A/N: Hello, wonderful readers and a big welcome to my new ones!
(This intro is long- be prepared- at least I don't do it often...)
Thank you so much for the reviews – and such amazing ones! Wow! *mouth drops open in shock* Reading them has helped so much! They give me encouragement as I write … I've heard it said that writing is like cutting open a vein and offering your life's blood to the world – I'll add cold sweat and hot tears to that… It's very hard work, especially when such an immense amount of research is involved, and it's *very* nice to know that my little tribute sequel to such a fantastic movie is being appreciated… so thank you to all who reviewed, especially to those who encourage me continually! *big hugs all around* And again - a huge thank you KayleeCoolStuff for your awesome review of The Quest too. (That one still makes me cry. :'))
It sounds like I'm wrapping up this story, doesn't it? Hmm…No such luck – sorry. lol Still more to come…and then, of course, there's The Claim (*mumbles to self- which might take every bit of remaining sanity I yet possess to do all I have planned for that one…aggghhh – *tears hair out*) –
But, oops – I'm getting ahead of myself… *bats eyelashes and smiles sweetly in perfectly sane manner…
One thing I've been remiss about – I never mention it, (since she never logs onto this site anymore), but I should: an enormous heartfelt thank you to my awesome critiquer (beta) – Nightsmusic – and yes, in case life eases up and you do come back to this site one day and happen across this wee note, I promise I WILL finish one of my stories soon before starting the other ones I told you about. Really….honest…mm-hmm…(crosses fingers behind back) … At least I've finished three - that's something, right? (Even if they were the beginnings of current sequels as you reminded me …*smiles innocently*) - I encourage you guys to check out her story- Love Redeems- it's just awesome! :)
On the note of story sequels- those of you who've been waiting for and have written me about Reflections of the Heart (sequel to RotS)- the oddest thing happened. Today, after I woke up and was still lying in bed, it all panned out in my head- like a movie- from beginning to end - and I really like where it went! lol (no, don't call the men in their white suits - just be glad I got inspired with how to do it- and so unexpectedly! :))- So, I'll be starting that one soon. Sorry for the wait while I tried to figure out the storyline. I outline/summarize major plot points from beginning to end before I start writing chapters, so I don't get lost and writer's block doesn't strike - (well at least not often) - oh, and I've also done that with The Claim, (which is why my sanity is now threatened)…and, er, um, I'll be posting another story soon too – sort of Wuthering Heights & PotO combined - sort of (shh…don't tell Nightsmusic…she'll figure it out soon enough- heh heh)... actually I do best when I'm writing more than one phanphic - to take a little time from one and go into another helps me - to come back to story fresh each time and able to see things more clearly – (don't ask! I know, I'm weird…)- but don't worry that I'm abandoning any of these. That said, I should have another chapter of SiTT up soon too, for those of you following that one.
On the more serious side (yes, I can be normal every once in a blue moon)… I think I've said it before, but regarding what some of you have written to me recently, let me say this: As long as there is continued interest in my story(ies), I'll write until that final word- "finis". I won't give up on them and quit writing – leaving you guys hanging, as to what on earth then happened and making you have to conjure up all sorts of possible scenarios in your head. I know how frustrating that can be (as one of those readers who NOT so patiently has been waiting and waiting – years sometimes! – for favorite authors to return to their long abandoned stories and add chapters or even just finish the darn thing! …arghhh….er, um, sorry…*calms and smiles sweetly*)…
Sometimes it takes me awhile – what with my day job, family life, etc, so please be patient. And, with all my stories, ANY and all reviews, constructive criticism, and/or support is greatly appreciated! (That is the sound of me begging- especially to the many I see who faved this (and other stories in progress), etc, but never have said a word...You don't hear me beg often, so just humor me here…if you don't like writing public reviews, please just send me a PM? *smiles sweetly) That is the end of the begging - we now return you to this rather ridiculously long intro...
One final thing, and then I'll let you get back to this story (Do I hear cheering and sobs of relief?) …I opened a deviantART account (a few of you already found me- *waves*! :)) – I posted three of my E/C manips so far, two from The Quest, and one from, er, an upcoming one (smiles nervously). I'll be posting all my E/C manips there shortly – (putting up all I made these past few years) – and will then continue posting as I make more. (My current project is their steamy dance in Seville at the end of "The Quest"- you remember that one, don't you? *nods wickedly*) Most of my manips go with all my phanphics—showing, er, certain scenes between them. (Not all are M rated – lol – don't worry—but some are…and more will be... I have many enticing cover ideas saved to my hard drive to use...oh, yes...) so if you're interested in seeing the manip-pics I made/am making, I'm honeyphan there too. I can't post URLs on this page - so check out my profile and I'll put the link to my page there...
