"Come on, son, kick the ball here!"
"Raoul, don't encourage Gustave to kick balls in the hotel!"
Christine shook her head, laughing lightly. Little Gustave, whose personality tended toward the serious and taciturn for a four-year-old, was now giggling so fiercely he hiccupped as he kicked the football with his spindly legs back and forth to his father across the 5th Avenue Hotel's ornate rug.
Two-year-old Phillippe was whining from where Christine and the nanny dressed him, the youngest child craning his neck to see the game. He was usually the more athletic of the two, evident even at this young age, and his righteous indignation at being left out was palpable.
"Kick ball!" He stated emphatically, staring at his mother with his little brows drawn down toward his brown eyes. "Papa and Gusta kick ball! Philly kick ball!"
Christine sighed. "See what you've done, Raoul? Wicked husband."
Her husband only chuckled evilly. "I'm a stinker, aren't I, Gustave?"
"Yes," Gustave said in distraction, focusing on the ball. Raoul only guffawed.
"There, little sir," Christine said after finishing buttoning up Philippe's sailor suit. "Go and rampage with your brother and irresponsible father." She kissed him on the forehead.
She received an impish grin in return, reminding her of his father. Then he sped off on his chubby little legs, crying out "ball!" as he intercepted a pass between Gustave and Raoul.
Christine now finished getting herself ready, straightening her hat in the hallway mirror. She was becoming in a high-necked lavender dress, with silk trimmings on her hat to match. "You'll be ready to meet us for lunch, then?"
"Sure thing, madame!" Raoul momentarily stopped the game to kiss his wife, making his boys groan in disappointment. "Go surprise Flibbertigibbet, now. Tell her we'll see her in about an hour."
"I will," Christine said, straightening his tie by force of habit. She pecked him on the cheek and then left, casting one more soft look at her trio of darling boys: happy Gustave, wild Philippe, and the oversized one she called husband.
The ecstatically warm imaged stayed with her until she reached outside, then a strange dread filled her bones. She of course looked forward to seeing Meg, but there was a great chance she'd see him again.
Her former Angel.
Marriage, motherhood, and a growing career tutoring children in music had brought a great serenity and tremulous joy to Christine's life. Raoul was now deputy of the Uppsala police department, and had recently passed his detective examination. Although nervous and unsure at first, Christine found herself a capable tutor, combining tricks she'd learned from Erik with her own empathy and understanding, having been so often in the role of the pupil in the past.
But no more.
She raised her head as she walked down the street.
She was her own person now.
And she had people in her life more precious than anything before.
She smiled as she always did when she thought how ironic it was that Gustave should look so much like Raoul's side of the family but resemble Christine in personality, while little Philippe was the opposite. Gustave had her husband's sandy hair and liquid blue eyes, but he was shy, creative, a little moody; he was a practical genius on the piano. Philippe, although he did not yet strongly favor either parent in looks, did have his mother's dark brown curls and expressive eyes. Though he shared some of his brother's serious nature, he was more adventurous, more the leader, just like his policeman father.
Her boys – all three of them – helped Christine stay sane during some of her dark moments. These moments were fewer now and were more quickly dispelled, but still they came on occasion. She resigned herself to the fact they would always be with her, in one form or another.
Otherwise, she was a happy woman. And she felt she'd earned this happiness, which contributed to her satisfaction.
Yet she felt the wintry chill of those dark moods creep into her bones the closer she came to the Metropolitan. Was she truly wise to come? She'd missed Meg like mad, and after getting over her anger that Meg up and left without telling Christine, she had continually urged Raoul for a visit. But then came Philippe, and they had to postpone.
Which reminded her….
She first noticed once the ship reached the dock.
She was a few days late.
And her breasts were oddly sore.
She'd felt faintly nauseous, too, but on the boat she blamed it on seasickness.
Deep inside, she knew the truth.
She was pregnant again.
The thought filled her with a joyful fire, and it was with this flame in her cheeks that she straightened her shoulders and entered the Metropolitan with little fear.
Meg answered her dressing room door in full costume as Odette, the White Swan. She looked like an angelic little fairy, aside from the exaggerated dark eyeliner all dancers wore.
Yet the fairy turned into a crowing bird when she recognized Christine. She flew into the singer's arms then stepped back abashed, giggling out an apology for smudging some of her pancake makeup on Christine's cheek.
"I wouldn't have a hug from you any other way," Christine replied, laughing.
"Where are Raoul and your boys?"
"They'll meet us for lunch. I just wanted to surprise you early. You don't mind, do you?"
Meg squeezed her hands. "Not at all. I'm glad you did."
Christine looked her over. "Meg, you haven't changed a bit. You're still so youthful and lovely!"
"And look at you, regal as a queen, and beautiful!"
Christine laughed. "You're still as sweet as ever, too!"
The friends sat down and reminisced.
"Did you hear about Justine?" Christine asked.
"No!"
