Author's Note:
My apologies for the lengthy hiatus—finals and such put writing on hold. Once again, a warm thank you to all readers and reviewers.
Continuing on…
A lone candle burned on the desk. Aubert filed through an assortment of limp blueprints, the soggy paper tearing under his hands. The unexpected sleet that afternoon proved ruinous, the exposed papers subjugated to the resulting slurry of the construction environment, beyond salvage.
Rubbing his eye with an ink-smeared hand, the architect brought out a piece of fresh paper, laying it out before him. He stared inertly at the blank page, cursing himself for having not made more copies. The construction of the opera house was already too far delayed with budget cuts, and further lack of direction could prove devastating. The plans had to be redrawn…and quickly.
Bending over the desk, the architect prepared himself for a long night.
He looked up as he heard the carriage door slam outside, quickly followed by the hurried greeting of a servant at the door. The trudging footsteps at the stairs confirmed his suspicion—his father had returned early.
"Benoît, focus!"
The boy turned his gaze back to the book in front of him, avoiding the steady glare of his governess. She sighed, setting aside her needlepoint and refolding her hands. "Now read it to me."
Benoît stared blankly at the faded script, a hand kneading the gray fabric of his trousers. Shifting restlessly, his eyes moved to the vacant room across the hall. The large doors were parted just wide enough for him to catch a glimpse at the solemn piano in the corner.
He hated seeing the beautiful instrument remain isolated in the dark room, waiting in silence. Now that he knew what a voice it possessed, he longed to make it sing once more. The music stumbled under his untried hands, but he would learn…he would force himself to learn.
Someone swore softly upstairs, interrupting his thoughts. No doubt, his father was locked again in his office, absorbed in some detail of the opera house. He wondered how the man could have ever possessed a care for music…he certainly could afford no other love now. The boy almost grinned at the irony. Perhaps his uncle had been mistaken.
The sharp exhale brought the intended cringe. Tearing himself from his reverie, Benoît turned back to the book in front of him. He had not been allowed to move for hours, a prisoner to his studies. He was certain there were moments of glee revealed in his warden's dour countenance as she saw him suffer. Those rows of pure black and white keys called to him far more than any dulled lines of an old book, and she knew it. Her eyes narrowed. With a defeated sigh, Benoît opened his mouth to continue as a single, fleeting movement caught his attention.
His eyes drifted back to the other room, where a figure stood beside the piano, his back to Benoît. A muscle in the boy's cheek flinched. So it was true. He had thought it merely a strange rumor by the chattering servants, some foolish apparition for their amusement. Boyish intrigue of the stranger momentarily overrode the resentment of his maintained ignorance.
His small eyebrows knotted in confusion, Benoît stared at the shadowed profile. It was unearthly seamless, and so completely still, that for a moment, it seemed he gazed upon a darkened sculpture. Strands of dark hair draped over a perfectly aquiline forehead and nose, the smooth, elegantly carved cheekbone reflecting a gossamer shine.
Benoît's eyes narrowed suspiciously. No shadow hid a face that darkly…
At the sound of his governess' cleared throat, he turned his attention back to the book—though only for a moment. Speaking a few lines by memory, his eyes shifted warily back to the room. The boy had moved around the piano, a stood before the awaiting keys, motionless. His hand was barely outstretched, suspended over the smooth, black and white surface.
Benoît's grip tightened on the book. The boy slowly pulled his hand back, his head turning a degree, meeting his observer's eyes. Benoît stilled under the intense stare, his mouth parting as the pale skin opposite the black mask was revealed.
Biting his lip, Benoît quickly cast his eyes back to the yellowed pages, his voice trembling. "…But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all…"
It was not yet noon before the opera's architect barged into his study, casting his coat and armful of rolled blueprints onto the desk. Making his way to the small table, he quickly poured himself a drink, closing his eyes as he swallowed the liquor.
