Page 35 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

“Why did you bring me here?” Christine asked softly, voice thick with emotion.

She looked out on the darkened auditorium.

It was much smaller than the Palais Garnier.

The seats were still red velvet, but the walls were plastered with ivory paint, and their decoration not nearly as ostentatious.

A row of unlit candelabrum adorned the overhang of the balcony, and high above hung a dark chandelier.

Best not to think too much on that. What concerned Erik more was the rehearsal piano remaining on the stage.

“Because it has been too long since I have heard you sing for me in a place like this,” Erik confessed. “That is what I miss most of all.”

“The acoustics?” Christine joked, but Erik could see she was moved by the gesture.

“The magic,” he countered. “What would you like to sing, my love?”

Erik sat at the piano, waiting. There was no aria that she could choose that he wouldn't know. She looked at him from the center of the stage, her eyes bright with love. “The Bellini we were working on in Florence, please.”

“An excellent choice,” Erik said, and began to play. He didn’t have to look down at his fingers, so he could watch her. His goddess of love and song at whose feet he worshipped.

“ Casta diva ...” Christine began, becoming Norma and calling to an ancient goddess of the moon.

Her voice spun out in glorious sound, smooth and bright at the same time, like moonlight itself.

It wasn’t perfect, not polished as she had been months before on the Opéra stage, but it didn’t have to be.

It didn’t matter if a trill was missing there or a note was flat here, his angel sang out of love and joy, and it was utter perfection to Erik’s ears.

She sang for him and for herself, letting her voice rise to the heavens, filling the dark theater with a different kind of light. It was magic he had sorely missed, but he was so happy to share with her once again.

When her aria concluded, it was Erik’s turn to choose and he began the accompaniment to a sweeping duet, a confession of love and devotion by Bizet. Then another song. And another. Their voices rang out for no one but each other and the ghosts that might watch from the shadows.

Paris

“T ell me again why I’m about to humiliate myself?” Blanche demanded for perhaps the seventh time.

“I’m solving a mystery,” Meg replied, yanking her friend across the bridge as they approached the Faubourg Saint-Germain .

Meg didn’t know this arrondissement well at all.

Her kind of people (poor, young, performers – take your pick) were not welcome in the neighborhoods of the wealthy and well-to-do.

“That makes no sense! You’re a dancer, Meg Giry, not a—whatever else you’re trying to be.” Blanche trotted after Meg, trying to keep up with her frantic pace.

Meg didn’t want to waste too much time on a conversation she didn’t want to have. Was she supposed to tell Blanche that, since she was the only one who had a passing friendship with Sorelli, and thus the de Chagny family, she was the most convenient accomplice?

“If it works, you’ll have a delicious rumor to spread: how about that?” Meg muttered as she stopped and checked the blue and white street signs mounted to a wall. “Here we are.”

“If what works? I don’t even understand what you’re trying to discover with all this!”

“You’ll know,” Meg countered. “Do you recall your part?”

“It’s not that complicated to attempt to return a watch,” Blanche sighed. “More so to keep someone entertained while you do something stupid.”

“I’ll only attempt the stupidity if I have a good chance.” Meg’s stomach grew uneasy thinking about the plot and the possibilities.

“You’re mad. I’m looking forward to telling you I told you so,” was all Blanche offered with a shake of her head.

“Noted.” Meg took a steadying breath as they reached their target.

The de Chagny manor was not notable among the other houses of the Faubourg. If anything, it was rather austere and old-fashioned, and the hedges looked like they needed a good trim. The gate was open, at least, and they didn’t have to wait long for a butler to open the door.

He looked annoyed at Meg and Blanche’s very presence, which Meg thought was unfair. They were nicely dressed, with clean gloves and hats. Blanche’s even had a lovely flower tucked into the band.

“Good afternoon,” Blanche began, as planned. She was older and prettier than Meg, which made her the natural focus of the man. “We don’t have an appointment but we were hoping the Mademoiselle la Vicomtesse or Monsieur le Comte were in. We think we have something that belonged to their family.”

“Give it here; I’ll show them,” the butler replied.

“No offense, Monsieur, but we’d like to take it to them personally. It’s too precious a thing to risk it going astray,” Meg piped in. She knew it was rude and, indeed, the butler’s eyes widened in offense, but it was better to have him off balance.

“Mademoiselle la Vicomtesse is occupied today,” the butler grumbled. “And her dear brother is also quite busy with matters of business.”

