Raoul, spotlight is on you! Tuck your curled hair behind your ears, turn on your insecurities and spite, and do what you do best— have some revelations.
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Raoul
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The sky seen through a port window was that robin blue, still etched with the grey of winter, but, nonetheless, speaking of a burgeoning and forthcoming spring.
I thanked God thrice-times over that today would be my last full day on this stuffy ship.
My leather shoes clapped down the marble staircase as I made my way to one of the many entryways to the decks. The amount of halls— I swore this was the perfect place for Erik. Though, the Phantom of the Steamship was not nearly as fearful of a sobriquet… I gave a short laugh at this before breeching into the crowded saloon, almost garish with the bright early-afternoon light tinging each mahogany surface grey.
The precious war hero, valiant Erik, was a loathsome creature to be near; his presence loomed to fill every inch of the ship and invade my thoughts like a potent mist. Each word he spoke was laced with venom and any movement of his hands sprung violent memories of the murders he had committed with their aid— deft, calculated, gloved in black murder. He disappeared and appeared at will just like the ghost he was at the Populaire, and it was very disconcerting. Somehow, in the deepest hollow of his blackish core, his specter qualities were as irrevocably inbred as his genetic makeup.
That abnormal fluidity in his every movement as if coated in dark waters; the sensuality exuding from the smallest of steps! He never noticed it, never strived for the demeanor, for it was also inbred. He never noticed how women looked at him on this ship, those younger ladies staring him up and down hungrily when they thought no one was watching— following his every move with their eyes, their heads on a turning axis.
But, I saw them watching. I felt my food begin to inch back up my intestines.
That formidable air he gave off, disinterested in all he saw; the mystery of the mask— I watched him unknowingly lure women, beguiled by his cold manner, by the challenge he seemed to be, across a room with the action as innocent and unconcerned as walking over to a window.
They would shake their heads as if ridding themselves of some thought, glance around the room, and then walk away. He did not even see it!
Three times this had occurred.
And, these trances, along with any other instances observed by my disgusted eyes at the openness of the ladies' blind interest, functioned fully to torturously bring forth those cruel times I had watched Christine look at him the same. Don Juan…
As if spurred by the context of my thoughts, a row of three painted ladies that had stood among the steps burbled and convulsed flirtatiously in my direction, following me into the saloon with a less-than-subtle scurry. I nodded pleasantries with a smile, but then continued on a straight path with my eyes staring through every sight.
It was nice to be the focus, the desire, of course… but lamentably realized, my desire was to be with one far away— both physically and mentally. The mystery of Christine only grew with each day, every moment we ever shared on a plaguing reel in my mind.
In my thoughts, a shadow always lurked…
Yes, I suppose Erik had pleasant moments if I stripped any predisposed opinion of him from the judgment. Far more times than I would ever admit vocally, I had found myself struggling profusely to keep my face stoic, to keep the laugh in my throat in the constant stream of his sardonic quips. He was different outside of the Populaire, a man if you only listened to his words…
And yet, then his voice would quickly spread its unearthly, hypnotic timbre to my ears and I would instantly remember its effect on my fiancé, his hands on her in Don Juan, the almost reciprocated ecstasy in response; his lips so gently on hers while I stood in knee deep water and her leading, bold, and loving lips stoutly on his…
My pace quickened. Air— I needed air.
War hero. The only war he fought was the one with his repulsive soul. That demonic siren. Was it a win or loss for him in finding the will to let us free from his grasp— one redeeming, humane act to save his hellish conscience?
But, you knew she did not really want to leave, a horrible voice snickered in my mind. In fact, she went back…
The thought began to shout in my mind from all sides of my head, bringing all the more rage when I reached a window beside an entryway to the deck and settled me eyes on the tall form of my forced companion standing at the railing, garbed in black and burgundy.
The moments he would most torment my mind, somehow, he always managed to show up, unconsciously driving me mad with his impeccable timing.
He turned to his left for a moment. From this angle you could not even see the mask— he appeared as a normal man, a mere passenger on the ship with the same methodical life as every other Frenchman. But, that was a lie; I looked closer with a scrutinizing stare. Even separated by a pane of glass I could see the windows of his eyes, the exuberating pain, the accumulated, century-old culture which must've been from the infinite time of a solitary life, the statuette stance he had freakishly perfected to remain soundless and formidable. A ghost. The fine attire, the unmarred left side of his face… He was still a ghost.
