,If music be the food of love, play on,

Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken, and so die.

-Twelfth Night, Act 1, scene 1, 1-3 by William Shakespeare

""""

My footsteps echoed around the dark tunnels, splashing here and there through an unseen puddle. The temperature dropped the deeper I climbed, making me glad I'd thought to bring an extra cloak. I tried to keep my thoughts blank as I walked, because I'd been questioning my reserve ever since that talk with Madame Giry. When I came upon the canal, I crouched for the stick I'd left there the day before and raised my lantern. A smile curved my lips as I saw the little boat pushed up to the canal's edge, waiting for me. My breaths became deep and steady. This was my teacher, and he wouldn't harm me. The only thing that gave me pause was the thought of Madame Giry's face as she promised to tell Raoul that she and I were touring some more opera houses, but it was a small price to pay.

I pushed the little boat down the canal and extinguished the light in the lantern when I saw a warm glow up ahead, accompanied by the soft sounds of music, some hauntingly sad melody I didn't know. I suspected my teacher was guiding me to him, but he needn't have bothered—I'd never forget this path. When I stepped into the room, I tried to keep my footsteps quiet, but I could never move with the silent grace that he possessed. He was seated in front of the piano, his back to me. As soon as I took a breath within the chamber, he turned his head to look at me, the unscarred side of his face the only one I could see, and it was carefully blank. The music never stopped playing. I froze when he saw me, but he simply glanced at me and looked back at the piano. With my eyes on him and ignoring the wreckage around me, I let my feet carry me towards him. The music from the piano surrounded me and I watched, fascinated, as his body shifted and swayed to the music, as if he and the piano were two parts of a whole. I wanted to touch him, just rest my hand on his shoulder, if only to be a part of that union. His playing never faltered, not even when I stood next to him, enraptured by his long fingers on the ivory keys. My father's hands looked like that when he played the violin—ten sure fingers all moving seemingly of their own accord, but always with the same goal. My lips curved into a small smile at the memory. My teacher's head turning again caught my attention. From here, I could see that he'd made another mask, this one of soft brown leather roughly sewn together and held to his face with a thong of the same material. My heart fell a little at the sight.

His eyes were held behind me as he said, "You came alone?"

I swallowed against my nervousness. "Of course."

That cold gaze swept from the entrance to my face, then his eyes narrowed and my anxiousness grew. The music never stopped and his gaze never wavered, but I could tell he was thrown. "Of course? I hardly thought it a matter of course that you would keep your word." My head dropped in shame and I was about to apologize when the music stopped and his hand waved away whatever words I was about to say. "No matter. If you've come for the lesson I promised, that is what you'll receive." His voice was so distant, so cold, but it was better than the silence I'd been living in. He rose from the piano and stood in front of me, a breath further than arm's length. His hand hovered over the keys. "Deep breath in, exhale on a hum. Keep your shoulders back."

Suddenly, surreally, we were teacher and student again. He took me through the warm up we'd used a hundred times before, only he'd been an unseen angel then. Now, with my head tilted up and staring into his eyes, hating how the mask hid his expressions to me, there was no ignoring that I was alone with a dangerous man who was not my fiancée. Yet, as I admitted this to myself, I knew that this was where I was supposed to be. When he finally played the first note to take me through the scales, I felt fear and anticipation twist my belly. What if I couldn't sing? He played the note again, waiting for me mimic it with a raised eyebrow. I closed my eyes and inhaled, letting the note pour out of my chest. It was pure and strong, just as he'd taught me, and joy filled me, sure and familiar. It came time to continue the scale, but he never played the next note. My voice faded and I opened my eyes to find his filled with pain. The mask wasn't enough to hide the anguish on his ruined face.

"Angel?" I whispered, afraid of what I'd done. So quickly that I jumped, he turned his back and rubbed a hand over the uncovered side of his face. I stood still, uncertain, it seemed forever until, finally, he took a deep breath and faced me again. His face was calm, blank as if nothing had happened. He merely played the first note of the scale again. "We can… you don't have to…" I stammered.

"Sing, Christine." So I did. His eyes closed in rapture as I sang through the scales, but mine stayed trained on him, watching for any more pain. Despite what he probably thought of me, I didn't want to cause any more pain. Once my exercises were done and the last note was fading, I waited patiently for him to tell me which song I would be singing, but there was silence.

"Angel?" I murmured.

Suddenly, he stood and moved away from me. All I could see was his broad back. "Christine, do not call me that. I hardly think the title fits me anymore, not that it ever did." His words were bitter and cold when he turned back to me.

"I don't know what else to call you," I said, raising my eyes to his.

He blinked twice as he thought, his whole body still and tense. "Well," he finally said, "Since you are my student again, you will call me master."

"But you must have a name?" My boldness surprised me.

The corner of his mouth lifted in a mocking smile. "Men have names, not monsters."

"You aren't—"

"Christine, enough. You're here for a lesson, aren't you?"

Without waiting for my reply, his fingers began to play the aria for Hannibal. With a sigh, I joined my voice to the notes. His shoulders tensed the moment I started to sing, but mine relaxed. As I sang, I could see his body make that union with the melody again, and his eyes closed in rapture. This is where we were meant to be, surrounded by our music. If only we could stay there. No stage, no expectations, no longings or duties. Just his piano and my voice. I could forget everything he'd done, everything I'd done, and just be. Song after song flew by with brief breaks for him to correct my posture or breathing. He was firm, impatient as he'd always been, and it was so comforting. It was as if I were back in the opera house, believing my angel when he told me I'd be a star.

I was disappointed when his hands stilled on the keys and he said, "You're almost to where you were before. Your voice remembers, even if your mind does not."

"My mind?"

"You lose focus. Your natural talent buys you some allowance, but not enough. Sometimes I can see your mind wandering. You forget your breath and your voice loses power. I've told you this before."

"I… you're right. I'll try harder." Distractions were plenty lately and I bit my tongue on reminding him of recent events. We'd both made mistakes, I would just have to remember why I was there: the music.

"See that you do. We're done for today."