Chapter Twenty-One – Where the Streets have no Name

Persia 1875

Chandra

"Where the hell is she, Indira?" I scream at the ante-Khanum, my second-in-command. "She was your charge, damn it!" Indira stands proudly before me, not showing emotion beyond a solemn frown.

"I'm sorry, Chandra. I didn't mean for her to get away like she did."

"Like she did? How did she get away, might I ask?" I snarl, rising from the lounge chair and standing nearly nose-to-nose with Indira. "How could she have gotten away if she was feeling faint and was drugged, hmm?"

"I…don't know, ma'am. It could've been anything," Indira replies calmly. I sigh mournfully as one of the girls, Lakhi, brings some wine for Indira and myself. She places the tray on a little table and bows to take her leave when I remember something that one of the other girls told me earlier.

"Lakhi!" I call her, and she stands very straight before me. "Where were you last night? Jasmine says that you left your bed for quite some time; where did you go?"

"I went out for a walk, milady, to clear my senses. I was quite restless," the girl replies.

"Did you, by any chance, see Christine while you were 'clearing your senses?'" The girl swallows and shakes her head. "Answer me!"

"I didn't see her, ma'am. I'm sorry." The girl's lip quivers, and I know she's lying, though I don't know what exactly she lies about.

"You," I say, walking over to her and staring her down, "are one hell of a liar." Slapping her harshly across the face, I watch as tears well in her eyes. "Tell me what you were doing last night, Lakhi." She shakes her head fiercely and I whistle for the guards outside my room.

"Yes, milady?" the head guard says to me.

"Take her away! She will be executed at dawn tomorrow." As they drag her away, Indira and I watch, me with satisfaction, Indira with solemnity. There will be blood, I know, and we may well catch the man who calls himself the Phantom once and for all.

Erik

My Darling Angel,

It feels so pointless to write this when you're mere feet from me, asleep in the aftermath of such a horrible night. However, mon ange, I find it necessary to spill my thoughts on paper to you. I know that you may never read this, Angel, but there are some things that I cannot keep from you.

The first is that I never meant to harm you by finding you in that godforsaken harem. The sight of you dressed as a whore and ready to serve me like a common, sexually deprived man off the street made me sick. I felt like you should be punished for this, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't hurt you, my beautiful darling Christine. There was too much left unsaid, too much still to happen. For this deception on my part, I am sorry.

The second is that I visited your husband's grave on the day of his burial. I know that you heard me when I sang to you, though you refused to acknowledge me. Whatever could have prompted you to shut out an entire part of your life I may never know, but I trust your motives. All of this is behind us.

The last may not come as a surprise to you as the others might have. I love you. There is no more to it than that. I love you and, no matter what happens from now on, I will always love you, my dearest Angel.

Love, eternally,

Erik

I fold up the piece of paper as I see Christine begin to stir, pocketing it and placing the quill and ink back on the decaying wood of the desk. In a meek sleepy voice, Christine says to me, "What are you doing?"

"I was making a note to myself," I lie, though it seems to suffice for whatever she wanted to know. She curls her tiny body under the thin blanket again, trying to warm her clammy body. I know that it will be a much longer road than just the events of the previous night until she is fully recovered from her experience with opium. Knowing her eyes are not on me, I take the opportunity to just look at her, and I find myself remembering her beautiful dancer's frame back in the days of the Opera Populaire. I could never have imagined then that this is where we'd end up less than five years out from the night of my opera, my masterpiece. But there is hope; if and when I return to Paris, I will write more of my aria, L'Ange de Musique. Maybe it will become a full opera, but one cannot hope for too much. Don Juan was my life's work; God knows how long another would take.

Daddy, I'm sorry! Please, forgive me! I didn't mean to…no, Daddy, no! I rush to the bedside at Christine's cries, running my hands along her arms and shoulders, trying to calm her as one would a young child.

"Christine, mon amour, it's a nightmare. Wake up, Christine, and it'll be…" I meant to say "over" but the wind is knocked out of me as Christine throws her small body against my own, clinging to me like I am the stability she's been so long denied; I probably am.

"Oh, Erik," she whimpers, and I can't help but smile at the way my name passes her lips for the first time. "It's my father! He's telling me I'm a whore and I have no worth and…and…" Christine falls into fits of tears burying her face in my shoulder, tightening her arms around my shoulders. I allow her to cry against me, and I finally hear her calming down after a few minutes. Helping her to lie down, I wipe the tears off of her cheeks and pull the blanket around her again. She smiles faintly and closes her eyes, balling herself up in a fetal position.

Satisfied that she will sleep well, I stand from the bed to go find something to dry off where her tears wet my skin. "Erik?" her meek voice says to me, and I turn back to her.

"Yes, mon ange?"

"Stay with me," she requests. I return to my kneeling position beside the pallet and stroke her hair again, hoping that my complying with her wishes will calm her further. "No, Erik," she interjects. "Hold me, Erik. Please." The brown irises of her eyes are glassy as she talks, as though she will cry again at any moment. I watch as she shifts over on the small mattress and lifts up the blanket.

"You want me to…" I begin, but Christine grabs my hand and pulls me toward her.

"I feel so alone, Erik," she cries, and that plea alone is enough to convince me to crawl up on the pallet with her. With trepidation, I place my arms around her tiny form and hold her against me, resting her head on my chest. I pull the blanket up over us and cradle her body with my own, feeling her heartbeat against my abdomen, the coarseness of her hair on my neck. Under the blanket, I sense her small knees knocking against my own, sending shivers up and down my spine.

I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel her plant a tiny kiss on the base of my neck. "Thank you, Erik," she whispers as she drifts off to sleep. I myself am very close to sleeping as well, comfortable in the sensation of Christine's body so close to my own, when there is a harsh rapping at the door. Try as I might to disengage from the embrace without waking her, Christine's eyes pop open as I move away. "What's going on?"

"I don't know," I reply as I go to the door. "Who's there?" I say, gruffly.

"It's Lalitha! Is Christine there?" a girl's voice replies.

"Lalitha!" Christine shouts, scrambling out of the bed and running on still-shaky legs to the door. She pushes past me and opens it, throwing herself into the embrace of the girl outside the door. Looking at Christine, I see that the girl beyond her is the one who brought me to Christine's room when I first came to the harem. "Dear, whatever is the matter?" Christine asks, holding Lalitha's shoulders and bending slightly to look up into the shorter girl's bowed face.

"It's Lakhi!" she cries. "Chandra thinks she had something to do with your escape! They've taken her away!" Christine folds the smaller girl into her arms and holds her against her chest, then turning to look at me.

"Erik, do you know about this?" Her eyes search me, and I know that she can tell I had something to do with it.

"They say," Lalitha sniffles, "that they're going to execute her at dawn tomorrow. Please, if you know anything…"

"Hush," Christine coos gently. "Erik, tell me now; did she help you?" I can't lie to her, not to my Angel.

"Yes."