Master of the Opera, Act 4: Dark Interlude (2 page)

Because how can you say no, in front of all those happy, happy people?

You can’t.

He slid the ring on her finger, an antique setting with a glowing opal surrounded by diamonds. He held her ringed hand in his and raised their joined hands high, while everyone cheered, as if they’d won a horse race. Soon someone would run up and hang a wreath of roses around her neck. The absurdity of it would have made her laugh if she hadn’t been concentrating so hard on not puking up all that punch.

“See?” Roman said in her ear. “Everyone loves you. I knew they would. We’ll get married here, just like my parents did.”

Finally everyone wound down and they sat again, though various other relatives—none of whose names she could remember—stood to give toasts to both Roman’s parents and to Christy and Roman. She gritted her teeth and waited until she could yank the heavy ring off her finger and give it back to him. She didn’t have it in her to humiliate him in front of his family. They would talk later and she would explain.

No one could force her to marry Roman Sanclaro, no matter how fast her life was spiraling out of control.

Her cheeks grew tired from fake smiling, but she soldiered through. Angelia came up to her, all smiles, and asked if she could be Christy’s maid of honor.

“Of course you will!” Roman tugged one of his sister’s glossy raven curls. “We wouldn’t have anyone else.”

Christy nearly argued that she wanted Hally for her maid of honor, until she remembered that she had no intention of marrying Roman. They were sucking her into their mass crazy. She didn’t want to contemplate the alternative, that all the madness in her world had one common factor.

Her counselor used to tell her that if it seemed as if all her friends were being mean or if all sorts of bad things seemed to be happening, there were two possibilities: either everyone you knew suddenly woke up in a bad mood or you were perceiving it that way. Which was more likely, that the world had turned against you in a mass conspiracy, or that
you
were feeling persecuted?

The answer was meant to be obvious. It was more likely that her head was messed up than that she was fine and everyone else was messed up.

Thus, either everyone else was crazy—or she was.

C
hristy didn’t have an opportunity to speak to Roman alone until he took her on a tour of the grounds. Once they were well away from eavesdroppers, she screwed up her courage to tell him the truth. He looked so happy, she hated to do it, but she reminded herself that he’d created this situation. You don’t ask important, life-altering questions when the other person can’t say no.

“If you like,” Roman was saying, “we’ll get married in this gazebo. My cousin did and the pictures turned out great.”

“Roman, I can’t marry you.”

She blurted it out loud and fast enough that he actually jerked in shock.

“But you already said yes.”

“No, I didn’t!” She laughed and threw up her hands, feeling an edge of hysteria. “You didn’t give me a chance to answer.”

“Because it never occurred to me you’d say no.” He looked genuinely confounded. It clearly really hadn’t been a possibility in his mind, and Christy felt bad about that. How many girls would be giddy over marrying him?

“I’m sorry,” she offered. It sounded weak, even to her.

“But we always
said
we’d get married. I thought that’s part of why you moved here!”

She couldn’t say he’d seemed beyond her reach; then he’d think she just needed reassuring. “No—I came here because this was where my father could get me in.” Or was willing to. Surely he hadn’t had this in mind. He might be a controlling tyrant, but he wasn’t feudal. Much. “Those jokes about betrothing us were just that—being funny.”

“I thought you loved me.” His brown eyes held pain, like a dog she’d kicked.

“I don’t really know you.” That was soft-pedaling, yes, but it was better than saying that she’d liked him more before she got to know him, back when he was more of a fantasy.

“You just need more time, then.”

“Well, no. I mean—”

“I know this was fast.” He shook his head ruefully and gave her a chagrined smile. Picking up her hand, he examined the gorgeous old ring. “I was so excited about the timing, with the anniversary party, and when the ring fit perfectly, it all seemed so
meant
. Am I a romantic fool?”

Her heart broke a little at his wistful question. Prince Charming, rejected. “No! It’s me.”
Gah—had she really said that?
“I just have so much going on, with the murder and Carla . . .”

“The thing is—” Roman squeezed her hand, looked away at the house, his face settling into severe lines that made him look more like his father. “The thing is, the lawyers seem to think you could be in a lot of trouble.”

“Trouble?” she echoed. The ring felt heavy. She should have wrestled it off while she had the chance. Now, with her hand so firmly gripped in his, she’d have to make it an even bigger deal.

