Page 11 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

“What a lovely bouquet of flowers,” a voice declared, and Meg swore internally.

They had missed their window to escape, and now the patrons had come down.

The one who had spoken approached their group with an oily smile and oilier hair.

The man with him had blondish brown hair and an overly complicated goatee that didn’t suit his face.

They both towered over the small dancers, which made Meg straighten up.

A sparrow puffing out its feathers to scare off a hawk.

“Good day, Monsieur d’Amboise,” Jammes smiled. “And...”

“Monsieur Clermont,” the blondish man said and extended a hand, not to Jammes but to Rochelle. “My condolences, Mademoiselle Moreau. What happened to your dear friend Monsieur Tremblay is so awful.”

“What?” Rochelle asked, looking around the circle of girls and men.

“We haven’t heard anything about Monsieur Tremblay,” Blanche confirmed. The men gave them pitying looks, though d’Amboise also looked delighted to share whatever the news was.

“Monsieur Tremblay was assaulted last night! Beaten black and blue and robbed!” d’Amboise exclaimed and looked to Rochelle. Perhaps he was hoping she would gasp or begin to weep, but her face was blank as she digested the information.

“That’s terrible,” Marie finally said. “Was he in some dangerous part of town?”

“He was on the Boulevard des Capucines , just leaving the Opéra!” Clermont lamented. Now that was shocking. The Opéra was the very heart of Paris, in a respectable and well-travelled area. Thieves and cutthroats didn’t usually prowl here.

“Perhaps he should not have been walking alone at night,” Rochelle said with a shrug. “Thank you, Messieurs, for the information.”

“We are happy to console you,” d’Amboise pushed back, oozing toward Rochelle and Blanche.

“We are needed in the costume shop!” Meg piped in, and the crowd turned to her. “Well, I am. They asked me to bring Mademoiselles Carcaux, Moreau, and Van Goethem too.”

“I was supposed to see my sister,” Marie argued, as Jammes looked daggers at Meg.

“She’ll still be in class. Come along,” Meg said and took the small dancer’s hand to lead her away before anyone stopped them.

She sometimes forgot that Marie also had family at the Opéra, an older sister who worked as an extra in large crowd scenes and a younger one who was a junior student at the school of dance where all the petits rats started.

Meg hurried through the halls with Marie in tow, the other girls following close behind, until she found a secluded corner for them to hide.

“Meg, have you forgotten where the costumers are?” Blanche asked.

“I don’t think young Giry here really meant what she said,” Rochelle replied, looking somewhat amused. “She wanted to get us away from those two vultures and Jammes.”

“So I could show you what I found!” Meg squealed as she pulled the note from where it had been hidden in her bodice all day. “My mother had it – it frightened her. I haven’t opened it yet, but it has to be from him!”

“Him who?” Blanche asked, and Rochelle groaned.

“Do you mean the ghost? He’s sending notes through your mother again?” Marie demanded, utterly breathless.

“Or your mother received some bill or a note about some sick relative that you’ve stolen from her,” Rochelle countered.

“Let’s see it then,” Blanche said, her blonde ringlets shaking at the side of her head. Meg’s hands shook as she unfolded the note. Maybe Rochelle was right – maybe it was something personal her mother didn’t want her to see. Something from her father’s family, perhaps, or...

“Red ink,” Marie gasped.

Meg’s eyes finally focused on the paper in her hands. Indeed, the words were scrawled in a jagged handwriting that was hard to read, in ink red as blood.

“ Remove the following, or I shall :” Meg read, voice unsteady. “Then a list of names.”

“Names of whom? Dancers? Am I on there?” Marie squeaked. “I knew I never should have taken the offer to pose!”

“There’s no Van Goethem,” Blanche reassured her as she looked over the list. There were six names scribbled on it. “None of these are dancers or even singers, as far as I know.”

“Orchestra, maybe? Or stagehands?” Meg suggested, before Rochelle gasped.

“They’re patrons. Look.” Rochelle pointed a quivering finger to the final name on the list. “Tremblay. And now he’s been assaulted.”

