by Heather Webb
Claudette grinned and spun off around the room with her tray, like a merry little top.
I groaned inwardly, but forced myself to smile at the gentleman—and then moved across the salon away from him. I didn’t want to marry a man who considered himself prettier than me.
Within the hour, Madame introduced me to a clerk, a journalist, an attorney, and three professors. A slew of fine would-be husbands, should any find me suitable.
I reminded myself of this while smothering a yawn.
“And I immediately gave him the key,” Monsieur LaRousse said, and laughed at his own joke.
I feigned amusement, secretly wishing someone—anyone—would rescue me. The clerk had rambled about his cumbersome duties in the governor’s office without so much as a single inquiry about me, or anyone else in our circle for that matter. He seemed interested only in himself. Just as well. I stood two heads taller than him, and his teeth jutted from his mouth like a goat’s.
Abruptly he leaned too close and said, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Mademoiselle Daaé. If you would have me—”
“It has been so lovely to meet you, Monsieur,” I interrupted, in hopes of preventing him from asking the dreaded question. “I apologize for my abrupt departure, but I must tend to Madame Valerius.”
He blushed. “Of course.”
Without hesitating, I checked in with Madame, and then meandered across the room.
Several of the guests looked at me with wolfish expressions, well aware of the real purpose for our salon, but none seemed interested in courting me—or even engaging me in real conversation—aside from the awkward clerk.
I positioned myself by the refreshment table and nibbled on a biscuit. Just beyond, the study doors stood open to the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Several gentlemen congregated outside, smoking and conversing in the cool night air.
“Nice party,” one man said.
“If you like a lot of talking, and too few women.”
The others laughed.
“Jeanne’s ward is a real beauty,” a third man said. “If you’re a red-blooded male, you can’t deny it.”
My cheeks grew hot.
“If you like that sort, sure,” the attorney said. “Docile on the surface, yet a singer, I’ve been told. You know what that means.” He made a motion with his fist.
The others laughed again.
“Not a bad thing, is it? No one wants a lady in the bedroom.”
Heat spread across my chest, followed by shame.
“She’s beautiful, but my family would never accept her. Anyway, she doesn’t have a franc to her name. Not much incentive there.”
One of the professors chuckled. “I’d enjoy her for an evening or two, though I suppose I wouldn’t be the first.”
I wanted to tell them to jump off the roof. Instead, I gulped down my outrage and the threat of tears along with the remainder of my champagne. The cruelty of their mockery speared me through. Deep down I wondered where I belonged, what came next for me in this life, and these wretched men had managed to rub an already-tender spot raw.
I stood tall, turning from the balcony—and met the unfaltering gaze of Monsieur Delacroix, the professor of whom Madame had spoken all afternoon. A shock of dark hair hung over the edges of his collar. Though aging, he was handsome with his sculpted features and the silver flourishing at his temples. Still, his direct gaze made me uncomfortable.
The man commanded attention; that was clear.
Monsieur Delacroix’s voice boomed from across the room. Three women laughed in response. He looked past them and smiled at me. With effort, I hid my anger and hurt, and nodded. I didn’t want to be rude to Madame’s dear friend.
After a supper of sole meunière in capered lemon sauce, herb-roasted potatoes, fruit tart, and cheeses, we retreated to the salon for spirits and the infamous table tournante. Nervous, I accepted another flute of champagne. As I sipped from my glass, I felt a hand at my elbow.
“Mademoiselle, I am pleased to find the rumors true.” Monsieur Delacroix smiled, baring perfect white teeth. His eyes shone icy blue with irises ringed in cobalt, giving his gaze an intensity that startled me. “You are indeed more lovely than I would have thought possible.”
“I— Good evening, Monsieur.”
“Do not let those ingrates get to you.” He tilted his head in the direction of the men I’d overheard on the patio. “They’re fools. If I knew them better, I would give them a tongue-lashing for their offensive behavior.”
A rash of embarrassment stained my cheeks. He had noticed my angry expression? Or perhaps he’d heard the men talk about me earlier.
