Helene sat up in bed. There was no clock in his room, but she sensed it was nearly morning.
Pushing back the cloak that had served well as a blanket, she rose carefully, afraid the pain would return.
The room was silent now. But there had been music...she was certain of that.
And how to describe that music? It had gently penetrated her dreams, easing away the grief and memories with it sweetness.
She drew open the velvet drape and found herself staring down into a grotto. Water lapped at the rough edges of the stone and she remembered hearing talk of a lake beneath the Opera Populaire.
Beyond the lake, she saw a massive iron portcullis.
The rooms…if they could be called rooms…were cluttered with dusty hangings, mismatched furniture, piles of paper…sketches…sheets of music…
A few scattered candles provided a trembling illumination.
She winced as she made her way down the steps, her ankle throbbing as she put her weight on it.
The violin lay on the floor by the settee. She had not imagined that exquisite melody, then. The music had been real.
The white mask lay beside the instrument. The dark, empty eye stared forlornly up at her.
He had fallen asleep, his long body stretched out on the faded gold velvet of the chair.
He was still dressed in a white shirt, black trousers, and polished leather boots. He had exchanged his brocaded waist coat…she saw it tossed over a chair along with his cravat…for the green velvet robe.
One arm lay across his chest, the other hung over the edge of the settee and his fingers seemed to trail lovingly towards the violin.
He shifted a little without awakening, turning his face from the shadow of the sofa's curved back into the wavering candlelight.
Helene took a step back from him, her hands pressed to her mouth to hold back a scream of shock and horror at the sight.