A/N: This is something of a transitional chapter and therefore a bit helter-skelter. More thanks to my reviewers—I have to say that I'm really very encouraged by all of the wonderful things said! Thank you!
There was a certain type of tile used in Persia, colored the same intense blue as lapis lazuli. Erik had been fond of it and incorporated it extensively in the designs he created for the Shah. How curious that the exact color would reappear in his life, in the form of a Parisian dawn.
For a moment, Erik lamented the years he spent hidden underground. Then again, how many average men were still abed at this hour? They certainly weren't admiring the pure, true hue of the sky!
However, even if the sky was ash and the Seine lead, Erik's mood could not have been repressed. What a night! What a fantastic night he had had! How could he have forgotten how his blood hummed in tune with the orchestra, how the office of 'Ghost' called on so many of his unusual skills?
How many other things had he forgotten about living? How many other things had he never even experienced?...
No. That was a dangerous line of thought for him. Erik—master illusionist, innovative architect, virtuoso composer, world traveler!— had he not experienced more in one lifetime than other men could have in a dozen? Could that not be enough for him?
The bells of Notre Dame interrupted his thoughts, mercifully.
Erik was unsure if he would see the rosary woman or not, but she appeared at the foot of the Pont au Double at exactly the same time she usually did.
He would not have recognized her had it not been for her forceful walk. She was attired in what Erik could only assume was last night's costume. Plum silk and black Chantilly lace was wholly appropriate for a night at the opera; not quite in fashion for an early mass. She was perhaps saved from utter impropriety by the cut of her gown. It was long sleeved and lacked the extremely low décolletage currently in vogue.
Her rosary was absent.
They crossed paths at the typical point.
"Good morning, Monsieur!" she said tartly, already a step past Erik. Well! She was nothing if not predictable! Erik smiled.
"Good morning, Madame."
The clack of her high heeled shoes halted. "Monsieur?"
Erik tensed, but paused. "Madame?"
"Forgive me," she had obviously turned around to face Erik. "I have a rather odd request."
Erik kept his back to her a moment longer before turning around. He angled his face downward, allowing the weak morning sun and the brim of his hat to cast deep shadows over his white mask. Of course, the woman had no reason to hide her own face, affording Erik the chance to finally look at her. Fine dark hair was pulled back with tortoiseshell combs. The look in her green eyes was predictably sharp, her dark brows arched quizzically. Her nose had telltale signs of having been broken and reset. An elegant, if not arresting face, he decided. "Your servant, Madame."
"Would you please repeat these words? 'It was simply most unfortunate timing. '"
Erik could have easily altered his voice to mimic any accent or take on any quality. That would have been the wise thing to do, yes? He couldn't have this little woman connecting him to the fabled Opera Ghost, now could he?
"It was simply most unfortunate timing," Erik repeated, the opportunity to change the sound of his voice slipping by with each word. The entire phrase came out in his own dark tenor.
The woman stood utterly still for a long moment, sharp eyes still fixed on Erik's hidden face. She laughed all of the sudden, like a roll of thunder. She turned on her heel, still laughing. "Good morning, Monsieur!"
Erik watched her walk away, steps quick as ever. He could not help but feel that he had just made a terrible, foolish mistake.
Didier had revised his opinion of Mademoiselle Nora Farley a half dozen times before meeting her. When he had first inquired as to who had been seated in Box Five, he found the seating request penned on official stationery from the British Embassy. The thought that Saturday's moment of mayhem could perhaps result in an international incident nearly set in Didier a panic. He had been most relieved to see that the ticket purchase had been personal, not political, in nature.
One assumption made and undone.
The next thing he noticed was that the box was reserved for Madame Nora Farley. Perhaps the wife of some official attached to the embassy? That could prove worse for the theater than if it had been a true politician!
That notion was done away with when Didier found her address—and the small note that she was in fact Mademoiselle Farley. A daughter, perhaps? Unlikely. A mistress, almost certainly. The address seemed to confirm to that. It was a not in a bad neighborhood, per se, but less refined than what an aristocratic Englishwoman would find acceptable.
He called on that address late Monday morning, and was forced to reassess Mademoiselle Farley again.
"Didier Moncharmin," Didier presented his card to the stern and impeccably dressed servant who opened the door. "To see Mademoiselle Farley."
"I shall inquire, Monsieur," the man said, his French fluent but marred by an appallingly strong English accent. "If you care to step into the foyer?"
Didier could scarcely call the apartment's entryway a proper foyer—stepping in practically put him in the parlor. He would have pinned it as a nice, middle-class abode, if not for the butler, who would have seemed more at home in one of those grandiose English country houses.
A minute later, the man reappeared, offering to take Didier's overcoat and hat. "Miss Farley will see you shortly."