The ghost turned back to the waves.
What had captivated Christine— formed the hold he had over her? Had… has.
The thought dripped bitterly down my throat as I clenched my teeth, picturing what her darting brown eyes must have looked like when seeking him out while I was obliviously sleeping beside emptiness at the inn.
As sudden as my next breath, he whirled to his side again to watch a tiny blonde girl run towards him, a look of mild shock etched upon his face
My shoulders tensed and I searched impulsively for the weapon that was not there. Surely, he would not hurt a child…
I did not know him. I did not know him.
She grabbed his leg in a whirl of straw-colored curls and exasperated, red cheeks and Erik looked down at her with a gentle, distracted smile, a slight curve on those stone lips presumed only capable of forming a sneer. I could not move; I stood at the window, gaping fully as if I had seen the sea roar up, grow a face, and sing soprano.
The monster, who terrorized an opera house, was showing the most fatherly and adoring of affections, bending down now and holding the little bundled doll of a girl upright with a concerned grip.
She was not frightened as she should be. He was not cold or visibly volatile as he should be.
Who was this girl? Never had I seen her! Erik was almost always with Nadir and me. Well, at night he would venture off alone.
There was little time to comprehend, act, or move, for the proceeding events unfurled rather quickly, like a deadly ribbon.
The girl was not right… a sickly pale covering all but her wind-whipped cheeks, no matter how animated her face was in whatever she was proclaiming to him. Even I could sense something was amiss.
There was chatter behind my ear, voices wondering why this man stood at the window as if he would die in stepping away. But, I could not move, I could not!
I watched her face turn from vibrant to slack like a waning moon, and then leaned forward, closer to the window in detached, witnessing fear as her small form collapsed into Erik's arms. Even with only half of his face visible, the emotion… it was broken. He was looking at something broken that he could not fix, and one would think he had been stabbed if they hadn't known any better.
The phantom; dropping a lifeless Buquet down on the rope from the rafters, more than likely killing Piangi just to take his place onstage with Christine, wanting my head in the cemetery, growling as he fastened the rope around my neck tighter, and tighter…
Erik; holding a child delicately in his arms while he checked, more softly than I ever thought those hands capable of, for a pulse, covering her pale figure with his velvet cloak, staring down at her as if his world had been swept from his feet.
Who was he?
A woman in violet skirts whirled past me, gripping the doorway at my left to stop herself from flinging off of the ship, and gasped a name. Vivienne. The girl's name was Vivienne.
A man with blonde hair followed just behind, lingering at the door with a look frighteningly mirroring Erik's at the sight he beheld.
My feet were frozen to the ships carpet, held by steel. This villain… so vulnerable, worried, capable of any feelings at all! The only time I had witnessed this tenderness was right after Christine had… kissed him, before he let me go. There, right then, I had seen a scrap of humanity in him. Yes, he had been very exposed after telling Nadir of Christine's abduction, but, that was the numbness of losing a love, the hatred towards himself for not preventing it. Even then, he would hardly reveal even a sliver of real emotion in my presence.
But, he could not see me right now.
This… I watched him slide the girl, Vivienne, into the presumed mother's arms. He looked at the unconscious child as if she were every piece of goodness of the world, as if he were watching a thief steal it like coveted jewels.
She was not scared of him, she had touched him, and did not recoil in horror from his presence.
She was innocent. All children were innocent.
The girl stirred and Erik visibly let out a large breath, his eyes lightening with relief.
Madame Giry had told me, after the Bal masque, that Erik had never known kindness, and even I had seen how a single kiss dissolved his entire murderous plan.
He had never known. This little girl had touched his heart somehow, just as Christine had. It must have only taken a few days for it to happen— only a few small days for his lonely heart to be touched.
I gulped thinking back to my childhood; the smiling governesses, ample toys and friends to fill the days, loving parents, love in general, as expected and regular as the air I breathed.