Setting down the glass, Aubert moved back to the desk and picked up one of the newly drawn blueprints, unrolling it. His eyes narrowed as he stared down at the chaos of lines. In truth, the foreman and engineer's complaints had been justified—this copy was near illegible. His late night drafting had been utterly futile.
Muttering a curse, the architect swept an arm over the top of the desk, collapsing on the empty surface to bury his head in his hands. As far as he was concerned, the damned opera house could burn. He wanted no more of it. The drive that had once been so strong was all but vanquished.
After a few moments, Aubert stood, walking over the other side of the desk to survey the damage. With a frown, he knelt, righting the spilled inkbottle. His eyes followed the dark oval of black ink that had spilled onto the ruined copies.
With a sigh, the architect stood, facing the chair. His eyes fixated, he approached it slowly, picking up one of several neatly rolled sheets placed on the seat. Spreading it out before him, Aubert stared at the opera house, the lines drawn not of his own hand, but imitated with daunting care, every marking as sure as the original. His heart pounding, he picked up another, and another, all revealing the complex and beautiful innards of the structure he knew so well.
Holding one of the mysterious blueprints in his hand, Aubert moved down the hall, his mind awhirl. Lost in the foreign sensation of hope, he descended the stares, soaking up every meticulous stroke laid out on paper before him. He had long since dismissed faith in the Almighty, but perhaps the Almighty had not dismissed him. Perhaps he was not beyond the aid of some guardian angel…
Unconsciously, Aubert paused before the open doors to the darkened music room. Lowering the drawing, he looked at quiet figure standing before the piano, and approached slowly.
"Erik?" he said softly. The boy made no movement, his expression unreadable in the shadows. Aubert watched as the dark hazel eyes fell upon the blueprint in his hands. After a moment, the edge of the architect's mouth lifted. He no longer harbored any doubts as to the drawing's creator, though the very notion left him in awe.
He held the page back up, his eyes scanning over it. "How did you do this?"
After a long moment of silence, Aubert looked over the page at the boy. Erik stared intently at the rows of ebony and ivory keys. "I remembered."
"By memory? You did all this by memory?"
The child shook his head. "I used the soaked plans as reference."
Aubert eyes opened when even wider. Part of the reason his recreations were so deplorable, aside from the late hour, was for the abysmal state of the originals. After years of study, even he had struggled to decipher the ruined markings, memory blurring with age.
Carefully rolling up the blueprint, the architect stared into the deep black of the piano, lost in thought. He had already been impressed by the uncanny display of intuitiveness, but this was more than a brilliant mind. A prodigy stood before him, an incarnation of the aspirations he had once possessed for his own son.
Thus, he would accept him as one.
The drafting kit sat forsaken on a chair, unmoved since his birthday. The book resting before him forgotten, Benoît watched haplessly as his father picked up the kit.
Rising, Benoît moved slowly toward the door, his eyes locked on the two figures in the other room.
"Benoît, what are you looking at? Come here, child!" his governess whispered sharply. He paid her no mind, stopping just behind the door, his small fingers wrapped around the frame. His governess' scolding voice faded into the back of his mind along with all other sounds, save each slow breath. Silently, he watched his father place the drafting kit in the other's hands, a rare smile painted across his features.
Despised tears threatened to well over. Leaning his head against the hard wood, Benoît whispered the remaining lines of the passage, his voice fading softer with each word.
"…Be then his love accursed, since, love or hate; to me alike it deals eternal woe."
Italicized verses from: Milton, John. Paradise Lost. Complete Poems. The Harvard Classics. 1909–14. Book IV, lines 68-70.
Aisling-Siobhan—You are going to make me start involuntarily twitching if I see the words "more soon" alone again…(just kidding with you). Thanks for reading.
WriterofAllAges—I have a lot to get through before Erik gets to the opera house—like all the other main characters. (Contrary to popular belief, this story was never intended be Erik's alone—I am going in chronological order—though this might be my undoing). And yes, I plan on continuing through the Phantom of the Opera story, though to fit the confines of the title, it may very well be the sequel.