Chapter II

When words leave off, music begins. Heinrich Heine

xXx

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(Paris, France)

In the cramped parlor of her shabby tenement, with the low flames from the candelabra her sole light, Dominique, who had long taken the name Madame Giry, sat at her task in studied concentration. She planted her elbow on the writing desk and rubbed her fingers back and forth across her forehead, wishing to dispel the ache within.

Shadows appeared to waver beyond the weak pool of gold that spilled out onto the difficult letter she composed. Startled, she swung her gaze to the right.

Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Her worn chaise longue stood against the wall, the crimson and green coverlet neatly tucked around it. A stack of books sat on a table nearby. No dark wraith from the underworld stealthily approached. No thick darkness closed in to torment her. Lack of sleep likely clouded her perception and meddled with sound reasoning. Yet her self-assurances did little to quench her unease.

Without conscious thought, her fingers slipped down to clasp the silver cross around her neck, a continual reminder that she had nothing more to fear from the dark spirit they at the opera kingdom called Phantom. Those years of fearful servitude were behind her. As long as she continued this new course, as long as she never again crossed the threshold of the opera house, she would be safe, she and her daughter ...

Or so she hoped.

She looked over her shoulder, to assure herself of her continued solitude, then reminded herself she had no reason to fear discovery. Hindered by the heavy cast that encased her leg, Meg would not be leaving her bed to spy. Dominique sensed her daughter's curiosity had soared these past few days after witnessing her mother's odd behavior, and she grinned in feeble irony as the name resurfaced. The name she had refused to use for sixteen years now slipped into her thoughts with cutting ease once she made her decision. By allowing that small fragment of her former life a foothold in the present, she felt as unwise as that imprudent girl of so many years ago.

Frowning, she looked over what she'd written.

I would not seek your aid, but for Margarette's sake. She is all that is dear to me. I know I have long been dead to you

Madame bit the inside of her cheek. Non, that would never do. She crumpled up the paper and pushed it aside, to join similar wretched attempts. To remind him of past indiscretions would not aid her cause. He would never forget them.

Retrieving another sheet of vellum, she began afresh, measuring each sentence, each word before she penned it. At last she felt satisfied with her efforts and blotted then folded the page, slipping it into an envelope. She dripped wax from a candle onto the flap to seal it, then hesitated as she held the message that could alter the course of their lives.

Old secrets once disclosed could mend a past, but they could also ruin the future. Had she not learned this truth from all that happened at the opera kingdom? The Vicomte had helped her to see beyond veils of ignorance, but he had then formed a conspiracy once she shared with him the truth about her Maestro. That had led to an entire kingdom demolished … so many lives destroyed…

She stood and drew her cloak around her before the doubts sank in to again weigh heavy on her heart.

"I will return in no more than an hour, Margarette," she called out, unwilling to enter her daughter's bedroom. "I have an errand to which I must attend." If Meg were to see her face, she would recognize her anxiety, and then would come the questions. Always, the questions.

Hurriedly, Dominique left the tenement, the letter clutched in her hand.

The morning air bit through the coarse weave of her cloak, cold and sharp, but the sight of the red flags suspended from high windows and posts raised the true chills upon her skin. Each day of the people's rebellion stirred her unease. She knew all did not bode as well as the confident smiles of the Communards suggested. Darkness closed in, seeping deeper into the cracks of the city each day, like a predator lying in wait, and she hoped that the letter would be the key to getting her daughter out of Paris.

She moved down the boulevard's wide avenues that had replaced the majority of narrow streets. From the ramparts of the city, cannons stood poised to defend against attack; barricades had been erected, continually manned by those faithful to The Commune. Dominique worked hard to ignore the brash stares from two gruff looking men who guarded one of the blockades, but her heart raced with fear. Since the soldiers and those loyal to the deposed Napoleonic government had retreated to Versailles at the onset of the Revolution, the Marxists controlled all manner of law. She had witnessed their brutality in the alleys and byways where they thought their treacheries remained secret. Below a veneer of constant assurances that they desired only reforms for the working class lay a more sinister agenda. Under such heroic disguises, the heart of villainy pounded, concealed, unified in its purpose to destroy. Beneath the mask of humanity hid the soul of a viper - whether the destruction would come from within the city or without, Dominique didn't know. But come it surely would.

She altered her course and took one of few narrow streets left in the city leading to a bakery in another district. Once she reached the shop, she hurried through the door. "The boy who works here," she said to the owner without preamble, "Jean-Claude. Where can I find him?"

