Page 1 of Our Strange Duet

Prologue

Paris, March 1896

The Opera Ghost was gone.

The absurd thought was with me from the moment morning’s pale light spilled in through hastily drawn curtains, prodding me away from dreams both fearful and divine.

He’s gone.

The sudden certainty was so startling I sat up with a gasp and pushed aside the twisted tangle of linens, even as my bedfellow groaned.

Ignoring his protestations—already he’d rolled over and fallen back asleep with an ease I envied—I quickly dressed and abandoned the chamber, the town house, and the man they contained before ordering a hansom cab to take me back to the place I’d sworn so many times I’d never return: the Opéra Populaire.

He’s not there.

My inner voice was an almost-convincing shield, keeping me safe from harm and heartache, but I had to know. I had to see everything with my own eyes.

I couldn’t imagine the opera without him haunting it, couldn’t fathom a world without his careful watch.

But if it was…If he had…

I had the carriage stop along the Rue Scribe so that I might take the back entrance and slip in unnoticed. Half a dozen gendarmes loitered out front, chatting and sharing cigarettes with exhausted members of the fire brigade. My visit was to be brief and without interruption. I would confirm that my suspicions were right and then go, secure in the knowledge that this nightmare—this beautiful, terrible horror—was well and truly over.

One step into his world at the edge of the underground lake, five whole basements beneath the bustling streets of the 9th arrondissement, was enough for me to know.

The Angel of Music, my tutor and tormentor, was not here.

The silence gave it away instantly.

The air—usually so full of music and life, so saturated with song that the notes lingered long after being played—was still. The mechanical clicks and rustles of his automatons, his models and tinkerings, were no more.

Stripped of his unearthly genius, his dark kingdom was now dominated by other sounds: dripping water and scratches of rodent claws on wet brickwork, things I’d never once noticed when everything was filled with him. Even the building itself could be heard, settling with ominous groans that made me terribly aware of the hundred thousand tons of granite, marble, and gilded statuary that were suspended above me by nothing more than the magic of arches and angles.

He was not there.

But the monkey music box, that curious figure of tufted hair and clapping cymbals, was.

I made my way over to the novelty, keeping my lantern brandished to hold back the most eager shadows.

“Where did he go?” I asked. I was almost certain that the monkey could come to life and tell me all he’d borne witness to, if only he wanted.

But he remained still and kept his secrets.

Impulsively, I wound the handle and let the sweet, wistful refrain trigger an ache in my chest so painful I feared I would crack.

It had been wondrous here once.

Beautiful, even.

But now…

Toppled, broken furniture and smashed machinery littered the space. Cogs and springs and metallic detritus crackled underfoot. Wooden carvings, lovingly rendered, were reduced to splinters. Drapes had been ripped to shreds and candles knocked over, covering surfaces with angry sprays of hardened wax. It was a wonder the entire opera had not burned down.

Seeing the magnitude of his work, pilfered and broken, wholly destroyed by senseless rage, made me want to cry.

Most concerning was the music.

Thousands of sheets of paper—arias and concertos, requiems and sonatas—were cast across the room with such disregard it made me physically ill. Whole scores had been ripped from their covers, torn in two, and pitched. A lifetime’s worth of art ruined in a fit of fury.