by Heather Webb
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I feel no sympathy for you. You have nearly cost me the man I love and my happiness. You’ve manipulated and belittled me, one time too many.”
She stared at me, thunderstruck while I paused to breathe.
“You can have your stage, your throngs of admirers, and the self-pity in which you wallow. After my final show at the opening night of Don Juan Triumphant, I am through. You’ll never see me again. But only if you set Raoul free. Otherwise, I will make your life hell. If you don’t believe me, try me.”
Carlotta posed by the window, pale lips pulled tightly closed. She flicked her frizzy hair over her shoulders and down her back.
“Do we have a deal?” I asked, hand on the door latch. “Or are you prepared to lose it all?”
For the first time since we met, her eyes filled with admiration and respect.
She nodded. “We have a deal.”
That night I stared at the shadows playing across the ceiling. One more week and Madame Valerius would be free, one week and the Master Conjurer’s legacy would be wiped clean. I would escape my association with Madame Giry’s death, and disappear forever. If all went well, Raoul and Claudette would be at my side.
A scraping noise sounded near the armoire. I sat up in bed, heart pounding, and peered into the darkness. Between the professor’s threats and Erik’s constant spying, I knew I wasn’t safe. Someone was always watching.
The scraping came again.
“Who’s there?” My voice seemed too loud for the dead of night.
I stared at the crates sitting atop each other against the wall—the few belongings I would bring with me when I fled. I’d spent the remainder of the day putting elements of the plan in order, and packing. I lay back down, pulling the covers all the way up to my earlobes. It was probably a mouse. No one could fit behind those crates. I turned on my side to face them, just in case.
I closed my eyes in the hope that sleep would soon come.
The scraping came again, then a coolness settled over me. My eyes flew open. What in the world was that? With a shaking hand, I reached out, my fingers meeting the cool draft. I yanked my hand back. The sound of my racing pulse filled my ears. Could it be?
“Is it you, Papa?” I whispered.
Another cool brush touched my cheek.
I shot up. Peering into the dark again, I tried to discern a shape. It was him. It had to be.
“Papa?” I said, my voice soft. “So much has happened. I’m frightened.”
The coolness brushed my face for the second time.
I froze, not daring to move, all the while every nerve stood on end. He was here. He was really here. Conjuring spirits might be an illusion, but souls were not—just as he had said, just as Erik had said, just as I had hoped, but not dared to believe all this time. Warmth and the lightest sense of elation rushed through me. I lay back down, straining my eyes to catch a glimpse of light or some sign of Papa. He was here. Tears streamed from the corners of my eyes and soaked into the pillow. Papa had been right all along. The Angel of Music did look after me. Papa was my angel.
I lay in the dark for some time without moving. Eventually the sensation dissipated and I burrowed under my covers. When I awoke after hours of deep sleep, my anxiety about the path ahead had vanished and only clarity remained.
I knew what I must do.
I wrapped a shawl around me and went to the study to write some letters. The first I addressed to the Académie des sciences—they must know what Delacroix had done, about his bribery of the other members, about his henchmen. They could see to an investigation and confer with the police inspector. The second letter went to Madame Valerius, and the third to Meg. In it, I explained what her friendship had meant to me, but nothing of my plan. I couldn’t risk her spreading gossip, especially if she saw my name associated with Madame Giry’s death. She would despise me. A knot formed in my throat, and after a moment of hesitation, I added:
Things aren’t as they seem, dear friend. That is all I can say. I am so sorry for your loss.
The next letter went to the police, and the final I addressed to Delacroix himself, to be delivered on the opening day of the opera. I folded a copy of the map I had penned carefully, omitting select chambers and traps he need not know about, and tucked it into the envelope alongside the letter. I would give him the secrets behind the illusions he so desperately wanted, but he would have to get them for himself.
I smiled.
And when these things were done, I would leave Paris—in operatic style.
