by Heather Webb
An errant thought pushed through my despair—Delacroix was Carlotta’s lover. Did he know about the pregnancy and her relations with Raoul? Fresh pain burned through me and I clutched my handbag until the sequins dug into my skin.
“You should speak to your mistress tout de suite,” I said, not bothering to keep the bitterness from my voice. “She has some news to share.”
“I don’t have a mistress,” Delacroix said, frowning. “Do you mean Carlotta? She’s just a friend of mine. Really, Christine, what’s going on?”
She wasn’t his mistress? I groaned. Then the child had to be Raoul’s for certain.
The lights flickered in the Grand Foyer. The music stopped abruptly.
All turned to stare at a figure making his way through the room.
I followed their eyes and stopped.
A man dressed head to toe in crushed red velvet weaved through the crowd. His cape, fringed in black tassels, waved behind him. His hat sat at an angle on his head, exaggerated and overstuffed with large feathers like those the king’s fool might wear. Yet it was neither his suit, nor hat that drew the most attention, but his mask. The porcelain surface resembled a skull. Only one man could embody Red Death so completely.
Le fantôme de l’opéra.
Bumps ran over my skin when his eyes locked on mine.
As Erik progressed through the room, guests parted like waves, making way for this god of the underworld.
And he came for me. The opera ghost, my dark angel, my tormenter.
How happy it would make him to learn of Raoul’s news. He would have nothing to fear from the vicomte’s attentions again. Raoul would forget me, as I must forget him. Tears dammed behind my eyes. Why did Erik have to make a spectacle of himself now, of all times? I couldn’t handle his antics, not now.
“Good evening, patrons,” his voice resounded in the room. “I see you are enjoying my masquerade.”
Despite the large crowd, complete silence met his greeting. “No matter what those cretins say, this is my theatre. They are under my command.” He opened his arms to encompass the room. “All of you are under my command.”
Palms open, Erik flicked his wrists. All of the doors slammed shut.
Screams sliced the air. Fear gushed through the room like clouds of smoke.
In fascinated horror I watched him draw closer. How had he managed such a feat? My mind raced through the pages of notes I had read, the tools in his trunks, and my own knowledge of machines. Perhaps some sort of spring system or hydraulics?
I looked to Delacroix, suddenly remembering his feverish need to expose the opera ghost. The professor set his glass of spirits on a nearby tray, his eyes never leaving the opera ghost. Slowly, he approached Erika like a fox stalking a rabbit.
“It’s you!” Delacroix called out. “I knew it was you! When the rumors began and the strange events continued. No other conjurer could execute such stunts successfully—they haven’t your skill level. You are the Masked Conjurer!” His eyes narrowed and he bared a grim smile. “Behold, patrons!” Delacroix boomed. “Your ghost is a fraud! He is but a mortal man. And a demented one at that.”
“Your lackeys were too stupid to notice me stalking them,” Erik replied. “This is my building. They had no hope of defeating me here. I wouldn’t let them beat me and leave me for dead again, to set fire to my theatre and ruin me a second time. Joseph Buquet was beneath even you, Delacroix.” He let loose a maniacal laugh. “Ladies and gentlemen, it isn’t I you should fear, but this desperate, murderous tyrant before you!”
Patrons gasped in surprise. Several women fainted. Another screamed.
I stared at them in utter shock. The professor’s lackeys? He had sent Joseph Buquet—but, no. I shook my head. The professor was too kind, too good. Surely, he couldn’t hide such a vile side of his nature. Unsteady on my feet, I leaned against a pillar. He was the man who hadn’t wanted to get his hands dirty—the one responsible for the theatre burning that night. My thoughts became a morass of panic and disbelief as I processed the news. I forced myself to breathe, gulping in air.
Think, Christine.
A series of memories flitted through my mind. Delacroix helped me get an audition at the opera. I closed my eyes, remembering how he hadn’t bothered to look at the list while I searched for my name. He’d bribed the directors or, at the very least, promised an exchange of favors. The night the machinist attacked me, the professor had been waiting outside in his carriage. Had he sent the machinist in to deal with me as well, or just with Erik? Nausea roiled in my stomach.
