Author's Note:
I am not entirely pleased with how this chapter turned out, but after several revisions, it is the best it is going to get for the time being. Now for some quick responses to reviewers:
aeipathy—You never fail to encourage me. Thank you so much for your thoughtful reviews.
Angels-Sleep-In-Hell— I did in fact answer your question regarding ages, just not directly. ;) Check my profile for the Q/A.
wendela—Thank you so much for reading. I do hope you update your story soon!
ModestySparrow9—I always look forward to what you have to say. Thank you for reading this story and so loyally responding.
Maggie—Your comment made me smile. Kay handles things a little differently, doesn't she? ;)
Moonjava—Thanks for reading! I appreciate it. I hope this chapter is acceptable as well.
Shall we?
It was early evening, born to the steady clip of hooves against wet cobblestone streets and air thick with fog. Only the newly lit lamps challenged the evening's supremacy, casting an eerie glow through the misty night. At times the fog would clear for a moment, allowing the passersby to catch the briefest glimpse of a couple moving languidly through the park, though the sight, common enough in the evening, was just as readily dismissed. Both dressed in high fashion, the lady's hand rested lightly on her partner's arm.
Pausing at a bench, the couple sat, the woman staring uncomfortably off into the distance. The young avocat raised a gloved hand, stroking the lady's cheek. "What is it, Jaclyn? You have been silent all evening." She shuddered, closing her eyes a moment.
"My son…he knows," she whispered, looking over at her suitor, "it is only a matter of time before everyone else does."
He laughed, running his hand down the length of her arm until it rested over her hand. He stroked it absently, smiling at her. "No one will believe a mere boy."
She shook her head. "Things are not so simple."
Her suitor stopped his gentle ministration, sighing. "Jaclyn, it can be. Leave him! Leave before any word gets out." The young man leaned closer, taking her hand between his own, placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles. "Come with me…far from this place. I will deny you nothing."
The woman stiffened, his words chilling her, her heart thudding beneath the silken bodice. To leave this city, its stuffy company, its great beauties and filth; she could not deny the appeal. To be somewhere new, having the thrill of starting new life and a doting companion rather than a cold, work-driven one…
Jaclyn stared at the young man's striking face, Aubert's countenance flashing before her. She could not deny that there were times, rare moments when she had felt the twinge of jealousy when her husband never looked to her, lost in his work, listening to the voice of a mere child. Revelry quickly drowned out any such pain, the illicit relations her unspoken vengeance, yet nothing had changed. Exchanged for a stranger, she would no longer suffer it.
Erik. Her heart did not cease its quickened rhythm at the thought of the youth, the memory of her fingers against his cool mask, the enticing, troubled nature of his sleep and the fierce, restrained anger when he woke. It still stole her breath.
Jaclyn looked away, biting her lip and she listened to the steady breath of her companion. Could he even suspect her torment? Was he so oblivious to the dangerous line she walked, the position she placed him in, his shallow purpose? Jaclyn had to resist a smirk. There were so few instances in her life where men were not a means to an end. Aubert won her position in society, Benoît offered her achievement of motherhood, and Erik…
Her eyes lit up. She saw it on her son's face, on her husband's every time he spoke of his apprentice. That boy was like a son. Aubert would never bring himself to part with him.
Jaclyn pressed to her chest, her lips almost a grin. At last, her husband's swayed loyalties would serve her. Her lover may have offered her freedom, but Erik could secure it.
Sighing, the avocat moved closer to her. "Jaclyn, this is what you wanted," he purred, the calm tones washing over her.
She turned and smiled at him. "It is."
Husband and wife sat alone at opposite ends of the long dinner table, ornate candles lighting the distance between them.
A servant pushed open the doors, serving the couple with practiced efficiency. Jaclyn stared crossly at the steaming food placed before her. Another servant came forward and refilled the crystal wine glass, bowing nervously.
"Where is my son?" she demanded, glaring at the girl. "Master Benoît refuses to attend, Madame," the servant mumbled, wringing her hands in her skirt. Jaclyn's lips pressed together. "Very well. Leave us," she commanded, waving the girl away.
Across the table, her husband quietly thanked the other servant. Scanning over letters piled to one side, he simultaneously began to cut into the meat.
Jaclyn narrowed her eyes, picking up the wine glass. "I do not know what is the matter with him."
Absentmindedly, Aubert looked up. "With whom, my dear?"
The wine glass slammed back on the table, red liquid sloshing over the brim onto the pristine white tablecloth.
"Your son, Aubert!"