“Thank you.” I smiled, warmed by both his flattery and his kindness. “You are the mysterious gentleman in the third portrait.” I motioned to the painting next to those of Papa and Monsieur Valerius.
He nodded. “Professor Gustave Delacroix. Family friend and colleague of the late Monsieur Valerius, at your service.”
“Madame spoke of your accomplishments,” I said, not missing the arrogant tilt of his chin. “You work in the sciences, I hear.”
“I test theories regarding supernatural occurrences. Prove they aren’t real through science.” He drank from his glass, his eyes never leaving my face.
“A fascinating pursuit,” I said, shifting from one foot to the other. In spite of his amicable nature, the man oozed a sense of power and self-assurance. And there was that unmistakable intensity.
“I hear you have quite the affinity for cards,” he said. “Sleight of hand, and so forth. I’ll save you a place at the table this evening. Perhaps you will show me a trick?”
My head snapped up. Madame had mentioned my magic? My sullen behavior had not gone unnoticed, I knew, but I hadn’t touched the magic box in more than three years. They had been a diversion at one time, a comfort. Not now. What once consoled me now flushed me with pain and guilt.
“I no longer indulge in such games,” I said softly. “But I’ll join the festivities at least, since Madame wishes it. Mediums and spirits do not interest me much, I’m afraid.”
The professor didn’t need to know that contacting the dead unnerved me.
“She would be disappointed if her cherished ward didn’t participate.” He smiled to soften his insistence.
Taken aback by his blunt nature, I remained silent. He was right, of course, and clearly cared for Madame’s happiness.
“Forgive me for my directness,” he said, noting my expression. “I really should learn to hold my tongue.”
I smiled. He meant well, I could see. “You’re right, of course. Madame would want me to join the others and see the medium.”
“Perhaps she will also ask you to sing? I hear you are quite talented.”
“Thank you.” I smiled again. “It has been some time since I performed in public.” Madame hadn’t wanted me to perform on my own, and I obeyed her wishes, just as Papa had taught me.
“I see you’ve met Monsieur Delacroix,” Madame said, rolling toward us. She squeezed my hand. “I hope you find him as wonderful as I do.”
She smiled up at the professor, her skin radiant.
“You are too kind.” He took Madame’s hand and brushed it with his lips. “Are we ready to begin? Mademoiselle Daaé, why don’t you invite Madame Claire to the table.”
“Please do, dear.” Madame twisted her wedding ring on her finger.
“Of course.” I nodded and skirted the room.
The medium already sat at the table tournante, awaiting the signal to begin. She looked nothing like I expected. I had anticipated a woman with head scarves and colorful skirts, too much rouge, and stacks of beads around her neck, perhaps a turban. Instead, Madame Claire resembled an ordinary, middle-aged washerwoman with limp hair, mousy features, and thick fingers crowned by dirty fingernails. I wondered how she had come to be a medium.
“Good evening,” I said. “Thank you for joining us. We’re ready to begin the . . . event.”
Despite my skeptic
ism, my insides churned. What if I was wrong, and spirits not only existed but refused to leave once summoned?
The medium smiled, revealing a set of decaying teeth. “As you wish.”
I flinched at both her accent and her lack of hygiene. I’d spent enough time on the streets and in ramshackle homes to recognize an indigent from the streets of Paris. Some soothsayer.
“Ladies and gentlemen”—Delacroix’s voice silenced the room—“our gracious host has given us permission to begin the séance. Those who would like to participate, please be seated around the table.”
I looked down at the round table, remembering the way it felt as I stroked the lattice woodwork inlay at the start of the evening. Within the design, a series of numbers fanned out around the table’s edges. Each number stood for a letter of the alphabet, I was told by an overeager guest. The medium would ask a question and, allegedly, the spirit would turn the tabletop, pausing in the proper places to spell its reply. Time to see it in action.
