CH 32
I spent part of my afternoon with Elvira perched on my shoulder for a brisk walk around the city. The response from our fellow Parisians was a mix of both delight when they spotted a beautiful, exotic bird and horror when she screamed, 'Careful! She bites!' if they dared to venture into her personal space.-which was an exceptionally wide area that cleared half the street as we made our way through the city.
We passed the market, walked through to the theater district and over to Hugo's street, where I spoke to him briefly as he sat on the porch sketching. It was the first time in a matter of years I'd seen him working on his own art and the sight of him engaged in creating something new was quite pleasing.
"Do you want to come inside?" Hugo asked.
I shook my head. "I have to entertain Elvira sufficiently before I'm gone tonight."
"Anything exciting?"
"Private performance at the theater."
"I can't wait to hear about it later."
Once we left Hugo's, we looped around toward the park where a handful of painters were smoking, drinking, and grumbling at their half-painted canvases.
As we approached a large tree with new shoots of green leaves, Elvira began flapping her wings until she momentarily lifted from my shoulder.
"Easy," I warned, touching the chain on her ankle while her right wing beat against my face.
I often wondered if Elvira would have flown off if given the opportunity, perching far from my reach in a blossoming tree or a wooden sign above a doorway. There were moments when I felt cruel for tethering her to me despite knowing she would not survive a winter in Paris.
From the time I had removed her from the salon, when she was raw from plucking her feathers out and a bloody, naked disaster, I would look at her staring out the window of my apartment. I had no idea if birds felt remorse or regret, but in her pale yellow eyes, I swore I saw longing for a better existence.
She would not acknowledge me early on aside from screaming if I came too near her stand, beak open and foot out in warning that she would absolutely tear into my flesh if I came too close.
"I will release you one day," I had promised several months into caring for a large, unfriendly bird who had bitten me multiple times.
Taking her home seemed like a mistake at the time, her behavior frustrating with no end in sight. Given that I had stolen her from the salon, I couldn't exactly stuff her into a blanket and return her to her previous existence.
"I will board a ship, travel to South America, and set you free on the banks of the Amazon river, where you belong."
She didn't belong with me. Too many people had poked, prodded, and teased her relentlessly until she was unable to trust anyone at all. I shivered each time she screamed when I filled her dish with food or removed the sheet collecting the mess she made. I had no way of tethering her in place, but she wouldn't leave her stand regardless.
And then one day, while I was in my apartment studio painting early in the morning, she flew from the stand to the doorway. I caught sight of her from the corner of my eye as she strolled across the runner, waddling back and forth until she paused within arms reach of me.
I was trapped, I thought. I was held hostage by a damnable bird in my own damnable home because of my damnable desire to rescue a creature whose life seemed to be a living hell.
There was no telling how long she would hold me hostage as she had never let the stand previously.
"Have you settled in, finally?" I asked without looking at her directly.
She walked toward me, then paused again and watched for a long time as I continued painting. Rather than silence, I explained that I was painting the beach where I played alongside my brother. I rambled on about my dislike of sand, but fondness for the gulls.
I told Elvira about Erik, about how much he liked sweets and hated sleeping. He could make music out of anything; empty bottles, dried reeds, sticks and even the door opening and shutting.
As I spoke, the weight of grief became unbearable, and I sat paralyzed with the onset of emotion, struggling to keep my composure despite the only witness being a bird missing half of her feathers..
When I turned to see where Elvira was standing, I found her beside my knee. Without thinking I held out my arm, my paint brush still pinched between my fingers and thumb, and she reached out with one foot. It was not her typical extension of a limb in warning, but of acceptance. She took hold of my sleeve and walked herself up to my shoulder where she leaned forward and examined my half-finished artwork.
I swore we both exhaled at the same time, as though in unison we collectively pushed out the heaviness of our pasts and decided we could coexist, that we were both open enough to a second chance.
The longer we were together, the more Elvira trusted me and the less likely it seemed I would travel across the world to remove her tether and set her free. She was nearing forty, I guessed, which was toward the end of the lifespan typical of a wild macaw. I reasoned that releasing her at that age was most likely a death sentence, and that with my constant care she had many years ahead to make her demands and scream when they were not met to her satisfaction.
"You are so beautiful," she cooed in my ear.
"You are not so bad yourself," I replied.
Knowing the flow of our conversation, she had rehearsed a very obnoxious laugh, one that I wasn't sure how she had obtained as I was certain I didn't sound like the voice she imitated.
"Have you taught your bird to flatter you?" a feminine voice questioned.
I looked to my left and spotted Guin reading a book on a bench. The sun glistened off her straight black hair, her cheeks pink from the amount of time she'd spent outdoors.
