The boy was broken, and Erik astonished himself by having a pang of sympathy. Certainly he understood a shattered heart. Nonetheless, he knew better than to ignore the threat. His trip would begin rather sooner than he thought. He raced for his room—most things were packed, and it took him no time to put the last of his clothes into a carpetbag, along with his money, his book, and the little blue box that now held not only the lovely little cravat pin but also the ring she had given him, the night she kissed him, the night he began to regain his sanity. Easy enough to imagine that the boy was lost without her, having been so himself.
He knew the habits of the local constabulary, and it was lunchtime. There was time enough to make up three small packets of cash, though no time for notes. Aimée was standing in the hallway outside his door, her eyes big as coins, and she held out a small bundle and a flask.
"I heard, M. Erik," she said. "For you."
He thanked her and was startled by her hand on his arm as he headed for the stairs. He glanced at her, and she shook her head.
"The roof. You can walk on the rooftops almost all the way to the Seine."
She led him up and held open the small door for him. Erik paused before he climbed through.
"You're very good. Thank you."
He pulled the small packets from his pocket.
"This is for you," he said, handing one to her. "And this is for Meg, the largest for Mme. Giry. Do not forget." She nodded at him silently. "Thank you again. Take care of yourself, my dear. Do not let Mme. Bronet bully you."
She bobbed a curtsy, and tears stood in her eyes.
"I'll drag your trunk to Madame's room, so they won't take it. Thank you, M. Erik. God bless you, sir."
Then he was out into the sunshine and the rooftops. He zigzagged across several blocks until even he felt a bit lost; then he settled into a shady spot and waited for nightfall. It was very boring—he was grateful for Aimée's bundle of food and his book. Surely there would be a night train heading west. As the sun began to set, Erik made his way down to street level and tried hard not to feel paranoid. Thankfully, no whistles or shouts came his way. At the train station, he traded in his ticket for one to Calais on a train that left in an hour. This gave him time to write a note for Giry, to find a boy to carry it, and to eat a hurried supper in a café. The day after tomorrow, he would be by the sea.
Erik boarded the train and settled himself into the dark corner. He did not quite breathe easily until the train reached speed, and when he finally relaxed, he felt as if he had spent the entire day running. The dark window was like a mirror, reflecting back to him the blurry shape of his mask, surrounded by shadow. He tried to work up some bitterness about it, this mask and the face beneath it that were the cause of all his troubles. Yet he was either too tired or too philosophical—his face was what it was, and nothing would change it. Having lived in the world, he would never again be satisfied with life underground, even if another grand theater were to present itself. No, he had come to treasure the rhythm of long strides down a sidewalk, of tiny cups of bitter coffee, and the pleasure of quietly talking with another human being. He would have to be brave and find his way—like Christine, like Antoinette and Meg. He thought this might be the first time he had ever embraced optimism.
Given that he was sitting up on the train, Erik slept about as well as expected. Early in the morning, the train made a long stop, and he was grateful (along with all the other passengers) to disembark and pace the platform until the kinks in his legs loosened. He bought a croissant and a coffee and lounged on a bench. The coffee was terrible, but still he savored its soft aroma and warmth. So lost was he in his thoughts that for a moment he didn't notice the tiny form standing in front of him. He looked down into a pair of eyes as blue as his own, in a solemn face topped by blonde hair that must be the despair of his parents, sticking up like that. Erik had almost no experience of children—he had the vague idea that they were extremely breakable, but this was coupled with the memory of their laughing at him when he too was small. He stared back.
The boy seemed completely unconcerned to be standing alone in front of a tall man in a cloak and mask. He glared at Erik with his brows pulled together, for several long moments.
"Why you got a mask?" he asked finally, in a voice like a piccolo.
This was a question that had gotten men killed, had burned down the opera house. Of course, one could not attack tiny children on a train platform. Thankfully, his mouth answered for him, before he could think too much.
"I had an accident when I was very young." This sounded plausible enough. Those pale brows drew even closer together.
"It hurt you?"
He was not exactly sure what timeframe was meant by this.
"It does not hurt now."
Strangely, he didn't mind this child staring at him—it was a stare without judgment. Such an odd creature; he didn't move at all when a young woman ran to him and took his arm.
"Michel, you wicked thing! I told you not to run off." She looked at Erik, and her expression faltered just a bit. "I'm so sorry if he was bothering you, Monsieur."
"Not at all, I assure you."
The boy looked up at her at her at last. She was a very pretty girl.
"I asking 'bout his mask."
She gasped. "Michel, you didn't!"
"He got accident."
The woman picked the boy up and turned to him.
"Monsieur, I'm so sorry. Really, he's too young to know better, he meant no offense."
Erik stood, and her eyes widened further at his height.
"Please, Madame, do not worry. He was merely curious."
"It okay, Maman," the boy said. "He say it not hurt."
Erik had to grin.
"Indeed. So you see, it is quite all right."
The woman's smile was very uncertain, but she allowed him to shake hands with his new friend. Such tiny fingers, folded inside his own. Childhood accident, indeed. Quite a useful conceit, that. He still had half an hour before the train departed—perhaps he could find a stationer's that was open.