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Chapter Text

“Anne! Anne!”

Her husband burst into their office, red-faced, and with hair in wild disarray. This being a common occurrence in Anne de Bourbon’s life, she greeted it calmly. “Yes, Louis?”

“Catherine. Can’t Sing. Maria. Can’t. Sing. They Both Have Colds!”

When her spouse was reduced to capitalisation, he was indeed distressed. “Yes, I know, darling. I was just making a list of our better chorus singers to audition for the lead.”

Louis rent his hair. “But Both Of Them! On Opening Night? Why?”

Anne stifled the ‘Colds are contagious, who knew?’ that sprang to her lips, but didn’t make it past her teeth. “Bad luck, that’s all. Now, shall we start? I have three possibles, and another two we could think about if we’re desperate.”

“We are desperate! Our lead soprano and her stand-in are both Sick!”

“Yes, dear,” she said, permitting herself the small wifely sigh that Louis had never noticed in twenty years of marriage. “Shall we listen to the three best alternatives, unless you want to delay our opening for another week?”

“We Can’t! We’ll Be Ruined!”

“Exactly. So, come along, darling.”

She coaxed him down to the front of the house to sit with Monsieur Lavoie, their director of music, then had her choices come out, one by one. Unfortunately for the Mousquetaires, the need to have a famous soprano meant they could not offer better pay for the rest of the cast, and they had not attracted the very finest performers.

Fleur was acceptable, but not exceptional. Clementine had a fine voice, but she was really too old for Violetta, no matter how clever the makeup.

But Sylvie....

Louis sat up in shock. “She’s in the chorus, you say? With a voice like that?”

Anne permitted herself a small, satisfied smile. “Yes, dear. She’s come along rather well in the last couple of months. I’ve been taking note.”

Monsieur Lavoie nodded regally. “She’s the only possible choice, really. And she says she knows the part backwards and forwards.”

“Then she must be the one to stand in,” Louis said. “My God, she makes Catherine sound—” He stopped and looked around furtively before continuing. “Ordinary,” he whispered to Lavoie.

Lavoie whispered back, “Madame de Garouville has a very fine instrument, monsieur. But Mademoiselle Boden appears to have one even more refined. The benefit of youth, perhaps? Though most singers improve with age.”

“I don’t think Catherine does.”

“No need for that comparison, dear,” Anne said, not wanting to fuel Catherine’s inevitable paranoia. She spoke up for Sylvie’s benefit. “You’ll do, my dear. Go see Constance about your costume, and make sure you know the libretto and are well-warmed up for tonight. Rehearsal this afternoon.”

Sylvie curtseyed. “Thank you, madame.”

“Extraordinary,” Louis murmured. “Such a pity she’s métisse. I’d use her all the time. I know! We can tell people she’s Italian!”

Lavoie perked up at the idea, but Anne shook her head. “We can’t do that, Louis. She would be terribly insulted.”

“I can’t see why not. Other houses do it.” She pursed her lips, and he backed down. “Very well. We’ll need to make her look a bit lighter with makeup, though?”

“I suppose we can,” Anne said, knowing she had to give in a little.

“Excellent! And she’s cheaper than Maria too!”

Lavoie stood. “Excuse me, Monsieur de Bourbon. I must ensure Mademoiselle Boden has the correct score for the part.”

“Catherine is very good,” Anne said diplomatically after Lavoie swept out. “We need her following. She’s a firm favourite with audiences.”

“One essential member of the audience, at least. If only we didn’t need Fèron’s money.”

“We do, so there’s no point speculating. But let’s see how Sylvie does. It would be nice to be able to mix things up a little.”

Not that Catherine de Garouville would stand for that in the slightest.

Chapter Text

“This is such good news!” Constance exclaimed as she warmly embraced her friend.

Sylvie grimaced. “I’m terrified.”

Constance let her go and collected the tools of her trade from her worktable. “Nonsense. You’re perfect. I’ve heard you practicing. You’re better than Madame, no matter what she says. Now, let’s see if I can adjust the spare costume to fit you in time.”

“Clementine is better than me,” Sylvie protested. She was still in shock, and not sure if she was dreaming.

“She’s too old and she knows it, darling. Stop fretting. We only have a few hours to do this, so stand still and let me take your measurements. You know you’ve improved so much since you joined the company. Why be surprised when that’s recognised?”

“Madame will curse the day I was born.”

Constance waved a ruler in front of her face. “And that makes you different from anyone else in what way, pet?”

Sylvie had to smile at that. “It doesn’t. But her claws have been out since I joined the cast.”

“I’ll put a layer of steel under the costume to protect you.”

Sylvie laughed. “Very well.”

She endured the measuring, and Constance’s flitting about with cloth and pins, until a certain new, handsome young tenor turned up for his costume fitting, and Constance became somewhat distracted, allowing Sylvie to escape. D’Artagnan was very pretty, and very talented, but his main use to Sylvie was in tempering her friend’s endless enthusiasm for promoting Sylvie’s voice. Sylvie was in no way deluded about her chances of rising while Madame de Garouville was lead soprano at the Théâtre des Mousquetaires.

She returned to the small dressing room she shared with her fellow female chorus members, empty now until an hour or so before the performance. She began her vocal exercises, pausing now and then to listen for the spectral sounds she had come to love and depend upon.

Sure enough, after a minute or two, the first delicate notes from a violin began to accompany her, guiding her as surely as her first teacher had, and as gently as her father had led her in practice. In her imagination, this was her father, playing his own instrument, and not the Ghost.

She believed in the Ghost. The Ghost was her friend.

When she felt she had warmed up sufficiently, she stopped, practiced her breathing until she felt calm, then opened her mouth and sang. “È strano! è strano! in core”.

The violin was silent for only a moment or two, before picking up the accompanying tune perfectly, keeping her in pitch and matching exactly the pace that the orchestra conductor would set, as he set for Catherine.

The violin, and the kind talent behind it, was the reason she had improved so much. She arrived in Paris, penniless, lonely, and lost in her grief. By pure luck, though her voice had been muted and dulled by her father’s death, she had won a position in the chorus at Les Mousquetaires. Needing the money, and without a soul in the world to help her, she forced herself to sing, to continue practicing and improve. Once this would have been a dream come true, but now she sang without a moment’s joy.

Until...

Until that one morning, a week after joining Les Mousquetaires, in her tiny room off the girl’s dormitory, she sat on her narrow bed and wept. Even after her father’s funeral, she had not felt so heartsick and lonely. Why had she come to Paris, where she did not even have the memories of her father in their little home, to comfort her?

The quiet strains of a violin practicing caught her attention through her tears, and she stopped to listen. Whoever it was, was very gifted.

She recognised the piece. “L'amero, saro constante” from The Shepherd King, by Mozart. Papa had loved it, and they had sung it together. She blew her nose, and started to sing.

The violin stopped. She wiped her eyes, disappointed but not surprised. Oh well.

But then the music began again, from the start. She drew in a breath, and came in at the right note. The violin played through to the very end this time, without a single mistake, and for those few precious minutes, she was happy again as she had not been in months.

Silence for a few moments, then the instrument started another piece, and the first notes made her weep all over again. Still sobbing, she sang and gulped her way through Ave Maria, another favourite of her father’s, though he was an atheist as she was.

“How do you know?” she cried out to the mysterious violinist.

No sound answered her. She blew her nose again. Surely it was a coincidence. One of the orchestra was rehearsing, that was all.

But then the violin played a few notes, and she smiled. “Sylvie, not Sylvia.”

The response was the laughter section of “Mein herr Marquis” from Die Fledermaus.

“You have a musical reply for everything, don’t you?” The violin played a little trill. “Who are you?” she’d called. “Let me see you?”

No reply, and the violin did not speak either. The musician was too shy to talk to her directly. Perhaps another song, then.

“Casta Diva, che inargenti....”

The smallest hesitation, then the violin accompanied her all the way through Norma’s aria. Was there a piece this musician did not know?

For an hour, she sang and the unseen violin sang with her, until her sorrows were washed by so much sweet music that she almost forgot them entirely.

“Thank you,” she said. Poor words for such a gift.

No reply. She blew her nose. She really should....

She sat transfixed by the purity of the tenor voice coming through the ceiling, and only when it stopped, did she realise the singer was waiting for her to reply in the soprano’s part.

When she was finished, she smiled. “You sing like an angel, monsieur.”

The violin played the first lines of “Ah! grazie se redano,” and she laughed at the joke.

“I am not a goddess, you realise.” The violin trilled as if chuckling at her. “Thank you, kind friend. You have given me the greatest gift.”

Another ripple of notes from the violin, which sounded to her like, “You’re welcome.”

There was no more sound from above that morning, but she no longer felt so lonely. She felt sure she and her unknown musician would meet again in song.

Two months on, and she knew that voice as intimately as her own. Depended on it, as she had on her father’s. Loved it, as she had Papa’s. To that voice, that kind, sweet spirit, she owed this promotion. She would do everything she could to be worthy of it.

She began another piece from La Traviata. “Oh qual pallor!” She paused. “Voi qui!”

And right on cue, her unknown friend responded. “Cessata è l’ansia che vi turbò?” [Do you still feel upset?]

She smiled. “Sto meglio.” [I feel better now.]

Chapter Text

Above the stage, Athos listened to the auditions. He’d known before Louis de Bourbon which soprano would be chosen. One would have to be tone-deaf and without the smallest sensibility not to realise Sylvie’s voice was the purest, the sweetest of the three—and beyond that of Madame de Garouville, even before la rhume had struck. Once Madame de Bourbon had announced her choice, he had climbed silently from his roost, and along the rafters to the spot near the women’s dressing room, to wait for his Sylvie.

For over a year, he had lived in this building, watching the last company go bankrupt, and this new venture of de Bourbon’s take its place. He had listened to each singer’s audition, silently approving or disapproving each choice. When Charles d’Artagnan was hired, Athos was cautiously hopeful for the future of Les Mousquetaires. D’Artagnan had that special knack of being both a competent, even highly talented tenor, and of being able to infuse his performance with apparently genuine passion and emotion. He would carry the audience into and along with the story.

Catherine de Garouville was a coup for Louis de Bourbon, though Athos did not think her talent justified her utter lack of manners. However, her patron was funding de Bourbon’s venture, so her selection was inevitable.

Unfortunately, that meant superior talents to hers were forced into the chorus (although that was a better fate than that provided for Porthos du Vallon and his exquisite baritone.) And that meant the sorrowing, achingly lovely Sylvie Boden had had to bide her time, instead of being the lead, as befitted her talent.

But now, she had a chance. Tonight, she must shine, and Athos would do what he could to polish the pearl, though, in truth, she no longer needed his help. She had outgrown his meagre skills, and would progress well under the tutelage of Monsieur Lavoie.

If Madame de Garouville allowed it, of course.

Monsieur Lavoie knocked at the dressing room door and asked to come in. Athos continued to listen as Lavoie assured himself that Sylvie knew the libretto, and the lead soprano part, as well as she claimed. “Goodness, my girl, did you spend so much time practicing that role as well as your own?”

“I have known this role for years, monsieur. I used to sing parts of it with my father. And of course, I have had the honour of watching Madame de Garouville rehearse and perform for several weeks.”

“Ye-es,” Lavoie said somewhat dubiously. “We will rehearse your part at four. Madame Bonacieux won’t have the costume ready by then, but no matter. I wouldn’t worry too much about the acting side of it, my dear. I doubt our audience is sophisticated enough to notice. Just stay somewhat in tune, and they’ll count themselves well satisfied.”

“Yes, monsieur,” Sylvie said. Athos could tell by her voice she was concealing a smile. Once Lavoie left, she turned to the ceiling. “Well, my dear friend. Can I sing ‘somewhat’ in tune?”

Athos played a little trill on the violin as an answer. Of course she could, and she knew it.

Tonight would be the proudest moment of his life.

*******************

D’Artagnan had only been at Les Mousquetaires a few weeks, but already he had noticed some peculiarities about this small company.

One—the prettiest woman in the place wasn’t on stage at all, but worked as their costume maker.

Two—their best soprano wasn’t their lead singer, but was stuck in the chorus.

And three, the finest baritone he had ever heard in his life wasn’t even in the chorus, but worked as a lowly stagehand.  Even climbing a ladder, Porthos could sing. And did.

He looked back at d’Artagnan, eyebrow raised. D’Artagnan sang the response. “Non!”

Porthos grinned, teeth white in the gloom. “Doutes-tu de ma puissance?” [Do you doubt my power?]

“Peut-être?” [Perhaps?]

“Bloody cheek,” Porthos said, breaking out of role. “I bet you a hundred francs that when we find this ‘ghost’, it’ll be a pipe from one of the dressing rooms that no one knows about, and that’ll explain all the mysterious sounds being carried around the building. And the rest of it will be rats.”

“Rats?” D’Artagnan made sure to give his voice a frightened squeak.

“Oh yeah. We has to have rats. I think it’s a law.” He went quiet. D’Artagnan held the lamp and waited. “Hello. Someone’s been up here.”

“How can you tell?”

“Dust’s been cleaned off this beam. Weren’t me, even if they have me up here every half an hour looking for this bleedin’ ghost. Hold that lamp up higher. I’m gonna check.”

D’Artagnan obeyed, but as soon as he did, there was a thump below, and then a startled yell. “Oops?”

“What did you do?” Porthos snapped.

“Nothing!”

“Du Vallon!” That was Berger, the stage manager. “One of the weights has fallen off the backdrop! It nearly killed me. Get down here and fix it.”

“Coming, monsieur!” Porthos growled at d’Artagnan. “Have to come back later and check. Damn it. I was sure I was onto something.”

“Doutes-tu de ma puissance?” d’Artagnan warbled at him.

“You can fuck off,” Porthos said, not at all musically.

*******************

In a fashionable apartment in a fashionable quarter, Catherine de Garouville lay back on an exquisitely embroidered linen-covered pillow, and glared feverishly at her patron, Philippe, Comte de Fèron.

“Impossible!”

Actually, she said “Impothible” and monsieur le comte mentally translated, having become accustomed to doing so over the last couple of days as his protégé suffered through the cursed stages of a heavy cold. “I quite agree, my dear, but de Bourbon tells me that she will only be on stage for three”—Catherine issued a muffled screech—“two performances, just long enough for your devoted followers to appreciate how inferior a replacement she makes. There’s no need to be disturbed.”

“No! Tell him no!”

Fèron smiled patiently. “Catherine, the man does need to put on a performance of some kind if he’s to ever repay my loan. Of course, tickets will be returned, but he will make just enough to keep going until your return. Which is all that matters.” He picked up the pale hand that lay upon the silk coverlet, and kissed it. “Drink your mint tea, dear, then rest. Soon you’ll be back in your rightful place, and no one will remember anything of the cursed mulâtresse except that she was decidedly not your equal.”

Catherine’s mouth thinned elegantly in anger, but the effect was spoiled by her having to seize a new handkerchief to blow her nose. Fèron patted her hand and hope she would fall asleep soon. She needed to recover quickly. It would be most inconvenient if the Théàtre des Mousquetaires failed now.

Chapter Text

René Aramis, Comte d’Herblay, expertly guided his lovely companion for the evening, one Marguerite du Sel, towards their box. To tell the truth, he was doing a friend a favour by taking her out to the opera tonight—her father said she needed to be shown out in society more, with the hope of snagging a husband. It wasn’t easy for a woman who had borne a child out of wedlock to catch the eye of eligible young men, though she still had her looks and figure and a handsome inheritance to come. Aramis only hoped she wouldn’t transfer her affections to him. Though he liked ladies perfectly well, she was not to his taste, and he was wealthy enough not to need her father’s money.

La Traviata was a particular favourite of his, and he had heard good things about the soprano, de Garouville, who had lately come from the Paris Garnier following a season full of plaudits. The entire opera’s enjoyment hinged on the quality of the woman singing Violetta. He had heard so many dreadful sopranos. He hoped tonight would not bring another.

“I didn’t expect we would be so private here,” Marguerite murmured.

“Not so much,” he said. “We can be seen quite well by other fine people. Such as that gentleman there, looking at you so admiringly.” He discreetly indicated the direction, and she looked quickly that way.

She flushed with colour, giving her face a touch of vivacity. “He’s very bold,” she said, fanning herself.

“He has much to be bold about,” Aramis said, smiling encouragingly. “Don’t be shy, dear. You are here to be looked at and admired, as well as to look and admire yourself. He’s handsome, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” she said airily, before grinning. Aramis smiled to himself, and sat back to wait for the overture.

The story of La Dame aux Camelias was as familiar to him as the bible, and though it was a sad tale, he adored the romance of it all. His mother, may she rest in peace, had asked him to read it to her many times, and she could even sing some of the songs from Verdi’s opera—in French, of course. They would duet as best they could, laughing like children as one or the other failed to reach a note. His father would come in and ask if the tomcats were being nuisances again, before Maman scolded him for being so rude, and he would kiss her and beg an apology.

Though that was all too many years ago now.

Aramis watched the stagehands working silently almost out of sight, admiring one handsome chap in particular—a tall, brawny soul with the smile of a saint. Or was it the devil? Aramis’s loins twitched a little. It had been too long since such a fine man had joined him in his bed.

He chided himself. Not now, you selfish fool.

The house was two thirds full by the time the orchestra began warming up, with people still finding their seats. The conductor was greeted with a satisfyingly loud round of applause, so the audience was in a good mood. Aramis was glad of that. He wanted this new house to succeed, believing that, as in so many other things, the more opera choices he had, the merrier.

The overture began, confidently and tunefully, so one possible cause for complaint was dismissed. It only remained to learn how well Catherine de Garouville’s talents had transferred from the much more famous house.