26
"Thank you for meeting me.” I slid into a seat across from Georges the machinist at a café the next morning. Our table nestled against the back wall, away from the window. I didn’t want to chance being seen. “What I’m about to tell you is confidential. Life-threatening, in fact. You must promise to keep it to yourself.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What’s all this, Ma’moiselle? I have to admit, I was surprised to hear from you.”
“First, I need you to promise me you won’t tell a soul.” I batted my eyelashes at him the way Carlotta did around men, and tried to appear coquettish.
“Have you got something in your eye?”
I coughed. “No, I—”
He grinned. “You have my word.”
We ordered coffee, and I unfolded a couple of sketches I’d spent most of last night designing.
“Did you design these?” He scratched his unshaven cheek with a thick finger, muscled from years of working with his hands.
“I did, yes. And I need you to build it. Here’s the cabinet. I’ve bought a mirror for it already. It should be fastened along this panel here.” I indicated the proper placement with the handle of my spoon. “Once it’s complete, I need it placed on the third mezzanine, next to the scene flat depicting a church. It has to be in that exact spot. I’ve designed a special trigger here, which must connect with the lever in the wall.”
“When do you need it finished?” he asked.
“Friday morning.”
“Friday?” He leaned back in his chair. “The timing will be tight.”
Wordlessly, I nodded.
Amused, his lips quirked into a half-smile. “May I ask what you are planning?”
I studied him a moment. This man had every reason to fear Erik, just as the other machinists did after Buquet’s death. Some had even found jobs elsewhere as the rumors spread about the ghost, and after the chandelier fell. I had prepared a long answer for this question—I knew it would come—but that wouldn’t do. Not now.
“I need to catch a ghost,” I said.
His eyebrows shot up, but after a moment, he nodded. “I’ll do it.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Georges.” I paid him for the materials and his time.
He pushed up from his place at the table. “I haven’t much time and a lot to do. I’ll be on my way. Be careful, Ma’moiselle.”
As I watched him set off down the street, I smiled. I would be more careful than I’d ever been in my life.
Opening day of the opera, I went over the details of the plan with Claudette all morning.
“Remember, the timing must be perfect.” I wrenched my hands as I paced. “Once the show begins, take the lantern in my dressing room and make haste. Erik may not let me finish the show. He likes to cause havoc and since it’s my last show, his antics could be worse than usual.
“I haven’t seen him a few weeks. He is either remaining in hiding for his own safety or planning our getaway plan.” I shuddered at the thought. If he captured me again, all would be lost.
“Above all,” I continued, “he must believe he’s in control. If that doesn’t work, we revert to the backup plan.”
“I’ll be ready, not to worry,” Claudette said.
“What if he doesn’t show?” I said, chewing on a nail. “Erik, I mean. What will I do then?”
“That’s what the backup plan is for, remember?”
I nodded, but couldn’t suppr
ess my nervous energy.
She locked the last of the trunks. “When can Albert ship these off?”
I glanced at the clock on the wall. One o’clock in the afternoon and we had readied everything. “He should take them now. Albert?” I called.
“Oui, Mademoiselle?” He rushed from the back of the house.
“Do you have the letters and the tickets?”
“Yes. Have you finished with the trunks?”
“Both mine and Madame’s. Remember to drop the letters first and then ship the trunks. Keep watch at Delacroix’s house. When he leaves, meet the police inspector. If all goes well, I’ll see you shortly after.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle.”
“And, Albert?” I lay a hand on his arm. “You’ll take good care of them?” I glanced at the gilded cage across the room. Bizet chirped happily while Berlioz and Mozart hovered around the bowl filled with seed. I looked away, afraid I would become emotional.
“Of course. Your canaries will like the country.”
I leaned in to embrace him.
He stiffened at first then relaxed and returned my affection. “You will be missed a great deal, Mademoiselle.” Sadness filled his brown eyes.
“I’ll miss Paris, too,” I said, my voice soft.
