The End of the Ghost's Love Story
Christine knew which one was Erik immediately, even in the masked crowd. Of course, she did-her husband towered over almost everyone.
Husband. Here on the sidelines of the ballroom, taking her third breather from the ball that evening, she was able to admire the antique gold band that accompanied her engagement ring. A thin ring, layered and etched to look like a rose vine encircling her pale finger, blending in naturally with her engagement ring stacked beneath.
Truly, Christine had planned to have a real wedding. She and Meg had been scouting churches online, halls and bands to play since Erik proposed. But as Halloween and their concert drew near, accompanied by months of tireless work on top of practically living at the police station to give statement after statement, Christine had decided that she simply wanted to be married. She would rather say I am Erik's wife, instead of saying I'm his fiancee, or worse girlfriend to the officers.
While the DA had, happily, agreed with Erik and pursued the harshest sentence for both Esther and her accomplice, it didn't happen overnight. She had been denied bail, but the rest was taking its own good time. The couple were quarantined at Nadir's house for a month for safety, which had become a ramshackle studio for want of their practicing, one they had not left, and possibly never would until Erik had their above-ground house built (another project tossed onto the pile of their projects.) Everytime she suggested returning underground, Erik would shy away, suggesting the drive time as a large obstacle if they were to return to their former studio. After all, they weren't recording anymore, merely editing. He didn't want to return to the place he once dubbed a tomb, no matter how repurposed it was; especially not while they were still cleaning up the mess his past had dragged into the opera.
Now Christine understood why Nadir and Erik were so burdened with their years of investigating and prosecuting Nasheed. If it wasn't relieving every moment she would gladly forget down to the most minute detail, it was the awful tedium of statements and legal jargon and wondering if all this hassle, and signing and repeating was even worth it.
Erik helped her through it. Without him, Christine was sure she would have gone mad under the weight of investigations and rehearsals. Erik was highly organized and determined, more sure of himself than she'd ever seen her teacher.
After his meeting with Yasmin, the man seemed lighter, as if he had laid down a great burden. Oh, he was no less acidic or quiet, but he was easier about removing his mask, and no longer played forlornly at the piano, or slunk away to his underground hermitage to hide for days when remembering details of Esther's crimes or his history, having to repeat it all to new officers for a new case concerning the chandelier. And he talked about it with his fiancee, not confessing; no protesting that it was too dark for her, too gruesome for her to handle.
And it was difficult to digest. It seemed with every layer of cruelty, a new memory of horror sprung up in its place. Many nights they had sat on his bed in Nadir's house after rehearsing or bent over papers and fliers and invitations with Charles, battling the hydra of his past. Often he would weep, but even then the steady slide of tears seemed less tortured than the pitiful sobs he had laid at her feet so often. Christine would listen, and weep with him.
But they were no longer hopeless tears. They were the bleeding of a heart hurting, one heart between two bodies, two people. And that was more important to her than any lavish celebration of the fact. Besides, if she tried turning her brain onto one more thing, it was sure to crack in half. Not a good look for a diva about to take the stage.
So the choice was there, either wait perhaps even more than a year to be Mrs. Khan, or be spontaneous. So the morning of their concert she had revealed to Erik her stage costume: a lovely silk wedding gown.
Not that Christine had intended it from the beginning. Meg had decided the wedding dress was the first part of the wedding they simply had to accomplish before anything else. It took the longest and was the main feature of any picture, she had argued. And lost in a sea of catalogs, wedding books and Pinterest boards, Christine had followed along a little dazed by the amount of work ahead.
At first they had thought of putting Christine's mother's gown to pieces, carefully cutting the stitches of the Diana-esque monstrosity and making it something new with a clever seamstress. But as they had laid out the still-white gown, and traced their fingers over what had to be taken off and what could be kept, Christine could not do it. No, her mother's Scarlett-wanna-be gown would stay whole and hale, as frozen in time as her memory of the woman.
