by Heather Webb
“Perhaps I will be more than just a singer one day,” I said, my voice tinged with resentment.
“What else could you ask for, selfish girl?” The air crackled with the Angel’s sudden anger. “Did you not revel in the attention from adoring fans?”
“That isn’t the point.”
“That’s precisely the point,” he snapped. “I know what is best for you.” His voice grew savage, possessive. “You will do as you’re told! You will take Carlotta’s place permanently, and we will run the opera stage together.”
The image of Joseph Buquet reemerged, his dangling body swinging from a rope on the mezzanine. My face grew pale in the mirror, brush suspended in midair over my scalp. I knew I mustn’t provoke the ghost. At last I said, “I want nothing more.”
“Very good. And you will steer clear of the Vicomte de Chagny as well.” His voice turned menacing. “I don’t want to hurt you, Christine.”
My Angel threatened me, as if I were Joseph Buquet or the rest of them. A crushing wave of disappointment washed over me. I thought I was different to him, somehow, special. With a trembling hand, I lay the brush on the table. I would have to tell Raoul I couldn’t see him again. Carlotta might threaten me, but she wouldn’t hurt me. But the ghost—my Angel—might.
I cleared my throat of the sudden tears clogged there. “The Vicomte de Chagny and I are only friends, but I will do as you ask. As for tonight, I don’t think I can practice. I’m too tired.”
“So these are the thanks I’ve earned. You won’t spend time with the Angel who has taught you everything. Who saved your life. Have it your way. Good night!”
The room went silent.
Brimming with emotion, I remained at my vanity. Of course I was thankful the Angel had rescued me from my attackers, but I couldn’t justify murder in any form. He could have had the man arrested instead. And now he threatened me. I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, the way my bottom lip quivered. Would the Angel truly harm his protégé? He seemed to care for me a great deal, but I couldn’t predict his next move.
After waiting several minutes to ensure he had truly gone, I tugged at the buttons on my costume, slipped out of the muslin bodice, and pulled at the stays on my overly tight corset. Just a little looser and I could breathe. As the ties released and I exhaled, a whisper of sound came from the wall.
I froze.
I would swear I’d heard the faintest intake of breath.
Disturbed by the thought of being watched—especially while undressing—I made the decision to wear my costumes home. My stomach turned over at the thought of my breasts bared and legs exposed to the Angel. Visions of a floating form with leering eyes—and Joseph’s bloated face—haunted me until dawn shimmied beneath the edges of my drapes. Yet when I opened my eyes at last, only one image popped into my head—the gun.
I shot up to a sitting position. I’d forgotten to bring it home. Leaving it at the opera made me too nervous. After the show tonight, I would return it to Madame. With Joseph gone, I had no need to keep it anyway.
I ambled around the house all afternoon, exhausted from worry, before setting out for the opera house. Thick fog blanketed the city landscape with gloom. I wished I could duck inside the cover and disappear for a while. I dreaded the coming conversation with Gabriel; would I lead for another day or would Carlotta return to the stage, my performance forgotten.
But first, I must retrieve the gun.
I entered the west side of the building, shook out my umbrella, and headed toward the staircase that led to the cast rooms. At the bottom of the stairs, a man in a curious white suit and colorful turban met my eye, nodded, and swept past. I turned to look over my shoulder, wondering if he were this mysterious Persian that Meg had mentioned. Lost in thought, I continued on my way.
As I passed the director’s office, I couldn’t ignore the shouting and slowed my pace.
“This is ludicrous!” Madame Giry flew out of the room and rushed past me, tendrils of chestnut hair sweeping across her cheeks.
I stared after her, stomach churning. Madame delivered notes from the opera ghost to the directors. I wondered what had happened now.
“You will lose your job for this!” Carlotta shrieked as she emerged from the office behind Madame Giry. She waved a letter covered in red ink over her head.
Madame Giry ignored the reproach and picked up speed, turning at the end of the hall.
I shrank against the wall in silence, not wanting to become involved.
