Disclaimer: Don't own PotO. Two main characters are mine, and the plot.
Chapter III – The Storyteller's Labyrinth
The man jumped and spun around, and Isabella had to stifle a shriek. The right side of his face was completely deformed. His right eye was sunken, he was missing an eyebrow, and half his nose was mangled. The man regarded her with fear and suspicion, and she stared into his blue eyes. "Who are you?" she repeated, transfixed.
"What concern is that of yours?" he spat back, hastily covering his face with a hand.
She was startled by his anger. "Sir, I'm very sorry. Were you there because you needed to speak with the Vicomte?"
He was still glaring at her. "I want nothing more to do with that man." He seemed to relive memories, because his eyes became suddenly unfocused and he muttered, "If only… If only she had been mine, she would not have died at this age… She would have lived to surpass me, certainly…"
Isabella looked at him. His eyes were pools of grief and loss. He must be talking about Christine. But why would she have 'been his'? Maybe he's crazy and just admires her.
The old man snapped out of his reverie and looked around at her. "Don't you have something better to do than listen to an old man gripe about his lost love?" "No, monsieur," she said quietly. "But if you want to go on, I'll gladly listen."
He considered her for a moment. Isabella had never been so interested in anything except the legends of the Phantom. He told her about how Christine had come to the Opera House and he had taught her to sing. Isabella became excited listening to his tales, especially ones like the lead soprano becoming a toad, or his daring swordfight in the cemetery. He himself seemed to enjoy the fact that she also thought the toad story amusing.
Eventually the story reached a part where it was difficult for her to discern whether the man was making it all up or not. He was saying he'd taken Christine to his home and burned the Opera House to its current state. She looked into his eyes, to see if she could tell whether or not he was lying. He stared back. She gave up.
"Come with me," he said. Isabella followed him into the hole in the wall and, to her surprise, down a set of old stone steps.
"Please monsieur, forgive me for intruding, I shouldn't have followed you." It had grown dark, as they were heading underground, and she had lost sight of him.
"Do you have a place to stay for the night?" His voice reverberated off the walls ahead of her.
"No."
"Then keep walking."
"Sir, where does this lead?"
"This passage leads to many places. I daresay my home may not be the best in the world, but by the look of you, my dear, you would probably be comfortable anywhere."
Isabella blushed slightly; her ragged appearance was due to the fact that everything in her parents' home had been sold after they died. She had only the clothes on her back and it was then that she decided to see if she could make it in Paris. Remembering her family brought pain in her heart, so Isabella concentrated on following this man who, Isabella realized, had never told her his name.
Isabella's rational side began to kick in: What are you doing, following this strange man? You don't even know who he is! You don't know what he'll do to you once you get to his home!
Isabella came back to reality just in time to stop before crashing into her guide.
"Almost there," he said, and opened a door on their right.
This place is a labyrinth! I bet it goes under the entire city!
They walked in silence down a stone tunnel, with old wooden doors on either side.
"Sir, how many people live down here?" she asked, looking at all the doors and realizing that the entire tunnel was silent.
"Just two people, with one guest," he answered. "You'll meet the other resident when we arrive."
"Where do all these doors lead?" Curiosity was getting the better of her today, and his reply was the same as before: "Many places."
They had come to an old rotting ladder. He gestured for her to go first, saying, "Be careful on some of the rungs. This has been here for years, and water and termites have somewhat mangled it." She nodded and ascended into a room lit with only a few candles, which cast shadows across an enormous black piano in the corner.
The man appeared beside her, and he led her out of the room to another one, which was rather larger. There was a polished old wooden table, and red and black velvet curtains hanging from the walls. A young man around seventeen or eighteen was straightening a few of the old photographs on a wall not covered by red or black.
"Everything is as you wanted it to be arranged," he said, having heard them coming. He turned and stopped, seeing Isabella, and looked to the older man for an answer.
"Adrien, I found this young lady in the alley as I was coming home and she is staying with us for awhile," he said, smiling gently at her.
Adrien kissed her hand. "An honor, miss…" "Isabella," she said quickly. "I'm so sorry to intrude like this, but your father insisted I stay with you for the night."
An awkward silence fell. Then Adrien said, "Erik is not my father, but I can see why you would come to that conclusion, obviously." "Adrien's parents named me his godfather, but his mother was a singer at the Opera Populaire and they didn't want everyone to know they had a child. He was put in my charge and has been ever since," Erik said.