What a poor soul to be moved by the innocent kindness of a child. It felt strange thinking the words and did, in no way, change what he had done, but, at the sight of the grown man who had turned to ice by the world's cruelties… the words fit: he was a poor, unfortunate soul. Christine had told me enough times with all of her pure compassion, but now I was actually witnessing it. I winced at the memory, remembering how dismissive I had always been to her about that subject.
The statue-still monster stood with every broken shard of a father watching his daughter wilt before his eyes while the loving parents held their child, him being close to them, yet seeming very far away.
Who was he?
The father hurried back onto the ship with the child while the mother stayed by Erik.
My steps found their way closer to the doorway after the father brushed past and I watched the encounter without the obstruction of glass in-between, the stream of winter's last feeble gusts of air rolling from the waves and into my hair.
If only I could hear their words; the passengers warred in volume with the already noisy-beyond-belief ship.
She was crying, he was still, but nothing of the woman's face was accusatory. He asked something to which she responded, and his eyes darkened and jaw stiffened, the cleft more pronounced, yet not in a threatening manner.
His face… never would I have expected to see so much emotion on a face carved in half.
The mother's words melted into his eyes and left such eloquence that I understood that which I could not hear.
His lips suddenly parted in shock at her next words and I found myself wondering, interested, in what exactly she had said.
His entire existence was a mystery and I was floundering to uncover even the slightest scrap.
The mother hurried past where I stood, tracing the path her husband took with the little girl and bringing wind with her, but I did catch the two words she muttered to herself under her breath; the ones that traveled to my disbelieving ears like an ironic and piercing burst of wind.
"Guardian angel."
Erik
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The steps Madame Beaumont took back into the ships interior seemed to have singed into the ground, and my eyes remained on their path as I absentmindedly played with the tips of my gloved fingers, the wind from the waves whipping at my back.
I knew Raoul was just by the doorway, next to my line of sight, but I did not care.
Let him see the ruthless ghost battered over the concern of a mere five-year old.
Guardian angel…
His eyes followed me with a tangible sear as I strode past where he stood, brushing roughly by his shoulder while keeping my gaze straight forward to the grandfather clock at the far end of the saloon.
"Enjoy the show?"
I heard him cough at my voice thrown back to him, for he knew I was already by the hall leading to our row of cabins.
But, to him, it was whispered into his ear. Ah, ventriloquism. Mindless fun; a diversion scraped at with the fingers of my mind, trying to gain any fleeting satisfaction to fill the empty pit in my stomach.
Guardian angel…
Those two words made my mind curl in on itself, mirroring all of my deceit with Christine. These words were earnestly spoken, just as hers had been… but through the recounts by Vivienne and her own observations, had the mother come to her unfathomable conclusion. No secrets… no pretenses.
I swallowed, closing my eyes just to see green ones, big and bright with youth and fringed with fine gold lashes.
She was sick and weak and dying.
No, that could not be. She had a full stretch of life waiting for her vivacious little self, waiting to see all that she would become! Was the world that cruel?
My fingers could not seem to get a hold on the rickety door handle, and I leaned my head against the door in resignation.
The answer to that question was obvious.
Throwing the brass handle open, now aware of the Vicomte's presence hurrying towards me, I walked to the far wall and rummaged through the drawers by the bed decidedly, pulling out all of our francs. They fluttered to the bed in the scattered pale greens and reds of French currency.
"What are you doing?"
What are the costs of doctors in America? For fine ones… All of it. I would give all of it.
Besides, it was easily reimbursable.
"Erik, where are you putting that?" Raoul's infuriating voice became all the more demanding, and Nadir strolled in with the scent of incensed smoke, joining the fun.
"Ah," I sang without breaking the focus from my task, "Welcome, Daroga."
Methodically I slid the franc notes into various envelopes found in the desk, tucking the flap in for lack of wax, and then tucked them into my vest for the next day.
The ring in the pocket brushed against my knuckle and I shuddered.
At New York's port I would exchange the notes for American currency and give the whole amount to the Beaumont family. The most imperious and renowned doctor would drop his dying patient to help this girl if I had any hand in it.
Nadir's voice came, tired and berating, "That is all we have, my friend. Whatever you are planning—"
"There is no need for explanation. I am not expending for destruction, bribery, blackmail, or whatever else you might imagine."
Raoul opened his mouth and I turned to glare at him with a small, knowing, challenge of a smirk, "Quite the opposite."