And NOW, after wading through all of THAT (sorry!), you deserve a pat on the back – :) …
...but how about more of Treasure instead...?
.
xXx
***Chapter XXXVI***
The history of a people is found in its songs.
~George Jellinek
xXx
.
The Vicomte's earlier warning did not prepare Meg for the horror she witnessed as he moved through the devastation, far from the quiet tenement. At a juncture where two streets met, he halted suddenly, issuing a tight curse under his breath, then pushed forward again.
"Why are we going further into it?" she accused, coughing from the sudden fumes. "Turn around! Go the other way!"
"This IS the other way."
Meg blinked, staring at his grim profile, before her head turned to take in the massive confusion, the endless horror, unable to break away from its ghastly pull.
Bodies lay scattered all around in twisted, macabre disorder. Along an opposite building near a destroyed barricade, crumpled forms covered the ground from one end of the wall to the other, clearly assassinated. Men, a few women—with horror, Meg even noticed the small hand of a child sticking out from beneath another lifeless form. Violent fires burned the sky amid a volley of shots fired in the distance. Raoul dodged a dark puddle, and Meg realized with a sickening lurch of her stomach that blood pooled on the ground, not water.
"Don't look, Meg," he whispered, and she turned her face into the warmth of his neck, clutching him tightly. Her damp lashes wet his skin as the tears she couldn't suppress leaked from her eyes in silent mourning for her fellow Parisians. Communards or not, no one deserved to die like this, least of all a child!
How long they traveled, how far they went, Meg didn't know, couldn't again bear to look except for brief snatches to hope it was all some horrendous dream of her dark imaginings – only to find that the grisly sights had not abated, and the wide street on which they traveled appeared as if heavy fighting had taken place there. In the glow of flames erupting from a shelled building, she glimpsed soldiers' uniforms on several of the corpses, though the plain, drab clothes of the Communards covered most of them.
She sensed Raoul move in another direction, down another street, and dared to look again. Here no hell fires burned, no twisted bodies lay riddled with mortar, but the heavy, dark oppression in the air was still profuse enough to choke her.
They had gone some distance before she noticed the rapid rise and fall of his chest had grown more pronounced and he struggled to breathe. Small beads of sweat had popped out on his face, as it did hers, but she didn't think his strain entirely due to the overwhelming heat of the fires they passed.
"I need to find a place to rest and determine our next course of action," he said, as if realizing her thoughts. "Somehow, I have to get you out of here!"
He didn't explain, but had no need to. If the soldiers spotted them from a distance they might mistake them for Communards, and if they ran into Communards, they might think them deserters. Or worse, they might suspect the truth. The Vicomte no longer wore the coarse clothing of the working class that he'd donned as a disguise during his many searches. Below the silver chain of his onyx cross, his shirt felt soft, made of the finest linen, and his traveling cape was thick with satin lining. With his aristocratic features and solid bearing, he looked every inch a nobleman and an enemy of the Commune. And what soldier would cease firing long enough to discern a difference?
Meg tried to swallow over a dry throat clenched in fear, burning from the fumes, but only succeeded in coughing, barely able to stop long enough to draw another breath of tainted air into her lungs. No matter where they went or who saw them, they could be shot down in their tracks – if they didn't asphyxiate or burn from the scattered fires first...
He took another street, and she grew rigid as the adjacent buildings grew familiar. Soon she became sure of their location and gasped.
"You're not taking me back there? You're mad!"
"'There' is the only place close enough with which I am familiar – where we can find a measure of safety. The only place no soldier or Communard would think to step inside."
Safety? There?!
Now certain they were speaking of the same building, she gasped in panicked shock. "But—but it's boarded up, condemned!"
"Only the theater was destroyed. The structure itself is sound, and boards can be broken through, Meg."
She wanted to argue with him, to insist he find some other place, any other place – but the sight of soldiers with rifles moving in the distance kept her mute. As if he also noticed them, Raoul slipped into the shadows the buildings cast, and she felt thankful that no fires burned here to illuminate them.
They slipped around to the rear of the opera house and approached the stables. He set her down and she leaned against the building, while he used both hands to tear at the boards nailed crosswise that covered the opening. At first it seemed the planks would not give way – until with a protesting creak and snap the first board came free. Meg grew more terrified, scouring the street, afraid the soldiers might hear the noise and investigate. The sudden sharp report of continual rifle shots no more than two streets distant made her heart jump to her throat.
