Author's Note: You guys are all too awesome for me. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed and put this story on their lists after that last chapter! Here's the next one too. Almost even forgot to edit it in light of the stuff school has been putting on my back as of late. Also, maybe a chill pill might be needed for this chapter? *ducks away into a corner*
thoroughly-inktroverted: That is definitely an interesting parallel! And I'm sure it won't even be the last one you'll see around here. They're certainly intriguing to think about, especially when you compare the mirror circumstances of the characters, you get what I mean? *wink*
( thirty-one )
PATRON SAINT
When Lefèvre entered his office on the morning of the first of January, he did not expect to have a visitor waiting for him.
"Miss Rousseau?" Lefèvre uttered as he shut the door to his office.
Jovan stood before his desk, her red hair neatly piled atop her head while she donned a high-collared blouse and navy blue skirt. "Monsieur Lefèvre," she greeted him quietly, dropping into a curtsy.
Too many times Lefèvre forgot of the blue blood that ran in the young woman's veins, and he watched with stunned features as Jovan demonstrated a grace that was usually absent whenever she was working in the Opéra Populaire. But Lefèvre thought, with an inkling of sadness, that a girl posing as someone from the middle class and who used to work as a stagehand had no reason to move around with poise and elegance, after all.
Jovan held herself tall and straight before the manager, her face eerily placid. Lefèvre felt a wave of unease wash over him as he gave her a bow in return. He already saw this coming ever since the Bal Masqué last night.
"I know why you're here, Comtesse," Lefèvre said, not bothering with using Jovan's chosen alias seeing as they were in the privacy in his office and were unlikely to be disturbed anyway; the majority of the opera staff had gone to their respective homes last night in light of the holidays. Though the sound of the title rolling off his tongue felt strange, foreign like an antique long lost. He had not used it with Jovan ever since she first came to the opera house and she had requested that she be called only by her alias.
Jovan blinked, expertly concealing her surprise at the use of her title, something that Lefèvre was sure she'd not heard in a long time. "I'm not angry, monsieur. I would just like to know why I wasn't told beforehand."
Lefèvre gave her a sad smile. "Of course you're angry, my lady. Understandably so. But will you give a chance to explain?"
He watched as Jovan gave him a smile in a return, a thin-lipped one. Lefèvre then gestured to one of the chairs before his desk. "Please, have a seat," he remarked before crossing over to his own chair behind the desk while Jovan took her seat.
"I never knew that Vicomte Collet would be bringing in your uncle to replace him as patron, Jovan," Lefèvre began. "Though I was aware that Vicomte Collet would be leaving for America, he refused to disclose to me who would be the Populaire's new patron. He simply told me to be patient and that it would be a surprise."
"If the circumstances were different, I'm sure it could have been a genuinely pleasant surprise," Jovan replied. "After all, Vicomte Sauveterre's brother did use to work here."
"He did, he did," Lefèvre answered with a nod. "Comtesse, if I only knew, I would have told you sooner."
"I understand, monsieur." Lefèvre searched Jovan's green eyes and saw sincerity in them, but her stare was tainted with faint traces of distress and dismay. Her voice was a monotone. "You're not to blame here ― I doubt you envisioned your new patron to be my uncle. He never admitted to being fond of opera after all."
"If that's the case, then why become patron to the Opéra Populaire?"
"Publicity, Monsieur Lefèvre. I'm sure he feels like a saint now." There was a hint of sarcasm in Jovan's voice.
"Well, whatever the case may be, my lady, I cannot have Vicomte Sauveterre as my patron―"
"No, monsieur," Jovan smoothly but firmly cut the manager, prompting Lefèvre to widen his eyes at her in surprise. "I will not have you remove my uncle as the Populaire's patron. He is a wealthy man, something the opera house is sure to benefit from."
"But, Comtesse... what are you going to do?" Lefèvre wondered in genuine confusion.
He watched as Jovan rose from her chair. "Monsieur, I came here to tell you that I am resigning."
