Page 60 of Angel's Mask

“Oh, it gets better,” Adèle smiled as she continued to read. “‘It is without a doubt that we have discovered a new Marguerite the likes of which the Opera has never seen before, of a splendor, and radiance hitherto unsuspected. But we must ask: Why has so great a treasure been kept from us? Why was it only in Carlotta’s absence that this new jewel in Paris’s crown was unveiled? Nothing is known of this new Swedish Nightingale, but her northern origins and superhuman genius have led many to speculate that she is indeed a hidden progeny of no less than the greatest voice of the north, Madame Lind herself.”

Adèle barely finished the sentence before bursting out into hysterical laughter, which Christine joined. “They think I’mJenny Lind’ssecret daughter?”

“Well, you see there’s only so many Swedes who can sing, my dear, you all must be related,” Adèle chuckled, wiping her eyes. “Thank heavens we have some time off.”

“What?”

“Oh, that’s right, you ran off before the news,” Adèle said. “We’re dark for two weeks, while they find some new damn managers. Good news for you too I think, since Carlotta would have already had the old ones get rid of you at this point. Not that you wouldn’t have your pick of venues with reviews like that.”

“I told you, I only want –”

“To sing attheOpera, I know,” Adèle sighed. “At least with new management you’ll have a chance. By the way, why did you leave? Never known you to be spooked by the Ghost.”

Christine shivered, remembering her angel’s despairing look across that room. “I was just tired.”

“Oh yes, well, you left that little Vicomte quite heartbroken.”

“What?” Christine had barely thought about Raoul since her angel had given her the sublime gift of his touch. Now the memory made something nervous and furtive twist inside her. She had meant to drive him away, but what if it hadn’t worked? Or what if it had? She didn’t know which possibility worried her more.

“He spent the whole night looking for you,” Adèle replied. “I told you. Antoine is his brother’s hanger-on. Philippe finally dragged the boy out around midnight. He looked completely heartbroken. And truly, I’m impressed if whatever lover you say you don’t have is worth spurning a Chagny. He must be quite a wonder.”

Christine swallowed. “He is.”

Her angel had given her everything, even that which she had thought was impossible. And yet, why did she feel like she had committed some sort of crime in the night when she thought of Raoul de Chagny’s broken heart?

Influence

The carriage ride acrossthe Seine and to the livelier districts of Paris from theFaubourg Saint Germainwas always tedious for Raoul, but today it was damn near maddening. The coachman was being overly cautious with the horses, Raoul knew it. Yes, there were slicks of ice in the street, but the geldings could manage it. Raoul was ready to tell the man as much and remind him how to do his job. But Philippe’s sigh as Raoul raised his hand to knock on the side of the carriage stopped him.

“The Opera will still be there in ten minutes, I promise you,” Philippe said. “You’ve waited this long, haven’t you?”

“Idid not choose to wait,” Raoul snapped back. It had been two weeks and three days since his world had changed its orbit when he’d seen her on that stage.

He had told himself he was dreaming in the weeks prior, when he saw a face in the chorus that looked so familiar. After all, he’d looked for that same face around every corner for six years, every time he heard a soprano voice or a violin at a country fair. But then at the New Year’s gala, there she was: Christine Daaé, more radiant than he remembered and singing with skill and passion that even his untrained ear knew was unequaled in all of Paris.

There had been a moment, he swore it, when her eyes had alit on him as she sang, and his heart had leapt at the recognition. It had emboldened him to seek her out afterwards, certain she would remember. And for a second, he was sure she had. Then it had all gone wrong, and he had been denied the opportunity to remedy it since. Philippe’s refusal to escort him to the Opera and Sabine’s vocal displeasure had been a sore spot at dinner for days until his brother relented last night. Still, the wait, like this damn carriage ride, had been torture.

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