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**Chapter XIV**

Without music life would be a mistake.
~Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

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Erik drew near the cave of the hidden inlet, near Poseidon's doorway, the surf of the great sea crashing against a barrier of high rocks and lapping beyond, inside the cave, as though to conquer and possess all the land. He felt confident he had escaped notice of the guards, who'd given up their search for the two gypsy runaways. Earlier, when he stood in the deep shadows of a nearby thicket and listened to the soldiers' conversation as they gathered in a manner of relaxed camaraderie, smoking their thin cigarettos, he learned that Don Carlos issued orders to terminate the search. Erik did not presume that the wretched fiend had abandoned his brutal vendetta so easily, and soon learned he was correct: in tribute to the Don's deceased mother, the entire week at the villa was to be held in silence and tribute, in veneration of her. All else had been postponed, and with relief Erik realized he had more time to plan than he first supposed.

Because of his long association with dwellings of gloom, the yawning darkness of the cavern did not deter him. Where some might stumble, he walked with assurance. Hidden crevices others might bypass, his sharp eyes detected. The Phantom of the Opera no longer held sway over his reasoning, but the cunning Opera Ghost of the shadowed theater lingered in his blood.

The chill underground cavern reminded him of the not so distant past, the odors of damp earth and moldering rock vivid reminders of the former life he surrendered, the dark hold he vanquished. Twenty-two years of survival, of remaining hidden, could not so easily be forgotten … Silent voices of the cavern whispered to the outer reaches of his mind, promising safety and ceaseless power if he would again relent, but he steeled himself against their crafty lies. Forces of darkness lurked on this estate of death and fear. Erik sensed them the moment he passed into the Don's domain. But to dwell with Christine, for the sake of his Angel, he would nevermore allow the cloying evil to entrap him within a web of deceit and untold pain.

The rough path at the water's edge led upward in a natural staircase, as he had expected when he first noticed the cave beneath the villa. One stone cliff faced another, a sheer drop-off of several stories stretched in the gap between ledges. With feline grace Erik made a mockery of the danger as he leapt several feet across emptiness and landed on his feet in a crouch. The rafters of the opera house had been his playground, the caverns and their cellars beneath, his home. But he knew relief that Christine wasn't present to observe his acrobatics, for surely his dear Angel would have worried to no end. He knew full well his abilities or lack of them, and would do nothing that might leave her widowed. He intended their union to last a very long lifetime.

He moved higher into the cavern, not the least bit winded, and realized that this past month of inhabiting fresh air, while dwelling in the tender warmth of his beloved's affections, had given him even greater vitality. Christine had been correct in that regard – light and love did bestow more strength than darkness and hatred enacted.

Allowing his thoughts to rest on his wife had been a mistake, as his heart and spirit and body again reminded him of how intensely he missed her. He pushed matters of emotion aside, forcing himself to concentrate on his task.

Further he walked, until he entered a cavernous room of rock and came to a swift halt. Light from a crack high in the wall displayed what lay within: barrels of gunpowder and crates of guns. Pleased with his discovery, Erik investigated. The weapons' make and model were those of a former decade, but seemed in superior condition and no less functional. In another crate he found swords, cutlasses, daggers, a few of the hilts engraved with precious metals, jeweled, and worth a small fortune. Obviously the Don's stockpile.

Seeing several torches propped against a wall, he lit the rag bound over one of them, and noted three tunnels branched from the main chamber. Some passages in the underground caverns he once occupied at the opera house led to natural traps, which gave him the idea to create trapdoors, and he smiled at the scheme that now visited his mind. First, he must find the necessary tools. With caution he took the first passageway, to the left.

Holding the torch before him, he stooped over and made his way along the cramped tunnel. Eventually it led into another chamber with a high ceiling, and Erik straightened. This proved to be a dead end, but as he turned to go, something caught his eye. He thrust the flame toward the ground. A small ruby glowed with clear red fire and lay half hidden in a crack near the rock.

Curious, he picked up the jewel, studied it then ran the flame upward, detecting a crevice in the wall. From it, the rock protruded the slightest measure. His own mastery of devising tricks led him to search with his fingertips, applying pressure to each indentation, each knob of rock, to locate a hidden lever … until he pressed against an oblong protrusion high in the wall. The heavy rasp of moving stone broke the silence.

