Letter from Katherine Pryde, Paris, France to Professor Charles Xavier, Xavier House, Yorkshire, England.
Dear Professor Xavier—although this letter is for everyone in Xavier House;
First, let me assure you that I am perfectly safe and unharmed.
I was sick near to death with cholera. I would not be alive now, except that I was very well taken care of, unselfishly, generously, even tenderly, by Erik, who is the Opera Ghost. I was his guest for the past week.
Let me say to you again: I am unharmed. My mind is completely my own, my heart is still in shreds, and my virginity is intact. There is no need for anyone to dash off to Paris to rescue me or to defend or avenge my honor.
The last time I wrote to you, I was in Erik's house, and part of the reason it was so short and not like me is that I couldn't be sure he wouldn't read it before he posted it, and I didn't want to put anything down that I would not be comfortable about, should he see it.
I'm very, very, glad Logan is in Japan right now, because he would be halfway to Paris by this time, despite my reassurances.
Let me go back to the beginning of my illness. I know how I was infected, because twenty-seven people in the same arrondissement as Frau Levy's boarding house died of it—including Sarah Steiner, who had the room two doors down from me. The water was tainted—the same water that I complained about, because it had a funny taste.
I didn't really know Sarah—only well enough to say 'Good morning. It looks like rain, don't you think?' She was studying astronomy at the University of Paris—which was unprecedented for a woman. I meant to get to know her better. I will never get to know her now.
I was taken ill two nights after my debut. I came offstage and went up to change. At first I thought I had pulled a muscle, because I was getting leg cramps, and then—.
Cholera is not a disease that lends itself to romanticizing, like consumption.
Consumption is slow, and it leaves the sufferer thin, pale and interesting. Cholera is fast, disgusting, humiliating, and ugly. I had to rush to the washroom. I'm going to try not to be indelicate about my symptoms.
It was extremely painful, as if giant fists grabbed my midsection and squeezed me as if I were a tube of paint which burst in both directions, and it went on for a very long time. First I was hot—so hot I dripped with sweat, and my heart started banging very fast and very hard.
My body was completely out of my control. For the first time in my life, I was made aware that it could die. I thought my heart would stop. It was terrifying.
After a while, the first attack subsided, and I grew cold, cold enough to shiver. I pulled myself together, cleaned up as best I could, and washed my hands and my face. I was raw and sore all over, and still suffering from deep and painful muscle cramps, but I shakily made my way back to my dressing room, where I had to seize a basin and be sick again. I sagged down to the floor, weakened and wrung out like a dishcloth. I didn't think I could stand up again. You know what it's like when you have a bad case of influenza?
This was worse.
Across Paris, in Frau Levy's boarding house, Sarah Steiner was suffering from the same symptoms. She died before morning. That is what cholera does. A person can be healthy one day and dead the next.
I sat on the floor of my dressing room for a very long time. I was exhausted. I was sure that if I got up, I would only fall down. Although the Opera house is full of people, parts of it are almost deserted, and there was no one near to hear me. I needed help, and I knew it.
My voice sounded feeble and cracked when it came out. "Ghost? I need help. I'm sick—." I was shaking with cold, although the building was warm. I was as chilled as if I were sitting on an ice floe in a winter river. I gagged again, but I was so empty that not even bile came up. "Ghost?"
"Katherine?" He sounded surprised, and quite nearby, if that meant anything when speaking of a telepathic ventriloquist.
"Yes," I said, gratefully. "I'm sick. I need help. I'm in my dressing room." I was so weary that I leaned my head to the side, against the full length mirror. As it happened, the mirror was Erik's concealed door, and when he opened it, I toppled over onto his feet.
"Katherine!" he gasped.
As I was looking up at him from floor level, my first impression of him was that he was tall, tall as an elm, tall as a tower. "Ghost." I mumbled, and tried to get up on one elbow, but found I couldn't.
