Page 84 of Angel's Mask
“Did he hurt you?” Julianne demanded. “If he did, whatever he is, I will make him pay.”
“No. Please.” Christine shook her head, drawing her wrists to her chest and retreating to the bed. “He didn’t. I don’t think he would do that.” She remembered his hands like shackles on her wrists as he forced her to look at him, but the image melted away to the picture of a pathetic, broken man weeping on the floor and cowering away from her.
“If it washim, I think he might,” Julianna said carefully. “Christine, he’s hurt people. Hasn’t he? Like Buquet.”
“Buquet...” Christine gulped even as she wrapped herself in the cloak again. He’d given it to her in tenderness, to keep her warm. Had the same man thrown Buquet from the flies to the stage? Had he done it for her? Again, more questions with answers she’d never know, unless she went back. “I don’t know.”
Christine shut her eyes again, as a knock came on the door before Adèle entered with a tray. “Well, you moved. That’s a good sign.” Adèle said, sitting on the bed and placing the tray between them. “Is she talking?” she asked Julianne.
“A bit,” Julianne replied.
“I’m not deaf,” Christine snapped, trying to glare. Adèle only gave her a kind smile.
“Good,” Adèle said. “Eat. You too,” she added, to Julianne. They chewed the bread and cheese dutifully, and then Adèle pressed a cup of wine into just Christine’s hands. Christine drank it under Adèle’s discerning gaze. “Good girl.”
“I’m sorry if I scared you,” Christine muttered into the cup, taking another swig. It tasted strange and sour, but maybe everything would taste strange now.
“I knew you’d be alright,” Adèle said with a glance to Julianne. “That’s what I told your Vicomte last night. And today when he called.”
“Raoul was here? Why?” Christine asked, her heart jumping.
“He was there last night, he saw your dressing room empty,” Julianne explained. Her face was still grim as she sat on the end of the bed with Adèle. “He was as worried. All of us were.”
Christine closed her eyes, a new weight on her. She had not even thought of Raoul since the night before when he’d left her room. But Erik had said something about “that boy.” He clearly did not want a rival. Did that mean Raoul was in danger?
“I told him you were all right. He’ll be back tomorrow I’m sure,” Adèle sighed then looked to Julianne. “You can come back tomorrow too if you like.”
“I’m not leaving,” Julianne snarled. “She needs—”
“She needs rest,” Adèle stopped her as she rose and guided Julianne to the door. “I promise I’ll take care of her.”
“It’s alright, Julianne,” Christine said. “I’ll be fine.” That was a lie, but it worked. The other women left her alone as Adèle showed Julianne to the door and Christine nursed the cup of wine. It was better each sip and suddenly it was all gone.
When Adèle returned she handed Christine a fresh cup. “She’ll be back. Like everyone else. I’m sure Raoul de Chagny will be interested in your broken heart when he returns.”
“My heart isn’t...” Christine protested but she couldn’t finish the lie.
“Isn’t it?” Adèle said as she sat back down. “I heard you sing last night, Christine, and I knew you’d done exactly what I told you no to and fallen in love. And then you disappear into thin air and show up like this. What else am I to think?”
“I...” Christine had no idea how she could explain her woes to Adèle. But she wanted to try. She needed to. “I gave my heart to someone who doesn’t exist,” she said softly, her heart breaking again as she admitted it. “The one I loved is gone. He was never there.”
“Doesn’t mean that the love goes away,” Adèle murmured, her thumb running over her left ring finger, as if she was remembering a wedding band that used to be there. She shook herself from the remembrance. “So, he lied to you about something important. I hate to be the one to tell you, but all men lie. So do women.”
“Not like this.” Christine could barely comprehend the magnitude of it herself. “I was so stupid to believe him.”
“Did he tell you he was rich, and it turns out he’s penniless?” Adèle asked bitterly. “Or did you find out he’s married and the life you thought you’d have with him is impossible?”
Christine didn’t reply, she had no idea how to. She had been a fool to believe, but the illusion had been so convincing. And then there was his voice and his music. Those had not been illusions, they had come from a real, flesh and blood man. How was such beauty possible from a monster?
“It doesn’t matter,” Christine muttered. “It’s over.” It made her sick to say it. It made her remember his eyes, full of suffering, staring at her from the dark.
“That might be unwise.”
Christine looked up in confusion and the quick movement made her head spin. “What?”
“This man, the one who hurt you. It’s your singing teacher, isn’t it? The one you won’t talk about.”
“How did you know?”