So to the boutiques they had gone in between the furious writing sessions on the album, dodging Erik's questions whenever she had left the opera, or whenever she came home, about where they had been.
It was really his fault too. He had been sewing his own stage costume at the time, and demanded she finally choose one of his sketches for her own gown. "If you do not like any of Erik's sketches, tell him what you do want," he had snapped one night. The effect had been a little ruined since he had pins clamped between his teeth as he folded up the trouser leg he was hemming.
So when they had shifted through the racks and found a silky gown that sparkled with the slightest movement, Christine knew that she had found the garment she would wear to begin both new journeys of her life. The gown was covered in simple crystals that blended well into the fabric but caught the slightest amount of light. Fitted from the sweetheart neck to the hips, then lay in waves of silky skirt, it was surprisingly easy to move and sit in. The sleeves dropped off the shoulders in folds of fabric, then tightened from the elbow down, ending in points over her hands. A blend of whimsy and ornate, ethereal and pretty. And it had made Meg, who had not shed a single tear seeing her friend in ballgowns and slinky numbers, actually mist over. One picture to Mrs. Giry who called, weeping, and told them to stay there until she arrived had cinched the deal.
And with every fitting Christine could not possibly think of another frock. When she had picked out an elegant mantilla veil, the image had been completed. She would be half angel half-ghost on the stage next to her partner all in black, catching the changing lights as she moved, and sang and played.
That had all been before the chandelier.
After the dust had settled, the crystal picked out of seats, and the balconies repaired, the concert was coming up fast. And they needed it to be perfect, as Charles had planned to bring in the biggest patrons to showcase that Maz's first exclusive artists. He wanted to wow them with their talent (and an embarrassingly lavish party after), not only for the money but to ease them into the idea of letting the masked Erik run the theater, and make up for the hit they took with the repairs to both wallet and reputation. Christine had asked why it mattered when Erik owned half of it, and Charles had explained it was the difference between owning an opera and owning an opera with the lights on.
So it had come to pass with all they were needed for, Christine had no time to plan, let alone begin picking dates and caterers. She wanted the papers over and done with, she wanted to swear to Erik that no matter how many times they were questioned, and called, or exhausted but still pushing themselves to practice the third song in their set one more time, she would be by his side, and he by hers. Honestly, she wanted just to be able to say my husband without the "well, almost" that had to truthfully follow.
And if the last months of music and planning and investigation weren't enough to cement them, she doubted words spoken in front of a crowd would make much difference.
So this morning, hours before they were to appear on the Mazandaran stage, Christine slowly spun before her fiance, asking how he liked her gown. When she pulled over the veil, he had gotten the idea and very choked up.
But her surprise hadn't ended there. Meg had driven them to the small Presbyterian church the Giry's had been baptized in for generations. A favor pulled by the blonde herself paid for in years of catering church events with Little Latte pastries and a good tale of woe and redemption spun by a master saleswoman. The pastor was willing to look past Erik's Catholicism and Christine's lack of membership for a quick ceremony. Just the couple with Meg and Nadir to witness. At least it was meant to be short. Both were crying so steadily, it took a few tries for them to repeat the formal words, at least until Meg complained that if she wasted a whole tube of mascara over their eloping she'd never help them again.
"I don't understand," Erik had asked when the fun was over and done, and the pastor had given them a moment alone in the sanctuary. He lifted his mask to run his handkerchief under his eyes. Happily, Erik had already been in his stage outfit, not wishing to scare a stagehand or makeup girl with his body in the changing rooms. "You should have a wedding, you wanted a wedding-a real wedding."
"This is a real wedding," Christine had explained. "We made vows, we kissed. We're married. Besides, everyone we wanted to celebrate with will be at the masquerade tonight: what better reception can a girl ask for than that?"
"You could ask for so much more," he pointed out, finally able to look her in the eye again, mask straightened. "You should ask for more. But...but you never do. You're a good girl, Christine." He reached out and touched her face, and then her veiled hair. She bent her head and he placed a soft kiss on her forehead. "You're so good: to your Erik, to everyone. You deserve so much and ask for so little."
