A/N: the reference to morphine is taken from Susan Kay's book Phantom.

Chapter 41 Hidden

Jules watched as the man slouched out of the office. He looked down at the list in front of him, checked off the last location, and penned in the man's name next to it.

The clock struck the hour. Leaning back in his chair, he estimated that he wouldn't have time to return home and attend mass with his family. Missing the service meant that he'd have to go to confession tomorrow. It would be another chore to add to an already hectic day. He'd have to sandwich a visit to the church between his usual work and the new work Erik had generated for him in the last few hours.

Scanning the list, he read: churches, cemetery, M. and Mme. Dubois' apartment, train stations, Place de l'Opera cabs… Erik had covered all the possibilities of potential contacts and departure points.

Staring out the window, Jules' brow furrowed as he recalled Erik's dark figure seated in the study this morning. The man had looked like a caged panther. If he'd had a tail, Jules would have heard it thrashing fiercely against the chair. When he had outlined his strategy to Jules, disobedience hadn't been an option. Only a fool would have trifled with Erik when he was in that state.

A woman again, Jules mused. He felt a little chagrinned that he hadn't noticed the signs earlier.

The last time Erik was in love, their business had suffered greatly. In the ensuing months, Jules had managed the business alone as Erik had run amok in the opera house. Fortunately, there had been completed architectural plans to hand to some of their clients. And somehow, Jules had found a way to keep the business afloat without his guidance.

Today, he saw that old fire in Erik's eyes, and it gnawed at him. He barely escaped with his sanity the last time, Jules mulled gloomily. And now here he was, hiring men to stake out places in Paris in an attempt to locate a woman.

Shaking his head, he rose from the desk, and stood by the window. The midday sun, which slipped past the clouds, momentarily filled the room, and lit up his still figure.

Paris was a city of a million people. In spite of Erik's extensive strategies and the thumbnail sketches of the woman that he had created, there was a good chance she'd slip by them.

What have you done, Erik? he pondered. As he turned back to his desk, a dark thought flashed through his mind—When Erik falls in love, it is disastrous for everyone around him.

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The cab pulled away from the large expanse of the Place de l'Opera, and headed towards the third arrondissement. Erik waited impatiently inside with his hands resting on taut thighs. Coldly, his eyes followed the traffic. They were traveling to the place where the driver had taken Jade in the early morning. In its vicinity was the Boulevard de Sebastopol, which carried traffic to major rail terminuses of Paris—the Gare de l'Est and the Gare du Nord.

The carriage rolled along at a maddeningly slow pace as it weaved through the traffic. Erik's jaw tightened as he thought of the time being wasted. By now, Jade could have boarded a train and be miles from Paris.

But to where? Burgundy?

There were several clues as to the whereabouts of her family home. One was her intimate knowledge of the wine he had served her from the Chateau du Clos de Vougeot, which was located in Burgundy. Another was that she had studied in an abbey. And the last was the name of a neighbor, a M. Soleri, who had owned a horse farm near her home.

With those pieces of the puzzle, he could probably locate her village. However, at this time, Erik was not looking too closely in that direction. His instincts told him that she wouldn't go back there. Something about her shared confidences with his rival had led him to believe that she no longer had a family and was alone. But, just in case, he had sent a man to Burgundy to search out her past.

The cab arrived at the Place du Chatelet, and abruptly stopped. Hopping down, the driver approached the neighboring cabs. Erik watched as the man showed the sketch to the other drivers.

Twisting in his seat, Erik looked up the avenue in the direction of the train terminuses. "Damn that dawdling fool," he growled. Every minute increased the risk of losing her.

Glaring at the man, Erik opened the door, and the movement caught the driver's eye. He suddenly turned back to his cab, and quickly approached the window.

"No one has seen her, Monsieur. I left two of the sketches with the other drivers, and told them of the reward.

"Get on with it," Erik said in a low, dangerous voice.

With a flick of the reins the horse moved ahead. The carriage swung onto the large boulevard in the direction of the trains.

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That afternoon, Jade stood on the high hill of Montmartre, and gazed across the valley. Behind her, a noisy windmill spun busily in the wind. Its large arms made a drawn out swooshing sound as they circled above her head.

