A/N: Thanks for the review, atheshar. It honestly made my day. Ah, yes. Stories ... stories are like onions. :)

So, back to Erik for quite a while now. I'm not sure what everyone will think of this, but please, please tell me! Even if you hate it. I'm a big girl, I can take it.

8. Vinci

Marseille. Another hotel room. At least this one had a window overlooking the water, which was a deep shade of grey today, mirroring the sky.

Erik sat by the open window was he had done every day for the past week, a little way back, shielding his face with the curtain. He stared absently at the port below him – it was eternally busy with comings and goings; strange vessels arriving from and bound for exotic harbours, foreign mystery still clinging to their ropes.

For some reason, his eyes were drawn to the sails and intricate mazes of rigging that adorned the ships; he traced their outlines with his gaze, running over the calculated folds and tangles which the sailors manipulated with ease. The images he saw reminded him of something … something ... . Eventually, he realised that they resembled the canvas backdrops and pulley systems he had slunk between, for so many years, back at the Opera House ... yes, that was it - though of course, that had always been in the dark, not out in the open, like this.

Calmly, he looked away.

High above, flags beat and twisted themselves noisily in the restless wind; the gulls seemed uneasy, their cries swallowed up by the dense clouds overhead. As he breathed in, he could detect the earthy aroma of imminent rain, carried into the room on waves of rich, salty, sea air. The air also ushered in other smells … fish, some vegetables perhaps, animals … and some more obscure scents that at he may have been able to identify once, but the names of which escaped him now.

In the street below, people milled about near the wharves, registering as flashes of texture and colour. Fishermen with coarse clothes and wiry beards, sinewy-armed sailors and their dark, leather skin. There were ragged vendors, gesticulating wildly in the hope of catching some passing business, and dirty-faced children who had skipped school in order to play marbles in the street. One little boy was crying because his prize cat's-eye had rolled over the edge of the stones and down, down, down into the depths of the sea. Further on, merchants haggled over silk and spices while dockworkers shouted to each other in broad, lazy tones.

The sights and sounds of humanity rose and melded with the lapping of the waves, and the sighing of the wind, and the calling of the birds. Together, it all seemed to form a strange, chaotic sort of symphony, which pulsed through the ether. Erik didn't entirely like it – the crudeness of the chords grated on him – but at the same time, he was oddly fascinated. So … he sat here. Every day.

He had bought passage to Italy on one of the more comfortable ships – he could see the vessel, bobbing in the water some distance away, like a bloated insect. The captain had promised they would leave soon, however, the crew were still replenishing supplies and performing maintenance, so they would not be ready to sail for some days. And if the weather broke, as it was threatening to, it would be even longer. Erik could do nothing but wait, which is all he seemed to do now.

Finally, he stood with a grunt and restlessly paced the room, his fingers trailing over the generic furnishings. Cheap, cold bric-a-brac. Cheap, coarse tablecloth. Cheap, tuneless musicbox.

He dropped his hand and walked over to his trunk, kneeling to undo the brass fastenings; he might as well check if he was running short of anything and see if he could get it before he left – it was hard to know if he would be able to find supplies once he was overseas. He opened the box and began pulling things out, methodically lining them up on the floor. There was a great deal of paint: in jars, bottles, tubes, powders … brushes as well, and pencils, charcoal, some canvas and paper. An artist's studio poured out of the crate, as he took inventory.

He had made his living with paintings and sketches for a while, and would continue to do so. While it was true he had a little money saved, he was not such a fool as to think he could live off it forever ...especially not with his tastes. No – he had learnt that money was one of the things in this world that afforded him the most pleasure and amusement, so it was most important to have some, no matter what. He needed an income … therefore he would continue to paint pretty pictures that would match pretty drapes and adorn pretty walls, in order to make a handful of pretty notes. He smiled grimly. Yes. He could give the public all the flowers and cottages and milkmaids they wanted. At one time he would have thought such insipid subjects beneath him, but those pretensions were gone - as he had learnt, in the end, nothing really mattered. Doing this gave him some occupation, it was a convenient way to ensure he had the means to live as he pleased, and when he was dead someone else would provide the necessary pictures. All in all, be believed he was quite content with the work.

Strangely, it was Jacques who had started him on this path, around three years ago, with the proposition he had offered that night in the tavern. Erik's role in the whole operation was simple.

Regularly, one of Jacques' men would come to his home (if you could call the hovel that) and drop off some expensive piece of art: paintings were the most common, but occasionally there would be figurines, small busts, antique vases and that sort of thing. Erik was given a deadline, within which he was required to have produced an exact replica of whatever it was – usually he was given some weeks to complete more complicated pieces, though a few times he had had to produce paintings within two or three days. The items were obtained from rich houses, usually with the help of some dishonest servants, so the time he was allowed depended on how long the owner would be away from home, or how long the absence of the piece could reasonably be expected to go unnoticed. When the deadline expired, both the original and copy were collected from Erik, and a few days later he received his share of the profits. It was not a huge amount of money, but it was enough.

He was provided with any materials he needed, the young Gaspard – who could not have been much more than twenty – running the necessary errands. The boy usually arrived with the delivery man, and as Erik made his preliminary assessment, took down a list of all the things needed to complete the project. Somehow, whether by thievery or arrangements with suppliers, Gaspard was almost always able to obtain everything within a matter of days: rare shades of paint, obscure types of clay … these apparently presented no problem. Even when some type of treatment was required that Erik could not do himself – such as baking in a kiln – the boy would arrive on an appointed day to collect the object and it would be returned soon after, the work done. This made the artist realise that he was actually part of a very large criminal network, the extent of which he could only guess at ... counterfeiting was apparently only one of Jacques many 'interests', and he had contacts all over the country.

