The Angel's Flight
Chapter 1
The March rain was falling heavily over Paris, but it was no match for the fire that blazed from the Opera Populairé. Mother and I stood, hand in hand, watching the destruction of the building we called home. We both worked there too, Mother as the ballet mistress, myself as a dancer. Our pasts, and futures, were going up in smoke before our eyes, and I had a shrewd idea of who I was responsible.
I had been sitting in the manager's office, being quizzed by the chief of the gendarmes, France's military police, when the first explosion ripped through the Opera House. They had been questioning everyone after the death of Ubaldo Piangi and the abduction of Christine Daaé by the Phantom of the Opera. My own relationship with the Phantom, also known as the Opera Ghost, the Angel of Music or simply Erik, was dark and complicated. He was terrifying, seductive, dangerous, and I owed him my life. It was only over the course of the last thirteen months, that I learned just how much the Opera Ghost, a creature I had always believed to be no more than a fairytale, had been a part of my life. How much I was indebted to him. The fire that was taking from Mother and I everything we owned, was also destroying the evidence of the crime I had committed there. I had led the Comte Phillippe de Changy to his death, to protect Erik's secrets and my virginity, and now no-one would ever know.
I watched as the fire engine arrived, and the firemen began to battle the flames. I wondered if there was any chance that the Opera House could be saved, but my instincts said no. I glanced at Mother as her hand tightened around mine, and I saw he firelight glinting off the tears on her cheeks.
"Ladies," the golden voice came from behind us, lowered to almost a whisper. "No, don't turn around." A gloved hand fell on my shoulder. "There is a four-wheeler behind you. Get into it. I will be there in a moment."
The hand left my shoulder and I turned my head slowly to watch Erik go. If I hadn't recognised the voice, I wouldn't have known it was him. The figure shuffled away from the crowd and the firemen, bent over and supporting his trembling body with a black cane. He looked like an elderly man, wearing a brown coat, patched and mended, with a large hood pulled up over his head. Anyone who saw him would assume he was simply protecting himself against the continuing rain, but I knew better. The hood concealed his white half-mask from view, and his own natural stealth meant the he moved unnoticed, even in this crowded street. Mother gave my hand a gentle tug.
"Slowly," she murmured, and her eyes flicked to Inspector Barraé, chief of the gendarmes. He was sideways on to us, talking to the head fireman, who in turn was direction the men who were hosing the building with water. Mother I crept towards the four-wheeled carriage that Erik had indicated. It was painted black, without a coat of arms, but it was loaded down with luggage, all concealed by a brown tarpaulin, and two black horses were harnessed to it. Mother opened the door for me to climb in fire, and as I slid along one of the two seats to give her room, I seriously considered opening the opposite door and getting straight out again. She sat beside me, gently taking my hand again. The seat across from us was covered in bags, and I found myself wondering if they contained dismembered body parts. The carriage and horses were expensive-looking, and I had the horrible suspicion that Erik had murdered its true owner. Through the window on Mother's side, I saw the beggar-like shape of the Phantom as he approached the carriage, and it shifted as he climbed onto the driver's box. He cracked the whip, making some sort of noise of encouragement to the horses, and they set of with a jolt.
"Where is he taking us?" I asked.
"I don't know."
I looked at her in alarm. "Then why are we trusting him? He could be taking us anywhere, he could be about to kill us!"
"Meg, dearest, calm down. Erik is not going to hurt us. If you go not trust him than at least trust me. I will keep you safe, I promise you that."
I wanted to believe her, but I knew it would only be a matter of time before Inspector Barraé and his gendarmes noticed that we were missing and started the search for us. If he hadn't thought we were guilty of something before, we must have confirmed it now; running was possibly the worst thing we could have done.
But what other choice did we have? I asked myself desperately, and twisted around in my seat to look out of the tiny window in the back of the carriage. The Paris streets were busy and dim through the rain, but I could see no obvious signs that anyone was pursuing us. Uneasy nevertheless, I rested my head on Mother's shoulder in an attempt to remain calm, while she held my hand, and turned her head to kiss my hair.
I felt her grip tighten as the minutes past and we drew closer to the outskirts of Paris, and I knew that she too was worrying about guards posted around the city, people who would stop us and drag us back to face judgement. We sat in silence, waiting for the order to pull up, but although the carriage slowed to a crawl, it did not stop, and Mother's breath came out in a rush.
We had been travelling for almost two hours, the buildings and streets giving way to trees and bramble bushes, when Erik called to the horses, and the carriage ceased. He swung himself down from the driver's box, opened the door, and stepped inside, sitting on the seat opposite Mother. None of us spoke as he opened one of the bags that had contained body parts in my enlarged imagination. I admit it was a deep relief to me when he pulled out a leather water flask and an apple. He guzzled the water, then bit into the fruit and looked at Mother.
"So silent?" He enquired through his mouthful of apple. "Has the cat got your tongue? I anticipated a scolding the moment I opened the door."
"Where are you taking us?" Mother asked, and her voice was quiet and calm, as if she were dealing with a wild animal that might bite at any moment.
