Page 66 of Angel's Kiss
“Good,” Erik whispered as he drank her in.
“Do you ever miss them?” Erik looked up to find Christine’s gaze was upon the parlor ceiling. “The real stars? Don’t you wish you could see them?”
“I can see them any clear night,” Erik replied, and to his surprise, Christine rose on her elbows to look at him.
“What? How?”
He had to laugh, which only made her deepen her glare. “The Opera has a roof. It’s the best view in Paris in my humble opinion.” He was not prepared for the smile that spread over her face.
“Show me.”
“Now?” Erik glanced at the mess around them and their state of mild undress. “Right now?”
“Do you have a previous appointment?” Christine stood without waiting. “It was clear today. I want to see your stars, Erik.”
“Unfortunately, you will need to wear slightly more,” Erik admonished, taking an indulgent beat to observe Christine unadorned from behind.
Christine scowled at him over her shoulder. “It’s not too cold. You won’t need the mask,” she countered as she grabbed her skirt from where it had been discarded.
As with so many things, Erik was helpless to deny her.
The ascent from the cellars was quick and quiet. The Opera was almost entirely empty this time of night, save for a brave (or stupid) fireman. Erik still tingled with nervousness to be above ground unmasked, recalling how it had only taken being seen by one idiot for accurate rumors of his appearance to spread. Luckily, he did not think he had to worry about Joseph Buquet tonight, or, if he was lucky, ever again.
Buquet’s realm of the flies themselves was dark and quiet, barely lit by the ghost light on the stage far below. Erik kept Christine close, holding her hand as they ascended past the ropes and rafters, up narrow, shaking stairs, and finally, to the limit of the building. The door to the roof was inconspicuous, but when they stepped through, Christine gasped. Erik smiled as he followed her out into the chill February night.
Christine’s eyes were on the sky as she moved along the edge sloping roof towards where the silhouette of Apollo thrust his golden lyre into the sky. They were on the highest level, behind and above the great dome of the auditorium. Erik stayed close, keeping Christine’s hand in his as her eyes took in the blanket of stars above them.
“Mother of God,” Christine whispered. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is,” Erik agreed softly, not looking away from her perfect profile. “They used to be brighter, before they started adding more electric lights to the streets.”
Christine’s gaze lowered to the expanse of the city below them, blazing even brighter than the stars above with a million lamps and fires. “It goes on forever.”
“I come up here, once in a while, to feel free. Like I can step into the sky.” Erik sighed. “I worry though that someday soon I won’t be able to see these stars, when the light of the city grows even brighter.”
“That’s awful,” Christine muttered, looking wistfully at the sky.
“That is what they call progress.” Erik listened to the sounds of the city below: the rumble of carriage wheels on cobblestones, the distant noise of voices fighting or rejoicing, and the quiet song of the wind.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Christine asked, and Erik nodded for her to go on. “I can see how lovely it is, up here, but it’s blurry compared to your ceiling below. Papa always said I was nearsighted, and up here it’s evident he was right.”
“Have you ever had spectacles? You’d look quite charming in them.”
“No. I’ve never bothered.”
“Well, I don’t necessarily need your vision to be better,” Erik sighed and Christine laughed, the warm sound carrying through the night above the rumble of the city.
“How far can you see during the day?” Christine asked, turning to him, her face innocent and curious. Erik focused his eyes on the stars, unable to bear seeing her expression when he replied.
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been up here then.”
“Erik.” He heard the pity and concern in her voice. “How long has it been since you saw the sun?”
“I see the sun all the time,” he muttered.
“I don’t mean through a window or clouds or from the shadows.” He startled at the feel of her hands on his bare face, forcing him to look at her. “When was the last time you felt the sun on your face?”
Erik closed his eyes, taking in the cold of the wind and the warmth of her hands on the skin that was so often hidden by the mask. And he remembered the heat of a summer’s day. And the searing fire of a summer night.
