Page 47 of Our Strange Duet

It was a company list.

Printed in blocky black letters was the title for our next opera of the season—Il Muto, a tired Rococo period piece known for its bawdy jokes, its trilling coloratura, and its distinct use of harpsichords.

The column on the left-hand side listed the production’s roles, in descending order of importance. On the right, after a series of dots, were the singers who’d been assigned the parts.

At the top, starring as Don Attilio, was our principal bass, Marc Haché. And just under his name, taking on the role of the faithless Countess, was Carlotta Giudicelli. Minor roles of fops and hairdressers followed, including the part of Serafimo, a mute pants role. I was both surprised and delighted to see that Meg had been cast in the supernumerary’s part. It would be her first named solo.

But, in dark-burgundy ink, several lines had been scratched through Carlotta’s name, and a flurry of indiscernible notes were written beside the list of roles.

Unsure of what this paper was or even what to do with it, I tucked it beneath the music and set the stack on the newly righted stand. When I looked up from my task, the Angel—Erik—was staring at me with unchecked curiosity.

“You’re bleeding,” he noted, suddenly at my side. He reached toward my cheek but kept his fingers from ever touching my skin, as if frozen with indecision.

I ran the back of my hand over the tiny cut and, when no fresh blood came away, waved off his worries.

“You must go,” he said abruptly.

Instantly, my throat seized. He was sending me away. He was still mad. A black banner of dread unfurled within me, squeezing my heart.

What if he meant to send me away for good? What if he couldn’t stand the sight of me? What if all this magic, this wonder, was gone forever? All because of me and my damned curiosity!

I clasped my hands, trying to look as every bit as remorseful and contrite as I was. “No, please.”

He frowned. “You want to stay?”

Wordlessly, I nodded.

“Here? With me?” he asked, carefully clarifying. Again, his hand strayed close to me, nearly touching my own but stopping just shy of contact.

“More than anything,” I beseeched. “Erik, please.”

His mouth parted, and his breath came out in a great shuddering rush. “I…No. I must return you.”

“But why?”

“There is so much work to be done, and…” He paused, his eyes wandering over the arched ceiling as if studying something I could not see, something I could not understand. “Those two fools…You’re certain to be missed. We left so abruptly…Next time…next time, I will—”

Hope kindled within me. “Next time? You’re not angry with me? You’re not…you’re not sending me away?”

Erik frowned, stricken. “Oh, Christine. Of course not. There is…We’ve so much work. So many things we need to accomplish. You and I.”

“Together?”

He nodded, then gestured toward a corridor I’d only just now noticed. “Come.”

Without hesitation, I took the Angel’s outstretched hand and let him lead me into the dark.

Chapter 17

My apartment was too quiet.

The air inside was stale and musty, as if the rooms had been boarded up and left uninhabited. Had it not been for the queues of would-be audience members outside the theatre clamoring for Hannibal tickets, I would have wondered if I’d spent weeks hidden away with my Angel. Months, even. It seemed impossible to believe that I’d been home only just yesterday, rushing out so I wouldn’t be late for my costume fitting.

I leaned heavily against the door, surveying my space. I hardly remembered how I’d made my way back.

The Angel had led me through so many corridors and waterlogged passages. There’d been a twist of cogs and a whirling wall which had opened to a darkened corner of one of the trap rooms hidden beneath the stage.

When I’d caught sight of Joseph Buquet and a pair of chorus girls reclining on a heap of folded scenic drops as they passed around a bottle of foul-smelling green liquid, I’d immediately turned, ready to back into the shadows and hide away with Erik.