"Yes, I've taught her to sing my praises," I dryly replied.
"That must be an incredibly long list," Guin said.
"One that I enjoy hearing daily. For five francs, she will stroke your ego as well."
"I do not believe I am in need of compliments from a bird."
I shrugged with my free shoulder. "More desperately needed praise for me then."
"Care to join me?" Guin asked.
I consulted Elvira, who was more than happy to indulge me in favor of additional time in the sun.
"I'll keep a safe distance," I promised, taking a seat at the edge of the bench.
"Have you started biting?" Guin asked.
I smiled in response.
"I suppose I'll find out soon enough."
"Quite presumptuous."
"You know," Guin said, placing her book in the space between us, "I never would have taken you for a bird person."
"I'm not."
"And yet here you sit with a bird perched on your shoulder."
"So I do."
"You strike me as more of a dog person."
I fed Elvira a piece of dried fruit and considered Guin's observation.
"What would give you that impression?" I asked.
She looked me over, a twinkle in her dark eyes. "You seem to be the type who would enjoy being called 'master'," she answered.
"What sort of dogs have you met that can speak French?"
Guin's nose wrinkled when she grinned back at me. "Why can't you simply agree with me?"
"Because I'm disagreeable and you are incorrect. I am not a dog person or a bird person."
"What kind of person are you then?"
I considered her inquiry. There was a type of lizard found in Africa that was able to change its appearance based on its surroundings. It was already a unique creature with its rotating eyes, prehensile tail, and triangular head, but its ability to change color and blend into the world in order to hide was most fascinating.
I'd read an article on the reptile from a British fellow who submitted monthly pieces for publication on dozens of different topics, but the chameleon was the one subject that I found most intriguing.
"I think we previously established that neither of us are normal people," I said lightly.
"Two abnormal people meeting in the park." Guin picked up her book again. "Are you attending the party tonight at Jean's?"
"Unfortunately not."
"Jean said that would be your reply."
"I assure you Jean was not aware of my prior engagements or this evening as I was not aware until late this morning."
Guin licked the tip of her fingers and turned the page. "Perhaps an after party?" she suggested without looking at me. "Something to end the evening on a satisfying note?"
"This particular event is running quite late as it is."
"Another time then."
"Another time," I echoed.
I reached into my pocket and fed Elvira a long slice or carrot, the last treat in my posession, and the conversation between Guin and myself came to an awkward end. It felt like an eternity since our paths had crossed, but in reality it had only been a week.
"Good day to you, Kimmer," Guin said. She leaned to her side, her hand brushing mine on the sun-warmed bench between us. "If your evening is cut short, by all means pay me a visit."
"Mademoiselle Guin," I said with a nod before I stood and walked away, the warmth of her touch lingering on my right hand.
oOo
I was on the steps of the opera house twenty after the hour, awaiting eighteen giddy, wide-eyed students. To my surprise they arrived together–and to my horror they ran across the street with their arms linked like a tidal wave made of human bodies.
"Dear God," I said under my breath as they approached, half of them out of breath.
"Flan!" they shouted. "We are on time!"
I held up a single finger, silencing all of them. "Shall we go over the rules for this evening?" I didn't wait for them to reply. "No screaming, no wandering about the theater, no changing seats, and no speaking during the performance. Have I made myself clear?"
They all nodded in agreement. Several students exchanged looks and I fought from rolling my eyes.
"What is it?" I snapped, crossing my arms.
"Flan, what are we allowed to do?" one of the young ladies asked, sounding quite exasperated.
"You may politely applaud at appropriate times."
"So that we may properly represent the university," another student proclaimed.
"As far as I am concerned, tonight you are all representing yourselves. Act in a manner you can take pride in for the duration of the evening."
Ten minutes later, the lights outside of the theater were illuminated and the doors unlocked. The Bohemians looked to me for confirmation we could approach and I nodded, telling them a stampede was unnecessary. One by one, they walked ahead of me, filing into the lobby.
Ink lingered behind wearing the coat I had returned to him. Aside from a small mark beneath his eye, it was nearly impossible to tell he had been injured.
"A bit warm for that, isn't it?" I asked, nodding at the coat.
He shrugged. "I am more grateful than you will ever know, Monsieur Kimmer."
"Likewise."
He offered a quizzical look. "I beg your pardon?"
"You are finishing the semester as I requested," I replied. "And I must say, Mr. Lincoln, I do like it when people do as I say."
"If I may say so, I think I prefer you calling me 'Ink'."
I chuckled to myself. "It does sound better."
We reached the top of the stairs and I felt an urgent tap on my shoulder.
"Professor," Celeste said as I turned. "Am I allowed to attend?"