"That bag o' bones hasn't been around for days," the stodgy man hissed. "When you find the scoundrel, tell him he owes me for the bread! I'm not running a charity, and I'll not be paying him his five centimes!"

Dominique was already to the door and out of it before the irate owner could spew more venom. When she hired the street urchin to fetch the driver on the evening her Maestro and Christine were to be married, the boy had mentioned where he lived. A friend neither to The Commune, nor the Napoleonic regime, Jean-Claude was loyal only to himself. And for that reason, Dominique felt he could be trusted—that, and the five francs she carried with her, which would buy him much bread.

She wended her way through a street littered with garbage and the refuse of Paris. Two unkempt men, a bottle of alcohol between them, sat on the pavement and blearily eyed her progress, calling out lurid remarks. Three prostitutes in garish dress, their faces heavy with paint, sneered at her as she walked past. Dominique increased her pace, thankful when she spotted Jean-Claude's skinny form and head of fair albeit dirty hair. Her heart lurched at the sight of him digging through garbage. Yet she couldn't care for every orphan of the city. She could scarcely provide for Meg and herself.

He caught sight of her and swept low in a bow, his arm across his chest. "Madame Giry, Bon Jour. And what brings you to my fair part of the city?"

Her mouth twitched. The boy must be no more than ten, but had the wit and cunning of one much older. She retained her cool demeanor.

"I have work for you. I need you to find a way out of the city, to deliver a letter."

He assessed her with narrowed blue eyes. "You want me to sneak past the barricades and put myself at risk of being captured by The Commune? For such an act the reward should be great."

"Oui, oui," she said impatiently. "I will give you ten francs. Five now, five later, when you bring me an answer."

The light of greed entered his eyes. "Only ten? To put myself at such risk deserves more I think…"

"Ten francs will buy more food than you've seen in a month and you know it. Unless you prefer to scavenge through the garbage and eat what the rats leave behind?" Madame affected an indifferent expression. "In that case, I will take my leave."

"Wait!" he said before she could go. His expression was subdued. "Alright. I'll do it."

Madame pitied the child whose suffering must be great to give in so quickly, but her mission afforded little room for sympathy. She pulled her hand from her cloak, handing him the envelope. "You are to take this to Le Manoir de Clair de Lune, this side of Troyes. Do you know where that is?"

"I can find it."

"It is east of Paris, a three, perhaps two day's walk if you're quick. It is important that you deliver this letter into the hands of the Baron d' Legard. His estate is beyond the east of Troyes." His eyes bulged, and she sighed. "Is there a problem?"

"If I'm caught with a letter to a noble, I'll be thought of as a traitor. They'll kill me!"

"Then you best not get caught."

Jean-Claude scowled at her reply, and Dominique reconsidered. "Very well. Fifteen francs but no more. Such a price during these harsh times is a king's ransom indeed."

He nodded, his expression hardly satisfied but showing he knew he had pushed her to her limit. "The three men who guard the north entrance near the condemned opera house speak to the women who pass by on the streets late at night. Once I hid and watched as two left their post and followed the women into an alley. I'll wait for such an opportunity."

"Do not wait too long," Dominique warned, uneasy at his mention of the building that evoked so many dark memories. "Or I fear it will be too late."

"Too late for what?"

Dominique shook her head and gave the boy half his payment. "Speak to no one you meet along the road. Once you arrive at the manor and deliver the letter, wait for a reply. Do not leave without one. Upon your return bring the message to me at my tenement. Godspeed, Jean-Claude." Without another word, she hurried through the back streets, pulling the edges of her cloak tight around her shoulders.

xXx

(Seville, Spain)

Erik awoke, Christine's silken warmth pressed against him. She lay on her side with her back nestled against his chest, her arm holding his around her tiny waist. A moment's disorientation shifted into profound amazement as the memories of last night and this morning visited his mind.

For what he assumed must be roughly thirty years, he had never been the recipient of one outward expression of affection. Not until Christine kissed him and showed him similar tokens of her feelings the few times he allowed it, unable to resist her, during their journey to Spain. The wealth of receiving such an abundance of love throughout one night and morning staggered him, and his heart overflowed with adoration for his bride. With extreme care, so as not to waken her, he raised himself up on one elbow to look at her profile.

