A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :)
Ghoul and Goose
Chapter LIV
.
"You."
The Phantom growled low and reached for his dagger. For long distances he preferred the surprise of the Punjab, but in close proximity the mark of a blade would suffice …
Before he could slip his hand inside his cloak, he barely acknowledged Christine's hand tugging his sleeve and tightening on his arm in warning.
"Erik, no."
He gave her no visible heed but did cease to reach for his weapon. She would never approve of his killing the imbecile in cold blood, even maim him. Nor had he any wish to commit such a deadly act of violence in her presence and bear her fear, perhaps even her hatred – unless provoked as a means of defense and always to protect Christine.
For her life, he would sacrifice anything.
"Why are you here?" he demanded of the irksome boy, then turned his head to look at Madame. "And why did you signal for me when I made my wishes about any undesirable appointments perfectly clear?"
"I gave her no choice."
The Vicomte closed part of the distance with another step. This time Erik did put his hand inside his cloak.
The idiot boy held his hands up by his shoulders in surrender. "Easy. I'm not here to fight with you."
"You understand if I doubt your word," Erik remarked dryly.
"I brought no weapons…" As he spoke, the Vicomte lowered his hands to the edges of his cloak at his waist.
Erik let the jeweled handle of his dagger glitter in warning before slipping his hand firmly around the hilt.
"I only wish to show you that I am unarmed," his enemy explained slowly.
"Cease talking to me as to a simpleton and show me then." Erik's hand did not waver from the hilt of his dagger.
The Vicomte pulled the edges of his cloak wide to show he wore no belt for a sword and carried no sheath for a weapon.
Erik curtly motioned with his head. "What of your boots?"
"I conceal nothing inside them, you have my word."
The Phantom snorted, the Vicomte's word as good as dirt to him. But he reasoned that he could easily be positioned with his dagger at the fool's throat before the boy could bend down and retrieve any concealed blade he might carry.
"Why have you summoned me? What could you say that would possibly be of interest to me?"
"A great deal, actually."
At the bold, cryptic remark, the Phantom clenched his teeth in wary disgust.
His adversary looked at Madame Giry. "You may go."
She cast an uncertain glance toward them and turned halfway toward the door.
"Stop at once!" The Phantom spoke, disbelieving of the boy's gall. "You answer to me, not to this wretched usurper!"
"You may not wish for Madame to hear what I have to say. It involves the events of the previous week."
"I care not if she learns of your pathetic ambush at the cemetery."
"I do not speak of that day."
Erik narrowed his eyes in curiosity but gave a curt nod for Madame to go.
"Christine may also wish to lea –" the Vicomte began.
"– Christine stays with me."
Her hand on his arm tightened. "I have no wish but to remain by my husband's side."
Erik might have smiled at her admirable show of loyalty and grim resolve had it not been for the infuriating boy and his damnable secrecy. He behaved as one who had gained supreme knowledge of a significant issue that left the Phantom floundering in the darkness of ignorance, and wielded his insight in a boastful manner that grated on Erik's every nerve. His ire sharpened, his impatience honed to a razor edge that would surely slash any further dithering to pieces.
"Well?" he bit out the moment the door clicked shut behind Madame Giry. "What have you to say to me that is so damned important you felt you had to rouse me from my bed?"
"A most … bizarre event took place since our last encounter," the Vicomte said. "I woke up on the front doorstep of my home, with both my hands and feet tightly bound behind me."
Christine gasped in shock. Erik did not even blink.
"Luckily for me, there was a small urn nearby which I was able to nudge, to fall and break, and I found a shard that was sharp enough to saw through the rope. It took some time, not to mention dexterity, but I was at last able to free myself."
"Ingenious," the Phantom muttered in a bored tone rife with sarcasm. "Do pardon me, monsieur, for repeating the question – but why the hell should I care?"
"Who would do such a thing?" Christine's tone barely registered above a whisper.
"Indeed. Who would?" The Vicomte never took his eyes off the Phantom. "I found a note tucked in my shirt with a warning to stay away from the Opera House or suffer dire consequences."
"A pity you chose to ignore it."
"The revolutionists?" Christine fearfully suggested. "Did they find and threaten you? Oh Raoul, are you in any danger now?"
