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Chapter 8

Christine

Meg, I often had to remind myself, was still a child.

Sixteen was old enough to marry. It was old enough to bear children. But it was also young enough that when I saw her sitting on her bed, clutching a small blue blanket in her arms, her face in its soft fabric...I was not terribly surprised.

I was even less surprised after today's news at the Opera.

I cleared my throat in the doorway and knocked. Normally, there was no need - this was my bedroom too. But if she needed privacy, I would not intrude.

She looked up. When she saw me, a small smile played at her pink lips. I smiled in return.

"You can enter, Christine," she said softly. "I'd like the company."

I nodded and walked in, closing the door behind me. I was about to sit on my own bed, but she slid over where she sat and patted the space next to her. I accepted the invitation. Once I was beside her, she laid her head on my shoulder. I put my head on top of hers. I felt and heard her sigh.

"I know, love." I found her hand and squeezed it.

"Where the devil could she be?" she whispered. "Where could Isabelle have gone?"

"I don't know, Meg." I wished I did. I would have moved Heaven and Earth to see her smile again. I would rescue the girl myself if I knew Isabelle's whereabouts. "She really didn't say anything about...anyone? A lover? Strange friends? Anything."

"No," she breathed. "She didn't. I promise."

I pursed my lips. "It's so..."

"Terrible. It's terrible." She squeezed my hand again. "I keep picturing her mother's face. I couldn't imagine being in her position. If I think I'm frightened, I think of her mother's feelings, and..."

"I know."

I lifted my head and looked at the window. Dusk. And Isabelle was out there somewhere, hopefully alive, as night was fast approaching.

I thought, then, that I heard a knock at the apartment door. I lifted my head. "Did you hear that?"

She lifted her head as well. "Yes."

Madame's low voice, unintelligible. A man's voice, vaguely familiar. Meg and I looked at one another. We never received guests this late. We certainly never received male guests this late. In tandem, we rose from the bed, Meg dropping the blanket to the sheets. I took her hand and we walked to the bedroom door, peeking out, her head underneath mine.

Madame Giry was welcoming in Monsieur Firmin, one of the managers, into the apartment. He removed his hat and placed it on a hook by the door.

"Tea, Monsieur?"

"Please, Madame," he said, taking a seat at the small dining table. His salt and pepper mustache twitched as he appeared troubled, deep in thought. "And do call me Richard."

"No thank you, Monsieur."

My lips quirked. I loved Madame.

Firmin blinked at her, then cleared his throat. "Right. Well, I-"

"Sugar? Cream?"

"Both."

Meg retreated her head into the room, and I did the same. She glanced at the doorway and whispered, "Should we go out there?"

"Now," said Firmin, as we heard Madame put the tea kettle on, "about this Isabelle girl."

Meg didn't wait for my reply. She sprinted out of the room and into the kitchen. I followed closely behind.

"Monsieur?" she said, eyes rounded. "You know something about Isabelle?"

"Oh!" Firmin, at our presence, stood. He bowed his head. "Mademoiselles."

I bowed my head as well. Meg merely stared at him, begging for information with wide brown eyes.

Firmin looked down. "No. Unfortunately, I do not. That is why I am here."

"Monsieur?" I said.

"He is making visits to all of his staff," explained Madame. "Isn't that right, Monsieur Firmin?"

"Precisely right. I am doing a bit of detective work - helping the actual detective as much as I can. I've visited a few of the backstage technicians and other ballerinas. You will be my last visit of the night." He smiled, no joy in the expression. "I've only been manager a short while and already a disaster is on my hands."

"And Monsieur Andre?" asked Madame. "Is he doing visits as well?"

"Andre has a family and does not have the time."

I looked away, hoping suddenly that the staff would give Firmin a chance. I did not care what their opinion on Andre was.

"Now, Mademoiselle Giry," he said then to Meg, sitting once more. We made to sit as well. "What, exactly, can you tell me about your friend?"

After a few cups of tea and a bit of interrogation, Firmin was no more satisfied than when he came in. He frowned nearly the entire time. Despite his obvious disappointment and confusion as to Isabelle's whereabouts, he gave us a reassuring smile.

"We will find her," he said. He stood and put on his hat. "Remember that we have a true detective on the case - that I am no sleuth. I thought I would help but, alas-"

"We appreciate the care you're showing, Monsieur," murmured Meg. Her eyes seemed close to tears. "It does mean the world, I assure you."

Firmin looked away, then gave a dip of his head. "Ladies. Good evening."

"Good evening," Meg and I said in unison. Madame merely returned the small bow.

Meg said, then, that she wanted to go to sleep. I decided that I would as well. We changed into our nightgowns and put out the lamp, climbing into our beds.

I wasn't sure how long it was before Meg fell unconscious, but I could hear her soft snores in the dark. I, on the other hand, was lying wide awake.

Where.

Where on Earth could this girl be?

Did she run into an accident? Was she dead? Injured somewhere? Lost?

Or was she taken by someone?

But if that was the case, who would take her?

I went through the possibilities. It had to be someone unexpected. Someone who no one would think to consider. I doubted it was a member of the Opera, as they would be too likely of a suspect.

I imagined someone in the shadows. Someone secretive. Someone...

Ghostly.

I sat up. I stared into the dark, feeling my heartrate begin to pick up. I pulled my knees to my chest, a puzzle putting itself together in my mind.

A ghost.

Could it be Erik?

This strange man I'd been sending letters back and forth to...could he be a kidnapper? A molester? A killer, even?

It was possible.

More than that, it was likely.

What kind of person would pose himself as a phantom, if not to commit heinous deeds? What else could he gain from that identity? It was the perfect cover - make everyone believe you are the stuff of superstitions, and then wreak criminal havoc. All the while, half blamed the ghost and half blamed someone else entirely.

How had I not considered this before?

I could go to the detective - show him the letters. Tell him what I knew. But if Erik was as all-seeing as he seemed to be, then that would likely be a step backwards. He would disappear like the spirit he paraded as, and no one would ever hear from him again. No one would ever find Isabelle either.

And, what was worse, if he was a member of the Opera, he'd continue being a threat to countless ballet girls.

I closed my eyes.

I had to be careful. Clever. Crafty. I had to pretend I suspected him of nothing. And I would not tell Meg. I wouldn't tell Madame. They'd either insist the phantom was really a ghost - and so incapable of physical kidnap - or they'd think it too dangerous and force me to stop.

I had to get him to trust me.

I looked at Meg, my eyes adjusting to the dark. Sweet, good, hard-working Meg - she deserved the world. What I was planning to do was idiotic - dangerous. The kind of thing I would roll my eyes at if I read it in a novel, a newspaper, saw it in a play. But I would do it for her. I would do anything for her.

If I was going to catch a killer, then I had to get close to the killer.

And strike before he could strike at me.