Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Four: Shrouded Castle

By Theodora Bruns

Another masterful tale. A riveting account of Eriks ongoing trials, tribulations and triumphs. Fascinating, suspenseful, and often heart-wrenching. Bruns brings Erik to life. Rich food for the emotions, mind and soul.

Susan Rueppel, Ph.D., Chief Intuition Officer, Energetic Wisdom

After barely escaping Persia with his life, Erik decides to participate in the construction of the famed Paris Opera House, intending to make a secret home for himself in its cellars. That process takes 13 years to complete, during which time he struggles to survive not only the cruelty of the other workers but also the brutality of the Franco-Prussian War and the tragic attempted takeover by the Communes. Having successfully overcome those challenges, he desires nothing more than a comfortable life filled with music. But, in order for that to happen, he must make the operas managers do his bidding. To persuade them that he is the one in control of his opera house, many performances suffer under his clever and sometimes diabolical humor. Then, just when he thinks his life is as good as it can get, the unexpected occurshe encounters the young chorus girl Christine, and, against all good judgment, his lonely heart dares to reach out to her. His life will never be the same again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462039074

Theodora Bruns

Theodora Bruns earned an AA degree in accounting from Heild Business Collage. She began writing the Through Phantom Eyes series in 2002. Theodora has five daughters, nine grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren and lives with two of her daughters in Sacramento, California. This is the sixth book in her series.

Book preview

Through Phantom Eyes

Volume Four

Shrouded Castle

by

Theodora Bruns

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Through Phantom Eyes

Volume Four: Shrouded Castle

Copyright © 2011 by Theodora Bruns

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3905-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3906-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3907-4 (e)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 08/10/2011

Contents

Dedication

Review

Acknowledgments

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

Dedication

To the gift of music

Review

Written by

Susan Rueppel, Ph.D.

Chief Intuition Officer

Energetic Wisdom

Another masterful tale, the latest Through Phantom Eyes novel (Volume Four – Shrouded Castle ) is a riveting account of Erik’s ongoing trials, tribulations and triumphs. Fascinating, suspenseful and often heart-wrenching. Bruns brings Erik to life. Rich food for the emotions, mind and soul.

Cover and Interior Sketch Design

Theodora Bruns

ThroughPhantomEyes.Com

* * *

Cover and Interior Artwork

Savadesign

Judy Sava-Coppola

Savadesign.Com

* * *

Model for Cover Art

Michael Preston

Grandson of Theodora Bruns

* * *

Model for Interior Art

Joseph Cooper

Son-in-Law of Theodora Bruns

Acknowledgments

My eternal gratitude reaches out to those who inspired me and helped me breathe life into this unforeseen work. First and foremost to Erik himself, for, as his lonely existence consumed my thoughts and his mournful pain permeated my heart, my own expressions pleaded for a release from their boundaries. Consequently, without his tragic life so full of love for his music and Christine, my imagination would have remained silent, and I wouldn’t have started on this astonishing journey. Therefore, merci, Erik.

Next, to Brad Little, whose eloquent voice, along with his amazing musical portrayal of Erik’s love, passion, and pain on the stage, unlocked my barren heart. Because of his extraordinary talent, my own passion was aroused in ways previously unknown to me. Brad’s awareness of Erik’s love for that one exceptional woman, Christine, was what enabled me to spread my awakening heart across the printed page for all to see. I’m forever thankful, Brad.

Then there is Patti, who came into my life quite unexpectedly because of her fascination with Erik’s life. Among other things, she helped me keep my fingers on the pulse of those who want to read more about this man known as The Phantom. Perhaps with trepidation, she courageously spoke her mind and gave me insight. So thank you, Patti, for your time, tender care, and understanding of my special needs.

Also, I send a big thank you to Ann. Her skills in the editing department went far beyond the written word and various punctuation marks. She used her vast knowledge and patiently taught me the proper placement of those words and punctuation marks. I sincerely appreciate the time she spent helping me to become a better writer. I couldn’t have gotten where I am today without her.

