A note about the last chapter. I am fully well aware that in the Kay book, Christine's bathroom in Erik's house is made of pink marble. The reason I changed it :I hate pink marble. Erik would never stoop to something that distasteful. I'm sure that he would approve of my design. Okay, on with the show!
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The little girl sat on the floor, playing with a doll. It wore an exquisite dress patterned with violets and orchids, and ribbons in its thick, black hair. The girl was dressed more simply in a white cotton dress, her hair hanging free down her back. She was clean, but not well fed, and couldn't be older than ten. Rain pattered on the window and thunder growled in the distance.
She lightly caressed the doll's smiling, bisque face with a tragic tenderness unfitting for her age.
The door opened. The man standing in the door reached down and picked her up easily, and the doll dropped with a muffled thud to the carpet. The girl wimpered once in painful expectation, but was then silent.
As the two disappeared into the dark hallway, lightening brightened the well-furnished room, shining through the heavy bars on the window, revealing its true purpose: a prison.
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The room was sparse and white, and freezing cold. She lay on a bloodstained table in the middle of the room, trembling with cold, fear, pain and nausea. But her eyes showed nothing, only a dull misery and hatred of life. Fresh bandages covered her arms. The man was washing his hands at a stone sink in the corner. Presently, he turned toward the girl, and picked her up again as easily as before. She bowed her head in quiet submission, cradling her bandaged hands in her lap. A clap of thunder sounded, and though the man started, almost dropping his burden, the girl did not respond. She was too far-gone for that.
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Adrian shot out of bed, jarring her ribs painfully and nearly falling out. She had bitten her lip almost clean through, in an effort not to scream. She knew that house in her dream, knew it far too well. It was a wrong house, a house where young, delicate things were cut, became stone and then shattered. Another thing best forgotten that had escaped Isobel's mental wall. How long would it be before all the other things escaped as well, and pitched her into a hellish madness?
Suddenly, she became aware of music playing not too far away. It came from an instrument she had never heard before, and sounded almost like human voices, but echoing and…different. Almost haunting.
He was playing again, but she noted (with some disappointment) that he wasn't singing. Sitting back to enjoy it, she let the ethereal sounds cloak the house and make it disappear.
It felt good not to feel anything for once. Not the gnawing fear, not the chill in her bones, the ache in her chest. Those things were secondary. Numbness was sweet and wonderful. Nothing remained but her desire to listen.
Perhaps it was hours, or only minutes, but for Adrian, the music went on eternally, and pushed her beyond numbness into a state of non-being. She no longer existed as a real person, only as music. Flitting about the room, glittering and unsubstantial, or flowing like heavy smoke.
So deep was her numbness, her nonexistence, that when the music stopped, she felt almost startled.
The silence that followed was long and cold, and she felt as if she was sitting in the dark, though the candles still burned brightly. But then, she was already dark beneath her own skin.
A sudden clink of cutlery brought her back to the present. It came to her suddenly that she had not eaten lunch. It was dinnertime. A knock sounded at the door.
Refusing to look up, for fear that he would know how the music affected her, she murmured, "Come in".
Only the shadows playing across the bed let her know that he had come nearer. The tray made a slight clicking sound as it hit the bedside table.
He paused for but a moment, before moving away.
"Your music is beautiful."
Damn. Damndamndamndamndamn.
Adrian could have slapped herself. Hard. The words had just slipped out involuntarily. She hadn't meant to say anything at all. It always angered her most when the one thing she should have had control of, herself, did things she hadn't told it to.
Instinct made her looked up.
Why had she never noticed his high, prominent cheekbones hollowed by shadow, the thick, dark sheen of his hair? Maybe it was because he had never been so lit up like this. His pale skin almost radiated light. Perhaps his music was not only good for her, but for himself.
His head was tilted to the side, his eyebrow cocked as he scrutinized her. The corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly, as if he was considering a smile. But, he seemed to decide against it, and only nodded in recognition before turning on his heel and walking away.
