of it, to be closer to it, to be closer to her…

Christine tugged on Celeste's elbow, pulling her friend along. "Come on," she urged. "Rehearsal ended late today and we don't want to be wandering around in the dark."

Celeste sighed but quickened her pace. "Sorry, I'm coming."

Christine, evidently noticing the sad edge to her voice, stopped and turned. "Are you alright going to the cemetery? I know it's been a long day."

"Of course." Celeste raised her eyes to meet the other girl's gaze, a gentle smile lifting her lips. "I'm fine, don't worry. Besides, a trip to my Father might improve my day."

Christine sighed but didn't argue, and the two of them moved off again.

"Anyway," Celeste continued, forcing false joviality into her voice. "It was only Carlotta, and all she's throwing around are mean words."

"True, but she was pretty vicious today." Christine looked pityingly at her friend.

"It's not important," she replied quietly.

Together they passed through the writhing iron gates and into the graveyard, not noticing the shadow that followed them.

When Christine reached her father's grave, Celeste continued walking wordlessly, leaving her friend to reminisce alone.

Celeste knelt when she arrived at the gravestone that was her own destination, feeling the springy grass below creeping under her skirt and tickling her legs. She blinked back the familiar prick of tears as her eyes traced the etched lines of her father's name.

"I really wish I could go home and see you today, Papa," she whispered. "I'd love to hug you, and I know you'd say just the right thing to encourage me. Carlotta was throwing her insults around again, and I know I shouldn't let it get to me, but it still hurts. She manages to say exactly what I'm worrying about at that moment, and then I can't get her out of my head.

Celeste sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Talking to her father's grave was always therapeutic, but ultimately it didn't change anything. In the end she was only talking to a piece of rock - and if her father really could hear her somewhere, he certainly didn't answer her.

"I wish you were here. I feel so alone sometimes."

She looked out to the distance, watching the sun turn redder as it slowly began to set. When she heard Christine's footsteps she lifted her head again, hurriedly brushing her cheeks dry of the tears that she hadn't noticed falling.

Without a word, Christine held out a hand and helped the other girl to her feet. "I know what you need," she said softly. Blue eyes met grey. "An angel."

Celeste smiled, to her own surprise. "I think we could all do with one of those."

"You need an Angel of Music, like Little Lotte in the stories my father told," Christine continued, mirroring Celeste's smile. The two of them had met a decade previously at the Paris Conservatoire, where they had both studied before joining the Opera House, and Christine had always been delighted to share her father's tales in that time.

A shake of her head and a wry smile were the only reply Celeste gave.

Christine remained undeterred. "An angel to teach you, to sing in your sleep, to bring music to every part of your life…"

"That sounds lovely, but angels aren't real. And if they were, they ought to go to you, not me."

Christine looked back in the direction of her father's grave. "Celeste, my father said he'd send the Angel of Music to me from Heaven. I believe him… And, if you can hear me, Father," she raised her voice slightly with another glance over her shoulder. "Send the Angel to Celeste instead. She needs it."

"Thanks." With a small laugh, Celeste linked her arm through Christine's, pulling her gently back towards the gate. "Come on, let's go home."

"Okay, but I'm dropping you off tonight."

"You really don't need to -"

Christine raised a hand to stop her protest. "Your head's been in the clouds all day; you'd probably walk halfway across Paris before you noticed you'd taken a wrong turning."

Celeste laughed again, rolling her eyes. "Alright then."

"And anyway," Christine said, beginning to lead them both out of the cemetery. "The Angel of Music might come and snatch you up if you were on your own, and then you'd leave me behind completely."

Celeste smiled and glanced back over her shoulder. "Goodbye, Papa," she whispered softly, her quiet words drifting back to settle on the shadowy tombstone. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to be sent an angelic companion.

Erik raised his head to watch the pair disappear into the darkness. His head was whirring with unfolding plans and the girls' fleeting words.

This was his way to her. She needed an angel? He would give her one.

The opportunity to refine that voice, to perfect its divine sound, was just too good to pass up. Erik had always enjoyed having a project, and getting into a position where he could enhance that sound would be tricky, but he was almost certain she would accept a supportive figure she seemed so clearly in need of.

Music had always been his most beloved strength, and it had been music that had drawn him to her. Now it would be his tool, and their connection.

Surely, even a demon like him could be an angel for something as heavenly as her.