THE HAND OF FATE

PART FOUR

Erik swallowed hard. "You cannot mean that."

"I am an honest woman, Monsieur," Antoinette told him sternly. "It is not in my nature to lie."

"You are indeed a most remarkable woman," he breathed, strange eyes glistening in the candlelight as he looked away, unable to meet her gaze. "Not even Erik's mother could look upon his face."

"I once visited a gypsy fair," she confessed, her heart swelling with sympathy for him. "I saw something there that I could never forget: a tent full of so-called human oddities; an iron cage, and a man playing the most beautiful music on the violin. That man was - "

"You need say no more, Madame," he interrupted, his voice tight. "I need no reminders of that place."

She nodded, and they were silent as she unwound the bandages to reveal the wound, a long red line across his terribly pale chest, emphasising the last bone of a ribcage that was far too prominent to be healthy. He flinched as she gently touched the edges of the cut, reassuring herself that there was no hint of infection. It would be another scar to add those that criss-crossed his skin, another memento of life's cruelties. Carefully she cleaned and bound it once more, and brought him water so that he might wash; he waved her away when she offered assistance and so she allowed him his privacy, taking a candle and assuring him that she would be within call if needed.

Her natural curiosity could not prevent her taking the opportunity to explore a little more of the underground house. There were several other rooms but all were empty save one which held piles of books and, much to her astonishment, a beautiful grand piano covered with a worn but richly-patterned cloth. How he had managed to get such an instrument down all of those stairs unaided without compromising its condition was a mystery, but his dedication to music was quite obvious; a battered violin case lay on the piano, its occupant polished and pristine, and Antoinette discovered folios of manuscript paper covered with a large masculine hand, notes and bars scribbled down, crossed out and rewritten it seemed in haste lest their composer forget them when suddenly struck with inspiration. There were libretti for various operas in the collection, most of which had apparently been filched from the theatre's store as she recognised performers' copies of some of the Populaire's most recent productions; careful notes had been made in the margins, and a page of recommendations for Anna Bolena that she skimmed through, finding herself nodding in agreement with some of the suggested alterations. Whoever this man was, and wherever he had come from before the gypsies found him, he obviously understood opera, probably more than those currently in charge of the Populaire.

Reluctantly she put the libretto back where she found it and moved on. In the last room she tried there was a small stove and a few mismatched items of crockery; it was the most pathetic little kitchen Antoinette had ever seen, and, along with the meagre rations of dried fruit and some stale bread, explained Erik's lack of flesh. It seemed music was far more important to him than food, and she was glad she had brought some provisions from home; he would not recover if he did not eat. Finding a battered kettle she lit the stove, not stopping to wonder how the smoke would escape, and fetched more water from the lake; discovering a few leaves in a canister she soon had a cup of tea to take to him and another for herself. There was no milk or sugar, but it would have to do.

By the time she returned to the bedroom her patient was sitting up against his poorly-stuffed pillows, a scarf tied across the disfigured side of his face. It looked faintly ludicrous but he seemed much calmer, more like the man who had rescued her the night before, as though he was able to exert more control over himself when his deformity was covered. He glanced up as she entered, the two chipped cups on a makeshift tray, and surprise briefly flickered in the one eye she could see. Antoinette handed him a cup and resumed her seat beside the bed, delicately sipping her own tea and trying not to grimace at the taste.

"I have some bread and cheese in the basket if you are hungry," she told him. "I am glad I thought to bring it; your domestic arrangements leave a little to be desired."

His only serviceable eyebrow arched upwards. "My apologies, Madame. I am not used to entertaining."

"Perhaps you should consider starting."

He laughed shortly. "You imagine anyone would be willing to venture all the way down here for tea and conversation, in neither of which I find myself proficient?"

"You are doing reasonably well at the latter," Antoinette remarked. "And the former is quite easily learned, though the result would be rather more palatable if you owned a teapot."

