I slammed the suitcase shut and left it all behind, racing through the dark cemetery in soaked clothes and bloody bare feet with Diable at my ankles—making a point not to look at the baby’s grave—across the footbridge, through the garden, and to the opera house.
Someone had used the landline to call for help, and the flashing lights of ambulances and fire trucks greeted me. I was surprised by that . . . The Phantom could’ve disabled the lines, had he wanted to. He would never have forgotten a detail like that. He left us a way to save ourselves. Which gave me hope for Etalon.
Almost everyone was in the parking lot. Aunt Charlotte and Bouchard, included. Besides Tomlin, every teacher was accounted for. Same with the students, other than Sunny and my friends, who Aunt Charlotte saw leave shortly after “Tomlin” followed me out of the ballroom.
She couldn’t find Bouchard to help, so she went after my friends herself, to make sure they didn’t get involved. She lost them by the time she hit the second floor and saw the swarms of bees surrounding Bouchard and Jippetto. Because neither of them was moving, the insects hadn’t attacked. Another unexpected detail that gave me hope . . . The Phantom had commanded them to stay still for their safety—I saw that with my own eyes. Or maybe it was to protect the insects, so they wouldn’t sting and die.
Aunt Charlotte released her smoke bombs to daze the bees. Then she woke Jippetto and Bouchard out of their trances right before the screams started in the ballroom. The doors had slammed shut just as the three of them got back up the stairs. Together, they were able to remove the hinges and get everyone out before the flames engulfed the room. The overhead sprinkler system had been disabled.
The Phantom was nothing if not mercurial.
When I realized that they’d also had to remove the hinges from the front door to get outside, it wasn’t hard to piece together where Sunny and the others went once they spotted the bees that would be deadly to her. I hadn’t even thought about my roof key being missing again until that moment. Since all of the second and third floors were up in flames at that point, and the secret passages were also consumed by fire, I turned to Diable for help, remembering how he and Ange had stormed the roof the night before, during my rendezvous with Etalon.
Bells jingling, the cat led me to a secret passage behind some shrubbery—a flap similar to a large doggie-door—on the back of the building. It led all the way up to the cupola on the roof, so I was able to guide my friends to safety and won the title of hero.
But I knew who the real hero was, and my heart ripped a little more every time I thought of him.
I found out, as I walked with my friends to the parking lot, all of us arm in arm, that after I left the ballroom, Sunny told them about Tomlin “helping me” find my creeper. Quan, Jax, and Audrey debated for twenty minutes before deciding that Tomlin might actually be the one stalking me. That’s why they followed me, to have my back, like they always did. Like real friends do.
When the cars arrived to take us to the city—those of us not riding in ambulances—I realized Diable was gone. And I whispered a prayer on the smoky, floral-scented wind that he’d found his master and they were somewhere safe.
A day later, my mom arrived in Paris to stay for a week . . . to make sure I didn’t want to come home. I told her Paris was where I belonged now.
As they searched the academy, the police discovered Tomlin’s corpse behind the mirror wall, which had shattered during the fire to reveal the secret passage. The science teacher was burned and sliced with glass shards, but not beyond recognition. They suspected he was behind everything. The elaborate setup in the ballroom—complete with hallucinogen-laced food and punch—and the bees filtered through pipes he’d installed in Bouchard’s wall behind her plaques. He was also responsible for my torn uniforms, the dead crow on my chair, the broken white half-mask, the “fake” letters, the roses in the chapel, and the wristband and tubing—although me and my rave partners never dared admit that those led us to a club; what difference would it make, since we couldn’t remember where it was or what happened there anyway?
A part of me regretted him taking all the blame. I myself saw how easily Erik could manipulate people. Tomlin wasn’t all bad. He was just . . . misled. I did, however, have to admit he kidnapped me and held me in the secret passages where I saw him flipping gadgets and switches for the nightmare in the ballroom. The police also combed the chapel for evidence, but found nothing there, other than a red swan that fluttered out the moment they opened the door and flew into the cover of the forest before she could be captured. Yet nothing was mentioned about luggage filled with clothes, masks, and a violin.