Her long, tangled curls lay wild upon the pillow they shared, her lashes a feathery dark crescent against her flushed cheek, her rosy lips slightly parted as she released even breaths in whispers of sound. He loved having her so close he could hear her breathe. The sheet had come away in their slumber, exposing her shoulder and half a globe of one snowy breast. His eyes drank in her beauty, his mind echoing the wondrous truth that Christine was truly his, his beloved wife in every sense of the word. At last ...

Numerous emotions whirled inside his head, spilling into his heart. He could not contain them, nor could he separate them to begin to understand them. Later, when he felt able to move past the extreme marvel he felt, if ever he did, he would attempt to sort out these new feelings. For now, it was too much.

So as not to rouse her, Erik gently removed his hand from her light hold and pulled his arm from around her waist. His actions feather light, he brushed back damp tendrils of hair from her neck. A reddish-purple mark colored her white flesh. Recalling their zealous lovemaking, he felt a moment's remorse for having marred her delicate skin and leaning down, kissed the mark. Her fragrance tantalized his senses.

She slept the sleep of exhaustion, her breathing slow and heavy, and Erik pulled away, knowing if he remained close, he would not allow her further slumber. His body, eager to engage in such novel pleasures with her again, begged him to reconsider his actions.

Leaving their bed, he cleansed himself with water from the washbasin, taking care to remain quiet. He dressed in his discarded breeches, shirt, and boots, and then tied on his mask. With her, he would honor her desire not to wear the covering in her sole presence if that was what she truly wanted, though he failed to understand her reasoning. But around others, he considered the mask a necessity. For now he must venture into the crowded streets of Seville, a task he dreaded, and not only because it would take him from Christine's side. In the elation of their nuptials, his discomfort among crowds had ebbed but had not abandoned him entirely. Yet he had no choice. He did not like to leave her unguarded, even for the short time planned, but when she awoke, she would be hungry. They had partaken of nothing but sugared cakes and wine after the ceremony, and Erik, too, felt the need for sustenance.

Yesterday, he had sold the largest of the clear rubies he had pried from his dagger to a local tradesman, and with that money had purchased their wedding outfits, desiring to replace her torn and water-ruined dress from the past with a gown even more ravishing. He had wanted to shower his bride with gifts, but had only acquired enough from the trade for a ring of modest quality, nothing like what he dreamed of giving her, the ring that should have been hers. The wedding outfits, bed gown, and an emerald satin robe were acquired from a local seamstress, a mother of six small children who'd suffered the recent loss of her husband, and the client for whom she'd made the outfits. She had been desperate, quoting to Erik a price he felt far beneath the quality of her handiwork, and again he wished for the money stolen from him by the child, Celeste, to compensate. Such feelings of compassion toward a stranger were new to him, and ill at ease, he'd left as soon as he told the grateful woman Christine's measurements so she could alter the dress, ones he remembered well from the first gown he designed for his Angel on the night of her debut performance.

As a bride, she'd been exquisite. Later, he had entered their tent, and the memory of his first sight of her in the sheer bed gown, with the candles' glow outlining her perfect form, again made his heart beat faster. He glanced at her now. From this angle, he noted a sweet smile on her lips as if her dreams spoke of something delightful. Still she slept, and it was all Erik could do to turn away from the warm invitation of returning to her side, and leave the tent.

The noonday sun blazed down from an azure sky, stunning him. At the opera house, he'd kept track of time by a clock in his lair, though the presence of such an item seemed an anomaly, since he had nowhere to go. Still, with no sun or moon to shine into his underground cavern and reveal the hour of day, he had relied on the timepiece to keep himself informed of his subjects' movements. Often throughout the night he had composed music or sketched drawings. When he did choose to yield to slumber, he never slept past dawn and had accomplished much due to his brevity of sleep. Amazed that the previous night he'd not only slept so long, but had slept well, he pondered this change of routine and decided that if it meant he could wake up next to Christine every morning for the rest of his life, the sacrifice to a few hours of slothfulness could be tolerated.

A pleased smile on his face at the thought, he reminded himself of his need to find food, thus purging the welcome idea of returning to their bed.

He still had money, though he would need to sell some of the smaller rubies soon and wondered what price they would fetch. At present, and through no desire of his own, he'd given his vow to lend the Drabarni and the gypsy children his protection and aid. During that time, he and Christine would have shelter and food. Indeed, the old Drabarni had treated him with respect, instructing the children to serve him and Christine and cook for them during their week long trip to Seville. She had kept her part of the bargain, accompanying Erik and Christine to this city to find the priest who would marry them and ask no questions. Erik was indebted to her…a fact that did not sit well with him. It curdled his blood that he owed a gypsy anything but hatred.

