Chapter Five

Of Nightmares, Names, and Gin


Éponine woke up trying to scream, only nothing would come out. She was suffocating under an impossible weight, drowning, dying, and she couldn't get her voice to work, she could hardly even breathe—

There was a strong hand grasping her arm, and she saw Erik's face—or rather, his mask. The awful dream gradually began to release its grip on her, delivering her into the far stranger one that was unfolding whenever she was awake, in which she was in a fancy house on a lake deep under the ground with this strange masked man, who, evidently, had decided that it was appropriate to lurk at her bedside while she slept.

"Are you all right, Mademoiselle?"

"You don't need to call me that. I'm just Éponine." It came out practically as a snap.

"You were having a nightmare."

She moved her arm slightly. It was the injured side, and hard to move, but the slight movement was enough to get him to relinquish his grasp. She didn't particularly want to be touched right now, not even if it the hand happened to be firm and reassuring, and had successfully pulled her out of the horror she was trapped in. She hadn't woken up that way in such a long time. It used to happen almost every night when she was a little girl. She tried to shake off the lingering terror and helplessness she had felt, which persisted, even though she couldn't even remember what the nightmare had been about.

After letting go of her arm, Erik had stood and lit a few lamps, bathing the room in a warm and reassuring glow. Éponine glanced up at the wall to her right, and saw a clock hanging there, helpfully letting her know that it was 4 o'clock. He had just said earlier that he should get her a clock, and he had gone and done it and hung it while she slept. It was probably nearly noon when she had gone to sleep.

"Is that 4 in the afternoon, or 4 in the morning?" She asked.

"Afternoon. It will be time for supper soon enough."

Regular meals. She'd better not get used to this.

She heard the door open.

"Monsieur? Are you leaving?"

"Well, yes. I thought you would probably prefer if I left you alone."

"I wouldn't mind, if you wanted to stay. But, you probably have a lot of things to do."

There was silence.

"Monsieur?"

She heard him sigh sadly. "I fear that I make a rather dismal companion."

"I'd rather not be alone, and there's no one else here, is there? So I guess it falls on you."

He appeared again at her bedside. She hadn't even heard his footsteps cross the floor. Honest men didn't walk so silently like that. The only people she knew who moved in such stealthy ways were those who were well acquainted with the night. He sat down, looking somewhat uncomfortable.

She gave him a small smile.

They sat silently for a moment, and then he said, "You have hardly asked me any questions."

She shrugged her right shoulder slightly. Even just shrugging the uninjured side caused pain. "No, I guess not. My only real question was how I came to be here, and you can only give me part of that story, so that's a no-go."

"You must have other questions."

She thought for a moment. "No. Not really."

"No?" He seemed almost offended. "You find yourself in a comfortable little house underground, with a man who hides behind a mask, and you have no questions about him?"

"No."

"No?"

"It's no good poking around asking too many questions. Safer to mind my own business."

"You don't wonder why Erik wears a mask?"

"Why does anybody wear a mask? Because they have something to hide. I suppose you do, too. That's nothing to concern me."

Erik seemed speechless for a moment. Then, half under his breath, he muttered, "I thought all women were inquisitive."

"Oh, I find out what I need to know. But I keep my nose out of what I don't."

Erik continued watching her with a look as though he was trying to unravel something incredibly complicated and confusing. Then, abruptly, he said he had better go and see about supper, leaving her alone.

—●—●—●—●—

The rest of the evening was uneventful. When Erik returned a while later with their supper, he seemed in a dark and irritable mood, and at first Éponine babbled on—she hardly knew about what. Anything to fill the oppressive silence. But it soon became clear that he was not going to engage, and he seemed to find her chatter annoying. He left as soon as she finished her meal, clearing the tray without really even saying a word to her. A few minutes later, she heard piano. The tune sounded restless and frustrated, fitful and capricious. Dissolving into something dark and dissonant, before cutting off abruptly.

She didn't understand why his mood had darkened so much. Whether it was because she hadn't been curious about his mask, or, more probably, whether it had nothing whatsoever to do with her. Either way, it didn't really surprise her, prone as she already knew he was to being poetic and melodramatic about everything. Still, it was a bit exhausting when she didn't have much energy to spare. She wished she had asked him to turn out the lamps before he had left, and she didn't feel like calling for him, afraid it might irritate him further. So she closed her eyes and soon managed to fall asleep, even with the lights on.

She woke up a bit later—how much later, she couldn't tell—and found she was in darkness. She thought perhaps the lights had just burnt themselves out, but then she also noticed that the covers were tucked more snuggly around her than she remembered.

—●—●—●—●—

The next morning, Erik seemed in a better mood when he came in. But when he checked her wound, he frowned deeply.

"What is it?"

He didn't answer her. He very gently placed his hand on the skin over the wound, and even though it was gentle, she gasped from the pain. It seemed the skin had become even more painful. In fact, it felt like it was on fire, even after he had removed his hand.

"Monsieur?"

He stood up and paced back and forth thoughtfully, then left the room.

"Monsieur!" He was really frightening her. What was happening to her?

He came back with a glass bottle and a cloth. He put the cloth against the mouth of the bottle and upended it, then dabbed the cloth around the edges of her wound. It stung, and smelled of alcohol. She reached over with her right hand, and he absentmindedly handed her the bottle as he continued to wipe around her wound, completely absorbed in the task. She couldn't see his forehead, but she imagined his brow must be furrowed in concentration.

God, the bottle was heavy, but she needed it desperately. She lifted her head as much as she could and took a swig, her arm shaking from the weight of the bottle. The spirit burned down her throat and expanded in her chest. It was strong and bitter, like trying to inhale a tree. She coughed, then brought the bottle to her mouth a second time. It wasn't quite so bad the second time. On the third time, Erik must have noticed what she was doing and snatched it from her hand. He gave her a disapproving look.

"What? You won't let me have something for the pain?" she sulked, letting her head drop back onto the pillows.

"You will not get yourself intoxicated on Erik's watch, Éponine. And furthermore, this isn't the time."

She was opening her mouth to protest that her habits weren't any business of his. But then he made the second statement, and that was ominous indeed. "No? What's happening? You haven't told me."

His frown deepened. "I think infection may be beginning."

She felt a coldness in the pit of her stomach.

"Your skin is hot to the touch all around where you were shot. And it's hard to tell with the bruising, but I think it looks red." He gently rolled her onto her side and tugged the nightgown down so that he could see her back. She hissed at the stinging sensation of the alcohol on her sutures. He murmured his apologies.

He bandaged her up again and told her that she was going to get well, but she didn't really believe him. He started to leave the room.

"Hey, Monsieur? Erik?" She rolled her head to the side so that she could better see the door, where he was standing, down past the foot of her bed.

It was the first time she had used his name, which is probably why he turned so abruptly.

"Erik," she said again. She tried to make her gravelly voice sound soft and sweet, but she only succeeded in making it very low—much more suggestive than she was going for.

He didn't say anything, and she couldn't read his expression at all.

"Can you do something for me, Erik?"

He eyed her warily, as though he didn't quite trust her, but there was something else there too, in the set of his jaw and the glint in his eyes.

"Would you leave that bottle for me?" She gave him her most beguiling smile

He breathed out through his nose and turned to leave again. "Rest, Éponine." And even though his tone was irritable, there was a certain softness or amusement there which he was unable to hide from her.