Page 55 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

Sligo

C hristine stood for a long time in the hall, tears of anger and despair running down her face.

She was frozen between confronting Pauline and waiting for Erik to walk out the door, attempting to flee and hide again.

Somehow, after everything, after all the promises and hopes and sacrifices and words of love, nothing mattered.

Or he didn’t want it to. Why would he? All he could find in life was brutality, even from her.

Maybe for all she tried to be good and find a purpose, that was all she was worth.

She was a coward and cruel. She was a fool and a fraud.

She couldn’t keep a friend close and the people she loved always left her.

She stifled a sob so Pauline wouldn’t hear her and know how weak she was. Know she was right. It was all too fucking hard, and this was supposed to be the easy part. They were supposed to have lived happily ever after when they defeated the monsters and escaped the peril.

In her memory, she heard her father chuckle.

When had he ever told her a story like that?

His stories had been dark and dangerous, and very few heroes in them had made it to a happy end unscathed.

The after wasn’t automatically happy because there was no after.

There was only now and a life that kept going.

Christine could certainly take some of the blame for that, for her willingness to run instead of making a stand, or, God forbid, facing a fight, whether with someone else or her husband.

Why had she believed it would be easy to be a wife when she’d grown up with a widowed father and never even learned how to be on her own until it was too late?

Again, she was to blame for not thinking ahead or learning more.

She imagined Pauline’s laughter if she knew that was what Christine was thinking.

Her laughter was also Carlotta’s and so many other mean, petty, malicious voices Christine had heard all her life, none of them louder than the one in her head that said they were right.

For reminding her of that alone, Christine wanted to barge through the door and make Pauline feel nothing but pain. ..

She thought of Carlotta and of making her croak and humiliate herself. Christine remembered the applause and the joy of revenge and saw herself triumphant on the Opéra stage. Then, in her memory, the chandelier fell.

The vision did not steal the breath from her lungs. The thought of Joseph Buquet and Antoine de Martiniac falling dead before her didn’t make Christine crumble. It made her sad. Was that who she was now? Brutal and careless? She didn’t want to know, and yet she had to find out.

No. She had to decide. She had to choose.

Christine unlocked the room and trudged in.

Pauline was still on the bed, unconscious, and chained to the brass frame.

How dare she be resting right now? At least she was still breathing, though the bruise and gash on her face were now a vivid shade of purple.

Her arms probably ached too from spending the night like that.

Christine grabbed the wash pitcher from its basin and stalked back down the hall to the water pump available for guests of the inn. She felt some relief not to see Erik trying to escape, but she pushed that from her mind. She had something to do.

Pitcher filled, Christine returned to the room and locked the door behind her. She hoped the walls were thick and no one was passing by. With not-a-small amount of personal satisfaction, she took off the gag before she poured the jug onto Pauline’s face.

The woman came to, sputtering and swearing as she flailed in her bonds.

“Good morning,” Christine said with a smirk as Pauline looked up at her. “Please tell me you have a terrible headache.”

“I’m going to skin you alive,” Pauline hissed. “You stupid—”

“I really don’t think I’m the one that applies to. You got cocky and creative and managed to get yourself captured a second time, on top of being rejected and beaten.” Christine clicked her tongue in disapproval as Pauline glared at her, looking in every way like a doused cat.

“I don’t recall being rejected.” It was a weak barb, but Pauline smirked anyway. “One day, he’ll see you for the pathetic thing you are.”

“He already does. So do I. You don’t need to remind me,” Christine replied, her voice and thoughts softening. He did see her and always had. Erik saw what she could be and deserved, even when he believed he was unworthy of sharing it. “Which is why I intend to keep him.”

“Good luck,” Pauline muttered.

“I don’t need luck – I need you to leave us alone. What will it take to get you to do that?” Christine asked, though she wasn’t optimistic about getting an honest answer. It didn’t hurt to ask.

Pauline, for her part, looked surprised. “It’s not that simple.”

“Can’t it be though? We can pay you. Obviously, whatever villains employ you aren’t going to keep you on after they find out how massively you’ve mucked things up again. We can offer you something to go away, if you’d let go of this petty vendetta against me and your obsession with my husband.”

