A/N: Hello, readers! Chapter 14 is here! Surprisingly, neither Erik nor Juliet are featured directly throughout the entirety of this chapter.
Meg Giry drew her hood far over her face, casting a quick glance down both sides of the street before stepping out with a handful of letters. Ever since the Opera House fire, she hadn't been out of the house much. Part of it was because she was supposed to be in mourning for those lost in the fire, and the other part was Gaston. She was terrified he would sense her connection to Juliet and Erik's disappearance and attempt to do her harm. Her mother regularly checked up on Monsieur Khan to make certain he was unharmed. Thus far, Christmas had come and gone without incident. It was New Year's Eve and there would be no party this year.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Delacleur!" Meg said brightly, handing the friendly old postmaster the letters. He had thin, pure white hair, finely wrinkled skin, a pair of pince-nez glasses perched upon a long, straight nose, and a beaming smile that never seemed to dim at any time of the day.
"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Giry," he said kindly, executing a funny little bow. "A letter came for you this morning, all the way from Normandy!"
Meg tried her hardest not to jump up and down for joy. It was from Juliet. It had to be. "Merci, Monsieur. Happy New Year's!" She waved goodbye to him and hurried home, clutching the cream colored envelope to her chest protectively. As ever, it felt to her like there was a pair of eyes watching her all the way home. However, when she turned around there was never anyone there.
When she got home, she immediately sought her mother. "Mama, there's a letter from Juliet!" she exclaimed happily, sliding her fingernail under the edge of the envelope. Her mother looked over her shoulder.
"It's addressed to you, shall I avert my eyes in the case that it contains gossip unfit for a mother's eyes?" she teased her daughter gently. Meg laughed and waved her off, pulling the letter from the envelope and unfolding it. Her eyes quickly scanned the words, stopping completely at the part that spoke of Juliet kissing Erik at a Christmas party.
"Mama!" she called. Her mother came running, a worried frown creasing her forehead.
"What is it, Meg? Is something wrong?" she asked urgently.
"No, no," Meg shook her head, passing the letter over and pointing to the phrase. Her mother read it quickly, a rare, genuine smile spreading across her face.
"It's about time!" she exclaimed. "I was wondering when this would happen, though I think I expected Erik to make the first move. It's a shame her father has such a problem with it, though. I believe I may have unintentionally communicated the wrong message about Erik to him. Give him time, I think that's the only thing that will help."
"I'll write her back now, I just wish we could talk about this face to face," Meg said, turning to make her way to her room.
Dear Juliet,
You were right, it reached me on New Year's Eve. I hope your holiday season was full of joy and I'm sorry we couldn't spend it together. Making gingerbread cookies alone isn't nearly as much fun as it is with a friend.
Speaking of joy, my goodness! You and Erik, together! It came as quite the surprise to me, but mother says she's been expecting it to happen. I'm happy for you, as is she. A more wholehearted gentleman you will never find.
As far as your father goes... to be honest, I'm not quite sure what to say. Mother says give it time. I think time and subtle nudging in the right direction should help at least a little.
As far as he (I won't say the name either, you can't be too careful) goes, it's been quiet. Perhaps a bit too quiet. I'll keep an ear and an eye open.
Write soon!
Yours,
Meg Giry
Meg finished the letter and folded it carefully, ruffling both hands through her hair and closing her eyes when she was done. She hoped there wouldn't be any trouble from Gaston, but that would be far and away too good to be true.
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Nadir Khan didn't know quite what possessed him to go to the post office on New Year's Eve. Maybe it was in anticipation of a letter from a friend in Persia, surprisingly he did still have at least a few of those, perhaps it was because he needed an excuse to think about something other than Gaston Rosseau. He knew he had seen him clearly during the underground confrontation and Nadir imagined that it would only be a matter of time before the young man decided to come after him for information on Erik's whereabouts.
He buried himself deeply into his coat as he walked, guarding himself against the bitter wind. Halfway to the post office, he had no time to react when a hand shot out from the alley he was passing and threw him against the wall. A huff of breath was forced from his lungs by the hands that held him tightly against the rough bricks. "I haven't got any money if that's what you're after," he panted.
