Page 52 of Angel's Mask

Christine smiled at the mirror, pushing down the desperate wish she could see him rather than her own reflection. “I thought I would be singing for you again tonight. I’m sorry.”

“No, my darling girl, do not be sorry. Youwillsing tonight, and all of Paris will hear you. I promise.” There was something dangerous in his voice, a darkness that reminded her of every terrifying story about the Ghost that she tried to ignore.

“What’s going to happen?” she asked, breathless.

“Carlotta Zambelli and her useless toadies are finally going to learn how foolish it is to defy the Phantom.”

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Erik knew, logically, that simply killing Carlotta would not improve anyone’s situation. It would send the Opera into chaos, bring the Daroga banging at his door with gendarmes in tow, and in the end, it would do nothing to actually help Christine. But how he wanted to watch the life drain from that hateful woman’s face with his hands around her neck for the way she’d made Christine cry. Alas, it was not to be. For now.

Before he dealt with her though, he had other business that he had neglected for far too long. He had a choice of who to enquire upon first. Debienne was Carlotta’s creature through and through, but he was also barely doing his job at the moment. Poligny was far more superstitious and easier to manipulate. Yes, Poligny would have to do.

It was surprisingly hard to find the man. He’d taken to avoiding the managers’ office lately, just as both men had taken to ignoring Erik’s correspondence. Instead, he’d secreted himself in one of the empty dance studios to drink. It was a lovely room, usually, with its high ceiling and round windows. The painter in residence had captured them so well in his most recent exhibition, but the great scandal had been thanks to his statute of little Marie. Poligny, slouched in a chair too small for him, emptying a bottle of rusty liquor down his throat, was a marked contrast to any such art.

“You look tired, Guillaume,” Erik said without ceremony from the door. He made no attempt to conceal himself now. He wanted this fool to truly see him.

“You,” Poligny whispered, dropping his bottle so that it smashed on the smooth wood floor. “What do you want now?”

“Nothing. I wantnothingmore from you or your partner, ever again,” Erik replied, damnation in his voice.

“What?”

“You’re done here, both of you,” Erik said, advancing into the room. Poligny struggled to stand, the chair falling behind him as he backed away from the approaching wraith.

“What are you going to do to us?!” Poligny asked, sweat coating his balding head.

“I will do nothing, if you follow this last command,” Erik replied. Poligny startled as his back hit the wall, but Erik didn’t stop, slowly coming closer. “And that command is this: retire. Announce tonight at the gala that you and Debienne are leaving effective immediately.” It was a risk, he knew it, but the only chance he could see to truly change this theater was with a fresh start. “Retire with your dignity and your good health,” he hissed and Poligny nodded, screwing his eyes closed as Erik leaned closer.

He could have made his point with more pain, but he didn’t. Instead, he took the moment to vanish, or more accurately, retreat from the room without a sound. Back into the halls and then to the cellars. He needed one specific thing from home before he paid his next visit. He had many options among his stores for Carlotta, but he had to be thoughtful. It had to be something natural, just to be safe...

Erik smiled to himself, coming to the idea just as he entered the house. There was no garden here, or anywhere close to the Opera. But he did keep his store of herbs and roots fresh and there was one plant that would be the perfect flower for Carlotta tonight: The Narcissus, of course.

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Christine had stayedin her dressing room most of the day, even after the Angel had gone. It was safe here, far from the chaos ahead of the gala. It wasn’t the same as a regular performance. No costumes, fewer sets. In truth was as Carlotta had so cruelly said, a musical prelude to a larger party for the patrons in theGrand Foyer. They would toast in a new year to laughter and music. Or so she assumed. She wasn’t sure if she was welcome at the party or if she would want to go if she was. Despite her worries, Christine began her warmups without her angel there.

“Delivery.” Julianne’s voice at her door startled her from her scales.

“What on earth?” Christine muttered, unlocking the door, and finding that not only was Julianne there but Adèle as well. And Julianne’s arms were overflowing with violet satin. “What is that?!”

“Your dress for tonight,” Julianne replied with a sparkling grin. “Surprise. Your friend here bought it and I altered it since I have your measurements.”

“I was just going to wear this,” Christine protested, and both her friends gave her withering looks. “And I’m not supposed to sing aside from the chorus parts in the prison scene anyway.”

“I’ve decided I might be sick and need my understudy,” Adèle declared. “And you need an actual evening dress no matter what.” Adèle herself was already dressed in a rust-red gown trimmed with golden ruffles. It hugged her waist, and the low neckline exposed her ample, sensuous curves perfectly. She was a goddess.

“Adèle, you don’t need to do that, and you didn’t need to do this,” Christine muttered. The dress was beautiful from what she could tell, the color of a crocus in spring.

“It’s too late now,” Adèle said. “To send the dress back that is, come on.”

The two hustled Christine behind her dressing screen and before she knew it, she was cinched into the loveliest thing she’d ever worn. It barely had sleeves, as was the popular style, only lace and frills that barely covered her shoulders. The skirts were full, with cascading folds gathered in the back over the bustle. Adèle produced long white gloves out of nowhere and Julianne added a black silk ribbon around Christine’s throat to complete the ensemble. Christine had developed some skill with her makeup in the month she’d been on stage, but Adèle still darkened her lips and eyes even more.

She sensed him watching when she finally looked at the mirror. Seeing herself as he might see her made her catch her breath. She knew it was vain to think herself beautiful, but she truly looked like she belonged in a fine salon or on the grandest stage.

“You’ll charm all of them,” Adèle declared, and Christine spun to her in confusion.

“All of whom?” Christine balked.

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