"Hurry!" she urged, though she could tell he was doing the best he could.
At last the final board broke free, and he pushed open the door. Again sweeping Meg into his arms, he carried her through and stopped so she could immediately close the door.
Black silence enfolded them, and a range of emotions rushed through Meg: Relief to have found relative refuge…fear to be in this abandoned, dark dwelling that was once her home…dread that the soldiers might have seen and break through the door at any moment…worry for her mother's safety—all of it compressed into this one defining moment, pressed so close against the only man she'd sworn to hate for all of her lifetime, so close that she could feel and hear his every breath burn against her skin.
"We must find light," he said at last. "I recall seeing a lantern when I was last here over by the far wall. Let's hope it's still there. I'm setting you down."
Her emotions in tatters, she released the culmination of them through her anger. "Good! The sooner the better." Eager to be free from his powerful hold, she squirmed from him before he'd quite set her down and tried to take a step away but almost fell.
"Merde," she gasped, letting out the oath she often heard Jean-Claude use.
"Careful, Mademoiselle," he said dryly. "The last thing I need is for you to fall and break something more vital than your leg."
How dare he bring that up, when he was the reason for her fall! The reason she might never dance again!
"You're despicable! And certainly no gentleman – like I once thought you."
"And you most certainly don't possess the behavior of a lady," he clipped back then blew out a harsh breath. "Rather than stand here in a dark stable and argue while all of Paris is going straight to hell, why don't we try to do something more constructive?" He moved away, as the sound of his footsteps crunching over the hay-strewn ground testified.
She fumed silently as he reached the opposite end of the stable. She heard him grope around, the sound of flint striking, the thud of something falling and a crash like glass breaking. He cursed, and she smiled. She hoped he had cut his fool hand off!
More awkward sounds reached her before a dim yellow glow illuminated the far end of the stables. He approached, a lantern minus the globe in his hand.
"It broke when I knocked it over. You'll have to use your other hand to protect the flame from going out until we can find another source of light."
"I will?"
"Of course." He regarded her impatiently. "You don't think I can carry both you and the lantern, do you?"
She opened her mouth to protest the arrangement, but realized there was no other choice. She couldn't very well hop up the stairs leading from the stables to the main floor on one foot while dragging a heavy cast.
With her mouth tightly compressed, she took the lantern. Again he picked her up, more carefully since she now held an open flame. His heart beat hard against her arm, likely from exertion. There was absolutely no reason hers should suddenly pound just as fast.
The flame made odd flickering shadows on the walls of the stairwell, which though gloomy was wide enough to accommodate her cast. He carried her up and through, on to the great kitchen, and beyond that, to the dining hall where the managers and lead performers often dined. The high-ceilinged room felt…cold, an eerie ghostliness about it.
Elaborate place settings, now coated with a thick layer of dust, still waited, meticulously laid out for the cast of Don Juan Triumphant to celebrate its success. Tall vases of flowers, dead and withered black, stood in the center of the long table. It felt as if here, inside this drafty, enormous edifice, the passage of time had abruptly whirled to a stop and had frozen on that dreadful night. The opera house now seemed a tomb with echoes of souls once alive there. Faded memories whispered from every corner: the hush of lively chatter…the quiet strains of music…the rise and fall of subdued laughter…
She withheld a shiver as the Vicomte carefully sat her down on a high-backed chair then took the one next to hers. Exhaling a weary breath, he leaned back and propped the side of his wrist on the table, his form rigid, his thoughts distant. She wondered if he also remembered the way things once were. It was then she noticed the blood.
"Your hand – it's cut!"
Instant remorse filled her for her vengeful wish in the stable. Before he could respond, she took his hand to examine it closer in the light of the flame. An old vicious cut from the inside of his thumb to wrist had healed over but torn open again in one place.
"I must have done that pulling on the boards," he said with disinterest.
Without considering her actions, she grabbed a rolled napkin from the place setting next to her, shook it out, and dabbed at his hand. "This looks like it was bad before you reopened it. There should be some alcohol in the cupboard. The cook kept a personal bottle of rum hidden behind the spuds." She noticed he had gone completely still; she couldn't even hear him breathe any longer and peered up at him. "I saw her drink from it," she explained, not wanting him to think she'd imbibed on the sly while performing there. Though most everyone had and not always on the sly.
He only looked at her, his expression unfathomable.
"What?" she insisted.
