Page 53 of Our Strange Duet

Surely I could take an afternoon off, one afternoon for myself.

My Angel—Erik—the Opera Ghost—would never know.

“I’d love to,” I said, and took Raoul’s hand.

Chapter 18

Raoul cut into a piece of lamb, releasing a spread of red juices across his plate. “I want to know everything.”

We’d ended up—after much debate—at La Closerie de Lilas, a gorgeously terraced brasserie in the 6th arrondissement. Raoul had originally suggested Café de la Paix, but with its location just across the street from the Opéra Populaire, I worried that Erik would somehow sense my betrayal.

I didn’t know what to believe about him. Was he a guardian angel, sent by my father to bless me with the gift of music? Was he a ghost, haunting the opera and skewing fortunes for both the good and the ill? Or was he…

I pushed the complicated tangle of thoughts from me. The last thing I wanted occupying my mind while I was with Raoul was Erik.

Raoul was so much more straightforward, carefree and careless.

Though we could have easily walked from my apartment or hopped on a trolley, he ordered us a hansom cab, allowing us to take the boulevards at a merry clip. Once at the café, we were immediately seated outside under a sweet-smelling bower of lilacs. Oysters and champagne were brought over, a gift from the chef. Raoul had scanned the menu, ordering the lamb noisettes for himself and recommending the Madagascar spotted prawns for me.

Easy. Everything with Raoul was so, so easy.

“Everything?” I repeated now, looking up from my plate.

“I want to know it all,” he said, and motioned to a hovering garçon for a refill of wine. “Christine, I want to know every single thing about you.”

“An awfully tall order.”

He made a sound, conceding my victory. “The opera, then. When did you begin working there?”

“I’ve been with the ballet since the beginning of the season. I was a dancer at the Conservatoire before that.”

He looked surprised. “Not a singer?”

“Last night was my debut,” I admitted.

He raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “That can’t be!”

I only shrugged.

“That makes your performance even more staggering. You handled the role brilliantly.”

“I’m so pleased you think so,” I murmured as I pushed one of the prawns around my plate, mulling over the most delicate way to eat it.

“And I heard you’ve been cast as Serafimo in the next production?”

I nodded.

He tsked. “Pity there’s no aria. I wonder…what will your voice instructor think of that?”

“My—who?”

He took a bite of the lamb. “You mentioned an instructor last night. The…What did you call him?”

“The Angel of Music,” I supplied, an uneasy feeling beginning to squirm inside me.

He jabbed his now-empty fork in the air. “That’s it! I wonder what he’ll think.”

“Of the production?”