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Her room smelled of roses.
A young errand boy staggered under the weight of her most recent gift, a cut-glass vase full of long-stemmed pink blooms, placing it with care where she directed. She had received a good many bouquets since her debut, so many that sleeping was almost impossible with the sweetness in the air. Each of them was accompanied with a note – sometimes it was merely polite well-wishes, sometimes a hint at something more. The former she kept, the latter she burnt. Selling her body for profit, becoming a kept woman as a few of the ballerinas did, was something she had no interest in doing.
"Thank you," she called after the boy as he scurried from her room, his chore finished.
That evening's performance – the one on stage, and the one for the benefit of the patrons, that dance of socializing – was finished, and there would be no Opera for the next two days. It was a small break for the company, allowing singers to rest their throats and dancers their weary limbs. Silvia was glad of the reprieve; although she enjoyed playing the part of Marguerite, she was not so enamored of the role of diva which had been thrust upon her by the managers. The public expected another Carlotta, a tempestuous woman who favored some with kisses and some with taunts, easily flattered and even more easily fooled. Silvia was quiet, demure, proper. More like a well-born lady than a quintessential diva.
Except that well-born ladies do not creep into the cellars of the Opera in the darkest hours of the night, Silvia thought wryly, as she removed the sparkling red dress and replaced it with something sturdier. A linen gown in ivory tied with a simple sash was much more fitting for the journey she was about to make. Not ideal, but as best she could do in the circumstances.
As she dressed, she wondered again if she was wise to risk his wrath. She had come away with bruises after her last misstep. But she had sensed a change after that, as if what he had done had horrified him. He had been gentler the night of the music lesson. But was a single night enough to overrule her other memories of him? What was it that drove her into the cellars tonight? What inspired her to make such a journey, nevermind the danger?
His voice, his music, she answered herself truthfully. He, through it, had touched her. The music still bound her to him as it had the night of the lesson – not as strongly, but the bond was, unmistakably, there.
She skimmed her slender fingers over the wall in which she knew the door was set, unsure of where the latch was precisely. A few minutes of searching revealed the small catch to her, and she nudged it into place. The door slid open on the dark passageway, the dankness of the lake evident in the woosh of air that stirred into the room. Retrieving the lantern she had had the foresight to acquire, Silvia glanced one final time at her room before stepping through into the Phantom's domain.
The latch of the door was more obvious on the other side, and she flipped it so that her wall mended itself. She had no expectations that anyone would come looking for her so late in the evening, and if someone did, they would undoubtedly assume she was being entertained by – or entertaining – one of the Opera patrons.
The air was chill in the tunnel, having nothing to warm itself with except for cold stone and colder water. Tiny droplets of moisture gathered on the ceiling, falling to the floor in tiny splats when they had amassed enough moisture. Besides their rain-like patter, all was silent. Even the rats moved stealthily, as if they did not dare disrupt the ominous quiet.
Silvia shivered, regretting that she had not thought to bring a cloak. The walk had not seemed so long when she had been in Erik's company. Now it stretched interminably. Her lantern lighted only the smallest circumference, revealing naught but more grey stone and the endless pathway. Although she expected at any moment for the tunnel to widen into the vast hall of the lake, it did not.
Lifting the hand that did not hold the lantern she rubbed her arm briskly, trying to warm her skin. She could feel the tiny bits of gravel and the coldness of the stone floor beneath her feet. Surely the lake was just a few steps further? Was that water murmuring against the bank she heard, or only her mind trying to reassure her? Silvia could not recall any turns they had taken on the way down. She refused to entertain the notion that she might be lost.
The passage opened suddenly – finally – into the vaulted cavern that she recognized from before. A dim light filtered through the vast area, rendering her lantern unnecessary. Across the expanse of water – the form of his house.
She realized in a sudden panic that she had not given any thought to crossing the lake. Swimming in the water frightened her; she could not see into its depths. And there were no pathways to his home that she was aware of.
However, luck was with her. A short investigation revealed the Phantom's boat moored to the shore on which she stood. It was curious that it should be on this side of the water but Silvia did not question her good fortune. Comfortable in her solitude she lifted her skirts above her knees and draped them over an arm, out of the way of her feet and the frigid water. She had no strong arms to catch her should she fall this time.
When she had gained the boat she let fall her skirts and took up the pole. It was quickly evident that it took a subtle skill to maneuver a heavy boat across deep water. Tiny beads of perspiration dotted her brow by the time she came to the far shore, and her arms ached from the effort.
The entrance to his house was a heavy door of carved rosewood, with hinges of gold. She knocked against the door forcefully, striving to be heard through the thick wood. Silence.
She rapped against the door a second time. Still no answer. The Phantom, it seemed, was away from home.
The lack of a cloak was taking its toll on her bare skin. She was shivering now, unable to stop her teeth from clattering or her limbs from shaking. Her arms were not up to the task of returning the boat to the opposite shore. Remembering that Erik did not often make trips into the streets of Paris, Silvia concluded that the best course of action was to remain where she was. Surely he would return soon.