The stage filled with the party-goers, with a strikingly beautiful young woman in a white dress often worn by Violetta, but no sign of Catherine de Garouville that Aramis could see. Perhaps she would enter dramatically for this production

Then the beautiful young woman in white began to sing. Aramis’s first thought was, “That is not Catherine de Garouville!”, his second was “Her voice is that of an angel,” and his third was, “I must know who she is!”

He sat, transported by the young woman’s astonishing voice—the most perfect Violetta he had ever heard. He was so overwhelmed that the tall, handsome tenor playing Alfredo barely concerned him at all, except to note that he, too, was a surprisingly good singer for such a small and unknown opera company.

At the end of Act I, he clapped until his hands hurt too much to continue. “How beautiful! What a voice!”

“It’s very pleasant,” Marguerite agreed politely. Never in all his years of knowing her, had Aramis thought so little of her taste.

“That soprano is not pleasant, my dear. She is beyond comparison. I have never heard the like.”

“Come, come, Aramis. Everyone knows this opera. The urchins sing it in the street. It’s not that difficult.”

Aramis bit his tongue, lest he said something uncivil to his friend’s daughter. “Popularity is no measure of difficulty, dear girl. I swear to you, in years to come, that soprano will be the most famous to grace a Parisian stage.”

“I believe you, of course,” she said, distracted by the man in the box opposite.

Aramis shook his head, and waited for the next act.

*******************

The audience was content with no fewer than five curtain calls, and stood on their feet for every one. The sound each time Sylvie reappeared deafened Athos, up in the rafters.

As well it should. His sweet girl had sung her heart out, made Violetta her own, and made many of the audience weep as she ‘died’ in Alfredo’s arms.

He waited until the final curtain call, and then crept back to the position near Sylvie’s room, to wait. She would be some time, removing makeup and costume, receiving the congratulations of the cast. All richly deserved, of course.

His darling Sylvie. What a joy she was to him.

Chapter Text

Sylvie could hardly bear to wait while her fellow singers kissed her cheek and praised her performance. She tore off her costume as quickly as Constance would let her, and scraped off enough makeup to do for the night, before racing up the stairs to her room, shutting the door, and speaking to the ceiling.

“Did you see? Did you hear?”

A few notes on the violin from “Libiamo ne lieti calici” answered her.

“It was all because of you, dear friend. You taught me so well. I owe you everything.”

A long descending note—her friend’s way of saying “No!”—was her reply.

“It’s true! Oh, I love to sing! This is what Papa wanted for me. You gave me back my love. Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

She hummed a few notes to let him know what she wanted to sing for him, then began. “Alfredo, Alfredo, di questo core....”

His violin sang along with her, matching every note perfectly, two voices joined as one.

This was her gift for him, her thank you. Violetta, telling her lover, “How should you understand all the love that's in my heart?” Perhaps not completely appropriate, but she did love her friend, and his violin, and his voice. He had given her the joy she had thought gone forever.

All she had to give him in return was her voice, and he could have that for as long as it was granted to her to gasp out even the smallest sound. To Papa and her friend, she owed everything she ever loved, or would ever love.

*******************

Constance captured their new star as soon as she appeared downstairs. “Sylvie! You rushed off last night. Look!” She waved at the bouquets of flowers that had appeared that morning. “And Madame and Monsieur are so pleased about the reviews!”

Sylvie stared at the mass of blooms in apparent disbelief. “For me?”

“For you. A couple for d’Artagnan, but almost all of them for you. Three from the same man,” she said with a dimpled smile. “Lucien Grimaud, the financier. Read his cards.”

Sylvie obeyed, then tossed them on Constance’s table. “‘For the loveliest voice in Christendom, the sweetest sound ever heard on this earth.’ That’s ridiculous.”

“It is not,” Constance scolded. “You were thrilling.”

“For all of two nights, maybe three, I’ll be thrilling,” Sylvie said. “Then Madame de Garouville returns.”

“Who cares? Now Monsieur and Madame know what a talent they have under their nose—”

“You mean, the talent they have to cover with white greasepaint so not to frighten the audience with a black singer?”

Constance frowned at her. “We’ll use less tonight, and none tomorrow, and I bet you a hundred francs no one will give a fig.”

Sylvie sighed at her. “You’re sweet, Constance, but the real world is different. Otherwise Porthos would be in the company, and not hauling sandbags.”

“He didn’t even audition, though.”

“Yes. Why was that, do you think?”

Constance pouted. “And I was in such a good mood. Oh well. The flowers are real enough. I bet you Monsieur Grimaud asks to meet you tonight.”

“I don’t care if he does or not. I’m not doing this for admirers.”

“You should be, my love. All good singers need a patron.”

For some reason, Sylvie glanced at the ceiling before replying, “Not me. I have all the help I need.”

“Do you have all the money you need, or do you like living in a closet?”

“It’s all I want,” Sylvie said with surprising firmness. “I have food, shelter, music. What more could I want?”

“Love?”

“I have that too.”

Constance arched an eyebrow at her. “Do tell.”

“I have you, don’t I?”

“Oh, pet. You know what I mean. A nice strong man to hold you at night and make love to you.”

“And to beat me when things don’t go his way?”

Constance pursed her lips and turned back to her worktable. “They’re not all like that,” she bit out, angry that her friend would turn her secret misfortune against her.

She felt a pair of slim arms go around her. “I’m sorry. That was unkind of me. I only meant that love doesn’t mean happiness every time.”

“I know it doesn’t. But if you never look for it, you’ll never find out if that happiness can be yours.”

“I’m content as I am. I have friends, and I have music I love. A man would just be a nuisance.”

Constance laughed and shook her head. “Yes, they can be.”

Sylvie pressed her cheek against Constance’s hair, then stood up. “D’Artagnan did very well, don’t you think?” she said slyly.

“He’s coming along.”

“He looked so handsome in his costume.”

“That’s because I’m a miracle worker. Run along, darling. I have things to do.”

“Of course you do.” Constance knew Sylvie was grinning, but didn’t dare look at her. Cheeky child.

Chapter Text

Burdened with Marguerite’s company, Aramis could not easily enquire that evening as to the identity of the soprano, so he returned the following day, determined to know the name of the goddess. He charmed his way past the gentleman posing as desultory security at the ticket office, by saying he had business with Monsieur de Bourbon, an offer that might be of some interest, perhaps?

Inside the theatre, people worked around the stage. Aramis concluded that the singers must do double duty as stage hands and carpenters, and paused to appreciate a fine fragment of a duet between tenor and a baritone of quality. He could not recall that voice from the night before, but he allowed he had been so swept away by the soprano, he might not have noticed a baritone in the chorus.

As he approached the stage, the tenor revealed himself to be the lad who had played Alfredo with such verve. His companion was....

That gorgeous dark-skinned man who had been working behind the scenes just before the opera started. A man now shown as not only handsome, but with a voice of the richest timbre and ability.

“Are you looking for someone, monsieur?”

The tenor had stopped work and stood with his hands on his hips, challenging Aramis.

“Er, yes. D’Artagnan, isn’t it? I saw you perform last night. What a splendid performance.”

The lad smiled and bowed. “Thank you, monsieur.”

“And your friend there, the baritone. I don’t remember him on stage.”

“That’s cos I wasn’t,” the man said, stepping forward with a mallet poised in his massive hands. “Did you have business here?”

“I only sought to learn the name of the soprano. I have never heard a voice so pure, so full of character.”

The big man grinned. “That’s our Sylvie. Sylvie Boden. She’s—”

“Sylvie Boden? Daughter of Hubert Boden?”

“The late Doctor Boden, yeah. What’s it to you?”

“But I know her,” Aramis said. “I’ve known her since she was a child. I didn’t recognise her.”

The man’s handsome faced twisted in a scowl. “That’s cos they made her up so no one would know she was mixed. Thought the audience wouldn’t like it.”

“But she never sang like that when I knew her. Though it’s been a few years, I must admit. Please, good sir, may I have a message sent to her? Tell her that Aramis is here. Aramis, comte d’Herblay.”

The man glanced at d’Artagnan who shrugged. “Can’t do any harm,” the boy said. “You keep an eye on him.”

“I assure you I’m harmless.”

“Uh huh,” the big man said as d’Artagnan ran off. “How do you know our girl again?”

“Her father and mine were friends. He was our doctor. My father died six years ago, and I came to Paris. That’s the last time I saw the Bodens. Now tell me, sir, who I have the honour of addressing.”

“Du Vallon. Porthos du Vallon.”

Aramis bowed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Porthos. You say you aren’t a performer? With a voice like yours?”

“Can’t make me up to look white, like they can with Sylvie. And she wouldn’t be lead if Madame de Garouville didn’t have a cold.”

“That is unjust. Your voice is superb.”

The compliment only made Porthos scowl again. “Yeah, much good it does me. I have work to do.”

“Do you need a hand, since I sent your assistant away on an errand?”

Porthos looked him up and down. “You’re a bit fancy for this kind of thing, mate.”

“I am only so fancy so that I may take my fancy where I fancy.” He made sure to lift an eyebrow as he said it.

“Is that right?” Porthos drawled, with a leer so shamelessly filthy Aramis went rock-hard in his trousers. Porthos’s leer only intensified as he noticed. “So what do you fancy, then, monsieur le comte?”

“Er...I appreciate beauty in all its forms. And genders. Particularly beauty which sounds beautiful as well.”

“Do tell.”

“Pardon me if I am being too obscure for you.”

“Not obscure at all, mate.”

Aramis loosened his collar a little. “So, my dear Porthos. When do you have time off, may I ask?”

“Sundays. We don’t perform Sundays.”

“Ah. I go to Mass every Sunday.”

“Up to you how you fill your days. Sundays, I’m off.”

Aramis nodded. “Sundays. And if a gentleman wished to call upon you on a Sunday, how might he find you?”

Porthos pointed upwards. “I live above the shop.”

“Ah, excellent.”

“Aramis!”

He turned and Sylvie rushed into his arms. Not the gangly girl of eighteen, all raw edges and bones, but a woman of surpassing loveliness. “It is you. I saw your performance last night, but I didn’t recognise you. Or your voice. How have you improved so much?”

She drew back to smile at him. “Practice, dear Aramis. It’s been a long time since I saw you, but you look exactly the same. Are you married? Do you have children?”

“Yeah, do you?” Porthos said from the stage, one eyebrow raised provocatively.

“No and no, my darling. How is your father?”

She drooped completely, sliding out of his arms like wet washing. “Dead. Three months ago.”

“Oh, my dear girl. I’m so sorry. But you’ve come to Paris? To live here?”

“Yes. I had nothing to keep me in Abbeville and no means of earning a living. Fortunately Monsieur and Madame de Bourbon hired me for the chorus.”

“But you sang the lead.”

She nodded. “Madame de Garouville has a cold. I’m only the lead until she returns.”

“So you may think, but if last night’s reception was anything to go by, they would be unwise to send you back to the chorus.”

“I’m only a stand-in, Aramis.”

He regarded her, and thought harshly of the fools who could overlook a talent of her magnitude. “Hmmm. Where are you staying?”

“Here, of course. I have my own room—”

“Closet,” Porthos said, listening in quite shamelessly. “More of a room to hold spare luggage in.”

Aramis’s eyes widened in horror. “Sylvie! That’s not good enough. I have an apartment here, and many contacts. I’ll find you something better. I can’t let my old friend’s daughter live in a box room.”

But she shook her head emphatically, pulling away from him even more. “I’m quite comfortable here, Aramis.”

“The ghost keeps us company,” Porthos said.

“Ghost? What ghost?”

Aramis swore Sylvie blushed, but nothing showed in her voice. “There is no ghost,” she said. “Just an old building—”

“It’s only forty years old,” Porthos said.

Sylvie ploughed on. “That creaks and moans and settles in the cooler air of the night.”

“And plays the violin, and sings, and cuts backdrop weights, and cleans dust off the rafters. I’d say it was rats, but they’re never that tidy.”

Yes, Aramis thought, she was definitely blushing. What was she hiding? “Are you trying to claim someone lives in the roof, Porthos?” she said. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Not as ridiculous as believing in ghosts, love.”

She turned to Aramis. “Where do you live? Will you come to see me again?”

“Indeed, I will. I have tickets for tonight’s performance as well, though now I know it’s only you, maybe I should give them back.” She rolled her eyes at him. “Of course, I will come and see you. Here’s my card. I insist on taking you to lunch, or dinner when you’re free.”

“Only on Sunday evenings, Aramis.”

“Then lunch. You can telephone me at that address.”

“Ooh er, posh, ain’t he?”

Aramis looked up at the stage and the Greek chorus of one. “I think my fancy is becoming less fanciable by the minute.”

“If you say so, monsieur.” Sylvie frowned in confusion at their by-play. Aramis took her hands. “Never mind that oaf. Are you free tomorrow?”

“Between eleven and three. I must be back by then to practice.”

“For a seven o’clock performance?”

“Er. Yes. Because I’m new at this, you see.”

“Very well.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “Are you in need of funds?”

“No, I am paid well enough. You can buy lunch though.”

“Indeed I shall. So, I will call at twelve for you.”

“And what time will I expect you?” Porthos asked, grinning widely.

“I’ll come for you when I’m ready, monsieur.”

The double meaning was not lost on the man, and Aramis made his escape while Porthos was still chortling.

Chapter Text

Athos heard Sylvie’s door slam and then she called. “My friend? I have such wonderful news! Are you there?”

He picked up the violin and moved over to the ceiling above her room, before playing a little trill. “You are there, thank goodness. I’ve met a friend! A friend of my family, of my childhood. He lives in Paris now, and he heard me sing last night! And he said how much I had improved. I longed to tell him why. Oh, my dearest man, you would like Aramis so much, and he could not fail to love you. You’re so kind and talented. Would you not find it easier to come into the light? Porthos is beginning to suspect, and really, what do you have to hide? I can’t believe you’re some ghastly criminal.”

Athos could not answer. Criminal, no. Ghastly, yes—beyond her imagination. A face not even his own mother and father could love. A face that a woman could only pretend to overlook, while she played him for a fool with his own brother.

A face so hideous that even his musical ability was not enough for people to forgive it.

He could never explain this to her without showing his face to her, which was unthinkable. He would spend a lifetime in hiding and obscurity rather than endure the smallest moment of her scorn and disgust. It would destroy him.

No. He would have to deny his darling girl this wish, for her own good.

He played her a small, sad refrain, then crept away. Her friend would console her. If he was a true friend, he would support her.

If he was not a true friend, Athos would drive him away. No one would hurt his Sylvie.

*******************

When her friend did not ‘speak’ again, Sylvie realised her mistake. “I’m sorry, my friend. I won’t bring it up again.”

He had gone for the moment. Disappointed, she left her room and went downstairs to eat, and then rehearse. More flowers had arrived, and more complimentary notes, along with two invitations to dinner from complete strangers.

“Does Madame receive this kind of thing?” she asked Madame de Bourbon when she wandered into the rehearsal room to listen.

“I don’t know,” Madame said. “Since she had not performed with us yet. Certainly, at Opèra Garnier, she would have received many accolades. She is very talented.”

“Yes, of course. I did not mean...it’s all a little overwhelming.”

Madame smiled kindly. “I’m sure, but at the same time, completely deserved. Monsieur is very pleased with the reviews. We have a full house tonight.”

“Goodness. Because of me?”

“Almost certainly. And the rest of the cast and the orchestra, of course. The production has been well received.”

“You and Monsieur have done very well, madame. It is an honour to sing with you.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, Sylvie. I feel we will have many more roles for you, if you choose to stay.”

“I do! I will! I love it here!”

Madame blinked elegantly in surprise. “My dear, you have not seen Opèra Garnier, or any of the other opera houses.”

“I don’t care. This suits me perfectly, and I will only leave when you ask me to.”

Madame smiled at her with maternal kindness. “Excellent. Now, run along and rehearse. Warm up carefully. I don’t want to have to replace you because of an injured throat.”

“Yes, madame!”

Monsieur Lavoie had personally taken over her instruction, and did not believe in the gentle coaxing her Ghost used. Two hours with him left her limp as a used mop, although she did feel more confident, and her voice stronger. Of course, without her Ghost, she would not have been in a position to attract such personal instruction, or to bear it so well.

It was something of a relief to flee to Constance and drink some honeyed mint tea, something her father had taught her was soothing for her throat. She’d discovered no lesser person than Madame de Garouville herself also used it. Constance didn’t care for it, but was happy to make it for Sylvie whenever she visited. There was more costume fitting, some changes to make it more comfortable, to flow around Sylvie’s more traditionally feminine figure, and to make her small breasts look more enticing to the male members of the audience.

“Ugh,” Sylvie said when Constance explained. “I don’t want to entice anyone, thank you.”

“Yes you do, because it brings ticket sales, and ticket sales brings wages for you and me and everyone else. Your tits are our fortune, pet.”

Sylvie disgraced herself and had to pour a fresh cup of mint tea after that.

Brujon came to Constance’s room. “Excuse me, madame, mademoiselle, a Monsieur Lucien Grimaud begs to see Mademoiselle Sylvie.”

Sylvie stared at Constance in alarm. “Should I? Wouldn’t that be improper?”

“I’ll come with you, as chaperone. Some of these men can be very impertinent to young women. They assume because you perform on stage for them, that you must be willing to perform elsewhere for them.”

“Ugh.”

“Yes, indeed. Thank you, Brujon. We’ll come out presently.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Are you sure, Constance?”

“Yes, I am. But you wait here. I’m going to ask d’Artagnan and Porthos to be ‘around’. That way, if he’s too forward, I’ll have two stout souls to toss him out.”

