As I was getting ready to fight, deciding that I wasn’t going to go easily, there was a thunk. The gendarme’s eyes crossed, almost comically, and he crumpled in a heap on the floor, unconscious. Behind him, holding a large golden candlestickthat she’d clearly grabbed hastily in the hallway, was a wide-eyed Maren.
I sobbed in relief. “Maren. I didn’t do this. Please, you have to believe me. They’re going to burn me alive. Please.”
“Shhh. Shhh. Fifi. I know. But we don’t have much time. I don’t know how to get you out of here.”
“I have to get through the mirror, Maren. I have to run. They’re not going to ask questions, they’re just going to kill me.” If Maren was confused by my statement, she didn’t let on.
I looked down at the gendarme. He hadn’t moved, but he wasn’t dead—he would wake up soon. “Help me get the keys to these cuffs. I need my hands. He’s the one who cuffed me, he should have them.”
Maren scrambled over the unconscious officer and rifled around in his jacket pockets. Every second felt like an eternity. Finally, she retrieved a set of keys.
“Get these things off me,” I moaned.
Maren’s fingers fumbled as she tried to free me, and the keys fell to the floor.“Merde,”she cursed, picking them up and trying again.
“Come on, come on, come on,” I huffed.
Finally there was a click, and the cuffs fell away.
“Maren.” I looked at my friend, with the understanding that I may not see her again. “I…”
“Go!” Maren exclaimed, hurrying me toward the gilded mirror. I chanced one look back at her. A commotion sounded in the halls beyond. They were coming.
“Get out of here, Maren. Don’t be anywhere near here when they come,” I said as I turned away one last time.
I placed my newly freed hands against the cool glass. I still had no real idea how to get through. But this was another do or die situation. I had to figure it out. I flung as much energy and awareness as I could toward the mirror, recalling exactly how ithad felt to slide through it like a hot knife through butter, and somehow, I fell. Through the glass, sliding in exactly as I had with Ciaran. I didn’t wait to look behind me, I just ran.
“Music has the power to make one forget everything save those sounds that touch your heart.” —The Phantom of the Opera, Gaston Leroux
NOWHERE ELSE TO GO
Iran. I ran and ran and ran, not stopping at the stairs, which I descended at an ungodly speed. It was miraculous that I didn’t fall down the ancient steps, breaking my neck on the way. I flew down, down, down, into the depths of the opera house. Down where no one from Scion—no gendarmes—could follow. When I reached the canal, I didn’t think, didn’t wonder if the raft would be waiting there: it was.
I leapt onto it, not stopping to look back—not once. My lungs screamed from the effort, and I had a stitch in my side that felt like knives, but I didn’t stop. I took up the pole and pushed through the canals as fast as I could, the little raft slicing through the still water, which lapped at the stone walls. I was at a crossroads before I knew it. Which way had Ciaran steered us? I never second-guessed my instincts, just followed them, each time. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t look back. Never look back. Tears fell silently as I pushed through the canals, but I wiped them away, trying not to allow the feeling of loss to break through. I was erecting a massive wall around my emotions; this was no place for regrets.
I didn’t allow myself a second to rest until I got to the middle of the Cistern. I remembered that this was where Ciaran hadtaken a moment to relax; only here had he felt comfortable to raise his voice above a whisper. I didn’t know exactly why, but I finally allowed myself to breathe—to look behind me. I had expected the hounds of hell on my tail, but there was no one. I was alone in this ancient cathedral. It was so dark, and so cold, but still hauntingly beautiful. I took a breath and pushed onward.
The solitary journey up the passageway on the other side of the Cistern felt heavy. I was here. I had left my old life behind me. I didn’t even have a chance to think about it. To decide. I knew deep down that the split-second decision had saved my life, but it didn’t make it easier. To not look back. To not mourn and wonder what I had left behind. My thoughts turned to Maren—she hadsavedme. She had risked her own life and reputation to get me out. Would I ever see her again? Could I ever repay her for what she’d done for me? Would Carlotta believe that I hadn’t had anything to do with the crash? She had looked up at me with fear and disgust. I had a sinking fear in my gut that she believed I had done it. What about Seff? I had never gotten to answer him truly. I had never told him that I couldn’t marry him. I supposed that he would not want me now anyway. The proposal would have been null and void the moment I was accused of witchcraft.
My thoughts cascaded as I walked, and before I knew it, I had arrived at the nondescript door leading to Ciaran’s apartment. I was still wearing the stupid pageboy costume, my hair coming out of the low ponytail at the base of my neck. My makeup was good, but there was no way it would have withstood the sweat that poured down my face after my descent and furious rowing. I must have looked ridiculous. But I stood outside of that door and hesitated, for a moment, before I accepted how my life had changed irreparably. I knocked.
There was a shuffle from inside—the scrape of a chair and quick footsteps. Several locks clicked—a pause—the door opened. Ciaran hadn’t been expecting anyone, clearly, and I had caught him at an inopportune moment. He was standing there, with a white towel draped over his left shoulder. His hair was dripping, still wet from the bath, as he leaned toward me, clearly shocked. He was not wearing a shirt.
I had just undergone a verytraumatic ordeal. I had witnessed death and gore and nearly been killed myself. So the fact that I noticed this at all is a testament to how beautiful the man in front of me truly was. His golden skin was dewy, glistening in the dim light within the apartment. The swirling scars that began on the side of his face extended down and across his shockingly muscular chest. Shockingly muscular—yes, this descriptor would apply to the rest of his bare torso as well. So many muscles. What did someone have to do to get so many muscles? I think I was ogling again. My mouth was dry; heat flared in my face and much lower. But I quickly snapped out of it as I remembered exactly why I was here. What had happened to cause me to flee for my life. Ciaran still hadn’t said a word. He was just staring right back at me, as if he couldn’t believe I was here.
“Please,” I whispered, breaking the silence that hung in the air between us, “I have nowhere else to go.”
Ciaran seemed to jolt awake at my plea, his eyes breaking away from mine as he peered anxiously over my shoulder. “Get inside.” His voice was rough and gravelly. I squeezed through the doorway as he kept his eyes on the passageway behind me, checking to see that I hadn’t been followed. I tried, and failed,not to notice the warmth radiating off his bare torso, or the herbal fresh scent of his soap.
“What happened?” Ciaran wheeled around to face me once he’d finished locking the door and muttering whatever spells he used to keep it secure. It was concern, not anger, that flashed across his angular features. “Are you hurt?”
“Uh… no. But you might want to sit down. It’s kind of a long story.”Stop looking at his naked chest, stop looking, stop looking. I silently willed myself to keep my eyes on his face. At that moment, Ciaran seemed to remember that he was in fact half naked. He stalked into his bedroom and grabbed a black shirt, pulling it over his head in a smooth motion. It left his damp hair tousled. The effect did not make it any easier for me not to stare.
“Tell me everything.” He motioned for me to sit on the sofa. I was so exhausted I almost fell into the plush cushions. And then I told Ciaran. I told him everything that had happened since he led me back through the mirror. How my apartment had been trashed. I told him about the viscount relegating me to a silent role in the opera. And finally, I told him about the chandelier crash.
“Holy Goddess,” he hissed as I told him how the massive fixture had popped, exploded and come crashing down.
“Do you think… I could have done it? Even by accident?” My voice was smaller than I would have liked, a sliver of doubt creeping into my conscious mind—a small voice telling me that itcouldhave been me.
