Chapter Nine

Erik.

Arthur Thurlestone's picture had been in the New York newspapers for months. Therefore when he arrived—without fanfare and not through the main entrance, I noted with approval—I recognised him at once. He was in his sixties, around ten inches shorter than myself, with a white head of hair and whiskers. His rotund body was encased in a very fashionable, very expensive black suit, a gold watch chain stretching across a champagne-coloured waistcoat.

I did not enjoy social gatherings such as this, but knew that they were a necessary step towards creating relationships with those who could increase the Imaginarium's exposure in New York City, thereby putting money in my pocket. Meg had not been keen on attending either, and we had agreed that once her performance was over, we would take the train back to Coney Island. Until then, I had to mingle with the influential men and women of the entertainment industry, wearing my social mask over my physical one.

"Mr Thurlestone," I waited for the earliest appropriate moment to introduce myself. "Erik Danton, owner of the Imaginarium on Coney Island. Thank you for your invitation to the opening of this splendid theatre."

"Mr Danton," Thurlestone shook my extended hand, looking distracted as though he had not expected to encounter a masked man. "So pleased that you could join us tonight. And all the way from Coney Island. Such a commitment, considering the journey. A good thing all that snow has finally melted, eh?"

"Indeed."

It was at that moment that I knew that Arthur Thurlestone had no idea who I was, or that the Imaginarium existed. This vital interaction would be more difficult than I had anticipated. With relief, I noticed Meg approaching us, her borrowed diamonds catching the light as she worked her way through the crowd, and snared her with an arm around her waist, cutting off whatever she had been about to say.

"Mr Thurlestone, allow me to introduce Miss Meg Giry, singer, dancer, and my leading lady."

There it was, I observed as Thurlestone admired Meg in a quick scan from head to toe; interest, attraction, lust. His sexual desire for the girl at my side might yet result in promotion for the Imaginarium, although I would not allow her to whore herself out to such a man.

Thurlestone took Meg's hand and gave it a bristly kiss. I could feel her quivering at my side like a plucked violin string, and she practically snatched her hand away as the impresario raised his head.

"Miss Giry, this is a pleasant surprise."

"A surprise, sir?" Bewilderment flickered across an expression that had been deep agitation. "We were invited; I would hate you to think that we are here by dishonest means."

He chuckled. "Oh no, dear girl, nothing like that. I was under the impression that Mr Danton's place—the Imaginarium, did you say?—was a freak show. I was not expecting such a pretty little thing."

So he did know who I was. Nevertheless, his tone made the hairs on the back of my neck rise and I could feel Meg trying to pull away from me, but we needed this man, so I tightened my arm around her waist, anchoring her to my side.

"I see." I hoped Thurlestone would not notice that the temperature of Meg's voice had dropped by several degrees. "Well, when you come and see us on Coney Island, you will find quite the eclectic mix of performers and entertainment. Some look like freaks, others do not. All are incredibly skilled at their work; Mr Danton only hires the best. And perhaps not all of us wear our freakishness on the outside."

"Nicely done," I murmured in Meg's ear as Thurlestone laughed boisterously.

"I need to talk to you!"

"Oh—Oh, Mr Danton, what a whip smart girl you have here," he took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. "I shall most certainly be paying a visit to your establishment on Coney Island."

"You will be most welcome, sir."

Meg was still trying to wriggle free of my hold without Thurlestone noticing.

"Oh I have no doubt that I will." Thurlestone's eyes focused on Meg's cleavage. There was nothing wrong with that, I was well aware of Meg's physical charms and designed her costumes to highlight them, but somehow this instance made me uneasy. He was old enough to be Meg Giry's grandfather.

"I need to speak with Mr Danton, may I steal him from you for a moment?" Her tone had changed again, become flattering and flirty.

"Mr Thurlestone," the little stage manager, Spencer, had appeared at my elbow. "Miss Daaé has arrived."

My entire body went tense at the name, and in opposition I felt Meg's form slump by my side.

"Do excuse me," I could barely hear Thurlestone. "I must greet my guest of honour. Miss Giry, you should go backstage. You are singing, aren't you? Now that Miss Daaé has arrived, we can get started. Spencer, I will show Miss Daaé around. Give us… hmm, give the other performers like Miss Giry a fifteen-minute warning. The audience can go into the auditorium in twenty minutes and we will start the performances five minutes after that."

