Page 47 of Angel's Kiss
“I do. I am but a humble peasant in the presence of a queen of the stage,” Rameau replied, easy and dashing. People were staring at them, Raoul realized. Rameau raised his crystal glass high and shouted: “To Christine! The savior of the Opera and the brightest light in the Opera’s firmament!”
A cheer went up and Christine gave a shy smile. Raoul could only stare at Christine as pain split his poor heart. “Can we speak alone?” he asked, pathetically. He didn’t want all these gawkers to observe more of his misery.
“I don’t think that’s wise,” Christine replied nervously. “Robert and I—”
“Let me refill your glass, my dear. I’m sure whatever you and this dashing youth have to say won’t take long,” Rameau said with a smile, taking the completely full glass of champagne from Christine’s gloved hand.
Raoul knew it was bold, but these opera folks and lascivious patrons had seen worse. He grasped her arms, trying to reclaim the closeness they had shared only the night before. “Christine, I was sincere last night. I’m willing to fight for you.”
“Please, Raoul, I don’t want to be fought over,” Christine protested, drawing away. “I can’t talk right now.”
“Because he is here? Does he know about us?”
“There is no us!” Christine said with a firmness that shocked Raoul and struck his heart.
“I always loved that you were kind,” Raoul muttered and watched how his words of adoration made her look over her shoulder like an errant child. “I never would have guessed you would be so cruel. That you would play with hearts like this.”
“Raoul!” she protested, but he had no ear for it. He turned on his heel and marched from the salon. People looked at him; the little dancer, Meg, called after him. He kept walking, determined to forget this damned brothel of a place forever.
––––––––
“Are you sure you’llbe alright here?” Christine’s latest suitor asked with concern that was touching and patronizing. “I can take you to your flat, wherever that is,” Robert offered.
“I’ll be fine, my lodgings are not far off,” she muttered. Her head was still buzzing with everything that had happened tonight. And the day before. And the week before as well. It was honestly a miracle she was not crying on the floor somewhere. Part of her wanted to be.
“Even so,” Robert said, taking her hand kindly. “Be careful, Christine.”
“I will be,” she said and left the carriage. As she walked beneath the gaslight on theRue Scribe, the black cloak belonging to a ghost draped over her shoulders, seeking out the entrance to the underworld, she wondered if she had lied.
Was she being careful? Or was she playing with hearts, as Raoul had accused her? An hour ago she had stood basking in applause, Carlotta’s reign ended, and felt invincible. Now she felt like a lamb throwing herself in front of a lion whose hunger she had been foolish enough to pray for.
As if reading her thoughts, a shadow along the edge of the building moved as Erik materialized from the dark. And again Christine questioned her sanity as the Phantom held out his hand to her, his eyes glittering in the gaslight. There was something irresistible in the gesture, and it terrified her.
“You found me,” she said, taking his hand without hesitation.
“I always will,” he replied, and she knew that the feeling of him watching her during the party had not been a dream.
He did not speak as he led her below, the shadows retreating from the light of his lantern like frightened animals. It was colder down here tonight, or perhaps it was the danger and disappointment radiating off him that made Christine shiver.
“Do you know if Carlotta is gone for good?” Christine asked when they were deep in the cellars.
“I wasn’t paying much attention to her after you took the stage,” Erik replied, voice as cold and dark as the stone around them.
They came to the lake and skirted the edge towards Erik’s home quickly. In a blink, they were in the parlor again. The fire was only embers and the candles had burned low, all the warmth of the place gone. Still, Christine removed her cloak and gloves as Erik did the same before turning to the fire.
“Erik, please talk to me.” Christine took a cautious step forward. “I know you’re upset. About Raoul—”
“Don’tsay his name,” Erik growled, rounding on Christine and rising to his full height. “Why does he still pursue you? I thought you drove him away.” There was something in Erik’s words, the ownership and entitlement of them, that kindled an even hotter fire in Christine than the one crackling in the grate. And it burnt away her fear.
“He is my friend, my oldest friend in the world,” Christine said slowly. “And you’re jealous of him.”
“Of course I am!” Christine jumped at the venom in Erik’s voice but did not back down. “He is perfect. Handsome and rich andnormal, and he wants to steal you from me!”
“I cannot be stolen, Erik, I am a person, not a pair of candlesticks!” Christine snapped as Erik shrank at the matching ire in her tone. “I am here, right now, with you. Not him. Doesn’t that mean anything?”
Erik stared as if seeing her for the first time, the menace that had radiated from him a moment before melting away. “It means everything,” Erik whispered.
“Then why don’t you trust me?” Christine asked, inching closer.