“I didn’t want to worry you, but the lawyers say the cops are really looking at you, and they might have a pretty strong case. They spoke with my father and they feel they can’t represent you unless your interests are also the family’s. Since we’re practically already family and I thought you felt the same way about me,” he grimaced, as if it all sounded foolish now, “I already told them you’re my fiancée. I thought it wasn’t even a question—and that you’d be grateful for the protection.”

“I . . . see.” Wow. None of this had occurred to her. She’d been with Matt all afternoon when Carla was abducted and hurt. And Tara had disappeared before she arrived. “What kind of trouble am I in—what did the lawyers say?”

“I can’t really tell you that.” He made a regretful face. “They’re most insistent that their legal advice is for family only. I don’t make the rules.”

“Well, I’ll just talk to Detective Sanchez, then.”

Roman laughed and dropped her hand. “Sure, if you want to get arrested. That will look great for your father. Tell me—does he even know what you’re up to?”

She felt the blood drain out of her head. “Up to?”

“Sneaking around. Missing at night. Lying. I don’t know, Christy—it looks suspicious.”

“If you feel that way, then why this whole engagement farce?” She pulled at the ring, angry that it wouldn’t come off fast enough for her to fling it at him. She managed to get it off but scratched her knuckle doing it, and put it to her mouth, sucking away the blood.

He clamped his hands over hers, folding the ring painfully inside. “You’re all emotional, sweet girl. Who could blame you with all that’s happened? Maybe you should see someone—consider medication.”

“I don’t need medication.” Her voice wasn’t strong, though. Roman couldn’t possibly know about before. Her father wouldn’t have told anyone. None of this made any sense.

“Don’t you? I wouldn’t want to miss signs of a cry for help.”

“I’m fine. It’s just been . . . a difficult few days.”

“I feel greatly reassured to hear that. But remember, we have doctors we can call in. They’re always happy to help a Sanclaro.” He unwrapped her fingers from around the ring, extracted it, and put it back on her finger, kissing the bleeding knuckle. “You’ll wear this ring and that way I’ll know you’ll be rational and think about this.”

She stared into his handsome face. Was this new sense of threat real—or because she was losing her grip on her emotions? Roman only wanted the best for her, didn’t he? It made no sense that he’d be blackmailing her into an engagement.
Did he hurt or threaten you?
Detective Sanchez’s words came back to her suddenly. And for the first time, she was afraid of Roman.

“Christy?” He gave her a stern look. Not one that made her giddy with desire, but that made her want to run. Except she was trapped. She needed time to figure a way out of this snare of truth and lies. She looked down at the lush grass that didn’t belong in the desert landscape.

“Tell me you’ll wear the ring and behave as my fiancée, so I’ll know that all will be well.”

“I’ll wear the ring,” she repeated back, feeling like a wind-up doll.

“Good girl.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, imprisoning it there. “You’ve made me a very happy man today.”

She went along, waiting for her chance to get away, not sure which of them was insane.

 

“Do you think I’m crazy?” Christy slid onto the bar stool at Del Charro with a sense of profound relief at her escape, and Hally, taking one look at her, started making one of her famous monster margaritas.

“Not more so than most.”

Not the answer she’d expected. “What does that mean?”

“Well, don’t you think everyone is kind of crazy, just more or less so?” Hally cocked her head in earnest question.

“I guess I think most people are sane and only a few are crazy.”

“See,” Hally held up her hands to demonstrate, “it’s a kind of spectrum. People on this end,” she wiggled the fingers of her right hand, “are all what we think of as sane. They only see the physical world, nothing more.” She fluttered her left hand. “On the other extreme are the people who’ve gone full woo-woo. They’re so wrapped up in the spirit world and all the nonphysical aspects of existence that they can’t deal with anything concrete. Most of us are somewhere in the middle.”

“That makes no sense.”

Hally frowned at her, popped a lime on the rim, and slid over the margarita. “It totally makes sense. You have to—Oh. My. God.”

“What?” Christy started to swivel on her stool, but Hally seized her left hand and stopped her.

“Tell me that is not an engagement ring. A fucking Sanclaro family-heirloom engagement ring. And an opal! You can’t wear this.”

“Oh, well . . . it’s a long story.” One she didn’t even understand herself. She packed down the visceral terror she’d felt while looking into Roman’s eyes. Of him or her own dark places, she didn’t know. “I have to keep it. For now.”

Hally blinked slowly, like an owl. “I revise my earlier statement. Yes. You
are
crazy.”

Christy sagged. “I knew it.”

“Then why did you take the ring?” Hally spaced out the words as if her friend might be a little slow on the uptake.

“Oh, that?” Christy’s gaze landed on the ring, held high in Hally’s grip. “That’s kind of the least of my problems right now.”

