He leaned over her for a moment longer.
Why did you come back, curious woman?
A bruise was forming along her cheek. Gently, he pushed back a long lock of hair that lay heavily over it.
He remembered the beatings of his childhood…the almost daily thrashings…how even a leaf brushing his skin was agony.
It wasn't the pain that awakened her. No, it was the sudden unfamiliarity her surroundings that brought her back.
She had a vague recollection of being lifted up in that blackness and carried in a man's strong arms…
She opened her eyes and looked around the room.
She was lying beneath a heavy black covering in a plain mahogany bed. A single candle was lit on the armoire nearby.
A robe of deep green velvet was tossed carelessly across a chair in the corner. Atop it lay a violin and bow.
As she shifted, her ankle throbbed mercilessly.
She heard the sound of water in the distance…a soft, irregular lapping.
And the sound of voices…two voices…a man and a woman were speaking.
She struggled to sit up as the velvet drape the cover the entrance was pushed aside.
The candle threw flickers of light across his mask as he entered, a woman beside him.
The lady was fine-boned; she had the poise and build of a dancer. A long braid of dark gold hair was wound around her head like a crown.
She held out her hand to Helene and smiled.
"He tells me you are hurt, Comtessa."
"Yes, my ankle…I fell…but who are you."
"I am Madame Giry," the woman answered as she turned up the end of the cape and eased off Helene's shoe.
"I was the ballet mistress here," she went on, rolling back the torn black stocking to reveal the swelling and mottling, "before the fire."
She glanced at the Opera Ghost, a look of blame tempered by understanding. He did not answer her, but removed the violin and robe from the carved chair and, laying them on the lid of a low trunk, sat down.
Not once did his eyes leave Helene.
"You ankle isn't broken," Madame Giry told her, "trust me. I know a great deal about sprained ankles and the like. But I will need something to bid it with."
"Take one of my shirts, Madame Giry," the Opera Ghost said, gesturing towards the armoire.
As she drew a shirt from the drawer, she whispered to him.
"There's a very large splinter in her ankle. I shall have to remove it. It will hurt her."
He did not reply or rise as Madame Giry cut on his shirts into strips.
"Wait with her," she ordered as she left the room.
When the former ballet mistress left the room, Helene tried to sit up. A jabbing sensation mingled with the pulse ache of her ankle and she lay still.
The room was so simple, so unlikely…the plain mahogany furnishings, the vibrant Persian rug…a small casket-like box of Russian lacquer.
Is this his room…his home…his refuge?
She knew the woman had whispered something to the Phantom, but she could not hear what was said.
And she didn't dare look in his direction…it seemed as if a chill came from the corner where he sat…watching her.
A few minutes later, Madame Giry returned with a basin of hot water. She set it on the low table beside the bed and dipped a cloth in it.
"You've a little splinter in your ankle, Comtessa," she said and laid the warm, wet cloth on Helene's ankle.
"I will remove as gently as I can, but it will hurt a bit."
She picked up the small scissors she'd used to cut the shirt and grasped the exposed end of the splinter.
At first, Helene bit her lip to keep from crying out. It was impossible, though, as she felt the rough piece of wood being eased slowly…too slowly…out of her swollen flesh.
She reached out to grasp at the edge of the bed, but a man's hand…his hand…closed around hers.
"Scream, Comtessa, if you wish," he said softly, "no one will hear you here."
She tightened her fingers around his gratefully, but there was no need for her to scream. The splinter was gone and Madame Giry was dabbing at the wounded skin with a clean cloth.
He was still holding her hand when Madame Giry had finished binding the ankle.
"I will call on Nadir on my way home," she assured him.
She leaned down and patted Helene's arm.
"Try to sleep a little, Comtessa," she said as she folded the extra bandages and set them on the armoire, "I will ask an old friend to send something to bring down the swelling. And something for the pain, if you need it."
When Madame Giry had gone, he pulled his hand away.
Taking the candle from the dresser, he left her alone in that curious little room…alone in the darkness.