Page 12 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

Florence

I t was a habit for Erik to walk in the shadows and alleyways.

Even though his mask concealed him, he still didn’t like crowds and strangers and preferred longer but safer routes through Florence that avoided the main roads.

Jack had remarked that morning on how Erik had appeared in the university courtyard like a ghost, and the young man hadn’t understood why that made Erik laugh.

Erik didn’t know what to call his meetings with the young musician.

They were not lessons; Jack had already studied the principles of theory and had an excellent grip on orchestration and harmony.

It wasn’t collaboration (though, to be fair, Erik had never had a collaborator).

He and Jack exchanged melodies and pored over things they had written, mainly arias for operas that did not yet exist, and discussed how they could be improved.

Jack had a great ear, if not a great creative spark of his own, but in a few sessions, he had helped take Erik’s melodies and harmonies to a higher level, something that shocked Erik.

He had, of course, thought there was no room for improvement, but he had been humbled.

Maybe it was collaboration? He would have to ask Christine.

She knew the intricacies of human friendship and interactions.

It was thanks to her encouragement that he had continued these sessions at all.

It made him feel exposed to have a real acquaintance again, after he had lost so many and been betrayed by others.

Maybe that was why he’d been more careful in recent days when journeying about the city.

That, or the memories of not being hidden in Lungern.

It was thanks to this precaution that Erik could do something else he had been denied the pleasure of for many months – watch his beloved from the shadows.

He had come to their street via a hidden alley just in time to see Christine approaching and would have revealed himself to join her had he not seen the other woman beside her.

This had to be Pauline. From what Christine told him, she and this unimposing woman had much in common, almost surprisingly so.

Pauline too had lost her mother when she was young and her father when she was a teenager.

Pauline knew and liked so many of the same places in Rouen that Christine had frequented; it was a wonder that they had not met there.

Now Erik finally had the chance to take in the woman for himself.

She was shorter and stouter than Christine, with a softly mussed quality.

She wore glasses and a brown dress with a high collar and black tie, cut like a man’s suit, but her hair was feminine.

It was styled very much like Christine’s, and their hats were at the same angle.

Christine, of course, looked beautiful in her dress of pale green, her cheeks pink as the little flowers on her hat.

Her smile towards her friend was kind, then knowing as she paused and looked up around her.

She’d sensed him watching, as she always did. Remarkable.

He snuck closer to listen to the conversation, now that she knew he was watching. Pauline was in the midst of a lament.

“—Beginning to think your husband is a mere fiction to keep your dignity and drive away suitors,” the smaller woman laughed. “Surely there is no other reason not to let me meet him.”

Erik stiffened. He didn’t like anyone prying.

“He is a very private man,” Christine explained, and Pauline narrowed her eyes.

“You will be in Florence for a while, yes?” the other woman asked. “You will have time to prove he’s real.”

“We haven’t decided if we’re staying,” Christine countered.

“Can I at least see your flat? If he is not home, I’d love to see how someone else lives in this city.” Pauline’s smile was bright as she asked. Too bright for Erik’s taste. He knew Christine enjoyed having a friend, but this young lady was incredibly nosy, and he didn’t like nosy.

To her credit, Christine shook her head and politely stepped towards the entrance to their building. “I'm afraid not. I think he may be resting and, as I said, he is very private. Have a good afternoon, Pauline.”

“Will I see you tomorrow?” the young woman asked, a bit too eagerly.

“We may travel to a neighboring city tomorrow, actually. My husband had been talking about seeing some of the architecture. I’m sure I will see you the next day,” Christine said with a smile. The statement surprised Erik because he had said no such thing. Was she trying to avoid her friend?

“Of course! I will see you then.” The woman kissed Christine quickly on both cheeks and took her leave.

Erik waited until the street was empty to emerge from his alley and approach his scowling wife. “Did you lie to her because I was here?”

“No. She asks so many questions,” Christine sighed. “I wanted some reprieve.”

“We can do what you said and go to one of the Tuscan hill towns and explore tomorrow, if that’s what you would like.”

Christine looked dubious, her smile unsteady. “You have an appointment with Jack that I’m sure you don’t want to miss, and I’ve barely seen this city.”

“Let’s change that then, right now,” Erik said before he could think better of it.

Christine looked at him like his hair had caught fire, disbelieving and suspicious. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Let’s see Florence, right now. As much as we can until our feet ache. I’ll take you to the Uffizi to see the Botticellis and the Medici tombs and—”

“Don’t give it all away,” Christine laughed, taking his hand. “Show me.”

Erik wasn’t sure what it was that had made him bold.

Maybe he was jealous of another person potentially showing Christine this city (for she had mentioned exploring the shops on the Ponte Vecchio with Pauline).

Maybe he was warming up after a week in pleasant company with Jack.

Maybe he felt guilty that he had dragged his wife across the continent for months, and they had barely had time to enjoy it.

“Come, this way,” he said to her, squeezing her hand.

It made him feel immeasurably braver to be out in the wide world beside her, her fingers laced with his.

When he walked the streets with her on his arm, she was the one strangers saw – a perfect beauty, outshining the beast beside her and lifting him up from the dark with her light.

She deserved all the world, his wife, and he’d give it to her.

It was their most pleasant afternoon and evening together in weeks (at least, one that involved them leaving their bed).

Erik took her to the Duomo, which they had seen before, but this time, he let himself become a teacher and storyteller, as his nature demanded.

He told her of the competition to build the dome, how Brunelleschi had created a marvel of architecture that was also art itself.

They walked through the naves and apses, and then across the square to take in the golden, Byzantine splendor of the Baptistry.

But that was only the beginning. Erik guided her to the palace that once housed the great patrons of the Renaissance and now held their greatest art.

They marveled at the Birth of Venus, La Primavera, and more wonders at the Uffizi, walking among others speaking foreign tongues.

Young men and women on their Grand Tours of the continent, perhaps, or older couples who were Florentines long before they had become Italians.

Christine reminded him near sunset that they had to eat, and so they did, finding a dark corner in a café and filling themselves with pasta and crumbling Tuscan bread. Everything was fresh, straight from the summer fields, and Erik didn’t even mind the awkwardness of eating through his false beard.

They wandered the streets long after dusk, and it felt like the whole of the city was with them: musicians played on the corners, friends called to one another from windows, and the strange French couple ambled together, content as could be as they made their way home.

They approached their secluded street, hand in hand, enjoying the night together in amiable, loving silence.

Erik looked at Christine in the flickering lamplight and smiled.

Today reminded him of when she had first come into his world, wary and fearful, when he had shown her the underground roads of Paris and the secret wonders of the Louvre.

Then, no piece of art they had looked upon had been as beautiful to him as the woman at his side.

.. Now, they were in a different nation, and so much pain and joy had passed between them, but Christine was still the most wonderful thing he could ever see.

He wanted to tell her. He wanted to take her upstairs as soon as they reached the Gencos’ door and show her how much he loved her.

Back in Paris, after the Louvre, he had wanted so desperately to kiss her and make love to her.

Now he could, and it would be in a flat with windows and gentle night breezes, a place they had started to call home.

Erik began to speak as they rounded the final corner, but a crash interrupted him.

“Please! No one is here!” came a pained cry in a female voice. It was Signora Genco, Erik was sure of it. Instinctively, he grabbed Christine, pulling her close to protect her.

“What’s happening?” Christine hissed, trying to make out the shadows moving at the door of the Gencos’ building. Their building.

“We know you’re lying!” a rough man’s voice replied, and there came another crash. He was throwing pottery on the cobblestone street, right next to where Mama Genco was cowering on her knees next to the prone body of a man. It had to be Vito.