Page 59 of Angel's Mask

“What on earth?” the boy muttered as the match burned down to his fingers and sputtered.

Yes, what on earth indeed, Erik thought with a laugh as he turned away. Let the boy think that Christine’s secret paramour had disappeared into thin air. Let the questions torment him. Erik continued to grin as he made his way lower, deep into the cellars. He made one stop though, at the furnaces. They never stopped burning, these miniature infernos, though the fires were low at this late hour. Still, the boy’s scarf burned nicely on the coals.

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Christine woke stillin bliss. The memory of the night before had echoed into her dreams, from the deafening applause to the ecstasy of her angel’s touch. Even the New Year’s frost over her window could not chill the warmth in her heart. Or the fire still in her blood. Already she ached for him again, thinking back to the heavenly thrill of that first brush of his ghostly fingers on her body.

She stretched and nestled deeper into her lonely bed. She could almost still feel the tightness of silk around her wrists, or the cold air of her dressing room as he laid her out for his inspection. How wanton she must have looked, bound and bare; it made her blush at just the thought. But the image of herself, and the delicious memory of his ministrations, also stoked the heat inside her.

Her hand found its way to her throbbing cunt, almost unbidden, and she was unsurprised to find herself wet and open. She heard his voice in her head and tried to move her fingers like he had. He’d known exactly how to touch her, drawing ecstasy from her like a virtuoso pulling a melody from an instrument. Her own hand was clumsy in comparison, but even so, just the memory had her soaring to a peak of pleasure in no time. She moved frantically, turning over so that her hand was trapped between the mattress and her body, allowing her hips to grind and squirm. But it wasn’t enough. She stifled a moan in her pillow, her body begging for release as the tension in her grew and grew. But the crescendo eluded her.

“Damnit,” Christine sighed and relented, falling back to stare at the ceiling. It wasn’t the first time she’d tried to pleasure herself here, but it was certainly the most aroused she’d ever been. Even so, she knew in her heart that without his voice to enflame her or his gaze upon her, satisfaction would be impossible. Her passion was his and his alone.

She rose from bed at last and the shock of the cold morning air was almost enough to bring her back to reality. The fact that the water in the pitcher in the washing basin had a layer of ice on the top sobered her entirely.

By the time she emerged from her room she was swearing to herself and blowing on her hands. Adèle did employ a maid, but she came rarely and lived on her own. Thus, it was up to Adèle and Christine to keep the fires stoked in the flat and they were both terrible at it. Christine set to the task of relighting the fashionable stove, covered in white enamel, and within half an hour there was a pleasant blaze going to welcome Adèle home.

“Oh, you beat me back,” Adèle purred when she saw Christine. She looked a mess, but in a pleasant way. Like Christine, she hadn’t bothered with all the fussy buttons of her dress, and her hair was loose.

“I was home before the New Year, if you care to know,” Christine rebuked her playfully. Adèle did not look convinced.

“The only thing I’d forgive you leaving your own party for would be a good fuck,” Adèle said, coming to sit by the fire and looking Christine over critically. “And given your talk yesterday about a lover’s quarrelandthe fact you’re practically glowing now, I’d say that I do forgive you.”

“You’re terrible,” Christine muttered, blushing.

“No, Antoine is terrible,” Adèle sighed, rubbing her neck. “He wasted an hour of my time last night, trying to find his little count for late supper, and when he did, he had the audacity to tell me he wastired.”

Christine laughed. “Who did you see instead?”

“Oh, Gerard turned out to be in quite the celebratory mood, so I joined him,” Adèle replied with a devilish wink.

“Gabriel? I thought you said – what was it? That he ‘fucks like metronome?’”

“Oh, he does,” Adèle sighed. “But at least he lets me relax. Antoine fancies himself such an athlete. The night before he had me on my knees and kept pulling my hair like he was reigning a horse. Still can’t move my neck right.”

“Adèle!” Christine laughed. She never grew tired of the older woman’s frankness.

“Gerard’s always so damn grateful I even spread my legs for him – short men tend to be like that – that he’ll dine on some oysters, shall we say, until I’ve had my fun, then I can just lay there and let him enjoy himself while he pumps away.”

“Well, I’m glad your evening was fruitful.”

“Not as fruitful as yours. I was there long enough to borrow the morning paper.” Adèle produced a copy ofEpoquefrom the folds of her discarded coat. “You’re a sensation.”

What Christine felt was curious, like parts of her body had suddenly turned into something hard and shaking. It wasn’t quite the same as the fear when she disappointed her teacher, but it was akin to that panic, and she had no idea why.

“Someone wrote about me?”

“Of course! It was an event for everyone in the upper set, all the reporters were there. Society and music. I’m sure you’re the topic all over Paris this morning.”

“Oh no...” Why did that make Christine feel ill?

“It’s good!” Adèle laughed. “Listen to this: ‘While we were treated to a few admirable offerings from Signor Fontana and the always agreeable Opera Orchestra under the baton of Maestro Bosarge, the real triumph of this celebratory night was reserved for the hitherto unknown young artist, Mademoiselle Christine Daaé. Mademoiselle Daaé was delightful in the Letters duet with Madame Valerius (who remains criminally under-used at the Palais Garnier)’”

“Does it really say that about you?”

“Shush, keep listening. ‘Daaé stepped in at last moment for La Carlotta, who had taken incomprehensibly and inexcusably ill, and the unplanned nature of her debut makes the utter triumph of it all the more remarkable. Daaé sparkled with Juliette’s Waltz, so much so that we hope that this influences the Opera to finally mount a production of Gounod’s other great work. But this was nothing compared to the seraphic triumph and superhuman notes that she gave forth in the final trio ofFaustand a splendid encore with The Jewel Song.”

“Seraphic?” Christine wanted to bury herself back in her bed and hide from the thousands of unknown eyes she suddenly upon her.

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