The 1893 season at the Metropolitan Opera was Erik's chance to build something. And not just in a literal sense, although reconstruction on the opera house had begun and he had certainly made plenty of strong suggestions regarding the renovations. No, this was Erik's chance to build something far grander and more lasting than any physical structure could be. This was his chance to affect culture itself, to influence the artistic and musical tastes of New York City's most elite and powerful citizens. This was the kind of legacy that he had always longed for, the kind of legacy that had seemed absurdly out of reach even a couple of years ago.

He supposed that, in some perverse way, he should even be thankful for the previous year's fire. It was a fresh start for the company. The stakeholders had reorganized and elected new leadership, thinning out the less adventurous and those still tied to the vestiges of the Academy's traditions—those who had argued that everything ought to be sung in German, which Erik had maintained was no more innovative than the old way of singing everything in Italian. Winning over friends was hardly an easy task for him, but those who had come to at least have some respect for him in a professional capacity now held more sway than ever. If there would ever be a time when he could actually establish himself, secure a position for himself amid a society that was poised to reject him, it was now. This was the culmination of years of work and luck and careful planning, and yet rather than bringing him relief, the knowledge only brought more tension. The opportunity was within his grasp, but it was all so tenuous. This season could make or break him. The thought left him breathless, a sick, sinking feeling settling into his stomach, and for a moment he closed his eyes and tried to slow his breaths.

The sound of the door to his study opening made his eyes snap open, darting from the papers strewn over his desk to the opposite end of the room where Armand was stepping inside. He sighed and gave Armand a curt nod. He'd hesitate to call the man a friend—their relationship was likely closer to a business partnership than anything else, not always amiable, but functional and kept friendly enough by a shared goal—but Armand had been one of the first of his set to be open to Erik. Erik had already been building a reputation, having been requested to play his violin at a few of the more bohemian gatherings of the nouveau riche. There he had met Armand, who was a bit out of his comfort zone but was duly impressed with Erik nonetheless. He had seen Erik's talent and intellect for what they were and had soon come to understand how beneficial he could be for the company. Even if they were not exactly friends, he was friendlier with Erik than anyone else.

"Erik," Armand greeted, removing his hat and taking a seat in the plush chair on the other side of the desk, having grown used to the barely contained chaos of the small room after so many hours spent in this seat. "Looking over the renovation plans again? You are aware, of course, that we have hired perfectly competent architects for this purpose."

"I have never believed that competency is the best trait to recommend a man," Erik replied, continuing when this was met with a dubious look from Armand. "I have only made a few suggestions this time, and I believe that if the board will care to look over them, they will find them quite valuable."

"You might consider being more selective about your suggestions," Armand said. "Not everyone appreciates them. I have been honest with you from the beginning about how hesitant the board was to put you in this position. There are those who now feel that you are trying to undermine their authority."

Erik knew this well, and the knowledge had resulted in a low but constant anxiety, but he leaned back in his chair and spoke coolly. "Is it my fault that other men would place their pride before good ideas?"

"No, but if you continue to push them like this, you will soon find that you are no longer in a position to share your ideas."

Erik made no reply, his lips pressing into a hard line. He was tempted to argue that he wasn't pushing them, that he was simply presenting them with what would be best for the company. He was trying to move them forward, to position them on the forefront. But they were simply too entrenched in their long-held ideals, or else they simply did not like him and had decided to disagree with him as a matter of principle. Every move he made would seem like a push if they remained so set against him.

Armand spoke again after a few seconds had ticked by, his tone lightening from the sternness of a moment ago in a way that told Erik he was trying to distract him from the frustration he was radiating. "Well, anyway, how are plans for the new season coming? It appears that the renovations are off to a good start, and we are optimistic that we can open this winter."

Erik's first impulse was to hold onto his frustration to spite Armand, and he nearly replied that plans would be coming along much better if he didn't have to justify every single decision to men who were determined to find fault in his judgment. But it wouldn't do to alienate his strongest ally—he often wondered how Armand had managed to put up with him for this long anyway—so he bit back the words. "Fine. Seeing as this season will be a new beginning for the opera house, I would like to open with Faust. I trust that will be agreeable to everyone, seeing as it opened the original opera house a decade ago."

"I'm sure it will be."

