SCENE TWO

The Aerie

Jacques, Mollie, Emeline

He saw her face, floating out of the darkness toward him. Her eyes searched frantically for something, darting back and forth, her head whipping about. As her gaze landed on him, she visibly relaxed, reaching outward. He stretched out a hand to meet hers, longing to grasp the soft fingers again, wanting nothing more on earth...

But suddenly she was farther away, still fully visible, hand still outstretched. Panic flared in his chest. No, she couldn't go, not when they were so close! Before he could sprint in her direction, she had pulled a long coil of rope from nowhere. She tossed him the rope, and he lunged for the end, but it turned to dust in his grasp. The panic was quickly turning to hysteria, and he knew he would break down soon if he couldn't get to her, see her closer, touch her, smell her, hold her...

He tried to cry out, but no sound would come. His feet felt glued to the ground. He felt if he tried to take a step, he would fall, right into the blackness that surrounded them completely. Still, it was either wait forever, or take that risky step. Slowly, hands balled into tight fists, eyes fixed on her face, he gathered his strength and wrenched one foot from the ground. Miraculously, the world didn't turn upside down. He looked down in surprise, taking another step, then back at her, grinning widely. She returned the smile, her face rapturous, her arms wide open to receive him. He sprinted the short distance, enveloping her in his arms, at last able to touch her. He ran his hands over her arms, traced her lips, combed her hair with his fingers, placed a hand on either side of her face and simply drank in her eyes...

She tentatively reached up, one hand hovering over the right side of his own face, questioning. He nodded, and she placed her hand on his cheek, caressing the ruined skin, the hollow cheekbone, the deformed lip. Slowly, ever so slowly, they leaned in toward one another, eyes closing, lips meeting, and then...

She was gone. He was holding nothing in his arms, ripped from him like a bandage. He screamed, finding his voice, and spun around on the spot, running in a circle, and before he knew what was happening, he was falling, falling through the blackness as he had feared he might do minutes before...

Jacques woke with a start, gasping, cold sweat covering his body like a summer sheet. Throwing off the blankets, he sat up, running a hand through what hair he had on the left side of his head. Glancing around, he spotted his pillow on the floor, a large wet spot marking the place where his head had lain moments earlier. He groaned, leaning backward, his skull thudding solidly against the wall at the head of the bed. This wasn't the first time it had happened, and he'd wager a bet it wouldn't be the last. He had dreamt, again, that Charlotte had come back to him, and in the heat of the feverous dream, and wrapped his arms around his pillow. When he accidently let the pillow go, Charlotte had slipped from his dreams as well.

It was so stupid, he berated himself as he swung his legs from the bed and stood up, padding barefoot to the washbasin and covered mirror to wash his face and neck. Had he sunk so low, clutching pillows in hope one of them might stay Charlotte in his dreams? His hands clutched the washbasin's table, his forehead smacking into the mirror as he stifled a sob. Try as he might, he still longed for her, more and more with each day, with less to distract him. He didn't know how much longer he could stand it. He had actually sat down at his desk to write his last will and testament not a day ago; it had come to the point. Something had to be done.

"Ten long years..." he hissed. "Living a mere façade of life. Wasting my time on smoke and noise!" Music still floated through his mind, he knew and recognized, melodies pure and unearthly. "But I can't give them a voice without you!" he cried aloud, slamming a fist on the table. "Lost and gone... You're lost and gone."

There had to be something he could do. Had to be. He couldn't go on living like this. He was practically falling apart, like a huge hole had been punched in his chest and was spreading throughout the rest of his body.

But wait! Hadn't he heard their family — him, and now they had a boy — were in serious debt? Where had he heard it? Because if it were true... oh, if it were true... there may be a way to get them here, to Coney Island. At this thought, he straightened, eyes wide. The cloth slipped from the mirror, and he found himself staring unwillingly at his own ruined face. Averting his eyes, he walked the few paces to his desk, a plan quickly beginning to form.

