Hello my dear readers!
I am SO sorry for the long wait but my fellow writers know the struggle of balancing fanfiction and daily life. There are two more scheduled chapters after this one...for now.
I promise the wait between chapters won't be as long as the past. Thank you so much for sticking with me this long!
The Dirty Piglett was a 3 story house that had been chopped up into several rooms. The decor was…rustic. That was the word Roger had used years ago when they met. Red, grey, and green splashed together to create a warm home in that tragic part of Paris. It was as though someone had cut the house out of a fairytale and placed it in the middle of the gutter.
Roger's Inn was special to the inner city of Paris. It was a place where sex workers, geriatric folk, and even urchins, could go for a soft bed and a hot meal. Roger's only condition was no business. No drugs, sex, or other forms of business were to be conducted within his walls. This allowed women of the night to escape tyrannical clients, children who were frozen from the night's bitter chill to have a warm bed, and all others to escape for a night or two. His prices were low, and his doors and windows were always maintained. Roger was a respected man in that end of Paris. The madams of the whorehouses paid him for providing for their girls, as well as helped him maintain the inn, as he had no staff. The children helped with chores as their payment, and his more geriatric patients left him with their worldly processions, recipes, and medical knowledge. He was considered the wealthiest man in the gutters of Paris, not in riches, but in heart.
That respect meant he was rarely ever bothered, for the culprit was always beaten or shamed for attacking "Piggy" as he was called by many. That's how he met Jane. She was being harassed by a group of men and women behind a shop when Roger walked up,
"Dear me, what seems to be going on?"
The group sneered from across the alley, "Oh leave it, Piggy. This one's a nut."
3 men and 1 woman crowded around an even smaller woman, jeering and snickering at her thin frame and apparently loose mental state.
Eyeing her rescue, the woman lept up and ran behind Roger, cowering away from the mischievous villains.
Roger spied a baton in the hands of one of the more squirrelly men and gently put his hand on her waist.
"Come now, you lot toddle off home. I'll take care of this."
They moaned with disapproval but walked off nonetheless, the man with the baton smacked it once in his hand before following. Roger was sure some helpless animal or shop window would be the victim of a savage beating tonight, but at least he helped spare her.
Speaking of which, once the group disappeared around the corner, the young woman started to shake in his arms, "Now dear, let's get you out of this cold. My name's Roger Piglett, at your service."
"Jane Noir."
—
The sign nailed next to the door was simple, in block lettering and a slightly off-center frame. Obviously made by Roger himself. The knocker was a small brass piece that was tarnished with age except for a small section that tenants used to gently knock on the door. Using this same section, Jane pinched it in her right hand and knocked three times.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, she heard footsteps rushing into the foyer before the handle turned and the door swung open to reveal a short man with salt and pepper hair, a neat mustache, and a worn green vest.
"Well bless my soul, Ms. Jane Noir, on my doorstep. I never thought I'd see the day." His smile was radiant. Roger was one of the few people that could make you feel like you were the center of his world.
Quickly he ushered her in a brought her into the kitchen for some coffee and cakes.
They began visiting and it was as though the 10 years between their last visit was only 10 minutes. Jane's heart swelled, her anxiety had been all for naught. She was worried that Roger would turn her away. What then? Where would she go? Certainly not back to the theatre, no, she needed time. She couldn't bear to see Lea either, not after their one and only visit.
A small cup and plate being set before her brought her attention back to her friend. "I'm sorry I can't offer more. My boys are out shopping at the moment." He pulled sheepishly at his mustache, a nervous habit he's never successfully broken.
"Oh no, Roger. This is perfect."
While they spoke, Roger could tell that Jane was not just there to visit. This wasn't just due to the small satchel sitting in the foyer, but the way she kept looking out the window, Jane was escaping from something or someone. He was determined to find out during her stay, but for now, he wouldn't press the issue.
They spent the night preparing dinner and attending to the tenants who couldn't or wouldn't go to the doctor.
Not long after arriving, Jane found herself tending to an Opal Bovaire, a poor sex worker who was recovering from a rather abusive client. Her eyes were swollen and there were bruises all over her body, including her nether regions. Roger did what he could, but he refused to go near a woman's delicates, said it wasn't his place. Jane was fortunate to get there when she did, working with Roger in the years before the opera house, she had gained some medical knowledge.
