Page 56 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

Too bad it was only a dress rehearsal. At least, there was something of an audience, even if it was just patrons and invited guests (who the Opéra hoped to lure as patrons).

They applauded when the ballet was finished, and Monsieur Bosarge turned from his podium in the orchestra to give them a nod of thanks.

The dancers themselves were not afforded a bow, as La Roche was instantly onstage giving them notes as the curtain fell.

“Second Row,” La Roche said as he came to Meg’s side, looking at her, then Blanche, Rochelle, and Marie beside her. “Excellent. Giry, you’re truly earning your place at last.”

Meg wanted to squeal in excitement, but settled for turning to Blanche to grin, only to find her friend looking perturbed.

“I was good too,” Blanche muttered. “I honestly don’t know how he couldn’t see me.”

“Oh, I...” Meg faltered. Rochelle met Meg’s eyes over Blanche’s shoulder with a look of bewilderment that made Meg feel somewhat better.

“Maybe we won’t have to run it again,” Rochelle offered. “Since all of us did well.”

“And they’ll be wanting us to spread our charms amongst the patrons,” Blanche added with a cheeky smile.

“We all know what you want to spread, Blanche,” Marie teased, and without warning, Blanche leapt at her friend. Rochelle had to step in between Blanche and the little dancer to keep Blanche from scratching out her eyes before everyone exploded in laughter.

“Ladies!” La Roche called, and the commotion quieted. “If you can manage to contain yourselves, you may go mingle with the audience.”

Blanche made a face and scurried off. “That girl is going to get herself hurt, isn’t she?” Meg muttered.

“She is. It’s up to us to protect her if anyone goes too far,” Rochelle replied, and Marie frowned beside her.

“Well, us and the ghost,” Marie said to Meg’s amazement. “What? We’ve all been thinking it. It’s time someone says it. The ghost has been looking out for all of us since the Opéra reopened and I, for one, am grateful.”

Meg found herself looking around the stage and up to the shadowy flies, where the movement of stagehands was still visible. Where anyone, really, could be waiting and watching. Listening. “Me too,” Meg heard herself say.

Rochelle harrumphed and led Marie from the stage. Meg didn’t follow. Her mind was still too full of the ghost’s voice and a hundred theories and hopes.

Her feet led her to the wings and then upwards, following spiral staircases and cramped halls to a place that many knew of but only employees were allowed to visit. Even then, they were not encouraged to be up here, for it was often hot and dangerous under the great copper dome of the Opéra.

It was a strange place between the ceiling of the auditorium and the dome that sat upon the Palais Garnier.

At the peak of the roof was the cupola (at least, that’s what Meg thought it was called) that rested like a crown atop the dome itself.

During the day, it let in light through several large windows.

At the moment, the morning sun shone through them onto the great chain that held up the chandelier, anchored by five counterweights.

The weights themselves were not visible, only the chains and pulleys attached to them.

Meg had not visited this secret place for months. Not since the disaster. Not since every one of the chains to the counterweights had been severed one by one with violent, explosive force.

Meg drifted closer to the mechanisms. They were bright and new, whereas before they had been tarnished and greasy.

The paint on the walls behind them was fresh and didn’t quite match the old color.

Whatever evidence existed of how the ghost and his accomplices had taken down the chandelier was gone now, but the scars remained.

“Here we are!”

Meg jumped behind the chain and pulley system when she heard Moncharmin’s voice. She didn’t know what sort of terms she was on with the manager, but she didn’t want to be caught here, even so. Thankfully, she was small and flexible and it was easy for her to hide.

“What are we seeing here?” an older voice asked.

“The support system for the chandelier is fully repaired and safer than ever after the accident,” Moncharmin replied. His voice was tense and high. It didn’t inspire confidence in Meg, and she doubted it would impress the potential patrons Moncharmin was wooing.

“So it won’t fall and kill anyone again?” another voice asked.

“No one died,” Moncharmin muttered.

“Philippe de Chagny did. And Antoine de Martiniac if some are to be believed,” the first man declared. “What about this phantom that caused that?”

“There is no phantom, Messieurs. There never was,” Moncharmin said firmly. “That was merely a myth created by artists and disgruntled employees to cover up bad behavior. Like Carlotta’s poisoning that made her sound like she croaked! That was no phantom, just a jealous rival.”