"I have more important matters with which to concern myself." He put the barely-touched cup to one side and directed his disconcerting gaze straight at her; if he hoped to intimidate he was out of luck, for the effect was spoiled by his makeshift mask and she was not one to give way to male belligerence. Something told her, however, that this man was different from those with whom she dealt on a regular basis; within the few minutes she was gone from the room he had recovered his poise, and she had the peculiar impression that she was being regarded as a cat might look at a mouse. Antoinette straightened her spine and lifted her chin.

"Indeed," she said. "Would those matters happen to involve moving powder puffs and causing bottles of perfume to disappear?"

The visible corner of Erik's mouth quirked slightly. "I am surprised those feather-brained ballet rats of yours even noticed."

"Oh, they noticed, Monsieur. Do you know what they are calling you?" Antoinette asked, and when he said nothing continued, "The Opera Ghost! Of all the absurdities... why do you do it? Is your existence so dull that you have to frighten silly young girls?"

"You have no notion of the emptiness of my existence, Madame! You know nothing of my life!" he snapped, eyes flashing with anger, long fingers fisting the blankets. "If I choose to amuse myself with those whose intelligence is inferior to mine what of it? I am doing no harm."

"You are giving rise to rumours and ridiculous stories. One of the new stage hands is already encouraging my girls. And think of this: what if one of them saw you? I doubt if the manager would appreciate your circumstances if your home down here was discovered." Her voice softened, and impulsively she reached out to touch his hand; he flinched and shied away and she cursed herself for her boldness. "Whatever your reasons for choosing to live so far from society I would not want to see you turned out onto the street; you must be careful. You were seen last night, and this new man claims to have spotted someone up on the catwalks above the stage. I am only concerned for your safety," she added, and he looked up in surprise.

"Why?" he asked. "Why would you care about me?"

"Because you helped me," Antoinette said honestly. "I owe you my life."

He shook his head. "You owe me nothing, Madame; you have already done more than enough to discharge any debt. Take my advice: never find yourself beholden to anyone. It is not a pleasant position to be in." Unexpectedly-white teeth gnawed at his bloated lip for a moment, and he sighed. "Please, do not think that you must continue to watch over this carcass; I can assure you that I will be quite able to take care of myself now." Turning away he tried to sit up straighter and reach for the dressing gown that hung over the end of the bed; unable to stretch that far he sank back with a groan and she took pity on him, fetching the robe and wrapping it gently around his shoulders, surprised to find that it was an extravagantly-embroidered Oriental piece, with a dragon snaking its way down the back. She wondered whether it had come from the costume stores. Tersely he nodded his thanks, and glanced up at her. "Your daughter will be missing her maman. Go to her; you may return to the world above and cease to think of me."

"I am a mother, Monsieur, and that is why I will not forget you," she told him. "We all need someone to watch over us, some more than others."

"Rehearsals will be starting," he said in reply, picking up a book from the stack beside the bed. "Sorelli needs to work on her jeté, and Mademoiselle Pascal should take some instruction if she hopes to be a successful Juliet. Her upper register is extremely weak; I cannot think why that fool of a manager cast her."

"Perhaps you should offer him your services, if you are so knowledgeable in such matters," Antoinette remarked lightly. He grunted, and then fell silent, his attention apparently on the page before him. She sighed inwardly. "I will leave the food in case you regain your appetite later. May I visit you again, just to see how you are getting on? That dressing will need changing again."

There was no response, and so she made her way to the door and was about to leave when he spoke again, almost making her jump. "You may hold your head up high in this theatre, Madame. Whatever might happen, be assured that the 'Ghost' is watching over you... and your daughter."

Antoinette pondered his words all the way back to the surface, and they were still on her mind at the end of rehearsal.

