Page 66 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

Shaya wasn’t sure of the details. The whole affair had been a whirlwind, and soon enough, he had found himself on a succession of carriages, boats, and trains back to Paris.

All that remained now was the walk up the Rue de Rivoli to his flat where Darius awaited, and Shaya wanted nothing more than to fall into his bed and sleep for a week.

He should have known fate wouldn’t grant him such mercy. Darius was waiting in the parlor looking imperious next to, of course, young Meg Giry.

“I have been waiting for an hour!” Meg crowed, jumping up from her spot by the fire.

“You stayed because I had supper ready,” Darius muttered before turning his attention to Shaya and giving him a loving smile. “Glad to see you remain alive.”

“Darius won’t tell me what happened, but he implied you were in danger!” Meg nearly yelped, then narrowed her eyes. “I assume you were attending to some business with Erik.”

Shaya didn’t attempt to disguise his shock. “How did you learn that name?”

“I learned a lot of things when I finally found someone who would be honest with me,” Meg replied. “Someone who appreciated how much I figured out on my own.”

Darius gave Shaya a look that told him all of this was news to him as well. Of course, little Meg had held onto this for dramatic effect. She was a performer after all.

“And who would that be? Don’t keep me in suspense,” Shaya asked with a sigh.

“Julianne Bonet.” Meg looked quite proud of herself. “She’s very cross with Christine for ignoring her for so many months.”

“Christine wasn’t ignoring her. Their letters were intercepted, much like mine, by Pomeroy and his men,” Shaya explained, for there was no reason to keep everything secret now. “It is how they were found and why I went to London.”

“Oh. That’s good to know, I guess.” Meg looked troubled by the news, despite her words. “Did you also know about the money that’s been stolen from the Opéra? And the crisis it’s causing?”

“Armand said there had been accounting issues and some funds had gone missing...” Shaya replied, looking to Darius for some confirmation. “I didn’t know there was a crisis. Good heavens, what have you been doing while I was away?”

“Discovering the identity of the new Opéra Ghost for one,” Meg replied with a proud smirk. “Whose motivation is exactly as I thought it was and who we needn’t fear. It’s the thief who is also using the ghost’s mask that’s the real danger, I think.”

“There are two?” Shaya was too exhausted for all these revelations, but something was itching at the back of his mind.

“Yes. One ghost punishing patrons who hurt girls,” Meg explained, much to Shaya’s amazement. “And another motivated by money and need. That’s why it’s been so confusing trying to parse who’s done what.”

“Another ghost who is associated with Sabine,” Shaya muttered. “Who may have provided her with those same missing funds. Or wanted them for himself.”

“You still think it was Richard?” Darius asked, speaking the theory forming in Shaya’s mind. “For his ends or hers?”

“It might be both,” Shaya replied. “Sabine’s situation has apparently changed. I wonder...”

“Does that mean it’s over?” Darius asked, looking between Meg and Shaya. “You’ve found one ghost and have a clue on the other?”

“No. We have to get the money back,” Meg replied urgently. “The Opéra needs it. And the Opéra needs the ghost too. To save it.”

Shaya peered at Meg, assessing her. There was something more mature about her now than when he had left, more knowing and brave. She’d decided this already, and somehow, she’d involved one ghost in it. “Is this you talking? Or the phantom you have unmasked who you have yet to tell me the name of?”

Meg raised her chin defiantly, standing her ground. “This Phantom is a friend, like the old one is yours. You will forgive me for being willing to protect that.”

Shaya thought back to the last few days.

Of what he had been willing to do for a man he had once wished to destroy.

Of what he had learned of the man Erik was becoming and what his hopes were for the future.

He had been willing to protect that which he had once hated, and now Meg was protecting the ghost she had hunted.

“I think more than anyone, I understand that, Mademoiselle Giry,” Shaya said. “And I am going to help you. For my friends.”

Coolaney

T o go into the village alone was a particular type of adventure for Christine.

First, there was the matter of being allowed to go alone.

Erik not only wanted to protect her and translate for her when she went, but she had a suspicious feeling that he missed her quite terribly when she was gone.

He complained jokingly that the house was haunted, but the ghosts so far were poor company.

Christine had countered that they could hire a servant, and he quickly shut up.

Erik understood, however grudgingly, that Christine wanted to learn the ways and words of Coolaney on her own.

Or at least practice them. She could get by well enough with her stilted English, though her one lesson in Irish had gone horribly.

Erik assured her that few would expect her to learn or know it, as the English overlords had tried to snuff out the entire language.

That had only made Christine more determined to learn it. .. eventually.

She knew the path now, down the hill from the manor and around the bend into the village proper.

