Chapter Twenty-Six

Erik Makes Preparations


"I feel quite sure we agreed that the clothes would be finished in a week's time. And it has only been three days, monsieur."

"Surely you must have gotten something done, in three days. Even just one dress? My wife must have something to wear for this evening!"

"The clothes you brought in are hardly suitable evening wear, in any case." The proprietress waved her hand dismissively at the very idea.

Eric scowled. He didn't remember what the dresses looked like, but the woman was probably right. He would have to think of something else, because he had this plan in his head for their evening, and it was imperative that Éponine be dressed for the occasion.

"However, monsieur, even though it is earlier than the agreed upon time, it does so happen that the undergarments are completed."

"Ah, well there's something, at least. Thank you, madame."

While the proprietress beckoned one of the seamstresses over and instructed her to go retrieve the garments in question, Erik mused on an alternative solution to the wardrobe problem. He was still deep in thought when the seamstress returned with the clothing in a neat bundle. The proprietress took it from her and set it on the counter, where she began unwrapping it.

"If you care to look, monsieur, and ensure you find everything satisfactory."

Erik glanced over. The lady was laying the garments out on the counter for him to see, starting with the corset. It was cream coloured, decorated with delicate trapunto vines, and it was so small—because Éponine was—and such gentle curves...and it very much did not feel like something Erik should be seeing. He felt his face burning under his mask as he reflected that it would be incredibly awkward to look at Éponine from now on and know what her corset looked like.

"That's quite all right, madame," he said quickly, averting his eyes. "I am confident that everything is acceptable. If not, my—my wife will be in a better position to make that determination. Go ahead and wrap everything up, if you please, and tell me what I owe you."

As he left the shop, Erik feared he had probably been very short and irritable in the rest of his interactions there. He was eager to get out of there and try to erase that image from his mind. Yes, previously he'd had clothes made for Christine so that her room would be well-stocked with everything she could possibly need, but that had been in anticipation that she was to be his wife, which is probably why this was so very different. That, and he could picture that impish glint Éponine would have in her eyes if she had seen how uncomfortable he was upon seeing the corset in the shop, and how she would just delight in finding a way to use that knowledge to fluster and discompose him.

—●—●—●—●—

Éponine was dozing in the bed when he returned. Quietly, he rummaged through the wardrobe, looking for something suitable.

He jumped a little when her sleepy voice asked, "What are you doing?"

"Just looking for something. I'm sorry—I didn't mean to wake you."

He heard her yawn, and the covers rustling slightly. "I didn't realise I was tired enough to fall asleep. I thought I would just lie here and rest a bit."

"Your body is still recovering. You need a lot of rest." Ah. This one. An evening gown of emerald silk. It would be perfect—but of course, it would have to be made to actually fit her. His second conundrum was that he did not want her to watch him take the dress and walk out of the room, inviting questions and tipping his hand. So, without pulling the dress out of the wardrobe, he said, "Éponine, do you think you could go and put the kettle on?" He was instantly mortified, because it was the only way he could think to get her out of the way, but it made him look like an absolute boor. Sending her to go and do something for him like she was a servant, when she was resting in bed, still recovering from no less than a musket wound to the chest.

"Put the—? Oh. Sure." He heard the sound of her sliding out of bed. Her footsteps were noiseless on the floor, but he heard her brush against the door slightly on her way out.

Her confused willingness made him feel even worse. But he reassured himself that it would all be for a good cause. He continued to look like he was rummaging around for some unknown something until she had left the room. Then, he took the evening gown and hurriedly smuggled it into his own room. Once he had successfully absconded with it, he stepped back into the drawing room, and in the direction of the kitchen called: "Never mind, Éponine. I don't actually feel like tea right now. You should go back to bed and rest."

Regrettably, she was probably going to hate him by the time the evening rolled around if he kept this sort of thing up.

But he didn't have time to worry about that, because there was the matter of getting the gown altered to fit her. And he thought he might have a solution for that. As far as the measurements went: part of what made him such a very good architect was his ability to make very accurate guesses at measurements by eye alone, based on a prodigious understanding of the relationship between objects and space and ability to conceptualise size and distance in his mind.

When Éponine appeared in the drawing room on her way back to the bedroom, Erik was blocking her path.

"How are you today?" he asked, talking to her so that he could keep her standing there for a moment while his eyes and brain worked to calculate and estimate.

"Fine. A little tired." The way she was looking at him, she seemed to be running some calculations of her own. No doubt seeking to understand his odd behaviour.

"Yes, of course you're tired. Did you do anything interesting while I was gone?"

"Let's see...brushed my hair, washed myself up, took a nap. You missed a very eventful morning." Then in that same dry tone: "Sorry—did you see a spider on me, and now you're trying to figure out where it went? Or what's happening?"

Erik hadn't really considered how odd it would look to be staring her up and down like that while they engaged in their small talk. He forced an awkward sort of laugh. "Nothing. You should go rest now. Let me know if you need anything." He gave her what he hoped was a charming smile that would undo all of his odd behaviour from her mind, but he wasn't sure if it worked. Regardless, she walked past him and back into the bedroom, but not before giving him another look with those astute eyes of hers, which, he feared, missed nothing.

He flew over to his desk, where he quickly jotted down the measurements on a piece of paper. Was this going to be one of those things which to him seemed a perfectly thoughtful thing to do that would doubtless be appreciated, but which other people found very disconcerting and off-putting? He hoped not.

"I'm going out!" he called in the direction of her bedroom. He had the dress, the little paper with the measurements, and the letter to the management, which he had written three days before and nearly forgotten to deliver. He checked to make sure Éponine didn't need anything before he left, but she said she was all right.

—●—●—●—●—

Erik was very satisfied with himself as he returned to the lake and began to row across. After delivering his note to the managers' office, he had gone to the costuming department and observed for a few moments—unseen, of course—to determine which of the seamstresses seemed the most hard-at-work and the less inclined to giggle and dally. Then, he created a small disturbance to distract them all and cause them to momentarily abandon their work and their stations. While they were all in a ghost-related uproar, upon the seamstress's table he placed the dress, along with the slip of paper detailing the measurements and instructing that she was to at once abandon what she was doing and complete this dress urgently, within the next two hours. When that seamstress resumed her seat, she said, "Wait a minute—where'd this come from?" She glanced around at her co-workers, who gave her blank expressions. "Did anybody see who put this here?"

"Put what, where?"

She was scanning the note, her mouth silently forming the words, and she blanched when she got to the end, where he had added a message that was threatening enough to motivate, vague enough to be likely applicable to any of the women in the department, and yet still seemingly personal enough to suggest that it really did come from a ghost, and that ghost had been watching her.

"What? What were you saying?"

"Was it the Phantom?"

Still white as a sheet, in a tight voice she said, "Nothing. It's nothing. I don't know what I was saying." And when Erik left, she was busily working at removing a seam.

It really was quite useful, having an opera house and all of the associated trades at his disposal. And after the disappearance of the celebrated new soprano before their very eyes during her performance—the soprano who had still yet to reappear, and the press and the police said it was something to do with a scandal between the late Comte de Chagney and his young brother, although those in the employ of the Opera remained entirely unconvinced of that—they all seemed to be taking him even more seriously.

The thought of those circumstances made him feel regretful—it felt like profiting from all he had done to Christine—and he even wondered whether Éponine would approve of these machinations of his. But he did not have time to examine that train of thought or face his conscience right now.