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Christine looked at herself in the mirror as the tailor stood back, having placed the last pin in her sleeve. For the first time, she was wearing a wedding dress. It was vintage—60 years old dating from the 1880s and had belonged to Christine’s grandmother.
Her best friend Alice had scoffed at the idea when she first heard. “Oh, Christine,” she had said. “Are you sure you don’t want to wear something more modern? Something without stains all along the hem?” But Christine had insisted. She knew this dress was the perfect choice to marry her Louis. It was practical to start. She wouldn’t have time to have a new one made, with Louis deploying to the South Pacific in only a week, and rationing would have made it impossible anyway. But the truth was Christine had always pictured herself marrying in this dress.
After the death of her parents in a fire when she was eight years old, Christine had lost most of her family’s possessions. Only those forgotten belongings which had been stored in the cellar had survived the blaze. Among them, a photo of her grandmother—a beautiful woman from whom Christine had gotten her name and, according to her father, her beautiful singing voice—and a wedding dress which had once belonged to her, the same dress Christine wore now. It was white satin with buttons down the bodice, a large bow in the back and sleeves that went just past her elbows, ending in beautiful fluttering lace. The skirt was made of intricate diagonal lace ruffles and all over it was adorned with silver bows and satin flowers. Christine thought it was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen, even with all the gray stains along the hem. She was lucky to be short enough that even after cutting off the inch of stained fabric at the bottom it was still long enough to hover just below her ankles.
Though she had never met her grandmother—she had died when her father was only ten years old—Christine had always felt a connection with her, and as she looked in the mirror, she felt closer and more connected to her family than she had since her parents’ death more than twelve years ago.
The lump that came to Christine’s throat whenever she thought of her parents seemed bigger than usual today, and Christine’s vision blurred lightly as tears welled in her eyes. She brushed them away and smoothed the front of the dress.
She was just about to turn to admire the side view when she suddenly heard a voice so close to her ear it seemed its owner must be standing no more than an inch behind her. “Christine,” said the voice, in a melodic singsong. Christine jumped and twirled around so fast one of the pins came undone. But there was no one behind her. She couldn’t believe she’d thought there would have been—if there had she would have seen them in the mirror. But that voice had been so close…
The tailor tutted as she retrieved the fallen pin from the floor and grabbed hold of the fabric to put it back in place. Seeing Christine’s wide eyes and suddenly pale complexion, the tailor’s expression turned from annoyance to concern. “Are you alright dear?” Christine was still looking around, confused about the origin of the voice.
“I-I think so,” she said. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” asked the tailor, refastening the pin on Christine’s waist.
“I thought…never mind. Yes, I’m fine.”
“Good. You’re all set here then. If everything looks good to you, I’ll have the alterations done in four days.”
“Oh, thank you!” said Christine, her thoughts refocusing on her upcoming nuptials. “The wedding is only a week away. I’m so happy you’ll be able to accommodate.”
“Of course. A soldier, I suppose?”
“A sailor,” said Christine proudly, thinking of her handsome Louis.
The tailor smiled. “Well, you take all the time you like to admire yourself. I have another customer to see but just call me in when you’re ready to take it off.”
With that, she turned and left the room, leaving Christine alone in front of the mirror. Christine sighed happily and gazed at her reflection, turning this way and that to see every detail of the dress. Suddenly she once again heard that ethereal voice, almost singing her name “Christine…”
This time she did not jump, although the hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end.
“Hello?” she called but received no reply. “Who are you?” she tried.
“Have you forgotten…” sang the whispering voice. It sounded like a man. A man with the most beautiful voice. She was certain she could never have forgotten a voice like that if she had ever heard it before.
“Do I know you?” Christine was now extremely frightened. Her body tensed and frozen, her nerves on edge.
“I am your Angel of Music,” sang the voice in her ear.
“The a-Angel of Music?” said Christine.
But just then the tailor poked her head back into the room, breaking the spell. “Did you call me dear?”
“Oh…no, I was just, um…practicing my vows.”
The tailor smiled sweetly. “Oh, young love,” she said. “Well, let’s get you out of this gown now if that’s alright.”
Christine nodded and the tailor carefully helped her undress. Christine donned again her blue skirt suit and hat, took her sales slip from the tailor, and made an appointment to be back in four days, then rushed out of the shop, still thinking about the mysterious voice who claimed to be the Angel of Music.
Though wedding planning kept her very busy over the next few days, at night as she lay in bed Christine’s thoughts inevitably turned back to the Angel of Music. The name sounded familiar to her, as though she had heard it in a dream or mentioned in passing long ago, but she could not place it.
