Page 63 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)
Shaya met Erik’s eyes and saw a rare look of panic there.
It had been the simplest thing, back in that glen, to tell Erik in Persian that Sabine was with child and confirm it was Antoine’s.
He didn’t know why, but Shaya had been sure Erik would be moved to do something for the child.
The poor thing was not unlike himself; the product of violence from a de Martiniac man.
Erik would want to give the babe a chance.
Or at least a portion of the fortune that came from his blood.
But Shaya had also noted Pauline’s passing barb and had, indeed, been surprised not to find Christine in the same state as Sabine. There was a wound there, he was sure of it. Perhaps Erik didn’t want his wife to know that Sabine was pregnant when Christine couldn’t become so herself.
“I told him they would take a portion, not all,” Shaya lied, trying to keep his voice light.
“Why is that?” Christine pushed, inherently curious. Now this, Shaya did have a theory on.
“Well, the Opera Ghost may have something to do with it,” Shaya replied, and Erik’s gaze snapped to him. “Not you. As I wrote to you in the first place, you’ve been replaced. This imposter is a much bolder thief than you and is somehow tied up in all of this intrigue.”
“Do you think that getting you to alert me of this was part of this foolish game?” Erik asked, voice dripping with derision. “Or did they just want to besmirch my reputation?”
“For a while, I thought it might not be about you at all.” Shaya took a moment to look around and enjoy the evening air – and annoying his old quarry. “Not everything is.”
“Wait,” Christine said, stopping in her tracks. “You wrote when we were already in Florence, according to the date in the letter. After Pauline had already found me.”
Shaya paused too, gears in his mind clicking and whirring. “Have you heard from anyone else back in Paris?”
“I wrote to Julianne through Tissot, but I never heard back. I’ve been worried about her,” Christine answered, face falling. “I should have tried again, but everything was so chaotic. I thought maybe she was traveling with Adèle, but she hasn’t heard anything either.”
“She’s no longer at the Opéra,” Shaya offered, but it made Christine visibly more worried.
“Will you please look in on her and tell her I haven’t forgotten her as soon as you’re back?” Christine looked over to Erik, whose eyes held a certain level of regret. “Since we can’t go.”
“Which is all the more of a torture, knowing my reputation is being trod upon,” Erik muttered. Christine gave him a gentle glare that spoke volumes, and he sighed. “Which I will endure happily.”
“You think you can survive in that little village?” Shaya asked.
“I don’t know, honestly,” Erik answered, eyes still on his wife, softening. “But for love, I shall try. I think that is the most any of us can do.”
Paris
M eg was somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be, and though this was starting to become a regular occurrence, she was more nervous than ever before.
She’d lied to her mother and hidden for hours from firemen and guards.
Now, a clock chimed distantly to mark three-quarters past eleven.
It was time for Meg to keep her appointment.
She took the backstage stairs down to the cellars to the round, empty space right below the rotunda where, sometimes, singers would practice in the echoing dark.
Now, the only echo was her footsteps. She shivered and the lantern in her hand trembled too, its meager flame casting dancing light over the cold gray stone.
Even if Meg hadn’t been here to meet a ghost, she would feel this place was haunted.
“I better not die here,” Meg muttered to herself. Her mother would be furious about it, to start, and it would be terribly embarrassing. Maybe she should have told Darius she was going to do this, but she was still cross with Shaya for leaving her. She’d confront this phantom on her own.
This wasn’t a ghost, she reminded herself. If she was right, this was a friend. Or could be.
“You’re early.”
Meg spun at the sound of the voice, echoing from somewhere in the shadows she couldn’t see. This ghost was exceptionally good at the dramatics of it all, she had to admit.
“I didn’t want to miss you,” Meg replied. She didn’t even try to keep her voice from shaking. What was the point?
“Of course not, you’ve been chasing me for weeks.” The voice came from behind her now, closer, and Meg turned to see a sight that made her catch her breath, no matter how much she had anticipated it.
The Phantom stepped from the shadows. Or a version of the specter Meg and the rest of the Opéra knew.
