Enjoy!

Christine

Chapter 64

The Weasel

When we told my father shortly after, of my pregnancy, he nearly dropped his tea while he drank it. He stood from the couch with tears forming in his eyes and held me tight. Held Erik, too, to my husband's shock.

"Christine!" he exclaimed. "Erik! That's wonderful. Ah, I am going to be a grandfather!" Then, his face became grave. He pointed to the dining room, where my drawing of Earl Delaney still lay. "Then that...nonsense definitely cannot happen again. You need to worry, now, about being a mother."

I badly wanted to point out that I could do both, but decided against it. Now was not the time.

As for that drawing, we waited for some sort of backlash. None occurred. There were two days between the article's release and de Chagny's party. The only thing we heard of it was from Ibrahim, who informed us that he found it hilarious and Nadir did not. De Chagny didn't uninvite us. He didn't reach out to us at all. Perhaps he didn't see it. Perhaps he hadn't made the connection.

So we went. Acted as though everything was normal. We rode to the estate with Ibrahim. We had visited him and Azizah yesterday - he had laughed with excitement at the news of my pregnancy, opening a wine bottle to toast the news at the early hour of nine. Nadir chastised him before quietly congratulating us as well. Reza jumped up and down with joy, and when Azizah learned what the commotion was about, she beamed and asked Ibrahim to translate that we could help each other raise the children if I wanted that.

I smiled widely back. I did want that.

Once we arrived at the estate, I saw that guests were still arriving. This was not a masquerade like last time, though everyone had to wear their best. The moment I stepped out of the coach, my stomach tightened.

Erik noticed my face. "Don't worry, my love," he said in my ear. "If anything goes sour, I'll make us disappear."

I squeezed his hand in gratitude.

This time, upon our entry inside, it was not Philippe de Chagny who greeted us - but Raoul. It was was though he had been waiting by the door.

"Good evening, all," he said. "How are you tonight?"

"Fine." Erik's voice held some ice.

"Ah. Yes. M. Perrault. Do forgive my rudeness the last time we met."

"And the time before that?"

Raoul smiled sheepishly. "That too."

"And before that," added Ibrahim, a wide grin on his face. "Don't forget how you condescended his magic when we first met."

Raoul laughed with embarrassment, lips parted but brows cringing. I watched him curiously. He was remarkably kinder now - but why? Was it because we were involved with Vincenzo? "I apologize for that too," he said, "and would be extraordinarily pleased if we let bygones be bygones." He looked at Ibrahim. "I am sorry for insulting your friend."

Ibrahim shrugged like he didn't care, while Erik scoffed. "You're apologizing to him for insulting me?"

Raoul ignored him. He turned to my father. "M. Daae. Enjoy the merriment." To me. "Mme. Perrault. You as well." A pause, and he looked at me strangely, like he was only just noticing me. "I nearly forgot. Very talented you are. With drawing. The earl? My brother certainly found it fascinating." His eyes flashed something like a warning, there and then gone.

My skin went a bit numb at that.

So he'd seen it. And judging by Raoul's face, knew it was about him. Why allow us to still come, then? Perhaps we should have stayed home - but it would have been terribly rude to miss it without good reason. As Erik and my father were in the public eye, that mattered. And, besides, if we had missed it, it would likely have only confirmed who the article was about. We were trapped, and I'd set it. I was starting to regret it.

"Egyptian," said Raoul to Ibrahim, "shall we enjoy the party? I selected a few wines and spirits with you in mind."

"Oh, yes, of course, Vicomte." Ibrahim gave a little spin toward us as he followed Raoul to the bar. He winked at me, lips set to a genuinely happy smile and eyes twinkling. I'd only seen that expression on him half a year ago when he looked at-

Oh.

Oh goodness. Well.

My father was then pulled away by two men who'd seen him perform and wished to have a drink with him. He nodded to us and said he'd find us later. But my mind was still on the look Ibrahim gave.

Erik's was too. "Do you...think...they..."

"No idea."

"Hm." Amusement lit his gaze.

"Rubbing elbows with the finest, I suppose."

"Rubbing more than that, my darling."

I had to bite my lower lip to keep the laugh firmly in my belly.

We scanned the area. Not finding the comte, we entered the very edge of the crowd. This time, Erik mingled, mostly thanking guests who expressed their amazement at his shows, or performing a bit of magic - making a coin appear and disappear - upon request. Every few minutes, we'd look around, trying to spot Philippe. We never found him.

What was more unnerving was the look of interest, sometimes amusement and sometimes distaste, that people gave me. Not everyone. But enough to know that it was not just the de Chagny brothers who'd seen the illustration. They gave Erik the same look, though it was hard to discern if their focus on him was due to the drawing done by his wife, or if it was simply because he was the Phantom.

We stepped away from the crowd for a few minutes of quiet. Once at a bench, out of earshot of others, I whispered, "I feel foolish."

"Don't." He brushed the back of my hand with his thumb. "If they dislike the drawing, it's because it makes them uncomfortable. And that's because they know there's a kernel of truth to it. All you did was put up a mirror."

"Yes. I suppose. But...I don't know."

"M. Perrault."

We looked up to the left to see a servant standing with his hands behind his back.

"Yes?" Erik rose.

"Comte Philippe de Chagny is requesting a private audience with you in the parlor."

Erik stiffened, and I rose too, alarmed. "And why is that?"