"Money? No, I have quite enough of that, thank you," a voice like abrasive silk invaded his ear and Nadir shivered, he knew that voice. Only one person had a voice like that.
"What do you want from me, Gaston?" Nadir asked, attempting to betray no emotions whatsoever.
"Oh, I wouldn't play ignorant if I were you, Monsieur," the former leading man snarled. "Not if you value your life to any degree." Nadir didn't doubt that the statement was anything less than a promise. At this point, he was sure Gaston was willing to do just about anything to exact his revenge.
Still, he wasn't about to endanger Erik and Juliet. "You'll have to be a bit more specific than that, I'm afraid. Not as sharp as I used to be, you see," he said airily, feeling his rocketing pulse betray him. The madman wasn't fooled in the slightest. His hold tightened on Nadir's arm enough to ensure there would be bruising the next morning.
"You were there, you saw that damned Opera Ghost make off with Juliet Leroux," he said, a strange gleam entering his eyes that made him look positively deranged. "In fact, you helped them escape. You know where they went and you're going to tell me where."
"What if I told you I haven't the faintest idea where they are?" Nadir lied easily. He prided himself greatly on his poker face and used it to his advantage in this situation. "I saw them leave, but they didn't tell me where they were going."
Gaston grunted in frustration when he realized Nadir wasn't going to yield any useful information at that current moment. "This isn't the last you'll hear from me, Persian," he barked, releasing him and slinking away angrily.
"You've read a few too many adventure novels, Monsieur Rosseau," Nadir called after the enraged young man, feeling his stomach sink low in his abdomen. When he was out of sight, a long sigh heaved from deep in the Persian's chest and he slumped against the wall as though all his energy had suddenly drained out of him. "Oh Erik, Juliet," he muttered quietly. "Please be constantly on your guard, won't you?"
In the post office, he got Monsieur Delacleur's attention. "Oh, hello Monsieur Khan," he said brightly. "How are you this morning? You look a bit pale, I hope you're not ill."
Nadir forced a smile and shook his head, clasping his hands together to stop them shaking. "No, I don't think I'm ill, Monsieur Delacleur. Thanks much for your concern, though. Is there any post for me this morning?" The old man nodded and disappeared behind the counter for a moment, bringing a letter up with him.
"Yes, there is one, all the way from Normandy," he said, handing him the crisp envelope. There wasn't a return address, but there wouldn't need to be. It could only be Juliet, since she was presumed dead in Paris. He tried hard not to show that he was equal parts overjoyed and worried out of his mind for what he might read in the letter.
"Thank you, Monsieur. Have a good New Year's Eve," Nadir bid him a hasty goodbye and stepped outside, hailing a carriage. He wanted to get home as fast as he could, and was not eager to go walking alone again.
Back at his flat, he stepped inside quickly after paying the driver and slid the blade of his pocketknife under the seal of the envelope. He couldn't get the letter out fast enough and read it, eyes whizzing across the paper. He sighed with relief and a broad smile crossed his face halfway through the letter. He wanted to cry out with relief. They were both safe and in love no less!
He chuckled, dropping into the seat of his writing desk. "Erik, you're a lucky man. I hope you know that." He composed a letter to Juliet.
Dear Juliet,
I'm well, and I'm glad you and Erik are doing well. To be honest, I've been worrying about you. Don't you dare tell Erik I said that, though.
I think I would call that 'in love.' You've been looking at each other in a way that suggested you were smitten for some time. But, congratulations nonetheless. It's wonderful to hear about new love.
As for your father, I'm sorry to hear that. He sounds, to me anyway, like a very stubborn man who loves his daughter very much and wants the best for her. I think he needs to see that you and Erik are happy together and that you're truly in love. Easier said than done to convince him, I'm sure.
Funny you should mention him. Had I gotten this letter yesterday, I would say everything is unusually quiet. Today, however, I had a bit of a run-in with him. He demanded to know where you two were. I didn't tell him, and I don't intend to. What you must understand now is that he is obsessed with finding the two of you and he's hell-bent on it. I would advise you to be very careful for the time being. I don't want him to get to either of you because it would spell disaster. He's mad, Juliet, and has nothing to lose. That makes him doubly dangerous.