She had little choice, anyway. Better to be stuck here than in the middle of the black lake when the muscles in her arms refused to do any more work.
Sitting down before the ornate door, Silvia folded her arms against her chest and drew her knees up, trying to preserve what little body heat she had left. Certainly she would catch a chill after this ordeal; she could already feel the damp stealing into her throat and lungs.
Many minutes passed in stillness. Only the chattering of her teeth disturbed the quiet. The coldness of the stone was seeping into her skirts, and her eyes were growing heavy. Even though she could not see the stars she knew the hour was late.
"Erik, come home soon," she whispered her plea to no one. Leaning against the door, she allowed her eyes to fall shut.
The labyrinth was secure again. Rusted traps had been oiled and mended, broken blockades had been rebuilt, locks had been fitted on those gates that lacked them. Erik's day had been spent in securing his stronghold, a task that had fallen by the wayside in the intermediary time after Christine's departure.
He exited one of the many tunnels that led up to the Opera's main floors, content that no one would find his home by that route. Not that any tried to find him – not after those weeks of pillaging his home, thieving the baubles that seemed valuable and destroying those things that had true value to him: his music, his organ. It seemed the world above had forgotten him, or assumed he was dead or gone. He had not resumed his notes to the managers of the Opera, and undoubtedly they were relieved to be rid of his presence.
The shore clove into view before him, silent and…empty. His boat was not where he had beached it, nor the pole where he had lain it. Who had gotten through his many measures to prevent trespassers? He recognized the irony in the situation, that someone had broken through his defenses on the very day he had decided to attend to them again.
With a severe frown he sought out one of the alternate paths to his house. He could only pray that he caught his trespasser before they caused too much damage.
Erik entered his home through the rear door, sweeping through the rooms quietly. All was calm. There was no sign of anything, human or otherwise, but the mystery of his boat remained unsolved. Coming to his front door, he unlatched the lock and opened it.
At his feet lay the thief he had been seeking. She was nearly blue with cold, her skin so pale it contrasted even with the ivory of her dress. She lay on her side, huddled in on herself in an effort to keep warm.
Cursing, Erik hurriedly bent and lifted her off of the ground, nudging the door shut behind him. Muttering under his breath at the stubborness of his newest student, he carried her quickly to the bedroom that had once housed Christine and laid her on the bed. Quilt after quilt he tucked around her, and even in spite of the many layers that covered her he built up the fire for further warmth.
"She would ravage her throat with a cold, would she?" He growled, angry at her for the abuse of her voice. And for intruding where she was most assuredly not wanted.
Settling on the edge of the bed, he took her small hand in his own and chaffed it, trying to infuse warmth into the cold fingers. She seemed so fragile. Like Christine, and not. His eyes shifted to the fire and, seeing that it burned steadily, he returned her hand to her side and left to warm some tea.
He could not abide this new strain on his emotions. He knew he was not of the world, did not belong to it, and that nothing of the world could belong to him. And he could be satisfied with that so long as he kept himself apart. Would have to be satisfied with that. Christine had demonstrated to him what the consequences would be, otherwise.
The tea service clattered when he set it on the table beside the swan bed and Silvia stirred slightly. Erik retrieved a mahogany chair from the sitting area and placed it at the bedside, making himself comfortable. Taking her hand within his again, he warmed the cold fingers as best he could.
…………………………………………………..
Silvia woke from dreams of cold, wintry wastelands and brittle trees bent in the wind. She opened weary eyes, almost afraid she would see the dead landscape of snow before her, so vivid had the dreams been. But instead a small room, cozy and warm from the crackling fire, filled her vision. She was buried under a mound of quilts, and beneath her head lay a pillow. For a lingering moment she trolled her mind for an idea of where she could be. Then she recalled her expedition of the evening before, to find Erik and beg him to teach her again.
At the thought of the Phantom, she cast her gaze towards the doorway. And stopped short, when she saw he was sitting at her side, dozing in what must have been an extremely uncomfortable chair.
It was almost enough to merit a giggle – almost. But instead of waking him with laughter she leaned over and caught his hand in hers, pressing her fingers to his in thanks. Were it not for him, she would be a statue of ice and marble on his doorstep by now.
Her touch woke him. He opened his eyes and pinned her with his gaze, his jaw clenched. Silvia frowned.
"What are you doing here? Perhaps my note was not clear?" He asked, his voice leaning towards harshness. "You have trespassed on my property and exposed your voice to the brutality of a cold. I am not entirely sure which crime is worse."
He was angry with her! Silvia stared, open-mouthed, laborously gathering her thoughts to respond. "Erik–" she began, her voice a mere croak.
"Nevermind. Take some tea," he flicked a gesture towards the tea service, "and make yourself presentable. I will escort you back to the upper floors."
"But–" she tried again.
"The sooner the better," he continued, over her, concluding his sentence with the slam of the room's door behind him.