Grateful his shoulder had attained full recovery since the bullet wound, he propped his torch against the wall and using both hands exerted all effort into heaving the rock. The massive door of stone gave, groaning in its summons after so long untouched. Erik forced it wider. Fetid and stale from a century of disuse, the air rushed out to strangle him.

Instinctively he covered his mouth and nose and stared, his watering eyes going wider at the sight before him. He picked up the torch and pushed it into the room ahead as he swept inside. Miniature claws scuttled away in flight followed by the sound of coins plinking against others as a rat raced across the large chest that held them.

Heavy trunks stood opposite, two of the carved lids flung open to reveal a trove of luminous jewels and costly items of silver and gold. Treasure chests brimmed to spill their lavish contents onto the ground with coins that gleamed golden in the light from his torch. He scooped his hand into the coins of one chest, letting the cold asymmetrical disks fall through his fingers in a golden shower of metal ... Spanish Doubloons. In his extensive quest for instruction he'd read of those swashbucklers of former centuries who made their livelihood pilfering from Spanish galleons and whatever royal vessels possessed the misfortune to sail near their ships. He realized with some amazement he had unearthed a pirate's booty. Conceivably an ancestor of the Don's was as crooked as he.

Erik smiled slyly … the spoils of war. But first, he had a battle to win.

Once he left the room and closed the enormous door of rock, again concealing the treasure, he retraced his steps down the passageway and to the room of weaponry, taking the second tunnel to the right. After a time of wending upward through the confined passage, his efforts were again rewarded as light from his torch picked out a thick arched door of wood ahead. Trying the handle, he found it unlocked and with caution swung it inward. The mustiness of the vast room filled with ceiling high racks of dark, dust-covered bottles revealed that he had reached his goal – the gateway leading to the Don's inner sanctum.

Triumph. At last.

Searching the wine cellar, he found several lengths of rope and other apparatus needed and with grim determination, proceeded to put his plans in motion.

The sound of arguing came from beyond the door that led up to the villa, raised voices drawing closer. Quickly Erik extinguished his torch and concealed himself against the wall, within the deep shadows of a wine rack, just as the heavy door swung open.

His hands tensed around one of the ropes.

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The Dowager Comtesse stared out the curtained window of the rolling carriage that for the second time in over three decades took her to the de Chagny residence. This time, to the inevitable reunion that she did not anticipate nor could she prevent. Across from her, Yvette sat on the bench, undone, wringing her gloved hands in a customary fit of nerves.

"You will speak to him, Helena? And explain the reason for my return? With you to pave the way for me, he is less apt to be annoyed, and I certainly have no wish to compromise his health."

Helena gave a grave nod. "I have said so." Hearing her terse words and seeing the shock on the Comtesse's face, she gentled her voice. "Yvette, do not concern yourself any longer. I will speak with him."

Relief made her sister-in-law relax against the seat with a happy little sigh, as if all her concerns had now evaporated in the mist that surrounded the carriage. "I am so grateful. He has only ever spoken well of you on those occasions that your name was mentioned. He admires you a great deal, my dear."

Helena gave no favor of a reply, feeling less than charitable at the moment. She returned her solemn gaze to the looming facade of the manor as the next minutes unfolded before her with inexorable swiftness: The carriage rolled to a stop. The footman helped them to alight. The somber maid showed Helena to the bedchamber where she first stayed when, weary of finding excuses and choosing to lay aside past offenses, she accepted Yvette's invitation only a short two months before. Had it really only been two months?

She completed her toilette, having whisked away Yvette's offer of a personal maid to attend her. At her command, her own lady's maid had stayed behind at Le Manoir de Blanc La Rose, Helena not desiring Marian's presence or trusting it. Indifferent to her snub at foolish convention, Helena told Yvette she was too old to be bothered with what the rest of the gentry thought, though she was but four years Yvette's senior. Now she felt like a pathetic imposter in light of how her stomach quavered as she left the room, and wished she could summon a morsel of her usual fortitude.

The Comte's man, Claude, exited the sitting room leading to the bedchamber just as Helena came into view. "My lady." He nodded in austere deference to her station. "The Comtesse told me to expect you. I have related the information to his lordship."

"Is he presently engaged?" Helena noted the tray and silver decanter he carried. "If he is indisposed to a meeting, I shall speak with him at a more convenient time." She half hoped he would respond to her unspoken plea and advise her to go; even better, never to return. Though, of course, he would never speak to her thus.