Erik paused for a second to consider his next words. "They must trust me a little if anything is to get done. I have been appointed to this role, even if by a slim and uncertain majority, and I will never be able to prove myself a valuable choice if I am not given the opportunity to do my job."

"I understand, Erik," Armand said. "Truly, I do. But you must know that the others are simply looking out for the company's best interest and after the fire they are, understandably, a bit cautious. We all want to ensure that we have as successful a season as possible. They are not against you."

Erik knew that the last part wasn't true and that Armand didn't believe it either; it was only said in an attempt to placate him. But he did have to concede to Armand's first point.

"I am aware of the importance of having a successful season. But it's not as if I am working against that. They know—you know—the level of my musical expertise. Hell, the reason you and some of the others pushed so hard for me to be made musical director is because you understand the value of my vision. The company might be established and respected, but it will never grow into something lasting if we only ever do things the way they have been done before. The whole point of founding the Metropolitan Opera was to break away from the Academy's traditions and entrenchment in the city's old money. Are we to end up becoming just another version of that?"

Armand sat and listened to this speech with a calm but engaged expression that Erik supposed was intended to show that he was listening but, in his irritation, felt patronizing. "What do you want me to say, Erik? Of course we want to continue to grow the company and distinguish ourselves from the old ways. And I believe that we have done just that, even if not with the alacrity that you would prefer. But there is still a hierarchy to these things. These are still men who expect respect from their inferiors. I don't believe I need to remind you, Erik, that that is what you are, at least in New York society. A few years ago you were playing on the streets. You have a comfortable position now, and you are respected well enough, but that does not mean that the others see you as being on their level."

Erik made an effort to unclench his jaw without success. As if he cared what these society men thought of him. As if he wanted to be on their level, considered their equal. He would be perfectly happy to have nothing to do with the lot of them, Armand included. The fact that he needed them made every muscle in his body tense. All that mattered to him was the music, and that was what should matter to the board, too, far more so than maximizing profits and these petty political games they played. They had appointed him for his mind—because they had seen that he could take them in a new direction and had understood what that meant. And now that he was here, he was expected to play the same games as the rest of them at the expense of the very thing they had hired him for.

Armand could read his displeasure. "I know that you do not like this, and I can't say I blame you. But I encourage you to think long-term. If you are willing to make some concessions this season and the company does well, then you will have more freedom to do what you please with every subsequent season."

Erik hated it when Armand actually made a good point about something they disagreed on. "Fine," he conceded reluctantly. "Perhaps… perhaps it would be worthwhile to… make more allies."

Armand nodded, content with this resolution. "You know that I am on your side, Erik. I believe in your vision and ability. But I cannot and will not use up all of the influence that I have defending you."

"I understand."

With the matter close enough to settled for the time being, they turned to the details of Erik's plans for the season, Erik reluctantly refining a few points at Armand's suggestion. Nothing was finalized yet—there was still so much that hinged on the progress made on the opera house—but at least they would have a plan to present when the board was ready to hear it. And, Erik reminded himself, he would not have to focus on appeasing these men forever. In time, even they would see that he knew fully what he was doing, and he would have freer reign with every season that passed. He would leave his mark on the city's music scene sure enough, and it was a goal that was worth the displeasure he suffered now.

It wasn't long after Armand left that the door to his study opened again, and he started a bit, forgetting for a moment that he had been expecting someone. The young woman entered the room meekly, whatever confidence had driven her to first speak to him clearly having deserted her since. Desperation was like that, Erik knew—its force was impossible to ignore, but it was fleeting.

Whatever it was that had made her approach him, he still wasn't quite sure what had made him offer to hear her sing. There had just been something about her that had caught his attention. She had looked nervous, but she had walked up to him nonetheless and told him directly that she was concerned about her position in the chorus. The more that Erik interacted with people, particularly the kind of people that his current status required him to interact with, the more he came to appreciate that kind of candor in a person. And the fact that she was dedicated enough to singing that she would even consider approaching him, as intimidating as it must have been, spoke favorably of her. Perhaps part of him had pitied her, too. He certainly understood what it felt like to have to fight tooth and nail for what you wanted most, and to have it all snatched away so suddenly must have devastated her. The uncertainty of the upcoming season was relentlessly stressful for him, and he could imagine that she must feel similarly was she waited to hear whether she would ever return to the opera.