Had I not known that Arthur Thurlestone had a lifetime's experience in the theatre as a composer and producer, I would have thought this approach incredibly slapdash and unprofessional. But then, I had only one concert hall and apartment block under my block, unlike Thurlestone who, as far as I could judge, owned a good quarter of the entertainment industry of Manhattan.

Thurlestone and Spencer bustled past me, but this time it was the pressure of Meg's arm in mine that kept me in place, facing away from the entrance to The Fields.

"I was trying to tell you," Meg said wretchedly. "What are we going to do?"

"I'm not sure," I made a conscious effort to relax my shoulders and spine, feeling as conspicuous as if there was a spotlight on me.

"We can go backstage, and out the stage door."

It was a possibility; we could return the following day for our hats and coats.

"No," I made up my mind in a split second. "We'll not be seen off by our pasts."

"We came here because of our pasts," she reminded me. "To escape them."

"One can only run so far and for so long. You are certainly not the same girl I spirited away from Paris seven years ago. Would you say that I too have changed?"

"I would, indeed."

"Then come, little dancer. Let us meet our old acquaintances and show them our new colours."

Beneath her carefully applied makeup, Meg looked so pale that she seemed almost green, like she wanted to vomit. But she squared her shoulders, smiled up at me, and together we turned to face the rest of The Fields' guests.

It was a few moments before I found her in the crowd, speaking with Thurlestone and his little stage manager. Christine Daaé had also changed with the years that separated us. Her posture was straighter, even though her opera career had begun in ballet, her title and money affected her baring. Her frame had filled out so that her features were a little rounder and softer. She looked like the woman she was, not the girl she had been, and maturity suited her in a way that it did not suit Meg. She was dressed in a regal purple gown with a black train, and I had no doubt that the amethysts and diamonds hanging from her ears and around her throat were real. I felt a sudden surge of desire, and had to remind myself that the object of my ardour was the Vicomtess de Chagny. With the effect of a bucket of iced water poured over my head, I saw Christine's husband Raoul de Chagny at her side.

Meg tugged at me to make me stop, her fingers digging into my arm.

"What?"

"I should go first. Make yourself inconspicuous for a moment."

"Why?"

"For Christ's sake, Erik, you're supposed to be dead! Seeing one long-lost acquaintance will be enough of a shock, without adding ghosts to the encounter."

I smirked to hide my annoyance at this sensible suggestion, and turned to examine a framed antique map of New York on the wall beside me, as Meg approached the de Chagnys. I was close enough to hear what was said, and hoped that the crowd moving like a school of fish between us would be enough to mask my presence from Christine. There was an inglenook in the wall I was facing, but where there should presumably have been another vase of flowers, someone had left a half-full glass of brandy. Thankfully I seized it, studied it, and realised that if I stood at just the right angle, I could see the de Chagnys reflected in the glass covering the map.

Meg approached the pair as Thurlestone and Spencer left, her posture very straight, and when she stopped, I was able to see that she was standing in what is known as third position in ballet; feet together with one facing forward and the other turned outwards, her hands by her sides, fingers curved slightly inward. It was a habit Meg had, a position she adopted when she was tense or anxious.

"Comtess de Chagny," Meg began, speaking in French rather than English. "Comte."

Of course—the death of Raoul's older brother Philippe had meant that the titles of Comte and Comtess de Chagny were bestowed upon Raoul and his wife.

"I am Marguerite Giry. I don't suppose you would remember me…"

"Remember?" Christine's voice, in melodious French and thickened with emotion, sent shivers down my spine. "How could I forget the girl I always saw as a sister?"

And with that, Christine pulled Meg into a tight hug.

"Raoul, you must remember dear Meg. But how can you be here, in New York? You just vanished after the fire at the Paris Opera House, I was frantic! We thought you and your mother had been killed! Oh, how is she, is she here?"

I couldn't quite make out Meg's expression in the glass, but she stiffened as she drew back from Christine's embrace.

"She's—she's not here. But Christine, Comte de Chagny, I need to re-introduce you to someone else you will remember. Erik?"

