Page 17 of Angel's Mask

Again, she took a breath. This time she could feel it was right.

“Again. Good. Now let it out the breath slowly and maintain the support.” Christine obeyed and let the breath hiss past her lips. She could feel him watching her critically from the shadow. “Support lower and relax.” Again, she tried the deceptively simple exercise, focusing her entire will on her muscles.

“Better. Again.”

She relaxed the muscles framing her ribs and belly, automatically she took a deep, correct breath. Again, she let the air fill her then pushed it back out from below. This repeated many times until he was content. At long last, a single middle C sounded from the piano.

“Single notes, on the main vowels, beginning onee. Breathe.”

Christine took a breath and sang the first note, hoping more than concentrating.

“No, Christine,” he stopped her before she continued. “Support it. Know what you’re going to singbeforethe sound comes.”

Christine concentrated, imagining herself doing what he asked and doing it perfectly. She inhaled, feeling the breath in her back as she formed her mouth in the shape that would produce the desired vowel. She felt her vocal cords engage, felt the inside of her mouth expand, and felt herself making the perfect space for on the note. Finally, a single pulse of sound emerged.

“Next vowel,eh,” he commanded, and there was the same eternity of preparation then the satisfaction of the sound at last flowing from her. Again and again, through all the pure vowel sounds –ee, eh, ah, oh, oo– slowly and carefully. Over and over up the scale. Small moments of accomplishment were lost in exchange for more imagination, preparation, and at last, fleeting moments of music.

“You don’t need to force the sounds out, let them float right behind your eyes. Let them happen. Singing should always be a pleasure,” her teacher explained before he finally played a scale from C to G. “Just sing; technique is preparation and maintenance of a space for the sound to thrive. The real beauty comes from the soul of the singer. Stand up straight and open everythingfrom the inside, don’t be afraid.” As if he sensed the doubt still nagging at her, he added: “I am with you.”

Her voice rose through the scale, and indeed, it was a pleasure, and it was perfect. They moved through her range and she was merely a piece of raw material under a master’s hands as he meticulously whittled and smoothed her rough edges, found where she was strong, and nurtured it.

Joy rushed through her as she sang. She hadn’t taken this much pleasure from her own voice in years, but she had not worked this hard in years either. There were no words, just vowels and scales. It was just sound and breath, and it was amazing. The most exquisite moments however were when the Angel’s voice rose in song to guide her. Sometimes it was just for a second to let her hear how the note should sound, but it made Christine’s heart race each time.

Once her middle range was warm and ready, he plumbed her depths, testing the lower extension of her chest voice with a hint of wonder as the deep notes tingled to her toes. And then it was up to the heavens with staccato runs to the upper limit of her range to an E flat peak she had not touched in years. It was a wonder. And when he let her truly soar to sustained high Bs and Cs, it was like flying.

“That’s enough for today,” the Angel pronounced far too soon, as Christine was still catching her breath from the giddy delight of song, her cheeks flush and her skin warm from the effort.

“But we didn’t get to any songs,” she protested. She could feel his glare from the darkened half of the room.

“Nor will we for at least a week, we are focused on your technique alone and building the strength of your voice for now. And that lovely voice needs to rest.”

“Can I come back later then, after I’ve rested?”

From beyond the light, she heard a new, wonderful sound: her angel’s laughter. The sound was warm and dark, like wind through the trees on a summer night.

“We will recommencetomorrow, my eager student,” he chided. “At ten, here. No sooner.”

“I’m sorry,” Christine said with a shy smile. “I just didn’t think it could feel so good to sing, ever again. I missed it. And I’ll miss you.”

“You have the greatest city in the world to amuse you until then,” the Angel replied. “And you do need to eat. And sleep.”

“Oh, I forgot about that, I...don’t know if I have the money for much to eat.”

“Check your pockets,” he said simply. Christine was certain her pockets were very empty but obeyed. She was quite sure there was no order he could give her that she would not follow immediately and joyfully. As promised, her pocket jingled with coins. Enough for a simple meal.

“How?”

“Magic.”

She opened her mouth again, unsatisfied. There were a hundred questions she wanted to ask him about himself and heaven and ghosts and the Opera and why his eyes carried such pain, but she sensed there would be no answers for a mere mortal like her.

“Will you be here? If I come back tonight?” she asked instead.

“Of course, and the doors will be open to you. My home is your home. Eat. Rest. Explore. We’ve just begun our work.” Christine nodded and turned to the door. “Christine.” She paused, her heart jumping at the sound of her name in that perfect voice. “You did very well today.”

“Thank you, my angel,” she whispered back then rushed away. It had just slipped out, but the endearment was real. He washers, her angel. He had rescued her and already he had changed her whole life. She dashed through the halls, her cheeks on fire and laughter bubbling past her lips. She had to laugh. It was all too wondrous and mad and perfect.

After so long alone, she had found him, and he was an amazing teacher who believed in her and her voice. He would protect her. Had anyone ever been so blessed? They were just beginning, and she could not wait to hear him again.

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