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It took him more than a year to work up the courage to speak to the girl, and even then he couldn't bring himself to simply speak. He took that year to learn as much as he could about the girl. Her name was Christine and she had been orphaned by the time she reached the conservatory.
She was the kindest of the girls he saw in the dormitory, never speaking a harsh word about anybody, even when they had wronged her.
Perhaps she could even be kind to someone as hideous as me, he thought as he watched her from the rafters as she practiced her dancing backstage. By mid-spring that year it seemed she was being groomed to join the corps du ballet, as he had watched her practicing there with the ballet rats for more than a week.
When he finally worked up enough courage to speak to her he was beginning to fear his intervention would come too late.
He wrote her a simple letter and left it on her pillow. In it he asked for her to come to the small chapel that was used to hold Sunday services that would be easily accessible to all those who lived at the Opera House dormitories. He asked her to come at nightfall on a Friday, when he knew the fewest possible people would be around to spoil his plans.
He would speak to her from the shadows, keeping himself hidden and if she got too close he would escape through a hidden trapdoor near the back wall of the small room. He prayed he wouldn't need to escape, that the girl would understand his need to remain hidden, but he knew he couldn't count on that.
On that Friday, he took his place far earlier than she ever would've arrived, trembling nervously as he watched the door from his chosen spot and waited for her to arrive.
It wasn't until the light that filtered in through the small, high windows that lined the wall to the right of the door dimmed to a pale, sickly gray that he heard the light patter of approaching footsteps. He tensed as the footsteps stopped just short of the door and he held his breath as he waited.
The door creaked open and a tiny, pale hand holding a candle came into view. Once the girl had apparently satisfied herself that she wasn't in immediate danger from the darkened room, the door opened all the way and she took a tentative step inside.
"Hello?" she called. Her accent, where have I heard that accent before? Hesham knew it sounded familiar, but much like her face, he couldn't figure out where. "Is there anyone here?"
"Please sit," Hesham said, trying to keep his voice even and authoritative. It boomed through the tiny space, causing the girl to flinch and her eyes to widen as she searched for the source of the voice. She peered into the darkness, looking in his general direction, but could not see the masked man dressed all in black that was pressed against the back wall.
"Who is that?" she asked. She was reluctant to move from the doorway for fear of becoming trapped in the room.
"Please, sit," Hesham repeated. She hesitated a moment more before complying and taking a seat in the pew closest to the door. She set the candle on the pew across the small aisle and stared into the darkness expectantly.
"You have a wonderful voice," Hesham said. "But you aren't putting forth enough effort for your voice to shine the way I am certain it can."
The girl cocked her head to the side, confused by his words.
"If you would allow me to tutor you when you are not busy with your studies, I believe that you could sing with the voice of an angel."
"When I was a young girl my father taught me to sing," she said, "but monsieur I cannot sing any longer. My tutors and the other girls have all made that quite clear."
"Fools, the lot of them," he said, his voice dripping with more anger than he had intended. It frightened the girl, her eyes widening as she pressed her back firmly against the back of the pew in an effort to put as much space as possible between herself and the source of the disembodied voice. "With my help, your voice could pierce the heavens! Oh, Christine, you must allow me to help you!"
He wasn't certain how, but the girl's eyes widened even further and the color drained from her face.
"Who are you?"
"I—" He didn't know how to answer that.
"My father wanted me to sing," she said when the silence grew heavy. "He spoke of an angel that visited him when he was young…"
The girl continued to talk, but he no longer heard her words. He recognized her all at once as the girl he'd found freezing to death with her father in the alley in Perros. She was the girl who had cried into the hem of his suit coat for hours upon the death of her father. She was the girl he had brought back to Paris to live with the widow Valerius.
"The Angel of Music," he said. The girl stared into the darkness so intently that Hesham was positive that she could see him. He felt horribly vulnerable in that moment as she stared at him. Though he reassured himself over and over that she couldn't possibly see him, her eyes seemed to see into his soul.
"You truly have come, I don't believe it," she exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hands. "Angel, my Angel! With your help I am certain my voice will improve!"
His jaw dropped. He hadn't expected it to work. Foolish girl, she can't truly believe me to be an angel!
"I thought you wouldn't find me, I thought perhaps you'd decided that, because I didn't want to sing anymore you wouldn't come— Oh Angel, I'm so sorry to have doubted you!"
They met in secret, once or twice per week at the start, and Hesham delighted in teaching her proper technique and even daring to sing along with her at times. She insisted that his voice was beautiful.
"Exactly how I would have imagined an angel would sound," she had exclaimed the first time he'd sung to her. There had been tears in her eyes.
Nobody had ever reacted so positively to anything he'd done. He'd seen plenty of people cry, but only one other time could he remember seeing someone cry from happiness.
After only three months of their secret lessons, it was his turn to cry from happiness. Christine insisted on daily lessons and had improved so greatly that each note that leapt forth from her mouth brought tears to his eyes.
It was the end of summer by the time he could convince her that she was good enough to sing for someone other than him.
