"Would you be so kind as to convey my good wishes to your daughter?" His tone was formal but pleasant. "I was pleased to read of her marriage in the Epoque."
"Not so pleased as she was, I’ll wager--or myself, for that matter. It is a good match." I smiled warmly and he reciprocated briefly, knowing I did not speak of the groom’s social standing. "And...your wife?" I continued delicately, "How does she fare?"
"Very well." Discomfort crept into the civil voice. "She is seeing the surrounding countryside at present. I told her I...wanted to make this visit alone."
"Really?" I took a sip of tea to mask my expression.
"Come now, Madame. I’m certain you’ve guessed why I sought you out."
There could only be one reason, and we both knew it. But I maintained the enigmatic facade, an old habit too cherished and useful to relinquish. "I assure you, I cannot imagine the cause. I’m hardly a mind reader, after all."
"You did your best to cultivate that impression, as I recall," he said with irritation.
"Merely a matter of style. People are far more impressed by what things seem to be than by what they truly are."
"Is that so?" He leaned forward, as if closer scrutiny would bare my soul. "Did he teach you that?"
The tension in his eyes, his face, and the hand that clutched the delicate china saucer left no room for doubt--even feigned--of who "he" was. "A life in the theatre taught me that. He just confirmed it," I replied smoothly. "So that’s the matter, is it?"
"I want you to tell me about him." That hadn’t changed: the blunt, direct manner at which he’d approached every situation, for good or for ill. I shook my head in response.
"Monsieur le Vicomte, sometimes it is best to let the ghosts of the past--pardon the expression!--sleep in peace." I avoided his unwavering gaze by selecting a biscuit. "At any rate, I told you years ago."
"Not everything--not by half; don’t you think I realize that?" The tea service clattered as he set it aside in desperation. "For years, Madame, I have tried to make sense of the events that forever altered my life, and to no avail. I’ve concluded my failure is due to one fact: I know what had happened, but neither the how nor the why. If I am to make peace with--with the ghosts of the past, as you so aptly termed it--I must know these things; I must know everything. Why did you protect him? Why did Christine--" His voice choked on the next word and my sympathy welled up in echo to the tears glistening in those sky-blue eyes.
"It is a long story, and there are parts of it you will find...uncomfortable," I cautioned.
"I understand that, and I beg you not to spare my feelings." He clasped my hand, a gesture born of natural impertinence. "Madame Giry...when I first came to you for information of the Opera Ghost, I did so for Christine’s sake--or so I believed. Now I ask you for myself. Tell me...what did I miss?"
I took a final sip of tea for courage, then set the cup on the small table at my arm. "Very well." I reclined into the velvet upholstery, deliberately avoiding his stare.
"You know where it began for me...a fair, many years ago. You know what I found there. But you do not know what I felt...what happened inside when I first saw that face, those eyes...when I first heard his voice....
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