Please, be careful. And have a good start to the new year. I remain,
Yours sincerely,
Nadir Khan
He folded the letter and put it in an envelope. He'd mail it later in the day, when he wasn't so afraid to go out of the house.
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Gaston snarled to himself as he paced back and forth in his flat. The Persian was too loyal to give him information under any pressure. He could probably threaten him with death and still not get a thing out of him. No, he was far too loyal to his freak of a friend, though Gaston couldn't imagine that one could actually be 'friends' with a monster.
"I'm trying, Philippe, Armel, I promise you that," he whispered, laying on the couch and rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He needed a new plan, that was certain. But what could it possibly be?
Come on, Gaston, think, he thought, screwing his eyes shut and breathing in and out slowly, nearly putting himself in a trance. There has to be someone who can tell me where they are. For at least an hour, he wracked his brains for the answer, spending a long time staring at the ceiling as though the perfect answer might come floating down from the heavens and present itself to him. Of course, it didn't. Gaston had spent enough time doing that after his brother's death to know it wouldn't.
The fates must have been feeling especially kind that day, however, for suddenly he had the perfect answer.
How had it taken him so long to think of it?
It was perfect, and would've been so much easier than messing about with the Persian.
Leaping up, he was pulling his coat on as he rushed out the door. He was looking for a man he'd met during one of his long stints in the bar recently. The man was an ex-soldier and had a talent for pulling off perfect crimes, specifically kidnapping, without any detection whatsoever. They'd ended up talking about how life had dealt them unfair deals and Gaston had spilled about his problem with the Opera Ghost and Juliet. The man had told him that if he ever needed help with what he was doing, he'd help him for a sum of money.
Gaston was short of many things, money was absolutely not one of them.
After about an hour of searching, he found the man leaning against the front of a convenience store and smoking copiously. Gaston slid next to him and pulled out a cigarette of his own, lighting it and taking a long pull. "Are you still open to doing a little work for me?" he muttered out the side of his mouth.
The man exhaled a long ribbon of smoke before answering. "Depends on how much you're offering," he replied nonchalantly, readjusting the hat on his head.
Gaston pulled a sizable bag of coins, the exact amount was unknown to him, and shook it lightly, just enough to make the satisfying clink of coins hitting against each other audible. "Does that sound like it would be enough for you?"
The man's eyes widened just a little, clouding with greed and he leaned forward, his breath rasping in his throat eagerly. "Possibly, Monsieur, depending on what the job is."
Gaston leaned in still further. "I need you to bring me someone who may have the information I need."
"Mm, and exactly how well-known or important is this person?"
"It all depends on your point of view. Her mother is quite well-known."
"Female? That's a different sort of job, Monsieur. There are significant differences in kidnapping a woman as opposed to a man. Not necessarily more dangerous, but certainly more tedious. Women tend to be more alert than men when they're alone."
Gaston sighed, extracting another, smaller, bag of money from his pocket and tossing it over. He had suspected that he might run into a problem like this. This veteran was like almost any other human being in existence. This meant he was greedy and always looking for a way to get more money out of a situation. The man nodded approvingly and stuck it in his pocket next to the other one.
"Will that be enough?"
"Yes, I believe so. Your generosity is appreciated greatly, Monsieur. I just have one question now."
"And the question is?"
"Who is it exactly that I'm supposed to be finding? You never did give me a name."
Gaston grinned conspiratorially. "Have you ever heard of Meg Giry?"
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André Leroux sat alone at a café, stirring a spoon idly in his coffee. The cream had been long since evenly distributed, but André was a nervous stirrer by nature and this upcoming meeting was doing nothing for his bad habit. So, the cream continued to take an unintentionally harsh beating. He hoped that setting up this meeting hadn't been a mistake, most of him thought it was a good idea, but a small part of him kept stubbornly telling him it was none of his business to interfere.
