CH 59

I was fifteen minutes late arriving at Abigail's shop on account of Elvira, who was aware I was leaving and had a tantrum being placed on her stand. She didn't attempt to bite me, but she flapped her wings and moved her feet, making it nearly impossible to secure her to her stand.

"I will return in probably two hours," I told her, giving her two more snails and several walnuts to appease her.

The gallery wasn't big enough to warrant more than an hour of perusing the artwork, but Elvira was not aware of that and continued to screech at me even after I was to the corner of the street. Her voice was so shrill that I was certain there would be a very detailed note beneath my door when I returned.

I rushed into the shop, nearly colliding with Howard, who looked disgusted to see me.

"You," he said, sneering at me, "again. But with a handful of weeds."

"A pleasure as always, Howard," I said. "These are far from weeds. If it interests you–"

"Which it does not."

"My apologies for attempting to educate you on the Peruvian lily."

"Perhaps I shall educate you on a very important matter. You have seen far too much of my sister in recent days," he said, looking me over. "What are your intentions?"

"Intentions? I have no intentions at all, Monsieur."

"None at all. That sounds like the sort of thing a scoundrel would admit."

"I have great respect and admiration for Abigail," I answered. "There is nothing nefarious about my visit. She has been a good friend to me."

"Howard," Abigail called, poking her head through the doorway leading to her apartment. "What are you on about now?"

Howard shook his finger at Abigail. "You are in desperate need of a chaperone when this one comes around."

Abigail gave an exasperated sigh. "It's one in the afternoon, we are heading to the art gallery, and I am a thirty-nine-year-old widow and a mother of three. Do not speak to me of needing a chaperone."

Howard snorted in disgust. "You are precisely the type of woman who needs looking after. You've become practically feral while here in this God forsaken country. Every day you become less and less appealing to a proper suitor."

"Your flattery is truly overwhelming, Howard." Abigail walked down the stairs and shooed her brother toward the door. 'Weren't you in a terrible hurry ten minutes ago?"

"I was," Howard answered, "until I saw this one lurking around like a tom cat after a queen in heat."

"I will have your sister returned in two hours. And I give you my word, Howard, she shall be in the same condition as she left." I offered my hand, but he refused.

Abigail crossed her arms. "Perhaps it is I that shall ravage you in the middle of the gallery," she muttered.

Howard sputtered in disgust. "You are a shameful woman, Abigail. Absolutely shameful. Morality must not exist here in France."

With that, Howard stormed out the door, arms waving as though he might take flight.

"Why, Madame Soward," I playfully admonished, "you are going to send your poor, concerned brother into some fit of hysterics."

"He's already hysterical," she said as she adjusted the closed sign in the window. "No help needed from me."

"Forgive me, but I do believe you offered a little assistance."

"I may have pushed this much," Abigail said, indicating with her thumb and forefinger a space barely wide enough for thread to pass through.

She turned and looked at me as I stood holding the floral arrangement, her expression changing from frustrated to delight. "These are lovely, Phelan. How very thoughtful."

Seeing her pleased delighted me beyond words, and I felt like a schoolboy attempting to catch the eye of a girl, which was utterly ridiculous considering our past.

Abigail placed the arrangement on the counter and took a step back, admiring the lilies. "I can't recall the last time anyone has brought me flowers," she said. "Other than my darling little Clarence bringing me clover he picked from the schoolyard."

"Not nearly as nice as clover, but two very sweet sisters made this on my behalf."

"They did a magnificent job, and you are quite thoughtful," Abigail said, reaching for her coat. "Now, we should probably head out as we are running out of time."

"We have plenty of time. The gallery is not that far from here and it's fairly small."

"Yes, but you told Howard you'd have me back in two hours and that's hardly enough time for me to properly have my way with you."

I pretended to be quite taken aback by her statement. "Why Madame Soward, what has France done to you?"

Abigail poked me in the ribs, grinning back at me. "Your sense of humor leaves much to be desired, Phelan Kimmer."

OoO

"I have a few errands to run, but the gallery is all yours," Stephan said after I introduced him to Abigail. "My assistant is in the back, but he won't bother you one bit. You've met Regio, haven't you, Phelan?"

The name was unfamiliar to me. "Not that I am aware of."

"I'm certain you have," Stephan insisted. "Last year down at Popular Modern." He snapped his fingers. "The spring fashion show. Oh, what was it called?"

