Page 5 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

Tightly coiled, narrow stairs took the two of them to a hidden compartment filled with keys and stops that smelled of old wood, paper, and oil. Jack lit a small oil lamp to add to the meager light that made its way into the chamber from outside.

Erik liked church organs for many reasons.

It was thrilling to create such a huge, powerful sound as one person, but there was also the fact that organists in many churches, such as this one, were almost completely hidden from the congregation below.

The music of the organ was meant to evoke the choirs of heaven, to emanate from the walls like the voice of God.

“Now, who shall reveal themselves first?” Jack said, taking Erik aback for a moment. Had he noticed the mask? “I confess, I'm not used to seeing the audience. Though I did learn to play at the church where my father and grandfather played, so I have had harsher critics.”

“I promise not to be critical for at least five minutes,” Erik reassured the younger player.

That seemed good enough for Jack, who took his place at the instrument and began setting the stops and pipes to his liking.

There was already music on the stand, open to a complex canon. “Will you be playing the Pellegrini?”

“I’ll be trying,” Jack sighed and began to press the keys.

Erik smiled despite himself as the music began. It was one of those canons that began simply with a single line of melody, then bloomed into more and more lines of harmony and counterpoint until it was a tapestry of sound echoing through the church below.

Jack was competent, but not a great player, just as he had said.

He lacked a certain ease and comfort that was hard to achieve on such a complex instrument, and it was clear he had learned to play in a church, just as he said.

Still, Erik couldn’t help but be moved to hear another musician.

It had been weeks since he and Christine had been entertained by anyone but themselves, and while it was always a joy to sing with her and play himself, there was something freeing about being in the audience.

Up here, hidden away, listening to music with a critical but appreciative ear, he once again remembered the Opéra. He thought of his box, of his seat tucked in the private corner, and the carved column. The music of the orchestra and voices ringing out... To the chandelier.

The memory sent a sensation not unlike a shock through Erik.

A spike of anxiety and guilt that went from the base of his spine right to his heart.

It was a cold, guilty feeling, spreading into his veins like ice and taking his breath away.

His vision blurred, and he grabbed the wall as Jack played on, insensible to his companion’s sudden attack.

He had to breathe, like Christine reminded him to do when this happened. It had happened before, more times than even his kind wife knew. It happened more and more since coming to Italy, but she didn’t need to know that. He had to handle this himself and just. Breathe.

He tried to listen to the music and push away the fear that this young musician had heard of the disaster at the Paris Opéra months ago.

Even if he had, there was no way he’d know that the strange man he played for was the one responsible for it.

The one that had so nearly caused so much more bloodshed and pain.

Another breath pushed back a fresh spike of fear as Erik steadied himself. Jack wasn’t his enemy. Jack wasn’t some member of an angry mob. This wouldn’t be like Lungern. This wasn’t some child.

Let the fear pass, he heard Christine say in his memory, and he tried to.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Listen to the music.

Slowly, the world steadied, and Erik’s heartbeat slowed. He wished he weren’t wearing this awful mask so he could feel some fresh air on his face, even if it was still hot and stifling. God, he hated summer.

“I think it would have been better in C sharp, down a third,” Jack remarked. Erik realized he’d finished playing and was scowling at the music. “He barely uses the foot pedals, and really, what’s the point of an organ piece without them?”

“It’s less tiring to play,” Erik offered, and hoped Jack didn’t notice or remark on how exhausted he sounded.

“Would you like your turn? Oh, you don’t have any music.”

“I don’t need it.” Erik had not meant to sound as arrogant as he did, but Jack just chuckled and let Erik take a seat at the keys.

It was as instantly comforting as taking Christine’s hand or shutting the door on the outside world.

Erik’s fingers touched the keys, and he took a moment to get the feel of the instrument.

It was like meeting an old friend in a new place.

Or he assumed it was – he didn’t have that many friends.

