Am I foolish to think I could ever be,

will I never be more than I am today?

I can see me as a man of respect,

You could never detect had once been

so heartlessly cast away.

~ Monty D'ysquith Nevaro

A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder.

Don't you just love it when you spend an hour editing (connected to the wifi, mind you!) and then Wattpad throws a hoo-ha and forgets to save them? Yeah. Me too. (I did my best to recreate what I lost, but it's a tad bit disheartening, so now I'm only half happy with what I was able to do with this chapter)

With the dawn of the next day, I pulled my cloak hood further up and huddled into the warmest parts of the fabric, a thin defence against the biting cold wind that swept over Paris from the north today. The shadows of the towering church did nothing to warm me, and I hurried up its steps and across the mosaics in the floor to the doors, the Corinthian columns that guarded the entrance casting what little sunlight the January morning spared into more shadows. High above me, angels and saints, frozen forever in a picture of regal elegance, gazed proudly out at the city, which was already alive and thriving.

During one of his rambles, Jeremy had mentioned his devotion to the Catholic faith and had told me tales of listening to the kindly priest every Sunday at the Église de la Madeleine. It was not Sunday, but even so I stepped into the church and shucked off my cloak, not looking up until I had to.

The breath all but left my body.

As light and as cool as the Abbaye St Georges had been, that was how dark and exquisite L'Église de la Madeleine was. If it wasn't for the candles that shrouded the walls and columns, the winter morning would have plunged the church into darkness.

The long aisle that loomed before me, with rows upon rows of simple, wooden pews on either side, led to the statue of the Mary Magdelene, who guarded her altar with strength and grace, flanked by angels on either side. Hundreds of pious eyes watched her from above, and in the dome that almost reached the heavens, the Lord sat ruling his domain, seemingly awaiting her arrival.

I chewed at my lip, wandering up the aisle in my awe. Several people were already gathered, kneeling with heads bowed in prayer, not noticing my embarrassing display of amazement. Someone else left the confession box further along the wall and moved towards the pews at the front, where they knelt, head bowed like everyone else.

Deadening my footsteps, I slipped up the aisle until I reached the end of the pew where he sat. I set myself down quietly. Jeremy's eyes were closed, hands clasped so tight that I thought he'd cut himself with his dirty nails by mistake, and he mouthed the fervent words he was praying. It seemed so private that I bit my own lip, looking away as if he was undressing before me without knowing I was watching.

My gaze flitted around the church, always stopping at the same place each time. The Magdelene at the altar seemed so pure, so righteous and holy. Guilt settled at the bottom of my stomach, tighter than any corset I'd ever worn.

How had I slipped so far? And for what? To feel wretched now? It had worked.

Jeremy's hands went to his face, raking through his hair occasionally.

"Oh, dear God..." I heard him breathe, and finally, his hands slipped into his lap. I dared to glance over at him, just catching the sight of him jumping he turned to regard me in shock. "Nikki! What are you doing here?"

I gestured to the church. "It's a public building."

My voice was smaller than I would have liked. Jeremy managed to smile and slid across the pew towards me. He didn't dare wrap his arm around me like I would have liked, but I felt his hand rest on mine with a feathery touch all the same. My heart beat a bit faster and I stifled a sigh.

"And you're here because..."

"I was just seeking some advice."

"And did you get what you came for?"

He looked back at the altar. "More or less."

I nodded, watching as his thumb rubbed little circles on the back of my glove.

"Why didn't you tell me he was your brother?" I whispered. He didn't look at me.

"I wasn't sure of it. I had to see him, talk to him." He scoffed to himself and tapped the hassock with his shoe, which was falling to pieces at the toe. "So much for that."

"But a pistol, Jeremy," I hissed. "I never even imagined you'd know how to hold one, let alone wield it."

"What did you expect?" he replied, his voice equally as hushed. "Brother or not, he's the Opera Ghost, and as much as he'd probably like you to believe it, I'm not a fool."

