Erik watched as the obviously shaken woman fled from the practice room toward the dormitories from his position in the wings. In the relative silence he had been able to overhear most of their conversation. It was unfortunate he had not discovered this secret of hers before Madame Giry. He had been hoping to find something that he could use to blackmail her with, which was the reason why he had been following her closely over the past few days. He had thought it would be a simple matter, but as it had turned out, the singer led a singularly boring existence. While she was friendly with entire opera staff, she did not appear to be close to anyone. She had no gentlemen callers, and she did not venture out of the opera house unless it was necessary.
Once he determined where she slept, he was delighted to find her door was unlocked, although that would not have stopped him as he could pick most locks. Her book collection surprised him. But even that did not prove to help his cause. He had looked through every volume and not one of them could really be considered objectionable. The romances were not to his taste, but it was hardly a crime to possess them. It just seemed odd that a woman with a well worn copy of Shakespeare's collected works would read such dreck.
Since arriving a month ago, he had been painstakingly establishing himself in the lower cellars. It had taken a good two weeks to get all he needed installed, and that had only been accomplished by outrageously over paying some desperate wretches he found on the street to assist him. In the past, he would have promised to pay them well, then dispose of them after they had served their purpose. But he had found in the months following the disaster, his taste for blood had diminished greatly. What he wanted was to make this place his as much as the Opera Populaire had been, and to do that he had to know everything possible about the building. To accomplish that, he needed to find someone who would know this place the way he had known the Populaire.
It had been a stroke of good fortune when he heard those silly gossiping ballet rats, Marianne and Claire discussing Mlle. Burnside while he was observing a rehearsal. The one tidbit that had stuck in his mind was that she had lived in the opera house her entire life. Even he had lived somewhere before Mme. Giry had helped him escape from the gypsy caravan. If this place had indeed been her playground, he had no doubt that she was the person he was seeking.
Had that information not passed the chits' lips he wouldn't have paid the woman any attention. Her voice was good, and she was underutilized, but he would give Reyer some time to discover that. Aside from the fact she was one of the few women he had ever seen who could nearly look him directly in the eyes, she looked to be quite plain. However, as he thought on it, he had never really seen her up close. Her hair was quite an interesting shade. The closest thing he could liken it to was bronze. It was too red to be called brown, and too brown to be red; and yet it wasn't dark enough to be auburn.
It was almost as if she was trying not to exist. She always lurked in the back, in the shadows. And her clothes! Nothing but shapeless black dresses day after day that obscured anything remotely feminine about her. This was the first time he had ever seen any part of her body other than her face. Erik was very pleased that Giry has said little to the girl about himself. Now was the time for him to confront her, while her fear of him was at its apex. Under the cover of darkness, a sly smile spread across his lips. With a swirl of his cape, he eased out of his hiding place in order to pay a call on the woman who would help him bring this opera house and its masters to their knees.
She ran all the way from the practice room to her bedroom, not caring that in the process she left a trail of blood behind her. She was desperate to return the familiar surroundings of her room. Her room had always been her haven from the rest of the world, and to learn it had been invaded by someone uninvited shook her to the core. Her mother had never locked their door for a reason. She believed that as long as they behaved that they had nothing to hide, no one would ever seek to rummage through their things. Up until now, those words had seemed wise. God, who knew how many people had taken advantage of her foolishness!
For the first time, Gia found herself questioning her mother's beliefs. But she had been right about the Phantom. When Gia had laughed at the stories about his activities at the Opera Populaire, Mama had warned her that where there was smoke, there was bound to be fire. Gia could still recall the way her mother had lorded it over her when the opera house was nearly destroyed following the debut of Don Juan Triumphant. The Phantom was indeed real, but was not the specter so many had supposed him to be. He was a flesh and blood man, obsessed with a young girl whose rejection brought on his final madness.
And now he was here. Spying on her and lurking in the dark corners that pervaded the opera house. Gia knew all too well how easy it was to hide there. She had always beat everyone at Hide-and-Seek with her superior knowledge of the ins and outs of the corridors. Sitting on her bed, her faded rose throw clutched to her chest, she racked her brain trying to recall every story she had ever heard about the Phantom. Where could he be living, if he had indeed made this place his home? There was barely room in the dormitories to contain the company. Although she was no longer dancing, sweat continued to pool inside her leotard causing it to stick to her skin uncomfortably. Dare she change, knowing he could be nearby?
