"But- you will return." Christine searched his eyes for confirmation. Erik seemed to inhale from resignation to hope. "You will come back to me?"
He gave the tiniest of smiles. "You amaze me in every way. Here I have laid out all my grisly crimes, and yet it seems- you still wish for me to come home."
"Of course I do!" She was offended at his implication. "What, you think I would run after all this time?"
"Never. I only mean to commend your strength." His thumb traced circles at her warm shoulder, feeling the divots of scars beneath the thin fabric of the gown. "I know it is far too soon for us to part ways, but I also know you will be well without me."
"Temporarily," she insisted, pressing her face to his bony chest.
"Temporarily," he agreed.
Christin sighed deeply. Some things are unavoidable. This is one of them. "When do you have to go?"
"By morning. I have a train to catch."
…
Det. Moreau found herself quite intrigued with her reading for the day. She voraciously scoured page after page regarding her quarry, the Persian assassin. As it turned out, he was not Persian at all; he was a white man who'd traveled to Persia by sea. Then, under the Shahanshah's wing, he was groomed into the most fearsome killer in the Orient. If it weren't for his obvious lack of moral scruples, Amata would have admired the man's efficiency and precision. Every kill was clean and quiet, no matter the method. He had a particular fondness for garroting and strangulation. To Persia, at least at the time, he'd been halfway between terrifying legend and national hero.
It was also clear this man was insanely intelligent (and perhaps literally insane). During his stay, the Persian court enjoyed a great growth in arts and culture. It was never clear from the records exactly what he created, aside from the one palace. He was, by all accounts, the exception to nature's every rule.
There was also a certain peculiarity to the reports. All these warrants and not one sketch of what he looks like! Then again, this is the first time I've been contracted to catch a professional. All accounts of his physical appearance remained standard: tall and wiry, with a face always masked. Tall and wiry could be anyone, anywhere in the world. Then again, tall and wiry with a knack for murder and architecture narrowed the field considerably.
She groaned and pressed her knuckles into her tired eyes. After hours of staring at small print and a substantial number of handwritten translations, she was in need of a rest. Lunch might be a good idea. I'll just take a cab to that little bakery by the opera, the one with my favorite profiteroles. So, gathering the most relevant documents into a folder, she donned coat and scarf to venture out into the street. It occurred to her that sustaining herself with a diet of sugar was neither healthy nor economical, but at the moment, she was so drained, she could not bring herself to care.
The winter air was simultaneously still and biting as she hailed a cab and rode to the bakery. The window was small, but a view of the frosted streets and beautifully rendered architecture reminded her why she loved where she was. Returning to Paris was a good decision, even if I remain alone. Working women were rare in the upper classes, and this separated her from the greater part of society. However, since she had no immediate plans to find a husband and settle, this arrangement gave her no trouble. At any rate, men seemed like more trouble than they were worth.
When the cab stopped, she stepped out onto the curb and scurried into the warm, fragrant bakery, stomach grumbling. In a few minutes, she was settled into a comfortable window seat with chocolate-covered cream puffs, a mug of steaming cocoa, and the morning's paper.
After skimming through some general reports about the weather (frigid) and sporting events (also frigid), Amata thumbed to the section on missing persons, since unsolved cases were her source of income.
She almost choked on her hot chocolate when she read the first name: Christine Daaé. La Daaé, missing? Why was this not on the front page? Upon further inspection, she found that the original news had erupted weeks ago. At the time, the young detective had been in the Americas, enjoying New York's theater scene with a distant relative. After that, she'd been busy working on an old case the police left cold. Having been a fan of La Daaé, particularly her stint as Faust's Marguerite, she devoured the article.
Amata remembered the year's scandals. The phantom affair was prominent in her mind- it had been the story of the year for a number of reasons. What she gleaned, there in the shadow of Apollo's Lyre, shook the very foundations of her perception.
It also made her consider asking for a bonus from Count Philippe.
…
If Christine had not been asleep when Erik departed, she would not have let him go. When she woke to an empty space beside her and found it cold, she made her way to the kitchen and found M. Khan waiting. He informed her that Erik had left hours ago, and that even he had no inkling as to where he'd gone.
Time sped up in a surreal blur. She dressed, packed her things (her old clothes, mostly gifts from Erik) and her beloved Don Juan score and wrapped her whole head in a scarf against the cold. In a few minutes, she and Nadir were in a cab and heading to Mlle. Biyu Li's apartment in the downtown area.
"She's a wonderful woman, you'll see- and she cooks the most delicious things. Try not to think of it as hiding," Nadir reassured. "It'll be a bit like a vacation, and then Erik will be back, and you both can do whatever you like from there. Goodness knows he's rich enough for that."
