Page 15 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

Meg had never been terribly good with names.

She didn’t know the name of every girl in the corps de ballet.

Some days, she could hardly tell them apart in their identical white tulle skirts.

The same was true of the patrons. They all looked the same in their black suits, top hats, and silk cravats.

Their heights, hair colors, builds, and ages varied, yes, but there was a sameness about all those men that went beyond even that of the ballerinas.

They all looked at girls like Meg the same way, with the same cold calculus in their eyes.

Meg had grown accustomed to ignoring them years ago.

Now she regretted that. She needed to know what Messieurs Goncourt et al had done to earn a ghost’s ire.

A few of them did have paramours among the dancers, as Tremblay had with Rochelle.

De Montier was often seen with a pouting, aloof girl named Anastasia (a name everyone knew was a fiction), and Sabran, a garrulous older man, was smitten with a talented dancer named Hermine, who had received great prominence since Sorelli’s star had begun to fade.

What of the others? Meg had circled the patrons’ names on the page in her little notebook where she had copied them down.

As far as she knew, nothing had happened to the remaining four after Tremblay’s incident.

Last night had been uneventful in the Salon du Danse , but Meg didn’t know about outside.

Meg tucked her notebook behind a box of old helmets and blew out the oil lamp.

She could see well enough to get through the mess in the near darkness, thanks to the light from the hall.

She wondered how soon the gas lights would be replaced.

The process of converting the Opéra had already begun with the chandelier, which glowed brighter than ever now that it had been outfitted with the new electric light.

Meg hoped not too soon. The modern illumination was so harsh, and she feared it would take away some of the magic of the great building.

It felt haunted, Meg mused as she climbed the steps from the cellar up to the dance studio hidden under one of the small domes on each side of the building.

It felt the same as walking in the cemetery when they went to visit Father, or when she had gone to the crypts at Saint-Denis .

There was a weight to the air in the Opéra.

It left for a while, but now, it felt heavier than ever.

Maybe he was mad about the new chandelier.

“I’m afraid to walk alone now!” a voice said from inside the studio before Meg could enter. It was Sorelli herself, sounding put upon and pathetic. “I don’t know if I can stand all this stress.”

“So you’ve said.” That was Jammes speaking. Meg peeked through the door at the group. They were gathered around the person Meg had hoped to catch practicing early with the other soloist – Hermine. “But this is not about you.”

“Her patron was attacked just like my Philippe!” Sorelli yelped, and Meg’s heart seized. There had been another attack.

“Monsieur Sabran is nothing like your Philippe,” Hermine sneered. She didn’t look as upset as Meg would have assumed at hearing such news. “He’s half-deaf and drinks too much. He probably fell on his face and blamed it on a robber.”

“I heard his arm was broken,” Jammes said darkly. “And right after you said the other day you hoped he’d end up like Monsieur Tremblay and never touch you again.”

“What are you implying, Cécile?” Hermine growled. “I was with Sorelli and our friends last night at her flat. You remember friends, don’t you? You used to have them.”

“And Jammes wouldn’t know much about what some must tolerate to please a man,” Sorelli added, which made Meg blush on Jammes’s behalf.

Meg herself had never spoken to anyone of seeing Jammes in the arms of another woman at the masquerade months ago – but rumors had a way of spreading in the Opéra.

Maybe Julianne had said something, though it occurred to Meg for the first time that Christine Daaé’s former dresser had not returned to the Opéra when it reopened.

Sorelli’s barb set a fire in Jammes’s eyes, and she spun away from the other dancer, making for the door.

Meg had no time to hide as Jammes wrenched the door open and revealed her. “What are you doing lurking out here, you little sneak? More secret business I’m not needed for?”

“I...” Meg met Sorelli’s eyes over Jammes’s shoulder. “I heard about poor Monsieur Sabran. I wanted to make sure Hermine wasn’t too upset.”

“In hopes of getting in a soloist’s good graces to advance yourself?” Jammes accused.

“Cécile, calm down,” Hermine chided. “Meg was just being kind. You should try it sometime.”

Jammes gave them all a final huff and stormed past Meg.

“What is wrong with her lately?” Sorelli sighed. “Of all the people to be put upon, with all this violence.”

“Unlike you,” Hermine sighed.

