So sorry for the delay! I had to do a brain dump of the oneshot that was swimming around in my head, and then I was busy, and then I got sick. All is well now.
It was getting tiresome, this waking up with a sense of regret and foreboding.
And with pain! Why did it hurt so much to live here? Today, it was a splitting headache and a malaise so miserable that Josephine briefly wished for death. She barely managed to get out of bed, let alone dressed; the only thing propelling her was the fact that she was to attend her first-ever technical staff meeting that day.
That, of course, hinged on her actually leaving the bedroom to face Erik.
One could argue that her actions the night before had been a mistake. She had been inebriated and thinking about her fiancé when she had first kissed Erik, after all. But one second of contact had been all it took to pull her back to reality, because his lips were...different. Malformed. In truth, the real shock was the fact that he knew how to use them; her stomach fluttered just thinking about it.
This was the pattern, though. A few friendly conversations, a flirtatious touch or kiss, and then suddenly she was sabotaging an engagement or throwing herself at the mercy of an insufferable set designer. And for what? An hour's respite from the dull ache that plagued her day in and out? Though when she put it that way, the reckless trysts started to sound attractive all over again.
But not with Erik, she scolded herself. Not with the man who has essentially held you captive these last three weeks. Surely this was a new low for her.
She winced at that notion as soon as she thought it. He deserved more credit, at least for all that he had done in supporting her professional endeavors.
Also, she had really, really liked kissing him.
And, if she were being honest, she respected his wit and his sharp decisiveness and the fact that he was adept at practically everything besides maybe acting like a normal human being sometimes. He seemed like a decent person, truth be told—except for the fact that, despite all of their progress, he had given no indication of releasing her from that particularly carnal condition of their agreement, which was both insulting and infuriating.
That was it, then. You were drunk and lonely, Josephine. Tell him so. She took a deep breath and flung the bedroom door open, emitting a surprised cry as she nearly collided with the very man she had been thinking of, his knuckles positioned to knock on her door.
"My apologies," he said, appearing equally startled. "I thought you might still be asleep." He squinted to examine her face as clinically as one might inspect silver for signs of tarnishing, taking into consideration—she assumed—her puffy lower eyelids, colorless lips, and tired scowl. "I suspected as much," he said with a frown. "Come with me." He pulled her by the hand to the dining room, where he insisted that she sit.
"Tea and toast," he said, setting the items in front of her. "You need the sustenance. You have a meeting today, after all."
"What are you, my mother?" she grumbled, but she bit into the toast. Erik had coated it with a fine patina of his homemade fig preserves (her favorite), just enough to make the dry bread palatable. She found some of her irritation melting away as the nourishment started to soothe her angry head and stomach.
He sipped his own tea while she breakfasted and cast furtive glances in his direction. He was acting as though nothing had happened. Had she dreamed it? No, she remembered all too well the exhilarating feel of him pulling her onto his lap; in fact, she hoped she was not blushing now. Regardless, if he was going to insult her by pretending that nothing of substance had happened, then perhaps she would do the same.
The meeting room was in a wing of the opera house that she had never dared enter before, used almost exclusively by managers, front of house, and some lead staff. She was relieved to find that she was neither the first nor the last to arrive, and Victor was already there to ease her in and start making introductions. It hardly escaped her notice that the only other woman present was Madame Giry of the corps de ballet.
She had almost convinced herself that she was not completely out of her element when a chorus of boisterous male voices overtook the murmured chatter of the room, and in walked managers Gilles Andre and Richard Firmin with none other than the Vicomte de Chagny. The latter seated himself right next to her, his face lighting up with recognition. "Mlle. Arnaud! You are quite far from the atelier. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
"A change of station, monsieur le vicomte. I am now assisting with set design."
"Is that so? Well, brava! I only regret that I shall not be able to see more of your work when I leave town after this production."
Andre, standing at the head of the table, cleared his throat. "Monsieur le vicomte," he murmured, "we ought to begin, given the time constraints."
"Ah, yes." Raoul spun in his chair to face the manager. "Go ahead, Andre."
"Good morning, all." Andre addressed the room with a tight-lipped smile. "We are pleased to have begun the production of Orpheus and Eurydice with the lot of you and have no doubts that this will prove to be our most successful season yet. Unfortunately, we must first address a matter of some importance that is only tangentially related: the possible return of the madman known as our Opera Ghost."
A shock wave rippled through the room. Josephine momentarily forgot to breathe, her heart pounding as she waited for further explanation.
Monsieur Firmin stood to raise his hands in placation. "Now, we hardly have the evidence to support it. The chief of police informed us of some witness accounts as a mere precaution so that we may proceed with heightened alertness, which is why we now pass the information on to you."