I was absolutely certain I'd never stepped foot inside Popular Modern as I wasn't entirely certain what type of business it was or where it was located.

"Spectacular Spectacles," Abigail said.

Stephen turned his full attention to Abigail. "Yes, that was it exactly." He smiled back at her. "Did you attend?"

"Only the first day," Abigail answered.

Stephen appeared quite impressed. "The first day? You must be very important indeed, Madame Soward."

Abigail politely smiled. "My late husband was part of the show several years earlier, when it was held at The Silk Palace."

"My word." Stephen gasped. "You simply must tell me everything when I return as I am most intrigued." His gaze snapped back to me, looking me up and down. "My favorite up and coming artist and his very lovely fashionista guest. What a curious pair."

With that, he was out the door, his stride swift and springy like an elegant deer prancing through the meadow.

"I have absolutely no idea what The Silk Palace, Spectacular Speculation, or Modern Popular means," I told Abigail once we were alone.

"Clearly as you haven't even said two of them correctly," Abigail said, taking my arm. "Designers from all over the world descend upon Paris each spring for two weeks, showcasing their latest creations, patterns, fabrics, and machines for dress, suit, hat and shoemaking. The show used to be held at The Silk Palace for the longest time."

"What happened to The Silk Palace?"

"I can't say for certain, but I heard the owners were accused of espionage."

I raised a brow. "The sordid world of fabrics. Who would have guessed?"

"You would be shocked by what happens behind the scenes. Five years ago, when Popular Modern took over the showcase, no one seemed the least bit surprised. With the new location, Clarence was hell bent on attending, but our shop was too small and my husband was not considered a top name designer. He was good, mind you, but not good enough to be invited to such a prestigious show."

"How did you get invited?"

Abigail smiled to herself. "I cannot say for certain, but I do believe Bern talked to someone and persuaded them to give him two passes. He gifted them to us and said they were dropped off at his hotel, but wouldn't go into details. Considering how exclusive the event has always been, I have my doubts that two tickets to the opening day miraculously fell into his lap, but Bern would not confess to his involvement."

We paused in front of one of my paintings. "Bernard spoke to Paul Pierret of the Louvre."

I could feel Abigail looking at me from the corner of her eye. "Now this definitely sounds like a story I am interested in hearing."
"I am fairly certain Bernard already told you he spoke to Monsieur Pierret."

"I don't believe he did. Bern merely said you had a drawing to be showcased at the Louvre that he had purchased and he was quite proud to have picked out the best drawing in the whole gallery."

"Is that what he said?" I chuckled, amused by Bernard's take on the drawing and his responsibility for it potentially being on display to a wider audience.

"Yes, now who is Paul Pierret?"

I smiled to myself. "The curator."

Abigail gasped, which was equally entertaining.

"From what I understand, Bernard very firmly suggested that the museum curator–the only staff member of the museum to remain on duty after the revolution–pay a visit here to see my work."

"I sincerely hope the curator stops by."

"According to my broker, he already has."

Abigail gasped again, this time grabbing my upper arm, which she shook quite hard. "You are quite the suspenseful story teller, Phelan Kimmer. You have me on pins and needles, now for heaven's sake, go on with it! What did he think? What did he say? Are you receiving a million francs from the Louvre?"

"I haven't formally heard anything yet and I'm not certain when the details will be discussed. A million francs is very unlikely, but I would be honored to have a drawing on display for a few months."

Abigail gaped at me, her whole body vibrating with glee. Unexpectedly she tossed her arms around me, much as Bernard had done, but without the tremendous force that made it impossible to breathe.

"You must think good thoughts," she insisted as she drew back, smiling at me. "Imagine your drawing is already there, hanging quite prominently for everyone to see. Make it so by thinking it into existence."

"There are other things I would put well before a drawing at the Louvre if I could speak them into existence," I said.

Abigail squeezed my arm. "Think of both."

"I will try."

"What does it feel like?" she asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"To see your artwork on display?" She nodded at the painting in front of us, a small landscape I'd completed a few years earlier.

"Surreal," I said.

"Tell me about this one," Abigail said.

"I was sitting outside of the train depot," I answered. "It was a Thursday afternoon and I was exhausted and ready to return home."

"Where were you?"

"Calais," I answered.

"What was in Calais?"

"The train," I answered.

Abigail narrowed her eyes. "How unexpected."

