Ch 2

Valgarde sat on the stairs leading to my apartment. Due to the way the stairs were built, I didn't see him until I reached the landing between the two flights and by that time, my cousin had spotted me and there was no way for me to retreat without being seen.

He said nothing at first, preferring to stare at me in his scrutinizing way. Amusing, I thought, how he didn't need to say a word and I knew everything on his mind: You are such a disgrace. My God, look at you, a man in your thirties acting like he is still sixteen. I don't know why I bother with you at all.

"What happened to your face?" he asked me.

I stuffed my hands into my trouser pockets and lifted onto the tips of my toes.

"I am fairly certain that you as well as half the city know what happened."

Val turned his head to the side and narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. He thought he was a master of appearing calm, but I had known him since I was three and was quite familiar with what went on in his mind.

My God, I despise you, Phelan. You and your smug expression. How unfortunate that dismal look wasn't smacked off your incredibly handsome face.

Perhaps I added a bit of pretense. I inhaled. "How may I be of service to you this fine day, Valgarde?"

At last he stood. "May we step inside?"

No, I wanted to tell him. My day has been ruined enough as it is. Go ruin it for someone else.

"I return to class in an hour."

"You return in an hour and a half."

I truly regretted giving him my schedule as he knew when I was in and out of the studio.

"Are you honestly planning on staying for ninety minutes?"

I could tell by his expression that he didn't want to be there at all.

"Inside?" he impatiently asked.

The door was not fully opened when Val started the conversation, which was cut off by Elvira yelling at the people on the street.

"What did you say to Celeste?"

At last the vile woman had a name.

"Who?" I questioned, merely to annoy him.

"You know damned well of whom I speak. From the party last night."

I studied him for a moment. Valgarde had always thought of himself as a decade older and wiser than me when we were only three years apart in age.

When I was seven and he was ten, the difference wasn't noticeable, but when we first came to Paris, when I was fifteen and he was eighteen, it was obvious that he thought of me as a child and himself as a worldly individual instead of the rustic folk awkwardly dropped into a large, bustling city that we both truly were back then.

Now that I was in my thirties and he was on the cusp of forty, the difference and age no longer should have mattered, but Val insisted on treating me like an inferior.

"What did I say? I asked if she was a woman who had a way."

He furrowed his brow, deciding to be disgusted without knowing why. "What does that mean?"

I shrugged, doubting Val would ask what she said to me that led to my reply.

"Why did you leave?"

I eyed him. "My night is typically over when I'm struck in the face."

He sighed, frustrated. "Everyone was talking about the incident."

"You're welcome."

He scoffed. "Welcome for what?"

"It was absolutely the best party you've ever hosted. They're normally so dull."

"Phelan," he warned. "I will not invite you over again. Ever."

I stood with my arms crossed and sniffed. "How unfortunate I wasn't slapped years earlier. I would have enjoyed Sunday evenings spent in my own home, asleep by eight rather than bored to death and forcing my eyes to stay open in your stuffy parlor."

He opened his mouth and then quickly shut it again. I was fairly certain he was going to ask me to leave, forgetting in the heat of the moment that this was my home, not his.

"I want you to apologize to Mademoiselle Guin."

Celeste Guin. A full name for that unholy siren.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you are a gentleman who would never wish to offend a lady."

"A gentleman? Such flattery, Valgarde."

He rubbed his temples. "Two this afternoon," he said, ignoring my words. "There is a tea room–"

I turned my back and untethered Elvira from her stand, knowing full well that the minute I faced Valgarde, he would wisely back away, especially if I didn't loop Elvira's chain around my finger.

"My next class is at two-fifteen."

"Leave your students a note that you will be running late or cancel it entirely."

"I will do neither. You may tell your lady friend that I will be passing by around four. If that doesn't suit her, I will consider my apology accepted and no need for further commitments."

Val was furious. "Be there at two."

I had no intention of making an appearance at this tea shop, but solemnly nodded and ushered Valgarde out of my apartment.

"Phelan," he said over his shoulder. "Remember Elizabeth's birthday is on Thursday."

"I'll be sure to have the pony delivered to your front door no later than eight in the morning."

He gave me a strange look. "I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing. I will see Elizabeth on Thursday."

oOo

I purposely walked around the university to avoid the front entrance, intending to slip through one of the side doors. All of the courtyards looked exactly the same, and as I navigated my way through, I noticed several young men leaned against the stone tables, smoking as they argued politics and philosophy. They were laughably predictable, these university students.