“And you wish us to support an institution that allows such nonsense to persist?” the second speaker scoffed.

“Well, it is the national theater, Giles,” the first man interjected. “It’s not like it can be closed down.”

“Quite right, Edouard. I hear the minister of fine arts is already looking for a new manager, or considering eliminating the Opéra entirely,” Giles said with an incongruous laugh.

Meg covered her mouth to keep from gasping.

“No one thinks this sort of excess befits a modern state. This place was built for an emperor who was deposed, for God’s sake! ”

“It’s the people’s Opéra now,” Moncharmin countered. “And the center of Parisian society. Everyone wants to be seen at the Opéra.”

“Wanted to. Before people started dying!” Edouard said. Meg tried to think back to the last few performances. Had they been sold out? She could remember empty seats, but the idea of the Opéra being in danger was absurd!

“Who is saying such things?” Moncharmin asked. “I assure you they are rumors.”

“Well, Raoul de Chagny is adamant about it,” Giles answered. “He’s the one who’s been pushing the minister from what I hear, not that he has much influence nowadays with his fortune depleted, though you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Of course he would be saying that,” Moncharmin groaned.

“If the Opéra is in such good condition, why are you soliciting us?” Edouard asked, and there was a certain cruel humor in his voice that Meg very much disliked.

“So that she can thrive, not merely survive,” Moncharmin answered with sincerity that Meg admired.

“We will consider it,” Giles said. “Only because I have heard from friends that you’re willing to introduce patrons to your cast for intimate performances . The ballet dancers you put on display today were quite the delicacy.”

Silence stretched out, and Meg wondered, sickly, how often Moncharmin, La Roche, or the other men who were supposed to be protecting them were called to act as pimps.

“The second act is starting soon. You should return,” Moncharmin answered quietly to Meg’s relief.

“Noted,” Giles replied sourly. Meg listened to the retreating footsteps and slam of a door before leaving her hiding space.

Moncharmin was bent over the iron railing around the chandelier chain, looking down at the auditorium below. He seemed so sad and exhausted. Meg found herself feeling pity, despite her complicated mix of anger and worry.

“Are we really in trouble?” Meg demanded, and the man jumped in surprise at her voice. “I can see why the minister might want to sack you, but they can’t close the national opera.”

Moncharmin sighed as he looked at Meg. She couldn’t tell if it was relief or disappointment. Maybe he had hoped she was a ghost; come to end his misery.

“You’d be surprised what politicians with grudges and no vision are willing to destroy, Mademoiselle Giry.”

“Things can’t be that bad! I know the audience has been slow to return, but—”

“It’s not just the audience, my dear,” Moncharmin sighed. “It’s this new ghost. Or someone who wants to be him – I can’t even tell. He’s robbed us in a way that hurts, at last.”

“Robbed you?” Meg echoed in horror. “Of what? His salary?”

“If only that were it,” Moncharmin replied, combing a hand through his hair and leaving it a mess. “Someone has been stealing from the office directly. The box office and the management.”

Meg blinked, confusion crashing through her head. She hadn’t thought the theft amounted to that much. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t righteous like this ghost seemed to be. The phantom protected his theater, he didn’t undermine it. “Why haven’t you called the police? Or told Shaya?” Meg demanded.

“After all that’s happened, we can’t afford any whiff of scandal! I should be trying harder to keep the attacks out of the papers, now that I think of it. If anyone that I have to answer to learns how bad things have been, especially in the last few weeks...”

“It’s not—” Meg bit her lip before she said more, and Moncharmin stared at her. She didn’t need to debate this with him. She could and would go to the source.

“Don’t you have a theory, young detective?” he asked, with a tired laugh.

“Worse: I have an idea.”

Coolaney

E rik resented the bright autumn sun as it fell on the little village of Coolaney.

He resented everything he was experiencing at that moment, but the sun was of particular annoyance.

His back hurt, his head ached, and the horses in front of him stank.

He had thought being the one to drive the carriage to the village would make things easier.

This way, they didn’t have to pay someone to wait and no one would notice the gagged woman in chains they were carting around.

It also meant he had an excuse not to talk to anyone as it was Christine’s unfortunate job to watch Pauline.