"We are going to Normandy," he replied. "More specifically, a village just outside of Rouen called Corbeaux to be exact."
"Why?"
"Because it is somewhere we can all be safe."
"Are we your prisoners?" I asked, and felt a ripple of fear as his blue-green eyes went from Mother to me.
His lips twitched in slight amusement.
"You are welcome to return to Paris if you find my company so distasteful," he replied. "But I doubt you would receive a very warm reception."
I looked from him to Mother and back again.
"Did you two plan this together?" I demanded. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"We didn't plan this," Mother replied. "I had no idea any of this was going to happen. The fire is as much a shock to me as it is to you." She blinked hard, and I wondered if she were going to start crying again. "Why, Erik? Why did you make the Opera Poulairé burn?"
"My time as the Opera Ghost has come to an end," he said. "It is time to start afresh, a new life in another place. The old life had to die."
"You destroyed the building!" I cried, unable to contain my anger. "You could have killed yet more people!"
"I made sure everyone got out unharmed, even the police." His tone was cool.
"And our possessions?" I spat back. "Material things obviously have no value for you; you got rid of everything that you owned in that house on the lake! What about us? You destroyed all the connections we ever had to Claude Giry, my father! He's buried back there in Paris and I didn't even get to say goodbye!"
And I burst into tears. I hadn't meant to, hadn't even sensed it coming, but the emotion just poured from me as if a dam had been broken down. I put my hand over my mouth to stifle the sobs, horribly ashamed. I must have cried more times in front of Erik than I had in front of any other person in my life, and I hated how weak it made me.
"Shh…" Mother wrapped her arm around my shoulders and pressed her handkerchief into my free hand. I took deep gulps of air and mopped at my face, trying to pull myself together. When I raised my head again, Erik handed the flask of water to me. I took a sip, then another.
"If you've composed yourself," he said in that same cool tone. "Perhaps you would care to listen to what I have to say instead of simply throwing your words at me."
"This has come as a huge shock to both of us," Mother spoke in my defence. "You can't blame Meg for being upset."
"Please explain yourself," I said. Erik leant back in the seat and folded his hands in his lap.
"There are numerous occasions on which either of you could have betrayed me," he began. "And yet you did not, even when faced with grave opposition, the loss of your employment or your liberty. I know that you, Meg, believe that I am a cruel man, but I remember the acts of kindness people have shown to me as well as brutality. It has long been my intention to leave the Opera Populairé, and so when the time came, I decided to take you both with me."
"Why?"
"Because you have proven to me that you can be trusted. You are loyal and faithful; and, as you know, I have a paternal interest in you, Meg. I should not wish to miss out on the next stages of your life. While the gendarmes were keeping you all busy today, I took the liberty of removing your personal belongings from your rooms." He rapped his knuckles on the ceiling of the carriage. "Surely you did not believe this much luggage was simply on my account?"
I swallowed hard, remembering how heavily-laden the carriage was.
"I thought it belonged to the carriage's rightful owner," I admit. "I thought you'd…"
"Killed yet again," he finished. "Well I am happy to prove you wrong. Twenty thousand francs a month for almost a year goes a long way. I own this carriage, Meg Giry, and I did nothing immoral to obtain it."
"And what's in… Corbeaux?"
"A house, also obtained entirely legally, where we can stay, for awhile at least." He must have read the worry in my eyes, for he continued. "You are a city bird, Meg. News travels more slowly in the country. The gossip of Town, partially anything that inconveniences the aristocracy, is of little consequence or interest to those who work the land for their living. They do not care if a building of high Art has been destroyed, or if one of the theatrical establishments is claiming manifestations of the supernatural."
"Surely a masked man draws attention, even in the country?" Mother asked.
"I expect so," he acknowledged. "But enough francs in enough pockets can buy a lot of indifference."
Mother did not look convinced, and I was uncertain as well; not just for the immediate future, but for further ahead. The Opera Populairé was the only life I had ever known, and today was the first time in my seventeen years I had been outside of Paris. I had been sheltered. The idea that I had to abandon all that and start up somewhere new was terrifying.
"What about Christine?" I blurted, and Erik tensed.
"What about Christine?"
"She'll notice we're gone," I fretted. "She'll send people out to look for us… I'm supposed to be a her best friend, her maid of honour, Mother and I can't just disappear!"
Mother's arm tightened around my shoulder as Erik leaned forward.
"Christine Daaé is no longer any concern of yours of mine," he said in a freezing voice. "I could have left you back there, but if I had done you would be spending the night in a prison and I highly doubt that you would ever be able to show your face in public again, let alone at a high society wedding. Your ties are cut, Marguerite. That chapter of your life is over."
I wanted to argue, to reach over and shake him, to scream in his face. I didn't. The way he called me Marguerite made my skin crawl. I knew Mother could feel me trembling as she held me tighter.
"How long will it take to get to Corbeaux, Erik?" She asked and through my lowered eyelashes I saw his attention shift back to her.
"I estimate about another twelve hours," he replied. "But it will be dark soon. We will travel on a little further today, then find somewhere to spend the night and complete our journey tomorrow."
"And then?" I asked.
