Meg knelt down beside the music box. Pushing aside the burgundy velvet robe, she found the tiny latch and the chest opened.
Erik had told her there were a few francs there, but she found it was filled with money.
The money from the managers…his salary.
She took out a few notes and felt something cold against her fingers. Tossed carelessly among the money were loose gems, a handful of large pearls.
She closed the box and tucked the money with Erik's note. She found the shawl she'd brought down from the dormitories and wrapped it around herself tightly.
She found the shop Erik had told her about. It was a small, tidy store. The deep shelves behind the counter were filled with boxes and jars, all labeled in that same swirling language as Erik's note.
The owner was a pleasant-looking man with white hair and a heavy black mustache.
"How can I help you, Mademoiselle," he said in heavily-accented, but perfect French.
"I was asked to give you this,"
She handed him Erik's note. He unfolded the scrap, reading it quickly.
"Ah! Monsieur Erik! And how is the old Trap-Door Lover?"
Meg was unsure how much she could confife in the shopkeeper.
"I don't know, Monsieur," she said, twisting the corner of her shawl, "he only asked me to give you that note."
The man laughed and gave her back the note.
"He's as secretive as ever, I see."
He turned and took a container from the shelf. He laid it on the worn wood counter.
"I believe this is what he wants."
Meg picked up the round box. It was smooth and cool in her hand, the lid intricately carved.
"What is the box made of, Monsieur," she asked, examining the delicate design.
"Camel bone."
He took the box back and wrapped it for her.
"How much, Monsieur?"
The man shook his head.
"No cost, Mademoiselle. I'm afraid I owe Monsieur Erik too many favors."
She took the parcel and, tucking it under her arm, bid good day to the shopkeeper and walked on to the market. She did not want to leave Erik alone any longer than was necessary.
As she walked, she wondered what sort of favors the man owed Erik. There were too many questions, too many mysteries about him.
She bought what she needed and hurried back to the Opera House.
When she emerged from the Rue Scribe passage, she found Erik sitting on his throne, his mask…and a dark wig…neatly in place, contrasting with the rumpled white shirt he now wore over the black trousers.
His eyes were closed and one hand rested limply on the black watered-silk of the armrest.