by Heather Webb
He stared at me, seeming to try to ascertain if I was telling the truth.
“You know I care for you. In fact, I should think you know how much by now.” I placed a trembling hand on the uncovered half of his face. “You can trust me. But I must . . . I need to go home to see my family and assure them I am well.”
He put his hand over mine. “You care for me.”
“Yes,” I said, swallowing. I needed to push him just a bit more. “We have practiced quite a lot. I know most of my lines for Don Juan Triumphant, and the cast—”
The mention of the cast snapped him out of his brief reprieve from anger. “I’ll deliver you from this torture at once.”
The urge to protest rose up inside me. In spite of my disgust, I wanted to soothe him, to assure him things could change in his life if he only tried, and that I could help him, but I didn’t voice any of that. It wasn’t true, and I was desperate to be delivered from this oblivion. He could lord over his dungeons, his dark corners and fathomless night, without me. I yearned for the light.
“I know you want to get away from me, so we’ll go. Now!” He pushed me through the bedchamber and along the pathway without lantern or torch.
“You’re hurting me,” I said, tugging against his grip.
He shoved me again with force, and I slammed into the cold wall.
I rubbed the shoulder that had borne the brunt of the impact. Any sympathy, any kinship I felt with my dark angel evaporated instantly with his cruel behavior. In its place, fear and disgust returned. I had to escape him for good.
We walked in silence to the shore of the lake. This time the skiff was tethered to the dock nearest us.
“Get in,” he said.
I obeyed and stepped into the boat, keeping my focus on the seat rather than the fearsome water below us. With one shove, Erik could push me overboard and hold me underwater. Today he seemed in just the mood to do it. I knew I had to tread carefully. As I sat, the edges of the paper hidden in my pantaloons scraped against my skin. I froze. If I moved too much, they would rustle and alert his attention. Should he discover them, all was lost.
Erik switched on a lantern swinging from a curved pole that extended from the bow of the boat. Its beams radiated a shallow halo, reflecting off the black face of the water. I remained silent, containing the relief coursing through me with each paddle stroke, until the dock on the opposing grew near. I was almost free!
After debarking, we stepped out of the boat and continued on a winding path from one floor to another and, at last, we stopped.
He gripped my arms once more and pulled me to him.
I held my breath, waiting for his next move.
“Your little intrigue with my illusions is done.” The cool porcelain of his mask nearly touched my face. “Singing is your life. Go, be a diva. You won’t have trouble with Carlotta anymore. She’ll play a minor role from now on. I’ve seen to it. We’ll sing together, you and I, along with the cast for Don Juan Triumphant. Once the show is a success, I will tell you what to do from there.”
“You didn’t . . . hurt Carlotta, did you?” As much as I detested the woman I didn’t wish her any harm.
“Not yet.” His voice was cold. “If you stay away from Raoul, no one else will suffer harm. Including your Madame.” His eyes narrowed inside the slits of his mask. “And you.” He wrapped his hand around my throat and squeezed softly but firmly, the cool leather glove against my skin. “Do what you are told, or you will face my wrath. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice shaky.
He released me, hit a lever with his foot, and a panel behind the mirror of my dressing room wall opened. When it slid shut, I fell into the chair at my vanity for a moment to gather my wits.
I stared into the mirror, wondering if he watched from the other side. Tears of relief gushed down my face, but I didn’t feel weak and lost any longer. Erik may have his wishes for me—as Papa had, as Madame Valerius and Delacroix had—but I had plans of my own. I would play Erik’s game to protect those I loved a little longer—until I created a way to escape him once and for all.
22
I fell into Claudette’s arms the minute I returned home, and told her everything.
She embraced me for a long time. “I was so worried,” she said, her brown eyes watery. “Madame is oblivious. She believed you visited Meg’s family home. But two weeks away from Paris without a word to anyone? It didn’t sound like you, especially since you were supposed to be singin’. As soon as the Vicomte de Chagny came by the house looking for you, I knew something wasn’t right. He said he spoke to Meg Giry, and found out she wasn’t on vacation as the letter claimed. When another letter arrived that said you were well and not to worry, we didn’t alert Madame, but I was giving it two more days before I called on the police.”