He strode through the crowded streets, grateful his mask provoked little curiosity. The second day of the festival was well underway, many still in full costume, some dancing and carousing, others visiting with those in neighboring tents, and Erik again blended with the crowd. Several looked at him with awed recognition, and he assumed they had been at the ceremony when he and Christine exchanged wedding vows through song. Afterward, by request, they performed for the revelers, Erik playing each instrument offered while Christine accompanied him with her exquisite voice. Several who possessed the ability to truly listen and understand had recognized his identity as a king of the realm of Music. Even more surprising, the gypsy children had also seen and known.

Painful memories from childhood still besieged his mind, though the children weren't the gypsies who tortured him - as Christine reminded him daily this past week - and it was doubtful that of the hundreds of bands of gypsies throughout Spain and France, this band had been the one to enslave him. He knew that. But the reminder failed to erase the sting of bitterness.

No matter his feelings, he refused to allow anyone or anything to mar this long awaited retreat with his bride. For one week they would enjoy their private utopia, and the rest of the world be damned!

"Señor Erik!"

Erik tensed when he recognized the priest who performed their wedding ceremony. The elderly man turned from a shopkeeper with whom he bartered and moved Erik's way.

"I did not think to see you so soon," he jested. "And where is your beautiful bride?"

Erik surveyed the small, stout man, whose dark eyes seemed always to flash in mirth, as though he withheld a joke from all of Spain. Uneasiness prodded him to speak, to be certain. "The documents. You assured me all was lawful and would be recognized by the church, despite my lack of giving you a surname."

The párroco tilted his head to one side, spreading his hands a fraction in assurance, then clasped them together at his waist again. "You are not the first upon whom I have performed a marriage that has withheld a name, my son. In this land of bandidos, one learns it is wise not to ask many questions." He looked directly at Erik's mask.

Erik's smile was grim. "You speak with insight, Padre. It is often better to know nothing, than to know too much."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Be that as it may, I have honored my vow to help you, as Magdalena asked. She saved my brother's life years ago, and I pledged that I would do what I could to help her if ever she needed it. No matter that she is Romani and a fortuneteller and defies all the laws of the church, will not even step foot inside the cathedral, we share an understanding. So, si, to answer your question, the event has been recorded in the book of records, and the church recognizes your marriage to your bride. You are truly man and wife."

Relief made Erik's jaw relax. Still he waited, sensing there was more the man wished to say.

"In the short time I have known you, I sense you are troubled, my son. Whatever gives your soul anguish, the Almighty can give you aid, if you will only seek Him in your duress."

Erik bit back a sarcastic retort at the priest's incongruous words and almost laughed. He wondered what the kindly old man would say if Erik told him that God had long ago despised and rejected him, casting him into a hell fit only for beasts. First by a mother who sold him to gypsies, later by the phantom who seized from him all that he had. All except Christine, and she was worth all the kingdoms of this world.

"Excuse me, Padre. I must take your leave."

Sorrow clouded the man's features, as if he were not happy with Erik's response, before he nodded with a smile. "Ah, yes. You must return to your bride."

"I left the tent to seek sustenance."

"A wise decision. After all, men cannot live on love alone, eh?"

His whimsical remark did not amuse Erik. He found it awkward to socialize when for a lifetime he'd known only solitude.

"There is a food market on the next street," the padre said. "You'll find many tempting selections from which to choose."

Erik nodded his thanks and set out in that direction. Stalls and tables filled with a variety of produce lined the busy street. The carcasses of plump chickens hung from hooks. And in the far corner, next to an array of red-golden mangoes, he spotted a small figure in a familiar black hat.

With a grimace, he strode toward the boy and plucked off his hat. The child spun around, still holding onto his crude crutch. At sight of Erik, Armando's expression shifted from rage to uncertainty.

"Stealing items other than food I see," Erik said gravely in the boy's native tongue.

"I found it – on the ground. Near the tents."

Erik remembered when he had tossed his jacket and hat off before his erotic dance with Christine the night before.

"And this?" He pulled two mangoes from within the boy's lumpy shirt and replaced them on the stand. Erik was grateful the seller had his back to them, occupied with a customer. "Have I not told you gypsies that you must desist with your thieving ways if I'm to help you? You children are in danger. We do not need the authorities to complicate matters or give them an excuse to interfere, especially if the Drabarni speaks the truth and many of those who hold a high rank cannot be trusted."