Some of the supplies Erik secreted away for himself. Although his new employment gave him less time to wallow in his misery, he found the work easy and mechanical, so his thoughts constantly wandered back to Her. He couldn't make music anymore … it was her sacred domain, and without her the doors to that temple remained barred ...but sometimes his mind was so full of her image he could not bear it. He needed a release, which he found in his art. Spare canvases and paper were adorned with her likeness, her beloved face coming to life under the power of his hand. His angel stared out at him, her beautiful eyes filled with love … sometimes his tears were mixed in with the paint.

Months went by in this fashion and Erik's shack began to take on the appearance of a busy, messy studio – in order to complete his work, he had chipped away a few stones from high up in the wall to allow the necessary light in (he didn't want to remove the planks from the windows) and cleared most of the debris from the floor. He hardly ever left the place now, as Gaspard brought him food, drink, clothing and anything else that was necessary. Gradually the business became more profitable for all involved, as they honed their skills and increased their contacts. Erik was surprised at the amount of money he began to receive – though it was still quite modest, by his calculations it was almost a fair share, which was more than he had expected from Jacques.

In truth, the gang was pleased with its artist – he seemed more machine than man, able to produce flawless replicas of anything they brought to him. Only once had a forgery been detected, and that was only because a careless servant had chipped the glaze, exposing the cheaper plaster underneath. Most upper class fops wouldn't have noticed anyway, but this one had happened to have a professor of art history visiting at the time. Luckily, the idiot assumed it was the antique dealer he had purchased the piece from who was the real culprit, so the incident had not caused any trouble for them.

Erik had been useful in other ways as well. If there was some complex problem with getting into locks or safes, Gaspard would explain the situation to him and soon after, they would receive a diagram or sketch outlining what must be done. The artist would be paid double for such contributions. Once, they had required a timer mechanism that would open a lock of its own accord, and after he had been given the specifications of the lock and proper tools, he had designed and built one himself. It had worked perfectly.

For all that, though, Jacques and his men didn't even know the artist's name. They had very little contact with him, and he met any attempt to talk about non-business matters with contemptuous silence. They called him 'Vinci' in jest, and since he never deigned to object, the title stuck. He remained mysterious – even Gaspard, who was in his presence the most, had never really seen his face, as he wore a black mask that covered everything from his hairline to his jaw. Sometimes in the tavern, they speculated that he was a famous bandit who was wanted by the police, or some well-known noble who had fallen into ruin and did not want to be recognised. The possibility didn't bother them, however – they dealt with dangerous and unsavoury people every day. As far as they were concerned, he could keep his identity secret if he wished.

One night – perhaps a year after he had begun working for them – a big, muscled brute, appropriately named Hercule, brought Erik an unusual painting.

"Here you are, Vinci. This one must be done as quickly as possible – try to make it less than a week, if you can."As there was no room on the worktable, Hercule squatted awkwardly and placed the canvas, which was about the size of a large book, on the floor, leaning against a wall. Gaspard entered a moment later, ready with a notepad and pencil, in case materials were required.

Erik said nothing. His back was to them as he cleaned brushes in a basin, giving no indication he was aware of their presence ... but then they were used to this, and waited patiently until he decided to give them his attention. When the task was done, he wiped his hands unhurriedly and put the tools away. He turned around, bringing the lamp with him in order to inspect the work, his masked face coming toward them out of the gloom, expressionless.

The artist knelt by the painting and held the lamp to it. His eyes widened as they roved over the details.

"Where did this come from?" He asked the question without looking up, his voice almost stern.

Hercule scratched the back of his head. "Some foreign gentleman's flat. I know it looks odd, but we have a collector who's interested in such things."

The lines, the colours the style … they were unmistakably Persian. In fact, Erik recognised this painting - it was one of a set that had hung in the apartments of Mazenderan, long ago.The daroga's apartments.

Erik had not seen the man in a very long time … not since his days at the Opera House, when they would occasionally cross paths. While The Phantom had kept an eye on the comings and goings of the Opera House, the Persian had always kept an eye on him.

"But how did you get it?" Erik asked. How on earth had such a man as the daroga allowed these bumbling criminals to just walk off with his possessions? They should have found themselves bound and gagged before they even set eyes on his belongings.

Hercule shrugged. "The man is ill, he remains bedridden. He has only one servant, who leaves the house for some time every day in order to run errands. It was simply a matter of going in at that time. The painting usually hangs in the study, but because of the owner's illness the room is not used and has been all locked up, though the mechanism is quite simple and we were able to relock it after we took the item. It is unlikely the servant will go in there, but we want the replacement as quickly as possible, just to be safe."

Erik was silent for a long moment, then spoke softly. "Take it back."

"What?" Both men looked at him in surprise.

He put the lantern on the floor and stood. "I will not do this one."

"But … but … what will Jacques say?" Hercule held his hand out in petition.

The artist snarled. "Let him say what he likes. He will have to get someone else to do it, for I will not."

Hercule paused. "It's a lot of money, Vinci. He won't be pleased."

"Well if you are that worried, leave it here with me as if nothing happened. I myself will take it back, and it will all be on my head when Jacques finds out." He smirked, showing his teeth. "I don't suppose he's forgotten the way my hands feel on his throat."

Hesitatingly, they agreed. There was no other choice, really, and they knew it.