by Heather Webb
“Has she seen him?” I dropped my voice to a whisper, though I knew if the Angel wanted to hear us, he could. Somehow, he was everywhere—and nowhere—all at once. Each time I decided he was a man, he convinced me otherwise. Either way, I couldn’t deny his presence made my heart race, or that I was grateful for him.
“Maman says the only person who seems to know the ghost, other than herself, is a Persian man in a multi-colored turban who visits from time to time. I’ve seen the Persian in the opera house as well, though he never speaks to anyone. He’s odd.” She frowned for an instant and lowered her voice. “She also says the ghost demands payment from the directors. And now he wishes to dethrone Queen Carlotta.” She giggled and clapped a hand over her mouth. “You mustn’t tell anyone I said that. Maman would be furious.”
“I will keep your secret,” I said, my mind racing.
I was sickened at the prospect that my Angel was capable of blackmail and assault. Like it or not, I cared for him. He watched over me, inspired me. I couldn’t deny his constant aid, or his fierce loyalty. He had saved my life and taught me so much. But I knew he harbored a darkness I had yet to see. His sinister laugh echoed in my mind, his snappy tone edged with menace when I didn’t do precisely as he asked.
Meg frowned. “Are you all right? You just blanched white as a sheet.”
“What do you mean by the ghost ‘wishes to dethrone Queen Carlotta’?”
“He keeps demanding they put you on the stage instead of her. But, as you know, they have yet to follow his orders. Bad decision.” She rubbed her filmy skirt between her fingers in a nervous gesture. “Maman says we will all pay for ignoring the ghost’s requests. She talks about the ghost so often I . . .” She trailed off. “I’m afraid of her association with him. And her feelings.”
“Her feelings”? Meg seemed to imply there was something more between them. An uncomfortable emotion prickled inside of me. “Try not to worry.” I squeezed her hand. “If he communicates with her, he must trust her discretion.”
“I need to know something, Christine.” Curiosity shone in her eyes. “Is the ghost your tutor?”
I studied her earnest expression. If her mother already worked for the ghost, she must be good at keeping secrets. And she was one of my few friends. I hoped I could trust her.
“Yes.” I averted my eyes. “He comes to my dressing room at night, though I can’t see him, sometimes during performances, sometimes after them.” I clutched her hand. “But please, tell no one. I don’t want to anger him. He might leave.”
“I knew it!” She pounded her knee with her fist. “Just think. If he helps you take a lead role, you’ll be a star. Your voice is so lovely.”
“Thank you.” I smiled weakly, and winced as the movement stretched my bruised cheek.
I wondered what the Angel was planning—his promise to dethrone Carlotta both rattled and excited me. If he succeeded, I would gain true recognition, and secure Madame’s household. I could do whatever I liked from there. The thought dislodged something inside me; hope—not guilt—filled the hollow of my chest. I could do whatever I liked.
Ideas I hadn’t entertained since Papa’s death flooded into my mind.
Meg rose to her feet. “You should go home and rest. Perhaps when you’re better you’ll join us at the dance hall?”
I tried to smile without luck—my cheek was too sore. “I would like that.”
Meg opened the door to go, and a figure in the hallway.
“Christine!” Monsieur Delacroix rushed inside. “You’ve been hurt.” Though concern brimmed in his voice, he studied the large mirror covering the wall over my head. “I’ve been following the hidden staircases through the first few floors. Combing them for clues and information. I thought I heard a voice, but couldn’t trace it, and I haven’t heard it again.” He glanced at my face, as if remembering I was there—and injured. “Mon Dieu, how did this happen?”
Something about the wildness in his eyes, the way he had to remind himself to be concerned, kept the truth locked firmly inside me. “I fell and hit my face.”
“Goodness.” He touched my hand. “Do you need assistance?”
“Thank you, but no. I’ll just rest a bit longer and then be on my way.”
“Very well.” He stood abruptly and returned to the door. “I will visit you at home soon.”
As he left, I heaved a sigh and closed my eyes. Meg’s words rushed back. People knew the Angel worked with me, yet I couldn’t imagine how they knew—no one had heard us talking, at least to my knowledge.