Carlotta stomped through the hallway, intent on catching the concierge—until she noticed me. She stopped suddenly, hands on hips.
“Well, aren’t you just the rising star?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “The directors found your performance ‘riveting,’ I believe was the word they used. But I’m returning to the stage this evening, so you can save yourself the trouble of getting ready. My voice is in top form and I have many friends who will be here tonight.” Her large brown eyes narrowed. “I hope you enjoyed your brief time in the light, because there won’t be any more. Those ridiculous notes that are circulating do not frighten me, or the directors.”
Her open hostility made my spine stiffen, and I hardened my resolve. I had proven my worth last night, despite being overcome at the end. This woman wouldn’t bully me. Not anymore.
In the chilliest tone I could muster, I said, “I have no idea what you’re referring to. I wrote no such notes.”
“Someone is pretending to be a ghost, and leaving notes with instructions. Oddly, many of them reference you. We all suspect you’re the culprit.”
“Is that what the directors think?” I asked. “I would never do such a thing. At the very least, I have my pride.”
Her eyes narrowed and she leaned closer. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Christine. I know everyone in this town. One word from me and you’re finished.”
With that, she spun on her heel and stalked away in a cloud of perfume and conceit.
I groaned. This was the Angel’s fault. I hadn’t the slightest idea how to untangle the mess. All of those notes! The directors must see me as a pest—a jealous, foolish woman—in spite of their glowing account of my performance. Fury sparked inside me. If the Angel could have his way, I would also have mine. I would stand up for myself, my reputation. I was tired of being pushed around.
I barreled down the stairs to my dressing room. This ghost would show himself—now—and explain his motives! If he didn’t, I would expose him to the directors. The charade was over, like it or not. As I neared the end of the hall, I stopped. A man leaned against the door of my dressing room with his back to me.
At the sound of my footsteps, he turned.
“Christine,” Raoul said, a smile lighting his face. “I was hoping to see you.”
I halted, too astonished to continue. My anger vanished, but the anxiety I had felt for the last twenty-four hours rushed up my throat. He couldn’t be here, but God Almighty, the unexpected beauty of him set off a siren inside my head.
“H-hello, Raoul.”
“Is now a bad time?” He tucked a book under his arm. “I can come again another day, but I was hoping we might talk.” He ran his free hand through his tousled blond hair.
He isn’t a gentleman, I reminded myself. Leading another woman to believe he would propose marriage, but seeking friendship with me at the same time, was wrong. It might destroy the woman’s trust, her feelings. A voice whispered in my head, And yours. I shook my head. I had to resist his charms and see him for who he truly was. A man many longed to call their own, a man who had his pick of the town among women—a man who had already chosen his future bride.
“You were marvelous last night.” His eyes gleamed. “Your father would have been so proud.”
In spite of my resolve, warmth bloomed in my chest. “I’m honored you think so.”
“The honor is mine.”
His intense expression turned my bones to liquid. I looked down, attempting to seal my emotion away. When I
lifted my head again, he stood only an arm’s length from me. I ran a hand along the slippery folds of my umbrella to avoid his gaze. My hesitation, and all of those warnings, rang like a tocsin in my head.
I straightened, cleared my throat. “I’m afraid I must practice, Raoul.”
The hope in his eyes faded. “Oh, I apologize, of course. Another time.” He held the book in his hands toward me. “I almost forgot. I brought something for you.”
Against my will, my heart fluttered.
“I wanted you to have this.” He pressed the volume into my hand. “I bought it some time ago, but it should belong to you.”
Emotions whirled through me like a cyclone as I caressed the volume: The Sharper Detected and Exposed by Jean-Eugène Robert-Houdin, the master of magic. Raoul had given me a book of magic to go with the beautiful box he’d gifted me so many years ago. I gaped at him, touched by his thoughtful gesture—and the sight of the forbidden tome. But Raoul was unaware of my swearing off magic. And he remembered—from all that time ago—how illusions comforted me. With care, I cracked the book’s cover, releasing the smell of dust and old paper, and skimmed the table of contents. Suddenly I couldn’t remember why I had given up the pastime I loved most.