“We won’t be long!” Blanche said sweetly, trying to be charming but arriving at simpering.

The butler sighed powerfully and gestured for them to enter. Meg’s heart jumped in private triumph. She had completed one step. Onto the next.

They were shown into a parlor with a handsome fireplace that remained unlit. It was still summer, of course, but the room was cold and a certain darkness lurked in the corners.

“Wait here. He’ll see you when it’s convenient,” the butler said and shut the door behind him as he left.

“Well, this is nice,” Blanche murmured, looking around at the books on the shelves and a dusty globe. “Nicer than Monsieur Tremblay’s flat at least.”

“He had a flat?” Meg asked, aware the moment she said it that the flat wasn’t the worrying part of that statement.

“I think he had a house too. Somewhere around here.” Blanche’s face was impassive as she spoke, her eyes staying to the windows and the street beyond.

“But he keeps a flat close to the Opéra for convenience. I went with Rochelle once before she was relieved of him. Come to think of it, it might not even be his alone. Just a place the patrons use when one of them needs it.”

“For seduction,” Meg whispered, scandalized.

Blanch scoffed and gave her a withering look. “Seduction is not the word for it.”

“Do you know what happened to Rochelle there?” Meg asked fearfully, but Blanche waved the question away.

“Nothing of the kind would happen here. Raoul de Chagny is a better man than the other patrons. And not just because he’s younger and handsome,” Blanche giggled, and Meg rolled her eyes.

She didn’t want Blanche distracted. “Do you remember how mad with jealousy we all were when the Vicomte – at the time – was so enamored of Christine Daaé? And after she laughed in his face, the lunatic.”

“Maybe he’s seen the light now,” Meg wondered aloud. “I mean, after she broke their engagement and went off wherever.”

“Do you think he’s ready to love again?” Blanche mused. “He’s so handsome.”

“Please don’t throw yourself at him,” Meg sighed. “He’s sworn off the Opéra entirely now that his lady love is long gone. He probably won’t be interested in artists.”

“Well, maybe not you,” Blanche shrugged. “How rich do you think they are?”

Meg looked around the parlor. It wasn’t gilded in gold like the grand salons at the Opéra, seeking to be another Versailles, but it wasn’t crumbling either. It was simply empty.

They jumped when the door opened and the man of the house entered.

Meg had only ever seen Raoul de Chagny from afar, and that had been months ago.

In less than half a year, he seemed to have aged five.

He had a beard now, of the same fair brown color as his hair.

There were circles under his eyes and a somberness to his expression that was entirely new.

Perhaps losing a brother did that to a person.

“Good day, Monsieur le Comte,” Blanche said first, making a rather awkward curtsey that Meg was sure was unnecessary. “Thank you for seeing us.”

“I'm terribly busy. What is it?” the Comte replied tiredly.

“Busy with what?” Meg asked, hoping she looked as foolish as she was making herself sound. Shaya had told her to use the fact that everyone would underestimate her as a weak, silly girl to her advantage, and she meant to. “Surely you don’t need to work like us.”

“My family owns many business interests and lands, as all nobles do, and they do not manage themselves,” Raoul replied tightly.

“Philippe never mentioned that,” Blanche said, oblivious to the way the words darkened Raoul’s face.

“Yes, I know intimately now how much my late brother assumed, as you seem to, that we needed only to spend money and not worry about the maintenance of it,” Raoul grumbled.

“It’s your brother that brings us here, Monsieur,” Meg piped up and received a doubtful frown. “I found this, you see, in the cellars.”

Meg produced the gold watch from her pocket. It was a lovely piece; she would have to ask Shaya where he had procured it.

“And she showed it to me and I recognized it, I’m sure,” Blanche added. “I’m Blanche Carcaux. You may remember me. I was a friend of Philippe’s.”

“You mean of Sorelli’s.” Raoul corrected, unimpressed. “You do look vaguely familiar.” He looked over Meg with a combination of boredom and disdain.

“Margaret Giry. I’m called Meg,” she answered with a polite smile.

“Giry. I know that name from somewhere,” Raoul muttered, peering more intently at Meg. She had to ball her hands into fists to keep herself from squirming.

“Her mother was the ghost’s box keeper,” Blanche interjected, to Meg’s horror. It was a mistake for Blanche to say that because the Comte’s expression changed from annoyed to thunderous.

“Your mother ran errands for that horrid demon, and you come to me with a watch you conveniently found in the Opéra?” he asked, a threat in his tone.