Her cheeks were flushed from apparently running up the steps, but her hair was brushed and she was dressed in a yellow and blue frock I suspected one of my students had given her as it was a bit too long in length and sleeves. Nervously she played with the wire bands on her wrists, another gift from one of my students, I was certain.
"Since you were in the studio when the offer was extended, you are welcome to a night of music," I answered.
"Thank you!" Celeste practically shouted, bouncing with excitement I expected from a girl her age.
"So long as you behave like a lady," I added.
"I heard," she said, grinning from ear to ear.
Celeste scampered up the steps, greeted by two female students who said they were pleased to see her. Surrounded by the younger ladies, she didn't turn back to see if I was behind her.
Raoul stood inside the lobby, dressed in evening blue, boots shined and a white rose pinned to his overcoat. He greeted the parade of art students one by one, shaking hands and doling out compliments like a seasoned politician hoping to secure a few more votes.
He paused when Celeste approached and offered a bow.
"Good evening, Mademoiselle," he said warmly. "How wonderful to see you attending with your… father?" He glanced at me with uncertainty.
I cleared my throat. "Quite flattering, but I cannot claim Celeste as my daughter."
A flash of either disappointment or embarrassment passed through Celeste's gaze before she looked away from me. She immediately caught Ink's eye, who waved and mouthed for her to sit with him. Without looking back at me, she trotted off to his side.
"I would be honored to be your escort for the evening," Ink said, offering his arm.
"May we sit with Natalia and Francine?" Celeste asked.
"Of course."
"Forgive me, I should not have assumed," Raoul said once they walked into the theater.
"You are not the first," I replied. "And I am far from offended."
The mirror beneath the double staircase rattled and Raoul immediately turned on his heel, his posture rigid.
"The young mademoiselle is an aspiring singer," I said before he walked away from me. "If she was tutored appropriately–"
Raoul took several steps toward the mirror, waited a moment, his head turned to the side. He stood very still, his expression visible in the mirror, eyes hardened and lips twisted.
At last he sighed and turned to face me again. "My apologies, what were you saying?"
"Do you know of a vocal instructor? Someone perhaps taking new students?"
"A tutor?" he questioned, his features still strained. "I am afraid I do not."
"Surely the Opera Populaire employes a–"
"There is no one taking new students at this time," he snapped.
I lifted a brow. "Understood, vicomte. I meant no offense."
Raoul shifted his weight and looked away. "I will keep your inquiry in mind."
I smiled tightly, unsure of why my question had struck a nerve, and walked past him into the theater, joining my students and a handful of other people closer to the front. The crowd sat in the middle of the front orchestra section, programs used as fans as the theater was terribly humid.
There could not have been more than fifty people in attendance, making it a very intimate performance. Moments after I found my seat, I gazed around the theater, feeling as though someone watched over the proceedings. I searched the opera boxes one by one, but the curtains were closed–aside from one overlooking the stage on the left side of the theater. The box belonged to the de Chagny family, one of their two private seating arrangements.
Not long after Raoul's mother had passed, his father, Philbert, had an engraving of his wife commissioned and hung from the outside of the box overlooking the theater. It blended well into the woodwork, and I doubted most people would have noticed it if they weren't avid theater goers.
Given that the box was open, I wondered if Raoul intended to sit in the private seats with some of his more wealthy friends instead of wallowing with the university students.
It was a rude thought on my part considering all the vicomte had done to show his appreciation for the visual arts. Still, his response when it came to a vocal coach for Celeste struck me as odd. Perhaps he didn't want his fiance to share her tutor or the limelight and decided not to reveal such pertinent information.
I flipped through my program, noting the donors for the season. The de Chagnys were still the top patrons, and under the names of Philbert and his sons, the inscription Raoul's father wrote years earlier read: In Memory of Margarita; beloved wife and attentive mother.
I'd not known the elder de Chagny well, but I had seen him often enough in the bank. He truly doted on his children and adored his wife. Each time I had seen him, he made certain everyone knew his sons, daughters, and their mother came first. Their family had been everything my own had not; warm, welcoming, attentive and affectionate. Seeing the lovely vicomtesse grow weaker as the opera seasons passed and eventually become ill enough where she was not able to attend the performances garnered sympathy from the masses. They were decent people who happened to have amassed a great fortune, one that they generously bestowed upon various charities.
I continue to browse through the program with its advertisements for restaurants open before and after performances, various shops boasting the latest in fashion for men and women, and then–to my surprise–my own ad.
My breath hitched. I stared blankly at the words, reading and re-reading until the letters blurred.
