Page 114 of Angel's Fall
It was right that he and Erik had been the ones to move Antoine de Martiniac’s body to the communard’s prison cells across the lake, leaving him the gold ring on his finger that matched the one Christine had been sworn to return. Already the body had begun to decay, and soon the rats would render the face unrecognizable under the white mask it now wore. The Opera Ghost was dead, and if (or when) Raoul de Chagny came to gloat over his enemy’s body, he would never know it was a different man who had also sought the end of the Chagny line.
Shaya found his way behind the altar to the small changing room (he was sure the Catholics had some complicated word for it, but he didn’t know it) where Christine had been whisked away from their party upon arrival. Adèle Valerius and Julianne Bonet were there, waiting as their friend changed. It filled Shaya with fresh guilt to see the fading bruises on Adèle’s face when she looked at him, and he immediately bowed his head in contrition.
“She’s nearly ready,” Adèle said.
“Good. But I came to speak to you, to both of you,” Shaya replied humbly. “To express my regret for the part I played in your pain, Madame Valerius. I am sorry. I cannot ask for forgiveness, but I am sorry.”
“You’re the one who killed Antoine?” Adèle asked back. Shaya gathered the strength to meet her eyes. He could still feel the gun in his hand, the reverberations of the bullet finding its target, and the surety of that awful moment.
“I did.”
“Good. Now apologize to her.” Adèle nodded towards Julianne, who gave a scowl.
“I don’t need—”
“I need to,” Shaya said. “I used Jammes and you because I thought it was righteous, and for that, I am sorry too.”
“Thank you,” Julianne muttered. “I’m sure Cécile will be happy to hear that – if you ever find her. I don’t believe she’ll ever return to the Opera.”
“Really?” Adèle asked, perking up in interest.
“I’m sure Meg Giry will be happy to take her place in the row,” Julianne answered. Adèle took the other woman’s hand and squeezed it.
“As long as that’s the only place she’s taking,” Adèle remarked and somehow made it sound bawdy, much to Shaya’s confusion and delight.
“Will you and Mademoiselle Jammes reconcile?” Shaya watched as Adèle gave the other woman a rather reproving look before Julianne sighed. From where she was dressing, he heard Christine give a huff as well. Shaya recalled the last time he had listened to Daaé from the other side of a divide and smiled. “If you ask me, you deserve someone who will love you in the light.”
“I agree,” Adèle said.
“As do I.” Christine emerged from behind a screen, resplendent in a dress of white that glowed in the candlelight. She smiled at Shaya and Julianne.
“Oh! You look perfect,” Adèle breathed.
“You’re welcome,” Julianne smiled. “I do hope your wedding will end more happily than Lucia’s.” Shaya smiled at the joke, recalling the famous scene in Donizetti’s opera when Lucia di Lammermoor emerged to madly sing herself to ruin after killing her new husband. Allah, Opera was such a grim affair.
“I think it shall,” Christine murmured as her friend adjusted her bodice and produced a veil. “Our opera is not of the current style, where every love story ends in tragedy and every heroine dead. Ours will be far more akin to Mozart’s. At least that is my hope.”
“Mine too,” Adèle said fondly. “Though I will admit that this is not the ending I would have expected.”
“Do you have any advice? For married life,” Christine asked as Adèle took her hand.
“The times of love are the easy ones,” Adèle began with a sigh. “The hard ones are the times when you run up against the parts that are harder to love and the times of sorrow. You must meet themtogether. And grow.”
Christine looked downward, overcome as she clasped her friend’s hand. It moved Shaya to see it, just as it had moved him to see Christine in his hated enemy’s embrace and realize that his hate was a weight he no longer wished to bear.
“Are you ready?” They looked up to see the young priest at the door. He appeared only slightly less amazed at the whole situation than when Shaya had approached him about the wedding.
“Not really, but I don’t think I ever could be,” Christine replied.
“I know how you feel,” Father René chuckled. “I am happy to be performing your marriage. To the right man, I hope.”
“That I know for sure,” Christine smiled. “Shaya, before we begin, there are two more things I must ask of you. If you don’t mind waiting. Father, may I have some paper and a pen?”
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Erik had expected tobe nervous tonight, but the absolute storm of anxiety he felt at the moment was like nothing he had ever experienced. There was a vise around his heart and an entire hive of bees in his spine. It was not just the suffocating fear that always came with being above ground and being seen by the living – he had to get used to that now – it was even more than that. He was standing in a house of God awaitinghis wedding. It was an event Erik had never even dared to imagine in his wildest dreams.
He had dreamed, a few times, of seeing his Christine in the sun, of loving her in her world. For her, he would make that real, because she desired it. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, promising to join her in the light, and finding the impossible path. Yet it was almost done.