I would also like to thank Susan, who spent the time and energy to read and then to formulate a review. Hopefully, just a quick glance at her words will help readers determine if they want to follow Erik’s journey with me.

In addition, there’s my remarkable daughter Debi, who also shares my love for Erik’s story. She committed to working long and tedious hours with me to put the finishing touches on every phrase within my labor of love. Thanks to her keen eye, diligence, proofing ability, and patience, I believe the finished product is one that anyone can easily read, understand, and enjoy. A mere thank you isn’t enough to express my appreciation for all you’ve done, Deb.

There is also an angel who came to me in the form of my daughter Julie, who rescued me with her financial backing. Even though much time and effort went into writing and promoting my novel, the truth remains: without the proper finances, my entire project might have ground to a halt. Therefore, I thank you, Julie, for your loving and benevolent spirit and your many smiles of encouragement.

Finally, there is my eternal friend and daughter Kelli, who, from the beginning, enthusiastically shared my desire to see Erik with a full and satisfying life. She served as my diligent researcher, patient teacher, gentle critic, knowledgeable literary collaborator, and first fan. She has also added her talents in the public relations department by getting Erik’s story in front of those who desire to read more about him. Her self-sacrificing efforts and encouragement over the years stirred my soul and gave me courage—courage that I never knew existed—courage that was an essential element in seeing these novels to their completion. I fear, without her ever-present reassurance, my whimsical ideas about Erik’s life would have eventually retreated in a cowardly fashion back into my imagination. There they would be forced to live with the rest of my happily-ever-after endings, somewhere in the silent and dark recesses of my fanciful mind. Merci! Merci beaucoup, Kelli.

Prologue

Paris, France

July 1881

I traveled through the passages of my shrouded castle alone once more. The opera had long since ended, leaving the house dark and silent. As with so many other times during that last six years, I walked the passages with the music still swirling through my heart and soul. But, that night, the music was sharing its time in my thoughts with the sound of Christine’s sobs.

When I climbed the stairs to the boxes, I shook my head and whispered, My poor Christine.

If I could go back in time and change the outcome of our time together—would I? Yes, was my absolute answer. I would do anything to prevent her tears and broken heart. Just as an artist, with one swipe of his brush, erases what he no longer wants on his canvas, I would erase that last night with Christine and Raoul in my home. Then his near-death and her fearful cries wouldn’t even be a memory.

I paused, running my fingers over the shiny black plaque, Box V, and my thoughts meandered back to that naïve, ten-year-old boy in Venice. At that time, I’d promised myself to return and to live within the walls of that opera house. I’d kept my promise, even though it was a different opera house.

After entering Box V, I spread my hands on the banister, looking down on the unoccupied seats and then to the grand chandelier cloaked in darkness above my head. I stepped back and slumped into a chair, gazing around my opera house. Then my sight fell on the box across from me—the box where I first saw Raoul. Instantly, I felt the same hatred for him that I’d felt then. I believe my loathing for him was outmatched only by my self-hatred for almost killing him—and my friend.

I closed my eyes and saw yet another sad scene that I’d caused and subsequently regretted. Again, I shook my head when I recalled my jealous outcries in Christine’s dressing room and my later inadequate apologies. However, she didn’t feel they were inadequate by any means; she felt they were unnecessary. She was so humble and so precious, and I loved her so much—I loved her too much.

____________

During the days that followed my uncontrolled emotional outburst, my obsession for her was beyond madness, even by my standards. I slept little, since I was watching her with the intensity of a house cat focused on a mouse hole.

At the time, I felt justified in tracking her whereabouts. I needed to see if she would stay true to her word and not see that young man—that presumptuous boy. Then, if she did, I needed to see my competition. But, more importantly, with my memories of Vashti and my fear that something tragic would happen to Christine, I needed to stay near to her and protect her. How foolish I was. My love for her had blinded me to the biggest danger lying in her path—me. So, like the fool I was, I followed her day and night.