ISO Eric Kinner, long lost brother
Age 32, hair dark, eyes green
Missing since age 3
Please contact Phelan Kinner directly
"No," I said under my breath, my heart beating wildly. "No, that's wrong. It's all wrong."
Not only did they spell my brother's first name incorrectly, but the surname was misspelled twice. I was beyond livid, blood boiling in my veins the longer I looked at the advertisement. For the amount of money I had paid, they had damned well better get the ad written correctly before opening night.
I started to stand, having no idea where I would go or to whom I would speak, but my wrath would be known. The mistake was inexcusable.
"Professor Kimmer," someone whispered.
I glanced up at the seat in front of me.
"A gentleman is waving to you from the balcony, I think."
I followed their gaze to the de Chagny opera box and saw the Persian detective waving quite enthusiastically back at me. I nodded politely, acknowledging him before I tossed the program onto the empty seat beside me in disgust and sat back, my mind still reeling and blood boiling to the point I was certain it would seer my veins.
A moment later the house lights dimmed, the curtain rose, and Christine Daae took to the stage dressed in a silver gown that sparkled in the stage lights. She looked like she was made of starlight, the beads of her skirt and headdress dazzling.
The students in front of me gasped before the auditorium went completely silent, admiring the young woman standing before us.
She smiled ever so slightly, a nervous expression that seemed fitting for a young woman who had been promoted from the chorus and thrust onto the stage as the principal soprano in a matter of weeks.
Seconds passed and the crowd remained completely mute. I looked from Christine to the opera box where Raoul and the detective sat together, both of them perched on the edges of their seats.
The conductor tapped his baton against the music stand and the singer flinched, as did half of my students as none of us realized the orchestra was occupied, such was the attention on the theater's starlet.
"Shall we proceed, Mademoiselle Daae?" the maestro questioned.
The soprano nodded.
Instead of a full orchestra, a simple quartet of strings and a pianist accompanied the soloist. The music started with a long, slow intro of violins, then the piano came in, and finally the cello and viola.
Christine's voice rang out crystal clear, a heavenly pitch that drenched the theater in a world of perfect sound. I sat transfixed by her voice, certain I had never heard anything so ethereal in my life. It was little wonder Raoul desired her tutor to focus solely on her as she must have made tremendous strides beneath her instructor's guidance.
From the corner of my eye I saw Raoul sit back, his rigid posture giving way to him relaxing in his seat. He smiled to himself, his blue eyes pinned on his fiance, his expression hinting at the far away place her voice transported him to, if only in his thoughts.
Everything about Raoul's expression indicated that he adored the woman on the stage, much like his father had loved the woman whose image was depicted on the box seats where he sat. I had no doubt Raoul de Chagny could have married any woman of his choosing. I supposed he was marrying the woman of his choosing, one whose family was below his station, but whose heart had fully captured his.
Christine risked a glance in Raoul's direction while she sang. Their eyes met, a dazzling display of their affection shining brighter than the stage lights.
They made being in love look so simple, so natural and easy to care for one another, to speak the unspoken with one moment of gazing at one another.
I found myself staring at the curtain behind Mademoiselle Daae, the solid black background to her shining star silver dress. I was certain that every afternoon I had spent in the Fabienne estate, tangled in Florine's arms, I had looked at her in similar fashion to Christine's smitten fiance.
Our desire for one another had been my first experience with a woman in a situation that could have been considered love. We were insatiable, sneaking away to her bedroom, undressing each other between passionate kisses and whispered words of affection. The fire between us was all-consuming, and once the flames had been snuffed out, what remained was desolate.
We had lust, I reminded myself, a brushfire of passion. I hoped that for the sake of the young lovers that they took their time in their affection and built more than I had with Florine.
The song came to an end, the crowd applauded, and Christine motioned to the conductor.
"This next song," she said meekly.
"Louder," the conductor whispered, his voice somehow stronger than hers.
Christine nodded. "I am dedicating this next song to my father, Gustave Daae, whom I miss with all of my heart. He was my best friend, my protector, and the sender of angels. May he rest in eternal peace."
There was a long pause following her words. Christine looked past the audience, her eyes scanning the shadows. The conductor lifted his baton and another aria began, rich and full and perfectly suited for the young soprano's voice.
Celeste sat two rows ahead of me, lips parted in awe of the performance. Beside her, Ink had turned his head to the side, listening to the vocalist while he enjoyed the reaction of the girl seated next to him.
I found myself half-listening to the music while my mind wandered. The emotion in Christine's voice was nearly intolerable, not because it was over the top or ill-suited for her range, but because her dedication to her deceased father unexpectedly stirred my own emotions.
She sang of love and loss, of what had once been and what would never be. Typically songs of lost love were of a romantic nature, but the lyrics spoke of a child missing a parent.