A flurry of moving chairs and nervous laughter filled the air as the guests relocated around the table. Some excused themselves and took refuge in the courtyard garden, drinks in hand, to avoid the “tool of the devil.” The Catholic Church would not forgive meddling in the affairs of the dead.
In a few quick strides, I distanced myself from the table and sat on the sofa. Madame would want me present, even if I didn’t participate, and I would oblige her from across the room. Nervous, I suppressed thoughts of Papa. I didn’t want to unwittingly invite him—were that even possible. I picked at the cotton fringe on the arm of the sofa. My foot bounced beneath my gown in a steady rhythm.
Alfred dimmed the lanterns while Claudette rushed about lighting candles. Within moments, candlelight flickered on the walls and ceiling, casting an orange glow throughout the salon.
A hush blanketed the room.
“First, we must clear our minds,” the medium said. “Dispel your worries, the daily lists, the gossip we enjoyed during this evening’s fine meal.”
Soft laughter followed.
“Allow the sacred to enter your hearts, the space around you.”
I froze in my chair. How similar her words were to those of the illusionist, all those years ago on the night of the fire.
Let the border between worlds dissipate, the conjurer had said.
After several moments pause, the medium continued, her voice soft. “Come forth. Let us guide you.”
Let us guide you from this earth to a resting place, once and for all.
My hands began to tremble.
“We can help you resolve what you have left unfinished,” she said.
We can help you.
My breath came in uneven spasms. I gulped down the remainder of my champagne, willing the fizz to burn away the acrid memories of ash that settled on my tongue. I squeezed my eyes closed, praying the images would dissipate.
“Now close your eyes and breathe,” the medium said. “Another deep breath. That’s right.”
I could go, join those drinking aperitifs in the courtyard. Madame would understand. Yet I remained glued to the chair, sucking in one steadying breath after another. I wasn’t at the theatre. I wasn’t in the midst of a ravaging fire, I reminded myself, but in the safety of Madame’s home.
“Another breath,” the medium said.
I studied the guests’ faces as the medium’s words pressed down upon them; the twitch of a brow, the fading of crease lines, jaw muscles relaxing. The inadvertent smile tugging at an unbeliever’s lips.
“We will contact Benoît Valerius this evening,” the medium said.
A gasp arose from those at table, though Madame Valerius remained perfectly still.
I gaped at her. She had agreed to this! I couldn’t believe she would lay her heart so open before a crowd. Her husband had died in a boating accident on the Normandy coast many years ago—the very same accident that had left her disabled. It happened the summer Papa and I had visited the region for a series of performances; it was our first acquaintance with them. Monsieur Valerius’s accident had only validated my fear of water.
Madame never spoke of the incident, and I dared not ask. To cause her pain hurt me as well. My loyalty to the dear lady flared.
I shot up from the sofa. “I don’t think—”
“It is all right, ma chérie,” Madame Valerius said quietly. “If I can communicate with my beloved . . . with Benoît . . . It is all right.”
I sat slowly and clasped my hands together. This would not end well.
“Silence, please, everyone.” The medium’s voice took on a commanding quality. After a moment’s pause, she continued, “Press your fingertips lightly on the surface of the table.”
All did as she instructed.
“Spirit world,” she went on, “open our hearts and minds to your presence.”
Dread settled on my shoulders.
“Benoît Valerius, we beseech you to join us. Your wife awaits a sign.”
After a moment’s pause, the table top turned slowly on its casters.
Click, click, click.
The spinning increased in speed. A woman in a lavender muslin gown gasped, and whispered in her friend’s ear. The friend bobbed her head forward, her lips forming an “o” of surprise.
“Is it you, Monsieur Valerius?” the medium said.
Click, click, click.
A series of turns spelled: N-o.
Madame’s face fell. The hopeful light that bubbled around her all evening disintegrated. I breathed a sigh of relief. Regardless of Madame’s hopes, I didn’t want to see her weep at a party in front of everyone. Or at all.
“Spirit, will you speak to us?” the medium asked.
The table moved again.
Y-e-s.
