"You are not prepared," he agreed, continuing his comment with little to no pause, "at this moment. But you will be. I do not make promises lightly. It will take work and time." Time was something he had plenty of. What was his life? Shutting himself away from the waking world, playing, reading, and composing. Rare it was that he went out upon the streets and usually only when the night lay as a blanket upon the land, further darkened by the lack of moon. He needed to purchase groceries now and again.
Though he might be considered a ghost by those of the Opera House, he was as human as any, if preternaturally so. Not wishing to linger too long upon the subject of La Carlotta, or his protégé's fears, he changed the subject. "Sing for me. Beginning with your lowest note. I wish to see how far your range is." With her being a lyrical soprano, it wouldn't surprise him if she couldn't go as deeply as alto. Contralto would be more comfortable, and mezzo-soprano would be quite easy for her. "F scale."
Christine trusted his words completely, lifting her otherwise downtrodden head to find her reflection and offer a softened smile towards its clarity. She sensed he lingered there. Nodding, she began as instructed, standing and singing his desired scale. Unconsciously, her lids fell heavily over her eyes as she sang, her palm pressed flat to her abdomen as he'd instructed the night before. The sound of her voice lifted to reverberate over every wall of the tiny room and surely into the others, which by now where abandoned. She was poised for his interjection of instruction, but sensing none, she continued on, the sweet crystalline quality of her vocals greatly improved since the previous night.
Her projection was excellent, though there was one flaw he saw more than heard. "Stop," he whispered low, and waiting until her last note died down, he continued. "Move your hand, and try again." One of his arms slid from the cloak, and dropping his hand, his fingers splayed, and hovering just an inch from the glass, he gave a press, as if he was truly pushing upon her diaphragm. "Now." The word drew out in a hush and his hand lifted, 'drawing up' her voice from the very depths of her being.
His voice was barely audible under her singing and still she heard it, as if in her mind. His control was heavy upon her and she did as instructed, her singing ceasing as she lowered her hand to her side. She began again, the quality of her lilting voice clear and angelic as she poured forth her heart to him without hesitation. With his unseen, lifted hand the volume increased, her eyes again closed against the realities that plagued her. Her words came with increasing abandon, Christine's arms put out before her as if reaching for the Voice. Her pink lips rounded out each word clearly, and with each take of breath her ample mantle heaved, the outpour of his adoration apparent in every inch of her frail form. Such a voice; she sang to capture his heart!
His hand continued its lift, drawing over her torso and to her throat. He hesitated, and then lowered his hand to his side. His eyes closed, and he listened to the notes she sang, searching for any flaw or imperfection, only to find none. 'F' could often be a difficult scale, as one was always tempted to draw into the minor instead of keeping to the normal major. "Excellent. Now, the whole scale, major. Mezzo-soprano, so you do not strain your voice. But..before you begin, you would do well to fetch some water. Tepid. Never cold." Since she was a chorus girl she probably wasn't told how to keep her throat from locking up, and that cold water – even if refreshing – would only bother the vocal chords instead of relaxing them. "Return quickly."
As she paused in her singing, the flutter of her lids exposed eyes once more shimmering with tears. She spoke not of it but instead did as instructed, moving towards the door and clutching its brass knob, thus abandoning the room for the time being. She moved quickly down the now darkened corridor, listening carefully for any coming occupants that remained before she rounded the hall and climbed the stairs to the dancers lounge.
All was quiet, save for the stage hands that remained to work into the night on preparing the set for Hanibal. Entering through the glass double doors of the area, she moved along the far wall towards the table arrayed with the silver pitcher of water and mugs of the same metal. Hurriedly, so as to return as quickly as told, she poured into the mug a fair quantity of its aqua contents. She moved towards her destination silently, a pupil fixed only on her lesson. Through the shadowed stairway and corridor she slipped as if she herself were an apparition in her white, flowing robe.
Just as the night prior, she wasn't the only one lingering around the opera house. There were those left to clean as well as fix up various things that sorely needed repair before the next opera made its production upon the stage. It was no surprise that she wouldn't come across any of them with the house being so large.
"Well, well. 'allo poppet."
Or maybe not large enough. A brawny arm snapped off to the side, palm flat against the wall, as a familiar scent cut her off from her destination. Whiskey and musk. Joseph grinned broadly as he lowered his head, nearly coming face to face with the young ingénue. "Won'dren 'round the halls, eh? Tis a might late for you to be doin' that. Never know whatcha find 'round 'ere."
She'd all but spilt the water at this sudden intrusion, a gasp of fear parting set lips as she walked directly into his arm. Quickly, however, she recovered and moved away, though the closeness of his proximity and the narrow width of the hallway gave her little hope for escape. She had half a mind to call on her Angel but feared somehow that he would disappear if their association was discovered.
