CHAPTER 1 – REMAINS

PARIS, January 24, 2040

I scowl at the ragged book on the counter. That blasted diary! Why did I buy it? I must have been out of my mind. The antique dealer suspected who my client is and gouged me on the price. What a gamble!

As my panic increases, I glance out my shop window again. Where is Lady Margaret? And why is she so late? Her assistant told me they’d be coming from a funeral in England on one of their private jets and make a stopover to examine the diary. Did something happen? There’s been growing furor about Lady Margaret’s husband and that strange business of the time-travel technology his company supposedly developed. What if there was a protest at the funeral—or even worse, a bomb? The very thought makes me reach for my antacids.

Frantic, I bark at the wall monitor, “Screen on! Search British news for a funeral any time today.”

Within seconds a medieval chapel where a funeral is being held appears on the monitor. A reporter solemnly announces into the camera, “We’re here at the funeral for the daughter of renowned barrister Sir Kenneth Ballard.”

The camera pans from the reporter over to paparazzi standing near parked limos and protestors waving signs behind a police barricade. As he walks toward the protesters, the reporter says, “Among the many notables attending is Lady Margaret de Renesse who famously avoids publicity. Protestors have taken advantage of this opportunity to demonstrate their opposition to the new time-travel technology controlled by her American husband, Howard Wheaton.”

The reporter sticks the microphone in a protester’s face and asks his opinion.

“Time travel? That’s mind-bending,” the scruffy man replies. “But why should one person be havin’ it all to himself?” The reporter nods in agreement, then moves to another protester who expresses similar sentiments.

“Protestors,” I huff. I have no idea why they object to Wheaton’s control of time travel, but then I don’t pay much attention to the news. As long as Lady Margaret pays lavish sums for my antiques, that’s all that matters to me.

After interviewing several more protestors, the reporter announces, “The service is over and mourners are leaving.” The camera turns back to the chapel, but only focuses on a veiled woman being escorted to a limo by several men, no doubt bodyguards. The woman is identified as Lady Margaret just as a paparazzo rushes within feet of her and aims his camera. In a blink, a large bodyguard pivots and his elbow flies up, deftly sending the camera through the air. As the startled paparazzo scrambles to retrieve it from the mud, the limo speeds away. Good! She got away unharmed—but the funeral was on the midday news report, and it’s almost six o’clock. Where is she?

I chew on another antacid. What if Lady Margaret doesn’t come at all? What if her interest in the book was just a passing whim—that has passed? But she always asks me to keep my eye out for artifacts from the 1800s, especially from the Paris Opéra or the Commune. She was pleased with the cane I found for her from the Opéra. A unique cane, as I recall, with a handsome ivory lion’s head—almost as handsome as the price she paid.

And what if she arrives but doesn’t like the diary? I glance around my shop. A pathway has been created through the clutter of antiques so she can sit in the alcove, surrounded by tempting treasures while she examines the book. I spot the Louis-Philippe armchair and move it into the alcove. Lady Margaret purchased one like it last month, and she must buy something. I’m desperate. What if my daughter finds out I bought that diary with the funds put aside for her wedding? She has her heart set on a silk gown despite the outlandish prices now that silk worms are dying off. And my wife, what does she care about the costs? She spends like she’s the reincarnation of Marie Antoinette. So what was I to do?

The Pepin of Paris mantle clock strikes six ominous chimes. My stomach churns as I reach for the troublesome diary and thumb through its pages. Quite good condition for a book two hundred years old, and it was written by a woman at the Opéra. My heart skips as a page falls out and lands on the floor. When I pick it up and look for a date, my eyes catch the words “mask” and “cannonballs.” Curious, I squint at the tiny script, faded but legible.

20 April 1871
Erik is dead. There can be no doubt. His stark mask rests on the table, its hollow eye staring back at me, like the skeleton that will soon be all that remains.

I can hear cannonballs exploding into the buildings nearby. My hand is shaking so much that holding the pen is difficult, but I must attest to his bitter ending. I know what they say about him. But how could anyone else know what I saw behind his scarred face—what I saw in his soul? How can the spell cast by his genius be described? No challenge withstood his inexorable will. But he is no more.