"You will find that it will not be missed for long."
Christine
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Though I had just awoken from a three day rest, it happened to be the evening and, under doctor's commands, I was to sleep the rest of the fever's effects off. Granted, I was still unaccountably tired so the task was not truly protested as much as I wished it to be. My whole body felt as if weights kept me in place; I could only move with great effort and was too weak to say much of anything.
A fever… When did fresh air become a vice? I supposed it had been rather cold and my clothes were thin. Well, and I have not really slept much at all before it came on, but, I never felt or recognized the symptoms at the time.
Before my head touched the pillow, after Selina turned the lamplight off and washed the room in an invading darkness, a foreboding thought began to flash in my head like the fire that threatened to destroy the Populaire, sprung by the words of my strange gypsy cabin-mate.
I heard the captain say we were due to reach America within the next twenty-four hours.
Tomorrow we would be in America, the land I had only heard of in stories, the place where unknown threats lie waiting for my presence, the country that I may very well never leave.
The placidity of this travel was only a necessary and forced length of time— a forced length of time where my captors wore civility like a horribly tight hat.
But, when we were to finally reach where they wished to take me I had a frightening feeling that all pretenses would be shed and I would see their monstrosity with a cruel and relentless precision.
My fingers groped at the sheets surrounding me, Selina's steady breathing mocking me in its normalcy as a clock ticks slowly on a mantel.
I fell asleep with a ball of dread wrapped in my stomach and a thousand tar-ringed eyes behind my lids, both of which restlessly promising that soon all of this bearable travel, suspended in a waiting air, would fall with a clap.
Or, rather, a ship's horn.
….
My morning—if you considered noon still morning since I did not wake up until then—consisted of toasted bread, tea and many, many sounds.
Truth be told, I was very thankful that I was still alive. The rise and fall of unconscious sleep did not previously allow me to wallow on the fact of how close to death I had been. Even my dream tried to kill me off on the twenty-fourth— perhaps, that was when my fever was at its worst? Dreams haunt those awake because they always tend to show a glimpse of reality… Somehow, someway, though, I did not let death gleam his reaper and take me away. My situation was not a happy one, no, but while there was a God, I was content with living on His land.
My stomach was too weak to digest much more than plain toasted bread that scratched drily down my throat and unsweetened herbal tea to join it, all brought to me by Selina. It was a strange little arrangement. Neither of us really spoke, but she knew I was grateful, and I knew she was worried. And not just worried for her life.
About the sounds… I was thoroughly surprised I could hear my own thoughts. Talk of our nearing destination had spread like wildfire and there was not one inch of the ship unfilled with the murmurs, hollers, clanking luggage, bustle of skirts, and the muffled stomp of running feet on carpet of every impatient family aboard. One could only wonder what the raucous sounded like when immersed in it as opposed to being holed up in a little cabin room!
So much excitement beyond the door to war with the strength of my growing dread.
"I think the time is overdue for you to change out of that nightdress… four days overdue."
Selina gave a little laugh while picking through her own luggage of red and purple and gold, caressing the garments, and then tucking beneath those colors the blander attire she had been wearing to conform. The bruise on her arm was now tinged with yellow and blue and she had used powder to conceal her black eye. Her life was tied to mine— now that I was healing, she need not worry as much as before when my life hung off of a cliff held only by a hinge.
"Are you too weak to stand?"
"No… No, I think I have been in this bed far too long. I would love nothing more than to just stand up and do something as menial as changing into a dress for the day. No worries, no fevers, everything familiar. Just picking out a dress for the day," I mumbled idly, catching a stretch of pity on Selina's lip. My legs were wobbly from disuse, but I slunk to the tiny washroom connected and drew water in a basin, peeling off my nightdress and washing away the product of every nightmare from my skin.
The next few hours passed by slower than the four days I was bedridden and it was most likely after seeing my blank stare at the wall that Selina handed me one of her books to read. The cover was turquoise and crimson, the pages yellowed and cultured, and I took this beautiful distraction from her fingers with a small, grateful smile. After the first couple pages, though, I learned something quite crucial.
I did not understand a thing.
Yes, it was written in another language, but the pictures were unlike anything I had ever seen before.