"And then we will see what king of a life will can build for ourselves," he replied. "Don't look so frightened. We are only at the beginning of our adventure."
xxxxx
In my opinion, adventures should remain between the pages of books, safely within the imagination of the writer and his readers. It was another three hours of travel before Erik drew the carriage to a halt outside a coaching house in a small town, whose uneven cobbled streets had caused us a rather uncomfortable ride. I had been immensely relieved (and felt a little silly) when the bags on the seat turned out to contain mostly food, and a huge blanket, which Mother and I wrapped around ourselves as night fell and the temperature plummeted.
Erik opened the carriage door and reached inside to help first Mother and then myself out into the cold night. He lifted the tarpaulin covering the luggage and pulled down a carpet bag, an easy task for a man of over six feet tall. That alone would surely make him a topic of gossip among the locals, since the average man was around five foot six, but added to that the fact that the right side of Erik's face was covered by a white mask, and I doubted very much that we would be free to leave in the morning. We were still too close to Paris for my liking. The coaching house Erik had chosen was called the Saint Jude Inn, and the sign swinging gently in the night breeze showed a miserable-looking man in a brown robe, who was presumably the Saint himself.
Erik linked his arm through Mother's, leaving me to trail along behind them as they entered the inn. I couldn't help but wonder what king of impression we made, with neither of us women in outdoor clothing, despite the fine rain that had followed us from Paris. The lobby of the Saint Jude Inn contained a lot of mahogany, from the panelled walls and the staircase on our right, to the doors and the huge reception desk. A dark red carpet covered the floor, like spilt wine. The man seated behind the desk did look surprised, but I think it was Erik's appearance, not ours, that gave him pause.
"Yes, Monsieur?" He asked after a moment.
"My family and I require rooms for the night," Erik replied smoothly. "Do you have any space available?"
He slid a banknote across the desk.
"Of course, Monsieur," the concierge replied, accepting the money with discretion and grace. "We have one double room with a single across the corridor. I trust that will suit?"
"It will," Erik replied. "Thank you. I assume the cost of the rooms also includes our evening meal?"
Another note slid across the mahogany desk between them, but the concierge hesitated.
"I am truly sorry, Monsieur, but the man who cooks for us left at nine o'clock…"
Erik heaved a sigh and a handful of coins followed the banknote.
"I'm sure I can rustle up something, and bring it to your rooms."
"To the room my wife and I will be sharing," Erik clarified. "The girl will be in the room opposite."
"Of course."
"We have two horses with our carriage outside," Erik told him.
"I'll see to them, Monsieur," the man said, and Erik went with him to make sure he did as he said. When they returned to the inn's lobby, he took two keys from the board behind the desk and handed them to Erik, before leading us up the staircase, which creaked under our weight like a ship at sea.
The room we found ourselves in was plain and functional, with the fire already burning in a modest hearth, a chest of drawers, a vanity table and a double bed. The washroom facilities consisted of a porcelain bowl and a jug of water, and a chamber pot under the bed. With awkwardness prickling through the air between us, we all perched on the bed.
"Needless to say I shall sleep in the room opposite," Erik said. "But we shall have to wait until no-one will observe the deception."
He took off the shabby brown coat and hung it over the fireguard, where the raindrops remaining upon it glittered like jewels upon a monarch's robe. Underneath, he wore the outfit we had put together for him that morning; brown trousers tucked into high boots, and a shirt that had once been my father's. It hung off his slender frame, with braces supporting the trousers. It was odd, seeing Erik in my dead father's clothing, especially in an outfit so far from his usual debonair style. He stretched, his spine clicking as he raised both arms over his head in front of the fire, and it wasn't until he turned from the flames that I saw how tired he looked.
"Is it difficult to control the horses?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied. "Why do you ask?"
"Because… I thought… well it's not fair for you to be the only person doing the driving, especially if we have another eight or more hours of travelling ahead of us."
He gave me a genuine smile, and I saw the exhaustion etched into his very stance.
"That's kind of you, Meg, but I don't think having an amateur take the reigns will be helpful, will it?"
"I suppose not," I acknowledged and he gave me an awkward pat on the shoulder.
I opened the carpet bag to find it contained a change of clothes and nightwear belonging to Mother and myself, as well as a nightshirt belonging to Erik. Erik himself paced the room, moving to the door in a flash when the knock came on it. He paused before opening it, and did not let the concierge enter, instead taking the tray he carried and muttering a word of thanks. The 'meal' turned out to be beef broth, which was piping hot and filling, and half a loaf of stale bread which could only been eaten once it was soaked in the broth.
The three of us ate in awkward silence, and I wondered if that was what our lives would be now; pretending to be a family, spending our evenings in tense silence. At last, Erik determined that there was no one moving around on our floor of the inn, and bid us goodnight. As Mother and I settled down to sleep in the double bed, I reflected that I didn't really like the idea of Erik as a father, and hoped the charade would not last for much longer.
xxxxx
I hoped you have enjoyed the first chapter of 'The Angel's Flight', being the sequel to 'The Angel's Shadow'. Please leave a review; your comments and questions are always welcome! ~ Louise-Anne