I considered ignoring her words, but Meg had turned towards me, and my height made me easy to spot. I swallowed the brandy, took a deep breath, and faced Christine Daaé and her husband.

"My dear Miss Daaé," I purred, feeling the persona of the Opera Ghost fall about my shoulders like a cloak. "How pleasant to see you again."

Christine turned so white that I feared that she would faint. In contrast, Raoul's face flooded with colour. When he spoke, his voice was icy:

"She is known as the Comtess de Chagny."

"In society circles," I agreed. "But I believe that her stage name remains Christine Daaé."

"We… we thought that you were dead," Christine's voice was shaking and she was holding onto the Comte's arm for support as he slid a possessive arm around her waist.

"Dead?" I chuckled. "No, no! Merely relocated. I have many skills, but resurrection is not one of them."

"Unlike escapology," de Chagny muttered.

"I have to go," Christine said distractedly. "I have to get ready for the performance."

"As do I," Meg replied. "I am performing tonight too; a song that Erik has composed for me."

"You still compose music?" Christine's eyes had not left my masked face the entire time we had been speaking. They were a clear, stunning blue, and the pupils were wide despite the bright illumination of the foyer. The way she looked at me made my pulse stutter. It was as though she did not see my mask and the deformed flesh underneath. She saw a man, nothing more and nothing less.

"Do you still murder?" De Chagny asked bluntly.

"Raoul!" Christine turned to him. "Please! This is not the place."

"Then where is the place?" He glared. "Monsieur Phantom and I have things to discuss."

"The Imaginarium, my establishment on Coney Island," I told him. "My office is located within the concert hall. My card." I reached into my inside jacket pocket and presented him with the small oblong of card that displayed my name and office address. "You can telephone my secretary to arrange an appointment."

De Chagny's eyebrows shot up as he looked at the card.

"Danton. What poor soul did you steal that name from?"

"It is my own," I answered coldly. "My family pre-dates the French Revolution."

"Miss Daaé?" Spencer was beckoning to Christine.

"I have to go," she said. "Come on, Meg."

She took her childhood friend by the hand, and together they moved through the foyer towards the backstage door. I watched her go, regretting that I had made her flustered just before a performance. De Chagny took a step forward, closing the gap between us.

"You and I have a score to settle, Monsieur," he growled. "And I have bested you in a duel before."

"Duelling has been outlawed in this country for a century." I told him. "I have a business to run, Comte, and no time to fight with you. If you wish to discuss things like gentlemen, then telephone my secretary and she will arrange an appropriate time."

"You are not a gentleman. You can have all the silk waistcoats money can buy, but you will never be a gentleman. I have a family, Monsieur, and do not intend to allow you anywhere near them. You may have had power over her once, but Christine is my wife."

"I know that full well. It is due to her compassion that you are still breathing. I let you live."

"You are a monster," he snarled. "And you always will be!"

I made sure that I took a seat at the further possible distance from Raoul de Chagny when we entered the auditorium to watch the performances celebrating the opening of The Fields.

I was no longer interested in this new theatre or the disjointed performances from Thurlestone's guests. They floated across the stage like fish in a bowl, leaving much the same impression on my mind. I only paid attention when Meg sang the piece I had written for her, The Soprano's Desire. She performed it well, her voice strong, her comedic timing impeccable, and the invited audience laughed and applauded her.

Naturally, Christine Daaé was the final person to perform. I had been following her career through the newspapers ever since I had left Paris. Even if I had not, I would have known who she was; since the downfall of her Angel of Music, Christine Daaé had become a household name.

As she sang, all the feelings I had for her, that I had kept locked within my mind for so many years, flooded through me. Christine's voice had matured along with her body, and she had clearly had tuition since we had parted. Of course she had, all singers did, I reminded myself as jealousy stung me. She could never have continued her career, let alone become an internationally renowned singer, if she had not continued her education. It was the path I had wanted for her, whether or not she was my wife. She was, and always would be, my Angel of Music.

The telephone call from the Comte de Chagny came the following day, and the appointment with my old love rival was set for the day after. With it came an invitation for Meg Giry; while the Comte and I met in my office at the Imaginarium, Meg would be visiting Christine at the Hotel Victoria where the de Chagnys were staying.