I glanced at the program on the empty seat beside me and longed for the space to be filled by the person whose name had been misspelled. The aching became intolerable and I pressed my fingers into the damaged flesh of my left forearm, the acute physical pain dulling the chronic emotional turmoil.
For years I had managed to keep the grief manageable, the bouts of mourning hitting hardest around Erik's birthday and late July when he had disappeared. In recent weeks, however, he had been endlessly on my mind.
Because he's close, I told myself. Because despite the mistakes in the program, I'll find him.
The orchestra started to play another song. It was more lively than the previous one and the conductor encouraged the audience to clap along. My students happily obliged, as did the older people seated in the first three rows.
"Flan!" the young lady seated a row ahead admonished me. "I don't hear you clapping."
I rolled my eyes and tapped my right hand against my thigh, which earned me a nod of approval.
The playful tempo seemed to relax Mademoiselle Daae, her posture less rigid, her expression serene. For the duration of the song she became more animated, which garnered a thunderous round of applause from the theater audience.
One of the managers came out on the stage following Christine's fifth selection and thanked everyone for attending the special night. He gestured toward Raoul, asked him to stand, and profusely praised the vicomte for his support of the theater.
"This building still stands thanks to the generosity of the incomparable vicomte de Chagny. We are blessed to have you as our patron."
Raoul clasped his hands and awkwardly nodded in acknowledgment.
"This night belongs to my fiance," he said. "Let us appropriately celebrate Mademoiselle Daae."
After a few more words regarding the upcoming season and donors who supported the arts, the theater manager mentioned there were refreshment in the lobby, complimentary on behalf of the theater. Once he finished speaking, he briskly walked off the stage and a brief intermission followed.
Most of the seats were vacated in favor of the lobby, which I fully expected. I eyed each of my students in silent warning for them to exit the theater like adults rather than sprinting out to forage for treats.
Celeste lingered behind. She stood, gazing around the theater in sheer wonder of her surroundings before she noticed me keeping an eye on her.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" I asked as she walked over and sat beside me.
She nodded immediately. "Her voice is exquisite."
"Perhaps one day you will sing here."
Celeste wrinkled her nose. "I am not nearly as good as Mademoiselle Daae."
"Everyone has to start somewhere," I commented.
Celeste leaned against the back of the chair and continued to look around the theater, her hands clasped in front of her. "I would very much like to sing in a place like this one day. I am certain it feels like singing in a palace."
"From the steps of the opera house to the center of the stage."
She met my eye. "Do you really think so?"
"If that's what you wish to pursue. Anything is possible if you want it badly enough."
I glanced at the program in the empty seat. I had wanted to make amends for thirty years, to express my deepest regrets in neglecting my duties as my brother's caretaker.
"Have I upset you?" Celeste asked.
I lifted my gaze and shook my head. "No," I answered, turning the program face-down on the seat. "Merely thinking of someone I haven't seen in a long time."
Celeste started to speak, but the house lights dimmed and brightened, signifying the intermission came to a close. She gave me one last look before she returned to her seat where Ink brought her a cup of tea and little cakes on a napkin. The lights dimmed for the second half of the performance and Christine returned to the stage.
The young soprano glowed with renewed confidence as she took her place in a gold-colored gown. The crowd hushed and the lady of the hour took a deep breath while the orchestra began playing again.
The next song was so slow that it threatened to lull me to sleep as it was nearing eight in the evening. I sat further back in my seat and briefly closed my eyes, focusing on the sound of each instrument and her clear, hypnotizing voice.
For someone who had been a chorus girl up until the last few weeks, her voice was surprisingly well-trained. I didn't know the technicalities of music, but despite my lack of knowledge, I was aware that she was leagues above La Carlotta, who had been the resident diva far longer than she should have been allowed.
The quality of Christine's tone was exceptional, and I thought of the woman with the pony and cart and how she would sing as we traveled down the road, beneath the canopy of trees turning vibrant shades of warmer hues with the changing of the seasons.
I pictured the woman's hands. They were not slender or dainty, but warm and firm. I thought of the way she held the reins and my much smaller hands in hers, how secure her touch felt to a very young child who had limited experience with a kind caress.
I remembered a leaf catching in her shawl, which she allowed me to pluck from the knit fabric and hold. With the light shining through the leaf, I recalled how fascinated I had been by the bright red center and the yellow edges against the green tip. The small veins looked like stained glass windows, and she pressed my body to hers, sturdy hand cupping my head.
Through the swell of music, I was transported back into those pleasant moments until I swayed forward and jerked awake. I blinked several times, feeling as though the theater had grown darker.
