Chapter Eleven: A Lighter Darkness

In awakening, she felt lethargic, but content, as though she had been drugged. She looked only at the air a few feet in front of her, satisfied to study the minuscule motes of dust that floated there, dancing in the light that came from somewhere to her right, she couldn't tell just where. It was only a brightness at the corner of her eye that enabled her to sense the difference between light and dark— everything seemed to be mixed up, intangible and wraith-like, nothing defined. And where there were no certainties, there were no boundaries, and she drifted for several moments in and out of consciousness, like the tide on the seashore.

When memory returned it struck like a lightening bolt.

She sat up immediately, clutching at her head. Wild eyes searched around her, looking for clues as to where she was and what she was doing there—

"Did you enjoy your sleep, mademoiselle?"

Her eyes lighted on him and she clenched her jaw. "You! What did you do to me?"

"I played for you, as I was requested," Erik said, and gave a slight gesture at the organ to demonstrate his claim. He was not seated at the organ bench, but stood in the doorway leading— well, she knew not where. Perhaps the bedroom. And presumably even the Phantom of the Opera possessed a kitchen and a lavatory. The outline of the lair wasn't clear in her mind— she couldn't recall exactly where she had entered—

"You played for me?"

"Yes, mademoiselle Blessing."

"That's not all you did, is it?"

She saw one eyebrow raise.

"Precisely what are you insinuating, mademoiselle?"

"You caused me to pass out somehow."

"Did you expect me to simply lead you to my lair, allowing you to remember the way so that you could come back here anytime you wished? Or perhaps you desired me to bring the organ up to the surface that I might play for you there. I was forced to do something, mademoiselle, and I chose to conduct you to my home asleep, that you would not remember the way."

"Oh yes? Well, I resent it."

He gave her a cold bow. She sat up straighter and rubbed her eyes.

"How long have I been here?"

"Not long— a few hours, perhaps."

This comment caused her to shoot to her feet immediately. Her hair spilled from its loose braids and gathered in tangles and curls about her shoulders. She pushed it away impatiently as it fell into her eyes.

"I must go home at once! Bram may be worried about me."

"Your brother, is this?"

"Yes, monsieur, my brother. My brother who is at home alone, and who needs me to look after him."

"Is not this brother of yours a grown man, mademoiselle? Can he not take care of himself?"

"No, he—" She changed her mind about what she had been going to say, stopped and bit her lip for a moment. "No, he cannot. Kindly lead me up to the surface, monsieur, that I may go home."

Erik paused and looked at her. The expression indicated many things; she guessed at many of them, but knew one for sure.

"Monsieur Erik, if you expect me to perform tasks for you and take duties upon my shoulders, you are going to have to learn to trust me. You cannot simply knock me out every time I come to speak with you. Already it is becoming a very bad habit."

He looked at her a moment longer, and then said, "It is fairly ridiculous to refer to me as monsieur if you are going to call me Erik. Very few people call me Erik, I must tell you— but even fewer call me monsieur."

"I was adding it out of respect," she offered. "It is an honorific, after all."

"I see. But perhaps you will call me simply Erik, from now on."

"Of course, monsieur— of course, Erik. And you may call me Margaret."

His face stiffened slightly, indicating that this was unlikely to happen, but he bowed again anyway, acknowledging the offer.

"And while you may not trust me now," Maggie went on, "perhaps you will learn. I will do what I can for you— I feel compelled to do no less, but I can do no more."

Erik hesitated. He had spent his life in caution, trusting no one, relying on no one— the last person he had put any faith in at all was Christine. He had trusted her with his heart, and she had betrayed him.

Now, though, there was something in Margaret Blessing's eyes that made him nod shortly and turn to go.

He didn't speak, and she stood surprised a moment before following him. As she hurried after him along dank corridors, she thought about what he had said.

He had played for her.

Perhaps that explained this feeling of loss that she had, the first thing she'd felt upon waking up. The first time she heard Erik play she had been awake and alert until the spell of the music took over her— she wanted that again. And now, when he played for her the second time, she had been asleep. She remembered her dreams, pleasant but vague, and the music filtering through them— but she wanted to be awake for it, eyes wide and mind open, welcoming the sensation as an addict welcomes the next fix. Could that be it? Was she addicted to him already, after such a short time?