Her words did nothing to calm Sylvie’s rattled nerves, even though Constance had the air of someone who had seen and done it all before, and that this was nothing at all to worry about. It would be good to have the two men close by. Sylvie would chance everything she owned on the expectation that Porthos and d’Artagnan would fight to the death to save any woman, let alone her. Or Constance. Especially Constance.

Her friend was back in a trice. “Right, it’s all arranged. Try not to look too interested or enthusiastic, dear. Don’t encourage him. Unless you like him, of course.”

“I’m sure I will not.”

Constance only smiled. “Of course not.”

Constance led the way to the back of the theatre. Monsieur Grimaud was richly dressed, but his odd taste in suit and coat and hat made him look as if he wore the clothes of the recently dead and robbed—not a thought that calmed Sylvie’s fears at all. He also had some savage scars above his left eye, which looked too much like they could have been inflicted in a fierce battle.

Thought they could have just as easily have been caused by an accident, she chided herself.

He held a much be-ringed hand. “Mademoiselle Boden. I am so very honoured to meet you.”

She let him kiss her hand, but pulled it away as quickly as she could without causing offence. “Thank you, monsieur.”

“Your singing...truly, God has sent us an angel to give us joy.”

“You are much too kind, monsieur,” Constance said when Sylvie could find no words to answer this extravagant praise.

Grimaud turned a cold eye upon her. “Excuse me, mademoiselle. I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

“I am Madame Bonacieux. The costume designer and Mademoiselle Boden's particular friend.” Sylvie thought that made them sound like lovers. Perhaps that was Constance’s intention.

It did not dull Monsieur Grimaud’s ardour, however. “Well, Madame Bonacieux. I speak the simple truth. I am a plain man. I say what I mean and I mean what I say.”

“Yes, but Mademoiselle Boden is so young, with many years to better learn her craft. She is not yet of Madame de Garouville’s stature.”

Grimaud glared at Constance in a manner which sent shivers through Sylvie. “I have heard de Garouville, and I have heard La Boden. There is no comparison.” He turned to Sylvie, and was again all smiles. “Mademoiselle, it would give me the greatest pleasure to become your patron, and further your career in whatever manner I can.”

Sylvie blushed. “Monsieur, you do me too much honour. I am merely a stand-in for Madame de Garouville, who will resume the role of Violetta in a day or two. I am much too young for a patron. Too undeserving.”

“Not at all. It is the young who need patronage most of all. Tell me how I may make your life easier? Better wages? A private apartment?”

“No!” she said, a little too sharply, startling both her companions. In the corner of her eye, two tall shadows, one brown, one browner, drew closer. “I mean, I am so very happy here with my friends. You must not misunderstand me. I am well treated, and content to take my place where I belong, until I truly earn it. It is only misfortune which has removed our lead soprano and her stand-in from the stage temporarily. I will return to the chorus, and pursue my career in a conventional way.”

“But your voice is not conventional!”

Sylvie heard a low rumble behind her. “Hey, Constance.”

Constance turned her sunniest smile upon her white knight. “Good morning, Porthos.”

“I think Madame was looking for the two of you. Might be a good idea to find out what she wanted.”

“Yes, indeed. Monsieur Grimaud, Sylvie and I really should attend to our manager.”

He stared at the two of them, then at Porthos, with d’Artagnan standing smiling slightly insolently behind him. He bowed. “But, of course. I will have the pleasure of hearing you sing tonight at least.”

Sylvie curtsied. “I hope I will live up to your expectations, monsieur.”

Constance took her arm and they walked away, arm in arm, calmly and without a hint of panic. Only once they were out of sight, did Sylvie allow herself to sag. “My God.”

“He’s intense.”

“He’s a lunatic. Be a patron for a singer with a single lead performance under her belt? Is he made of money?”

Constance rolled her eyes. “It’s not your voice he’s after, I suspect. But anyway, you should keep him at a distance. You do not want men setting you up in a private apartment at your age. What does he think he is?”

“Doesn’t Madame de Garouville—”

“Madame is fifteen years older than you, unwed, and childless. She needs support for her old age. You can do better.”

“Yes, Madame Bonacieux.”

Constance shook a finger at her. “None of your cheek. Now come back and let me finish the dress or I shall leave pins in it.”

“You’d stab me in my fortune-making tits? How cruel, my dear Constance.”

“You’ll be the death of me, my girl.”

Chapter Text

Never had Aramis been so eager to rise early for the first Mass, and he felt no need to confess the reason to his priest.

Porthos did not seem the type to bother rising on Sunday for any Mass at all, and yet there he was, as Aramis approached the opera house, lurking handsomely near the front doors. “Why, good heavens, monsieur. Are you up too? Shall we break our fast together to make the most of this unexpected congruence?”

Porthos cupped Aramis around the back of the head and laid a mighty kiss on his forehead. “You talk too much before I’ve had my coffee.”

Aramis grinned in delight. “People often comment on that, I have no idea why.”

Delightful as Porthos was as a companion, Aramis saw no reason to waste time seeking out a decent café in which to entertain him. Instead, he took his new best friend to his elegant, comfortable apartment, where he had his manservant lay out coffee and brioche and good butter so they could sit and eat in the greatest ease on his sofas. “I didn’t realise you was rich,” Porthos said.

“Hardly at all,” Aramis said. “Enough to keep me in small luxuries, to entertain my special friends and so on.”

“And dress like a dandy.”

“Nonsense. I dress like a d’Herblay. Everyone else is a rank imitator. Now, my dear Porthos. Tell me how you came to sing as you do, where you do, and what you do.”

“If you like.” Porthos set his coffee cup down and leered, baring neat white teeth. “But I thought we was going to fuck.”

Aramis thought his trousers might actually split. “By all means, my dear man. By all means. We can talk and enjoy carnal delight.”

“I reckon you can talk under water. But if I’m doing it right, you shouldn’t be talking at all.” He rose to his full height and held out his hand. “Take me to your bedroom, monsieur le comte.”

*******************

Aramis was indeed rendered speechless by Porthos’s efforts, and by the need to reciprocate, but he was too curious about the man and his numerous talents to remain silent for long. “Start with this,” he said, running a gentle fingertip down the deep scar bisecting one eyebrow.

“Half brother-in-law,” Porthos said, which told him nothing.

“Ah. And this?” he rested the back of his fingers against the long neck. “A voice like this requires careful training.”

“Nah. Self-taught, mostly.” This time Aramis was not content to let him off the hook, and waited for more. Porthos let out a little chuckle. “My mother died when I was about four, and a priest took me in. He wasn’t too bad for a priest. A bit strict, but they all are. He loved music, played a harmonium and used to sing all the time, and I used to join in after a bit. He thought it was a gift from God that I could sing the hymns so well, that he paid for me to have some lessons, not that they lasted too long. But long enough to teach me how to practice, and strengthen my voice, and when he wasn’t looking, I’d sneak off to the opera house and listen at the windows. When I turned seventeen, he said I needed to find an occupation, so I went into the army.”

“The army? My God, you could have been killed.” Aramis felt quite faint at the idea of this beautiful man being put in harm’s way. He had seen how easily good men died on a battlefield.

“Yeah, but it was either that or the priesthood, and I don’t reckon I was cut out for that,” he said, his belly rippling with amusement. “I liked soldiering, and as luck would have it, my major was a man who loved music too. He was nice. Took me under his wing, kind of. We used to sing in a little choir he put together in the regiment.”

The big man’s cheerful expression had become solemn during this retelling. Aramis kissed his cheek, and laid a hand on his chest. “What happened? Did he die?”

“Yeah. Eventually. Not then though. Turned out it wasn’t a complete coincidence him finding me in the army, or that priest looking after me. He knew my real father, but hadn’t told me all those years. I was twenty-eight by the time he finally did.”

Horrified at the callousness, Aramis took refuge in teasing. “But, my dear, you can’t possibly be more than twenty-five right now. Not with your stamina.”

“You wouldn’t have looked at me then,” Porthos said, cocking one eyebrow. “Took a while for me to fill out proper.”

“Impossible to believe you weren’t born perfect.”

“Do you want to hear this or not?”

“I will be good.”

“Heh, doubt it. Anyway, I went off to see this joker—fellow called Belgard. A marquis, believe it or not. I’m his legitimate son.”

“He’s still alive? Then why are you working—” Porthos looked at him, and Aramis closed his mouth.

“Better. Belgard was a piece of crap, and his daughter and her husband were no better. I showed him the documents de Tréville had given me—”

“De Tréville?”

“Jean, Comte de Tréville. My major.”

“Ah. Continue.”

Porthos changed position which allowed Aramis to drape himself better across the magnificent expanse of his chest. “Belgard had his son in law chase me out of the house with a horsewhip. Caught me here. I was lucky he didn’t blind me.”

“The devil he did! And yet you are his true son?”

“Wish I wasn’t. I was angry as hell with my major for holding back the truth, angry with Belgard for being the arsehole that he is, so I washed my hands of both of them. I went around the opera houses begging for work, anything, and I got my start in the Opéra-Comique, learning being a stage hand and carpenter. I moved to Opéra Garnier for three years, learning more opera as well as the rest, and then I was with the company that went broke under Rochefort. Monsieur de Bourbon bought up the props, hired those of us who wanted to work for him, and took over the lease. So here I am.”

“That’s a remarkable story. Did you never forgive de Tréville?”

Porthos sucked his teeth before continuing. “I went to see him a couple of years ago. He was dying then, being nursed by this ugly, mute bodyguard he’d picked up somewhere after he left the army. We had a long talk, and he apologised best he could. I forgave him, promised I’d come back and see him again. But then he died. I never went to the funeral. Wasn’t any point then. Next I heard, the house was sold and the mute had disappeared. ”

“That’s sad, my dear. But at least you had that conversation.”

Porthos heaved a sigh. “Yeah. But I wish I hadn’t waited so long. Wish I’d punched Belgard in the face instead of letting him drive me off.”

“Still, you’ll inherit the title and his estate? Half, at least?”

“Maybe. I don’t care. I don’t want nothing to do with that fucking family. You really talk too much.”

Aramis apologised with a long kiss, while Porthos clutched his buttocks in his massive hands and squeezed. “Again, my dear?”

“I can do this all day, mate. So long as you stop talking about my shit.”

“I promise not to mention it again, my beautiful man.”

Chapter Text

“No! Absolutely not! I will not be the maid!” Catherine de Garouville’s thin body vibrated with fury, and her hand twitched as if only pure will was stopping its owner from slapping Louis across the face.

“But you will be paid the same, and it keeps your face before the—”

“I Am Not A Maid! Let the métisse play it. Or better still, send her back to the chorus where she barely belongs.”

“Catherine,” Anne said, smiling with as much sweetness as she could scrape up, “Sylvie has taken the public by storm. To change leads now after more than a week, with such extraordinary reviews, would cause unnecessary hostility towards you, when allowing Sylvie to remain would reflect so well upon you. You would be seen to be fostering a new, young talent, an act of generosity which shows you in the best light.”

“Be damned to generosity! That little harlot had no business putting herself forward for the role in the first place. Common little piece, of no breeding to speak of! How could you have allowed it, Louis?”

Louis was now offended, and this boded badly for all of them. Anne stepped in before a real fight broke out. “Dear Catherine, the decision was mine, and I will not resile from it now, for the sake of the company’s fortunes. We need the money. If you cannot accept what has been done, then please, we release you reluctantly from your contract, and I’m sure Opèra Garnier would have you back in a moment. But if you choose to stay, you will not find us ungrateful. Or ungenerous. As I said, you will keep your salary, and your dressing room, and maid, and you will be prominently featured in our programme. The choice, madame, is yours.”

She held her breath, still smiling politely.

“My name will be on the posters?”

“On every one, I swear.”

Catherine pursed her lips and sniffed. “Very well. But this is a slight, Anne. Do not mistake my generosity for forgiveness.”

“I would never,” Anne said, exhaling quietly in relief.

*******************

“This is completely unacceptable, Lucien,” Fèron sputtered. “Catherine de Garouville must be lead soprano of the Mousquetaires! Anything else will lead to their ruin.”

“Philippe, you haven’t heard Sylvie Boden. She is the talk of Paris, and the ticket sales have soared.”

“No doubt because people are simply astonished that anyone could be so stupid as to put a slave’s brat in the lead of a well-beloved, famous opera.”

“She’s not a slave’s anything. Her mother was as French as you or me.”

Fèron scowled and limped over to the sofa where he sat down with some difficulty. “Hand me that,” he snapped. Grimaud obliged by passing the opium-laden wine to his friend. Fèron took far too large a gulp of it, and screwed up his face in disgust until the drug began to work. “Damnable back. The fact is, she’s a métisse, not an aristocrat like Catherine. And opera is for people of quality.”

“Opera is for anyone who loves music, or have you forgotten I’m not of your class either.”

Grimaud’s low, menacing voice brought Fèron back to himself. “No, of course not. I apologise. It’s just...she’s no one. She has no singing pedigree. This is her first position!”

“If you would just hear her sing, you wouldn’t give a damn about that. But it’s of no consequence. De Bourbon’s company is raking it in, which is all you want. Once you persuade him to take on a larger piece, like Faust, he will overreach himself because he’s a fool, and you can swoop in and put de Garouville in the lead if you insist. But for now, things are going well. The company is establishing the name, and all you have to do is sit back and wait for the fruit to ripen.”

“And the revenge on de Bourbon will be so very, very sweet indeed,” Fèron said with a sneer. “The fool didn’t even bother to ask how I came to know of him, or his work. He’s so arrogant, he assumes his reputation precedes him. No bastard half-brothers to disturb Louis de Bourbon’s self-love.”

“In very little time, he will be ruined, and your position will be secured,” Grimaud said. “And then we can move onto the next company or project, as we like.”

“Yes, we can,” Fèron said. The opium was working now, and it made him more forgiving of slights. “I’m sure the little girl can do what we need for the next month or so. THat’s all we need her for. Do with her what you like, after that.”

“I will indeed,” Grimaud said. Fèron rather thought that did not auger well for this Sylvie.

Not that he cared in the least.

Chapter Text

Sylvie’s nerves would not settle, and the pre-performance nausea was worse than it had been on her first night in the lead. On the face of it, she should have been more relaxed. Madame had performed for the first time in the role of Annina, the maid, and carefully orchestrated applause had greeted her arrival on stage, and the quartet in which she featured.

Madame de Bourbon had made sure that flowers had been delivered to Catherine’s room, even those which had been destined for Sylvie. And all the posters in the foyer had been plastered with “Featuring Catherine de Garouville!” placards.

So the diva’s pride should have been soothed. And yet, Sylvie did not think it had. Catherine’s manners had not improved at all, and she had continued to refer to Sylvie as “Sylvie du Bordel” and “Madame sans Culotte”, even finally drawing correction from a riled Constance. Maria di Lorenzo, who played Flora, and who was the only person in the cast who would call Catherine a friend of any kind, had also made her disgust at Sylvie’s sudden rise quite clear.

Their scorn had not affected the rest of the cast, thankfully, but it meant Sylvie was not able to enjoy her success, or believe it would last. As soon as this run of La Traviata finished, it was back to the chorus for her. And that would make the mockery of the two sopranos even more vicious.

To make it worse, Catherine’s patron, Philippe, Comte de Fèron, sat in the middle of the first row on Catherine’s first night back, and had glared at Sylvie the entire night. Sylvie’s would-be patron, Monsieur Grimaud, had sat in his usual box and been as enthusiastic as ever, which should have helped, but his cheers and applause had been too extravagant for her to trust, and disturbing coming from him.

Constance did her best to calm Sylvie’s fears, telling her that Madame de Bourbon was entirely behind her, and had forced Catherine to choose between leaving or accepting the lesser role, but Sylvie knew this would only have fuelled Catherine’s fury.

In the sanctity of her room, she poured her heart out to her silent friend, who listened, and played his violin to respond. He understood, she knew it. But he could not change the facts.

The first half of the second performance after Catherine’s return went well, and Sylvie’s nerve eased a little. The music, the singing always helped, and since Grimaud and Fèron were nowhere to be seen, she could concentrate on the role. She changed costumes at the end of Act two, scene one, for the party at Flora’s house, and reapplied powder to her neck and arms. Madame de Bourbon had won permission from Monsieur to allow Sylvie not to be so heavily painted as she had been the first few performances, but she was still required to look paler than her natural hue. This didn’t bother her particularly. Acting required the actor to adapt to what the audience expected, did it not? Those who wanted to see a white woman, would, and those who knew better, did not care.

Waiting for her entrance, she felt her neck itching, but restrained herself from scratching and ruining her makeup. By the time she entered the state on the arm of Bernard, playing Douphol, the itching felt more like fire, and had spread to her arms and even her face. The pain lent passion to her performance, and her tears were real, and while d’Artagnan was supposed to be furious with her in that scene, the concern in his brown eyes could not be hidden. Her ‘faint’ offered a small amount of relief, but all she wanted to do was scratch and tear at her fiercely burning skin.

There was only a brief interval between the end of Act 2 and the start of Act 3. Constance rushed up to Sylvie as soon the curtain fell. “What’s wrong?”

“My arms, my neck. They’re burning. Constance, it’s horrible.”

Constance quickly wiped at the back of Sylvie’s neck. “You have welts here. You’re reacting to the powder. Thérèse! A damp cloth, immediately! We must remove this.”

“No, no, I have to go back on!”

Constance made Sylvie sit down. “Not like this, my girl. The audience will be patient, you’ll see.”

Embarrassed at having to make the production wait, but moaning with relief as the cool cloth removed the source of the pain, Sylvie submitted to being wiped and re-powdered from a new source, since Constance surmised the powder in the dressing room had been contaminated. By the time Constance was finished, Sylvie felt much better. “Thank you.”

Constance kissed her hair. “Now go out and make them forget the delay. I’m going to investigate.”