I watched her as she rehearsed, as she talked to the stagehands, as she questioned the carpenters, as she studied the seamstresses, and as she giggled with Meg. From the catwalks above her, I watched her face closely during the performances, waiting for her eyes to disclose the location of her young suitor.

At the end of the day, I stood in the shadows and watched as she entered a carriage. Then, I was right behind her in another carriage as she traveled to her home. After her light went out, I went home for a few hours of sleep. The next day, before the sun rose, I was in another carriage and back at her home, waiting for her to return to the opera house. Our routine stayed the same until that dreaded moment when her eyes betrayed her.

It happened during a performance, and, from the direction of her glance, it appeared the object of her attention was in one of the boxes across from mine. I quickly moved through the maze of ropes, heading for my box to get a closer look at the one capturing her attention. Once there, I searched, trying to locate him. But it wasn’t until the closing bows that I spotted the box holding my rival. It was directly across from me, and my eyes narrowed as I focused on the two men who were standing and applauding.

One I recognized as the Comte Philippe de Chagny. By reputation, I knew him well, and I knew he clung closely to his proper aristocratic upbringing. However, since he spent time with one of the principal dancers, Sorelli, obviously, that upbringing wouldn’t prevent him from giving public attention to a woman of a lower station—such as Christine. But I didn’t feel it was the Comte I needed to worry about; it was the younger man, whom I didn’t recognize. When I looked closer, he was the one returning Christine’s smile.

That was the moment when I saw the object of Christine’s interest and my opponent for the first time. It was then that I felt, as never before, the breath within my chest turn hot with jealousy. That young man was instantly put in hatred’s path. I pressed my teeth together and then whispered through them words that I really wanted to howl.

You fool! Get out of my house—at once!

What I felt right then was so much more volatile than what I’d felt the first time I’d learned of his existence. It was murderous hatred I felt coursing through my body with every beat of my heart. Yet I knew absolutely nothing about him, other than that he had Christine’s interest. But it wouldn’t take me long to find out all I needed to know. From that time on, I didn’t follow Christine as closely, since my attention shifted to that young fair-haired boy.

As soon as the curtain fell, he rushed out of the box, and so did I. I headed for the catwalks above the place I knew Christine would be, and I imagined my rival was also heading for her. When I spotted her, she was with several other ballerinas on the stage, and when I spotted him, he was trying to make his way through the crowd toward her. I felt my jaws tighten as I maneuvered into a position to read her expression.

With an extremely large smile, he approached her and confidently tapped the back of her shoulder. As she turned to face him, his chest rose in a deep breath, and then he held out a large bouquet toward her. If possible, his smile broadened even more.

Christine, your performance was beautiful.

We both held our breath, waiting for her response. At first her eyes widened, but then she simply smiled and took the red roses from his hand.

Thank you, Monsieur, for the compliment and the flowers. They’re lovely.

To my delight, without another word, she turned and headed quickly for her dressing room. I lingered on the catwalk only long enough to see his stunned reaction. He lost his smile, spread his arms out from his sides, and looked completely confused. I smiled at his inability to accept her reaction, and I continued to smile as I ran toward her room. By the time I approached her mirror, my mind was racing to know what to say to her. I was overflowing with jealousy, but I couldn’t let her know how I felt.

Are you here tonight, My Angel? she asked while lighting her wall lamp.

I was struggling to control my tone, and, as the light came up, I could see in an instant that she was also trying to hide her feelings. Her cheeks were flushed—almost as red as the roses in her arms. She was so out of breath that it appeared as if she’d just run a foot race. Since I needed time to regain my composure and think, I spoke little.

Your performance was once again flawless, but you look extremely tired. I think it’s best if we don’t speak tonight. You need to go home and rest.

