Disclaimer: Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.
Title: Peccata Mundi
Summary: The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.
Assignment 1: The Nightingale
Summary: With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?
Author's Note: This is not going to be the end of Erik and Christine's interaction, for sure. As stated in the note in the first chapter, I do plan to make this a bit of a series. I have yet to figure out just how many installments there will be, but I have written down several ideas for future assignments. Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, and even Raoul will still play major roles. As for this case, there will be an epilogue after this chapter and then a new story will take place. I'm rather excited to start the next part. Erik's past will gradually be revealed and romances will form. I will not say between who or the drama that ensues. Haha, that kinda rhymed. Anyway, back to this section of the assignment!
Section 14
- One More Epitaph
It had been a few days since Erik had left the old instrument shop. He hadn't returned since, and he hadn't seen any of the Daaé's, either. In general, he pretty much hadn't left the comfort of the house since that fateful night. He had given little thought to what had happened—diving into his music like he usually did in between cases. He had been attempting to compose a symphony, claiming it would be his life's work, but had run into a dead end with it. Suddenly he felt inspired once again to write it.
Madame Giry had chided him lightly for running off into the night when he was still recovering from his faint. She made him get right to sleep, which he humbly did, and ended up staying unconscious until the next morning. When he had awoken, he had found her in a much more pleasant mood. She had given subtle hints at how proud and glad she was he had saved Christine right in the knick of time. It made him feel slightly righteous to know he pleased her.
With Meg attending rehearsals diligently and Erik so consumed with the case, they had had little time to actually interact. When they did, though, Meg was all too forward with her elated feelings for his solving the case that she would have tackled him in an embrace if her mother hadn't been there to stop her. Meg was always overjoyed when he finished an assignment. She only overreacted in such a manner when it weighed heavily on him.
There was no doubting that Erik's respect for Madame Giry, Meg, and even Joseph Buquet rose. He felt like he owed them more after witnessing the Daaé reunion. It had touched him, and it still touched him. However, it had faded slightly over the past couple days after he had been confined with his music. Once he set his mind to the task, there was little else that would affect him. He usually grew somewhat cross and intolerant. Not this time. This time, he kept himself in check to take at least an hour out of each day to visit with the other inhabitants.
Today it was over breakfast. He was seated in his usual seat, but without the paper. He had woken up a bit early, and Madame Giry had refused to let him sit with his paper. She said she would bring it out with a tray of food for him to eat. He didn't complain as he normally would have. Why not eat a little something? He decided he could use the energy the rest of the day.
A large bottomed black gown rustled through the doorway, while Madame Giry carried a tray into the dining room. She set it down in front of Erik, spreading the contents out neatly. She set a bowl of oatmeal at the center, the heat still rising from it, and a hardboiled egg to one side. She put the paper and a nice cup of tea to the other side. She had really outdone herself that day. The presentation looked splendid. Erik even swore he heard his stomach grumble in impatience at the sight of the food.
"Thank you," Erik muttered. "It looks delicious."
"I thought I'd put a little extra backbone into preparation today, sir," Madame Giry replied. "It's rare that you actually eat a good breakfast. Why not make it special?"
He smiled at her, knowingly, then looked down at the nourishment. The smell was fantastic, exciting his empty stomach. He picked up the small metal spoon and was ready to dig into the porridge. He stopped midway, though, vaguely aware of Madame Giry's eyes on him. He tried to continue the motion, but he couldn't shake the awkward feeling. Finally he gave up and turned back to his housemate.
"You know, Madame Giry, there is no need to watch over me like I'm a disobedient child," Erik whispered.
"Oh, but there is," she retorted.
"And why is that?"
"Well, sir, I don't believe I've ever witnessed you take a meal so willingly. I just want to be sure that you are not tricking me or that I am not merely imagining things."
She was so serious in what she said that he couldn't help finding it slightly peculiar. He wanted to laugh in mere absurdity. Her earnest look muffled it in his throat, though, before any sound could be produced. He simply nodded and turned back to his food.