"Kimmer!"

I recognized the voice of one of my students, whose first name escaped me, but whom everyone referred to as simply Ink. He was rather quiet in the studio, preferring to observe than raise his hand, which compelled me to constantly call upon him for the first semester. He became so flustered that I eventually allowed him to disappear into the sea of faces, finding no need to embarrass him.

He had the bluest eyes and longest eyelashes I'd ever seen on anyone, lashes so full that women had to be jealous of him. He was also–according to rumors–a homosexual–and he frequented clubs where others of that particular lifestyle gathered. Perhaps the most unfortunate detail about this particular student was, however, that he was an American.

"Ink," I said. "Good afternoon."

He blushed profusely when I acknowledged him, same as most of my female students over the first few weeks of class before they realized my interest in them was strictly their artistic talent and nothing more.

I'd taught my fair share of homosexual men at the university as art attracted all walks of life, particularly those who deviated from the straight and narrow. Some of the other professors issued poor grades to students whom they thought were abnormal, but whatever they did outside of my studio was none of my concern. Their grades were based solely on their talent. Ink had enough talent, but lacked confidence. He turned bright reds into dull brown and hid himself beneath forgettable paints.

"I forgot my graphites," he said, casting his gaze at my shoes.

I lifted a brow. "Again?"

His blush deepened. "I neglected to put them into my bag this morning."

Judging by his rumpled clothing, I highly suspected he hadn't stopped home in order to retrieve his pencils. It also crossed my mind that perhaps all Americans were poorly dressed, unable to keep up with the French.

"I will allow you to borrow my knife."

His gaze immediately flashed up, brow furrowed.

"So that you may write in your own blood. I trust that will remind you to grab your pencils going forward."

Ink looked truly petrified. "May I arrive thirty minutes late, Monsieur? I will return to my flat, but it is a bit of a distance."

I frowned at him, feeling my humor was wasted. "There are pencils in my cabinet. You may borrow for today. But do not forget again. You are not in first grade, Ink, and if you neglect to bring your supplies, I will dock your grade."

He appeared relieved that the only way in which he was reprimanded was verbally. "Yes, Monsieur. Thank you, Monsieur."

The day was truly set on a trajectory to be one disaster after another. I left the courtyard and briskly walked the halls and up a set of marble stairs to my studio where the door was open and several students had arrived early. They were seated on the floor in a circle, my little bohemians.

"What are you gossiping about?" I snapped.

I was certain other professors would have asked their students what they were discussing and sent their entire class scrambling to their seats while offering apologies. Mine, however, casually asked if I wished to join them, which I declined as I had no desire to sit on the floor. Instead, I took my place in the middle of their circle, like a chief overlooking a wayward tribe.

"Monsieur Regal."

I lifted a brow. "The mathematics professor? Why on earth are you discussing him? He teaches math, for God's sake, his life could not get any more tragic."

The students giggled in their tight little circle, dressed in their rainbow of colors.

"We heard he has a young guest today."

"Get off of my floor and discuss something else," I grumbled.

"She's from the opera,"

I paused, finding myself intrigued.

"Did you hear what happened last night?"

I had not, seeing as how I was subjected to an evening at my cousin's home.

"The chorus girl, she was cast as the lead in a new production."

I turned to face them. "You'll have to give more details than 'chorus girl'."

Nothing excited them quite like my piqued interest in social gossip amongst the artistic community. While the performing art students rarely mingled with my little community of painters and sculptors, I knew most of the students seated on the floor were admirers of the theater. They built and painted the sets and props for the university's theater program and often attended the professional productions at one of the three theaters and opera house near the university on Tuesday evenings when destitute students were given tickets in the balcony practically for free.

"Christine," one of them said.

"She disappeared, if you'll recall, a strange affair."

"Yes, she was missing for a month and everyone thought she was dead."

"No, she was not missing for a month, it was not even forty-eight hours."

"It was a month! My cousin said so! He has a friend who works at the ticket booth."

I cleared my throat. "Is there a story or are you simply going to argue the amount of time this woman went missing?"

"Christine was missing for two days. When she returned, under mysterious circumstances, it was said that the opera ghost stole her, placed her under a spell, and drank her blood."

"So the ghost is a vampire?" I questioned.

"No, the ghost is a ghost."

I rolled my eyes. "Why would a ghost thirst for blood? Or anything else for that matter. It's a ghost. They should not have mortal desires, least of all to consume someone's blood, which sounds repulsive.."

