Angel Hands (10 page)

Somewhere near the end of Act I, Pierre returned, breathless, but holding an envelope in his hand.

"And where is La Giuliana?" Mireille asked coldly.

"She told me to give you this," he replied, handing her the note “
Ma foi
! But, she uses a strange seal for a lady!”

Mireille flipped the letter over and nearly dropped it when she saw the enormous red wax emblem of a skull. Upon opening unfolding the letter, the familiarity of the handwriting was no surprise.

La Giuliana has decided she has health problems that preclude her from performing on an ongoing basis. A more fitting Aminta will take the stage on opening night. Mademoiselle Solange is a suitable understudy, but she tends to go flat during the aria in Act I, scene 2. Do see if you can do something about it.

Your most obedient,

Former O.G.

P.S. Whatever happens, you are to act as if this has been your plan all along. After all, you are certainly devious enough to think of something like what I have contemplated and set in motion.

The letter sent not altogether pleasant shivers through Mireille's frame. Aside from the total disruption of the production this would cause, there was a sinister, impersonal undertone to the letter.

"Pierre," she said in a low voice so as not to attract any attention from the stage. "I want you to make sure that between today and the reception on opening night, lots of little Opera Ghost things happen. Nothing too disastrous, but with increasing frequency."

"But just enough to keep the toffs in a tizzy," the youth replied. "Done, mademoiselle!"

She could see he was practically salivating at the thought of authorized mischief. Before she could add her customary commandment of moderation, he was gone. She sat quite still and thought quite hard.

The Opera Ghost had basically implied that if she put her mind to it, she could figure out exactly what was going to happen. The sickening part was that she probably was just as capable of cunning as he was, that they were two dysfunctional peas in a twisted pod.

An idea occurred to her, an idea so sensational, so...so...wrong, that it was almost credible. It couldn't be. It was impossible. Yet, it was so like him. It was...

Her reverie was interrupted by a muted crash from backstage and a sudden upswing in the chaos factor onstage. She sighed and turned her attention to the rehearsal.

One sunset, one sunrise, then the performance. The minutes to the dress rehearsal of
Don Juan
relentlessly slipped through the hour glass. There was a steady, excited energy in the building, and for whole moments, Mireille forgot her dread at what she thought was going to happen.

Rumors and whispers swirled around the wings about La Giuliana, but Mireille chose not to address them, nor to answer Raymond's questions. She presented a façade of absolute sangfroid and control but felt as if she spent the whole day holding her breath.

The moment of the dress rehearsal arrived. She helped her father into a comfortable seat and greeted a few of the other businessmen he and Carcasonne had invited.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Dubienne," Carcasonne boomed out as he strode down the aisle, his girth barely clearing the space between the rows. "I believe you know..."

He stepped aside, revealing the Vicomte de Chagnard, an unpleasant and unhappy expression on his face.

"What are you doing here, Monsieur le Vicomte?" Mireille demanded unceremoniously, feeling that suddenly, her stays were pulled just a little too tight.

"I am here to watch Aminta take her place," he muttered, then dropped into a seat and stared sullenly in front of him at the stage.

A pit of dread in her stomach, Mireille turned around and faintly echoed the gasp of the cast as the Vicomtesse de Chagnard walked out on stage, dressed as Aminta.

It was only the memory of the ghost's instructions that kept her from shaking them all and demanding answers. As it was, the woman who stood center stage was no longer a reserved young noblewoman, but she was once again Kristin Dahlèn, full of eager promise. She was achingly beautiful, and Mireille felt a wave of bitterness well up in her throat at the comparison of how plain she was next to such innocent loveliness. What was sallow next to ivory? What was angular next to curved? What was mousy hair and nondescript eyes next to glossy golden curls and bright blue eyes that pleaded for love from everyone?

Mireille felt sick, but there was nothing she could do. The Opera Ghost had dealt the cards, and now she had to play her hand. The only thing she knew for certain is that she hated him.