She knew which of the old buildings housed the baker and which hosted the cobbler who also happened to be the town’s only tailor.

Someone had said the baker was also a dentist, but Christine was sure she had heard that wrong.

Today though, she wanted to find an apothecary, or something of the like.

As had been her strategy for everything so far, she would start at the pub.

She smiled at Hugh behind the bar when she entered.

He was a large man with broad shoulders and a ginger-blond beard who was quick with a kind word and a drink.

He knew everyone and everything that went on in the town and if he didn’t know, Connie the barmaid would.

She was as enamored of gossip as a ballet rat, though Christine could barely understand anything she said.

They could probably both tell Christine where she needed to go, but she decided her best bet was Siobhan, who was by the fire attending Sir Edward, as usual.

“Good morning, Mrs. Gilbride,” Siobahn said as Christine approached, scrambling out of her seat and attempting something like a curtsey. Christine was unsure if Siobhan treated her like she was nobility because of mistaken identity or simply because of the status that came with owning the manor.

“Good morning. You can call me by Christine,” she said carefully.

“Oh no, Ma’am. That wouldn’t be right,” Siobhan said, blushing. “How can I help you today?”

“I need to find a... I do not know the word,” Christine began. She could have asked her husband before leaving, she knew, but he had been elbow-deep in the piano when she’d looked in on him and she hadn’t wanted to disrupt his concentration. “A person who sells... medcin ? Herbs?”

“Oh, that’ll be Oona!” Siobahn cried happily, and suddenly, Christine was being herded back out the door and Siobhan was pointing to a little house at the end of the street, talking too fast for Christine to translate in her head. Something about plants and babies? Maybe Oona was the midwife.

Soon enough, Christine found herself stumbling along the street alone again, hesitant to knock on Oona’s door. She didn’t necessarily want to meet a midwife and have a stilted conversation about why she was childless, but she also needed more than what she could forage around her overgrown garden.

“Come in then. Don’t stand around.” Christine looked up to see an older woman standing at the door, smiling at her as if she’d been waiting. “I was wondering when I’d meet you.”

“You are Oona?”

“And you’re the new Lady of the manor,” Oona replied. “Come on, get inside. Rain is coming.”

Christine looked over her shoulder into the clear sky as Oona ushered her in. “Thank you. I am sorry if my English is not well. I am—”

“French, I heard,” Oona chuckled. “We’ll get by, love, don’t worry your pretty head.”

Christine smiled. Something was welcoming about the elder woman, as if she’d known her a long time. The house was welcoming too – full of herbs in jars and drying in the rafters.

“I need...” Christine held out her hands to show the raw blisters that had developed on her palms from days of work at the manor. “ Une baume ?”

“A salve – balm we also call it,” Oona translated. Quick as a whip, she was rummaging through one of a dozen shelves and produced a small pot that she opened to show Christine. “Honey, tallow, and herbs,” Oona explained. “It will help.”

“Thank you,” Christine said, fishing in her pocket for money.

“Take it as a gift,” Oona said, pressing the jar into Christine’s hands. “I know you will earn it.”

“What? I can’t...” Christine protested, but the old woman only smiled.

“You will come back and talk to me of France and what sort of adventures you have had,” Oona said, confidently. “Talking is healing you now and it’s the kind you need, I can tell. But not today. Today I must rest and you must get home before the rain.”

“Of course,” was all Christine could say, before she was once again outside, looking up at the sky. Clouds were gathering in the east.

The rain began just as Christine came inside the manor, stepping over the lumber and tools that now littered the front hall. Erik assured her they would be used very soon, and she wanted to trust that he wouldn’t be distracted before that.

She knew exactly where to find him inside, for she could hear him singing.

“ If my true love will not come, I can surely find another, who’ll pluck wild mountain thyme all among the purple heather. ” His voice rang out from the library, more beautiful than an angel’s. Because he was mortal and unburdened, for now. Because he was happy.

“ Will ye go, lassie, go? And we’ll all go together ,” he sang on as Christine quietly entered the library to watch him at work. He was bent over the disassembled piano, sleeves rolled up... mask off.

“ To pluck wild mountain thyme all around the purple heather ,” Christine sang with him, and her heart swelled when he looked up at her and smiled. In a breath he was beside her, taking her into his arms and sweeping her into a dance.

“ I will build my love a shelter, by yon crystal flowing stream ,” he sang to her, twirling her in the derelict library of the house that they could finally call home.

She sang back to him, with all her heart, “ And my love shall be the fairest that the summer sun has seen .”

He grinned at her with such love in his golden eyes that Christine couldn’t help but kiss him. She sank into his embrace as the rain pattered against the windows, music and adoration filling her soul. Christine kissed her husband, happy and content, ready to sing with him through all the day.