Besides all of that, it had occurred to him that this might be another small way that he could exert his influence on the company. The chorus master from before the fire—a new man would be taking up the position this season—had seemed like a competent enough fellow, but Erik supposed that if he wanted to truly leave his mark on the opera, to make a tangible difference, he should be involved in as many decisions as possible, even relatively small ones. If he liked her, perhaps he could even arrange for her to have a minor role at some point during the season. It would be a kind of reward for her commitment, and of course it would also demonstrate his adeptness at finding and promoting rising talent. So he had asked her to sing.

The instant he'd heard her, everything had changed. It was immediately apparent to him that she must have received little or poor formal training, but her voice had a peculiar quality to it that had raised goosebumps on his arms. He had meant to only have her sing one or two pieces, just enough to allow him to judge her skill. But he found that he couldn't let her stop singing, afraid that if she was silent for more than a brief moment, that unique quality of her voice that held him so captivated would disappear and he would be left longing for it for the rest of his life. Finally, when he knew that he should not keep her longer—he could hear in her voice that she was growing tired, that she was not prepared for such an intense session—he felt something catch in his throat at the thought of simply letting her walk out. She would be perfectly content knowing that her place in the chorus was secure. But it would be such a shame to waste her potential, and the idea of being able to mold her voice himself, of making her a kind of personal project, was far too tempting.

Now that she had arrived for her first official lesson, doubt had started creeping over him. He ought to concentrate on the season ahead of him, on the myriad of tasks and decisions and negotiations that would fill the upcoming months, not devoting his afternoons to training a chorus girl. And if anyone found out that he was teaching her, there would undoubtedly be plenty of others clambering for the same attention, and he could hardly be this generous with every single performer employed at the Met. Besides that, he had a long history of close interactions with people turning sour very quickly, and that sort of thing was far from what he needed to be focused on.

She hesitated just beyond the doorway as if his gaze had frozen her in place. "I hope I am not disturbing you, Mr. Mason," she said softly. "I thought this was when I was supposed to meet with you, but if it's not a good time—"

"No," Erik said quickly. "You're correct. I just lost track of time. Let's begin."

He motioned to the piano as he stood and made his way over. She hesitated for a moment, her fingers fiddling with the buttons of her coat, and it was only then that he noticed the beads of water that clung to the wool and the few wet curls matted to her forehead.

"Forgive me," he said. "I did not hear you at the door. I hope you were not standing outside too long."

She shook her head. "Not long at all. Your maid let me in."

Hiring a small staff was not something he had been keen to do, but Armand had convinced him that the house he now inhabited—the house he'd purchased in a not entirely fashionable neighborhood after some careful investment had resulted in a fair bit of wealth—required it. While he was still not comfortable with having other people in his home, he had found that he did not need to come into much contact with anyone, preferring to let the household run itself.

"Please let me take your coat," he said, and she nodded in assent, shrugging the damp garment off. Her fingers brushed his as she handed it to him, her skin as cold as his after her trek here in the chilly April rain. For a second he wavered between beginning the lesson and asking if she first wanted to sit by the fire to warm herself, but the latter felt too familiar. Instead he draped her coat over the back of one of the armchairs to dry before taking up his position at the piano.

"We shall begin with proper warm-ups today to prepare your voice, as we should have done yesterday," he said as he took his seat. "I also have some exercises that will help you strengthen your range. Then we'll work on building up your repertoire, and of course improving your pronunciation."

"Oh." Her reply came softly and uncertainly, and he wondered if he had insulted her with the implication that there was so much to improve.

"I do not meant to suggest that you are inadequate in these respects," he continued quickly. "But there is always room to grow, especially if you wish to progress beyond the chorus."

"Of course," she said, her voice even. When he turned in the hopes of reading her expression, he found that it was as difficult to interpret as her tone—perhaps she was flustered, just as he was, and was trying to hide it.

Unable to think of anything else to do, he returned his attention to the piano and began to run her through the warm-ups, taking extra care as she was coming in out of the cool, damp weather. She sounded uncertain at first, too intensely aware of everything she was doing. He could make out her figure in his peripheral vision, and when he glanced her way, he could see how her hands were clasped awkwardly in front of her, how her shoulders hunched and her head bowed just slightly. This certainly wouldn't do, but he could hardly blame her for being uncomfortable. And yet the day before she had been so passionate, so lost in the music. He considered for a moment what to do. Asking her if she felt uncomfortable seemed both redundant and likely to increase her discomfort. Instead, after her voice was sufficiently warmed up, he turned to her again.

