Page 64 of Wolfsbane Hall
“I know my brothers.” Vivian’s lips twitched. “The Phantom would never offer another soul this body. He’s too obsessed with it and the girl inside, and that’s not you.”
“You were all once obsessed with me, too.”
Vivian wiggled a bit underneath Margot’s legs, seeing if she could break free. “Time changes many things.”
“It hasn’t changed you.”
“Monsters never change.”
INTERLUDE:
Sunday, August 17, 1930
Civic Auditorium - The Opera House
San Francisco, California
All that glitters was not gold—except when it actually was…
The Civic Auditorium was built for the World’s Fair in 1915, and as such, the building was bedecked with finery. Gilded walls, rich velvet, and intricate murals. It was glamorous and powerful. Everything Celestine was not.
She gulped and pinched her eyes before walking onto the grand stage, with its lights glaring and the audience silhouetted. From what she could tell, there were three men in the audience. The Opera General Director and Opera Conductor were sitting relatively close to the stage, and one more man wearing a top hat was far at the back.
Celestine bit her lip and begged God—or whoever was up in the sky—to help her. Make it so she didn’t stand out like a sore thumb.
Her shoes were covered with holes, and her dress had rips in the hem and bodice, which she had desperately tried tocover up with cleverly placed stitches, brooches, and lace formed from discarded plastic.
The Great Depression had not been kind to her, but this was the first step toward her future. She just needed to make it through these auditions.
Unfortunately, luck was never on her side, and neither were her nerves. Anxiety was a noose that strangled her vocal cords and wobbled her notes, and that could not happen during the biggest auditions of her life. But that was her luck. Celestine was an incredible singer, trained by her mother since the age of five. She had technique, tone, clarity, and near-perfect pitch except when she was nervous… Which, of course, always happened during auditions.
The song floated out of her like doves taking flight. Gentle, yet radiant. That was until one of the notes soured and curved sharply and then immediately flat as a counterbalance. After that initial struggle, all those notes faltered, and those birds flying gracefully in the sky turned to ash. And as she entered the B section of her Aria, she knew she’d messed up beyond repair.
There would be no respite from her suffering. There would be no hope. She’d either have to turn to prostitution to survive, or something far worse.
The director held up his hand, signaling her to stop. “That is enough. You can see yourself out.”
Celestine bowed her head, tears forming at the edges of her eyes. She’d failed. Again.
20
Saturday, November 11, 1939
Petite Parlor
Celestine would not murder another person. She was sick of blood pooling in her hands and ripping breaths from dying, frail bodies. She did not want to watch poison devour a body or clench her hands around a slender throat.
Never again. Nine years of death was enough.
Wolfsbane may bathe in blood, Margot might as well, but Celestine no longer would. She was done, and she was done with the parasite inside her brain taking command. No, it was her turn to take command of the ship and steer it in the right direction.
And Celestine had heard enough.
She climbed off Vivian and, without another comment, she slowly, silkily strode out of the room, walking by a wide-eyed Babette as she left. The brunette had watched the exchange with a mixture of bafflement and dismay.
Celestine moved purposefully through the house. She was beginning to understand the game. The Phantom had been moving his pieces on the board all night, placing pawns, setting traps, and dancing with his queen. Every person, every moment, every minuscule detail had a purpose.
Even Margot’s rebellion.