He bent over, scooped me off the floor, and set me down in the room's single chair. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"I'm sick—and I'm so cold." I was shivering and my teeth were chattering.
He was wearing evening clothes, and had dark hair, as Meg had described him, and as he touched my face gently, I was looking directly into his.
Even as sick as I was—and I was miserable— it registered on me that he was handsome. He wore a mask that covered a third of his face, and not a conventional mask, either. If you place a hand over only one eye, you will have an idea of what was covered.
"Your forehead is like ice—and your lips are blue. Are my hands warm or cold?" he anxiously inquired.
"Warm." I was so tired…
"Dear God. You are ill," he said, with horror in his voice. He sniffed the air. "—and you've been sick."
"Yes," I agreed, and I meant to ask, 'Can you get help?', but he picked me up, wrapped me in his cloak, and carried me through the mirror door.
I have very little idea of the route he took, but it was not a public area of the Opera House. There were a lot of narrow corridors, and then there were stairs. At one point he paused and said, "That would take too long," and turned sharply. All I could see was part of his shirtfront. It took a concerted effort on my part to turn my own head, and see out.
As he strode, he took us from pools of darkness through patches of light, over and over. I think he might have been pyrokinetically lighting and extinguishing candles or torches as we went. I looked up at his face. In the darkness, his eyes glowed yellow like Kurt's, but in the light they were green or blue.
"You have cat's eyes, Ghost." I whispered.
"I beg your pardon?" he asked.
I repeated myself, and added, "What's your name?"
"Erik," he replied.
"Just Erik, or Erik Something?"
"Erik— Dantés."
His hesitation convinced me he had simply chosen 'Dantés' on the spur of the moment, but I said nothing about it. It would have taken too much exertion.
We suddenly entered a room which bent and fractured light oddly, and then passed into a living room, if a room can be a living room when it is dominated by a large pipe organ, has a ceiling like a cave, and is curtained like a stage on one side. I could smell water, and it was as chilly as a grave. I shivered some more.
"This is my home," he said.
"Does it have a washroom?" I asked. It was not an idle question.
I was continually sick, repeatedly sick, for hours. I wish I could say it was all a merciful blur, and that I can't remember the details clearly, but that would be a lie. I could keep little down, and I was aching and cold. It was a wretched time, for me and for him.
He did everything possible, heating bricks, tucking me into a bed which was not intended for an invalid—it would have been right at home in the Hellfire Club—, helping me get up and down, bringing me what seemed like quarts of hot sweet tea, but I got worse.
I had to ask him to help me get my street clothes off—they were in the way, and my corset was an additional source of discomfort. He was hesitant; I was embarrassed. We managed. My chemise covered me as thoroughly as any nightgown could.
Anyone who would have found me enticing right then would have to be deeply disturbed in his mind. I am sure I looked the way I felt—and I smelled worse.
I lost track of time. I was not completely rational at times, and I clung to his hand and made him swear, over and over, that if I died he would go to you and explain what happened. He swore it, and cried as he did. He cried as a man cries, from a deep well of pain.
After about twelve, or perhaps twenty hours, he was afraid enough to go for a doctor. I somehow got up to protest against his leaving, promptly fell, and rolled. My foot splashed in water—I was caught on the edge of an underground cistern or reservoir.
Erik retrieved me, wrapped me up in the bedding, and carried me into another room, where he lay me down again, wedged in somehow so I couldn't roll, and blocked me from sitting up with a plank.
"I will come back," he insisted, with agony heavy in his voice, "I will return as quickly as I can, but you must have a doctor!" I was begging him not to let me die alone. He left another large mug of tea where I could reach it, and went out.
I could only see straight up, into a cluster of satin draperies. I waited for an interminable time, until I heard a peevish male voice, a stranger's voice, say, "What place is this?"
Erik's face and the stranger's face appeared in my field of vision, and the man, who was the promised doctor, took my wrist. I would have said something, but it would have taken so much effort to move any muscle associated with speaking that I decided to wait until later.