"But Angel, how can I sing for a crowd when my voice is only for you? I've tried to sing on my own, honestly I have—"
"You worry for nothing, Christine," he assured her. "You cannot truly believe I would leave you now, when you've only just found your voice."
When she didn't reply, Hesham wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her, but he knew that would cause far more problems than it would solve. "How could I enjoy the voice I helped to shape if I abandoned you now, child?" he asked flatly with just a hint of annoyance.
She flushed a dark crimson and looked at the floor. "I am sorry I doubted you, Angel." She looked back up to where he'd been throwing his voice. "They'll never let me sing anyway. I'm only a dancer."
"A dancer with an angel to help her," he reminded her. "Worry not about how it will happen, but you will sing at the gala the managers are throwing to celebrate their retirement."
Her eyes widened and her hands shot up to cover her mouth. "But that's less than a fortnight away! I'm not ready!"
"I beg to differ," Hesham said. "I believe that it is time for us to conclude our lesson for the evening."
"But we—"
"It will do no good to anyone if you strain your voice before your performance. I will see you tomorrow after rehearsal in La Carlotta's dressing room."
She looked positively scandalized when he revealed the location of their next practice, but she dared not question her angel again. She nodded and gave a low curtsey before snuffing out her candle and exiting the storage room they'd met in.
Hesham stayed there in the dark for a long time, plotting his next move. La Carlotta, he thought. The name left a bitter taste in his mouth.
If singing were solely about technique, La Carlotta would've had a voice comparable to Christine's. Her diction and breathing couldn't make up for her lack of heart, however. Her voice was flat, emotionless. Though she could hit every note with little difficulty, the soprano sounded like a rusty hinge to his ears.
She had been the opera's leading soprano every season that he'd been present, and he could swear that her voice had only deteriorated with time. How they still managed to sell out the house with any regularity was beyond his comprehension with such a lackluster leading lady.
That night, upon returning to his home, he wrote one final note to the retiring managers.
Almost as an afterthought, he drafted a note to Carlotta as well. Where his notes to the managers were often lighthearted, the note he wrote to her was nothing short of threatening.
He left the notes in box five, where the box attendant would find and deliver them for him. He left a small stack of coins with them, to ensure their delivery. Though it wasn't often that he made use of the box that the managers set aside for his use, he often had the box attendant deliver his notes for him.
Especially since the managers had begun to lock their office when they left the building for the night.
Once he was satisfied that his plan would be executed properly, he retired to his home once more.
He had just stepped off the boat when a familiar voice echoed through the cellar. He froze as the air seemed to be sucked out of his lungs.
"What kind of game are you playing, Hesham?" Saeed's voice was authoritative and emotionless.
Just when everything was falling into place, he thought. I should've taken you out when I had the chance.
"What— What does it matter to you?" the deformed man asked as he forced himself to continue moving.
"I've seen the notes you've sent the managers, Hesham," the Persian continued. "It's extortion."
"It's none of your concern," Hesham replied with a casual shrug. Saeed stepped out of the shadows and into the pale yellow light cast by the deformed man's lantern. He did not look amused.
"You cannot continue doing this," he said.
"And you're going to stop me?" Hesham laughed darkly. He wasn't convinced.
"If I have to."
"What does it matter to you how I live my life?" Hesham asked with a heavy sigh of frustration. "I'm not harming anyone."
"You're stealing. It's a crime. And what sort of life can you call this? You live in the cellar!"
"It is the life that you chose for me when you refused to believe me!" Hesham hollered. His words echoed through the large open chamber. Saeed didn't seem to have a response. "I haven't killed anybody in years, Saeed. If I wish to charge a fee for my services—"
"Are you going to invite me inside or not? This is not the most comfortable place to have a discussion," Saeed said, cutting him off.
"You would expect me to allow you into my home after all that happened between us?" Hesham asked coldly. "You will leave now, and you will not speak of anything you know to anyone."
"You have no leverage," Saeed said.
"I've got all the leverage I need," Hesham replied, his eyes glistening evilly. "Your daughter." The Persian sputtered, his eyes bulging out of their sockets.
"You wouldn't dare," he said as the color drained from his face.
"Wouldn't I? You know what I'm capable of, Daroga," he spat the title like it left a bad taste in his mouth.
The Persian must have decided that Hesham wasn't joking, because after a few agonizing moments of staring each other down, he turned and left.
Hesham was uncertain of the route that the man had taken to reach his home, but he knew that if the Persian was able to reach him, others would be too. It was time to begin laying traps. He was far too heavily invested in the little life he'd begun to build for himself here. He wouldn't allow himself to be forced out now.
It would mean leaving Christine behind, or revealing his true nature to her once and for all. He couldn't bear the thought of either option. Let her continue to think me an angel, he thought. It is far better this way.
He would need to brave the outside world on his own for the first time in more than a year in order to procure the things necessary to booby trap the tunnels which led to his home. He could not trust his errand boy to keep quiet about what he would be purchasing.