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Chapter 14

Christine

There was an opening-night party.

Meg, exhausted, said that she longed for bed far too much to attend - even despite the young man who'd just asked her to dinner tomorrow night.

And he was, really, a handsome gentleman, clearly of high blood - though I wondered exactly how high. He looked to be a couple of years younger than me, perhaps the same amount older than her. He was a nervous wreck, soft-spoken, mild-mannered - which immediately endeared me to him. Raoul. Not quite what I wanted for myself, but I was happy to say that Meg seemed entirely pleased by him; enough so that when he asked her to dinner, she took one look at my encouraging expression and said yes.

I was sure that part of the reason Meg chose not to go to the party was because she wanted to be rested enough to go to that dinner with him. Madame, never the socialite, would be returning home as well. I'd shown false disappointment, informed both women that I would be going to the party, and claimed I'd miss them both there.

It was, of course, a lie.

I'd be staying right here, in the Opera House. Even after the doors to the theatre were locked, anyone could still leave without disrupting the lock. Although unable to be opened from the outside without a key, anyone could open the door and exit - they would merely be unable to get back in.

I would be, I knew, the last one here.

The Girys asked me if I wanted them to escort me to the party - an event hosted by La Carlotta at her luxurious house in Paris. I said no; I would travel with the other ballet girls. Content with this, they nodded, said their goodbyes, and left.

I went to the spare dressing room the moment I could.

My heart beat hard in my chest. I had no idea what I would experience - but I had to know. And whatever I would find, I was sure I would prevail. I would make it. I would be able to fight my way out. I was strong enough. Clever enough. Ballet required a sharp mind and able body.

I could handle it.

In fact, if it came to it, I would do my best to turn the tables and become the threat instead.

If it came to it.

I closed the door behind me. I didn't think anyone had seen me enter. The backstage was rapidly thinning out as actors and dancers made their way out to continue, or end, the night.

It was eleven twenty-five, the last time I'd checked a clock.

Eleven thirty, he'd said. He'd appear at eleven thirty.

There was no clock in this room, and I didn't carry a watch. So I counted the seconds, using my pounding pulse as some kind of erratic timer.

When I was sure that five minutes had passed - had to have passed - I cleared my throat, feeling entirely a fool: "Hello?"

Nothing. Nothing but the many boxes of unused jewelry, costume pieces, and small props. Nothing but the vast floor to ceiling mirror before me, reflecting my own flushed-faced visage back at me. I looked down from my own eyes.

I tried a little louder, wondering if this really was some enormous prank - if Buquet or any number of other theatre staff would open the door with a laugh. "Hello?"

"I am here."

I jumped, inhaling sharply, bringing my eyes back up to my reflection. A voice, unmistakably male, undeniably beautiful, rich, and clear, had spoken to me. But not from a corner, or outside the door, or the ceiling, or floor.

It came from the space right next to my ear, as if he were indeed a phantom whispering to me.

"Where?" My own voice shook.

A beat. "Here."

I blinked, stating the obvious: "I can't see you."

"No..." he mused. "You cannot see me; but I can see you."

A shiver ran down my spine. "How are you doing this?"

"Magic."

It was all I could do to not roll my eyes. I didn't believe in such nonsense - I'd thought I'd made that abundantly clear to him. No, there was some trick to this - some explanation. But I remembered what role I was playing. I let my lips quirk up at the corners. "I can see - hear - that."

A silence. My heart didn't slow. Part of me felt terrified that I was playing with fire - the other part was mesmerized by the flame. His voice, wherever it was coming from, really was lovely. And the way he spoke - his tone laced with power and confidence - made me want to find the source of the sound; even as I suspected the very worst of him.

"You danced beautifully tonight," he said.

I raised my brows. "Thank you."

"No need for thanks; I'm not flattering you. I speak the truth."

I wasn't swayed by pretty words. But I certainly pretended to be. I smiled warmly. "Thank you, all the same."

"Of course."

Enough pleasantries. At least, enough pleasantries that weren't under my control.

I had to get to business. To charm him, not allow him to charm me.

"It really is good to hear your voice," I said, "and it's a wonderful voice to hear. So beautiful."

He let out a low chuckle. "It's my turn, I suppose, to thank you." A pause. "I can sing, if you'd like to hear - or, if you'd prefer, I can play an instrument. I don't have one with me now, but perhaps next time-"

His voice faltered. Next time. He'd stopped short on that phrase, as though he felt he were getting ahead of himself, ahead of the situation. I gave my own reflection an assuring smile and said, "Yes. Next time. What can you play?"

"I'm rather skilled in violin."

My smile faded. God, no. If I never heard a violin again, it would be too soon. After my father- "No. Thank you, but no." I shifted. "I would like to hear you sing. A private serenade, then?" I made myself give a girlish, shy giggle. Bleh.

He took the bait, yet again. His voice was swimming with pleasure as he said, "It would be an honor."

And he sang.