Page 62 of Angel's Flight

“Not far from Trafalgar Square,” he answered, though he knew that wasn’t what she wanted to hear.He waited for her to look up at the building beside them.It was hard to tell what it was from the street, with its rows of windows adorned with classical decoration and the filigreed roof above.Luckily, the plain, wooden stage door was a giveaway.

“Are we at a theater?”Christine asked.“It’s far past time for curtain.”

“Indeed, it is.And this theater is dark tonight,” Erik replied, taking his wife’s hand to guide her to the door.“There is at least one person keeping tabs.Who should be here...”On cue, the door opened and a yawning man in plain worker’s clothes looked them over.“Right now.”

“You Howard’s friend?”the man asked in a cockney accent, wariness in his expression.

“Indeed.Thank you for your assistance.Here.”Erik produced several pound notes and the man grinned.“For your trouble and discretion.”

The man stared at Erik, perhaps not comprehending, though Erik’s English had been impeccable.

“Leave us alone.”

“Right.Get on inside and I’ll lock the doors, so they’ll be shut when you go out,” the man said, gesturing for them to enter.Christine looked thrilled and Erik felt the same, especially when the door shut behind them and they were alone in the quiet theater.Erik took up the oil lamp the stagehand had left and lifted it to guide them.

“I’ve never been here before today when I made these arrangements,” Erik mused as they moved through the corridors.“But it feels so familiar, doesn’t it?”

“When I first came to the Opéra, it felt like home,” Christine murmured, squeezing Erik’s hand as he led them (hopefully) up a flight of stairs and to the stage.“It felt like all the theaters and concert halls I’d been to with Papa.”

“A theater holds the same magic, no matter where it is,” Erik confirmed, a chill running up his spine.In the distance, he saw a light and headed towards it.Sure enough, the ghost light awaited them, burning in its iron cage on the stage to ward off the unquiet dead (or to give stagehands a light when they began work for the day).“Only the ghosts change.”

“Why did you bring me here?”Christine asked softly, voice thick with emotion.She looked out on the darkened auditorium.It was much smaller than the Palais Garnier.The seats were still red velvet, but the walls were plastered with ivory paint, and their decoration not nearly as ostentatious.A row of unlit candelabrum adorned the overhang of the balcony, and high above hung a dark chandelier.Best not to think too much on that.What concerned Erik more was the rehearsal piano remaining on the stage.

“Because it has been too long since I have heard you sing for me in a place like this,” Erik confessed.“That is what I miss most of all.”

“The acoustics?”Christine joked, but Erik could see she was moved by the gesture.

“The magic,” he countered.“What would you like to sing, my love?”

Erik sat at the piano, waiting.There was no aria that she could choose that he wouldn't know.She looked at him from the center of the stage, her eyes bright with love.“The Bellini we were working on in Florence, please.”

“An excellent choice,” Erik said, and began to play.He didn’t have to look down at his fingers, so he could watch her.His goddess of love and song at whose feet he worshipped.

“Casta diva...”Christine began, becoming Norma and calling to an ancient goddess of the moon.Her voice spun out in glorious sound, smooth and bright at the same time, like moonlight itself.It wasn’t perfect, not polished as she had been months before on the Opéra stage, but it didn’t have to be.It didn’t matter if a trill was missing there or a note was flat here, his angel sang out of love and joy, and it was utter perfection to Erik’s ears.

She sang for him and for herself, letting her voice rise to the heavens, filling the dark theater with a different kind of light.It was magic he had sorely missed, but he was so happy to share with her once again.

When her aria concluded, it was Erik’s turn to choose and he began the accompaniment to a sweeping duet, a confession of love and devotion by Bizet.Then another song.And another.Their voices rang out for no one but each other and the ghosts that might watch from the shadows.

Paris

“Tell me again why I’mabout to humiliate myself?”Blanche demanded for perhaps the seventh time.

“I’m solving a mystery,” Meg replied, yanking her friend across the bridge as they approached theFaubourg Saint-Germain.Meg didn’t know this arrondissement well at all.Her kind of people (poor, young, performers – take your pick) were not welcome in the neighborhoods of the wealthy and well-to-do.

“That makes no sense!You’re a dancer, Meg Giry, not a—whatever else you’re trying to be.”Blanche trotted after Meg, trying to keep up with her frantic pace.

Meg didn’t want to waste too much time on a conversation she didn’t want to have.Was she supposed to tell Blanche that, since she was the only one who had a passing friendship with Sorelli, and thus the de Chagny family, she was the most convenient accomplice?

“If it works, you’ll have a delicious rumor to spread: how about that?”Meg muttered as she stopped and checked the blue and white street signs mounted to a wall.“Here we are.”

“If what works?I don’t even understand what you’re trying to discover with all this!”

“You’ll know,” Meg countered.“Do you recall your part?”

“It’s not that complicated to attempt to return a watch,” Blanche sighed.“More so to keep someone entertained while you do something stupid.”

“I’ll only attempt the stupidity if I have a good chance.”Meg’s stomach grew uneasy thinking about the plot and the possibilities.

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