Opal was miserable with pain and having another woman there was a relief. Jane was able to tell her that the wounds were superficial and that she would heal within another day or two. She also cleaned her wounds and changed her sheets for her, to keep infection away. With a strong hand against her back, Jane helped Opal sip a glass of brandy to help her sleep before writing a letter to the girl's madam, stating where she was, the treatment she had received, and the information for the girl's dreadful client that Opal had given her. There would be one less creep to mistreat a woman of the night. It made her think of Joseph Buquet, that scoundrel who fooled around with the ballet girls. He had tried to fool around once with her, only to find his unspeakable in her iron grip. He never approached her after that.
Shortly after sending the letter off with an urchin, Jane was shown her room next to Roger's on the bottom floor. She was so exhausted that she only have enough strength to change into her nightgown before collapsing on the bed and falling asleep.
—
Jane found herself sitting in the audience of the Opera Populaire, an unusual occurrence but she could now see why the people of Paris flocked to see their productions. Her eyes were drawn to the stage as the music announced an entrance.
Carlotta walked into view, screeching through her lyrics while Piangy warbled as the Don Juan, certainly not worthy of Erik's masterpiece that was Don Juan Triumphant. She watched as Don Juan and his partner in crime cackled over the nativity of the girl they've captured.
Suddenly, the phantom's voice boomed across the stage, his black mask seductive and menacing at the same time. Jane's body prickled with goosebumps, a hot wave flushed her body, as he always managed to do when he sang.
As the two characters danced around one another, Jane could see the diva become entranced by her captor, her eyes glazing over and her body leaning toward him like a moth to a flame. She felt the people in the audience around her gasp and fidget under the onslaught of musical sex.
She herself was blushing but she knew it was from her heart breaking. With each passionate cry, her lifeblood was left to fill everywhere but the empty hole in her chest. As she watched his strong hands caress Christine's lithe figure, her heart gave a hateful squeeze.
Tears pricked her eyes, falling freely, quietly. It was a silent death that struck without warning and without mercy. She wished to look away, to forget the horrid scene, but her limbs were lead and her head stone, they were all she could see.
The orchestra's sharp tones of drama and seduction began to muffle in her ears, sounding far away, too distant from her reality that was the two figures that dancing and writhing together onstage.
They came to a crashing climax as they met on the bridge. The orchestra paused and Jane's eyes widened in horror as the words between the two leads floated down to her and chipped away at the hole in her chest, a shuttered gasp slipped unbidden past her lips.
Erik's head was bent toward Christine's neck, and his lips brushed against her soft skin as he sang. It was a mournful plea.
Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Lead me, save me from my solitude. Say you'll want me with you here, beside you. Anywhere you go, let me go too. Christine, that's all I ask of-
His cry of passion and devotion broke the tension and almost just as suddenly, Christine ripped Erik's mask off.
Everything stopped, the orchestra, the dancers, even the audience was silent as they stared at Erik's misshapen face.
The scream that broke from Jane's chest was of such pure agony that Erik turned to look at her. Their eyes locked and a sickening smile split his face.
His lips started to move and it was as though he was standing in front of her and all she could do was shake in horror as his voice snarled at her, "You will never be good enough."
As it echoed, he grabbed the diva and disappeared, flames engulfed the stage, the audience, and eventually Jane. A fiery death that could never match the death of her heart, her love.
Jane woke up with a cry, tears streaming down her face and her sheets were soaked with sweat. She tried to get her bearings when she heard footsteps in the hallway. Suddenly, Roger was at the door, knocking frantically, "Jane? Jane, it's Roger. Please let me in."
When she opened the door, he wrapped her in his arms, "Jane, my dear, is everything alright? Are you hurt?" He started scanning her up and down, looking for injuries.
The tears continued to trail down her face, "Rog-" Her voice caught as the heartache of the dream overwhelmed her.
He cradled her head on his shoulder, "There, there mon ami, it's alright now."
He gently lead her to the kitchen and put the kettle on while she wiped her face with cool water. They heard soft footsteps on the stairs and turned to see Opal. She had heard Jane crying and wondered if she was alright. Jane smiled sadly at the younger woman, "Yes Opal, I'm alright. Please, you need your rest. Don't worry about me." With a small shake of her head, the girl kissed her head and went back upstairs.