His expression softened marginally as he turned his attention toward her. "I think not. I managed to convince them I wasn't who they were seeking. While it's true I was abducted by a pair of workers faithful to the Commune and was…interrogated for some time, days perhaps, I have cause to believe my apprehenders were not responsible for my return home."
He faltered over the word to describe his ordeal, likely in deference to Christine, though by the fading bruises on his face it was evident he'd been in a recent altercation. Perhaps Christine had assumed they originated from their swordplay at the cemetery that she did not question him about the presence of the pale brown marks, as Erik was sure she would do when the Vicomte first walked into the candlelight.
The fool was clearly upright and breathing, little the worse for wear and certainly in no need for any of Christine's bottomless empathy.
"I fail to understand what this has to do with me," the Phantom declared tersely.
"The note contained several misspelled words, as a man with little education might compose, and was written to lead me to believe that my two abductors were responsible for its existence."
"I repeat, I fail to understand what this has to do with –"
"I happen to know they could not have written the note, as neither of those two men has the skill to write."
Silently, the Phantom cursed his unlucky fate.
"While they thought me unconscious, I heard them argue about the need to contact their leader and how to go about it, admitting to one another that neither had the knowledge of letters to pen a note to send with a messenger boy."
"Clearly their leader intervened and wrote it," Erik countered impatiently. "If your intent in summoning me here tonight was to keep us abreast of your fate since the revolution started, I assure you there was no need for such misplaced concern."
Christine's fingers tightened on his arm, her silent entreaty clear, for him to conduct himself in a less disagreeable manner.
"I recall a strange occurrence – vaguely," the boy said. "A dark, menacing voice that warned all present to leave his opera house. There was a strong wind. The men cried out in alarm as they fled, fearing a ghost would kill them…"
The Phantom felt Christine dart a stunned look his way but kept his expression somber, as if carved in stone.
"The memory is indistinct, but I also recall coming in and out of consciousness. I'd had no food or water and was beaten about the head, so could not comprehend my surroundings well – but I recall being carried over the shoulder of a man who wore a long black cloak."
Erik wryly tilted his head to the side. "And this is supposed to interest me – why?"
"I believe you are that man."
The Phantom laughed darkly to cover his irritation that the meddlesome boy uncovered his foolish deed of lenience. Why he had even done such a thing, he was still amiss as to a motive. Call it a bad decision rashly made – and he certainly had no desire for the Vicomte to learn of his blunder!
"You believe I fought to kill you in the cemetery then turned around and saved your miserable hide when you were captured by your tormentors? Such pathetic absurdity is almost amusing."
"I, too, asked myself why you would perform such a curious feat – a man who has been my foe – the Phantom who would have gladly run me through with his sword."
"I seem to recall we shared similar goals."
The Vicomte nodded in abrupt agreement.
"Excellent. Now that we have at last arrived at an understanding that you are once again in error, Christine and I will take our leave. Do not seek us out again, Vicomte."
"My home was full of secrets I have only just begun to comprehend," the pest went on as if the Phantom had not spoken. "All through my boyhood, I was warned never to enter certain chambers – words that were to an inquisitive, lonely child a tempting lure. When I was five, I discovered a small chest bound with leather straps in the attic room. It didn't take me long to figure out how to open it. My nurse found me there, wearing a mask made of suede that I found inside. It was one of the rare occasions my father paid attention to me, when he flayed my backside with a willow switch as punishment for my disobedience. My mother cried but didn't intervene, and I was warned never to enter the attic again. I heeded that warning – until a little more than a fortnight ago."
Prickles of apprehension rippled along the Phantom's skin.
"I fail to see what this has to do with anything relevant to my being here."
"One moment." The boy held up his hand to request him not to exit the chamber. "When I was ten, I spent the summer with my family in the seaside village of Perros-Guirec. It was there that I first saw Christine, when she performed with her father on the street corner near the resort where my family stayed. Later, on the beach, I saved her scarf from a watery grave at sea, and we soon became close friends."
The Phantom scowled. "As fascinating as these tales of your boyhood are, I will have to pass on being an audience to them."
