Christine sighed at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair never seemed to curl like Meg's beautiful blonde locks, and besides its lack of effort, it was a horrid color. Even Charlotte's black hair was more appealing than awful, boring brown. Then again, Charlotte's eyes were a beautiful green—Christine's were solid brown. No color, no nothing.
"Could I be any more plain?" she muttered to herself while raking a brush through her tresses. Meg, looking absolutely heavenly in her shepherdess's smock, hopped along behind her.
"Christy, hurry up. I tore one of Mum's dresses, and she's in a mean mood. She won't like it if you're late." Christine rolled her unusually expressive (however brown) eyes and stood.
"Rehearsal now, ladies!" Madam Giry's voice called from the stage. "Do not be late!" The small dance troupe fluttered to their places while the other performers took theirs. Nobody but Madam Giry paid much attention to the dancers unless they made a mistake. Madam Giry allowed no mistakes, so they constantly remained out of focus. Songs were played and replayed, steps altered and perfected, until the fourth act was ready to be rehearsed. The Maestro turned to Madam Giry as she prepared the girls for their exit stage left.
"Excuse me, Madam," he tapped with his baton, "which one of these young girls will be singing the solo of the Lone Shepherdess?" The small group stopped, blinking and whispering behind their mistress's back.
"A solo, monsieur?" Madam Giry echoed. "I was unaware of any solo for the dancers!"
"A solo!" Meg whispered to her best friend. "I can't sing by myself! Don't pick me!"
"I'm sure Charlotte will get it," Christine muttered. "She's the singer."
"Her voice is horrid," Meg replied even softer with a twisted face. "Mother says she sounds like a goat." Christine began to giggle. "Christine, I've heard you sing before. You have a beautiful voice."
"No, I couldn't," she dismissed quickly.
"Girls," Madam Giry clapped. They all huddled around their teacher excitedly. "It seems we have a part to audition for. It's very small, but…only one of you can do it." Her eyes moved around the circle of students. "You will all audition for it. Meg Giry, do not give me that face, you will sing as well."
"Why!"
"Madam, our soloist!"
"Reserve the fourth act for next week," Madam Giry asked. "We will have a soloist then." He nodded, and the dancers were forgotten again. Christine felt, however, that they were all in the spotlight. "I will hand you the music after this rehearsal, and you will all practice it to your best ability. This is your chance." Madam Giry's firm eyes settled on Christine a moment before quickly moving aside. "This is a chance for all of you—practice well, girls, and don't forget your dances."
Christine looked at the copy of the solo with terror. She couldn't sing this in front of everyone at rehearsal; her audition would be an embarrassment. Charlotte could hit each note, Meg was already humming along with the melody fine, but Christine…her nerves would cripple her. She sat in front of the same vanity mirror that had disappointed her hours before with despair. Madam Giry eventually joined her, waiting until the rest of the girls had left, and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"I cannot do this," Christine moaned.
"It isn't as hard as you make it," Madam Giry sighed.
"I've never sung for anyone but…" The girl's voice trailed before she finished uneasily. "I've never sung for anyone but my father." Madam Giry took a deep breath before sitting down onto the chair next to her slowly. Once again, she looked to see that no one was listening.
"Christine, have you heard a voice in the night?" she asked quietly. "A voice that sings to you, perhaps you…you have seen a face…" Christine's pallor grew noticeably pale. A smile flickered over Madam Giry's sober expression before she continued. "One thing you can trust in this…mystery, Christine, is music. He will help you with this song. With his help, you will shine as the Lone Shepherdess."
"But I don't want to be the Lone Shepherdess!" Christine argued. "Charlotte would make a better one—Meg is prettier. Not me, I'm not good enough."
"Nonsense," Madam Giry hushed. She brushed the unruly hair out of Christine's face so that she couldn't hide behind it any longer. "Meg has to make an entrance in the next scene and cannot wear the costume. Charlotte does not have your talent, Christine. This solo is for you—it may be your only chance." There was a long silence in which Christine tried to find some self-confidence. "He says you have a beautiful voice," Madam Giry whispered. "With his help, Christine, you will do great, great things."
Great things seemed far too great for Christine.