"You would have done better to fetch a priest, m'sieu. She is already cold clay." said Dr. Peevish. (I don't recall his name. Peevish suits him.)
"N-", I forced out. I meant to say, 'Not a priest, a rabbi.'
The doctor jumped. "Mon Dieu—she is still alive!"
"Yes!" Erik snarled.
"Do not blame me for being momentarily mistaken, m'sieu Masque. I am not accustomed to finding living patients who are already in their coffins." He sounded scandalized.
I looked left and right, and saw where I was. It had high wood sides—and satin lining. I looked up at Erik. Thoughts of the Hellfire Club went through my head—along with the rumors I've heard about places where, for enough money, a girl will take a cold bath before getting into a coffin, and then lay perfectly still and silent, no matter what her client does….
He might have read my mind. Perhaps he was only reading my face.
"I sleep in it. Alone." Erik explained.
No wonder the doctor sounded disapproving. The whole situation must have looked flagrantly indecent.
It was surprisingly comfortable, for a coffin.
The doctor was taking my temperature, checking my eyes, and counting my pulse. "Tell me," he inquired. "Are your—movements like water, with grains of rice in it?"
I nodded.
"Then it is cholera. The corpse-like face and hands—the glassy, sunken eyes—her extreme low temperature—she really ought to be in a hot bath! Her lassitude—and look!" He reached down and pinched the skin on the back of my hand. I rolled my eyes to see it.
The fold of skin stood up even when he took his hand away. "Her skin is loosened from her flesh."
"How do you cure it?" asked Erik, through gritted teeth.
"Cure it? It is a matter of hours." blinked the doctor. He was a rabbity little man with round glasses and a salt-and pepper mustache.
"Then give her the medicine!" commanded Erik.
"You misunderstand. I am very sorry, Mademoiselle. Turn your thoughts to God. You will see Him soon—Aaack!" Erik seized him by the throat, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him into the wall behind my head.
I might have been disturbed by this, but of course around Xavier House such scenes are quite common, especially when Logan is in residence. The important thing to do is distract the aggressor before the victim is dead.
"You should not say such things, M'sieu Doctor. Not everyone dies of cholera. She will not die of cholera. How do I treat it?"
"Geckk!" was all the doctor could get out. I summoned up all my strength, and managed to touch Erik's elbow. He let go of the man, who fell bodily to the floor and wheezed a little.
"You—you're mad!" the doctor observed, accurately.
"Yes. The treatment?"
"Purges. Emetics. Bleeding…"
"That's nonsense!" fumed Erik. The word he used was not 'nonsense', but I refuse to write what he did say. "Even I can see she's dehydrated, and you want to aggravate the problem? What is the usual cause of death from cholera? Doctoring?"
"Heart failure." said the little man, with heat. "Why, I do not know."
"Electrolytes." I croaked. Both men cast startled glances at me. "We studied biological science at Xavier House. Th' body's—like a galvanic battery. Body fluids—are like th' acid. Not right—no charge flows. S'how dead frog jumps when y' galvanic shock it. Same energy. No charge—heart stops." Have I ever thanked you for the comprehensive education you provide at Xavier House, Professor?
"Now that, I can comprehend." snapped Erik. He was mad at the doctor, not at me.
"Then you might have spared me from being dragged here like this!" returned the doctor. "That's nothing but modern quackery, anyway."
"And when was the last time you read a new medical text?" Erik bit out. "You have been as useful as you can be. Here!" He thrust a wad of francs at the man. "And now—look at me."
I listened as he issued telepathic commands to the doctor, telling him to forget where he had been, what he had done, that he had ever seen either of us. Then he told the man to wait in the living room.
Erik bundled me up with the bedclothes again. This time, he put me in the bathtub, and ran the hot water. He disappeared for a moment, and came back with a glass of honey lemonade. "I keep this on hand. It's excellent for the throat. I thought it would be too acidic for you before, but…" I drank it. He refilled the glass, and made sure I wouldn't slip underwater, before he took the doctor away.
