The choir director had never liked Nicolas, he was certain of it. When the child had first been introduced to him as a new singer, he was aghast and offended that anyone would place a child he had never heard in his choir, gifted foundling or not. When the ward left Nicolas with the letters of placement in the music room, the choir director sniffed and turned aside, saying only, "There's no place in the choir for anyone younger than 10 years."

"I'm 10 years old," Nicolas fibbed with a stoic authority.

The director turned around incredulously to look at the boy and said, "you're awfully scrawny for ten." The choir boys erupted in the gleeful laughter that can only happen when the grownup is upset with someone that isn't you. Nicolas held rigid as the director looked through a thick pair of spectacles and squinted, "In the name of St Peter, what is that on your face?"

Nicolas reflexively grasped his mask with both hands. The children laughed again.

"No masks in the house of God. Off with it."

Nicolas pondered his situation carefully. He considered leaving the room, but he thought of the great cartagra and how enchanting the voices of the men and boys had sounded on at the Christmas Mass and he planted himself.

I am God's instrument

He dutifully removed his mask for the director with one hand while presenting his letters with the other. The ensemble lost no time in their shrieks and jeers when they caught sight of his noseless face, deep set eyes and cracked mouth. Nicolas remembered the good cold feeling of strength and breathed deeply.

He could not cry. He had not yet sung.

The director was immediately downcast and he snapped at the choir to bring them to attention. Once they settled the director came very close to Nicolas and told him to raise his chin.

Nicholas was familiar with the examination routine. He raised his face to the light, closed his eyes and parted his teeth the smallest bit. Once again the boys made a noise in unison, but this time it was the eerie sound of awe. This was a trick Nicolas had known for a long time: at just the right angle he could show the lamplight through his mouth. It was clearly having the desired effect. He waited as the director examined his cleft palate and absurd nose hole.

"You can sing lad?" The director sounded amazed, which was an improvement from angry.

Nicolas took a deep breath and nodded and whispered the words he was told by the old cantor in Rouen to say, "like no one else."

The cantor been right about those words. The curiosity of the choir director was clearly piqued, and instead of moving on in the lesson, slid onto the piano bench to watch the child closely as he sang scales.

Nicolas knew what to do.

When the audition ended the hall was impossibly silent. Nicolas' face was a little red from effort, but he had made sure the clear beams of his voice were strong enough to fill the great hall alone. With his mask still in hand, he went and stood in the very back, next to the older boys, well out of sight to anyone. He never looked another one of those boys in the face. He closed his eyes and thought about Jeanette who said she was so proud of him.

Nicolas had avoided speaking directly to the choir master after that, and spent his energy dodging the pranks and jabs of the other boys instead. They never seemed to know what to make of him and on top of that, they spoke mostly in a language that he was still learning. He never bothered with their names, and instead he and Jeanette would make up names for them based on how they related to Nicolas himself. One was "The oldest singer", one was "the best singer next to me" one was "the second soprano who's always a little shrill" et cetera. He was faceless. And likewise they were faceless to him.