ANGEL OF MUSIC [CHRIS MOTIONLESS] [✔️]

VIII - Rehearsals Begin

 EMMA'S POV

I stood uncomfortably, holding my music as Reyer attempted to play the damned piano. I swore inwardly as I thought my Angel would play it so much better than the fool at the keys. The chorus sang out, wrong, of course. "Hide our sword now wounded knight! Your vainglorious asconnade brought you to your final fight for your ride, high price you've paid!"

I read my part, singing the high notes with ease. "Silken couch and hay-filled barn both have been his battlefield." Piangi came in, very wrong as well. "Those who tangle with Don Juan---" And Reyer stopped him. "No, no, no! Chorus rest, please. Don Juan, Signor - here is the phrase."Those who tangle with Don Juan." If you please?" He asked, and Piangi sang, wrong again. "Those who tangle with Don Juan--" And again, Reyer called out. "No, no. Nearly -but no. "Those who tan, tan, tan."" He said, and Piangi sang it wrong again.

Carlotta sighed, saying out loud, "His way is better. At least he make it sound like music!" She said, and everyone laughed, except me. How dare she insult the music? Giry, who was standing near by, came to the Phantom's defense. "Signora - would you speak that way in the presence of the composer?" She asked sternly, and Carlotta rolled her eyes, deaf to the implications of the remark; saying sarcastically, "The composer is not here. And if he were here, I would."

Giry cut in, an ominous tone in her voice. "Are you certain of that, Signora?" She said, and I shivered, my palms starting to sweat. Reyer called out. "So, once again - after seven." He gave the note and counted in. "Five, six, seven..."

Piangi was wrong again, and gradually, everyone started to either talk or practice the phrase simultaneously. Carlotta threw her hands up into the air. "Ah, pi— non posso! What does it matter what notes we sing?" She sighed, and Giry, ice cold as ever, said, "Have patience, Signora."

"No-one will know if it is right or if it is wrong. No-one will care if it is right, or if it is wrong," She said, and began to mock the music. "Those who tangle with Don Juan!" Poor Piangi turned to me, a confused look on his face. "Those who tan. tan. Is right?" He said in his thick Italian accent, and I smiled gently at him, saying patiently, "Not quite, Signor: Those who tan. Tan."

Reyer attempted to restore order, calling, "Gentlemen! Signor Piangi. if you please!" No one noticed, and he thumped the piano keys, left the piano, and attempted to attract attention by waving his arms about.

At the height of the mayhem, the unmanned piano suddenly began to demonstrate the music. It played with great force and rhythm, and everyone fell silent, freezing up. Person by person, they started to sing the piece robotically and accurately.

As they continued to sing, I moved away from the group. Everyone but me sang, "Poor young maiden! For the thrill on your tongue of stolen sweets you will have to pay the bill - tangled in the winding sheets!"

As they became background noise to my thoughts, I spoke out loud, saddened. "In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came. that voice which calls to me and speaks my name. Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her Father promised her that he would send her the Angel of Music. Her father promised her. Her father promised her."

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