She looked relieved. Yes, I agree. I am tired. I’ll change and go straight away.

Once she had changed, I followed her to the side door and then outside. When she reached the bottom steps, that young man appeared again and, with his boyish grin, began walking beside her. She barely glanced up at him and then quickened her steps toward a waiting carriage. He opened the door for her and took her arm as she entered. They were too far away for me to hear any conversation, but, if there was one, it was brief. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed him, and the carriage moved away.

She was doing exactly what I’d told her to do, and yet, the situation still unnerved me. Therefore I became even more obsessed over it and focused on finding out all I could about that young intruder into my private world.

Within a short time, I discovered he was the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, the younger brother of the Comte Philippe de Chagny. Philippe had had custody of him since Raoul was 12 years of age. At the present time, the Vicomte was 21 and had a commission in the Royal Navy. He was in Paris on a six-month furlough, but the disappearance of a ship, the D’Artois, had called him back into service prematurely. He was to board the Reckon soon and organize an expedition to search for survivors.

I was partially relieved by that information. Not only would he be leaving Paris soon, but also his brother, the Comte, was extremely protective of Raoul. Since Philippe had almost raised Raoul, he scrutinized his acquaintances closely. He did, however, introduce Raoul to the foyer of the ballet where they would socialize with the performers. But I reasoned he would never allow Raoul to become romantically involved with any of the chorus girls, or, at least, that’s what I was counting on.

But, in either case, it made me realize I wasn’t alone in my attraction to Christine, and I couldn’t afford to be complacent about our peculiar relationship. I had to let her know who I was and what my intentions were toward her. She had to know me before that handsome young man could fulfill what I saw in his eyes when he looked at her. He wouldn’t be the first prominent and wealthy man to have his way with the feminine gender on the dark side of their gaily-lit world. When I looked at him and believed that was his aim, I hated him even more. I couldn’t allow anyone, especially not a pompous aristocrat, to harm my Christine.

From that night on, I was even more watchful, if that were possible, over my possession. She wasn’t out of my sight for a second during the day, unless Raoul was in the house, and, in that case, I followed him. Because of that, I was eating little and sleeping even less as my obsession with her took over my life completely. In addition, the gala was almost upon us, so I needed even more of my emotional strength to control her intense lessons.

We only have one week before the gala, Christine, and I believe you’re almost ready.

With a slight shake of her head, she replied, I don’t feel ready.

You underestimate yourself, Christine, and you underestimate your Angel. Now stand before your mirror. I want you to sing the prison scene from Faust. Only, this time, when you sing it, you’ll also be living it. She turned toward the mirror, and her face showed the frightened child I’d seen on so many occasions before, so I spoke softly. Now, close your eyes, my dear.

She closed them, and, as if that were her cue to also lift her arms, her arms rose from her sides.

"No, Christine, lower your arms. This time, you’re no longer on the shores of Perros; you’re in a church in a small village where you live your modest but happy life as a novice—free from the snares of fallen flesh. Then, almost in the blink of an eye, your life changes and you find yourself where there is snow falling and you’re cold—colder than you’ve ever been. You think back over the last year and how happy you were when the handsome young man, Faust, swept you off your feet. You feel warmth flood through you at the thought of his name, and you smile inside. You think of how he spoke of love and how safe you felt in his embrace. With your eyes closed, you can feel his touch as he tenderly made love to you, filling your soul with ecstasy.

"You want to stay in that moment forever, but the coldness around you is too biting and brings you to the reality of your pitiful life without him. All you have left of him is a token of his love—his child growing within you. You feel terror when you’re persecuted for being a whore. You’re left alone with no one to take you and your unborn child into their home, and your fright increases as the days near for your child’s birth. You have nowhere to turn for help, and even your own brother curses you to your very face. Then, as he fights to avenge the family’s honor, you watch helplessly his struggle against your once-lover, Faust. Ultimately, with horror, you watch your beloved brother fall in a pool of his crimson blood.

