He was still asleep, his breathing calm and his head turned slightly to one side.
There was no trace of blood.
Darius had removed the stained clothes and dressed the wounded man in clean trousers of plain black silk. A faded blanket had been laid over him, but it had fallen away.
Meg picked up the blanket to cover him, but she paused for a moment.
He was so terribly thin and his skin was pale…not merely from the blood loss, but from years spent living in the gloom below the Opera House. But his limbs seemed wiry and strong despite his fragile build.
A long thin scar ran across his abdomen, slanting across his ribs and vanishing around his side. Another thicker scar ran across one shoulder.
His fingers were long and slender, the tips lightly calloused.
She drew the blanket up over him, being careful not to touch his bandaged shoulder.
Then she forced herself to look at his face.
It was a face out of a thousand nightmares, the entire right side of it completely distorted. His mouth seemed to twist upward towards his nose, half of which seemed to almost melt into his cheek as if it were made of wax.
The skin was discolored and deeply ridged, dragging up towards his temple. His light brown hair was thin and a straggling lock hung across his forehead.
The other side of his face might have been strikingly handsome if it were not so emaciated.
She leaned down to sweep the hair back from his forehead, but she shuddered and jerked her hand away when her fingers brushed against his parchment-like skin.
What it the world had happened to him…what caused this?
He opened his eyes and saw her there at his side.
"Mademoiselle," he said, with some effort, "give me my mask."
As hard as it was for her to see that face, it seemed so cruel to force him to wear that mask now…here in his own home, in his own bed.
"Monsieur, you don't have to…"
"Give me my mask…please."
Meg found the mask where she'd left it in the outer room and brought it to him.
"Help me put it on."
She reluctantly obeyed him, raising his head from the pillow to slip the almost invisible silk-covered wire over his head and settling the cold porcelain over the disfigurement.
He seemed to relax a little once his face was covered.
"What are you doing here, little Giry?"
"I'm staying until you are well, Monsieur. Darius told me what to do for the wound and I will…"
"I don't need any help now! I can take care of myself."
He tried to sit up, but it was quite obvious that he had not the strength to push aside the blanket.
"Mademoiselle," he said with weary resignation, "since you are here, please, bring me some water."
She did as she was asked, holding the glass to his lips. With his mask in place, she felt a bit more at ease in his presence.
"Does your mother know you are here," he said, as she set the empty glass on the armoire.
"No," she answered, turning back to him, "I don't think she does. And I don't mean to tell her."