Chapter 9

The music called to Erik, even as he tried to resist its siren pull. It had done as long as he could remember: it had always been the surest and the only constant voice in his life. He knew that inevitably he must and would succumb. The Opera Ghost stood across the room, staring at the pipe organ he had built with his own hands. He had been very particular about it – every detail had been meticulously outlined and painstakingly crafted because through it he would bring the music to life. Day and night the music called to him. Always. It was his friend and his tormentor. Now it drew him more than ever. He could almost feel it bubbling up inside him: new melodies and harmonies unfurling with every passing second. It was a dark music, and so he knew he must not succumb to its allure. It was the sort of music that tainted the heart and stained the soul, and it should never be committed to paper, set loose from the confines of his tortured soul.

If he closed his eyes he could picture it: the key, the chord progressions, the notes twining together, one after another. He could almost taste the key change, the accidentals, the sharps and the flats. His long fingers clenched into fists, even as he felt himself surrender to the darkness, the solitude and, above all, the music. It blazed like a living force within him. He never could resist being pulled into it, no matter what else may occupy his mind.

Erik had been sketching at his drafting table when the music had come upon him. It was to be a house, though he didn't know what he could possibly want with a house, when he already had his house by the lake. A dreaded memory had returned to haunt him then, as it often did: a memory that even the clarity granted him by opium had been unable to banish. It clung to him, more vivid than ever. He thought of Mazenderan, of the voices and the faces: another limp body before him on the floor, another face showing nothing but surprise and only the faintest trace of acceptance around the eyes. A very young man, this one – so much unfulfilled potential. But the Sultan had been a fickle master.

Now he was at the organ, though he did not remember sitting down. His gloves lay forgotten on the floor, naked fingers lingering over the keys with all the familiarity of old lovers. Some of the notes were played like a lingering caress, while others were bashed out with all the unrestrained fury that had suddenly awoken within him. Erik did not pause to write the music down on score paper. It soared about him, a tangible thing, though not quite living, enveloping him in its spell.

OOO

The sound caught Hero just as she was about to enter the house by the lake. It snagged and swirled around her, full of frantic madness. Someone was playing the organ. It was like a wall of force, an embodiment of emotions without name. Hero didn't know much about music, but there was something desperate about the melody and the way it would not resolve. It felt wrong, as if it should never have been played. As if it had the potential to kill.

Her stomach twisted with an inexplicable sense of dread and she found that it was difficult to keep her breathing even. She carefully held on to the basket she was carrying because she was not sure she could entirely trust her hands. Hero opened the door and went inside. She felt an odd tingling at the back of her throat, as though she were about to cry, though she did not feel distressed. The music, she realised. It was the music that spoke of desolation and hopelessness.

Setting the basket on the floor, Hero followed the music to a room in which she had never been before. There was a coffin, she noticed with distaste, and dark hangings with the Requiem written on them. Instinctively she made her steps light and careful, though no one would have been able to hear her approach over the cacophony.

The organ was doubtlessly the focal point of the room. It towered unsettlingly with its many glinting pipes, and Hero almost forgot the coffin for looking at it.

Erik sat on a bench by the instrument, and to all appearances he was lost to the world. His hands moved furiously over the manuals, his feet over the pedals, and he did not even notice her approach. There was a glazed look in his eyes, which Hero did not like. She stood next to him, frozen for what felt like a very long time, as she debated what she ought to do. Hero considered trying to disturb him from his apparent delirium, but some instinct told her that that would only make things worse.

Instead she resolved to wait the music out and, as it reached a final crescendo, she felt sure he was trying to make the ceiling collapse over their heads. Something told her she was not meant to be in that room, to witness what was happening before her eyes. She wondered if she should have stopped him after all, but just as suddenly as it had come, the music faded and the Opera Ghost slumped over the keys.

The overtones hung in the hollow chamber after the music had gone; the decay much longer than it should have been.

"Erik?" Hero said gently, approaching him. He lifted his head a little, seemingly unsure where her voice was coming from.