I could tell my interruption was not appreciated. Collectively they huffed and threatened to speak of something else.

"Fine, what happened next?" I prompted.

"The ghost cast Christine as the lead in Il Muto."

This I vaguely recalled hearing about as it was a production I had not attended, despite having season tickets to the opera. Not the part about a ghost casting roles, but that this Christine was appointed the lead, but not until the second act. The production had been cut short from its six week run, but I wasn't certain why, other than this Christine had fallen ill–or one of the sets had fallen, quite possibly on someone. I couldn't recall what had happened, but I remembered briefly reading about it in the post. Apparently the show closing was also the fault of a ghost. His afterlife sounded much more entertaining than my current existence.

"And someone...died," they cryptically whispered.

"You are now making up scenarios," I said.

"No! It is true! A stagehand."

I ignored their ploys to drag me into their subplot of madness. "So the ghost also runs the theater?" I asked, attempting to piece together their original story.

There was, as I expected, a bit of silence as they mulled over how ridiculous their claims sounded. A blood consuming ghost abducting chorus girls whom he then proceeded to make into leading ladies, while also closing engagements early. Along with a possibly dead stagehand. Absurd on all accounts.

"You aren't listening," they whined.

"You are twisting the details," they complained.

"I am listening," I insisted. Were they listening to themselves, I wondered? "Then what happened after this abduction and Il Muto?"

They simmered with excitement, wriggling on the floor as their story continued.

"There is a new secret production being rehearsed right now," one of the artists whispered as if the ghost himself were haunting my studio. "And it is said that the opera is written by… the ghost."

I poked my tongue along the inside of my cheek, resisting the urge to laugh at their clearly exaggerated tale of the opera. My lack of a reaction grated on their nerves, as was evident by their expressions.

"That perfectly explains the need for blood," I said dryly.

"It does?"

"Yes, of course, who doesn't want a flute filled with red while composing an opera? Now everyone get off my floor and return to your seats."

They groaned and returned to their easels as more students filed into the studio. I took a head count of who was in attendance, noting sixteen students. Very rarely did I have anyone missing, but it wasn't quite two, so I sat in the middle and conversed with two of the young men, who had questions about our previous class.

Three more people entered the studio and I turned, realizing I had an extra artist in my class. It was too late in the year for me to have a new transfer, but I recalled Monsieur Regal had a guest for his mathematics class and assumed the person in question had wandered into the wrong hall.

I turned my chair and saw Ink and another young woman in her typical brightly colored skirts and behind them:

Celeste Guin.

She looked different by the light of day. Not necessarily more or less beautiful, as she was a very striking woman with her black hair and dark eyes. She looked less severe, with a softness about her that I hadn't expected.

I was certain she was the type of woman who had always used her beauty to her advantage, flashing the slightest of a smile or issuing a sharp glance in the direction of men who practically fell over themselves to wait on her. I suspected she was accustomed to getting what she wanted without giving anything in return.

Many beautiful women had spent a night in my bed and quite frankly, they were mostly the same: pretty faces, the bodies of goddesses, and the personality of an artichoke. I didn't think of a single one as a conquest. They were consensual partners seeking pleasure and I was certain most, if not all, had left satisfied.

Her beauty was a fault. Some faults made people more interesting, but fine features were dull to me.

"Insolent souls," I said, addressing my throng of bohemians. They had grown quite accustomed to my salutations at the start of class, snorting and giggling in approval. "We have a new model."

They looked around the studio at each other, but none of them seemed to notice the woman lingering in the doorway, who looked as flattered as I expected. She desired to be praised for her beauty. I doubted she went a day in her life overlooked by others.

"Madame…?" I said, turning my head to the side as I addressed her.
"Mademoiselle Guin," she answered.

"Hmm. Unmarried at your age?" I said under my breath, a petty insult if there ever was one. "Welcome to portraits. There are no seats left, so you will have to stand. Do you think you will be comfortable for oh, perhaps, thirty minutes to an hour?"

"I will take your seat," she said.

"Mine is occupied."

She frowned at me, but kept her head held high and dignified. "Then I suppose I shall stand."

"Excellent. You may disrobe at your discretion."

The sparkle in her eyes dimmed, her nose wrinkling. "I certainly beg your pardon?"

Casually I turned away from her and pulled up my trouser legs as I sat. "Portrait nudes, Mademoiselle Guin, as I am certain the university explained when you offered your services as a model for my class today. Now, may I offer you an apple? A book, perhaps? Something to make your portrait more…interesting?"

