Surprise and pleasure warred across the desolate plain of his heart. He'd never before heard his name sung - never, not even by his wife. It caught at him, ensnared him completely.
"I'm here," Erik answered, his own voice dropping into the register that made it compelling to most human ears. The only command he wanted to give her, however, was to turn. He straightened from the wall and stepped forward - but did not make another sound, did not ask her to turn from the empty seats to the only member of her audience.
Again, he marked how well she had her voice within her control. It was a beautiful instrument, well-kept, and rich, warm, wholly entrancing. She handled her notes with capability and easy grace. She was... she was perfection. The uncompromising musician in Erik recognized that her level of skill far surpassed Christine's. The charm of his wife had been that he had molded her voice to be exactly what Erik had wanted it to be.