~ “Work on those every day k he says of the exercises they had completed together. “And then — do you see the music on the top of the piano? — begin learning that.”

The soprano aria in Hannibal.

Her voice is exquisite — simply untrained. And if she wishes to have the power and the stamina to reach the back and to the rafters of the opera house, she would have to work.

And she does.

They spend the majority of the lesson on vocal exercises, and he offers suggestions and corrections. ~

~ that singing such a mundane thing is the first time he has sung for her.

In Persia, they called his voice “dangerous.” Perhaps, it is. It is hypnotic.

But now, he uses to guide.

~ before finally asking her to actually vocalize.

“Shoulders back and down Christine. And when you take a breath, it should be lower.”

At least she was smart enough not to wear a corset to their lesson. Infernal things.

“Now. On an eee. Like so.”

And he demonstrates without really realizing ~

She is perceptive. Had the mirror not been designed for concealment, she would be meeting his gaze directly.

It is unnerving . . . and wonderful.

Once more, he plays a scale.

“Just breath work to start. Breathe in . . . then hiss . . .”

He takes her through several ascending scales just so ~

~ “But enough on that. Shall we begin with some vocal warm-ups?”

~ Christine could and should have her own room. As soon as their lesson finishes, he would go to set those plans in motion.

“Sleep is necessary for a healthy voice. And we wish to keep that voice of yours healthy, do we not?

Then, as if by ghostly hands, the piano at her side plays a scale. ~

He chuckles and her frantic attempts to find what might be amiss.

“You look lovely, my dear. Only tired.”

He can be a demanding tutor in many ways, but this is not one of the situations in which he would scold her.

The Little Giry can be rather boisterous.

However, a solution comes to mind. ~

~ The Opera Ghost does not worry about the light either — and illuminates several more candles so that her face can be seen.

For her lesson but also . . . for him.

But then he sees it.

“Did you not sleep well?”

~ intones, filling the room and wrapping around her once more.

“And you are right on time. You have pleased your Angel. Please . . . step up to the piano.”

He had had it rigged so that he could play it from another set behind the mirror. Plus, he can see her better when she stands there. ~

She came . . .

The ghost breathes a sigh of relief.

He had tried to steel his heart — to remind himself that the leap of faith he had asked her to take was a great one.

But she leapt.

And he reaches out his arms towards the mirror as if to catch her.

“I am here, Christine,” his warm voice ~

~ /his/ angel. He would remain a spirit to her — guiding, protecting, /loving/ from afar.

He would tell himself it is about the music.

Even if, now and again in his cellars below the Opera, he imagines what it would have been like to have been any other man bringing flowers to her door.

~ She would not give up /this/ to be a housewife.

Her heart, at least, is the same as his in that regard.

For that, the man — the Angel, the Ghost — is grateful. Even if it makes his heart yearn for her more.

Once more, he places the mask upon his face, hiding what he knows would terrify ~

~ come back to the dressing rooms to bring their flowers and praises to the dancers.

Every night, he waits for the inevitable when she would be taken from him forever.

Perhaps, it is one of the many reasons he is impressed with her, though, that music always seems at the forefront of her mind. ~

~ have their favorite patrons who they imagine to be knights ready to whisk them away should they be lucky enough to catch their eye.

He had never noticed Christine favoring anyone in particular — more the idea of love — but he holds his breath every night when the handsome and wealthy young men ~

~ “Silly . . . /trusting/ girl.”

But is he not the one taking advantage of that trust? Of that kind heart that wishes only for . . . love?

He knows she dreams of such things — has seen her books and heard her hushed conversations with Meg. They are doing what young women do. All the chorus girls ~

He really does stop breathing then.

For a time, the Opera Ghost stares at the spot on the other side of the mirror that she had formerly occupied.

“Beautiful Angel,” he scoffs, removing the mask that covers his face and drying with a handkerchief the inside where his tears had accumulated. ~