As Constance predicted, the short delay had made no difference to the audience’s reception of the third act that Sylvie could detect, though Monsieur de Bourbon made a remark about “making sure she was ready in time next time, dear.” Sylvie ran to remove her costume, and then to the bathroom, to clean every trace of makeup and powder from her skin. Though she was no longer in pain, the welts on her skin from the irritation had yet to completely fade. Had there been a bad batch of powder? Or had she developed an allergy?

“No. Someone dosed it with rose hips,” Constance said, thin-lipped with fury, when Sylvie asked. “What a nasty trick.”

“But how? And who?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“She would never. And how did she get in? Catherine doesn’t come near our dressing rooms. She says it smells of desperation.”

“Coins can enter where men can’t,” Constance said cryptically. “I’m going to have Porthos watch the door from now on.”

The next few performances went smoothly. There was no change in Catherine’s behaviour towards her, unfortunately, but at least she became no more vicious. Sylvie found it hard to believe she was behind the itching powder, though Constance said that in some opera houses, this kind of thing was surprisingly common.

“I’ve seen all kinds of things. Rivals trying to spoil each other’s performances, quarrels being settled—performers can be nasty.”

“No, really?” Sylvie said sweetly. Constance had shaken a finger at her for that.

There were other incidents though. A pin left in her costume, digging her in her ribs all through Act One. Constance had been mortified. A jewel on a patron’s dress shone in her eyes during the first half of another performance, but fortunately stopped after the interval. All her bedclothes disappeared one day, and were never seen again. Monsieur had grumbled about the cost of replacing them, but Madame had handed over a new set—of much better quality—and whispered to Sylvie that she had more than earned them.

The rest of the cast had some bad luck too. A member of the chorus, Leon, was found at the bottom of the stairs with a broken arm after he tripped and fell, so he said. And one of the female singers quit suddenly, saying she had to return home, though no one was sure why.

Worst of all was when a backdrop weight suddenly slipped its knot and fell, narrowly missing Catherine during a warmup. She became hysterical and had to be fed brandy and mint tea for an hour before she would calm down.

“Perhaps it’s me,” Sylvie confessed to Aramis at one of their now regular lunches. “I’m bad luck.”

“Nonsense, darling. One might as well blame Madame de Garouville for her return. Accidents are just that. No one is to blame.”

“Perhaps. I can’t help but think that things are out of balance though. I should not be the lead. Everyone knows that.”

Aramis looked at her over the rim of his wine glass. “Everyone is a fool then. You won the place through your talent. The only fault is yours, for improving so much, so quickly. And that is not a fault, but a virtue.”

“It’s not all up to me,” she murmured, looking down at her lap.

“Oh? Who is it up to?”

His kind brown eyes were suddenly too sharp for comfort. “Monsieur Lavoie,” she lied. “He’s worked so hard with me.”

“He can only improve when the soul has talent and a willingness to work. You are too modest, dear. It’s unbecoming.”

She laughed. “No one would ever accuse you of that.”

“Of course not. A proper appreciation of one’s own worth is healthy and worthy. Now eat. Singers need fuel.”

“Yes, Papa.”

He preened at her little joke, because of course he saw himself as a foster-father to her. At least he wasn’t a creep, like Grimaud.

*******************

Aramis was not as insouciant as he pretended to Sylvie, and certainly not after speaking to Porthos, d’Artagnan, and Constance about some other incidents that they had kept secret from the girl. Incidents that might had killed or crippled her or other cast members, like damaged props, hazards left on dark stairs, and ground glass in eye makeup that Constance had discovered only moments before the female singers were about to prepare for the night’s performance.

“Fortunately, I’ve been checking everything so carefully, but how are they getting into the dressing room?”

“I can’t be there all the time,” Porthos said. “Monsieur should pay for guards.”

“And what will that do for morale?” d’Artagnan had asked, his handsome, perpetually smiling face, gloomy for once.

“More than having several members of the chorus blinded,” Constance snapped back. “Who’s behind this? I thought Catherine, but some of the attacks are so random.”

“I don’t know, but we need to find out,” Aramis said. “I don’t want anyone hurt, especially not Sylvie or anyone else who isn’t Madame de Garouville.”

“Mraow,” d’Artagnan said, holding his fingers up like a cat’s claws.

“I don’t want her hurt either, but she’s not nice.”

“She’s a stone-hearted bitch,” Constance said, which made Aramis frown at her.

“You’re not wrong,” Porthos said. Aramis shook his head. “But no one deserves to be blinded.”

Aramis’s long-standing friendship with Sylvie, and his not at all secret new friendship with Porthos, granted him access to the backstage that few others outside of the company were granted. This allowed him to loiter and keep watch, though he could not be everywhere. Between Porthos and him, worrying incidents had stopped, but he was under no illusion they would not start again if the perpetrator found a way.

But tonight had passed with everyone safe, for which he was thankful. He had shared a kiss with Porthos, reluctantly allowing his lover to go back to the last tasks of the evening, though Porthos would come to his apartment the following morning. Aramis put on his coat and hat, and went outside into the chilly air. There were still people about, as there always was, so he kept his wits about him as he walked back to his home.

Thus, he was instantly aware when someone tried to pick his pocket.

“Ah, no, I must insist you do not, monsieur,” Aramis said, grabbing the probing fingers near his pocket and seizing their owner’s arm in a powerful grip. “I have need of my possessions, so please return what you have taken, and I will say no more about it.”

He pulled the fellow into the light and found, to his surprise, he was clutching the arm not of a shabby street urchin, but a well-dressed, fully grown man in a large hat pulled down over his face, and a cloak. And further, the object he was holding was not from Aramis’s pocket, but his own, apparently. “You were making a delivery? What is it you need me to see so urgently?”

Still controlling the muscled arm, he snatched the paper from the man’s fingers and read it. “A warning regarding Sylvie. You do not, perchance, happen to be acquainted with her mysterious music tutor, do you?”

The man stood frozen in the dim lamp light from the house near by, his face all but concealed not just by the hat, but also by a mask over much of his face. Which seemed excessive to Aramis.

“Answer me, monsieur.”

The man shook his head and pulled his arm free with surprising ease. He pointed at the note in Aramis’s hand, and while Aramis glanced at it again, disappeared into the shadows, no trace of which way he went to be seen.

“How...peculiar,” Aramis said. The note was written in a strong, elegant hand, signed only by “A friend of Sylvie”. The contents were clear enough and made Sylvie’s anxiety about her position at the house all too understandable. Damn that Catherine! Was she so jealous of another woman’s talent that she had to play such vile tricks?

This had to stop.

And the identity of Sylvie’s kind friend needed to be uncovered. Aramis had a feeling the fellow needed more help than Sylvie did.

Chapter Text

The routine that had quickly developed for their Sundays together was that Porthos would turn up at Aramis’s apartment when it pleased him, and Aramis would come back from Mass as quickly as possible, hopefully to find a warm and willing lover, waiting with coffee and brioche, in his bed. And so it was this Sunday morning. Aramis was a carnal enough creature to indulge his boundless desire for Porthos’s body before reaching for the letter he had received in so strange a fashion the night before, and handing it to his companion.

“What’s this?”

“A missive from Sylvie’s secret friend.”

“Grimaud? He ain’t—”

“Not Grimaud. The one who appears to live in the roof of the opera house.”

“I thought you thought he was a myth,” Porthos said, opening the letter to read it.

“I was reasonably sure someone lived in the rafters. I didn’t know if he or she was truly a friend to our girl. Now I know.”

Porthos read. “A dead cat?” he yelled. “I’ll kill them.”

“Indeed,” Aramis agreed in all seriousness. “Thank God that this man removed it before Sylvie saw it.”

“That’s damn close to witchcraft, if you ask me.”

“If it is, so far, it’s not having too much effect, though Sylvie is wondering if she should leave to remove the bad luck.”

“Remove Catherine and Maria and that’d be much better. I’ll put the fear of God into them.”

“Wait, my noble friend. I understand the impulse but one, we have no proof. This letter is unsigned for all practical purposes. Two, we could end up with Sylvie sacked, just because it’s the path of least resistance, which is always Monsieur’s preferred option. And three, we don’t know how many in the company are involved. If we have their patronesses removed, they could take their revenge on Sylvie. We must be subtle.”

“But how? We’re keeping a watch, and this fellow is too, but things are getting through.”

“Then we increase the number of watchers, and now we know exactly what is going on, we can be pay better attention. We warn d’Artagnan and Constance, Thérèse too, and anyone else who is a Sylvie partisan.”

Porthos rubbed his upper lip in thought. “What about telling Madame de Bourbon? Can we trust her?”

“Yes,” Aramis said without hesitation. Anne de Bourbon was a brave, good woman, far better than her inferior husband. “Fortunately, it seems our ‘ghost’ removed two of the cat’s paws, and he’s our secret weapon. Only time will tell if Catherine grows bored, or whether she decides to increase her activities.”

“We can’t wait until she does permanent harm to Sylvie. What if that ground glass trick had worked?”

Aramis shivered. “But we have no proof, my dear. Not unless our mystery saviour reveals himself, and that could cause more questions than it answers.”

“And we’re sure this bloke is on the side of the angels, and not behind it himself?”

“Quite sure,” Aramis said. “He might have the ability to do all he accuses Catherine of, but he would not, I am absolutely certain, harm a hair on Sylvie’s head. But Catherine would snatch the lot out, if she could get away with it.”

Porthos nodded, then sighed. “Suppose we better get up and go sort this out.”

“A little later, my darling man. It had been a long week without you in my arms.”

Porthos grinned. “You’re sentimental.”

“Not at all. Merely appreciative of your many charms. I am determined you won’t escape my notice, as you have so many others.”

“You trying to tell me I’m handsome or something?” He lay back with his arms behind his head, revealing an expanse of powerful chest, and a grin that stretched for kilometres.

“‘Handsome’ is too weak a word. French barely has a word close to good enough. But I can use my mouth to show my appreciation, if you would like.”

“Yeah, I’d like. Your mouth is good, when you ain’t using it to talk.”

“Cheek.”

“Saying it as I see it.”

Aramis forgave him. Not everyone could appreciate the true charm of a d’Herblay, and Porthos more than made up for this deficiency with his other talents.

*******************

“That...that bitch!” Constance sputtered when Aramis and Porthos told her what they had learned, and let her read the ‘ghost’s’ letter. “How dare she? I’ve got a good mind to go to her and tell her what I think of her.”

“Don’t do that,” d’Artagnan said, put his hand on her shoulder. “She’ll scratch your eyes out, and I’m not speaking metaphorically.”

“The lad is right,” Porthos said.

“What can we do?” Thérèse asked. “We’re locking the cosmetics up now, and only I or Constance can hand them out just before the performance. But dead cats in her bed? How appalling.”

“Yes,” Aramis agreed. “We need to keep watch. I shall apprise Madame of the situation, and urge that guards be placed on the dressing rooms and dormitories, but guards can be suborned, so only those who love Sylvie can be entirely trusted.”

“But who is this ghost? The idea of someone living in the rafters is rather frightening,” Thérèse said. “What if he decides one of us is a threat too, and throws us down the stairs?”

“I don’t think he will,” Aramis said, though Constance thought much the same as her assistant. “I believe he only wants the best for Sylvie, and resorts to physical attack only when she’s in danger.”

“I hope you’re right,” Constance said. “I wish you and d’Artagnan were real soldiers, like Porthos was.”

Aramis coughed. “I, er, have a little experience in this field. Enough to help keep you all safe.”

Not for the first time, Constance realised how little she really knew about Aramis, and his history. “You’d just compliment them to death, I suspect. Until they died of boredom.”

Porthos grinned at d’Artagnan, who patted his paramour’s shoulder. “I think he’s better than you think, darling.”

“I hope so. Right, Aramis, go speak to Madame. I’ll speak to Sylvie—”

She stopped as Aramis raised his hand. “No, I beg you not to. She’s already in a state, though she’s being brave. Knowing the rest of this—which our ‘ghost’ has taken care to conceal from her—will upset her greatly. It’s enough that we know.”

“Very well. But I don’t like secrets, or lying to her.”

“We’re not,” d’Artagnan said. “We’re just not letting Catherine use us to do her dirty work for her. What Sylvie doesn’t know, won’t hurt her, and she’ll keep singing as beautifully as ever.”

She had to admit d’Artagnan had a point. “Don’t let this affect your singing, my lad. Or you’ll be sacked and then where will we be?”

“Then I’ll nominate Porthos to join the cast and take over as stage hand. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”

“Porthos is a baritone, silly.”

He kissed her nose. “I know,” he whispered. “I’ll be careful.”

She hoped so. She’d come to depend on d’Artagnan’s presence and his affection. If he left and they lost Sylvie, Constance didn’t know what she’d do.

Chapter Text

Wednesday was usually quiet, but tonight’s performance had been sold out, as the previous four had been. Monsieur was very pleased, and had even praised Sylvie as being the reason—something she hoped Catherine did not hear about. She sat in her room and did her breathing exercises, then the warm up.

Her friend did not accompany her. He had been strangely silent much of the time lately. Had she offended him or was he busy with something else? Oh, how she longed to meet him, and for him to meet Aramis. She wanted all her dear friends to know each other, and support each other.

An hour before curtain up, she went downstairs. Constance dressed her for the performance, and attended to her makeup personally—a necessary caution after more paint and powder had been discovered to be adulterated.

Constance patted the elegant coiffeur she had constructed for Sylvie’s abundant and unruly hair. “There. You look lovelier every night, my darling.”

“Your skill improves, that’s all.”

“Not at all. Off you go. Do not break a leg.”

Sylvie grinned. “With all these skirts, if I fall over, I’ll just bounce.”

Annina, the maid, did not enter the stage until Act Two. Sylvie concealed her surprise to see Clementine come on in Catherine’s place, but it was not unusual for a singer to be replaced by their stand-in for all sorts of reasons, so she thought little of it until the interval. While she changed costume with Constance’s help, she asked what had happened to their diva.

“Stomach ache. So severe she couldn’t stand. A doctor has been sent for,” Constance said. “It’s strange. She hasn’t eaten since lunch, same as you, and she was fine all afternoon. We’ll know more once he’s been to see her.”

“Of course.”

It was a relief not to have to sing opposite the woman, so Sylvie found it hard to be concerned about Catherine’s stomach, and the audience didn’t mind the change in the slightest. She left the stage after the last curtain call—seven! she could hardly believe it—and wryly observed she was much less tired than usual, because she hadn’t held herself so tense to make sure she didn’t make a mistake in front of Catherine. The diva was utterly unforgiving on those rare occasions when Sylvie slipped even slightly.

Constance wasn’t there to help her remove her costume. Thérèse was on hand instead. “How is Catherine?” Sylvie asked.

“On her way to the hospital. The doctor thinks she’s been poisoned.

Sylvie gasped and turned to look at Thérèse. “No! How? When?”

Thérèse made her turn around again so she could attend to the laces. “They don’t know,” she said with a lamentable lack of concern. “But she might be gone for days. If she comes back at all.”

“But that’s appalling, Thérèse. How could someone do something like that to another person?”

“Another person? We’re talking about Catherine de Garouville,” Thérèse said. “Poisoning her is no different from poisoning a rat.”

“No, that’s wrong to say. She’s a human being.”

“If you say so, pet.”

Thérèse left her to remove her own makeup. Sylvie mulled the news, and wondered how anyone could have gained access to Catherine’s food or drink to poison her. Or had it been through her makeup? Catherine had her own maid, her own dressing room, and the meals she ate in the house were brought from outside. Only someone who was close to her could do it. Did that mean her maid? Or Maria?

Or was the doctor wrong? They often were, Papa said. Arrogance was no substitute for the scientific method. How had the doctor known it was poison so quickly?

She took her own light evening meal of soup and bread in her room, and couldn’t help but wonder if someone had added something to it. It tasted all right, and raised to not waste food, she forced herself to finish it, but her stomach roiled a little in anxiety. Not enough to suggest poison though.

“Dear friend, do you know who’s behind this? Please God, don’t let it be you. I would never want this.”

A few moments later, a gentle trill answered her. “You are there. Thank you. What is going on in this place lately? It’s terrifying.”

Another soothing phrase.

“I know. I hope it all settles down. Why do people have to hate so much?”

No answer, but who did have one?

After a troubled night’s sleep, she woke tired and depressed. She came downstairs to find breakfast in the house’s kitchen. Constance was already there. “Oh, thank God, you’re safe,” she said, kissing Sylvie’s cheek. “It’s the most horrible thing. Someone put pennyroyal in her mint tea.”

“In her tea? But didn’t it taste strange?”

“Not really. She likes it with lots of honey.”

“Why would anyone have pennyroyal around?” Sylvie asked. “It can kill you.” Although it was better known as an abortifacient.

“Yes, I know. The police are questioning her maid, poor girl. I expect they’ll want to speak to everyone.”

“No one saw anything?”

“Not that anyone’s said. I thought if anyone would be poisoned, it would be—” Constance stopped and bit her lip, her face suddenly flushed.

“You thought it would be me?” Sylvie said, examining her friend’s expression closely. “Why? No one hates me that much, not even her.”

“So sure of that, are you?”

“Well, yes. Poisoning is wicked. Catherine is merely...unkind.”

Constance shook her head. “You’re too generous. Eat your breakfast, dear. Monsieur and Madame are to decide if there will be a performance tonight. It all depends on whether Catherine is expected to live.”

Sylvie nearly dropped her coffee. “It’s that serious?”

“Yes. She must have drunk a large dose.”

“Constance, that’s awful.”

“Yes. And I don’t care who was the target. There’s a poisoner on the loose and this nonsense has gone far too far.”

“What nonsense—?” Sylvie started to ask, before stopping short as two police officers walked into the kitchen.