Lefèvre froze. He knew that he should have seen this coming too but it all just felt too surreal, not after having Jovan in the opera house for more than two years. To see her leave now felt unreal, even if the person she was posing as did not ultimately exist.
"My lady, when you came here asking for refuge three years ago, I vowed to give you protection for as long as you needed it," he answered quietly. "After learning what your uncle did to you, how could I not? But now, how can I keep my word if I allow the Vicomte to be our patron while you struggle to find another place that can give you sanctuary?"
"Monsieur, I doubted that you would have allowed me to stay at the Populaire if I had not told you of what Rémi did to me." Jovan's voice was still calm but the controlled anger beneath it was palpable. "After all, none of my talents lie in anything having to do with opera. Tell me, would you have allowed me to stay if I had not told you of what happened to me before I came here?"
Lefèvre could try to lie, but the cold look in Jovan's eyes dissuaded him from doing so. "No, my lady."
He watched, with a whisper of guilt, as Jovan's jaw tightened. "Then don't feel compelled now to allow me stay here any longer."
"Comtesse, how can I not?" Lefèvre raised his voice as he stood from his chair. "Something as simple as allowing you to stay in my opera house does not even measure up to the renown that your father once brought to the Populaire when he used to work here! I owe him that much, Jovan, especially when his working here even brought a good amount of scandal to your family's name."
"Monsieur, things are no longer as simple as they were before last night!" Jovan countered. "My uncle is now patron of the Opéra Populaire, and that changes everything. Under no circumstances can he know that I used to work here, or we can only imagine how his wrath will manifest and how much of the Populaire will be end up being part of the collateral damage."
"Used to work here? But, my lady, I have yet to accept your resignation," Lefèvre breathed out, his voice dropping back to its normal tone.
"Please, Lefèvre," Jovan insisted quietly. "I am extremely grateful for all that you have done for me, but no more. There's nothing more you can do to help from this point onward without possibly harming yourself or the opera house."
Lefèvre gave a sigh. His chest tightened with something that faintly felt like guilt and a damning sense of helplessness.
"Well, then," he answered tiredly. "If that is indeed the truth, then forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive, monsieur," Jovan replied, forcing a small smile onto her lips that made Lefèvre's heart clench. "Do you accept my resignation?"
"I do, Jovan." He reached out a hand to her that she then took in hers and gave a quick squeeze.
"Thank you, monsieur."
Lefèvre let go of her and tried to muster a smile for her. "Wherever you might choose to go on from here, I wish you the best of luck, Comtesse."
He watched, with a heavy heart, as she gave him a rueful smile in return before she vanished behind the door of his office, leaving him to drown in the haunting silence.
The dormitory was thankfully empty when Jovan entered the room.
She quickly went to packing up her things once she had locked the door behind her. Last night's events had left her in such an exhausted state that she ended up collapsing into her bed after Erik had brought her back. When she woke up, the first thing she had noticed were the empty beds around her. When she realized that all of her roommates, save for Christine whose home was the Opéra Populaire, had left to return to their respective homes until the holiday break was over, she was unable to stop regret from creeping into her chest. She would never be able to say goodbye to any of them, especially Tess. At least, Jovan had thought to console herself, she could still give a proper farewell to her youngest roommate, Christine.
When Jovan came to the Opéra Populaire, she only had a single chest trunk that contained all of her belongings. While the whole actuality of her possessions would have barely fitted in a single trunk, she had only brought the essentials after all ― an impromptu escape from one's home forced a person to only carry the most important of their belongings, sentiment be damned. When Laurine had freed Jovan, she only had the clothes on her back and a few more possessions to bring with her. The rest of the things that Jovan now had with her were things that she had accumulated over the duration of her time away from home.
"You're leaving." The words came from behind her, and they weren't a question. Jovan glanced behind her shoulder to see Erik standing not far from the mirror.
She returned her stare to the things she had spread across her bed while she stood to the side of it. "I am."
"Where will you be going?" Though Erik's steps were silent as always, Jovan could feel him approaching her, the gravity of his presence unmistakable.
"Home," came her quiet answer; saying the word felt like there was a thorn lodged in her throat.
