Saturnine

A/N: Hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Thanks to all those who reviewed (irrelevant, MastersofNight, Nicole, babymene17, An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin,& Arda Silverlace)!

Perspectives (POVs) will be switching between chapters. So don't get confused but every time a POV changes it says so.

Disclaimer: Sadly I don't own Susan Kay's Phantom, or the characters found in any Phantom of the Opera related material. I'd buy the copyright bills if they were only sixty bucks, though.

Chapter Two: Masked Man

Girl's POV

I awoke to the rustle of thick material and the sound of horses nearby. Upon opening my eyes, a picture so absurdly dreamlike met me that I wondered if I was still asleep.

The masked man's piercing dark gaze told me otherwise. "Sleeping Beauty has awoken," he adjusted his cloak. He spoke in an emotionless voice, that revealed as much as his mask.

Briefly stunned, I stared at him. And then the events from last night caught up with me. "You almost murdered me!" I breathed, sitting up quickly.

"You almost stole my horses," he replied, standing up as I reached a sitting position. "One wrong turn deserves another, I think."

I gaped at him. This…this man was dangerous, I immediately decided. He knew it too. He walked away from me with an effortless grace; poise a dancer would die for, and hecould sneak up on one more quietly than a cat, as he demonstrated last evening. He was dressed all in black, when it was entirely hot and humid,the cloak hiding most of his body and who knew what weapons. (I realized that he had taken the heavy cloak off of me, moments before, causing me to wake.)

The mask covering half of his face gave him the most dangerous look of all. The look of one who has killed before. Why else would someone wear a mask if not to hid their murderous identity?

I had to be careful. Based solely on last night's events, this man appeared to have an ambivalenttemper, and I did not want to be on the receiving end of it once more. I touched my neck briefly, feeling a tender bruise. His eyes narrowed upon seeing this.

"Sir, I can explain my actions, concerning last night and your horses—" I began, hoping an explanation would help repel the contempt in his eyes.

"There will be no need of that," he said shortly.

"It is just that I'm trying to get to Paris to help my brother—"

"Mademoiselle." He sounded vexed.

"—He's an architect, a carpenter—"

"Mademoiselle."

"—He's building the Paris Opera House and—"

"The Paris Opera House?" I would have thought he was interested, but his expression remained the same.

"Yes, sir. That is where I am headed. My brother wants my opinion on the framework and setup." I ran a hand through my hair nervously, and grimaced upon discovering how tangled and matted it was. "By any chance do you have a comb? A hair brush, perhaps?" I asked hesitantly.

He must have been deep in thought when I asked him this, because he gave me a rathersurprised look at my inquiry. His eyes, dark and yet light at the same time, went from my face to my hair and gradually made the connection. In a few elegant steps he took a hairbrush out of a bag near the horses and handed it to me with a gloved hand. I stared at the accessory.

The brush was prettily carved out of a precious metal. The handle appeared to be a turtle's head and neck; the brush was its shell. Jewels decorated the back of the brush. "Did you steal this?" I questioned in wonder. The look he gave me was distinctly annoyed and I fell silent and began to brush my hair.

As I did so he strode back and forth in his little camping area, collecting items, packing them up, dousing the fire, grooming the two horses, with a frown on his face all the while...

His frown reminded me of how Father will undoubtedly feel upon discovering my absence. I couldn't very well tell him that I was going to Paris to assist Charles. Father disowned Charles a few years ago when he went into carpentry instead of medicine, going against Father's wishes by doing so. I had no say in it, seeing as I'm just a girl and Mother's dead, but Charles and I have always been close confidants, only five years apart.

Father will likely assume that I've been abducted, when in fact I've merely sold a few expensive frivolous trinkets bought for me by admirers throughout the years to gain travel to Paris. Yesterday though I had sold my last piece and thought all hope was lost, until I wandered upon this…man's horses and tried in vain to borrow one.

I think my predicament has worsened considerably since yesterday.

I studied the man before me. Who's to say he won't abduct me? I wondered silently.

As if sensing my uneasy thoughts, the cloaked man stopped what he was doing, which was cleaning the ink-black horse's front hoof. He had removed his gloves for his task and I noticed how pale his hands were. Like a doll's porcelain skin, I thought. But that was where the similarities ended, for he had long slender fingers and hands that looked accustomed to work, unlike a doll's chubby fragile hands. I gulped, suddenly feeling sick remembering those fingers wrapping around my neck effortlessly, as if I were a bird about to have its neck wrung. The bruises on my neck throbbed painfully.

He gave the blackmare back the use of its leg, stroking theher momentarily and then scratching the white mare's forehead before walking towards me, pausing to take something out of a bag on his way. He held a small glass container of some sort of cream out to me. I looked at it, then him, questioningly, cursing my ignorance.

"It is a hyssop, calendula, comfrey and arnica salve," he said simply, but I still didn't understand. "It should alleviate any pain if you rub it into your bruises. Do not get any in your eyes though. It may render you blind." He spoke with such frankness and aloofness that I was uncertain for a moment ifit was hewho had given me the bruises. He spoke to me as if he were a doctor with no connections of any sort. This angered me for some reason.

Father always said that I was as unpredictable as the sea and Charles swore sometimes I was more deadly than a madman with a hammer. At times like this one, when I have an overwhelming desire to speak my mind, I don't doubt either of them.

I snatched the container from him, and stood up, bristling. "I beg your pardon, monsieur, but it was you who inflicted these bruises upon me. Have you forgotten? I do not want ointment for what you did, I want an apology," recalling his earlier sarcasm, I added, "An honest one."

Something flickered behind the man's eyes. I could not see the full effect of it due to the mask veiling half of his face, but whatever it was made him appear taller, gave his features a foreboding and a disturbingly powerful appearance. "An honest apology, mademoiselle, is something you shall never receive. Not you or any being in the world, for that matter."

I glared at the difficult, indifferent man, contemplating throwing something at him. Yet I felt quite sure that if I hurled something at him, he may very well heave something back at me.

And God knows I have horrible aim.

Judging by this man's actions last night, I suspected his aim wouldn't be so imperfect.

A/N: I don't know how long this phanfic will be. It's meant to be a short story but one never knows sometimes, eh?

Oh, and the title of this fic, saturnine, is a word which describes how Erik usually acts. Sullen, sardonic, melancholy.I thought it fit.

Brownie points to anyone who can (discreetly) tell me who this girl's related to. I think it's fairly obvious, but, hey, I'm the author. I'd know.

Here's to summer happiness!

Alda