At the end of the day, the police decided it was an open-and-shut case: a teacher whose bright mind had been damaged in a motorcycle accident years before. Who’d never been the same since. Who harbored a sick obsession with The Phantom of the Opera, and decided to live out his fantasy via the academy’s up-and-coming opera star, Rune Germain. The girl once possessed by song.
The girl who was cured by the Phantom’s son.
The first few weeks of November pass quickly, in spite of my aching heart. The fact that my ribbon imprint—or henna tattoo, as far as everyone other than Aunt Charlotte and Bouchard are concerned—feels warm, yet doesn’t sting or hurt, gives me a small fraction of hope. But why hasn’t he tried to reach me, at least in my dreams?
Every time I sing, I think of him, along with that poster on my wall back home of the bleeding rose: white petals, red liquid oozing from its heart. Only I’m the little girl fearlessly reaching into the thorns, not caring if I’m pierced and bloody; because those wings are so worth every ounce of the pain.
I’ve learned to control my appetites with daily samplings of energy, though I know that I’ll need bigger feedings at times. Without Etalon to guide me, I rely on Aunt Charlotte and follow her routines. She’s been keeping her secret since the age of fifteen, after all. She found the perfect shade of contacts for my eyes and I’m already used to wearing them when Mom and Ned fly in to spend Thanksgiving with us, bearing news about Ben—he’s out of the hospital and doing great, though the doctors say he’ll probably never regain memory of that night—an early Christmas gift even brighter than the cards from Trig and Janine.
Our school has continued with the support of all the parents. The classes, rehearsals, and dorms have been moved temporarily to an apartment building we’re renting in Paris—Headmaster Fabre has a friend in the real-estate business—until the repairs to the opera house are completed. Since the anonymous benefactor can’t be found, the deed now belongs to the investors, as per the contract. These include Aunt Charlotte and Madame Bouchard, who are both determined that RoseBlood will be up and running again, in all its old-world splendor, in plenty of time for our summer production of The Fiery Angel.
However, there’s a new Renata. I was too “traumatized” from the kidnapping for such a taxing role, and have taken one of the smaller parts that opened up, although I’ve already signed up to audition for La Schola Cantorum Conservatory where Audrey is hoping to get a scholarship. And now that she’s playing Renata again, she has a real chance. It’s a shock to all of us that Kat didn’t even bat her pretty eyes at losing the part. She’s too preoccupied toting Roxie’s books to classes, helping her up the stairs, and carrying her food trays to the table for meals. She hasn’t left her friend’s side since Roxie broke her leg while pushing Kat out of the way of the chandelier on Halloween night. It seems Kat has learned there’s more to life than the pursuit of stardom and a hot guy with twinkling blue eyes and blond hair.
As for Jax and me? We’ve decided what happened between us at the rave club was drug-induced, no more real or mysterious than the delusions everyone had on Halloween night. Audrey’s forgiven us both, and has told Jax how she really feels about him. They’re dating now, and supercouple status is on the horizon. After almost dying, they’re not wasting any more time.
The Friday after Thanksgiving, Ned takes Mom to see the palace
in Versailles, and I go with Aunt Charlotte to visit Grandma Lil. I learn something while looking at my grandma’s lifetime of wrinkles, and her nose and eyes so like Dad’s: forgiveness is much easier than holding a grudge. She isn’t expected to live through the end of the year, but at least now we’ve made peace.
After the visit, my aunt asks if I want to go with her to check on the renovation’s progress at RoseBlood. It’s the first time I’ve returned since Halloween. I don’t waste one second following her into the opera house, just like she doesn’t ask a single question as we part ways. The only thing she says is to be back in an hour.
The sun shines bright, but the wind is brisk with the scent of greenery and soil. I pull my cap over my head and snuggle deeper into my multicolor embroidered jacket and knit scarf. Today I wore my jeans with the patches, so no air can seep through the rips and chill me. I follow the trail through the garden, giving passing glances to the flowers and plants—some wilted and dormant, others still holding their shape and color while glistening with the first touch of frost. Come spring, I’ll visit them every day.