He took hold of Christine's arm, but she remained immobile as stone, her attention rapt on the despicable boy.
"…There was a traveling fair in town."
At the shock of the unexpected words, the prickles froze into ice, and the Phantom felt suddenly unable to move.
"A gypsy carnival, with a section for the freakish shows of the bizarre, one in particular which caught my interest. The Living Corpse…"
The ice froze the streams of blood flowing through his veins. He could feel nothing but numb and cold and dread beneath the pounding of his heart, proof that he was yet alive.
"One afternoon, when her father did not feel well enough to play for the tourists, he bid us to run along, and Christine and I attended the fair. I went inside to see the exhibit while she waited outside the tent, too frightened of the monster within to enter. We watched grown men leave the tent, pale and shaking as if they'd encountered a ghost. Others nearby spoke of the morbid peculiarity to hear such an angelic voice from such a fearsome, demonic creature. He could throw his voice all around the room, ventriloquism they call it, even whisper in your ear. One lady had to be carried out upon fainting dead away from fright when the creature addressed her. Christine was then six."
The Phantom could not draw breath and all numbness vanished into a horror so intense it shot through him like a torrent of flame, rapidly thawing the ice.
Christine! My God. Christine had been there – witness to yet another of his many humiliations?! No – the cur said she waited outside the tent, little relief that gave…
For now she possessed complete awareness of the identity of that long ago, feared monster.
The Phantom did not look at her but sensed her going rigid. Her hand slipped away from his arm and she pivoted to look fully at him.
"Erik…?" she pleaded for his input, her voice a horrified wisp of air.
Damn the insufferable boy! Damn him thrice to the fiery core of Hades for putting him in such an untenable position. How could he ever explain to Christine his reasons for becoming part of such a foul carnival? For allowing himself to be put on garish display, this time a choice and not an entrapment. To do so he must speak of Persia…
Damn his arrogant hide!
With a swift step forward he grabbed the unwary boy by the throat with one hand and pushed him up against the desk.
"Erik – no!" Christine cried out.
The Vicomte grabbed the Phantom's wrist, pulling to prevent the pressure, but stared at him without fear.
"I told my governess about the sideshow – with the corpse that rose from the coffin – with only half a face," the irksome boy continued, his breathing strained. "She told my parents. That afternoon my father cut our holiday short – forbidding me even to seek out Christine in farewell."
"Enough, damn you!"
The Phantom despised the gruffness in his throat and again cursed the babbling fool for the stunned looks of awareness he felt more than saw Christine send his direction. He did not yet dare glance her way, though she had grabbed and hung desperately to his arm.
"Erik," she whispered, "Please, don't do this…"
Her soft-spoken plea burrowed into a chink of the defensive barrier erected around his heart. With a growl he released the loathsome interloper with a hard push designed to unbalance him. The boy fell back onto his palms, knocking a stack of missives to the floor.
"By your reaction there's no need to ask if that is familiar to you," the Vicomte continued with his damnable persistence, panting for breath and gingerly rubbing his throat.
The Phantom scowled at the action, wondering if it was employed for Christine's benefit, to gain yet more of her damnable sympathy. He had not pressed the boy's larynx with enough force to do more than cause minor discomfort, and had only sought to frighten him into silence, little good it did.
Christine moved away to retrieve and pour a glass of wine from a bottle Madame kept in her office. She handed it to the Vicomte, darting an angry look of disapproval at Erik, which did nothing to improve his mood. Had he done true damage, the boy would be unconscious and certainly unable to talk! On second thought, perhaps he should have risked Christine's ire to attain that goal.
The cur thanked her and drank half the contents of the glass. "I might not have pieced everything together had I not heard you, at the cemetery, call yourself by that title and others used at the sideshow." He shook his head in puzzlement, looking up at him. "But the question remains. Why did you save me from the revolutionaries?"
The question seemed rhetorical, as if the Vicomte felt he knew the answer but was piecing events aloud for their benefit.