"You’re despondent, but you still feel a mother’s love when you see your son’s face for the first time. But your respite from the tragedy called your life is momentary and fades as your fear mounts along with the icy cold of winter. You hold the defenseless small life close to you to keep him warm. You give of what little life you have left in you and allow him to suckle your breast. You’re so cold and alone as you curl on the ground and press him close to your chest to protect him from the harsh climate—and the even harsher reality of your pathetic life.

"You try to sleep, but there’s no rest as you scream at the nightmare of your past, relived in your sleeping mind. Desperately, you run from the demons pursuing you, but there’s nowhere to hide. Then you’re wakened to your cold existence once more and the realization that you’ve abandoned your child to the elements of the night. You run to him and find him cold and dead. You press your lifeless child to your bosom.

The pain within you is as never before when you look upon the lifeless face of your son, and you no longer care what happens to you. You’re powerless against the forces that drag you off to prison, now labeled as not only a whore but also as a murderer of your own child. You’re empty and all is hopeless as you’re led away to your execution. Then, with the last of your breath, you release your soul and cry out for divine forgiveness.

I took a moment to study her face closely before I gave her the final instructions. Now, open your mouth, Christine, and sing Marguerite’s prison song, sing Marguerite’s lamentations. Sing, Christine! Sing, Marguerite!

And sing she did. She sang as she’d never sung before, and, as she did, her tears streamed down her cheeks, causing my eyes to moisten. I was so moved by her performance—partially for what she was expressing and partially because I was so proud of her. She’d done it. She’d mastered all I’d been trying to teach her. As she finished, and the last note faded, she slumped to the floor completely spent by that perfect and private performance.

Softly, I told her, That couldn’t have been more perfect if it had been sung by the angels themselves. You were perfect in every way, Christine. Your voice has been kissed by God, and, before the gala ends, you’ll have Paris kneeling at your feet.

She was laboring for breath, and her hand went to her chest. Then, when she raised her head, I could see she was still crying.

Christine, I said softly, wipe your tears and get up. She did as I asked, but the tears didn’t stop and her hands were trembling. Christine, you’re no longer Marguerite. You can stop crying now.

Her head shook ever so slightly. I’m so frightened. I feel like she was inside me. She was so powerful.

I smiled at her. That’s called superb acting, my dear. You’ve just tasted it, and now center stage belongs to you. Don’t be frightened by its power—embrace it.

She took a handkerchief from her drawer and wiped her tears, and I smiled at her continuing innocence. There was such a contrast between her humility and Carlotta’s arrogance. I never wanted Christine to sink into that same trap that most stars fall into as their fame climbs. I almost felt bad that I’d started her on that road, which could possibly destroy her sweet sincerity. But then, as I watched her wiping her tears from her rosy cheeks, I simply couldn’t picture her ever being anything different than what she was right then—a delicate and modest heart.

You’re ready, Christine, ready for the center of any stage. But you still need my tutoring. I’ve yet to teach you how to enter that magical place where you can become whatever character you want without my voice guiding you.

She nodded, and I sent her home to rest. For the rest of the week I took her deeper and deeper into the heart of both Juliette and Marguerite, and each time she was perfect. But, each time, she was completely spent when we were finished and that concerned me. So, the last night before the gala, I gave her special instructions.

Tomorrow morning we won’t have a lesson, and I don’t want you coming in for rehearsals. I want your voice rested. I’ll send a note to the chorus director telling him you need your rest. So don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything for you. Don’t return until it’s time to get into makeup. I’ll be here and help you prepare your voice and your mind for the pieces you’ll perform.

She nodded, as she always did, and then I spoke calmly to her. Now, there’s one more act you need to perform this evening. Tonight you’ll understand why I told you to leave that one rose out of the vase. Put on your wrap and take that dried rose to the roof. I’ll be waiting for you there.

