180Christine fought to ignore the persistent ache in her back as she tied her bonnet under her chin and pulled on her worn gloves in one of the dingy back rooms designated for employees at Lord & Taylor. A long day behind the counter always left her sore and weary, and her body begged for her to return to the boarding house where she could sink into one of the old armchairs in the parlor and share a cup of tea with Meg. But the thought of going straight there was stifling; all day she had been able to feel herself coming dangerously close to a routine, slipping into complacency in her life as a shopgirl. She needed the reminder that this was not what her life was supposed to be. So when she stepped out onto the crowded street, she turned and headed up Broadway, retracing the path that she had taken many times in the last eight months.
August 27th, 1892 was the day that her life had ended—at least, what little of her life had remained at that point. Only the day before she'd been notified that she'd been accepted into the chorus of the Metropolitan Opera. For that one, brilliant day, she had been excited about the future stretching out before her, a future that no longer looked as empty and desolate as it had looked for so long. It was now filled with music and light and the thrill that could only come from performing. She might never be a great singer, never be the prima donna, but it seemed now that there was a good chance she would at least be happy, and that was much more than she had been able to say about the months since Mama's death.
The next morning she had stood in the crowd on Seventh Avenue, watching the opera house burn. Smoke had stung her eyes, and she'd told herself that that was why tears had blurred her vision.
Strangely, the walks up to the opera house helped settle something in her at the end of the day. The knowledge that her life now was not as it was supposed to be strengthened her resolve to do whatever she could to make it onto the stage, but she supposed it also provided her a kind of comfort. Even if only for a few moments, her dream felt a little less distant, and she was certain that it would eventually be within her grasp again, and the tiredness that always seeped into her bones by the end of the day would ease a little. It wasn't just the physical tiredness that came from being on her feet since dawn and spending the day with a welcoming smile plastered to her face as she assisted ladies whose biggest worry was whether they were choosing a pair of gloves that suited them; it was the exhaustion of being unable to do what she was supposed to do, of feeling disappointment so deeply that it had become a part of her. With each step that drew her closer to the place that she had very nearly been able to call home, her spirit revived just a little bit, her hope and optimism replenishing. She made this walk almost every day, even when the clatter of the carriages passing her made her head pound and the ache behind her eyes threatened to cloud her vision.
For a long, terrible while, it had been uncertain whether the company would even continue. Reconstruction on the building had only started earlier this month. But even after the fear that there might no longer even be a company had passed, everything was left painfully uncertain. She had yet to hear from anyone about beginning rehearsals for a new season. For all she knew, no one even remembered that she had auditioned. It would be more than understandable if record of her acceptance had been lost in the chaos of the months following the fire.
So here she was, rounding the corner onto 39th Street, pulled to the place that filled her with hope and fear in equal measure; it was, she had discovered, at least preferable to the dullness that settled over her during the hours she stood behind the counter at Lord & Taylor. Seeing the empty shell of the opera house, staring at it as if she might see through its stone walls to watch the burnt wreckage inside be slowly repaired, roused her. She let out a small sigh as she approached the building, slowing her pace as she came to stand just across the street. Everything would work out. It had to. She didn't think she had the fortitude to try her luck in another city, with another company, leaving behind the last traces of her father that she felt lingering in New York. But what would be left of her life, of herself, if she had to live with the weight of such a crushing disappointment?
She wasn't sure what it was about the man standing down the street from her that caught her attention and momentarily pulled her from her thoughts. At first she assumed that it was because he was the only other stationary figure around—he, like her, stood slightly out of the way of hurried passersby to look up at the opera house. But what held her attention was the man's face. There was something odd about it that she couldn't quite identify at first. She watched him for another moment, his features frozen and glazed with an unnatural sheen that caught the sunlight when he moved his head. It was a mask, she realized, and then there was a jolt of recognition.
She had never met the man before, but she had certainly heard about him. Even before she had auditioned for the opera, Meg had told her about him, the music world in the city small enough that apparently word of the Metropolitan Opera's new musical director had gotten around to even the burlesque stages where Meg danced. The fact of his employment alone would have been enough to draw some attention; it wasn't often that such a respected company was willing to appoint a man who seemed to come out of nowhere to such a significant position. And, of course, there were the stories that circulated about his intensity and tempestuous disposition. But what was most discussed was the mask he wore at all times, supposedly covering scars from a childhood injury. No one quite seemed to accept that explanation for the oddity, though, and everyone was more than happy to speculate about the real reason for it.