“Can we help you, messieurs?” Constance asked, standing.

“We are looking for Sylvie Boden.”

“That’s me,” Sylvie said, getting to her feet.

“Mademoiselle,” the older one said, “we have a witness who says she saw you enter Madame de Garouville’s dressing room yesterday afternoon, carrying a small packet.

Sylvie put her hand over her heart. “I did not, monsieur, I assure you. I have no reason or desire to go to her room.”

“Be that as it may, we wish to search your room and belongings.”

“Of course. I’ll show you.”

The older one put up his hand. “No. You remain here with my colleague.” He turned to Constance. “You, madame. You will show us, please?”

“Yes, of course. This is all a misunderstanding.” She gave Sylvie a bright, reassuring smile that Sylvie didn’t believe for a moment. “You just stay here, eat your breakfast. I won’t be long.”

“Of course.”

Breakfast? Constance had to be joking. Sylvie’s stomach was tied into rubber knots. Who could have told such a dreadful falsehood? She looked up at the young man standing so impassively in the door way. “Who said I had been in Madame de Garouville’s room?”

“I cannot say, mademoiselle. I’m sorry.”

“I understand.” She picked at the brioche, pilling it, but not eating any of it. As the wait stretched on and on, she grew actively nauseous, and would have run to the WC if she didn’t know how suspicious it would have looked.

At last Constance appeared, but one look at her pale face and Sylvie knew it was bad news for her. She put her hand to her throat. “What?” she whispered.

“I’m sorry, pet.” Constance’s dark eyes were stark in her pale face. “ We found pennyroyal in a hatbox.”

“But I didn’t put it there.” Sylvie turned to the older officer. “Monsieur, I have never bought or collected pennyroyal in my life.”

“But your father was a doctor, was he not? You must have known it was poisonous.”

“Yes, but—”

“Enough. Sylvie Boden, you are under arrest for attempted murder. The magistrate can decide whether the evidence against you is strong enough to keep you on remand.”

The younger officer made Sylvie stand. “Constance,” she pleaded. “Tell Aramis.”

“I will,” Constance said, tears in her eyes. “We’ll sort this out, darling, we will. I know you’re innocent.”

“I am.”

Shaking with fear, she endured being handcuffed and paraded through the opera house out to the street, where the Black Maria stood. Constance waited at the steps of the opera house, clasping her hands in front of her and weeping, as Sylvie was made to step into the back of the vehicle.

Was she dreaming? How could this be happening? She had never used pennyroyal, never even picked it. And she didn’t keep mint of any kind in her hatbox or anywhere else. It all had to be a ghastly mistake.

But how could anyone mistake her for someone else going into Catherine’s room?

The indignities at the police station, the endless questions about the relationship between Catherine and her, the formalities associated with being put into a cell to await the magistrate, all passed like a horrible nightmare, vivid but yet unreal. Only when she was alone in a smelly, barred cell, stripped down to her petticoat, did she fully accept this was really happening, though she still had no idea how it could be happening.

With nothing else to console her, she sang to herself, remembering happier times with her father, and her friend at the opera house. She had no way of knowing how long she sang for, though her throat grew dry after a time, so it must have been a couple of hours.

The opening of the cell door made her jump. She stood and clasped her hands in front of her to stop them shaking. “Mademoiselle,” the officer standing at the bars said, “you are to be released without charge. Your friend is here to take you back to the opera house.”

“My friend? Aramis! I knew he would help.”

She was given her clothes, and her cloak, which Aramis must have brought from the house for her. She rushed out to the front of the station, desperate to get away from here, but she found not Aramis, but Grimaud.

She pulled up short in shock, and dropped a curtsey. “Monsieur, I was not expecting you.”

Grimaud bowed. “I’m sure you did not, mademoiselle, but I have given the magistrate proof positive of your innocence, and he has ordered your immediate release. Please allow me the honour of taking you back to the Théâtre des Mousquetaires.”

She let him take her arm. “Did the Comte d’Herblay not enquire after my situation?”

“I confess I have no idea. Once I determined who had falsely testified against you, and placed the herbs in your room, I alerted the police, and after that, it was quite simple to secure your release.” He handed her up into his carriage.

“Who was it, monsieur?”

“Maria di Lorenzo. She bears you a considerable grudge over your taking de Garouville’s place. She considers she should have been offered the role.”

It made sense, Sylvie supposed. “Yes, she’s right. But she was ill too. It’s no one’s fault.”

“She doesn’t see it that way. But enough of that. She’s under arrest, and you are free. That’s all that matters.”

She nodded, uneasy in his company, though grateful for his help. Where was Aramis?

She had her answer at the house, when Aramis, Porthos and Constance came running as they heard she had returned.

“My darling girl!” Aramis exclaimed, sweeping her into a hug. “We were at a loss what to do. The police came and arrested Maria, and then we didn’t know what was happening.”

“Monsieur Grimaud discovered the truth,” she told him, looking at the others who were grinning with wet eyes.

“How?” Aramis turned to Grimaud. “How did you know? What do you have to do with all this, monsieur?”

“Nothing except to ensure Mademoiselle Boden’s good name was restored,” Grimaud said, bowing a little. “Lucien Grimaud, at your service.”

“Aramis, comte d’Herblay, at yours.” Aramis bowed somewhat stiffly. “Sylvie, you must come and eat, then rest.”

She clung to him, using him as a barrier against Grimaud. “Please, may I rest first? I am so tired, and I would like to change my clothes.”

“Let her go to her room, Aramis,” Constance said, extricating her from Aramis’s arms, and skilfully guiding her out of the reach of Grimaud’s. “Go on, darling. Monsieur Grimaud can tell us what’s going on, can you not, monsieur?”

Grimaud gave her a hard look, before his expression changed to one more pleasant. “But of course.” He bowed to Sylvie. “I am glad to have been of some help.”

“Thank you, monsieur. Indeed, thanks are too small for what you have done. I am in your debt.”

“As I am in yours for the gift of your singing. But go, rest. You must need it.”

“Yes, I do.”

She made her escape up the stairs, and to the bathroom up there to wash the smell of that ghastly cell from her skin. She undressed and lay on her bed in her shift. All of this had only taken a few hours, because it was only early afternoon, yet her world had been shattered. Accused of murder, to discover a colleague had framed her, and to be rescued by a man she loathed.

And no one had mentioned Catherine. Was she alive or dead? And why would Maria, her friend, have tried to murder her and claim Sylvie had done it?

She put her arm over her eyes, and despite the turmoil of her thoughts, managed to fall asleep.

Someone knocking at her door woke her. She had no idea how long she had been asleep for. “Wait a moment!”

She found her dressing gown and threw it about her shoulders, before opening the door, expecting to see Constance, or perhaps Thérèse.

But it was not either woman. It was Grimaud.

“Monsieur, why are you...you shouldn’t be up here. Men are not allowed in the girl’s dormitory.”

He pushed forward, forcing her back, and then he shut the door and locked it. “Not even a man who saved you from being imprisoned, Sylvie? That’s not very grateful of you.”

“I am grateful, monsieur, but I must ask you to leave.” Where was her pistol? Could she reach it? “Come no closer!”

“Calm down, girl. All I want is to get to know you a little better. You said you were in my debt. I’m just asking for a down payment. A kiss, no more.”

“I do not wish to kiss you for any reason. Please leave. Now!”

He put his hands on her shoulders and shoved her. There was nowhere else to go but onto the bed, and though she struggled, he was freakishly strong and restrained her with ease. “Not a kiss? How about something else? Ever been fucked, Sylvie? By someone who loves you?”

“Get off me! Help! Help! Someone, help! He’s trying to rape me!”

Grimaud put his hand over her mouth and she did her best to bite him. That only earned her a hard slap across the face which made her lip bleed and her head ring. “Be quiet or I’ll hurt you a lot worse than that.” He yanked her slip up her thigh, and put his hand on her intimate parts. “Relax and you’ll enjoy it.”

She screamed behind his hand, and kicked and punched, but it was as if she was a kitten and he a bull mastiff. Nothing she did slowed him at all. Dear God, he really was going to rape her.

A thunderous crash behind him, and the door flew open. A man in a mask dragged Grimaud off her, and punched him in the face several times, pushing him out the door. “Come,” the newcomer said, holding out his hand.

She was too frightened to care if this stranger also meant her harm. She took his hand and together they ran out into the hallway, and to a door she had never seen before. He pulled her inside, closed the door, and turned up a lamp that had been burning low, hanging near the door. They were in the space beside the dormitory, in the ceiling, or perhaps between the walls. She wasn’t sure. Light came through chinks in the roof, but offered little real illumination.

The stranger put his finger to his lips, before indicating a ladder beside the door. He pointed up, and then began to climb. She followed. Anything to get away from Grimaud.

He led her across walkways that were nothing more than ladders laid flat, along which she had to crawl, and up, higher and higher into the rafters, before coming to a small box-like construction. He opened the door, which she could barely see, and indicated she should come inside. She found herself in a plain chamber, larger than it seemed from the outside. It held very little. A small bed, a wardrobe, a little desk and stool, and a washbasin on a set of drawers.

And a violin and music stand. She realised who this had to be.

“You. My friend. The ‘ghost’.” He bowed, and pointed to the stool. “Will you not speak now, my dear friend? After you saved me yet again?”

He shook his head, and pointed again, so she sat. “You do live in the roof.” He nodded. “Why?”

No answer. Was he mute? But she heard him speak. Only one word, but he did speak. “How long have you been here?”

He shrugged. From his wardrobe, he produced a glass and bottle of brandy. He poured her a small amount and offered the glass to her. She accepted without hesitation. Her ‘ghost’ would never harm her. “How long will I have to hide here?”

He shrugged again. Until Grimaud went away, she supposed. She hoped her other friends had heard the noise and come to investigate. Grimaud wouldn’t give up otherwise, she suspected.

“Why do you hide your face from me? Do you think I would reveal your identity?”

He shook his head. He went to the desk and found a piece of paper, and a pencil. “Hideous,” he wrote.

“I don’t believe you. I’ve heard you sing. However ugly your face, your soul is exquisite.”

“Like Catherine?” he wrote, his visible eyebrow quirking.

“Fair point. Can you not speak at all?”

He screwed up his face. “It’s....” It was nothing but a whisper. “Hard.”

“You can speak, but it’s very difficult?” He nodded. “Do I frighten you?”

He shook his head. He held out his hand and she took it. He patted hers gently. “No,” he squeezed out before letting her hand go.

“I make you nervous.”

He nodded.

“I would never hurt you, dear sweet friend.” He nodded again, but turned away.

He sat on the bed, not looking at her. She pulled her dressing gown tighter around her, realising she was revealing rather more of herself than she wanted. It made him relax a little.

“What will I do about Grimaud? He comes and goes without anyone stopping him.”

Her friend reached behind the closet and pulled out a sword in its scabbard. He drew the sword and pointed it at the door, his expression fierce. “You’ll fight him?”

He swished the sword and lunged at the door.

“You’ll kill him. Oh, my friend, you can’t. The police would take you away and I couldn’t bear that.”

He swished the sword again in an elaborate gesture, then saluted her with it. “For you,” he whispered. “Anything.”

He pointed to the glass of brandy in her hand. She sipped it and he nodded. He turned to the door and knocked on it in a distinctive pattern, then mimed locking the door. He repeated the knock, pointed at her, then mimed unlocking the door.

“Only unlock it if I hear that knock?” He nodded. “But where are you going?”

“Grimaud.”

“You’re going to kill him? Move him.” He nodded again. “And then you’ll come back for me.”

He smiled, and did the knock again.

“I understand. Be careful, dear friend. Wait!” He paused. “May I not even have a name to call you?”

He went still, and she thought he would ignore the request, but he bent low and whispered by her ear. “Athos.”

She cupped his bearded cheek and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Good luck, my dearest Athos.”

Chapter Text

Brujon rushed into the kitchen. “Madame, there’s a man lying at the bottom of the stairs! I think it’s Monsieur Grimaud.”

Constance, Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan rose as one and ran after the lad to discover what he was talking about. They found Grimaud battered and unconscious at the base of the stairs leading to the dormitory.

Constance gave a little sob, and whispered, “Sylvie.”

Aramis and Porthos pelted up the stairs, wondering what evil had afflicted the company this time. They found Sylvie sitting in her room, apparently unharmed except for a blooming bruise across her jaw, while her door’s lock had been broken down.

Aramis went immediately to her side.  “You know, I think I’m hungry,” she said brightly, and fainted in his arms.

Porthos carried her tenderly and with utmost care, down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Constance fussed over her until she woke. “What happened?” Aramis snapped at her, too worried to be gentle. “Did someone attack you? Was it the ghost?”

“The ghost saved me from Grimaud,” Sylvie murmured. “He tried to rape me.”

“The devil he did!”

“Madame is looking after him,” d’Artagnan said. “We must warn her."

“You come with me,” Porthos said. “And we’ll look after him all right.” The two men set off, grim-faced. Aramis wanted to go with them, but Sylvie needed guarding.

“I’m hungry,” Sylvie said.

“Of course, you are, love,” Constance said. “Aramis, you sit with her, and I’ll fetch some food.”

Aramis took Sylvie’s hand. She was only dressed in a shift and her dressing gown, both of which were filthy. “Have you been climbing around the rafters?”

She went rigid. “You can’t look for him,” she whispered harshly. “Please. You’ll hurt him, and he saved me.”

“More than you know, my dear. He’s been protecting you for weeks from Catherine and Maria.”

“Catherine! Is she dead?”

“No, no. But she and her little friend are sacked. Tonight’s performance is cancelled, so you can rest. How did Grimaud get into your room?”

“He just turned up, and when I opened the door, he forced his way in.”

“He broke the lock?”

“No, that was A...ghost.”

Aramis smiled. “So you met him too.”

“Too?”

“Monsieur le fantôme and I had a brief encounter a few nights ago. He put a note in my pocket to warn us that you were under attack from those two women. Tell me, is he very handsome?”

She would not meet his eyes. “I can’t tell.”

“Because he wears a mask. Hmmm.” He touched the bruise on her jaw. “Grimaud?”

“Yes. He hit me quite hard. Please don’t let him come near me again.”

“He won’t be coming anywhere near this house again, if I know Porthos.” The one thing Aramis didn’t understand was why Maria would poison Catherine. All the attacks had been against Sylvie, or Sylvie’s supporters. “Darling, is it possible that your ghost poisoned the diva?”

“No! He would never do something so despicable. And he would never frame me for it.”

“This is true. Forget I spoke.” But Aramis suspected there were still malefactors to root out. Who were they truly trying to harm?

Constance returned with bread and cheese and coffee, and fed Sylvie until the colour returned to her cheeks. “You should stay with me until we are sure everything is settled,” Aramis said.

“No!” Aramis and Constance looked at Sylvie in surprise at the vehemence of her reaction. “I can’t. I mean, I feel safe here, if you keep him away.”

“But we don’t know you are truly safe. Best to keep away until we have found everyone involved.”

“I have to be here to perform,” she said, her jaw set firmly. “I want to stay.”

“Not until we fix your door.”

“Then let it be fixed, and I will keep my pistol by the bed in future. If that man comes near me again, I’ll shoot him.”

“If there’s enough of him left to shoot after Porthos and d’Artagnan finish with him,” Constance muttered.

“Indeed,” Aramis said. “But, Sylvie, if you have a pistol and intend to use it, do me the favour of allowing me to check its condition and your ability to use it. Your father’s spirit would never forgive me if I allowed you to shoot yourself in the foot.” Her automatic protest wilted under the twin reproving looks from Aramis and Constance.

“Very well.”

“Good girl. Eat up. You need your strength if you’re to wrestle with ghosts.”

She flushed and looked down at her plate, while Constance and Aramis exchanged amused glances over her head.

Porthos and d’Artagnan returned a little while later, Porthos massaging his hands. “He won’t be bothering you again, Sylvie.”

“Did you leave anything of him to do so?” Constance asked.

“Not much,” d’Artagnan said with a satisfied smirk. “Madame wanted to call the police, and said if she ever caught sight of him again, she would. Monsieur just sat there, looking furious.”

“Don’t care how he looks,” Porthos said. “So long as they keep their word.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” Aramis said, and ignored Porthos’s grin. “Do they plan to have a performance on Monday night?”

“Dunno. Not my problem. Sylvie, you should get out of here for the day. Get away from all this madness.”

“Excellent idea,” Constance said. “You come with d’Artagnan and me, and we can walk together with a strong male guard.”

“Better take me then,” Porthos said, much to d’Artagnan’s annoyance, and Aramis’s disappointment.

But Aramis decided to make the best of it. “Let’s all venture out together, my friends. I shall treat you to lunch. Mass first, though.”

Porthos leaned over to Constance and whispered quite loudly, “Mind you, I never understand why he’s not struck by lightning when he walks into the church.”

Constance fought a smile as Aramis scowled at his lover. “At least I know where the church is.”

“So do I. It’s that big tall thing on the Seine. Wonderful acoustics, they tell me. Think they’d let me sing in it?”

Aramis put his head in his hands as his friends laughed.

Chapter Text

“You’re insane!” Fèron shouted at a battered and bloodied Grimaud. “What possessed you to attack that girl?”

“It’s none of your affair,” Grimaud growled. “Your problem is that your stupid bitch and her vicious friend have been sacked from the Mousquetaires, so that ‘girl’ is the only thing keeping Louis de Bourbon defaulting before his company have really made a name for themselves. Why didn’t you keep her on a leash?”

“I had no idea what she was up to,” Fèron said, as angry with Catherine as he was with Grimaud. “But if the Boden girl leaves because of you, failure is certain. You should have kept your hands to yourself, you animal.”

