Chapter Three

Christine slid the library doors shut behind her, the soft click of them joining together decompressing the tension across her shoulders. Across the room, Raoul sat almost as stoic as the ancient halls around him. Chagny had seen centuries of births and deaths, but nothing prepared it for the death of Philippe. On a sigh, she glanced out the window and tried to gather herself together.

Chagny rose like a formidable presence in the region it commanded, the flags displaying the family colors always snapping proudly in the breeze. The ivy covering the walls outside sheltered its secrets as ardently as it embraced the love, compassion, and outreach of its namesake. Nevertheless, now Chagny stood cocooned in grief, the ivy trapping France’s tears as a noble son was mourned. Chagny was Raoul’s childhood home. He was born into the role he now had to play, but to Christine, he seemed out of place filling his brother’s shoes. Philippe left no heir to the massive estate leaving Raoul head of one of the most influential families in France.

One sweep of her eyes around the room explained the weight she saw on Raoul’s shoulders. The library screamed Philippe’s name, further adding to the contrast of seeing Raoul behind Philippe’s desk now. The colors of the coat of arms were scattered throughout, reflecting Philippe’s pride, power, and masculinity. Cases holding his service medals mingled with other noteworthy accomplishments. His sword shone proudly above the dark mahogany of the fireplace mantel. A nicked and dented model of a frigate, an ancient childhood toy, perched on the corner of the desk. It reflected the playful inner child Philippe had been. A person only revealed to his closest loved ones.

The model made a soft ticking as Raoul mindlessly rocked it on its stand. The unfathomable grief Christine read in his eyes could have diminished the sun. In his other hand, steam struggled to rise from a forgotten cup of tea. Christine smiled, though sadly. Philippe never touched a drop of alcohol, no small feat for a man of his power. Christine knew it was in a tribute that Raoul sipped it. She suspected he could use something stronger.

“There you are.” Christine rallied her emotions into line. “You’ve been hiding.”

Raoul looked up. A dark cloud moved across his face. “Do you blame me?”

The week had been long. Well-wishers and mourners still streamed across the grounds. If Christine closed her eyes, she could picture Philippe’s coffin and see Raoul’s white-knuckled grip upon his sword as he stared at the box containing his brother. And now, with barely any time to mourn, he faced mountains of technical and legal affairs.

A weak smile lifted his lips. “You shouldn’t be moving about.”

Christine laid a hand on the swell of her belly. The death of Philippe had over-shadowed the joy of this child. “You fret too much. I’ll not be held prisoner by you again with this baby.”

“And I’ll not have my little lady jeopardized by your need to be on your feet constantly.” He sternly pointed for her to sit.

“It could be another boy,” she teased, ignoring his request. Their son, André, continued to be Raoul and Christine’s bright spot in the long year since the affairs at the Opera Garnier.

“Where is my heir?”

“With the wet-nurse. I’m fine, Raoul.” Christine demurely cleared her throat before breaking her news. “Your sisters have returned home. They felt it was time they left you to all you have to do. They asked I shower you with kisses. They didn’t want to disturb you.”

He nodded but said nothing. Raoul was stronger than she expected. He had handled the condolences with grace and accepted the title of Comte de Chagny with pride, honor and what she registered as a bit of fear. What she saw now, as Raoul’s hand rested against a toy ship, was a man missing the brother he adored.

She tried to be upbeat as she walked to the desk. “What’s all this?”

Raoul gathered the papers before him into a neat stack. “Legard secured the police report. I was reviewing it.”

Christine cocked her head. “Police? Philippe’s drowning was accidental.”

“On the surface, it looks that way.”

“The surface? You think someone intended to harm Philippe? Raoul, what’s going on?”

Something about him went more in-depth than grief. The awkward silence that settled between them knotted Christine’s stomach. It clenched even tighter when the door opened. Turning toward it, she frowned as Jules Legard entered. He peeled off his riding gloves and formally greeted her before hastening to her husband’s side.

“Was he there?” Raoul asked, a bit too eagerly for Christine’s liking.

“No one was in the flat.”

“Has he left Paris?”

“No, not permanently. I pressed the landlord for answers. The Daroga still lives on the Rue de Rivoli, but has been staying for a spell in Lyon.”

“The Daroga?” Christine couldn’t believe her ears. It had been years since they had any contact with him. “That Persian fellow who was with us in the cellars when Erik first abducted me? What on earth are you bothering him for?” Both men drew their lips tight. She faced her husband head-on. “Answer me.”

The mantel clock ticked like a telltale heart before he shifted his eyes from Legard to her.

“Do you know where Philippe was found?”

That tone was far too severe for her liking. She hoped whatever Raoul said next would gentle her already bouncing stomach. “By the shores of a lake somewhere. He loved nature. Why?”

“Christine,” Raoul tapped the folder. “He was found on the shores of his lake.”

“His lake?”

“The Phantom’s. His lake under the opera house.”