"I only want real things, Erik." She caught his fingers. "And those are hard to come by. It'd be selfish to ask for anything more when I've already received more than I could have ever hoped for."
They were alive, for one; together, and now they were married, their friends and makeshift family mostly intact. They were about to start a wonderfully insane life together, as partners and spouses. To want anything more than just that would be hubris. Christine didn't want perfection, and the evidence of that was staring her right in the face. "I just couldn't wait one more second to be married to you. Besides...I've promised Mr. and Mrs. Giry that we will still have a 'real' wedding later on some anniversary, one that everyone can see us at the altar. And I'm sure that's the only thing that'll keep Charles from strangling you for not coming."
"Oh, do let Erik tell him," he had begged with a wicked grin.
Luckily, Charles was in good humor about it-as good a humor as he could be overseeing the preparations. He had yelled at Erik for only ten minutes (calling him an ass only once), and given Christine a kiss before ordering them backstage for makeup and final rehearsal now that they were done 'fooling around'. He had been in high dudgeon for a solid week with all the planning and overseeing and paperwork. Erik had assured Christine it was good for him and gave him something to do other than Ms. Giry, for which the groom had received a pinch. A quick trip to Erik's underground house, however, provided them with the wedding bands he had made.
Now, on the outskirts of the colorful masquerade, Christine searched again for her husband. She found him holding court on the other side of the room, spinning his own wedding band around his finger as he spoke.
And he did speak.
From the moment they had left the stage, Erik had been on a high. He had swept her into his arms when they were backstage, swinging her around as they kissed and cried and laughed like mental patients. They had been too caught up in the music, in the thrill that creation gave them to be nervous. At the first musical cues, muscle memory took over. Now there was nothing but the euphoric high, their hearts and the applause just beyond the curtain battling for dominance in their ears. And Erik, at least, had not come down. There was no slap of reality from leaving the stage to the ball; not from musical god to monster, he went from being master of the stage to suddenly being a man, nothing more. A man everyone wanted a piece of tonight because he was not a freak in a mask.
How clever of Charles, how cunning and understanding the man was under all that sleazy charm. Erik, exposed to the world in the most public way, was sure to get questions about his mask. So how best to make his partner and friend comfortable? Why, a room full of masks, where Erik was no longer the only man who covered his face-the oddity and center of their entertainment. No, now he was another party-goer, the artist celebrating their debut at the opera, another excuse for the East Coast elite to gather and admire and begin buzz about; uniquely commonplace.
Here in a room of false faces, Erik and Christine finally were able to reveal their true selves. Christine grinned at the irony. Her husband caught her gaze, and a small private smile pulled across his lips before a patron asked him his next question.
How he had taken command once he realized his mask was no longer a veil between him and this world! Nothing like the mirrors Christine leaned against now, or the crowds unwittingly danced before. They were very much guests in his home, where he was master. In fact, it was Erik that had broken from her side more often than not that night. All it had taken was a few questions about the sets, how they had used the mirrors to redirect light and create different settings for each song with nothing more than shadows and reflections, about the opera and the design and her husband was lost to her.
"So long as you don't go marrying one of them too," she had teased when he had asked again for the fourth time that night if she minded him leaving to show a few guests a particular hallway, or carving or whatever part of the opera was the topic of that discussion. She was glad not to be the center of attention, despite being half of the celebrated team. Her voice was shot and her heart was overfull-and the makeup artists had worked too hard on her white glitter eyes for her to ruin it with crying.
And she was happy at how he lost himself so easily in his work. Christine could see him here, as normal as the flickering hall lights and red velvet. He would make an excellent manager once Firmin was gone, which would no doubt be soon.
