Page 57 of Angel's Mask
Before she could answer, a new murmur rippled through the crowd. Christine looked up, following the commotion, and feeling her blood freeze as she heard someone whisper: “The Ghost.”
She saw him. Standing there as real as anything, his white mask standing out in the sea of black and gold, his eyes full of rage and heartbreak. He stared at Christine only for a second, before vanishing into the crowd as the patrons gasped.
“What on earth was that?” An older man beside Raoul asked. Christine recognized him too: though he had not had his elegant moustache when she knew him, Comte Philippe de Chagny still cut a charming figure.
“It doesn’t matter,” Raoul said, drawing back Christine’s attention. Her previous joy she was replaced with sick terror. “Christine has not answered my question.”
Christine swallowed, clutching the scarf in her hand, her mind racing. Laughing was the easiest and so she did. It was a cold, cruel laugh she didn’t recognize coming from her throat, and the way it caused Raoul’s to face fall made it taste all the more bitter on her tongue. But that was the point. “I’m sure I have no idea what you are speaking of, Monsieur,” she said formally.
“Christine...” Raoul said as his brother sighed in annoyance beside him.
“I need to go,” Christine declared to no one in particular. She peripherally noticed Adèle’s shock and the curious looks of the crowd as she turned and walked out of the salon. She rushed as fast as she could away from the party, feeling her angel’s rage following her like a cloud. She had to get back to him. She could not let this night end in such ruin. She couldn’t lose him now.
––––––––
Erik beat her to thedressing room. He knew it was where she was going but it was empty when he arrived and for that, he was grateful. His head was spinning, and his heart was ready to break.
How had this happened? Less than an hour ago he had been on his feet, clapping for her. He had never applauded before. It was unseemly and he never been moved enough to break character to do it. But oh, how he had clapped for his angel tonight. His hands had stung.
And then they had taken her. All of them had swept her away to their bourgeois bacchanal and he hadn’t been able to follow fast enough. There were so many dark halls and trap doors backstage, but such secret roads were in much rarer supply in the foyers and salons. And so, he’d done something mad and simply walked out into the crowd. It would cause a stir; he knew that and he meant for it. What better assurance that Debienne and Poligny were gone because of his displeasure than for the Ghost to arrive for their retirement speech? But in truth he had been there for Christine. Only Christine. Then he’d found her, in some cruel joke of fate, just asthat boyhad accosted her. And she had smiled, that beautiful pure smile he loved more than light.
He looked through the mirror as the dressing room door flew open. Christine slammed it and locked it behind her as she fell to her knees before the mirror, her face awash in fear and regret.
“Who was he?” Erik demanded, heart breaking again. “Whowas that boy? He knew you and you knew him. Don’t lie to me.”
“His name is Raoul,” Christine whispered, shutting her eyes in shame. “He...”
“Was that him?” Erik wanted to hear it from her. He looked at the silk scarf still clutched in Christine’s hands and a new wave of hate overcame him. “The boy who saved your scarf. The one you loved.”
“Yes...” Christine breathed, then looked up to the mirror again. “But I didn’t say anything to him! I laughed at him, and I left. He meansnothingto me.” She dropped the scarf and stood, leaning against the mirror with her forehead against the glass. She was crying.
“I have made it very clear: if you wish to serve me, there can beno distractions,” he admonished, hating her tears, and hating himself for his part in causing them. “You cannot be part of that world.”
“I don’t want to be,” she pled. “I loveyou.”
How many times in one day could this girl shatter his heart? He placed his palm against the glass, wanting nothing more than to hold her and tell her how much he loved her in return. “Oh Christine, I know you do.”
“All I want is you,” she whispered to the glass and looked up, her expression darkening as she stepped back, and though Erik knew she only saw her reflection, it was as if she was looking right at him. Without taking her gaze away from the mirror, she removed her long gloves, then the ribbon at her throat. Then the pins from her hair.
“I want you,” she repeated, and Erik caught his breath as her hands rose to the buttons of her pretty satin dress and began to loosen it from her body. Her voice was deep with desire and devotion. If he did not know better, he would have called this a seduction. “I want your music. Your blessing. To serveyou.”
With that, the dress fell to her feet. But she continued, undoing her corset, and casting it away as well. Erik was breathless again as she doffed her final underthings, removing her chemise, pantalettes, stockings, and shoes so that she stood entirely exposed before the mirror. Before her angel.
“I’m yours, I swear,” she entreated, her voice breathless and shaking. Her nipples were tight and erect in the cool air, gooseflesh rising all over her body. Would her skin be cold to the touch? Or would she be warm and alive? “Only yours,” she whispered and waited.
She stood, bare and expectant, like a virgin sacrifice before an ancient god. She trusted him and wanted him. She had begged him this morning to touch her, and tonight she had sung for him like an angel herself. She deserved an answer to her prayer.
In the dark behind the mirror, Erik surrendered. He tore off his gloves, hat, and cape. They would only get in the way.
“Turn down the light,” he commanded, soft and unquestionable. She obeyed instantly, springing to the gas key by the door. In the second the light dimmed to almost nothing, he opened the mirror and stepped through without a sound, coming just inches behind her, and at last...he touched her.
She gasped at the shock of the cold hand at her throat, perhaps in fear. Erik had touched others like this, in his long years alone, and it had meant violence and death to have his hand at someone’s neck. Her fear was natural.
“Close your eyes,” he whispered in her ear as he caressed her, gentle and loving. Her skin was soft and warm, warmer than he’d ever dreamed. He had no way of knowing if she had obeyed him, he couldn’t see her eyes. So, he traced his fingers up her neck, feeling her shiver as he found the line of her jaw, her cheek, and then her eyes. They were indeed obediently closed.
Still, bodies in passion often disobeyed their owners, hers might do the same. He could not risk it. One hand barely touching her cheek, he loosed his cravat with the other, then brought it to her face. Christine shuddered as her angel placed the silken blindfold over her eyes. He was safe now. Perhaps.
He let his hands wander over her shoulders, down her arms, barely grazing her skin. He could feel the hairs all standing on end as he did, and her breath was shallow and quick. He found her fingertips and stepped aside, guiding her to turn and follow him.
