Chapter Nine - Masks Everywhere
Meg cautiously waded out past the gate, praying that the water would remain shallow. To her relief, it came just above her knees, but no higher.
Many of the candles were not lit, but there was enough light for her to see the chambers clearly as she climbed the low stone steps.
An ornate pipe organ stood in the center like an altar in the heart of some strange shrine. Scattered around the organ were pages and pages of a musical score written in a familiar bold hand.
She made her way past a row of large mirrors, each hidden by a heavy drape. The wine-colored fabric hung carelessly over the glass as the mirrors had been covered with haste and little care.
In the next alcove, she saw the curiously carved bed, a great black bird with wings that curved to embrace the crimson pillows.
Passing the organ again, she trailed her fingers over the keys, remembering how his hands had moved so gracefully over them.
She went down a second set of steps and found herself surrounded by pictures of Christine.
One watercolor lay on the work table, only half finished…the paint was still damp in places. As if the artist had only just walked away from it.
He must be near…I should go…if he were to find me here…
She leaned down and looked at the picture. It was Christine as Meg had seen her last night, lying in that black bed. Her face was pale and innocent against the blood-colored velvet.
There was a thick portfolio filled other pictures, costume sketches…she leafed through them, seeing so many familiar faces there.
La Carlotta, Piangi…she gasped as she recognized herself in a frowzy red dress trimmed with flowers and edged lace.
At the corner of the picture, he had written…
Mademoiselle Giry…Don Juan Triumphant
The next picture was not a costume sketch, but an incomplete portrait of a young woman,. Her dark blonde hair tied back with a ribbon, a navy cloak covered the white frock worn by the girls of the corps de ballet.
It was her own mother as a girl…
Then Maman knows…that explains the notes…but how…
She set the portfolio down, carefull to place it exactly as she had found it.
There where masks everywhere…lying carelessly on tables or hung from old plaster busts…
A black suede domino lay on the desk beside a glass fountain pen. A familiar white half-mask stared up from the settee where it had been tossed beside a violin.
She felt compelled to touch that white mask, to pick it up and hold it in her own hands…
But as she reached for it, she stumbled over something lying on the floor by the worn settee.
She looked down and saw the coiled rope.
She remembered Joseph Buquet's lurid tales of the Punjab lasso…of her mother's warning.
Your hand at the level of your eyes!
