Page 28 of Angel's Fall
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Erik was not sure whatto do. The half-written composition he had been commanded to create sat on the music stand above his piano keys, mocking him. He had doffed his jacket and vest and sat in shirt sleeves with his unruly black hair falling in his eyes, probably looking the very picture of a tortured artist (if said artist had been decaying in a crypt for a few years, granted). At the time he most needed to escape his troubles into the calming waters of sound, he found the spring dry.
“Fuck it.” Erik rose, finally daring to look at the clock. It was a little past five, blessedly closer to his appointment with Christine than it had been the last time he looked. It was late enough to give up.
It’s not that he hadn’t tried. The melodies that had consumed him yesterday were still there, resonant and ringing in his mind, but the idea of Christine walking his opera withthat boyhad installed a nest of wasps in his brain that would not stop buzzing. Every time he tried to add a line of notes or, gods forbid, consider what sort of story this opera could tell, his thoughts returned to them.
Erik grabbed his cloak and mask and stalked from his home. There was safety in covering himself and letting the darkness surround him. Several openings above the lake to the world above assured that it was always a sort of eerie twilight when he polled the boat across the crystalline waters, but it was far darker than in his home and it gave him some ease to become a shadow again.
What would the boy say about him? What lies might he tell – or worse – what truths? What if he whispered into Christine’s ear that she was ensnared to the devil, that she had sold her soul for music and fame and sins of the flesh? What if he convinced her that she was better off in the world above? The little fool could tell her that Erik was a killer, a monster, a thief, and a deceiver – and it would all be right!
She promised, a ghost in his mind responded, barely audible over the noise.She knows you are more.
“What if that’s not enough,” Erik found himself whispering aloud as he came to the shore. He moored the boat, trying to let the physical toil ground him, but the relief was only temporary. That horrible ‘what if’ was still ringing in his head.
Erik knew he shouldn’t go up. Christine had told him not to torture himself, but he just wanted to look. He wanted to see her and know she waspretendingto be something else, to belong to someone else to save him. Because she said she loved him and she had to mean it.
Erik quickly found his way to the third cellar, past the furnaces and in among the maze of machinery, sets, and close, dark corridors. This was the place for ghosts, everyone in the Opera knew it. Erik, being one such ghost, rarely stopped to take in the unsettling feel of the place, but today it struck him like a cold blast. Something feltwrong.
Erik paused, listening to the shadows around him as his senses prickled. He had spent his whole life afraid of people and being forced on display for them, and he was hyperaware of what it felt like to be watched or even be near another person. He felt that now. Was it Shaya? Or the boy? Were they snooping where they shouldn’t be, or was it something else?
Erik moved slowly, hiding behind sets and backdrops, moving them when he could. If someone had come into his labyrinth, he would not make it easy for them to depart. It was slow work, but the feeling of someone intruding didn’t dissipate until he was closer to the stage. A stage which was empty, Erik saw to his dismay when he emerged into box five.
His anxiety surged, like a predator seizing on his guts and twisting them around its claws. What if she was gone? What if it had all been a distraction? What if someone else had interfered? Erik scaled the edge of the box and column, jumping effortlessly to the stage with no care at all of being seen. Let someone earn themselves a new legend of the Phantom to tell if he was caught.
The wings were empty and the halls towards the dressing rooms were deserted too. The singers and musicians were gone, and only a few workers remained. Soon they would retreat too, but maybe one of them was there. Maybe one who knew Christine...
Erik followed the familiar path towards the costumers that he had taken so many times when Christine had been employed there. Sure enough, Julianne Bonet was one of the final women to emerge from the workshop as Erik watched. Should he talk to her? She might not even know where Christine was. Perhaps it was better to follow? Erik blinked back to reality from the fog of indecision and realized he had already lost track of his mark.
“Damnit,” he whispered, turning the corner of the hall to come face to face with the woman he had misplaced.
“She’s off with him up in the west rotunda, I think.” Bonet said without flinching when Erik met her eyes. “I saw them go off together after the run-through. I wanted to say something, but she was too fast. I don’t think she wants to talk to me.”
“You’re her closest friend,” Erik replied without thinking (unsurprising, as he’d been doing very little of that today).
“I was, until lately and all of this.” Bonet did not have to explain what she meant or gesture at Erik for him to comprehend. “I don’t think she wants to hear me tell her to stop lying to people she cares for.”
“Sometimes lies are necessary,” Erik shot back even as his skin began to crawl under Julianne’s discerning gaze.
“Did you know? About her and the Vicomte?” she demanded, and Erik nodded. “Good. I think. Or not. Actually, I don’t care. Just tell her to talk to me tomorrow, alright? I need her.”
“I shall.” Before Erik could disappear, Bonet turned away and vanished herself.
Erik raced away towards the dancer’s rotunda, located beneath one of the two smaller domes that flanked the Opera. It was a lovely spot, and he was filled with new envy that the boy was the one who would share it with Christine, even for an hour.
Erik soon found himself at the door to the rotunda, his heart pounding as he listened.
“I don’t think I can come.” The sound of Christine’s voice, firm and cool, was a balm on Erik’s soul. “But if they’re not actually engaged yet, I don’t see why we need to worry about a party that I wouldn’t be wanted at anyway.”
“I want you there.” Erik cringed. As much as he loved hearing Christine, he hated the little noble’s whining. “I’ll need you to keep me from making a scene and telling Sabine what a fool she’d be to marry that man.”
“You could talk to her, you know, before he proposes. She deserves to know about him and Adèle.” There was kindness in Christine’s words because she was always kind, even to little shits who didn’t deserve it.
“She knows.” The boy paused. Erik could imagine the vacant look on his face. “Or I think she does. It doesn’t matter. To Philippe, Antoine is family, so Sabine marrying him won’t be too much of a change.”
“One day, I’m sure you’ll tell me why Philippe feels that way,” Christine replied and there was uncharacteristic silence. It worried Erik enough that he chanced glancing through the door to see a horribly serious expression on the young man’s face.
“I don’t think you’ll like the story.” The young man looked so sad for an instant, Erik almost forgot to hate him. Almost. “I miss my father. He’d know what to say to her. And me.”
