Chapter 14: The Fallen Woman

"I request your presence. There is much we need to discuss. – M"

Such was the first letter sent upon her return to the Palais Garnier. It was not addressed to management, nor to the staff, nor to her pupil. In fact, it was not addressed at all; hand-slid beneath the door of its recipient.

Monsieur Daaé's most recent letter languished in shreds at the bottom of the waste basket, where it was left months ago. Unfinished complaints about now-outdated ledgers lay in a pile, their ink running from winter's damp. Those would have to go unacknowledged a while longer. The Mirage had business to conduct with her sponsor: Monsieur Antione Giry.

The old box keeper visited the next day, accessing her territory through the forgotten cellar door. A scarf and heavy coat told he came directly from his home. The holiday off-season must have been extended.

The Mirage waited until Giry found the glint of her porcelain face in the candle-lit gloom. She nodded to him from across the dining table, gloved fingers steepled over a steaming teacup. Giry removed the wool cap from his head and held it over his chest, lips open but no words coming forth.

"You look as if you've seen a ghost," the Mirage remarked.

"I'm unsure if I have," Giry finally spoke. "I've not seen anyone return from the dead like this."

"I wasn't dead," the Mirage said, "only in Purgatory."

"Where did you disappear to?" Giry asked, removing his coat and draping it over the lounge.

"Purgatory."

"I'm terribly serious, Mirage." Giry pulled up a seat across the table, where a cup and saucer sat waiting to be filled. "My son relies on you to keep his career stable."

"Yes, little Marc is one of many topics we need to discuss today." The Mirage paused to sip her tea. "Alas, I was unable to keep up with production while I was away. Do you care to fill in the details?"

"Mirage," Giry implored his sponsee, "you trust me with your secrets, but I need to trust in you as well. How can I know you won't disappear again, and leave my son vulnerable to lose his position?"

The Mirage swallowed her tea a bit too hard. "Giry. I have not forgotten my responsibilities to your son, but he is not my only concern."

Giry decided to pour his own tea, finished waiting for the Mirage to be a gracious hostess. "Tell me...did you run after the Daaé boy? I doubt his elopement pleased you any."

"Ah, I see the Comte made no secret of that affair." The Mirage shook her head and tutted.

"He was furious," Giry said, "and rightfully so. He gave his patronage, only to have one of our performers steal his daughter away to God-knows-where."

"Sweden. They've gone to Sweden."

"Is that meant to answer my question?" Giry asked, dropping a sugar cube into his drink.

"Come now," the Mirage tittered, "do you not think I correspond with my student? Monsieur Daaé informed me of his...regrettable decision, and all it entailed. I did not try to dissuade him."

Giry creased his silver brow. "I find that hard to swallow. You've touted the boy's skill to the point of absurdity, if you don't mind my saying so. Yet, you had no grievances with his retirement? None whatsoever?"

The Mirage brought her cup to her lips again. "He has plans to rejoin the company during the summer months. Nothing to fret over. If management has any qualms about offering him work, I can persuade them otherwise."

"Might you also persuade the Comte to return his patronage?"

There was a harsh clink when the Mirage dropped her cup to the saucer. "I beg your pardon?"

"The Comte de Chagny withdrew his patronage over the incident with his daughter."

For an uneasy while, the hodge-podge of walls the Mirage called her home was silent. The shadow-cloaked specter finally nodded and rose from her chair. "I see."

She removed her gloves to light a tall candelabra beside the table. She pulled at the cinch in the back of her waistcoat; the buckle pinched terribly when she reached for anything. The Mirage made her way to her writing desk and casually knocked aside the water-damaged papers, until she found a suitably dry blank page.

"Thank you for informing me so, Giry," she said, returning to the table with the page and an inkwell. The pen was stabbed against the paper, leaving a large splatter of ink at the beginning of the first word. "I will write to the Comte as soon as I can. Allow me to pen a brief reminder."

The Mirage continued to scrawl out a summary of the issue at hand, the paper almost tearing beneath her cursive. While she did so, Giry resumed his teatime in peace – his suspiciously lingering glances going unnoticed.

"That marriage will be annulled the second he realizes his hussy of a daughter is in Paris," the Mirage grumbled, not looking up from the paper. "The Comte should be encouraged to refuse the dowry. He never agreed to hand over his property."

"Neither did you, Mirage?"

The Mirage's fist came down like a gavel on the tabletop, rattling the utensils. Her teacup nearly jumped from its saucer.

"Do not chastise me, Antione!" She cast the pen down, splattering black across the paper. "I had no knowledge of this woman. I am the reason for Christian's success, and he cast me aside! That man does not realize how much of his livelihood rests in my hands! But, by God, I will be making it known!"