"Calais is the closest train station to Conforeit, the village where I was born," I explained. "My father had been quite ill. I was there to see him off, I suppose."

Abigail's expression sobered. "I'm so sorry, Phelan, I had no idea."

"I'm not looking for sympathy, I assure you. I was not close to either of my parents and quite frankly I am certain that I was contacted for no other reason than my father had debts to pay and no means to settle them. It was certainly not because he wished to see me again."

Abigail frowned at my words.

"He took his last breath on a Tuesday, and I spent all of Wednesday making arrangements. Thursday morning I settled what I could and started the process of obtaining the house where I was born, which was in such a state that no one else wanted it. By Thursday afternoon I was at the train station awaiting my departure. I don't know what it was, but after watching someone literally die in front of me, something about the scenery was quite lovely that I made a rough sketch and notes to paint the surrounding area."

The painting wasn't my favorite due to the circumstances, but it was what Theo had chosen and Stephan agreed to display and I trusted their opinion.

"That must have been very difficult," Abigail said.

"As I said, we were not close."

"You went to your father's bedside solely out of duty?" she asked.

I glance in Abigail's direction, unsure of how to reply. "I traveled to Conforeit seeking closure, and out of all of the things Bjorn Kimmer denied me in life, he could add withholding any sort of apology or acknowledgement for what he'd done when I was younger.

"Unfortunately for him, I poured all of my emotions into my art and was quite prolific both while at his bedside and the days after I returned home."

Abigail stepped closer to me. "You're still bothered by not receiving what you wanted from him, aren't you?"

I shook my head. "It's been years and he's not returning from the grave," I said. "Or at least I hope not since I declined having an iron cage placed over the casket."

"I would be upset," Abigail said. "I would be very wounded if I hoped for an apology and my father was cruel enough to stay silent on the matter."

"He acted like I wasn't there," I blurted out. "At least he was consistent throughout his life."

The thought knifed through me. As much as I wanted to believe that Bjorn's life was utterly meaningless, I still yearned for a sense of closure, to hear him speak words of regret for how he had treated not only me, but my brother.

Abigail laced her fingers with mine, "For safekeeping," she said.

"I wasn't–"

"Safekeeping nonetheless."

We stood hand-in-hand before the painting for a long, comfortable moment, no words shared between us. I had traveled to Conforeit in secret, deciding not to inform Val as I didn't want him to feel obligated in traveling with me and had no desire to have him questioning me on my decisions when I returned. I had not told Hugo or Jean because I didn't want their sympathy or condolences.

Instead, I kept those days to myself, allowing the moments to fester, same as the bedsores I'd witnessed on Bjorn's legs and torso.

"What's her story?" Abigail asked, stepping closer to the canvas. "That young lady who looks very distraught."

"The girl in the white bonnet?"

"Yes, there is something about her that makes me feel quite bad for her, but I don't know why."

Out of all of the people depicted, Abigail inquired about the most intriguing individual I'd met at the station, a girl traveling alone who could not have been older than nineteen.

"She didn't speak French and she took the wrong train, missed the one she was supposed to be on, and became quite turned around," I said. "The two men at the ticket counter said that they didn't understand her and after several moments of the three of them yelling and getting no closer to a solution, she took her bag and walked away, clearly frustrated and no closer to returning home."

"Where was she from?" Abigail asked.

"Bodo, if I recall correctly."

"Where is that?"

"Norway," I answered. "A very long way from Calais."

"Was she able to return home?"

"I certainly hope so," I answered. "It took almost forty-five minutes of perusing the map inside the train station to figure out where she was going and the most appropriate route to return."

"She must have been frightened traveling alone."

"The girl was weeping when I first noticed her, hauling a bag that looked as though it weighed as much as she did," I said. "She would walk in one direction, pause, look around, and then head back where she'd been, attempting to catch the attention of other travelers who shooed her away."

"Did you approach her?" Abigail asked.

I shook my head. "I was minding my own business in the shade with a cup of coffee and my sketchbook in hand. After spending multiple days in the old house, I didn't want to speak with anyone unless absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, according to the universe, this was necessary."

Abigail turned and smiled at me. "I knew it."

I huffed, smiling back at her. "Trust me when I say that I had no intention of coming to her aid, but…" I inhaled. "With the most bewildered of expressions, she stared across the street and noticed me. Our eyes locked and instead of turning my attention elsewhere, I offered a smile in return. When I saw her attempting to haul her bag toward my table, I motioned for her to leave it and met her on the other side of the street."