My head throbbed. Light flashed around the edges of my vision. I needed to go home, get proper rest. I pulled on my cloak and gloves, and locked my dressing room door behind me.
Claudette administered laudanum to ease the pain in my jaw and throbbing temples over the next few days. The blow across my cheek turned from angry welt to a bruise that spread in a frightening patchwork of blue-black and purple. Madame Valerius gasped when she saw me, and then her eyes had filled with tears.
“I fell on the stairs.” Another lie slipped out before I could stop it. “I slammed my face against the marble casing at the base of a statue.”
“Darling, you must be careful. You will wreck your pretty face.” She motioned to Albert to fetch a cold compress.
I stewed over the horrible chain of events for the next three days. Why had I lied to cover for the monster who attacked me? Keeping the incident to myself meant Buquet would go free—again. Then it dawned on me. I hadn’t lied to protect Joseph, or to cover my own foolishness.
I lied to protect him—the ghost, my Angel.
If I explained what Joseph and Serge were looking for, or admitted why they attacked me, it would alert the directors. They would send for the magistrate and hunt the Angel. I had to protect my teacher, my savior. My pulse quickened at the thought of his beautiful tenor in my ear.
But Madame Valerius knew me too well. She didn’t buy my lies.
Claudette poked her head into my room. “Madame wants to speak with you.”
I closed my book and joined her in her bedroom, sitting carefully on the edge of her bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, fine,” she said, dismissing my concern. “I think the better question is how are you feeling, my dear?” She eyed the bruise on my face.
“Better,” I said, shifting my gaze away from hers.
I’d spent the better part of a week recovering. Albert had delivered a note to Gabriel to inform him of my illness, and that I would return in a few more days. The opera went on. They didn’t miss their understudy, or even need me, really. Carlotta would sooner croak than allow me to step into her shoes.
She waved me closer. “Come here, child.”
I moved within reach of her soft, wrinkled hands, and she cupped my chin in them. “I want you to protect yourself, should you ever need to.”
Taken aback, I flinched. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I don’t know what’s really going on, Christine, but you need to assume there are less-than-good people in the world.”
She rang her bedside bell and Alfred entered the room, carrying an item between his thumb and forefinger. He held it away from him as if it were a poisonous snake.
A gun.
“This is my pistol,” Madame said. “I’d like you to keep it with you.”
Too shocked to speak, I stared back at her. She didn’t seem the type to own a weapon.
She chuckled at my expression. “Don’t look so surprised. I bought it during the invasion ten years ago, when Emperor Bonaparte was captured. You probably don’t remember. You were just a girl.”
“I remember the Prussians. Everyone was starving, not just Papa and me.”
“Yes, and they looted and destroyed many homes. I wanted to protect myself. Now it is time you did the same. For a while, at least. When things are safe again, you can return it to me.”
Somehow, she knew more than I had told her. Claudette must have revealed at least part
of the truth. I couldn’t argue with Madame, though the thought of carrying a pistol made me queasy. Suddenly I wondered if my own mother would have given me a weapon or met with the police on my behalf. Would she stroke my hand the way Madame did, teach me to sew, and read books with me, encourage me to learn her magic?
Madame touched my chin, pulling me from my thoughts. “Be careful, my dear.”
I stared at the weapon in my hands. “I’ll just put this away for now.” I closed her bedroom door behind me.
Perhaps I would return it to her desk without her knowing. The unwelcome thought of seeing Joseph again made my hands tremble, and propelled me swiftly down the hallway. Maybe the pistol wasn’t such a bad idea after all. I unlocked the drawer of my armoire and placed it next to my magic box for safekeeping.
My magic box.
Unable to resist, I wiped clean the layer of dust on the lid. With my finger, I traced my carved initials for the hundredth time. A vision of Raoul flitted through my mind: his flawless cravat, and the satisfied expression on his handsome face, radiating from beneath a bow of golden maple leaves. I wondered how he might react if he knew I still had his gift. I ached to open the box, sift through its contents, and test my memories of the well-loved illusions, but doing so might engender more longing for a pastime I had sworn off for good.