“Honey, if you really believe that, then we need to talk. Should I be worried?”

Christy tugged her hand away and sipped the margarita, the tang of salt, lime, and Hornitos making her eyes water. At least that’s what she told herself it was.

“I think that worrying isn’t going to fix my problems.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Maybe. Eventually. Not tonight.” She held out her hand. The ring looked pretty, if a little big for her delicate hand. “Everything else aside for the moment, why can’t I wear an opal?”

“Bad luck.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“Okay,” Hally amended, “it’s more that they hold magic, which can be good or bad, but if you don’t know for sure, it’s safer to assume it’s bad.”

“Cynical of you.”

“Not really. See—opals are special gemstones. They’re more a kind of glass, so they have all sorts of different things in them. That’s why you get all the different-colored sparklies.”

“Is that what the gemologists say?” Christy asked drily.

“Hush. I’m an artist—you get the paraphrased version. Because of their nature, they absorb personal energy. The personality, emotions, intentions—all the life force of the person who wears it.” Hally leaned her folded arms on the bar. “A lot of magic workers use crystals to focus their energy that way. Because opals have that much more stuff in them, they’re less predictable. You can pack in a lot more power, but how it comes out again can be all over the place. What matters most is who’s worn it before and how they used it.”

“Roman’s great-grandmother, Angelia Sanclaro.”

Hally snorted. “What do you want to bet she was no angel?”

“You can’t possibly know that!”

“Exactly!” Hally pounced on her response, pointing a finger upward. “You know nothing about her, but you’re going to have her distilled essence riding around on your hand?”

“Sounds icky when you put it that way.”

“It is. Better not to wear it at all.”

If only that were an option.

W
hen she got back to her apartment after a reassuringly normal-ish conversation with Hally, who blessedly asked no more about what the hell Christy was thinking getting engaged to Roman, she tried to organize her thoughts.

A message on her cell from Charlie’s assistant said the cops had finished and the opera house would be back in business. Monday morning awaited her, with all that would entail.

She couldn’t wear the ring to work, regardless. It was too valuable, too likely to elicit unwelcome questions, and too much of a taunt to the Master, who saw everything in his theater. She contemplated his reaction with a strange mixture of fear and remorse, which seemed all wrong when she remembered that he might have been the one to hurt Carla. And Tara, no matter how he’d ducked the question. She couldn’t seem to untangle the sticky web of emotions from the growing snarl of events. If only she could get a grip on one thread, maybe she could make a start, but they all kept slipping away, formless, dissolving when she looked too closely.

She unpacked some boxes, hoping the boring task would soothe her jangled thoughts about the two men. Both seemed real, yet also fantastical. The Master felt like flesh and blood, but—by his own admission—he lived in multiple realms. However that was possible. And Roman, for so long her dream man, now a fixture in her life, with a weight of reality as heavy as the ring on her hand. Both charming. Both cruel in their shifting ways.

Which was capable of the horrible attacks?

The ring clunked against something in the box and she pulled out the polished stone with the bear. She’d been as drawn to that as she was to the Master. She fingered the silver spiral pendant hanging around her neck, given to her by the woman who believed in the bear god. Was that who he was—a sort of ancient demigod? She removed the necklace, unthreaded the pendant, and set it next to the stone on a little shelf next to her kiva fireplace. She hesitated to add the third piece, but she needed to see. Wrestling off the ring, she set it next to her other tokens. Then rearranged them, shuffling them in a shell game.

The triangle of her life. Her. The Master. Roman.

It meant something, she felt sure of it. As if they were connected by something deeper than her just happening to take this job. If she were Hally—or one of Hally’s spirit teachers, maybe—she would be able to read all these signs and omens. She would know what she should do. But as it was, she couldn’t quite grasp what it might be.

It was clear, however, that she couldn’t keep ignorantly bumbling about. She needed to do research, and the Internet didn’t have the answers she needed. For old stuff, you went to libraries.

She left the three things there for the night, safely in the other room, while she cuddled Star’s ragged comfort and pulled the covers over her head.

In the morning, afraid to leave the priceless ring in her apartment and knowing she’d better have it handy if she ran into Roman—she hated the way she mentally cringed at the thought of his displeasure yet couldn’t seem to control the reaction—she tucked it into the tight coin pocket of the jeans she’d managed to pick up at the secondhand store near Hally’s place. Maybe Angelia’s potentially bad juju wouldn’t affect her if it didn’t touch her skin. She kind of didn’t believe that part, but it seemed unwise to pick and choose myths at this point.