Addictions and obsessions. Perhaps something they had in common.

She fixed her eyes on Erik's tall, lithe form as he walked swiftly in front of her. He moved silently and quickly, the cape shifting around him like a miniature black ocean of fabric. His shoulders hunched slightly underneath it as though he carried a burden he had borne for far too long. He didn't even glance over his shoulder at her, so sure was he that she would follow unthinkingly wherever he led. Did she really exude that aura of trusting innocence, even after all these years and everything that had happened, even to someone as naturally suspicious as Erik?

They walked quickly past the first of many tunnels, branching off through the labyrinth. The air at the mouth of the tunnel was cold and smelled of brackish water, but to an adventurer the tunnel was alluring, calling to her with the echoes of long-dead voices. Maggie resisted the urge to dart into it, reminding herself that it was her trustworthiness that she wanted to prove. And anyway, she had to get back to Bram— she couldn't afford to get lost now. She concentrated on following as closely as possible.

Someday, she thought, provided life and health was granted to her— someday, she would come down here and discover the secrets of the labyrinth for herself.

It was an audacious thought, and she knew it. To presume that someone, a mere woman at that, could derive the secret places of a man's mind— and she knew the labyrinth for what it was. Every twist, every turn, every backtrack was all representative of the twists and turns and shadowed corners of Erik's mind, for it was Erik who had built this place. And it was Erik, and only Erik, who knew the secrets and could walk without fear into the blackness.

Regardless.

Someday, she would know the secrets, too.

He led her at last to the ground floor, though it took her a while to realize it. It was as pitch black there as it had been in the labyrinth; evidently the sun had long been down, and it was deep night. She walked past Erik's stilled form and tried to find the door. Tried, and failed. She did, however, run into a wall.

"Ow," she said, rubbing at her face. Erik was beside her in an instant.

"Walk with your arm out, to alert you of anything in your path," he said quietly.

"Even with my arm out, I'll still walk into things. I'm afflicted with clumsiness."

He didn't answer, but she felt his fingers take up a hold on her arm, and felt his sure steps leading her towards the door.

"One would think you could see in the dark, monsieur— Erik."

"I can see in the dark," he said quietly, but offered no explanation.

"Is it late?"

"I have very little concept of time. I do not know."

"If it is too late, I will never be able to get a hansom home. They'll think I'm a— never mind what they'll think. They won't pick me up, though."

He had led her to the door. She could just barely make out the outline of the window, the darkness a slightly different shade and texture. She turned her eyes to where his face must be, pictured how he would look as he considered it, strained her vision, but it was useless— it was far too dark to see him. There were few streetlights on this avenue, and none close enough to make any difference at the moment.

His voice startled her slightly when it came.

"I will accompany you home, Margaret."

The feeling of relief that was her immediate reaction was overwhelmed by an incredible sense of delight. Yes, she thought— he could come, and he could meet Bram. She would manage a tea for him if he liked, he did not eat enough—

She stopped the thoughts cold in her head, withdrew and looked at them.

She didn't like them.

They didn't make sense, even to her.

What was she thinking? To invite the Phantom of the Opera into her home like any normal man— and it wasn't even as if it were socially acceptable to have a man in her home at this late hour. The presence of Bram didn't make a difference, on top of which he was almost sure to be asleep. It was ridiculous.

She said as much, in a very low tone of voice.

"Ridiculous, Maggie."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I— I'm sorry, I was not talking to you."

He took in a deep breath and let it out again before he spoke. "Mademoiselle, I would advise you not to begin talking to yourself, especially at your young age. It is a very bad habit and becomes increasingly hard to break."

She laughed slightly. "Do you speak from experience, monsieur?"

"I always speak from experience. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

She perceived a shadowy outline of a hand push open the door, and then there was a lighter darkness, easier for her eyes to penetrate. She felt his hand on her arm still and was grateful for the warmth and firmness of it.

He might have a hold on her mind, but it was her home he was going to.