Selina's sniff of a laugh forced my head up, and she spoke, "Do not hurt your mind with this. Romany is a very different language. Tarot cards, magic, fortunes, and prophecies… this book has been in my family for a long time. It is sort of a joke, for it contains the extent of what every other culture considers there is to being a gypsy—dirty thieves with crystal balls, but it aids me for when I perform. I—"
An abrupt spurt of pounding resounded on the door and Selina dropped her words, brought down her amused brow, and scurried to open it.
Instinctively, I threw one of the bed's blankets around my shoulders to cover myself, no matter that I was fully dressed.
Besnik stepped in, the shadows of the hall cloaking his heavy form.
With a raspy voice, tinged with eagerness, he spoke, "We are nearing the port."
In fact, he appeared quite pleased with himself for having successfully smuggled me across the Atlantic.
"Meet us on the deck as soon as possible," he smiled, smoothing down his cream coat with jumpy fingers, before beginning to leave. "Oh, and Christine," he turned, the light glaring on his oily hair and yellow teeth, "I have to thank you for your cooperation. It really made the circumstance… much more bearable for you. Given, you almost died," he tilted his head as if looking for his train of thought, "But, that was unforeseen. I am glad you remain with us."
And, with a stretching, greedy smile vocalizing the true motive behind his words, he turned on his heel and walked into the hall.
I looked to Selina, but she was not facing me.
February twenty-seventh, eight days from France; and, now, beyond that wooden door, down to the first level, and onto the deck the foreign lands of America would emerge and pin itself onto each of my dreary thoughts, mocking me with its abrupt arrival into sight.
….
The carriage wobbled, jostling my lowered head as I stared at my skirts, winding my fingers in the fabric; the sea air was still felt there and my nerves seemed to have not yet left the ship's rocking motion.
Back-and-forth, back-and-forth…
It was night when we reached the port. The lights had been blinding, the smells foreign as well as the fashions, but my mind had been in a tunnel. I had barely noticed anything passing by— any jump to my senses at the new surroundings were felt as if in a dream.
This was not a trip. I was not here to see.
I did not know why I was here.
The window of the carriage felt cool against my cheek and I let all of the colors whoosh by my closed lids while trying to ignore Besnik's knees against mine and Yoska's hip touching my own.
The world bled out like ink when I willed it to, and I slipped into that delirious state between mindfulness and sleep, relishing the blankness of it. It did not scare me like it used to.
I welcomed it as one welcomes a coping vice they know will turn on them.
It could have been an hour or more, or even ten minutes, but the wheels eventually stopped with a crackle and the carriage car lurched forward.
The door burst open by the hand of the driver and Besnik nudged me with his knee.
Lifting my skirts, I stepped out and raised my lowered eyes to this final destination, suddenly incredibly weary. The magnitude of the travel's length, of how long I had been away from France, pushed into my chest again, full-fledged, and I practically stumbled backwards.
Coney Isle's Carnival of Freaks was written on a curling banner of black, the words painted white. It hung above the opening to a large red tent, the path to which being lined with all sorts of posters for the attractions. Lights were flaming beneath each, throwing ghastly shadows on the peeling paint that portrayed mystics, contortionists, and even a man with a tail. There was a ticket stand next to the slit in the fabric tent, the glass cracked, and gold tassels hung from a billowing awning.
My eyes widened both in curiosity and fear and I stepped back again, while leaning my torso forward in a strange, contradicting reaction.
Selina trudged into view, took off her hat, and I glanced at her; she was staring at the sight with a look that seemed of suppressed disgust, but familiarity.
The men, along with other strange company, walked around the side of the monolithic tent, dragging me with them without even touching me. It was dark, the forest was growling, and I did not want to be alone on such foreign ground. Also, their unspoken demands sounded louder than those inaudible. Trees crowded heavily to the left as we walked, next to a shadowed grouping of smaller tents placed about in an orderly fashion and bordered by a high-rising fence, but the rush of lapping water was heard distantly to the right. I did vaguely recall seeing a long strip of a beach at one point when the ship had docked at the port. We were in the city, but Coney Island, whatever this place was, was apparently a seaside town.
A fire was burning, shapes moved and wound between the dark village of tents, and Selina went to my side as we inched down the path that led away from the publicly used part of this… carnival, I supposed.