Once they both had tea and she had calmed down, he asked again, "What happened, Jane?"
She spilled everything. Meeting Erik and living under the opera house, becoming assistant to Christine, and meeting the Lady Dulone (Roger noticed the blush that colored her cheeks at the woman's name), and finally the nightmare, staring hard at a spot above Roger's shoulder and when she repeated Erik's words, a single tear slipped down her weary face.
Neither one said anything once she finished, but he took her back upstairs, quickly changed her sheets, and helped her back into bed.
Roger stayed and watched her fall back to sleep, hopefully a dreamless one. To see his friend in pain was torture, especially for someone as smart as Jane Noir. As he thought over her story, there was one thing that kept repeating itself, her love for Erik, the phantom. The man's actions and inactions made Roger furious. He had put her through so much for one man that didn't realize what he had, and how close it was to slipping between his gloved fingertips. There was nothing to be done now though. He would let her sleep.
The next morning, while preparing breakfast, neither spoke of the nightmare, but Jane knew that Roger was only giving her space and she loved him for that.
Breakfast was held in a large dining room behind the staircase. The female tenants sat comfortably, able to relax without fear of the Madame scolding them or men approaching them. The urchins ran around, preparing the table, while the older ones joined Roger in the kitchen to ready plates for the bedridden folks.
Jane spotted Opal gingerly walking down the stairs. Her face was still swollen but she was more relaxed now that her wounds were healing. She offered her a sweet smile before helping her find a seat at the table.
After cleaning up, Roger spent the day checking his books, admitting new tenants, signing out folks that are leaving, while Jane cleaned the empty rooms. He tried to persuade her to stop and rest, but she refused.
"You have no one here but yourself to tend to all this. The urchins can only do so much and besides, I could use the exercise and God knows those rooms need a lady's touch." She winked at his dumbfounded face before marching upstairs.
The week continued this way and Roger received a steady flow of compliments from guests about the change. The children loved to play with her and help her make the beds, the women said that having Jane around had helped immensely with more personal problems, and his geriatric guests stated that she made them feel young again. She was a brilliant light in their dreary lives. Without the compliments, Roger had already noticed the change as well.
He gave it some thought and decided that he wanted to offer Jane a permanent position at the Inn. He would keep her away from the opera house and that man who caused her horrible nightmares. He also didn't trust anyone else to help run his Inn. Most people were too inept or corrupt, unable to resist the temptation to exploit his tenants.
Yes, he would propose to Jane.
—-
At the Opera house,
The whole week Erik fretted and paced. He became irritable and even snapped at Christine during practice when she missed a note. He knew he was being irrational but he was worried. In the years they were together, Jane never spent more than a day on the surface.
Now, it was a whole week. It felt like years, each day passing slower than the last. He lost all inspiration to compose and he even stopped eating. Everything he made tasted bland compared to the meals Jane used to cook for him. He missed the tune she would hum to herself every day and the strange ideas she would mumble to herself. He didn't realize how big her place was in his life.
Nevertheless, today was the day she was supposed to come back. He waited all night, nerves twitching in anticipation, until the candles burned out and the noise from upstairs stopped entirely. A sinking feeling retched at his stomach, she wasn't coming back.
The next day, Erik walked aimlessly through the rafters, hoping to hear a voice or a sound that might indicate Jane had returned. He couldn't sleep alone in the caves anymore, or he would go mad.
Soon enough, he heard a voice, only it wasn't Jane, it was Christine and her friend Meg Giry.
"…so I've been without help for a whole week, Meg!" His student flung her hands dramatically around her, only to curl around her pouting face.
"Where did Jane go, by the way?" Meg did her best to act as the mitigator for Christine's theatrics.
Christine's hands fell back to her sides, "Some seedy inn called The Dirty Piglett. You know, the one Buquet always talks about. He says that the owner takes advantage of incompetent women. If you know what I mean."
Meg gasped, "Oh no, poor Jane."
"I feel bad for the poor woman. But really, she ought to return soon. I just hope Il Muto goes well." Pulling gently at a stray curl, Christine stared off into the distance for a moment before shaking her head and addressing her friend once more.
The girls moved on to lighter topics as they walked away from where Erik stood listening above.
"The Dirty Piglett? What could have brought her there?" Erik feared the worst.
That night, he would save her.