"Why are you here, Miss Daae?"

She seemed startled by the question and sank back a little. "Because you asked me to meet with you." The words sounded more like a question than an answer.

"And why do you think I asked you to meet with me?" She was silent for a moment, so he pressed her. "Do you believe that I offer to tutor every member of the chorus privately? Or that I lack anything else to do with my days?"

"No," she said quietly.

"I asked you here, Miss Daae, because I find you to be promising. You have a unique voice, and you clearly understand how to engage with the music you sing. The most important qualities are all present already—they just need some refining to shine as brightly as they can. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Her voice was still soft, and he went on.

"You have nothing to prove to me, Miss Daae—all I need now is your effort."

She nodded, looking down. "All right. I apologize. I'm just… nervous."

"I understand."

He did understand, better than she likely realized. Simply having another person in the room, much less an unfamiliar person, was enough to put him on edge. It would be far easier to just dismiss her now, to spare them both the discomfort. But the memory of her voice the day before kept him from forming the words.

"I do want to teach you, Miss Daae," he said after a moment. "Am I correct in assuming that you want to learn?"

"Yes," she said quickly. "I do want to learn."

"Then we want the same things." He wasn't sure if the assurance was meant more for himself or for her. Either way, he noticed her posture relax a little, and her expression appeared more resolved. "Perhaps the exercises can wait until tomorrow and we can work today on Je veaux vivre."

He was not sure where exactly this generosity was coming from. Ordinarily he would have expected to be annoyed that this girl crumbled so easily under the slightest amount of pressure, but nothing about her emotion felt over-exaggerated; she was entirely genuine, and he could not help but feel for her a little, just as he had when she had first approached him on the street.

As he had hoped, she did seem to grow more comfortable as they worked on the song, the music taking her mind off the strange man currently observing her. Her face visibly relaxed and her voice returned to its full, natural state; she listened to him attentively and seemed eager to follow his instructions, and after a while, Erik found that he, too, was less aware of the situation, focusing simply on the work.

If someone had told him even week ago that he would be taking on a student, he would have laughed—the idea of it still seemed most improbable. There were so many ways that this could go poorly when the mere fact of her presence set him on edge. Even now, as they began to ease into a state that, if not comfortable, was at least not as rigidly uncomfortable as before, he could not imagine that this would ever be enjoyable. If these lessons were tolerable, he supposed that was as much as he could hope for. He wanted to berate himself for being so weak, for allowing this girl to access his sympathy. Surely she had simply caught him at just the right moment, and at any other time he would have been able to walk away from her without a care. But now she was here, and he still could not find it in himself to dismiss her. He couldn't let her just walk away, leaving him to imagine what her voice might have become with his help.

Despite his misgivings, he must have become more wrapped up in the lesson than he'd realized; he was pulled back to reality when his attention was caught by the clock on the mantle chiming a later hour than he'd expected.

"I believe that will be sufficient for today," he announced, and when he turned to look over his shoulder at the girl, he noticed the way her shoulders sagged. Her face, though, appeared calm and content. At least as calm and content as she could feel with him.

"I lost track of time," she said quietly, bowing her head. "I'm sorry to have taken up too much of yours."

He shook his head. "I lost track of time as well. We will just have to be more careful in the future."

"So there are to be… more lessons?" she ventured cautiously.

"Yes. If that is still agreeable to you."

"Of course."

He remained at the piano as she crossed the room to gather her now dry things from the chair he'd placed them on. She paused before donning the garments, though, and looked back at him.

"Thank you for taking the time to work with me. I'm sorry I was so nervous today. This is just important to me."

For a moment he could not think of what to say in reply. Her voice had been so soft and entirely sincere that it had caught him off-guard.

"I understand," he said after a moment, the softness of his voice matching hers.

"Then I will see you again tomorrow?"

He gave a nod. "I will expect you at the same time as today, Miss Daae."

"Please do call me Christine, Mr. Mason."

He hesitated, again taken by surprise. It seemed terribly… informal. But perhaps the familiarity would make her more comfortable, even if it felt foreign to him. "Erik," he offered.

Her lips turned upward, forming a smile that was slight but that warmed her features in a way that held his gaze. "Very well. Erik."