Abigail looked up and smiled at me.

"I remembered standing at the train station when I was a few years younger than this girl, traveling to Paris to live with my cousin's aunt. I knew nothing but a secluded shack in the middle of nowhere and dreaded life in a bustling city where there were people everywhere."

"You were lost, in a sense," Abigail said.

"There are moments when I still don't feel as though I belong here," I admitted.

"Where would you rather be?" Abigail.

Wherever my brother is, I wanted to say. It was the only place I felt that I could belong.

"I'm not certain where I would prefer. Not Conforeit, not here in Paris. I've not traveled much beyond that to experience much and see what feels like home."

She took another step closer to the painting and studied it for a long moment. "I remember sailing across the Atlantic, leaving my parents, brother and sister and all of my friends behind. I was thrilled for the adventure and this new life with Clarence and the family we would start together, but afraid of losing the life I'd known and the people in it. My husband was home to me, and living here was his dream."

I considered her words for a long moment and looked at her from the corner of my eye. Given our relationship–or lack thereof–Abigail never spoke of Clarence to me. "Home was my brother," I said.

"I assumed so," Abigail replied.

"Why did you stay in Paris if you followed your husband's dreams?"

Abigail pursed her lips. "I didn't want to give up the shop and everything Clarence started. It felt like betrayal to allow all of his hard work and years of dedication to simply fall to the wayside." She shrugged. "It's been so many years now since I've been in Toronto that Paris is all I feel I've known."

"Do you want to return to Canada?" I asked.

"I would like to see where I grew up again, yes," she answered. "At least for a visit. And then…?"

"Somewhere that isn't Paris?"

"I'm not sure."

"Is there something you wish to accomplish?" I asked. "A dream of your own?"

Abigail inhaled and smiled. "I enjoy what I do," she answered. "I could sew and make dresses anywhere in the world, I suppose, but my dream is quite simple. I want to be a good mother to my children and keep the shop open for as long as possible."

I shifted my weight. "When I was standing on that platform in the background, awaiting the southern bound train to Paris, I considered running off and leaving Val to come here alone."

Abigail turned her head and looked at me.

"I didn't want to leave Conforeit because I knew that if my brother was still alive, he had to still be there," I replied. "I didn't want to put hundreds of miles between us. Staying, however, wasn't an option. My uncle was sentenced to transportation and there was no means of surviving alone for Val and I in such a small village considering neither of us had useful skills to make a living. Even so, I sometimes wish that I'd still walked away."

Neither one of us spoke for a long moment, both of us staring at the painting with the distraught young woman stuck in an unfamiliar town, her hope of returning to her home dwindling with each passing moment.

"How did you know what she needed?" Abigail asked at last, nodding at the painting.

"Well, after staring at a map together for forty-five minutes, she found the country where she was from and then we narrowed down the region and nearest city."

Abigail gave me a peculiar look.

"She had never seen a map before, apparently, which further complicated the situation," I explained.

"How on earth did she end up in Calais?"

"A mystery I will wonder about until my last breath, unfortunately. I never found out her name, so all that remains of that encounter is this painting. Although I've long since suspected she may have been traveling with someone and the two of them became separated."

"It's a very nice painting with quite the story," Abigail replied. "You should paint another one of her on the train returning home."

"A sequel, of sorts?"

"Yes, so that the viewer doesn't worry about her fate."

"I will take that into consideration," I replied.

Abigail's fingers brushed against mine. "I hope you find home again," she said.

I nodded and inwardly smiled. "I am glad you stayed in Paris," I said. "If for no other reason than selfishly enjoying your company."

Abigail raised a brow.

"I didn't mean it like that," I assured her.

Abigail's green eyes playfully widened. "No?"

"Well…If I am being honest…"

She chuckled to herself. "I have enjoyed your company as well and you may take that as you wish."

oOo

The afternoon at the gallery was one of the best moments I'd ever experienced and I thoroughly enjoyed the ninety minutes we spent walking from one painting to the next, covering every single piece of art within the gallery.

Toward the end, with the gallery completely empty, we began making up names and scenarios for the people depicted in some of the other paintings, including one by Edgar De Gas, who would have been disgusted by our juvenile remarks toward his serious portrayal of a cotton office in New Orleans.

