From the start, Eames had never been what one would call a typical career man. If he were honest, which he, admittedly, rarely had cause to be, then he would lay the blame upon his origins.

His mother had been a maid at a grand estate—one of many. But, out of them all, she had been the only one maive enough to believe that the lord of said estate was truly in love with her. She had been turned out the moment the lady of the house learned of the affair, of course, without even a second thought for the condition she was in.

It remained something of a wonder to Eames that his mother had never resented him for their position in life. Even when she had to drag herself, still dead on her feet from the last job, to go to yet another to provide for them, she still had a gentle smile for him and all the embraces any child could ask for.

Eames had only wanted to help her in the same way she did him. And, if his mother balked at the idea of him in a labor house, then there were always other ways to provide.

Determination was enough to make him a quick learner. Soon his hands were steady as well as fast—enough so that people didn't notice what he took from their pockets. Eventually he could even swipe food from the stalls of vendors that lined the Avenue des Champs-Élysées .

His mother never questioned where the influx of items came from, although, surely, she must have had suspicions. The longer stretches of prayer she engaged in, her eyes flicking to him while her fingers moved across the rosary, suggested that she at least understood even if she couldn't outright approve.

Still, there was nothing that Eames could take that would be enough to chase away the cough that stuck to his mother's lungs one winter. Not when the consumption was striking down people all over the city, all the way to those in their glittering high estates.

His mother had wanted him to search out his father in one of those places, after she had passed away in the midst of a bitterly cold day in the heart of January. But there was still too much bitterness in Eames to try for it, even after the landlord pitched him out into the streets.

Better to eke out a living on the streets then give the man who had already destroyed his mother the satisfaction of shutting the door in his face.

Or, at least, that was what he had thought until Miles had found him.

He had been curled up on himself, trying to stay warm under a shop awning, when a large, heavy coat had been draped over him. It had been a scramble to get out from under it enough to raise his head, but when he did it was only to find an oddly kind face smiling down at him.

"I think I might have a job for you."

Eames had heard too many horror stories not to kick up a fuss at that, but Miles had seemed content to drag him along anyway. Something that Eames had no idea how grateful he would day be for, even when he realized the magnificent structure he was being taken to.

The Opera Populaire.

It had turned out that Miles had more lessons than jobs for Eames, but the two overwove just enough for it not to matter. And, besides, that left him with more time to be shown all the secrets of his new home by Mal, Miles' precocious daughter. Dragging along Miles' other apprentice, Dom Cobb, had been easy, as Dom had been weak to Mal's smiles even then.

Under Miles' watchful eye, Eames was able to learn . Although it was difficult to keep an interest in the standard subjects when surrounded by so much art.

The opera house had adored Miles as much as the three children he considered his own did. There was never any question as to who would take over his position as owner and manager. Although no one expected that transition of power to come through death rather than retirement; only a few short weeks after Mal and Dom were married.

It had made for a more uneasy change than expected; one which Eames had sworn he would do everything he could to help with. These people were his family, after all, in the only way that truly mattered.

Still, when he had made that oath Eames had never expected to be called to uphold it in such a manner as this.

All three were secluded within the manager's office, one of the few places that could be ensured privacy. Those who stayed away out of respect would make sure the newer and more curious ears would never dare to intrude.

Mal was settled into the large, plush chair behind the desk. But, while her face was neutral, Dom, who stood at her side, showed his nerves each time his eyes managed to settle everywhere in the room but Eames.

Eames, meanwhile, was sinking into another of the nearby chairs, trying to make sense of what he had just been asked of him. "Apologies, but did you really just…"

"Ask you to pretend to be a ghost?" Mal said, as if the words could sound any less ludicrous a second time. "Yes, we did."

"Erm, right." Eames pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to come up with a polite response before deciding to throw any effort of it out the window. "You do know how completely insane that sounds, of course?"

Dom sighed, dragging a hand across his face. "Trust me, we do." He shot a look at his wife, eyebrows lifting. "Or, at least, I do."

Only Mal could make the roll of her eyes seem a graceful thing. "I see no reason not to be blunt." She took a deep breath, vulnerable in a way she would allow herself to be around no one else. "The opera house is losing patrons."

"What?" Eames exclaimed. "But how can that be?"

"People don't see it as we do," Mal said. "There are other, cheaper places for them to find music now. And the upper class are finding easier places to mingle and gossip."

Eames snorted at that. "The upper class?" he said. "None of them would notice true beauty were you to slap them across the face with it."

"Quite likely," Mal replied, face tight with contrition, "but this building cannot be maintained on beauty alone."

Eames brew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly before trusting himself to speak again. "And you think that having a ghost will solve this?" he asked.

"Yes!" Mal spread out her hands, a ghost of a smile returning. "It would make us stand out. Give us a certain allure, if you will."