He shrugged, looking down at his plate while cutting. "It is only his age, Jaclyn; it will pass."
"Are you blind, Aubert? His behavior has changed so radically that I can hardly stand being under the same roof!"
"But you are rarely home anyway, my dear."
Jaclyn's jaw tightened as she regarded her husband. He chewed his meal quietly, focused on the letters once again.
"I have seen enough," she replied stiffly. "Between my son's moroseness and your apprentice's absurd idiosyncrasies, I will be driven mad."
Aubert paused at the mention of Erik, resting his silverware on the plate's edge. "Jaclyn," he began, looking up slightly, "there is no reason to overreact."
She glared at him. "I have every reason! For years I have endured your long absences, nights alone while you slave over your drawings, that damned apprentice…"
"Erik is no—"
"He is, Aubert! Don't you see what he has done to you? To our son? You are blind to all else but your lofty visions for that opera house and that masked boy!"
"Jaclyn, how can you say such things? You wanted me to take on this project! This opera house will never be forgotten—we will never be forgotten. Isn't that what you wanted?" Aubert stared at her, muddled dismay and confusion ridden across his features. Jaclyn fought the bout of sympathy that stung at her, ignoring the aggrieved look in her husband's eyes.
"At what price, Aubert?" she replied, her voice frigid. "You've alienated your son, forgotten your wife. And all the while, that boy—he was the only one you ever saw—the only one you still see."
"Jaclyn, that is not true…"
"How is it not, Aubert? This masked wretch from the streets entered our home, took up residence, insulting our good name. He never belonged here."
Aubert pulled his napkin from his shirt, lying in on the table. "Jaclyn…the opera house would not exist without him," he said quietly, eyebrows knit. His wife continued, unabated.
"I do not care about the opera house anymore, Aubert. I tired of being ignored—I am your wife! Does that not have greater precedence?"
Aubert lifted a hand, trying to calm her. "Please, Jaclyn…"
She shook her head, drawing in a breath. The boy had grown up at her husband's side, needed while she never was. Her husband would never drive the boy away…
Jaclyn rose slowly, looking down at him across the table. "I swear it, Aubert, your apprentice leaves or I will."
Her husband's eyes went wide. "No, Jaclyn…please…"
She took in a breath, composing herself. "I meant every word, husband."
Met with silence, she turned from the room, a smile crossing her lips. On this stage, she had played her part well.
Benoît peeked his head around the door as the raised voiced ceased, waiting until he heard his mother's familiar footsteps disappear at the other end of the hall. Silently he moved through the house, pushing open the door to the dining hall. His father was seated at the table before him.
"Father?"
The older man did not respond, his head pressed into his hands. Benoît moved closer, timidly reaching out to touch his shoulder. He drew back as his father moved, regarding him with reddened eyes. "What is it?" he said wearily.
Benoît bit his lip, moving back another step. "I…I heard voices…"
"What exactly did you hear?" his father asked, his tone sharper.
"Nothing, sir! I just heard your voice…and mother's…"
His father pushed the chair back, staring at the letters on the table. "Is that all?"
"Yes, sir." Benoît glanced at the topmost letter, swallowing. "That's Tonton Galen's handwriting, is it not?" he asked meekly.
His father nodded, picking up the jumble of papers. "Yes. He will be arriving in Paris within the month," he answered, walking away.
Benoît could not suppress his smile. "That is good news then, isn't it, Father?" He received no answer, left alone in the room.
"The underground lake still exists? Good God, I must remember not to tell my wife."
The other aristocrats chuckled at the man's comment, ignoring the silent architect. He frowned, placing his hands behind his back.
"I assure you, monsieurs, that the underground caverns are many levels below where we stand now. They were sealed off years ago. There is no need for concern."
Erik walked behind the gentlemen, his eyes attentive from behind the mask. Aubert glanced at him and then quickly brought his gaze back to elegant rooms before him, continuing his effortless recitation of the figures and glories of the opera house. Gentlemen followed at his heels, occasionally offering an ignorant comment or question when appropriate. The architect sighed, stopping just inside the auditorium.
"In sum, gentlemen, at 11,000 square meters, housing 450 artists, this opera house is the most grand in Europe, if not the world."
Low, approving murmurs followed, accompanied by the thick cloud of smoke. Aubert waited, staring lifelessly across the sprawling room.
"Well done, Monsieur Gardnier! She is truly remarkable," one of the gentlemen broke in as he pulled his cigar from his mouth, motioning upwards at the vaulting ceiling with it. "Now, what of this magnificent chandelier?"