I clutched the edges of my chair, leaning closer in spite of myself.
“With whom have you come to communicate?”
The table stilled for a long moment. The only sound arose from the faint sizzle of burning candlewicks. I watched Monsieur Delacroix, shadow and light playing across his features, and the sheen of his dark hair. He wasn’t a believer, I knew. I wondered what could be going through his mind.
He caught my eye and winked.
Embarrassed, I refocused my gaze on the immobile table.
Just as the guests grew restless, the casters squeaked and the round turned, more slowly than before.
I held my breath as it spelled: M-a-d-e-m-o-i-s-e-l-l-e.
My heart pumped against my rib cage. There was only one other mademoiselle in the room, aside from me: a woman advanced in years.
It couldn’t be Papa. It couldn’t be. Or . . . Mother? My breath grew shallow.
More turns came.
D-a-a-é.
My stomach bottomed out. I hadn’t asked for this—I didn’t want it. I tried to tear my gaze away but couldn’t.
“Who are you?” Delacroix interrupted the session.
Click, click, click.
A-n-g-e-l.
“Well, you’ve invoked an angel, Mademoiselle. Far better than a devil,” Delacroix said, his voice low.
Soft chuckles filled the room.
I couldn’t stand this. I pushed to my feet. “I do not wish to—”
The table spun again.
M -u-s-i-c.
“The Angel of Music,” I whispered. Blood drained from my face and limbs, leaving me cold. It wasn’t Papa, but the Angel? It couldn’t be true. Spirits, angels, ghosts . . . these were beings of our dreams; beings for little girl whimsies and the elderly poised on the threshold of death. A means of comfort as the dying looked back over the regrets of their lives, and toward the infinite night ahead. This must be a hoax.
The table began to turn once more.
G-o. S-i-n-g.
Monsieur Delacroix smiled.
I clutched my middle as if I’d been struck.
The medium looked at me, her eyes brimming with a curious emotion I couldn’t pinpoint. “The Angel of Music calls, Mademoiselle Daaé.
”
3
Shaken to the core, I spent the remainder of the week skittering around the house, startling at the smallest noises. The séance had confounded my perception of life and death, of what it meant to exist. I couldn’t make sense of it. While in bed, I left a candle burning as I clutched the covers to my chin and stared at the long shadow of the armoire bleeding across the floor. Flickering candlelight teased the darkness, tempting it to snuff out its golden rays. I turned my ear to the whispering of drapes over floorboards, the moan of wind against windowpanes, until the last flame sputtered out. When the light surrendered to the dark, I squeezed my eyes closed. Yet the air pulsed as if alive. Were spirits here, watching me, even now? Maybe we always walked in the company of the dead without knowing, without seeing.
The dreams I had stuffed down years ago resurfaced with a vengeance: the image of the Master Conjurer and his assistant floating across the stage, their shrieks as fire licked the curtains and an attacker rushed them with a club. I wondered if their spirits haunted the ruins of the Theatre Margot, or hovered protectively around their loved ones.
Despite the disturbing images, songs flooded my dreams. The Angel commanded my music.
One afternoon in the garden, I sat beside Madame beneath the shade of a beech tree, wondering how I might broach the subject weighing on my mind. I’d had several nights of fitful sleep and battled a nervous energy until I couldn’t stand it another minute. No one wanted me, not in the way Madame had hoped, and we needed a way to pay for her increasing doctor bills. I had to do something.
Drawing on my courage, I stuffed my sewing into my cloth sack. “Madame, I think it’s time I started performing again.”
She looked up from the novel she cradled in her hands, and studied me silently for several long moments. At last she said, “I hoped your time with me would lead to a happy marriage. As you know, your security has been on my mind these last few years. I’m not convinced singing will bring you happiness, Christine.” She closed her book. “Also, it could make pairing you with a gentleman more difficult. Remember the salon.”
I remembered it all too well.
“But it will bring added income, and build my experience. I see this as a means to aid my security.” I lowered my eyes. “And yours.”
