Page 20 of Angel's Flight

Erik let out a shuddering breath as he watched the men retreat.He didn’t want to look away even when they were no longer visible.He didn’t want to turn to the people cowering next to him in the entryway who had seen him for what he was in all the most terrible ways.

“What did they say?”Christine asked first, voice small and shaking.Erik turned to her and met her eyes, ignoring how Mama Genco winced when he did.

“They were here for me,” Erik replied grimly.“We have to get out of Florence.”

Paris

“You’re late,” Dariusscolded the moment Shaya opened the door to their flat.

“I told you I planned to observe as long as I could after the performance,” Shaya countered, and Darius shook his head, ever tolerant.Shaya didn’t mind the concern.Darius’s fussing came from a place of love, and his admonition was as welcoming as the smell of tea brewing and the cozy furnishings of the home they shared.

“Was there anything to observe?”Darius asked as Shaya removed his coat and Astrakhan cap.

“There is no love lost for Halévy among the audience, which I can’t blame them for.The talk in the salons was mostly of business and politics and who was sleeping with whose wives.”

Darius squinted at him.“What else are you not saying?”Of course he knew.He always knew.

“There was also discussion of the robbery and beating of a patron by the name of Tremblay.It’s shaken everyone,” Shaya confessed with a sigh.“It happened close to the Opéra, and Tremblay has been unable to describe the attacker because he was surprised from behind.”

“That doesn’t sound like Erik.And robberies happen even in the posh neighborhoods.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself, and why I was late.”

“You lingered in the street around the Opéra, hoping to catch this assailant at work again,” Darius surmised, and Shaya nodded.“And you were unsuccessful.”

“I’m probably just being paranoid.”Shaya shook his head and sank into a chair by the fire.“You’re right about me needing some other pastime.Though I refuse to write a memoir – that’s for old men.”

“And you are, of course, young and vital,” Darius chuckled.“Maybe this is something to keep you occupied.”He produced an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Shaya.It was a telegram.

“What on earth?”

Shaya didn’t receive a great deal of correspondence.His few friends were in Paris and his remaining acquaintances in Persia didn’t often write.He only knew of one person who might be contacting him.A person he had immediately tried to contact a week ago.

He tore open the telegram and read:

From the offices of Tissot and Garibaldi, Geneva

Dear M.Motlagh,

Your letter and the enclosed letter directed to the client of M.Tissot were received today.We regret to inform you that no correspondence to M.Tissot or his clients can be managed or answered at this time, as M.Tissot has taken unexpectedly ill.

Regards.

T.A.Martin

Shaya reread the missive, trying to control the twisting, suspicious feeling in his stomach.

“What is it?”Darius asked.

“I wrote to Erik last week – or attempted to.I sent a letter to the solicitor in Geneva.”

“I know, you wouldn’t stop complaining about how much it cost to get it there quickly.”

Shaya scowled.“The office replied to say that the solicitor has taken ill and no letter can be forwarded.I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“You used to say that, with Erik, nothing was a coincidence,” Darius replied slowly.“This means he can’t be reached to answer any questions, and we don’t know where he is.”

“It wouldn’t be like Erik to harm his solicitor or avoid me now,” Shaya argued automatically.“I have a terrible feeling that someone else is looking for him, and the list of people who want to find him is very long.”

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