While Etalon helped me gather my things and drop them in my tote, he told me he’d filtered an inhalation anesthetic through my aunt’s vent to put her to sleep so she wouldn’t miss me tonight. That’s why his hands and clothes smelled medicinal. He assured me it wouldn’t hurt her, and since he was honest about the injections he gave my friends at the club, I chose to trust him.
Next, he led me through the secret passage in the orchestra pit where he’d hidden Dad’s violin, and sailed us across an underground river. In any other circumstance it might’ve been hauntingly romantic. But it was too similar to the canals leading to the secluded lair I’d always heard about in the stories: the Phantom’s house of horrors.
Even worse, I was surrounded by water—the stagnant and threatening scent of it, the currents like laughing, taunting tongues, inky depths made even more endless by the blackness of the cave surrounding us.
Sensing my panic, Etalon awoke the firefly larvae along the roof of the cave to give us some light. We banked on an underground dock and took another secret tunnel on foot up into the forest. A quick moonlight jog along a path through some trees, well-worn by Jippetto’s wheelbarrow wheels—with only the sighting of a fox and an owl, each speaking their own natural languages—and now we’ve arrived.
From the outside, the caretaker’s cottage is smaller than I expected. It borders the bank of the river in back, and looks more like a shed, shadowing another shed. A soft light greets us from the sole window on the top half of the front door. Etalon, having held my hand the entire way here, leads me inside without even knocking.
The cottage’s one room serves as both a kitchen and sleeping quarters. It’s tidy. There are two sconces on the wall aglow from bulbs giving off a soft yellow light. A small antechamber with a sink and toilet is off to the side, where plaid curtains pull across for privacy. Framed watercolor paintings deck the walls around the bed, each one a likeness of a different French shop with displays featuring Jippetto’s mannequins. The artwork is signed by him.
“He painted all these?” I ask.
Etalon nods. “There’s more to him than most people think.”
The caretaker must be expecting us, because there’s a kettle of tea steaming on a potholder at the table. Its smoky, caramelized scent fills the room with warmth. Then I realize the hospitality is probably for the mannequins stationed in chairs around empty teacups.
Apparently, the guys’ rumors at school were right about a lot of things.
I shiver in contrast to the cozy surroundings.
Standing over me, Etalon places his cloak around my shoulders so I can absorb his body heat. He cups my face with both hands, soothing my nerves with that ability he has, then skims his fingertips along my braid before moving away, leaving me tantalized in his wake. “Jippetto won’t be joining us until we’re finished up here. He’s waiting in the aviary, on the lower level.”
“Lower level?” I survey the area again, seeing nothing that indicates stairs or a basement. “How can there be room for a bird run in such a small space with a river out back?”
“You’ll see soon. But first . . . tea?” He places the violin case on the floor between the mannequins’ chairs, wraps a potholder around the kettle, and pours a cup.
I thank him and grip the handle as he cautions me not to get burned. “Why are we here?” With a sip of hot, caramel-flavored caffeine sinking into my throat, I finally have the courage to ask.
“To make a plan,” Etalon says between blowing on his tea. “The Phantom avoids coming here, just as he avoids strolls through the forest.” He sets his cup aside. I watch how he moves, flowing grace and sensuality in spite of his height and build, and wonder if it comes naturally to him, or if it’s part of being an incubus. Aunt Charlotte is graceful, too. I always thought it was the dancer in her, but maybe it’s inherent.
Etalon leans over one of the male mannequins and surprises me by unbuttoning its shirt. There’s a black heart in the center of its polished torso, carved of ebony and embedded into the white pine of the chest.
“Recognize the wood?” Etalon asks as he backs toward the chair holding the female to make room for me.
With my free hand, I touch the male’s sleek heart, shimmery like an ink spill. “It’s like the Stradivarius.”
Etalon buttons the shirt back, as if to respect the mannequin’s privacy. “Until two days ago, I didn’t know it was my violin that your father played for you. And now I see he formed a bridge with his love so Christine’s song could find its way into your body. I always thought you were simply born with the voice. Erik made it sound like he’d had the violin since he stole it from the gypsies. Like it had never been out of his hands.”
I study him, confused.
He frowns. “Remember the artisan witch your aunt mentioned? The one who sold Saint-Germain the enchanted Strad?”