Christine wasn't sure why her feet started carrying her toward the man, but as she neared him, the only thought in her mind was that he could help her. He could give her information. Maybe, if she was very fortunate, he could give her some kind of reassurance that her dream was not completely lost. She did not allow any hesitation to enter her step—if she did, she would certainly realize her foolishness and continue past him without a word. And so she approached him without pause and spoke with a boldness that she did not truly possess.
"Excuse me, Mr. Mason?"
His steely gaze snapped to her, and it was all she could do not to shrink back under the scrutiny of his severe golden eyes. For half a second she searched his face, trying to read his expression, before remembering that the search would yield no answers. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, forcing herself to meet his eyes, trying to give the impression of the confidence that was rapidly leaving her.
"Mr. Mason, please forgive me for disturbing you. My name is Christine Daae, and I was accepted into the chorus just before the fire. And I… I have not received any word about whether and when rehearsals will resume, and I am worried that my position may have been lost in all the confusion. I never even got to join a rehearsal, you see."
Her voice caught for a moment, her courage steadily draining as he continued to watch her, his gaze never changing and the hard line of his mouth revealing nothing of his thoughts. How insolent she must seem to him, she realized, accosting him out of nowhere like this. As if her worries should be of any significance to him.
"I know that I have no right to ask anything of you," she continued hastily, "and that you have far greater concerns than the whereabouts of a single chorus girl. But if there is any information you could give me, or even the name of someone I might contact, it would mean a great deal to me."
For a painful moment—probably no more than a second or two, even though it felt like it stretched into minutes—he remained silent, regarding her impassively. Christine held her breath, although she wasn't sure if the idea of him saying something was more or less terrifying than the idea of him saying nothing and simply turning and walking away. But then he spoke, and the abrupt sound of his voice nearly made her jump.
"Miss Daae. I remember your name. Are you of any relation to the former concertmaster at the Academy?"
Christine only nodded, taken aback and not immediately able to find her voice again. "Yes. My father." Those days when her father had led the orchestra at the Academy felt lifetimes away. All of her memories from before he'd fallen ill now felt a bit like a dream, and she had been very young when he'd had the title of concertmaster. But she could still remember wandering wide-eyed backstage and glimpsing the performances from the wings, thinking that it all seemed so wondrous that it could only be conjured by magic.
"Well then, Miss Daae."
The voice, firm but not harsh, jolted her from the memories, and she found herself looking back up at the impassive mask and the golden eyes that blazed beneath it. The situation seemed so ridiculous to her, then. What in the world had possessed her to speak to this strange, intimidating man when she could barely hold his gaze now without trembling?
"Plans for the next season are still in progress," he was saying, not seeming to take notice of her nerves. "If all goes well with the reconstruction, we believe we will be able to open the house by the end of this year. Although, I'm sure you can understand, an undertaking of this scope is quite complex and it's too early for anything to be certain."
Christine nodded mutely. He wasn't talking down to her, exactly—his voice wasn't gentle but it wasn't patronizing—but she couldn't help but feel foolish anyway. She ducked her head, hoping to conceal the flush of her heating cheeks. When she dared to glance back up, she almost thought that something had changed in his demeanor. Something in his stance seemed almost to have softened a little, and it eased the tightness that had formed in her chest.
"Because quite some time has passed since your audition and there have been no rehearsals since then, I would like to hear you myself to make sure you are placed correctly. Would that be agreeable to you?"
"Yes," Christine found herself saying before the request had had time to fully sink in. In the back of her mind, there was a prick of panic that he might find her unsatisfactory and reject her, and then she would be worse off than she would have been if she had never approached him and had simply continued to wait for news. But surely he would not have offered to hear her just to placate her. He couldn't be planning on dismissing her outright. Perhaps there was a chance that this could work out.
"Can you meet with me at this time tomorrow?"
"Yes," she said again, wishing that she could form more than that single word but finding that she was unable to do so.
"Very well." He reached into his coat and withdrew a card, holding it out to her. She said a silent prayer of thanks that her hand did not tremble when she accepted it. "I'm afraid that the present circumstances have left me without an office, so I must ask you to come to my home."
