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“Sing for me.”
I push myself up. I set my feet apart, place my hand on my throat, and draw a breath. He lifts one hand with the palm toward me, and I stop with the breath still in me.
“Not here?” I ask.
“Come,” he says.
He leads me out through the main room, past the hearth, through the third door, and into the dim corridor. I know the way now. He passes the library and opens the music room, lights a lamp, and walks between the piano and the harp to the far wall, where a tapestry hangs from a rod near the ceiling. I saw it on the first day and took it for decoration. It shows a stage with its curtains drawn back and a row of masked figures bowing, woven in colors that have gone brown and gold with age.
He lifts the edge of the tapestry. Behind it, I see a plain door with an iron latch. He works the latch and pushes the door inward. I notice that this door is thick, thicker than any other in the house, and padded on the inside.
“I didn’t know this was here,” I say.
“I know,” he signs.
He goes in first and lights the lamps on the walls. I follow him.
Heavy stage curtains cover every wall, the dark red kind. Where the curtains part, I can see layers of costume felt tacked under them, and under the felt, panels of cork. Pieces of old, painted scenery, wrapped in more felt and stuffed until they’re soft, stand against the corners and are fixed to the ceiling. The floor is covered too. A single chair stands in the middle of the room. There’s nothing else. Every piece has been cut, fitted, and layered against the next, and where the layers meet, I can see the seams, the patches, and the places where the work was done over.
“What is this room?” I ask.
“Sing here,” he signs, and points to the chair.
He closes the door. I move to where he showed me, but I don’t sit down. He stays by the door with his hands at his sides.
I choose my favorite. It’s the piece I sang most often when I was the prima donna at the Lyric House. I know it by feel, so I don’t have to think about where it starts. I put my hand on my chest, take the first breath low, and begin.
I realize that I’m afraid. I can’t hear my pitch, can’t hear whether I’m loud or soft, can’t hear what the smoke did to my voice. Mordred does. He hears all of it, and I feel like I’m left in the dark.
I told him I must sound terrible, and now he’s finding out. I hold on to what’s still mine. The breath comes from the belly, the sound moves high into my face, my throat stays open and my jaw loose. The notes hum under my palm, steady in my bones.
Then there’s a warmth under my skin that wasn’t there before. It’s in my chest, and it spreads outward, into my shoulders and down my arms. It isn’t from the singing. I know what my singing feels like. This isn’t coming from me.
I look at Mordred. Behind the white mask, his dark lips seem to be moving. His chest rises and falls, but not with my rhythm, with one that fits under it. He’s breathing where a singer breathes. He’s leaning in toward me, his head tilted, his whole body turned to me. I understand that he’s singing with me.
I smile, and I keep going. I’m still afraid of what he hears. But he hasn’t stopped me, hasn’t looked away, and he’s leaning toward me, so I stop holding anything back. I let the breath go all the way down and the sound come all the way out.
He takes a step toward me. I take a step toward him. We don’t touch. I look up into the darkness of his eyes, and he looks down into mine. I sing to him, and I feel his voice in the floor, through the soles of my shoes, in the warmth in my chest, and in the rhythm of his breath.
I’ve missed this so much. I didn’t know how much until now, with someone here to sing to. To sing with. I let myself have it.
I sing my favorite piece at full voice to the only one who’s ever asked me to sing since the fire.
Chapter Eleven
Mordred
I have never sung with anyone before.
I’m doing it now, with my jaw held tightly inside the porcelain ribs and my voice kept so low that it barely passes the grille.
I brought Aveline into this room because I knew this would happen. I heard the first line of her song in her room and understood that I wouldn’t stay quiet through the rest of it. So, I led her here, where the stage curtains, the costume felt, and the cork panels keep every sound from leaving. Nothing I sing in this room reaches Nivallia. Even so, I’m careful, and I don’t let the notes rise or my mouth open past what the mask allows. I know she can’t hear me, and my caution is mostly for my peace of mind than her safety.
Her voice fills the room. I keep mine quieter than hers.
Her training is obvious. She breathes from low in her body, places each note forward, and she shapes every phrase with the discipline that made her the youngest prima donna at the Lyric House in her home city. I can tell the smoke from the fire that killed her family changed her original voice. There’s a rough edge at the top of her range that a prima donna isn’t supposed to have. She has it anyway, and I wouldn’t trade it for the clear voice she must’ve had before.
Aveline can’t hear any of it. She keeps one hand against her throat, her fingers pressing into the skin when she reaches for a note. Twice she lands beside the pitch she wants, and twice she finds it on the next breath through nothing but muscle memory. I don’t wait for her to come to me, because she wouldn’t know how. I move my note to meet hers, so the interval stays true, and she never knows she drifted. I follow her breath and fit mine under it. Where she slows, I slow. Where she opens her voice, I let mine open a little to stay level with hers, then I bring it down again. She’s leading, and I’m the one adjusting. I’ve never once in my long life done this for another voice.
