A/N: For anyone who may still be following, first of all, thanks for coming this far, and sorry for the delay - lots of things going on, including a lack of internet access.

Allegratree - re. the bubble metaphor: I see your point, but it is in fact a little nod to one of my favourite poets, Gwen Harwood, so I'm kind of attached to it. :)

16. A Note

The next day passed in a blur. Despite his protests, the Baccours took him sightseeing – historical monuments, lookouts and things of that sort, which he was told were "heaven" on a fine day, but were merely grey and soggy in the cold drizzle. At one point he had looked up at the bronze statue of some famous general and felt a sort of stoic brotherhood with the figure; he had watched the droplets of rain roll unconcernedly over the curves and believed he could sympathise fully with the expression of extraordinary boredom on the man's metal face. The one thing that preserved his dignity that day was the fact that they had been forced to remain in the carriage most of the day … having to ramble around like some sort of tourist would have been unbearable. In the evening, he had retired early, using a headache as an excuse to relieve himself of their company.

The morning after his second night at the house, Erik was awoken by a soft knock at his door. Hurriedly, he threw on his mask and a robe, and pulled the door open. It was one of the maids.

"A note for you, Monsieur." She handed him a sealed slip of paper, curtsied and turned away.

Bewildered, he looked at the address: "For The Visiting Gentleman".

"Wait!" he called. The girl stopped and returned with and inquiring look. "Where did this come from?"

She shrugged. "I don't know, Monsieur. It was found on the doorstep early this morning. We don't know when it was left."

"I see." She left once more and he closed the door.

His heart beat quickly as he rubbed the parchment between his fingers, deciding whether or not to open it. Surely not. Surely it wasn't them already. He inhaled, fumbled with the seal for a minute, then tore the missive open.

Vinci –

I have been looking for you. I must speak with you. Jacques is dead.

I must leave Nice for a few days, but I will contact you on Saturday night. Leave a candle burning in your window. It is very important. I mean you no harm. Please believe me.

Gaspard

Erik's first reaction was one of confusion. Jacques is dead. How? When? When he last saw the man he had been alive and well. And why did Gaspard write this? Did he expect him to co-operate and see him? He was just going to take Erik back to them, wasn't he? But if Jacques really was dead, that changed everything…

Saturday. How in God's name was he to be here on Saturday? He would be gone before Friday.

Erik thought carefully on the events that had brought him here – looking for any clue that would help.

Since he sold the daroga's painting, about two years ago now, Erik had worked even better and more efficiently than before. He dutifully made the copies, and in between, churned out pretty pictures to sell. He began to spend more of his earnings, saving up to buy fine food and alcohol and all the other creature comforts he had previously denied himself. Indulgence pleased him more than anything.

Since he no longer spent every waking minute painting Christine – he didn't paint her at all, in fact – he began to go outside occasionally. He had to do so to get his good clothes made, but he also enjoyed going to bookshops and buying his own wine. This was when he switched over to using a plaster-and-bandage mask – one day, he had seen a gentleman with a white patch of gauze over one eye, and was struck with the idea that an ill or wounded man was less threatening, and aroused less suspicion than one in a mysterious mask. It worked fairly well – salespeople, though sometimes uncomfortable or curious, served him without any fuss, usually assuming he was back from the colonies or something of that sort. And when he was rude and snide to them, it only enhanced the image of a demanding, irritable gentleman. He genuinely enjoyed the role, watching people grovel before him as he laughed into his sleeve. They weren't deferential because they thought he would harm them physically, or because they thought he was a ghost … it was simply because they thought he had money. Money and its power amused him no end; he played with it as much as he could afford to.

This was also when he took on his new name, though he never let the gang hear it (it was strictly reserved for uptown business). He had chosen 'Angebeau'. Beautiful Angel. It was a dark little joke he had with himself, and he had chuckled when he christened himself with it.

Those two years passed quickly for Erik – once he had realised the futility of doing anything, life had assumed a calm, mellow coating. The certainty of knowing that only emptiness lay at its centre was a comfort. His days, weeks and months settled into a bland but soothingly predictable cycle of working, sleeping, eating, and gorging himself on the good things in life when he could get them. He didn't have to think beyond his tasks for the day, and that was a relief – indifference was like a drug, calming him and making him more controlled.

He read books, generally on the sciences – he dipped into philosophy sometimes, but mostly laughed at those, when he was alone. He also bought a second-hand copy of the Bible, and that made him laugh hardest of all. Many things struck him as funny in those days, and it was all even more amusing because he appeared to be the only one who understood the joke. Solitary mirth has a way of reinforcing itself, when there is no-one around to make the humour go stale.

Overall, he thought it was a peaceful life he led, and he was content.

However, one day, just a few weeks ago, he had come home from town to find Jacques in his house. Erik was annoyed – he had deliberately made the lock on the door difficult to pick, because he didn't want the others prowling around while he wasn't there. Jacques must have worked at it a long time.

"Hello, Vinci!" Jacques uttered the words cheerfully.

Erik's lips curved slightly, forming a subtly contemptuous frown. "Good afternoon. Looking for something, are we, Monsieur?" He spoke softly and evenly. A brief glance at the secret panel which concealed his money assured him that the stash had not been found.

"What? No, no," the other replied nonchalantly. He shot the artist a dazzling grin and walked around easily, trailing his hands over the furniture. "Just visiting."

Erik began to put his parcels away, keeping his eyes lowered. "I believe it is customary for visitors to knock, instead of picking locks," he replied dryly.

