To Outwit an Angel

17. It's Not an Adventure Without a Party

Loretta's POV:

Even in Victorian France, I hated parties. Just like ones at home, talk and music ruptured my eardrums, and the heady mixture of perfumes made my temples ache. I stuck to a far corner of the wall, wishing I was invisible. Floundering through social interactions was the worst part. My heartrate accelerated, and I always said the dumbest things, which made me more hopelessly awkward. But, apparently, when you're Christine Daaé, people have this insatiable need to talk to you, even if you make it weird for everyone involved.

 Sharlene had left my side several minutes ago to dance with Piangi. I could just make out the  shimmering emerald green of her dress. Her custom-made gown was embroidered with frogs. Hundreds of little dark green frogs, from adorable to stately. She completed the look with a jade brooch carved into the shape of yet another frog, with ornate gold detailing surrounding it. The thing cost her a fortune, but when we went jewelry shopping, she squealed with delight upon seeing it, insisting it was just perfect. This was her kick in the teeth to Erik about the whole toad thing, and she looked absolutely resplendent doing it.

 Briefly, I glimpsed her face—well, Carlotta's face—grinning up at Piangi, as she twirled and pranced in his arms. Something had changed between them. I couldn't put my finger on what, but there was less restraint with them now. Had they kissed? Confessed their obvious love? If so, Sharlene hadn't told me.

 My gown was completely pink. Bright, shameless, flamingo pink. Wearing the color in my old body was like waving a giant sign that read "bully me!" According to every person I'd ever met, redheads couldn't wear pink, so I'd given up trying at about age five. But, with Christine's chocolate curls, I finally enacted my childhood fantasy and didn't look absurd doing it.

 But, faced with this noisy throng, suddenly, the joy of being swathed in pink lost its luster. Clearly, the Phantom wasn't dead, but ever since Il Muto, he'd been eerily silent. Maybe the acid had finally killed him after the chandelier crashed? No, that was being wishful. If the formaldehyde was going to kill him, it would have been fast.

 He was still alive, and according to the soundtrack back home, this masquerade would screech to a disastrous stop.

 "Christine! Christine!"

 I whirled around. Was that Sharlene? There'd been a break in the music, so maybe she and Piangi had separated. Please, let it be her. I couldn't bear talking to anyone else just now.

 Meg Giry sidled past the rainbow flock of gowns. I sighed. At least there were worse people to blunder through a conversation with.

 "Meg!"

 I leaned in to embrace her. Christine would do that, right? Did best friends hug in Victorian France?

 Meg didn't seem to think it was weird, so it must have been fine.

 "Where in the world have you been hiding? I haven't seen you all night."

 "Just... back here."

 I vaguely gestured to the wall I was backed up against. My warm cheeks were probably pinker than my frilly gown.

 "Behind... the punch...?"

 Heat suffused my cheeks.

 "It's... cozy."

 Sure, if watching some guy get raging drunk was cozy, then this nook was perfect.

 "I see." Meg side-eyed the drunk man a few feet away. Her attention soon returned me. "For a moment I thought— Oh, I won't spoil it now. Sorry."

 My heart lurched into my throat. What had she thought happened to me?