He squeezed my shoulder. “I had better be going. The timing will be tight.”
“Thank you. For everything.”
He dragged the trunks toward the door to load them in the carriage.
I swallowed hard and focused on a carton on my lap, filled with odds and ends. I would miss Albert and Madame terribly, and my sweet canaries, but I couldn’t put them at risk.
After Albert had gone, I looked at Claudette and let out a breath. “It’s time for the show.”
The curtains swept open. The crowd seemed to throb with a palpable energy—not a seat remained vacant—and I drew upon it, pulling it into my lungs and through my limbs. The audience had come in part for the show, but mostly to see the composer of Don Juan Triumphant, the infamous fantôme who had held the cast hostage for his production; the man who terrorized all who crossed him. How would they react when they saw him at last? Anxiety streaked through me. Everything must go as planned. I couldn’t predict Erik’s moves, but I knew one thing. To profess my affections was my best chance to entrap him.
I swished across the stage in a snow-white gown that clung to the curve of my hips, and revealed the roundness of my breasts and shoulders: pure as a maiden, yet inviting sin. But the sin I would commit tonight would not be the sort for which my Don Juan hoped.
The orchestra began, and the first notes of the song surged from my throat into a beautiful melody over the strings. As I sang, I stared out at the crimson seats and saw the magnificent chandelier, now fully restored. Policemen stood along the outskirts of the room, just in case. I said a silent prayer of thanks as each song flowed into the next without incident.
A conjurer depended upon timing above all else.
Just then, Erik—dressed in his black suit, cape, and fedora—took the stage.
I breathed the slightest sigh of relief. He had come. The time had come.
The audience murmured as Don Juan stalked across the stage like a panther, singing his song of seduction. I remained calm while he circled me like his prey, ran his cold fingertips across my shoulders. Tonight, he would become my prey.
The audience was locked on to the stage, mesmerized by his voice and the sight of him, the opera ghost.
Despite my elaborate plan and my nerves, despite all that had transpired between us, I felt myself fold into his rhythm, and my spirit float along with his soaring, beautiful voice. A twinge of pain twisted in my chest. I pitied him, for all he had lost and had yet to lose, for the heartache he would continue to suffer. Most of all, I pitied him for never feeling the love we all deserved. But it wasn’t meant to be.
When the song ended, I shuttered all thoughts of our connection, our hours of practice in music and magic. Our would-be friendship.
One song more, and it was time.
Erik caught my eye as he sang the final notes of the song. He winked, and spun away from me to take his proper place for the next scene.
Heart pumping in my ears, I glided to my own position.
Overhead and backstage, the fly boys pulled the ropes and managed the levers to change the backdrop. I imagined Georges looking on, waiting for me to strike. He should have the cabinet in place by now. I exhaled deeply to calm my nerves.
The stage floor opened to make way for a new set that mimicked a bedroom. The song I had waited for all week, at last, began.
My eyes darted to the exit doors.
Erik’s voice rang out like a beautiful songbird with perfect pitch.
I leaned and whispered into his ear, “I’ve decided. I choose you.”
He stared at me for one beat, incredulity and hope in his eyes.
I held his gaze, forcing a look of adoration.
He smiled broadly and kissed my hand. He believed me.
Just then, the exit doors flew open and Inspector Mifroid raced toward the stage. The directors and a pack of policemen followed at their heels.
Just as I planned.
The audience writhed in their seats, anxious to see what would happen next.
Still stunned by my declaration, Erik hesitated.
“We must go. Now—this way!” Taking advantage of his shock, I tugged his arm, leading him toward the wings and away from the trapdoor I knew he would choose.
We twisted through two more corridors and descended farther into the bowels of the building. At last, we reached the third mezzanine.
“Wait! I have a rock in my boot.” I stooped over my foot at the perfect spot. Georges did not disappoint. Not five feet from us stood the cabinet, exactly as I had designed it, positioned over the trapdoor no one knew was there. No one but Erik and me, and now Georges.