I wished our situations were reversed as Mrs Johnson's familiar, professional knock sounded against the wood of my inner office door.

"Enter."

I had chosen my position very carefully and was standing with my back to the huge window that overlooked the whole of the Imaginarium. I may not have been behind the desk, the traditional place for a powerful man, but here, with my hands clasped behind my back, I felt like a monarch with his kingdom laid out below him. This was my home, my business, my world; he was the intruder here.

"The Comte de Chagny to see you, Mr Danton."

"Thank you, Mrs Johnson. Please prepare coffee for the Comte and myself. He will take milk and sugar."

"Yes, sir."

Mrs Johnson backed out of the office, leaving de Chagny and I watching each other with the edgy suspicion of feral cats about to fight.

He was shorter than I remembered, although that may have been down to the cut of his impeccably tailored dove-grey suit, the matching top hat held loosely in one hand. The grey complimented rather than concealed the few silver threads weaving their way through his blonde, fashionably-cut hair. It was a clever touch; de Chagny must be in his thirties now, but the silver made him look competent, distinguished and respectable. He had also rounded out a bit, and the slight plumpness of a comfortable lifestyle made him look like a genial rich uncle in a children's tale.

I stood perfectly still as the Comte put his hat on my desk and wandered around my office, swinging his walking cane, picking things up and putting them down again. Beneath my mask, I felt the muscles in my cheek twitch, but I would be damned if I would be the first one to speak. The Spring sunshine, so long in coming, warmed my back and bounced off de Chagny's light clothes and hair, making him look like a devotee in a religious painting. He was a creature of light, and no matter how high I rose in this would, I would always ultimately in the dark.

"I asked about you last night," de Chagny said at last, taking off his white gloves. "And everyone I spoke to knew who you were. Not by name, but they all knew of the man in the mask who runs the biggest freak show on Coney Island. Many spoke highly of this place." He waved a glove to indicate the Imaginarium as a whole.

I did not know what to say to this, so I said nothing.

"She mourned for you, you know." His voice was quieter. "As a friend. You don't fool me; I saw the announcement of your death in the Époque with my own eyes. And then they found a body when they were rebuilding the Paris Opera House. Who was that?"

I shrugged elegantly. "I have no idea. Doubtless some unfortunate member of the gendarmes who was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"It wasn't a gendarmes officer. There were no fatalities on the day of the fire, I checked with the chief inspector."

"Then you cannot say I murdered anyone during the sad destruction of that mighty building. Perhaps the fellow was a stagehand or a member of the opera company, or even a member of the public who strayed somewhere unsafe. The hidden passageways have always been dangerous."

De Chagny was staring at me, his face pale apart from two spots of colour burning on his high cheekbones.

"I have a question to ask you, Monsieur, and in the name of God I demand an honest answer."

I gave a brief nod, already knowing what he was going to say.

"Did you murder my brother?"

"I did not."

The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. There were a few seconds of silence, then:

"I don't believe you."

"For Christ's sake!"

I strode across my office to the bookcase and rummaged until I found the pocket-sized Bible. It had been given to me by a man spouting scripture outside a local bar when I was walking home one evening, and I had stuffed it into my coat pocket, forgetting it until I was back at the Imaginarium the next day. I had only opened it once, when trying to find the right verse for Antoinette's plaque. Now, I retrieved it from the bookcase, returned to my desk, put it down, allowed the Comte to see the embossed cross on the front cover, and slammed my palm onto it.

"I swear by all that is holy that I did not murder Philippe de Chagny." I glared at him, and he looked at the little Bible, troubled, as I returned it to the bookcase. "With that settled, Comte, shall we discussed the real reason that you are here?"

He watched me as I took my seat behind my desk, like a rodent watching a snake. For all his pompous attitude he feared me, and I gloried in it.

"Let us discuss Christine Daaé."

He bared his teeth. "Madame de Chagny is none of your concern."

"Is she not? It cannot have escaped your notice that I run a very successful slice of the entertainment business. The shows in this very concert hall generate huge audiences and considerable revenue. Can I assume that you have entered this country for financial gain?" De Chagny's jaw went tight as he sat in my visitor's chair, and I waved a hand. "There is no need to deny it, there are seven separate indications of the fact. You came here for money. I work on a policy of goods in exchange for services, Monsieur le Comte. Did Mr Thurlestone pay you for Christine's performance?"