"Circa Regna Tonat…" He whispered, as though not quite seeing her first. Then, he gaze focussed at last. "Leave me!" he barked, but he sounded too weak to be even remotely menacing, and she would have ignored his order either way. Hero rushed to his side, kneeling before him on the bare floor.

"The music – what was that dreadful music?" she demanded, "what were you thinking?"

"Some music is not meant to be heard and should never be written. Circa Regna Tonat…You should not have come here!"

She thought back to her Latin lessons. "Circa Regna Tonat? And thus it thunders round the realm?"

"Yes, so it thunders, that every heart should tremble to hear it!"

Hero was not quite sure what he meant, so she said nothing, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder, which shook from exhaustion. After a moment, he seemed to recover and rose briskly from the bench, swiftly moving away from her.

Unmarried women, after all, did not go into the bedrooms of strange men. Even in his dark cave Erik had to cling to some sense of decorum, some trace of the world above.

Hero rose to her feet also, and looked around. "The Requiem, Erik? I cannot say I think very much of your choice of decoration. And the coffin is ghastly, which is perhaps what you hoped to achieve, but it is also very silly, which I think you did not."

He stared at her strangely, without answering, and she found she could not read the look in his eyes. Something inexplicable hung between them, until Hero grew tired of standing around the depressing room.

"I have brought food," she informed him, moving forward and taking his arm without permission. "I'm very sure that part of your problem is the strange diet you keep, and that simply won't do."

She pulled him out of the room, and went to fetch the basket from where she had left it. Ayesha had already found her way to the food and was sniffing around with her front paws on the lid. Hero picked her up unceremoniously and handed her to Erik.

"Do hold the cat, and we'll see what we can do about finding some ham for her," she instructed with a note of infuriating bossiness in her voice. "Careful – she's in a rather wretched temper."

She proceeded into the kitchen, still talking. "I hope that you can cook a little, Erik, because I have it on good authority that I am very bad at it, and so I will need you to keep an eye on what I'm doing."

"Then do not bother yourself on my account," a voice said reasonably, directly behind her. Hero looked over her shoulder to fix Erik with a disapproving glare, only to find him leaning against the doorframe on the other side of the little kitchen.

"How did you do that?" she asked, lighting the stove with a long match and removing her warm shawl, before moving to cut some ham for the cat.

She could not see his face beneath the black leather mask, but she was certain he was smirking at her.

"I, mademoiselle, am the greatest ventriloquist in the world," he informed her.

She snorted indelicately. "A skill you have clearly been putting to good use around the opera house. This does explain the incorporeal voices in the corridors."

"Yes, it comes in very useful on occasion. Sorelli, for instance, believes that she heard her dead count's voice singing the Kyrie to her in the night." He sounded monumentally proud of his little prank.

Hero's grey eyes met his yellow ones disapprovingly as she moved forward, closer than was strictly necessary, to take Ayesha from him and set her on the table next to a saucer full of tiny cubes of ham.

"Leave Sorelli alone," she told him. Her expression was quite steely.

Hero had been to visit Sorelli with the other girls, and she had glimpsed a photograph of the count on her dressing table. He had been a handsome man nearing middle age, with dark hair, proud aristocratic features and cool eyes, blue or perhaps grey.

"He was always a perfect gentleman to all of us ballet girls," Suzanne later told her. "And that cool look of his would always thaw when he spoke to La Sorelli. Imagine! He used to hold her gaiters for her when she went on stage: she always wore them so as not to dirty her sippers. It is quite a long way down from her dressing room. He never minded in the least."

OOO

After some more pottering about the kitchen, Hero managed boiled potatoes with butter and a creamy mushroom sauce of which she was particularly proud. She'd read the recipe in a book once, long ago, and somehow remembered.

"Now, eat," she told the Opera Ghost imperiously, sitting across the table from him.

She looked very pleased with herself, Erik thought darkly. He eyed the food dubiously.

"I have already told you, I believe, that I do not eat."

"We have already established, I believe, that you do," she countered carelessly. "And don't try telling me that you are already dead, or any such absurdity. I think we have also established, with sufficient certainty, that you have a pulse."