But something still didn’t make sense. The professor wanted me to help track Erik’s movements, but he could have used any of his criminal friends. Why would he go to such lengths to use me—an innocent young woman—for his quest? He used me as bait, but why? I was missing something. What could I be missing?
I did know one thing: He was the man responsible for Papa’s death, and all those others who had burned to death that night, nearly five years ago. He had almost killed me—and then he had fed me to the wolves.
The professor’s piercing eyes flashed and his hands balled into fists. He looked as if he might explode.
It was too much. This was all too much. Tears flooded my eyes and streamed beneath my beautiful golden mask.
Erik pointed at Delacroix. “In his desperation to further his career, the professor has cost many their lives.”
In spite of the wretched accusations, all stood captivated by the spectacle before them. Disbelieving as I was.
I looked at Delacroix—a man I thought I knew, whom I had called friend. He had helped me so often, and cared for Madame. I didn’t know how I would ever tell Madame the truth, or if I could.
“You accuse me of falsehoods!” Delacroix shouted. “I am a scientist, an academe, and a gentleman. You, Monsieur, are a madman. Someone fetch the police!”
No one dared move.
“Arrest that man!”
No one moved.
Two of the gentlemen in Delacroix’s circle looked at one another as if deciding whom they believed.
Furious at the inaction, Delacroix rushed Erik like a bull. When the professor reached him, he threw his arms forward to grasp Erik—but his hands met air. He stumbled forward several paces before regaining his composure.
Erik reappeared at the other side of the room.
The onlookers gasped. Those standing near the ghost scurried quickly away.
The professor’s face purpled in rage. He rushed the conjurer again, determined to reach him before he disappeared. Just as Delacroix raised his hand, le fantôme swished his cape, the lights flickered once more, and he was gone.
Erik’s haunting laughter echoed above our heads.
The doors burst open.
A collective cry sounded in the room—one of astonishment and relief. And a hint of surprised pleasure. After a moment’s hesitation, the crowd broke into applause.
“Whether a conjurer or ghost, that was an incredible show,” a woman said behind me.
Other murmurings of delight rippled through the room. The best spectacle in the city was right there at the opera house, as always. Assuming it was part of the festivities, the guests roared with applause and laughter for several minutes before continuing their conversations as if nothing had happened.
Delacroix had proven nothing, except that he was a fool.
I watched him, too stunned yet to move. This man, who had kissed my cheek and escorted me to dinners, had murdered Papa, even if indirectly, and had stolen Erik’s life from him. Anger and disgust boiled inside me. I felt ill at the sight of him, at his corrupted ambition. Most of all, that I had trusted him.
The professor knelt and ran his fingertips over the floorboards, searching for a trapdoor. He wouldn’t find it; Erik was too good. Given the illusion, I suspected Erik had used a projector to display his image. I felt a perverse sense of pride at Erik’s brilliance. He had escaped his pursuer again—this time in front of the entire city of Paris.
Delacroix looked up, his expression was shrewd and fury coiled in his eyes—a killer’s face. He had always unnerved me. Now I knew why. He met my gaze and titled his chin defiantly, as if daring me to speak.
For the first time in my life, pure hate spread beneath my skin like poison.
When he registered my expression, he got to his feet and started toward me. “Christine, we need to talk.”
I turned on my heel and fled.
No one was who they seemed. Not even me. I wasn’t a naïve young woman—someone who could be manipulated, who believed in façades and lies. I knew all along Carlotta was plotting against me, that Delacroix made me uneasy. And that my time with Raoul was a dream, too good to be believed. Why hadn’t I listened to myself?
That would end now.
As I dashed to the door, I tore the golden butterfly mask from my face and tossed it to the floor.
