Welcome mes amis, to Round Robins. This story, Mask Behind A Mask, will feature the talents of Kay Blue Eyes in chapter one. Subsequent chapters will be by ToryD, KatieKay90, terpsichore314, Secretly Secretly, milegre, AngeMusique, Splendorous Night Unfurled, MJMod
Mask Behind A Mask
Chapter 1
Author - Kay Blue Eyes
Beta - terpsichore314
The clouds hung low and heavy over the Parisian skyline, weeping torrents of large, cold raindrops onto the heads of the few unfortunates caught outside. On the streets small puddles gathered between the cobblestones, giving the ground a mirrorlike sheen. Horses, with their heads hung low, plodded soberly along, pulling the countless numbers of covered coaches which had appeared with the first signs of raindrops and that now clogged the streets in almost every direction.
One carriage in particular broke free of the snarled mess of the main thoroughfares, and speedily wove its way into the back alleys which were decidedly less crowded. Lacquered black paint glittered almost jewel-like through the mist along the sides of the custom built conveyance as it moved stealthily through passages no other dared to traverse.
Perched atop the quickly moving vehicle, a hunched figure, clothed in black from head to toe, sat with his head bent against the pelting rain. Removing a hand from the reins, he jerked the hood of his cloak just a little tighter about his face as he passed a group of teenaged girls huddling under the eave of a storefront. Urging his pair of black horses into a slightly faster clip the man allowed a dark smirk to pull at his mouth as he tilted his head to the side and watched the group of twittering youngsters get splashed by the spray from his flying wheels.
Turning back around to face the road in front of him he shook his dripping hood from side to side as the girls shrieked in protest, their cries fading to a muffled whisper when the dark carriage took a sharp right. Clucking encouragingly to the horses, the man made his way expertly through the rain, only slowing the pace as he pulled up alongside a respectably sized yellow brick town house. Leaning over from his seat, the cloaked man grabbed hold of a brass lever located to the side of a large wooden gate and gave it a jerk. Silently the doors to the side of the carriage slid open, the many gears and mechanisms behind them completely hidden within the walls surrounding the small courtyard to the side of the house.
Backing the carriage up slightly, the man turned through the gates and pulled to a stop within a small barnlike structure that stood along one side of the courtyard. Gathering up the hem of his cloak in one hand, he leapt gracefully to the ground and began the tedious process of unhooking his team and stowing away the gear. Leading the horses into their respective stalls, he spent some time brushing them down.
Satisfied that everything was taken care of within the barn, the hooded man grabbed a leatherbound case from within the carriage and made a dash for a side door leading into the two-story house. Stepping inside the doorway, the man glanced hurriedly about the tidy kitchen within and began to quietly slink across the stone floor. He had made it halfway to the narrow servants' stairwell on the other side of the room when an outraged gasp sounded behind him.
"Monsieur!!" a high feminine voice shrieked. "Do not move another step or I will have your hide for a belt!!"
Freezing in mid-step the man hunched his shoulders guiltily and turned to face the red-faced middle-aged woman now standing in the middle of the kitchen. "Pardon me, madame?" the man asked evenly as he reached up to pull back the hood from his head, revealing a bone white mask covering half of his face.
Waving a wooden spoon about in the air, completely unfazed by the unusual sight of the mask, the older woman pursed her lips into a stern line. "Do not act innocent, Monsieur Erik," she huffed with a dramatic stab of the spoon. "You know full well you are dripping mud and water all over my clean floors, and I will not allow you to continue on dragging filth all over the house!!"
Straightening to his full height, Erik fixed the plump woman with an icy glare, irritation sharpening the blue of his eyes to razor edges. "You will not allow? Madame Claire, I am the master of this house and I am perfectly within my rights to do exactly as I please. If I choose to drip water from here to the attic then I shall do so. And I would suggest checking your tongue if you wish to remain employed as my cook." Crossing his arms across his chest, Erik raised one dark brow in a quelling expression and waited coolly for a response.
Narrowing her eyes fractionally, Madame Claire began to tap her foot against the stone floor, a bad sign. "Monsieur Erik…" she began.
Raising a hand up to swipe at the water dripping from his dark hair, Erik felt a scowl pull down at his mouth. "For the hundredth time… please do not refer to me as Monsieur Erik," he interrupted. "It is entirely inappropriate and…."
"Monsieur Erik!" Madame Claire repeated in a louder tone, causing her master's scowl to deepen into a fierce grimace. "If that is the case… should I prepare cabbage stew for tonight's dinner now or in an hour?"
"Madame, you know how I abhor cabbage stew!" Erik blustered, his scowl slipping slightly at the mere thought of his least favorite food. Good God I can imagine the smell now… it won't leave the place even after a week's airing!