"I never said I saved you! That was your pathetic deduction," the Phantom insisted, this time cursing his own wretched tongue for the act of unknowingly revealing that slice of his miserable history to the boy. How could he have possibly known he had been at the gypsy carnival over ten years ago…that Christine had been there…
"Those thugs could pen no missive, but one was left with me. A warning never to return to the Opera House – not if I wanted to live to see another day. The note even suggested it would be wise for my continued health to leave Paris altogether. The words – all of them – were reminiscent of your manner of dealing with those who get in your way, much like the notes you sent the managers…"
"Silence – no more!"
The Phantom again took a threatening step toward him. The Vicomte took a step back, and once more Christine clutched Erik's arm with both hands, to prevent further violent action. He looked at her on impulse. Beyond the stunned realization in her shimmering dark eyes tinged with hurt anger, he read a firm appeal not to interfere and let the Vicomte have his say.
The Phantom refrained from throttling the boy, but soon wished that, this time, he had not surrendered to his wife's unspoken appeal.
x
"I've had considerable time this week to go over the contents of the trunk once forbidden me to look into when I was a child," the Vicomte said. "Among a host of clothing and items intended for a small boy, I found there a set of journals written by my father's first wife. I read through them and was soon enlightened with regard to the one dark secret my parents have kept from all knowledge for over three decades ..."
The Phantom felt as if he had suddenly been cast in cold black marble. Dark, yes dark… befitting of shadows. How appropriate a term for the ghostly apparition he'd become. No matter how he wished to prevent the words he knew were imminent, he felt helpless to do anything but stand and stare and watch his wretched fate unfold.
No doubt, the intrusive spirits were laughing in their shadow realm at their victory.
"All of what I found in those journals could explain your uncharacteristic intervention to free me from my captors – that is, if you, too, are aware of our family secret, as I think you must be, due to your cryptic remarks at the cemetery. Which now brings me to ask – are you that Erik spoken of in the journal – the only living child of the first Comtesse de Chagny?"
The boy's pallid blue eyes mirrored his refusal to believe. At the same time, by his expression, he struggled with insight as the scales of reflection balanced with the weight of knowledge that what he said must be true. All function that enabled speech was cut off, and Erik could only stare woodenly at the meddlesome boy, though every vessel of his body wished to shout a denial at the foul words.
The Vicomte glanced at Christine. His eyes flared a little, his mouth parting in surprise as if he'd just come to a startling conclusion. "Christine's composure and complete lack of shock to what I just revealed tells me I'm not wrong. She knows, because you told her. Dear God, it's true…you are my brother."
The ability to close out the maddening world that once more had risen up against him and his wishes did not falter as the Phantom's eyelids fell shut. Yet such escape was minimal and childish, a temporary relief from the insanity all around him when he was a boy. The respite could never be eternal, and all too soon he forced himself to look at his familial nemesis once more. The boy stood staring at him, awaiting an answer.
"I was spawned from the de Chagny seed," Erik spat, "though I do not want nor have I any wish to lay claim to your infernal birthright."
The boy paled, as if he just realized he could lose all the trappings he held dear…
And the Phantom could not resist twisting the knife a little.
"So you see, I am the true authority of this Opera House, since those fool managers left all decisions regarding its welfare in the hands of the de Chagnys. Now that you know the 'dark secret,' of my existence, will you at last go from here and never return?"
The Vicomte shook his head a little, still dazed. "What happened to you? The journals left off with you still residing at the manor. Everything after your second year is a mystery."
A mystery.
The Phantom grimaced. The wretched boy's persistence to unearth the full truth, coupled with harsh memories of that night with the sadistic spirits – and seeing his accursed history play out before his eyes – always at his loss – worked together to loosen the vice on his tongue.
Suddenly he had no wish to remain silent and every wish to lay blame on whom it belonged.
"You presume to possess such intellect but cannot see the path laid out before your eyes?" he scorned. "The weakling of a woman who gave birth to me died, my nursemaid followed a year later – which left me in the hands of your dear mother."
"You ran away?"
Erik snorted in disgust. "I was three."
Raoul shook his head, still oblivious. "She sent you away? To a cloistered monastery, perhaps…?"
