Page 72 of Angel's Flight

She meant Antoine, who truly deserved to rot in those haunted cellars and writhe in hell.Erik could see the same thought flash through Christine’s mind.He saw her eyes become distant and her face pale, as memory overtook her.Erik grasped her hand, hoping to hold her in the present.

“They do,” Christine whispered, blinking back to life and meeting Erik’s eyes.

“Are you alright for money?”Erik asked Adèle.

“What?I’m paid well, if that’s what you mean,” Adèle replied suspiciously.

“There was an inheritance and if anyone deserves it—” Erik began, but Adèle stopped him with a glare.

“You don’t owe me compensation, or any legacy of his.He’s dead, and that’s enough,” Adèle said with unquestionable steel in her tone.

Erik nodded.“Very well.”

“That money is for you to start a life,” Adèle went on.“Which I really think you two need to get around to at some point.Unless your plan is to simply wander the great cities of the world until you expire.”

“I’m sure the thought has crossed my husband’s mind,” Christine muttered, and Erik felt a stab of guilt at her tone.“We did try, in the Alps, but—”

“It was too remote and backward,” Erik cut in.“I’m not suited for village life.”

“Then stay here, in London.There’s music and amusement enough,” Adèle said.“Or is it too close to Paris?”

“There’s not much we could do without attracting attention when it comes to music,” Christine said.

“You could compose under an assumed name,” Adèle suggested.“Not that the English have much in the way of opera.There are a few symphonists that are promising – Elgar, Grieg – but they have yet to produce a composer of their own capable of the true grandiosity required of the stage.Perhaps one day.Or perhaps you.”

Erik looked between the two women as he considered it.“Such an idea had never occurred to me.”

“Because all your life, you wanted acclaim in your own right as revenge,” Christine said simply and Erik gaped at her.“You’ve passed that now though.Matured.I think a pseudonym is worth pursuing.”

“I’d still need to meet with producers and conductors and...”Erik sighed, shaking his head.“It would fall apart.”

“There could be a way,” Christine said.“Don’t let go of it so fast.”

“We were talking about something else though, weren’t we?”Erik said as he sipped his tea.“An idea that offends both my Irish and French blood.”

“Staying in London among the English,” Christine laughed.“Would it be so terrible?”

“No,” Erik said and saw the surprise on Christine’s face.“It’s why I was going to ask how Adèle went about acquiring such a house and if there was a solicitor she might introduce us to.”

Though Erik had doubts and reservations about the idea, the delight on Christine’s face was worth the worry.Maybe they had found a place to stay.

Paris

TheSalon du Dansewas a forest of bodies, and all of them were taller than Meg.The space behind the stage was always a madhouse after a performance, but tonight, it felt particularly overwhelming.It was an odorous jungle of gowns and black suits.It didn’t help that the floor was raked at the same angle as the stage, making the place all the more disconcerting to navigate for someone so small.Meg would need to jump to see over the crowd.She was ready to do it too if it meant finding Monsieur d’Amboise.

She settled for risingen pointe, which was easy, as she was still in her white tulle skirt and pointe shoes.Everyone would know she was a dancer this way, and the patrons enjoyed seeing girls in their revealing clothes – even if, for Meg, it was little more than the uniform.Surely she could find him...

“What are you doing here, Meg Giry?”someone hissed in her ear, making her jump.She spun to see Rochelle, looking thunderous, with Jammes beside her.

“I was looking for—” Meg stopped herself.Rochelle had kept her from seeing d’Amboise before.“Blanche.”

“Oh, she’s far too popular right now to be bothered with her real friends,” Rochelle sneered.“With all the stories she has to tell.”

“Thanks to me!”Meg squawked, noting how Jammes rolled her eyes.“Isn’t that old news now?”

“A secret marriage and child?Hardly,” a voice said at Meg’s elbow.It was Marie.She looked much like Meg in her tutu, hair up and tied with a silken ribbon.She was the very image of her statue, right down to the proud upward tilt of her chin.

“They aren’t even patrons anymore,” Meg muttered, wondering if the story was being shared around them now, whispered from person to person, spreading the same way colds tended to among the dancers.

---