Page 4 of Angel's Flight

Meg spun.Expecting – or praying – to see a rat or one of her friends come to antagonize her.But there were no rats of any kind.Just shadows.Shadows that moved quickly across the corridor then disappeared.

Meg yelped as she saw it: a flash of white, the same color as the infamous mask of the ghost.She spun and ran as fast as she could, terror and shock driving her out of the fifth cellar like the devil was on her heels, all the way back to her friend’s secret hiding place.

“Well, did you—” Marie’s mockery was cut off when she saw Meg’s face.“Oh no.”

“I’m sorry, Rochelle,” Meg nearly sobbed, wishing one of these girls cared enough about her to embrace her.“You were right.There’s...”Meg swallowed.She didn’t want to say it or believe it, but it felt true.“There’s something down there.”

“That’s impossible,” Blanche said.

Rochelle at least had the decency to look worried by the confirmation.

Marie was shaking, looking over her shoulders in fear.“I knew he wouldn’t stay gone.He belongs here,” Marie whispered,

“I don’t understand,” Meg whispered, looking around them towards the dark corners which once again seemed full of dangerous power and potential.“Maybe I was dreaming.”

She had to talk to her mother or someone who knew about these things.Meg had to learn if anyone else had seen anything in the Opéra’s depths these last weeks.The legends had remained, of course, in the months since the strange affair of the chandelier and Christine Daaé, but those were just stories.Stories that had a neat, if mysterious, ending.

Now, Meg had seen something with her own eyes to show her that the story wasn’t over.Not remotely.

Florence

Erik had come to seethe tombs.TheSanta Crocebasilica was famous for its funerary monuments, mainly to men the church had condemned or outright expelled in life, but whose fame in death had been so great that even God’s bureaucrats had been forced to pay attention.Erik had wanted to be alone when he looked at the statues of Dante, Machiavelli, and Galileo, because he didn’t want Christine to see the regret and shame in his eyes when he regarded their legacy.

The huge church was pleasantly cool compared to the sticky, suffocating heat outside.The white, pink, black, and green marble arranged in perfect symmetry inside and out of the building held on to the cold of the earth, and the high vaulted ceilings shaded the pews and chapels as Erik stole through the emptiness.To be in a place like this, alone and silent, sneaking among art and beauty so intricate and grand, reminded him of his opera.Here he was again, a ghost among the tombs, fleeing from mortal sight.

He didn’t know if that made him nostalgic or ashamed.

The Opéra was full of monuments too.The loges were all flanked by busts of greats of French music and art, from the infamous to the obscure.The entrance foyer held statues of Lully, Gluck, and Handel, and the outside of the building was adorned with even more faces of celebrated musicians of the past.All preserved.All remembered.

The former ghost looked up at the face of Dante Alighieri and sighed.Dante had thought very highly of himself.He had been right to do so, but even so, it had been bold of him to place himself in the company of Vigil as an equal to walk through hell.Erik wondered what hero he would be assigned if he were to wander the circles of the afterlife as a tourist.Maybe Mozart...

“He’s not even in there, you know.”

Erik spun, his hand darting to an empty pocket on reflex.There was no Punjab lasso waiting for him there to defend him from the young man who had spoken to him in Italian.Who now looked at Erik with undisguised curiosity.

Erik had taken the precaution of wearing his special mask today, though the false beard that hid its nature as a mask and the spectacles were cumbersome.It was safer for when he walked in the world, though not perfect.Even so, his height and thin frame made him a unique sight, as did his black clothing and untrimmed hair.He was a stark contrast to the interloper now staring at him, a younger man with a square jaw, keen eye, and a rather ostentatious moustache that matched his deep brown hair.

“Didn’t mean to startle you, friend,” the man said with a cautious smile.Erik tried to relax.This man was not a priest, clearly, which meant he had as much of a right as Erik to be in the church so early in the day, which was to say, no right at all.

“I didn’t think anyone was here,” Erik replied slowly, and the man’s eyes widened subtly at the musical lilt of Erik’s voice.

“Neither did I, but when I went to use my key, the door was already open.I didn’t know Padre Navone had given access to someone else to practice.”The man glanced down at Erik’s shoes meaningfully.They were his organ shoes, narrow and sporting sturdy heels.He’d grabbed them first this morning when he’d dressed in the dark to avoid waking his sleeping wife.A vain hope that he might use the great organ in the Basilica had perhaps been one of his reasons for breaking in.

“Oh.Yes.He didn’t tell me anyone else was given permission,” Erik lied.

“It’s no great trouble.Perhaps we can practice together.I need some critique from a fellow musician.The Padres here are kind, but they do not know music, and since Signore Barbieri has been ill, I have had no compatriots.”

Erik regarded the cheerful young man with interest.He had not met many musicians in Italy at all, though it was in many ways a more musical country than France.

“You may reconsider that.I’m a very harsh critic,” Erik muttered, and the young man grinned.

“Excellent.I need it.I’m Jack.”The man held out his hand.

“Unusual name for an Italian.”Erik took the offered hand and shook it carefully, noting how Jack looked at Erik’s long fingers with interest.

“It’s a nickname.An English friend at the University started calling me that because he said there were too many boys with my given name.I liked it, so I’ve kept it for use with friends.I can tell you’ll be one.”Jack seemed quite proud of himself for such a compliment.“And you are?”

“Erik.”He didn’t know why he gave his true name to this man.Maybe he trusted him as a fellow organist.Or he remembered the many admonitions from Christine that making friends wasn’t so bad an idea.

---