Trying to sound nonchalant I said, “Raoul came by the house?”
“Yes.” She tugged on one of the folds of my black silk gown. “What on earth are you wearing?”
I didn’t bother to glance at the extravagant gown. “What did he say? Did he leave a note?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you show so much of your skin. Goodness. One can almost see your—”
“Claudette! Please answer me,” I said, exasperated by her blathering.
“Aye, Monsieur le Vicomte! He stopped by three days ago, was it?” She nodded. “Three days. Apparently, the directors plan to turn the lead over to you, but when you didn’t show, they had to cancel the performance. When Monsieur le Vicomte heard, he questioned the cast. No one had answers, so he came here, looking for you. We agreed that if you didn’t show in two days, we would get the gendarme involved. Oh! And he left his address. You should visit him, or write him a note. He’s sweet on you.” Claudette smiled. “Very sweet.”
A hundred thoughts flitted through my head. Should Erik kidnap me again, no one would think to look for me inside the labyrinthine hell below stage. I needed to share the maps with someone I could trust while I decided on my plans. I knew just the fellow.
“Let’s get a carriage.”
Within minutes, we rumbled over cobbled streets across town. When the carriage pulled into the drive of Raoul’s estate, my breath caught. The house was as beautiful as I had imagined. A dozen windows looked out over an expanse of lawn dotted by fruit trees and flowering bushes that lay dormant for the winter. The front walk wound between rows of elegant topiaries, and chestnut trees lined the edges of the lawn. I could only imagine the property’s beauty in the spring.
Before Claudette and I reached the front door, two butlers held the oaken doors wide.
“Bienvenue, Mademoiselle,” one man said, though he didn’t look at me directly.
“I’ve come to see Monsieur le Vicomte. Is he at home?”
“Christine!” Raoul’s voice echoed from some unseen room. “You’ve come!”
Despite my reserve, despite my constant struggle to suppress my feelings for him, my heart leapt at the sound of his voice.
He raced down the grand staircase into the front hall, his expression contorted with worry. “Are you all right?”
I nodded numbly, unable to move as a tidal wave of emotion engulfed me. “I— Oh, Raoul,” I whispered.
He crossed the foyer at once and gathered me in his arms.
I stiffened at the unexpected contact, and emotion clogged my throat. How could I ever explain? How could I tell him what he meant to me? I melted into his embrace, reveling in the sensation of his arms around me, his breath on my hair, his warmth. “I’m all right,” I breathed.
Claudette inched away from us, pretending to study the artwork in the front hall.
“I was about to call in the gendarme.” He pulled back a fraction to gaze into my eyes. “Where have you been? Don’t say you were with Mademoiselle Giry, because I’ve already spoken with her. I was worried sick.”
“I . . . well. I—”
“Meg Giry said she thought the opera ghost had kidnapped you,” h
e added, his tone grave. “Is this your ‘Angel of Music’? The same man who accosted me in the cemetery?”
I looked into his concerned face. This man was prepared to go to the police. He had interviewed the cast and been worried out of his mind. An overwhelming need flooded my senses. I reached out to touch his cheek and stopped at the change in his eyes.
“Was it him, the Angel of Music?” His tone took on an angry edge.
“It was,” I admitted, my voice soft.
“Did he hurt you?” He cupped my cheek with his hand.
“No.” I sniffed, trying not to cry.
“But he held you against your will.” He slammed his fist against the stairwell banister. “Evil bastard.”
A strange need to defend Erik arose inside me. How could I describe his loneliness, his haunted face, and the ruins of his career, his life? He’d lost everything. Regardless of his wrongdoings—even with his threats—I could not hate him.
“He’s not all evil,” I said, my voice wavering.
Raoul pulled back in shock. With tight lips he asked, “Do you love him?”
“Why do you ask such a thing? As I fall into your arms.”