The notion pushed her backward and instantly made her nauseous. “You’re lying!” She regretted the accusation for the look on Raoul’s face said it all. “Why? How? Again? That’s impossible! You can’t think Erik had anything to do with this? We don’t even know where he is!”

“What am I supposed to think? That monster attempted to drown my brother on those banks once already years ago. It would be just like him to take revenge on me through Philippe again. I sent Legard to Paris to discover if the Persian knew anything.”

Christine rushed around the desk to his side and gripped his hands. Maybe holding on to her would make him stop thinking such nonsense. “Raoul, dredging up the past won’t help us move forward. Philippe’s death was accidental. Erik wouldn’t be so brazen as to seek revenge on you for this manhunt by killing your brother.”

“Your words, not mine.”

Panicked she lifted Raoul’s hand to her chest. Perhaps feeling her heartbeat would work instead. “Jules, what do you believe?” Christine searched their friend’s face, but his expression was almost as dark as Raoul’s. “You’re chief of our estates now, what say you?”

Legard kept his face unreadable and moved toward the window. That wasn’t any comfort.

Raoul answered, turning Christine’s attention back toward him. “He thinks as you do. Evidence speaks loudly for him, and as of yet, I’ve no evidence. Years ago when the Persian alerted Judge Faure of Philippe’s suspected death, the authorities dismissed it as the ramblings of madmen. No one investigated. No one looked for my brother. He lay in that dank, awful spot for days before he dragged himself out. It was a miracle he survived.” Raoul let go of her hand and rubbed his brow as if trying to erase the memory. “I’ve tried to forgive myself for fleeing Paris with you as I did and not checking on my family first. I never even knew he was down there.”

“No evidence proved Erik was responsible for that incident, Raoul.” Christine stroked the back of her hand down his face until it rested on the base of his neck. His face had turned that color it got whenever he grappled with his anger.

“I knew his guilt then, and I know he’s responsible now. Although there is nothing to suggest anything other than Philippe took a stroll along the darkest tributary of the Seine and paid for it in the end.” Raoul slouched back in his seat, his eyes sharp like he was holding a knife to the neck of some invisible foe. “Why would he return to that abysmal place knowing what horrors it held for us? For him?”

His tone chilled Christine’s skin, so she abandoned his neck and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. “I don’t know.”

Her eyes flicked to the stray paper he stared at as he mindlessly twirled his signet. The ring was far too new in its creation and too premature to be sitting upon his finger. They knew one day he’d wear the official Chagny signet, yet both assumed it would be the same one that had adorned Philippe’s hand. But Philippe’s signet disappeared years ago during an unfortunate mugging on the streets of Paris.

As Christine read the words on the page, a foreboding filled her veins. She turned slack- jawed toward Legard, who kept his hands locked tightly behind his back and his contemplation out the window.

Raoul’s signature on the decree was fresh, as was the wax melting nearby ready to be dripped on it. As soon as he added his signet to that paper, there was no going back. The past would meet Erik wherever he went. He intended to flush her Angel of Music out by the hands of noblemen and farmers alike—and with a staggering reward for his capture. Christine’s heart slowed when Raoul reached for the wax.

“I’ll not have Philippe’s death at the shores of the Phantom’s lake go ignored.” He spoke more to ghosts than to her.

“Raoul, let this go! We’ve already had so much uncertainty in our lives surrounding Erik. It’s ridiculous to believe he’d come back here to harm us by killing Philippe.”

“Is it?” Raoul said severely, rising from his chair.

Christine looked away, for the sight of her gentle husband behind the desk of one of the most powerful men in France suddenly unnerved her.

“I know how deeply you once cared for Erik, despite your fear of him. You teeter between a man you admire and abhor. It’s maddening to watch. But what am I to believe? All Erik ever wanted was you, and standing in his way is me. My brother is dead! I love you far too much to allow even the idea that you, André, or my unborn child may be next in his sinister plots. There’s no other explanation as to why Philippe was found dead in the Phantom’s lair. And if it means I send Legard off to Lyon to find the Persian and send this decree out across France to help find Erik, so be it.”

Christine wrestled her confusion as Raoul’s passionate words swirled around the room. They had charged back and forth on this battleground for months. Erik’s presence lived in her ever since the moment she laid eyes on him again. His power and command over her filled her soul. She spent hours alone in the church begging the Lord to silence her heart for a man who was more specter than flesh to her. As much as she loved Raoul, part of her longed to be once more the passionate obsession of the man she called her Angel of Music.

Christine traced her fingers around her baby. Raoul would never understand what it was like to be chosen by Erik, but she shook her head clear of such misplaced feelings. Perhaps once Erik had been her Angel, and the music tutor that made her the darling of the Paris stage, but he was a madman, a monster. She had to remind herself of that.

Chagny grieved the loss of its son and Raoul the loss of his brother. Christine’s eyes filled, shedding the tears she wished Raoul could cry as she reached out and took his hand once more. His grip was firm, his face grave. He’d not wept once since Philippe’s passing.

His profound sadness rode on a current of swift and terrible hatred, and she feared it would drown them all.