A longing I should ignore.
I shoved the box back into the drawer. With a sigh, my eyes shifted to the pistol’s carved handle, inlaid with pearl and decorated with curling vines designed for a woman’s taste. What in the world would I do with a gun? I couldn’t imagine shooting someone, and hadn’t the slightest idea how to use one. I closed the drawer and turned the key as the knocker on the front door clacked.
I descended the stairs and found Monsieur Delacroix waiting for me in the hall.
“You are looking quite well, considering, Christine.” He removed his hat and handed me a package of sugared fruits before seating himself.
Claudette slipped into the room quietly, bearing a tray with coffee, a dish of sugar cubes, and a baguette with butter and confiture.
“It’s healing.” My fingertips grazed the spot on my cheek.
The doctor had stopped by that morning, leaving another hefty bill in his wake for examining me as well as Madame, who grew weaker each autumn day with the cool air and the rains. He recommended she spend the winter somewhere southern and warm, but we couldn’t afford to maintain an apartment elsewhere and also a residence for me in Paris. The stress of our financial situation made my fingers itch to seek the comfort and distraction of my tools and gadgets. My cards. Instead, I dropped a sugar cube in my coffee and watched it disappear as it melted. My magic, again—I had to stop thinking about it. I sighed as I stirred.
“Carlotta said everyone is worried about you.” Delacroix sipped the rich brew.
I held my composure, though I wanted to protest. Her behavior confused me. One minute she was polite, even nice; the next, I had to brace myself for a strike. Perhaps she meant well after all, but was simply a difficult woman.
“In fact,” he went on, “that’s why I’m here. To make sure you’re recovering. Have you seen a doctor? I would hate for you to lose your coveted position. You should return to the opera as soon as possible.”
Coveted position? An understudy’s position came with a certain amount of prestige, but I rarely had the chance to perform. I was no closer to becoming a star and only marginally adding to our income. I stirred my coffee again, agitating the liquid until it sloshed over the porcelain rim.
“Are you all right?” Delacroix arched a thick eyebrow.
Surprised my unrest was so apparent, I forced a smile and sat taller. “I’m ready to return to work, is all. I have been restless.”
“Anxious to meet with your tutor, perhaps?” Delcroix asked smoothly.
I gripped my cup. He had heard more rumors about the ghost, and was baiting me. Had Meg revealed my secret? That seemed the only way the rumors could have spread. A twinge of betrayal twisted my gut. I had trusted her. I liked the ballerina, but perhaps I should have kept my mouth closed. Unless someone else had overheard—or Delacroix had uncovered the news while at the opera, somehow. He was hanging outside my dressing room door while Meg and I talked about it.
“I don’t have a tutor, Monsieur. You know that.”
“I see.” His eyebrows knitted into a frown. “Well, the cast is saying the opera ghost speaks to you. Do you deny it?”
For the first time, I didn’t retreat into my skin, wishing I could find the right words. I met his gaze evenly. “All I’ve seen and heard, I have told you.”
“And your face? I’m not certain a little fall could make it look like this.” He gestured to the fading bruises. “How did this happen exactly?”
“Your line of questioning feels as if I am before a jury, Monsieur.”
He chuckled and sank back into the sofa. “I apologize. I’ve been working with incompetent fools the last week and it has set me on edge. I only ask because I care for your well-being. Nothing more. I’ve been worried you will find yourself embroiled in the scandal. Opera ghosts, threatening letters, and now your injury.”
“It’s kind of you to ask, but I am well.” I blushed on cue, not from embarrassment, but from anger that I should be forced to lie again. “As I said before, I smashed my face on the marble base of a statue. I was clumsy and lost my footing. I feel foolish about the whole thing.”
“There is no need to chastise yourself, my dear.” He peered at me over the rim of his coffee cup. “I thought you should know, I’ve gone over the maps of the opera house quite thoroughly, as well as examined each of the staircases and halls. I’ve only found one hidden staircase, and it led to the stables. Not quite the secret I had hoped to find. The directors are ready for me to wrap my investigation. They will call the gendarme if any other damning business occurs with this ghost.”
