Page 82 of Our Strange Duet

Raoul let out a wolfish laugh. “Shall we give the future vicomtesse a grand tour of all her domain?”

I claimed his hand and tugged him to the stairs. “We shall indeed.”

Chapter 27

I startled awake, feeling disoriented as I tried to recall where I was.

It was too black to make out any of my surroundings, but I was certain I wasn’t in my apartment. I pushed myself up and reached for the gas lamp I knew was on my nightstand in my chambers in Deauville. It wasn’t there.

I stood up, reaching out for anything to help place me in this impenetrable void. My footsteps across the hard floor were whispered clicks. I must have fallen asleep wearing shoes, but which ones? What I had been doing in them before going to bed?

Then it all came back to me.

I was in Burgundy, at the Château de Chagny. Raoul had brought me here to meet his mother.

His mother…

I blanched, remembering everything which had happened after dinner—every hurtful, awful word she’d said—before grinning wickedly in the dark as the rest of the night came back to me too.

Raoul’s kisses and rumbled groans.

My breathy gasps.

Not everything about last night had been bad…

I took a step forward, waving my hands around Raoul’s room, unable to find a light source. I could have sworn there was a switch or a cord or a—

As I went farther into the vast space, I saw a sudden light shining boldly in the darkness. It was a single bulb, affixed to a wheeled stand, and the implausibility of its presence, here of all places, was enough to stop me in my tracks.

It was a ghost light, something every company left burning onstage each night once the theatre was cleared out.

It offered a soft glow, just enough to highlight the edge of the stage so that no one would lose themselves in the dark, tripping over any scenic pieces—or worse, falling into the orchestra pit. Every theatre had a story or two about an unfortunate mistake and an actor winding up with a broken neck.

I’d always found the ghost light to be a soothing presence, a cheerful beacon, friendly and warm.

But what on earth was one doing here?

“Raoul?” I called out uncertainly.

I knew he was here, close to me somewhere. I was only steps away from his bed, so why did the room feel abandoned, as if I were the only person within it?

I squinted around the glow, trying to make out the furniture that had to be close by, but the ghost light showed nothing. I turned around, searching for something, anything. Far away—truly too far, if I was being honest; Raoul’s chambers were big, but not like this—were a series of curved edges and limned velvet backs.

They were chairs, dozens of them, a hundred strong, lined in a soft horseshoe, just like—

My heart clunked heavily in my chest.

Just like at the theatre.

I looked down at the base of the ghost light, where its bare bulb cast an illuminated circle upon wooden planks.

The stage floor.

Somehow, horribly, I’d returned to the Opéra Populaire.

“This is a dream,” I said in a rush, and rubbed my hands over my face, trying to wake myself from it.

Somewhere, out in the darkness, came the click of a shoe. Then another. And another.