Cloaked in black with a wide-brimmed hat and a mask to match.
The black mask was the only thing that was wrong with the picture, as far as Meg knew.
The old ghost had always worn a white one, and it had not covered his mouth as this new ghost’s disguise did.
Not everyone knew that though, and this, of course, was more convenient if you were hiding one’s face entirely.
“You don’t need to wear that, you know,” Meg said, trying to be brave. She failed and sounded mildly seasick instead.
“Because you know who I am?” The ghost chuckled.
Meg gulped. She still wasn’t sure, but, even so, she nodded. “I’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out... Julianne.”
Before Meg’s eyes, the ghost transformed, shoulders slumping in resignation and letting out a sigh before removing the mask and revealing the face Meg knew.
Julianne Bonet looked older somehow, with the tight black ringlets of her hair now pulled back behind her head, and shadows under her eyes standing out on her brown skin.
Meg had never felt so guilty seeing an old friend again.
Though, perhaps she didn’t have the right to call Julianne a friend after all this.
“How did you figure it out?” Julianne asked, not angry or threatening at all now, just sad and amused.
“I realized first that it was someone on our side – the dancers and girls – when I talked to Rochelle. After you helped me with d’Amboise,” Meg said. “When she told me what all those men have in common.”
Julianne gave a small smile. “I wondered when someone would make the connection.”
“Even if someone else had, I don’t know if anyone would care. Moncharmin didn’t,” Meg went on, frowning at the memory. “I thought he was on the side of the artists.”
“As much as he would wish not to be, he is on the side of men and money,” Julianne replied with a scowl. “Much to our disappointment.”
“Then I considered ‘Who would know enough about the ghost to pretend to be him’,” Meg continued.
“It all had to do with Christine and you knew her best: even Adèle too. You were involved with nearly everyone and everything. I thought you might have the truth of the story, at least, but when Jammes told me what she’d done—”
“How she took it upon herself to punish me,” Julianne cut in, hurt vividly in her expression. “I always knew she had a temper, but what she did... I don’t think you’d understand why it hurt so much.”
“I know about you and her,” Meg said softly. “I saw you at the masquerade. I don’t think you knew it was me.”
Julianne tilted her head, looking bemused. “All Cécile knew was that we had been discovered again and she no longer wanted to take the risk. Her shame about us allowed her to be used, unfortunately.”
“By Shaya?” Meg didn’t like thinking of him being so mercenary, because it made all he had asked of her and taught her feel so cheap. Julianne still nodded. “Why was she jealous?”
“She rejected me and I found some comfort with someone else, even if it was brief.” The look on Julianne’s face was knowing, and for some reason that was what made Meg blush.
“She was too old for me, in the end, according to her. We wanted different things and she couldn’t stay.
It hurt too much to be in Paris. She’d been hurt too much. ”
“And you don’t like it when women get hurt,” Meg said softly.
Julianne gave her a sidelong look. “No one should like it when girls are hurt, but that is not the world we live in. Alas.”
Meg regarded the other woman. It still didn’t make sense entirely. She had always been kind and lively, never the kind of person Meg would imagine beating men in the street. “What happened?” Meg asked, suddenly.
“You know what happened,” Julianne replied, stiffening.
“Jammes saw to it that I was dismissed. Moncharmin didn’t care about me.
After what he did to Cécile, I’d trust Shaya as far as I could throw him.
I couldn’t talk to anyone. I never even heard back when I wrote to the people who were supposed to be my friends – not even a letter of where to send their things! ”
“I should have made more of a commotion when you left. I should have noticed sooner,” Meg said, shaking her head in shame. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” Julianne said, sincere. “I needed some way to support myself and my mother, and being a ghost seemed to work well enough for—” Julianne caught herself, smirking.
“Shaya hasn’t told me his name,” Meg replied. “He says it’s too dangerous to know, even now.”
“Shaya can’t be trusted in many things, but he’s right about that,” Julianne muttered.
“That still doesn’t answer my question,” Meg pushed, taking a cautious step toward the woman who had taken up the ghost’s mantle. “Why start hurting those patrons? Why intervene in that way?”