My cheeks grow warm at the thought of carrying on Dad’s love for gardening here, on his side of the ocean. At last I can honor his memory free of guilt.
There’s a smile on my face by the time I cross the footbridge, no longer leery of the water underneath. My mood changes the moment I spot the baby’s grave. When I saw her in that chamber, enveloped in liquid, hooked up to tubes that pulsed light and life into her empty body, there was a second that I hesitated—that I almost considered surrendering my gift—until Etalon’s logic broke through. It wouldn’t have grown her a set of lungs, or a beating heart. I’ve been blessed with both, so it’s up to me to keep Christine’s voice alive.
Noticing something different about the epitaph, I move closer to the cradle. Someone has etched October 31 beside the year 1883, along with the name: Hope. The dirt around the grave is freshly dug.
It’s confirmation. Erik chose his son, and Etalon’s alive. Tears scald the edges of my eyes, a burst of relief.
He’s alive.
But . . . that means the Phantom is alive, too.
What was it Christine said on her drawing? Legends never die.
That knowledge doesn’t seem as intimidating now. He’ll never hurt me again. Etalon will see to that.
I blot my eyes with my jacket’s cuff and turn to the chapel. That ache begins once more in my heart . . . such a deep longing I can hardly breathe. I didn’t plan to go inside; I didn’t think I was ready. But a magnetized, tugging sensation winds through my tattoo, making it impossible for me to walk away.
My hands hover over the serpent door handle, spurring a gut-twisting memory of Etalon inside that glass case with snakes under his feet. I shut down the fear, because he made it out okay. I can find peace in that, even if I never see him again.
Just please, wherever you are, be happy, Etalon. Don’t hide anymore. Live.
He deserves that, after the childhood he endured, and after all he did to save me and the school despite it.
A knot builds in my throat, belying my brave front. I’m selfish, because I don’t want him to be anywhere else. He’s part of me. I want him here. Now and always.
I shove the door open, painting the dirty stone floor with a slash of yellow sunlight. The soft illumination continues in colorful patches along the walls, stamped in place via the stained glass. I close the door and silence engulfs me, other than the whispers of wind seeping through jagged cracks in the windows. The scent of damp stone tinges the air, overpowered by the aroma of roses.
I move forward, taking cautious steps across the gritty surface as my eyes begin to adjust to the filmy yellowish light gilding the room. My breath locks in my lungs when I see the baptismal and my dad’s violin propped at its base. Beside it, a blanket cushions the stone, dusted with a layer of duotone rose petals.
“I know I promised a bed, but I couldn’t fit the box springs through the baptismal.”
A sob catches in my throat at the sound of that broken French accent. I turn and he steps out from the shadows on the other end of the chapel—tall, strong, and gentle. My maestro.
He holds Diable in his arms. The cat scowls, disgusted by the confinement. As Etalon and I stare at one another in silence, Diable twists around, his collar jingling, until his “master” finally sets him down.
The cat bounds my way in a flurry of bells and wooly fur, stops long enough to wrap my ankles in greeting, then races into the shadows behind the baptismal. His jingling stops, a sure sign he found a way out.
Etalon hasn’t budged from his spot, other than to take off his shoes. His dark wavy hair has been trimmed and swept into some semblance of order. He’s wearing a lightweight navy sweater, dark-blue blazer, and ribbed navy pants, and stands beside his discarded shoes, showcasing my toe socks.
I clasp a hand over my mouth, caught between laughing and crying. My legs jitter, ready to run to him, my arms ache to embrace him. I’m hungry to kiss those lips and mess up his silky hair with my fingers. I’ve wanted it for a month. But I can’t move. “You look . . . so normal,” I mutter between my fingers.
A chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Well, there’s a first time for everything, yes? I had a job interview in Paris today. Veterinary assistant. At last, I can use my talents once more to heal instead of alter. Erik pulled some strings.”