She gave him a sad half-smile. "In the near future I would like to repay her for her generosity, but I have nothing yet."
Sensing the worry that ate away every moment, he sighed deeply. "He will be perfectly well, wherever he is. If anyone knows how to survive the worst, it's him." Then he grinned. "If anything, your concern makes me more certain than ever."
"And why is that?" Christine queried from behind her scarf.
"It has never been more clear to me that you love him. Erik would move heaven and earth for me, and he will not even admit he likes me," he muttered half to himself. "Now just imagine what he might do for you, a woman he loves, who loves him in return."
She leaned back in the padded seat with a huff. "It is that reckless love that worries me."
"Nonetheless, he will return," the Persian said with enviable calm. "A little disappearing act never hurt anyone, least of all him. You know, he once disappeared on me for a whole month. Not a word about anything, just- poof." He gestured with his hands.
"M. Khan?"
"Yes?"
"That's not reassuring at all."
"Ah. My apologies, I'll close my mouth now." True to his word, Nadir was quiet for the rest of the ride. When they arrived to the apartment building, he stepped out and tipped the cabby generously. Christine carried her own things in and up the stairs- they weren't much heavier than an overnight bag. Still, her own strength surprised her. Erik had truly healed her.
Nadir knocked on the heavy door. A moment later there was a metallic click as the woman inside undid the latch- and without preamble seized him by the shirtfront for a bit of passionate smooching. The lovers separated a few seconds after Christine decided to clear her throat a bit loudly. As much as I approve of their devotion, I do not wish for a view of the inside of M. Khan's mouth.
"Ahem, er, Biyu, this Christine Daaé," he said, straightening his collar. "Christine, this is Biyu Li, your host for the foreseeable future."
Biyu, who recovered admirably without a hair of her tight updo undone, bowed slightly and extended her hand for a shake. She did not flinch when the hand that shook hers appeared to be missing swathes of skin and even a fingernail. Perhaps she had seen her fair share of damaged human bodies. Even so, Christine found herself reluctant to remove any outerwear, even the stifling scarf.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mlle. Daaé. Won't you come in? I have a full day off and a pot of soup on the stove."
They all went in. After a few minutes discussing basic amenities, she found it surprisingly easy to talk to the calm, reserved woman across the table. She and Nadir got on well, to say the least, which made Christine feel slightly more at ease. much to her relief, Biyu did not ask her to remove her scarf when it grew too warm to keep her coat on, nor did she comment on her choice of dress: several layers of nightclothes rather than a proper dress. I don't think I could bear to wear those pretty dresses looking like I do.
Alone, with Erik, she was herself unfettered. Here, back in the world…even eating soup was a challenge. She almost wished she'd brought a mask with her.
"Well," Nadir said rather reluctantly, "I suppose I had best let you get settled in- and tend to Ahmar. She probably needs a meal by now." He leaned back. One hand was under the table- probably to squeeze Mlle. Li's hand. Obviously he's reluctant to leave Biyu so soon. He's like a lovesick pup, Christine thought with amusement. Am I that way around Erik? I suppose.
Did you hear that, Erik? I love you, so you'd best return to me, or- or… Or she'd never have another chance to show him what love was. Never sing his compositions again, never see his smiles behind all that dry cynicism. She bit her lip and ducked her head to stifle the fresh tears. I can't think of that. Survival is what matters now, or he will not have anyone to be his strength.
M. Khan bid them a good day, and Biyu cleared the table, recognizing her need to sit quietly for the moment. A few minutes later, she returned with a handkerchief. When she offered a hug, Christine did not refuse.
…
At precisely 1:00pm, a gaunt man clad in a smart business suit boarded the Orient Express to Strasbourg. A second thin man in a rough black coat also boarded, headed to Munich. In the back of the calais car, a third man in proper gentlemen's clothes sat down to a sparse meal in preparation for the trip to Vienna. Just feet away in the second-class compartments, another man in a suit downed a glass of liquor, fully intending to sleep all the way to Budapest, if possible. Three compartments away, a fifth man in a suit flipped through the latest novel by a favorite author- it would be mental sustenance on the ride to Bucharest. In the baggage car, a sixth man in an ill-fitting suit jacket fussed with his travel bag. The seventh man in a suit was not a passenger, but an attendant scheduled to work until the last stop in Istanbul.
The name of the first man: Erik Anderssen. Of the second: Erik Johansson. Of the third: Erik Karlsson. Of the fourth: Erik Nilsson. Of the fifth: Erik Eriksson. Of the sixth: Erik Larsson. Of the seventh: Erik Olsson.