Giry sampled from his cup, looking sidelong across the cold black lake. "I'm sure management will be thrilled to hear that," he said, his snideness covered by an air of neutrality. "Months without you raising Hell has them feeling complacent."

"Oh, Monsieur," the Mirage replied. "Hell was indeed raised. Be grateful I was not in the proper health to do so here."

"Proper health?"

"Yes, and that is all I will be discussing of my absence."

"Interesting..."

The Mirage once more stood, leaning on the table to loom over him. "Choose your tone carefully in my presence, Giry. I have not needed you as a sponsor in three years. Your son, on the other hand..."

She tensed as a weathered hand grasped her shoulder. Giry had never put his hands on her in any way, not even back when he was the person providing for her. His grip was firm, yet unforceful – a father's grip, although she was unable to recognize it as such.

"Is there anything else that needs to be known?" he asked. His eyes were soft, and so was his voice. "Anything that...the Daaé boy will need to know? Upon his return with his bride, mayhaps?"

The Mirage began to pull away, her face blanching to match the color of her mask. "No."

"If you've brought me here to ask for help, I'm not sure how much I could."

The Mirage batted away his hand. "What are you going on about, old fool?"

Giry kept his posture tall and folded his hands on the table. "Excuse my boorishness, Mademoiselle." Giry turned his head, looking back out at the lake as if to give her privacy during the uncomfortable prying. "Forgive me, but...I couldn't help but notice you look to be in the family way."

The Mirage broke away like glass in a shattered windowpane, leaving Erika standing where she once was. Damn it all! Damn it to Hell! She had thought cinching her vest as tight as possible may slim her waist back to where it had been before. It hadn't worked – her womb still distended enough to notice its shape on her wiry frame.

Erika watched her entire façade crumble around her – shame and embarrassment seeped in to fill the cracks, then anger came to paint over them.

"Why you...!" Erika clenched her fists until they ached. She spoke through gritted teeth, her voice trembling with hatred. "Giry, you have the gall to...!"

Suddenly, something swept through that washed away her rebuilt façade like a flood: surrender. She let the façade vanish beneath the wave. The effort of holding it together was just too much for her to bear.

Erika let out a short scream of frustration and slumped back into her original seat, head in her hands. "I am not in the family way."

"Are you positi-."

"Not anymore."

Giry's lips closed tighter than a snare. Now he was the one to turn chalk white. "My...my condolences, Mademoiselle. I'm truly sorry for your-."

"No, not like that." Erika mindlessly tugged on a loose strand of hair, one that had fallen free of her pins. "You want to be able to trust me, Giry? Then I'll admit it, and I will only ever admit it to you." She took in a deep, uneven breath and said: "I've given birth to a child. A living child."

A hefty pause hung in the air like a noosed corpse, taunting and frightening the people below it. Giry took a long, cold drink of his tea. Erika didn't bother to watch his face for a reaction. She didn't have to explain that the child was not down there with her. He could see that for himself.

"You didn't harm the child, did you?" Giry piped up.

Erika's liver did a summersault. "No."

"Ah...I see."

Again, pure silence.

"Is the boy aware?" Giry asked.

Erika cast him an unsavory glance. "Despite your apparent need to gossip, I do not – and shall never – have inappropriate relations with my pupil."

Giry's brow raised from behind his cup. It was the most surprised she had ever seen him. He swallowed the last of the tea with a contemplative wrinkle between his eyes. "Who is the man, then?"

"What makes you think you deserve that information?"

Slowly, Giry set aside his empty cup. "Understandable. I was simply...curious."

Erika rolled her eyes. Oh, the men he must be picturing.

"Well," he continued with a sigh, "it pains me to hear about your situation. You have my sympathies."

"I don't need them." Erika watched the lake lap at the rocky shore not far away. "I have no family to disgrace. No marriage to tarnish. No place in society to lose."

With a sigh through the nostrils of her mask, Erika looked back at Giry with a pitiable expression. "You may condemn me if you wish. I just ask one thing, that you not condemn me further by spilling my secrets."

Giry said nothing, only gave an affirmative nod. The two sat and watched the shore erode the stones for a while, until Giry spoke again:

"Do you think you've become a fallen woman, Mirage?"

"I already was," Erika answered.

Nadir could recall those horrible first days as a single father. Within a day of finding Rookheya dead beside him, he was carrying their tiny son through her funeral procession. What young man ever imagines such a thing when starting a family? He was blessed to have had a kindhearted cousin volunteer to keep Reza nourished alongside her infant daughter. Nadir observed his three-day mourning period at her family's home; but afterward, he was expected to return to his duties.