"And what are these witness accounts?" Madame Giry demanded, looking even stiffer than usual.
"One reported a suspicious-looking man wearing a white mask," said Andre, "just a few blocks from here, in broad daylight."
The ballet instructor shook her head. "That hardly sounds like our Phantom. A copycat, perhaps?"
"There was one other report," Firmin added. "Three men, attacked and left for dead the other night in the 14th arrondissement, though all survived. They identified their assailant as having a white half-shell mask." The room was quiet then, and he continued. "We—and the police—do not consider this a serious threat at present, but we tell you now so that you will keep your eyes and ears open in your capacity as lead staff here at the Opera Populaire. We will bolster our security measures, particularly for the performance of Orpheus, and we ask that you not repeat this information to anyone outside of this room."
"That includes my wife," said Raoul, and the atmosphere grew heavier as all eyes shifted to him incredulously. "She has been through enough already," he explained, "and I want her to enjoy her last performance in this opera house. Please."
Andre nodded. "Yes, please report suspicious activity only to myself or to Monsieur Firmin, and we will rely on the police to handle the matter appropriately."
"Not if I get to the bastard first," Raoul muttered, so quietly that Josephine was certain no one but her had heard him.
"Ah, and here comes our Eurydice now!" Andre announced more loudly than was necessary. All eyes went to the doorway, where Christine had entered in a smart, fitted gown of navy and cream striped silk with gold trim and fastenings.
"Oh! My sincerest apologies, messieurs," she said, looking startled. "I did not mean to interrupt; I was looking for my husband, and the secretary sent me here. But what's this I hear about the police?"
"Oh, just taking precautions against thievery," said Andre quickly. "Can never be too careful with the box office, you know. But enough of that! Will you be joining us for a luncheon after the meeting, or must that husband of yours whisk you away too soon?"
Josephine could not help but stare as they chatted. She had seen Christine many times before, but this was the first chance she'd had to study the woman's features up close. Her eyes drifted over the rounded cupid's bow of Christine's lips, her dewy skin, the tiny crinkles on either side of her nose when she laughed merrily at one of Andre's jokes. The arrangement of the striped silk, pulled back and gathered over a bustle, served to emphasize her slightly rounded hips and delicate, poised frame. She could have fooled anyone into believing she'd been born into high society.
And yet...there was something earnest and unassuming about her, something that Josephine knew could only come from humble beginnings. She felt herself drawn in to the woman's loveliness, until she, like many others, began to grow dispirited at the thought of the soprano leaving the opera forever.
Raoul had risen to his feet and taken his wife's hands in his, giving her a peck on the cheek. "All done with your wardrobe engagement, my dear?"
"Yes, just a few measurements taken for my costume. Very quick."
"Then I am afraid we must take our leave," Raoul said to the managers. "Good luck, all. No doubt we will meet again soon."
Christine smiled, still clutching her husband's hand as she voiced and nodded her goodbyes. On her way to the door, her eyes swept across the room and seemed to linger on Josephine, her smile growing in width and warmth at the sight of another young woman. Josephine could not help but smile back.
Later that evening, on the short boat ride home, Josephine waited for Erik to discuss their own enhanced security measures in light of the rumors of his return. Instead, he maintained silence, his gaze focused only on the oar as it cut through the murky water. Surely he had heard said rumors? She had just resolved to speak up when he asked, "I trust you are feeling better?"
"Yes, I am."
"Good." He looked away again.
She exhaled through her nostrils. "Is that it, then? Are you going to keep carrying on like this, as though nothing happened last night?"
"I have done nothing that you were not already doing, Josephine," he said sternly. "I thought it most respectful to follow your lead, or at least wait so you would not be distracted at work."
"And since when did you become a paragon of empathy?" she snapped.
"Since Christine," he replied, "though I would hardly call myself a paragon." His candor both caught her off guard and stung her, though she could not articulate why. She stared at him, imagining the invisible string that would forever tie him to his love.
"Something is bothering you," he observed, "and I do not doubt that last night's events are related."
"Or someone," she grumbled, crossing her arms.
He watched her in silence for a few seconds, and then he said, "I would like to sing an excerpt of the opera for you. Tonight, after supper."
She was unable to hold back her surprise. "I was under the impression that you did not sing anymore."
"I do not," he conceded, "but perhaps it is time that I start again."
Josephine sat on the sofa to watch Erik perform, suddenly feeling nervous and invasive, as though she were intruding on something wholly private.
"Act three, scene one," he announced as he sat down at the organ. "Orpheus has just lost his wife a second time. Now his devastation is twofold, as he knows that he is the one responsible for her death. He cannot carry on any longer."