"Ha-ha," blurted Jacques with a thoroughly amiable expression. "Well, if we're discussing common curtesies, you might consider simplifying your lock … I spent near half an hour on that freezing cold stoop opening the darn complicated thing!"

"My apologies. Next time I go out, I'll nail the schematics to the door."

"Now there's an idea!" He laughed. "Anyway, you can make it up to me now by offering me a drink." He turned to the table which served as a bar and began fingering the bottles and decanters.

Erik finished his chore by shoving the last volume onto its shelf. "Jacques, when have you ever needed me to offer you anything?"

"Well, I suppose you're right there," he said with a smile, as he finally selected a bottle and pulled it from its place. He poured himself a large brandy and continued walking about the room with the leisurely air of a patron in an art gallery.

He came to a stop in front of the easel. "I was just wondering who this lovely girl was."

Erik looked up from the books he had been rearranging. On the easel was a painting he had been working on – it was one of the old pictures of Christine, which he was gradually covering up with a garden scene. It was about half done, but most of her face was still visible underneath. He cursed silently, but turned to Jacques with a bland expression.

"It is no-one in particular. There was no model. I was experimenting with portraits for a while, but I gave it up – the outdoor scenes are easier and they sell better."

Jacques squinted and scratched his stubble. "Really? It's so strange … she looks familiar to me, but I can't quite place her."

"Perhaps." Erik shrugged. "It's possible she was a real person, stored in my memory somewhere."

The man didn't appear to be listening. There was a long pause and then he laughed softly. "You always were a tricky one, Vinci. 'It's possible she was a real person'. Ha. You know very well that that is Christine Daae, the opera singer."

Erik froze. Jacques merely watched him, judging his reaction, before speaking again.

"That's right, isn't it? After all, you had this newspaper clipping right here in your drawer."

Erik watched as Jacques drew a yellowing piece of paper out of his pocket. Sure enough, it was an article about Christine from years back, complete with a sketch. He thought he had burnt them all, but this cur had managed to dig one up out of some forgotten corner of his desk.

Jacques broke the silence. "And … well, my friend, seeing this makes many things fall into place," he added significantly.

Finally, Erik found his tongue. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice low and harsh.

Jacques held his palms up with an expression of mock surprise. "Easy, Vinci, easy. Why do you assume I want something?" He crossed the room and tried to put his hand on the artist's shoulder, but it was batted away. "You are much more useful to us alive and free than you would be in the hands of the police. Don't worry, my friend. You have kept our secrets, we will keep yours. We don't like the police any more than you do."

He nodded with an oily smile and stuffed the newspaper clipping into Erik's front pocket. Then, he gave the artist a reassuring pat on the back and with a few clicks of his boots, he had disappeared through the door.

Left alone, Erik's mind whirled. So Jacques knew. Soon the others would know too. What would it mean? Despite his mistrust of the leader, Erik believed him when he said they would not spontaneously turn him in to the police. It would serve no purpose, and would only deprive their operation of his services. But he knew that every member of the gang was wanted by the police for something – and when it came to the crunch, Erik would be a useful bargaining chip. If, for example, Jacques were taken in, he would not hesitate to offer up the infamous Opera Ghost in return for his liberty. Oh yes, Erik would be very useful to them – he was the ace up their sleeve.

He decided he would not just sit around and wait for that day to come. He had to get away from them, somewhere they couldn't find him. Over the next few weeks, he secretly prepared to leave – he used his savings to buy good luggage, and some fine suits. He would disguise himself as a gentleman and hope to avoid them by travelling where they had no contacts. He knew they may try to come after him, for they would not like losing their technical expert and safety net. So he planned his departure from Paris to coincide with one of Jacques' 'business trips' (usually this meant he was meeting with customers or suppliers out of town), when their operations stopped for a few weeks. He usually had no contact with any of them during such times, so his absence would not immediately be missed – by this he hoped to gain a head start, if they did decided to follow him. He was sure that if he could only evade them for long enough, they would decide he was not worth the trouble and give up.

So, on the appointed day, he had simply gotten on a train and left.

That was all he knew. He knew nothing of Jacques' death, or what Gaspard wanted. He had assumed the boy was following him in order to bring him back to Paris … but then why would he send this note, alerting Erik to his presence? The smartest thing to do would have been to leave him be, let him think he was safe, get reinforcements and then pounce on him when he wasn't expecting it. If that was really Gaspard's mission, he had just done a very stupid thing. How did he know Erik wouldn't just vanish between now and Saturday?

There was something more to this, something Erik didn't know. Gaspard was a bright lad, and had always been helpful to him … could he trust him? Dare he trust him? He decided to wait for Saturday. It was perhaps a dangerous thing to do, but until he knew the facts of the situation he would be running blind. The boy had proven to be an extraordinary tracker, and could no doubt follow him wherever he decided to go … meeting him now would save a lot of time.

So, he would have to stay through Friday, come what may. His only hope was to suddenly come down with some sort of illness before Vivienne's party, to avoid an … awkward … meeting with the De Chagnys. Awkward. He laughed a small, bitter laugh. He knew what the result of such an awkward meeting would probably be – his head on the executioner's block, if her husband didn't run him through with a sword on the spot.

As he would have expected, he had no interest in seeing Christine – that was settled long ago … they were strangers now, and would be ships passing in the night. She was merely a relic of his past foolishness, a period of his life he looked back upon with contempt.

He didn't care … as long as they didn't recognise him, all would be well. The painting still worried him a little, but he became more and more convinced that there was no possible way they could link it to him.

Yes, all would be well.