Page 40 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

The maid let Erik in and led him to the parlor.

The sight that greeted him was as pleasant as it was hard to believe.

Christine was beautiful in green, her smile broad and her eyes full of light.

His wife – his wife! – rushed to him and embraced him in the presence of a friend, who also smiled to see him.

Adèle had every reason to resent them or be wary, but there was welcome in her face too.

“You’re late,” Christine admonished with a grin, guiding Erik to a seat as he took off his layers of concealment.

“I had a minor adventure on the way,” Erik said. It wasn’t a lie, but it drew a stern look from Christine that was quite delightful. “What counts is that I’m here.”

“Yes, though it will cost me a pound,” Adèle sighed. “We had a bet and I was foolish to think your wife didn’t know you.”

“She knows me more than anyone,” Erik replied.

“Speaking of, I have not heard back from Shaya, before you ask,” Adèle said. Erik tried not to let that worry him. Letters were slow and there could be any number of reasons for the delay. “This business with someone lurking about the Opéra must infuriate you.”

“Annoys, more like,” Erik replied, folding himself onto Adèle’s couch next to Christine with his hand in hers. “I worked hard to create my legend and reputation. I can’t just let anyone take it.”

“You let me and Julianne take it easily enough,” Adèle corrected.

Christine smirked. “I can’t say I’m not jealous. I always wanted to know what it was like to lurk about the Opéra frightening ballet rats.”

“There was more to it than that,” Erik grumbled.

“There’s a real ghost at Covent Garden,” Adèle said, picking up a cup from the side table and pouring fresh tea into it from a porcelain pot, as English as could be. “More than one, I think.”

“Well, it’s a proper theater then. Any building with a stage needs a resident spirit,” Erik said, taking it.

“You told me you heard things in the cellars, felt things,” Christine added, shivering. “I felt it too, I think. Restless dead things. None of them took boxes though.”

“The Opéra certainly has reason to host such spirits,” Adèle said, then frowned to herself. “Though I think a few of them would be better served in hell.”

She meant Antoine, who truly deserved to rot in those haunted cellars and writhe in hell. Erik could see the same thought flash through Christine’s mind. He saw her eyes become distant and her face pale, as memory overtook her. Erik grasped her hand, hoping to hold her in the present.

“They do,” Christine whispered, blinking back to life and meeting Erik’s eyes.

“Are you alright for money?” Erik asked Adèle.

“What? I’m paid well, if that’s what you mean,” Adèle replied suspiciously.

“There was an inheritance and if anyone deserves it—” Erik began, but Adèle stopped him with a glare.

“You don’t owe me compensation, or any legacy of his. He’s dead, and that’s enough,” Adèle said with unquestionable steel in her tone.

Erik nodded. “Very well.”

“That money is for you to start a life,” Adèle went on. “Which I really think you two need to get around to at some point. Unless your plan is to simply wander the great cities of the world until you expire.”

“I’m sure the thought has crossed my husband’s mind,” Christine muttered, and Erik felt a stab of guilt at her tone. “We did try, in the Alps, but—”

“It was too remote and backward,” Erik cut in. “I’m not suited for village life.”

“Then stay here, in London. There’s music and amusement enough,” Adèle said. “Or is it too close to Paris?”

“There’s not much we could do without attracting attention when it comes to music,” Christine said.

“You could compose under an assumed name,” Adèle suggested.

“Not that the English have much in the way of opera. There are a few symphonists that are promising – Elgar, Grieg – but they have yet to produce a composer of their own capable of the true grandiosity required of the stage. Perhaps one day. Or perhaps you.”

Erik looked between the two women as he considered it. “Such an idea had never occurred to me.”

“Because all your life, you wanted acclaim in your own right as revenge,” Christine said simply and Erik gaped at her. “You’ve passed that now though. Matured. I think a pseudonym is worth pursuing.”

“I’d still need to meet with producers and conductors and...” Erik sighed, shaking his head. “It would fall apart.”

“There could be a way,” Christine said. “Don’t let go of it so fast.”

“We were talking about something else though, weren’t we?” Erik said as he sipped his tea. “An idea that offends both my Irish and French blood.”

“Staying in London among the English,” Christine laughed. “Would it be so terrible?”

“No,” Erik said and saw the surprise on Christine’s face. “It’s why I was going to ask how Adèle went about acquiring such a house and if there was a solicitor she might introduce us to.”