"Monsieur Leroux?" A voice caused him to look up. A young man stood hesitantly next to the table. He had dark blonde hair, bluish-green eyes, and a slight, yet well-built frame. His nervous smile caused two identical dimples to appear on his cheeks.
André looked up and smiled, attempting to put the boy at ease. "Ah yes, Tristan. You've grown a bit since I properly saw you last." His last statement appeared to break the ice a bit, Tristan's shoulders loosened up and he pulled the chair out to sit down. He had yet to lose his teenage gangly limbs and still moved a bit awkwardly.
"I should expect so, the last time you really saw me I was eleven," he chuckled, drawing the menu in front of himself and examining his options. André waited until he had made a decision and called a waiter over to order before he spoke again.
"Goodness, has it really been that long? How time flies! I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, since Juliet's grown up too." He paused for effect. "You haven't seen much of Juliet either since then, have you?"
Tristan shook his head. "Not until the Christmas party. Now that I think about it, she was always gone so much that I hadn't seen her since we were barely teenagers. Though, I didn't see her for too long that night either. She introduced me to her friend, I forget his name now, and hurried away to talk to someone else."
The interruption of the waiter bringing coffee for Tristan gave André time to take a sip of his own drink and wash the bad taste out of his mouth that invariably came along with mention of him. "Oh, yes. Erik. Tell me, what did you think of him?"
One shoulder raised and lowered in careful indifference. "I don't think I can truthfully answer that question. I only met him briefly. He seems very quiet and introverted, but I'm sure it was the nerves of being somewhere unfamiliar. The mask was interesting, I'll say that. But, if he's a friend of Juliet's, I'm sure he's a perfectly upstanding gentleman."
André saw his chance and leapt on it like a cat upon a fat mouse, throwing any caution he had straight out the window. "And that is where we run into discrepancy. I've had the rather dubious pleasure of getting to know him, as he's currently boarding with us until he finds a place of residence and a job. You see, he and Juliet met when she was in Paris. Somehow, Juliet believes she loves him and he her. I do not trust that man at all, and my Juliet deserves better than a man who is simply stringing her along for the sake of it."
His embellishment hit home just as he had wanted it to; Tristan's fists clenched momentarily around his cup and his mouth thinned itself just a little. "Why on Earth would he use Juliet? Is he really so bad?" his voice was incredulous.
André nodded empathetically, almost in disbelief that his plan, a plan he hadn't admittedly thought out overly thoroughly, was working so well. "Very much so. He lived beneath an Opera House for years, all alone. The mask on his face conceals a terrible deformity, I've seen it myself. One can imagine that he's probably killed before as well; I refuse to believe that all the 'accidents' Juliet wrote to me about were really just that. My guess is that Juliet feels sorry for him. You know how she can be in that aspect."
Tristan nodded in understanding. "Yes, she was always like that. Goodness, I feel sorry for her. In all likelihood, she feels like she's obligated to be with him."
"I'm sure she does! I just wish I knew what to do about it. I'm at a bit of a loss, she won't listen to me."
The look on the young man's face suggested that he was thinking exactly what André had hoped he would. "If only I could help."
André feigned a sudden idea. "Perhaps you can..."
"In what way?"
"You got along well enough with Juliet when you were young, am I right?"
"Yes, if I recall correctly we did."
"And, if my memory serves me rightly, you fancied her a little?"
Tristan flushed bright red and stared intently into the depths of his nearly empty coffee cup. "Was I really so obvious? I did, and still do."
"Tristan, I hope you know I don't especially like to poke around in my daughter's business, I don't think any father does. But I also believe that most fathers don't like to see their daughters disillusioned by a man pretending to be far better than he is. If you could help me, I would be in your debt."
The younger man nodded firmly. André had made his point well. "What can I do?"
"Ask her to dinner, be charming to her, show her what a true gentleman is like."
They briskly shook hands and André was left alone with his thoughts. He offered up a silent prayer to the skies. Please, Lord, give me some sign that I've made the right decision in going through with this. There was, of course, no answer.
A/N: Well, was that enough foreshadowing for you? What did you think?
Review, please! :)