The architect rubbed his forehead with a hand, sighing quietly. "If you would excuse me a moment, monsieurs, this low lighting pains my eyes. Erik—" he said, looking up at the youth, "Erik can answer any questions you may have. He knows this place as well as I."
A few gentlemen turned, surprise obvious on their faces as they noticed the tall boy behind them. Giving a polite nod to the aristocrats, the apprentice captured their attention easily with his smooth, lilting voice, his gaze following the architect as he left.
Aubert moved quickly from the group, walking through the grand foyer until he came to the staircase. He walked to the edge, resting his hands against it.
Just faintly, he could hear the apprentice's voice echoing through the vast halls, seemingly everywhere. The architect bowed his head. Why, dear God, does it have to be him? Why not the other?
Years ago he had doubted the benevolence of his brother by taking in filthy, sickly child, diligently nursing him to health, procuring a new mask…
He would have never done such a thing upon impulse, consumed by his work, the pressures it entailed. He could never afford the time nor heart his brother possessed, but he knew beauty, true beauty. Who would have thought that this child would share the same aptitude, the same passion? Who would have thought that this child would spare him from his own demons, taking on the burden of this place?
Erik's voice was dimmer now—they must be moving, he thought wearily. Even so, Aubert found himself straining to listen to the quiet tones, the calm guise that never ceased even in the midst of aversion. In all those years, there were no blatant threats, no sneers to Erik's face, yet all the while, Aubert knew they must have existed. Even then, he could not push the boy away—not once he learned what he was capable of, the brilliancy concealed behind the most deceiving of exteriors.
Yet the solemn truth remained. His work that was a thing of beauty had transformed into an all-consuming monster, draining him, wasting away his vision through finances, politics and unrest. He had needed Erik, a savior for his own failings, someone who saw what he once could. Even as a child, Erik understood his vision better than he did himself, crafting it into a thing he could have never finished on his own. But what consideration had he given for the boy, to grow up in such an environment, stricken of all things those his age possessed? Aubert closed his eyes, cursing his own selfishness. His supreme ambition to give had only taken.
Perhaps his wife was right. He had lost sight of her in the midst of his pursuit. His son was a foreign thing to him, absorbing things he long ago pushed from his mind. And Erik—his dear apprentice, his friend—denied youth in return for a world of dust, ink and stone when he was capable of far more.
Aubert gripped the railing until his knuckles were white. It was a cruel ultimatum that Jaclyn had laid before him, but not wholly unjust. For all their differences and misgivings, she was his wife and he loved her. It was time he rectified his failings, even at the heels of his greatest triumph.
"Monsieur?"
Aubert turned, the handsome visage of apprentice standing before him. The very sight of the youth roused guilt and frustration all over again, however he fought it.
"Are the gentlemen bored?" he said stiffly, putting on a weak smile.
Erik shook his head. "Hardly. I left them quite intrigued."
The architect smirked. "Indeed. It is a pity you did not regale them with a good ghost story. They adore those."
The corner of his apprentice's mouth lifted, speaking of his amusement. "One of them is waiting in the foyer for you," he said quietly. His mouth flattened again after a moment, the sharp hazel eyes perceptive. "Perhaps you should hail a cab and rest for the evening."
Aubert sighed, raising a dismissing hand. "No, that is not necessary. I will speak to him. The opera house needs its patrons."
Erik nodded, falling beside Aubert as they approached the gentleman. He was younger than the others in the group, though no less imposing. He smiled warmly at them.
"You did not exaggerate when you said that this young man knew this place. I am quite impressed with his sure command." Erik inclined his head a degree.
Aubert gave a weak grin. "Indeed, Erik has been my right hand in all matters of the opera house." He swallowed, uneasy. "Is there anything else, Monsieur le Comte?"
The young aristocrat smiled again, the easy, familiar gesture absent among so many of the posturing affluent. Immediately, Aubert felt some relief.
"I wished to congratulate you on your magnificent accomplishment, Monsieur Gardnier." He glanced over at Erik. "Your combined accomplishments," he corrected. "Paris will never be the same."
"We are grateful for your kind praise, though whether Paris will be thankful is yet to be seen," Aubert answered flatly.
The gentleman chuckled. "I have no doubt this opera house will be the gem of our— "
The sound of a cleared throat interrupted him. All eyes rested on the new foreman who stood behind them, anxiously gripping the cap in his hands.
"Excuse me, monsieurs," he mumbled, his eyes carefully fixed upon the architect. "My uh…my men are having some difficulties…with the chandelier. The mechanism that holds..."
