Author's Note: Please excuse the hiatus. Enjoy!

Chapter 13:

She didn't return below until the horizon blushed with the first rosy light of dawn. Rowing across the lake wasn't an appealing idea after such an evening, so she optioned to use the alternative route to the cellars. The light from the candelabras was low, as several of them had burnt out in her prolonged absence. Her eyes adjusted quickly as she descended the staircase to her home, allowing her to see the figure before she had reached the last step. Monsieur Giry was easy to identify, seated at her instrument with his hands folded over his cane.

The initial jolt gave Erika pause, but her surprise evaporated into frustration. "I'm in no mood to be lectured," she muttered, continuing into the room.

Giry didn't respond.

"Have you nothing better to do than sit and leer at me?" Erika asked, removing the pins from her hair. She set them on the writing desk, letting her hair fall over her shoulders. After this, she removed her gloves to light a number of additional candles.

Still there was no reply from the Box Keeper. Now visible in brighter light, his face offered no hints of emotion and his gaze followed her as she went about.

Erika gave him a sideways glance before taking a handkerchief and kneeling by the edge of the lake. She wrung the cloth after submerging it and removed her mask. The cold fabric caused her to wince as she applied it to her injury.

"Erika…" Giry's voice echoed from behind.

"Leave me be, Giry," Erika said, raising the volume of her voice. From his first word, it was clear Giry was not aiming for a pleasant conversation.

"I know what you did, Erika," Giry matched her tone, once again provoking her with the use of her name. Erika heard him stand and thump his cane on the ground as he approached her.

"Stay out of the matter," Erika insisted, rewetting the cloth. "It doesn't concern you."

Her wrist was seized as it brought the cloth to her face again. She gasped and tried to pull free of Giry's grasp.

"Doesn't concern me?" Monsieur Giry's composure was calmer than his crushing grip suggested. "You've involved my son in a murder plot. How does it not concern me?"

"It wasn't a plot," Erika said. She fought to be released, even as she was pulled to her feet. "Let go!"

Resurfacing after years of lying dormant, memories of being beaten returned. The aggressive act of being grabbed had awoken senses that threw her twenty years into the past. At any moment, she expected to be struck with a closed fist or thrown to the ground. She tried to pry Giry's hand off her arm, fearful for the first time in sixteen years that he might harm her.

"You went back on your word!" Giry had lost his composure and was starting to shout, further fueling Erika's struggle. "You have no reason to fret, that's precisely what you told me. How could you do this to us?"

"Let go, Giry!"

"After all we've done for you!"

"I said let go!"

"What in the Hell is wrong with - ah!"

Erika stumbled away as Giry finally freed her. It felt impossible to breathe, and she wrung her hands to stop the tremors in her fingertips. Giry was recoiling in pain, pressing his palm to the eye Erika had raked her fingernails across. Both parties glared at one another for a good while, before Giry quietly repeated himself:

"What in the Hell is wrong with you?"

"Get out," Erika growled.

Giry looked as if he was burning to say more to her. Several times his breathing changed, as if he was preparing to speak, but no more words came from him. Finally, he relented and began making his way to the stairs – his cane thudding along with him.

Erika kept her head held high as the greying man passed her. "Your assistance is not needed any longer," she said after him, her inflection void of feeling. "Neither you, nor your son, will show your faces here again."

Giry cast another livid glare over his shoulder. "I won't allow Marc anywhere near this place. Not after this."

"It seems you're an intelligent man after all," Erika said, turning to look her old ally in the eye. "And take care to remember, monsieur, I know what is said within these walls."

When the door at the top of the steps slammed shut, the echo filled the room and traveled over the lake – continuing to bounce off the walls on the other side. Erika retrieved her mask from the edge of the water, glimpsing her reflection in its tranquil surface. She lingered there for a moment, quietly contemplating what was looking back. The ivory mask was clutched against her chest, like a toy held close by a distressed child.

She wasn't a helpless child any longer. The little girl of the past, the one the Girys had found, had not existed for several years. The entity she now was did not belong to human kind. It didn't rely on others to exist. It was the rightful place of one who was never among the world of man.

Erika watched her reflection change as she once more positioned the mask over her face.

It was what she had become. It – she – was the Mirage of the Opera.