She looked at the dried rose still on her dressing table and asked with a frown, Why?

The time has come, I began, for you to let go completely of that part of your past that is holding you back. Tonight, you’ll watch it disappear and feel it disappear.

She didn’t question any further and did exactly what I’d instructed. I followed her to the roof and hid behind the statue of Apollo, watching as she looked around.

Angel, are you here?

Yes, my dear, I’m always here with you. Now, go to the edge of the roof and hold the rose in both your palms over the edge, as if you’re offering it as a sacrifice to the stars. She obeyed, and I continued. Gently, crumble the rose petals between your fingers until they’re finely ground. Again, she obeyed, and I went on with my strange orders. Now, open your hands and watch the remains of your dead rose drifting to the earth below, vanishing in the mist.

She opened her hands, and I spoke softly on her shoulder. That’s your past, Christine. It’s powerless and can no longer harm you. Say goodbye to that part of your past that has held you in its dark prison. You’re free now, and you’ve proven it with the power of your voice. Whenever you hear any doubts creep into your mind, I want you to picture those rose flakes as they are now—gone from sight. Then make those doubts float away—vanish. Do you understand me?

She nodded slightly. Yes, my Angel. I’ll do as you ask.

With your past behind you, tomorrow can be a new day, full of music as you’ve never known before. Go home now and rest and prepare for your new life to begin—a new life where you alone will remain in control of your destiny.

She turned quickly and looked right where I was, behind Apollo. Had I not thrown my voice properly? Was I too caught up in the emotion of what I was trying to express to her? Had I become careless? Silently, I waited for her to make the next move.

Are you leaving me now, my Angel? Is this the last of my instruction? she asked with that same frightened voice I’d become accustomed to. I’m not ready for you to leave me. Please, don’t leave me yet.

Running my gloved fingers over the cold bronze in front of me, I responded, No, my child, I’m not going to leave you. Then the angel and the man struggled inside me, before the man continued. I’ll never leave you, Christine. I’ll walk beside you forever. All you need to do is want me to stay, and ask me to stay, and I will stay.

Her voice trembled as she answered, Yes, please, stay by my side. Don’t ever leave me.

Closing my eyes and pretending she was actually speaking to me, the man inside the angel’s voice, I answered her softly, Very well then, Christine, that’s where I’ll remain—by your side—forever.

I laid my head against Apollo’s lyre and fought to bring my emotions under control. I loved her so much and would have given anything to have her say that to me—the man. The deeper I went into my deception, the deeper I was digging my own grave, for, without her, I would surely lose my life in one way or another. I was breathing deeply as her words asking me not to leave her flowed through my heart in a steady stream.

Her voice in my mind was taken over by the sound of her steps not too far from me, and I looked up in time to see her looking up at the stars. As I studied her perfect face in the moonlight, she spread her arms and held her palms toward the heavens. Then she spoke words that I hadn’t expected and that left me momentarily speechless.

How can I ever express my gratitude to you for all you’ve taught me? How do you thank an angel with mere words? I wish you were a man of flesh and blood that I could wrap my arms around and thank properly. That I know how to do, but how can I, a mere human, show my appreciation to you, an angel?

As moisture filled my eyes, I took a step away from Apollo. The man in love took complete control of my actions, and I prepared to unveil myself to her there in the moonlight. What better time would there ever be than right then, when she was so appreciative of what I’d given her?

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and pictured her arms around me—I felt her arms around me. My heart pounded, and warmth rushed through me at the thought, but then I felt the pain I would know if she rejected me. I also saw her fear and disappointment take control of her less than 24 hours before the gala. I couldn’t do that to her, and, ultimately, I retreated behind Apollo, letting the man, filled with a lifetime of fears, win that battle.

Angel, are you still here? she asked.