"He did not say, sir."

"Go ask him, then." His tone was biting.

The servant ignored it. "Apologies, but he would like to reveal the matter to you himself."

Erik surely knew, like me, that refusing would only do social harm if it was nothing serious - it would do harm even if it was. He nodded slowly. "All right." But as he said it, I could feel that he sensed a threat and was already calculating what might happen - what he might do to escape should the very worst occur.

He followed the servant, and I started after, but the man stopped me. "Pardon me, Madame, but the Comte de Chagny was specific in his desire for M. Perrault alone."

Erik's eyes met mine, and I saw him try to give me a look of comfort through his trepidation as he said in my ear, "I can handle myself. Don't worry. And you will be safe here surrounded by watching eyes. Find your father. Or Ibrahim. I love you."

I nodded, then watched with a terrible, sinking feeling as my husband was led from the ballroom. I stood there a few moments, trying to slow my heart. I turned to go and look for my father.

And jumped with a gasp when I found Philippe standing right in front of me.

He grinned, but it didn't meet his eyes. "Hello, Christine."

My fingers curled at my side. "I believe my husband went to go talk to you just now."

"Did he? That's a shame. I'm right here."

"I'd better go let him know."

"Ah-ah-ah." He grabbed my arm as I turned away; he forced me to face him again. "That's all right, my dear. He'll figure it out. He seems intelligent enough. And that magic of his? Incredible." His smile flickered. "A whole family of talent, it seems." The grip on my arm tightened.

"What do you want, Comte de Chagny?"

He looked at the band across the room and nodded to them. They picked up the volume. Changed the melody. People clapped. Found partners. His eyes met mine again. "To dance."

My heart jumped to my throat. "No, thank you."

"Oh, but I insist."

"I am married, Comte de Chagny."

"I am aware, Mme. Perrault."

"My husband will not be pleased-"

"Christine." His hand became even tighter, sending a spark of pain through my arm. The smile he wore became a baring of teeth. "I said I want to dance. I make demands, not requests."

I looked around to see if my father, or Ibrahim, or even Raoul was near, but I found no such luck, though people were swaying and shifting through the crowd. Hopefully one of them would find me. But if not... I pursed my lips. I'd cause a scene by trying to rip myself away from Philippe, and I doubted he would do anything to truly harm me in front of all of these people. If he lured me to another room, then I'd think of something. But for now...

I nodded.

"Excellent." He led me to the floor, that hand still on my arm. If people noticed, they didn't seem to care. "Do you know how to dance? No? No matter. Follow my lead."

And we moved. Awkwardly on my end, but we moved. I prayed that this song would not last long.

"So." His voice was a snake's skin. Smooth and cold. He was quiet enough that only I could hear. "Quite the artist, aren't you?"

I swallowed. "Why do you want to dance?"

"More questions would be asked if I'd stood for ten minutes with my hand on your arm, with you looking so frightened. Talk would surely be negative about me."

"Versus now? Dancing with a married woman?"

"The talk would be about you, then, Christine. Not me."

My face heated. "I see."

"You danced with that Egyptian fellow at the last party."

"With my husband's blessing."

"So the worry is that people will talk negatively of you. Not surprising, since you seem to be fixated on sowing gossip." His eyes narrowed. "Forgive me - I never congratulated you on your publications."

I looked away, and nearly tripped when we moved in a way I hadn't expected. "Thank you." The words came out low, emotionless.

"I'm not fooled, Christine, by the change of name in the illustration. It's the talk of the upper echelon of Paris. 'Stage magician's wife slanders nobleman'. I found out within an hour of that newsletter's release. Now, I'm unsure what I have done to offend you. Whatever it is, I do apologize, and would have appreciated a private letter of discontent, not a character assassination - though I strongly suspect this has nothing to do with your feelings at all. I think you are a conniving little she-weasel who is trying to cause a stir to attract attention to your husband and father. Is that it, Christine?"

He leaned into my ear, his hot breath making my stomach roil. "Well, congratulations - it's worked. My friends have all bought tickets to the Phantom's show to see the husband of the young lady who's made such a statement. They've all decided to try and get the violinist Gustave Daae to play at their social affairs. Very loyal lot, aristocracy, eh? So - goal accomplished. Just don't do it again. I'll mark this off as a terrible coincidence, but mark my words-"

"Excuse me, Philippe, but do you think I might have a turn?"

His face jerked away from my ear, to my great relief, and we stopped dancing to find Raoul standing there. He looked stiff, a bit clouded by darkness, and I wasn't sure that it was entirely because he'd caught us dancing.

Philippe scoffed, then surprised me by letting me go. "Have at it, Raoul. I'm finished, anyway."

Grateful to be touching anyone but Philippe, I allowed Raoul to take his place.

We watched as his brother found another young lady to dance with, everything that had just happened apparently forgotten.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"My brother is disgusting, and I am appalled he put his hands on you."

But when I turned to him, he wasn't looking at me. Instead, he was watching another couple dance. Ibrahim, I realized, laughing with a very pretty, well-endowed girl. She giggled and seemed to be leading. He appeared inebriated.

Raoul was white and red at the same time, like he was fighting the instinct to faint by holding onto some anger . "I think I've grown tired of dancing already, Mme. Perrault. What about you?"

"I feel the same."

"Good. Let's go find your husband."