Page 110 of Angel's Fall

They would leave, and meanwhile, in Paris, Richard would see to it that Erik was in jail. Raoul could return home briefly – on business, he would say. Then he would choke the life out of Erik like he had done to Philippe.

“I’m not sure,” Christine stammered.

“We can make new memories until it’s time for our family to grow.”

Once again Christine’s face fell and she shook her head sadly. “I don’t think—”

“What is it?” Raoul asked and Christine bit her lip as if ashamed. “Are you worried about how he defiled you? It won’t take. I’ve heard doctors say. He forced you, didn’t he? With his lies and voice and powers. A woman can’t get with child when it’s against her will!”

Christine looked at him, wide-eyed, as if she had never heard this information, the poor, innocent thing. “Raoul, I—”

“Monsieur le Comte,” the butler’s voice echoed through the gardens, and Raoul had never wanted so much to strike a servant.

“What? What could possibly be important enough for you to intrude on a grieving man and his fiancée?” Raoul barked.

“There is a visitor for both you and Mademoiselle Daaé who insists on being seen,” the butler replied. “It’s that Persian fellow.”

“Shaya? Why is he here?” Christine asked, concern filling her face. She did not wait for Raoul and rushed inside, finding her way to the parlor where the Persian was waiting, looking grim and tired.

“What is the meaning of this?” Raoul demanded. There were still missing pieces to the story, he realized – pieces that Motlagh would need to provide.

“I am glad to see you up and about, Monsieur,” Shaya began, somber. “I must extend my deepest sympathies over the loss of your brother. I know that pain and I am so sorry.”

“Thank you.” Raoul said, terse. “Now. I have questions. I know why Erik let us live, but why didn’t he kill you?”

“To please Mademoiselle Daaé,” Shaya answered with a faint smile to Christine. “Just as I know she would undertake many things, to bring him joy.”

“What are you talking about, Shaya?” Christine asked shakily. “Why are you here?”

“He came to visit me this morning in my flat—”

“He came to your goddamn house?” Raoul clenched his fists. “Please tell me you have come here to tell me you shot the thing on the spot and he is dead?”

“No, Monsieur,” Shaya sighed. “But he is dying.”

“No!” Christine cried, grabbing Raoul’s hand for support. “He can’t! He promised he would live and—”

“He promised he would try, my dear, but...” Shaya shook his head. “You should have heard him, the both of you – the way he spoke and the joy in his voice to think of your new life.”

“What do you mean he’s dying?” Raoul pushed, pulling Christine to him as she began to weep.

“He wished to stay alive long enough to know of your wedding,” Shaya went on. “But he says he is dying of love, and that his heart... it cannot bear the light you have given it. He asks only one thing of you, Mademoiselle: that you bury him with that ring and let the world know, somehow, of his passing.”

Raoul held Christine tight as she cried, just as she had held him. It was better this way, wasn’t it? This way her heart would be truly free, and Raoul’s revenge was assured. He had already taken it, apparently.

“She will do it, of course,” Raoul answered for Christine, holding Shaya’s gaze. “We are to be married as soon as it is done. Then we will leave Paris and begin anew.”

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Christine had attendedtoo many funerals in the twenty-three years of her life. Her mother’s. Her grandparents’. So many old patients and friends of Doctor Mainville. And of course, her father’s. She had stood by the grave at that somber affair and wept. Now, she lingered on the fringes of a much grander event, her face veiled as mourners entered to pay respects and pray for the soul of Philippe de Chagny.

It had felt wrong not to come, even though Christine had been told quite clearly by Sabine that she was not welcome. She didn’t much care what Sabine thought of her at this point, given how much she still had to disappoint the woman. Hiding herself in the back was the better option.

Christine wondered sadly if this was how Erik had felt all his life: hiding in the shadows and keeping to the edges, avoiding the eyes of those that hated him. She did not think that everyone from the Opera hated her, the few that had come, but she did not want to face Sorelli’s furious gaze even so.

It was Moncharmin who came to represent the managers. Richard was, if the gossip was to be believed, hiding in shame after his contract had been revoked with the Opera. The minister of Fine Arts blamed him for the chandelier, and he had been punished accordingly.

Christine listened as the notes of the requiem wafted out the door and closed her eyes on her grief. It didn’t feel real, any of it: the pain of the past and the promise of the future. She would not believe it until every last duty was done and she was alone with her husband at last.

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