Chapter Fifteen

Mr. Khan stopped in the middle of the road to reach into his pocket and withdraw a handkerchief that appeared to have been white at one point. Wiping his brow with it, he exhaled, peering down the long stretch of road before him wearily. "You make this trek often?"

"Oh, yes," Isabel said, lifting her skirts over a pile of horse droppings. "Every few days, at least." She set her mouth in an annoyed line. "Mr. Bertrand seems to take a perverse pleasure in requesting I venture into the village. His joy is increased considerably when Thomas accompanies me." She glanced over her shoulder at the boy, trudging slowly several yards behind her." Come along, darling. It's not far now."

"I'm tired."

"I'm sure you are, dear. You're doing very well."

"Very well indeed," Mr. Khan agreed.

They walked on in silence for several minutes, their footfalls padding along the dirt road quietly.

"Mr. Khan," Isabel said suddenly, gathering her nerve, "I am not normally one to pry, but... if I may be so bold as to inquire..." she cleared her throat, considering her words. Mr. Khan glanced at her curiously.

"Yes?"

"I know so little of Mr. Bertrand, sir, and you have known him a great many years... I was wondering if, perhaps, you could enlighten me." She stopped and turned to the Persian, facing him fully. "I would like very much to know more about him."

Mr. Khan's face fell sadly. "Oh, Mrs. Bauer," he said, folding his hands in front of him. "If only you knew what you were asking."

A bolt of dread shot through Isabel. "What do you mean?"

Mr. Khan shook his head. "Mrs. Bauer, you must understand. Erik's life has been difficult, as I am sure you can imagine." He held a hand up to his face and touched his right cheek, giving her a knowing look.

She swallowed hard and looked away. "Yes, the mask. Of course, I realize his is not a happy story, but perhaps if I knew something of his--"

"What's under it?"

Isabel and Mr. Khan whirled around simultaneously. Thomas stood behind them, blinking innocently.

"What?" The Persian asked, his tone wary.

"Mr. Bertrand's mask," Thomas said, kicking his foot against the ground. "What's behind it?"

"Thomas!" Isabel scolded. "That is none of your concern!"

"Your mother is right," Mr. Khan said, looking down at the boy. "And you would do well never to mention his mask to him, do you understand?"

"How come?" Thomas's forehead furrowed.

"Because it would be rude," Isabel snapped, feeling an irrational rage swell inside her. "Stay clear of him, Thomas, for God's sake."

Both Mr. Khan and Thomas stared at Isabel.

She sighed in exasperation. "Darling, please."

"Mr. Bertrand's mask is a source of great pain for him," Mr. Khan said to Thomas gently. "Bringing the subject up would only cause him grief."

"Oh," the boy said, dropping his gaze to the ground.

Isabel turned on her heel and strode on, her heart thumping. In her mind's eye, he was still there in the rain, exposed and vulnerable, and she was still watching him, concealed and guilty as sin. Her own cowardice infuriated her, even as she felt waves of relief at being spared the undoubtedly ghastly sight of whatever lay behind that porcelain. She had been too frightened by the idea of intrusion and invasion and guilt to look upon him. She had been too frightened.

She cursed herself, tugging at her skirt peevishly.

Mr. Khan sped up his pace and neared Isabel, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Tell me, Mrs. Bauer, how does Erik treat your son?"

Isabel looked at the Persian in surprise. "Treat him?"

"Yes. How does he interact with him?"

Isabel searched the man's dark eyes for a moment, a questioning look on her face. "He... well, he doesn't interact with him very much at all, really. But if they met more often, I have the feeling they wouldn't get along terribly well."

"No?" Mr. Khan looked pensive, his face tilted towards the sky. "Why do you think that is?"

Puzzled, Isabel shrugged. "Thomas can be somewhat trying, like most children of his age. Mr. Bertrand does not strike me as someone who would be taken with children, I suppose."

A ghost of a smile crossed the Persian's face. "Ah. Your first lesson about Erik, Mrs. Bauer: he is hardly ever what he seems."

Isabel sighed. "Really, Mr. Khan-"

"Nadir, please. It has been so long since anyone referred to me by my first name, I can hardly remember it."

"Nadir," she resumed, testing the name on her tongue, "Mr. Bertrand does not seem like anything. He is sarcastic and threatening and mysterious, but those are not what make a person." She struggled with her satchel, pulling it up her shoulder. "Often, after I speak to him, I am not sure whether the conversation was a dream or a reality." She knew she was becoming upset; dwelling had always made her so. But she finally found herself able to articulate her feelings on the subject of Erik Bertrand, and she took the opportunity gladly.