Reza lived in the care of his cousin for two years – until he was weaned – and Nadir would arrive every evening to care for him as he felt he should. With a child so young, Nadir knew all that was expected of him was financial support. He chose to honor his wife, however, by providing for Reza the same way she would have done. He bathed him, dressed him, played with him, even spoon-fed him his first solid foods. It brought him closer to his son than he ever thought possible.

Nadir ran himself to exhaustion, refusing to return home until Reza was settled for the night. Often, this left him a mere few hours of rest before another day's work. The promise of seeing his son carried him through the days that tested his spirit and resolve. His work exposed him to the worst malice of humanity, and it did so often.

The bright, four-toothed smile that came toddling to meet him at the door made every day's toil worthwhile. Nadir was willing to endure the world's injustices, if it meant he could hear Reza's sweet voice squealing "Baba! Baba!" as he lifted his arms above his head – asking to be held.

When Nadir was, at long last, able to carry Reza home with him, all seemed right with the world again. Reza slept against his father's shoulder the entire journey, but Nadir hardly felt his weight. His little boy was with him now, and he always would be.

He always would be.

In the end, Nadir was unable to spend enough time with Reza when he was small. At least, not enough time as he felt he should have. He never saw Reza's first steps, or heard his first words. Reza was on Earth for such precious little time, every missed minute felt like such a heavy loss in hindsight.

He once more found himself in the early days of single fatherhood. In a way, this iteration was more horrible than the first. Because, now he was more alone than ever before: Banished, his relatives ten countries away, and the child's mother a ghost by her own choosing. After a week, Nadir was finding himself just as exhausted as before.

It did not help matters that Izad was averse to taking a bottle. He refused to take one straight from the ice box, so Nadir began leaving them in hot water before a feed. That eventually convinced Izad to eat, even if the method was not what he was looking for.

"You are going to be quite stubborn. I can see that now," Nadir chuckled, feeding Izad from the bulb-shaped glass.

A lack of sleep almost had Nadir nodding off in the chair, but he bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself alert. He was grateful he didn't need to worry about finding work, at least not for a while. His half of Erika's savings wouldn't last forever with a growing mouth to feed and rent to pay.

Izad spit out the rubber nipple. Nadir checked the measurements on the side of the glass, only to see that Izad hadn't taken much.

"Come now, I know you can eat more than that," Nadir cooed, offering the bottle again.

Izad whined and turned his face to root against his father's shirt. He spluttered out a few coughs and began to cry.

"Alright, alright," Nadir sighed. He set the mostly full bottle aside and brought the newborn to his shoulder.

Izad was difficult as ever to soothe once he got going. Nadir walked with him for a bit, rubbing his back and humming the same soft tune he had always used to calm his children down. About fifteen minutes later, Izad was pacified enough for Nadir to sit and offer the bottle again. Three minutes later, everything started over again: Izad spit the bottle out, went rooting around, and began crying.

Nadir rubbed the bridge of his nose, almost to the point of tears himself. He wearily looked down at the baby in his arms, unsure what else to do. He caressed Izad's downy head of hair in the hopes it would bring him some comfort.

"I know, sweet angel. I know," he said. "I miss her, too."

Izad went into a long string of wet coughs, a string that only ended when he vomited up what little milk he'd taken.

Giry had told her the next casting call would begin in a week's time. So, for a week, Erika waited.

The Mirage once more lurked below ground, her breath lingering as a white ghost in the frigid air. A fire in the stove added a pocket of heat to the kitchen – but only the kitchen. Weeks' worth of frost had mildewed the wallpaper. All the effort she had taken to decorate what walls remained of that decrepit cellar...wasted.

The silence that once was placating had become eerie. Every sound echoed from the cavernous limestone and across the lake, creating phantom voices that had her nerves on the edge of a knife. She discarded the idea of getting much-needed rest before her managerial duties resumed. Something in the ruined walls would creak while she slept, and an unwelcome burst of anxiety would startle her awake. Too often, in the single second of twilight after jumping awake, she would be listening for the cries of a baby.

Within days of returning home, her breasts became painfully engorged with unused milk. She bound her chest, with the rest of her torso, in bandages to mitigate the trouble – and hoped it would end soon. Wearing the costume of her former life made it easier to pretend there was no "former" life.

Like it had been all her life, music was her greatest comfort. Five years ago, when she had first taken refuge beneath that theater, she had disassembled a grand piano and taken it down there – piece-by-piece – and restored it. Now, it was where she spent most of her waking hours. She hadn't played any form of instrument in months, either too sick or fatigued to consider doing so – and Nadir had none in his flat even if she had. It was enough to play and re-play the repertoire of scores from her memory; she had not the energy nor inspiration needed to create any new melodies. Playing anything on the ivories was enough to quiet the silence.

