Page 41 of Our Strange Duet

Vaguely, I felt the Angel carry me away from the hateful automaton. There was softness beneath me, a bed, and I felt a cover spread across me with compassionate hands.

Before the Angel could step away, I grabbed the front of his jacket, waylaying him. “Stay with me, please,” I murmured, unsure if I’d actually spoken or had already succumbed to my dreams.

“Always,” he promised quickly.

There was a pause, and then the mattress behind me sank. His touch was as tentative as a butterfly, and though I knew it was a brazen act, I took his arm and pulled it around me, keeping him close.

There was a soft pressure at the back of my head—had he kissed me?—and I felt my body entirely relax, every one of my muscles turning warm and languid against his stiffened frame. Just as I slipped into a dark, dreamless sleep, I heard the last of his song, whispered earnestly against my temple: “Help me make the music of the night.”

Chapter 15

It was music that woke me, strange chords and contradictory tempos unlike anything I’d heard before.

I blinked back to consciousness and let my gaze wander as I tried to place the unfamiliar surroundings. Tall windows flanked the great canopied bed I found myself in. They were covered by swagged drapes of black-and-gold brocade, making it impossible to tell what time it was.

It felt very, very late.

With a groan, I pushed myself from the pillows and threw aside the soft coverlet. I still wore the silk robe Madame Barbier had given me after the gala performance, but my shoes were now missing, a fact I realized only as my bare feet touched the carpet. Its piling was thick and plush, and I couldn’t help but scrunch my toes into the luxury.

I padded over to a window and peeked behind its curtain. A scattering of stars twinkled at me, high above a dark lawn filled with fantastical topiary creatures. So it was night, then.

“You’re awake.”

Against the windowpane, I could see the distorted reflection of the Angel.

“Yes.” I made no motion to turn and face him. Instead, I watched as his rippling figure took a step across the threshold.

Outside, a streak of light zipped across the night, falling toward the horizon. A shooting star. It was beautiful, but something about it—about the presence of all of the stars—pricked at me, though I couldn’t say why.

“We should make a wish,” I said, pointing.

I heard the soft rustle of his approach. He paused, just behind me, peering out the window too. “I don’t need a wish. Everything I’ve ever hoped for is happening right here, right now, with you.”

Though he couldn’t see my face, I glanced down anyway, hiding my pleasure. It was everything I’d wished for as well.

He drew in a deep breath, and I could sense him weighing his next words. “Christine…”

I turned to face him but stopped short.

The Angel had removed his mask.

His face was…

He was…

Magnificent.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, his brow furrowing in concern. “Christine, you look positively…” He touched my chin, tilting my face, while appraising me with sharp eyes. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost,” I said, unable to hold back my smile. “A wonder.”

Before I understood what I was doing, I lifted my hand to caress the strong line of his jaw. His skin was warm, and its hint of stubble grazed my palm with delicious friction.

My cheeks flushed as I briefly considered what it would feel like to have those prickles brush along other parts of me, lower parts of me, parts that no one had ever before touched. I was struck by a sense of longing so intense my hand fell away, its fingers balling into a tight fist.

What was I doing?

What had come over me?