"A monastery?" Erik repeated with a harsh laugh. "She sold me to a traveling fair in the city and told your father I ran away! Whether it was his ignorance and stupidity to realize a child so young would not possess the ability to reason to even know to escape, or if it was his relief to believe in such a ready lie, he did not question her. There was a short search of the grounds, for appearance's sake I presume, and then nothing more. The matter was forgotten and servants warned never to speak of the small boy in the west wing. As I was hidden away for the entirety of my life there, it was an easy matter to pretend away my existence, and any stranger outside the manor was none the wiser."
"How do you know all this?"
"You found the answer to that already, Vicomte. I hired an investigator who interviewed your servants. I suppose with the lapse of three decades, those who had been present no longer felt a need to hold their tongues."
Raoul winced at the mocking use of his title, stunned to hear of his mother's dark deed, certainly, but not disbelieving of it. She always preferred to surround herself with beauty and in his childhood often called him her fair cherub, saying she loved him for his angelic qualities. Raoul sometimes wondered had he been born ugly or scarred if his mother would have paid him any heed at all.
Would his own fate have been to grow up at the cruel hands of gypsies? To hide himself away from society?
His mind reeled with the fact that the Phantom he hunted and wished to rid the opera house of was his very own brother - born with a deformed face, the reason for the mask he was never without at last explained. Never mind that he had already reached the astounding conclusion after reading through the intriguing journals of the first Comtesse, with the recollection of the Phantom's bizarre words a spur to that day in Perros-Guirec. It had been no more than a possibility an hour ago – now proven beyond all shadow of doubt. The brooding man that glared at him even shared similar traits of his father.
"I am sorry she did that to you," Raoul managed. "To learn that my family could exhibit such viciousness toward an innocent child is inconceivable."
"Spare me your pity." Sarcasm dripped off the Phantom's words. "It is unwanted and certainly not needed."
Christine took a step forward with a gentle smile and placed her hand on the boy's arm. "Thank you for understanding, Raoul. I knew you would be different than your parents, once you learned the truth. I'm happy to see I wasn't wrong and you still have that kindness within your heart."
The Phantom frowned and looked from his wife to his nemesis. "I told you what I did solely because of your persistence to know. Now that you have all the facts, I require that you do not seek me out again and that you allow us to live our lives in peace." He took hold of Christine's arm, intending to drag her back with him through the secret passageway if need be.
"Now that I do know the way of things, we should talk about matters here…"
"I told you, I need no assistance, and you certainly have no place at the Opera at this time or any other."
"I speak of Christine…"
"Christine is not your concern."
"I beg to differ…"
"She is my wife!"
"And that makes her my sister – by law."
The Phantom's lips thinned to hear the boy so insolently initiate himself into a close kinship with Christine. Sister-in-law – it was simply a meaningless title like all other meaningless titles of a family lineage, was it not? He did not need or want anyone but Christine as his family.
"We have done perfectly well without your interference and shall continue to do so."
"By keeping her trapped beneath the earth without sunlight or fresh air – you consider that 'well'?"
Blast it all! Had the interloper been talking to Giry?!
"I have her with me for her protection, or have you forgotten there is a revolution in full progress outside those doors?" He motioned toward the heavy oak partition in a brusque manner.
"To keep her away from the public eye breeds suspicion," the boy returned arrogantly. "It is a guarantee that those in charge of the theatre will pursue this matter, to learn yet again what has become of their diva."
"With you to take the lead and incite the mobs to war?" the Phantom sneered.
"I am in as much danger, or have you forgotten? Until it is again safe to walk the streets, I have assumed the identity of one of my most trusted servants. He is away in England and will not return until I send for him. With a better disguise, I can blend in with the workers here and thus keep an eye on Christine."
Not in this lifetime he wouldn't!
"The performances for the Opera have been postponed," Christine inserted.
"Then you've not heard – Madame Giry convinced the management that the dancers must continue with their daily practices so they'll be better prepared when the opera again goes into production."
"Christine is not a simple dancer of the chorus. She is the opera's star."
"They still require her presence at rehearsals. She will not go unprotected. I will keep a watchful eye on her."
The idea of the boy's unsolicited aid rankled, along with the unspoken accusation that Erik was incapable of safeguarding his bride!
"Knowing what you now do, you cannot possibly be fool enough to think that I will allow her to perform onstage – for THEM?" the Phantom asked incredulously. "Should they learn of her connection to me – should they discover the 'dark family secret' – her life would be in peril!"