"You wouldn't have to do much," Dom pressed. "You're more than a good enough actor. Just pull out a few of your old tricks, make use of those hidden spots you and Mal are so fond of. We just need to place the idea in their heads." He huffed out a laugh. "I'm sure the ballet girls will be more than ready to promote the story."

"And you can still be our Eames," Mal said, "without anyone being the wiser. And, of course, it's not as if you won't receive anything in return. There will be a salary set aside once the business begins to pick up—"

"That's hardly necessary," Eames said.

Mal arched a brow at him. "Perhaps," she said, "but it's my decision, no? Besides, you must have known I would need your help with management—a second opinion on opera choices and role selections will be grand. Think of it as a way to thank you for that, if nothing else."

"And here I thought that's what I was for," Dom bemoaned. There was too teasing a glint in his eye for it to be real, though, especially given how it melted even further under Mal's indulgent smile.

"Oh, my darling," she said, "you are a marvel to be sure. But your skill lies with what is needed behind the scenes. It's what makes us such a good team."

Eames didn't even try to hide a small, fond smile as he watched them interact. He had never had any doubt that the two would wind up here, despite how Mal had kept Dom guessing throughout their whole courtship.

He slumped back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, wondering if there had even been a point in trying to protest the scheme to begin with. "When faced with such lovely terms," he said, "I suppose I have no choice but to accept."

It was worth it all for the full force of one of Mal's true smiles. "I knew you would understand," she said.

Dom only chuckled, moving forward to shake his hand firmly. "Thank you for this, old friend," he said. "You don't regret it."

"Oh, I don't plan to," Eames grinned, squeezing Dom's hand. "I only hope it works."

And, as fate would somehow have it, it did.

Eames had made sure to look the part. There wasn't even a need to purchase new clothes when there was an entire costume department at his disposal.

The dark cape had appealed to his sense of dramatics, as much as providing a quick cover when needed. It might have been enough to cover his face, if he kept the collar up and clung to the shadows, if he hadn't seen the mask.

It had been quite the unassuming thing, really. Not even a shocking color or paneled with mirrors for an extra shine. Just a bit of pale porcelain, fashioned in Venetian style, to cover the upper half of a person's face.

He might have left it had it not fit so perfectly the second he tried it on. There seemed little reason to pass up something that felt a little too much a sign to be ignored.

The rest just came from following the advice he had been given. He stalked across the scaffolding above the stage, footsteps as heavy as he could make them, and in the back corridors near the dressing rooms. The second someone caught sight, he would make sure to whip the cape about, reaching just out of sight for the latch to a trapdoor or concealed passageway.

It didn't take long for tongues to start to wag. It started with the ballet girls, of course, who were always the most eager for any scraps of gossip. Their vivid imagination magnified everything and he only made sure to fan the flames. He pulled the tricks he had only had to use for pranks since his days on the streets—replacing necessary objects with odd items or sometimes taking them altogether. Soon, if anything went amiss within the walls of the opera house, it was blamed on the ghost.

After that it seemed that everyone had a story about the ghost. Most of which turned Dom and Mal into heaps of laughter when he retold them over their favorite bottles of wine.

Apparently, he wandered about clothed as a man of fashion, but his eyes burned with a fire straight from hell itself. Everyone had been warned to stay on their guard unless they wanted to be caught with his "magical lasso".

Really, though, that last bit had only happened so that Eames could remove a stagehand of the use of his hands so that the poor chorus girl he had been hassling could get away. Still, he made sure to carry a lasso with his dress suit whenever he went out to play the ghost from then on.

Eventually word slipped out to the rest of Paris. People began to flock in like bad then, all wanting to catch a glimpse of this supposed apparition.

And Eames made sure that none of them would leave disappointed.

He would never outright ruin a performance, but it was an easy thing to cast his shadow across backdrops or cause knocks from under the stage that made the ballet girls jump just a little too high in their graceful leaps.

Then began the targeting of Box Five. It had always been his favorite, after all, and it was quite fun to watch the people there jump at strange sounds and scramble for missing belongings. Eventually it took a few prods and hissed whispers to drive them out, but, soon, Eames wound up with the box entirely too himself.

Life continued on in such a manner for years. It was a comfortable enough routine and there was rarely ever an empty seat within the opera house.

And then Arthur had arrived.

Arthur entered the Opera Populaire with little more than the clothes on his back, looking in need of more than a few good meals. The soft planes of his face made him appear younger than he was, but there was no mistaking the sharpness in his dark eyes.

The son of Charles Moss, a talented violinist, if too eccentric to be held in the traditional high regard. With a mother who died in childbirth, he had been the only one there to raise their child. Although, from the looks of Arthur's maturity, it did make one wonder who exactly had looked after who.

Still, it was no secret that the death of his father had left Arthur crushed; one only had to look at the boy's face to see it.

