Page 72 of Angel's Mask
Erik found himself holding his breath.
“I am neither beautiful, nor a lady, I don’t need to take any arm,” Christine sang perfectly. And in a single line, she had won. Erik relaxed into his seat as Christine exited the stage. He knew she was destined for absolute triumph, all he had to do was watch it play out. The act ended, people milled about and gossiped.
And Erik waited. He wished he could be in two places at once as the next act began. He wished he could be with her in her dressing room, to assure her one more time that she would be perfect. He wished so many things when it came to Christine.
Siébel, Faust, and Méphistophélès came and went and at last Christine was alone on stage. If she was frightened or nervous, Erik could not see it. For a second, she looked towards his box, a whisper of a smile on her face, and then she began to sing.
Erik listened breathlessly as she perfected the Ballad of the King of Thule, spinning out glorious sound as easily as Marguerite spun her thread. But it was the Jewel Song that the audience was waiting for and it was there that the new Marguerite came into her own. She was even better than at the gala, thanks to the weeks of practice and instruction since then. And perhaps also thanks to the holy fire that ignited in her when she sang. Her runs and exclamations sparkled, and her dreaming phrases soared to the sky. Her final high C still echoed through the auditorium when the usually demure audience exploded in applause.
They were clapping for him, Erik thought, forhiscreation. They were all his at last, just as he’d dreamed. And it didn’t move him at all. All that mattered right now was her. The angel on the stage singing her love to him.
In the duet between Marguerite and Faust, Erik’s heart raced. Fontana sang better than he had in years. Erik thought of how he had sung this music with Christine so many times, wishing he could take her in his arms as the tenor was doing at that moment.
The chaste maid told Faust to return the next day, but the devil whispered in Faust’s ear to listen to Marguerite’s true desires. To the dark of the night, Christine sang of her love for a mysterious stranger. And in the darkness Faust returned, to take the maiden’s innocence while the devil rejoiced in her corruption. The curtain closed as Fontana embraced Christine, causing Erik another intense stab of jealousy and desire, but the explosion of applause drove the thought from his mind.
The interval began and the whole audience broke into excited chatter. Erik could imagine what they were saying, the praise they were heaping on his student. He stood, drawing back into the shadows to make sure he was not seen. He was not expecting the door of his box to open. He had anticipated the managers. It would have made sense for them to intrude again. The Daroga of Mazenderan was a far more unwelcome sight. As was the look of victory in his eyes as Erik glowered at him from the corner.
“You should be more careful, Erik, anyone could walk in with no box keeper outside,” Shaya said, stepping into the box and closing the door behind him. Erik stood frozen, unable to discern the man’s intent as he smirked at Erik.
“I didn’t think you ever actually attended,” Erik replied slowly. “Or that you could afford it.”
“I make do,” the Daroga replied with a shrug. “I made a point of it tonight. I was simply so curious about what sort of schemes you’re up to with these new managers.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do, old friend,” Shaya went on. He looked far too smug for Erik’s comfort. “I couldn’t figure why you’d get rid of the old guard. I assumed it had something to do with that awful soprano you’ve been torturing for years. And honestly, I can’t really fault you for hating her. But why now? I asked myself. Then I heard a strange rumor. That you’ve spoken in favor of her replacement. And I realized, this move was not about Carlotta, not fully. All of this chaos has been because of Christine Daaé.”
Erik’s blood froze and his eyes narrowed. “She’s a great talent, can you blame me for clearing the way for her?” he said, trying to keep his voice cool and detached.
“I think there’s more to it than that,” Shaya countered. “I’ve been hearing all sorts of stories about how it was her that Joseph Buquet says sicced the Ghost on him. How she came out of nowhere. How she’s even seen you.”
“You’re on dangerous ground, Daroga, I warn you.” Erik knew it was a mistake the moment he said it and Shaya smiled. He had just confirmed everything.
“I don’t know what this girl knows of you or how she’s connected to you, but I do think I shall speak to her.”
“She wouldn’t listen,” Erik hissed.
“Oh, I’m not sure of that,” Shaya replied. “As you’ve told me so many times, men in power here don’t listen to the likes of me. But a girl like her? I think she would be incredibly interested to know that the phantom that has supported her career is mortal.” Shaya paused, sneering. “Though he is truly a monster.”
“Why?” Erik demanded, a hundred catastrophic scenarios playing out in his head. “She doesn’t know enough to lead you to me, Daroga. She’s innocent.”
“That’s exactly why. This girl is some sort of treasure to you. A person you cherish. Someone far better than you, that you wish to safeguard from the cruel, callous world.” Shaya’s eyes darkened in remembrance. “I remember that feeling, of wanting to protect someone. You took him away from me. Don’t you think it’s right I do the same to you?”
“Shaya, please,” Erik whispered. “Don’t.”
“I’m just going to give her the truth, Erik,” Shaya replied with a shrug. “What she does with it will be up to her.”
With that Shaya turned. Erik could have killed him then. It would have been easy, even without the lasso. But then he would be the monster Shaya believed him to be. And it wouldn’t change anything. He sank against the wall in the shadows of the box, his head spinning and horror churning in his gut.
He had to get to Christine first. He had no choice. He had to keep Shaya from until he made a plan. Until...until he could tell her the truth himself. And destroy everything.
––––––––
Raoul was not a musician, though he had always loved the art. Of course, he’d heard music all his childhood and even been forced into a few piano lessons. But it had been Stellan Daaé and his wondrous daughter who had truly taught Raoul to adore melody and harmony, all those years ago. Since then, he’d never been able to find music that inspired him as much as theirs had. That was, until now.
He had heardFaustbefore, but it had bored him. Now he was rapt, amazed at the power of Gounod’s art when Christine was the one bringing it to life. She was fantastic. Inspiring. Captivating. And everyone in the audience knew it. At the interval it had been all anyone could discuss. Well, that and the fact that Carlotta had been completely eclipsed in every way. And grumblings about someone having an argument in one of the other grand tier boxes.
The murmurs continued through the ballet, although Philippe at least paid attention to that, given that his Sorelli was a featured witch among the demonic throng. Raoul didn’t care about her. He also didn’t care about Faust and Méphistophélès. Like Faust, all anyone could think of was returning to Marguerite. At last, the light rose on the final scene in Marguerite’s prison cell. Christine was dressed in a simple white shift and bodice with a scooped neck, which clung flatteringly to her body. Her dark hair was unbound, and the rouge had been wiped from her face. She was once again the unadorned, pure, beautiful girl he had known by the sea so long ago.