"Who would tell them? Surely not I! I agree we must keep this secret in such dangerous times. I will tell no one. However, if you do NOT allow her return to the stage, those of the Commune in charge here will in all likelihood order a search for her, quite possibly leading them to learn of cousins who don't exist and areas in the theatre that you, her teacher, has forbidden – putting her at even greater risk should they disobey and hunt her out…"
"I have made my decision!"
"A foolhardy one at best –"
"AND MY DECISION WILL STAND!"
"Gentlemen…"
Throughout their terse argument, the men drew slowly closer, fists clenched, as if about to come to blows. Christine laid a firm palm on each of their chests, putting herself in the middle of their fracas that seemed to be more about asserting boundaries over her and the Opera than any real concern for her capture as a noblewoman. Raoul had already vowed to keep the secret, and Erik certainly would never tell a living soul.
"This accomplishes nothing," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. "Surely we need not make any important decisions tonight?"
"I have decided."
"It is best not to put this off."
Christine sighed at their mutual stubbornness and looked at the last man who had spoken.
"How is Meg?" A genuine interest to know coupled with the need to defuse the volatile situation prompted her hasty question.
"Meg…?" Raoul blinked, taken aback. "I assume she is well. Why do you ask?"
A disbelieving snort came from Christine's left.
"Then you don't know?" she asked in surprise. "Meg was injured several days ago."
"Injured?" Raoul repeated in alarm. "How so?"
"She fell through a secret passage," Christine replied, still concerned for her dear friend.
Raoul sent an accusing stare beyond her. "No doubt one of your infernal traps!"
"She would never have been there if not for you, Vicomte," Erik aimed the words in derisive judgment. "She was keeping your appointment."
Shock then horror swept across Raoul's face. "My God – our meeting. That same night I was taken by those ruffians before I could arrive at the theatre. But – I never thought – she was injured?"
"Perhaps you should tend to your own affairs, and leave us to ours."
Christine ignored the soft, cutting words of her husband, seeing the absolute fear on her old friend's face. In doing so, one of her own qualms was relieved. It was written in every line of his expression – Raoul cared for Meg.
"She was much better the last time I saw her," Christine soothed, "Erik found and saved her."
Raoul's eyes snapped to his in surprise. "You…? You saved Meg?"
"I do not spend all of my time picking my teeth with the bones of dead children."
At his low, sardonic words, Christine shook her head a little in frustration. Why, oh why could he not at least try to forge a path of compromise now that Raoul knew the truth of their kinship?
Raoul narrowed his eyes then looked toward the desk, offering no reply.
"You should go to her," Christine urged. "She would want to see you, I'm sure of it."
"And we should take our leave. Come, Christine."
At the quiet rumble of dark authority in Erik's tone, she did not hesitate or argue. She was also upset but had no desire to rebel and prolong his dour mood.
"Wait."
The Vicomte's soft-spoken word was more of a query than command, and her husband's hold on her arm tightened.
"There is nothing more to say," he argued.
"No, you are wrong; this is not over. But the hour is late, so we will save it for another day. That isn't why I stopped you." Raoul picked up a stack of three slim books tied together with rope from the desktop and handed them to Erik. "These were your mother's. They're yours now to do with as you will."
Erik stared at the expensive, bound leather journals. Behind the mask, his stunned eyes fixed to the topmost brown cover rimmed in a decorative motif of gold leaf, and for a flash of an instant she read the longing in their expression. Tense seconds fell like dead weights before he drew his mouth into a thin, angry line and turned on his heel, disappearing back through the passageway.
"Come, Christine!"
Christine blinked in shock at his impatient bellow from within the cavern of darkness, her eyes meeting Raoul's somber blue ones before she snatched the books from his outstretched hand and hurried to join her husband.
.
xXx
.
Meg covered her eye with one hand. Thus handicapped, she attempted to count the rows of faded blue posies within her limited vision in a spiral toward the center motif. It provided more of a challenge and was a break in the monotony from counting them in horizontal or vertical rows, both of which she had done numerous times….