Grimaud put his hand on his knife. Marcheaux, Fèron’s boy, moved away from the wall. “I don’t think so, Lucien.”

“Shut it, you ponce. You mind your tongue, Fèron. The money you like to flash around is my money, and if you force me out, you fall too.”

Fèron wondered how close he was to being murdered in his own apartment, and made himself smile and be civil. “I’m merely pointing out that everything now depends on Boden carrying the current production to a successful conclusion.”

“She gets two weeks,” Grimaud said. “Then I’m taking back what’s mine, and delivering payback to that black bastard they use as a strong man. No one handles me like that and gets away with it.”

“My dear Lucien, do what you like once this run is done. We can foreclose then and see what’s to be done with the company, if it survives. At least we won’t lose money if they continue to have full houses for the next two weeks.”

“That’s all they get.” Grimaud’s expression promised mayhem for anyone who got in his way.

Fèron would make sure he didn’t.

*******************

A day out in the spring air was what Sylvie needed, even if all she really wanted to do was hide in her room and hopefully speak to Athos again. Her friends would not let her mope, or dwell on the hideous events of the previous day. They didn’t really talk about the opera house at all, or the ‘ghost’, though she knew Aramis was dying to do so.

Instead, Constance decided that she and d’Artagnan needed to see more of Paris, and took them to museums and galleries and to Notre Dame, “just to make sure you know where a church is,” she’d said with a wink at Porthos. Aramis bought them a wonderful lunch with good wine, and since Sylvie rarely drank, it went straight to her head. Though it wasn’t alcohol so much as having a chance to escape the relentless stress and worry about Catherine de Garouville and her feud.

Porthos more or less carried her back that afternoon, while he, d’Artagnan and Aramis performed an a capella version of the drinking song from La Traviata, with Sylvie singing her part with unprofessional abandon, and Constance revealing she had quite a pleasant contralto voice. The men serenaded them with tenor/baritone duets all the way to the house, with Sylvie awarding them scores for musicality and tunefulness.

“I declare you ready for the stage, messieurs,” she declaimed, flinging her arms wide and almost falling over as Porthos deposited her in the foyer.

“I declare you ready for something to soak up the wine, and strong coffee, ma petite,” Aramis said kindly, taking her arm and steadying her. “Your ghost will be most displeased if you try to climb stairs in this condition.”

“With you,” she said, staring into his amused eyes. “Never with me. He adores me.”

“As he should. Come along, darling.”

“Do you think it’s over?” she murmured to Constance as they all shared a cup of coffee in the kitchen before Aramis had to leave. “If she’s gone?”

“Let’s hope so. If I never see her or that whey-faced Maria again, I’ll be happy.”

“I’m still puzzled as to why she attacked Catherine.”

They all turned to Aramis. “To frame Sylvie,” d’Artagnan said, as if Aramis was simple.

“She’d murder a confederate—I hesitate to call her a friend—just for that?”

“You think the ghost did it,” Sylvie blurted out. “I told you, he would never hurt me.”

“What if he didn’t intend to?” Aramis said, raising an eyebrow at her. “And Maria decided to frame you without his knowledge?”

“How would that work?” Constance said. “She would have to know what the poison was, and have a supply of it to put in Sylvie’s room.”

“Yes, that is rather a problem for my theory.”

“Stop trying to make him the villain,” Sylvie said, glaring at him. “He’s my friend. My dear friend.”

“Your friend who lives in the roof,” Porthos said.

“So? I nearly do, the dormitory is high enough.”

“Yes, but you live in a room with windows and stairs,” d’Artagnan pointed out reasonably. “Does he hang from the rafters like a bat?”

“You be quiet,” Sylvie said, wagging her finger at him in a slightly wobbly manner.

“Yes, you be quiet,” Constance said, grinning at her lover.

“I give up,” d’Artagnan said, sotto voce, to Aramis.

Constance would not consent to letting her go up to her room until she was quite sober and had eaten supper, with a bread roll and a bottle of water for later. Porthos offered to accompany her upstairs, and she let him. He checked the repaired door and the new lock. “Don’t you let a soul in here what you don’t know.”

“I won’t. Thank you,” she said, kissing his cheek. “You are such a nice man.”

“I ain’t nice. But I ain’t no rapist neither. Sleep well, Sylvie.”

She washed her face and neck in the bathroom. The dormitory was empty now. The only girls who had been staying there, had found better lodgings. As she could have done, she knew, but she would not abandon Athos, as he would not abandon her.

In her room, she changed into her shift, and turned the lamp down low. “Athos?” she called quietly. “I’m back, my friend. Will you not come and sit with me for a little while?”

She sat on her bed and waited. A minute or two later, she heard the knock at the door that he had taught her, and she unlocked it to find him there. “Do come in, monsieur,” she said with an elaborate bow.

He remained standing after she’d shut and locked the door again, just looking at her. “I’m well,” she said. “Are you?” He nodded. “Please sit.” He obeyed, though with obvious reluctance, and she took his hand in her lap. “Grimaud has been barred from the house. Catherine and Maria have been sacked. But Aramis thinks you...I know you couldn’t have...but he wonders if you poisoned Catherine.”

The one eye she could see clearly, narrowed and showed so much offence at the suggestion, she laughed. “That’s what I told him. But he doesn’t think Maria could have done it. Do you agree?” He nodded. “We still have a poisoner.”

“Another. Maria is one. But not of Catherine.”

She loved his husky voice. So deep and thrilling. “Do you know who?”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“Are they still a danger to anyone in the company?”

“Not to you. Maria took advantage. I think she would have poisoned you the same way.”

“And that’s why she had the herb! That makes so much sense. You won’t name the other?”

“They are not a danger to you.”

“All right.” She dared to lean her head on his shoulder, and slowly, shyly, he raised his hand to stroke her hair. “I’ve thought of you all day. My friends laugh at me for being so fond of you, but they don’t know what you have done for me. Or what you’re like.”

“You don’t know me.”

“How can you say that? I know you’re kind, brave, generous, and you sing like an angel.”

“You know nothing of where I came from. Or what I have done.”

She turned under his hand, so that it cupped her jaw, warm and strong. “Then tell me.”

“I cannot.”

“Are you a criminal?”

“No.”

“Have you killed anyone?” His stroking paused. “Killed anyone innocent?”

“No.”

“Raped, stolen, deceived, or abused anyone?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t care a bit about the rest of it. You’re a good man, Athos, and my dear, dear friend.” She leaned on his shoulder again. “Stay with me tonight?”

“Sylvie, I—”

“Just to sleep. I don’t mean to...not like that.”

“Very well.”

“And I want to see your face.” He went still and rigid. It was a step too far for him. “At least take off your mask when I turn off the lamp? You don’t sleep in it, do you?”

He touched the leather which covered the right side of his face. “No.”

“So, will you?”

He nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “I want to know you, Athos. I can’t believe you’re as hideous as you believe. One day I hope you will trust me not to mock you.”

He bowed his head, and said nothing. “Someone you trusted did mock you, didn’t they?” He still said nothing, but she knew. She put her arm around him. “I’m so sorry. I don’t blame you for not believing me. I won’t ask again.” She kissed his cheek. “I’m tired. I had a lovely day. I wish I could have shared it with you. One day, we will.”

“This is my life.”

“And so it is mine. While you are here, I won’t ever leave, unless they force me to.”

“I don’t want that.”

“I don’t want you trapped here. We’re at an impasse, monsieur le fantôme. That’s what Aramis calls you.”

The side of his mouth lifted in a little smile. “He’s funny.”

“He’s a darling. Like you, but different. Porthos too. And Constance. And d’Artagnan. You would love them if you knew them, I swear.”

He only looked at her, not replying. She was pushing again. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Come and lie down.”

“You lie down. I’ll put the lamp out.”

She settled against the wall, wishing she had a wider bed. The lamp went dark, and moments later, he lay against her, fully clothed, on top of the blankets. “You’ll be cold.”

“No,” he said, and turned toward her. She laid her hand on the right side of his face, and felt nothing but ordinary skin and the bristle of his beard.

“You feel perfect to me, Athos.”

“I’m not. Go to sleep, my dear one.”

“You too, my sweet friend.” She kissed his right cheek. Oh, if only she could prove she would not be shocked at his looks. Even if he had a face like a dog, she would love him.

But words were not enough, so she said nothing. He draped his arm over her, over the blankets, and she had not felt so safe and loved since she was a small child and her maman was still alive. She would lie in her parent’s bed and the two of them would hold her between them.

Now they were both dead, and her family were all here in this opera house. Were they safe now? And could she ever bring Athos into that bright circle, openly and unmasked? She wanted nothing more from life than that.

*******************

Athos lay still, listening to Sylvie breathe, slower and deeper, falling into sleep like the innocent she was, perilously precious to him. He must depart before she woke, and light came through the little window of her room. She might blithely say she would not be horrified by his looks, but he had seen too much repugnance in the eyes of pretty women to believe her. She meant it, he was sure. He was equally sure she had no true idea how she would react.

He thought again what to do about Thérèse. The woman had meddled dangerously and come close to killing Catherine de Garouville, but her action was on behalf of Grimaud and his obsession with Sylvie. If Grimaud was kept from the house, then Sylvie might be safe now. Catherine and Maria were gone, and so were the people they had bribed. Grimaud had no target now.

If he was wrong though—if Sylvie was put in harm’s way again—he would never forgive himself. Removing Thérèse might mean Grimaud simply recruited another. At least Thérèse was a known quantity, and on Sylvie’s side. For now.

Dear God, Sylvie was lovely. This was a foolish act, giving in to her plea, but he was as weak as he was repulsive. He had been so lonely since de Tréville died, and he loved her so very much.

He would be firmer in future, he promised himself. He would have to resist. For her sake, as well as his own.

*******************

He was gone when Sylvie woke, but she expected that. The side where he lay was still warm, so he had stayed all night. “Good morning and thank you, dear friend,” she said, not sure if he was close enough to hear.

There was a note on the end of the bed. Do not trust Thérèse. Watch, do not confront.

Thérèse was their secret poisoner? She had to tell Constance, at least. She kissed the note. “Thank you again, my darling.”

She rose to begin a new day, rested and happier than she had been in months.

Chapter Text

Giving in to Sylvie’s pleas, Constance did not question Thérèse or tell the de Bourbons what Sylvie had learned. But she definitely shared the knowledge with her three trusted male supporters, and had to rein Porthos in from confronting her.

“We know who Grimaud is using now,” she pointed out, “and she didn’t attack Sylvie. So long as that remains the case, we simply need to watch out she doesn’t do anything else.”

“And if we fail? Catherine nearly died,” Porthos said. D’Artagnan nodded. He wasn’t happy either.

“Grimaud is obsessed with Sylvie, and presumably was trying to protect her position as lead soprano,” Aramis said. “Now Sylvie has no challenger, and he’s banned from the house. There’s no need for Thérèse to do a thing.”

“You hope.” Porthos gave Aramis the evil eye. Aramis stared back quite calmly. Constance thought he’d probably had a lot of practice at dealing with criticism gracefully.

Despite their concerns, Thérèse did nothing to attract suspicion, and her confederate kept away as ordered. Sylvie had blossomed now her enemies were banished, and with the private attentions she refused to admit to receiving from the ghost. Constance knew a young girl in love when she saw one—had she not been one herself before her husband’s true nature became clear?—and hoped things would not end badly.

Ticket sales were still excellent, Madame reported. The first season was ending soon, and she and Monsieur were trying to decide whether to extend the run of La Traviata, or put on another opera. They were also trying to find other singers to replace their two errant sopranos, hopefully at a smaller price. Constance would be busy whatever they decided, and would replace Thérèse quietly as soon as it was politic to do so.

The final performance was a triumph—twelve curtain calls, while roses rained down on the stage from the upper seats and private boxes. Sylvie accepted the applause with tears of joy streaming down her cheeks. Constance was so very proud of her sweet girl.

Constance had to go deal with the bouquets being delivered. Sylvie now had Catherine’s old dressing room, and Constance had been putting them in vases there, although they had run out days ago. They would have to start giving them away on the street. Every singer, male and female, had more flowers than they could carry, and still they came.

Sylvie also had a maid, though Justine worked for the other lead females too. She always helped Sylvie out of her costume so Constance could have it and begin the process of cleaning and repairing it and the other important dresses and suits.

Tonight, Justine was taking her time getting the dress to her. Just when Constance was about to go in search of it, the girl came to her, empty-handed. “Justine, where’s her costume?”

“Madame, Mademoiselle Sylvie has not returned to her dressing room. I thought she might be with you.”

“No, she’s not. Could you check the washroom, please?” A prickle of alarm went up Constance’s spine. She went to the backstage area and called out, “Has anyone seen Sylvie?”

One of the stagehands yelled back that she’d been headed for her dressing room a few minutes before.

“Porthos! Aramis! D’Artagnan! Quickly! My workroom!”

She made the same call in the men’s dressing room, and d’Artagnan, only in his shirtsleeves and underwear, scrambled to come to her side. “What’s wrong?” he asked as they walked to her workroom.

“Sylvie’s missing. Ah, Aramis. Have you seen Sylvie?”

“No. I wasn’t expecting to.”

“She hasn’t returned to her room. D’Artagnan, run and check for me, and come back. Porthos, have you seen her?”

“No,” he said.

“Could she have gone to relieve herself?” Aramis asked.

“Justine? Did you find her?”

“No, madame.”

D’Artagnan ran back. “Not there.”

Constance threw him a pair of trousers. “Aramis, you and d’Artagnan need to go up to her room, and if she’s not there, search. Ask the ghost for help. Porthos, you and I need to speak to Thérèse.

Dear God, if anything had happened to her....

*******************

Athos had returned to his roost near Sylvie’s room as soon as she had finished her curtain calls. His darling had done so well. He had bought her a diamond pin in the shape of a nightingale as a small gift to celebrate this first triumphant season. He was sure there would be many more, either in this company, or another.

He heard the one called Aramis, and d’Artagnan, shouting for Sylvie, but she was not up here. Did they not realise that?

“Monsieur le fantôme, I know you can hear me. Sylvie is missing, and we need your help. I beg you, please show yourself to us? This is no time to be shy.”

The distress in Aramis’s voice could be faked, but Athos did not believe it was—he would skewer the man if he was trying some trick. He ran lightly across the walkways he had built, and down the ladder to the door which led onto the dormitory level. There he found the two men, who wasted no time in surprise at his appearance in either sense. “Have you seen her up here at all, monsieur?”

“No. There are many places for someone to hide. Is it Grimaud, or Catherine’s partisans?”

“We don’t know,” d’Artagnan said. “Is that a sword?”

“She has a pistol in her room.” Athos unlocked the door, choosing not to explain why he had a key, and found the gun, which he went to pass to Aramis. Aramis put up his hand to stop him.

“I have my own weapon, monsieur. D’Artagnan, you take it. Shoot Grimaud on sight. Monsieur, if someone were to keep another captive here, where would you suggest they might be?”

“The cellars. The lowest level is flooded, so no one has been there in a long while. Except me.”

“Lead the way then, and quickly.”

*******************

Porthos shook Thérèse’s shoulder again. They had found her packing her bags in preparation for a swift and secret departure, and had taken her into their custody. “Tell us what you know. Is he in the building?”

Despite Porthos looming over her as she sat in the chair, effectively his prisoner, Thérèse showed no fear, only irritation. “I don’t know, I told you. He wanted me to help him capture Sylvie, and I refused. I didn’t mind doing what he wanted to that de Garouville bitch, but I won’t hurt the girl.”

“Why are you running then?” Constance demanded.

“Because whatever he’s planning, it’s bound to rain shit down on all of us. He’s not rational about her. Or you, Porthos. He hates you for that beating you gave him, and thwarting him in pressing his attentions on her.”

“You mean, when he tried to rape her,” Porthos said.

But Porthos hadn’t prevented the rape, Constance thought. “So, you don’t want to hurt her, but you’ll run away and let him do God knows what to her? Have you any idea what he wants to do?”

The other woman pursed her lips almost to invisibility. “I really don’t know. But I do know his mind runs to violence. And he likes to blow things up.”

Chapter Text

The lamp the ‘ghost’ used to lead them into the bowels of the building seemed almost an afterthought, as the man himself walked with feline sureness around joists and down ladders, barely looking where he was going. D’Artagnan, with the insouciant grace of youth, was nearly as adept. Aramis, older and sensible of the fragility of life, took more care. Periodically they called Sylvie’s name, but heard nothing.

Aramis judged they had searched for at least twenty minutes when the ‘ghost’ put up his hand to make them stop, a finger to his lips, and then a hand to his ear. They waited. All Aramis could hear was the echo of the activities overhead, and the relentless drip of water forced through the bedrock into the building’s foundation.

But then...a sound like someone trying to scream behind a gag. The ‘ghost’ immediately moved towards it, but Aramis put out a hand to stop him. “It’s almost certainly a trap. Be cautious, and watch where you put your feet. You too, Charles.”

“What do you think he might have done?” d’Artagnan asked.

“There are ways of triggering explosives, guns, with wire. At the very least, he will seek warning of our approach. Move slowly, both of you, and be careful with your weapons. Mirrors can be deceiving.”

The eyes behind the mask of the ghost gauged his words, before the man nodded, handed Aramis the lamp, and moved off with considerably more care than before.

D’Artagnan spotted the wires even before Aramis saw Sylvie. A lamp burning low on a lump of stone showed her quite clearly, bound to a chair, her arms tied to the arm rests, and tightly gagged. She screamed again as they approached. “It’s all right, my dear,” Aramis said, putting the lamp on the ground. "We can see the wires.”

