A/N: Brownie points and applause to aranel abeille and Black Dagger who knew where I got the name from. Villeforte is the last name of one of the bad guys in Count of Monte Cristo. I am really bad at thinking up original names, so I steal them whenever I can. Speaking of names, I actually need one for an upcoming character. If anyone can think of a good male gypsy-sounding name, let me know.
"Monsieur Villeforte, we're sure that she's dead. We had all the exits watched, she couldn't have escaped."
"And she couldn't have survived in there for long. She was already weak."
The two men stood before the table, nervously twisting their caps in their hands, awaiting their employer's agreement. Leon Villeforte stood up, clasping his arms behind his back, and lazily strode over to them, a hint of a smile playing over his lips.
"So, you think that she is dead?"
One of the men glanced quickly at his partner, then back again.
"Yes, sir."
Leon began to circle the two men like a predator about to close in for the kill.
"Because you didn't see her leave?"
"Yes, sir."
He stopped directly in front of the two, looking from one set of eyes to the other.
"And it slipped your mind that she is a crafty little witch?"
"Sir?"
In the blink of an eye, his demeanor changed, as he flew at them waving a pearl-handled gentleman's revolver in their faces, his eyes blazing with a hellish light.
"A witch, you fools! A bride of Satan himself! A murderous wench who needs to be put down like the rabid dog she is! Thinking that she is dead does not satisfy me; you will return to the opera house, with all your men, and search every pile of rubble until you find her. Then, you will bring her kill her, and bring her body back to me."
The fire died, and he returned to his normal posture. He put his revolver back into his holster, and returned to his seat, flinging his legs lazily onto the table.
"I hope I have made my wishes clear."
"Yes, sir." they answered simultaneously, rushing out of the room.
As I lay in bed trying to sleep, I couldn't stop thinking about my conversation with Erik. Never before had I been given the opportunity to tell anyone what I had been through, and my own emotion surprised me. I had always prided me on having a certain amount of restraint, and had never been one to confide my problems in people. For three weeks, I had forced myself not to think about anything but survival. With all the energy I expended to keep myself alive and on the move, I had not been able to contemplate the events that had led to my hasty departure from home.
But somehow, when Erik had asked me why I was there, it all came rushing back to me; the fear, the degradation, the pain of being beaten like a dog and rejected by my only living relative. I couldn't stop my hands from shaking, and as I talked I felt hot tears rushing to my eyes, and rage seeping into my voice. There was so much I wanted to say, wanted to scream about, cry about, but I restrained my urge to jump from my seat and storm around Erik's home like a mad woman. I contented myself with squeezing my hands into fists, my nails leaving red marks in my palms.
I tried to restrain myself, telling Erik only the bare minimum of my story, sure that if I gave into my urge to collapse emotionally, I would not be able to recover my composure. For the most part, I had succeeded, but I could not help but add the sad fact of my grandfather's abandonment. This final betrayal had almost killed me when it happened, and even telling it sapped me of any strength I had left.
For his part, Erik seemed not to react at all to my story, and when I was finished, he had calmly suggested that perhaps I was overtired and needed to sleep. After helping me to the room I now had begun to think of as my own, he disappeared into the gloom, and I was left alone with my thoughts. I wondered if perhaps he had been unmoved because he had suffered worse than I had. If indeed his mask covered something horrible, and wasn't merely an eccentricity, I could not even imagine how the world must have treated him.
The more time I spent in his presence, the more I doubted that his mask was the whim of a brilliant mind. I couldn't stand to look in his eyes for more than a moment, so much did the sadness there pervade my very soul. He walked as though he carried a great burden on his broad shoulders, and even when he tried to disguise his despair with anger, I could sense it there, hidden behind the coldness in his eyes. I had always prided myself on my ability to read people's emotions, but this man confused me more than I had ever thought possible. In any case, living here below ground certainly wasn't helping my clarity of perception, and I doubted that it had a positive effect on Erik's mind.
The darkness enveloped me like a thick blanket, smothering my senses. I was indeed very tired, but I could not bring myself to close my eyes, fearing what awaited me should sleep claim me. When I was a little girl, I used to get horrible, vivid nightmares that would leave me screaming in my sleep, and stay with me for days. My mother's voice was the only thing that had ever helped soothe me. As I grew older, and moved away from the camp, the dreams stopped. Now, starting with my first night in my dank jail cell, I had not been able to escape the terror that my overactive subconscious imposed upon my sleep. The dreams were more frightening now, because they were not so much nightmares as memories that played over and over again in my mind.
Now, feeling safer than I had since my ordeal began, sleep still would not come. With no clock, I had no way of knowing how long I lay there, perfectly still, trying to concentrate on my breathing so as not to let my mind wander to anything unpleasant. I began to think that I would go mad, when I heard the music again.
It was softer this time, as though he did not want to wake me, and the melody was haunting. It seemed slightly familiar, as though I had heard it in a past life. It soothed me, filling my mind and chasing away lingering nightmares. Closing my eyes, I realized what it reminded me of: the gypsy camp. This was my mother's kind of music, soft and low but full of life. I could almost hear her voice, the songs she used to sing to me, and see the shadows she cast on the tent walls as the glow of the campfire played behind her whirling form. My mind filled with pleasant memories of the life I had known so long ago, and finally, sleep claimed me.