A step at the door alerted her that she was no longer alone. In surprise she turned her head away from focusing on the wallpaper.
A man stood in the entryway, looking fixedly at her and oddly resembling the Vicomte de Chagny. Realizing she still held one palm over her left eye, she dropped her arm in embarrassment.
"Miss Giry, is something wrong with your eye?"
The voice belonged to the Vicomte, as did the light blue eyes that never wavered from her face, but the mop of shaggy and unkempt brown locks atop his head did not. She was hardly one to judge, uncertain which was the greater humiliation. To be caught counting wallpaper patterns like a ninny, (a weak diversion to wile away the long, dreary hours), or to be seen with her hair resembling a veritable bird's nest. Her time abed had done little for her appearance, though she did try to brush her hair out once a day to prevent the dreaded tangles and knots.
Today was not one of those days.
"No, it's fine…" Using her hands to gather and wrap around her hair at her shoulder she attempted to straighten an unruly hank but quickly gave up the cause as lost, wishing now she'd given into an earlier inclination to braid it.
"May I enter?"
Lack of company for days made her rush to say, "Of course," but fear of her mother's sharp tongue should she make an appearance and see Raoul standing by her bed, alone with Meg, had her hurriedly add, "I suppose a few minutes won't hurt…" She coughed into her hand.
"I only just learned of your accident," he cut straight to the heart of the matter as he approached and stopped by her cot. "Forgive me for not arriving to our meeting. I was… detained."
"Oh?" A slight edge set her words. She was irritated that he just admitted he had not bothered to arrive and only now made an appearance, almost a fortnight later. "Never mind. It must have not been all that important, and as you see, I survived the night in that hole in the wall. My main concern now is this pesky cough. Do not trouble yourself over me."
He winced at her abrasive words delivered in a cool tone, and only at that moment did she realize just how terribly hurt she had been at his slight.
"Meg…" Before she could stop him, he sank to the edge of the bed and covered her hand lying beside her with his own. "Had I been able, I would have been there. When I say I was detained, I do not use the word lightly."
Only then did she peer more closely in the dim glow of the lamplight and see the faint marks of bruises near his eyes and on both jaws. Immediately she remembered her concern for his prior fate, forgotten when she saw him standing hale and hearty in the doorway and appearing none the worse for wear.
"What happened to you?" Worry softened the tightness that earlier hardened her words.
"The Commune found me."
She gasped in horror at his whispered reply, the presence of the ridiculous wig now clear.
"How, Raoul?" Once uttered, she realized her unintentional use of his Christian name, but he didn't seem to mind. And somehow it felt right and not one bit awkward.
Briefly he gave what must be a condensed version of his abduction and stay at his captors' hands. Her eyes widened as he quickly wrapped up his tale.
"Thank God you're alright. But – who would do that?" His description of his bizarre rescue brought only one possibility to mind. "Surely, not – the Phantom?!"
And yet, why not? Had he not found and rescued her?
Raoul continued staring at their clasped hands, his expression somber. Instead of answering, he turned his intent blue eyes up to her.
"What of you, Meg? I was told you found yourself in one of his horrid death traps. You could have died there."
At the clear horror of his low, emotive words, she looked down with a mix of embarrassment and pleasure that her condition must surely be of some importance to him. Her throat again helplessly tickled and she coughed into her hand.
"What happened, Meg?"
"I went to the theatre, where we were to meet, and called out to a man on stage, thinking it was you. Then I noticed blood on his shirt and ran. He chased after me, and somehow I fell through a hidden panel in the wall. Had the Phantom not found me when he did…" She shook her head with a little shudder. "Well, I don't wish to think of the outcome."
To her shock, Raoul lifted her hand he still held to his mouth and kissed it. "Thank the Almighty for his intervention, even if He did send a dark Angel to accomplish it. Twice in one night, it would seem…"
His words of gratitude were puzzled and pensive. The feel of his lips brushing her skin warmed Meg from the inside out and her mind spun into a slight whirl, making thought or speech almost impossible.
At the same time, she realized her mother could walk through the door at any moment. Once was enough to be caught in an intimate encounter with the Vicomte, though naked in a tub was far worse…
Slowly she extracted her hand from his and laid it against her waist then coughed again. He looked a little confused by her gesture but did not refer to it.
