Page 19 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

Erik grimaced as the man withdrew the gun from his coat and aimed it at Erik. The man had considered everything in laying this trap, and Erik was rusty. “I will make you pay for threatening her.”

“You will be the one paying, Monsieur. I look forward to doing business with you tomorrow,” Bidaut said and turned his back on Erik with the confidence of a man who couldn’t be struck down.

If Erik tried, it could mean doom for Christine.

How could he have been so stupid to leave her, thinking that was what would keep her safe?

Erik stood in the dark as Bidaut retreated, leaving him to the prison of his thoughts.

No train would take him the three hundred miles back to Lucca fast enough.

How could he get a telegram to Christine this late at night?

Would warning her put her in more danger?

How could he be sure of her safety or the threat to her either way?

Erik could do as he had been told, of course.

He could throw away the money and the easy start at a new life it represented.

They had barely touched it for the very reason that he seemed incapable of actually putting down roots anywhere that he might be forced to live as a real man and not a shadow. Life was so much harder that way.

Lucca

C hristine was grateful to see the first light of dawn against the sky.

She had not slept at all. It had been impossible to rest without Erik beside her.

All night, she had told herself he would be fine, but her fear had whispered back that he was in danger.

She had hoped that the light of day would return her sanity, but no; she was as afraid as before, if not more so.

She stared out the window to the hills of Tuscany to the north and prayed. She prayed for her husband’s safety. She prayed he could hear her, wherever he was.

“Erik, something is wrong,” she whispered to the brightening sky. “I can feel it, my angel. I wish you could hear my prayers.”

Only silence and the wind answered. At least it was acceptable now to get up and dress.

Christine took as long as she could, but it was still only seven o’clock when she finished.

Her stomach was growling, and her eyes were heavy with exhaustion in a way that only the strongest Italian coffee could cure.

It was a relief to find that the kitchen wasn’t empty, though it surprised her to see Howard there in shirtsleeves, adding fuel to the stove with a kettle already in place.

“I hope that’s for coffee and that you intend to share it,” Christine said.

The man turned to her with a smug smile, eyes twinkling. At least one person looked rested. “Of course, my dear Madame.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I have a key,” Howard replied. “I’m sorry if Jack didn’t tell you. I came to berate him for abandoning me last night.”

“Surely he’s not awake yet,” Christine laughed, seating herself at the table while Howard busied himself with the coffee grinder and set out three cups.

“Oh, he is. He probably didn’t sleep at all last night. If I know my friend, he’ll be slinking back from sweet Elvira’s in mere moments. Ahha.”

Perfectly on cue, the door that led out back from the kitchen opened to reveal Jack looking tousled and sheepish. “Both of you? Really?”

“I was just here for coffee,” Christine said with a shrug.

“I’m the one here to keep an eye on things,” Howard added with a wicked look. Jack hid his blush and shook his head.

“Are we meant to take you to the – come dici ? The office for the ship?” Jack asked Howard.

“You don’t both have to come,” Christine muttered as Howard placed a fresh cup of coffee in front of her that smelled heavenly. “I could probably manage.”

“These agents will take advantage of a lady alone, I fear,” Howard said. “I have nothing else to do, and Jack doesn’t want you to go. Or at least your genius husband.”

“Ah, basta ,” Jack groaned. “I said I don’t want him to go so far away. Your rainy little island is the most I will tolerate if they want to punish themselves with that language.”

“English is the tongue of Shakespeare and Milton,” Howard huffed.

“Do not listen to him, Christine,” Jack interjected. “You’re a singer. Tell me one great opera written for that bastard tongue! There is no music to it! It’s worse than German!”

Christine burst out laughing. “I don’t mind it. I’ve been studying it so I could read Shakespeare,” she countered. “I’m sure Erik will be flattered to hear you will miss him.”

“What is there in America?” Jack pushed back. “Everyone is going there! I can’t understand. At least all the Italians on their way lately know each other – you will know no one.”

“Perhaps it will be a good place for their careers,” Howard offered.

Christine avoided answering by taking a scalding sip of coffee. She had no career anymore. Perhaps she could find a new one doing... something? Somehow, she had to fill the time, but there was only so much a woman like her would be allowed to do. She hated that she was so limited.