23
During the following days, I ruminated on all of the terrible things Delacroix had done. I couldn’t reconcile the man who had cared for Madame Valerius and taken me under his wing with this murderer. His kindness had been a ruse, a bandage for his guilt, and his dedication to me a penance to make amends for the wrong he’d done. But that wasn’t all. Joseph Buquet’s attack and Erik’s undoing were Delacroix’s fault, too. I shuddered at the memory of Buquet’s hands upon me, and of all the terror I endured. The professor had been so reassuring, so attentive. His need to avenge his father’s death went beyond reason.
I tapped the quill pen in my hand against the desktop. There was still a missing link. Why had Delacroix believed I could lure Erik out of hiding? With so many connections to the opera house, he shouldn’t have needed me. The professor was too calculating, too careful to choose just anyone. I dropped the pen and watched it roll to the edge of the desk. At least he had respected my wishes so far. I thought of the letter I’d sent, demanding he steer clear of Madame’s house in exchange for my silence. How furious and disgusted I’d been when I’d written it. I wanted to involve the police, but what proof did I have of any of this mess? Everyone from the ball thought the play between the Red Death and the professor was merely an entertainment act.
As for Raoul, I couldn’t even think his name without tears, so I didn’t think of him. I locked away the memory of his kiss, his scent, the way he had devoured me with his gaze, his lips. It was too painful. We couldn’t be together and that was that. The End of our story.
I sorted my pile of notes. Claudette and I had practiced our illusions diligently each day since that horrible night. I returned to sing at the opera to be paid, and for that reason alone. Oddly, Erik didn’t visit my dressing room, haunt the corridors, or speak to me at all. He seemed to understand my distress, or perhaps he was up to his own schemes. Either way, I was more than grateful for the reprieve. I knew it wouldn’t last. Don Juan Triumphant began its run in a matter of days. But there was one thing I did know—I would get my revenge on Monsieur Delacroix, and escape from Erik. And the only way was to leave Paris, and soon.
I closed the Robert-Houdin book, and fished the list of illusions out of my notes. In my despair, I had thrown myself into our practice more than ever. Claudette and I had even created a preliminary act to give our performance cohesion, and the illusions as much impact as possible. Each illusion centered around a skit: a young lady collected money from a banker as the coins dissolved, a princess in a tower met a witch and disappeared to her escape, a singing mermaid lost her love at sea and conjured his spirit. In truth, we needed a theatre with equipment and trapdoors, but for now, we had to make do with the bare minimum. The more complex illusions would come in time. Instead, we focused on those we could manage on a smaller scale. Christmas was nearly upon us, and provided ample opportunities for fetes and salons—the perfect time to strike out and try our hands at a real performance.
I pushed up from the desk and pulled a carton of props to the center of the room. As I opened the lid, Claudette set a vase filled with white roses on the table.
“Another bouquet for you.” She hummed as she looked about the salon. “If any more arrive, where will I put them? We’re out of space.”
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. Vases of roses, carnations, and other hothouse varieties covered every surface. Raoul had sent flowers each day for the last three weeks, but I refused to see him. Yet, I tortured myself with visions of him being intimate with Carlotta, and their eventual marriage. I’d have to suffer her smugness when she flashed a large diamond ring and insisted everyone call her Vicomtesse de Chagny. Though she loved to sing, La Italiana had proven she wanted nothing more than comfort and wealth. I winced as pain pulsed in the cavity beneath my ribs. I had to move past this somehow. Somehow . . .
“I don’t know.” I gave Claudette my back, and bent over the box to pluck out a screwdriver and magnifying glass. “Throw them out for all I care.” I pulled out a series of colored scarves connected to one another on one long thread. “Let’s practice.” I tossed the scarves on the heap and stood at one end of the settee.
Claudette joined me, and we pushed the furniture aside.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen”—I called out to the empty salon—“you see before you my assistant, Claudette.”
She folded forward in a bow, one foot before the other in a pretty ballerina pose and smiled her best smile.
Piece by piece, our act unfolded.
