Page 109 of Our Strange Duet

Erik.

I was spun around to face him. The strange light reflected off his mask, illuminating it with a foul glow.

He held out his hand. “Dance with me?”

It wasn’t a command—more of an offer, a plea, a whispered wish. Hope burned in his eyes, but I couldn’t find it in myself to accept. The last time I’d seen him, his eyes had also burned, as he’d readied to bring his silver-skulled cane down upon Raoul’s head.

I wasn’t going to forget that just because he’d asked nicely.

I couldn’t answer, I couldn’t respond, but, for the moment, my thoughts at least were mine.

There’s no music.

“There’s always music,” Erik countered, somehow hearing me anyway. “If you know how to listen for it.” He took hold of me, one hand at my waist, the other clasped around my fingers, which had come up against my will to exactly the height he required. “Do you hear it, Christine?”

I would have given anything to turn my head and look away. But my neck refused to move, and I had to stare up at him with false adoration as he began to lead us in a waltz.

“Do you hear it now?” he pressed.

My jaw suddenly felt loose, my lips mine once more. But I kept them closed. He might have given me back the power to speak, but he could not force me to use my voice.

His steps grew more complicated, his turns quick and punishing. The light grew dimmer, and I was disoriented in the darkness—nothing but a body in motion, unable to see, unable to do anything but dance.

Erik’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into my flesh with so much pressure I feared my bones would shatter.

“Do you hear it?” His voice was hot in my ear. “Do you hear my music?” It boomed across the room, as loud as thunder, as loud as an avalanche. It roared through me, setting my blood to quiver, and making it impossible to draw breath.

I felt my legs give out, and I collapsed against him, muscles spent and trembling. Still, he danced with me, dragging my useless body across the floor, forcing me into whatever shape he needed. Though it was now pitch-black, nightmarish shapes fluttered across my vision, like the flicker of a candle, like the flap of a bat’s wings, like a wraith slithering from a tomb.

When Erik next spoke, it was a scream so loud it shattered my soul.

“Do you hear my music, Christine?”

It shook the rehearsal room with its might, cracking plaster and breaking beams. Bricks began to fall, pounding down around us like hail. One struck my head, and I fell into an even greater darkness, falling, falling, falling, until—

I sat up with a start, gasping with fear. With trembling hands, I felt about me, trying to make sense of my surroundings. I was tangled in lengths of sweat-soaked sheets. My nightgown clung to me, constricting my chest as I sucked back great gulps of air.

I was at home, in my apartment, and—I glanced at the little clock beside my bed—it was just before midnight.

It had only been a dream, a nightmare, but its dread lingered, its hold impossible to shake.

And then I remembered everything.

Earlier that day, I’d picked up my copy of the score from the managers’ office, then had trudged home and collapsed into bed, my soul weary and my heart sick.

Tomorrow, Don Juan Triumphant’s rehearsals would begin.

Chapter 37

The practice room was set up for a music rehearsal.

The upright piano had been rolled in from its usual corner, and rows of chairs and music stands arced in a wide semicircle around the conductor’s podium.

Entering the hall, I froze, struck by an ominously weighted sense of déjà vu.

I scanned the front row of seats. Ubaldo sat at the center, and a little farther down was our bass, Marc Haché. They chatted together, slipping in and out of French and Italian, throwing occasional gestures of disgust and frustration at their scores. On the other side of Ubaldo perched Carlotta, dressed in a burgundy skirt and jacket with lines as severe as the looks she cast at the row of comprimarios behind her.

This is just like my dream, I realized with a start. This is exactly how it began.