She set the mask down on the throne where she had first found it.
She'd seen the way the edge had dug into his skin, the little welt that it had raised when he slept in it.
He's suffering enough…why add to it?
She had to find a way to occupy her time and his lair was still an untidy mess of books and candles and music.
As she worked, she noticed another door set into the wall near the organ and covered by a drape of fine black lace.
She lifted the curtain and peered into the chamber.
There was a black bed trimmed with silver. It was strikingly similar to the little black boat she'd seen Christine and the Vicomte departing in.
The bed was filled with thick, soft cushions of jewel-colored silk. Hangings of embroidered silk covered the stone walls. A heavy urn filled with peacock feathers stood in the corner. A deep, white fur was spread over the cold floor.
Against one wall, there was an armoire of some strange golden wood with a thick, waving grain.
The whole room had the look of a rich, exotic shrine.
She couldn't help but remember the cramped, awkward night spent in his bed.
Why didn't he tell me there is another room, another bedroom?
Then she realized why…this room was meant for Christine.
Only for Christine.
She felt almost guilty for being there, it was not for her to see. So she backed out quickly, letting the curtain fall over the entrance again and returned to the dusty task of sorting through his books.
When she was finished, she picked up a few…ones that were small and light…and brought them into his room.
"Do you want something to read?" she asked, pulling a small chair up to the side of the bed.
"What I want, Meg Giry, is my mask."
She set the books on the chair, within easy reach for him before answering him.
"And I am not going to give it to you. There is no one here to see you."
"I don't want you to see…"
She didn't really want to see his face exposed like that. It was still too hard to look at him for more than a few seconds. But to force him to keep that hard, cold mask on his face was too cruel. She couldn't do that.
"Erik," she said, desperate to change the subject. "I need to go back up to the commissary. I need more wine for you and I need to get some bread and things for myself."
He shook his head.
"Don't go to the commissary. You might attract suspicion. Go out the passage to the Rue Scribe…there is a small market nearby."
"I can't. I haven't much money."
"You have seen the music box? The one with the Persian monkey? There is a latch beneath the robes…in the back. Open it. You will find a few francs inside. Take what you think you will need."
He picked up one of the books, glanced idly at the title page.
"Give me a pen and paper."
She went back to the other room and found a worn pencil and some torn paper. She brought them to him.
"Before you go to the market," he said, writing something on the scrap, "there is a little shop. An apothecary of sorts." It is run by a man from Egypt. Give him this."
She took the paper back and saw writing…she assumed it was writing…a series of delicate curls in a bold hand.
"Well, go on," he said in a tired, irritable voice, "go! Don't stand there, hovering over me like a nurse!"