Hero picked up her own silverware and proceeded to eat. After a while, with an audible sigh, Erik picked up his, too, though he still did not touch the food.

"I must say, I did not expect to be able to master something so far advanced as sauce," Hero said after a while.

"You never learned to cook? I have always understood it to be normal practice with young women." This was meant as a barb, but it completely missed its mark.

Hero laughed. "Alas, I lack any inclination towards mastering the culinary arts, monsieur."

"Your mother never taught you?"

This engendered further mirth from his dinner companion. "Oh! No! I daresay mother has never been to the kitchen. She has the loyal services of the best French cook in England. I, myself, was in the kitchen very often as a child. It was, after all, where the cookies were made."

"Somehow, that does not surprise me."

She gave him another mischievous grin. "Ah, I see what you are getting it, Erik, and I will tell you outright that mother's attempts to make a suitably delicate young flower out of me have not seen much success. I harbour no illusions in that direction. Father, on the other hand, knows that it is best to leave me to my own devices – he doesn't stand for coddling or milk-sop misses. After all, I have yet to be embroiled in any scandal and I have never come to any harm."

Erik noticed that she spoke of her family with a comfortable ease that suggested a happy upbringing. He was surprised at the lack of melancholy in her voice, however. He had seen many young women come to the Operato work and study, and almost all had been afflicted with homesickness. Erik himself had never had a reason experience any such thing, but he understood it to be common.

"Do you miss your family?" he asked curiously, watching her as if she were a particularly interesting specimen of some strange new species he'd just discovered.

"Miss them?" Hero repeated, taken by surprise. "Oh, not yet: I was home only recently! And one does enjoy one's self a great deal more without a mother's keen eye on every hoydensh thing one may wish to do. Independence is such a rare commodity, you know." An undeniable chill had descended over the kitchen once she had finished speaking and Hero shot the Opera Ghost a look of some surprise.

"No, mademoiselle, I would not know," he said icily. Too late it occurred to Hero that a man who lived in a house in the fifth basement of the opera house indeed would not know.

"Erik, I – " she began, mortified at having unwittingly hurt him.

"No, keep your pity, mademoiselle, for I want none of it," he cut her off.

"It is not pity. I misspoke and my words have hurt you, and for that I am sorry."

Erik did not know what to say, because he had never had anyone apologise over having wounded his feelings before. He stared at her suspiciously for a long while and there was silence between them.

"I wonder," Erik said at last, tersely, "what your ballet-girls would think if they knew you spend your spare time in the opera cellars, cooking supper for the Ghost."

Hero's eyes flew to his and she laughed. "They would think it a capital story, I expect! Even better than the one about you having a head of flame, or even a number of different heads, which you interchange at will! That one is very popular. Started by a fireman, I am told, though where they found a fireman I'm sure I don't know. Is there one on the staff?"

"They come down to check the cellars and poke their noses where they don't belong."

"And so you thought to scare the poor man with one of your tricks? Well, at least I know you don't just make it a practise to pick on the poor ballet girls, and the chorus."

"Absurd creatures. They scare themselves more than I do them."

"Oh, yes, I know they do. And I didn't for a moment believe you had any interest in stealing the blue silk ribbon Jammes' maman bought her for her hair. I would even go so far as to venture a guess that Jammes might have misplaced it all by herself."

Her eyes sparkled with mirth in a manner Erik thought rather pretty, catching the flickering candlelight.

"Would you, really?" asked Erik in a surprisingly droll voice.

"You are a very fashionable sight, just now, you know. I wonder that you have any spare time at all, with the frantic schedule you must keep to meet all those dancers all over the Opera. I have yet to meet a girl who doesn't claim to run into you at least once a week."

Erik snorted and Hero was sure he was about to say something snide when they heard footsteps in one of the rooms beyond. Erik was instantly on his feet, lithe and deadly, the lasso in his hands.

"Stay here," he ordered, already moving from the room.

Paying no attention to such ridiculous strictures, Hero rose to her feet and followed cautiously behind him. The passageway beyond was unlit, and Hero's dark blue dress blended well with the gloom. Her soft shoes made no noise as she walked.