On the third night following her fitting, as Christine drifted into sleep, an image appeared in front of her—a passage in old journal mentioning the Angel of Music. Christine sat bolt upright in bed, turned on the light and rushed to her closet, pulling out the box in which she kept all her parents’ belongings which had survived the fire. It had been years since she had pulled this out. She dug through the box, pushing aside a handful of programs from the Paris opera and a music box before she found what she was looking for—a small leatherbound journal. She brought it to her bed and began to read.
It was her grandmother’s journal, from 1881. The first several pages were all about the opera, her friends in the ballet, and missing her father. Christine was struck by how similar her grandmother’s grief felt to her own, and felt a pang of sorrow for her grandmother, as well as herself. About ten pages in Christine found the passage she remembered reading long ago about the Angel of Music. He had appeared to the elder Christine just as to the younger—as a disembodied voice in her dressing room. Christine gasped. It seemed that the same spirit who haunted her grandmother had now found her as well.
Christine stayed up for hours reading. Her grandmother wrote about the lessons she took with the Angel of Music, his strict countenance, and the way he made her feel connected to her father again. Christine was happy when she saw a passage mentioning her grandfather, Raoul, but was disappointed to see it was also the last one. The rest of the journal was blank.
Christine sat back and looked at the clock. It was now almost 4 o’clock in the morning. Christine’s dress fitting was only hours away, but she knew she could not sleep. She was anxiously awaiting the moment when she would wear her dress and stand in front of the mirror again. She did not know whether the feeling that quivered in her stomach was dread or excitement, only that she knew she would meet the Angel of Music again today, and this time she would be ready.
Christine arrived at the tailor’s the next day about twenty minutes early, having been unable to sit at home with her anxious mind any longer, though she found waiting at the shop somehow even more agonizing than at home. When at last the tailor called her name and she again stood in front of the mirrors, her heart was beating so fast she thought she might faint. If the tailor noticed Christine’s odd countenance she didn’t say anything, and Christine was grateful not to be asked.
As the last button was fastened, Christine was momentarily distracted from her thoughts of the angel by her reflection. The dress now fit perfectly—not a single pin needed. It hugged the curve of her waist like it was made just for her, and the stains on the hem were gone at last. She had never felt more beautiful.
The tailor stood back, smiling. “There,” she said. “A perfect fit. You can take it home today—my work here is done.”
“Thank you so much,” said Christine. “It’s perfect.”
“Feel free to take a few moments to admire yourself, move your arms around, make sure there’s no last-minute changes you’d like to be made,” said the tailor. “Then just let me know when you’re ready to take it home.”
Christine nodded and the tailor left the room, leaving just the bride and the mirror at last.
Christine’s nerves had returned in full force. With a great sigh she gathered herself and whispered a strained “Hello? A-angel?”
Silence. Disappointment began to creep through Christine’s chest like ivy.
She tried again. “Angel of Music? Are you there?”
A pause, and then, faintly “Christine…”
There! The singsong voice had returned, and Christine gasped—whether in relief or fear she did not know.
“Angel! Oh, are you really the Angel of Music? The spirit my grandmother knew?”
“I am your Angel of Music,” sang the voice. “Come to me Angel of Music…”
Christine furrowed her brow. Come to him? She glanced towards the door to her fitting room, then spoke again, in a low voice. “Angel, what do you mean?”
“Sing once again with me,” he called, his voice distant and echoey.
“You misunderstand,” she said. “I am not the Christine you know. I am her granddaughter, her namesake. I read her diary. She said you were sent by her father in heaven. Did she send you to me?” Christine looked down at her hands, clasped together as though praying.
Christine was met with a silence so long she thought the angel might be gone. Then the voice sang again, slowly “Christine, I love you.”
Christine’s eyes welled. All her doubts and worries eased. Whether the voice spoke to her or still to her grandmother, she did not care. She knew it was the same spirit, knew this was the angel who had once guided the elder Christine through her grief. She knew she had the Angel of Music with her, and when he spoke, she felt her grandmother with her as well.
When the tailor came in, she saw an emotional bride, smiling through tears in her wedding dress.
The tailor put a hand to her chest. “You will be such a beautiful bride. I wish you all the happiness in the world.”
Christine gave a small laugh and smiled at the tailor. “Thank you,” she said genuinely.
“Ready to take it home?” She asked.
“Yes,” said Christine, wiping her tears and looking back at her reflection with a confident, assured smile. “Yes, I am.”
When she left the shop with the large garment bag slung over her shoulder, she knew she carried much more than satin and lace inside. She carried the Angel of Music, and from now on she felt she always would.