"That's fine," she replied hastily. "Thank you very much, Mr. Mason."
His slight nod of confirmation was all that she could stand to wait for before turning and hurrying down the street, her face hot and fresh anxiety blooming in her chest, torn between terror and elation.
The brownstone that loomed over Christine should not have seemed so intimidating as she looked up at it from the bottom of its steps. It was no more than an ordinary house, no different from the others that lined the quiet street. But inside the building was the man with the burning gaze, the man known for his intensity almost as much as he was known for the mystery surrounding so much of him. The thought of singing solely for his scrutiny was very nearly enough to keep her rooted where she stood. But this was her chance, she knew. This could be the start of her career. If he liked her and approved of her being in the chorus, an actual acquaintance with the musical director would certainly be advantageous. Pulling the card that he had given her from her pocket to check the address one final time, she took a deep breath, forced the pinch of apprehension from her expression, and climbed up the steps.
The door swung open hardly a second after she knocked, startling her. She did her best to compose herself and smile in greeting. "Mr. Mason."
"Miss Daae. Please come in." He turned without further comment and, after a second of hesitation, she stepped inside, trailing behind him as he led her down the hall.
His study must have been a rather large room, but the proliferation of items that filled it made it feel small. A large desk, the surface of which was entirely covered with books and papers, sat at one end of the room with two worn armchairs positioned across from it. Bookshelves filled with thick volumes lined the walls on either side of the desk, and against the other wall, next to where they had entered the room, sat an upright piano strewn with sheet music. He went directly to the piano and took a seat on the bench before he finally looked back at her. Christine took a measured step forward, her uncertainty growing under his indecipherable gaze, and she found herself suddenly and absurdly sure that he noticed the tear in the sleeve of her shirtwaist that she had so carefully mended. When he made no comment on the suitability of her appearance, she forced herself to speak up.
"I appreciate you offering to see me." Her voice came out softer than she had expected. "I truly did not mean to bother you yesterday, and I am certain you have far more pressing matters that require your attention."
His lips quirked a little at this, though she did not know what to make of the expression. "Much of my time these days is spent on paperwork and not enough on music. I do not mind the break."
Christine smiled a little at this, her nerves eased just the slightest bit by the fact that he did not seem annoyed by her presence. "Well, it was generous of you to offer your time nonetheless."
"What piece did you audition with?" he asked instead of replying. "I should like to hear it."
"Je veux vivre. From Roméo et Juliette."
"Very well. Are you ready?" He had already turned back to the piano and the last words were clearly said as an afterthought.
"Yes." Christine rushed to clear her head of everything but the song, her stomach clenching. She had reviewed the music carefully the night before, but now she was struck with the fear that the notes were not as ingrained in her as she had believed. It had been so long since she had really practiced—the fire had taken more of her spirit than she cared to admit, and she'd needed time to nurse her disappointment. Before her audition, she would have been able to sing this piece backwards, but now it was seeming increasingly likely that the months away from music had eroded her memory and the notes would easily slip from her mind. It was a relief, at least, that she had warmed up as best she could before she'd come here, as the necessity had seemed to slip his mind entirely.
The opening notes rang out from the piano before she could work herself into too much of a panic. Then there was only the music in her head. The words tumbled from her lips naturally and each note lifted a bit of the weight of the last months from her. Soon she was smiling as she sang, lost in the joyous melody, almost unaware of the man who had turned his head to watch her as he played. It felt like a piece of her had been missing and she hadn't even been aware of just how big of a piece it was until now, now that she felt whole again. Music had always filled something essential in her, and she supposed that she'd simply grown used to the empty dreariness of her days without it. Singing again now, even as nervous as she had been minutes ago, was nearly ecstatic.
The silence that followed the end of the piece, in contrast, was more than a little discomforting. Christine emerged from the haze of music only as the last notes from the piano faded and was immediately aware of the sensation of eyes on her. Glancing up, she found him watching her, his rigid posture and unflinching gaze radiating intensity. A shiver of self-consciousness ran up her spine. Had she truly been that bad? Even worse, had she been so caught up in the song that she had completely forgotten to watch his reaction and gone on without any awareness of his displeasure? Her face was growing hot but she felt frozen where she stood, unable to will her feet to move. When she spoke, her words were quiet and timid.