"Orville in the front, about to nod off," I said.

"The chap leaning against the wall assumes he's very important, but he's not," Abigail said.

"No?" I pretended to take a closer look.

"No. Far too much confidence and he's a twit."

"Madame Soward, you certainly have a strong opinion of…what is his name?"

"Orville Harrington Junior. One shove and he'll be out the window."

I gasped. "Poor Orville Junior. That's quite harsh, don't you think?"

Abigail shrugged. "Serves him right."

"What did he do?"

"He's pocketing the cotton and selling it out of his own office. No one suspects him, least of all Orville Senior. His own son, robbing him blind."

"Well, when one sleeps on the job, I suppose they have it coming."

"Orvilel Senior is a very hard-working man. Orville Junior is a no good swindler."

I smiled to myself. "You are quite the storyteller."

"I have three children with wild imaginations," she answered. "I'm accustomed to making up tales to entertain them."

"You certainly entertained me," I said as we headed toward the door. "I assume your children inherited their imaginations from you?"

"Quite possibly the only trait they inherited from me."

I held the door open and found myself greeted by blinding sunlight and unexpected warmth that made Paris almost feel as though spring had officially arrived.

We both paused, waiting for our eyes to adjust to the light.

"Thank you for the private tour of the gallery," Abigail said. "Your talent as an artist is truly impressive."

I offered my arm and thanked Abigail for her kind words despite my first instinct being to dismiss her observation.

"Where did you learn how to paint?" she asked me.

"For many years I was self-taught in drawing and learned to paint by trial and error," I answered. "I became educated on techniques about a year and a half after moving here."

"Did you take lessons?"

I shook my head. "I didn't have the means to compensate an instructor for private lessons, but thankfully I found a group of artists who met at the park over the summer and a salon during the colder parts of the year. I stayed with that particular group for about five months before I found a more suitable group. One of the painters took me under his wing."

"What made the second group more suitable?" Abigail asked.

I smiled to myself. "Hugo," I said. "The self-appointed leader. There were four other painters that met with him, all around the same age and then there was me."

Younger than the rest, far more combative in many ways, but I was desperate to improve. Nothing struck the flint within my soul quite like art and when I found myself getting out of line, Hugo nudged me back into place in a way that no one else could.

"Hugo," Abigail said fondly.

"Duarte. Retired art professor at the university. He recommended me for the position."

"Do you still keep in contact with him?"

"I do," I said. "He was my guest opening night at the gallery, actually."

Abigail nodded in approval. "That's wonderful. He sounds like a good friend."

"Quite possibly my best friend," I answered.

Abigail lifted a brow. "You didn't invite him to the opera tonight?"

"I did and I declined."

Abigail feigned insult. "Why, Phelan Kimmer, am I your second choice?"

I clenched my jaw, pretending to be terribly uncomfortable. "Third, I'm afraid."

Abigail looked at me as if deciding if she should be truly insulted or continue being playfully dramatic. "Who was the second?"

"Elvira, of course."

Almost immediately she clutched by arm with both hands as she burst into laughter, her body leaning into mine. Something about the way she expressed amusement without holding back had always attracted me to her, and the feel of her hands clutching my arm was quite alluring.

"Ah, I should have known. She's the only woman I've ever heard you mention."

"Because she is the loudest, most obnoxious and genuinely endearing feathered lady I've ever met," I answered. "And the first two qualities I listed are the reasons why she'd be immediately turned away from the theater."

"She's upstage the lead soprano," Abigail agreed. "La Carlotta, yes?"

"No, she is not the lead for this production," I answered.

Abigail gave me a quizzical look. "She's been the Opera Populair's lead for a number of seasons, hasn't she?"

"Yes, but she's been ousted by the ghost as of Il Muto from what I understand."

Abigail shook her head. "I suppose I wouldn't be in the know of the latest theater gossip. I haven't been to the opera since Clarence was three or four."

"Then I am truly honored to escort you to the production of Triumphant Juan."

Abigail stared at me briefly. "You mean Don Juan Triumphant." she said.

"Is that what it's called?"

"According to that poster, yes," Abigail said, pointing toward a building with dozens of show posters tacked to the side.

The show posters, however, nearly went unnoticed as I observed Nadir Khan standing with his nose practically to the wall, studying the advertisement for Don Juan Triumphant.