“You think the ghost did that?” Marie asked, grabbing Meg’s arm for protection. “Like he did to Buquet?”

“No, that can’t be,” Meg exclaimed.

“He’s already killed one patron. Poor Philippe de Chagny,” Blanche sighed. Only recently had La Sorelli returned after her period of mourning, but Meg thought her wearing a black veil still was a bit much. She also didn’t believe that the ghost had done the Comte de Chagny in.

“That was an accident in the lake,” Meg protested weakly. “This might not be about the patrons. It can’t have been a threat to your Monsieur Tremblay.”

“I thought you were convinced this was from him?” Rochelle asked, her thick black eyebrows high in judgement and disbelief. “Don’t tell me you still think he’s benevolent! Not after the chandelier.”

“No,” Meg protested, the awful sound of the chandelier crashing into the audience echoing in her memory. “But he’s the Opera ghost – he doesn’t go outside the Opéra!”

“Says who?” Rochelle asked, raising her chin like a duchess. “I heard that—” The dark-haired dancer stopped herself.

“Heard what?” Meg demanded. She very much didn’t like not knowing every story and rumor of the ghost.

“Antoine de Martiniac didn’t die in the opera,” Rochelle smirked.

“Antoine de Martiniac isn’t dead,” Blanche countered, blinking in confusion. “Is he?”

“No one has seen him in months, and he was best friends with Comte Philippe. The Ghost killed them both, is what I think.” Rochelle explained. “So does Jammes.”

“Are you friends with that sour sack of frowns now?” Marie piped up as Meg shook her head and tucked the list back into her bodice.

“Still, why these patrons?” Meg asked. “Do you know why anyone would want to hurt your Monsieur Tremblay?”

“I can think of several reasons, but none that a ghost would care about,” Rochelle replied, face darkening. Meg turned from Rochelle to the other girls. Blanche looked guilty, and Marie dubious. Meg felt pity.

“We care,” Meg said softly. “We didn’t do or say enough, but we care.”

“It’s too late,” Rochelle said, waving her hand. “At least he’s dealt with now. Please have your mother send the ghost my thanks.”

“Rochelle—” Meg began, but the bang of their ballet master’s cane interrupted the conversation.

“Get back to rehearsals, all of you,” LaRoche declared, and the ballerinas rushed to comply.

LaRoche caught Meg by the arm, holding her back from the others before they went in.

“I hope you improve your performance for the rest of the rehearsal, Meg Giry. To be a troublemaker is one thing, but a troublemaker who doesn’t know her steps with no patron to protect her is another. ”

“I understand, sir,” Meg muttered, feeling small and helpless.

“A few of them were interested today, so you know. Monsieur d’Amboise thought you were quite intriguing if you’d like to change things.”

“Perhaps,” Meg whispered, and it seemed to satisfy LaRoche. She rushed back into the Salon du Danse , shivering as she did.

She’d had a protector, once. Now, she was sure he was back.

Florence

I t felt good to have a routine, Christine mused as she made her way to Les Halles to meet Pauline for the third day in a row. It was good to have something regular to pursue daily to give one a sense of normalcy, even in an uncertain time.

There were, of course, rhythms to the days she shared with Erik.

They rose late more often than not, and someone would eventually decide it was time for food, and then they would fall into some diversion.

Reading was a popular pursuit, though as much as that was a routine, so was Erik muttering about how he missed his library.

He missed having a piano at hand too, but he hadn’t needed to complain about that of late, as he had been regularly meeting with Jack while Christine visited Pauline.

They would do other things, of course; or had done other things in the days and months of their travels. Exploration and invention and simply talking for hours. They would eat late and make love, though last night they had not for reasons that also made Christine happy she would see Pauline today.

“There you are, right on time,” Pauline called when Christine arrived at Les Halles. The other woman already had two pastries in front of her, and cups of strong Italian coffee as well.

“Old habit,” Christine muttered as she sat.

“From the theater?” Pauline asked with a curious smile.

“Oh yes. Early is on time, and on time is late,” Christine replied, quoting so many maestros and conductors. “There are a hundred other people who want the same job; if you’re late, they’ll give it to one of them.”