After a time I paused, staring at her maid’s dress, trying to place my finger on what was missing. Our act was coming together, and we were becoming more comfortable with our roles, but it all seemed too similar to those of other illusionists. We didn’t have a special spark to set us apart.
“What is it?” Claudette asked.
“Nothing. Let’s go through it again.”
When we began the show for the third time, Claudette stumbled on the ties around her legs while trying to free herself.
“That wasn’t fast enough,” I said, looking at Papa’s pocket watch. Now I understood why conjurers’ assistants wore scant clothing.
“The fabric keeps getting in the way.” Claudette blew out a breath and the copper curls on her forehead took flight.
“I’ll have something made for you. Something that sparkles, but is tasteful. Perhaps in green to match the shade of your eyes.”
Claudette grinned. “We’re really doing this?”
“We’re really doing this.” I smiled. “In fact, we have our first show next week.”
I pressed my face against the window of my balcony door. Torrents of rain gushed down the rooftops. Wind rattled the shutters and whipped water against the windowpane. The rawness soaked into my bones, driving me to the fire. I whiled away most of the day, tinkering with an idea for a special hinged box and trying to ignore the sweet scent of rose blossoms. Raoul continued to deliver them. Each time he arrived with flowers, I forced myself to stay in my room, though the urge to chase him into the street and watch his retreating form plagued me. Worse still, he waited for me outside my dressing room at the opera house after each performance. I passed him at a brisk pace, head down. When he called after me, reached for me, I dodged him and raced out of sight.
I lay my hand atop the stack of his unopened letters, secured neatly with a ribbon. What could he still have to say?
A soft knock sounded at my bedroom door.
“Come in.”
Claudette entered, crossed her arms. “He’s come again.”
“Raoul?” I said, unable to hide the hope in my voice.
She nodded. “The least you could do is to thank him for the flowers. Besides, you’re miserable, and you can’t avoid him forever.”
I jumped up from the bed. “I’ll see him, but only for a minute.”
I followed Claudette to the salon, head high in spite of my turbulent stomach.
Raoul stood awkwardly in an elegant green coat that was too big for his frame—the first time I’d ever seen him unkempt. He had lost weight.
�
�Christine—”
“Mademoiselle Daaé, if you please,” I corrected him. Distance between us must be established. Or I might launch myself into his arms.
He looked down, trying to hide his surprise at my abruptness. “Right. Mademoiselle Daaé.” He paced a second and then stopped, and covered the distance in two quick strides. He reached for my hand and held it to his heart.
Surprised, I stepped back—and met the wall behind me.
“Have you read my letters?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t had time.” I looked over his shoulder, trying desperately to ignore the way his hand felt over mine, the soft thud of his heart beneath it.
“My darling, I know what you must think of me, but the situation is not as it seems. Carlotta—”
“Is your lover. Or was your lover. It doesn’t matter now. I don’t see what’s so difficult to grasp. You have a child together.” Anger welled inside me. I had never been as destroyed or as humiliated as I had that night. I had let him kiss me, touch me. Propose marriage! Only to be tossed aside like an old shoe and trampled upon by his lover. By Carlotta!
“Christine, please. She isn’t my lover. Let me explain. When I’m finished, if you still wish for me to go, I will do as you ask.”
I crossed my arms over my chest.
Claudette cleared her throat. “Pardon me, Monsieur, but I can put on the kettle or bring an aperitif?”
“Thank you,” he said. “Brandy would suit me fine.”
I glared at Claudette, and turned back to him. “If you must go on, do it quickly.”
Relief crossed his face. “I’ll start at the beginning. Four months ago, I was at sea. We docked in Naples for a fortnight before I returned to Paris. A friend of mine”—he looked down—“my closest friend, Marc, went to a tavern with me one night. We stayed out very late. After a few hard drinks, I was ready to go back to the barracks and sleep it off. Marc wasn’t. He told me to go, that he’d head back after another round. It was a hot night, swampy, without moon or stars. The streets were mostly deserted, but I thought it best to take a hackney, especially in the state I was in, since I didn’t know the town well.”
