A/N: To all my readers: a homework assignment. Go out and read the Irene Adler series by Carole Nelson Douglas. She was an Opera Diva from the Holmes story A Scandal In Bohemia. You will love them.
Continued from a letter from Jean Grey-Summers to Scott Summers:
It was well over an hour before we reached Erik's inner sanctum, however.
There was a hot air balloon that had to be deflated and concealed, luggage to be moved, an Opera House full of nosy people to avoid, and, most awkward and time consuming of all—a man in an enormous wheelchair made mostly of mahogany and wrought iron, with bottle-green wool velvet upholstery— which, as we know all too well, weighs about two hundred pounds, not including the Professor. It is difficult enough to maneuver in an ordinary building's corridors, much less through the secret passages Erik used to get around the Opera Populaire. I will not say anything about the stairs.
In the end, Erik carried Professor Xavier. Sir Erich and I managed the wheelchair, once Erik partially disassembled it, using a wallet-sized tool kit he had in his inner jacket pocket. I moved the mahogany half, and of course Sir Erich took the wrought iron part.
Kitty, in the meantime, was assisting Auroré, whose claustro-phobia became worse the further underground we went.
One good thing about the long and difficult process was that it allowed our three combative friends to cool down, although they were still inclined to snap at each other.
Eventually we did reach the fifth subbasement, and were conducted through a passageway to the back entrance of Erik's home—the mysterious mirrored room.
Upon entering the Chamber of Confusions that Kitty described in her letter, the Professor asked, "Might we pause for one moment?", and Erik halted.
We looked about that shadowy room which seemed to stretch on for an infinite space all around us, and Professor Xavier said, thoughtfully, "Yes—I see what you meant, Kitty. This is hardly the time to ask for a demonstration, but I would very much like to see it in operation…Could I commission you to build one for me, at Xavier House?"
Erik tensed up, visibly. "What use would you have for it?" he asked, abruptly.
"I would use it as a teaching device. It would help train my students to defend themselves against unexpected threats in a hostile environment. The mirrors might have to be made especially strong—perhaps of mirror-polished steel, several inches thick, rather than glass… Why do you ask?"
Erik deliberated a moment, then said, giving me the impression that he chose his words with great care, "I have built three such chambers—two of them here, and one of them…elsewhere. The one I built elsewhere was the first. I built it for someone as an amusement, to amaze and inspire wonder—but the person for whom it was built tired of that aspect of its possibilities, and turned it into a torture chamber. I built the two here to defend myself, by confusing and disorienting any unwelcome intruders. I never thought of it as having the potential to educate, or as having any practical application. Why should the same room be such a different place to different people?"
"It is a room full of mirrors," observed the Professor, "and therefore what one sees in it is a reflection of one's self. The person for whom you built the first was full of cruelty, and used it to inflict horrors. A society beauty might see it as a temple to her own perfections, a surgeon as an operating room meant to optimize the available light."
"I like it," said Auroré suddenly. "Of all the human places I have been in, this one seems the most like the exterior world, which goes on and does not end. I know in my head that it is an enclosed space, but it does not seem to entrap me like any building would."
"And I…" Erik let his sentence trail off. I wasn't reading his thoughts, but I knew them al the same. If Professor Xavier, who was first and foremost a teacher, saw it as a teaching tool, and the first client as a torture chamber, what did that say of Erik, who began by seeing it as a source of wonder and amazement, and now used it to defend himself through confusion and disorientation?
It said he had been disillusioned, that he was defensive, that he himself was lost and bewildered. Well, who has not?
"I could begin plans for such a room," said Erik, tentatively, "but you and I would need to discuss it in detail, first."
"I would be glad to." said the Professor. "We will be spending several days in Paris," he continued, as Erik bore him from the Chamber into his home proper, "because in order to get Jean and Auroré to bring me, I promised them some time to go sightseeing and do some shopping, and if I renege, I will be facing an outright mutiny."
"Oh, no." I blithely informed him. "We just wouldn't listen, that's all. And without our help, he's stuck."
"Sad but true," admitted Professor Xavier, "yet—Oh!"
Erik had lit, with his pyrokinesis, all the candles in his house simultaneously, and the effect was remarkable. Auroré and I made similar noises of appreciation, as Erik carried Professor Xavier over to a sofa and set him down with great care.
"Will you be comfortable here,—sir?" he asked him.
"Yes, thank you." responded the Professor.