Towards the end of the week, Erika summoned the resolve to conquer the one nagging problem she could. From the bottom of the wastebasket, the torn remains of Monsieur Daaé's last letter were retrieved. Erika attempted to puzzle the shreds into a readable whole, but the dampness had gotten to them long ago. She could remember most of what it contained: the apologies that Christian would not be returning to perform his offered role, his plans to wed the Vicomtesse de Chagny come spring, and the brazen choice to return to Paris after such a scandal.

Erika had deliberately avoided her post box since that letter arrived. She had not penned a response to it, either. If Christian was as dedicated a pupil as he proclaimed, then a months-long silence on her part would undoubtedly have him worried. It was a suitable punishment. However, Erika dreaded going through the post to see how many letters he had sent in the meantime – as well as dreaded what they would say. Then again, if Christian had decided to punish her lack of reply in the same manner...Erika was dubious they would communicate again. The shame of being so callous to her beloved protégé overwhelmed her.

Giry was sent the following day to fetch the post for her, and she greeted him at the cellar's street entrance. When he pulled only a single envelope from inside his coat, Erika reached for it with unexpected delight. He had sent one! Of course he wasn't angry with her, he was far too sweet for that! Christian had to be the world's most forgiving...

The letter was from Nadir's address.

Erika's fallen expression must have been plain, even if partially hidden.

"Is there something wrong?" Giry pondered.

"No. Nothing." Erika pocketed the letter inside her shawl, hiding the sender's name from Giry. Though, it was possible he had already seen it. "I will return the favor."

That envelope was no less troubling than the ones she had expected. It had been a mere two weeks apart. Why would he be reaching out so soon? Descending the basement stairs, Erika soothed herself with the possibility that Nadir's letter would be asking for assistance with her savings account. Or perhaps it would be notifying her of a change in address.

Once home, Erika cut the seal as fast as she could. The ominous letter read:

"My Dearest Erika,

I write to you so I may have another soul to share my worries with. I understand you have more pressing obligations, so I will be brief.

Izad has been ill for two days. He cannot keep down his milk, and a terrible coughing ails him night and day. You can presume what his temperament has been. Today he developed a fever, so I phoned a doctor asking for a house call. He suspects Izad has contracted influenza.

I'm frightened, Erika. He is not at death's doorstep, but I cannot do much to help him. I can only do as the doctor says and pray that he will recover. I have faith that he will.

I am not expecting a response to this message. If you wish, you may burn it. I offer my utmost apologies if such a letter is unwelcome.

Sincerely,

Nadir Khan"

Erika didn't reply to the letter.

Izad's fever came and went. His face would become flushed and radiate heat like a furnace for a few hours, but then it would fade. Nadir took advantage of the lulls in fever, as that was when Izad had the most energy to eat.

The doctor had sold him a bottle of tonic water. Nadir mixed it with the newly purchased bottled milk from the wetnurse. Izad absolutely noticed the bitter taste of the tonic, evidenced by his fits of crying in the middle of feeds. Yet, the poor little thing kept trying to fill his stomach. That was what made Nadir so anxious – Izad was vomiting often and constantly hungry, but what he was able to swallow usually came back up. The tonic water would do no good if this kept on. He could only hope Izad was getting enough of the medicine for it to do something.

But was something going to be enough to save him? Influenza couldn't be cured, it could only be endured. Izad was already a smaller-than-average baby. Falling sick at just three weeks old was not a good omen.

A knock at the door roused him. He had dozed off sitting in a chair beside Izad's cradle, where the babe currently slept bundled in a large quilt.

Nadir shuffled his feet down the hallway, running a hand across his aching forehead. He was not eager to shoo away yet another salesman or advertiser of the church. Nadir donned a more welcoming expression before he pulled the door ajar. His pleasant demeanor wilted into a dazed stupor. Meeting his eyes was a masculinely dressed figure in a coat, its face obstructed under a scarf and wide-brimmed hat – the same garb it had been wearing the first time Nadir allowed it inside his home.

He gaped at Erika through the opening of the door, tongue in a knot. His mouth unwilling to form French, he reverted to his natural: "Salām."

Erika lowered the scarf to her neck, revealing a familiar face of both flesh and porcelain. She stood tall and firm, with a determination in her eyes like Nadir had rarely seen.

"Let me inside, Nadir." There was zero questioning the authority in her voice. "I want to see my son."