The hot bath finally took away the chill. Erik's house seemed to have an unlimited supply of hot water. I had just about enough strength to turn the faucets on and off.
He returned with supplies. I stayed in the tub. He poured orange juice, more lemonade, and chicken broth into me by the gallon, it seemed, and except for a coughing fit when some went down wrong, most of it went down and stayed down.
That night, he brought an armchair into the bathroom, and slept there, sitting up. It must have been horribly uncomfortable. I know a lot of men who would have been utterly helpless and useless under the conditions of those hideous hours, and a lot of men who just cannot accept that women are not porcelain dolls under the skin—that we perspire and bleed and get sick. Dragon-slaying is over-rated—the ability to face cholera and drive off death is much more useful.
He went out again the next morning, returning with more supplies—and with Madame Giry.
I heard her voice coming from the living room. "May I take this blindfold off now, M'sieu?"
"Yes. She is in the bath…" They were coming nearer. I was contemplating the bathroom ceiling, which was painted a rich lapis blue and spangled with stars. After over twenty-four hours spent mostly in the bathtub, I was making up possible constellations for them.
I heard her gasp of horror, "Oh, Phantom, what have you done? She's committed suicide!"
That got my attention! I looked at the water. It was thick and red, almost like blood. "No—I'm all right. I don't think the coverlet was color-fast." I wrenched up a corner of the quilt that had gone into the bath with me. "If my opinion counts for anything, I think I'm going to live." I was still wearing the same chemise I had on under my corset when I arrived in his house, but it was much the worse for wear, and now was stained an odd shade of red-violet.
"Thank God." Madame Giry sagged suddenly, and Erik provided her with a chair, telekinetically. "Oh!" Furniture that moved on its own could not daunt Madame Giry for long, and after she assured herself that I wasn't immediately in danger of dying, she was telling Erik exactly what she thought of him for bring me down there when I was so ill.
"Twenty seven people died in this cholera outbreak." was his reply. He handed her a newspaper, folded to show a particular article. I did not read it until later—that was how I learned about Sarah's death.
"Wait—what day is it today?" I asked them.
"It is now Wednesday. You were taken ill on Sunday."
"Then where am I going to live now? My landlady, Frau Levy, has very strict rules about staying out all night, and she didn't like me to begin with." It had been the least of my worries up until then, but now the problem asserted itself.
"I think she will have enough to occupy her," said Erik, cryptically. He was, I now know, alluding to Sarah.
"Katherine is correct. Sir, you have acted with the best intentions in the world. You saved her life. I believe you when you say that you have behaved honorably and scrupulously. Katherine might not be well enough to leave here today, but she must come back up, find other lodgings, and get back to rehearsals and performances." she insisted.
Madame Giry continued, "I, myself, will go to this boarding house and collect your things. I will bring back only what you will need immediately, and take the rest home with me. I will tell people that I took you out of there into my home, which is where you will go when you are quite recovered. You can stay with us, at least until you can find other lodgings. Perhaps we will find out that such an arrangement suits us for the long term." She shrugged.
I was glad to have an ally in leaving Erik's house. Not because I was afraid, or ungrateful, or physically uncomfortable, no, nothing like that.
You see, there was only one reason why he would have brought me down there and cared for me so well and so patiently.
Just thinking about what I was going to have to say when the moment came—and I was sure it would come—made me dread it like another bout of being sick.
I will pause here for the moment. I have more to write to you, but this marks the end of my illness, and the beginning of my convalescence. I ask that you not come to fetch me, nor order me home, but respect my judgment, and trust me as you did when you allowed me to come here. You can expect another letter soon; this tale is only half-told.
Yours truly,
Katherine Pryde.
A/N: No time for personalized comments now! Writing like a maniac!