"Why are you doing this, Meg Giry?" His voice came very soft.
His unexpected question made her suddenly awkward, realizing just what she had done, realizing how it could be misconstrued…
"Because …" She struggled for something suitable to say. "Because if this were to go septic and you were to die, then I alone would be encumbered with the nuisance of having to bury your body – since I can't very well ask anyone in Paris for aid right now!"
He didn't respond, and warmth rushed to her face. Unnerved by his unwavering stare, she sat a little taller. "This means absolutely nothing, Vicomte. I still loathe and despise you, and I always shall."
"Of course," he said pensively then rose from the table. "I'll just go and find that rum."
She shut her eyes once he left, wishing now she'd never taken his hand.
.
xXx
.
Beneath the murky sky of a new moon, Erik met the gypsy at the edge of the cliff, near the cave.
An hour before, Erik had again visited the treasure chamber to locate a simple chain for Christine. She chose not to wear feminine trifles around her throat, especially the costlier and more extravagant of jewels; indeed the graceful column of her neck needed no such enhancement. However, the previous evening, after her nightmare, they'd spoken into the early hours and Erik stressed that until the Phantom was forever banished from their lives she must never take off the ring. While he rifled through the five chests brimming over with jewels and coins, an idea had formed in his mind.
Now, as he faced Armando, he resolved to uncover information that might illustrate the necessity for such a plan.
"What have you learned?" he came straight to the point.
"I followed those you told me to and listened when they didn't know I was watching."
"And?"
He related the information and Erik grimaced. "So, it is as I thought." His jaw tensed as he considered such findings then targeted Armando with a sharp look. "Tell me, why is it that only a select few of you understand and speak the French language?"
"Su Majestad?" The boy regarded him with confusion.
"Tell me!"
Erik barely held onto what shreds of patience remained. News of the Phantom's presence along with the knowledge that Christine might be in danger from one of three gypsies sharpened his fears for her. He had left her under guard, freeing Captain Miguel, the only man who'd proven his trust – not once, but five times – and the shrewd officer now stood guard outside her door.
The gypsy looked at him strangely, but cleared his throat as if about to deliver a lengthy discourse. "Since the legend of your coming to save our people, many, many moons ago, the king and elders at that time made a rule that the chosen of our band must learn to speak the language of France. The king, his children, the elders – so that we may converse with the masked man of legend when he came to save us." He shrugged. "We had no idea then that you would speak our language."
"I have never heard you speak it."
"Romani?"
"No, imbecile – French." Erik shook his head at the boy's dimwittedness. "It is evident that I know you speak Romani."
"I don't like French," the boy replied in disgust. "It is too much trouble to make the sounds with my tongue, Monsieurrrrr Roi." He demonstrated, overstressing the motions. The boy frowned. "See? It makes my jaw ache."
Despite his rising irritation, Erik's lips twitched in wry amusement at the boy's frank exaggeration of his title. "There are others besides yourself, your father, and your sisters who understand my language."
"The Drabarni knows. But Baba Magdelena knows everything; she is a seer. And Narilla knows some – her father was an elder but he was killed. Lupita knows, because she was to marry my brother. He taught her."
Erik's eyes narrowed. "Lupita was to marry your brother?"
"Si. But he…died. A bullet through his head…" The boy shrugged though Erik could tell speaking the words came difficult for him. "Many of our people died in such a manner…those that weren't tortured…"
Erik was fast coming to realize he'd been remiss in creating distance and choosing ignorance with regard to these gypsies' lives. "Tell me everything. I wish to know as much as you do about all those in your band."
The boy's eyes widened. "But – that will take hours!"
Erik's rejoinder was dry. "Perhaps, then, you should begin."
.
xXx
.
In her desire to hear clearly, she moved without thinking and her foot upset a stone.
The king turned sharply, though she'd made the barest scuffle against the earth. Pressing closer to the edge of the cliff, beyond vines that grew from the earthen and rock wall, she held a deep, trembling breath, certain at any moment he would march over to her hiding place and demand to know why she was spying.
Instead, he appeared to ignore her, and she quietly let the air drift from her mouth in relief, so that his acute hearing might not catch that too. Regardless of the crashing surf a short distance beyond, she wouldn't be surprised if he did hear the smallest sound she made. She had noticed, ever since he came to them, that he picked up the softest of noises, as if he sensed everything, even in the silence. She watched as he said something lower to Armando, again looking toward the rocks where she cowered. She ducked lower behind a thick vine. A few lit windows from the villa perched high atop the cliff shed dim light glowing in patches upon the pale sand, while thousands of pinpricks of stars burned in the black sky, giving off scant light. But she took no chances. He could see as well as he could hear.