He had his glasses perched on the tip of his nose while he muttered to himself, hands linked behind his back.

"No need to be a magician, my old friend. No need to disappear or hide yourself in the shadows. I am not here to harm you, no matter what you have been led to believe. Find him, they said, find this ghost roaming the darkness. That is what I shall do," he muttered to himself. "But mind you, I never said I would take you dead. You said yourself you were a corpse. I suppose there is no killing what isn't alive." He chuckled to himself. "Ah, but you most certainly are alive and I intend to keep you that way, you damnable fool, if you'd only allow me to help you as I did in a different life. Or have you forgotten?"

Abigail squeezed my arm and I turned to face her.

"My apologies," I said, realizing we had come to a complete stop.

"Do you know him?" she asked.

"We have met previously. His name is Nadir Khan, head of the Persian police."

"Former head of the Persian police," Nadir said without turning to face me.

I found myself astounded by his impeccable hearing as we were quite a distance from where he stood. At last he turned and looked at me, his mouth dropping open momentarily.

"Oh, for goodness sake, you again, playing tricks with my eyes," he muttered, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Kimmer you said, correct?"

"Correct," I answered.

"Your skull appears surprisingly intact," he observed.

"I've been told it's quite thick," I answered.

"But of course. Why wouldn't it be?" He chuckled to himself, amused by his own words. "You haven't seen the ghost today, have you?" he asked.

"Not as far as I am aware," I answered.

"You would know it if you did," he assured me.

"How is that?"

"How is that? Plain as day, you would know him when you saw him. Perhaps if you looked in the mirror you would know the answer to your inquiry," he said.

I furrowed my brow. "I beg your pardon?"

"Mirror," he said, sounding out the single word as if he thought I was remedial and unable to comprehend him. "Look into the mirror, you witless fool."

"I heard what you said," I groused. "What on earth do you mean by that?"

"I mean what I said," he replied.

Abigail took a half-step forward. "I heard that the dancers have covered all of the mirrors in their dressing rooms and the dormitories out of an abundance of caution," Abigail said.

The Daroga stroked his chin, his eyes narrowed. "Yes, yes, that is absolutely true, Madame, but I can assure you it is little more than a false sense of security for everyone within the Opera Populaire. Covering the mirrors will not stop him. He is not an entity easily deterred. No, it will only encourage him more when there is a challenge. Stubborn, tenacious…he is a clever one. A genius, as I have witnessed with my own eyes, and ornery as they come when the mood suits him. He is unlike anyone else in the world, a unique being, to say the least."

"Do you intend to continue speaking without saying much of anything?" I asked, feeling quite irritated by his babbling.

"I am saying everything, Monsieur Kimmer, you are simply not choosing to listen. Or you are listening, but not comprehending, you fool."

"Fool? Who are you calling a fool, you mad old–"

"Are you attending tonight's performance?" Nadir asked.

"We are," I answered. "And you as well?"

"Most certainly." He inhaled and straightened his spine. "Let us pray that the performance is a success," he said under his breath. "For the sake of the audience as well as the composer."

"Is that a warning?" I asked.

"It could be," he answered. "We shall all know by the final curtain."

Abigail and I exchanged looks while Nadir turned on his heel and briskly walked down the street, still muttering to himself.

"What was that about?" Abigail wondered aloud.

"I have no idea," I said. "He's a strange fellow."

"I am not the strange one!" Nadir shouted over his shoulder.

Abigail clutched my arm tighter. "Do you think this ghost will make an appearance tonight?" she whispered.

He roams the darkness. The old gypsy woman's cryptic words were quite similar to what Nadir muttered to the posters. So similar, in fact, that I suppressed a shiver.

"I don't know about the ghost but…" My voice trailed away once I realized I had no suitable reply to quell her concerns.

"Do you think it's safe to attend?" Abigail asked.

I placed my hand atop hers. "I think the only one in danger will be this man masquerading as a ghost," I answered. "The vicomte de Chagny, Nadir Khan, and the managers are hot on his trail should he attempt to disrupt his own opera. Quite honestly, I think the Opera Populaire will be the safest place in all of Paris tonight."

Abigail looked up and searched my face. "You truly believe that?"

"I truly believe that should anything go awry, I make certain you are returned home at the end of the night," I promised her.

Abigail forced a smile. "I admit I'm a bit uneasy."

"If you are worried about your safety, I will not insist that you attend tonight."

