Once again LOVE to all my reviews (this just another sorry attempt to make this chapter seem longer).
Chapter Eight
The phantom had never heard of one that slept for so long. This woman was in slumber for a whole night and a day, only drifting awake for moments. He supposed sleep would do some good for her healing wounds, so he let her be. The Phantom retreated to his abode as she slept, returning to the room only once to relight the candle lantern and to bestow a tray of food on the bedside table for when she awakened. His eyes fell on her as he silently crept back into the shadows and behind the safety of his mirror.
Moreau's skin was still so very blanched, and dark circles hung under her eyes.
Perhaps the fever will still draw close, he suspected dourly as he stared at her pallid lips. He gritted his teeth, wondering if taking care of this woman was more than it was worth.
Then the memory of the touch of her hand, and the softness in her eyes, came into his mind.
Her tired, hollow voice filled his ear, "I appreciate…this, monsieur" she had said, eyes turning away from him. Even in the midst of her pain she still held her pride.
It had been to many years since he had felt the soft skin of a woman; however callused Moreau's hand had been. She had called him monsieur, not a name he usually dubbed.
The Phantom's eyes went to her again as she shifted only slightly in her sleep. Her chestnut hair was spread wide over the pillow, flowing around her head in lithe ripples. He was torn between admiration and pity for this young woman. Yet an undying suspicion stayed.
Did she know the price upon his head? The chances were unlikely, and even if she did, her own flight from the police proved her a fugitive as well…
but for what crime?
Movement from the bed disrupted the Phantom's thoughts, drawing his eyes back to the young woman.
Moreau was now awake, and hopelessly attempting to sit up. But in her current state she was most expectedly not able to. She laid her head down onto the soft pillow, obvious defeat in her eyes. She lay still upon the bed, arms shielding her squinting eyes from the light of the lantern, no matter how dim the flame burned.
He was not aware of the cold he had so become acquainted with. Moments pasted before the Phantom noticed the shivers that made her tremble under the covers.
Or perhaps it's the fever,
He watched for a few moments as she continued to shiver on the bed. Before the thought of retrieving a blanket ever invaded his mind, Moreau slowly reached out to her canvas sack that lay on the chair beside her bed, and feebly pulled it to her. She reached inside and weakly began to pull out what looked like a black cloak. It was indeed a cloak, made of heavy wool, dyed in a rich midnight blue. It was long with a weighty hood. The cloak was clearly made for a man, and noticeably a rich one. This was certainly not a coat for those who lived on the streets.
To the Phantom, it looked oddly familiar.
Manon then began the excruciating task of getting the cloak around her shoulders without having hell shoot up her side. This was not so easy, so she abandoned her attempt and simply lay back and buried herself under the heavy wool cloak.
Even with the new shroud, the cold air continued to make her teeth chatter. Yet the cloak helped none the less, bringing back warm quiet memories. Under the soft wool, Manon could still smell the handsome musky scent of ground nutmeg. She turned her body slowly, taking in a long hissing breath at a stinging pain in hers side, as she faced the wall. She lay there for a few moments, tucking her fingers against her chin.
Manon didn't notice it a first, but slowly a shadow descended behind her, swiftly shrouding the lantern's glow. She felt her stomach clench in some unexplained fear. She knew it was him, The Phantom of the Opera, but such silence in his movement worried her.
"Are you still cold?" a grim voice whispered at her ear.
Manon tool a deep breath to calm herself. She stiffly turned, looking up at the towering man bedside her bed.
"S-slightly, yes" She breathed regaining her composure, covering her passing fear.
Then Phantom nodded, mask glowing, and in one graceful movement, he unhooked his dark black cloak. He gently threw it over her, sheet, blanket, wool cloak and all.
Manon looked at the coat, then at him. His wore a waistcoat of a yawning burgundy, and a loose linen shirt.
"Thank you," She said quietly.
The Phantom nodded and sat down on the chair.
They were silent for a few moments, Moreau quietly fingering his cloak, the Phantom watching her. He didn't know what to say, until his leg came into contact with something as he shifted. He looked down to see Moreau's sack against his leg. Leaning down, the Phantom picked it up.
"What it inside, Mademoiselle? I you don't mind me asking." He said serenely, handing the bag to her. She took it, a soft light growing in her eyes.
"Just some simple possessions." was her answer. With that, she tried to sit up, wincing. So he reached out to help her, taking her arm, and lightly propping her against the headboard.
She nodded again to him in thanks and then reached into the sack. The Phantom watched curiously as she rummaged around for a moment. She then pulled out what was obviously a book, the binding worn, and the pages yellow.
Curious, the Phantom drew closer and read the cover.
Music: A History
By Philip Durand
A look of longing crossed his face.
What should happen next? Include your suggestions in your reviews! Love you all!