“I was simply saying hello.” Boucher sighed. “And I came to speak to you. There’s been a last-minute change. One of the sopranos has vanished.”
“Of course,” she said heavily. “Have we checked all the boxes to make sure someone didn’t take the liberty of stealing her as a snack?”
“We’re in the process of that,” he assured her, “but Berlioz must be talked down. He’s convinced that the debut will be ruined.”
“Berlioz is debuting a new opera?” Thea asked excitedly.
Sabine turned cold, glittering sapphire eyes on her, and glared. “You’ve heard of him.”
“Thea is a cellist,” I reminded her, trying to salvage this situation.
Thea gave her a pretty smile and added, “We met him this afternoon, and he didn’t mention it.”
“You...met...Berlioz?” Sabine sounded pained. She glared at me. “What was she doing on Île Cachée?”
“I took her on a date,” I said, intervening before one of them throttled the other.
“I see.” A muscle ticced in her jaw. She swiveled her face slowly to Thea. “Berlioz is premiering a new opera he’s written for the evening. The Symphony for the Dead. I hope you both enjoy it.”
Something about the way she said it made me suspect we wouldn’t.
“Excuse me,” Sabine added.
“Go where you’re needed,” I said meaningfully. Sabine swept away in a huff, leaving an apologetic Boucher with us.
“I didn’t think she could hate me more,” Thea said.
“Sabine doesn’t like anyone,” Boucher assured her.
“She likes you.”
“My dear,” he said, his beady eyes glinting, “she tolerates me. There is a difference. I do sincerely hope you enjoy yourself this evening, in any case. I should go mediate between those two.”
“We will,” I muttered. Boucher took his leave, and I immediately spotted Benedict in the corner. Thea noticed him at the same time.
“Your brother is here,” Thea said. “Or one of them. Should we say hello?”
I shot her a questioning look. Wasn’t one family confrontation enough for the evening?
“I’m trying to be polite,” she explained as I steered her toward the sweeping staircase. Peonies, roses, and lilies encircled its stone railings, making the already lavish interior more decadent.
“Polite and vampires don’t mix well, pet.”
“Will we be sitting with your family this evening?” she asked carefully as we reached the first floor.
“We have a private box,” I said through gritted teeth. It was a small mercy, and I owed Boucher for allowing me to keep my usual seat in the house.
“So, is this a favor or...”
“I’ve kept a box for years, but tonight we’re using the box next to it.” That was all she needed to know.
“Is there something wrong with yours?” she asked.
“Box three is more private than mine. I didn’t want to share.” I tossed her a suggestive grin. That much was true. My box had a curved half wall between it and the seventh box. After sharing Thea for half an hour with vampire society, I wanted her to myself.
I guided Thea through the crowd, ignoring the curious eyes that followed us. When we reached box three, I was relieved to find it open and waiting.
“Are you usually in box one?” she asked.
“No, five,” I said absently as I peered in to find the box had been arranged per my requests. Instead of the typical eight chairs, only two waited inside the box. The chairs were positioned farther than normal for the best view but back far enough to ward off most, if not quite all, of the prying eyes.
I began toward it, but Thea didn’t move. She was mesmerized by a plaque on the box next to ours.
“Loge du Fantôme de l’Opera,” she sounded out the French and her eyes widened. “Wait, which box did you say you keep?”
“Box five,” I admitted, already knowing why she’d asked.
She grabbed my arm, her velvet fingers clutching me tightly. Even through the layers of cloth, I felt a prickle of something inexplicable, but Thea didn’t seem to notice. “Are you telling me that you’re the–”
I groaned, knowing that she was going to enjoy teasing me about it for the rest of the night. “I owed Leroux money–or so he believed.”
“And you didn’t pay him back?”
“There was some debate as to the validity of his claim. He believed he’d won a round of piquet. I believed he was a cheater.”
A soft laugh fell like music on my ears. I’d earned another smile. Even after the disastrous confrontation in the lobby. “Was he a cheater?”
“Most certainly. All writers are.” I extended my arm toward the box. “So he wrote the bloody book and told everyone he based it on me.”