Carlotta had decided not to return, giving her statement to anyone who would listen about the crime-riddled streets of Jersey City and the state in general. With the Maz closed for repairs, it was no greater loss than anything else, and there were rumors about Firmin leaving to become one of her agents. So it would seem Christine had ousted the diva after all, leaving the stage primed for her arrival.
When Meg pointed this out to her one evening they caught between work, and practice and police reports, Christine was as lukewarm about the idea as she'd ever been. It had never been about her own fame, or making a name for herself, or proving that she could. It hadn't even been about Erik for most of the time, either.
It had been about her soul and the gaping wound punched right through it. It had been about bridging that gap between the girl Christine had been, on track and loved by her parents, and the girl Christine was after, the orphan, cold and barely there. Tears crowded her eyes, blurring the image of her husband gesturing to the floor and explaining the frescoes. Her parents who would only know their daughter as a bride in theory, never in reality, her parents whom she would never stop mourning. There was no fixing her, replacing the pieces she had lost.
But she could, and had, taken the broken shards and made something new. Something that caught the light and reflected it as brilliantly as the stage she had performed on. A smile touched her lips as she looked back down at her ring, turning the old antique colored band of one and opening the metal petals to reveal the brilliant new garnet within.
No, she could never go back, could never be made whole again. That girl with her simple love of music, and her pure voice and ignorant heart was no more, and Christine could not cut herself into a shape that would fit into that mold in any case. The music she had played on the stage tonight, the notes that her voice had carried and pushed and melted with Erik's could not have come from that girl who had not known the glorious despair and the glorious victories of life. It was the difference between a placid lake and the roaring ocean. And for all the storms, Christine was happy with her tidal wave.
It had swept her up and pulled away her anxiety with the undertow. She'd stood on that stage, and sang until she had no more to give. She and Erik had created magic, not only for themselves but cast their spell upon the entire audience. A packed house, some coming for the party, more coming to finally see the mysterious second owner of the opera, and still more to catch a glimpse of the place where so much calamity had occurred.
Whatever had brought them there, all had left a little star-struck, or so Meg reported. And Christine, despite the doubts of her own ability, was inclined to believe her. After all, they had been called back onto the stage for two encores; surely it wasn't the simple novelty of masked singers or a wedding dress clad drummer that had encouraged such a response. Erik's bow was hardly haired and Christine was sure her palms would never stop being numb-they had left it all out on the stage, nothing held back.
And Christine vowed-since today was a day for such things-to always live her life that way.
So, Christine would sing for the Maz, if she earned the part, when they needed her for the regular season. But now that she had tasted her own power, her own creativity, she did not want to be locked into using someone else's words and phrases, living other people's lives. Being merely a spectator. She wanted to hear her the hum of her own soul, the chord she and Erik made. She wanted to continue their music, and see where it led them.
"I brought you some bubbly." Meg had finally weaved her way in between the crush of bodies from the bar to Christine's place along the wall. She handed Christine a flute of champagne before removing her peacock mask and leaning with her.
"How many have you had?"
"Only one. I wanted to be sober to hear you guys. I've heard the recordings but man-nothing, not even the restaurant, could have prepared me for the real deal!" Meg toasted her and threw back the entire flute.
Christine shook her head and linked their arms. "Thank you, Meg." She waited until the blonde was looking her in the eye. "For everything."
Sobering up just a little (while she still could) Meg nodded and bumped their shoulders. "Always, Mrs. Khan." Faithful Meg, brave and kind. Who could not be fearless with such a woman in their corner? "But don't go on a monologue-this foundation was fifty-five dollars and if I cry anymore and mess it up I'm gonna be pissed. So who's he talking to now?"
"I have no idea." Christine sipped her flute and slumped against her confidant. "I think he knows them. They were asking who painted the floors and how they got the colors to shine so brightly-then they were talking about the price of importing glass and I made my escape."
"Is that really what gets him going? Import receipts?"
"Well, before that they were talking about architecture, and someone asked what kind of wood they used for the doors, their speaker set up, and who Erik's luthier was."
