To my reviewers---it means the world to me that you are reading my story and taking the time to make suggestions and say that you like it. Thank you all so much.
Owlet
He sat up after the women had all gone to bed, but the music had been pushed aside by a nagging sense of something urgent, something that must be done before she left. Erik knew that he would mourn her going away, but he felt no despair about it. She would go forward and make something of herself. He felt sure that he would be able to read of her successes in the newspapers, even if she would not allow him to write to her.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, to let his mind wander where it wanted in the hope that he would discover what it was he must do. Images from the past unfolded of those music lessons in the Chapel, Christine in her practice skirt and toe shoes, singing scales. Lighting a votive from a long taper—aha. There was nothing flammable in that room; perhaps it had survived.
Despite his earlier teasing, the night was too warm for a cloak, but he wore one anyway, for the veil of shadow it would draw around him. He was dressed all in shabby black and was careful to keep the pearlescent leather of his mask out of moonlight and lamplight. He grinned to himself as he strode silently through the shadows to the opera house. How easily the skills had come back to him of silent movement, of blending into the darkness.
The lamps were not even all lit around the derelict building—he imagined that it must be a hive of thieves and opium eaters. He skimmed the perimeter and found a grate that was not rusted shut. He slipped back into his old home.
Erik gulped in the scent of it—water, stone, greasepaint, and people, now overlaid with burnt wood. There was a host of soft pings and creaks that the building hadn't had before; he guessed that it was the sound of the building settling into further collapse. He heard nothing that sounded human.
It was tricky going, most of the time. He had a dark lantern to see by, but the debris cast weird shadows and much of it was unstable. Many times he was glad of his innate knowledge of every cranny, although it was strange to see things that had once been two stores above smashed on the floor before him. Still, within half an hour he had worked his way around and down to the chapel doorway. It was blocked by a pile of charred wood that looked to be broken seats and scrim frames. He pulled enough down to crawl into the chapel.
The angel windows had been smashed, so the room was no longer a cozy space—it was drafty, and the breeze made an eerie echo that he thought might come all the way from the lake. He considered whether it would be worth the time to try to crawl back to his home to see what might be salvaged. If he fell, or something fell on him, he would likely never be found, and the body of the Phantom would be buried in the ruins of his domain, just as everyone thought. Better to not risk it. He searched around the votive stand and found what he had sought. The glass was cracked, but the portrait of Christine's father was intact. He swept his cloak about himself and set about for home. Again the music rose in him, a lament for his ruined home, the clicking of the building's desolation its rhythm, the howl of the lake's wind its harmony.