Pauline gaped up at Christine, uncomprehending. Christine couldn’t blame her. This was a heavy topic for first thing in the morning with a head injury.

“I—” Pauline began, then stopped, shifting uncomfortably.

“Oh, let me help you,” Christine sighed. She dug the key to the restraints from her pocket with one hand, brandishing the pitcher with the other. “Do not try anything or I will remind you of what the opera ghost has taught me.”

“Noted.” Pauline still stared daggers into Christine as she released her but looked relieved to sit up and have some measure of freedom. “You’re an idiot if you think this false kindness is going to win me over.”

“It’s not false,” Christine snapped back. “I know a person like you has to think the worst of someone you’ve decided is your enemy, so you can justify your hatred. But I know who I am, even if you don’t.”

Christine paused, smiling to herself, thinking of things people who cared for her had said. People like Erik and Adèle and Howard and Julianne. People who saw her light, despite the darkness.

“That must be nice,” Pauline muttered. “To know who you are with such certainty.”

“It’s not certainty,” Christine muttered. “It’s a choice. I’m choosing right now to do the hard thing and not hurt you or leave you for dead. I came in here not knowing what I intended to do, but right now, looking at you... You’re not worth becoming someone else.”

For the first time, Pauline looked hurt. Christine knew she had struck too close to the core of this woman. Pauline was different from her, someone willing to lie to herself or others to be someone else so that she could escape her pain.

“You must be very lonely,” Christine stated aloud as she realized it.

“What?” Pauline huffed.

“To be like this. I’ve known people like you before, people who let a lack of love turn them violent and cruel.

Their loneliness made them do and believe horrible things.

” Christine was thinking of Raoul, but also of Erik.

Perhaps Pauline saw herself in him. “You probably don’t want to hear that. Or think of it, but I do see it.”

“Fuck off,” Pauline spat, but she looked about ready to cry. Maybe Christine was torturing her, in her own way. Maybe it would work.

“I will if you tell me what scheme you’ve concocted concerning Coolaney,” Christine said with a shrug. “I’ll feed you and let you relieve yourself and make sure you’re comfortable wherever we take you.”

Pauline stared at Christine, unblinking. Was she trying to will Christine into some action, or forming some plan? Or still angry? Finally, she exhaled and sagged. “I’m supposed to be there today. To get things started.”

“Is that all you’re going to tell me?”

“You’re so smart, you’ll figure it out.” Pauline pursed her lips and Christine knew that was all she was going to say. She had her plans and Christine would find them out.

“I’ll get your food,” Christine muttered.

She didn’t go downstairs when she left though. She went back to her room and let out a sigh of relief when she found Erik there.

He looked up at her, face bare and eyes stricken, and Christine’s heart surged with both love and frustration.

“She has an appointment of some kind in Coolaney today. We’re going in her place. I haven’t decided if we’ll bring her along.”

Erik opened his mouth to protest, but Christine raised a hand for silence.

“I’m not letting you run away anymore. Not from Bidaut or your past, and especially not from me. I’m going to your mother’s village to do some good, and you’re coming with me.”

“Why take me? What use will I be?” Erik asked. Christine knew he was considering all the things that could go wrong; envisioning himself run out of town by some angry mob or Christine being harmed because that was the only future he could see right now. He wanted to leave her because he loved her.

“You’re coming because I need a fucking translator, and I’m going to show you that not every path leads to ruin.”

Paris

M eg felt like a different person when she was dancing. Not practicing or drilling temps de cuisse and ronds de jambe , but really, truly dancing. When she let go of thinking and criticism and simply danced, she wasn’t meek, useless Meg: she was someone different.

Or maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe she wasn’t someone at all. She wasn’t a character or a mask or some other better version of herself. When she danced, she was merely a body and music and breath and flow and... free.

Meg floated with the sounds of the orchestra, muscles straining and limbs perfectly extended as she moved as one with the rest of the corps de ballet, their delicate tulle skirts spinning around them.

Nothing mattered but the movement and the music, and for a wonderful moment, she wasn’t only free, she was happy.

This was the reason for the hours of rehearsal and intrigue and pain: this joy.