Page 63 of Angel's Mask

“You need no such thing,” Philippe retorted.

“I can get a letter to her.”

Raoul turned to Antoine in shock to find the man, as usual, smirking like a cat who had just stolen some cream. “What?” Raoul asked.

“Adèle sees her every day. I’m surprised you haven’t asked me before.” Antoine said it innocently enough, but it still felt like an insult to Raoul. Indeed, he hated that he hadn’t thought at all about how Antoine’s mistress would obviously know Christine.

“Well, there it is, you can write to her over lunch,” Philippe declared and began to herd Antoine and Raoul away.

“I’ll warn you now, my friend,” Antoine said as they walked. “The odds are high that your Christine has already found a patron to protect her. She wouldn’t have come from nowhere the way she did without the back of someone with influence.”

Raoul scowled. He knew for a fact that there was someone else trying to claim Christine’s affections, and he would not rest until he could confront the man face to face. That was the whole point.

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Erik was not used toheadaches. The novelty of the faint pounding in his skull did nothing to abate it, but it matched nicely with the tired, hollow feeling left by the restless nights since his new managers had taken residence in the office above him. He’d been listening for over an hour, and he ached to his bones from maintaining his post in the cold, cramped space under the floor. He wasn’t used to spending so much time on administration, which made the headache worse. Nor was he used to being confronted so swiftly with the consequences of his own actions. These ailments were, perhaps, related.

“The directors will be here soon, we should get things in order,” Armand Moncharmin said cautiously from above. The man sounded as weary as Erik, another reason the Ghost preferred him to Firmin Richard.

“Meet with them somewhere else, you don’t need me,” Richard snapped. “I don’t see what they need in the first place.”

“Well, they’re understandably nervous with the delay in the premiere ofRigolettobecause of the closure,” Moncharmin stammered. Erik could imagine him, sweat on his brow beneath his brown curls. Perhaps he was cleaning his spectacles for the twentieth time. “And I think they, like everyone apparently, wish to know who will be singing Marguerite on Friday. Among other things.”

Erik straightened. This is what he had been waiting for. To his annoyance, Richard scoffed. “If I could actually get these books in order, I’d know,” the elder manager replied.

“What does it have to do with the books?” Moncharmin asked.

“You heard the crowd. Most of the patrons who care about who sings are for Zambelli, but that Comte or Vicomte or whatever and his friend are for Daaé.” Erik clenched his fist. Which Vicomte did he mean? “If the books were balanced, I’d just tally how much the two sides were worth and decide that way.”

“That’s terribly mercenary.”

“It’s good business.”

Erik was filled with a wave of hate for Richard and a foolish longing to have Debienne and Poligny back.

“This should be my decision, I’m the artistic director,” Moncharmin argued, however weakly. “I favor Daaé as well. And showcasing her is advantageous. All of Paris is talking about her, no matter what they’re saying.That’sgood business.”

“Get to your meeting,” Richard muttered. “And tell Rémy I want to know where those damn letters were posted from. And to send a message to Debienne and Poligny that their joke has worn thin.”

“I don’t think it’s a joke, Firmin,” Moncharmin said. In the dark below, Erik sighed. He had been clear and firm in his communications with his new managers, even given them a grace period for the delivery of his salary for the month. Perhaps such explicit support for Christine before he knew what kind of men he was dealing with had been a mistake. But there was no going back.

“I will not be made a fool, Armand, now go do something useful,” Richard growled, and Erik bristled on Moncharmin’s behalf. At least both of them could be free of the man for a while now.

The world was full of men like Firmin Richard, Erik thought to himself as he made his way out of his hiding place and into the halls of his opera. It would be a challenge, making this man believe in ghosts. Men like him believed in nothing above money and keeping the machinery of business running. No matter that the engines of such machinery were fueled by the blood and sweat of people Richard would never give a second thought to.

Erik considered following Moncharmin, but he didn’t want to be late. Though Christine had, unencouragingly, not been summoned for today’s rehearsal, that did not mean she wouldn’t be singing. Their lesson was scheduled for the practice room, as he needed to provide her with accompaniment and thus required the piano.

But he was not the first to arrive.

Erik had chosen this room so many months before due to its similarity to the manager’s office, specifically the trapdoor in the floor that allowed him to enter and exit without being seen. But today the hidden space beneath the boards afforded him a rare gift: the sound of Christine playing piano above him. He knew it was her, of course, because it was Mozart. TheSonata Facile.

It was easy to forget that Christine had been trained in music her whole life. Indeed, Erik wondered if her father had also taught her the violin or another instrument that she had not yet shared. Her skill at the keyboard was not inconsiderable, though it was nothing compared to her voice. In the stifling darkness, nearly knelt beneath her feet, Erik’s heart swelled in his own secret worship of the music and the woman who made it.

They had become even closer in these last few weeks, as the Opera had fallen into silence and then chaos. He had pushed her harder than ever in their lessons, as if it would somehow atone for the boundary he had shattered when he touched her. It hadn’t. She had risen to his every challenge and in turn, what choice had he been given but to reward her?

He had pampered her, filing her little refuge with books from his library and sweets stolen from the kitchen. But no gift equaled the gilt music box that played the secret song only she knew. It must have been like magic to her when it a appeared by her bed. How could she know that Erik had stayed awake two nights fashioning it and a perfect copy for himself? The way the melody had instantly inflamed her when she opened the casket had made every sleepless hour worth it. And so had her ecstasy that night and every night she’d remained in his domain.

He hadn’t touched her again, at least he could say that. But he had commanded her, telling her where and how to place her hands, enticing her to imagine they were his once again. It never failed to intoxicate him to see her unravel under his control. As his intransigent managers, a closed opera, and the fickle world had continued to frustrate and challenge him, there was no balm like the power her held to make the most sublime woman shatter with pleasure at his word.

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