Page 12 of Angel's Fall
Christine was stillunaccustomed to finding her way to the house on the lake alone. That was the reason, she told herself, that she took so long to get home. Not a sick terror in her gut of what she had to confess to Erik. Of what she knew she had to do.
The dark fled only slightly from the lantern in her hand. She was not a part of it, as Erik was, at least not yet. She tried, sometimes, to imagine him in the light. What would he look like with the sun on his face? Every time she tried to picture Erik walking in a daytime garden or a green field, the image changed to a procession through a street full of jeering people as Erik was led to his execution.
Christine would not let that happen. She couldn’t. She’d die if she lost him.
Her feet were like lead by the time she reached the hidden dock and triggered Erik’s lock with a rhythm by Mozart. She found her lover exactly where she expected him to be, at the piano, engrossed in the same composition she had found him with earlier this morning. His attention was so focused he didn’t even stop writing when she closed the door behind her.
She loved this place, this sanctuary below the stage. It was a lovely flat if you ignored the lack of windows. The ceiling painted with stars made up for it. The main parlor was full of candles, books, and musical instruments, dominated by the huge pipe organ opposite the door out to the lake. Erik’s room was to the right and Christine’s was to the left, both bedrooms filled with pictures and elegant hangings. The plush carpets and rich textures of the place made it feel so warm, even underground.
To the rear of the parlor, a door on the right went to Erik’s workshop, where he built and explored and used his wondrous mind. It made Christine smile to think about it and then blush at her gratitude for all the other things Erik’s clever hands could do. There was no room on the left to mirror the workshop, which was curious. Christine wasn’t sure what filled that empty space and she always forgot to ask. The incredible man who built this all had a way of distracting her.
She surveyed her dark Angel of Music. His shirt was nearly the same color as his pale skin, half unbuttoned as if he had been so consumed with music, he had forgotten. He was so happy and unguarded like this – when the fire of eternal art was blazing inside him. She hated that she had to tear it away.
“Have you decided what it is yet?” Christine asked, and Erik looked up from his work. He had discarded his mask, and his long black hair was unkempt, framing his poor face as it lit with an expression of adoration.
“I think it might be an opera if I’m not careful. It’s just an overture for now.” Before Christine could speak again, he took her in his arms, kissing her like he hadn’t seen her in years. She surrendered to it without a thought. “I’m glad you’re home,” Erik whispered, pulling back, and Christine was sure her heart would shatter.
“What did you do while I was gone?” she heard herself ask. “Did you go above?”
“I did. I had a pleasant conversation with Armand Moncharmin.” Erik’s scarred face was smug in a way that told Christine she had not misheard him.
“Aconversation?”
“Face to face,” Erik confirmed. “Well, face to mask. Same idea.”
“What? Why?” Christine was not at all prepared for this sort of answer. Or for Erik to act so cavalier with their secrets. “You’ve gone to incredible lengths to make yourself a ghost and you justtalkedto one of the managers?”
“He looked lonely.” Erik gave an infuriating shrug. “I do take pity on lost souls in my Opera once in a while. He’d just sent your dear Robert away. He won’t reveal anything, just like we won’t.”
“And what, pray tell, did you discuss?”
“The next great triumph of the Paris Opera that will have all of Europe talking,” Erik answered proudly, and the glimmer in his eye was as alarming as him conversing with another person. “Moncharmin has been swayed to finally attempt Wagner here.”
“Wagner?” Christine squawked. “There will be a riot!”
“It will be quite an event,” Erik grinned. “It won’t beThe Ring, of course.Lohengrinshould be accessible enough for Paris.”
“Lohengrin?” Christine echoed. Erik had played her a great deal of Wagner, and she’d heard bits of Wagner’s epic opera about the doomed Swan Knight over the years, especially the wedding march, but performing it was as distant and intimidating as a mountain range and made her just as cold. Erik strode towards his shelf of scores. “I have it here somewhere...”
“I would have thought you would lobby forRomeo and Julietteto be mounted here at last. Or Mozart like we’ve talked about!” Christine lamented, stomach twisting. “But you must have your modernism.”
“It’s not for me, it’s for the Opera. Andyou.”
“How is this for me?” Christine nearly shrieked.
Erik cocked his head, a few strands of dark hair falling in his face. “You’ll be incredible as Elsa.”
Christine blinked. “Erik, I’m years from even touching a role like that! You know that.”
“You underestimate yourself,” Erik countered, turning away again. Christine grabbed for the nearest wall, new horror and panic joining the throng in her mind that had been growing all day. She was going to faint...
“How could you demand this of me and not ask?” Christine couldn’t breathe. This was too much. He was askingtoo much.
“You can do this. I promise.” Erik said it kindly, but it made Christine want to crumble to the floor. And she began to.
“I can’t do any of it! I can’t—”
Erik had her in his grasp before she could fall, pulling her to his chest and touching her face with tender care that made the burden in her heart all the heavier. “Christine, what’s wrong? What happened at Adèle’s? You’re more upset than any opera is worth.”