The students in front of me seemed to notice the same thing and glanced around, whispering to one another.
And then all of a sudden a bright flash behind Christine momentarily blinded the theater audience. I pinched my eyes shut, head turned to the side, and heard several people shriek, the sound of panic raising the hairs on my arms.
Several more bright flashes accompanied by popping sounds went off one after another, most of them exploding in mid-air as if shot from a pistol.
"It's the ghost!" a woman screamed.
Most of the audience sprang to their feet, including me, but no one knew which direction to flee. Frantic bodies collided, both women and men knocked to the ground.
"Everyone stay seated!" someone off stage shouted.
The words had little effect on the terrified audience. I stepped into the aisle and scanned the seats ahead of me, counting students as they fled toward the rear of the theater. Fourteen students ran past me, clinging to one another as they ran.
"What should we do?" one of my female students asked, pausing briefly.
"Walk," I said. "Walk calmly toward the door. Tell everyone to wait outside at the bottom of the stairs."
She swallowed and nodded, briskly trotting toward the rest of the gathering crowd.
"The doors are locked!" a man bellowed.
My heart stuttered. I looked from the stage, where Christine still stood frozen in place, then to the opera box where Raoul and the Daroga both had sprang to their feet. The two gentlemen leaned over the edge, gawking at the seats and mayhem below.
Behind them, a shadow moved, and I felt my blood run cold.
"Vicomte!" I shouted, but the crowd behind me screamed and pounded on the doors, making my voice impossible to hear.
The figure behind Raoul and the Persian became more discernible, the once shapeless mass appearing as a body with arms raised. It wasn't a shadow at all, I realized, but a robed figure. His hands were gloved, but I made out the rope in his fist as he reached toward the vicomte.
"Raoul!" Christine shrieked before she collapsed on the stage.
Raoul planted his hands on the edge of the balcony, and I sucked in a breath, certain he intended to leap over the side. I cursed quite loudly and stepped forward, realizing I was much too far away to be of any assistance if he jumped from the balcony to the orchestra.
Before the rope was secured around the vicomte's neck, Nadir reached for the figure, hand catching the phantom's arm at his shoulder. They struggled only briefly from what I could tell as another series of bright flashes from the stage blinded everyone for a second time. The doors at the rear of the orchestra unlocked in unison with a noticeable click and the audience burst into the lobby, their screams deafening.
I was certain only fourteen students had run out of the theater. Once my vision recovered, I found three crawling down the row of seats toward the aisle and grabbed them one by one, hauling them to their feet.
"Meet everyone at the bottom of the stairs," I said, making every effort to remain calm for their sake.
Through glassy eyes and mottled, tear-stained faces, they nodded and I proceeded to the end of the row where I found Ink had thrown his new coat over Celeste. His body was draped over her, shielding her from the chaos.
"On your feet, Mr. Lincoln," I said in English.
I gripped his shoulder and he turned to look at me before peeling back the coat to reveal the girl cowering underneath.
"Are either of you injured?"
They both shook their heads.
"Bottom of the stairs," I instructed. "Everyone should be there waiting."
Ink stood first, offering his hand to Celeste. He pulled her upright and she immediately pitched to the side and fell into her seat. Her breaths were ragged, her face white as a sheet.
"Can you walk?" Ink questioned.
She didn't respond, but instead stared at the stage, her mouth agape. I followed her gaze to where Raoul and Nadir knelt beside Christine.
"We must leave," I said firmly.
Still Celeste remained seated.
"The rest of the class is outside waiting," I said, attempting to draw her attention away from the woman whose arms were draped around her fiance.
Celeste wobbled to her feet, still draped in Ink's new coat, and took an unsteady step forward. I held her by the elbow, balancing her for a moment as she shuffled forward. Slowly we exited the aisle, me in front of her walking backward while Ink remained behind her, prepared to catch her if needed.
"There you go," Ink praised.
Celeste looked over her shoulder at him and her knees gave out as she lurched forward, stumbling into me. I had a tight enough hold on her elbow to prevent her from falling and managed to grab her by the right arm as well, keeping her upright.
For a long moment she leaned against my chest, her breaths ragged and eyes pinched shut. She trembled, her muscles tense as she struggled to push away, but began to sink to the ground.
"I didn't mean to–" She inhaled sharply, bottom lip wobbling.
"Whenever you are ready to proceed," I said gently.
With a nod, Celeste grabbed hold of my wrists and a lightning bolt ripped through the nerve damage to my let arm. I sucked in a breath, spine straightening, shoulders drawn straight up.
Her head snapped up and she stared at me briefly, then looked down at her hand on my wrist and pulled away.
