Page 49 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

“I’m sure he warned you to be careful when you walk at night. To never follow a light in the woods or the sound of mysterious music. The good folk may lure you in and ask you to dance. It would seem like a night, but an entire year would pass and you’d be dust at the end.”

“I shall try to remember,” Christine intoned. “You would come after me though, wouldn’t you?”

“I would. I would sack the very halls of the Tuatha dé Danann.” Christine looked up in curiosity, signaling that her poet should continue his tale.

“That is the noble court of the good folk. Some say they are the old gods of this land. They fought many battles over the years, against rival clans and monsters called the Fir Bolg. Their great hero was a god of fire and wisdom, called Lugh...”

Paris

M eg felt very silly waiting outside Monsieur Moncharmin’s office in her ballet clothes, but she was required back at rehearsal soon and there was no point in changing.

At least she matched the new painting. Monsieur Moncharmin must have had it hung up in recent months, for Meg didn’t remember seeing it before.

It was one of Monsieur Degas’s larger works, full of vibrant blues and whites, depicting dancers on this Opéra’s very stage.

Meg didn’t personally like the old painter who had made Little Marie so famous and who used the petits rats as muses.

He was grumpy and seemed to hate women as people as much as he loved them as subjects.

He wasn’t particularly good at faces, Meg decided, continuing to admire the work.

All his dancers looked alike and she couldn’t tell who anyone was.

She wondered if she was supposed to. The edges of the figures in the painting were blurred, like they were in water, or perhaps in an old man’s memory, since he couldn’t have painted it from a seat in the stalls.

It didn’t depict who Meg and the other dancers were, just how one man saw them – as swirling wisps of white, ever ephemeral and pure.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Giry.”

She turned at the sound of Monsieur Moncharmin’s voice. He looked more tired than when she had last seen him. Had there always been a bit of silver in his chestnut hair or had running the Opéra on his own aged him?

“Thank you for finally summoning me,” Meg said. “I’ve been coming by for days.”

“I know, I’ve been very busy,” Moncharmin groaned. He tugged Meg into a corner, rather than into his office, which was odd. “Unfortunately, the situation in the cellars – as it were – is not what I called you here for.”

“But I’ve been helping Monsieur Motlagh!” Meg protested. “I might have solved part of the case. At least the motive.”

Moncharmin sighed and Meg didn’t like it at all. “He’s got you talking of cases and motives? How old are you?”

“I turned fifteen last June,” Meg said proudly, chin held high. It took her a moment to realize this wasn’t the boast she thought it was, thanks to Moncharmin’s pitying look. “Shaya trusted me to help him.”

“Monsieur Motlagh sent you into dangerous situations to ferret out answers he couldn’t get himself, you mean,” Moncharmin corrected with a sigh. “I would have asked him not to risk my employees had he consulted me, and now I have to deal with this mess.”

“He’s not risking me,” Meg cried, but Moncharmin frowned.

“Mademoiselle, have you any idea what I’ve been dealing with in the last few days?” he demanded, lowering his voice secretively and glancing to the closed door of his office.

Meg shook her head. This felt like the time when she was a child and one of the nuns at her school had found Meg sneaking to the kitchen to steal the old bread and give it to a man on the street. “No, Monsieur.”

“I received a remarkably interesting visit from a Monsieur Pomeroy. I think you know him.”

Meg grew queasy. “I...”

“He wanted to know why a client who had engaged him was dancing in the ballet under another name.” Moncharmin’s face was sympathetic but his voice was serious.

“It was Shaya’s idea. They were spying on him for Sabine de Chagny,” Meg tried to explain, but Moncharmin looked unimpressed.

“I assured the good detective that I had no idea what he meant. He didn’t believe me, but I think he was here for some other reason I can’t discern, so he let it go.”

“He’s investigating this new ghost too!” Meg cried, and then yelped as Moncharmin covered her mouth with his hand.

“Shhh!” Moncharmin ordered. “You are to say nothing of that when you go inside. Do you hear me? You will explain that you were looking into a rumor about Sabine de Chagny on a dare from some other dancer as part of a juvenile joke.”

“What?” Meg asked when he removed his hand.

