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

Chapter 45

Hidden Disclosures
Chapter XLV

If the King loves music, it is well with the land.
~Mencius

xXx

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"Marguerite?"

Meg turned from staring out the huge window of the opulent room she'd been given. Her mother stood in the doorway, a troubled expression on her face.

"A word with you?"

"Of course." Meg gave a feigned smile; ease did not come simple. It had been four wretched days since their escape from a burning Paris ... four wretched days since the variables of her world had been shaken with a fierceness that would rival the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in Pompeii.

"Please," she stiffly motioned to a chair near where she rested her leg on a plush footstool. "Have a seat." Her mockingly polite words did not sound like her, but the feelings that sweltered within her breast did not feel as if they belonged to her either.

Her mother closed the door and approached Meg but remained standing. She glanced the length of the cast then lifted her attention to her face.

"You are still not feeling well, ma chérie?"

Meg huffed a scornful laugh, not the least bit amused. "Besides the fact that we have lost our home, I have lost a dear friend, and oh – you have lied to me my entire life—why yes, Mère, I couldn't be more at peace."

"Stop this at once, Meg." Her mother's words were harsh but soft. "Bitter contradiction does not suit you."

Meg's lashes fell, her eyes downcast, though she could not summon an ounce of contrition. For the first time, she noticed Mère held a canvas-wrapped bundle tied with twine.

"What is that?"

Her mother looked at the parcel with clear hesitance then handed it to her. "It is for you."

"For me?"

"The Vicomte brought it to me before he left again. To give to you."

"He left?" Again? Meg hoped her voice did not reveal her confusion, even the undercurrent of dismay, but by the manner in which her mother's eyes sharpened she had not been successful in her attempt to conceal. Unlike her mother, she clearly could not keep secrets well.

"He rode into Paris this morning –"

"Paris!" Meg could not conceal her horror. "Why?"

"Be still and I will tell you." Mère regarded her with a rigid composure that set her teeth on edge. "I understood his father asked him to go, to check on family interests there."

"But, that is certain folly! The soldiers –"

"Only hunt for those who took part in The Commune. The Vicomte wore his own clothes when returning and rode his fine white horse. They would not dare lay a hand on him, seeing he is a nobleman."

"Of course." Meg's voice came faint.

Since her encounter with Raoul, an encounter that left her blood racing and her mind hopelessly confused, with her heart solidly fixed in the same muddle, she had not been able to sort out her feelings. Did she hate him? Did she love him? Did she love him?

She withheld a gasp. No. Surely not. Despite the passionate kiss they shared, he still loved Christine. And in the four days Meg had been confined to this opulent bedchamber in the great Manoir de Ravenswolf, he had not once come to visit her, though his mother and aunt had done so. Daily. True to his word, he sent his physician, who upon examining her and finding no further injury told her he would saw off the cast when next he visited, within the week. The very idea of a blade sawing toward her leg sent dread creeping through her bones, but nothing compared to the disquiet she felt that the Vicomte had returned to the hell that was now Paris. What if a soldier recognized him from when he masqueraded in one of their uniforms? What then?