The Treasure *Phantom of the Opera* (sequel to The Quest)

Chapter 37

***Chapter XXXVII***

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You are the music ...

while the music lasts.

~T.S. Eliot

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xXx

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Tap ... Tap ... Tap ...

Nerves stretched taut, Meg sat in the chair onto which the Vicomte had deposited her, what seemed hours ago, and restlessly fiddled with a spoon from a place setting, tapping it end over end on the table. Suddenly he leaned her way and covered her hand with his, stopping her.

"Are you trying to drive me mad?"

"Am I succeeding?"

She was acting like an ungrateful shrew. The man had just saved her life for pity's sake! But creating distance set her on guard against traitorous emotions that worked in opposition to her antipathy of this man, emotions that unexpectedly arose, and at the most inopportune moments. She was certain that remaining bedridden and housebound for months made her susceptible to such disturbing feelings. Any man who had swooped in to her rescue would have achieved the same results.

"After the endless horrors I've encountered these past two weeks, I fear it won't take much to push me to that edge." His eyes burned into hers. "Unless you care to test that theory, Mademoiselle, perhaps it would be best for you to find another diversion to pass the time."

She frowned. She didn't want another diversion. She wanted to be gone from this place and from this man. That being impossible, the accusations that boiled beneath her grim silence ever since he'd found her at the tenement now spewed out in full force.

"Tell me of Christine! And her husband," she maliciously stressed the word. "What 'horrors' did you inflict on them? Have you murdered him and broken her heart all in the name of your callous resentment and brooding self pity?"

He released his grip on her hand and averted his taciturn gaze to the table. Meg followed his attention to a dull knife in the place setting and inhaled a slow breath. Their eyes lifted and met. Her eyes narrowed in thought. Casually, he picked up the knife and offered it to her, his smile condescendingly somber.

"Don't be silly," she snapped. "I may despise you, but I'm certainly not going to harm you. With that. "

"No," he agreed. "Your weapons of choice aren't ones to hold, are they?"

"What do you mean?" She wasn't sure why, but she felt he must have insulted her.

"Your words cut sharper than any blade, Mademoiselle Giry."

Her face warmed. Only with the Vicomte had Meg ever been so harsh.

"You've still not told me of Christine. Is she locked away in a room at the de Chagny manor? Did you take her husband to the gendarmes to be executed?"

"No."

When he offered nothing further, she blew out a breath. "No to which? The former or the latter?"

"No to both."

"So, where are they?"

"I imagine they're still at the villa, where I left them."

"The villa?" She raised her voice. "The villa where? And what do you mean where you 'left them'? Do you mean ..." She gasped in horror. "Their bodies? Surely you didn't kill the King and Chris—"