Chapter 17
Monsieur Pêche,
Thank you for helping me when I was ill. I am well again now. I am sorry for any worry I may have caused you.
Yours sincerely,
Justine
The note curled in Erik's pocket like a worm cavorting in a piece of fruit. They were speaking to each other. What other involvement had occurred? How far into his son had this girl gnawed? He looked at her, snivelling on her seat – pretty he supposed, but was that all his son needed to stray from his father? He might have understood if she had any great talent or some angelic soul but this one had neither: if she had traced any impression on Erik's mind at all, it was of a long-legged girl on the lap of some gentleman, drunk of blackberry liquor and giggling too hard at a bad joke. Even her handwriting was careless, looping strokes that barely stuck to its lines. If her dancing was like this, the girl would not be fit for a bawdy house, let alone a theatre. If she had opened her mouth, he would have expected a forked tongue.
Erik considered the possibility of killing her. Fifteen years ago, consideration would not have been required. He had killed people stronger than her. Ballet rats were not of great interest to the police. Indeed, the manager had no real proof of Erik's existence anymore now that he was less posturing, less extravagant. If he was to send the girl on her way to the afterlife, no one would care except Christian. Only his own dear boy would notice her gone – would look for her – would cry for her. He resolved against the lasso. If the girl happened to drink herself into oblivion incidentally or disappear down an alley one night – that was well enough. But Christian – the very thought of his tears, or his sorrow, of acquainting the boy with loss – Erik could not do that. Having found his compassion that night only to lose Christine, Erik's compassion had been poured into his boy. Dear Christian, so untouched by the world, so gentle and affectionate. He barely meant to even hurt him in punishment – he was sorry right after and his periods of starvation were as much from guilt as anger. To hurt the boy intentionally – even for his own good – it repulsed Erik. Another way would have to be made.
He supposed he could hurt, bribe or frighten her. Having no general interest in ballerinas, Erik knew little about the girl's general ambitions; without her note, he would not have known her name. Was she anything to do with the boarded-up mirror? No – Christian seemed surprised by that, too. Was she hoping to be another soprano? She seemed like the sort to try and sleep her way along. Bribing might be difficult without knowing what she wanted. Scaring might similarly be difficult to balance. What had she been unwell with? he wondered. Had she perhaps developed some sickness that would impede her dancing? If so, there was little point in simply injuring her. his name held less sway than it had, and she wasn't important enough to fear blackmail. Fear was perhaps best.
Following her straight to her room would not do. Quickly, he grabbed a piece of charcoal and scratched, with matchstick plain letters, a message on the other side of the paper. Grabbing a rope, he clambered down quietly and gently – ever so gently, leaned down. The warmth of her body radiated; she smelt of soap and sweat; her waist was soft as he carefully – oh so carefully with a practiced hand – pushed the piece of paper into her waistband to be discovered later. It was a hasty note but it would do.
Before she could notice he scrambled back up to the rigging like a spider on its silk; the girl, still caught in her snivelling, did not seem to have seen him. She would get back to her room and see it then – far less risky than following her back to the dormitories without being spotted by one ballerina or another. As the final curtain closed, he saw Giry place a hand on the girl's upper back and push her along, presumably back to the practice hall to get her act together or to the dormitory in disgrace. Retreating to his home below, Erik slipped down into the darkness, where Christian was laid asleep in bed, his face obscured by his glossy pale curls. How he loved that gentle, sleeping face! Without his mask, he lay down beside him, glad to have made his point to the girl. He could show her the truth of his message if he needed to; for now, he hoped the girl might have some sense or at least some cowardice. His message, without being excessively cruel, was perfectly clear:
Justine,
Leave the Opera House or you will die. Do not hesitate.
Monsieur Pêche