“He left me for dead and kidnapped you, yet you defend him!” A realization crossed his face, then evolved into a scowl. “You went with him willingly, didn’t you?”
“Of course not!” My anger sparked like a match. “He kidnapped me, yes. And no, I do not love him. Not in that way. I pity him. He has been beaten and nearly killed, driven underground by his enemies. He lost the only woman he has ever loved in a fire—and now he loses—”
“Christine, he has murdered a man, perhaps more than one. He would turn on you, should the mood strike him.”
“I have thought of that, which is why I’m going to tell you a secret. But I am not going to tell you unless I have your word that you won’t share this until I am ready.”
He grimaced. “I don’t like the sound of this, but I suppose I have no other choice. Of course you can trust me. I would never do anything to harm you.”
“I have a map of his chambers and the underground of the opera house, should he . . . should he take me again,” I added, swallowing hard. “I’ll keep it locked in the trunk where I store my tools and things. All you will need to do is fetch Claudette and she will know where to find the key. But until then, we leave him be.”
“Why don’t we turn over the map to the gendarmes?”
I shook my head. “There is more at stake than I can tell you.”
He looked away, frustration stamped on his features. “I just don’t understand you, Christine.”
“Nor I, you.” My anger began to swell again. I thought of Carlotta’s warning, Erik’s demands. I couldn’t breathe. “You tell me how I should behave, yet we aren’t family, or . . . anything. You have no claim on me.”
Raoul paled. “Please forgive me. I have been presumptuous. When it comes to you, I lose my head. I . . . You’re right. I have no claim on you. Since our trip north, you have made it clear you don’t want that sort of attention from me.”
“That was not my intention at all, Raoul.”
He stepped closer. “I don’t understand. One moment I feel we have an understanding—a shared emotion—and the next, like I am as unwanted as cold rain.”
My hand found its way to the curve of his cheek. “I have tried to steer you away, yes, but that doesn’t represent my true feelings.”
Without hesitating, he wrapped me in his arms again.
My will collapsed and I burrowed against him, taking in his scent of seawater and sunshine, reveling in the feel of his body pressed to mine. When he pulled back, I frowned. I didn’t want him to leave me, not ever.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“More than all right.” His eyes darkened. Slowly, he raised his hand and traced my lips with his fingertip.
My lips parted at his touch, and my blood warmed. Somewhere a throbbing began inside me. He shouldn’t touch me in this way, but I ached for him.
Claudette cleared her throat.
I tried to pull away, but Raoul held me tighter. He leaned his forehead against mine. “You are so beautiful.”
I sighed, dizzy with pleasure at his nearness.
He lifted my chin with a gentle hand.
For a split second, I thought of the many reasons I should put distance between us.
Then his mouth met mine.
All thoughts drained from my head, all protestations vanished. The softness of his lips, the moan that rumbled in his throat, held me captive. As his kiss deepened, my arms moved of their own accord and wrapped around his neck. I leaned into him, threading my fingers in his hair. A passion swept over me and I wanted to be closer still—I wanted him to devour me. I pressed my body against him.
The sound of footsteps echoed in the hall.
We wrenched apart.
“Pardon me.” Philippe descended the staircase, a satisfied smile on his face.
I wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
“Hello, Philippe,” I said, utterly mortified. My face flamed hot. “I was just leaving. Thank you again, Raoul.” I nodded at him, gathered what little dignity I had left, and headed for the door.
Claudette didn’t hesitate, following close behind and grinning like a jackal.
“Wait, Christine!” Raoul reached for my hand and held it to his heart. “Are you going to the masquerade ball tomorrow evening? At the opera house, of course. I plan to be there. If you would save me a dance? I would like to speak to you afterward, in private. There is much to say.”
“Yes, there is,” I whispered.
Raoul smiled. “Until tomorrow night.”
“Until tomorrow night.”
Philippe winked at me as he passed behind his younger brother.
In spite of my embarrassment, I smiled again, then turned to go.