She sat in the chapel, the place where she could always find the voice of her dreams, and thought about the pressure that had just been thrust upon her. Madam Giry wanted her to be the soloist, but she knew that she would not be handed the role. She would have to earn it, or it would go to Charlotte. Christine looked at the scrawled notes on the page of music before throwing it across the room in frustration. Hot tears lined her eyes as she stared into the firelight of her candle.
The sound of someone picking up the paper startled her. She turned and saw a figure in black in the corner, out of the light from the window, looking through the part. The shape shifted, and the shining white of a mask came into view. When the pale eye behind its form lifted to her, she drew a quick breath. He stepped forward with even, steady strides and handed the part back to her. She stared at it for a moment, outstretched in his gloved hand, before slowly taking it.
"M-Madam Giry—" she stuttered.
"You come to me for help," he finished flatly. Christine nodded almost shamefully. "I am willing to teach if you are willing to learn." It was a simple offer. Christine looked away. There was silence, something rare between the two who lived and shared in music. "If you are willing to learn," he echoed with a faint sigh. He turned, ready to disappear to where ever he came from.
"I don't know why she picked me," Christine suddenly blurted with a cracked voice. He paused before the window. "Why would she want me to be the soloist?" He heard her sniff and stand up. "I'm not very good, I'm not even very pretty." He turned completely now, listening. "I don't want to do this. I don't care if I'm in the chorus for the rest of my life—I'll never do any better." She held the music over the dancing flame of her candle. The corner of the page was close to being snipped by the fire when a black gloved hand moved her wrist. Once again, he had moved without her hearing. She nearly cowered beneath him, but his face, even hidden in that strange mask, was an expression of tranquil understanding. He took the music from her and away from danger.
"You…will do much better," he predicted with certainty. "Christine…"
It was perhaps the first time he had said her name; if it wasn't, it struck her as if it were a new word to ears. She had only been the child to him, but now at sixteen, she was hardly a child anymore. He called her Christine. In that word there was so much unspoken that Christine felt herself feel shy away at what she did not know. She pulled her arm from his grip.
"If you cannot trust yourself, trust me."
She swallowed, still frowning to herself. In her mind, she tried to find a reason not to. This strange specter, was he not the only one who looked after her? Was he not the voice in her mind, the protector of her night, and now the only one who would teach her how to sing? It seemed ever since she had arrived at the opera house, she was in his care. More silence.
"It seems I cannot trust you with this music at the moment," he mumbled in a kind of joke. Christine only scoffed and shook her head. "The range is in your favor, if you did not notice. Unfortunately, the melody has several accidental flats that will either ruin your performance or impress your audience with how you are able to move from key to key." At this, her gaze slowly moved to the paper with mild interest.
"What key?" she finally spoke. He pointed to the marks next to the notes, but Christine's eyes moved to his own in question.
"It is in C Major," he explained briefly. She only blinked. "It moves from C to F, and after this chord progression here it is C Minor." Christine bit her lip and stepped aside.
"This is awful!" she cried, pacing before her angel and her alter. "I have no idea what you're talking about! How can I possibly learn how to sing this song…if…I must be so stupid…"
"Christine," he laughed slightly, "I will teach you." She stopped, the fearful horror frozen on her sweet, delicate features. "I will teach you theory, scales…" He took a step toward her. "I will teach you intervals, chords—I will teach you how to sing and how to understand what you sing." She stared up at him with confusion in her eyes.
"Why?" she asked softly. "Why…why would you want to teach me?" In this silence he wondered how he, a phantom, a man whose life had been a continuous night of despair, could be crippled by a pair of solid brown eyes. He moved away from her treacherous gaze and to the shadows, where he was safe.
"You will meet me here each night after your rehearsal. There is a place where you can sing accompanied, but this is where we shall start."
"I need my music!"
"For fear of the candle, Mademoiselle, I think I shall keep it." He was nearly lost in the darkness before he paused. "Will you trust me?" Christine looked at him hesitantly. He had her music, her hope, and now her future.
If you cannot trust yourself, trust me.
He grew impatient and repeated slower,
"Will you trust me?" She answered.
"Blindly."