I quickly swallowed hard and did all I could to control my tone. The best way to show your appreciation to an angel is to stay true to the course he helped you begin. Never lose your courage and belief in yourself or in him. That’s all he asks. Now, you must go home and rest. I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow evening.

She did as I asked, and I followed her until I saw her bedroom light go out.

On the brougham ride back to the opera house, I was in deep thought about my Christine. I tried to put aside my personal thoughts and concentrate on the next 24 hours that meant so much to her future success. She’d progressed almost better than I could have expected, and I felt I’d prepared her as much as anyone could for her debut performance.

My thoughts were still so focused on Christine that the driver of my brougham had to speak to me several times before I responded and got out. Then, as I walked the area above the stage where I would be during her performance, I couldn’t get the sound of her voice out of my mind. Her asking me not to leave her played over and over, and, each time, my heart ached for her words to be spoken to me—the man.

As I stood looking down on the stage for one last moment, I pictured my angel, with her golden hair illuminated by the stage lights. I pictured her in the royal blue gown and sapphire jewels that I’d personally prepared for her debut. I believe I was smiling the entire time.

I’m not sure if it was because of my fatigue or my concentration on Christine, but, in either case, I lingered there too long. I’d failed to see or hear a man quickly grab the back of my hair with so much force that it sent me back against a beam. My strength returned to me in an instant, and my rage flared, fueled by years of trained control. I turned on the fool who dared to confront me. My hands were around his neck and I had him pinned to the same beam he’d had me up against. Then I saw who the brainless idiot was—Buquet.

My fingers pressed into his throat, and I moved my face closer to his and scowled. Then, instead of showing the fear I expected, he only smiled. His one hand was still gripping my hair, and I prepared for his other hand to grasp my wrist or my fingers, but they didn’t. Instead, his free hand ripped my mask from my face, and his expression changed to one too familiar to me. It was identical to that of the man who’d trapped me in his basement and then sold me—that small frightened boy—to that circus. Instantly, my fury rose to a new height. As I squeezed his throat even harder, my growl of pure rage echoed across the empty stage below us.

Buquet—you’ve just made the worst mistake of your life—you stupid fool.

Then his eyes rolled back and he went limp.

____________

With a jolt, I was brought to my feet when I heard a key in the lock behind me. Then, before the door opened, I was inside the hollow marble column, waiting and listening. From the conversation that followed, I knew the intruders were the two night guards.

See, I told you this box was empty. You’re always seeing things.

I’m telling you, I’m not seeing things. He simply has a way of getting in and out of here that we don’t know about.

I heard one of them knocking on the walls and even the marble pillar before they left. When the door closed and the key turned once more, I took a deep breath and laid my head against the wall. My reaction had been so instinctive that I didn’t even know I’d done it until it was over. I sighed. I was really tired of hiding all the time. I thought about Buquet and how he’d caught me off guard just as those guards almost had. If I hadn’t been quick enough on my feet, they also would have caught me. My alertness is slipping, I remember thinking.

As I maneuvered one dark passage and then another on my way to the lake, I recalled how I’d relied on my alertness and timing for survival my entire life. Without them, I would have suffered much more at the hands of cruel men. I’d often thought about the timing of events in my life and all the what ifs.

Even as a child, timing had had serious consequences. If my mother hadn’t caught me playing her violin, I never would have gotten that lung infection that led to other ones in the decades that followed. If my father hadn’t taken me to that opera house in Venice, I wouldn’t have become enslaved to its colors and music. Consequently, I wouldn’t have thought about living within one or been living in one.

If my father and I had stayed at the ocean property only a few more minutes or left a few minutes earlier, we never would have encountered those two drunks. Without them, my father never would have died. We would have moved to Venice, and I would have had my chance at the conservatory of music. Or, if I hadn’t lost my temper after being robbed when I left Perros and wasted the time to avenge my father’s death, I would have passed by that kidnapper’s home at a different time. Then he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to sell me as his freakish property. If it had happened that way, I again could have made it to the conservatory before the director’s death.