In Didier's experience, a woman's concept of 'shortly' could in fact be quite long. He was pleasantly surprised when Mademoiselle Farley appeared after only a few minutes. She was older than Didier, perhaps thirty-five, perhaps forty. She wore a morning dress in the latest fashion, Havana brown velvet and heavily adorned with passementerie. Quite respectable looking, and with none of the airs he associated with the paramours of powerful men.
"Monsieur Moncharmin. To what do I owe the honor of a visit from the manager of the lovely Opera Garnier?" She spoke easily and without the heavy accent of her butler.
Didier stood and bowed over her hand with a practiced flourish. "Mademoiselle Farley. I understand that you had a rather poor evening at my opera. I came to put myself at your service, to see if there is any way I could make amends." It was not quite a lie. Damage control was one of Didier's objections; the other was to find out as much as he could about the otherworldly ruckus that had necessitated Mademoiselle Farley's change of seat. In a red-inked letter Didier found on his desk, the Opera Ghost had proudly claimed credit for the incident. He had also promised more extravagant disruptions, should Box Five be let out again. Didier intended on obeying, but he first desired all the information available.
Mademoiselle Farley motioned for Didier to take a seat, arranging herself on a low settee. "A poor evening, Monsieur Moncharmin? I thought the production was lovely."
She seemed sincere in this sentiment and Didier smiled and inclined his head modestly. "So kind of you to say so. But I understand that there was a disruption…"
Her brow knitted, as if confused. "Oh, the noise. In the second act, yes. The attendants were good enough to find me another seat."
"Have you any idea what caused it?" Didier asked, trying to sound casual.
"I haven't any idea." She paused as her manservant reappeared with a coffee cart, which she served in fine Continental fashion. "At first I imagined it came from one of the neighboring boxes—now I wonder if it was not some sort of prank."
Didier recalled his first thoughts upon reading the Ghost's clause. "That does seem to be the logical first reaction." He sipped his coffee. "Was there no warning, Mademoiselle?"
"None," she replied with a shrug. The gesture was very nearly Parisian, elegant and utterly nonchalant. "Has anything of the sort happened before at your theater?"
"Well, there are some who claim the Palais Garnier is haunted," Didier said. When Mademoiselle Farley did not respond, he elaborated. "The, ah, resident phantom, if you will, has been known to have fun at the expense of the patrons, from time to time."
"You would think a ghost would have better ways of occupying its time," she replied blandly.
"You would think." After a few more exchanges, it was clear that Nora Farley did not think much of the idea of the supernatural interfering with her evening. He believed it was time to end his visit. Didier reached into his coat pocket and withdrew an envelope. "If you please, Mademoiselle: the Comique is lending us Lakmé, and Mademoiselle van Zandt to sing her. The management would like you to attend, as our guest."
"How kind of you," she said, accepting the ticket. "Forgive me for not being more helpful in identifying your prankster."
"It is of little consequence," Didier said, "so long as it remains an isolated incident."
Erik spent Monday on the catwalks, high above the main stage. Chorus auditions were being held, and he longed to hear the promise of greatness in at least one of those voices.
He was disappointed, but not surprised. It was foolish to search for another Christine. He did not seek a personal pupil, of course, and certainly not a romance. Rather, a divine voice concealed by inexperience. A note here or there to the managers could guide such a talent's career, if only such a talent was to be found.
The departure of La Carlotta did not trouble Erik on a personal level, but he clearly saw the impact it had on the business of the opera. Erik begrudgingly allowed that the woman had technical proficiency (even if her interpretations of her roles were heinous!) Her voice was large and carried well to the nearly two thousand seats in the house, but more importantly her name carried well. A name meant rather too much in opera, and the Garnier was suffering without one.
Invitations to various leading ladies had been made. Many were accepted—but only for limited engagements. Erik thought that, should a decision be further delayed, he would suggest offering the position to the Portuguese Gilda. Not ideal, but a suitable stopgap. Perhaps with the right repertoire, the right adjustments, the right marketing… yes, something might be made of the girl, and the Garnier with her.
Around the time the chorus-master ended the auditions, Didier Moncharmin walked across the stage. The manager fumbled with his cigarette case and then his matches. He was ill at ease, if the four failed attempts to light his match were any indication.
"Monsieur Gabriel! Have you seen Madame Giry?" the young man asked.
"I have not, Monsieur Moncharmin," the chorus-master replied. "I do not think she stays on Mondays. If she is here, she is likely in the ballet foyer with her daughter."
"If you happen upon her, send her to my office."
Ah, now that was promising! Erik could fathom but one reasonable explanation for Moncharmin to seek out a box keeper—the delivery of twenty thousand francs!