Page 46 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

“Why?” Jammes asked with a scowl. She was not that much taller than Giry, but she had a way of looking down her nose like she was a meter above, even so. “I hope it’s not for advice on your love life.”

“This is why you have no friends, you know,” Meg shot back, all her patience gone now. “You’re so... mean! For no good reason!”

“I have my reasons,” Jammes scowled back. Meg thought back to catching Jammes at the Masquerade, to what she knew of the older girl and all the secrets she had to keep.

“I wondered if you knew where I might find Julianne Bonet these days,” Meg asked carefully. Jammes’s face went slack for a moment before hardening again.

“Why would I know about her?” she snapped.

“She was your friend, wasn’t she?” Meg asked, feigning innocence. “She always paid special attention to you. I’m trying to find where she’s working now. I have things I want to ask her.”

“About me?” Jammes demanded, and Meg shook her head in surprise.

“About Christine Daaé and the affair with the ghost,” Meg confessed. Maybe Jammes knew something too.

“You mean Christine Daaé’s affair with the ghost.” Now that was interesting, but not entirely unsuspected. “Julianne would never reveal anything about Christine to anyone again. She made that mistake before.” To Meg’s shock, it looked like Jammes was about to cry.

“I’d like to find that out for myself,” Meg countered. “Or if you want to talk.”

Jammes rolled her eyes. “Last I heard, she had taken off with Adèle Valerius after her fall from grace, but it didn’t last long. I saw her a month or two ago, before she was dismissed.” At that, Jammes’s face darkened.

“She was dismissed?” Meg asked, truly shocked now. “I didn’t know that.”

Jammes looked positively ill, more and more as Meg stared at her. “I may have had something to do with it,” she confessed at last. “It was so stupid. I was jealous that she and Adèle were—”

Meg raised her eyebrows wide and Jammes stopped herself. Had she been about to imply what Meg suspected? “She was working for her and you wanted her back... with the dancers?” Meg offered, hoping Jammes would take the proffered escape.

“Yes. That,” Jammes said, clearing her throat. “It was unacceptable, so I, well, I talked to a patron that was showing me attention.”

“Oh no, Cécile,” Meg groaned.

“All he had to do was speak to the costume mistress or someone and it was done,” Jammes whispered. “It was too late and she couldn’t contact Moncharmin. I don’t think she wanted to. She was so angry at everything.”

“You mean you,” Meg corrected, and Jammes gave her a glare. “Rightly so, I think.”

“We had words that weren’t very friendly, so I have no idea where she’s gone off to,” Jammes barked. “Don’t go looking for her or asking about the witch Christine. Meddling in the ghost’s business never serves anyone well. You’ll end up mixed up with that horrible Persian.”

“You know Monsieur Motlagh?”

“I never bothered learning the villain’s name.” Any softness Jammes had let slip in was gone, replaced by haughty scorn. “But if you mean the Persian who forced me to be his spy, then yes. He had me passing his notes and forced me to—”

Jammes face turned fully to stone and she peered coldly at Meg. “What is it?” Meg asked, suddenly afraid of the woman’s wrath.

“Don’t trust him, whatever he wants you to do,” Jammes said. “He did awful things to track down the ghost and then left it all behind. For all I know, he’s the one who brought down the chandelier.”

“I don’t think—”

“You’re a child, Meg Giry, of course you don’t,” Jammes said with finality and stalked away down the hall.

Meg didn’t know what to say or think. She had even more questions now than before, and even less of an idea of where to find the answers.

She wished Shaya was still here to question or that she could get a moment with Armand Moncharmin.

Maybe Darius would tell her something? Though he was loyal to a fault.

Meg was beginning to fear that the only people who knew the truth about who the ghost had been were either long gone or would take their secrets to the grave.

Liverpool

T hey had traveled separately , by train and carriage, for more than a day.

Erik was tired down to his bones, but even so, he couldn’t bring himself to take the last steps to the foggy dock.

He knew Christine was waiting there with all they had to their name, waiting to board the ship that would take them to Dublin.

It wouldn't be a long voyage – a day only – but it was just the prelude to more trains and carriages to carry them to county Sligo and an uncertain fate.

Erik knew he would feel better – or at least human again – when he saw his angel, and more so when they were alone and he could fall at her feet, but he didn’t know if he deserved that. He chanced a few steps closer anyway, feeling like the cold, wet air was weighing him down.