The two moved away, closer to the ocean's noisy surf.
She frowned. What was that dilo Armando telling the king? He had already said too much. Ever since he'd caught her in the forest last night, chanting low beneath her breath, he behaved strangely in her presence. When she first caught sight of him and he inquired what she was doing, she told him she was practicing an ancient curse and asked him none too sweetly if he would like to become the first recipient. He shook his head and rolled his eyes at her, but the look in them had worried her. She sensed he hadn't believed her. He thought her good for nothing but making mistakes – and that had served her purposes well. But if he were to think her intelligent, perhaps not so dull-witted as he'd told everyone else in the past…that could not go well for her.
She doubted the King came close to suspecting the full truth; if he had she would surely be dead. She had seen him fight and he gave no measure. He would not have granted the other Frenchman mercy had his beloved queen not buckled to the ground at that precise moment. A pity. Had the King run the foreigner through with his sword that would have dispensed with the problem of needing to dispose of him herself – though even that had not proceeded as planned. She couldn't have trusted the Vicomte not to betray her once she aided his escape and feared he would point her out to the Kris or worse, the King, and her deception would then unravel. Yet before she could devise a new plan, she learned of the nobleman's departure, which brought her immense relief mixed with a niggling concern over what he'd disclosed in his letter. It took little persuasion to convince Armando to let her deliver the letter – since he'd been avoiding the King – and had been a task she never planned to carry out. Yet before she'd had a chance to toss the missive in the fire, sure the queen would never learn of its existence, Luminitsa saw her holding it and questioned her. She'd then had no choice but to ensure that her most revered majested received it.
Sneering at the title that should be hers, she moved away with the stealth of the crafty wolf for which she'd been named, deciding it wise to go back to the villa before her good fortune turned.
This late, few stirred within the enormous structure, and thankfully she met with no one who might question her presence at so late an hour. Inside the kitchens, she poured wine then momentarily withdrew the pouch hidden within her blouse. She clutched the outline of a small vial in her hand. Her destiny lay inside that bottle. Carefully measured amounts of belladonna and nightshade lay inside, which, when taken in small, controlled doses that the Drabarni seldom issued, except in extreme cases, did prove helpful for a few ailments. But one drop too much of either deadly herb meant an excruciating end for the victim…
A fine line to walk for the cause of death not to be questioned, but with the queen's necessity for daily elixirs, not impossible. Just a drop in her wine and death would come, slowly…over a period of days…untraceable. And, if the King were somehow to discover the truth, he would no doubt blame the Drabarni. He despised the woman and to convince him of her treachery would be effortless. Still, it would be so much simpler if his beloved queen were to meet with…an untimely accident, perhaps?
With a cunning smile, she slipped the vial back inside the pouch. She would await such a promising opportunity. And if one did not present itself over the next few days, there was always the poison...
xXx
A/N: Yes, I know it was a shorter chapter, but it was an important one.
Am eager to know what you think. I love seeing how some of you are piecing this together and am thrilled when I see you put together hints I've scattered throughout entire story, finding a hidden door to that right track…about who or what? Well, gosh, I'm not saying. 0-:-) I prefer YOU to figure it out…that's half the fun of a story like this…
Remember all that movie symbolism I showed you with the hidden plot, ever since The Quest? – numbers, colors, and more? Well, you've probably figured it out by now, but both this story and The Quest are heavily laced with the same symbolism in the descriptions, in the details, in what happens, how and why—*as well being clues as to what's coming*… oh, and by the way! …(dare I say it??) We –my hidden plot group and myself – found that ALW included much of the same hidden plot symbolism from the movie into his new stage show- "Love Never Dies." (Why, since it wasn't a movie sequel?? Well, I have a couple of theories on that…lol)
So, guess what else I'm doing in my spare time? lol Going on a treasure hunt– making a thread showing all I've found –and a few findings others told me about – to start delving into that (actually wasn't looking at all- just enjoying it - and then it just came out and struck me as I listened to the full opera on CD, watched some footage, saw pictures, read the libretto, etc) …yep. Good thing I'm on vacation right now! If anyone wants to join in on the fun, the link to the Hidden Plot forum is in my profile…all are welcome...
And yes, I know, very little Erik and no Christine in this chapter. But you can be sure as the sun doth shine from the sky that more of my favorite couple is coming soon…very soon…
Until next time, my pretties…
(Muahahaha)