Below was Paris with its narrow, dirty streets, grand boulevards and heroic monuments. In the distance she could see the grand arch of the Arc de Triomphe de l'Etoile, which sat in the center of intersecting streets that radiated from it like the points of a star. To the east was the Jardin de Tulleries guarded by a fierce obelisk that speared the sky. The steely, gray waters of the Seine lay just beyond the Jardin with barges lazily ignoring the day of rest as they inched along the river.

A blast of wind lifted the dark hair from her face, and spread out her skirt. Jade turned her head, and slowly took in the far-reaching vista that exposed palaces and slums to the casual eye. She had left the turmoil of the crowded city behind, and had hiked to those heights in an attempt to reclaim mental clarity and an elusive peace.

In one evening everything has been swept away, she pensively reflected.

She should have known that it wouldn't be simple. The appearance of Jean-Luc's double had portended a disaster. But she thought she'd side stepped that ill wind when she confided in Pierre.

Sitting on a cold, stone bench, she turned her eyes to the sky. The dreadful ache of her grief was safely stowed away. In the somber light of that overcast day, her mind was working again.

She was remembering the conversation with Jean and Manette that had had occurred the week after she had stayed with them. While dining together, Jean had said to her, "By the way, Jade, I want to thank you for all the work you did in our apartment when you were staying with us. Sometimes I let chores slip. I'd been meaning to oil that front door hinge for some time but never got around to it. It's pleasant to come home and not hear its wail each time I open the door." Jean smiled cheerfully at Jade, and then gave Manette a good-natured wink as well.

Jade had looked at him, puzzled.

Another memory arose. The first night that Erik had entered her room, she had boldly asked him how he was able to get past the lock, and he had replied, "I have keys to all the rooms in my opera house."

I've been very stupid, she realized as she solemnly gazed at the miniature cathedral of Notre-Dame perched on the Ile de la Cite in the Seine.

He's already been inside Jean and Manette's home at least once. What will keep him from returning? she pondered.

Closing her eyes, she felt the breeze play with her hair, and thought, it's me he wants, not them. As long as she stayed clear of her friends, they would probably remain safe.

A day ago, she wouldn't have worried about it. But now, she was badly shaken. The man she had seen at the organ was not the Erik that she knew. He had disappeared, replaced by the Opera Ghost. She wouldn't expose those she loved to that danger.

The thought of Erik creeping through her friends' home made her shudder. She knew that her concerns might be groundless, but she didn't dare take the chance. Somehow, she had to find a way to contact her friends without risking their safety. Which meant that she couldn't go to Pierre's home for shelter. Erik knew where he lived.

Brushing pieces of leaves from her skirt, she rose and began her descent down the hill. As she walked along the road she heard the nearby bleating of sheep and the occasional crow of a rooster. To her right were cultivated plots of grape vines, which grew abundantly on the hill. She paused and inhaled deeply the rich scent of damp earth, and recalled the hills that were near her village. A pang of homesickness hit her, and a tear escaped.

Why did Erik attack me? she meditated as she continued her way down the road. Clearly, she had angered him to the point of frenzy. She sorrowfully looked down at the road, and wondered how he had behaved with his diva when he was angry with her. Had he been cruel to her as well?

No, she thought, probably not. His diva was a beautiful woman with great gifts. She was a former star of the opera with an angelic voice, and she had married a kind, handsome, and rich man. She must be extremely desirable to have such attractive and powerful men pursuing her. Erik only chose the best.

Unlike me, she considered dejectedly. Quite the contrary—she was someone who hid secrets from others and had music playing in her mind that at times she was compelled to dance to. There was something seriously wrong with her, and Erik had known it before they'd met.

And like the others who had discovered her secret, he had eventually turned against her.

He gave me a great deal of beauty before he drove me away, she pondered mournfully. For a brief hour, she had believed that it was possible that someone else besides Jean-Luc could love the part of her that she hid from others.

That last thought released her grief, and the tears streamed down her face. Jade fumbled for a handkerchief. After wiping her eyes, she resolutely stared ahead and entered the street.

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The next day, a frowning Jacque DuChant stared at the letter in his hand. He didn't know if he should feel annoyed or relieved.

