Chapter 2: Genvieve

They weren't roaring drunk, not really. They were softly mewling drunk, perhaps. Like a kitten in the rain. Genvieve was laughing rather a lot, even though the Phantom was certain he wasn't making that many jokes. Perhaps his genius extended to that of humour, he thought. Perhaps he was funny without even noticing.

"Come upstairs with me," the girl said suddenly, leaning forward across the table with an impetuous grin, "Come and make love to me."

The Phantom's heart skipped, and blood began to rush to both his face and other areas, slightly further down. His breath caught in his throat, like Genvieve's hand caught at his wrist, as she pulled him up out of his seat. He followed her willingly, almost eagerly, and before he could stop them, optimistic thoughts crept into his slippery mind. Perhaps she could love him, he thought. Perhaps he needn't die tonight, he thought. Perhaps this laughter-rich young woman could accept him, offer him a new chance at existing, he thought. Perhaps she had a fondness of music, he thought.

The door shut the two of them into a small room, and Genvieve stood back a little, shyness showing in every muscle in her body. Part of him registered that she couldn't have been in this profession long; she showed no signs of the detatched air toward sex that he'd seen in so many of the easy girls in the Opera. She took a few steps forward, her lips half-puckered, half-smiling, and she reached up to pull back his hood, which had remained firmly in place the entire night.

"Wait," he said suddenly, staying her hands on the thick black fabric, and slowly removing them, cradling their soft, pale smallness in the safety of his own, leather-gloved hands. "Genvieve," he began, using her name for the first time, "Do you have any love for music?"

Her green eyes averted, as a shy smile overtook her features. "Yes, Monsieur, of course. I love to go to church of Sundays and listen to the choir."

"Would...would you like me to sing for you?" he asked, quietly, almost reluctantly. But, he reminded himself, you might as well. You die before dawn. Unless...

She nodded silently, and the Phantom began to hum, quietly, gradually building up into song. He sang of hope, a song woven of dreams and fears and love unreturned. The words were meaningless, they were but the wheels that conveyed this immense feeling, and the girl that stood before him was entranced. Crystal tears fled her emerald eyes, chasing down her cheeks, washing away the powder that desperately tried to cover her freckles. Her hands stroked the Phantom's own, and as he sang he gently, gently brought them up to his hood and let them go.

Taking his meaning, and wafting through a gentle sea of emotion, she pulled the hood away from his face, and in such a state of ecstasy was she that she barely noticed the white porcelain mask that covered half his face. She reached up to stroke his flesh, his hair, to bend his head down and kiss him tenderly on the cheek.

At the sensation of her lips on his skin, the Phantom's voice broke and failed, and for the first time, Genvieve noticed the tears running down his face. For the first time, she noticed the mask. It seemed to break through the spell of enchantment that was upon her, and coy curiosity brought a smile to her lips.

"Remove one mask to find another," she said, and her tone sent a thrill of warning, less welcome than a mob of angry villagers and more painful than any physical wound, through the Phantom's body.

"Nevermind the mask," he said gruffly, almost desperately, as he reached for the young girl's face. The hopes that the alcohol had allowed him to build, the cloud castles of dreams of love that had been erected in his mind, began to dissolve in the cold acidic wind of reality. "Don't think of it," he said, and turned her face away from it, bending to claim her lips with his own aching mouth. But her eyes stayed on the cold frown of the half-mask, and even as the Phantom kissed her, her hands were travelling away from his shoulders to remove it.

He jerked away before she could do any harm, breaking off the emotionless kiss. "Don't touch it!" he snapped, feeling foreboding build a painful pressure in his heart. Of course she would never be able to accept him. To respect his mask, his privacy. No one ever could. She could offer him nothing, nothing at all. Her boyish but attractive features, which he had been learning to find endearing, her playful smile and enchanting eyes, now seemed to lose all their lustre. The desperate love that champagne had been fostering for her was now crushed in the coldness of sudden sobriety. Now she was nothing more than a child to him, a skinny stick of an urchin, whose dirty hands reached out to expose his ugliness.

"I only want to look," she laughed, and instead of musical tinkling that set his heart to flight, it was coarse, common. She thought this all a game, and fought against his defensive arms to reach his face. Firmly, he grasped her wrists until she cried out in pain, and growled at her.

"I mean it. Do not touch the mask!"

Her emerald eyes began to fill again with tears, and she stood stock-still in the Phantom's grasp. He softened his hold on her, and his expression, as well. The magic that had drawn him to her was gone, the haze around the edges of his vision, that had made their encounter so dreamlike, had disappated...but he didn't want it to. He desperately wished that it would come back, his heart yearned for that moment, so like elysium, that fooled him into thinking that they were two young lovers, playful and caring, lustful for one another. He smiled at her, trying hard to tear down the protective walls that kept him detached from her.

She was so lovely, he told himself, his lovely Genvieve. She could save him, he told himself. Save him from death tonight, and from loneliness for the rest of his life. She could, she had to! Inwardly, he struck himself, when he found that his skeptical mind would not accept these thoughts. Well, he would force himself to believe it!

The girl's tears had fallen, and showed no signs of renewing themselves. She looked up at him with an expression of deepest concern, as if worried about his mental well-being. He forced a smile, to reassure her, and it was so dazzling, so charming, that he saw one on her face mirror it immediately. He bent down to kiss her again, slowly, and he saw her eyes shut in happy complacence just before his own eyes closed. Their lips missed, him hitting her nose and she his chin, but they laughed it off, and they did not miss the second time.

The Phantom's stomach did a flip, and his heart beat quickly in his chest, as Genvieve's arms wrapped around his shoulders and she pulled herself up into his embrace, conforming to his body as well as her thin form would allow. He felt her upper pelvis rub up against his groin, and he moaned suddenly into her mouth, causing her a small gasp of pleasure. Suddenly she was backed against the wall, with his mouth ravaging her own and his hips grinding against hers.

With every moan she gave, the Phantom's lust increased, until he was sure he would burst before they could even manage to undress. His face brushed against the fragrant skin of Genvieve's neck as he kissed and nipped at it. He ran his tongue inexpertly along her earlobe, and the sigh of ecstasy that escaped the girl's mouth was heavenly.

"I want you," he whispered huskily, "More than I've ever wanted anything."

This time her gasp was vocal, and the exhaling breath came out as a staccato, flattered laugh. She reached up to stroke his face, to guide his mouth to hers, and she kissed him passionately. Never before had she known a client with such vigour, such emotion. She hadn't had many, but this man was special, she knew. Kind, funny, smart, handsome, and almost certainly rich, judging from his attire. As a matter of fact, Genvieve was not at all certain that she was not falling in love with this beautiful stranger with a touch of silk and voice like an angel.

But there remained the mystery of the mask. After all, if she was going to give herself to this man, heart as well as body, she would have to know what lay beneath it. And so, with quiet, loving laughter between their lustful kisses, she quickly prised the white article from the Phantom's face.

There had been screaming, male and female. Scuffling, said the occupants downstairs. Some muffled shouting, and the sickening sound of glass breaking. Then, a sharp, shrill scream that cut off half-way. By the time anyone had rushed to the room, young Genvieve was lying on the floor, her neck at an unnatural angle, a trickle of blood dripping from her slack mouth. The window was broken, but even a thorough look outside revealed no one.

There was no hint of the murderer, though it was later said that there were smooth, white shatter-shards on the cobblestones outside the inn.