He stopped, hearing the architect's sigh, and shrugged mildly. "I…I just wanted to inform you before I have to bring in someone to fix—"
"Come with me," Erik interjected, catching the man's gaze. He gave a slight bow to the Comte, excusing himself. Strain flooded Aubert's countenance as he watched the apprentice leave, his decision burning him with every passing moment.
"You look like a man who could use a good drink."
Aubert spun his head around to the Comte. "I suppose I do. This opera house…it's been..." His voice trailed off as he grit his jaw.
The Comte nodded sympathetically. "Well then, perhaps it is appropriate for me to bring up one last matter with you…"
"What difficulty were you having with it?" Erik asked, flashing a quick glance at the man just behind him as they moved through the labyrinth of passageways. He moved at his normal pace, effortlessly falling into shadows only to reappear yards later. A small, teasing grin appeared on his face as he heard the heavy breathing of the struggling foreman.
Left at the end, then right…
The schematics of the opera played over in his mind, Erik recalling every level and room with ease, wordlessly moving upward.
"The gears…Monsieur," the man panted.
The apprentice's mouth fell into a grim line. "The mechanism was designed to perfection," he said, taking a turn into another darkened corridor, "your men must have been assembled incorrectly."
"…But, Monsieur, the…design is…flawed…"
Erik stopped dead in his tracks, the other man nearly colliding with him. He turned his head just enough so that the light hit the smooth, dark surface and the burning eyes behind it.
"It is not…flawed, as you so delicately put it."
The foreman swallowed, staring helplessly. Erik left him in his daze, starting forward once again. After a rising yet another level, he pushed open the door, startling the two workers inside. One look and they backed away, watching him come forward, eyeing the scattered tools and parts on the floor.
The foreman arrived a moment later, still winded as he looked down at the apprentice. "Well, if you can fix it," he mumbled, and turned away.
The two workers stared longingly after him.
"Is the cable secured?" Erik asked, ignoring their stares. One of the workers stepped forward. "Uh, yes."
Erik gave it a quick critical glance, rolling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. The men stared in awe. It was a rare occasion when men as lofty as the architect and his contemporaries would perform manual labor. The effect was tenfold when the very embodiment of the whispered masked apprentice stood before them.
Erik made quick work of the reassembly, his hands sure. After a moment, he stood, looking over at his audience, pointing a long finger at a metal lever.
"This was in the wrong place. The chandelier would have crashed on the first time lowered." The men answered in a dim chorus of apologies and 'yes sirs'. Erik wiped his hands on a rag and rolled back down his sleeves, heading for the door.
"God forbid it ever fell, ay, Monsieur?" one of the men teased nervously.
"Yes," the masked youth replied, eyeing the rope and cables. "God forbid."
Jaclyn stood as her husband entered the room, her eyes narrowing at his haggard appearance. His shoulders were stooped, his face pale and lined, heavy dark circles under his eyes. He moved towards her slowly, giving her a half-hearted smile.
"You look beautiful today, Jaclyn."
She looked at him strangely. "You flatter me," she answered stiffly, abashed by the unusual compliment. Her husband collapsed in a chair, looking up at her. "I have not said it enough, I know, but you truly are as beautiful now as the day I married you." His lips broke into a true smile, a weak image of his appearance in youth. "I am surprised I have not had to fend off more brash young gentlemen."
Jaclyn turned away from him, shutting her eyes. She could endure his absences, her own terrible deceit, the mockery she made of him every time she was with another, but she could not bear to listen to the gentle tone nor the genuine affection which was now given to her.
"Have you made your decision, Aubert?" she said coolly, taking a calming breath. She heard him rise from his chair, turning her to face him. "Yes," he answered at length, pressing a hand against her cheek. "Yes, I have."
She opened her eyes, meeting the sad gaze of her husband. The promising vision of a new life with her suitor vanished as she looked upon him. There was no doubt left in her mind as to his choice.
"How could…?" she started, trembling. Aubert moved his hand from her cheek, placing a gentle kiss in the same place. "Jaclyn…it is the right thing."
She pulled back. "What of your apprentice?"
His gaze lowered. Jaclyn watched the torrent of emotions that crossed his face, wondering how many showed on her own. It was not supposed to be like this!
"I will speak with him," her husband answered slowly.
"When?"
Aubert rubbed his forehead, sighing. "We were invited to a Bal Masque…but not until after that. I need time away from the opera house."
Disregarding his miserable tone, Jaclyn glared at her husband, bemused. "Truly, Aubert, you astonish me to have heard of a Masque before I have. And who might be hosting this event?"
"The Comte de Chagny."