He began scribbling fiercely on the nearest piece of paper. No one save the two that had come with him from Europe — Emeline and her daughter, Mollie — knew he, Jacques, was also the mysterious "Mister E" who ran the Coney Island park, Fantasma. If, if, somehow, Charlotte still sang, he — Mister E — could offer her an opportunity to open the new concert hall — what perfect timing! They wouldn't be able to refuse, as the amount he could offer would easily cover their debts. Expenses paid... of course, he and the boy would also have to come, but he could figure out a way around them later. All he cared about now was the slight, slight possibility that he may get to see Charlotte again. Just once. To hear her voice, to have her accept the invitation to sing would just be a bonus he wasn't sure his heart could take...

So caught up was he in his plans it took him a moment to realize he could hear two people arguing outside the door. It sounded as though they were climbing the stairs, about to enter. Sure enough, not a moment later Mollie burst through the door, followed by her mother. Both had irate looks of annoyance on their faces. Jacques took a deep breath and laid down his pen, wrenching himself from his frantic thoughts before turning to face the pair of them.

Mollie marched right up to him, glaring at her mother. "Jacques," she demanded, "I want to know what's distracting you so lately!" she demanding, looking up into his face. Her eyes widened and she took a step back upon taking in his appearance. Surely, he must look a mess.

He turned away from her, back to his washbasin. "I don't know what you mean," he muttered, splashing cold water on his face and neck, as had been his intention from the start. The coolness was surprisingly refreshing, and it calmed him.

"I told her you'd say that," Emeline countered, a smug look on her face.

"And I told her that I refuse to believe it!" Mollie snapped, facing Jacques again, careful to look on the left side of his face.

"As if he'll actually admit to anything!" Emeline said, not directly in response to her daughter now. Jacques turned his head in her direction, surprise at the conversation turning on him so quickly flashing across his face.

She continued, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Mollie, can't you see the master's at work? Can't you see that his mind's somewhere else? Can't you see that, obviously, he's thinking of things more important than us?"

Jacques straightened, eyes steely. "Careful, Madame. You're forgetting yourself."

She ignored the heavy warning in his tone, continuing to rant. "He's forgot what this is! His hall's opening day, big deal, what's the fuss? Our success means nothing, I guess, compared to the things the master must do!"

"I've heard enough."

The two stared at each other for a long moment, once friendly colleagues, now posed against one another. Something sparked in Emeline's eyes, and Jacques felt dread set into the pit of his stomach.

"Back in Europe," she said slowly, contemplatively, "when someone was after you... who was there? We were there. Where was she, when we wanted a way out?"

Jacques felt his fists ball up, an alarmingly involuntary action. "I don't see the problem," he near whispered. "This is ancient history."

Having found a tender spot, she didn't falter an instant. "Once here, who kept working, night and day? Who gave you their very lives? Who helped finance your improbable scheme? Who wouldn't quit? Not her. We stayed with you! She betrayed you! Shunned you and despised you! She chose Charles—"

"ENOUGH!" he shouted, inches from her face. He found his hands were up by her head, still balled into fists, but only just. He lowered them slowly, breathing heavy. He hadn't had an outbreak of temper in such a long time, he had nearly forgotten what it was like to have the blood nearly boiling in his veins.

He took a step back, averting his gaze. "You'll be repaid, as I promised you would. Now if you've nothing else to say...?"

Mollie's eyes were wider than ever before, mouth slightly open. Emeline's face, however, was expressionless. "Mollie, leave. Now," she said curtly.

The girl obeyed without question or a backward glance. Emeline turned to follow more slowly. She glanced down as she passed his desk, then did a double take. "What's this?" she asked warily, snatching up the paper he had been scribbling insistently on before they had entered, skimming it.

"Nothing," Jacques insisted, stepping forward to snatch it from her hand. She darted away, still reading, before he could get to it. Her brow furrowed the more her eyes travelled down the page. Jacques awaited her reaction with baited breath, determined to keep his own temper under control should she explode again.

He was surprised, however. Slowly, she placed the paper back down on his desk and looked up at him. "I know it's no use trying to stop you," she said quietly, voice heavy. She walked to the exit, face blankly contemplating, but paused on her way out. "Don't forget why you came here," she added, taking her leave.

Jacques stood in the middle of the floor, fingers steepled, pressed against his lips. Damn it, damn it all, he hadn't meant for anyone to find out. He dropped his hands, shoulders sagging. It had only been a matter of time. The prospect of seeing Charlotte again far outweighed anything — anything — that might stand in his way.

That thought cheered him a great deal, and he turned back to the mirror to put on his face.