"His words are always... pointedly chosen, as far as I can tell. He seems to have the distinct talent of knowing how to make the most impact with the least amount of speaking. It's unnerving, at times. And sometimes, I swear, he tries to frighten me. I hate myself for it, but he makes me feel small... breakable, even, when he towers over me, snapping at whatever has irked him at the moment. And he is everywhere. I simply cannot be in the house without feeling his eyes upon me." She stopped on the road and held her hand to her mouth, suddenly embarrassed. "Do excuse me, sir. I do not know when to stop."

Mr. Khan - Nadir - chortled. "Greater vices are to be had, Mrs. Bauer."

"Isabel."

"Isabel."

"Still, I apologize. He is a friend of yours, and I have no right to speak ill of him."

The Persian laughed. "Believe me, madam, I have said much worse of him than you have spoken today. I am sure he has used his presence to intimidate you; it is a habit of his. As for his constant watching... yes. He does like to see all, and he can observe without being noticed. He is very adept at it. His stealth has aided him in his very survival. That is part of what he is, Isabel: a dangerous shadow, always lurking just out of your reach."

Somehow, Isabel was not comforted by the revelation.


Thomas collapsed onto the sofa in the parlor, releasing a long-suffering sigh.

"Exhausted, darling?" Isabel asked, amused.

He grumbled in reply.

Placing her hands on her hips, Isabel surveyed the newly cleaned room and beamed. "It's passable, Tom. It really is. Can't do anything about those awful chairs, of course, but as it is, it will do." She tapped her lip thoughtfully. "Though this peach color really doesn't suit it very well... perhaps a nice blue would do. A light blue… sky-color. What do you think?"

She glanced at the child and smiled: he had curled into a ball on the sofa and was snoring softly, his hands folded and tucked under his head.

"Poor dear," she murmured, moving out of the room quietly. Pulling the door shut, she turned in the hallway and found herself at eye-level with a perfectly-folded black cravat tied around an impossibly pale throat.

Her hand flew to her stomach and she let out a shrill cry in her surprise.

"Really, Mrs. Bauer, your startled screeching rivals a banshee's wails."

Isabel shut her eyes and grabbed the doorknob behind her, steadying herself.

"Must you always slither around so quietly?" she seethed.

Mr. Bertrand's expression remained neutral. "You went to the village this morning?"

She nodded, staring down the hall over his shoulder.

"And Mr. Khan accompanied you?"

"Yes." She lifted her head, her hand still absently playing with the doorknob. "He is a kind man."

"He has been described as such," Mr. Bertrand said airily, pulling at the collar of his shirt. He wore a dark burgundy waistcoat today, the white lawn shirt beneath it sticking to his skin. She noticed a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, a single drop of moisture crawling down the side of his face. She shifted her gaze to his dark eyes and realized that he was watching her silently.

She crossed her arms. "Mr. Bertrand, I would like to sincerely apologize for my… prying. It was insolent and uncouth. I merely…" she stopped herself, setting her mouth in a firm line. "Anyway, I apologize. And I thank you for going back on your decision to release me from employment."

Mr. Bertrand stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "I do not go back on my decisions, Mrs. Bauer. I am giving you a second chance to prove yourself worthy of the position due to... a lack of wisdom on my part, I am sure." He relaxed his shoulders, raising a hand and running his fingers through his slicked hair. "You owe Mr. Khan a great deal… for whatever reason, he seems to have taken a liking to you, and this is a large part of why I have chosen to… why I have decided to allow you to remain."

"Then he has my gratitude."

"He deserves it. A kind man…" he trailed off, those blue-green eyes fixed on the door behind her, a long, thin finger pressed to his chin thoughtfully. He snapped his gaze back to her and his face darkened. "I am sure I do not need to tell you what habits of yours must change, Mrs. Bauer. They must be obvious by now."

"Yes, sir."

He paused, staring at her. Suddenly feeling self-conscious in the silence, she cast her eyes down and smoothed her skirt. "Did you take care of the business you went to attend to this morning, Mr. Bertrand?"

"Yes. It is next to the stable."

Casting her one more long glance, he turned and stalked off down the hall. He turned to the stairway and climbed it, his footsteps thudding above her head.

Curious, she walked down the hallway and into the kitchen, crossing to the window and peering out.