"Please—make yourselves at home," said our host, and he said those correct and conventional words as if they were new to his mouth—something he knew should be said under the circumstances, yet which he had never been called on to say before. I knew then that Kitty was right about him, and how he had learned what he knew.
"I am going to leave you for a moment," Erik continued, "the lemonade, you understand." He meant that he wanted to wash up and change, and no wonder.
"I am sorry about the lemonade," said Kitty, contritely. "I hope your clothes aren't ruined."
"I think a sponging will take care of it," he told her. "Might I offer all of you a cup of tea?" he inquired of us, uncertainly.
"Yes, thank you." answered the Professor.
"Tea would be most welcome," added Auroré.
I added my agreement. Sir Erich chose not to respond. He chose to sulk in silence.
"I can get that started," Kitty volunteered, and she disappeared in one direction while Erik disappeared in another.
We were left to share an awkward silence. It was all Sir Erich's fault—he sat there in his armchair and glowered. "Where are the three of you staying?" he demanded.
"I haven't the slightest idea," Professor Xavier replied. "We left in a great hurry. The letter you posted from Dover wasn't read until quite late last night. Our original plan was to take the train tomorrow at seven in the morning."
"I'll send a message to my hotel. They'll find room for you." stated Sir Erich, flatly.
"I would be much obliged to you." was the Professor's mild response.
"I have a private dining room. Of course you will be my guests tonight—Katherine, Madame Giry and her daughter are already invited. If Erik chooses to, he can join us as well." It was probably as close to a statement of guilt as Sir Erich was likely to make. He wanted to make amends, and he found that easiest to do through being generous and hospitable.
"What made you think you had to come rushing over here, anyway?" burst out of Sir Erich.
"Over thirty years close acquaintance with you." Professor Xavier answered. "Your letter fairly oozed righteous indignation. You can't say I was wrong, as the three of you seemed ready to rend each other limb from limb. Tell me, Erich, did you take the trouble to thank that young man for the kindness and attentive care he gave Kitty, or did you lay into him as to what were his intentions toward her?"
Sir Erich winced. "I greeted him warmly and extended the hand of friendship to him," he insisted. "You will be able to read all about it when you get home, because I wrote you quite a long letter about it, and posted it not two hours ago."
"I will enjoy it all the more for knowing how it all came out," the Professor assured him.
Kitty reappeared, bearing a tray of china. She unloaded plates, cups and saucers onto the table before us, and said, "This is going to take me more than one trip."
She left us, only to reappear immediately. "I am not the lady of the house!" she asserted, leveling a finger at us. "I just happen to know where the tea things are kept, so no shooting knowing glances at each other while I'm gone—or saying the lady doth protest too much!"
"I am sure none of us assumes you have made a lifetime commitment merely because you know where to look for Erik's sugar bowl. On the other hand, if you have an intimate familiarity with his stock of lemons, that's another story—what did I say? I was just trying to be amusing!" I asked, because Kitty had gasped, turned bright pink, and hurried out of the room.
(E/N: Those who want to understand the significance of lemons have only to ask for the description of Victorian-era contraceptive techniques from Chapter 3.)
"I will tell you later," soothed Auroré. "Although I am surprised you do not know already."
"Do you have tickets for the show?" asked Sir Erich.
"Not yet. That's something we'll have to see to, before we go to the hotel." replied the Professor.
"I have an entire box. It would be easy to move the chairs so yours would fit in the front, and there's enough space for at least four—if not more."
It was an olive branch of sorts, like the invitation to dinner and the offered assistance in finding us rooms, and it would have been churlish to refuse.
Kitty put in another appearance, this time bearing on her tray a silver teapot, accompanied by the cream-jug, sugar bowl, tea-strainer, and a plate of sweet biscuits, and was placing them on the table when Erik returned, in clean clothing, with a freshly scrubbed face and slightly damp hair.
We had another awkward pause while our host and erstwhile hostess suffered a moment of paralysis over the question of whose proper duty it was to pour the tea. Men, of course, do not pour, but if Kitty should do so it would be an unequivocal statement of her position under his roof.
If that were to go on for much longer, the tea would be steeped until it was undrinkable and bitter, if not ice cold as well, so I took pity on them, and said, "As a single gentleman without a female relative to act as your hostess, etiquette dictates that you ask the senior lady guest present to pour. Auroré and I are of the same age, but I am married, which is presumed to mature a woman. I would be honored to assist you."
