Page 11 of Angel's Mask

Julianne opened her mouth to speak again but Christine didn’t stop.

“So, that’s how I know it’s all rubbish. Because if ghosts and spirits and angels were real,Iwould know,” Christine said, voice breaking and fighting back more tears. “And don’t tell me that maybe they are, and I’ve just been unlucky. Because it’s either all lies or it’s not and he abandoned metwice.”

Christine’s shoulders shook as she tried to breathe. Her chest was tight and a dark part of her wondered what even the point in was breathing in this senseless, cruel world where she was forgotten and forsaken.

“So that’s why I won’t believe, Julianne,” Christine said softly, wiping her cheek with the tattered cuff of her dress.

“I’m so sorry, Christine, I am, but—”

“Please, stop,” Christine cut her off. “If my lack of faith so offends your damn ghost, then let him tell me so himself.”

Christine started walking. She didn’t even know where she was going, just that she had to get away. She strode into the corridor and turned as soon as she could, whipping around a corner into a darkened hall that should have been empty.

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t empty, because just as she had dared him to be, the Opera Ghost was there.

The Phantom himself stood before Christine, exactly as the stories had described him, from the black opera cape to the white mask covering all of his face except the mouth set in a grim frown. He was tall, cold, and real as the darkness, his glowing eyes ablaze with unnamable menace. The rest of the world stopped, frozen, as the Ghost stared her down and drew closer without making a sound.

Christine could not breathe. She could not think. All she could do was stare, her heart beating so hard it hurt. His eyes locked with hers, searing into her soul, and somehow the danger and menace within them began to fade into something deeper, and infinitely sadder as she stared.

His eyes were gold, like the sea at sunset, and Christine was drowning in them. Fresh tears stung her own eyes as looked at the Ghost. She took a deep, shaking breath; something inside her breaking, while something else surged back to glorious, aching life.

“Christine!” Julianne yelled from miles away.

Christine whipped around, reality rushing back like a tidal wave. Julianne looked terrified and why wouldn’t she? Christine spun back to the Ghost, only to find him gone. She didn’t think she could move, but Julianne grabbed her and dragged her back to the rats’ dressing room.

“What in God’s name?”

“Is she alright?”

The girls swarmed and chattered but Christine could barely hear them. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the Phantom of the Opera and his shining eyes.

Miracles

Erik didn’t like thishiding place. It was too small and close for his tastes, and he had little use for listening in on the dancers’ dressing rooms besides hearing stories about himself. Moreover the view through a crack in the wall rarely revealed anything exceptional. But how he wished it would right now so that he could better see Christine Daaé’s face as the dancers and costumer chattered around her.

“This bloody fool thought she’d issue a challenge to the Ghost and, well, he answered,” Julianne was saying.

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