The touch of a smile momentarily curved the corners of the cook's lips as she stared Erik down with an unflinching eye. "Oh my… it must have slipped my mind," she said slowly, raising her eyebrows with a pointed look.
"How dare you!!" Erik bellowed, his temper finally exploding at the bold-faced defiance. Cursing incoherently, he nearly slipped in the puddle of water his cloak had dripped under his feet. When he noticed that his shouts had had little effect on his cook's stance, he shut his mouth and set to glaring holes in Madame Claire's head.
A moment passed as a battle of two mighty wills warred between the two and then suddenly Erik growled and threw his hands into the air, the prospect of a dinner of nothing but cabbage stew finally wearing down his resolve. "You must be very secure in your position here."
Seeing that she had won, Madame Claire relaxed and smiled happily. "I am indeed, Monsieur Erik. Now if you please… remove your cloak and shoes before continuing up the stairs."
Grudgingly doing as the woman asked, Erik shook his head in wonder over the terror that was his cook. Who would have thought that the bloody Phantom of the Opera would be so easily led by the might of a mere woman… Though I have to admit Madame Claire is no ordinary woman. I suspect she is something more akin to the spawn of Satan. Eyeing the cook, he tossed his shoes and cloak into the corner in an act of petulant rebellion that he just couldn't stop himself from performing. Snatching up his leatherbound case from the floor, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room and up the stairs.
Muttering to himself, he climbed the stairs and made a beeline for the master bedroom at the end of the hallway, unbuttoning his white cotton shirt as he went. Trudging into the room, he flung off his wet clothes and moved to rummage through the wardrobe for a change. Pulling on a clean pair of pants he set the case in his hands upon a large oak desk. Completely forgetting to tug on his dry shirt he sat down and opened the case. Ignoring the pile of handwritten music sheets within, he pressed a hidden button near one corner. A panel along the top of the case popped open with a click, revealing an unaddressed envelope nestled within the secret compartment. Pulling out the envelope, Erik glanced over his shoulder quickly before tearing it open. A single piece of white paper lay within.
Monsieur,
Your singular services are once again required to insure the continued prosperity of France and, I hope I need not remind you, to likewise insure the state's pardon of your many, many past crimes. I am aware that you have just finished gathering some very useful information and no doubt wish to rest. Therefore, I have not scheduled you to meet with your contact until tomorrow night. At one a.m. tomorrow a coach will be waiting for you three blocks south of your residence. Your contact will provide further instructions at that time. Do not be late.
Your Beleaguered Servant,
BB
P.S. This time do not forget some decent rainwear.
Folding the letter in half, Erik leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily. It had been three years since the night Don Juan had been performed at the Opera Populaire and the subsequent end of the legend of the Phantom of the Opera, but at times, he swore, it felt more like a lifetime since he had roamed the underground passages of that place. Somehow he had managed to survive the raging fire that the fall of the chandelier had caused, though looking back now he wondered what had driven him to flee his smoldering home and not commit suicide on the spot. Homeless and heartbroken he had wandered the streets of Paris for days, not caring if he lived or died, but then something miraculous happened. On the one occasion he had traveled close to the theater, in a desperate bid to at least have his final resting place be in near the opera house, he had stumbled into the one person he was sure he would never see again.
Drenched to the bone and looking not much better than a drowned sewer rat, Christine Daae had somehow spotted his slumped figure. Smiling now at the memory, Erik recalled the blank shock he had felt upon seeing her sweet form running towards him through cold winter's sleet. To put it simply she had come back to him after having realized where her heart truly lay, a mere day after the horrendous disaster. Glancing down at the wedding ring upon his left ring finger, Erik's smile grew with wonder. They had been married for just over two years now.
But it hadn't been much more than a week after returning from their honeymoon trip, and just as Erik was beginning to become successful as a genuine composer, that a mysterious letter had arrived with his name upon it. The contents were simple and to the point. Certain people had heard of his infamy as the Phantom, as well as his seemingly supernatural gifts at secrecy and subterfuge, and they wanted him to use those abilities for what they called "governmental information gathering," or spying. If he refused it was made clear that he would face the guillotine within the month. It hadn't taken much thought on his part to consider what he had to do. And though he had faced some rather close calls along the way, he had found that he rather enjoyed the spark of danger in his secret occupation; enjoyed everything except one thing. He could never, ever tell his wife what he really did when he was out "working" late.
Frowning down at the letter in his hand now, Erik completely missed the whisper-soft tread of footsteps sneaking up behind him. "What are you doing?" a soft voice whispered almost directly into his ear.