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Chapter 40

Christine

An underling stagehand found the note from us before Buquet did.

And the rumors of the Ballet Wraith had spread to the entire technical crew by the end of rehearsal. Two days later, and it had become common knowledge with the whole theatre. The most accepted story was that the Ballet Wraith was one of the three ballet girls who'd fallen victim to the mysterious killer, either Isabelle or Meg or me. Or perhaps it was Emma, who thought she had so much dancing knowledge. Or perhaps it was Madame Giry - the true ballet expert.

Whatever the case, there was a silent sort of distrust for Joseph Buquet, from everyone. People glanced in other directions when he walked by. The stagehands, who normally joked with him, who normally went out drinking with him after rehearsals, found other places to be, other people to talk to.

He was constantly looking over his shoulder now. Distracted. Tired.

Polite.

And it filled Erik and me with the best kind of satisfaction.

The kind of satisfaction that helped me get to sleep at night. That, despite hearing that the man Meg had been spending time with had possibly given her a false name, the fact that I had no idea if this was who she was with now, whether she was safe or not...despite all of that, Buquet's discomfort gave me some peace.

Because not only was he a louse to every girl in the theatre, his involvement in the murder and disappearances made an enormous amount of sense. Madame Giry's glasses had been found on his workstation, apparently, before we'd gone looking; the glasses had been taken by the detective. And though this worried me, made my heart race, I had to believe that she was all right. I had to have faith in that, though the cynical part of me dreaded what I knew could be true.

I hated Buquet, I decided. I hated that he was so smug. That he'd known so much of St. Juste while he, himself, went under the radar. He'd known far too much.

Hopefully, if they found Buquet to be the killer, St. Juste would turn out to be innocent. Hopefully they weren't both involved.

I had managed to push my worries for Meg from my mind - because worrying would do no good while I waited for news of Raoul - and just start to sleep when a sound made its way to my room.

I recognized it immediately.

Violin.

My heart stopped.

Not just any violin playing. Not the sound from the orchestra pit that I could easily ignore. No this was...

This was the sound my father promised. The sound of the Angel of Music.

A well of emotion bubbled in my chest. At that sound, I was a child again, holding my father's hand as he was on his deathbed. I listened to him tell me the story of that Angel, that being that would play its violin like an embrace, that would look over me as it made its music.

And then after my father was in the ground, when the promised Angel never came. When I found myself alone in this world. Completely alone. I had Madame. I had Meg. But they'd never quite filled the achingly large hole my father and his empty promises left behind.

Feeling as though I'd burst, I flung back the blankets. I was still in my nightgown as I sped, barefoot, through the enormous windowless stone house. I followed the sound downstairs, through the parlor, and into the study, with its door already wide open.

Erik stood there, back to me, playing the instrument. Enraptured in the sound. Enraptured as I was.

Erik.

The music was too...pure. Too beautiful to be anything any mortal man could play. It was angelic. Truly angelic.

Hearing that music, I wondered if my father hadn't lied. Perhaps it had been Erik.

I felt overwhelmed and relieved all at once. I refused to believe, and yet - oh, God, I wanted to. If his voice hadn't been enough...then this...

I let out a sob, and like he was electrified, he spun. That lovely, otherworldly music ended.

He took a step back in surprise when he saw me there, tears streaming down my face. "Christine?" he whispered. "My dear girl, what's happened?"

"It's you," I sobbed. I willed myself to pull my wits together, but that scared and heartbroken young girl had taken over. "You're who he sent."

He looked utterly bewildered. "I'm sorry?"

"The Angel of Music." It wasn't what I meant, not really. I didn't think he was truly an angel, walking the Earth, but-

He frowned. "Christine, I'm not-"

"No," I amended through cries. They wouldn't stop. "No, I know. I know...you're a man. But maybe he'd meant...you. An angel in a symbolic sense."

He only stared at me. His own eyes had begun to shine.

"Your violin playing has no other explanation." On this I was resolute. Or desperate for my father's stories to be true. Or both. "My Papa sent you to me."

Erik's mouth opened slightly, then closed. He held my stare as he slowly put his violin onto its stand. He took several steps toward me. "You believe," he said, "that I am a gift from your father."

I said nothing. It sounded ridiculous. I knew that. But...after hearing his playing, after feeling as I ran through the house that perhaps my father had actually kept his vow, to have all of that dashed... I would break apart. Right here.

"I want it to be true," I whispered. "He promised when he died he would send me the Angel of Music." I looked at him, into his eyes, and my voice turned pleading. "Don't tell me he really did lie. When I heard that music, I thought...I really thought-" I broke into sobs again.

He watched me cry, looking like he might join me himself.

"When he died, I was lonely." More tears. "I've been lonely. For years. I know I lied to you, but I didn't lie about that. I feel alone, really alone, and when I heard the music-" Another sob wrenched itself from me.

I would regret this, later. I knew I would. I would feel like a fool for this. I never broke down. I hadn't cried like this since the night my father left this world. And Erik would find this uncomfortable, my incoherent thoughts and pathetic blubbering. He would excuse himself, find another place to be, and have trouble looking me in the eye for days. Meanwhile, my loneliness would deepen, and...

Slowly, with such tenderness that it nearly destroyed me, he moved with languid grace to stand directly in front of me and lifted a long, thin, bare thumb - he had taken his gloves off to play - to wipe a tear away. He barely touched my skin. I sucked in a breath. When I did, he blinked and retreated his hand, retreated himself. Back. Away. Away.

"No," I said, voice cracking. I reached for his hand and gripped it. And at that contact, I wanted more. So I waited a beat, watched him as he stared at where our skin connected for the first time, and stepped forward to wrap my arms around him, closing my eyes.

He let out an airy sound of surprise. He seemed not to know what to do. "Christine," he said, breathless.

I opened my eyes again. "Is this all right?"

He exhaled unevenly. Then: "Yes."

A silence.

"Erik?"

"Christine?" Still, he sounded as though he were on the peak of a mountain. In awe but scared to move.

"Can you put your arms around me, too?"

I felt his limbs and hands shake as they moved slowly up to reach me. His fingers didn't stop quivering where they were touching my silk-covered back.

Perhaps he didn't want this. "Should I let go of you?"

"No." His answer was immediate, harsh, and full of pain and...something else. I couldn't place it. "No. Please."

So he held me. And eventually, his hands stopped shaking. Eventually, his body loosened. Eventually, he was able to ease his breath, and the hug became a more natural thing.

It was only later, when we'd finally let go, when he escorted me back to my bedroom and looked at me with wonder as I smiled at him; it was only when I closed the door and went under the sheets that I realized:

This man was entirely unused to affection. Any kind of physical affection. It was the only answer to his intense reaction.

I closed my eyes, making a mental note to show him more. But the note was unneeded, really. I wanted to show it to him regardless.