Though it was reassuring to know that he was concerned for her safety, she could not imagine why she might need protection within the Opera. By now she had decided that her attackers from the previous night were opportunists, taking advantage of a lone woman; with this in mind, for Meg's welfare as much of her own she made arrangements to walk home with Mademoiselle Giroux and the assistant repetiteur, Eugene Reyer, both of whom lived in the same general direction, and she could not believe that 'Joseph' would try to harm her again after what had happened to his friends. He would be long gone by now, and even if the police had taken it into their heads to search for the killer of two vagrants it was highly unlikely that they would consider searching the cellars of the Opera Populaire. She felt a twinge of conscience when she thought of those men, lying dead in the alley, but when she considered the alternative, herself robbed and violated and Meg perhaps orphaned, she could not spare them much more than a prayer for their souls. Shaking her head and telling herself that she wouldn't think of them again, she gathered up her practise scores and cane and turned to leave the rehearsal room to collect Meg; it had been a long day and her daughter was sure to be tired. Meg had been pestering her lately to join the ballet school, but Antoinette kept telling her that she was too young; it was true that Meg was showing promise, but she wanted to wait until her little girl was sure that dancing was in her soul before she committed herself to a life of punishing hard work. With a sigh she realised that since returning to the Opera she had had precious little time to spend with her daughter. Tomorrow was Sunday and a day off; perhaps after visiting Jules's grave they could go for a walk along the Seine and Meg could feed the ducks. She could put last night behind her.

And for the next few days she did, until one evening she found herself the last to leave, locking up the practise room for the night. Humming a tune from Gounod's opera she was about to make her way down the corridor towards the wardrobe when she heard a footstep nearby; she stopped, wondering who would be lurking about down here when rehearsal was done for the day. The step was too heavy to be any of her ballerinas and it certainly did not belong to Sergei, the principal male dancer. "Who's there?" she called, tightening her grip on her cane. "Come out at once!"

There was a pause, and then a figure emerged into the gaslight. Short and stocky, balding already despite his relative youth and with a leer on his brown teeth, he wore a stained stage hand's apron, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow and a coil of rope slung over one shoulder; with one hand he knuckled his forehead, the grin widening. "Evening, Madame," he said, and even if she had not recognised his face despite the shadows in the alley the previous night she would have known his voice anywhere.

Her blood ran cold. It was 'Joseph', the leader of her attackers, and he had apparently found employment at the Populaire.

"It's him, I know it is," she said, pacing the floor of what she had already mentally designated Erik's 'music room', wringing her hands together. He was sitting at the piano, still looking incredibly pale but thankfully stronger than he had been, a disgruntled expression on the half of his face she could see, the other still obscured by a dextrously-knotted scarf. She had arrived at his door, still somewhat agitated after another encounter with the man she now knew as Joseph Buquet, the fly chief's new assistant, in the wings; he did not look pleased to see her, but courteously invited her in and deflected her questions regarding his health with the skill of someone accustomed to revealing very little about themselves. "What is he doing here? Did he somehow inveigle his way into the theatre to follow me?"

With a heavy sigh Erik rubbed a hand over his undamaged features. "I very much doubt such a situation would be possible unless he had been following you for months. The stage manager is a sensible man and does not hire new employees on a whim; it would seem that this Buquet has been working here for nearly a four weeks."

"Then why did you not tell me? Was this what you meant when you said you would be watching over Meg and I?" Antoinette demanded. "How could you let me go back up there without telling me of the danger?"

"There is no danger!" He slammed his hand down on the piano keys and a discordant crash echoed around the room. "Did I not say that you could walk through the theatre without fear? I chose not to tell you because I did not believe such information to be relevant; had I mentioned the man's position within the company you would have done exactly as you are doing now and come down here to pester me. I desire to be left alone, Madame; how many times must I tell you?"

She allowed the noise to die away before she asked tightly, "If you desired solitude so greatly why did you bother to rescue me in the first place? You might have just abandoned me to my fate."

"I don't know," he said, hunching over the instrument and making her wonder if he was in pain. "Evidently the conscience I thought was long dead still stirs somewhere deep within." After a considerable pause he glanced round, fixing her with a gimlet stare. "However, I am still a man who abhors society and has been left no alternative but to make his home so far from the eyes of the world. I have endured it thus far but I do not care for your continued invasion of my solitude. Will you take my assurance that Joseph Buquet will never lay another hand upon you and leave me in peace?"