It read:

Monsieur DuChant,

I am unable to come to work this week, and I do not know when I will be able to return. Therefore, I am sorry to say that I must resign my position at the Opera Populaire.

I wish to thank you for all of your assistance and kind considerations. I am very grateful for the opportunities that you have provided me. I am sorry if I have disappointed you by this sudden decision.

Jade Bouta

DuChant looked up at the door where the stony faced Mme. Truffaut stood.

Pointing the letter in her direction he said, "Mlle. Bouta has just informed me that she will not be returning to the opera house. Did you know about this?"

Mme. Truffaut gave him a disgusted look and said tersely, "No, Monsieur. I received a note from her as well this morning saying the same thing."

Laying the letter on top of a stack of papers, he glanced at it a few minutes later. Relief had finally outweighed his annoyance. He was done with her. Pierre could no longer use their friendship to sway him in regards to that troublesome employee. The only thing left was to pay her the wages that were owed to her. He would leave it up to her to break the news to his friend.

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Later that evening, Jean and Manette received a visit from their friend, Gabrielle. She stepped through the door wearing her new artistic dress of lavender silk scented with the fragrance of violets. As she settled on to the far end of the couch, away from the fire, she looked up at their expectant faces.

"I have something for you," she said crisply with a twinkle in her eye, and handed Jean a letter addressed to him and Manette from Jade.

After opening it, Jean shot a look at Manette. "Jade says that she's quit her position at the opera house." Manette's eyebrows rose as she moved to the edge of the chair. Jean read the letter with a frown, and then passed it to Manette.

When she was finished with the letter Manette looked at Jean, whose worried face matched her own.

Turning to Gabrielle, he asked, "When did she give this to you? Is she well?"

Gabrielle gave them both a bright look. She was relishing her role in this adventure. "She is fine. She came to me this morning and gave me this letter. At that time, she told me that she could not trust a messenger to deliver it, and that her location needed to be kept a secret for everyone's safety."

"Safety!" exclaimed Jean as he gave her an intense look. "Did she tell you what's in this letter?"

Nodding, she replied. "Yes, and more. She wants you to be careful not to reveal to anyone that you have spoken with your employer about receiving her wages, and to not leave anything written behind about the matter. After you obtain the funds, I will visit you and deliver them to her."

Jean abruptly interrupted. "Where is she staying?"

Shaking her head, Gabrielle replied, "She doesn't want anyone to know at this time. I will meet with her at a designated location when she is ready."

A tense silence followed as Jean stared into Manette's worried eyes.

"If I find out who's doing this to her, there will be hell to pay," Jean said in a rough voice.

Manette quickly rose, and put her hand on his shoulder as her other hand rested on her stomach. "Please Jean, don't talk like that." He glanced at her belly, and let out a short, explosive sigh.

Gabrielle stood up, and looked down at Jean as she said smoothly, "She seems to be an intelligent woman who is not prone to foolish flights of fancy. I believed her when she said that we must be careful."

She gave her friends a long look, and then took the letter out of Jean's hand. Standing next to the fireplace, she dropped it into the flames. Then she stepped back to avoid the ashy sparks that flew up as the fire greedily consumed it.

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That night, Erik rifled through the papers in the management offices, and found Jade's letter to DuChant. After quickly reading it, he stuffed it into his pocket and continued his search. He was looking for an address or the name of the person DuChant would be sending her wages to. There was nothing.

Leaving the office, he traveled to the iron-gate where Jules was to leave reports concerning the search for her. He gathered up the papers, and reentered the opera house through the hidden passages. Lighting a lantern, he scanned the notes. There wasn't a scrap of useful information in the pile, just vague mentions of unconfirmed sightings. When he was finished he stuffed them into a pouch, and made his way up to the staff quarters.

The room was as he had left it the day before with drawers open and the wardrobe door ajar. A sharp pang sprang through his chest as he looked down at her bed. He could see her sitting there with the covers pulled up to her neck, staring back at him with her intense eyes. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he slowly stroked the blankets with his leather-clad hand, and then scooped them up to his nose.

He found it difficult to believe that she was gone.

"Stubborn," he murmured out loud. "Childish." She hadn't had the courage to endure his anger. And he hadn't had the strength to hold it back.

