Page 19 of Angel's Mask

“I get complacent too, Daroga,” Erik went on, singsong and thoughtful as his mind raced. “I forget my duty here. My own dreams and ambitions.”

“Erik, I swear—” Erik cut him off with a long, low laugh.

“You needn’t worry, Daroga. This chess match isn’t between me and you. You’re just a rook who gets in the way.” He declined to say whose piece Shaya was, knowing that mystery would infuriate him. “I’ll see you again soon, I’m sure.”

“We’re not done,” Shaya said, but Erik had already turned, gliding around the corner and instantly out of sight. He laughed at the sound of Shaya banging on the wall.

“And I wouldn’t look for my doors, Daroga,” Erik called, making his voice echo through the empty hall. “You wouldn’t like what’s on the other side.”

“Damn you, Erik,” the Persian hissed, and Erik gave one more laugh before he descended to the floor below.

Seeing the Daroga had been a good reminder: of what he was, and what he wanted. He had become so comfortable at the Opera and in his routines, he had forgotten the game. But it was still there. And he had a new pawn to convert to a queen.

What a queen she would be, too, Erik mused as he crept deeper through his theater. She would sweep away Carlotta and shine brighter than anyone who had ever taken that stage. The spineless nobles with their bloody hands would fawn and bow to her...and they would be bowing to him. Yes. This is why he had found her. It had to be. This growing obsession wasn’t about her beauty or her faith or her smile. It was her voice as a tool. He could cope with that. Allow it.

It was a perfect falsehood, good enough to convince a prince of lies like himself. Or at least he hoped it was.

––––––––

Christine smiled upat the Greek Temple set in the heart of Paris. If she was honest, she preferred the façade of The Madeline to the Opera, it was simpler, if no less grand, and if she squinted, she could pretend for a moment she was some ancient maiden, come to pray to the old Gods.

She didn’t enter, of course. Rather she made her way to the small plaza on the side and took a seat on a bench to enjoy her dinner under the orange leaves of the sparse trees and watch Paris go by. It was so much louder here than in the Opera, she thought as she chewed her tart of cheese, onion, and egg. Pairs of sturdy horses hauled omnibuses past her, men in tall black hats walked with canes next to demure ladies wearing bonnets decorated with silken flowers. Christine had sold her last hat for a few sous in Rouen. Maybe when she was paid, she could buy a new one. In fact, there were still a few coins jangling in her pocket. Perhaps it would be enough.

Christine cast her eyes to the shops around the Madeline, finishing her last bites as she let herself dream just a bit of the life of a diva that the Angel promised her. She was sure that being a lady in fine satin with a carriage and twenty pretty hats would never make her as happy as hearing her voice.

“Monsieur, can you spare a few coins?” The female voice was accented, and when Christine looked, she saw that indeed the woman who had made the entreaty of a finely dressed man striding across the plaza had the dusky skin and features that marked her as one with no land. Romani.

“Get out of my way you filth,” the man sneered, swatting at the woman with his cane. She ducked away quickly and made eye contact with Christine as she did.

“Here,” Christine said automatically, pulling her remaining money from her pocket. “It’s not much, but I hope it helps.”

The woman was hesitant, clearly wary of taking money from someone who looked nearly as destitute as herself. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure your family needs it more than I,” Christine replied, holding out her hand with the coins. Carefully, the woman took them, nodding as she did.

“Thank you, Mademoiselle,” the Roma woman said, then turned quickly and disappeared down the busy street.

Christine picked up her remaining food from the bench and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She had wandered for so many years, just like that woman. She had been a nomad just days before. And now by a miracle, she had a place to return to that felt like home. She looked to the great Church one more time and smiled to herself, nodding in thanks. She did not know how her angel fit into the ranks of heaven or the halls of Olympus, but she would not question it. She would not spoil this miracle.

––––––––

Erik made it a fewhours at home before he found himself ascending from the depths and through a hidden door in an old set fromLe Roi de Lahore. It was very easy to find her from here. She was wrapped in an old wool blanket, reading a book by the light of the lamp. The light made her profile even lovelier, as did the soft smile that spread over her face as he watched her. How did she know he was there?

“You came,” Christine said softly, looking into the darkness around her. “I’ve been waiting.”

“What are you reading?” Erik asked, helpless in the face of her warmth and trust. There were two more books beside her, and just like the one she held, they looked very old and well-loved.

“Fairy tales. I’ve carried these with me for a long time, but it’s been a while since I’ve been able to read them.” She traced the edge of one volume. “I guess I’ve started believing in magic again. Since you found me.”

Erik had no idea how to respond. It was frightening: being the reason for an innocent girl’s faith.

“Did you eat?”

She nodded and held up a paper package in the lantern light. “And I have enough for tomorrow.”

“Good. I can’t have you starving.” She smiled again and he ignored the thrill it gave him. “I’m glad you found your way back.”

“It did take me a while, without a guide,” she said, her eyes unfocused as she spoke to the dark. “It’s lonely here when you’re not close.”

---