Page 22 of Angel's Flight

“I know,” Jack said to their surprise.“I can hear it, I mean.In every note you write and play.Erik, I haven’t known you for long, but I know your soul in your music, and it strives for the light.Yours is a gift worth protecting.You are a man I am glad to know.”

“For now,” Erik muttered, looking away to hide that he was moved by Jack’s words.Christine squeezed his hand.One day, she would make him believe fully in why she chose him each day.“We need to get out of the city—”

“And you can’t risk a nosy landlord or a long passage.I have the perfect solution for you,” Jack said with a grim expression.“You will go to my house in Lucca.”

“Where your family still resides?”Erik scoffed.

“I’ll have you know I have a respectable set of rooms that are mine alone,” Jack said, puffing up in pride.“That I inherited.The quarters are close, but I will send a letter explaining that you’re a friend in need, not to be disturbed!And I’ll be there in a few days!”

Christine looked to her husband, letting hope flare in her heart again.“We can rest there, hope whoever is looking for us loses the trail, and then decide where to go.”

Erik’s shoulders sagged in agreement.“Fine.It will be temporary, and...”Christine watched as a new flare of fear filled Erik’s eyes, his gaze darting worriedly about.“You must warn them about the mask and not to ask about it.”

“I will, of course,” Jack said quietly.“Am I allowed to ask?”

“No,” Erik almost growled, and Christine stepped between him and Jack.

“Erik.He has told you he is your friend,” she chided.“He will understand.”

“It’s alright,” Jack said with a weak smile.“Whatever injury or scars you bear, this is what has kept such a brilliant talent from taking its place among the greatest of our generation.Something beneath that mask has forced you to hide, and that seems to me a great tragedy.For music, and for you.”

“I...”Erik stammered.

Christine was pleased to see him surprised by someone.It happened so rarely.“He also detests the politics and people of the musical world,” Christine added, and Erik looked at her in consternation.“It’s true.You’re opinionated and quarrelsome.”

Jack shrugged as Erik looked to him for support.“She said it, not me.”

“When can we depart for Lucca?”Erik asked with a sigh.“We have a carriage outside and a driver greedy enough to take us that far.”

“Let me write a few letters, and then you can go immediately,” Jack said with a smile.“While you’re here, look at what I have on the piano and make your quarrelsome opinions on it known.Please eat if you’re hungry: there’s bread and oil in the kitchen.”

Christine gave Erik a nod.It was alright to indulge his friend.She wouldn't be taking the offer of food, however.All the fear and anxiety from the past hours had taken up residence in her stomach, leaving no room for hunger.At least now they had a place to go.

Was this what it had been like for Erik all his life?Moving from place to place when things went wrong?She knew his tale now, from beginning to end.He had told her on their journey to Geneva in the long hours on the train.It had felt then as if they had reached the end of that story, the happily ever after that so few found and fewer deserved.

But it hadn’t ended.Their life had gone on and on.There had been good days and there had been terrible ones.Today had been both.Christine could barely comprehend that before sunset, they had marveled at the beauty of the city and reveled in possibility together.Now, they had to leave it, and even with Erik right there, she felt so alone.

Paris

Meg was a poor detective, but in her defense, she had received little training.And she had no place to work outside of, well, work.She couldn’t very well compile her findings at home, where Mother might find them.To that end, she had decided to keep her notes and anything else she found hidden at the Opéra.She had a perfect spot – an old prop room where no one went except to occasionally steal a nap on a decrepit old bed (scenery from some bygone production back at the old opera on theRue le Peletier).

Meg had told her mother she needed to practice alone as her excuse for going to the Opéra so early.Now, she was tucked in a corner with her little oil lamp and the papers she hoped would help her understand something.

Remove the following, or I shall.Meg read the note again.She had memorized the names in red ink:de Lancey, Goncourt, de Montier, Tremblay, Sabran.All patrons.

Meg had never been terribly good with names.She didn’t know the name of every girl in the corps de ballet.Some days, she could hardly tell them apart in their identical white tulle skirts.The same was true of the patrons.They all looked the same in their black suits, top hats, and silk cravats.Their heights, hair colors, builds, and ages varied, yes, but there was a sameness about all those men that went beyond even that of the ballerinas.They all looked at girls like Meg the same way, with the same cold calculus in their eyes.Meg had grown accustomed to ignoring them years ago.

Now she regretted that.She needed to know what Messieurs Goncourt et al had done to earn a ghost’s ire.A few of them did have paramours among the dancers, as Tremblay had with Rochelle.De Montier was often seen with a pouting, aloof girl named Anastasia (a name everyone knew was a fiction), and Sabran, a garrulous older man, was smitten with a talented dancer named Hermine, who had received great prominence since Sorelli’s star had begun to fade.

What of the others?Meg had circled the patrons’ names on the page in her little notebook where she had copied them down.As far as she knew, nothing had happened to the remaining four after Tremblay’s incident.Last night had been uneventful in theSalon du Danse, but Meg didn’t know about outside.

Meg tucked her notebook behind a box of old helmets and blew out the oil lamp.She could see well enough to get through the mess in the near darkness, thanks to the light from the hall.She wondered how soon the gas lights would be replaced.The process of converting the Opéra had already begun with the chandelier, which glowed brighter than ever now that it had been outfitted with the new electric light.Meg hoped not too soon.The modern illumination was so harsh, and she feared it would take away some of the magic of the great building.

It felt haunted, Meg mused as she climbed the steps from the cellar up to the dance studio hidden under one of the small domes on each side of the building.It felt the same as walking in the cemetery when they went to visit Father, or when she had gone to the crypts atSaint-Denis.There was a weight to the air in the Opéra.It left for a while, but now, it felt heavier than ever.Maybe he was mad about the new chandelier.

“I’m afraid to walk alone now!”a voice said from inside the studio before Meg could enter.It was Sorelli herself, sounding put upon and pathetic.“I don’t know if I can stand all this stress.”

“So you’ve said.”That was Jammes speaking.Meg peeked through the door at the group.They were gathered around the person Meg had hoped to catch practicing early with the other soloist – Hermine.“But this is not about you.”

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