A Phantom Enchantment Read Online Free

said, “but we can see it up close if you want. Actually, we should stop at Shakespeare and Company on the way. You are going to love this bookstore!”
    We walked the Quai de la Tournelle and took a set of stairs down to the cobbled walkway that ran along the Seine. When I saw the ubiquitous riverboats, I had the cheesy tourist’s desire to hop aboard, but I knew Elise wouldn’t go for that. We continued walking on the shaded pedestrian path until we neared the bookshop. The neighborhood where we emerged was swimming with tourists, souvenir shops, and flashy restaurants. Shakespeare and Company was set back from the main street on a cobbled alley behind a median of trees.
    Once inside we were joyfully bombarded by books of every color, genre, and size. I actually felt a little dizzy from the towering stacks and swirls of dust. A soot-speckled cat wandered by my ankles as we passed books piled shoulder-high, fine arts prints, ladders perched precariously against shelves, and quirky signs and postcards. This was clearly a place for people who loved the written word.
    The smell of must and old books permeated the air, and I inhaled deeply, feeling a pang of disbelief and gratitude that I was here. I found a cozy nook off the main room and let my fingers graze along the spines of antique books. And then I spied a copy of Le Fantôme de l’Opéra, Gaston Leroux’s Gothic masterpiece written in the original French.
    Like almost every American, I had seen the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, but I’d never read the book that inspired it. This copy was from 1965 and had a red cloth binding with a black-and-white illustration on the cover of a skeletal Phantom in a top hat clutching the fainting body of Christine Daaé. It was over-the-top and absolutely irresistible. I snatched the book from the shelf and handed over my ten euros at the front counter. Elise came up a few minutes later to pay for her selections, then we left with our spoils to go see Notre Dame.
    Nothing could have prepared me for the splendor of this building. Yes, it was made of stone and glass like any other church, and I’d seen its image enough times on postcards to feel like I knew it. But the real deal made me breathless with wonder at its artistry. The west end impressed with its Gothic stone towers and rose-colored window gleaming under the sun, but it was the east end that floored me with its gravity-defying buttresses and that delicate spire, like a Christmas ornament made of spun sugar. I couldn’t wait to come back and see it all lit up at night. But for now, Elise and I were the walking dead, so we deferred the tour of the interior for another day and started back toward school.
    Everything was quiet as we entered our dormitory and climbed the five stories, listening to the creaking of our feet on the wooden stairs. Even though it was only a little after six o’clock, I was bone weary and ready to fall into that lovely lavender bed. After a deliciously cool shower, I wrapped myself in my fluffy robe and called my dad for a brief rundown of the day’s events. When I called Gray afterward, his phone rang four times before the inevitable voice mail recording. I left him a message saying I missed him and wished he were here, not in a trite postcard way, but deeply and truly.
    I went to stand by the window and flung open the panes to the Paris sky. The sun hadn’t set yet, but it had dipped below the buildings, casting my little view in glowing silhouette. Rooftops gleamed ochre and patina green. Not a soul ventured through the alleyway, and except for the low rumble of traffic, it seemed for a moment as if I was entirely alone in the city.
    My freshman year of high school, I’d had virtually no friends, and I’d struggled mightily over the past two years to solidify the friendships I had now. I was no stranger to loneliness. But tonight felt different. Standing at an open window in a virtually empty