“I loved Philippe,” Sorelli crowed.

“And I hated Georges,” Hermine countered. “What matters is that this is the second time one of our patrons has been attacked: this time, right outside the Opéra on the Rue Auber ! Next time, it might be one of us. It might be worse than a robbery.”

“So he was robbed?” Meg asked. The other women looked at her suspiciously. “I heard it was just a beating.”

“Why would someone attack a rich man and not rob him?” Sorelli snorted.

“Maybe he was on someone’s list,” Meg said before she could stop herself. “Of enemies! I mean. Men like that – of influence, like him and Tremblay – they make enemies.”

“Everyone enjoyed him,” Hermine replied. “Except his wife and I and whoever came before me, I guess.”

Meg was about to ask more when she heard it. A soft sound through the dark from far down the hall: laughter.

“Who was that?” Meg squeaked, spinning around to see the source of the sound. She found nothing but shadows.

“Who was what?” Sorelli asked.

“I have to go,” Meg said and rushed towards where she had heard the sound. There, rounding the corner, was a shadow – she was sure of it. She saw it for only a moment but it was there. Meg sped up, pursuing the phantom but came to an empty dead end. He had disappeared, like always.

Meg knew what she had seen, though. She knew what she had heard.

More importantly, another of the men on the ghost’s list had been attacked.

She needed to warn the others. Who knew if they were destined for a fate like Tremblay’s or one like Philippe de Chagny’s?

Meg certainly didn’t want that on her conscience.

Lucca

E rik wished, more than anything, that he could take the mask off and feel the fresh air on his cheeks.

They had been in Lucca for three days, keeping to Jack’s rooms in his family’s house and trying their best not to be seen until it started to drive them mad.

Christine had begged him to come with her on a walk along the old walls of the city.

The walls were wide and easy to walk. Laid out in a jagged pattern, the old fortifications had once protected Lucca from enemies from the land to the east and the sea to the west. Now, as the sun set and silence stretched between him and his wife, Erik did not know if any place would ever feel safe for them again.

“Jack should be there when we get back,” Erik sighed as he looked out over the darkening landscape.

“And that will make a difference for us?” Christine asked, not disguising the hopelessness in her voice.

“I hope he will have a telegram back from Tissot with answers.” It wasn’t safe to contact the solicitor from Lucca, so Jack had done it for them in Florence. “It might give us some idea of who is after us. Me.”

He dared at last to look at Christine. Her auburn hair was half-loose, strands wafting in the evening breeze. Even now, her beauty was devastating. Such sadness and worry filled her forest eyes, and it was there because of him.

“Then what? Where will we go?”

“I don’t know,” Erik answered sadly.

“When we began this, it felt like the whole world was ours to explore,” Christine went on listlessly. “I thought I would be able to wander with you anywhere; that as long as we had each other, it would be fine. I thought it might be like life with Father before he got sick, but, Erik...”

“It’s not enough, I know,” he finished for her, and the regret in her face at the truth of those words rent his heart. “You deserve a home and a life. You always have.”

“We deserve that. Both of us,” Christine argued. It was useless to tell her how little he agreed. “We swore vows to one another to walk this road together. Do not forget that, Erik.”

Erik forced himself to nod, trying to claw back his reason and faith in her from the dark place in his mind to which it had fallen. “We could go to England, put a channel between us and the continent.”

“You hate England.”

“I hate the English, but I could cope,” Erik muttered, but he knew that it wasn’t convincing.

“America then. There’s enough room there. Though the crossing would drive you mad.”

“It’s only a week, we would be fine if we kept to our rooms,” Erik argued. Why was he arguing for a place he didn’t want to go? “But then we’d be in New York.”

“Another huge city where we know no one and I can’t understand a word that’s being said,” Christine sighed. “Though I guess that would be the case anywhere. We can’t go back to France. It’s too close to whoever it is.”

“America is a great land with great opportunities,” Erik mused.

“Though I have heard that the powerful are not fond of those who aren’t like them.

Half the country fought and died in a war so they could keep human beings enslaved.

Not to mention how they’ve treated the Irish and Italians that have flocked there. ”

“It might be better than running for our lives forever,” Christine countered, but her energy had flagged. “I guess there’s Ireland. Your home by blood.”