Chapter 8: In the Arms of an Angel

Spend all your time waiting,
for that second chance,
for the break that would make it okay.
There's always some reason,
to feel not good enough,
and it's hard at the end of the day.
I need some distraction.
Oh, beautiful release.
The memory seeps from my veins.
Let me be empty
and weightless and maybe,
I'll find some peace tonight.

In the arms of the angel,
fly away from here.
From this dark, cold hotel room
and the endlessness that you fear.
You are pulled from the wreckage,
of your silent reverie.
You're in the arms of your angel,
may you find some comfort here.

So tired of the straight line.
And everywhere you turn,
there's vultures and thieves at your back.
And the storm keeps on twisting.
You keep on building the lies
that you make up for all that you lack.
It don't make no difference.
Escaping one last time.
It's easier to believe in this sweet madness, oh!
This glorious sadness that brings me to my knees.

In the arms of an angel,
fly away from here.
From this dark, cold hotel room
and the endlessness that you fear.
You are pulled from the wreckage,
of your silent reverie.
You're in the arms of the angel,
may you find some comfort here.
You're in the arms of your angel,
may you find some comfort here.

"Angel" By: Sarah McLachlan © 1997, From: "Surfacing," Nettwerk/Arista

The striking pair moved hurriedly through the dark corridors of the opera house. With the lithe blonde in the lead, she never paused as she led her companion through the maze of passageways.

"Meg, please slow down a bit." Raoul gasped. "Not all of us practice dance with your mother!"

She scoffed haughtily at the winded young man.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, are you implying that a delicate flower of the ballet, such as me, has more endurance than a big, strapping young man, such as you?"

Coquettishly using all of her feminine wiles, she batted her eyelashes at him prettily.

He bent over with his hands clutching his sides and wheezed. He retorted weakly.

"No, not at all, Mademoiselle. I imply nothing. I am simply uttering a statement of fact!"

They laughed.

"Really, Raoul, we must make haste. Cook leaves for home soon and I really must bring back something for Christine to eat." The girl's eyes took on a faraway look for a moment. "She is acting so strangely. I have never seen her like this before. I am truly worried for her."

"Well, let it not be said that I lagged behind and denied Christine her sustenance! Lead on, my love!"

Quickly, he glanced up and down the corridor and after making certain there was no one to act as witness or to carry the tale to Meg's mother, he leaned down and placed a quick kiss upon the girl's lips. They stared deeply into one another's eyes, then holding out her hand to Raoul, he grasped it firmly within his own. Involuntarily, they sighed in unison, then, they continued their mad dash for the kitchen.

"Monsieur Destler, my mother requested the honor of your presence ... now!"

Erik remained leaning against the wall, as Meg's words echoed inside his head. The prospect of being in Christine's presence again left him feeling thrilled, nervous and almost overwhelmingly aroused. The girl literally was his angel. The angel of his dreams. Both savior and executioner. Glancing down, he frowned and attempted to adjust the evidence of his arousal. Shaking his head, he buttoned his coat and sighed.

"I guess there is no delaying this any longer. It is time for me to do the honorable thing. Fortunately, in this instance, the honorable thing and the thing I desire most in this world just happen to be one and the same thing. I can only pray she does not refuse me and can learn to love me, just as I learned to love her years ago."

He pushed away from the wall, tugged at the front of his coat, smoothed back his hair and brushed off the sleeves of his coat. For what was most likely the first time in his life, Erik wished he had a mirror so he could perform a proper inspection of himself.

"This will have to suffice. Well, Erik, when one wishes to move from one place to another, one must move by placing one foot in front of the other and then repeat. The name of this simple action you cannot seem to perform is walking. Come, Erik, take little steps. If you do not at least take little steps, you will not get anywhere at all. And, she is expecting you. If you do not move, she may change her mind and not wish to see you again."

A second voice of his own creation joined the first voice inside his head.

"Who said she wanted to see you again, Erik? Christine did not ask for you. Madame Giry did."

A third voice thundered.

"Cease this pointless bickering! This is just wonderful! Now I am discussing myself in the third person inside my own mind. Just stop it. I will never know anything if I stay here in the hall. I will spend the rest of my life wondering about what might have been ... No, that will not do at all."

Inhaling deeply and then slowly releasing the breath, he turned, faced the door, raised his hand and knocked firmly on the rough-hewn wood.

Antoinette Giry knew her reputation. Point of fact, she had diligently worked on perfecting its development and she was no longer certain when the act had become the reality. She knew the ballet rats feared her wrath, which mostly revealed itself to them in the form of her cane stomping out her irritation on the floor. The gently soothing voice of her youth gave way to the tight, emotionless facade that found its only breach in her searing and often scathing sarcasm. She dressed only in black, not in mourning for her late husband, but in mourning of her lost opportunities. Although she attained her goal of prima ballerina, she had not been able to hold onto that prize for long. First, she became pregnant with Meg and just as she began to make her comeback from the pregnancy, she had fallen and suffered a spiral fracture of the tibia. That fall broke more than her leg. It broke her spirit and her heart. To protect herself, she chose to hide behind a mask of cold pride.