His fingers flexed above the keys and launched into the introduction. The pipe organ leant a reverent, church-like quality to the piece, in contrast to the string-heavy instrumentation she was so used to hearing from the orchestra. For an aria driven by desolation, it was almost comforting.
And then the melody poured out of him. It swirled around the room, making her breath catch in her chest and permeating her very core: soft, thick, almost palpable grief.
I have lost my Eurydice,
Nothing can equal my sorrow;
Brutal fate! What cruelty!
Nothing can equal my sorrow!
I succumb to my pain!
Without realizing it, she had drawn her knees up to her chest to hug them tightly. She was no musician, but she could feel in her bones that his voice was perfect, both tender and commanding. She shut her eyes against his dark form, relinquishing any attempt to understand how such a historically abrasive person could produce a sound so devastatingly beautiful. Angel of music, indeed.
She kept her eyes closed even after the song finished, reluctant to give up the velvety embrace of his voice. Her face glistened with trails of hot tears that had spilled, unfettered, onto her cheeks. She was unaware of how much time passed as she concentrated on suppressing the lump in her throat.
"Josephine." The word floated on a warm breath into her ear. Erik's hand came to rest on her shoulder, waiting. She drew in one deep, quivering breath and parted her wet lashes to regard the angel of music. He was down on one knee at her side, staring at her with an expectant intensity that made her stomach flip. The deep, rich brown of his left iris gradually darkened from the outside in, creating the illusion of a bottomless cavern that she felt herself falling into.
"Tell me what you felt," he instructed. She tracked the movements of his mouth—dry, cracked lips that fought against the constant asymmetrical pull of a malformed face. Lips that had just uttered the most transcendental sounds she'd ever heard. Lips that had touched hers. She opened her mouth to speak but could not form words.
He pulled her up by her arms to stand with him, his face far too close to hers for comfort. "Tell me," he repeated, "how it made you feel."
She shook her head and looked at her feet. "I cannot."
He cupped her chin with his long fingers and tilted her face back up to him. His eyes seared through her. "Do not fight this," he ordered. "It's time to release whatever it is that has kept you so tightly wound for so long."
"Is that why you sang for me?" she asked accusingly, and he nodded. She jerked her chin away from his grasp, but her bottom lip was trembling now. A few tears began to fall silently, freely, once again. "It made me feel so...so…" She let out the tiniest of whimpers, looking up to him beseechingly.
"It's alright, Josephine."
"So lonely," she whispered. She sank back onto the sofa, and Erik sat by her side, pressing a handkerchief into her hands.
"Would it help you to discuss it?" he asked.
For a brief moment, as she dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief, she considered telling him everything. She had known him less than a month, but he had an unsettling way of seeing straight through her as no one else had done, and she supposed that she would end up divulging her greatest secrets to him in time. She was still angry with how he had baited her, though, and it got the better of her. "No," she said flatly. She swallowed, now determined to wrap up the talk. "But now you have an explanation for last night. I kissed you because I was lonely, and I stopped because you are...not him."
"The fiancé you neglected to mention?"
"Former fiancé."
"You did not stop with the various other men who have tickled your fancy." His voice was now laced with irritation, perhaps even suspicion.
She did not voice her thoughts: Because they were harmless, and in so many ways, you are not. Instead, she replied, "I ought to have stopped. I know better now."
She stared down at her hands, which clasped the wet handkerchief, and noted that a single red rose was embroidered onto a corner of the linen. "What is it with you and roses?" she asked. She had seen them adorning so many of the objects in his home: china, linens, woodwork. "I much prefer the lily of the valley. It's incredibly poisonous, you know." She could hardly keep from talking now, from shoving down the emotions that had risen so dangerously close to the surface. "I admire the fact that such a delicate-looking flower can defend itself so spectacularly."
The corner of Erik's mouth twisted into something like a sad smile, and she recognized the expression in his eyes as one she had seen before. "I admire that about you, too," he said, "but I wish that you did not feel the need to defend yourself so spectacularly."
She took a deep breath and pulled herself to her feet. "Thank you very much for the performance," she said stiffly. "It was a pleasure."
He opened his mouth to protest, but she waved him away and excused herself for the night, practically sprinting toward her room. She could not bear the look that he gave her any longer.
It was pity. Pity from a man met by disgust and hatred his whole life, prevented from sharing his genius with humanity, desperately having failed to win over the one person who could save him. Josephine could only imagine how much he clung to his memories as she subjected him to her own misanthropy. No man who had put everything on the line for the prima donna would ever settle for less.
She had never felt more alone than in that moment.
I used a translation of the opera lyrics here, but they sound much nicer in French.