“What about my career?” Jack whined.

“You’ll be fine,” Howard sighed. “One day the muse will strike.”

“The Angel of Music,” Christine murmured. “My father said the angel blesses musicians with inspiration. Erik was mine.”

“See? He’s a gift from God,” Jack argued, and Howard rolled his eyes.

“What if you go west? Jack is obsessed with all the stories of cattle thieves and train robbers in the desert out there.”

“That doesn’t sound too hospitable,” Christine said with a grimace. She had read some of those stories, too, and other tales of the vast lands America had claimed for herself in recent years. It felt wrong to expand so violently into the wild.

“How far is the ticket office?” Christine asked. “I would like to have all this arranged as soon as possible.”

“It’s on the other side of town, alas,” Jack replied.

“Then we should leave,” Christine declared, gulping down the rest of the coffee and springing from the table, much to the shock of the men. It served them right for making her question this choice of America (as well as her entire purpose in life).

The men followed her as she made her way to the front of the house and stepped into the street.

No hat or gloves, which would mark her as very unladylike, but she didn’t want to search for them.

Someone must have been shocked because Christine noted a female figure dart away as soon as she was outside.

“Which way?” she asked, breathing in the scent of the morning, still moist with dew.

“Right, my dear,” Howard chuckled, and Christine took off down the street.

She had to keep moving or the gnawing anxiety inside her would catch up to her and swallow her whole.

She had to accomplish something today that was meaningful and move them in some direction, even if it wasn’t the right one. She had to—

“Christine?” The female voice was not one Christine expected to hear, and she spun in shock to look at the speaker.

“Pauline?” Christine balked as the young woman embraced her, much to the chagrin of the men with her. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see the architecture,” Pauline replied with a smile as she withdrew.

She was in her customary sort of dress, collar buttoned high and her little cravat tidy, but her spectacles were askew and a few wisps of brown hair had escaped from under her hat.

As if she had rushed to reach Christine.

“I was inspired when you said you were visiting the hill towns. I didn’t expect to see you here! ”

“I – we—” Christine glanced at Jack and Howard. “We decided to meet a friend here, instead.”

Christine’s mind raced back to her last encounter with Pauline, right before Erik had spirited them off for their beautiful tour of Florence. When Pauline’s questions had become too much for her, and she had lied about leaving.

“Isn’t it a lovely city?” Pauline said, looking between Christine and her male companions and clearly expecting an introduction. Christine made a decision and twined her arm with Howard’s.

“It is. We have adored it. Pauline, I know you wanted to meet my husband. Your wish is granted,” Christine said with a smile. She watched Pauline’s face, and for a second, her smile faltered before she extended her hand.

“It is a pleasure,” Pauline said. “I would say that Christine has told me so much about you, but that is unfortunately not the case. You must be Jack.”

Jack extended a hand, and Pauline took it, as Christine’s stomach twisted. “Indeed. Though only my friends call me that. You can call me Signore—”

“We really must be off,” Christine cut in. Pauline blinked, and if Christine hadn’t been an actress herself, she wouldn’t have seen how she struggled for a moment to keep her mask up.

“Where are you headed? Perhaps we are going in the same direction,” Pauline asked sweetly.

“I'm escorting my friends to the navigation office, much against my will,” Jack replied, and Christine wanted to throttle him. “Perhaps you can convince them that America is a terrible place.”

“America!” Pauline gasped. “Oh dear, that is too far! Monsieur Gilbride, you can’t be serious.”

“I think it will suit us,” Howard said slowly, looking at Christine for some guidance.

Christine let go of Howard’s arm and advanced a step toward Pauline. The woman’s smile wavered again. “You’re right. I never told you much about my husband. Including his name.”

“Surely you did,” Pauline tried to laugh. “Or yours.”

“I did not tell you about Jack either,” Christine replied, cool and calm. “Jack, who you could have followed here to Lucca yesterday.”

Pauline made a scoffing sound that was immediately cut off by the force of Christine’s fist driving into her jaw. Pauline stumbled back, gripping her face as the men gaped at Christine’s show of violence.

“What on earth?” Pauline whined.

“My friends, would you be so kind as to seize this woman? I would like to have a discussion with her about who she is working for and what she wants with me and my husband.”