Adrian buried her face in her hands. She had been away from Isobel for almost a month, and yet she was still under her power. The rules stuck with her, even though Isobel was not there to enforce them. He had probably liked her compliment; it had not been out of place. But for all that, it was bad. She had broken the rules she despised so much. Adrian felt very sick, her feelings of emptiness and self-hatred clashing together in her head.
She was sick, in more ways than one. Sick in mind, sick in body, sick in soul. Her dreams came roaring back now, accompanied by voices.
They clashed and swirled in a torrent of memory, and she did not realize that she was shaking until she had woken up from the confused haze. Clutching her arms to her sides, she eased back into the pillows, silently wishing for something she could not see, something that had been granted to everyone but her.
She had no idea that her host could see her shivering from the slightly opened door, and somehow understood.
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Erik turned away from the door, walking slowly down the hall, deep in thought.
He wanted to comfort her, but hadn't the first idea how. Christine had never talked to him about the sadder aspects of her life, so he had no practice. What person would come to him with their personal problems anyway? Brains were no substitue for basic human kindness, and while he was more than well aquainted with the former, he had no idea how to express the latter in a way suitable for his guest. Yet another problem to add to his generous supply.
The books had been a real step. She obviously liked reading, and seemed to enjoy someone reading to her. He had to wonder how she felt about his hasty departure. He had forgotten about that part of the book, and when he had found himself approaching it, he had thought he could handle it.
Wrong.
When he had stormed out, his brain had subconsciously attached those feelings of bitter anger to her, and he had found it impossible to go back to her a reasonable man. Actually, he had pretty much punished her by skipping her lunch. After he had some time for reflection, he had sobered down a bit, and began to play his organ, a sort of atonement for his rash behavior. As he calmed down even more, so did the music, until he was playing a gentle aria.
When he had gone back to her to serve dinner, her complement almost startled him into smiling. He blamed his carelessness on the after effects of the music.
He had left before the danger of becoming human presented itself. If she was going to be a machine, there was no way he would become anything else. In his personal dealings with her, he tried to keep a serves you right mentality, if only to maintain his sanity. It was quite difficult to think one thing and act upon another.
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For once, the rain had slowed a bit. Only a sluggish drip sounded through the streets. Madame Bufont sighed. Oscar could go out and play today, but she would have to enlist the help of his nurse to keep him in the garden. He could not hope to venture outside the confines of the house and not be hurt. He was so precious to her…
The door unlocked easily. Bertrand must have oiled it, she thought. It was very useful to have her big friend living in the rooms upstairs. He was always ready and willing to do an odd job or watch Oscar for her. Had they been younger, they might have married, but Manon held to the rather old-fashioned idea that a girl should marry when she is young. At fifty, she did not consider herself young, and so M. Wagner and she would remain friends. Normally, she would have asked him to take care of Oscar while she went on a few errands and forfeited the cost of the nurse. But today, he was out on an errand of his own: checking the hospitals for signs of Adrian Cartier.
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Bertrand Wagner turned his face up to the sky. Now he could continue his errand in relative dryness. Taking out his list, he crossed off the hospital he had just visited. Out of those he had already checked, none seemed to have ever housed a petite blond with unusual eyes. He had at least two more large hospitals to go, and about twenty private practices. While he had to agree that Manon's theory that the diva had killed Frauline Cartier was very possible, he was a man who did not make assumptions before all the possibilities had been eliminated. Yesterday, he had questioned his entire staff, along with several dancers, chorus men and women and the manager, M. Andre. Today, he was checking medical practices. Tomorrow…well, tomorrow was tomorrow, and he had all of that day to think of his next steps. Smiling good-naturedly at a few children gawking at his gigantic proportions, he opened the doors of (yet another) hospital.