Finances had never been the small family's strong suit, so, after the loss of his father, Arthur had come here, hoping to appeal on behalf of his father's former friendship with Mal's father. He swore himself prepared to do any form of work, no matter what kind, so long as he could have a place to stay.

There was little chance that the boy would be turned out on the street, old connections or no. Still, Eames was surprised when Mal insisted on having Arthur audition for them. It was enough to keep him in his box for the day, watching the boy on the stage as he fidgeted under the glare of the lights.

"Is this really necessary?" Arthur said. "I can work backstage. Or manage the books? I'm quite good with numbers, I swear."

"I'm sure you sure you are," Mal answered, voce soft for all she had yet to look up from her book of music, "but I remember hearing you sing when your father first brought you here. I'm sure with his lessons it has grown even better since then."

Arthur ducked his head, although it was difficult to tell if it was from embarrassment or sadness spurned on from the memory. Either way, he lifted his head obediently once Mal struck the beginning notes on the piano, assuming the proper position as if by second nature, and began to sing.

Eames found himself snapping to attention in his seat, unaware of how his fingers were digging into the arms of the chair until he began to feel the pain of it.

That voice! He had never heard anything like it! The pitch was spot on, without a hint of weakness in either register, the tone never faltering. And yet there was not an ounce of emotion to it.

It was a voice without any soul—a hollow, heart crushing beauty.

There had to be some way to bring life to it, but that wasn't something one picked up on their own. He would need a teacher, a proper one, who could inspire him.

He was drawn out of his thoughts with a jolt as the song came to an end.

Mal's sigh was heavy then, looking up with Arthur with eyes as sad as her smile. "The chorus it is then."

Eames found himself pacing across the floor of the manager's office that evening, unable to will himself still. He was vaguely aware of Mal's eyes tracing his steps, having given up the illusion of paperwork some time ago.

"It's so cruel," he said. "He has so much talent...and it's all going to waste!"

Mal didn't even bother to ask who he meant, simply tossing her pen down with a sigh. "Don't you think I know that?" she said. "But what can we do? It's as though his inspiration died with his father."

"Then we just need to provide another source," Eames shot back.

"And we've tried," Mal replied, "but none of the teachers here are a good match for him. All of them keep producing the same results." She released a faint laugh. "He seems almost as exasperated with them as they are of him."

Eames drew himself to a stop, eyes narrowing at a fixed space above the mantle. "He needs a better one then," he murmured, more to himself than anything. "Someone who can provide him with proper assistance or, at the very least, won't let him walk all over them.

He might not have been able to see the wary glance that Mal shot him, but he could hear it creeping into her tone. "Eames, please tell me you're not thinking of—"

"Why not?" Eames turned on his heel to face her with a grin. "You know I would do better at it than any of the others you've thrown at him so far."

Mal pressed her lips into a thin line, her suspicion plain. "But who will you teach him as?" she asked. "Yourself or the ghost?"

Eames, for his credit, never lost his smile. "We'll just have to see which he takes to more, won't we?"

It seemed an incredible stroke of luck that the dressing room Arthur had been assigned to would contain the huge, elegant mirror that hid one of Eames' favorite passageways. The person on the other side would see the reflective surface while he could see right through. Something he had never been more grateful for.

For there Arthur was, curled up in the small chair before the vanity as he cried. It was the first time Eames had seen him display any powerful emotion. The boy always managed to keep himself in check in front of everyone else, never losing his composure.

What could have happened to affect such a change?

Arthur sucked in a short, raspy breath. "Oh, Father," he whispered, "why did you lie? You told me that I could see, that I was brilliant at it. But that wasn't true, was it? You were just too blind to tell." The choked laugh he let out, without even a sliver of humor in it, broke Eames' heart. "It's like the Angel of Music. Just a silly fairy tale."

Much, much, later, Eames would be able to pinpoint this moment as where his mind came alight. He had meant to lie in wait, trying to see which Arthur would be more receptive too. But it seemed he didn't need a human or a ghost. In fact, the only person Arthur wanted to guide him—perhaps needed to have—was a supposed "Angel of Music".

And, well, what was one more role to take on when it could lead to so much more?

Eames began with a hymn, softly at first, then letting his voice grow to fill the eternity of the little room beyond the mirror.

It didn't take long for Arthur to stop clutching at himself, eyes darting around the room. "Who's there?" he demanded.

Eames brought his voice down a few octaves, letting it come in a slow, breathy rumble, "I am your Angel of Music."

Arthur's eyes went wide at that, his mouth falling open. "My Angel of Music?" he breathed.

"Yes," Eames said, "and I have come to teach you."

He might not have realized it then, but as Arthur slipped out of his chair, coming to his knees before the mirror to look up at him, however unknowingly, with wide, awestruck watery eyes...that was when Eames was doomed.