It had never set well with Nicolas that Charles—the boy who initiated the French carols on the highland road all that time ago —wasn't in any of the liturgical music studies. At first, there was an incredible lack of time: Charles was fast learning a new language and new lifestyle. But one day the smaller boy asked why his friend didn't at least sing in the choir.

In response, Charles burst with a squeaky laugh, "I'll be praying the hours with the other clergy soon enough. But I am in no place to be singing for his Eminence."

"But why?"

"Can you hear my voice right now, Nicolas? It's breaking."

Nicolas sat still in a kind of horror, and leaned in concernedly, "I thought you were sick." When Charles kindly shook his head in response, the child was quick to respond, "how did you break your voice?"

Charles stared out and put down his pen. He wondered if there was anyone at the hospital who was in charge of foundling education. And then he realized that he had never learned these things in school… they were secrets passed around from boy to boy. Occasionally an older brother would share his post-pubescent wisdom, but little Nicolas had none of these. Charles saw that he was in a position that no one had prepared him for. He pressed his fingertips together in a way he had seen the older scholars do when they were deep in thought--it made him feel a little smarter. "Have you never wondered why or how it is that adult men sound very different from little boys?" Nicolas didn't respond at all and Charles continued, "as children grow into adulthood their voices change. I used to sound just like you….'

"Not just like me. No one sounds like me," Nicolas interrupted hurriedly.

Charles was taken aback, but then nodded, "fair. I sounded like one of the other boys in your choir perhaps. And right now I sound like this:" and the young teen sat upright, took in a medium sized breath and started his scales on a nice round "DO" but by the time he got to "SO" the quality in the note had gone thin. Charles concentrated and brought the dominant into something that eventually sounded full. But then he went to "LA" and two notes burst forth from his throat simultaneously, in a strange reedy overtone. Charles saw that Nicolas was very concerned and interested, so he held the note as the child crept closer.

He was trembling.

Charles squeaked "TI" and he steadied himself for "DO" when a small hand closed his mouth. Charles looked at the owner of the shaking hand.

Nicolas shook his head slowly.

"Well, now you've heard it. Its best you know now so that it doesn't take you by complete surprise when it happens to you."

Nicolas jumped back as though the words hit him, "It's not going to happen to me" he muttered desperately and walked quickly away again, doubtless back to the library or to one of the nurses.

From that point onward, Nicolas dogged every note of the older boys, listening for evidence of this split flute, this abomination of voice. Sure enough, a fourteen year old was disqualified from soloing just a little while later. And not long after that, another was bumped from first soprano to second soprano. Each of these boys showed some frustration but were clearly resigned to their fate.

Nicolas was very upset but kept silent. It was as though a mysterious illness had overcome the entire boys choir and they would each eventually succumb to it. No one spoke of this illness and everyone acted like it wasn't happening. And the worst part was that Nicolas did not know how old he was. He didn't know if he'd start showing signs in the next year or in the five years. After several weeks of this anxious suffering, Nicolas worked up the courage to speak to the choir director about it.

After the oldest singer was dismissed from the boys choir altogether for having a wild gallop through octaves emerging from the holes in his head, Nicolas drummed up the fortitude to speak to the choir director personally for the first time since his arrival. After rehearsal and lessons, he made his way to the front of the room asd asked the director what was happening to the older boy's voices.

The choir director looked down at Nicolas and shook his head, "its inevitable," he said "just as the voice starts to grow really strong the range drops out and everyone is suddenly a basso. But don't worry you've got a few years yet." He looked back at his papers and absent-mindedly walked away saying, "just keep practicing. That can smooth out the transition."

Dissatisfied with that answer, he next tracked down a young tenor in the men's choir and asked about this wretched curse. The man looked very gravely at the boy, taking in the concerned brow sculpted into the boy's half mask. "It happened when I was fifteen," he said, "I felt so betrayed. Before then I had understanding with my voice and an identity with it." He leaned in conspiratorially, "before, I had over a three octave range. I miss it, quite frankly."

"Please Brother," the child hesitated, "is there anything that could be done to stop it?"

The man got a funny look on his face and said, "Yes --but only because you sing in the papal chorus," and he told Nicolas where to find the chapel Musici--the castrated members of the pontifical choir.

Some of the Musici had left the loft by the time Nicolas got up the stairs to hear them sing in isolation. But once they opened their mouths he was transfixed: grown men with the voice of angels. Neither woman nor child nor man could make the sound that these creatures held as their voices rang out above from the lofts in the Sistine. It was a good strong vocal line in a chorus full of other men and boys, but alone, the sound was uncanny, chilling and unlike anything Nicolas had ever heard. Ringing sounds of unparalleled clarity, volume and breath control that went beyond the reaches that Nicolas thought possible.

Wary of greeting such esteemed individuals, Nicolas employed his quiet footsteps to follow them, listen to their chatter and make plans on approach. He learned that the director of the pontifical chapel choir was still riding his case about Palestrina, about whom he'd previously written a book. He learned that several of the Musici were quite getting on in years but there were a few younger specimens. He saw that they had similarities between them that weren't apparent right away. All of them were exceptionally tall with long limbs, wrists darting out exaggeratedly from the cuff. Each of them was positively cherubic in shape otherwise. Among them was a stout fellow with hair paradoxically a black blonde. The called him Dominico. As the various choristers took their leave of the loft, Dominico was left behind.