“It’s an older volume.” Raoul laughed nervously. “One of the few remaining original copies. You used to love illusions. I hope you do, still? You were quite good at them, as I recall. And your mother had loved them, as well, yes?” He probed my face with an intense gaze.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, suddenly breathless. I held the book to my chest. “I will cherish it.”
He beamed at me. “I do so enjoy bestowing gifts on my friends.”
I wanted to take his hand in mine, but I was far too fond of him already, and our time needed to come to an end. His generosity made what I had to say so much more difficult.
A sigh—or a soft groan—came from inside the wall near my head.
The smile on my face froze. I knew that sound.
“After the show tomorrow, I’ll stay for an aperitif in the foyer. I hope you’ll join me? I can introduce you to my brother again, and some of our friends. I asked yesterday, but you seemed distraught after your performance.”
“Yes, I was overcome.” Though I shouldn’t meet with Raoul, I knew the directors would expect the most prominent members of the cast to attend the gathering, and now that I had played the lead, that group included me. I would attend this time, and tell Raoul I couldn’t see him again after. Perhaps by then I could think of an excuse.
The groaning sound grew louder, this time near my feet.
My heart skipped wildly. I knew the Angel was nearby, or would be very soon.
“Thank you for the book,” I said, opening my dressing room door.
He tipped his head forward in a polite nod. “I hope to see you tomorrow evening.”
I nodded, a tight smile on my face. I’d barely made it inside my dressing room, when the voice sliced the air.
“You were good last night, but not magnifique,” the Angel greeted me disdainfully. “Don’t let the others’ praise go to your head.”
I removed my cape and hung it on a hook. “I sang with all I had, with my very soul. And that wasn’t enough?”
“I want to feel your devotion, your love. It didn’t shine the way it should.”
I wondered if he meant my love for the music, or for him. I respected his talent, craved his guidance, but could not love a man-ghost who threatened me and killed without a second thought. How could he possibly think otherwise.
“You do not feel for me as I feel for you.” His voice dipped to a middle C.
Cringing, I measured my reply. “You are a ghost, a voice inside my head. How could I love you?”
“A voice that has made you—saved your life—and guides you in your time of need,” he snarled.
“I am grateful for your guidance,” I said quickly to placate him, “and for saving my life. It’s a debt I can never repay.”
His hollow laugh shook the gilded mirror on the wall.
Frowning, I walked toward it. Was the wall hollow there, behind the glass? I touched the etchings on the outer edges of the mirror, pausing to see my tight lips and the tension gathered along my jaw.
“Grateful to me, yet you love the Vicomte de Chagny.”
“I’ve hardly made his acquaintance. That is, not since I was a child.” Though my words sounded assured, my heart throbbed at the thought of loving Raoul.
“Yet he is there when you swoon, and seeks you out to give you gifts.”
My eyes drifted to the book of illusions on the sofa.
“He’s renewing an old friendship. I assure you, he isn’t interested in more. He’s courting another woman. I’ll avoid him when possible like we agreed.”
A laugh that sounded more like a snarl, ripped through the room. “If you choose to pursue your relationship with the Vicomte de Chagny—or promise yourself to anyone else—I will never visit you again. Your music will leave you, and your protector will vanish. Your hopes of a career on the stage will collapse.” When I did not reply, he continued, “No man can possess you, Christine, or he will pay.”
I struggled against a flash of anger, and an unexpected wave of sadness. I would have to sacrifice my own happiness—and the ghost would prefer that—to keep me under his thumb. If he cared for me, or loved me as his words implied, he wouldn’t ask such a thing.
Love did not take prisoners.
I gave the mirror my back. “I’ve had no proposals.”
“You will soon. But remember who admires you most, who keeps you on the stage. Refuse them, or you and your nobleman will pay the price. Is that understood?”
I stared glumly at Raoul’s gift without reply.