“I have had to deal with the most unpleasant of visitors today, and you’re going to help me make him go away,” Moncharmin said as the door of his office opened.

“What in blazes is taking so long?” demanded the man who stood at the door.

Meg was sure she was the same shade of white as her tutu, because it was the Comte de Chagny glaring at her.

Of course the consequences had come now that Shaya was gone. Meg had to face this alone.

“I was just explaining the situation to Mademoiselle Giry here,” Moncharmin told the Comte. He took Meg by the elbow and steered her into his office, shutting the door behind her and leaving her alone with two men decades older than her and twice her size.

“I don’t see what there is to explain,” Raoul declared. “This girl and her accomplice violated my household and spread vicious rumors about my sister. She needs to be dismissed.”

“What?” Meg squawked, turning to Moncharmin. He looked equally as shocked by the demand as Meg. “It was a dare! I had heard from la Sorelli—”

“Of course it was that cow,” Raoul muttered. “No doubt in search of more attention and compensation.”

“Comp-compensation?” Meg asked.

“You dancers and artists,” Raoul said like it was an insult.

“You get your claws in a man and think you can command him to do anything because you offer amusement that he could easily find in a brothel. The only difference between you and the real whores is, for some reason, my peers think it holds cachet to bed your kind.”

There was such hatred in the man’s face that Meg was speechless. Christine Daaé had not only broken Raoul’s heart when she left him; the loss had curdled his soul.

“Monsieur, please,” Moncharmin protested, stepping between Meg and the Comte to block his righteous gaze. “These were the actions of a young, foolish girl. It’s my impression that the other one was the source of the gossip.”

“No, don’t blame Blanche,” Meg said, panic rising. “She needs this job. She was only there because of me.”

Raoul scoffed, but Moncharmin placed a consoling hand on Meg’s shoulder. “No one will be let go. Mademoiselle Giry simply must apologize now that the situation has been explained.”

“Now, see here—” Raoul began, but Moncharmin raised a hand to silence him.

“No. Monsieur,” the manager cut in, voice dire.

“You barge into my opera months after withdrawing your patronage and expect to be treated like you still have a stake in anything that goes on here. You insult my employees and demand their dismissal merely because, through them, the truth came out. Yes, the truth, Monsieur le Comte. You and your sister have other affairs to attend to and you have no rights here. Please leave.”

Raoul glowered at the older man, and Meg decided that whatever anger she had felt for Moncharmin in the past few days would be reduced by at least half now.

“What of my apology?” the Comte asked at last, lip curling.

“I’m sorry,” Meg said. She didn’t mean that she was sorry for anything she had done. She was only sorry she had not done more.

“Fine. It seems this damnable place has sunk even lower since I rid myself of its nonsense,” Raoul said. “Perhaps I shall have to be more watchful.”

“There will be no need,” Moncharmin said firmly. He made no move to assist as the nobleman gathered his hat and gloves before storming out, slamming the door behind him. Meg sank into a chair the moment Raoul was gone, sick with worry and released tension.

“I am sorry, Monsieur,” Meg exhaled. “I know this has caused you great trouble.”

“I’ll survive. I’ve dealt with worse,” Moncharmin said as he slumped towards his chair and collapsed, scrubbing his hand over his face so that he disturbed his glasses.

“Thank you for not firing me,” Meg added. “I don’t know how I’d survive.”

“I don’t fire people on the whim of patrons,” Moncharmin replied, sounding rather proud of himself.

Meg frowned. “What about Julianne Bonet?”

“Who?” Moncharmin asked, squinting.

“Christine Daaé’s old dresser,” Meg reminded him, annoyance growing.

“Yes, of course. I didn’t fire her. I wouldn’t have.” He looked doubtful though. “I think?”

“The patron who demanded it didn’t go through you and from what I hear, you didn’t intervene when it was brought to your attention,” Meg explained.

“I’ve been busy and I was under the impression Mademoiselle Bonet was taken care of or at least independent. Why are you asking?”

“No one has told me the real story of what happened to Christine and the ghost,” Meg said with a sigh. “I thought Julianne might know, so I sought her out through Cécile Jammes, but she’s gone.”

