Page 86 of Our Strange Duet

Our courtship and engagement.

My retirement.

Our wedding, planned for June.

I was dizzy with the speed of it, reeling at each change, and while I felt ready for my new life—mostly—it had been nice to fall back into the old status quo. Though Raoul claimed most of my evenings, taking me on a parade of parties and dinners, I’d spent my days puttering about, doing what I pleased when I pleased.

A knock sounded, drawing me from my reverie, and I frowned, wondering who would want to brave the cold for so late a visit.

When I opened the door, there was Raoul, smiling merrily, his wool coat dusted with snowflakes.

“I didn’t expect you,” I said by way of greeting, and opened the door wider to usher him inside. “Weren’t you supposed to be meeting with Philippe?”

“That’s tomorrow night,” he said, breezing past me with a kiss on the forehead. Once inside, he turned and held out a curious silver object, presenting it with all the extravagance of a bouquet of roses. “Surprise!”

It wasn’t until he shoved it into my hands that I saw what it was and instantly recoiled. “Why would you give me this?”

It was a mask.

The domino was delicate and feminine, covered in glitter and spangled stars, nothing at all like the white shell Erik wore, and yet I couldn’t contain my revulsion. A ribboned stick was affixed to its side. I twirled it round, and uneasy dread bloomed in my stomach as I watched it spin.

“I spotted these in a shop window and thought them perfect for you.”

I looked away from the little face and noticed the large box Raoul held beneath one arm.

“For me?” I asked, unable to contain my disbelief. What use had I for a mask?

“For tonight,” he said, setting the box upon the counter. “Everyone is meant to wear one.”

The information sounded somewhat familiar and was obviously something I was meant to know, but I didn’t remember. Had Raoul mentioned something while we were at the estate? Had his mother? My cheeks flushed as I fretted over all the ways I might already be angering my future mother-in-law.

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” Raoul explained, seeing my confusion.

“Is it?”

I couldn’t decide if that surprised me or not. Since returning from Burgundy, the world had slipped into a strange, liminal state. Christmas was over, and the endless hours of the passing week had piled up in a monotonous haze. Without a job to go to, without rehearsals or lessons, classes or coachings, days in Paris ceased to have individual meaning.

He let out a sigh, but it sounded more amused than put out. “The Masquerade Ball. At the Populaire?”

I’d entirely forgotten.

Every December, the opera hosted a grand fête to celebrate the passing of the old year while welcoming in the new. There were performances and masques, long tables heavy-laden with roasted meats and gold-dusted desserts, and cases upon cases of champagne. Everyone in the company was invited. Everyone was expected to attend.

Since that season of my life was now over, I hadn’t given the party another thought.

But Raoul, evidently, had.

I watched him take off his greatcoat to reveal a hussar military uniform, all gold trim and black beading. He gave me a flourished spin so wild that Madame Giry would have cracked his ankles with her walking stick if she’d been here to see it. “What do you think?”

“I think you look impossibly handsome,” I said, crossing over to give him a quick peck on the cheek and rub my hands up and down his epauletted arms. “But…we’re not really going to that, are we?”

His face fell, and I could immediately see I’d wounded him.

“Why wouldn’t you want to go? It’s New Year’s Eve. It’s your old company.”

“My old company,” I echoed, emphasizing the former connection. “Won’t people think it’s strange I show up when I’m no longer part of the opera?”

Raoul frowned in disagreement. “They’ll think nothing of the sort. It’s not as though you’ve given a formal resignation yet—there’ve been no productions to resign from—and I’m the opera’s patron. Which makes you an opera patron.”