He stared down at his arms, which were outlined in the faintest of light. Hidden were the track marks from his years of morphine use. It had taken him months to end the habit, and longer to lose the cravings.

It was the appearance of Christine that had sealed his resolve. That beautiful child had touched him deeply, and given him the strength to quit the drug. He had resolved never to go back to that slavery.

But now, as he gazed at his arms, he wondered if it might not be wiser to return to the habit. It had helped him control his fury. It had dampened his hatred of the injustices of his life.

Thoughtfully, he glanced around the room with the hope that something new had appeared since yesterday. That is when he saw the outline of an envelope next to the door.

Quickly, he snatched it up, and exited through the mirror. He lit the lantern, and stared at the blank envelope. Then he carefully opened it and read:

My dear Erik,

When you find this, you will know that I have left the opera house. I will not be returning.

I am sorry that we have parted under these circumstances. If I have offended you, please believe me when I say that I never intended to do so. You have given me a great deal. I will always be grateful for your gifts and the kindness that you have shown me. I will remember fondly our conversations and the time that we spent together.

I promise that I will do my utmost to not betray your trust. Your secrets will remain hidden. I will speak of them to no one.

Farewell. Please do not try to find me.

Jade

Erik stared at the letter until the words blurred, and the paper trembled in his hands. He carefully inserted it back into its envelope, and placed it in a secure pocket. Then he spun on his heel and strode down the passage.

His impulse was to rush to the river and search for her. She loved the Seine, and had spent many hours walking its banks. If she felt a fraction for him of what he was feeling for her, she would be restlessly wandering familiar haunts.

Or, she would seek out his rival for comfort.

Scowling at that thought, Erik's eyes blazed. The man and his relatives were being watched. If Jade went there he would soon know.

The cold air hit his face as he approached the stable. Silently, he moved towards the stall. The Arabian stallion's cry rang out as the animal caught his scent. Eagerly, the horse pushed his fine head over the half door, and stretched his long, sinewy neck towards Erik. His large nostrils flared in anticipation.

Gently, Erik stroked the quivering animal, and stared into his eyes. "If you were only a dog, my friend. We could hunt the streets together, and we would soon find her," he said in a soothing tone. After two days of searching for her, his instincts told him that she was still in Paris, hiding.

He was a wealthy man. If he had to turn over every stone in Paris or for that matter in France, he would find her.

As his long fingers ran across the satiny coat of the horse, he watched the animal relax under his hypnotic caress.

It doesn't matter what her feelings are for me, Erik meditated as he continued to stroke the horse. When I find her, I will not let her go.

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The heavy cloak swung against Jade's legs as she carried her basket in the rain. She had hoped to be able to get back to her room before the shower hit. Fortunately, the tenement house was nearby.

She climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, and opened her door. Inside, she removed the damp cloak and hung it on a peg on the wall, and then rubbed her hands briskly to restore their circulation. A hot cup of tea would have tasted good and banished the chill. Perhaps tonight, Mme. Pissaro would invite her to her apartment to sit by the fire. Madame always offered her tea at such times, which was a welcome treat after a cold day in her room.

Uncovering the basket, Jade carefully removed from it a piece of lace and a bodice. Laying them down on the bed, she lit her two lamps, and settled in to do her work.

Several days after she had left the opera house, she had found employment with a garment shop as a seamstress. Every few days, she would pick up a basket of work and carry it back to her room where she would sew. It was fine work that required close attention. Although it was a tedious job, she was quick enough at it to have already saved a tiny sum of money. The problem was that she needed to do the work in her room.

The hard winter that Pierre had predicted was coming to pass. Day and night, Jade would sew with stiff, chilled hands. A couple nights a week she would take her work below to Mme. Pissaro's rooms. There, while sitting by the warm fire as she kept the older woman company, she would take advantage of the heat and good light to get extra work done. It was so much easier to work when her hands were warm and limber.

The winds would howl around her little window, and seep through the cracks in the wall. Her room was always cold, sometimes freezing. In order to keep warm in the unheated room, she would stuff newspapers between her two chemises. At night, her cloaks served as blankets, which she would wrap tightly about her.