As if the silence in the room wasn't thick enough, it only grew heavier when she saw Erik come to a stop at the foot of her bed, before her trunk. Jovan stood to one side of her bed, and she straightened up when she felt Erik staring fiercely at her. When she locked eyes with him, she was startled by the anger burning in his mismatched eyes.
"Home?" he echoed, his voice dropping into a furious whisper. "Are you mad?"
Jovan's mouth grew dry as she tried to search for an answer that could placate Erik, though she already knew that the chance of doing so was extremely slim. She abandoned her endeavor and decided to give it to him straight and simple. "Laurine saw me last night, Erik. What are the chances that she already told Rémi that I've been hiding here all this time? I wasn't wearing a formal dress or a costume last night, which leads to the only conclusion that I'm part of the staff here. For all we know, she and her husband could be on their way here right now."
"She's the same woman who set you free. You cannot be sure," Erik argued, but Jovan could sense the weakness of his conviction in his voice ― almost imperceptible, but she had learned to recognize doubt when it was there.
She gave a scoff as she picked up a sheaf of papers from her bed. "And she's the same woman who beat me and called me a whore. Only God knows what goes on inside that woman's head," Jovan retorted, allowing her spite to seep into her voice while she moved to the foot of her bed where her trunk was. Erik stepped aside to make way for her, and Jovan fell to her knees before her trunk as she began to pack in her papers alongside her other belongings while Erik stood behind her.
"You didn't tell Lefèvre anything about this. About Laurine seeing you last night." There was no accusation in his tone, only a flat statement. Jovan was not surprised with his words; she'd always had a suspicion that he had eavesdropped on the entirety of her conversation with the manager, and now she had a confirmation.
Her hands paused inside her trunk as she lifted her eyes to stare blankly ahead of her. Guilt nipped at her for not divulging that specific information to Monsieur Lefèvre, and her reason for not doing so only made the weight in her chest grow heavier. She simply didn't want to let the aged manager know that what happened last night had most likely spelled the beginning of a sentence for the opera house, and it was all because she had been careless.
Guilty, guilty, a part of her chanted cruelly inside her head. Jovan swallowed thickly before resuming putting her papers into her trunk.
"All the more reason for me to go to Laurine and Rémi. I need to stop this before anything else happens."
"Just like that? You're not even going to try and fight back?" Erik's voice rose a notch, his simmering anger unmistakable.
Jovan rose to her feet and turned to Erik. She didn't realize that he was standing so close behind her and he ended up being too close for comfort. Their proximity only intensified her discontent, but she made no move to step back. Instead, her anger took control of her, and she only inched closer to him.
"I already lost the battle before it even began," she grounded out.
Erik's eyes were ablaze. "Only because you're raising your white flag so soon."
"How can I not, Erik? You speak as if I have the means to fight back ― I don't!"
"You have me, Jovan. I can help you." The change in Erik's tone caught Jovan off guard, more so the sudden tenderness in his green and amber eyes, and she tried to stop herself from staggering back in surprise.
"Erik, no," Jovan replied evenly. No, she would not allow him to get caught in the battles that were only supposed to be hers.
"I offer you my help and you refuse it?" Erik answered darkly.
She gave him a humorless smile and shook her head. "You once feared that I might bring danger to the doorstep of the Populaire. Well, I've gone and done it." A shrug left her shoulders as the smile left her lips, and her tone grew softer. "I'm really sorry, Erik. I didn't really mean for this to happen. You were right to be suspicious of me ― I may not be a criminal or a vile person, but I might as well be one because of the peril I have now brought to you and the people here."
Erik gave a scoff. "Whatever that damn Vicomte does to the opera house, I shall do to him twofold in return." His words oozed with confidence and Jovan did not doubt them, but they also served as the struck match that lit the fire of her anger.
"You're going to turn the Populaire into your battlefield, damn it!" Jovan exclaimed. "This isn't your fight, Erik, so stay away."