"This is where my clan lives… We're in Coney Island, but this specific area is where we stay as an attraction to the voyagers. You will see—"
"Selina, dear," Yoska snapped, "you have many talents, but I do not believe this knack for talking will bring you many places. Why don't you go help the women with dinner?"
She closed her mouth and looked at me before walking away to where a small group of women sat peeling some type of vegetable. Spices wafted into my nose and I searched in the dark, watching the meandering gypsies live their lives in a culture very alien to me before turning my sight back to the dirt path I tread on, noting how the tips of my wrinkled skirts were being edged with the soil.
Now alone with the three men, fear crept down my arms and I pulled my sleeves up further, disregarding their amused laughs. I was led farther down the dark path silently, past the inhabited area, and to a small tattered tent. Violent urges shook my hands; I wanted to hit them, pound on their chests, call them names I had never once uttered. Hopelessness surged also; I wanted to drop to my knees, lay my head on the dirt, and beg for my life. The night air was seeping into my skin and the sound of their cacophonic breathing brought dread— so much dread! We were close to the city, but I felt as if I were being dragged farther and farther into a jungle where no one would ever find me. Erik and Raoul would never find me! No, I chastised myself, they are not supposed to. This is too dangerous.
That blank place was hard to remain. This was all too real and I could no longer pretend as I had on the ship, telling myself it would loop back around and drop me back off at the opera house, that Erik would be in the music room, or that Raoul would be waiting on the staircase, safe and every aspect normal. No lives in peril. Anything to sweep reality beneath a carpet.
The flaps of the tent tickled my arms while I was thrown in, a sweet odor filled my nostrils, and then, suddenly, the dark blankness descended on me like an embrace.
Erik
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"Thank you, sir." I kept my head bowed, took the American currency into my gloved hand, and then turned back to the remaining throngs of people loading off of the ship.
America. New York. Coney Island— the city's amusement crawling with people, gypsies, anyone setting up their attractions to steal money with cheap tricks that drag parents towards their wandering children and empty their pockets at their child's plead of 'just one more ticket!'
It would be hard to locate Christine…
It would be very easy to earn back the money I was imparting to the Beaumont's.
The place was strange, myriad colors whirling and the sights insurmountable, even slightly fascinating, had I not been so focused on the task at hand.
I knew Daroga and de Chagny were impatient, standing restlessly against a post with the luggage, but I had my own agenda that I intended to stick to.
With impeccable timing, the Beaumont's walked down the ship's ramp, a sleeping Vivienne grasping weakly to her father's neck as he held her on his hip.
I strode over to where they stood blindly searching for where to go next, holding my breath the whole way. Confrontation was usually never face-to-face with me, nor did I ever tend to seek out someone in a friendly way. With Christine, well… there were other motives.
"Monsieur and Madame Beaumont," I called once I was close, the words practically ground out from the unfamiliarity of such civil conversation. The father, Charles, angled his head in my direction very carefully in order to not wake Vivienne with his stubble-lined chin.
Softly, I spoke again,"Take this." I handed the envelope into Marie's, the mother's, free hand and as she took it quizzically, I continued, "I will not hear of any protest, nor will I take it back. My only condition: use it completely for the girl, for the most handsomely priced doctor you can find with it."
Marie's green eyes, flashing with the lights of the city beyond, grew wider each second as she looked at the contents, her hand shaking as she showed her husband.
Before I had blinked, she gave a cry, reached up, and quickly kissed my left cheek, an errant tear smearing onto my face that felt like ice from the air that touched it.
"Monsieur, Erik, my God, how can we ever repay you! We were not sure if we could even afford a doctor here, for the research, but… oh, merci!"
Vivienne woke up as Charles shifted his arm so that he could support her with only one, grabbing my gloved hand in a firm handshake with his free one.
I could not move, breathe, think… Vivienne lifted her lidded eyes drowsily around her, widening them when she saw me.
"Dine with us tonight… I insist." His eyes were careful around me, unnerved by the mask I wore, the fear— but he appeared to mean his words, and by the little laugh he gave, they seemed to surprise him as well. "You have no idea how much this means to us— how much you are helping our family."