"Here in Seville, Don Carlos's men have no authority," the boy boasted.

"Then perhaps I should leave you to your own devices. However, if you find your skinny carcass in prison, do not expect me to save you." Erik cast a meaningful glance toward a soldier in the distance who stood watch, and the boy also looked. "I did so once. I'm not apt to show such mercy again."

Grudging gratitude altered the boy's features at Erik's reminder of how he had saved his life after their battle with Don Carlos's men in the forest. The boy had been shot in the leg, and rather than leave him there after he'd threatened Erik, Erik had yielded to Christine's plea to help the child by allowing him to ride one of the horses gained after Erik's triumph over their attackers. In return, he had requested the boy take them to his village. A village that turned out to be a small band of surviving gypsies, all of them children save for a few elderly and one old fortuneteller. The Drabarni.

"The words I overheard, señor, before my escape. That they will attack and take all the children when the moon is full – what will you do?"

"I hardly think their plan will be effective, since your band is no longer at the site. When we return, we will simply find another location."

"Don Carlos will not give up." The boy leaned heavily on his crutch. "I was a prisoner at his villa for months. I have heard him speak with his men. He wants all the children. For his slaves."

The reminder of the wicked Don's preference for and ill treatment of small children brought gall to Erik's mouth. By no means did he consider his former actions at the opera house excusable. But to rape a child was abhorrent.

Disturbed by the disquiet in his soul, Erik moved to make his selection of fruit and bread and paid the seller. The boy watched as Erik's purchases were dumped onto a small sheet of canvas and tied.

"For the price of a ruby, I can get all the food you and your Juvali can eat and bring it to your tent each day." Excitement elevated his voice. "A king should not have to gather his own food, and as the prophetic legend foretold, you are now our leader."

Sensing Armando sought whatever words would help his cause – to obtain the rubies from Erik's dagger – Erik leveled a steady look his way. The boy averted his uneasy gaze to the fruit. Still, Erik considered the offer, which would rid him of the need to face the multitude of revelers each day … and would prevent him from having to leave his bride.

"For the price of this hat," Erik said, holding up the accessory to his wedding outfit, "You will bring me and my Queen food on each day that we remain here, and today, paper, charcoal, a bottle of ink and a pen … as well as a violin. If you can locate these things – without stealing them – the hat is yours to keep."

The boy frowned, his face a puzzle of confusion. "How do you expect me to do that? Without any pesos?"

"I will give you the money to purchase all that I asked. The violin you may borrow from the child who last night presented me with what I assume is her father's violin. I noticed she was one of your band."

"Narilla. Her parents were killed three moons ago and her sister taken when her father tried to save her mother after Don Carlos's men took her. They raped her mother while they made her father watch, then slit both their throats. Narilla was hiding in the bushes. Last night was the first time she's spoken since then, when she asked you to play her father's violin."

Erik wanted to share nothing with these gypsy rats except distance, and that Armando's words stirred pity annoyed him. "Come. I will make the trade and you will have what you need to carry out my wishes."

The tradesman exhibited eagerness to see Erik again, having shown a fond desire for precious stones, and Erik's were the best. Transparent and a pure blood red, containing an intense fire deep within their facets, Erik's gems rated top quality, worth far more in value than what he received for them. Yet in such circumstances – robbed of both his gold and the ring – he'd had little recourse but to part with the jewels. He didn't fail to note Armando's pained expression as he handed four of the smaller rubies from his dagger to the trader.

As they neared the tent, Erik gave Armando enough money to ensure one day's worth of food and the items for which he'd asked. "If you betray me, I will take you to the authorities myself, where you will rot in prison since there is no one in all of Seville to help you."

"The hat?" Armando called after him.

Erik spoke without looking back. "At the end of the festival, the hat is yours if you have done all that I asked."

As he neared the tent, his heart picked up pace, knowing Christine was there. He ducked inside, letting his eyes adjust to the dim lighting, before setting the hat and food down and walking to their bed of pillows.

He felt a catch in his throat as he gazed at her. Still in repose, she now laid on her back, more beautiful than Venus, her skin illuminated from inside with the luster of a pearl. Moving close, he sat down beside her and, unable to resist, stretched out his hand to finger one long curl against the pillow.

As he studied her radiant face, she opened her eyes.

xXx

A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :)