Page 87 of Angel's Mask

“This is not over, Erik,” Shaya called, his courage returning as Erik turned away down the tunnel towards the Opera. He knew Shaya valued his life and limbs enough that he would not follow.

“Of course it isn’t over, Daroga, we are both still alive,” Erik called back without turning around.

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It was almost impossibleto wake in a world without angels. Christine had done it though. She had somehow found the strength to wash and dress and eat a few bites. But now she was back in her room, lying on her bed, staring at the sky. She had slept through the whole morning, thanks to Adèle’s drugged wine. The food and the rest hadn’t helped. Her mind was just clearer now and all that meant was she could see that she was lost.

She stared at the dark clouds gathering for a winter storm and listened to her breathing. And then stopped.

What was the use in breathing anyway? She had come to life months ago for an angel made of lies. Without him, there was nothing worth believing in. There was no life, no music, no love; just pain and the dark emptiness she had escaped so briefly in the sound of her angel’s voice. Everything her father had ever told her had been a lie. Her love and heart were as dead as he was now, and there was nothing good or strong left in her.

You think part of you died with him. Not just the part of you that was brave, but the part that could feel. And believe.

Christine shut her eyes against the memory of Erik’s voice.

But you didn’t die, Christine. You survived. And you cannot be dead when you sing.

Against her will she gasped in a breath, cool air filling her lungs and thwarting her foolish attempt to die.

Breathing is life, the conscious action of living. Somewhere deep within when you choose to breathe, you choose to live. Some un-surrendering part of you chooses to continue.

She exhaled and inhaled again, remembering the Angel’s gentle words. To her dull surprise, she did not hate them. At least one thing had not been a lie.

So, I know you’re brave, Christine, because even after all the pain, you keep breathing.

Christine raised her head slowly, concentrating on each breath and finding her strength.

She did not have many things in her room here, she noted. All but one of her dresses and the one she wore now were at the Opera. Still, she made herself wash and dress, and moving became just a bit easier with each passing minute. At last she dared to look at herself in the mirror hanging on her wall. She was pale in her old gray dress, the one she’d worn when she arrived in Paris months ago. She had forced her hair into a bun, but it looked a mess. She gathered the few francs she had collected and shoved them in her pockets. Enough to buy a ticket out of the city if she really did decide to run. It was a reflex, to put on the dark cloak as well. It would keep her warm, wherever she ended up.

She looked in the mirror one more time. The cloak made her hair appear darker and her sad, resigned eyes greener than usual. He had to hate mirrors, she guessed. How strange that his voice had come from one. Would she ever know how?

“Are you going out?” Adèle asked from beside the fire as Christine stole through the parlor.

“I just need some air,” Christine lied. Adèle knew it was a lie too, but she nodded slowly.

“Be careful, it looks like snow,” Adèle said, care in her eyes.

“I will be.” Christine turned to the door, then looked back. “You don’t need to worry about me. I promise. And Adèle...thank you. For everything.”

“Like I said, be careful,” Adèle replied, her face stony and unwilling to acknowledge Christine’s attempted farewell. Perhaps that was better.

Christine took a deep breath when she stepped outside, the frigid air smarting in her lungs. She was still breathing, that meant something didn’t it? She looked to her right, to the East and away from the Opera.

She could just start walking and never look back. If she walked long enough and far enough, perhaps she would reach the sea. She could go to Perros-Guirec and weep over a cold grave by the vast ocean. She could scream her fury at the real angels, and they would only answer with silence.

“Mademoiselle Daaé?” the voice from behind startled Christine. She turned to see of all people, the Persian, bowing politely, his head crowned with the dark fur of his Astrakhan cap.

“Monsieur?” Christine looked him over, suspicious. This was the man who was said to know the Ghost. Did he know the truth? “May I help you?”

“Mademoiselle, I know you do not know me—”

“I’ve seen you. Everyone has.” The Persian gave a tired smile, perhaps amused at her directness. Perhaps he had been expecting someone sweet and naive. He was to be sorely disappointed. “Do you have a name?”

Again, he smiled. “Most people don’t ask. My name is Shaya Motlagh. I am, or I was, a chief of police in the court of Naser al-Din Shah Qajar, the Shah of Iran. Or Persia as your people like to call it.”

“What is a policeman from Persia doing in Paris, lurking about the Opera?” Christine asked. “And consorting with ghosts, if the rumors are true,” she added carefully, and interest sparked in his dark eyes.

“I do not concern myself with phantoms, my lady,” Motlagh replied, just as careful in his words as Christine. “Only men of flesh and blood. Men who pose a great danger to the employees of the Opera. I have been trying to reach you since your performance on Friday, to discuss those dangers.”

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