As I descended the last stairway, I realized I could write a book about all the timing errors and all the what ifs in my life. And they didn’t have to be big ones. Perhaps only the turning of a shadow or the ticking of a second hand and my life could have been completely different.

I’d often questioned the what ifs in regard to the tragedies in Persia. But then I’d learned not to think too often about the loved ones we’d left behind. However, the what ifs managed to follow me and find a way to surface from time to time.

Every day I made right choices or errors in timing, and every day the course of my life changed dramatically. Even my participation in the building of the Paris Opera House was dependent on timing. If any part of my journey to Paris had been different, I wouldn’t be descending my dark secret passage.

Once more I shook my head. If I could have left Oded’s property the first time I tried, everything could have been different. But I was prevented from leaving, through no fault of my own. So there I was, just like that last night in Persia, thinking about the path my life was taking.

When I approached my dark moat, I wondered—what would my life have been like without my Shrouded Castle?

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One

Mazenderan, Persia

October 12, 1860

A strong gust of wind from the Caspian Sea rushed past me, and I took a deep breath. Then I secured my hat and closed my eyes on Oded’s property for the last time. Without giving myself any more time to contemplate my past or future, I nudged Libre, and, with Déchainé and Luc in tow, I rode away. Or, at least, that was my aim.

Luc, my gentle giant, who never caused me any trouble, began planting his feet like a stubborn donkey. My first thought was that I’d packed something wrong that made him uncomfortable. So I dismounted and examined his pack carefully, but all looked as it should. I checked his hooves for rocks, and I checked his legs for swelling, but, again, all looked as it should. I searched his large brown eyes, with concern growing in mine.

What’s wrong, big boy?

After finding nothing to be worried about, I mounted Libre again, but my next attempt to move on was even worse. He raised his head and pulled back on his lead, nearly pulling me out of the saddle in the process. Then he swung around, whinnied, and pulled harder.

Whoa. Easy now, I said softly, while trying to move Libre in front of him.

Luc had never used his brute strength for anything other than to reach food, and, since he was standing in knee-high grass, I knew his insistence wasn’t for food. He raised his head again and whinnied right in front of my face, causing my ears to ring and creating a chain reaction in Libre and Déchainé. I rubbed his face and tried to calm him, but, once more, my efforts were meaningless. He simply pushed past us, and, when a determined Shire begins pulling you, your only choice is to follow him. My main concern right then was to keep him from running. I could see his pack coming loose easily if he did.

Once he reached the fence to the pasture, he broke through the gate with ease. He definitely wasn’t after food—he was after Molly. My jaws ached as I watched him move to her grave. Nickering softly, he lowered his head and snorted into the grass, talking to his fallen friend. Understanding his loss, I moved next to him and rubbed his neck.

I know, I whispered. I hate to leave her also. She was a faithful friend to us both.

We stood silently beside her grave for a few minutes, while I thought over my predicament. In the stillness that followed, I suddenly felt unnerved—as if someone or something were watching me. The back of my neck tingled, causing me to shiver. Therefore, with a lasso in hand, I turned quickly, fully expecting to see someone or something. But nothing was there.

Becoming anxious, I told Luc, We have to leave—now.

I began guiding him from the pasture, while stroking his face and consoling him softly. As we moved through the broken gate, I held his head close to my chest and continued talking to him. He cooperated with me until we neared the remains of the flower garden, but then he abruptly raised his head and swung around. In the process, his massive head slammed against the right side of my head, throwing me to the ground with such force that the wind was knocked out of me completely.

It wasn’t the first time I’d lost my breath, so I knew it would return shortly. But, under the circumstances, it made me extremely anxious. When my lungs finally gasped for air, I rolled to my side, moaning and rubbing my throbbing jaw and head. I stayed down, waiting for my ears to stop ringing and for the ground to stop rotating around me. But, before either of them did, the smell of