Gustave

Her grip on my hand had weakened with every passing moment. I wondered if she could feel my pulse, as evidence of my wildly pounding heart. Against her breast lay our child, smiling with life, oblivious to the death's game having its play beneath her. I choked on a sob as I looked at my beloved Adele.

"She's so beautiful, Gustave," she breathed.

"Yes," I managed, forcing a smile. "She looks just like you."

"No," she whispered. "She looks just like you."

Christine's wide brown eyes were still unaccustomed to the world around her. She was all of three months old, and it was clear that she was eagre to discover what this life was all about. Already she responded to my violin, and my gentle lullabies. Her fist fell from her mouth, and a string of saliva trailed. Happily she giggled, and gently beat her palm into Adele's failing chest.

"She loves music." Adele took in a deep breath. "I knew she would."

Her yellow curls had gone limp and stuck around her face with perspiration. Her eternally rosy lips were colourless, her conventional white skin even paler. I had never loved her more. My beautiful wife was dying, and I could not stop it.

"At least," she forced, "I have given you a child."

"Shhh," I said, putting a finger to her lips, and I was struck at the dryness of them. My tears rolled silently down my cheeks. The white clock that I didn't want to buy, but she had loved so much, chimed the hour, undoubtedly the last hour she'd see. "Don't say…Adele—"

She coughed furiously, and small flecks of blood sprinkled her delicate chin and the thin blanket beneath her. The same blood that now coursed healthily through our child's veins. She would live on in her…she would live…. "Tell me a storey," she whispered as soon as the fit had subsided.

I turned from her, pressing a palm to my mouth, before looking at her again. "Which one, love?"

"The Rose and the Nightingale," was her instantaneous response. Her eyes averted to Christine's soft head. And though she needn't say it, she needn't remind me, she did: "That one is my favourite."

My brow had crinkled to such an extent that I was indifferently surprised that my eyes remained open. I could feel my horrible frown in my jaw, but I tried desperately to lift it, for her sake—though she must have known how much she was hurting me by dying. "The Rose…and the Nightingale."

She gave a brief smile, and her eyes closed. Now I could frown freely. "Sing it to me? It was always my favourite of yours."

Oh, God, why is this happening? Our marriage had been flawed and perfect—a cliché, but so true! I, the musician, and she, the muse. I didn't want to think about the death that approached, only moments away; I could taste it on her breath, which drifted past my lips. She wanted me to sing for her. She wanted me to sing for her. I didn't want to let go of her hand, so I left my violin still on the floor. Swallowing several times, I opened my mouth to sing the fairy tale.

"A lone Nightingale with feathers of brown

"Feathers of velveteen spring

"Was taking his flight on the lips of a draft

"Lips which did whisper and sing

"Accomp'ning his flight was a fanciful song

"Fanciful tale of mirth

"When thence opened forth from the flowers below

"Flowers of bright-coloured girth

"A lone satin Rose with petals of white

"Petals of satiny spring

"The lone Nightingale did fall then in love

"Fall then quite beak over wing."

Her hand tightened on mine, and on a shallow breath she whispered, "My Nightingale." Her arm fell loosely from Christine's back, and silence ensued, until it was broken by Christine's gay laughter. My voice failed at the horror of my laughing daughter and my dead wife…oh, God, why? Even before I had finished her song! Her ears had ceased to hear, her mind had ceased to understand. Her heart had ceased to beat.

The nurse lifted Christine from her still breast.

I fell forward until my head rested atop her stiff body, and my arms circled her. I wept into her gown, kissing the collar and staining my mouth with her blood, wetting her neck with my tears. I wanted to be one with her—even in death. "I will never, my Rose, I will never stop loving you." My sobs choked my voice from my throat.

…

Madame Giry

I stared wordlessly up at the great expanse of the Opera Populaire.

Marguerite squealed in my arms.

"Would you like assistance with your luggage, Madame?"

I turned to the footman and nodded my thanks.

He disappeared into the opera house with my things. It wasn't much—only a few garments and small trinkets given to me by my husband. Pictures, and jewellery, and a few toiletries. I had taken nothing after the annulment; I had wanted nothing from Armande anymore. He hadn't hurt me. Perhaps he had never had anything of mine to hurt. Instead, as he begged me to forgive him, I had said one thing: "There is nothing I can do for you."

Those words had killed his spirit.

I felt nothing as I left my then-husband that day, felt nothing as I looked into the lowered eyes of his mistress, and watched him kiss Meg goodbye. He had said something to me of visiting his daughter, and wanting to see me as well; I had felt nothing, though perhaps I had nodded.

His death, though, spurred deep emotions within me that I hadn't known were there.

"God, give me strength," I murmured.

I was finally here. I was at last about to entre into the place I had run from, and willingly so; in fact, it had been the only thing on my mind since I first learned of my husband's unfaithfulness. It was the last thing I wanted, but the only thing I could think to do. And here I was. Again, forever.

He was there, waiting.

He always had been.

…

Erik

Her red-blonde hair is matted, and rain slides down her cheeks like tears. She looks for me. For any sign of me. I will never forget this moment.

She has come back to me.

My manager is eagre. "Has my ballet mistress arrived?" LaBrant has awaited her arrival for a week. His anxiousness vexes me. I have awaited her arrival for two years.

The footman nods. "She's just outside, Monsieur."

"Good!" LaBrant claps happily, and fairly skips to the grand doors. "Why Madame Giry!" He rushes down the steps to greet her. She starts and glances at him, and I smile at her obvious state. "What are you doing out here? I can't have you get sick, not on your first day."

His anxiousness not only vexes me, but concerns me as well. If he has any designs to bed her like he has half the other dancing girls, I will kill him.

"Monsieur LaBrant," she acknowledges. "It's a pleasure to reacquaint with you."

The chill granted me from the rain is nothing compared to the chill that curves through my skeleton at the mere sound of her voice.

"The pleasure is mine," my manager announces, ushering her inside. The pleasure is neither of theirs, of course. She enters before him, cautiously, and her gaze sweeps the interior. "Madame Yvette would be pleased to know that you have decided to succeed her."

Madeleine says nothing. It is possible she suspects. It is possible she suspects both of their deaths.

No matter. She is here.

An awkward silence ensues. "Well then…if you would kindly follow me to my office, I have some business that needs discussing."

"Indeed, Monsieur," she says, and M LaBrant calls for a nurse to care for her child. Instead, my new ballet mistress shakes her head fervently. "No, please. I will keep her in my presence."

I sit up straight, defiantly, and smirk at her.

LaBrant eyes her funnily, and nods his consent. "Very well."

She tightens her hold on the little girl, and follows him into his office.

"It's you I want," I whisper. "Your child has nothing to fear."