As our train departed from the Paris station, I stared out at the beauty of the city that I had hoped to start my new life in. How different things were when I had seen this place for the first time. What a child I had been...

"You look so sad, Miss DuBois," Brett commented. "Are you sure that this is what you want to do?"

I nodded.

"I am most thankful for this opportunity that you have given me, Mr. Watling, for I am not certain what I should have done otherwise."

"We will be working together a great deal from now on. May it be asking too much for you to address me as Brett?"

"Brett," I responded. "And you may call me Angelica. I must admit I am heartsick to leave Paris. There have been many memories here that I shall never forget..."

"As well as some which I suspect you want very much to forget..."

"True," I replied. "There is nothing left for me here."

Brett took my hand and held it gently.

"But in Georgia, perhaps you can find new memories to cherish..."

Instantly, I pulled away from his touch.

Brett Watling as usual was handsome and immaculately dressed. Despite his occasional naughty flirtatious remarks, he had been a gentleman at all times. Any red-blooded woman should have been delighted to have such an attractive young wealthy man within her midst. And he was not only all of that but seemed noble and kind.

Yet, I only felt cold…so cold…

"Mr. Watling, I do hope you understand that this is purely a business arrangement as far as I'm concerned, despite what happened at the gala..."

He did not seem to resent my rejection.

"You must have loved Christian very much...to grieve so for him…" he said quietly.

I did not correct his assumption.

"He was a lucky man to have a woman care about him so. I hope he appreciated you while he had you."

Again, I said nothing but stared outside of the train window, feigning interest in the landscape of France...feeling empty inside and wondering how I would pick up the pieces of my life.


For hours, I sat alone outside on the deck of the ship, swaddled up in a blanket, staring bleakly out at the horizon, contemplating the ocean and all of its secrets. I was admittedly standoffish to any one who tried to have a conversation with me, even the ship's officers, even Brett.

Odd how life seemed to fade away…a little bit more each day.

Even writing, my familiar savior during times of trouble, was no longer there for me. The ideas just would not come. Not even poems of betrayal, pain and death. Nothing.

The waves were seductive in their invitation for me to join them. All I would have to do is climb over the rail and jump…

Then my misery should end…

"Take this, Angelica."

A small bottle was placed into my hands. I turned to see Brett Watling by my side.

"What is this?"

"Laudanum prescribed by the ship's doctor. It will help you sleep."

"I don't want it..." I insisted, trying to give the bottle back to him.

He refused to take it.

"You must rest, Angelica," he said sternly. "I'll wager you have not had a wink of sleep ever since the opera. And the way you are staring out into the ocean as if you were in some sort of trance...it is damned disturbing!"

"I'm perfectly fine," I muttered.

"You are not," he argued stubbornly. "And I won't trust the Atlanta Opera House to a hysterical woman who is not in charge of her senses."

I glared angrily at Brett and yearned to tell him what he could do with his opera house. But he simply shrugged at me.

"I am sorry to offend you...but I must insist. These are my terms."

With a sigh, I surrendered. I would take the nasty drug if that is what it took to get some peace and quiet.

About a half hour later, my eyes could no longer stay open. I just barely made it to the berth in my cabin before I succumbed to the powerful drug.

And even in my hazy state of sleep, there was no escape...

For I dreamed of a pair of gentle elegant hands stroking my hair…and a magical voice singing sweet songs which soothed my pain.

"My husband," I cried softly, reaching out for him. "Love me, Erik…love me…"

He held me close in his embrace before softly crooning with his smooth voice.

"Dead men tell no tales."

Then I felt the pressure of a Punjab Lasso about my throat as I was flung from Box Five...and I was falling upon the audience below to my death...just like that chandelier...

"Hush now...it's only a nightmare..." the voice called to me through the mist.

"Erik..." I sobbed. "Erik..."


The days of our journey stretched out interminably.

I felt as if I were just going through the motions of life.