As I stepped into the night air, I didn’t have a care in the world. My blood hummed with the memory of a perfect kiss. Tomorrow night, I’d meet Raoul at the masquerade ball. Erik would be furious if he were to find out, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t turn Raoul away. I wanted this, wanted Raoul in my life, too much. There had to be a way for us to be together, and I would find it.
The next day, as I prepared for the masquerade ball, I dreamed of Raoul, his lips, his arms around me. I had to be with him somehow, regardless of the consequences. With him at my side, I could face Carlotta’s scheming. As for Erik—he need not know my true feelings. The beginnings of a plan glimmered in my mind, some way to end this charade. Though I had yet to work out the details, I knew one thing for certain: All would happen on the opening night of Don Juan Triumphant. Until then, I would continue on with Erik as we had before, and I would keep Raoul in the dark. Until then, I couldn’t guarantee anyone’s safety, but appeasing Erik was the best way to try.
Claudette helped me with the last pieces of my costume. I stared into the mirror, taking in the gold butterfly mask whose wings fanned across my cheeks in a graceful arc. My hair bounced with long ringlets, and shimmered with jeweled studs. The gown had been more difficult; I didn’t have the funds to purchase a new one. Madame Valerius had asked a favor of a wealthy friend, who had insisted I borrow her daughter’s gown. I accepted with glee and relief. The dress had been worn only once, and sat forgotten in an armoire—until tonight. I stroked its rich silk, the color of summer peaches; the full skirts tucked and folded in a dozen layers, mimicking a waterfall of amber waves. I wondered how I would ever bring myself to return such a dress. I wanted to wear it day and night, to sleep in it.
When the carriage pulled in front of the theatre, my heart fluttered with anticipation. Raoul’s fervent kiss, his speech, played over and over again in my head.
There is much to say.
My hopes soared as I entered the opera house. With a lightness of step, I continued to the front hall and luxuriated in the magnificent scene before me. The directors had outdone themselves. Hundreds of patrons flowed
up and down the main staircase toward the Grand Foyer clutching their masks, some feathered and beribboned, others stitched with shimmering thread, still others sparkling with sequins and jewels. The more adventurous wore masks that mimicked animal faces. I gazed at a woman with a mask made of porcelain, its design painted to resemble the petals of a flower. I touched my own mask, covering all but my lips and a small section of my forehead. Would Raoul recognize me? I saw no one I could identify in the crowd.
As a group of gentlemen dressed in ghoulish plague masks passed me, I recalled one of Papa’s stories. Ever fond of history, he had recounted many tales of the king’s court to a willing subject, enthralled as I was by their grandeur and intrigue.
“The masquerade ball began in the late medieval court of King Charles the sixth,” Papa had read from a borrowed text.
“What did they wear?” My nine-year-old mind had wanted him to paint a picture with his words.
“Velvet robes and jewels. Masks and animal fur. They dressed as stags and horses, boars. Some dressed to look like members of the court.”
I’d listened, engrossed by the tales of games and drunken merriment, lust and abundance—something I couldn’t really understand in our impoverished state. Some of the costumes had even caught fire during the court’s reckless celebrations.
“Once, enemies to the crown used masks to get close to the king. It was then that masquerades were deemed too dangerous, and were outlawed for a time,” he had said.
Papa had made a mask for me, too, of a beautiful songbird.
Now I followed the flow of traffic up the marble steps. I couldn’t help but compare the gentlemen’s costumes to those of the ladies. Many men wore their usual formal attire of black tails, white vests, and cravats. But I was happy to see those who deposed their suits in favor of culottes and coats sewn with golden thread, as well as wigs and extravagant hats made to look like jesters from the monarchy. Even a warlock or two roamed about.
A Mozart melody floated through the hall and mingled with the hum of voices. As I entered the Grand Foyer, my nerves flared. What if Erik caught me dancing with Raoul? Would he come after me? I shook my head. He wouldn’t expose himself so publicly. The whole of Paris would know the opera ghost was a fraud, merely a man with desperate intentions. I forced the thought from my mind. Tonight I would enjoy myself without worry. I stopped beside the balcony doors, fastened tightly against the winter cold, and scanned the crowd for Raoul.
