Chapter Eight

All Frigid Debts Repaid

The deck was breezy this late at night. From the shadows, a shawled figure stepped forth. Carlotta was cold, alone here on the deck. She was always cold now though, and her room was just too stuffy.

Two days ago she had boarded the ship. A week ago she had come to an important decision. That was, remaining at the Opera Populaire was probably not wise. The reason being, several days after Christine delightfully disappeared, there had been whispers. Whispers of a child found roasting in the fireplace.

Discreetly she had found a ship leaving for Italy, her homeland. Carlotta would return to the opera. Perhaps La Fenice or La Scala. Both opera houses knew her well. The revelation of her voice losing its driving power had conveniently faded from her mind.

The diva walked forward until her elbows were resting against the rail. Her brown eyes wide awake, she peered down into the black waters. Reflecting the moonlight, it appeared to be a rolling mass of obsidian. Despite its stygian appearance, it was hypnotizing. Once her sight adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the lolling waves. From this angle, they looked like dark flames. No! Bad thoughts like that were not good!

Shaking her head, she felt her mahogany tresses spilling unclipped down her shoulders. The wind out here was refreshing, even if it only intensified her coldness. Was the cold really so bad?

Despite how wakeful she had been before, the churning waves were so entrancing. Unthinking, she slumped fully against the rail. Suddenly she was growing sleepy. Not exactly sleepy though. More like…relaxed. Oh, it was a fantastic feeling after so many months of such stress!

Carlotta's eyes slid closed, savoring the tingling feeling of stray droplets misting across her face. So dreamlike the sea was at night…

She slipped into a doze of sorts, lulled by the hypnotic sound of the waves lapping against the boat. For the first time in months she was serene. The moon glowed against her skin, enveloping her…consuming her.

Carlotta was so sedate that an arm snaking around her waist brought only the softest of murmurs from her lips, automatic responses her mind had no knowledge of.

"Ubaldo?"

"I am insulted, Signora, that you would think that swine resembled me in any fashion." The voice was colder than the sea. It was a voice from the land, snakelike and frigid.

Immediately she jolted from her drowsiness. The bony arm around her waist tightened to a bruising grip. He was there, so close. His chest grazed her back, while edges of a black cloak fluttered in the corners of her vision.

On reflex she opened her mouth to scream, to alert someone, anyone. Instantly a gloved hand clamped over her mouth, so that she could not so much as moan.

"Don't even think about it," the voice hissed.

Carlotta whimpered in the back of her throat. Something prodded at her from within. A moment later she figured it out. Fear. Hot, razing fear. Her terror only increased when she felt something brush against her cheek. The texture was uneven and scabrous. It felt like a corpse. Then the voice spoke again, only this time less than an inch from her ear.

"Since you seem so quiet tonight, I will deign to do the talking. I do not appreciate traitors. Did you think you could get away with betraying me?"

Trembling in his deathlike grasp, she unthinkingly nodded.

A biting laugh answered her. "Then you are stupider than I thought."

The diva twisted suddenly. Desperation fueled her on, desperation to tear away from his clutches. It was as if simply being near him would kill her. No matter how much adrenaline pounded through her bloodstream though, she could not break free. Fingers that were bony despite the leather gloves dug fiercely into her side, stifling her movement.

Was it him, back from the dead? A heartbeat thudded against her shoulder blades. Was he a walking corpse? In her horror, she lost all reason.

But that voice was back, whispering terrifying nothings into her ear.

"I asked for so little. Was it worth it? You could gain nothing from betraying me." If it was possible, the voice hardened, picking up a rasping quality. "And in exchange, you've lost everything."

Tears pricked her eyes before falling down her cheeks. At the sight of the droplets, the voice chuckled coldly. Even now, he mocked her!

"Tears, Carlotta? I would have thought a woman with your reputation and independence would have no reason to weep. Is it because of me, Signora?"

Unable to do anything else, she nodded mutely. The arm around her waist let go so suddenly she did not realize he had released her…partway, that is. Instead, the freed hand stroked her shoulder consolingly. The voice's tone was softer, but the words it spoke turned her blood to water. The scorching fear she felt was melting everything inside of her!

"For that I apologize. But here is my consolation- I am giving you the perfect opportunity to wash your face! I am not cruel enough as to let others see your tears... I do not think you would like that."

The hand on her shoulder moved and suddenly was pressed against the small of her back. She heard the voice for the final time, and this time, the frigidness was almost nonexistent. It was…empty. And that scared her more than any of his cold snarls.

"Farwell, Carlotta."

The push sent her spilling over the rail. The obsidian sea flashed in front of her, leaping like flames. Her hot form was falling towards her funeral pyre. The watery fire disappeared from her vision and suddenly the moon was all she could see. That, and the railing. When her eyes focused on the railing though, she could see nothing, no one.

When she finally hit the water, her eyes were closed. Though no coins would cover her eyelids, she would burn the same as them all. Her blood remained scalding, even as she struck the lolling waves. The moment she disappeared, Carlotta's last feeling on earth was not horror, nor sorrow, nor guilt. It was surprise. Her deathbed and funeral pyre was cold.

A week later it drowned the papers, both French and Italian alike. The headlines ran with stories of the tragic death of La Carlotta, the famous singer of both France and Italy. News of a dead child had faded from memory. It was recounted, by nearly all of the newspapers, that the Italian had drowned herself mourning for her dead Ubaldo Piangi. An operatic end to a famous diva.

The Inspector held the paper loosely in his grasp. His eyes were brighter and his face less drawn. For his contributions to the opera house case, he was allotted several days off. The sleep had revitalized him and now he lounged on the sofa in his flat, his gray eyes scanning the article.

Ha, a tragic opera indeed.

He could read between the lines easily enough. When Signora Guidicelli's waterlogged corpse had been hauled onto the deck of a deep-sea fishing ship and taken ashore, the Inspector had called on a favor or two.

None of the articles mentioned bruises around the diva's mouth or waist. Fishes merely chewed, they did not bruise.

He could not feel glad for any death, truly, but the Inspector could not keep a thought from running around in his head.

It seemed Carlotta had been bitten first.

Fin