All the while, the serene beauty of the ocean, the constant sunlight and the clear skies mocked me in my torment..

And despite all that happened, I even worried about what I had done. Had Erik survived? Or had I sent him his death sentence that night in the form of Raoul de Chagny?

I did not have the stomach for murder that Erik had. Perhaps because I knew what it was to mourn the dead as I had mourned for my father.

As I now mourned Erik…

For no matter how misled I may have been, I had loved my life with him. I had loved who I was with him. I had loved him.

I regretted that I had not just left the situation alone. Erik had found the happiness he had searched for all of his life with Christine, the happiness I was unable to give him. And Christine loved him back now.

I should never have told Raoul de Chagny of Erik's whereabouts. At least then, I would not have the possible death of my lover on my conscience. But then I would have Raoul's grief on my conscience. It seemed that there had been no easy choices.

I had no option but to go on with my life wherever that may lead...with all of my questions unanswered.


On the train ride to Atlanta, Brett tore into his salmon as he enthusiastically described his vision to me for the Atlanta Opera House while we had lunch in the dining car.

Silently, I sulked. I did not give a damn about the opera house. I just wanted to be left alone.

However, when I was alone, I would be so tormented with my memories that I would yearn for Brett's company...for anybody's company to keep my mind off of the past.

So I forced myself to listen and to concentrate.

After all, I had committed to this task set before me. I must be disciplined and honorable and apply myself. Perhaps the work would do me good. Even in the sad state my life was in, I was still an artist.

"Perhaps I should have warned you, Angelica, what you were in for with this new position," Brett cautioned. "You see, for our Opera House to succeed, we must appeal to both the Old Guard of the South and the new blood which has sprung up since the war. My gut tells me that we should have both original operas as well as older pieces to appeal to both crowds."

"That should not be a problem," I mused. "Perhaps we should hold a few galas as well."

"Maybe, but they should have to be a good tamer than what you are accustomed to in Paris."

"Naturally," I agreed.

"You see, I don't know how similar Memphis is to Atlanta. But some of the local dowagers are every bit as formidable as La Carlotta. In fact, some of them make her a tame little rabbit in comparison."

For the first time in ages, I laughed. I could not imagine Carlotta as any sort of docile animal.

"Also, there is the blackness of my reputation which is also a problem," he added hesitantly.

I raised in eyebrow in speculation.

"Good Lord, Brett, whatever have you done to be so frowned upon?"

"I was born," he said wryly.

"Excuse me?"

"You see, while my father has been known for his past scandals, at least he is respected in the Atlanta community, both for his heroism during the war and for his financial contributions to the various local organizations and such. My mother, however…"

"Yes?"

"She was one of the most notorious prostitutes in Atlanta and even ran her own establishment for a time. A few years ago, she died of consumption. She was bound to die young with the sort of life she led. But the stain of her sins is a constant black mark against me as far as Atlanta society is concerned."

"And your father stood by for years and did nothing about your situation?"

"It was not his fault," Brett shook his head. "For years, he did not even know of my existence. She had kept me constantly tucked away in boarding schools and such, earning my tuition by way of her whoring. It wasn't until her death that I even knew who my father was. He has helped me a great deal, but it never seems enough for the high and mighty of the Old Guard!"

As Brett ruminated about his situation, his face hardened with steely resolve.

"But I will be damned if I am going to be treated like dirt for the rest of my life just because of my mother's reputation! I am going to show everybody in that town that Brett Watling is not scum to be wiped off of their Sunday school shoes! And that, Angelica DuBois, is where you come in."

"Me?"

"Yes. You have a capacity to charm and win people over. Another quality of yours I admired at the gala. That is essential for my purposes."

Knowing how I was mostly putting on a show that night for Erik's benefit, I felt a twinge of guilt.

"I hope I shall not disappoint you, Brett."

"Have I ever told you that I am quite skilled in the gambling halls, Angelica? I almost never lose a bet. And I would say that you are a sure win!"