Chapter 4
Instantly, all traces of wonder and hope were dashed.
My jaw hardened, anger kindling within me. “That’s not funny, Meg.”
“I’m not in jest,” the voice said. “And I am not Meg.”
“But she put you up to this.” My chest felt tight and hot, and the hollow of my throat burned as if I’d swallowed fiery embers.
Meg was the only person I’d ever told about the Angel of Music.
Not so many months ago, she’d come upon me in the dressing room after a rehearsal for La Gioconda.
During one of the breaks, I’d foolishly glanced into the pit and noticed the concertmaster.
There was something in the way he’d tucked the violin under his chin that had made me remember my father.
It was such a simple, stupid thing, but it sent me into a spiral of grief I could not escape.
I felt as if my sternum might crack under the force of my sobs, and my eyes were so swollen with tears I could barely see.
The other ballerinas were quick to change and scurry from the room, but Meg hadn’t shied away.
She’d held me, tracing patterns across my back.
She’d said nothing of comfort or commiseration.
She’d simply stayed with me, letting me mourn however felt most natural. Fresh tears had come, and then…stories.
So many stories poured out of me as I recounted our travels across Europe, the funny flourishes he’d make spreading jam across toast, the scent of his aftershave, the way he’d rosin his bow.
I’d told her the stories he’d told me: wintry tales from the north and bittersweet fables where queens would die, leaving behind heartsick kings and tiny princesses.
I’d told her how he’d fervently believed in the muses, in the power of divine inspiration, in the Angel of Music.
Father had claimed he’d been visited by such a spirit once, when he was a young boy.
He said an angel had come and taken his hands, clasping them gently in the beatific glow of his own and imbuing them with beautiful songs that haunted my father for decades.
And, Father said, when the Angel had gone, he’d picked up his violin and had never been the same.
The notes he could coax from the instrument were aching and sweet, mesmerizing and ephemeral. He felt the Angel’s power well up every time he ran his bow over the strings. He felt him in every note he held, in every song he played.
The first time Father had told me the story, I’d burst into tears, for the Angel had never come to me and I feared he never would.
“He’ll come,” Father had promised, holding my hands as the Angel had held his. “He’ll come, and in that instant, your life will change forever.”
“I can’t believe you’d tell someone about this, Meg Giry,” I snapped now, my lower lip trembling. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear apart every brick in the room until I found out where my supposed best friend hid.
“Christine…”
“Who did you trick into helping you? Frederick? Jean-Luc?”
“Christine,” he repeated, and a sudden chill went through my system, dousing the flames of anger I’d stoked.
With just two syllables, I felt besotted and intoxicated.
My name had washed over me like a warm wave, blanketing me with a profound peace that left me reeling, aching for more.
That voice could not belong to one of the ballet boys.
It was too powerful, too beautiful. It seemed impossible that such a voice could exist anywhere on this mortal plane.
The magnitude of that thought was enough to snap me from my reverie.
Such a voice was impossible.
Which meant it wasn’t real.
Somehow, by means I was too tired to guess at, someone had manufactured this voice. Someone was playing a trick on me. And I couldn’t imagine a world where it would be Meg.
Though I knew she was the only one I’d ever told of my father’s promise, that didn’t mean she’d been the only one to ever hear it.
Just yesterday, Carlotta had complained of the thin walls in the dressing rooms. Carlotta had railed at Monsieur Lefèvre that she’d listened to our chatter for months. Carlotta could have heard everything I’d told Meg.
I remembered the look she gave me as she’d been all but carried offstage tonight, remembered her fiery fury.
It didn’t make any sense for Meg to tease me with such callous cruelty, but Carlotta?
I nodded to myself.
It made perfect sense for her to go after me. Me, the dancer she’d decided was trying to usurp her.
“I’m leaving,” I announced, snatching up my belongings and heading toward the exit.
“Don’t go!” called the voice, and while part of me felt compelled to obey its plea, the rest of me was too mad to stop.
I stormed out of the dressing room, slamming the door behind me, before I could hear another word out of the supposed Angel of Music.