RoseBlood(117)

As for Jax and me? We’ve decided what happened between us at the rave club was drug-induced, no more real or mysterious than the delusions everyone had on Halloween night. Audrey’s forgiven us both, and has told Jax how she really feels about him. They’re dating now, and supercouple status is on the horizon. After almost dying, they’re not wasting any more time.

The Friday after Thanksgiving, Ned takes Mom to see the palace in Versailles, and I go with Aunt Charlotte to visit Grandma Lil. I learn something while looking at my grandma’s lifetime of wrinkles, and her nose and eyes so like Dad’s: forgiveness is much easier than holding a grudge. She isn’t expected to live through the end of the year, but at least now we’ve made peace.

After the visit, my aunt asks if I want to go with her to check on the renovation’s progress at RoseBlood. It’s the first time I’ve returned since Halloween. I don’t waste one second following her into the opera house, just like she doesn’t ask a single question as we part ways. The only thing she says is to be back in an hour.

The sun shines bright, but the wind is brisk with the scent of greenery and soil. I pull my cap over my head and snuggle deeper into my multicolor embroidered jacket and knit scarf. Today I wore my jeans with the patches, so no air can seep through the rips and chill me. I follow the trail through the garden, giving passing glances to the flowers and plants—some wilted and dormant, others still holding their shape and color while glistening with the first touch of frost. Come spring, I’ll visit them every day.

My cheeks grow warm at the thought of carrying on Dad’s love for gardening here, on his side of the ocean. At last I can honor his memory free of guilt.

There’s a smile on my face by the time I cross the footbridge, no longer leery of the water underneath. My mood changes the moment I spot the baby’s grave. When I saw her in that chamber, enveloped in liquid, hooked up to tubes that pulsed light and life into her empty body, there was a second that I hesitated—that I almost considered surrendering my gift—until Etalon’s logic broke through. It wouldn’t have grown her a set of lungs, or a beating heart. I’ve been blessed with both, so it’s up to me to keep Christine’s voice alive.

Noticing something different about the epitaph, I move closer to the cradle. Someone has etched October 31 beside the year 1883, along with the name: Hope. The dirt around the grave is freshly dug.

It’s confirmation. Erik chose his son, and Etalon’s alive. Tears scald the edges of my eyes, a burst of relief.

He’s alive.

But . . . that means the Phantom is alive, too.

What was it Christine said on her drawing? Legends never die.

That knowledge doesn’t seem as intimidating now. He’ll never hurt me again. Etalon will see to that.

I blot my eyes with my jacket’s cuff and turn to the chapel. That ache begins once more in my heart . . . such a deep longing I can hardly breathe. I didn’t plan to go inside; I didn’t think I was ready. But a magnetized, tugging sensation winds through my tattoo, making it impossible for me to walk away.

My hands hover over the serpent door handle, spurring a gut-twisting memory of Etalon inside that glass case with snakes under his feet. I shut down the fear, because he made it out okay. I can find peace in that, even if I never see him again.

Just please, wherever you are, be happy, Etalon. Don’t hide anymore. Live.

He deserves that, after the childhood he endured, and after all he did to save me and the school despite it.

A knot builds in my throat, belying my brave front. I’m selfish, because I don’t want him to be anywhere else. He’s part of me. I want him here. Now and always.

I shove the door open, painting the dirty stone floor with a slash of yellow sunlight. The soft illumination continues in colorful patches along the walls, stamped in place via the stained glass. I close the door and silence engulfs me, other than the whispers of wind seeping through jagged cracks in the windows. The scent of damp stone tinges the air, overpowered by the aroma of roses.

I move forward, taking cautious steps across the gritty surface as my eyes begin to adjust to the filmy yellowish light gilding the room. My breath locks in my lungs when I see the baptismal and my dad’s violin propped at its base. Beside it, a blanket cushions the stone, dusted with a layer of duotone rose petals.

“I know I promised a bed, but I couldn’t fit the box springs through the baptismal.”

A sob catches in my throat at the sound of that broken French accent. I turn and he steps out from the shadows on the other end of the chapel—tall, strong, and gentle. My maestro.

He holds Diable in his arms. The cat scowls, disgusted by the confinement. As Etalon and I stare at one another in silence, Diable twists around, his collar jingling, until his “master” finally sets him down.

The cat bounds my way in a flurry of bells and wooly fur, stops long enough to wrap my ankles in greeting, then races into the shadows behind the baptismal. His jingling stops, a sure sign he found a way out.

Etalon hasn’t budged from his spot, other than to take off his shoes. His dark wavy hair has been trimmed and swept into some semblance of order. He’s wearing a lightweight navy sweater, dark-blue blazer, and ribbed navy pants, and stands beside his discarded shoes, showcasing my toe socks.

I clasp a hand over my mouth, caught between laughing and crying. My legs jitter, ready to run to him, my arms ache to embrace him. I’m hungry to kiss those lips and mess up his silky hair with my fingers. I’ve wanted it for a month. But I can’t move. “You look . . . so normal,” I mutter between my fingers.