“He should be here soon,” came the sound of Christine’s voice through the mist. Quiet. Apprehensive. She was waiting for him.

Erik froze.

“I’ll wait with you until he comes,” Letitia’s voice answered. “The train back isn’t until tomorrow and I have a room at the inn.”

She wasn’t alone, that was good. Wasn’t it? Erik had been glad of the idea for Christine to travel with her friends old and new to avoid detection. Bidaut and Pauline would be looking for them to travel together or separately: it was much easier to blend in with a group.

“Thank you. For everything,” Christine replied. Erik imagined her smile. It was easy to do; he’d spent months listening to her through walls and from the shadows. Imagining her beauty and perfection. Before he had ruined it. “It was good to laugh.”

“I’m sure you’ll make good use of the advice,” Letita replied, her voice warm and seductive. “And everything else.”

“Thank you for taking in Adèle as well. I promise it will only be for a—”

“Don’t mention it. We’ll have a lovely time,” Letitia hummed back. That should have consoled Erik too, but it only weighed upon him more.

Christine had been insistent about sending word to Adèle that she might be in danger.

She had been the one to make the full confession to her friend and proclaim that she had to stay with Letitia in safety for a while.

Adèle, for her part, had declared that she didn’t need protection from detectives, but she’d at least promised to indulge Christine for a while.

It didn’t make Erik feel any better. Of all the people their pursuit had endangered, Adèle deserved it the least. She had suffered because of them already and deserved peace.

“I’m sure you will,” Christine laughed in a warm, suggestive way that made something in Erik squirm. He inched closer.

“I’ll truly be sad not to have you at my next salon,” Letitia replied and again, there was filtration in the tone that Erik couldn’t understand. Or didn’t want to.

“Maybe when things settle down, we can still—” Christine’s voice caught with emotion, and Erik winced at the guilt stabbing him in the gut. She was crying and it was his fault. At least his guilt made him move.

He unfurled himself from the dark and appeared.

Christine saw him first and he didn’t deserve the light in her face.

In a heartbeat, Christine was there, pulling him into her arms. Erik was so shocked that it took him a moment to hug her back.

Was she genuinely happy to see him? Why?

His whole body felt tired and stiff, but it was still bliss to melt into her, to feel her against him.

He let out a shaking breath as he was finally made whole, though he deserved to remain broken.

“You’re late,” Christine muttered into his shoulder.

“We knew you’d arrive in the most dramatic way,” Letitia added. Erik met her eyes over Christine’s head and she gave a soft smile. It confused him as well. This woman had also seen him. Wasn’t she appalled now?

“I’m sorry,” Erik said automatically, the easiest words that seemed to come to him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Christine sighed. She was so kind. “We should board. They’ve already taken our things.”

“I—” Erik began to protest, but there was no fight left in him against this path. “Thank you, Letitia, for taking care of her for me.” Not that he was particularly good at it.

“She takes care of herself quite well. I just kept her company,” Letitia corrected, and rightly so. Erik already felt seasick.

“Safe journeys. I do hope to hear from you soon, my loves, somehow,” Letitia said with a wink. “Good luck.”

“Thank you. The same to you,” Christine replied. Letitia gave Christine one more knowing look before squeezing her shoulder and leaving them alone.

Erik was happy to let Christine guide him from there.

She always took the lead when they traveled, and he was always thankful for it.

The ship was small and would get them to Dublin fast enough, carrying a few English travelers and money to return with Irish beef and other goods to sell.

Leaving little for the people that had made and raised those goods.

Soon enough, Christine had presented their tickets, and a crewman showed them to the cabin where their things were waiting.

It was a small wooden box with a lumpy bed in a corner and a porthole looking out to sea. Hardly comparable to some of the finer places they had stayed or ways they had traveled, but it felt appropriate.

“You should rest,” Christine said as Erik’s gaze remained on the bed. “I know you haven’t slept since London.”

“I’ve dozed,” Erik muttered. He took the order to heart, even so, stripping off his cloak and mask and then flopping onto the miserable mattress. It was hard and smelled of mildew, but the pillow was soft enough. Soft too were Christine’s arms around him.

“You can stop torturing yourself, you know,” Christine whispered in his ear. He had to be dreaming it. “You’re angrier at all of this than I am right now.”

“It shouldn’t be like this,” Erik argued, exhaustion already dragging him down. “You deserve better.”