"You stupid girl!" she spoke aloud, in English, aware that few could understand it. She was no coward, and she wasn't about to allow a madman to dictate anything to her. The only place he could possibly hide in the small room was her wardrobe, and a quick peek in there showed no sign of him. To be sure she was alone, she looked under her bed, then threw the lock on the door. Behind the screen next to her bed, she slipped off her dancing clothes and put on her prim white nightgown. At the throat it tied with a pink ribbon, her one concession to femininity, but like her gowns, the only skin exposed was her face, hands, and feet.
It was too late to call one of the boys for some hot water, so she would have to sponge off using the room temperature water in the pitcher behind the screen. She poured it carefully into the basin, then she wiggled her arms out of nightgown so she could grab her sponge and wash, her form safely covered. Mama said only loose women washed uncovered. It would have been easier to divest herself completely, but this was the way she had cleaned up since she had left her childhood behind. She inhaled the comforting scent of lavender from her treasured cake of soap one last time, then redressed. She disposed of the dirty water at her small window and snuggled underneath the bed clothes. What she needed most was sleep. In the morning she would be able to think clearer and make sense of all that was happening.
As she was about to close her eyes, Gia became aware of the fact she had left all the lamps in her room still burning. It wouldn't do to waste the oil which was dreadfully expensive. Maybe she should leave one on, just for tonight as a safety measure. Madame Giry had told her to have a care. Glancing at her night table she saw her mother's onyx and ivory rosary beads. Prayer would settle her agitated and whirling mind. She knelt beside her bed and began the familiar Aves and Lord's Prayer, the beads moving silently through her fingers, and her mouth barely moving to form the ancient words. Try as she might to meditate on the mysteries, her mind continued to wonder onto the subject of the Phantom. Finding it fruitless to continue, Gia returned the beads onto the table and climbed back into bed. Her last conscious thoughts before sleep claimed her were mother's words of warning, "Fear what lurks in the darkness my child. Be on your guard always, or one night it will come and claim you for its own."
On the other side of the door, Erik mulled his options over. He could either pick the lock or enter her room through the old wardrobe. After he had chosen Mlle. Burnside as his mark, he taken one day while she was at rehearsal to remove the back panel of her wardrobe and rig it to open nearly silently. From his previous visits, he had learned that its position in the room connected to one of the smaller side stairwells. While picking the lock would be faster, there was the chance it would wake her. He did not doubt that in her current state, she would scream, something that would be less than productive. He wanted to frighten her, but only enough that she would do his bidding without question. Long ago he had once thought fear could turn to love, but his recent experience had proved otherwise. He had to be more careful this time. At least with this one, his heart would be safe.
The lone lamp made it easy for him to navigate the small room. "She must be afraid," he nearly murmured aloud. From his observations, she seemed a most practical soul, and this would be an extravagance. Without thinking, he drew a few coins from his pocket and placed them on her vanity as quietly as possible. His eyes were accustomed to the dark, and despite the dim light, he could see her figure plainly in the bed. She was so long limbed that her feet hung off the end of the bed. She lay on her front, her face turned to the side, her hair spilling down her back. Her breaths came heavily and short. He knew all too well from experience, her dreams could not be pleasant ones.
His thoughts turned briefly to the only other woman he's ever seen asleep before. How different Christine had been. Lying in his magnificent swan bed, the crimson coverlets surrounding her, she had barely moved. Her soft chestnut tresses in such contrast to the whiteness of her skin, he had physically ached to look at her. He had only withdrawn from her because he knew if he had lingered much longer, he would have been unable to contain himself. His body had screamed for release, and it was only once he was a safe distance away did he stroke himself into swift, empty fulfillment.
At the approach to the bed, the woman flipped onto her back, and a low moan escaped her lips. "Perhaps, my dear, I misjudged you. Your dreams do not seem so unpleasant after all," he drawled softly, his words melting into the velvet darkness.