Erik was already in the doorway of the sitting room and, in another moment, he was gone. Hero hurried after him, and froze incredulously at the sight that met her on the other side. Erik's lasso was around the neck of a tall Persian man, whose turban had been knocked askew in his struggle to free himself. It was, Hero realised, the very same gentleman she had met in the little antique shop, before she had come to work at the Opera.

"Daroga," Erik snarled. "What the devil are you doing here? Have I not told you never to venture into my house uninvited?"

"Release me, Erik," demanded the Persian. His voice was laden with all the irritation of many years' acquaintance. He did not seem particularly distressed at his current predicament. His hands were already moving to pull the lasso over his head. With an irritated sigh of his own, Erik retreated, though he left the other man to remove the lasso himself. As the Persian took in Hero's perplexed form standing in the doorway, his eyes widened. His gaze, travelling from Hero to Erik and back, suddenly held uncharted depths of sadness, frustration and disappointment.

Hero could not understand the horror in his voice as he whispered, "Not again, my friend, surely."

Erik growled something under his breath. "I see you still have as much faith in me as you ever did. No, if you must know, friend. Not again! Not again at all! Not that it's any of your affair, Daroga!"

The Persian's expression now became utterly baffled, as though he were attempting a puzzle the solution for which would always be just a step beyond him.

"I assure you," Erik continued, voice dripping acid, "I have had no hand in abducting this beastly girl!"

Hero started at this. "Abducting?" she repeated in amused bewilderment as she stepped into the room. "No, I should certainly hope not. It would have been the most passive attempt at abduction ever to have taken place!"

The Persian was staring at her now as if she were quite out of her mind, his eyebrows raised. "You are the young lady from the shop. The one with the puzzle box. You'll forgive me, but your name quite escapes me."

"Winterwood," Hero supplied, inclining her head in recognition. She remembered quite well. She had an excellent memory for faces. He had told her about the Opera Ghost and the singer the ghost had loved.

"You have yet to come for the rest of you payment, mademoiselle Winterwood," said the Persian pointedly, still looking around for traces of abduction. He knew too well the persuasive powers of Erik's voice.

Hero smiled wryly. "I have been quite occupied at the Opera. But you needn't worry – I shall come. You have the advantage over me, monsieur. You have my name, but I don't have yours."

"Forgive me! You are quite right. I am Nadir Khan. As you are aware, I am the proprietor of an antique shop here in Paris."

Hero shook his proffered hand politely. She regarded him with unsettling solemnity. "Then I am pleased to formally meet you, monsieur Khan. But I expect you are much more than a humble shopkeeper. When we met previously, you mentioned that you were once a chief of police. And, of course, our current location is not to be ignored."

"Daroga, you know my guest?"

"Erik is trying to make you feel guilty, monsieur Khan, but you need not heed him. I'm not an invited guest either, as Erik will be happy to tell you. I too have quite imposed myself on his hospitality."

Nadir found her conspiratorial smile surprisingly infectious. "The mademoiselle came by my shop not too long ago, Erik, to make a business transaction."

"I see." Erik's voice had lost none of its chill. "And what is it that you want with me, Daroga, that has brought you tramping all over my house?"

Nadir continued to look unperturbed. "I simply came to see how you were. You cannot deny a certain tendency to hole up in here, Erik."

"What you mean is that you have come to see whether I have been behaving myself?" asked Erik snidely.

The Persian shrugged.

"Ah, then you are a friend," said Hero. She pointedly ignored Erik's disdainful snort.

"I like to think so, at least, mademoiselle."

"Well, then I have quite a bone to pick with you, monsieur Khan."

Nadir started.

"You need not look so puzzled: the reason seems quite clear. I must make plain to you your failing in the way of being a friend to Erik. Between spending his time bashing on his piano and harassing Opera staff, it seems Erik has found no time to eat and most likely to sleep, either. While his is certainly an involved social schedule, of the sort that would make a debutante queasy, it seems to me that it is your duty to tell him when he is being a goose."

"Mademoiselle!" roared Erik "You forget yourself!" He did not bother adding that he had not been playing the piano.