"Alright, I guess I can understand that."
Waiting no longer, he dug into the oatmeal. It was nice and warm sliding down his throat. It was of a good consistency, too: not too lumpy, not too smooth. It was perfect, and he was somewhat disappointed when his spoon scrapped against the bottom of the bowl. He cracked the egg next, using a smaller spoon to scoop up its contents. By the end of the meal, he was satisfied and comfortable.
His normal routine kicked in then. He leaned back in the chair with his cup of tea and his open newspaper. Madame Giry cleared the table and cleaned the dishes, while he read. Nothing seemed to amuse him through the first couple of pages. It was the usual news about current events within the community—festivals, performances, marriages, etc. But when he came to around the middle of the paper, he stopped and stared at a small section of the page.
Madame Giry bustled back in to find him motionless and silent. At first she didn't know what to do. She thought perhaps his tea had run out, but it was still halfway filled with liquid. So she cleared her throat and moved on by, pretending to straighten out the laced tablecloth and act disinterested.
"Something interesting catch your eye?"
It was a moment before he answered, but then he mumbled, "Actually, yes. It seems our Monsieur Richeleau has finally been discovered."
Madame Giry stopped, her breath catching in her throat. Her hands nervously intermingled with each other at her bust line. She was always afraid of this part. One wrong word and their cover could be entirely blown. She would be back out on the streets. Meg would leave the ballet and have a spoiled reputation the rest of her life. They would perhaps starve to death. But she was getting ahead of herself.
"What does it say?" she uttered.
"It says he died of a heart attack. The good old police force wouldn't want to print anything that would send the public into chaos."
The breath finally left Madame Giry in a sigh of relief. She went back to straightening the dining area, believing the news to be over. She wouldn't expect Erik to share anything with her, especially if it was in anyway personal. The reason why she knew what she knew about him was purely chance. It was her being present when things happened that she found them out. That was all. There was no confidence. There was no storytelling.
"There is another note in the obituaries, though, that strikes me," Erik continued slowly.
She stopped and looked up again, questioningly.
"It seems a nice old man has finally passed away."
"And who would that be, sir?" she asked emotionlessly.
"Our former employer Monsieur Daaé."
Madame Giry nodded, sensing the grave moment. She set about her task, needing to do something, but slower and gentler this time. She tried to be as quiet as a mouse with only the ticking of the grandfather clock as background noise.
"It reads that he died peacefully in the night from the stopping of his heart. There was no pain."
He folded up the newspaper and set it down on the table. Even though he was only halfway done with it, he didn't feel like flipping through the black and white pages anymore. He believed he owed it to Monsieur Daaé to take a little time to just sit with the moment. He took up his teacup and sipped.
"That's the perfect ending."
"Sir," Madame Giry interrupted, barely above a whisper. "What about the girl? Her father was all that was left of her family, am I not mistaken?"
"No, you are correct." He paused, readjusting his position. "I believe she will live happily in that house with her betroth. Perhaps he has enough money to move them into a nicer house, although that one holds a lot of sentiment." He nodded, more to himself than to her. "Yes, she will be well off. There's no need to worry."
"None at all," Madame Giry agreed.
She side-glanced at him noticing his absent gaze and his furrowed brow. A small smirk came to her lips. She finished with the chore and stood before him properly.
"If I may make a suggestion," she began slowly, gently, "perhaps you should send some sort of card or even a little something to show your sorrow for her loss."
Erik tore his gaze from the far off land of his mind and looked to her. There was a small touch of humor there beneath the seriousness and formality.
"It is a fine suggestion, but no. One of the most important rules for this occupation that I vowed to never break under any circumstances was contact after the fact. I fulfilled my obligation and that is that." He took a swig of tea. "Case closed."
Madame Giry nodded, taking up the empty teacup and saucer. "Whatever you say, sir." She whisked the china off to the kitchen to be cleaned.
Erik stared straight ahead for a moment longer.
"Yes," he stated to himself. "Case closed."