I was being treated as a moral human by ones fully blind to all I have done in the past, to how much of a fallen angel I was, but my insides burst with warmth regardless. It flowed freely and tried to wedge its way into all of the darkness, but I knew. I knew one act did not turn me into what they claimed. It merely served to deceive those around who should know better than to trust my capricious ways, the ways that not even I fully controlled.
My left cheek buzzed and right hand thrummed…
But, dine with them, I could not.
"You are most kind for offering, but I do have very important matters to attend to. I will likely be around, though, to make sure all is faring well with your daughter."
Vivienne gave a drowsy frown against her father's chest, "I do have a name."
A low breath of a laugh escaped my lips and Marie gave a sad, though tender smile to her daughter. "Yes Vivienne, we know you do."
Contented, she turned her head to stare right at my mask and spoke in her tiny, though impossibly mature, little voice, eyes earnest and squinted against the lights,"I hope you find your love."
The loving parents nodded a farewell in my direction, some of the tense lines erased from their faces, and then walked away with visibly higher shoulders.
I hope I find her as well, my dear.
Raoul
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"Nadir, where are we sleeping tonight? That was all of our money."
The Persian shrugged with a laugh, "It will not be on the street. He will come up with… something."
Erik had been standing with that family from the ship, and I knew he had given the money to them. The act… was incomprehensible and so separate from who I knew him to be that letting my mind dwell on it brought actual pain to my head.
Now, I knew not where he was; he had disappeared into the crowd piling off of the ship after the family walked away.
The ripping glimpse of him was too recent and strange for me to even associate what I saw as belonging to the same man known as the Phantom of the Opera. How could I, when it contradicted all I had ever witnessed? I will go mad!
That pretense was slipping slowly and fearfully out of memory…
But, then it pulled back into my head rather quickly when Erik materialized near my shoulder, a cold smirk on his lip, and something gripped in his hand hidden partly by his cloak.
He flipped open the piece of leather, pulled the money into his fingers, and then tossed the wallet into shadows with a flick of his wrist.
Tucking it into his vest, he spoke coldly, though his eyes still echoed warmth from whatever must have occurred with the family blessed by his patronage, "Why so quiet? You did plan on sleeping under a roof, did you not?"
The Opera Ghost, with no qualms just as before. All was set right.
Nadir sighed, "Erik, if I had known you would steal the money back, I would not have let you give it away in the first place! What you did was commendable, but—"
"Daroga," he cut, "I am trying out morality for a while. The man I took this from had just finished telling his friend on how he planned to… ravage the virtues of some unsuspecting females that had just entered the park together. Let him try to get in without any money. Now, I cannot say I am torn over his misfortune."
Nadir's eyes widened a fraction, but then settled quickly with a small smile and a shake of his head. He appeared to believe this fully, even seeming as if he were berating himself for not expecting it. "And the friend—"
"—had no money on him."
Erik looked quite pleased with himself.
He had used his frightening qualities for good. My head again swirled and I felt... shamed for wishing him to be a monster. It was easier that way, but what kind of man did that make me to wish it?
"Given," the saintly thief added, "this will only buy rooms for the night, but it buys me time to earn back the rest. I have a feeling Coney Island would enjoy a little magic, don't you agree, Nadir? It was how we met— I am sure you remember."
My eyebrow sailed, "Magic?"
"You said we were to remain unseen," Nadir reasoned as Erik slid the money into his hand, "you will attract too many people."
Erik paused and knit his visible eyebrow to the center, the moon glinting off of his mask and dark hair, "When have I ever not been able to remain unseen?"
"Erik—"Nadir called, but it was to the empty air. Erik was already gone.
.
.
*Erik disappears into a cloud of red smoke after throwing me a note demanding he be allowed to perform legerdemain* Just to clear: though the story assumes Erik's past to have followed Kay's plot, the characters and the events that proceed his arrival to the opera house follow that of Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber's! (if that was not obvious.)
Ease an aspiring writer's mind and leave notes in that lovely blue box down there! You know the drill. ;)
A/N: Though they are in Coney Island, this story is not going to turn into Love Never Dies! I would never be that predictable with the ending... I just found the setting to be an amusing and fitting place for gypsies to bring Christine and decided to borrow it. Hope it did not throw anyone off!