“My dear Christine, you don’t understand.” His voice took on a passionate tone. “I’m writing an opera that will make the crowd weep with its perfection, cry out at its magical sets! You will sing it with me on the most famous stage in the world.” His voice softened. “Never fear, the music will seduce you, and in time, you will come to love me. Your pure heart is the only one that understands me, sweet Christine.”
He took my silence for acquiescence and continued, “Until my opera is complete, you will take Carlotta’s place. If the new directors refuse to remove her, I will deal with them. As for your fame, it will grow and the invitations will flood in from all over the city. But you will sing in one place only—at the opera house, with me. It will increase their demand for you.”
A shiver ran over my body. He would “deal” with the directors? I didn’t want to find out what that meant. I couldn’t imagine disrupting the opera schedule for his piece, ignoring the directors’ authority, and taking over the stage—all with the infamous ghost. I would be hated by all.
I forced a cheerful tone. “I look forward to hearing your opera.”
He laughed, a more joyous tone. “I thought you might. Now then, prepare yourself for the show. I have matters to attend to, but I will return for our lesson.”
Silence surrounded me.
He truly believed he could control everyone—and that I would love him for it! I plopped down on my sofa. What was I going to do? I leaned my chin on my hand, eyes wandering around the room, searching for an answer that wasn’t there. At last they came to rest on the vanity drawer.
The gun! I’d forgotten it entirely.
I leapt toward the vanity and slid the drawer open. I reached toward the back, seeking the fabric of my handbag and the cold metal of the gun’s barrel. Instead, my fingertips scraped upon wood.
My blood pumped faster. I swiped my hand through the back of the drawer again. Nothing. I bent to peer inside the drawer.
Empty.
Perhaps I had put it in another drawer? I yanked open each, one after the other, blood racing.
The gun was gone.
Think. I had to think. Had I left the building with it last night? I was so distracted; my mind was so foggy. I didn’t remember doi
ng so, but perhaps I had left it in the coach. Though not the most convenient of circumstances, that would be better than considering the weapon at large among the cast—or in the Angel’s hands. But if he was a spirit, what would he need with a gun? Somewhere in my gut, I knew. There was more to the Angel than I had first assumed. And soon, I would learn the truth, one way or another.
In spite of the sinking sensation in my stomach, I forced myself to put on a happy face and made my way to the auditorium. How would I explain the gun’s disappearance to Madame Valerius? I groaned as I reached for the door leading into the theatre. Inside, the cast murmured among themselves. The directors had called a meeting, presumably to discuss Joseph Buquet’s death. I strolled down the aisle and slid into a seat, its usual scarlet a muddied crimson in the half-light.
Messieurs Richard and Montcharmin walked onto the stage.
I felt a pinch on my arm and turned to see Meg leaning forward in her seat. She winked when I met her eye.
“Attention, everyone. We called this meeting to discuss a tragic incident that occurred last night.” Montcharmin rested his hands on his protruding belly. “As you know, someone died here, under our roof. A well-liked machinist by the name of Joseph Buquet was found hanged. Whether or not he committed suicide is unclear at this time, but we have spoken with Inspector Mifroid. He will be interviewing many of you soon. We ask that you comply with his requests.”
“What of the opera ghost?” Pierre—the man with the scary mole—called out.
“We’re looking into this nonsense.” Monsieur Richard tucked his hand inside an open flap of his vest. “I’m sure there is a perfectly rational explanation, but let it be known, we will get to the bottom of this, and those responsible for the pranks will be brought to justice. The police will be searching the premises for clues. Don’t be alarmed. They are doing their job. Any other information should be brought to us immediately.”
“The police will do you no good if it’s a ghost,” someone shouted.
The cast murmured.
I focused on making my face a mask. I didn’t want to be implicated as the ghost’s accomplice. Still, the police would come for me at some point, ask questions, and I would have to tell them the truth. At least, the partial truth. My name was all over those letters so I would have some explaining to do. For now, I needed to deal with the missing gun. I sank further into my chair. What if the inspector found the gun before I did?