"He is faring well today and has made a remarkable recovery. He's just partaken of his morning chocolat and expressed his desire to see you." Claude opened the door for her, leaving Helena marooned and without further excuses. Head held high, she waited as he announced her then stepped inside the unfamiliar room, keeping near the door, while the manservant closed it behind her.

Sitting up in a four-poster bed, the shell of a ghost in a long nightshirt regarded her, a far cry from the suave and stalwart gentleman in elegant clothing she'd once known. Unable to hide her shock, she stared, her first occasion to see him since the onset of his lengthy illness. On her previous visit, in a manor with so many rooms, it had been no great difficulty to avoid him when custom didn't demand otherwise. Once his illness struck, she made a viable excuse not to visit his rooms, pleading a headache the one time Yvette asked for her company. With nowhere left to run, she moved forward and faced him.

"Helena. You have come."

"Monsieur le Comte, I had little choice."

Her impromptu words made him laugh, the sound hollow and painful. But she noted the steely glow in his eyes had not diminished, that he was, indeed, the same man, if not in body, in soul. And she reasoned his spirit was as indomitable as always.

"You never did cater to the hypocrisy of keeping up appearances," he stated. "Nor did you give a fig what anyone else thought. And now you stand on senseless formality?"

"It makes sense to me, and people do change."

He clicked his tongue. "Regrettably, they do."

"I am here to speak on behalf of Yvette."

"And that is a consummate paradox, indeed." His eyebrows lifted slightly. "Pray, good lady, continue. I am in need of amusement. Why has my wife sent you to me in her stead?"

Once more ignoring his taunt, this time with greater effort, she spoke her piece. "The Comtesse is concerned that you may not receive her arrival with good grace. She expressed the desire to return to the manor, to assure herself of your well being – as no message with regard to your health has been forthcoming, be it improved or otherwise." She paused, to let that sink into his thick skull. "Since nothing I could say would alter the course of her decision, in all good conscience I could not permit her to travel unescorted in such perilous times as these."

"You have my gratitude." His behavior mellowed a degree. "On occasion she tends to lean toward the melodramatic, as you no doubt have noticed. But you've been a good friend to her. You have come to care about her, as have I."

"Yes." Helena closed her eyes in brief acceptance. "I consider her as dear as a sister."

"How fortunate she is to have so worthy a champion for her cause."

She pressed her lips together. "Since you have nothing better to do than mock me, Monsieur le Comte, I will go." Before she could make it to the door, he stopped her with his quiet words.

"Do you ever think about the past, Helena? About us?"

Vexed by the sudden emotion she heard beyond his low, probing query, she again faced him, any pretense of cool detachment blown to bits with his directness. "We agreed never to speak of such things, never even to imagine them." Her voice shook with the struggle to keep her words calm. "After all these years, why choose now to break the silence?"

"When a man lies on his deathbed, he is given vast opportunity to evaluate his life and wonder what he could have improved, what he could have changed. How circumstances might have altered matters had he chosen differently."

"Deathbed, indeed." She waved his words aside. "Your servant said you are much improved. Lord knows your arrogance has not abandoned you."

Again he lifted his eyebrows in mock response. "I suppose I should find some satisfaction that you've at least chosen to dispense with the charade of formalities. And yet, your hostility is no more than I deserve." He sighed in sad acceptance, staring at the brown satin coverlet at his waist. "For a time, I did lay at death's door, the grim reaper standing at its very threshold. When the pain became intolerable, I thought of those days by the lakeside, and the night when first we met ... Do you remember?" He looked up at her, his expression the slightest bit hopeful.

"Would that I could forget! You dare speak to me of matters long buried and put to rest? Leave them be, I say. You are the one who couldn't tolerate even the merest breath of scandal."

He hesitated. "A man can change. And what harm can result in two acquaintances reminiscing over the past? Come now; let us at least be civil toward one another, Helena. Surely, with the advancement of so many years we can forget harsh times and begin anew? We were once friends…"

Friends. She could not believe his gall. Nor could she bear any more of his fond inducements to acknowledge ghostly illusions lost to the channels of time. Making a decision to concede to his wishes, to punish him for refusing to honor hers, she spoke of what he did not deserve to know.

"He is alive."

The air crackled with the silence that ensued.

"Who?" His hoarse whisper belied his play at ignorance.