Her doe eyes lifted carefully to Joseph, the stench of his alcohol and his deathly cruel odor drawing quite a perturbed gathering upon the bridge of her little nose. Obviously, around here, one found Buquet wandering the halls in a drunken and 'lonely' stupor. She was clearly rattled and longed only to return to the security of her dressing room, and to her Angel. "Let me pass, Monsieur, if you please."
The fear was dripping off of her like wax from a lit candle, and he soaked it up vehemently. They were always so much more fun to play with when they were afraid. "Oh come now. I ain't gonna hurtcha any. Just a bit curious as to ya roamin'. All the other girls already went off, and yet, 'ere ya are, lingerin'." Lifting his other hand, keeping the first firm against the wall to block her path, he collected a dark curl of her hair and twisted it with his fingers, his grin ticking just a bit wider. "Takin' a likin' to ol' Joseph thatcha wander about, dressed in ya fancies, I says." Giving a rumbling chuckle he parted his fingers, letting the tendril drop harmlessly.
Clutching the mug of water to her breast, she flinched slightly as his hand lifted menacingly to clutch at ... a strand of her hair. If she could have melted into the wall or the floor, she would have done so gladly to escape the advances of the man ten times her size. As he lumbered over her, softened vocals came forth timidly in an attempt to explain her 'lingerin''. "I'm rehearsing as Madame Giry instructed, is all. I will be on my way now, Monsieur." She straightened to move forth as if she had the strength in her tiny frame to push him aside. She wanted to call for aid, but who would come at this time of night? Another stage hand such as Buquet, leering and smelling of whiskey and the heavy dampness of the cellars beneath the Opera?
"Rehearsin' is ya? Aye, s'what I heard earlier. Followed the sound, I did. Might pretty voice too." His weight shifted, just enough that he took up most of the room within that narrow passage. Elbow bent, he lowered some to further block her way. "Got me wonderin', just how loud y'can be." Cooler, and nonchalant his tone had become, that grin changing as well to something a tad more sinister. "Ya think, if ya screamed, others would be able to h–..." choking subtly upon that word, the grin suddenly faded, and all of the color seemed to drain from his face.
He wasn't looking at her at the time, but past her into the darkness. It was but a glimpse, but that's all it took; a brief moment of looking dead into eyes of molten gold, narrowed and murderous, one of which was trapped within a sea of smooth white. He slid his arm away and moved from her with a slight nod. "I uh.. right. Take care roamin', bird." Visibly shaken, he might have even wet himself if he hadn't gone to the latrine prior to this meeting.
Her fear had increased, as it had the previous night at that ticking of the metronome in the dark. However, from this meeting nothing as pure and inspirational would result. She was visibly trembling, her eyes wide as he loomed above her, leering with the last of his words, when his toothy grin melted, the fire in his eyes freezing over as his ruddy cheeks lost the color once retained there. He was looking beyond her now and before she had the mind to turn and investigate, he was stumbling for words, signaling to her a chance for retreat.
She quickly shoved past him, practically running towards her dressing room for fear that whatever spooked him would loosen its hold. Reaching her dressing room door, she quickly entered and locked it behind her, pressing her back firmly against its surface and letting out a low moan of discontent. Not only had she returned to him late, it was because of that detestable Joseph and his dangerous antics. She did not wait for the Voice to speak but moved immediately to her dresser, setting down the mug of water and sitting herself upon the stool. She buried her face in her hands, shaking as she did.
"Wise," was the only word Joseph heard before he was completely left alone in the hallway, that lone 's' hissed from cold lips. Where Christine had taken various paths to get back to her dressing room, he went a more secretive way, passing through hidden corridors. It was a good thing that he decided to follow her. Joseph might have gotten it into his head to touch more than he had already, then he would have had to strangle the man with his bare hands. Buquet would come to understand quickly that this young woman had the Opera Ghost looking after her, if he hadn't figured it out already. Then again, the drunken lout might have thought it to be a coincidence that the Phantom showed up at that time.
Returning to the mirror just moments before she walked in, he paused in front of the one-sided glass and watched her silently. No, he wouldn't have strangled the man with his hands. He would have disemboweled him and hung him by his own intestines.
Her form shook with fear and with the tears that now flowed. Poor young maiden, so rattled by the advances of drunken, scalawag stage hands. She wiped at the tears furiously, attempting to conceal them from her Angel as she turned towards the sensation of his presence once more. Comfort washed over her as if he'd taken her into his very arms, and she caught her reflection in the mirror once more. "Forgive me. I ran, but ... but Joseph was there. He blocked my way ..." She trailed off, tears flowing upon her cheeks and venturing towards her lips were she pursed them away. Her arms lifted to gather around each opposite partner, her palms drawing her forearms towards her breasts as she released a shaken sigh.