Either she believed all of it or none of it.

At the opera house, everyone was upset. The talent—always superstitious anyway—rehearsed unevenly, and shouts of displeasure rang through the building, reproduced by the excellent acoustics, more than a few times. Matt and Christy spent most of their time scouring the storerooms for things the harried, field-promoted assistant props manager couldn’t find. Carla had been doing the job for so long that she knew what she needed and didn’t keep lists. Undoubtedly a contributing factor to the terrible state of the inventory, a project that had been abandoned in favor of Matt and Christy helping to get five operas up and running in three short weeks.

The atmosphere of dread hung heavy backstage. Pressure and panic combined to make everyone snappish. It didn’t help that Charlie hadn’t come in—not that anyone blamed him, but the loss of his unflappable presence created a greater sense of chaos.

Matt stuck to her all day like the proverbial glue. He kept reassuring her that he’d protect her, but the way he kept sliding white-eyeballed glances at the door and jumping at the least little thing, she suspected he was more frightened himself than brave.

Often Christy felt the tangible creep of a penetrating gaze on the back of her neck. She refused to look behind her, and stayed with others always. She was the lame gazelle sticking to the center of the herd while the lion paced the edges. She would not be culled from the group, not until she was ready. No matter how much she might long for the ecstasy of the lion’s teeth sinking into her throat.

After work—when everyone left en masse by mutual agreement, counting heads once more after the doors were locked—she went to the history museum. At lunch she’d called the library to inquire about local lore. The very helpful reference librarian told her she’d be better off with the New Mexico History Museum for research on the old families of the region. For information on Native American legends, she’d best go to the Indian Pueblo Cultural Center in Albuquerque, a jaunt that would have to wait for the weekend.

It didn’t escape her sense of the ironic that she’d lied to Roman about driving to Albuquerque after work the week before. Now it would be the truth and she doubted he would believe her. Especially since she couldn’t tell him the reason behind it. The way he’d looked at her when he made her promise to wear the ring gnawed at her. No—he didn’t trust her at all.

That was all it was, she told herself. Nothing more sinister than that.

Hally was right that she was crazy to have accepted this engagement. All the reasons—needing the lawyers, keeping her father at bay, not upsetting Roman, needing time to think—none of it made any sense.

The dream images revisited her, and she felt as if she were forever running down those spiral stairs, the monster just behind her. She had no time to stop and think. To make a plan.

Run
, her deep thoughts whispered with urgency.
Run!

She ignored the voices, as she’d learned to. They mostly told lies.

Fortunately, with tourist season in full swing, the museum stayed open until 8 p.m., down at the Palace of the Governors. She had to park in the pay lot on Water Street and walk into the Plaza, the sidewalks thick with people. Passing through the arcade, she spotted the mean violin-playing busker, tourists passing him as if he weren’t there. He saw her, however, and his tune changed from a country jig to the song the theater ghost sang. Sweet, full of longing, and beyond naming. Like an aching sense of nostalgia for a happy childhood moment you never really had.

Remembering his scorn from the last time, she swung out into the street, blocked off for the evening’s festivities. Music from a mariachi group in the band shell nearly drowned out the plaintive melody.

“Hey, leddy!”

She walked faster.

“Hey, young leddy—you no’ deef. Come back here. I gots a message for ya!”

Christy stopped at that. Wasn’t she looking for information? For omens and their meanings? Not thrilled, but feeling that she needed to do it, she went back and faced the old man and his gap-toothed, unfriendly grin.

“I wonnert when you’d come back to listen.”

“I didn’t. I was passing by. What message?”

He played the song slowly, an exquisite tenderness transforming his face into something nearly angelic, as in a renaissance painting. The song, of course, had no words, sung only by the violin. Same as when she’d heard it at the opera house, really, the lyrics unintelligible, just the liquid melody, full of unmet emotion. So much of opera was that way—sung in other languages so you weren’t trapped by the words. Words could be used to spin lies, but music—at its heart, music only told the truth.

Even if it was a truth you didn’t care to hear.

The song ended, snapping her out of her reflection, and she wiped away a tear that suddenly trickled down her cheek. Like a scab had broken open because she’d moved carelessly, leaking blood.

The old musician pointed his bow at her, his gnarled smile back, the gnome replacing the angel. “Better. You listen.”

“But I don’t understand the message.”

He shrugged. Not his problem. He went back to the sprightly jig he’d been playing before, the crowds flowing around him, a piece of bedrock parting the stream.