To see Etalon so content, to know that he can start to atone for what he’s done—it should unkink the twist in my gut. But the image of Erik pulling strings on any level sends shivers through me. I still remember how he held the scalpel to my throat, then did the same to Etalon, actually cutting him.
And I remember how I thought I’d left Etalon for dead.
“No.” I drop my hand and struggle to contain the current of mixed emotions rising in me. “We’re not doing this. Having a typical conversation like neither of us went through hell and back. You could’ve at least sent me a note! Something! Anything to let me know—”
He’s towering over me before I can finish, a graceful slash of deep blue through the sunlight dappling the walls. “I thought you did know.” He catches my palm and pushes my jacket’s sleeve to my elbow, tracing the ribbon’s band along my wrist and igniting the coils with delicious fire. “This should’ve told you.” He lifts my knuckles to his soft lips then shakes his head. “I forget sometimes. The concept is foreign to you still. One day you’ll learn to trust your intuitions.”
I pound his chest, just once, with my free hand. “Even if I did sense it, that’s not good enough! When you didn’t come to me in my dreams, I was afraid you didn’t want to find me.”
His dark gaze intensifies and he backs me toward the baptismal, stopping when my hips hit the coolness of the bricks’ edges. He slips off my cap and tosses it into the pile of rose petals, then winds his fingers through my hair and tilts my face so I can see the sincerity etched in every perfect feature. “I will always want to find you.” His deep voice grinds through me, imploring me to believe. “Sometimes we can’t be together. But even then, I’ll be tied to you. I was giving you time to find yourself, to get your footing, while I found mine. But never doubt that I would cross the universe for you, flamme jumelle.”
Twin flame—the most disorienting and exhilarating juxtaposition I’ve ever encountered: adrift and independent, yet at the same time, rooted deep and bound to another.
His knuckle grazes my temple. “Now, all better?”
I lean into his body heat, holding him tight with one arm while basking in his woodsy, spicy scent. “Yes.” I sigh. This is what I’ve been missing. This is what I’ve been waiting for. Peace, comfort, and completeness.
Home.
Both of his arms wrap around me, fingers trailing my vertebrae underneath my jacket as he nuzzles the top of my head. I press my ear to his sternum and open my hand on his chest, so I can hear and feel his heartbeat.
“Where were you?” I ask at last, snuggling closer to share his
energy.
“After we escaped the flood”—balmy warmth dusts my scalp as he breathes the answer—“Erik and I stayed at Jippetto’s for a few days, until the police thinned out. Then we went to the club in Paris for two weeks, arranging for others to take over its running. Erik had masks and clothes there, so once he was well enough to travel, we took a plane to Canada. We wrapped his face in bandages, as if he’d been in an accident. Ange and Diable accompanied us in the cabin. There’s a mirrored underground city where I have . . . family.”
I pull free to look up at him. “Mirrored and underground. So, our kind of family?”
“Yes. I’ll take you one day, if you’d like to see it. But Erik needs to be there now. Somewhere safe, where he’ll be accepted. He’s still so fragile. I wanted him away from—” He cuts himself short.
“Me.”
Etalon narrows his eyes in thought. “This place and all its memories, at the very least.”
He’s trying to downplay it, but even if he has forgiven Erik to some extent, there’s still a part of him that doesn’t trust his father anywhere near me. And I’m okay with that. I’ll feel a lot safer here at RoseBlood knowing the Phantom is in Canada and that no one—other than a cranky cat—is lurking in the shadows.
“So,” Etalon presses. “Your turn. Tell me about you.”
I snort. “My details pale in comparison. You really want to hear about school? Boring, everyday things?”
“Always.” His hands drop to the basin’s edge on either side of my hips so he can hunch down, his forehead inches from mine. “But for now, I was thinking along the lines of something more intimate.” The way he growls the word sparks my insides with anticipation, yet instead of the passionate kiss I’m expecting, he nuzzles my nose, sending electric tingles up the bridge. “When’s your birthday . . . what’s your favorite breakfast . . . how did it feel the first time you knitted a scarf? How many pets you’ve had. Oh, and what your favorite color is—”