When Communard rebels came to my room today, they said Erik was executed this morning by their firing squad and demanded I come to identify his body. They forced me to go through the streets even though a bombardment was shelling the city. I feared we would be blown to pieces, but they dragged me to those dreadful chambers beneath the Garnier.

To bid my final farewell I knelt beside his still form, covered in crimson streaks trailing down the black waistcoat. I wept bitterly at the gash on his forehead and blackened bruises on his face, then removed his mask and touched the scarred flesh which has forever been his curse. Their one kindness was to allow me to keep the mask. As the Communards led me out, I heard shovels striking the hard ground. I glanced back and saw them digging a hole to bury him there, alone. In the place he lived so long. Alone.

His life should not have ended this way. Why have men always killed each other over their differences? Why? Once again all Paris cowers in fear while the government and revolutionaries tear at each other. But the world will go on as it always has. The living will not miss him. I wonder, had they not rejected him, what his life could have meant to the world.

I have written the truth about him in this diary, but I doubt anyone will ever read my words. Would they make any difference? The explosions are getting closer. I must seek a safe place. Now Erik is in God’s hands. As are we all.

I shake my head. It’s beyond me why Lady Margaret would be interested in that grisly period when the Communards took over Paris. The page turns out to be the last one in the diary. As I’m debating whether or not to throw it away, her Bentley pulls into my shop’s courtyard. Time has run out. I quickly decide to return the page to its place and rush to the front of my store.

Two bodyguards escort her, but only the large Native American enters. His eyes scan the store like a hawk searching for prey as he walks down the narrow aisles, checking out every hidden nook. At the back of my shop, he goes into the storage room and searches it to confirm that no one else is here. Finally, he returns to the front door and opens it. Lady Margaret sweeps into my shop, dressed in black Chanel and still wearing a veil.

“My condolences, Lady Margaret,” I utter solemnly.

She nods politely. “You have the diary of Adèle Giry?” Her tone is skeptical.

“Just as I said.” I offer her the book. “Feel free to inspect it to your satisfaction.”

For a moment she stares at the diary suspended in midair. When she reaches out to take it, her hand trembles. Good omen? Or bad? I escort her to the alcove and seat her on the Louis-Philippe armchair. Its cushions are sapphire blue, like her eyes. Perhaps she’ll buy it.

Returning to the counter, I busy myself sorting through a crate of books and occasionally steal glances over at the alcove. She has removed the veil, but since she’s turned away, I can’t see her expression, only the golden hair pulled back into an impeccable chignon.

The clock’s loud ticking frays my nerves. Why is she taking so long? Who knows what drives the whimsy of a rich woman? But a woman can do whatever she wants when her husband is reputed to be the world’s wealthiest man. Well, some have and some have not. Hopefully, before she leaves, I’ll have.

As if my troubles weren’t nerve-racking enough, her bodyguard stands motionless at the entrance to the alcove. Only his eyes move, following everything I do. A most intimidating man with long, black hair tied behind his neck and broad shoulders nearly filling the alcove doorway. I recognize him as the man who elbowed the paparazzo.

Just as I’m reaching for antacids again, Lady Margaret motions me over. With a catch in her voice, she begins, “This diary ends during a bombardment. By chance do you know what happened to Madame Giry? Did she survive the shelling?”

I swallow hard. I have no idea. What will sell the book—that the woman lived or died? I should have thrown away that last page. I decide not to guess and tip the scales the wrong way. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” Smiling apologetically, I hold my breath.

She picks up her handbag. Mon Dieu! Is she leaving? My heart pounds as I wobble slightly. Then she reaches in and takes out her checkbook. Without so much as a glance in my direction, she fills out the check and hands it to me, her mind elsewhere. In shock, I stare at the amount. The figure far exceeds the price I quoted her—more than enough for a silk wedding gown. And the check certainly is good as gold, drawn on one of her husband’s banks with her family crest prominently displayed.

I thank her profusely and escort her through the shop. As I’m holding the door, I remember the Louis-Philippe armchair. That would have paid for the wedding champagne! But it’s too late—she has already glided past me. Her bodyguards quickly assist her into the Bentley, and she’s gone, leaving behind the scent of exotic perfume and my delighted grin.