Megan ran quickly, the hard cobblestone of the Paris streets pounding harshly against her feet. She winced as she stepped on a sharp stone. Behind her, the boy squeezed her hand reassuringly.
Ah, yes. The boy.
He held firm to her hand, not seeming to question, or even care where she was taking him. He didn't seem to be bothered that she, a girl whose name he didn't even know, a girl who he'd exchanged a total of zero words with, had taken him from his cage, and was now dragging him through the streets, streets he'd definitely never been on before. Well, she supposed that he didn't care where she brought him, as long as it was away from those awful gypsies.
She heard screaming behind her, and she stopped at the crossroads, looking around frantically. She had originally intended to bring him to the train station and help him leave the city, but she knew that that would be the first place that the people would check.
The boy double over, panting and coughing. Megan gasped for air as she looked around, glancing through the streets on all sides. "This way!" she gasped, grabbing his hand and running to the right.
Straight for the Opera House.
They'll never look for him there, she thought, stopping by the gutter and pulling on it. "Help me!" she gasped at the boy, who instantly ran forwards and helped her open the grate with ease. The last place they'd expect him to be hiding is in the middle of the city.
She slipped into the gutter, landing with a small 'oof'! She stood up, moving out of the way as the boy fell in after her. He stood up on his toes (he was a good inch and a half taller than her and was able to put his hands out of the low gutter with ease) and tugged the grate shut.
"Here," Megan whispered, inclining her head towards the tunnel that stretched on. He nodded and followed her, winding the twists and turns that Megan had known since she was a little girl.
She stopped by a huge, ornately decorated gutter grate and tugged it open. This one opened much easier than the first, without the help of the boy. She hopped off the low ledge into the tiny chapel in the basement of the Opera House.
The boy followed after her, stumbling a bit and bumping into her. Megan wrinkled her nose as some of the dirt on his bare torso rubbed off on her dress. Those awful gypsies – what right did they have to treat him like this?
The boy made to keep going, but Megan grabbed his hand. "It's okay," she said. "They won't follow us here." he didn't respond, and Megan furrowed her brow. "Parle-tu français?" she asked.
He nodded. "Alright," he said hesitantly, lightly removing his hand from Megan's. Megan started. His voice, thought muffled by the rough bag he wore over his head, was smooth and rich, melodious as the orchestra during a performance.
He gestured around. "What is this place?" he asked, nodding at the small shrine in the corner and Virgin Mary painting on the wall. "Some kind of church basement?"
Megan shook her head. "The chapel of the Opera House," she explained. "I normally use the gutter to get back quickly when I'm out too late."
"You're a singer?" he asked, looking up, sounding suddenly interested.
"Ballerina," she said, gesturing at her silken point shoes, now covered in dust and ripped by the stones on the street. "I'll have to get some new slippers," she sighed to herself.
"Sorry," the boy said, voice baring no traces of remorse. Megan blinked, surprised. Wow, he's got really good hearing.
"It's fine," she said. The boy nodded and fiddled slightly with the little monkey he had refused to let go of during the entire trip. He clinked the two tiny cymbals together absentmindedly, and Megan was struck with how purely beautiful it sounded.
"So, do we just stay here until the mob passes, or what?" he asked, sounding mildly impatient.
"I don't know," Megan admitted, looking at the candles flickering on the shrine. "Do you have any family you could go home too?"
The boy snorted. "Not likely," he looked at the Virgin Mary painting, appearing to be deep in thought (it was hard to tell with the bag on his head). "Do you have catacombs here?" he asked suddenly.
Megan started. "Uh, yeah – but nobody's been in them for years." she suddenly realized what the boy was implying. "You want to hide in the catacombs?"
"Live in them, actually," the boy said, stepping forwards and inspecting the painting, almost putting his eyes directly onto the wall. "Like you said, nobody's using them – I could make myself a nice little adobe down there."
Megan nodded weakly, struck by how boldly he spoke, as the boy pressed a brick, and the painting slid to the side, revealing a set of stairs that spiraled down, even deeper underground.
He was about to turn back, when he stopped. "What's your name?" he asked her.
"Megan," she said. "Megan Giry."
"Megan Giry," he said, nodding. "Pretty name. Thanks for getting me out of there." Megan felt like he might be smiling beneath the bag. "This won't be in vain – I'll repay you."
Megan didn't have time to respond as he began going down the steps. "What about you?" she burst out suddenly as the wall started to slide shut. "What's your name?"
He looked back. "Call me Erik," he said as the wall slammed shut.