"Ah, Madame la Vicomtesse," she said calmly. "Welcome. Are you ready to begin the rehearsal?"

"Oh yes!" Kristin replied eagerly, a sweet smile curving her full lips.

"Excellent," Mireille said as evenly as she could manage. "Raymond, if you please?"

Shaking off his own shock, Raymond moved mechanically to get the performers into place, then disappeared behind the wings for the final preparations. Mireille caught sight of a faint fluttering of the curtains in Box Five and was about to dismiss it as Pierre's handiwork, when she saw him hanging about the curtain ropes in the wings.

As subtly as she could, she moved to the back of the theater, trying to make it look as if she was going to settle in and watch from that vantage point. As soon as the lights went down, she slipped silently out the door and ran back to her office. She stormed inside to find her ghost sitting in her chair, behind her desk, with his fingers steepled and a self-satisfied expression on the visible half of his face.

"What the hell?" she ground out, marching around the desk to face him.

"And good evening to you, as well, mademoiselle," he replied softly, mockingly.

"You have NO right to interfere like this with the production!"

"You handled the situation very well back there. But then, I expected nothing less of my Mireille."

"I am not your Mireille!"

He rose and closed the distance between them, his arms snaking around her waist and drawing her body against his.

"Say that now," he murmured, bending his head so that his face was a mere breath from hers.

Her heart was beating wildly in her throat, and it took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to wind her arms around his neck. She forced herself to go against the grain and take hold of his shoulders instead and try to push him back. She might as well have tried to push away a wall. If anything, he held her more tightly.

"Why did you do this to me?" she whispered, fighting to keep the tears from welling up. "What did I ever do to you to make you want to destroy me?"

"Destroy you?" he replied softly. "Oh no, my dear. If I had wanted to destroy you, you would have long ago been at the bottom of the Seine or locked away in your room with a nice companion to watch over you."

She looked deeply into his eyes, trying to fathom his purpose, his meaning. Those eyes were hard and closed off to his soul.

"I was, in fact, saving you," he said simply, abruptly releasing her, sending her back a stumbling pace.

"Horse shit!"

"You suspected, did you not?"

"Yes, but I didn't think you'd be so foolish as to bring Kristin Dahlèn back to the stage."

"Ah, but the Vicomte can't exactly go about suing or shutting down his wife's production, now, can he?"

Mireille was silent, processing the implications of his sentence.

"How does she feel about her Angel of Music being alive and well?" she asked finally.

"She doesn't know." His voice was tense.

"What do you mean? You must have seen her to tell her that she would be Aminta."

"Yes, I saw her. But she did not see me. Nor did she realize that I was present or speaking to her."

She stared blankly at his cold, uncompromising face. She realized what he was implying. Hers was not the only bedroom he visited late at night, and the thought hurt her more than she thought possible.

But everything fit now, everything fell into place. He had left the opera house to go be near the de Chagnard chateau. He had traded nightly visits to Mireille to nightly visits to Kristin, planting in the sleeping girl's head the suggestion that she just had to come back to play Aminta. Maybe for herself, maybe for redemption, maybe to finish something. The reason didn't matter. He had managed to convince her without revealing his existence to her—could that be a small ace in her pocket, Mireille wondered?

Yes, he had stopped the Vicomte from suing the Opéra de Paris as a result, which was a relief to Mireille's business sense. And, yes, by making Kristin the lead, he was going to guarantee sold-out performances every single night. Yet, Mireille couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't something more to this, if he was doing this for some purpose even beyond all that.

Did he still want Kristin?

Was this part of a bigger scheme to win Kristin back?

Anger, unreasoning rage, reared in her heart. Whatever his game, she was not going to play anymore.

"Get out," she hissed, narrowing her eyes. "I am done with you."

He looked surprised for a moment, then matched her menace with his.

"Be careful how you speak to me, Mireille," he said. "It has been said I have a nasty temper."

