Page 34 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

London

E rik looked despairingly at the letter before him on the desk.

He wasn’t used to writing correspondence not meant to threaten or compel, and his penmanship really was as awkward as Christine teased him for.

Still, he needed to update Shaya and assure his old nemesis that the real Opera Ghost remained retired.

It was disquieting to think of someone else in the place Erik still longed for.

He woke up most days looking for the familiar sight of his canopy or his organ, longing for the simple feel of the Palais Garnier, only to remember he’d never see any part of the Opéra ever again.

How dare someone haunt that place when he couldn’t?

“Who is that to? Didn’t you write to Shaya days ago?

” Christine asked as she slipped her arms around his chest and rested her chin on his shoulder.

Instantly, he was warmer and more relaxed, comforted by her touch.

The sun had set hours ago and the damp, foggy cold had begun to creep in, whispering of fall around the corner.

“It’s to Moncharmin. Adèle mentioned that she was going to contact him, and offered to slip a note in,” Erik muttered.

Their visit to the erstwhile Madame Valerius had been both strange and amusing. It had felt so normal to just go somewhere with his wife and hear tales about Adèle’s time at Covent Garden. Of course, the normalcy had fled as soon as they had begun their narrative.

The story of the last few months was as notable for the things they said as for what they didn’t.

They had remained vague about the money, agreeing beforehand to not bring up Antoine, lest it upset Adèle.

Erik had also been obtuse about leaving the Lungern because the reason was something not even Christine knew nor needed to know.

It seemed so insignificant now, after their dramatic departure from Italy.

At least Adèle had not heard any rumors of hauntings from the Opéra, the subject of Erik’s letter.

“It’s too bad you don’t have your red ink,” Christine teased, and Erik tried to laugh.

“I miss it, sometimes,” he confessed instead, fingers tracing over the uncharacteristically kind words he intended to send to the office he had once lurked beneath. “Sending my notes. Having an impact on something, even if it was just to frighten a bureaucrat.”

“I miss it too,” Christine agreed, much to his surprise. Erik turned to her curiously. “Not you being a terror to those poor men, but the Opéra.”

“Is that why you declined Adèle’s invitation to see her perform?”

Christine gave a sad smile and nodded. “I don’t think I’m ready yet to...” She bit her lip, unable to find the words, but Erik knew them.

“Be reminded of what you’ve lost,” Erik whispered.

“What I chose to give up,” she corrected him. “I could have stayed if I wanted to. Or at least I tell myself that.”

“You can always adopt a new name and sing wherever you like.”

“Someone would recognize me and word would spread and questions would be asked,” Christine said, shaking her head. “And I would find myself exactly where I was before – deaf to the applause and caught in despair. I’m not meant for fame.”

“You’re meant for more than this, though,” Erik said again without thinking, guilt seizing him at the regret in her voice. “More than to be caught in a constant flight from ghosts and horrors.”

“I don’t miss you being morbid and self-effacing.” Christine took his hands and clasped them to her heart. “I chose you, knowing it wouldn't be easy. We face this all together, and that is what I am meant for.”

“It is the greatest honor ever given a man – to be loved by you, my Christine,” Erik whispered as he twined his hand into her hair. “I can only hope to be worthy of it. Perhaps tonight, I will be.”

“What do you mean?” Christine asked, curiosity rising as he had hoped. “You’ve already taken me to see the city more than enough times.”

“Twice counts as more than enough?”

“For you. In London.”

Erik laughed at how well she knew him. It had been a strain on him to go out and about with her to the great museums and for a carriage ride in a park, his paranoia and pain always lurking at the back of his mind.

For Christine, he had endured it as he had endured dinners with Howard and tea with Adèle.

He wanted nothing more personally than to shut the curtains and spend a few days in their expensive room, but that was not what a good husband would do.

“I have something more intimate planned,” Erik said with a smile, hoping internally that this might bring relief to them both.

“This isn’t one of Letitia’s private parties, is it? I don’t know if I’m ready for that either.” Christine was blushing, which fascinated Erik.

“It’s not,” Erik said carefully, pulling Christine up into his lap and enjoying her warmth and weight. It was steadying. “But now I’m quite intrigued as to what she’s been saying that has you, of all people, blushing.”

“It was nothing! I’m sure she was joking about events where, um...” It was highly amusing to see the woman he had done many unspeakably carnal things with sputtering over something scandalous.

“Are they orgies?”

“No!” Christine yelped in a tone Erik would place somewhere near a high B flat.

“They’re a sort of salon, I guess, and she mentioned there was a woman at one.

Who men lined up to be attended by. With a whip.

Or flog. Something like that. I didn’t ask for details.

” Christine’s face was nearly crimson now as she hid it in the crook of Erik’s neck.

“Oh, I wish you had,” Erik chuckled. “That sounds delightful.”

“Don’t play with me!” Christine exclaimed, looking up at Erik with a gentle sort of annoyance. “It does not... Does it?”

Erik gave the slightest of shrugs and Christine’s eyes went beautifully wide. He had to fight the urge to think more on the subject, given his lover’s position so close to the organ that might respond to a fantasy of her wielding such punishment.

“Perhaps something to discuss later. We do have an appointment,” Erik said as he rose, though the admonition did nothing to dispel the suspicion in his wife’s face.

“What – when did you make an appointment for something?”

“I do go places without you. Though it’s generally miserable, I must admit,” Erik sighed as he searched the room for his mask, coat, and hat. “You may need a shawl: there’s a chill in the air.”

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

Erik smirked at her over his shoulder. “No. It would ruin the surprise.”

“Ever the showman,” Christine muttered and shook her head.

Soon enough, they were in a carriage with the curtains drawn: both for privacy and to keep up the suspense. Christine stared at him with a mix of consternation and amusement that he deeply enjoyed.

“What part sounded delightful?” Christine blurted out, increasing Erik’s good humor.

“Whatever do you mean?” he asked back with a simpering tone which earned him a delicious glare.

“You know what I mean. What part of watching a woman do that to men at a party was delightful to you?”

Erik took a long moment to stare at her. He was far more interested in her thoughts on the matter than quickly revealing his. “Not the watching part, which I don’t think should surprise you.”

“But you—”

“Here we are,” Erik exclaimed as the carriage jerked to a halt. Christine looked just about ready to murder him, which made her all the more beautiful. “Come along. We’re going around the back.”

“Where are we?” Christine demanded as she joined Erik on the street.

“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.”