A small carriage sat beside the stable: a black, four-wheeled buggy that looked untouched.


The bed gave a loud groan as Erik shifted on it again, lifting himself to rest against the headboard. It was storming out, an encore of the previous night. Thunder cracked, lightning struck. The heat was unbearable. He reached over the bed and picked up the book he had randomly selected from the library, a collection of Shakespearean sonnets.

Poetry. Bloody poetry will haunt me forever. He really must stay away from that particular section of the library.

He flipped the book open, thumbing through it.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes

For they in thee a thousand errors note...

He snapped the book shut and flung it across the room.

Bloody pretentious bastard.

"If music be the food of love, play on," he recited drearily to empty room. The candle beside his bed flickered and he turned to stare at it, the bright flame dancing before him. He sneered at its unforgiving light, the flame bending and swaying with each breath he took. Its delicate flexibility.

The house was silent. Isabel and her son had retired as soon as dinner had been served. Nadir said there were many books that caught his interest in the library and had spent the remainder of the evening absorbed in a novel of some sort.

Erik still felt a surprised bolt run through him whenever he heard the Persian's voice. The very sound of it, the sight of Nadir's face, never failed to remind him of the years spent serving the shah… the intense, dry heat of the air, the villainies he had been forced to commit… the relief he had felt when he had discovered the joys of morphine.

His eyes flicked to his arm, studying the scars by the inside of his elbow… all healed over now, puckers of dark, twisted flesh amid the ivory-white skin. He ran a finger along the ragged skin, ironically amused at the idea of purposefully damaging flesh that had been perfect. Morphine had always helped him sleep through the scorching heat, the nightmares, the screaming in the streets as another treasonous rebel was executed… perhaps Nadir had brought some…

He shook his head at himself. The daroga had always hated Erik's dependence on the drug. He was not likely to be willing to aid him in renewing the habit, no matter how much Erik griped.

Still stroking the scars gently, he slipped from the bed and walked to where the thrown book lay. Bending over, he picked it up and opened it once more, turning the worn pages carefully.

How can I then return in happy plight,

That am debarred the benefit of rest?

When day's oppression is not eas'd by night,

But day by night and night by day oppress'd,

And each, though enemies to either's reign,

Do in consent shake hands to torture me,

The one by toil, the other to complain

How far I toil, still farther off from thee.

I tell the day, to please him thou art bright,

And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:

So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,

When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.

But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,

And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger.

Standing in the middle of the dark room, he glanced out the window at the bright flash of lightning streaking across the night sky.

A loud rap at the door snapped his attention away from the illuminating storm. He strode across the room and yanked the door open. He stared for a moment, then let a scowl take his features.

"Mrs. Bauer," he said coldly, eyeing the woman before him, "I expect you to have a very good reason for standing at my door at this hour of the night."

Isabel's arms were folded across her stomach, her nightshift damp and clinging to her form. A gray shawl was pulled around her shoulders and her hair was down, falling around her face in messy strands. Gripping the doorknob tightly, he leaned closer, raising an eyebrow. "Well?"

"The horse, sir," she said in a low voice. She was shaking, her face etched with discomfort. The nightshift clung to her leg tightly and he saw a long strip of thigh showing through the wet material. Raising his eyes back to hers quickly, he took a step back.

"The horse?"

"It escaped. It's running around the orchard, half-scared to death. I tried to lead it back into the stable, but..." she trailed off, shrugging. Pulling the shawl tighter around herself, she shuddered deeply, goosebumps crawling up her arms.

He looked at her disbelievingly. "How can you possibly be cold?"

She stared. "Excuse me?"

Erik passed her silently, rolling his sleeves up and thumping down the stairs. "Which horse is it, Mrs. Bauer?"

"I don't know," she said, following behind him closely.

"You don't know?"

"You gave them ridiculous names that are impossible to remember," she said shortly. "It's the dapple one."

"Loki, Mrs. Bauer. His name is Loki."

"Loki, then. I spent almost twenty minutes trying to round him up, but he simply flees whenever he saw me."

Entering the kitchen, Erik walked to the door and swung it open as a loud clap of thunder exploded overhead.

"There is no need for you to be here, Mrs. Bauer," he called over his shoulder, wincing as the rain struck his skin.