If not for Ink, I was certain Celeste would have collapsed in a row of seats. He managed to sweep her up into his arms, jostling her slightly as he rearranged her thin frame.
Another flash of light illuminated the stage, which was no longer occupied, and we both jumped.
"After you, Monsieur," Ink said.
Once we reached the lobby, Ink nearly lost his grip on Celeste. He attempted to place her onto the ground, but her knees immediately buckled.
"Here," I said, nodding for him to hand her over.
"I've hurt you," she mumbled.
"Not in the least," I assured her.
"Your arm–"
I managed to balance her onto the back of my left arm rather than having pressure directly applied to my forearm. It wasn't ideal, but sustainable as we exited the auditorium and rushed through the lobby. Ink held the door open and I briskly walked down what seemed like a hundred steps to the street.
"I can walk," Celeste meekly whispered.
"We're almost to the bottom."
"Professor, I would like to walk," Celeste softly requested.
There was panic in her voice and I slowed my pace, feeling her go rigid in my grasp.
"Of course," I said, lowering her feet first.
Celeste swallowed and took a sizable step away from me. With her arms out, she steadied herself, taking one tentative step and then another. Several female students rushed to Celeste's side and helped to guide her down the remainder of the stairs. With quite a bit of fussing, they managed to keep the girl upright until she was seated on the curb.
A carriage pulled up to the side of the opera house virtually unnoticed by my students as they continued to tend to Celeste and question each other on what they saw. From the corner of my eye, I watched the footman sprint to the stage door and assumed the soprano and her fiance were being whisked away to safety.
With my students gathered in front of me, I counted and recounted their heads, making certain I had eighteen Bohemians and one university maid gathered around me. They were all accounted for, but my heart still raced and I felt light-headed with panic that somehow I had counted someone twice.
"Stand in a line," I ordered.
They all stopped speaking and turned to face me, lips parted and brows furrowed.
"Do it at once," I commanded when they didn't comply.
Confused looks were exchanged as they formed a line and I counted them again, twice. Still, I felt as if something were amiss, as if somehow I had left someone behind with the opera ghost.
"Quit moving," I snapped.
"We're all here, Flan," they assured me.
Silently I counted a third and fourth time before at last nodding. The carriage that had pulled up to the side of the building departed, wheels rattling over the cobblestones behind us.
"What do we do now?" my students asked me.
I inhaled. "Return home," I suggested.
"What about the Purple Whale?"
"Another time," I said, despite assuming the event would not be rescheduled.
They made no attempt to hide their disappointment. Heads bowed, shoulders dropped, and they milled around, discussing with each other what they would do with their night now that a complimentary meal was no longer offered.
"Monsieur Kimmer!" someone shouted from the opera house steps.
We all turned to find the vicomte advancing toward us, taking the stairs two at a time.
"You're all still here," Raoul said breathlessly. He sounded more relieved than I would have expected given how the night had gone.
"How is Christine?" I asked.
His expression darkened. "Resting. I had her taken straight back to my home so that she can recover from this…troublesome situation."
"And you, vicomte?" I questioned, raising a brow.
"In need of a drink," he said as he turned and stared at the opera house with its banners flapping in the night air. "I don't suppose your students are hungry?"
No matter the hour, they were always famished. It didn't matter if pears, crisps, or sweets were passed around the classroom, they were ravenous and ate whatever was put in front of them.
They were all suddenly gathered around us, apparently drawn to the word 'hungry'.'
"Does your offer still stand for the Purple Whale?" I asked.
Raoul took a breath. "Regardless of whether I show up or not, I will receive a bill. I suppose I would rather pay for an evening of food and drinks rather than…"His voice trailed away. "Drink alone," he said under his breath.
Eighteen sets of eyes silently pleaded for me to allow them to attend, and I suspected if I declined, I would never hear the end of it.
"I suppose we will meet you there."
Raoul blinked at me before I turned away. "It's two streets away," he replied. "I have every intention of walking."
His answer surprised me as Jean, who was not nearly as wealthy as Raoul de Chagny, refused to walk anywhere. He preferred traveling in his private coach no matter if he had an appointment down the street or across the city.
"Ah, I suppose you've already sent your carriage away," I said as we started walking south and toward the row of upscale restaurants.
Raoul grunted. "You must think I am terribly lazy."
"No, I think you're terribly wealthy."
"And to you that means incapable of walking?"
I glanced at his boots. "Your choice of footwear suggests you don't set out on foot often."
Inwardly I winced, knowing damned well I insulted him while he intended to walk alongside us to a restaurant where he footed the bill for the evening.
"For two streets?" he argued. "I assure you, Monsieur Kimmer, I am absolutely fine."
"My apologies."
