The Palais Garnier sat fat and contented after its opening night. The final trickle of theatergoers making their way from the building had stopped, and women with scarves tied around their heads pushed brooms and mops across the front steps. The light from the theater, which had poured golden and fizzy like champagne at the beginning of the night, was slowly being extinguished, one window at a time. On a cold, iron bench, Benedict stared up at the single room at the very top of the building. It was still lit—a pale, watery light that spread mere feet across the domed roof beyond its windows. She wouldn’t be there. He doubted she could even climb the stairs after tonight’s performance, with her hip in that condition. She’d danced perfectly tonight. No one would have noticed the injury—even he had sensed rather than seen it. He didn’t know how she was dancing on it. The pain must be unimaginable. Perfect. A strangely unpleasant word. He shivered and pulled his coat closer. After the performance, he and Victor and Camille had gone to a late supper, and then to a bar. After the three had drunk several bottles of champagne (and two…