"Hello, there," a sweet voice cooed as he spotted Nicolas lurking in shadows. "Are you lost, son?"

Nicolas opened his mouth and in his imperfect Italian, blurted out, "I was told to find the Musici."

The cherub smiled softly and said, "you found one. Who's looking for us?"

Nicolas slowly walked closer, fastidiously aware of the presence of his mask. "Nicolas Perelin from the boys choir."

"Perelin. You're not from around here, I see."

Nicolas shook his head slowly. The musici beckoned him over to him, closer to the lamps. "Do you have an injury?" he puzzled as the boys mask indeed came into view.

Nicolas shook his head again and at a loss to remember a word in Italian said, "my face was never made."

"Show me."

The child went through the old routine and exposed his gaping sinus cavity to the lamplight.

"What can I do for you, Nicoli Pellegrino of the boys choir?" said the soft man in an illustrious manner. He flourished his fingers through the air to dismiss the child's mask.

Nicolas was caught off guard. It was clear that the musici was addressing him, but he'd never heard his name sound like that before. He held his mask hesitantly, not sure if he was expected to leave it off or replace it. At last, he dropped his hands and said, "I would be honored to sing for you and to be considered for this destiny."

"Is that so?" Dominico raised his eyebrows, "do your parents know?"

"I do not have parents. I am from the hospital of foundlings."

"An orphan?"

"Yes, Signore."

"And you want to devote your whole life to liturgical music? You wish to craft your body into God's instrument?"

"Yes, Signore."

"Do you know the sacrifices required of this position?"

Nicolas struggled with some of the words that Signore Dominico used but he was pretty certain he understood the question. With considerable limited vocabulary, he formed an answer and said, "I know I must never grow up to become a man."

"Mind your tongue, young fellow," came a low rumble as the giant leaned down, brows furrowed in displeasure. "What in heaven's name do you think we are?"

Nicolas panicked when he angered the angelic creature. Not knowing what else to do and afraid he was quickly losing his chance, he began to sing. It wasn't his strongest performance, (his nerves were shot) but the grownup was clearly impressed.

When he'd heard enough he waved his hand again, saying "Very well, very well. Listen, you've got a fine voice but… that's not all there is. You may already be too old. Did you say you were in the boys choir?"

"Yes, Signore."

"Then you must be at least 10 years old. The procedure should take place at the age of eight or younger."

Nicolas gasped and said "I'm younger than eight!"

The musici grew quiet and gave a long sigh, "Nicoli, I see that you're very interested in this life but, the procedure is very serious and the pontifical choirs have standards. There's no telling that you'll be accepted to sing here, even if you continue to train under Signore Belari. I've never seen anyone with a face like yours."

Feeling faint, the boy's strength gave out. He fell to his knees before Dominico, and said, "this is how God made me. Where can I go? If I lose my voice I shall have to take a trade and no one will accept me. I must sing. It is all I am."

After a long, unreadable pause, Signore Dominico said, "How old are you really?"

"I don't know, Signore. I'm an orphan."

"Pity. Stand up, let me have a look at you."

Nicolas again assumed a display pose as the adult prodded his face and neck, looking for something he didn't name. "Are you growing any body hair?"

Nicholas did not understand. As the Signore explained to him what he meant, a cold feeling overcame him. Never had the awareness of monstrousness in his body extended to anywhere below his chin. The things the liturgist listed as symptoms of this unfathomable --and permanent --disease made him nauseated. The hair, the smell, the emissione notturna and the goblin voice combined with his already putrid face was too much to bear. Tears sprang to his eyes as he shook his head to both deny the existence of these body horrors and the dispel their images.

"Well there may still be time, then." Dominico said as he pointed to an office door. "That is the director of pontifical music. Go ask him for Caffarelli's lesson plan and let him know your intentions. But be discreet in your words. What happens in cases such as mine or potentially yours is regarded quite secretive."

The director of music at the Sistine chapel was elderly; the position was usually held for life. He looked at Nicolas and didn't appear to notice the mask at all, but handed him a booklet from the shelf. The lesson plan of the great Castrato Caffarelli. "Return when you're certain."

Nicolas clutched this new treasure tightly to him as he raced back to the foundling hospital. Of course the booklet was written in the Italian language, and Nicolas employed a dictionary and the occasional help of one of the orderlies at the hospital.

It was about time he learned Italian properly. And with that decision he finally began to attend the paltry language lessons delivered by the nurses after Catechism. Suddenly the masked boy was speaking, and speaking very beautifully. He excelled at studies and impressed the people in charge.

As the language came to him through listening and careful study, he pulled apart each and every phrase in the booklet until there was one instruction left that gave him trouble. Caffarelli's lesson plan was intense and compiled hours of practice of different sorts: difficult passages, performance, theory and counterpoint.