Her ivory cheeks had flushed, her full lips suddenly thin with malice. "Why didn't you come to the tea room?" she snapped.

I inhaled and started to unbutton my own shirt. "If you are not interested in being our model, I suppose I will pose. Again."

The woman took a step back until she reached the door. Not a single student made a sound; not a slight cough or word uttered, but I could feel their emotions vibrating through the room as they realized she was not a model and had no business in my studio.

"Good day, Monsieur," she muttered before swiftly exiting with the door slamming behind her.

Once she was gone, I looked around the room at my wide-eyed artists. Most of them were blushing. Half were staring at my partially unbuttoned shirt, waiting to see what would happen next.

I scoffed at them. "Are you all mad? Of course I am not posing before you disrobed."

There was a flutter of laughter through the room and a few whispered Oh, thank God.

"Sketch yourselves or the person next to you," I said, waving my arms about. I stood, removing a pencil from my shirt pocket, and handed it to Ink, who looked somewhat disappointed in the change of plans as he assessed me from head to toe, fully clothed.

It was a little after four when I walked out of the university. My stomach growled as I'd neglected to eat more than a few berries for breakfast and Val's visit prevented me from enjoying lunch.

The streets were busy, the spring air thankfully no longer clinging to the chill of winter with such an iron fist. The coat I wore wasn't quite warm enough, but if I walked at a brisk enough pace with my hands tucked into my sleeves, it wasn't intolerable.

I was not one to loathe winter, however. Certainly I preferred walking to and from the university when the streets weren't glazed over with ice and the wind biting at my exposed flesh, but winter had changed my life by giving me a brother many, many years earlier, an individual I had not seen for thirty years. He may as well have been a ghost, but I thought of him frequently.

I grunted to myself and shook my head, imagining a conversation with Erik regarding this disagreeable opera ghost. I wondered what my brother would have thought of the situation. Utterly preposterous I hoped, something we could both easily agree on.

"Erik," I said under my breath as I crossed the street.

It had been a dreadfully long time since I had uttered his name, something I had done quite frequently when I was younger, as if whispering his name would make him appear.

Nothing had worked, not ads in the paper or prayers or even speaking to a gypsy woman who claimed she had the sight and could locate anyone for a nominal fee that happened to be five hundred francs. Her sight was apparently blind as for an egregious amount of money she had simply said, He roams the dark. Cryptic, but not helpful.

"Four o'clock tea?"

I should have fully expected Guin to be seated outside of the cafe, pot of tea and two cups on the little wrought iron table. She gestured toward the empty seat while looking at me.
"Have you nothing else to do with yourself today, save for wait for an apology at a tea shop?"

She lifted her chin and looked me over in silence. "What do you suggest I do with my day?"

"Harass someone else?"

"Harass?" She appeared sufficiently insulted. "Is that what you think I am doing? Harassing you?"

"I suppose I would have to care to be truly harassed."

She pulled the empty chair toward the table. "Good day to you, Monsieur. I shall not harass you a moment longer."

I turned away. The exchange felt incomplete, but I had nothing further to say to her.

"Valgarde was correct," she muttered while I was still within earshot.

I paused, chewing on the inside of my cheek. Valgarde knew nothing about me. No one did.

"How do you know him?" I asked, turning again to face her.

She wasn't looking at me, preferring to stir her tea. A waiter approached her table and left a tray of bread, cheese, and hard, salted meats, the sight of which reminded me that my stomach was empty and digesting its own juices.

"Nettie."

It took me a moment to think of whom she meant. "His dead aunt?"

Guin inclined her head, but didn't speak. She sipped her tea and took the smallest nibble of bread, as if she were a dainty little mouse surviving on crumbs.

I couldn't tell if she thought of 'Nettie' as a horrid old crone or a beloved elderly grandmother type. By outside appearance, Antoniette San Par was a harmless little old lady with her blue shawl wrapped around her hunched shoulders and a cane with a jeweled head that she leaned on heavily. To others she was polite and soft-spoken, harmless as could be, but the day Val and I had moved into her flat, she made it perfectly clear that Valgarde was family and I was a parasite attached to her beloved nephew.

Guin pushed aside the rest of the plate after apparently filling herself on tea and bread crumbs.

"Care for a bite?" she asked.

"I don't desire people scraps," I replied.

She pushed her chair away from the table, tossed a couple of banknotes beside her half-empty tea cup, and pulled her coat around her frame.

"To your apartment, then?" she asked.

I inhaled and turned around, stuffing my hands into my pockets.