"What has the physician said about that cough?" he asked.
"There has been no doctor. The one whose services the theatre used died recently."
"You haven't been seen by a doctor?" His words were mildly stern with disapproval.
"Maman has quite an extensive experience in making compresses, herbal teas, and the like. I was often sick as a child."
She grudgingly admitted the last, not wishing him to think of her as a weakling. Which was an incongruity, when she did not yet have the strength to leave the bed.
"What will you do now?" she asked, changing the subject. "Will you leave Paris?"
To Meg, the revolution was no more than a word. She hardly felt affected by it, closed off in this room as she was. But to Raoul, she knew it was a sudden and harsh change to his entire way of life.
"No, I'll not go. I'm no coward." He sniffed at the idea. "I shall work in disguise here at the theatre and keep low and quiet, to keep an eye on things."
"What? Here?" She blinked in shock. "Won't the management and cast recognize you – even under that horrible wig? I did."
A smile tilted the corners of his lips. "It is rather awful, isn't it? The thing was lying on a crate in my path and I decided to make use of it. But no, it is doubtful anyone will pay me heed. A number of the crew have left, due to the new mandate of lower wages, and others have arrived to take their place. I will go unnoticed. In my experience servants are generally shown little observance by those in authority. Nor would any of the cast or crew assume or believe that a nobleman of sound mind would remain in the city and become a stagehand, especially within the Commune's new quarters. So it is highly doubtful anyone will think to look at me twice."
"With that disguise they might," Meg countered, her eyes going to the badly cut, shaggy mop of hair, a poor fit for his head, and she made a decision. "In the costume room, there's a small trunk of men's hairpieces and other items on the low shelf near the far wall with the dressing table. Tomorrow, while Maman is busy directing rehearsal, bring it to me and I will help you attain a more suitable disguise. That is… if you wish it."
Her cheeks warmed at her assertive manner, which was highly improper given his status, but his eyes twinkled in approval.
"I would be most grateful for your help, Meg," he agreed softly. "Though you must now address me as Tristan."
"Whatever for?"
He grinned at her candid response. "Well, I cannot very well go by my given name. I took the name of my manservant who is away on holiday."
"Oh. Very well then … Tristan." She felt the inane urge to giggle at this latest masquerade then squelched it, forcing a more solemn attitude, which brought on another dratted cough. "I am very grateful for your company, it has been so lonely since Christine went underground – and me, without any way to see her and know how she is faring – Maman tells me so little. But you should go. It wouldn't do for her to find you here. Especially what with well … you know …."
"About that …"
"No – please don't apologize again," Meg said with a groan, noting his penitent expression. "I would rather just forget that night in the dressing room altogether." More expressly, to forget he had seen her in the altogether.
"As you wish." He stood then hesitated, as if he had more to say but felt uncertain he should speak. "Cease to worry about Christine. She is well. I saw her tonight."
"You saw her?" She repeated stupidly.
"I had matters to discuss with … her husband. She accompanied him above, to your mother's office."
"Oh – then she might yet visit!" Meg cast a hopeful glance to the door, as if expecting Christine to glide through at any moment.
"That is doubtful. Her… husband left in a dark mood. She went after him."
"Oh."
Meg couldn't hide her disappointment nor her curiosity at his cryptic reference to the Phantom. In fact, he seemed to make an effort not to use the ghoulish title, which in the past had never been an issue for him.
Raoul studied her as if pondering an idea.
"You should write her a letter."
"Write Christine?" Meg shook her head in confusion.
"Yes, tell her you would like to visit with her and that you miss her company. I will see that the letter is delivered."
The idea, at first ludicrous, began to appeal. Christine was certainly busy in her newly married status as the Phantom's wife, Meg had no doubt. But with the opera at a standstill, surely her closest and dearest friend could find one measly hour to come above and visit with Meg as she convalesced from this irritation in her lungs.
Indeed, she knew of no reason for Christine to refuse, and would word her letter in such a way that her friend would find her request an impossibility to resist.
.
xXx
A/N: Oh, dear… can you sense the conflict soon coming? (You have no idea!) ;-)
