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Chapter 39
Erik
With rare exception, the managers were first or second to arrive at the Opera. Second, only because Madame Giry was sometimes here before them. Ever prompt, that woman. Ever diligent and strict and commanding.
Lord, I hoped she was all right. If she'd been hurt... A second life, I think, would be taken by me. Morality and gentility be absolutely damned. My promise to never harm another be damned, too. She'd considered me - me - an angel. Losing her from the world would be the worst sort of tragedy. A true crime. And I would not allow it.
And should Christine ever be harmed - I would not think of it. No, my blood was boiling at the mere idea.
She was holding fast to my fingers as I led her through the hidden passageway behind the managers' office that Andre and Firmin shared. We'd already placed the list with our letter on the very top of a stack of papers on Firmin's desk. And now it was time to see what they'd do with the information. Morons that they were, this was something the managers couldn't ignore.
Christine's grip on my hand tightened a bit when the two-way mirror, not unlike the one in the dressing room, came into view. This mirror was attached to their office, and also acted as a door. Her eyes widened when she saw the sudden light coming through the glass, saw the managers already poring over the list. So. We'd come just in time.
But as I felt the pressure of her fingers in mine, I couldn't concentrate on the scene before me. I could only focus on the words she'd said this morning.
My eyes.
She'd trusted me because of my eyes. She found them gentle. Against the harshness of the rest of my body, she found my eyes to be a well of calm. An oasis in a jagged, dark desert.
I knew the moment she'd said it that for as long as I lived, I would carry that comment with me. I would never forget it, that gift. That small bit of light she had offered me. I don't think she entirely realized how extraordinary it had been. To her, it was a few words. That was all. But...to me-
Andre suddenly let out a bitter laugh. He was shorter than Firmin by a head, hair balding and grey. Likely older than him by ten or fifteen years. "A second ghost - really! Not only do we have the Phantom to deal with, but now someone called the Ballet Wraith-"
"Fitting, I suppose," commented Firmin, black clouds shadowing his tone. "The Ballet Wraith - when two more ballet girls are unaccounted for. Two! Completely gone...vanished overnight. Into thin air."
"And the dance instructor," reminded Andre.
"Yes. Of course." Firmin looked exhausted. He picked up a little black notebook off his desk, holding it in his hands, stroking the leather, like it was a precious and comforting object. It was worn, and a few pages appeared to be ripped or askew, the way they were hanging out of the binding. "Good Lord. At this rate, half our cast will be gone by next month."
"This list." Andre narrowed his green eyes at it. He walked away from the desk, the footsteps made by his expensive shoes crisp on the marble floor. "The letter did say it was found in Buquet's papers?"
"Yes. And-well, take a look at the writing. Have you seen Buquet's notes? I've no doubt that it's him."
"It's certainly damning." He turned to his partner again. "But enough to convict him? That I don't know."
"Why else would the man keep score of the comings and goings of women? All of the missing ones...they're crossed off. What information does he have? That's what I'd like to know."
"It is odd." Andre tsked. "A shame about the little Giry girl. So young - and already the star of the ballet." A pause, and then his eyes went alight. "Hold on...I-"
"What?" Firmin, who'd been leaning against the desk straightened. He stepped forward, still gripping his little book. "What is it?"
"Were you backstage the night we opened Hannibal?"
"I was not."
"I was." He nodded slowly, thinking. "And I distinctly remember Meg Giry talking to a patron who'd gone to visit the cast. A very distinguished patron - Raoul de Chagny."
Christine stiffened beside me.
"The vicomte?" Firmin's voice was low with incredulity.
I glanced to my left. She had her jaw slackened, eyes wide. Well. Either Meg had neglected to reveal her conversation with Vicomte de Chagny to Christine, or she hadn't known who he was.
"Yes," replied Andre. "The young man is studying in Paris." He sucked his teeth. "He acted odd that night, talking to her."
"Hm." Firmin considered his. "A...suitor, perhaps?"
"Or perhaps more."
Firmin's mouth went agape. "You...suspect..."
"It's him or Buquet. Our two best guesses. But until we tell the detective, that's all they are. Guesses."
The managers shared a look of agreement, then exited the room at a brisk pace - Andre holding the list and Firmin gripping the note (he'd pocketed the little book). I wondered vaguely if that note would point me - and now Christine - as an official suspect, as well...assuming, quite boldly, that I wasn't already one, of course. But even if the detective came looking for my lair, I'd been targeted by police before. Lefevre had tried and failed to find me, before he'd eventually relented and gave me my salary. I was never found unless I wanted to be.
Except, of course, when it came to Christine, the little vixen beside me. Though, deep down, I supposed I'd hoped she'd find her way to me. And after this morning, my regret for just how she'd found me was rapidly abating. Bygones be bygones.
When the door closed with a click, the room empty, and I was sure the managers were out of earshot, I said, "That's that, then. It's in the detective's hands now."
"If..." she whispered, and I looked at her. Her free hand worked at her side. "If Meg is with...but I thought his name..." She shook her head and blew out a breath. "I guess we will find out soon enough."
She was fretting, in the quiet way she did so. I longed to comfort her, but didn't dare touch anything but her hand. I doubted she'd want me to.