"You know very well who." She frowned as a thought took hold. "But then, you've known for some time, haven't you, Edward?" She approached his bedside. "It was you who offered your patronage to unqualified managers of an opera house that suffered financial and physical disasters for three years – a generous if risky venture, and one uncustomary of the shrewd and greatly feared businessman Comte de Chagny!"

"I boast no hidden objectives. Raoul's request enticed Yvette, and I gave in to her whims to support the theater. But why should I give you account for my actions or my reasons? I fail to understand what that has to do with …"

She looked hard at him and noted the moment revelation dawned in his eyes. His mouth parted in horror.

"You cannot seriously believe that he and that phantom, or ghost, or whatever he calls himself these days are one in the same? According to Raoul, the fiend has committed cold-blooded murder, even as a child! I refuse to consider the likelihood that such a beast could bear the blood of nobles."

"What a pompous ass you are," she hissed, ignoring how his eyes sparked like flint at her condemning words. "If he committed any crimes, then we are the fiends and beasts who must bear our portion of blame for the fate he has suffered. Our penance is just, never can we atone for the sins we made. His crimes were wrought in passion. Ours were committed with cold-minded logic. He was but a child, such a very small child …" A special child, the gypsy had foretold.

"You forget yourself, I did not give him away."

His fierce verbal blow winded her spirit after all she had suffered, after all he knew she had suffered. She drew a sharp breath in shattered pain though she recognized instant contrition in his eyes.

"Helena …"

"I would never have released him from my arms that night, had I but known," she declared quietly. Tears rose to blind her and she blinked them from her lashes. "I was deceived. All these years I thought him dead ..." She firmed her shoulders, refusing to dwell on a past that could never heal, loath that he see her broken. "You are hardly one to profess innocence, Monsieur le Comte." The spite withheld for decades cut a brittle edge to his title, which she deliberately stressed. "You bear your own sins in this matter."

"Granted." He let out a protracted and weary breath. "We were both so young, so naive and foolish in many ways. If I had it to do all over …"

"What? What would you have done? You would have chosen differently?" She scoffed. "Do not dare tell me such lies! Knowing how your father's damnable wishes shaped your own, knowing what you know about him … even now you shrink from the possibility of scandal and rejection by the pretentious snobs of our class who are no better than most. I heard how you treated poor Raoul when he spoke to you of his feelings for Miss Daae."

"An encounter I've come to regret. Despite what he may have told you, I never wanted to hurt the boy." Frustration glinted in his eyes, turning them almost black. "What would you have me say, Helena? What would you have me do? How can I make you see that I am a changed man?"

She shook her head, uncertain of how to answer. Uncertain if she could believe him. Uncertain of what she, herself, wanted. Fatigued of arguing she calmed, the eruption of her wrath collapsing in a well of long endured misery.

"Allow your family to benefit from any such change, if indeed it does exist, as is their right. Don't be so swift to condemn Raoul for presumed faults of far less significance to those you bore at his age. And be good to Yvette. She cares deeply for you."

He briefly closed his eyes, affected by her quiet counsel, and nodded in resignation. "Tell me. I must know. Have you proof to support your claim that he does indeed live?"

"If I told you no, would you say that I'm imagining things, that I'm not thinking clearly? Or perhaps that I'm only haunted, and rightly so?" She repeated his words from what seemed a lifetime ago.

He only looked at her with grave regard and she sighed, relenting.

"I've spoken in depth with Raoul about the man he seeks to capture. I cannot fathom how he could be anyone else. That might sound foolish. It is hardly the proof you require. But in my heart, I know it must be him."

"Raoul …" The Comte winced in pain. "He has no knowledge of this?"

"I have told him nothing. Nor do I wish Yvette to know everything. I have no desire to cause her grief." Had the Comtesse known of the deep-rooted secrets discussed behind closed doors, secrets set in motion long before Yvette met the Comte, Helena felt it might destroy her childlike spirit. "Regardless, I want my son back at Whiterose, where he belongs."

His eyes grew studied, somber, as if in deep deliberation. "Very well, Helena. With revolutionaries running amok in Paris, I'm not certain what I can do, if indeed I have any power at all. But I shall have my man make private inquiries into the matter. If need be, once this accursed conflict ends, I'll hire a detective to conduct a thorough investigation." He stared at her as if the thought had only just struck him, and his next words came staggered. "If he is … who you say he is …"

"Then all things must change."

Her eyes defied him to deny it, but he only looked away.

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