I opened my mouth to protest, but he shook his head and squeezed my hand. "I'm going to work. Are you coming with me or staying to pray?"

I glanced back at the statue of the Magdeleine. "I'll come with you."

He nodded and let me lead him out of the pew. It was only as we walked down the aisle, when he took my arm in his and led me properly and when he squeezed my glove again that I began to crave our wedding day, when I could walk at his side in public without feeling so watched. And of course, I would have to send word to Father Mansart regarding the event. Surely Jeremy wouldn't mind if I asked to be married in the Abbaye St Georges.

It was as we walked through the great bronze doors, flanked by the watchful wisdoms of the Ten Commandments, and into the shade of the columns that I broke into a smile. Suddenly, being a wife didn't sound all that frightening.

I leaned against Jeremy's arm, falling into step with him as the city came alive around us.

I entered the Opera House on Jeremy's arm, having let him walk me back in time for our shifts. He helped me out of my cloak and offered to keep it with his on the cloak racks outside the scene shifting department.

It was only as I smiled and let him take it, stepping up onto my toes to press a light kiss to his lips, that a chorus of delighted cries echoed down to us.

"And so it starts," Jeremy said, though a smirk graced his lips. I frowned at him and turned my attention to the grand foyer.

"Nikki!" Beatrice's unmistakable voice echoed off the walls, and moments later, I found myself very nearly crushed to death in her vice-like grip. She drew back from the near-killer hug and grabbed my hand, almost crushing the bones. Christine stood just a few feet behind her, her own smile duller than Bea's.

She was thinner now, I was sure of it. Had those circles under her eyes always been so dark? I hated to admit I hadn't noticed that before.

"Come, Nikki!" Beatrice squealed, tugging me away. "Come with us! Nikki, move! You must come and see!"

"What—?"

"Come on!" she insisted, handing my other arm to Christine, dragging me off between the pair of them. I looked back over my shoulder at Jeremy, who smiled rather awkwardly, trying to find the joke he supposed he was missing out on.

Help me! I mouthed desperately, but he simply waved his hand at me.

"I'll find you later," he called, moving away towards his department. I pulled a pitiful face.

"But I—"

"No buts!" Beatrice said as they hauled me down through the corridors to the costume department. I struggled against them, but Beatrice gripped my arm tight and I yelped. It was only once we reached the department that she finally let me go.

I stumbled into the room, immediately grabbed by a familiar pair of hands, and found myself being herded into the department by Madame Giry.

"You have quite the explanation to give," she said, marching me through the rows of tables lathered in dresses, waistcoats and pantaloons.

"What about?" I hissed, though my voice was lost amongst the throng of others. "Madame! I have work to do!"

With one hand keeping my mask in place as she pulled me along, I stumbled after her until she stopped me at a workbench. I blinked the room back to a standstill.

And then I stopped short.

There, on the bench, lay the dress from the old costume department, resewn and patched with the new material in places. It had, in short, been restored to its glory days. I reached out, in a sort of trance, and stroked a length of the front skirt. Beside it, the top half, also fixed, and my size. But perhaps the most notable thing about this dress was the card that lay on top, marked with childish cursive in blood red ink.

For Mlle de La Chance, with best wishes, upon the news of her upcoming marriage to Monsieur J. Desrosiers.
Opera Ghost.

I clawed at the note, pulling at the stitching that kept a second part away from any unwanted, prying eyes. I am sorry for my behaviour towards you and my half-brother. Do not deny him the joys he, as a man, deserves, because of my attitude.

Erik. I set the note down and looked over my shoulder at the three women left in the room. Madame Giry had no doubt cleared it for my privacy, save for three or four seamstresses who were under pressure to finish the leading costumes for Don Juan.

"When did these arrive?" I said. Beatrice's smile was the brightest of all.

"This morning! Oh, Nikki, I always knew you and Jeremy would someday be married! You have to invite Christine and me! We must be bridesmaids, you hear?"