But that wasn’t what she was trying to warn them about. A form leapt out of the shadows to attack them, but the ghost was too quick. He fought Grimaud—for it was him—back with masterful swordsmanship, away from the wires and Sylvie.

“I have him,” the ghost yelled. “See to her!”

“Bon courage, my friend!” Aramis called, then concentrated on the deadly puzzle Grimaud had made, with Sylvie as the bait in the trap.

*******************

If it were not for the seven years Athos had spent with de Tréville honing his swordsmanship and other talents, and also the year before that spent living on his wits, Grimaud would probably have defeated him in short order, because the man was strong, desperate, and vicious, unhindered by the smallest sense of honour or decency. He intended to win this fight by killing Athos, and Athos was just as determined that Grimaud would not walk out of the Garrison opera house alive.

Athos had another aim—to lead him away from Sylvie so Aramis, a man with surprising skills and knowledge for an effete, idle aristocrat, could work on defusing the bombs and other devices that Grimaud must had set. He forced the man down a ladder down to the level above the flooded one, but the moisture was Athos’s undoing, because he slipped on the last metal rung, and skidded. He recovered quickly, but not quickly enough, for Grimaud lunged forward and skewered him on his side. Athos suppressed a groan and fought back, managing a hit of his own. He had an advantage that Grimaud did not—many months of moving around this building in almost total dark. He could hear Grimaud’s harsh breathing which enabled Athos to locate him, while Athos was fitter and faster and could better control his breathing.

He drove Grimaud back and down, landing what he was sure was a mortal hit from the loud groan the man made. “You’ll never save her,” Grimaud gasped. “You and all your friends will die trying.”

Athos didn’t bother responding to this. Grimaud was already dead. He hadn’t fallen yet, but his fate had been sealed the moment he had put Sylvie in mortal danger.

Shortly, the only escape was down to the flooded level, and Grimaud fled, leaping off the ladder into calf-deep freezing water. Athos followed more carefully, allowing the splashes and ripples of the water to guide him to his prey in the pitch dark. He lunged and found a target, struck again and was sure he had hit a lung by the sound of the air escaping. He slashed and cut, wearing his opponent out, until he could sheathe his sword and grapple directly with the man, who did his best to choke him and exploit the deep cut he had given Athos. Once Grimaud lost his footing and Athos had him under water, there was no hope for him.

Athos held him down, kneeling on his back, until no more bubbles popped at the surface. Still he held him in the water, because he wanted to be quite sure that this bastard would never trouble his beloved Sylvie ever again.

At last, he could let go and stand. The effects of his exertions and his injuries made themselves quickly and forcefully known. He left the body where it lay, and climbed slowly up to the next level, slumping against a building support, shivering in his wet clothes and boots. He’d lost his mask in the struggle in the level below, but he did not bother to try to retrieve it, for who cared what he looked like down here?

He quickly regretted that thought as he heard d’Artagnan’s voice, and immediately afterwards, saw lamplight. “Monsieur le fantôme? Are you there?”

The boy was foolish to call out so, since it could as easily have been Grimaud who had won, and was waiting to kill him. “Here,” Athos called. “Down one level. Grimaud’s dead. What of Sylvie?”

“Safe.” His voice was coming closer as he climbed down the ladder. “Aramis was able to disable the traps to free her. But he says you must come, and the building must be cleared, as there is a great deal of explosive. The three of them have gone up to warn everyone.” D’Artagnan reached the ground and turned, holding up the lamp. At least he was still carrying Sylvie’s pistol. “You’re hurt.”

He reached toward Athos as if to touch the injury. Athos moved away from his hand. “It’s nothing. Go, boy. I’ll be fine.”

“No, monsieur, you are not. Sylvie made me promise not to return without you, and you know what she’s like with a gun.”

Athos smiled. That’s my girl. “Then lead the way.” They climbed the stairs, d’Artagnan ahead with the lamp. Now Athos could appreciate how deep the cut was, and that it was bleeding freely. If he didn’t stop the flow, he might not reach the ground level. At the next floor, he said, “Go ahead. I must bind this.”

“Not on your life,” d’Artagnan said. “I value my own skin too highly.”

He stripped off his own dry shirt and used Athos’s knife to cut it into strips, which he wrapped around Athos’s ribs. The cut would need cleaning and stitching, but it would hold until....

Until what? Athos was about to be revealed to the world as the crazy man in the roof of the opera house.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

Athos shook his head, his voice stolen. He pointed to the lamp and the stairs, then walked toward them, not waiting for his companion. D’Artagnan quickly caught up, and took his arm, seeing that Athos had lost too much blood to walk steadily.

On the ground floor, the place was deserted. “This way,” d’Artagnan said, half-carrying him towards the foyer and the front door. “Aramis said they would have to get the army in to help with the explosives. We don’t have anyone who can deal with such things.”

The night air hit Athos like a slap to the face, and made him stagger. He began to shiver, which hurt.

“Athos!”

Sylvie slipped out of the crowd of people standing across the street and ran to him. “My God! You’re hurt! D’Artagnan, quickly, find Constance, and find him a coat. Come with me, darling. You must sit.”

In the uneven light of dozens of lamps and the new electric street lighting, she surely could see his ugliness, but she didn’t seem to notice. Dazed and very cold, he let her guide him over to some steps where he could sit. She still wore her costume, which was not designed for cold night air, but was at least dry. She wrapped her arms around him, which was wonderful. “Oh, my friend, I was so frightened he would kill you.”

He buried his face in her neck. He had been as terrified for her as she had been for him.

Someone draped a coat around him, which helped. “A doctor is coming, but it’s all a bit confusing at the moment. We’re trying to clear the area in case the explosives...explode”

Constance. He didn’t want her to see him, so he didn’t look up. “Aramis says you’re both to come to his apartment, Sylvie, and no argument. Porthos too. D’Artagnan will come with me.”

“So, no difference there,” Sylvie said to her friend.

“Cheek. Let me see your injury, monsieur.”

He shook his head against Sylvie’s shoulder. “Wait for the doctor?” she said to Constance.

“I’m only going to try and bandage it more tightly, but as you wish. Porthos!”

Athos heard a familiar rumbling voice say, “The army’s on its way. Is this your ghost, Sylvie?”

“His name is Athos, and he’s hurt. Don’t make fun.”

“Athos?” A big hand under Athos’s chin gently made him look up. “My God. De Tréville’s mute.”

Athos pulled away from Porthos’s hand and hid his face. “But he’s not mute,” d’Artagnan said. “We all heard him speak.”

“And if your name is Athos, with that birthmark, then you must be the missing son of the Comte de la Fère.” That was Aramis.

Athos looked up, found them all staring at him, and tried to stand so he could walk away. Unfortunately, he only got as far as his feet before his body decided the best place for him was flat on the ground, and he fainted.

Chapter Text

Aramis only had the two bedrooms, and indeed, only the two beds, but as Sylvie had blushingly admitted she and Athos had been chastely sharing her narrow cot for several weeks, he could see no harm in letting the two of them share a much more comfortable mattress. The solace—and anything else that followed—would be good for them.

He left Sylvie to watch over their unconscious ghost, while he spoke to Doctor Lemay as he washed his hands after treating Athos. “The risk of infection is high of course, because of the immersion in that foul water. But keep the wound clean and dry, and prevent him from exerting himself until the cut is healed. I can return to take the stitches out in a couple of weeks.”

“I can attend to that. I have a little medical skill.”

“As you wish, monsieur,” Lemay said, drying his hands.

“His birthmark. Nothing can be done for it?”

“No, but it’s not the worst of that kind I have seen. It’s only the extent and position which is troublesome, but at least it’s not prone to bleeding or hypertrophy as far as I can see.”

“Thank you, doctor.” Aramis pulled out some coins and paid the man well. He had, after all, attended quickly and dealt with the situation efficiently.

“Excuse me, monsieur, will your guests be wanting food tonight?” his manservant asked.

“We can fend for ourselves, Clairmont. Go to bed, and thank you.”

Clairmont bowed and went away. Aramis went to the bedroom where Porthos waited for him. “Well, this is all suitably operatic, is it not?”

“Any performance where the bad are defeated and the good have a happy ending, is fine by me.” Porthos held out his hand to Aramis, who took it and allowed himself to be pulled down to the bed. “Will it be a happy ending for them, do you think?”

“I hope so. Athos’s father is dying, which I have yet to tell him, and his brother was murdered eight years ago, which he may not be aware of. Doctor Lemay says his muteness is a mental disorder that may always linger, but he can speak where he is relaxed and trusts his company. Or, as we saw, he simply forgets to be anxious. Sylvie can work with that, I ‘m confident.”

“She’s a brave girl. They’re all brave. Except for fuckin’ Thérèse,” Porthos growled as he said the woman’s name.

“I suspect there’s a story there we don’t know. Anyway, Louis and Anne have some decisions to make, and since Athos will be out of action for a couple of weeks, so will Sylvie. And so will you, my dear.” He kissed Porthos’s cheek before laying a hand on a part of him that was most certainly active. “I do have plans for you, if you can’t find anything better to do.”

“Do you, now?” Porthos said, growling delightfully and kissing Aramis on the lips. This occupied a few pleasant moments, but then his lover sighed and rolled back. “I need to talk to him about de Tréville. The old man might have left me a note or something.”

“Athos gives me the impression of being aware of your presence here for some time,” Aramis said, stroking Porthos’s stomach. “Though his unusual reticence may have prevented him handing anything over, if such an object exists.”

“Yeah. Or maybe my major thought everything had been said. Since you know all the gossip, you heard anything of Belgard?”

Aramis coughed. “I might have made one or two discreet enquiries. Belgard is failing fast, which is only just considering his dissolute life. His son-in-law is wanted by the police in connection with a rather nasty prostitution ring, and his daughter is doing her best to disassociate herself from her spouse’s activities. Sounds like Belgard would have been better off with you.”

“I wouldn’t have been. My mother wouldn’t have been, because he would have killed her. The lot of them can rot in hell.”

“My thoughts exactly, my dear,” Aramis said before nuzzling at Porthos’s throat. “But I don’t intend to let the daughter cheat you of your fortune. You’ll make better use of it and the title than any of them.”

“What does a stagehand want with a title?”

“To stop being a stagehand?”

“But I like my job.”

“Then by all means, continue. You will have a choice, that’s all.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Porthos tangled his hand in Aramis’s hair and gave it a gentle tug. “So, we gonna fuck or what?”

“Would you be horribly offended if I admitted to being exhausted?”

“Nah. I’m the same. Just being polite.”

Aramis climbed off the bed, stripped to his skin, climbed back under the covers, and snuggled next to his lover. “This is all the politeness I need from you, darling.”

Porthos chuckled, his chest rumbling pleasantly under Aramis’s ear. “I can give you as much of that as you can stand.”

*******************

Sylvie hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but with Athos so peaceful and the apartment so quiet and warm, she couldn’t do otherwise. When she woke, it was daylight, and Athos was blinking slowly in the light. “You’re awake! How do you feel, dear?”

He turned to her and winced. “Sore.”

“It was a bad cut, the doctor said. Deep. Thirty-two stitches. You aren’t to move at all for two weeks.”

His mouth twitched. “That may prove awkward. Where are we?”

“Aramis’s apartment. Porthos carried you to a cab and we all came with you. You were so brave, my darling.” She kissed his cheek, the one he had habitually hidden.

“Aren’t you revolted?”

She blinked in confusion. “By?”

“This...mark.”

“A birthmark? That’s your secret shame? You haven’t seen my arse yet. My father said I have a map of Russia across my left buttock.”

“Sylvie.” Athos looked embarrassed by her talk of private parts.

She tapped his nose. “Oh stop. Do you imagine we’re sharing a bed and the idea of being naked with you hasn’t occurred to me? Because I do love you in every possible way, and as soon as you are fit, I intend to find out if you feel the same.”

“I’m not worthy of you.”

She felt his forehead, then used her fingers to massage his scalp. “No head injuries, no fever. You must just be an idiot.”

His mouth twitched again. “I thought you were such a shy, polite girl.”

“That’s the other Sylvie Boden. Don’t know where we left her. I’ll have to do. I love you, Athos. Actually, I adore you.”

“I would give my life for you, Sylvie.”

She shuddered. “Yes, I know. Please don’t do it again, though thank you for killing that man. Vile creature.” Her hand found its way to his hair, so long and unruly, though nothing like hers. She wound it around her fingers, wondering at its springiness.

“What happened? When he caught you, I mean.”

“He leapt on me as I was going to the dressing room and put a rag over my mouth. The next thing I know, I woke up in that chair, tied up and wired up to explosives. He was boasting about how he was going to blow Porthos and me to kingdom come. He didn’t know about you, fortunately. You can’t go back, you know. Louis won’t allow it.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “It’s not up to him.”

“Oh, why not?” But he didn’t explain. “He said no one is living in the roof while he’s in charge. So I guess you’ll be here until we find a place to live.”

“‘We?’”

“Yes, my darling. ‘We’. A home, together.” She stroked her fingers down his cheek, and kissed him. “Because I don’t intend to let you out of my sight ever again.”

“I don’t deserve you. You know nothing about me.”

She cuddled close. “Then tell me. Every last detail.”

Chapter Text

Athos did not like being kept in bed, beholden to a stranger, even if Aramis was the kind of man who was never a stranger for long, welcome everywhere, and friendly to all. The presence of his sweet Sylvie made his enforced confinement far more bearable than he would have imagined, though he fretted that she should be at the Garrison, influencing the decision as to which opera should be performed next.

Aramis dismissed his fears in the most charming manner, declaring that Sylvie would sing beautifully whatever was chosen, and there was no other choice for the lead soprano, regardless of the show.

“Besides, there’s a small matter of the Comte de Fèron demanding the repayment of his loan. Louis foolishly agreed to a clause which allowed this, provided the company had taken enough in ticket sales to do so, and even more foolishly let Fèron know they had done so. Unfortunately, repaying the loan will leave them debt free but penniless, and unable to pay this quarter’s rent. They’ll be kicked out of the building.”

“No.”

Aramis arched an eyebrow at Athos. “No? You have some magic to raise money from thin air, monsieur?”

“No.” Athos could have explained but decided not to. Aramis could find out when the de Bourbons did.

Aramis also imparted some distressing news to Athos about his family. “I must go to them at once,” Athos said when Aramis was done, and tried to stand up. It took both Sylvie and Aramis to stop him, and he only gave up when Aramis threatened to call Porthos in.

“You don’t understand. I must see my father before he dies.”

“When you didn’t need to for the last nine years?”

Athos scowled at Aramis, and refused to explain. “You cannot lawfully hold me here.”

“I can medically detain you even if I have to pour laudanum into your coffee. You lost a lot of blood, you idiot. The estate is but a day’s ride from here. We will go as soon as you’re not likely to pop a stitch.”

“Three days.”

“A week at the very least. Why not send a note?”

Athos looked away. A note would not...be enough.

“Porthos wants to talk to you about de Tréville. He wonders if the old man left him a message.”

“No. He wanted him to be happy. As he said to me.”

“You don’t want to tell him yourself?”

A knot of tension in Athos’s chest told him that his voice would fail if he tried just then. “No.”

“I understand from my enquiries that you were the sole beneficiary of de Tréville’s estate.”

“I didn’t want his money. Porthos can have it.”

“Porthos doesn’t need it,” Aramis said, smirking at some private joke. “But neither do you, or you won’t when you inherit the La Fère estate.”

Athos looked away. Sylvie put her arm around him, and spoke to Aramis over his shoulder. “How tactful.”

“I’m sorry. I assumed...I shouldn’t have assumed. My apologies.”

“Perhaps you should leave us alone now,” she said. Athos could hear the icy glare in her voice. Shortly afterwards, the bedroom door closed.

“That man needs a good shake,” she said, kissing Athos’s cheek. “I’m so sorry about your father and brother.”

“I don’t love them,” he whispered. “I wanted to. I loved them when I was small, but they never loved me back. I was ugly. Not noble enough. My father bribed me to learn the sword by saying I could study music too, if I agreed. He thought it would make me manlier.”

“You’re perfectly manly.”

Her indignation made him smile wryly. “Not to them. I couldn’t speak to my teachers, or visitors, or their friends. They assumed it was wilfulness. Beatings didn’t fix me. As for the music, they considered that a useless aberration. They poured their love into Thomas, who better fit their image of an heir to the title. They weren’t the only ones.”

She kissed the hollow his throat. “I’m sorry, love.”

He had told her the bare bones of the story with Anne. He could not bear to flesh it out, but she had understood. A fortune-seeking petty criminal who had found a naive, painfully shy Athos the perfect target for seduction, and convinced him they were deeply in love. He had planned to ask her to marry him, knowing his parents would be furious, and not caring. He had come to her room that day to ask him—and found her with Thomas, in flagrante delicto.

Unashamed, she had mocked him for his shock, his foolishness in believing in her affection. “How could I ever love a deformed freak like you?”

He had walked out of the room with the sound of her cruel laughter ringing in his ears, unable to speak, refusing to cry. He collected his violin, cloak, hat, and coin purse, gone to the stables, and ridden out of the estate, never to return. He spent the next year travelling by horse, and then on foot when he sold the horse, playing the violin in taverns and inns to earn his keep, several times being forced to defend his meagre purse from robbery or his skin from bullies, by the strength of his fists and skill with a sword.

Then Jean de Tréville had scooped him up and taken him in. It had been the happiest period of his life.

But now de Tréville was dead, and soon, so would his father be.

Sylvie guessed the miserable turn his thoughts had taken. “Shall I come with you to your parents’ house?”

“No,” he said quickly. “No, darling. I never want you near them. I never want you to see them, or hear their cruelty. They won’t hurt you.”

“They can’t hurt me. I don’t care a fig for what they think.”