Antoinette was not sure whether it was fear for herself or for her child that made the next words emerge from her mouth but she wished mere seconds later that she had never uttered them. "How do I know I can trust you?"

His spine stiffened, the fingers that had been resting upon the piano keys clenching into fists. With an obvious effort he got to his feet and paced towards her, drawing himself up as far as possible to his full, intimidating height. "You asked me to trust you, if I recall correctly," he said softly, a definite edge to his voice. "Was I wrong to do so? I have, against my better judgement, allowed you into my home, my sanctuary, more than I have ever before permitted a living soul. Please do not make me think I have made a mistake."

"You can trust me," she replied, meeting his gaze defiantly. "Had I wanted to I could have brought the gendarmes down here at any time over the last few days; I could have easily told Monsieur Duchamps about you but I did not. I gave you my word that I would not reveal the existence of this place and I will stand by that promise."

"You wish me to give my trust and yet you are not willing to do the same?" He laughed bitterly and turned away. "Why should I be surprised? Human nature was ever thus; a monster deserves neither consideration nor respect."

"No!" Antoinette found herself running forwards as he walked with heavy tread back to the piano. Even with only one eye properly visible the pain and vulnerability within had been obvious, if barely for a moment before he successfully fought it down. Images of the gypsy fair and the cage swam into her mind once more. "You must forgive me, Monsieur. I am frightened; frightened for my daughter. If that dreadful man sees her, if – God in heaven I hope he never comes within ten feet of her – he were to lay a hand on her... I would go mad, Monsieur, I swear to you. I cannot bear the thought of him being near us."

Erik had reclaimed his seat on the piano stool; he sat there, as still as a statue, for some time, leaving her anxious and trembling as, she supposed, some punishment for her lack of faith. Eventually he sighed and ran his fingers up the keys in a casual scale. "You need have no fear, Madame. Buquet will never touch your daughter, I promise you that. Can you accept the word of a murderer?"

"I can accept the word of my rescuer," she told him. "What must I do in return?"

She could just see a slight smile turn up the visible corner of his mouth. "I will consider that, though I did warn you never to fall into debt. Go now; leave me be."

Antoinette's feet took her almost automatically towards the door but before she reached it she stopped, fingers resting on the handle. "Please be careful," she said quietly. "Buquet has seen you, and he is making wild claims about the Opera Ghost. I... would not like to see you come to harm."

"I am always careful." Random notes, somehow coming together in a mournful little tune, were teased from the keyboard. "But this man Buquet is an irritant. Do not come down here again, Madame; I have had to increase certain aspects of my security because of him and his nasty habit of poking his nose in where it is not wanted. I should not like you to come to harm either."

"Thank you for the warning. Shall I..." She hesitated again. "...would it be of use to you if I continued to leave a few provisions inside the Rue Scribe gate? I am sure it must be awkward for you to obtain things yourself and the crew are starting to notice their missing luncheon."

She thought she heard a chuckle from him but as both hands were now flitting over the keys and the music was increasing in volume she might have been mistaken. He seemed to be playing by instinct, either from a phenomenal memory or composing as he went for there was no manuscript open on the stand. He inclined his head. "That would be... acceptable."

No more was said, and she reluctantly turned to go, but the music shifted a key and she suddenly recognised the tune as the one he had played on the violin that night at the fair. It had obviously been changed since then, elaborated and extended for the piano, and had lost some of the heart-wrenching immediacy of that long ago performance but it still had the power to move her and she felt tears spring unbidden to her eyes. Erik's eyes were closed, his concentration solely upon the emotions flowing from him into the instrument at his command and doubtless oblivious to the effect it was having on her. Almost without thinking she blurted out, "Will I see you again?"

His hands stilled and the music abruptly stopped, the resulting silence louder than the piano had ever been.

"None of us can see the future, Madame."

Author's Note:

Hello, everyone!

As I said at the start this is a much shorter story, and there's just one chapter left.

I am trying to finish a Christmas tale, but in case I don't get time I would like to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and thank you for reading my literary efforts this year.

See you on the 27th! :)