My mind went blank for the rest of her rant. I stared at the old dress, imagining how another woman from the past had flaunted it on my stage.

It was beautiful. Layers of fabric, light on light, patterns threaded through it. The corset was magnificent, plain as it was, almost regally minimalistic. The sleeves were fixed just how I liked them on my formal dresses. Only Erik could have altered the dress I'd been so fixated on like this.

"Excuse me," I whispered, moving around Madame Giry and past the other women towards the door. Beatrice's words died off quite rapidly. She caught my arm as I made for the door, her grip not as tight as before.

"Kitty? Where are you going? Isn't this a marvellous surprise? Aren't you happy?"

I nodded and shucked her off gently. "Of course. If you'll excuse me, I must find someone."

Christine watched me go. It was only as I closed the door behind me that she finally spoke.

"Tell him I'm sorry, but I cannot attend lessons today."

Beatrice sent her a funny look. I disappeared before she could send any questions my way.

The only passageway to the House that was open was the kitchen one. I found Monkey Nadir stuffing his face with dried fruits and swatted him away. But as far as Erik went, the house was almost eerily silent.

It was only as I made to knock on his bedroom door that I heard the front door shut and the rustling of fabric. I snuck back up the hallway and peered into the conservatory from the kitchen. Erik hung his dark cloak on an empty peg on the wall and brushed his hair down. He glanced around, and when his eyes landed on me, he stoped, flexing his long hands against his sides

"Nikki," he said, his voice dry and precise as he pulled on a mask of collectiveness. "What are you doing here?"

I live here, I wanted to say, but for some reason, my throat had dried like a grape and I could only move my hands around in wide circles.

"To say thank you," I managed to whisper, clearing my throat.

Erik folded his arms, his eyes narrow. "For the dress?"

I nodded.

"Well, your mission is complete then." He dropped his arms and pushed past me into the kitchen, tipping the fruit bowl slightly and muttering something about sneaky creatures. "You can return to your lover now."

I watched with bated breath as he glared over his shoulder at me and moved to make himself a strong cup of tea, no milk, no sugar.

"Your statue impressions are admirable, Nikita," he said, his voice deep in his throat. "But the Louvre isn't hiring this season. And neither am I."

"Why didn't you ever tell me Jeremy was your brother?"

"Speak up," he said none too gently, as the pot whistled over the stove. "I'm going deaf in my old age. It's all that caterwauling Up Top."

"I said why didn't you tell me about Jeremy being Madeleine's son! He thinks she died in her sleep one night while he was working!"

"Jeremy, always Jeremy," I heard him mutter. Then louder and addressing me, "She did."

"Erik, the fire—"

"Smoke poisoning. She didn't realise until it was too late."

"But you—"

"You've asked enough questions!" he snarled, pouring his half-boiled tea into a cup and setting the pot back down on the stove with a clank. I winced. He drank it straight, eyes shut tight against the heat and bitterness, and wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeves. "I suggest, my friend, that you remove yourself from my house. Erik is not interested in entertaining you today. You're welcome to read in the library with me this evening if you wish, but I believe I've made clear that I pay you to work, not to annoy me with your extended lunch breaks and sporadic holidays. Good day!"

He said the last bit with such a thick layer of spite hiding beneath a civil tongue that I froze to the spot. It was only once he turned away and strode out into the hallway, shutting the door firmly behind him, that I caught the conservatory door and leaned against it.

You've failed him. We all have.

No. No, I hadn't. I pulled myself back upright and bit my quivering lip, shaking some sense into myself. Erik was simply stressed about the premiere. He was trying to live a fantasy and didn't understand why it wouldn't play out as he hoped; surely he'd expected Christine to be living with him by now, and if it hadn't been for the Vicomte, perhaps it might have been so.

I hadn't failed. I refused to believe it. I would simply need to step up my game to save Erik, before he damned us all. And himself.