Raoul shrugged. "Honestly, it's nice having someone who doesn't agree with my every word."
"Then in that case, I retract my apology and your boots look incredibly uncomfortable."
Raoul chuckled. "Oh, they very much are the worst boots I own for traveling on foot, but they're made of the finest leather."
"As long as you look fashionable," I commented.
We reached the corner and I glanced back, finding Celeste remained on the curb of the opera house, her arms hugged tightly around her thin frame. Ink had left his coat in her possession and the garment swallowed her up, making her nearly invisible on the street.
"I will catch up to you in a moment," I said to Raoul as the group crossed the street.
Celeste didn't move as I approached, nor did she glance up to see who happened upon her.
"Will you be joining the others at the Purple Whale?" I asked.
At last she lifted her gaze, but her eyes remained distant, as if she didn't fully recognize me. She pulled her arms tighter around her body and stared past me, unblinking.
"May I sit beside you?" I asked.
She glanced at the curb, then back at me. "It's cold," she said under her breath.
"Stand up, then," I suggested, offering my hand.
Celeste managed to get up on her own. She brushed off her skirt, still avoiding my gaze. "I think I will return to…where I am staying the night," she finally answered.
"I will see you Monday morning between classes."
The girl didn't agree or disagree.
"Will you return this coat to Daniel Lincoln?" she asked, shrugging out of the garment draped over her shoulders.
"I don't believe he will mind if you keep it until Monday."
Celeste still handed it back to me, then took a step away, turned, and then changed directions, heading toward the corner.
"I will walk you across the street," I offered, seeing as how she seemed quite disoriented.
There was no verbal protest, but she created a full arm's length of distance between us, which I made no attempt to close. Over and over I thought of Alak pressing his fingers into the ruined flesh of my forearm, his full weight on my chest. I remembered how I had screamed out, yelping like a wounded animal, and yet he had not immediately disengaged. He had pushed his thumb harder against my forearm, until pain ripped through me and my cries turned to uncontrollable sobs.
The entire incident was brief, perhaps ninety seconds at most, but it had felt like an eternity of being pinned down, of having been subjected to both humiliation and pain. When I thought of Alak, I had no recollection of gentleness or softly spoken words. My memories were harsh and unforgiving.
"I couldn't leave you behind," I said, turning to face her as we reached the other side of the street. "In the theater, I should say. That is why I asked Daniel to hand you to me."
"I know," she said softly. "It was my fault."
"I–" I paused. "I'm not blaming you."
Awkwardly she turned away from me and we walked to the end of the street in silence with the rest of the class ahead of us surrounding Raoul. They were all giggling over something, perhaps a story the vicomte had told to guests at one of his balls a dozen times that he decided to share with the Bohemians.
Once we crossed the second street, Celeste slowed her pace. We were leaving the theater district and approaching the finer dining establishments, none of which were full as most of the performances had not yet ended for the night.
The smell of meals being prepared wafted through the air and Celeste inhaled. I glanced at her from the corner of my eye and saw she walked several paces behind me with her head down.
I lingered a moment, waiting for her to decide if she wished to continue toward the Purple Whale or walk elsewhere. Seconds passed and she took a careful step closer to me.
"Professor?"
"Yes, mademoiselle?"
"What–what happened to your left hand?"
I tugged at my left sleeve and inhaled. "I was burned when I was three. From here to here," I said, pointing from the inside of my elbow down to the base of my thumb.
Her gaze remained pinned on my arm. "Does it still hurt?"
"The nerve damage is extensive," I explained. "Even pressure over a large part of my arm I can tolerate, but a finger pressed here, for instance," I said, lightly touching my sleeve just above my wrist, "becomes excruciating."
As expected, the girl took a step back.
I regarded her for a long moment, noting the remorse in her gaze. "There have been numerous times when others have accidentally grabbed my arm, having no idea that my flesh was previously damaged," I said to her. "And there have been times when individuals were aware that the scar tissue exists and they have intended to inflict pain."
Celeste's features became more strained. "I didn't mean to cause you pain," she said softly.
I nodded. "Nor did I mean to cause you discomfort leaving the theater. But as I said, I couldn't leave you behind. I would have carried out every single one of my students if they were paralyzed with fear." I took a step closer. "They are all my responsibility from the start of the year until our last day together, and I will protect all of them, including my cleaning assistant."
Her eyes met mine and a smile crept onto her lips. "You would?"
"Without a moment of hesitation." I offered my right arm, which she accepted, hand lightly resting on my forearm while she pulled her borrowed coat tighter around her neck.
"Is that my title? Cleaning assistant?" she asked.
"Unless you prefer something else. I'm open to suggestions."
"No," she said quickly, "I like it."