The Philosopher of the Opera

The Fellowship of The King

    

phantom1

     Christine staggered to her knees and snatched at a step rail studded into the tile, kicking off her slippers to grab traction on the outer surface of the dome.  A gale from the south whipped at her white gown, tugging her hair free of its yellow net.

     Pulling herself up onto a ledge, she swung around and stared out at the vast, empty gulf of black air over the glowing galaxy of Paris.  High above the Garnier Opera House, the world was silent and empty, like a mountain top, except for the wind, slicing and growling through the great, gold angels and scores of stone cherubs.

     Her knuckles went white. She licked her dry lips.  She’d never been so high in her life.

     A footstep crunched above.

     Her heart stopped.  She swung around.

     Against the solid, mauve cloudscape, the figure stood erect and…

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