Page 31 of Angel's Flight

“My friends, would you be so kind as to seize this woman?I would like to have a discussion with her about who she is working for and what she wants with me and my husband.”

Paris

Meg wanted to reviewher notes before the large rehearsal today, but the Opéra wasn’t as quiet as she had hoped.There were always people in the Opéra right at dawn: firemen on their patrols, the janitors burnishing the floors.Today, a gaggle of singers passed Meg in the halls on their way to review the score ofLa Juvie.

Meg didn’t know any of them except Rose Carron, the newest leading lady, now that La Carlotta and Christine Daaé had destroyed one another.Carron was talented, surely, but she didn’t burn with holy fire from within the way Daaé had.At least she was an improvement from Carlotta, whose shrieking Meg could never stand.There were other new singers since the Opéra’s reopening.The mezzo who had replaced Adèle Valerius was making waves – she was rambunctious and bright but didn’t have Valerius’s gravitas.Carlos Fontana and Robert Rameau were still the premier men of the company, but Moncharmin kept talking about adding more artists in every voice type so more performances could be possible.Meg wondered what chaos an opera with multiple divas would beget.

Seeing Carron and thinking of Daaé brought Meg’s thoughts, once again, to the night the chandelier had fallen, when it was claimed Christine had disappeared right off the stage.Meg had not seen it herself, and most assumed Daaé had merely run away in the chaos.Maybe it was because Daaé was gone that the Phantom had returned with such violence...

Meg finally made it to the prop room, her heart racing as she entered and picked her way through the old furniture and debris to the corner where she had hidden the note and her detective’s journal.

The journal that was sitting on the floor, not hidden where Meg had left it.

“What are you doing there?”Meg asked, gooseflesh rising on her skin.She had been careful to put it away.And the note – where was the note!?

Meg rushed to the hiding place and riffled through – nothing.She picked up the journal and shook it.Maybe the note was in there?No, there was no trace.At least she had copied down the names.She flipped to the page she knew held the ghost’s list, and her stomach dropped.The list had been torn out, and on the page beyond it, a single word was scrawled in the same blood-red ink and jagged hand that had been in the note:

Stop.

The ghost knew she was trying to discover his plans.Meg, for the first time in her life, not only felt seen and important: she felt as if she were in terrible danger.

Geneva

Erik was tired downto his bones in a way he had not been for months.Not since he had terrorized the Opéra had he endured such an eventful and fraught night.Even then, there had not been so much whining from his – what to call them?Victims?Errant employees?

As if on cue, the man next to him groaned.Erik rolled his eyes.

“You’re being rather dramatic,” Erik sighed.“Your hand will feel fine in a few days.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” the man whimpered.Erik had no patience for his misery.How was he to have known the little solicitor had bones the consistency of toast?Erik checked his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes and exhaled in relief.At last.

“Now.Go.Do as you’ve been told and you will never hear from or see me again,” Erik told Martin (he had not bothered to remember the Christian name of Tissot’s associate).

“Yes.I understand,” the little man said, nodding so hard his body shook.He made a move to leave and Erik grabbed him, pulling him close with one hand while raising his mask with the other.The man yelped.

“I hope you do, because I do not make threats lightly,” Erik growled before pushing the man away.He rushed down the street, fully in view as he entered the bank.Once he was out of sight, Erik tried to breathe.Now for his part.

He adjusted his bearded, cumbersome mask, the sweat on his brow causing the papier mâché to scratch horribly against his skin.He hated this thing.He hated that he felt people looking at him as he crossed slowly to the bank, keeping his hat low and his collar high.He hated everything about this, from the fear for Christine in his heart to the ache of violence in his hands, to the itch for death in his blood.If something happened to her, there would be no end to the carnage.He swore it.

The sight of Bidaut waiting at the appointed spot, genially regarding the morning traffic and crowds in front of the Augsburg bank, only made Erik angrier.He wanted to have his hands around that neck, but he could do nothing until the telegram was sent.

Bidaut noticed him quickly and had the audacity to give a polite smile as Erik approached.

“Ah, you were almost late,” Bidaut said.“Shall we?”

“Are you in such a rush to take everything I have?”Erik asked, as cool and cruel as he could manage.“Surely, you’ve waited this long; a few questions won’t ruin your schedule.”

“I wouldn’t stall long if I were you, Erik,” Bidaut said with a shrug.“My associate has a strict deadline.”

“Is your man on orders to simply kill Christine in broad daylight?”Erik asked back, hating the images that filled his mind.

“You would know how easy it is to eliminate someone before those around them can even guess there is an assailant close,” Bidaut shrugged.“A sharp knife, a passerby on the street who bumps into a lone woman.Accidents happen.”

“She is not alone, you know.I wouldn’t leave her unprotected,” Erik countered.All night he had gone over the locks on Jack’s house and the many people in the residence.Jack himself wouldn’t let harm come to Christine if he could manage it.“This could all be a trick.”

“You know in your heart it’s not,” Bidaut said plainly.“It’s just money, anyway.Money you don’t need or, let us be honest, deserve.”

“What do you know about what I deserve?”Erik drawled.He didn’t like this conversation, but he wanted to keep it going as long as he possibly could.If he could glean some clues from Bidaut, all the better.

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