Page 8 of Angel's Kiss
“I know. The eleventh, correct?”
Christine nodded. Of course he knew. She took another sip of tea, enjoying the taste and smiling. “This is very good.”
“I’m glad you like it, it’s my own blend,” Erik replied, and Christine nearly laughed.
“Where on earth did you learn to blend tea? I doubt from the communards.”
“First in China, then India,” he said matter-of-factly, and Christine’s jaw dropped.
“You’ve traveled that far?”
Erik nodded, clearly pleased to have impressed her. “For much of my life, I never stayed for longer than a few months anywhere. I’ve seen a great deal of the world.”
“What’s it like – the Orient?”
“Warm,” Erik began with a smile as Christine finally began to eat her long-forgotten apple. “The air is heavier there, the sun shines at a different angle. Even the color of the sky is different, like it’s been painted with gold. The air smells of sweat and spices in the cities, and at night, in some places, you can hear birds and tigers in the jungle...”
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Raoul missed the summer. The snow had stopped in the early hours of the morning, leaving the streets of Paris a mess of puddles and small melting hills of ice, all stained gray and brown from the detritus of the city. Raoul wondered if there was any point in trying to avoid the muck or if he should give into the fact that his poor valet would be stuck scrubbing his trousers and boots for an hour tonight. He had stopped the carriage at thePlace de Notre Dame des Victoires, for discretion’s sake, and now regretted it as he made his way to Christine’s door.
He’d barely slept the previous night, going over his strange encounter with Christine again and again. The more he considered the conversation, the less it made sense. She had seemed so happy to see him, yet so sad at the same time. She’d spoken of the angel of music her father had promised and her mysterious teacher. She had assured Raoul that this unnamed benefactor was not his rival, but everything pointed to the conclusion that he was. It was all too mysterious, and he was highly concerned for his old friend. So, he found himself haunting her door again.
The street entrance to access her flat was open, surprisingly, and Raoul marked the draftiness of the foyer as he looked around. How sad that people had to live in places like this.
“—how could you let her go!” a voice above Raoul demanded, and a slightly familiar one at that.
“I’m not her jailer, Julianne!” Raoul did recognize the voice of the reply: it was Adèle Valerius, the singer who shared the flat with Christine. Why was Christine’s maid harassing her at this hour? Raoul was torn between wanting to bound up the stairs and interrogate the women and the far less-gentlemanly urge to lurk and listen to what they might say about Christine. He settled for approaching slowly.
“This is different and you know it!” Christine’s maid went on. “Something changed the other night.”
“Yes, she stopped living in a dream,” Adèle snapped back. “I’d say that’s a good thing. Now she can get on with her career.”
“This isn’t about her career. Christine’s not like you, she’s—” Raoul cleared his throat to interrupt, and the women turned to him.
“Are you being bothered, Madame Valerius?” Raoul asked pointedly, choosing to ignore the indignation in the maid’s dark features. He did not like to think of Christine working in the Opera with such an exotic.
“No, we’re fine. Julianne is here for the same reason I assume you are, Monsieur le Vicomte, to look in on our dear Christine,” Adèle replied, more tired than concerned. Her chestnut hair was barely up and her ample curves. “And as I told her, Christine left earlier this morning.”
“To where?” Raoul asked.
“She didn’t tell me, but probably the Opera,” Adèle said before Raoul’s mind could rush too far afield. “She likes to practice in peace when no one else is around, or so she says.”
“Oh,” Raoul muttered, his attention returning to the maid. “If she’s at the Opera, why areyouso concerned?” he demanded and the girl bit her lip sourly. “Christine is lucky to have such a concerned domestic, though she does need to teach you better as to how to address your superiors.”
“I know how to say ‘fuck off, you condescending clod’ well enough,” the mulatto snarled with a final glare to Adèle and Raoul before rushing away.
“She’s just worried,” Adèle sighed. “And you should know she works for the Opera, not Christine. She’s her friend from when they were costumers together.”
“Costumers?” Raoul echoed. “Christine didn’t begin as a singer?”
“She’s risen quite far, quite fast,” Adèle replied, looking Raoul over. “One of her many mysteries.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. “You’re sure she’s at the Opera? Do you think I’d find her there?”
Adèle looked to the stairs where the maid – no, costumer – had left. “There’s a chance. But it’s a big place, very easy for someone to hide. And that’s to say nothing of—”
“Of what?” Raoul asked, troubled by Adèle’s dark look.