The train left the station at 1:15pm, carrying seven tall, thin Scandinavian men with unremarkable features by the name (false or otherwise) of Erik. Each of these men carried with them obscene amounts of cash on their person with which they paid for their tickets, meals, and other services. All of them generally avoided other people. Staff, excluding the last man in a suit, regarded the incredible coincidence with shrugs and a few snickers. Rumors flew, escaping the train and spreading through the station.
Erik smiled grimly to himself and settled in to wait.
…
When Det. Moreau had sent a telegram insisting she must discuss something important with him, Philippe de Chagny grinned wolflike and predatory. Was his money finally returning? Or perhaps there was nothing of true importance and the detective simply wished to discuss a bit more business- compensation, and such. Either way, he liked the idea of seeing her again, in any capacity. She certainly isn't hard on the eyes. Perhaps not grandmother's idea of marriage material, but definitely my idea of the perfect winter fling.
At any rate, the return on his investment into the case could fast be returning. Instead of sending a message in return, he left his office and its abundance of paperwork to meet Mlle. Moreau that evening by the central fountain at the Place de Vosges. She had asked that he conceal his identity, and that they meet in secret. If it weren't strictly a business meeting, Philippe might have supposed they could be a couple having a torrid affair.
When he finally arrived to the appointed meeting place, she was already there. The woman turned at the sound of his footsteps on the iced paving stones. "You're late." Mlle. Moreau's pretty mouth was set in a hard line.
"Yes, but I pay you, not the other way around," he said smugly. "What was it you wished to discuss? Not money, I hope; it hasn't been a week yet."
She rolled her eyes, but at least made an effort to remain civil. "There has been a development in the case, one that requires police presence."
At this his gaze darkened. "I dislike Parisian police- they do little to curb crime and tend to put a dent in profit margins. I have men who can do a cleaner job-"
The woman cut him off with a huff. "Forgive me, M. le Comte, if I overstep my boundaries by saying so, but I am a professional investigator. It is my professional opinion that the assassin you wished to ensnare is too dangerous to be confronted by one person who owns one gun. Despite my cooperation with the police, I have never failed and never lost my quarry, so you had best listen to me if there isn't excess wax in your pampered earholes!"
For about ten seconds, Philippe stood in stunned silence. No one, no woman, had ever dared address him so assertively, least of all those on his payroll. When he did not speak immediately, she continued.
"In fact, I might report you to the police for withholding information about a known criminal- one still within city limits." She folded her arms with satisfaction when this captured his attention. The count scowled. Then he took off his hat, inspected it, and set it back on his head.
"What do you mean, 'within city limits'? I hired you to find a political assassin. That, I believe, is state jurisdiction, not city police." Does she mean to tell me that this criminal is in Paris?
Amata narrowed her eyes, assessing him. "I should remind you that bounty hunting is illegal in France. Thus, police presence is required if you want to catch this man."
Just to piss her off, Philippe wiped his pinkies inside his ears and held them up. They were both clean. "I'm listening." The young woman just rolled her eyes.
"That's disgusting."
"I've been called worse," the count said with a smirk. "Now, get to the point- the sooner he's incarcerated, the sooner you'll be paid."
"Fine. However, regardless if you believe me, I am going to the police with this information." She crossed her arms even tighter against a sudden chill. Then she tensed as something hard and cold pressed into her lumbar vertebrae. A thug behind her seized her wrists and twisted them up behind her back.
"No, you are not." Philippe watched with no small amount of satisfaction as Det. Moreau's expression changed from annoyance to fear. "I never go anywhere without a bodyguard on call. You see, I'm in need of funds for my political campaign, funds my explorer brother has spent. I intended to redeem every bounty from every country, and give you a generous cut. You could have been a millionaire." He retrieved a pistol from his coat pocket and cocked it. "Unfortunately, because you are a stupid woman, you will now divulge your information and leave the country, if you know what's good for you."
He stepped in close to the detective, saw her pale, gritted teeth and cold sweat. Then he angled his gun just under her chin. One twitch of his index, and her brains would splatter on the ice and rock below. That pale throat convulsed as she swallowed back terror. "Come now, detective, would you die for a known criminal?" His logic won out in the end.
"The opera-" she panted through the pain of her twisted arms. "The assassin fled to Paris- he is the phantom of the opera."
Philippe licked his lips and smiled. Then, before withdrew his gun, he leaned even closer and dragged his tongue over Amata's temple. She shook. "Hmmm… Intriguing."