Page 97 of Our Strange Duet

My misery sharpened as I watched Raoul shout at Madame Giry. How could he ask this of me? How could he betray me so easily? He’d said I didn’t have to sing, that they couldn’t make me. He’d promised to keep me safe. Yet now, he offered me up as a lamb to slaughter.

Tears ran down my face. I didn’t know who I feared more in this moment—Erik or Raoul. They both asked such impossible things of me, setting up ordeals by fire and watching to see how far my loyalty dared go.

I couldn’t do it.

Pleasing one would destroy the other. It was a game no one could win, and one I could not emerge from unscathed.

If I sang, Erik would come. But he was far more cunning than anyone in this room. I had no doubt he’d easily evade the gendarmes. He’d take me away again, this time forever. I’d never again see Raoul. I’d never again see anyone.

And if I ran, if I fled the production, the opera, the whole of the city…what then? I’d marry Raoul—if he still wanted me—and become his wife. I’d start life anew, but Erik would still be there in the back of my mind, singing songs and filling me with the most dreadful of all questions: the burning and unanswerable doubt of What if?

What if I hadn’t run?

What if I’d dared to sing?

What if I’d been good?

What then?

The questions spun within me, turning into a whirlwind of anxious wondering, of calamitous dismay. I rubbed my forehead, wishing I could still my thoughts, wishing I could still it all.

“If you don’t stop, I’ll go mad!” The words ripped out of me, a shriek of mania so loud it cut through the arguments and accusations like a guillotine blade flying to its swift and dreadful end.

The silence which followed was deafening.

I turned in a slow circle, searching for understanding, craving some small bit of comfort. When I finally met Raoul’s stare and he didn’t immediately come to my side, I let out a quiet sob.

“Raoul, don’t put me through this. Please…don’t ask this of me.”

He frowned, as though my fears confused him. He didn’t see. He didn’t grasp the myriad ways his plan could go wrong.

“Christine,” he began, and I hated the way his feet remained planted alongside the managers’, still and motionless and taking not a single step toward me. “I know what we’re asking of you will be difficult and that you’ll have to be so very brave, but you said yourself, this won’t ever end. Not if we don’t act. Not if we don’t capture him here and now. He’ll always be out there, haunting us. You know this. You know this better than anyone.”

My lower lip trembled. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from his stupid unmoving shoes.

“I can’t,” I whispered helplessly, and raced out of the room before anyone could stop me.

Chapter 33

A dense fog filled the air, obscuring everything but the tips of the very tallest cypress trees. It was so thick it wafted around my blue cloak, swirling from it like little eddies of river water, and distorted the birdsong, making the birds’ sweet, simple notes echo through the grounds like a full symphony.

It would have seemed like an enchanted glade if not for the tombstones.

I was glad for the fog. Glad for the heavy mist that was almost rain and painted the world in somber hues.

I had never been to my father’s grave on a sunny day and thought I wouldn’t be able to bear it, watching colors and life carry on while he could not. The fear was enough to keep me entirely away on the bright, endless days of summer and in spring, as the world turned to soft blooms and showering petals. On his birthday, in early April, I would wait to visit until dusk, when twilight shrouded everything in shades of gray and shadow, even the bouquet of tulips I always brought.

I had no flowers with me now. I’d brought nothing but questions. Questions and the earnest need for advice that only he could give. I needed to talk with him, needed to tell him everything. Perhaps as I did, giving a one-sided account of all that had happened, I’d find my answer. It would come to me then, mid-sentence, the solution to all my problems, and I’d know peace.

My footsteps over the gravel seemed too loud. Too loud and too near, and for just a moment, the fog made it sound as if there were two sets of them—mine and someone else’s walking beside me.

I closed my eyes and wished with all my heart that it were Father. I’d not felt grief this strong and painful since the year he’d died, when the slightest thing could send me into torrents of weeping, when I slept each night on a tearstained pillow and thought I saw his face in every crowded street. I’d been utterly adrift, cut off from everyone I knew or had ever held dear, unable to understand how they could go on with their lives and not mourn Gustave Daaé with their every breath.

I felt a little bit like that now.

I was alone, in a tiny boat, with a tumultuous sea rapidly rising all around me. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know who to trust. And everyone went about their business, worried about their future.

Couldn’t they see I wasn’t going to make it through my present?