Though Erik had doubts and reservations about the idea, the delight on Christine’s face was worth the worry. Maybe they had found a place to stay.

Paris

T he Salon du Danse was a forest of bodies, and all of them were taller than Meg.

The space behind the stage was always a madhouse after a performance, but tonight, it felt particularly overwhelming.

It was an odorous jungle of gowns and black suits.

It didn’t help that the floor was raked at the same angle as the stage, making the place all the more disconcerting to navigate for someone so small.

Meg would need to jump to see over the crowd.

She was ready to do it too if it meant finding Monsieur d’Amboise.

She settled for rising en pointe , which was easy, as she was still in her white tulle skirt and pointe shoes.

Everyone would know she was a dancer this way, and the patrons enjoyed seeing girls in their revealing clothes – even if, for Meg, it was little more than the uniform. Surely she could find him...

“What are you doing here, Meg Giry?” someone hissed in her ear, making her jump. She spun to see Rochelle, looking thunderous, with Jammes beside her.

“I was looking for—” Meg stopped herself. Rochelle had kept her from seeing d’Amboise before. “Blanche.”

“Oh, she’s far too popular right now to be bothered with her real friends,” Rochelle sneered. “With all the stories she has to tell.”

“Thanks to me!” Meg squawked, noting how Jammes rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that old news now?”

“A secret marriage and child? Hardly,” a voice said at Meg’s elbow. It was Marie. She looked much like Meg in her tutu, hair up and tied with a silken ribbon. She was the very image of her statue, right down to the proud upward tilt of her chin.

“They aren’t even patrons anymore,” Meg muttered, wondering if the story was being shared around them now, whispered from person to person, spreading the same way colds tended to among the dancers.

“I don’t think ruining the de Chagny family name will do well for Blanche’s ambitions to be the next Comtesse,” Rochelle said with an air of world-weary annoyance.

“As if anyone will ever compare to the great Christine Daaé,” Jammes said, finally deigning to speak. “I know the Comte well enough to tell you that. He was obsessed with that witch like everyone else.”

“Speaking of old stories,” Rochelle said, rolling her eyes. “Next will you tell us how it was you who alerted Raoul about Buquet?”

Jammes gave Rochelle a glare then turned it on Meg, eyes narrowing. “I do know him better than most of you and Blanche. Why didn’t you ask me to go with you, Meg?” Jammes demanded.

“Probably because you’re a miserable shrew and she’s terrified of you,” Marie said without any hesitation, nor did she seem bothered when Jammes gave her a horrified look.

“I was going to say we aren’t very close,” Meg stammered. To her shock, Jammes looked more hurt than angry. “I apologize.”

Jammes’s face hardened again. “I don’t care,” she said, her gaze shifting to the milling crowd. “There are better ways to gain a patron.”

“I was hoping to see Monsieur d’Amboise,” Meg said unsteadily, avoiding a look from Rochelle in favor of looking penitently at Jammes. The grin she gave Meg was as troubling as one of her glares.

“Oh, I know where he is,” Jammes said and took Meg by the hand. Meg found herself led through the crowd to a corner of the salon. Lo and behold, d’Amboise was there with his friend Clermont.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Giry!” d’Amboise exclaimed. He looked particularly oily today, as if he’d added a fresh coat of lacquer to attend the Opéra. Clermont beside him was much more handsome, if only by comparison.

“You know our dear, young Meg?” Jammes said with a saccharine smile. “You’re so lucky to catch her tonight without her mother in tow; she’s usually chaperoned.”

“I told her I was going to supper with Blanche,” Meg said and the men’s faces lit up. It was fine. This was part of the plan.

“We are fortunate indeed to have such lovely company,” Clermont said. He gave Jammes a look from toe to nose, his eyes pausing at her chest so that he didn’t see the disgust on her face. Meg could feel d’Amboise looking at her the same way.

“Does that mean you’re free for supper?” d’Amboise asked, touching Meg’s elbow.

Warnings old and recent about the patrons rang in her head and her skin crawled at the touch.

She wasn’t like Rochelle or Jammes or the other dancers; she wouldn't give up her virtue for a few francs and a chance of elevation. She would get what she wanted instead.

“Can we not converse as friends first? Or walk the Opéra? I’m sure the Grand Foyer is lovely this time of night, now that the crowds have gone,” Meg said as coyly as she could manage.

“Of course,” d’Amboise said with a grin. “It would be my pleasure.”