Page 93 of Our Strange Duet

“Three years ago. I don’t know any more than that. He was just…here. Things began to go missing: old scenic pieces and costumes, even the pipe organ from La Juive. Just…gone. And I knew he’d come back and was setting up house. Somewhere. I think this is one of the only places in the world that has ever given him peace. And of course, the music…”

“But what about—”

Rustling came from a darkened corner, sounding like scuttling rats. The opera was full of them, as well as dozens of cats which were allowed to prowl the grounds to keep the rodents’ numbers in check.

But Madame Giry froze, her face pinched and bloodless. She grabbed my hand and yanked me to my feet. “We must go.”

“What’s the mat—”

“I’ve said too much,” she hissed.

“But—”

She wrenched my arm, silencing me. “I think perhaps the danger downstairs has passed,” she announced, her words loud and overly enunciated.

I peered into the corner but couldn’t see anything but shrouded shadows. Was Erik there now, watching us, listening to every word we said? I imagined him not as he was now, a grown man, but as the little boy Madame Giry had saved, frail and shivering against the world’s cruelty. I thought of the instant just before the wall of fire had separated us, when I’d caught the glint of his eyes.

“It is best you go home now, Christine Daaé,” she went on, pulling me out to the hallway, not the hidden passage by which we’d earlier come. “It’s nearly midnight, and there will be such work ahead of us in this bright new year.”

Chapter 32

Sure enough, on the second morning of January, I was summoned to an urgent meeting in the managers’ office.

No part of me wanted to go. I couldn’t think of a single good reason a singer who no longer worked for the company should be called in.

Erik’s voice echoed in my head with every step I took toward the Opéra Populaire. Your chains are still mine. You will sing for me. The words became a chant, a litany, a mantra, making my limbs jangly and my stomach so nauseous that when I finally arrived at the corner of the Rue Scribe and the Rue Auber, I stood beside a streetlamp, pressing a hand to my middle and praying for the strength to go inside.

“Christine?”

Raoul stood on the far side of the street, bundled against the cold in a greatcoat and my favorite of his cashmere scarves. He waited for a hansom cab to pass by before crossing to me. I watched his approach, feeling my unease spread and expand.

On the night of the masquerade, after Madame Giry had brought me back to the hall, Raoul had taken me home. It had been a tense carriage ride as he silently seethed, tightly holding on to my hand and rubbing the spot where his ring should have been. He’d bidden me a terse good night, and I hadn’t seen him since.

But he seemed in better spirits this morning, even bending down to give my cheek a quick kiss in greeting. “What a pleasant surprise. How did you know I would be here?”

“I didn’t,” I admitted, and pulled out the telegram I’d received.

He scanned the short missive and laughed. “I had almost the exact same thing delivered to the town house this morning. Though they were a bit more flowery with their language in mine.”

There was a break in traffic, and Raoul gestured for us to cross the street.

“Did they say what they wanted?”

He made a sound of incredulity. “Christine…there are only a handful of things it could be.”

I didn’t like the way his tone darkened, but I could only follow after him as he jogged up the steps to the Populaire. He held the door open for me, hurrying us both inside to get out of the chill. “Raoul, could we talk about the other night? Please?”

He shook his head, schooling his expression into a more pleasant neutral. “There’s nothing to discuss. It was…” He sighed. “You were right. You didn’t want to go to the party, and I made you, and now here we are.”

“Here we are,” I echoed, and stared up the grand staircase, feeling miserable.

When we arrived at the second floor, Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur André were in the midst of an argument so terrible we could hear their sharp bickering all the way down the hall.

Monsieur André sounded apoplectic. “He says we need another first bassoon. We only just hired the poor man during Il Muto because he told us to!”

“And what about this here?” Monsieur Firmin struck his fist against something. “He wants to sack half the chorus. Says the lot of them are off pitch!”

Raoul glanced down at me, suddenly looking concerned. “What are we about to walk into? I feel as though I’ve been called to the headmaster’s office.”