The Quest - *Phantom of the Opera* (a fantasy romance)

Chapter XXIII

A New Danger

XXIII

Awakened by the slow creak of hinges, Celeste lifted her head from the scratchy hay, well hidden in her corner of the stable. A sliver of murky pre-dawn sky outlined the Vicomte as he moved through the door and approached the stalls containing his magnificent white horses. He greeted both then saddled one, his actions awkward, and Celeste noticed he favored his right hand. She wondered why he'd not alerted the stableman to execute so menial a task, certainly one beneath the rank of a noble, and difficult with a wounded hand.

She felt no remorse for her violent act. At the time, he posed a threat, one she'd met with swift defense. Because he released her, she now knew she had misjudged his intent, but he must never suspect hers.

Like a silent mouse she hid beneath the hay, watching him finish his task and lead Mephisto by the bridle from the stable. The saddlebags strapped onto the saddle proved his journey would be a long one and confirmed her belief as to his destination.

She waited only until she heard the galloping hooves strike packed earth before hastening to saddle the mare. Saturn turned her head to look at Celeste and whinnied. Quickly, Celeste withdrew from her pocket a lump she'd broken from the sugar loaf when the cook had been busy elsewhere, and presented her offering. Saturn's velvety muzzle brushed Celeste's palm as she took the treat in a delicate nibble, and Celeste stroked Saturn's strong neck. For almost a week, she had formed a bond with the horses as she tended them. Now she hoped that alliance would be enough to work in her favor.

Once she finished buckling the straps of both saddle and harness, she opened the stable door wide, and withdrew her bundle from where she'd hidden it. Using an overturned barrel to help her climb atop the great horse, she wrapped her fingers in its flowing mane and pulled herself up. "Easy, mon ami," she murmured when the horse pranced to the side, unaccustomed to the slight weight of its rider.

Celeste recalled all Marcel taught her, when she'd been a child of nine in the days before war and revolution and death had stolen her happy existence, and took firm hold of the reins, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. A swell of excitement bolstered her spirit at the same time a shred of uncertainty niggled at her mind. Could she ride so great a beast? She had never done so. Marcel's horse had not been so many hands tall and more placid and forgiving of a small girl's blunders. The Vicomte's horses were as powerful in will as they were in form.

Had Papa learned of her riding lessons with her brother in the valley beyond their old farm, Celeste would have felt the sting of her father's strop. Marcel had been disgraced from the family and resorted to the life of a tracker, but Celeste had never ceased to idolize her older brother, who'd visited her in secret whenever he rode into the vicinity. He'd praised her skills, claiming she had a rare affinity with horses, one he'd not seen in grown men, even himself, and she had glowed with his coveted praise. Often he brought her simple gifts, wood he had carved into animals or trinkets filched off some unwary Frenchman. During one such day, when they enjoyed one tiny sliver of happiness, a bullet in his back had then taken him from her life forever. Papa had later found all of Marcel's sweet trinkets and burned them, seeming not to regret the death of his son but rather being angry with him for it.

She swiped at the tears clouding her eyes and set her face like flint, her mind fixed upon her plan. No longer did she possess anything of substance to remind her of Marcel. Just the faded remembrance of his vibrant laugh, the recollection of his teasing manner, and the knowledge of all he'd taught her - both lawful and unlawful. In tribute to her brother's memory, Celeste was determined to rely on this knowledge in her quest to reach Spain.