Christy walked on to the museum, turning over the song in her mind. Not just the song but the realization that music carried truth that words didn’t. Roman’s words, the Master’s words—they muddied the waters. That meant something.

At the museum she pored through the records on the Sanclaros. The helpful collections assistant pulled several volumes on the conquistadors for her also, flagging the sections about Salvador Sanclaro and his part in the campaigns. She’d vaguely known much of this—mostly from her U.S. history class in high school—how the Spanish and Portuguese had come to Mexico and what would become the American Southwest back when the early colonists were still setting up shop on the East Coast in the late 1500s.

She traced her finger over an illustration of Sanclaro’s shield—the same as the emblem on the amazing gates that guarded the estate from the outside world. The notation said the Sanclaros had worn it in the Crusades. The family name likely dated to the same era, probably a borrowed version of St. Clair, a fairly common French surname honoring the patron saint of clarity that bled into the name Sanclaro over time.

The cross honored the Catholic church, of course, the diagonal swords pointing upward to indicate the family’s continuing battle against evil. The circle turned out to be a halo, indicating that the family considered themselves to be eternal defenders of the holy church.

The Sanclaro name turned up regularly through the long four hundred years following the arrival of the conquistadors, the ensuing wars with the Indians and Mexico. A detailed treatise, labeled as likely an accumulation of several folklore tales, on a particularly ugly event claimed that Salvador Sanclaro had kidnapped the daughter of a tribal chief, married her, and declared the tribe’s territory to be his. The tribe fought and was destroyed by Sanclaro’s men and allies. Descriptions of the terrible day said the lovely river valley had been soaked in the blood of the entire tribe, all dead. The land became the Sanclaro compound and the Indian bride—never named—died in childbirth, leaving behind twin daughters.

The tribe had been known as the People of the Bear.

Christy almost stopped there, her head reeling, but forced herself to go on.

Several old paintings were reproduced in the documents. One, a set of portraits that seemed to be made for a cameo necklace, showed identical young girls with large dark eyes. A flowing ribbon at the bottom of each named them, Angelia and Seraphina.

Far from suffering for their sins, the Sanclaros prospered. Gold, ranching, land, politics. Where other families failed, the Sanclaros flourished. Their fortune grew and their reach widened.

The opal ring was also mentioned in connection with the family. A letter included in the papers mentioned that Salvador gifted his twin daughters with identical opal and diamond rings on their eighteenth birthday. Since then, it seemed, the Sanclaro brides always wore these rings.

An Angelia of the relatively modern era had been born at home in 1890, twenty-two years before New Mexico became a state. The photos showed her as a baby, posed with another infant who looked remarkably the same. In fact, Christy had to read the notation twice to figure out which was her—and learned the other child was her twin brother. Angelo, of course.

Another photo showed them, with the same wide, dark eyes and glossy black hair, pre-adolescent and slender. Then Angelo, serious in his WWI uniform. Angelia appeared next in her engagement portrait, the luminous opal on her finger, prominently displayed by a coy hand to her cheek. Her fiancé, interestingly enough, was not mentioned.

Over the years, she took her place as the matriarch of the Sanclaro family, ruling all the enterprises with an iron fist, particularly after Angelo died in 1929, under odd circumstances. However, many suicides and accidents had followed the stock market crash that year and, though the family fortunes had taken a relatively minor hit, his death was blamed on it. And on a vein of insanity that seemed to haunt the family.

He left behind a six-year-old daughter, named Angelia, of course—how did they keep them all straight?—who was raised by her aunt, as if the child’s mother had never existed. Perhaps she hadn’t. One letter hinted darkly that Angelia and Angelo were, in fact, the parents of the girl.

The daughter—a product of incest or not—grew up to be a lovely young woman, glowing in her eighteenth birthday portrait, wearing a mink stole and a saucy hat. Surprisingly, she attended college in New York, a development that sent an uneasy current through Christy. Surely that was a coincidence.

She turned the page to find the chill of the truth. That Angelia had married in college, hastily. The gossip column related the society wedding, which the Sanclaro family had not attended, and managed to make it clear the bride was expecting. The groom’s family however, the Davises of New York, footed the bill in elaborate fashion. She recognized some of the names—various elderly aunts and uncles.

Why had she never heard this story?

Perhaps because of the scandal. A divorce came within two years. Angelia Sanclaro—who seemed never to have taken Davis as her married name—returned to New Mexico. There was no mention of the child.

But Christy knew. Knew with crystal clarity what had happened to the child.