Something told me there were many other secret passages the professor hadn’t yet discovered. He couldn’t be as thorough as he thought—and for some reason, this pleased me to bits. To hide my satisfied grin, I gulped the remainder of my coffee, the liquid scalding my throat as it went down. Apparently, there was a lot he didn’t know, including the evil men searching for the ghost. Delacroix would go into a tirade if he knew others might achieve his goal before him. Yet, despite his veiled warning, he couldn’t make me share what I knew. My loyalty to the Angel was too strong.The Angel trusted me, and I needed him.
Delacroix leaned forward to squeeze my hand. “You know you can come to me if you hear something, or if anything is amiss. I would never let anyone hurt you.”
“Goodness, why would anyone hurt me?” I spoke an octave too high and my fingers rested on my throat in forced surprise. I hoped I didn’t appear as false as I felt.
He assessed me with his vivid gaze.
For a moment, I thought he would call my bluff, but at last he said, “I don’t want to alarm you, but a beautiful woman—particularly one in an exalted position—is always a target. Carlotta has had many admirers take things too far. I hope you are taking proper precautions.”
“Thank you for your concern, but all is well, I assure you.”
“Very good then.”
His tone indicated satisfaction, but I noted his clenched jaw and the way his left hand balled into a fist. He knew I withheld something, but he wouldn’t try to pry more from me, at least for now.
I pressed my lips together and reached for a hunk of buttered bread.
The happy chirp of canaries wrenched me from my thoughts. I had neglected them of late, abandoning our daily song. With a snap, I popped open the lid to their cage and reached inside for Bizet. He puffed out his proud golden belly to be stroked, then cooed and rubbed his head against my thumb.
“I’m sorry, mes amours. I’ve been so busy.”
Bizet cocked his head and peered at me with an inquisitive eye. I reached into the cage again and Mozart hopped on my finger. I brought him to my
mouth so he might perform his favorite trick—a gentle peck to my lips.
“A kiss from my sweetest bird.”
Mozart tweeted a reply, pleased with the work he had done. He hopped from my finger to my forearm as I fetched Berlioz from the cage next. Berlioz nipped the wrinkled flesh on my knuckle, angry I had left him for last.
I yelped. “That is no way to treat a lady.”
Berlioz squawked in defiance. He didn’t appreciate being abandoned. Simple mealtimes were not enough attention for my beloved pets. I hummed “Se vuol ballare” from Le Mariage de Figaro, a song Papa used to sing to me. Bizet and Mozart joined in with their own songs, chirping merrily. I scrubbed Berlioz’s head softly with my finger until he decided he was no longer angry and joined the others in singing.
“You’re a stubborn fellow, aren’t you?” I asked.
Berlioz chirped and rubbed his head against my finger.
“Tomorrow we’ll play some more, I promise.”
All three canaries hopped into their cage. I flicked the string of bells dangling from a wire ring. Bizet clasped the rope in his beak and jingled them in reply. After cinching the cage door closed, I swept up the pile of seed hulls and feather wisps from the floor beneath the cage.
Tomorrow I returned to the opera. I had decided to tell the directors everything about the violent machinist, once and for all. Though afraid of the repercussions, I had to speak up—for my own safety and the safety of anyone else Buquet might target, including the Angel.
Which posed another problem. I would have to explain why I was wandering through the stables the night he attacked me.
Someone knocked at the front door.
I frowned, setting down the broom. Monsieur Delacroix had come just yesterday so it couldn’t be him. Someone for Madame Valerius, perhaps.
“I’ve got it,” Claudette called from the kitchen.
I glanced out the window, wondering who might visit in the rain, but discovered it had stopped. Soggy sunlight streamed over the hedges and condensation glistened on the windowpane. I had hoped to go for a walk and get some fresh air before I braved my return to the opera. Now I could. I would slip from sight, once Madame Valerius joined her guest, and take a carriage to a park across town with Claudette.
