Page 35 of Angel's Mask

Christine easily found Julianne in the crowd, next to Maxine, and Alonzo, a huge stagehand with close shorn hair and olive skin who Christine had met only in passing.

“Well, speak of the—” Maxine began, sneering at Christine before Julianne kicked her in the shin. Both the vitriol and the fact she’d been a topic of conversation stunned Christine.

“What’s going on?” Christine asked, trying to gauge Julianne’s expression. Her dark eyes held uncharacteristic worry.

“Joseph Buquet,” Julianne answered, and Christine’s stomach dropped. “He was attacked.”

“The idiot fell is all,” Alonzo cut in. “He was drunk somewhere he shouldn’t have been, and he fell.”

“Is he alright?” Christine asked, her heart not beating right as the blood drained from her face.

“Broke his damn leg, probably won’t work for a month or two,” Alonzo rumbled. Christine’s eyes met Julianne’s, and she finally understood the conflict in her friend’s face.

“They found him on the stage this morning, raving,” Julianne said. “He probably was delirious. And still drunk.”

“Doesn’t mean he was lying,” Maxine snapped, glaring at Julianne and Alonzo before turning her eyes to Christine. “He said it was the Ghost.”

“Buquet says a lot of foolish things,” Julianne hissed back.

“I was there, he was out of his mind, talking nonsense,” Alonzo said.

“So, you heard what he said! What he saw!” Maxine shot back, again glancing at Christine.

“What did he say?” Christine almost didn’t want to know.

“Well, he kept going on about a witch,” Maxine sneered. “Said she called the Ghost down on him.”

“He was saying that before he fell,” Alonzo corrected, which did not make Christine feel any better. “This morning he – he said the Ghost came for him because he saw his face.”

“That proves he’s lying to cover up that he fell like an idiot,” Julianne said. “No one has ever seen the Ghost’s face.”

“Someone has now! And he nearly died for it!” Maxine exclaimed.

“Bad business,” Maxine said, shaking her head and still looking at Christine like a leper.

“Did he say what he looked like?” Christine asked. She often imagined her angel, but anytime she tried to think what his true face might be, the fantasy evaporated. What had Buquet seen?

“Death,” Julianne answered quietly, eyes locked on Christine. “He said the Ghost’s face was death.”

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Erik disliked the hidingplace beneath the manager’s office. It was darker and more cramped than most other passages throughout the Opera. And it was always disconcerting to be below people’s feet. But in his spot beneath Debienne’s desk, he could hear every bit of conversation. And today there was much to listen to.

Above him, a door slammed, and agitated footfalls shook the floor.

“We’ve lost four more stagehands!” Poligny exclaimed. “That’s on top of the two from this morning and seven firemen. Seven!”

“Can you blame them?” Debienne replied. The boards above him creaked and Erik imagined the man sinking dejectedly into his chair. “They want to live.”

“You’re not still blaming me for this, are you?” Poligny said.

“Youprovoked him and the next morning a man is found broken on our stage, so, yes I’m blaming you,” Debienne spat. “And I’m tired of this, Guillaume. So goddamned tired.”

At that moment Erik heard a distant knock on the office door. He recognized the precise steps of Rémy, the managers’ secretary, as the door opened above. “Messieurs,” Rémy said nervously. “Monsieur Gabriel and Monsieur Mercier are both outside.”

Finally. Erik had been waiting all morning for the directors. “Let them in,” Poligny sighed. A flurry of footsteps above Erik’s head released another cloud of dust, reminding Erik exactly why he wore his hat even in places like this.

“Gerard, Henri,” Debienne sighed. “What now?”

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