She followed the same routine—sewing, picking up a new order, and taking a daily meal at the local café. On Sundays, she would attend mass at a nearby church. She had arranged with the priest to sit in the loft for the service so that she would not be seen, and would leave once the church emptied.

Once a week, she would allow time for a long walk, and travel to one of the seven hills that surrounded the city. The brisk trip up the slope would tire her enough to calm her mind and ease her depression. At that time, she forgot about her dismal life and all the beauty that she had lost. As she gazed down at the river below, serenity would return to her. She'd watch the birds flit about in the nearby trees, and she'd study the hardy winter plants that were scattered around her. It was a sanctuary from her melancholy feelings. Even when the wind blew cold against her frame and set her to shivering, she would still drift off into daydreams that included horses, Gillian, and Erik's beautiful hands.

That evening, Mme. Pissaro invited her down for tea. The old woman was a chatty sort and loved to talk about her impressions of life and people. It was she who had steered Jade to the garment shop for work. In her own way, she looked out for several of the tenants of the building.

"I was at market today and I saw an old friend of mine," said Mme. Pissaro. "We had lunch together, and he told me about his son who is applying to the Institute of Fine Arts. Do you like art, my dear?" Jade quickly looked up, nodded, and returned to her work.

"They will be entertaining during the holidays, and he invited me to his home. I wondered if you might care to join me?" The gray haired woman looked intently at Jade as she waited for a reply.

Pausing from her work, Jade considered the invitation. Ever since she had left the opera house, she had felt starved for human company. Perhaps it was because of the long hours that she spent alone in her room as she worked. Or maybe it was her dining alone, away from her friends. She had grown accustomed to the bustle of the Opera Populaire, the excitement, and the endless stream of people.

The winter rains had descended upon Paris and with them a profound bleakness. The streets were wet and cold, and the damp clung to her bones. Sometimes, the only color that she could see was gray, as if all the light of the world had been sucked out and then filtered back in that dull tone. When she wasn't working, she often wanted to be in bed. At least there, she could sleep, and dream of the life that she had lost.

Looking up at the woman, she asked, "When were you planning to go?"

Mme. Pissaro smiled and said, "I've been invited on the twenty ninth of this month. They will be having a party after Christmas." She took Jade's cup and refilled it with the warm beverage. "Today is the fifteenth, so it is two weeks away. Were you planning on leaving Paris for the holidays?"

Shaking her head 'no', Jade bent her head over the lace, and continued to stitch. She was trying to decide if it was safe to appear in public. After a couple minutes, she set aside her work, and cradled the warm teacup in her hands.

"Where is their home?" she asked quietly. She had spent the last few weeks avoiding her old haunts and especially the ninth arrondissement where the opera house was located.

"They live in the Montmarte area, my dear," replied Mme. Pissaro cheerfully. She picked up the tea tray, and carried it to the kitchen. Then she returned with a pastry that she had bought earlier that day. She was in the habit of giving her guest a treat after their tea to take with her to her room. She had noticed that Jade was getting thinner with each passing week, and it was beginning to trouble the older woman.

Jade looked up, and smiled at her as she took the gift. Mme. Pissaro patted her arm gently. "Please think about it, my dear," she said. "I would enjoy your company."

Later in her room, Jade lay beneath her covers, and shivered for a bit as she adapted to the cold room. She was looking forward to falling asleep. It had become the best part of her life. Her dreams were often long and vivid. In them, she would be reunited with those whom she loved. Pierre would come to her, and they would walk by the Seine. Jean and Manette would take her to a local café where there was always plenty of wine and jokes. Sometimes she would ride the horses and Gillian would be with her, sitting in front. Jade would hold her small body against hers and laugh at how her hair would fluff up in the wind.

Lastly, Erik would come to her. She had dreamt of him several times in the morning, just before she awoke. They were sitting together in his home, and it was very dark there. The candles had burned out and there was only the lantern light between them. He then carried her to her bedroom but refused to lay down next to her. Instead, he stared at her with an expressionless face. His white mask was cold and soon that cold penetrated her flesh until she began to shiver. Then she would awake, and realize that she had kicked off her covers.

The wind rattled the windowpane as she began to drift off. Soon it would be Christmas. She wondered what she could afford to buy for the child…

A/N: Ile de la Cite means Isle of the city.