Page 54 of Angel's Mask

“And the rest he will understand,” Christine’s voice rose like a prayer and Erik let himself imagine it, for just a moment. Touching her. The feel of her skin, warm and soft. Surely the second she felt the touch of his hands, rough and cold as the grave, she would understand that it was not an angel that loved her, but a corpse. And what if she wanted to put her hands onhim? The terror of such a thing stopped his heart so completely that only the audience’s ovation brought him back to the moment.

He shook off the thought. The audience was entranced, yes, but now was the real test. It was Valerius who stepped to the footlights and gestured for quiet. She smiled, broad and proud.

“Most cherished patrons, I am sure you came here tonight expecting to enjoy the special gifts of our beloved La Carlotta, however, to all of our dismay, the great lady has fallen ill. But in her place, our newest rising talent, Mademoiselle Daaé shall present Juliette’s Waltz for you.”

A new murmur went up, and once again, Erik held his breath. He wondered what this crowd thought of his pupil. Christine looked apprehensive, as was natural. She was radiant in her lavender dress, like royalty, but also demure. She looked up, first to heaven, and then directly to box five as Gounod’s sparkling orchestration began.

“Sing for me, my angel,” Erik whispered and somehow, he knew she felt him with her.

She entered, first with a trill, then a run, unaccompanied, her voice clear and perfect as it swooped through the difficult notes and confirmed what the duet had only hinted at: that this was a voice like no other.

“I want to live in this dream that intoxicates me,” Christine sang as the waltz truly began. She smiled as she sang, losing herself to the music as Juliette did. “Sweet flame, I will guard you in my soul like a treasure,” the aria went on. It was brilliantly written, bouncing and dancing like the young Capulet, full of life and potential, but also doomed.

“It does not last, alas, more than a day,” Christine sang on, the threat of tragedy edging onto the music like the first frost. “The heart gives way to love, and happiness flees without return.”

Love was doom. Shakespeare knew it. Gounod knew it. Erik knew it as well. This moment was perfection, but it would not last. The audience watched in rapt attention as she sang, and they thought it was for them. Christine was no longer just his alone, his secret treasure. The audience would love her now too and what if that love would doom them as well?

“I want to live in this dream.” Christine returned to the first melody, more impassioned now having considered the fate she could not avoid. “Let me smell the rose before it is gone,” Juliette sighed. Erik’s pulse quickened. He was with the entire audience on the edge of their seats as Christine launched into the climax.

“Sweet flame, stay in my heart, like a beautiful treasure, for as long as can be.” And then, the run. Christine’s voice sparkled, pure and dark at the same time, like moonlight on a mountain stream, sweeping away any remaining doubt that she was an artist of the highest caliber. A voice like the Palais Garnier had not heard since it opened its gaudy doors. She flew at last to the high C, the note shining out like a true angel come to earth.

The crowd was on their feet before the orchestra had even finished, and Erik wanted to join. He wanted to stand and clap until he couldn’t feel his palms, throw roses at her feet, and bow to her from the edge of his box, as so many men were doing right now...but it was too great a risk. And he did not want to distract from her triumph with rumors of a ghost joining in the ovation.

Christine was radiant, her smile beaming as she bowed and placed a modest hand over her heart. Rameau and Fontana rushed onto the stage, bowing to her, and pressing kisses to Christine’s gloved hands. How Erik hated them for those few seconds, envy at such a simple gesture taking his breath away again.

They led Christine off stage as the orchestra moved onto more Gounod, now his playfulFuneral March for a Marionette. Erik did not care, nor did the audience it seemed, as they whispered about the new diva who they all though they had just discovered. They were all in love with her, he could feel it, see it in their faces.

Erik had dreamed of this moment for so long. In his fantasies, he had imagined himself drunk on the power of it, thrilled to know that all of Paris bowed to his creation. And somewhere in the back of his mind, that thrill was there. Yes, they loved a part of him, hidden in plain sight on the stage. And he should have felt that love as a triumph. That had been the plan. But he didn’t. They wanted her and thus they might want to take her as their own. And that terrified the Phantom.

Bound

This was a dream. That’sall Christine could think as people surrounded her backstage. And just like Juliette, she wanted to stay in it forever. She could feel her angel’s love all around her, and even something more than that. Something like pride from far beyond that made tears sting at her eyes. Singers who had never given her even a passing glance were clamoring for her attention, Carlos Fontana himself was by her side his arm locked with hers as he placed himself between her and the onslaught. Rameau was on the other side of her, and it took Christine a moment too long to realize he was asking her a question.

“What?” She asked back, trying to anchor herself back in reality.

“We’re supposed to sing the prison trio next, my dear girl, do you know it?” Rameau (apparently) repeated. At some point Gabriel had arrived as well, and his look was expectant.

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