"She just had twin girls with that officer husband of hers, Stephen!"
Meg squealed. "I knew she was expecting but hadn't heard that she'd given birth yet!" She'd admitted to herself a nagging wistfulness when her former admirer and rescuer married, but she was glad it was Justine. She knew they'd both treat each other well. "That's wonderful! Have you visited Cecile and Michel's new hotel yet?"
"I have, and Meg, it's so lush! With that perfect view of the bay! Cecile is such a wonderful business manager."
"She always was the smart one among us. And La Carlotta's book, is it still wildly popular in Europe? It's selling like hotcakes over here, to borrow an English expression!"
"Yes, and she's giving about a million interviews a day. She's singing again, too. Makes me almost not mind her negative portrayal of me in that tell-all trash she wrote."
"Oh, you didn't get it as bad as some. I think she's realized over the years you weren't to blame."
"I hope so. I do find it so nice that she's donated half the proceeds to that charity in Piangi's name."
Meg smiled and nodded. She didn't mention that Erik had, under a pseudonym, designed a statue of Piangi that he sent to Sicily, Piangi's hometown. Or that he'd donated all the proceeds to that very charity.
Meg knew that Erik would most likely come up in conversation sometime today, but she would let it be Christine who brought him up first. Meg remembered the promise she'd made Christine.
"Well," Meg announced, jumping up. "Shall I dress and meet you at the restaurant?"
Although Erik reveled in his unofficial consulting position at the Met, which allowed him to once again surround himself with music, art, and the theater, he did often miss the luxury the Paris Opera afforded him where hiding places were concerned. Here he could not just disappear behind a sliding wall or mirror.
He must hide in open.
And so he sat incognito at a table adjacent to Meg and Christine's. He wore his most nondescript costume; a gray mustache and wig with double-breasted suit and heavy coat. Even if Meg weren't so preoccupied chatting away with Christine, Erik wasn't sure she'd recognize him.
As it was, both women were so distracted they paid no mind to the older gentleman watching them from above his coffee cup and newspaper. Erik could watch them unhindered.
Christine.
It had been five years since he'd seen her face.
She was a vision in lavender. Her dress was of a richer class than what she used to wear as a ward of Madame Valerius, but not as ostentatious as most other society dames.
His head pounded.
He looked at both her and Meg, radiant herself in a pale pink dress.
The sun and moon were side by side again, each as luminous in different ways.
How did he feel seeing Christine again, just able to hear her angelic voice over the chatter of the other restaurant patrons?
He felt….
Affection. Warmth. An odd pride in her.
But…what else?
There was a time when the mere sight of her face drove him mad.
Now….
An intense melancholy, to be sure, but….
Obsession? Ecstasy? Any desperate longing?
He heard Meg laugh and he shivered.
He felt he did not know himself anymore.
Then Raoul and the two little boys approached the table.
He watched as Meg hopped up and embraced him, Raoul-more muscular than before, somehow - picking her up in a bear hug, making her shriek in laughter. She then turned excitedly to the children, presenting them with a toy sailboat and a toy soldier. The younger boy simply sucked on the sailboat and looked curiously around the room, at the various people in their sundry dress. The older one looked up into his godmother's face as if transfixed. He was obviously infatuated with this beautiful young creature in pink with a grin and light in her eyes that made her seem almost as if she were their age.
They all at last sat, the older child scooting his chair closer to Meg, his worshipful eyes never leaving her. Raoul leaned over and kissed his wife on the cheek.
The waiter took their orders and then the group all started talking at once. Laughter bubbled from their table, and the little boys were giddy that their parents were acting just as excitable and energetic as they. The boys bounced up and down in their chairs, and every once in a while Raoul or Christine without even looking would sense when one of their children bordered on going too far in their shenanigans and the parents simply reached a hand out to one of their shoulders or laps to steady them.
People at neighboring tables looked on approvingly, undisturbed by the noise because of how cheerful and contented the group of friends looked.
And Erik at last felt fury rise in him.
In New York Erik had found a chance to integrate himself into society, to blend in with the masses, while still imparting his influence over an opulent opera house.
Yet here he was, sitting at a table alone, watching Meg play with the children of Raoul and Christine, as the couple sat comfortably and serenely together.
Erik was still on the outside, no matter how he'd tricked himself into thinking otherwise.
He looked at Christine's merry brown eyes and felt a tug at his heart – was this a rekindling of his original passion for her and regret at her loss, or regret about what she had once represented to him and no longer did?
He winced at that last thought. No, no, of course she still meant that much to him, for otherwise, what would this have all been for? What would his murders, his heartbreak, his halfway redemption, his dragging the Girys into the secret police and then exile, have all amounted to? A feeling that inspires such upheaval can't just die. It can't.
With her smiling eyes watching Meg turn a napkin into a bunny to amuse the children, Christine reached out a gentle hand to Raoul's, squeezing his.
And Erik almost burst into tears of rage and remorse.