He stroked her long, luxuriant curls. “They can hurt you in ways you can’t imagine. You were raised in love. I won’t let you see a family who hates.”

“Let Aramis go with you?”

He nodded. “It’s all they deserve.”

She laughed and kissed him again. “I adore you so much. Now, tell me your secret. How will you save the company from being evicted?”

“It’s simple. I own the building. De Tréville left it to me. I could give it to Porthos now.”

“Keep it. You could have so much fun with it.”

“I could make it a condition of forgiving the rent that you and he are both hired as singers?”

Her smile was wide and lovely. “I like how you think, monsieur.”

Chapter Text

Aramis did indeed accompany a still very much in pain and completely silent Athos to the lovely La Fère estate, curious to the point of almost being unable to sit still as to what his companion’s reception would be. Sylvie had told him more of what had happened to drive the scion of the family away, and Aramis had only sympathy for the sad, silent, inexperienced young fellow so badly betrayed by his family and lover.

But time healed all wounds, or so he had been told. Whether there was enough time in all of creation to heal Athos’s, Aramis didn’t know.

The servants at La Fère didn’t overwhelm Athos with joy at his return, greeting him with muted, formal politeness. The house already felt like it was in mourning. Had they arrived too late?

A tall, thin woman with an unfortunate—at least to Aramis’s mind—resemblance to Catherine de Garouville, came out to receive them. “Olivier, at last,” she snapped, before grabbing Athos’s arm and making him grimace in pain. “You must come. The doctor says he only has days, possibly hours.”

So this was Athos’s mother, apparently. Not being specifically excluded, Aramis followed along, it being a principle of his life that what was not specifically forbidden, was permitted, even actively encouraged.

They were led upstairs to a large bedroom, where a dark-suited doctor sat at the side of a frail, grey, sunken-faced man, overwhelmed by the vastness of the bed in which he lay. Athos’s mother more or less shoved the doctor off his chair, and Athos into his abandoned seat, then stood watching as if the touching reunion would cure her husband. She had yet to utter a word about her son’s welfare, or express any emotion about his return.

Athos took his father’s hand, and only then did his mother turn and look at Aramis as if for the first time. “Who are you?” Her nostrils flared as if she smelled something unpleasant.

Aramis bowed deeply, and perhaps a little satirically. “Aramis, comte d’Herblay, and your son’s friend and supporter, at your service, madame. Please to meet you.”

“Why are you here? You don’t belong in this room.”

“I am here to comfort my friend, madame.” He stared at her, keeping his smile pleasant, daring her to toss him out.

She chose to ignore him instead, and went back to standing at Athos’s shoulder, silently urging him to work a miracle.

Aramis found a chair at the side of the room, and did his best not to be too obviously listening in. There wasn’t much to hear. The old man was unconscious, and Athos said nothing while his mother told him about his father’s condition, which was indeed grave. Cancer, the leveller of giants and narrow-minded, unloving parents alike.

It appeared Athos’s mother would be content for them all to sit in vigil until the old man died, even if it took days, if it had not been for the doctor. He had better things to do. “Madame la comtesse, I shall take my leave now,” he said after half an hour.

She drew herself up, and snapped, “You cannot leave. He needs the morphine.”

“Your maid—” the doctor started to say, but the mention of a servant made Madame’s mouth open, ready to scream at him.

“Madame,” Aramis said, making them both turn in shock. He stood. “I have medical training. I can administer the drug as well as any doctor. Is there anything else to be done?”

“No, none,” the doctor said. “Just the drug as and when needed. There is a supply long enough to last days.” The unspoken message being that this would be more than enough for the old man. “I will call again tomorrow.”

And with that, he made his escape. Madame turned her fury on Aramis. “How dare you, monsieur? We don’t know even know you.”

“No, madame, nor I you, since you have not introduced yourself to me. But your son and heir knows me, and trusts me to come here, and unless he objects, I will assist you and him as required. Athos?”

Athos turned around. “Maman.”

“Yes?”

Athos said nothing more, and simply looked at her. She quickly wilted under that steady gaze, and swung around to face Aramis. “Oh, very well. But my husband better not suffer because of you.”

Aramis bowed. “He will pass in peace and comfort, I promise. I shall pray for him too.” She smiled contemptuously, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “In the meantime, your son is injured, it’s late, and we’re hungry. Please have the courtesy of showing us our room, and provide something to eat. He deserves better treatment after all this time.”

She opened her mouth in shock, stared at him for a few moments, then walked out without another word.

“Aramis,” Athos said, in much the same tone as he had addressed his mother.

Aramis was made of stronger stuff. “If you won’t fight to be treated well, I will. Your father won’t wake again, chéri. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. Better that he passes without more pain. But I have to stay at least a little longer.”

Aramis went to his side and put his hand on his shoulder. “I know. But don’t make a martyr of yourself. Neither of them will appreciate it, and he won’t even know.”

“Just a little while.”

“Then I’ll stay too. But I want to eat, and I want to check your side. Are you in much pain?”

“I can endure.”

“Which means ‘yes’,” Aramis said, tsking and shaking his head. “You’re stoic to the point of insanity, my friend. It’s not a survival trait.”

“I had no reason to wish to survive, until....”

“Until Sylvie, yes, I know. But my dear friend, I hope you have more than that now. I, for one, will be most put out if you were to die under my care.”

Athos essayed a tiny smile which lit up his green eyes. “I will endeavour not to do that.”

Somewhat to Aramis’s surprise, servants with food—and decent food at that—appeared shortly afterwards. A maid curtseyed. “Monsieur, I am to show you your room when you are ready. Monsieur Athos will be shown his too.”

“Monsieur Athos and I can share a room and a bed, mademoiselle. He should not have to be alone at this sad time. Show me the room now, and you can find your own bed.”

“Very good, monsieur.” The girl was wise enough not to question a guest’s orders, he noted, or she was more frightened of her mistress than by anything unseemly that might occur.

“I don’t need to share your bed,” Athos said when Aramis returned. The servants had all left.

“No, my dear fellow, you do not need it. But it will help. I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

“Your hands won’t bother me.”

Aramis chuckled. “Come and eat. If your father is aware, which I sincerely pray he is not, he’ll know you are close by.”

Athos obeyed, and after the simple meal, Aramis checked his side. “I should be giving you morphine,” he said, displeased by the amount of pain Athos was carrying.

“Is it infected? Then nothing is wrong.”

“You’re suffering.”

“Life is suffering.”

“I trust in Sylvie’s power to convince you otherwise. I’ll change the bandage in the morning. Try not to exert yourself.”

Athos looked at the ceiling. “I’m sitting on my arse at the side of a dying man. How can I possibly exert myself?”

“You’d find a way,” Aramis said darkly.

He pulled up a chair and sat next to Athos. They remained like that, sitting in companionable silence for an hour. Then he gently clapped Athos on the shoulder. “It’s nearly midnight. Come to bed now.”

Athos left his vigil without protesting. The old man had not stirred, and Aramis had asked the maids to wake him the moment the patient did. More than that, his wife could attend to.

Aramis was incapable of sharing a bed and not cuddling up in his sleep next to his companion, so he thought he might as well get into his preferred position while awake. Athos was surprisingly unbothered by Aramis wrapping himself around him.

“How do you feel?” Aramis asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Angry? Sad?”

“Empty.”

“Will you stay if your mother wishes it? After, I mean.”

“She won’t.”

Aramis thought of the woman who could reject a kind, brave, sensitive, talented son because of a common birth defect which did not affect his nature or intelligence in any way, and found it hard to care about her bearing widowhood alone.

Then he scolded himself, for was it not such a person who most needed his prayers and the love of God?

Sometimes he was a very bad Catholic.

He woke when first light showed through the windows. Athos was out of bed and on his feet, pulling on his shirt. “My father has died.”

Aramis rose, went over and laid a hand on Athos’s shoulder in sympathy, then dressed quickly to follow his friend into the dead man’s room. Athos’s mother sat at her husband’s bedside, holding his hand. She said nothing to them, didn’t even look at them. The oldest of the servants clustered in the room, took it on himself to tell Athos, “He passed in the night, monsieur. Madame la comtesse found him this morning. My condolences.”

Athos bowed. “Thank you. All of you, you’re dismissed for now. I’ll send for you when you’re needed.”

“Thank you, monsieur le comte.”

Athos jerked a little. He must have only just remembered that he had now inherited the title.

He pulled a seat over to sit near his mother. Aramis went to the window. Grey light for a sad day. Sad at least for one person.

Athos’s mother turned to her son after a while. “I suppose you think you’ll take charge now, monsieur le comte.”

Athos showed no resentment at her harsh tone. “No, maman. I’m returning to Paris after the funeral. You can do whatever you want here. I’ll make no decisions, unless you want me to.”

“This is all your fault. Francis was never the same after Thomas’s death, and you brought that vile woman into our lives. She killed him. She would not have been anywhere near him if you had not had such low taste.”

Athos flinched, and his unmarked cheek went pale. “What a vicious, untruthful and revolting thing to say, madame,” Aramis said, horrified at her cruelty.

Athos’s mother jumped, seemingly having forgotten he was in the room. She turned to him with pursed lips and a scowl, ready to attack. He gave her no chance to do so. “You should be praying for your husband’s soul, not excoriating your poor son, who only wanted love from you.”

“Love? We did our duty as parents. How was he neglected, monsieur?”

“Duty is no substitute for love, madame. ‘Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass, or a clanging cymbal.’ And your husband was not killed by anything Athos did. Disease is caused by infectious organisms, pollution, and age. He would have died of exactly the same thing if Athos had remained, Thomas lived, and you had behaved with decency towards both.”

“You will get out of my house now,” she snapped.

“My house.” Her head whipped around to stare at Athos. “My house too, maman. I will not interfere with you living here, but this is my house too. Aramis, stop abusing my mother. Maman, stop abusing us. When you are ready, let me know what you want done with the funeral. I wish to go home as soon as possible.”

He rose and stalked out of the room. Aramis followed, apologising as they walked. “I’m sorry. She made me angry. You should be angry”

“There’s no point. I want to be done, and go back to Sylvie. Nothing else matters.”

They went downstairs to the kitchen. Athos sent a servant to attend his mother, and Aramis asked for breakfast for them both. “There will be legal matters to attend to, you realise,” he said as they sat down to wait for their meal.

“I have lawyers for that.”

“Excellent. Will you write to Sylvie? I plan to write to Porthos.”

Athos nodded, and that was the last he spoke all day. They did not see his mother again, which suited Aramis perfectly. A servant came and told Athos that his father’s body would lie in state for three days in their family chapel, and the funeral would take place after that.

Athos sighed after the servant left. “You could go back to Paris in the interim if you can’t bear to stay,” Aramis said.

Athos shrugged and said nothing. Athos would endure. He was good at that.

*******************

My heart

Athos’s father has died, and the funeral is on Tuesday. we will return Wednesday. I miss you already. This is a cold and soulless place, and however unhappy our lad was while running from his family and perceived shame, it is nothing as to how he would have been had he remained. I thank the memory of your major for offering comfort and support to the people I hold most dear, and who are held most dear by them.

Athos is writing to Sylvie separately, but please tell her that his thoughts are all of her, and he is miserable without her. As I am without you, chéri.

your own, Aramis

Chapter Text

Aramis would later describe Athos as becoming a ghost again over the next three days—secretive, silent, disappearing for long periods of time, and reappearing without the smallest explanation. His mother avoided both men entirely.

Aramis, for his part, went to the chapel to pray for the soul of the departed and the happiness of the living. He lit a candle and hoped God would find pity for a man who had at least allowed his son to study what he loved, as well as what he did not.

Mostly he walked, and thought, and missed Porthos. It occurred to him that, since he had so much free time now, he could have spent more of it helping others, and resolved to do more when he returned from this sojourn, starting with those closest to him.

On the morning of the funeral, he walked with Athos to the church behind the new widow, followed by a train of household servants and estate tenants. He was astonished to find the church already occupied by some very familiar faces. Athos turned to him and nodded, a small smile on his face. His friend had been making plans.

His mother stopped short inside the church and turned to her son, her face twisted in anger. “What is all this, Athos? Can you not even refrain from making your father’s funeral a joke?”

“Maman, this is my gift to Papa, and to you. My friends and I will sing him to his rest, and his soul to the Lord. He allowed me to study music, and so I will honour him with it. Excuse me, for I must take my place.”

He walked over to the choir stalls and stood beside Sylvie, Porthos, d’Artagnan, and other singers from the Théâtre des Mousquetaires. The organist and violinists were also from the company. Constance was in the choir too, and if she was singing, Aramis rather thought he was good enough to join her. So, he did.

Athos’s mother stared for a couple of moments, then looked straight ahead and walked up the aisle where she stopped and kissed the coffin, before being greeted by the priest. The church filled up with the servants, tenants, and other friends of the family, of whom there were a surprising number, come to say farewell.

Athos’s little troupe did not perform the entire Mozart Requiem, but they performed quite a lot of it. Monsieur Lavoie was there to direct them, and Porthos showed his hidden capacity to perform as a bass baritone. The beautiful music did much, Aramis was sure, to soothe the sorrow in Athos’s heart. By the end of the Mass, when the coffin was borne out of the church with the Communio, to Sylvie’s glorious, soaring soprano and the warm, rich sounds of her friends in chorus, Aramis was certain that the experience had been uplifting for all with an open heart.

And if Athos’s mother could not understand it, then she was truly to be pitied.

Athos shook the hands of all his friends, new and otherwise, and with them, followed his father’s coffin to the graveyard. He was handed a violin by one of the orchestra musicians, and accompanied Sylvie as she sang Schubert’s Ave Maria, while the mourners threw dirt into the grave and the coffin was covered. Aramis wept for the beauty of it all, and the sadness, and he did not see a single dry eye among the dozens of people at the graveside.

When it was over, he was close enough to Athos to hear him whisper, “Farewell, maman,” as he took his mother’s hands and kissed her on both cheeks. “I will come if you need me.”

Athos turned and walked over to his friends. He took Sylvie’s arm. “I want to go home now.”

So they did.

*******************

Constance and d’Artagnan travelled with the company back to Paris in two large hired carriages. The remaining four travellers returned in a smaller vehicle from the estate itself. Sylvie nestled in Athos’s arms all the way back to Paris. Aramis did the same with Porthos.

“I am still amazed how you arranged it so quickly,” Aramis said, looking up at Porthos with love in his eyes.

“Athos wrote very clear instructions,” Sylvie said. “All that we needed to do was agree and come. Of course, we came.”

“You were beautiful, my dear,” Aramis said to Sylvie.

“I was singing for the man I love, and for the soul of the man who fathered him.” Athos kissed her hair and smiled.

“Will you visit your mother again?” Aramis asked Athos.

“Perhaps. I’ll invite her to my wedding.”

“Are you getting married, Athos?” Sylvie asked, and giggled as he nuzzled her hair again. “Yes, by the way.”

“And where will you live?” Aramis asked, after the two finished kissing.

Athos lifted his head to answer. “In the opera house, of course. There are several empty apartments.”

“And the de Bourbons will agree to this, because?”

“Because it’s his house, silly,” Sylvie said. Aramis was the only one shocked by this revelation. Porthos spent some time entertaining him with the details of de Tréville’s family history, his musical talent, and what he wanted done with the opera house.

“On his deathbed, he told me, ‘be happy’,” Athos said. “He said, ‘Tell Porthos to be happy too.’ When I found him in Rochefort’s company, he was. I did not need to say anything.”

“Funny thing we heard before we left,” Porthos said, looking at Athos. “Apparently me and Sylvie and d’Artagnan are guaranteed a position in the Mousquetaires for as long as we want one. Some rich bugger is paying our salary. Know anything about that, monsieur le fantôme?” Athos only smiled and buried his face in Sylvie’s hair again. “The company is to be allowed to perform at the house rent-free for as long as we’re employed, and as long as one private box is kept reserved for every performance. One very good private box. Dunno who’d want it.”

“It’s a mystery, certainly,” Sylvie said gravely, which made Aramis laugh and Athos hold her tighter.

“Bravo, monsieur le comte. Bravo,” Aramis said, with a bow of his head.

*******************

It remains only for the chronicler to note that the wedding party of Athos, Comte de La Fère, to Sylvie Boden, was as musical as it was beautiful, and that their marriage was serene, loving, and tuneful. As, eventually, were their children.

A year after the events of this narrative, Aramis, comte d’Herblay, and Porthos du Vallon’s lover and patron, found himself abruptly without a protégé with the death of Porthos’s father and the elevation of Porthos to the rank of Marquis, along with the acquisition of a substantial estate. Porthos and Athos established a scholarship scheme for talented young people, and a school of music based around the Théâtre des Mousquetaires. Athos became a tutor at the school.

Constance and d’Artagnan married quietly and moved into the opera house along with their friends. She continued to make the most beautiful costumes, and d’Artagnan’s voice continued to improve and win plaudits for its warmth and beauty.

Louis and Anne de Bourbon went from strength to strength as Louis concentrated on his first love—costumes—and Anne concentrated on her real talent, making lovely things of all kinds.

Philippe, Comte de Fèron, along with Guy Marcheaux, left France under a cloud, and was never seen in Europe again.

Catherine de Garouville eventually recovered from the poisoning, and was hired again by Opèra Garnier. She had several successful seasons before travelling to America and marrying a wealthy oil magnate, retiring from the stage.

Maria di Lorenzo was cleared of poisoning, but prosecuted for perverting the course of justice. After being freed from prison, she left France and was last heard of in Australia, where her criminal history was less of a disadvantage than it would have been in Europe.

And finally, Thérèse Moreau inherited the entirety of Lucien Grimaud’s substantial estate, left Paris, and lived happily ever after. With whom, we are not at liberty to relate.