“You mustn’t go snooping into all that,” Moncharmin warned, sounding more tired somehow. “Especially with the Comte paying attention.”

“You don’t want him to know about the new phantom, do you?” Meg asked, finally making the connection. Moncharmin shook his head mournfully.

“No. That would be a disaster.” Moncharmin’s brows knit. “Though it would take some of the pressure off them if he...”

“Who?” Meg asked, sure she had just been party to a thought that should have stayed in Moncharmin’s head.

“Never mind. Anyway, I’m sure Mademoiselle Bonet is fine. She’s resilient. What did you want to talk to me about in regard to your little case?” Moncharmin asked, straightening up. “I’m curious to hear what theories a young dancer has on this case.”

Meg found herself staring at the man, taking in his condescending smile and indulgent look. “Will you really listen to me?”

“Of course, Mademoiselle,” Moncharmin said, the same way a parent might tell a child they wanted to hear their fairy story.

“Shaya believes these attacks and thefts are the work of Monsieur Richard or someone working for him,” Meg began, and Moncharmin gave an encouraging nod. He knew this. “Because the men who have been hurt were against him after the chandelier.”

“Yes, perhaps, though we don’t have a record of that yet. I have been trying to reach out to the others under threat.”

“Well, I was talking to a friend – another dancer,” Meg continued, swallowing uneasily. “She helped me to understand that the men who have been hurt, well, they have all done some hurting themselves.”

Moncharmin looked confused. It was Meg’s fault for not being clearer, but she didn’t want to be indelicate. “Hurting who?” he asked.

“Dancers. Like me. They have taken advantage of the girls,” Meg explained, and Moncharmin immediately shook his head.

“The relationships of the patrons with the young ladies of the ballet can be distasteful, I know, but it’s how things are done.”

Meg felt as if she was speaking another language, and that Moncharmin was merely indulging her. He needed the patrons. The only reason she had been saved from the wrath of the Comte de Chagny was because he no longer was one, not because she didn’t deserve it.

“Of course, it was a foolish fancy,” Meg muttered. “I won’t trouble you any further.”

“Do come to me if you hear anything of more note,” Moncharmin said, and she knew he meant it as kindness. Meg nodded and showed herself out.

The halls were empty as she walked back towards the rehearsal salons; devoid of life in a way that made Meg lonelier with each step.

She was of no use, was she? She’d made trouble for the manager and bothered him with her hairbrained ideas.

Shaya had only cared about her as much as he could benefit from her connections.

She’d been used and discarded, and that was something she was expected to tolerate in her position.

She kicked a knot in the floorboards with the toe of the ballet slipper in annoyance, like the child she was seen as. ..

“Meg.”

She looked up at the sound of the whisper to find the hall empty, and a chill ran down her spine.

“Who’s there?” Meg demanded, gooseflesh rising on her arms.

“I think you know,” the voice replied from somewhere Meg couldn’t see. The voice of a ghost – husky and intimate.

“You,” Meg whispered.

“You’re on the right track, young Meg,” the voice went on. “Which is why you must turn back. Don’t make any more trouble for me.”

“I can’t though,” Meg replied, excitement and terror filling her in equal measure. “I need to know.”

“You’ll be hurt.” Meg could make out no details about the speaker from the voice, only that they seemed to entirely lack a body and knew what she had been doing.

“So will you, if you’re caught,” Meg found herself saying.

“You don’t want that?” the ghost asked as if it was surprised.

Meg paused, as she had with Moncharmin, thinking back to all she knew of this ghost at its mission. No, its righteous cause.

“I don’t want to be used anymore, by anyone,” Meg declared at last. “I want to help.”

The hall echoed with potent silence as Meg’s heart picked up speed. Had she spoken wrong? Had she revealed too much?

“And help you shall. For now, be silent, and we will see what more you can be.”

Meg knew the moment that the speaker left; she felt the energy go out of the room and she had to lean against the wall to steady herself.

She had spoken to the phantom – whatever or whoever it was that had taken to the Opéra halls now. She had bared her soul, in a small way, and been rewarded. Or damned. She wasn’t sure which. But she knew now, with certainty, whose side she was on.