He began to play. Bach, of course, because it only felt natural, and it comforted him in times of turmoil to return to the precision and near scientific complexities of the organ’s greatest master. He heard Jack give a slight intake of breath and it made something new flare in his heart.

How long had it been since he’d played for someone other than Christine?

He used to make money on the streets with his music, reveling in the attention and money from the crowd, but that felt like that was another life.

To play for a fellow musician, but also an unknown, was new and thrilling in its way.

Erik didn’t need to impress this young man, but the showman in him wanted to.

In truth, he just wanted to play. He wanted to be home.

Music carried him to a secret paradise, as it always had.

A place of sound and feeling without vision and judgement.

It was safe there, a place where his fear and guilt could pass like so much dissonance, where things made sense and feeling was pure.

It was where he was most himself, even when it was another man’s work.

It was a balm and a joy, and he had missed it.

He wished he could tell the one person that mattered how it felt, how he needed this, but he didn’t want her to worry. He hoped she was still sleeping soundly, where he had left her, and when he returned, the music would stay with him.

––––––––

J ust seeing a bill of fare in French (next to the Italian one) displayed proudly at the door of Les Halles put Christine at ease. She wasn’t even hungry after her croissant from Patricia, but she ordered at the counter nonetheless just to speak her own tongue.

“A chausson au pommes , please,” she said in French, and the man behind the case smiled broadly at her.

“You’re French?”

“French enough,” Christine replied. She didn’t need to tell this man that while her mother had been French, her father had been Swedish and Romani, or that she had spoken three languages as a child before moving back to France after her mother’s death.

“Of course, welcome to a piece of home,” the baker replied warmly. “Where are you from?”

“Paris most recently.” Christine took her flaky pastry filled with apples and cinnamon.

“I have just been to Paris,” a voice in French cut in and Christine turned to see another man behind her. He looked to be in his twenties and had the same sort of cheerfully vacant expression that Christine had known upon the face of another young man of the same age.

“It’s a wonderful city,” Christine replied carefully. Despite what Patricia said, she didn’t need or want male attention.

“In fact, you look familiar,” the man went on. Awkwardly, Christine turned and paid the baker, her pulse speeding up. “Might we know each other?”

“We do not.” Christine would certainly have recognized such a face. She turned to go, and the man stepped in front of her.

“Wait, did you perform? An actress or—” Christine gulped as recognition flared in the man’s face. “At the Opéra!”

“I don’t sing anymore.” Christine tried to pass, her spirit falling as she realized she would not be spending a pleasant morning in conversation with her (almost) countrymen in this café.

“Oh, that’s a tragedy – what was your name again?” The man demanded, again blocking Christine’s exit. “I know I’ve seen you!”

“She does not wish to see you.” The voice that interrupted was female – measured and calm.

Christine looked to see that her savior was a woman slightly smaller than her with mouse brown hair.

She wore a dress made to look something like a man’s suit, with a high collar and a tie, and she wore delicate spectacles. “Please leave the lady alone.”

“I was only trying to be friendly,” the man grumbled as he sulked away, leaving Christine to smile gratefully at her savior.

“Thank you. That was very kind.”

“Men can be so entitled when they think they deserve our attention,” the woman replied, flexing her brows behind her round, brass glasses. “Were you staying or going? I was about to walk around the piazza if you would like some company.”

“I would like that very much,” Christine said.

The woman opened the door and they returned to the rising morning heat, but it, at least, was less lonely with another woman by her side.

“My name is Christine,” she offered, almost tripping over the words when it occurred to her that she had just almost been recognized and might want to keep things to herself.

“Pauline,” her new companion replied, offering a hand to Christine. Her grip was strong and confident. Reassuring, even. “I have come to Florence only recently from Rouen, where I was a student. I’m studying art.”

Christine could not help but smile at that. “I was a student in Rouen too. At the conservatory of music.”

“So you are a singer, like he said? Are you in Florence to perform?”