Nadir did not flinch at this outburst, though Hero noticed the slight tightening at the corners of his mouth.

"Not at all." The lady gave the Phantom an unruffled little smile and carried on with her scold. "Now, I do, of course, understand that in light of Erik's rather taciturn temperament, it might on occasion be difficult to prevail upon him, so I cannot hold you entirely responsible. But it is a failing none the less, monsieur. Well. Not to worry! Now that I am here, you may expect the situation to be taken well in hand. I find that I am immune to Erik's misanthropy."

The Persian waited for Erik's next explosion and was surprised to witness only a put-upon sigh.

"You had better make no reply to that Daroga. Mademoiselle Winterwood is quite determined to drive me to murder and whatever you say next is certain to push my temper quite over the edge. I suppose, mademoiselle, it will do no good to warn you to keep you nose to your own affairs while you are still in full possession of it?"

"No good at all – and I expect to remain in possession of my nose for quite some time to come. My mother says it's my best feature, you know. It may be my only chance at a respectable match.'' Her eyes were laughing at him again.

Nadir was amused at the strange tableau. He thought that he may well like mademoiselle Winterwood. He had been quite concerned over Erik's return to the Opera, and even more so when Erik had once again taken up his solitude and the mantle of Opera Ghost. Nadir was not getting any younger, and he did not think he was likely to survive another disaster.

Coming down to the fifth basement to check on his old friend, Nadir had not known quite what to expect. His years of close association with Erik had taught him that the Trapdoor Lover was volatile at best. He had certainly not thought to find mademoiselle Winterwood in the middle of Erik's sitting room. And he had not expected that the lady would give him a talking-to for letting Erik carry on as he had always done.

The Daroga wondered what the young woman had meant about taking the situation well in hand, and how she imagined any such sentiment would make him not worry. Still, he reasoned, she seemed aware of the imminent danger in which she placed herself, even if she also seemed entirely unruffled by it. Perhaps some unexpected good might yet come of this curious situation.

All the same, he thought he had better make certain she had not been stolen.

"Are you satisfied, Daroga? Then I'll thank you to be on your way. I have had just about all the company I can stand for one day," the Opera Ghost said coolly.

"Well that won't do!" exclaimed Hero. "Monsieur Khan has not had any refreshments yet. Tea? Or do you prefer coffee? Do have a seat."

She left him in the room with Erik, and they sat in tense silence while the young woman prepared coffee. Nadir wondered if he had done some unexpected harm to an already fragile friendship by questioning mademoiselle Winterwood's presence in the house by the lake. He was unsure whether the friendship could survive much more, though he and Erik seemed somehow irrevocably bound together by their shared past. The Daroga did not like to think of those days.

No, there had been no other way but to question it, he concluded at last, with a reluctant sigh.

He did not get an opportunity to speak with Hero in private until she had reappeared holding a pot of coffee and sent Erik to the kitchen for the cups and biscuits, explaining that she had been unable to locate a tray. Nadir was never certain if she had done so intentionally and he was very surprised when Erik obliged her by going to fetch the cups s she had asked him to do.

"Why are you here, mademoiselle? You do not appear to have been brought to this house against your will. Has he some sort of hold of you? A promise of fame on the opera stage, perhaps?"

She turned her unsettlingly direct gaze on him again, though he thought she seemed genuinely surprised. "The opera stage? How diverting! No, indeed. I think you will find, monsieur, that I am not now nor will I ever be an opera diva. I have neither the voice nor the inclination. As to abductions, I think we are quite clear on that point."

"They why come here, to have tea in the dark with a dangerous recluse? For he is dangerous, mademoiselle, make no mistake."

"I shall have coffee, monsieur. And it is not at all dark." With affected innocence, Hero looked around at the candles.

Nadir frowned, regarding her with the wary eyes of the former head of police. The young lady was much more than she appeared. And he could not begin to guess at what game she might be playing. He could only hope it would not end with the Garnier in flames again.

Erik reappeared at that moment and Nadir had no opportunity to speak further, though his eyes were often thoughtfully fixed on Hero's face. She did not appear to notice, or else chose not to.