"God, you'd think billionaires would be better conversationalists." Meg clucked her tongue.
Christine smirked. "Well, yours is."
"He's not, and he's not mine," she cried.
"Oh yes, he is. Or very soon will be."
Meg did not dignify that with an answer, instead settling for stealing Christine's glass and swallowing that shot as well. Christine encouraged her friend to dance while she still could stand, deciding she needed a moment to breathe away from the crush of bodies. Carefully slipping behind a large arrangement of flowers, Christine opened the secret door into the passages. The dark cool air soothed her flushed skin. Then like a heavenly white specter, she started down the corridor, the music that was all at once oppressive in the ballroom now nothing more than a muffled hum.
She made a round about the ballroom, her skirts swishing softly behind. Here was Meg and Nadir twirling across the dancefloor, both laughing riotously at something she probably said. Here was Charles, speaking with Jules, probably about directing the caterers as they weaved in and out of the crowd with their silver trays. Every so often his eyes would find a certain blonde head, and Christine saw the tension flicker away from his face for just a moment.
And here-another blonde head she would recognize anywhere. Raoul in a black domino mask, with the slim Sarah in white by his side. He had accepted the invitation in his father's stead, as a patron of the opera. They were in the corner, happy to watch the dancers' twirl pass. She looked good, healthier now. Her bruises had faded, and the color was in her cheeks again-that seemed to intensify when Raoul leaned close to speak soothingly to her. Christine was sure the big crowd and noise were still a little much for her. But she gripped his hand and seemed content for the moment.
The diva smiled and touched the glass, wishing Raoul and the girl who needed him all the happiness in the world if that were to be their course.
Up the stairs, and Christine made her way to the empty theater. Into box five, now shrouded in shadow, nothing but the after-hours emergency lights to guide her steps. To the edge of the box, she went, leaning her palms on the velvet-covered railing.
Only little more than a year ago she had sat here in her fraying dress and borrowed shoes, content with watching her life go by, like actors on the stage. Now...she sighed, her lips turning up. She was on the stage or had been, wrapped in silk and music and joy.
The future did not promise anything but elation, nothing in the world could make such an offer. The new wood and cloth under her hands proved that. But it did promise to be worth it. She smoothed down her wedding gown, impossibly smooth under her still numb hands. She was worth it.
A sigh behind her and Christine grinned.
But this time Erik stepped from his hiding place, into reality and her arms. "Christine, when a bride finally flees, she runs away, don't you know?"
"I'm not fleeing. I just needed a breather."
"Do you find your Erik suffocating as well?"
She shook her head against his chest. Beneath her cheek, his fine clothes, and scared flesh, she could hear the faint thump of that strong heart, followed it's beat as surely as she had that first lesson on the stage below them. Their tune had been pitchy, rough and sharp-two untuned hearts long out of practice. Now they hummed a melody that resonated, even when apart. And now they stood in the small silence between movements, their concerto just beginning.
He had promised to teach her-and he had in so many ways. Taught her to sing, to love, to survive-and afterward, taught her to live.
"Charles wanted me to find you. He says that he will announce our first dance, and then we can kick them all out of my opera."
Christine giggled and titled her face up. "Then we can take all the leftover cakes, right?"
But instead of answering, Erik slowly lifted off her crystal and wire mask, and without hesitation removed his as well. Whilst the masquerade continued just rooms away, the artificial faces of creatures and angels and ghosts whirling atop the tragedies painted on the floor for their amusement, Christine looked upon the bare face of her Erik, just Erik, and grinned into his kiss.
Tomorrow they would carefully put away their fine things, begin the post-concert work, return to lessons and coffee houses and investigations. Frustrations and fears and uncertain times masked the joys of creation and living that crowded into their full lives, like partiers in a ballroom. But now, wrapped in her lover's arms, Christine would take the words of her predecessor, and leave them for tonight.
Take the good Mrs. Khan would say. And leave the rest.
