Page 66 of Angel's Mask

“Don’t worry about them,” Julianne said with force. She’d had to repeat the admonition to Christine so many times in the last few days as more rumors had swirled around her, reminding her exactly how vulnerable she was and how much people who had never spoken to her were willing to believe the worst of her.

“I know, I know,” Christine sighed. “I don’t know why I care.”

“Because you’re human,” Julianne replied with a sigh. “And humans are stupid.”

“Oh thank you.”

“I’m serious, we all want to be welcomed in to the wide world,” Julianne went on, and Christine suddenly felt foolish and selfish when she saw the wistfulness in her friend’s dark features. “People like you at least have a chance at belonging, and so you want to. Even if you talk to ghosts.”

“I don’t—”

Julianne gave her a look. “I heard a voice the other day when I was coming to your dressing room. And I know you probably can’t tell me anything, about your teacher or ghost or angel or whoever he is. But I just want you to be careful.”

Christine gulped. She had no idea what to say. At least Julianne believed, but it was terrifying to think that they had been heard. And – not for the first time in the preceding weeks – it made her feel more scared than special that she had such a strange patron. “Don’t tell anyone,” Christine whispered. Indeed, how much worse would the rumors about her be if people really knew the truth.

“Come on, I’ll walk with you, I think everyone is going to be trying to get a look at our new lords,” Julianne said, squeezing Christine’s hand encouragingly. “Jammes told me Moncharmin came by theSalon du Danseyesterday and tried to introduce himself to the wrong person. He thought that painter was in charge since he was paying such close attention.”

“Well, Monsieur Degas does look very distinguished when his hands aren’t covered in charcoal,” Christine muttered as they took the winding path towards the stage. “He’s quite nice, if you’ve never spoken to him and—”

“Shh!” Julianne pulled Christine aside as a man turned a corner into the hall. For a second, given Julianne’s reaction, Christine had expected her own ghost to appear, but it was someone else. The man had copper skin, a neatly trimmed black beard, and wore a dark fur cap, brimless and softly folded in such a way that the edges nearly met at the top.

The stranger walked slowly, as if he was looking for something and easily noticed Christine and Julianne staring from down the hall. He said nothing, just nodded politely and turned the other way. Julianne shivered even so.

“Who was that?” Christine whispered as the man disappeared into the dark.

“How have you been here this long and never seen The Persian?” Julianne demanded, tugging Christine with her towards the stage.

“That was him?” she asked and Julianne nodded.

“You know, he talks to the Ghost too,” Julianne said. “Jammes told me that Mercier and Gabriel saw the two of them talking in a hall together.”

“What?” Christine had heard many rumors about the Ghost. Most she didn’t believe for they were so out of character from the angel she knew. The tales of floating heads wreathed in flames or him demanding money from the managers were as absurd as the story that he could talk to the rats. But she’d never given any credence to the rumors of the Persian being in league with the Phantom. She had always assumed he was some employee who was only noted as ‘always lurking about the Opera’ due to his race.

“You can ask Jammes yourself,” Julianne said as they reached the bustling stage where it seemed the entire Opera had assembled ahead of rehearsal. Jammes was with the rest of the rats in a corner, clustered like a bouquet of snowdrops in their white tutus. She made eye contact with Julianne and almost smiled before she noticed Christine and returned to scowling.

“I don’t think she’ll be interested in telling me,” Christine muttered. Jammes had yet to forgive Christine for achieving a sliver of fame, much to Julianne’s consternation.

“I guess you could ask Gabriel and Mercier, but they look rather busy,” Julianne commented. Indeed, the directors were in the process of filing onto the stage along with Charles LaRoche from the ballet and Bosarge. Behind them were two men who had to be the new managers. Christine and the rest of the Opera took in their new leaders. They both looked incredibly tired for men who had only been on the job a few days.

Bosarge clapped his hands quietly, bringing the assembled company to silence as easily as he did the orchestra. “Thank you all for coming,” Bosarge began, looking around the crowd. Christine found herself looking as well. Everyone was there. EveryoneexceptCarlotta. “It is my honor to introduce you to our new managers, Firmin Richard –” the older man gave a bow “and Armand Moncharmin.” Moncharmin at least tried to smile. “Messieurs.”

Bosarge stepped aside and Richard glared at his younger counterpart, indicating who would be speaking.

“Good day to you all,” Moncharmin began, his voice shaking. “We are both truly honored and excited to take on these great responsibilities. We also apologize for the disruptions that this transition has caused. We assure you that things will be sorted out soon. However, and I do hate to do this now but—”

“Rigolettowill premiere on the tenth, not the fourth,” Richard said flatly, and a murmur went up. “We will also need to delay today’s rehearsals until this afternoon. Those of you who are actually needed can reassemble at two o’clock. The rest of you get back to work. Good day.”

Richard turned and walked off stage, with the directors and Moncharmin trotting after him in consternation as the company burst into confused murmurs.

“I hear they can’t get Carlotta out of her dressing room.” Christine and Julianne spun to see Adèle smiling behind them. “She’s had to barricade the door since the lock doesn’t work. I wonder if she’s pouting in her tub.”

“Why on earth is she throwing a fit now?” Christine asked.

Adèle shrugged. “I don’t think her patrons are making the impression she wanted. Maybe because her rival has such influential patron of her own.” Adèle grinned suggestively and Christine’s stomach clenched.

“What are you talking about?” Christine asked, her stomach falling.

“You’d know if you hadn’t been avoiding me and your own damn home for days,” Adèle replied. Christine blushed. She hadn’t wanted to leave the protective enclave of the Opera at all lately. Things out in the world were too confusing, and even things here were becoming too much.

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