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Adrian awoke with an odd feeling that some empty recess in her core had been temporarily filled. He had started playing again quite some time after he had left the room. She could not remember falling asleep, only the warm, happy lullaby that had taken her there. Also, she had had no nightmares, just a feeling of security. Funny, how music could do that to you.
Suddenly remembering the book the man had not finished reading, she picked the heavy tome up, found where they had left off, and went back to reading. After his initial reading of Victor Hugo's great work, the rest was easier to understand. Now that she had the characters' backgrounds, she was more able to follow the story line. Jean Val Jean, the central character, was a man running from his past and trying to do his best for his beloved adopted daughter Cosette. Cosette, a naïve girl, had fallen deeply in love with the handsome Marius, a student caught up in an ill-fated revolution who returned Cosette's feelings. Eponine also loved Marius with a deep devotion, and gave her life for him, though he only ever saw her as a friend. Javier, a member of the police, pursued Jean Val Jean with single-minded ferocity, seeking only to do what he had always thought to be right: capture Val Jean, a former criminal.
It was at Eponine's death that he host had stopped. Had he been angry, or sad? His emotions had not been directed at the characters themselves, but at something written between the lines. Something that had happened to him, some tragic memory had forced him to leave the room before he had lost control of himself.
Eponine had little chance of ever capturing Marius's heart. She was much younger than he, and a street rat born into a squalid world to parents whose moral standards were far below the norm. Cosette was a bright, virtuous girl of his age from the upper class. Eponine loved him anyway, loved him so that she took a bullet to be near him as he fought a doomed revolution over the barricades with his friends against the government.
Was the man, in a strange way, akin to Eponine? Had he loved and lost to someone considered his better? Perhaps that was why he lived alone, in a house without windows. The outside world often reminds the bitter of their suffering. It is better to shut themselves away than relive that pain.
Unless he was hiding something horrendous underneath that white mask, she could not imagine him being forsaken for another man. Even in those few days she had known him, she had learned that he was intelligent, courteous, and artistic.
The other man might have been considered more handsome. He might have sported Sir Charles's conventional good looks, rather than her host's dark mystique. Now that she thought about it, those smoldering green eyes framed by dark lashes, that pale, angular, elegant face, that thick black hair, the catlike way he moved; wouldn't those things capture any girl's heart?
Never mine. What heart have I to capture?
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Tomorrow would be the last day. By tomorrow, she would be strong enough to live on her own. He would have to let her go back.
Damn you Mlle. Daae, for this damned conscience that makes me do damned good things like let the damned woman go back to the damned world above.
Combing his hair back carefully and smoothing his black leather gloves, Erik carefully assessed his appearance in his mirror. Perfect, as usual. He always took special care to make his dress as impeccable as possible. It was almost a way to make up for what he hid beneath the mask. Besides, he was a perfectionist in everything he did, whether it was the sound of a bar of music or the positioning of a cravat.
Going to his workroom, he picked up Adrian's gloves that he had made her in September. He would dose her food with laudanum to deepen her sleep. Before the next morning's light, he would have taken her back to her room. It would be better that way. Somehow he suspected that if she knew he lived below the Opera Populaire, her distrust of him would only deepen. This way, she would not know exactly where he was. Some American had said, "Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead." Despite his desire to gain her trust, he was deeply anchored in his habits of caution, and felt safer when he alone knew where her was. But, just to make sure that she would not think those days in the dark were only a dream, he would leave the gift with her, along with a note. He would have to figure out how to continue seeing her at a later date. For now, he had only to tell her that the next was her last day.
I wonder how she'll react.
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Nothing! Bertrand's search had turned up nothing! Not a single medical practice had seen Adrian Cartier at all. Monsieur Andre had been unhelpful in their search for where she lived. He only knew her name and who was employing her. According to him, she did not have a room in the Opera House, and so, she was not his concern. Not a single staff member could attest to having seen her around, no cafés had served her. She had disappeared off the face of the Earth.