The scoff that left Erik's lips made a veil of red drop over her vision. "Impossible, Comtesse," he drawled, and Jovan was unsure if he was mocking her. His tone was that of a man who would not allow himself to be ordered around. "After all, if you refuse to prepare for war, then I shall gladly take over the responsibility."
"I'm trying to take the fight away from here!" Jovan ended up raising her voice, uncaring of whoever might hear her beyond the walls of the dormitory.
"By sacrificing yourself?" Erik spat back.
"I've done it before, I can do it again," Jovan snapped, shaking with barely contained anger. She clenched her fists at her side as a rash urge tried to overtake her, the urge to grab something and hurl it away from her as a release for the anger burning hotly inside her. No. Not this time.
A snarl left Erik. "I will not allow it."
Jovan had nothing to say in return when she heard the variation of her own words from last night. Instead, she unclenched her fists and dropped back down before her trunk. Stubbornly, she shifted her eyes away from Erik and to the fabrics that sat before her. As quietly as she could, she began to draw in deep breaths in an attempt to quell her temper before she ended up doing something she might regret.
When it was apparent that she wasn't going to answer Erik, he let out short, harsh bark of sarcastic laughter. "Have you not suffered enough, you reckless girl?"
Girl. Jovan's fingers tightened around the fabric of the shirt she held when she heard the word. She wasn't a girl anymore, she was no longer a child.
"I have," she began, shoving the shirt deep within her trunk as she gritted her teeth. "But I would rather that I suffer instead of the people here."
"Do not make yourself into a martyr, Jovan," Erik admonished her sharply.
Jovan shot up to her feet, her veins alight with newfound anger. "What? Do you think I'm doing this out of some misplaced sense of self-righteousness? Or do you think that I'm a masochist perhaps?" she seethed venomously at Erik, her voice a low but furious whisper. "You don't know how desperate I am for another way out. But there just ― isn't ― one."
"Your anger and your panic is clouding your mind. There is another way out if you work hard enough for it," Erik hissed.
"Your stubbornness isn't going to open a door where there isn't one, Erik." The moment the words left her lips, Jovan could have slapped herself at her idiocy. What the hell was she saying? This man literally had a maze and hundred hidden doors in the walls of an opera house.
A small part of her was grateful that Erik chose not to comment on her foolish choice of words. The remark that left his lips, however, struck a heavy blow that made Jovan's knees weak.
"You told me that you were a coward before. Are you being a coward now?"
"What?" Jovan narrowed her eyes at Erik.
"Look at you, Jovan. Surrendering to the enemy instead of standing your ground for a fight."
"This isn't a game, Erik! There is too much at stake! The Opéra Populaire itself, the people who work here! You don't know how my uncle might choose to bring down his wrath when he learns that I've been hiding and working here for the past three years."
Erik's eyes grew sharp with a dark gleam. "And he also doesn't know of my own wrath, which he shall have a taste of if he even dares to tear down a single wall in this opera house."
"You are so goddamn stubborn!" Jovan snarled.
"Better to be a stubborn, reckless fool than a coward!"
Jovan gave a sharp inhale.
There was a loud, resounding bang that echoed in the room. Jovan did not realize it when her hand had found the edge of her trunk's lid, and she had slammed it shut with more force than necessary. There was a violent glint in her green, tapered eyes as she glared fiercely at Erik.
"Do not call me that."
"Then don't act like one," Erik answered with matching severity.
Her first instinct was to turn on her heel and walk away. When some of the red in her vision ebbed away, the realization that she was in her room dawned on her, and Jovan lifted her chin as she stood unwavering against Erik's intense stare. No, she shouldn't have to be the one to leave this time.
"Get out," she growled.
He gave a derisive huff. "As you wish, Comtesse," he snapped before flinging his cloak behind him as he turned and marched towards the mirror.
The offhand usage of her title made all air escape her lungs as her legs grew weak. As the mirror quietly snapped shut in Erik's departure, Jovan sat herself on her trunk, her whole frame shaking like a leaf. Salt stung her eyes and she buried her head into her hands as she bit her lip hard until blood was drawn.
Good God, please help me.