Within that familiar, enveloping silence he watched her. So fragile, so vulnerable. That much larger man could have easily torn into her, muffling her screams with a grimy hand while violating that innocent form. That same ignorant pest snooped around the lower corridors, often coming far too close to the lake that separated his lair from the waking world. White knuckled was the grip he had, fingers curled so tightly that nails, were they not shod in soft leather, would have buried deeply into his palms.
She needed more than a tutor, she needed a protector. One to ensure that she would not be harmed by such.. 'men'! he spat inwardly, venomously. More like 'boys.' Volcanic rage was brought to a low simmer when she spoke again. Then looking upon her tear stained face, all hints of anger vanished like smoke on a breeze. "Shh, child. I am not angry," at you. "No need for excuses. Calm yourself, my dear. I'll not let any harm you."
His words of comfort only wrought more tears, a glimmer of happiness enveloping her. He must've been the Angel her father promised! Her guide and protector, her teacher -- surely it was his presence that Buquet had sensed, thus saving her from the brute. A happy smile formed on her pallid lips as the tears streamed down her cheeks. Her hands lifted to pat them away, her voice gentle and muffled by her cries as she requested so humbly of her gifted Angel; "Sing to me? Only for a little while?" Her childlike manner of questioning came naturally in her time of need, and as she drew in whimpering breathes and rocked herself ever so slightly, she studied that mirror where her reflection seemed riddled by another, something deeper and beyond as if a shadow splayed behind it. Perhaps it was just her imagination.
Uncurling his fingers he lifted one hand, cupping the top of his hat to smooth it from his head, then the other hand rose as well, pressing through the slicked strands, shedding away the final remnants of tension. Following the hand, the velvet of the fedora was slid back into place. Sing for her? Hat's edge tipped over covered features, and he lifted his eyes to rest upon her as she studied her reflection. Her gaze searched, and he suddenly wondered if she could see him. He didn't question her on what she would like to hear, only began.
A gentle cant of a hum at first, the measures of instrumental music that couldn't be provided by voice no matter how otherworldly he might seem, then the words came. Not Romanian this time, this had more of a desert hint to it, revealing yet another place he had traveled. As a perfectionist, he had learned the languages of his surroundings and had kept practicing them until he had had no hint of his own accent within. This one he sang to her now, in Persian, had been especially difficult. Closing his eyes he imagined the expansive oasis, the comfortable harem pits, projected these images within the words he sang as he made an attempt to calm her further.
At the first hint of his voice, her soul was immediately set at ease. Buquet in the darkened corridor, or the other worldly villains outside could not touch her now. Her spirit was wrapped in the warmth of his song and in the power with which his voice held her. Her eyes closed gainst the dwindling flow of fearful tears and she melted into a supreme feeling of happiness. Her body, once tense and set on edge for fear Joseph would again find her, relaxed and drifted into the peaceful cradle of his song. She found herself longing so to join him in his song if only she'd known its words, memorized with such delicate care as he had.
Angel of Music. What a fitting title. There were times when he forgot the power that his voice could have. That pure, hypnotic quality that lay beneath the thrumming tenor, beckoning to the soul of man and woman alike. Only one other before had gotten a thorough tasting of that voice, drawn from all forms of reality, wrapped by the strength of what he wanted her to see. What he wanted her to believe. A perfect boy with perfect features, though lifeless, small and wooden.
How could he forget? Being alone, down in that lair, with none to hear his songs besides furry, cupped ears. Yes, he could forget. Or just didn't want to remember. The familiar wanton passion and intensified emotion lay within every syllable, though it was but a simple song of a merchant selling his wares. Jovial and light, the song died, coming to a silent stand still upon one gently vibrated note.
How her soul longed to go with those notes into heaven. How her heart swelled with each impassioned word! She adored him then, just as she had when he'd promised that none would harm her whence she was under his care. That same adoration shone in her eyes at his song's ending, her gaze lifted towards nowhere in particular though her words were solely his. "That was beautiful. I scarcely breathed. I didn't want to miss a word." She laughed somewhat at this, listening to herself, a young woman telling a disembodied Voice, indirectly, of her devotion.
He would teach her to sing that way, she knew. He had granted her wings the previous night and now? Now he would teach her to use them. Her eyes still moistened with tears, she ventured to the mirror once more, and for all that she tried to strain and see even his outline, all that was reflected was her own form.
