Page 8 of Angel's Flight

“Quite a lovely one, isn’t it?”Erik replied as he fell into step next to her.

She nodded.It was a remarkable building, like so many they had seen in their weeks in this country that was both young and ancient.It had its own character, like Florence itself.Proud and gaudy yet indisputably refined.It felt like being in a mosaic.

“Maybe we can light a candle and pray for relief from this heat,” Christine suggested as she took Erik’s hand.It was warm, either from playing or from the weather.Either way, she didn’t entirely mind.

“Fire to dispel heat seems counterproductive.”Erik glanced at her, and she felt it like a breeze against her skin.How was it that just his gaze could still affect her that way?“Maybe I’ll light one to ask forgiveness for abandoning my wife.”

“Again,” Christine corrected, but his mere presence was already having its usual effect on her.Her anger was fading, like night to the dawn, with her love as the sun.“I do not think I could stay cross with you for very long.Who would I talk to?”

The warmth of the day hit them as they left the great church, at the same time as Erik’s smile spread, as visible as could be.

“I’m sure you would find someone.”

“Yes, but why would I want to?”

Paris

Meg had not felt thisimportant in months, and that had been her fifteenth birthday.Even that had not been greatly noted.In all truth, she had not been so popular since she had been promoted to the head of her row thanks to the charity of the ghost.Maybe it should have worried her to be the center of attention because of the ghost.What if he punished her?What if she was wrong?

No matter.She felt like a queen surrounded by all the young dancers asking her over and over again to retell her encounter until the ballet master had shooed them away.Even then, everyone whispered to her at every spare moment.She didn’t want rehearsal to end, but after several hours, her legs and toes were tired from hours of practice.She also needed to tell her mother about what she had seen.

Or maybe she didn’t.Her mother didn’t really need to know.She didn’t need to invite her scorn or her admonition that Meg had just been seeing things and was losing what little mind she had.She’d already had her hands full with Meg’s sulking since the Opéra reopened, and the young flautist whom she had kissed at the masquerade had not returned to the orchestra.Meg knew in her heart somehow that Pierre wouldn’t have been impressed by her encounter with the ghost.

Meg lingered as long as she could in the rehearsal salon in case anyone else wanted to talk to her.Maybe Rochelle would have something to say about it all.She had been sour all morning because no one was interested in her old story.A smug smile was about to form on Meg’s face as she looked over at her sometimes friend, but it fled when she saw the patron arrive.

She didn’t know the man’s name, but Meg knew his sort.He had a cruelty about his smile as he accosted Rochelle and took her by the elbow.

“Sorry to be late,” he muttered.Rochelle didn’t seem disappointed that he had not come to watch rehearsals.

“Patrons aren’t allowed here for these sorts of practices,” Rochelle said, looking sidelong at Meg, as if for help.How could Meg help her?And why?

“I shall have to talk to – ah, here is the man himself,” the patron said cheerfully as none other than Armand Moncharmin entered the room.The manager looked as unhappy to see the patron as Rochelle.

“What is the problem?”Moncharmin asked the young dancer and the man who had to be twenty years older than her.

“I was informing Monsieur Tremblay that rehearsals such as these are closed to patrons,” Rochelle said.

“Indeed, they are,” Moncharmin replied before Tremblay could argue.Meg noted how incensed the older man looked, but his ire was focused on Rochelle, not the manager.

“Well, we shall see,” Tremblay muttered.Meg wasn’t able to see how he left with Rochelle – she was too distracted by Moncharmin turning his attention entirely to her.In a heartbeat, he was a foot from her, looking discerningly over his half-moon spectacles.

“Monsieur Moncharmin, how can I help you?”Meg stammered.Why did she feel like she was about to be in awful trouble?

“It has come to my attention that you had some sort of encounter this morning in the cellars?”His question was pointed.Meg found herself gulping and shrinking into the floor.

“I saw the ghost,” Meg replied, her voice small.“In the cellars, out of the shadows.I saw him.”

“No, you did not,” Moncharmin countered smoothly.“There is no Opera Ghost.Not anymore.”

“I’m not lying!I know what I saw.”

Moncharmin frowned at her, clicking his tongue.“I have no doubt you saw something, but it was most likely a fireman.Maybe a rat catcher.They lurk down there sometimes and have a habit of frightening people.”

“Rochelle saw something too!”Meg tried, looking at the empty corner where her fellow ballerina had just been.“I’m sure others have.”

“They have,” Moncharmin replied, much to Meg’s shock.

“What?”

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