"You may need me, sir," she said stubbornly, and he paused in the storm, turning to look at her. Her arms were crossed over her chest, the shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her nightshift was still touching her skin, damply wrapping itself around her legs in a messy tangle. Her eyes were narrowed with a hint of annoyance and her mouth... her mouth was pursued, set in lines of determination, something he had never seen on the lips of that mouth's twin. Christine had only looked at him defiantly once: after the kiss, after she had made her decision. After she felt she had finally proven herself more than a child.

He snapped his eyes away from her and walked further into the yard. "As you wish."

Approaching the orchard, he slowed his pace, searching for sudden movement among the trees. The wind whipped through the branches and he ducked to avoid being hit by a flailing tree limb, muttering a curse to himself. He heard Isabel near him, her soft footsteps moving slowly.

"Sir, I really do think we should dress more appropriately for this particular—"

"Stay back," he hissed.

She stopped.

A flash of lightning streaked the sky and in the moment of light, he saw the dapple gelding near him, trembling behind a tree. Thunder roared overhead and the gelding fled, kicking its rear legs up violently in its panic.

"Be still!" Erik barked, ignoring Isabel's snort of amusement behind him. The horse stopped in its frightened run and stood, shaking, staring at Erik with its large, scared eyes.

An old Russian lullaby sprang to Erik's mind, a soothing tune he used to sing to Reza on the nights when the child's pain prevented sleep.

"Bai, bai, bai, bai," he sang softly. "Báyu, Detusku mayú..." He stood beside the horse and gently ran a hand along its neck. "Shta na górki, na goryé, o visyénnei, o poryé..."

Loki took a step towards Erik, nuzzling the hand stroking his nose.

They walked back slowly, Erik's voice ringing through the storm, calming the animal. The horse followed him closely, trotting contently, and Isabel watched the entire procedure with one brow arched.

"The door, Mrs. Bauer," Erik said softly.

Isabel didn't move.

"Mrs. Bauer!"

She stood by the stable, gazing at him with a look of comprehension on her face, as if a great mystery had been revealed and the answer laid before her.

He stroked the horse's neck once more and slid the stable door open himself, grunting irritably. Ushering the gelding in gently, he turned to face Isabel, who was now holding herself tightly and shivering.

"What is it?" he snapped.

She stared at him for a moment, streams of water running down her dark hair and dripping onto her nightshift, now soaking and stuck to her skin.

"Your voice," she said, suddenly looking shy.

She strode past him into the stable and bent, clumsily gathering some loose hay and throwing it into Loki's pen. She turned and wiped her hands on her nightshift, dark marks streaking across the white material.

"I'll return to bed, sir." She looked embarrassed and awkward, slipping the shawl down to cover as much of her wet shift as possible. She glanced towards the door anxiously, edging towards it, pulling the shift away from her legs and shaking it slightly in a desperate attempt to dry it.

"What of it?" he asked, wiping his wet brow with the back of his hand. The air was mercifully cool in the stable and he slid his eyes shut, basking in the comforting chill.

"What of what, sir?" Isabel's voice wavered, her discomfort obvious.

"My voice. What of it?"

"Oh." He opened his eyes and made out her form in the darkness, tall and shaking. The wind howled outside the open door and it whipped her hair around her face, tangling the tresses horribly. Lightning flashed outside and lit her from behind for a moment… a nervous silhouette in a wet dress, arms wrapped around herself protectively.

"I've just never heard you sing before, sir."

He looked at her, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And what did you think of my voice, Mrs. Bauer?"

Isabel snapped her gaze back to him and, to his surprise, returned the slight smile he was wearing.

"Oh, I'm sure you know, Mr. Bertrand."

She bowed briefly, gathering her skirts, and ducked out the door, running towards the house through the thick sheets of rain.

It wasn't until the loud roar of thunder overhead died down that Erik realized he was laughing.


Of course, thanks to the beta, Chat, for all the help and support and general coolness.
This chapter's dedicated to Banana71588, the author of the brill
A Match Made in Persia, 'cause she flatters me outrageously.
I quoted Shakespeare. I did. I'm not ashamed. I didn't ask permission, either. So there.
The reviews are helpful, as always, and the feedback is wonderful, be it good or bad.
There are a couple of loose ends in this chapter that will be resolved in the next installment, which won't be for a little while. I'm going to new York and won't be back until next week. Just a heads up.
I am seeing Phantom while I'm there, though. Hugh Panaro ahoy!
Since this is already the Longest Author's Note In the History of the World, I may as well add that I don't own Phantom and stuff. But you already knew that. I hope.