"Of course," he blustered. "My wife is an internationally renowned soprano, of course we were paid."

There was a knock at the door and I called for Mrs Johnson to enter with the coffee. The Comte thanked her, and she beamed.

"Anything else, gentlemen?"

"No, Mrs Johnson, thank you." I waited for the door to close behind her, before turning my attention back to my guest. "I take it that it is yourself I should be speaking to, Comte, and not a manager of some sort."

"I act as Christine's manager when we are overseas."

"And at home?"

"Christine's music teacher Monsieur Duvall aides us with her performances."

"Yes, I thought it must be something like that."

"Your meaning?"

I sipped my coffee, allowing myself a patronising smile. "Simply that you are not a manager or a businessman, Monsieur le Comte. You must have had assistance for Christine to become such a high-profile soprano in this changing world. I cannot imagine that your time in the Navy prepared you for such a life." He scowled over his cup. "How much did Thurlestone pay you for Christine's services?"

De Chagny choked. "I beg your pardon?!"

I smiled. "To have your internationally renowned wife sing at The Fields last night, how much did he pay you?"

There was a pause, and then he told me. Inwardly, I bristled, since Meg and I had only been invited guests, giving our time and our talents for free. When I replied, my voice was calm and clear.

"I would very much like Christine to sing here, at the Imaginarium."

He snorted in a most ungentlemanly manner. "Yes, I expect you would."

"I am serious. It would be a remarkable coup for me if Christine Daaé performed here."

"You cannot have her, you know. We are in a happy, committed marriage. Christine is mine. You cannot try to claim her again."

"I have no desire for your wife," I lied. "This is a business opportunity for us both, nothing more."

De Chagny finished his coffee and put the cup down.

"What is it that you propose?"

"That Christine performs a song I compose for her. I shall, of course, cover your living expenses while you are here, and house you in a suite of my Coney Island hotel."

He blinked. "You own a hotel?"

"The Magnifique."

"And how long do you imagine we will be staying?"

"At least two weeks. Even such a fine singer as Christine cannot sing an aria after just one glance at the sheet music. I will need to teach the song to her and coach her performance."

"Meaning that you want time alone with my wife," de Chagny's expression darkened again. "So that you can work your parlour tricks on her, like you did all those years ago!"

"Good God, Comte, do you have so little faith in your wife's fidelity?" That stung him, and I suppressed a smile. "But a chaperone can be arranged if you insist upon it."

"You would be insane to think that I would allow you to be alone with her."

"No doubt. So, Comte de Chagny, what say you?"

The Comte took his time, drumming his fingertips on the desktop in a way that was frustratingly without rhythm, the sun bursting from behind a cloud and shining directly into his handsome, unflawed face.

"What is it that you are offering?"

"In addition to covering your hotel and living expenses, I will pay double what Thurlestone paid you, for Christine to sing at the Imaginarium for one week."

He threw back his head, laughing. I was not impressed by his theatrics.

"You can't seriously expect me to agree to that. You can have Christine perform in this freak show of yours for one day."

I settled myself back in my chair, lacing my fingers over my waistcoat.

"Five days," I haggled, trying to hide my amusement.

"Two."

"Four," I barked.

"Done." De Chagny stood up, donning his hat.

"Good." I rose to my feet as well.

"Have the contract drawn up by four o'clock this afternoon. Christine and I will sign it and return it to you in the morning."

He was moving back towards the office door, and I rounded my desk as he held out his hand. I shook it, my other hand behind my back.

"I look forward to doing business with you, Comte de Chagny."

"Likewise," his handshake was firm before he turned to the door. "Oh, and one more thing…"

The hand that had been reaching for the door handle clenched into a fist and he swung, punching me in the mouth so hard that I tumbled onto my Persian rug, stars exploding in front of my eyes.

"That was for seven years ago!" De Chagny snarled, and he slammed the office door on his way out.

I tasted blood in my mouth and ran my tongue over my teeth to check if any were broken. Then I lay back on my Persian rug, and roared with laughter.