She is still confused about what she wants and needs. I know because I stood in the shadows and watched her kiss the young poet. I was angry, but not in the way I thought I would be. I thought I would feel madly jealous over her, but instead, I was strangely jealous of them both. I wanted the kiss to end, and yet I wanted to watch it happen over and over again. For one glorious moment, I pictured myself between them, devouring first Christine’s lips and then Raoul’s mouth while their hands glided over my body.
Then my anger returned, along with the determination that I must separate the two of them, at least for a while. I must have Christine all to myself without the distraction of the green-eyed poet.
My plan will unfold after the curtain falls. Until then, all jealousy is driven from my mind as I sit in Box Five, weeping silent tears of bliss while Christine sings. Raoul’s musical does not end with a chorus number but with a climactic solo, and she is singing it as if the world is ending and no music will ever be performed again.
The orchestra can sense her energy—they are playing better than they have all night, but I can imagine an ideal version of the music, a more worthy orchestration. Vibrant strains of searing melody from the strings, heart-stopping percussion, glorious brass softly swelling behind Christine’s voice. I can hear it all in my head, not as Raoul wrote it, but as I would.
My hands lift when she nears the peak of the song as if I’m conducting the piece, eliciting each pure, inhuman, mercilessly beautiful note. Christine turns her face toward Box Five, toward me, and I know the entire third act has all been for me. She is truly, torturously mine.
Her voice drifts away on the final note of the song, and for one scintillating second, the entire theater is dead silent.
Then, a hurricane of applause.
They leap to their feet as one, all of them. Every critic, every guest. A standing ovation for the young woman who stands before them, flushed and triumphant.
I am breathless, motionless, wrung out and bled dry, but I find enough strength to lend my applause.
Christine moves to retreat when the curtain descends. But as it sinks slowly down, she hesitates, sways, and falls headlong.
Her costar catches her. I’d thought him rather useless, but apparently he has the reflexes of an athlete as well as the body of one. The crowd utters a unified exclamation of shock as he carries her offstage while the curtain descends. There’s a scuffle in one of the boxes to theleft of mine where Raoul sits. No doubt he’s scrambling to get out, planning to hurry backstage and be there the second she awakens.
“Agnes.” I speak the name low, but with a resonant power behind it that will carry for miles, summoning the ghost from wherever she may be.
She appears within seconds. “My lord?”
“Go backstage. Find out if Christine is all right.”
She whisks away and returns in a moment. “She fainted, my lord. She’s coming around now.”
“Good. Tell the others we’re expecting a guest in the lair tonight. I want candles—lots of candles along the mirror passage, leading all the way down to my chamber. And we’ll need music. Romantic music, not that annoying business you put on the other night.”
“That was disco,” she says haughtily. “And you liked it.”
“I did not. Off with you.”
I stay long enough to see Christine come out with the rest of the cast for the final bow, supported by her costar and one of the dancers. She looks pale, but her smile is triumphant.
Reassured, I rise from my seat and leave the box, determined to exit the theater before the audience does. Since these guests are here by special invitation, they’ll be headed to one of the ballrooms for hors d’oeuvres and cocktails. Since she fainted, Christine will have an excuse to skip the reception and go to her room to rest.
I pass two people on my way to the secret corridor in the residence wing. One is a security guard in a corner stairway of the theater. The other is Mrs. Giry. Both of them are my pawns and were told to expect me and ignore my presence. When I pass, I unfurl mist and shadows around my body to enforce the idea of a mystical phantom. I’m fairly certain the security guard pisses himself, and Mrs. Giry shrinks against the wall, clutching the pendant she wears.
I slip through the entrance to the hidden passage and hurry along it until I reach Christine’s room. I wait until she appears, darting hastily through the door and shutting it behind her.
She’s back in her usual clothes—leggings, a tank top, ballet flats. I notice immediately that the bra is absent tonight.
“Angel?” she whispers.
“Brava, bellissima,” I croon, casting my voice into the center of the room. “You sang yourself into a dead faint.”
“That was unexpected,” she admits. “I’m not used to my body failing me, ever.”
“And where is your faithful dog, your precious Raoul?”
“I wish you would stop saying his name in that spiteful way. He’s at the reception, enjoying some well-earned praise, I hope. He produced something quite beautiful.”
“Beautiful lyrics, yes. Imperfect orchestration.”
Christine plants her hands on her hips. “Are you the one who told him he wasn’t any good?”