“You can do that later,” he snapped.
“Please, it’s cutting into my foot! My toes are bleeding.”
“Make it quick!”
As I began to unlace my shoe, footsteps echoed behind us. I breathed a sigh of relief. Claudette and Raoul had arrived.
“Wait here,” Erik said.
If he left, he might disappear himself into another part of the building. The plan would fall to pieces.
“Please, Erik!” I called. “Don’t leave me. I’m frightened without you.”
“Do not worry, my love.” He rushed back to me and cupped my face in his hand.
I willed myself not to flinch at his cold, bony fingers. “I-I need you at my side.”
“I’ll return for you, always. You are my heart, my soul, Nanette.”
I chilled to my core. He had called me by my mother’s name again, even now. I was not my mother—I was more than she had ever been—and I did not love him. I could not—would not—be the person he wanted me to be.
The clamor of feet in the stairwell grew louder.
“Just wait here.” He turned to go again. “I’ll be right back.”
Panicked, I flung myself at him, placing a kiss upon his cheek.
Stunned, he staggered. After an instant of pause, he gathered me to him, pressing his mouth against my lips.
Revulsion swept through me as his teeth bumped mine, and his fingers found their way into my hair.
“Christine!” Raoul charged into the room, knocking us askance. “I won’t let you do this! I know you don’t love him.”
“You can’t take her from me!” Erik shouted.
Raoul threw all of his weight, and pinned Erik to the ground.
Erik shouted and struggled, regaining his footing and knocking Raoul in the jaw. Raoul’s head snapped to the left—but years as a sailor had served him well, and before Erik could move much more than a foot away, Raoul lunged at him again.
I shrieked as Erik went down hard and Raoul crushed him under his weight. After several swift punches, the mask skittered across the floor and Erik’s raw, bloodied fac
e was laid bare for all to see.
“Look at your prince!” Erik shouted. “He tortures me, but I love you still, Nanette! Nanette! Don’t leave me!”
I tried to block out Erik’s tortured cries, his agony. The man was a murderer—forlorn and alone, but also a thief and a killer, a man obsessed, who would hold me against my will forever, or kill me trying to make me love him. This was the only way.
A policeman’s whistle split the air. The angry voices of a mob drew near.
In seconds, the crowd stormed onto the mezzanine.
“On your feet!” Inspector Mifroid shouted.
Raoul yanked Erik to his feet. “This is the man you’re looking for. The so-called opera ghost.”
Inspector Mifroid gripped Erik’s shoulders as two other policemen came to his aid.
“Nanette,” Erik wailed in a feral tone. “Nanette!”
A lump of emotion clogged my throat. In a shaky voice, I said, “I can’t let you hurt anyone else, or destroy yourself. This is the only way.”
Inspector Mifroid twisted Erik’s arms behind his back and locked a pair of handcuffs in place.
“You’d better make it several pairs. And a rope,” I said.
The inspector raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s necessary?”
“He’s the Master Conjurer, remember?”
He nodded, motioning to his men to follow my instructions.
Erik’s nose dripped with blood. His hair stood on end. His scarred flesh appeared more frightening than ever. He gazed at me, his eyes filled with betrayal and agony.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, unexpected pain tearing through my chest. “But this had to be.”
“We would have been happy.” He howled in grief. “We will tour again together some day, Nanette.”
Pity flooded my heart. I closed the gap between us, and plucked the handkerchief, folded into a neat triangle, from his breast pocket. Gingerly, I wiped the blood oozing from his nose. In a soft voice I said, “Mother would have been happy to tour with you, Erik. She loved you and relished your talent. That’s clear to me now, and I can see why. You cherished her, understood her. But I am not Nanette. I am Christine, my own person, and I will never love you the way you wish me to. I hope, in time, you can find peace.”