"I want to go," she assured me. "I want to see the performance. I have my dress that matches your suit, it's been ages since I've been out of the house, but…this whole business of the phantom has me uneasy. But I don't want you to go alone, either…"

My heart sank, but I nodded all the same, disappointed that a perfect day spent in her company would be cut short. "Dinner still?" I asked. "I am perfectly fine sitting alone in the theater. I would still greatly prefer your company for a meal."

"Of course," she said, leaning into me. "I would not miss dinner for anything."

"Then I will see you at six," I said as the shop came into view.

We crossed the street, Abigail unlocked the door, and paused once we were both inside. She gazed up at me and placed her palm against my cheek.

"I cannot recall the last time I had such a lovely time," she said. "Thank you, Phelan, for a wonderful afternoon at the gallery. I look forward to being with you this evening for dinner and…I will attempt to muster the courage for the opera. I cannot promise that I will–"

I kissed her full on the lips to silence her thoughts, wanting to be with her in a way that transcended pure physical attraction. I felt her rise to the tips of her toes, fingers caressing the shell of my ear, the side of my neck, and lastly my shoulder where she pressed the pads of her fingers into me.

"I shouldn't have done that," I murmured against her lips, unwilling to pull away.

"No," Abigail replied. "You probably should not have, but I would not ask you to stop." She placed her hand flat against my chest. "In fact, if I were the type of woman who seduced unsuspecting men, I think I would ask you to do it again."

"I suspected you were attempting to seduce me all afternoon," I playfully commented, kissing her again.

"Attempting? Why, Monsieur Artist, I do believe it worked." She gazed up at me, moss green eyes sparkling, full lips in the most alluring smile.

We were dangerously close to the same habits that had led to us walking hand in hand up the stairs to her bedroom for a mindless hour of physical pleasure. I kissed her again and took her hand in mine.

"You are almost irresistible," I whispered, planting one last kiss on her forehead. "Almost."

Abigail snaked her arms around me, holding me close. She pressed her cheek to my chest and released a slow, easy breath, melting into me.

Eyes closed, I rested my chin on the top of her head and drew gentle, languid circles against her spine, settling into the comfort of her embrace.

Just be with me, Abigail had said. It was a request I had denied her, an appeal I was certain I had no ability to fulfill. I was empty, a vessel unable to provide true affection no matter how much I cared. I was lonely, suspended by my grief, unable to imagine myself with someone in a way that was meaningful. That part of me was guarded, unwilling to surrender, unable to be laid bare for fear of losing that connection.

I cannot be with you. I can't do it. I can't allow myself to risk grabbing hold only to find what I want slipping through my fingers.

But at the same time it was impossible to release her, to lose the physical closeness and the emotional warmth I felt flooding my senses. I wanted to hold onto her, to hear her breathe and feel her heartbeat against mine, to soak up the warmth of her touch and see her smile when she tilted her head slightly.

It felt like a missing piece of a puzzle fitting perfectly into place, effortlessly completing what I felt certain would never be filled. It was satisfying and terrifying, to have and to want, and to fear its end.

I want to be with you, I wanted to tell her. Or rather, I don't want to be without you. But it is a selfish desire, to want you for myself when I don't know if I have what you need in return.

Slowly I released her, unpeeling myself from her tight embrace. Her face was flushed, her lips still swollen from our kiss, and her eyes still dazzling.
"Phelan, I–" she started to speak, but paused and smiled, appearing slightly dazed. "I will see you in four hours?"

I nodded. "Should I take the suit now?"

"Yes," she said. "I suppose you should."

I waited by the door for her to retrieve the green suit, which she had placed in a bag. She handed it to me, eyes averted and cheeks rosy.

"If I look at you," she said, swiping a stray strand of fiery red hair behind her crimson-flushed ear, "I'm afraid I will ask you to do something I shouldn't be suggesting, so I must insist that you leave at once before we end up in places we should not be. I mean that in the kindest and most respectful way possible."

"It appears your brother was correct."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You are in need of a chaperon in my company."

Abigail sighed heavily and shook her head. "Ah, that does it. I would like you out of my shop."

I offered a devilish smile in return. "I honor your request and will see you at six."

"God help me," Abigail said under her breath as she turned and grabbed the arrangement of flowers. With distance between us, she looked up and smiled. "Go, before I change my mind and ask you to stay."