But one morning lesson gave Nicolas serious trouble. In the mornings, each boy was to perform "one hour of singing exercises in front of a mirror, to practice gesture and forms and to avoid ugly expressions of the face while singing, and so on."

Avoid ugly expressions of the face.

The orderlies did have a shaving mirror at the hospital, and Nicolas tried the exercise with the mask on and with the mask off until he despaired.

Meanwhile, as the weeks went on, he worked. He stole off to the music rooms to practice on any keyboard available from pump organ to grand piano.

He was the most attentive singer in the boy choir and all hated him for it. Nicolas grew to detest them in response and felt an odd, new, sort of glee when the tell-tale signs of this dreaded man disease began to appear on any of them. He imagined the boys as being filled to bursting with all this bloody potential until one day their vocal chords popped like boils, releasing these hideous noises into the air.

And he crafted better masks made of more subtle materials and shaded as much as possible to resemble his own pale flesh. He finally settled on a design that drew an intelligence with it the way Charles had tried to suggest. Slight upturn of one upper lip, a raised and cocked eyebrow but smaller eyeholes, suggesting lowed lids. The effect was one of a cocky boredom. It was absolutely everything Nicolas felt.

Caffarelli spelled out disciplines very clearly and referenced several other primers that Nicolas was obliged to look up. He learned more of the process of becoming a musici, and how difficult it may be to find a clandestine surgeon. He learned that after being castrated, these beings weren't properly considered full men anymore, and several rights were supposedly removed, specifically the offices of marriage and priesthood. But in his research he also learned things about the lives of historical Castrati that he suspected the director of holy music had not intended him to learn. In the old days, when castrati voices were very popular, they reigned over most of Europe (and even parts of the east, where the Orthodox Church held sway). The performers were wealthy and beloved and had nothing to do all day but sing, play and make love. They were pompous and vain creatures, frankly not suited for the papal states at all, much less the Pope's own chapel. The findings brought Nicolas at long last to the story of Farinelli… the world's greatest singer. Descriptions of the feats of music Farinelli was able to make were astounding. In one article he went toe-to-toe with a famous trumpeter and outlasted him in public. There were references to passages written for him that looked quite impossible. His range was legendary: three and a half octaves from the middle of the keyboard to an astounding F note in the 6th octave. Nicolas played it over and over. It was a whistle, a birds' song. It didn't even seem like a note that could come out of anything human. Farinelli must have been touched by God.

Nicolas intended to hide his findings from Charles, remembering the secrecy in which Signore Dominico had spoken. But he went to go show his friend the new mask and it wasn't long before he started discussing his ambitions.

Charles was shocked. He held up his hands to quiet Nicolas' excitement and said, "Nicolas are you quite serious? Do you know what this means?"

"It means I won't become a man."

"Nicolas, you could die from this unnecessary procedure."

"I have gone under the knife for the sake of my face already. I don't see the difference. Besides, it's a simple thing, really. We geld horses and cattle all the time."

"But, horses and cattle? You're not a beast, Nico."

Nico.

Nicolas looked up at his friend, his heart aflutter and cried. Crying felt wrong, but he was unable to stop the flow of tears.

After a few weeks of gruelling practice, Nicolas returned to the director of music and made his case. The director asked many of the same questions that Dominico did and Nicolas explained his situation of being a foundling and having a deformity (though remembering the man's eyesight from earlier, did not remove his mask to show him).

The director looked aside and said, "you are ward of the Church, and unusually in a position to accept this sacrifice. I will send for you when I know if this can be done, provided that you understand the risks you're taking on the whole. Do you?" the old man asked doubtfully.

"Because of my deformity, I have already sustained several surgeries. Procedures of medical violence are familiar to me." Nicolas fibbed. In truth he had no memory of anything that had been done to his face, but layers of stitch marks were visibly hashed over a vestigial upper lip. And he knew doctors. Maybe he had forgotten everything that had ever happened outside a church or hospital, but those images lingered. He was worried about having to answer to this same point again, "I'm no stranger to blood, Signore."

Nicolas was dismissed and told to consider it for longer. But one day Nicolas found one single hair on his belly that was darker than any hair not on his head. Remembering the symptoms in grim horror, he raced to make appointment with the director of music and begged him to assist in finding a barber or surgeon to make the cut.

"Just so, just so," waved the director "Nicolas Pelerin, wait for my call. I will send for you at the hospital."

It was actually Dominico who came for him that fateful day. The musici was of a much more amiable mood then when Nicolas had previously seen him and they talked about life at the Sistine Chapel as he led Nicolas--or as Dominico insisted, Nicoli-- through garden pathways and and past sacred vestibules to a fresh surgeon's room.

Nicolas wished he wasn't terrified. In fact he was furious with himself for being so nervous. I am God's instrument, he repeated to himself and focused on his breathing. The surgeon, upon entering the room, gave the boy one last chance to change his mind. The surgeon made comment about the permanence of such things and mentioned marriage and children. He promised, "the love of a woman is worth all the music in heaven."

But this was more than the child could bear. Nicolas screamed and ripped his own mask off in fury saying, "there are no women for me so music it is!"

And the child's face was so hideous that the surgeon agreed.