"Go fuck yourself!"

"Language, Mireille." There was nothing lighthearted about his teasing reprimand.

"Get. Out." She punctuated each word with a stamp of her foot.

He took a step towards her.

"If I ever see your face again, I will go straight to the gendarmes and tell them everything I know," Mireille hissed, refusing to move or back down. "This is it, the end, Monsieur le Fantôme! I am done with you."

With a glare that told her he was just as done with her, he turned on his heel and stalked back through the sliding panel in the wall.

That was it. It was over. Done.

She would never see him again. He would never manipulate her again. He would never spy on her again. He would never tease her, aggravate her, or out-maneuver her again.

She tried to feel thankful, but there wasn't a whole lot of thankfulness in the two tears that rolled down her cheeks.

14. Of Mates and Checks

Mireille felt slightly sick. The very reality that surrounded her felt thick and oppressive, as if trapping her in bitter treacle.

The air seemed acrid and was razor sharp on her lungs. It had a tang of gaslights, too much perfume, and wax. She had no need of an opera ghost. She was haunting her own production. She drifted around backstage, then was swept into the foyer to see the crowds arriving. She wore a mask, just as sure as her former ghost-in-residence had, only hers was one of confident efficiency painted on her own features.

This was the night of her triumph, the night of the biggest scandal of the season, and all of Paris had turned out to see it. Her father had beamed with pride as he had been escorted to his box. Even Carcasonne had seemed pleased, his mental calculations about the box office taken all too evident in his eyes.

But, somehow, she couldn't care. She didn't want to be there, she didn't want to see the performance, she didn't want to attend the reception. She just wanted to be at home, to be pretending that none of this had happened.

Truly, had it been that much to ask that she be able to run this theater? Hadn't she faced challenges enough? Why had this mysterious masked man decided to intrude on her life, tie it into knots, and then pull the knots tighter?

Dutifully, she took her seat in the box with Carcasonne and her father, sitting slightly back from them and fighting a dull ache in her temples.

The gasps of the audience as Kristin Dahlèn stepped out onto the stage should have been music to her ears, or at least the sound of the francs filling the cash box. Did Kristin still have to look so young and fresh? Did she have to look so inspired? Did she have to have the voice of an angel?

Her eyes involuntarily turned again and again to Box Five, which remained maddeningly dark and quiet. She would have bet good money, though, that he was somewhere here in the opera house. Miss his precious Kristin's triumph? Not bloody likely.

She shook her head slightly, trying to rid herself of her gloom. Where was her spirit? Her fight? Had the opera ghost finally broken her? Again, not bloody likely! She felt a resurgence of pride and lifted her chin slightly.

The renewed feeling of confidence carried her into the reception afterwards. The champagne was flowing, and she allowed herself one glass. She received the polite congratulations of the patrons and guests, remarks suitable for the daughter of the man who co-owned the theater. They complimented her father on his excellent management skills, and Caracasonne on his managing a great triumph. She had to smile inwardly at that, but she accepted it. Part of the bargain was she could do what she wanted, but never take the credit for it, or risk discrediting her father for letting a woman do a man's job—a highly inappropriate man's job for a proper young lady, no less.

Feeling at peace, for the first time in days, she walked across the foyer, only to be arrested by a horrifyingly familiar voice.

"Mireille?"

She turned to see Raoul’s older brother, Comte Philippe de Chagnard striding towards her. She froze. She just barely registered the puffed, powdered blonde on his arm.

He looked about as happy as she felt.

"Monsieur le comte," she replied, nodding slightly at him, the hand holding the stem of the champagne glass white-knuckling.

"Are you happy?" he asked gruffly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You certainly got your revenge, didn't you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Dragging my family's name into the immoral mud of the theaters once again!"

She couldn't help but snort slightly at this. "And when did you become so concerned with morality, monsieur?"

"When you lured my sister-in-law back onto the stage!"