"And how do you find your employment at the Opera, mademoiselle?" the Persian asked Hero, as though they were seated in one of the many cafes surrounding the opera house.

"Oh, it's very different from the sort of thing I am used to. So very chaotic! Though I must say, it can be very informative. I think the staff of the National Opera has got to be the most socially informed body in France."

"If you are referring to your ballet friends' penchant for gossip, then it is certainly formidable, even if it is only distantly related to the real world," Erik said dryly.

"They really are much more than you make them out to be, Erik. But yes, I suppose their stories can be a bit farfetched. Since starting work for the costume mistress, I have heard the most unbelievable tales of hauntings and ghosts and eyes glowing in the dark. Very silly – I'm certain there can be no truth in any of it."

"Touche."

Hero bowed her head in acknowledgement, the corners of her mouth curling slightly upwards. "Why, just recently, I heard tell of an upcoming social event – a ball to be held in two weeks' time. I understand the guest list is to be very interesting and tickets near-impossible to get. It is to be the grandest party Paris has seen all year."

"Ah, yes! I know something of that, also!" said Nadir. "A masquerade, if I am not mistaken. Hosted at a chateau just outside of Paris by the Comte de…but I find I cannot recall his name."

"De Chance, I believe," supplied Hero, taking a careful sip of her coffee.

"Yes, that's the one! I have never seen him myself, but I understand he is quite a charming fellow."

"I am confident many would tell you the count is a veritable darling of Paris society."

"And you have had occasion to meet this comte?" Erik asked. Nadir turned to watch the Opera Ghost curiously.

"I have, once. In London." She did not volunteer any more information.

"And I suppose then, you mean to attend this masquerade and see your friend?" There was a curious tension evident in Erik' posture. Hero met his gaze.

"I might, at that. A friend of mine means to procure tickets."

"How very fortunate you are in your friends. Perhaps you had best be off to visit your suitor, then, lest he should decide to escort some other charming companion to the party."

Hero broke off a piece of thin biscuit and popped it in her moth unhurriedly before deigning to answer. "I imagine that if I had such a fickle suitor, I might. Though I also imagine that if I had any suitor at all, he would not be so fickle that I would be so easily ousted from his affections. The gentleman in question, however, is not my suitor. Merely a childhood friend. I can't imagine why you would care, Erik."

Neither could Erik. He supposed it was not at all unusual for young women to be courted by young gentlemen. He had come across enough trysts in the darker corners of the opera to know that. And he could not understand why the idea of mademoiselle Winterwood having such a young man agitated him as much as it did. He had known her for a very short time and, already, she had proven herself completely insufferable. He certainly had no designs of his own upon her: the very notion was laughable. What reason had he to feel irritated?

"You would be mistaken to suppose I care. I have no interest in your private affairs."

This statement was not as true as he would have liked it to be. Perhaps it was simply that he was still suffering from aftershocks following his last disastrous attempt at courtship. After all, hadn't she claimed that her absurd viscount was nothing but a childhood friend? If Hero noticed his sudden stillness, she did not remark upon it.

The conversation moved on and it was a while until Erik spoke again.

"Since you have seen fit to make your way down here, Daroga, I assume you have brought with you what I have written you about?"

Hero watched carefully as Nadir seemed to freeze and stare at his host. There appeared to be some sort of tense, unspoken, debate between the two men. Erik won in the end, however, and the Persian nodded dully, producing a small mahogany box from the pocket of his immaculate frock coat. It was shallow and long, and its outward appearance gave no clue as to the possible contents.

"Erik – " Nadir began, only to be cut off by the other man.

"Not a word, Daroga. I warn you, I am not in the mood to hear you out. I am well aware of your sentiments, and I choose not to heed them. There is nothing else to be said on this point."

Hero watched the box disappear in Erik's pocket, wondering what could have put Nadir Khan so much on edge.

The visit did not last very long past this point, and Nadir was quick to make his excuses and leave. The strange tension between the two men was difficult to ignore and Hero found herself greatly intrigued.