“That sounds quite cutthroat,” Pauline said with a laugh.

“Oh, it is.” Christine took a sip of coffee as Pauline looked her over.

“Did you ever have any great rivals?” she asked with a grin. “I’m sure there was competition for the roles you wanted. Did you ever have to fight someone for it?”

Christine nearly choked on her drink but covered it with a cough. Pauline couldn’t know how many people’s lives had been destroyed at the Palais Garnier in the name of rivalry, and how much Christine was responsible for it. “A few.”

“Oh my! Do tell!”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing more interesting than what you encounter among artists,” Christine said, strained.

“I stole a girl’s oils and threw them in the river for looking at me wrong,” Pauline said with an utterly calm expression that chilled Christine to the bone – until she broke into a smile and laughed. “Or not.”

The joke put Christine at ease. “There was one woman who tried to have me fired, more than once. Because I was better than her.”

“What a bitch,” Pauline grinned. “I can’t imagine wanting to take away someone’s livelihood over something as silly as a stage performance.”

“Indeed.” Christine looked down at her untouched pastry, nauseous guilt rising inside her. Sometimes Carlotta featured in her nightmares, screaming for vengeance. Christine had earned her grace in the end, but it didn’t undo the things both of them had done. It didn’t bring back Joseph Buquet or...

“Are you alright?” Pauline asked, and Christine realized her distress must be showing.

“I’m fine,” she lied, plastering on a smile. “It’s all in the past, and I had my triumph over her. Well, with help.”

“From whom?” Pauline asked, eyebrows raised. “Your mysterious husband and teacher?”

Christine forced herself to take a bite of food so she wouldn’t have to answer.

She’d been incredibly careful with what she had told Pauline about Erik, not even revealing his name.

Of course, that had made her more curious.

“He was a great advocate for me when I was performing,” Christine said carefully.

“I’d love to have a man like that,” Pauline sighed. “Someone who would commit unspeakable acts if it meant making me happy.”

“I don’t know about unspeakable,” Christine sputtered around her mouthful.

“Well, you are married, and I have heard things,” Pauline chuckled. “You have to get that sort of thing in before all the babies come along.”

Christine swallowed before she choked this time, but it didn’t stop the sadness that welled up in her so powerfully that she couldn’t look Pauline in the face.

“Oh no, what did I say?” Pauline asked, reaching over to grip Christine’s arm.

“It’s nothing. It’s just that...” Christine sniffled and tried to compose herself. “We’ve been married for several months, and nothing has happened in that respect. I thought this month it might, but yesterday... I’m sorry, this isn’t polite conversation.”

Christine didn’t want to think about finding blood on her petticoats or the cramps in her gut. She didn’t want to think about Erik’s relief.

“I’m so sorry,” Pauline said, and it sounded like she meant it. Christine let out a little huff of a sob because it was what she needed to hear.

“It’s so stupid, really,” she began. “I know it’s not the time.

We’re not settled, and I’m still young, but I don’t have a career to nurture anymore, so there’s part of me that thinks I could have more meaning if I had a child.

I know that’s not a good reason to want a baby, and my husband certainly doesn’t want the complication, so I should be relieved, but—”

“It’s still a disappointment. I understand.

” Pauline’s eyes were soft when Christine met them, warm and comforting enough that Christine let out a sigh of relief to simply be seen in her secret grief.

“But you’re also right – you’re young and there’s a whole world out there to explore and see before you’re tied down.

I think it’s wonderful that you get to do whatever you like and go wherever you want. You’re so free.”

“Yes, that is true,” Christine said, though her voice quavered.

She wanted to tell Pauline that she had grown up with this type of freedom and so had Erik.

They had both wandered so long without a place to call home until they found the Opera.

Then they had given it up, to have each other, and returned to the freedom of open roads and vast skies.

Christine could not say aloud how tired she was becoming of that kind of freedom or how a life without a home sometimes felt like a prison too. Maybe that was changing, she told herself, as she looked at her new friend. Maybe this was where they would finally land.