Page 23 of Angel's Kiss
“Anything,” Christine replied too quickly. “Something of your own composition, if you wish it.”
Erik’s eyes stayed upon her as he moved past her to the piano and nodded for her to sit. She obeyed instantly, her heart quickening as his long hands alit on the keys. He did not look away as he began to play, a sweeping melody that fell like winter rain from his fingers. He only closed his eyes when he began to sing, and Christine could not help but do the same.
It was more beautiful than anything she had ever heard. Astounding, yet familiar. And now she knew it was not a voice from heaven, but a man. He sang, as he had so many times as her angel, in a language she didn’t know. It was lilting and rustic, and even without understanding the words, she knew the song was a lament. A ballad of longing and loss, but also of love. It made her tremble, even as she began to weep.
When her angel had sung to her, his voice had lifted her to heaven while also stoking desires of a far earthlier nature. Now, that same spark was there, but Christine pushed it down. It did not matter that her skin came alive as he sang to her, or how his voice made her blood thicken and dance in her veins. All that mattered was hearingErik, knowing that she was the only person on earth to hear this genius create beauty out of thin air, and it was only for her. It was a miracle.
She could not say how long he played. The world melted away around them until there was just sound and melody and shadow. When the silence fell at last, Christine found herself breathless as she opened her eyes to admire the man who had given her such a gift. The look in his eyes when they met hers was like nothing she had ever seen, a savage mix of fear and something she did not want to name.
“You should rest, it’s late,” Erik said slowly, rising from the piano without looking away.
She stood, roughly wiping the tears from her cheeks, and nodded. She broke eye contact as she retreated to her room, suddenly shaking and barely able to breathe. When she turned to say goodnight, Erik was there, a meter away. If he came a step closer, he could touch her. Why did she wish he would?
As if reading her mind, Erik took a graceful stride and closed the distance between them. Christine’s heart leapt to her throat. Another step and he was inches away, so close she could feel the faint heat of his body. It reminded her once again that he was not an angel or a ghost, but a man.
“I will never forget your music,” she blurted out, frozen in his gaze. “Even when I’m a ghost myself, I’ll still remember it. And you.”
Erik stared down at her, the light of the candles dancing over his white mask and igniting the gold in his eyes. There was shock and gratitude in his gaze. “Thank you, Christine Daaé,” he whispered. “To be remembered by you may be the greatest honor of my life.”
Erik raised his hand to her cheek, his thumb hovering over where her tears had left their tracks. But he did not touch her. His caress hovered above her skin, like an invisible silk veil was between them. And yet he was so close. Drawing closer. She could feel the cold radiating from his fingers. Christine closed her eyes, a wild, reckless voice inside of her crying out as she reached up to take his hand and force it to cross that final distance.
Erik sprang back faster than the wind as Christine’s eyes flew open so that all she saw for a brief second was his mask. And she remembered why he hid his glory here in the dark. She saw his eyes staring at her, glowing gold with unnamable, unbridled emotion, and she remembered as well why she should be afraid of her fallen angel.
“Goodnight, Christine,” Erik said, his voice tight and tense. Christine heeded the unspoken command and retreated with a nod, but not another word. As soon as her door was shut behind her, she sank to the floor with the wooden barrier against her back.
What had just happened? What on earth had she justdone? Or not done, as it were. He had almost touched her. She had almost let him. No, not let him,madehim. Because she had gone mad and wanted him to. She had longed for the source of that incredible voice, the man of that extraordinary genius, to caress her. And he had run away as if she had struck him.
She did not understand. She did not understand how, after all his crimes against her, she wanted to feel him solid and real and human against her skin. And she did not understand how this man, this strange, terrifying, extraordinary man who had told her a few days ago that all he had done had been for love, was determined to never lay a single finger upon her. And more, never let her touch him.
Did he not want her? He had said all he wanted was her company, but how could that be? Shouldn’t she be relieved, if that was the case? Shouldn’t she be thanking heaven and hell that he did not wish to seduce her? Why did she feel like she had done something wrong? Why did she want nothing more than for him to touch her when he sang to her again?
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Antoine de Martiniachad invited himself to dinner at the Chagny manor, once again. And once again, he had overstayed his welcome into the late hours of the night, drinking their best brandy and smoking Philippe’s worst cigars in the drawing room. Raoul, in turn, had exiled himself to the empty balcony overlooking the dormant garden. He didn’t mind the cold at all. It reminded him of quiet nights out at sea, when the wind would whip his cheeks raw, but he could see more stars than a man could count in his lifetime.
“Phillipe said you’d be here sulking again.” Raoul turned at the sound of his sister’s voice, warm as the night was cold. She looked so much like the portrait of their mother that hung above the fireplace, with her handsome, round face and dark, sleek hair. Even when she was frowning at Raoul like now, it made his heart warm to see her.
“I can’t snap out of it, if that’s what you want me to do,” Raoul told her as she came to stand beside him, eyes following his gaze up to the veiled stars.
“I know. I remember how you wept when we sold that old place in Perros. And that was months after she had jilted you the first time,” Sabine went on. She had been twenty at the time, and now at twenty-six she was almost a spinster, yet she made Raoul feel ashamed for being the only Chagny who wanted a marriage.
“She didn’t jilt me. She—”
“Left. Without ever telling you why and never wrote again. She ignored you then, just like she’s ignoring you now. She’s not worth it.”
“Christine is a complicated woman,” Raoul muttered. “I’m sure she had her reasons. And I’m sure she has reasons for avoiding me now. There is all sort of intrigue at the Opera with the new managers and that awful Spaniard.”
“Fontana?”
Raoul raised an eyebrow at Sabine. He hadn’t known that she paid attention to the principals treading the board at the Palais Garnier. “No, the Soprano. Signora Zambelli.”
“What’s a Spanish diva doing with an Italian name and title?”
“Italian?” Raoul echoed. “How do you know that?”
“Unlike my handsome but useless brothers, I paid attention to my language tutors. And I did visit Rome last summer while you were away. Miserable place in that season; I nearly melted.” Raoul smiled and shook his head.
“I have an Italian friend from my ship. He couldn’t stop talking about how Rome was the greatest city in history. He showed me a book of prints, and all I saw were broken buildings and dead empires.” Raoul paused, thinking back to the conversations with Vincenzo over bad wine, the thin walls of their quarters barely holding in the crew’s laughter.