I picked up the pot. "One lump or two?" I asked the Professor.
"Thank you." Erik said, stiffly.
I continued to talk as I passed cups around. "My governess drilled us mercilessly on etiquette and deportment, but neglected nearly every other aspect of our educations. Were it not for Professor Xavier's remedial lessons, I would be as empty headed as most young women of my age and station. I came under the Professor's tutelage under tragic circumstances—as indeed, have all of us, in our individual ways."
Erik was making an effort to keep up his part of the conversation. I appreciated that; he was willing. "How so?" he inquired politely.
"My telepathy awoke the day my best friend died in my arms. I experienced her death as vividly as if it were my own. It had a traumatic effect on me; I was not well for a long time afterwards, until the Professor broke through the walls I had put around me." I thought that telling my own story would help Erik to relax, and it did seem to work.
"That's terrible." he said.
"Yes. It was." I fixed my own cup, and sat back.
Auroré took up the conversation. "Whereas I came to his attention when I picked his pocket," she reminisced. "It was on a crowded Cairo street. I was barely fourteen, and I had neither a family nor a home."
"Cairo!" Erik exclaimed. "Is it possible that I saw you there, many years ago? I traveled extensively, when I was younger. One day, in Cairo, I saw a religious procession for a cult transplanted from India. The central figure in that procession was a girl-child they called 'The Living Goddess'—she was being borne on an open litter, all hung about with flower garlands. The girl herself was dressed in the richest silks and brocades, and bedecked with jewels until she could not move for the weight of them all. Although I thought it was a silk wig, she had hair like yours, pure white and flowing."
"Yes, that was I." she replied. "The Living Goddess of the Temple of the Benevolent Rains—an irony. I could have brought them more rain than they ever prayed for, but not when I was their Goddess. They took me in when my parents were killed in an earthquake. I was only a few months old. That is where I get my fear of being enclosed, of being buried—for I was buried alive with them. The temple took me in, and declared me a goddess. I was cosseted and petted and cared for."
"I see. You were, and are, very beautiful—." he said
"Thank you."
"Forgive me, but at the time, I thought your situation was little better than that of a circus freak—only you were on exhibition for being freakishly beautiful." he finished.
"No, you are correct. It was for my beauty, and not for any spiritual reason, nor any other quality about me, except my youth. Do you know what happens to Living Goddesses—why they are always girl-children?" She emphasized the last word.
"No. I don't." Erik answered.
"When the Living Goddess reaches the age when she is no longer a child—when her blood answers the call of the moon every month—she is thrown out onto the streets. Thus it was with me. First I starved, then I stole—and then old Ahmed took me on as an apprentice thief. I was spared the degradation of a brothel for the same reason I had no prospect of marriage—the former Goddess is untouchable. She is too holy, and the gods will curse any man who defiles her. But I survived, and one day, my path and the Professor's crossed."
TBC….
A/N: The answer to the question I asked in my last update will become more and more significant as this story continues. I wanted to be sure people would know what I was getting at.
Yes, April 20, 1889 was (will be, for them) Hitler's birthday. In this AU, Evolved will be among the racial/ethnic/lifestyle groups targeted for extermination. The only one who is young enough to see it happen is Kitty, although she will be an old woman when it comes. This is important. Remember it; there may be another quiz later on.
Magneto, in the Marvel universe, is a Holocaust survivor. (as seen in the opening scenes of the first movie) Clearly Sir Erich cannot be, as it hasn't happened yet, but he is a survivor of another deadly Anti-Semitic outbreak, as we will learn in the next chapter of this fic.
And virtual chocolate mousse to the people who got the answers right: Rosie the cat, Lexi, SperryDee, Dramaswimer, and Anonymous!
Shouting out to Baby-Vixen—aww! Can I adopt you?
Hikari-no-tsubasa:--but did you finish the story? (looks at you with big puppy-dog eyes.)
Hello to Queen Ame—so what musical are you doing? Hope it's going well…
Lydiby: Oh! Oh! I love Mary Russell. I am Mary Russell! I was simultaneously happy and furious when I read the first one, because Laurie R. King had said absolutely everything I ever wanted to write about being a 17 year old female apprentice to Holmes. Furious, because I would never get to write my book, but happy because I got to read it. Go read the Irene Adler Books, you'll love them.
Pickledishkiller: Luv you too. I share my virtual chocolate mousse. It doesn't get any better than that.