In her eyes, the most solid proof that Mll. DeFleurette was the cause of Adrian's disappearance was the diva's nervous behavior when she was questioned about it. She started every time the name Cartier was mentioned, got flustered and answered snappishly. Her beaux didn't seem to know that anything was amiss. He only continued to throw wild parties in his mistress's suite, insult the elderly stagehands and steal silk flowers from the prop department. Occasionally, he would look surprised that the maid was no longer there, but other than that, he only continued to be a general nuisance. As usual.
The skies opened up again. Hoping that the nurse would have enough sense in her head to take the boy back inside, Manon hurried toward her small house. She had always had trouble trusting that nurse.
The garden was empty, but for the withered stalks of plants long taken by autumn's bite. Breathing a sigh of relief, she ascended the stairs to her door. Sudden noises from inside made her hurry in, and what she saw pitched her into a boiling rage.
"SHUT UP! NOW!" The young woman shook him by the collar. Hard. Much too hard.
"Angelica, what is the meaning of this?"
The girl looked up, flustered, but still resolved. "Madame, he has to learn some kind of obedience to me, or he'll always be this way…"
Snatching her sniffling grandson from Angelica's clutches, Manon hushed the child, holding him close. No one should ever shake a boy in his condition! She had no right to hurt him, no right to talk to him that way, and especially no right to talk about him like that.
"I'm sorry Madame, it won't happen again."
Manon nodded, kissing Oscar's forehead gently. Angelica was right, it would not happen again. And if it did…well, pity the offender.
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She had taken it as he had thought she would: no emotion. She had thanked him of course, and with utmost politeness, but nothing else. If she was faking, she was an excellent actress.
Erik opened the door to his room, closing it carefully behind him. He would have a long day ahead of him tomorrow, and needed sleep. Even the black lacquered coffin looked semi-inviting.
Lying down and shutting the lid over him, he mulled over the last three days. Saving her from certain death and nursing her back to health had created a bond between them, that was certain. She was indebted to him, and she probably knew it. He wasn't about to use this in an extortionist manner, demanding something from her in repayment for his services. However, a feeling of be indebted might speed their friendship and make her closer to him in time. Nothing he planned would be easy to accomplish. He knew that. It would all take a long while and much effort on his part. Her protective shell would not be easily cracked. It was much too thick.
But he would be a damned fool if he did not try.
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Adrian tried to sleep, but found it impossible. Her eminent departure weighed on her mind and kept her from slumber. He had told her that she would be back in her room before the day after tomorrow, and she believed him.
She wasn't exactly sure how she felt about it. She had thanked him politely, emotionless as always, and he had copied her to the letter. One thought kept resurfacing though she strained to silence it. Will he miss me? His heroic rescue of her and willingness to help her recover had bonded her to him. His magic, his music, everything about him had become almost familiar. Another question surfaced. Will I miss him?
Turning on her side (her ribs no longer hurt so much), she closed her eyes tightly, willing herself to become the woman Isobel had been turning her into: a stone statue, perfectly numb. Numbness kept you from missing those things you could not have. Did a statue ever wish to come to life? No. It was content to stay frozen in its place, for it had no heart with which to wish. And she had no heart either, if she willed it to stay frozen.
Adrian had come to think of the room she now lay in as her room, the bad as her bed. She did not want to leave.
But she had to. How was she to ask a total stranger to house her for longer than he had? Besides, if Isobel found her there, the price would be his head. More than anything, she did not want that.
The solution was simple in concept, but would not be simple to carry out. She could never think of him again. Ever. She would have to forget him for good, forget the dark house, filled with beautiful music. Those things would just be pushed into the darkness with all the others. Remembered happiness was only another door to sadness.
If she had been another woman, Adrian Cartier would have cried.
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GASP! I UPDATED IN LESS THAN A MONTH! PANIC! Oh, by the way, when Erik quotes " some American " it's Ben Franklin. Cheers!