"I… I'm afraid I have fallen terribly out of practice—"
"Are you familiar with Juliette's aria from the end of act four?"
It took a beat for Christine to find the answer to the unexpected question. "Yes."
"Good. Begin at 'Amour, ranime mon courage.'"
She gave a slight nod, and this time when he began playing, her nerves had been replaced with confusion. She'd been sure that he was displeased, but if that was the case he certainly would have dismissed her—he did not seem like the kind of man who frequently gave second chances. She did not have long to dwell on the thought, though, and after she made it through the first few bars with some uncertainty, she was quickly swept back up into the passion of the song. There was no room to question anything while she sang, not when the music from the piano was so lush and the notes she sang were filled with such emotion. The climax of the piece left her breathless, but before she'd had much of a chance to recover, he was launching them into Faust. Then it was Lucia di Lammermoor and Il Trovatore and Otello and La Traviata, and Christine began to wonder if he planned on having her sing selections from the entirety of the company's repertoire. It was a challenge to keep up with him, and when he finally stood from the piano bench, she felt fully spent.
"Miss Daae." The voice made her look up and, again finding herself the object of that powerful gaze, she held her breath. "Have you had much formal training, Miss Daae?"
"No, Mr. Mason. Only a little, and not for several years." Professor Valerius had taught her some after her father had died and had even talked about getting her a formal education, sending her to a conservatory. But then he had passed too, and there had been far less money than they had thought, and anyway, she couldn't have left Mama alone. So there had been no more talk of her training.
"I suspected as much. Your technique requires work. However…" His eyes met hers for the first time since he had let her into the house. Had he even met her eyes then? She could not remember now, but it seemed likely that she would remember if he had. For all that he had watched her, his eyes boring into hers now was something else entirely, and she found herself unable to look away.
"You have quite a remarkable voice." His words took on a strange hush that she might have described as almost reverent if he had not been talking about her. "I can hear your passion when you sing, your connection to the music. And that is a trait that I have always considered far more essential for a great artist to possess than any technical skill."
"Thank you," she said quietly, surprised that she could manage to find her voice at all.
"I would like to teach you."
Christine was sure that her expression must have showed her alarm at the statement, but he made no comment on it.
"I can help you prepare for a career—a real career, not just a place in the chorus. You could be great, Miss Daae, if you allow me to help you."
She opened her mouth to reply, but it was another second before the words would form. "That is… a very kind offer, Mr. Mason, and I appreciate it more than you know. I understand what it would mean to have a teacher of your skill. But I… I am afraid I do not have the means."
He was shaking his head before she had finished the sentence. "I am not asking for your money. Only for your time and effort."
"Oh, but I can't accept—"
"Perhaps," he added quickly, "a condition can be added to your contract. If I teach you, you will make your debut with me and remain exclusively under my direction for several seasons. After that, you may sing with whatever company you wish. And, I assure you, you will have your pick."
Christine hesitated. "That is all? Are you certain?"
"I am."
She looked down, finally tearing her eyes from his, and fiddled with the buttons on the cuff of her sleeve as she considered. Experience cautioned her not to get her hopes up—if it seemed too good to be true, it likely was. It either wouldn't last or would somehow go terribly wrong. But, then again, wouldn't she be a fool to pass up the best opportunity she would likely ever have simply because she was too cautious? Besides, she supposed it wasn't as if she had anything to lose.
"Then I would be very happy to accept your offer." She met his eyes again as she spoke with a voice that didn't quite feel like her own.
His mouth quirked once more, this time more pleasantly, something a little closer to a smile. "Good."
When Christine emerged from the house back onto the street, she felt like she was emerging from a dream. The sound of a carriage rattling by in front of her seemed to jar her awake and she glanced back at the house, half expecting it to have disappeared. But it was still there, and it remained there when she looked back again once she reached the end of the block. She could hear the voices of people going about their days, the clatter of the elevated train nearby, the huffs of the horses as their hooves clapped against the street. This was the real world, the world she knew, and it seemed entirely removed from the afternoon she had just spent in the house down the road. And yet one was as real as the other, and tomorrow she would return here to begin her lessons with this severe, unknowable man. What kind of reckless boldness had driven her to this point, she wasn't sure. But at least she was trying something.