A/N: Hello! I actually wrote most of this on a flight to a business competition, it's a wonder what will come of a nearly five hour flight.
A man sat perched precariously on the edge of a fire escape, binoculars held to his eyes. He watched a young blonde woman hurry into the house across the street. This was the third day he'd been watching and he thought he had jut about enough information to carry out the work he was commissioned to do.
His name was Brishan. For a year and a half, he was in the army until he was arrested for insubordination to one of his superior officers. The intention was for him to be sent to prison, but he escaped and had been on the run ever since. He was good at that, though. He'd been on the move from place to place all his life and this wasn't much different than being with the band of gypsies he grew up in.
When M. Rosseau had come to him with the job request, he readily accepted. This was in part because he needed the money and also because he had a vendetta of his own against the man M. Rosseau described, except he'd gone by a rather different name the last he heard of him. Brishan's uncle was the leader of the gypsies he traveled with and his name had been Javert. The reason for the usage of the past tense was unfortunate. An attraction they'd had in their rather macabre circus—called the Devil's Child—killed his uncle by stabbing him and vanished into the night.
Brishan was the one to find him and he was only eleven years old at the time. It made a lasting impression on him since he was so young and ever since then he vowed if he saw that hideous fiend again he would kill him on sight. When M. Rosseau described the so-called 'Opera Ghost' that had killed his brother and his friend and had spirited away the woman of his affections, Brishan knew it could only be the Devil's Child. All grown up now though, he supposed. He had every intention of going along with Monsieur Rosseau when he knew the location.
"I'm coming for you, Devi's Child," he murmured, staring up at the sky. "Can you sense it? Do you tremble when you think of it? I'll make you pay for murdering my uncle."
His uncle would be able to rest in peace at long last. Brishan would make no mistake about that. The monster would answer for his crime.
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Erik paced the floor nervously in his flat, hands clasped tightly behind his back. Today was his first day as a music teacher and though he knew he had no reason to be nervous, his heart was hammering in his chest. What if something went wrong? He'd been told some of his students were quite young, what if they were terrified of him? Annoyed with himself, he stopped before he wore a hole in the floor and sighed deeply. What will happen will happen.
A soft meow attracted his attention. Ayesha laid languidly on her side on the sofa, stretching luxuriously, which was her way of asking for attention from her master. She always knew just when to distract him and avoid a complete nervous breakdown on his part. He walked over to her and ran a hand over her side, causing a content purr to rumble in her chest. "Some days I wonder how I would manage without you, cheri," he told her. She looked at him and seemed to say, don't I know. He chuckled, and scratched her ears the way she liked best.
A knock at the door made him brush the cat hair off his suit and open the door. Juliet put her hands on her hips as soon as she saw him. "You've been worrying about your job again, haven't you?" she inquired. "It's going to be just fine, relax a little." She reached up to caress his cheek, fingertips just a little cold from the winter air. "I'll go with you if you'd like."
He shook his head in the negative. "No, mon amour. I'll be all right, you needn't worry yourself." The truth was actually that he didn't want to be escorted to the building like a child who clings to his mother's skirts on the first day of school. If he were going to start a new life, he could begin with being just a little more confident in public areas.
"I'm going there anyway. I thought I might see if there are any auditions in the near future for places in the chorus," Juliet replied.
"I'm certain you could be prima donna again," he told her, pulling his hood over his face and offering her his arm. Juliet shrugged, pressing herself against him. Her face spoke the lack of confidence she felt.
"I don't know, Erik," she sighed. "As much as I'd like to be prima donna again, part of me is saying no. A very large part of me. I don't want to attract too much attention to myself and thereby you." He knew instantly to what she was referring. Or rather, to whom.
"You're still worried about Gaston." It was less a question than it was a statement: he could see the fear of the unbalanced man written across her face as plainly as if she'd printed it in bold ink. Truth be told, Erik wasn't exactly looking forward to their next meeting—and it was inevitable, he was sure—either.
"Of course I am," she murmured, pausing in conversation long enough to step around a puddle of slush. "He attacked M. Khan in order to get information just the other day! I just got a letter from him saying so. I don't think he'd say anything—"
"He'd better not," Erik interrupted darkly. There were a few too many incidents concerning the Persian for him to fully trust the man.
"But he might get seriously hurt or someone else might," Juliet continued. "I don't want to broadcast my position because he'd be after you in a heartbeat. I don't ever want to lose you. And yet, I can't stand to see anyone else get hurt. I don't know what to do," she groaned, sounding so very lost.
"Mon ange, you can't control what will happen," he said, rubbing her hand softly with his thumb. "Do an audition; what happens after that isn't in your power to control."
She smiled gratefully at him. They arrived at the Opera and were forced to part ways. "Thank you for the confidence boost, Erik. I think I needed it more than I let myself admit."
"Any time, he replied, kissing her swiftly before finding his way to the music wing and locating his room. He was in there for scarcely two minutes before a small knock came at his door. It was a child, given the location of the knock. He opened the door to see a young boy who couldn't have been more than nine years old. His eyes were a startling sea foam green and a shock of wild black curls nearly obscured them.
"Are you Monsieur Erik Destler?" the boy inquired in a surprisingly clear and intelligent-sounding voice for one so young. He showed none of the timidity so commonly associated with meeting a stranger at that age.
Erik had done a bit of research and found out his surname was supposed to be Destler, so he adopted it. Before then, he'd never really known what it was nor cared to. However, in finding a job one realizes one needs a last name.
Erik nodded. "I am. And you are..." he trailed off, embarrassed he didn't know the names of his students. The child showed no such reservations.
"Corbett Valois. My mother wants me to study the violin, but I'm not so certain I want to," he said simply and Erik was struck once again by the frank candor of a child.
Erik gestured for the boy to sit down and did the same before he spoke. "Oh?" he asked, folding his hands on his desk. "Why is that?"
"Because it's pointless. Music is boring," he declared. Erik would have been quite peeved at any other time by that statement. However, the sight of the young boy with his arms crossed tightly across his chest and bottom lip stuck out petulantly made him want to laugh. He only narrowly stopped himself.
"Boring?" he repeated in a tone which invited elaboration. Corbett didn't disappoint.
"All it is is repeating notes drawn in a pattern," he explained as though it were the simplest thing to grasp in the world. "It doesn't use any real smarts." Ah, so he was dealing with a young braniac then.
"Well, you must use your brain to read the notes," Erik began. "But it's not music until you can feel it from here." He stood, went over to the boy, and tapped him lightly on the chest, right above where his heart would be. He remained in the same, unimpressed position, arms crossed tightly. A sigh tapped at Erik's lips, begging for release into a full blown sigh of annoyance.
"Prove it?" he suddenly blurted out.
"Let's make a deal," Erik said, crouching down in front of the boy. 'If I fail to impress you, I'll give you the money your mother paid me and you may go home. However, if I manage to make some sort of impression upon you of the favorable sort, you'll try at least one lesson. Agreed?" He held his hand out and the boy flinched ever so slightly, like he was awaiting a blow. Erik's eyebrows furrowed.
Then he flushed like he thought he was being foolish. "Agreed," he murmured softly, sticking his small, smooth hand into Erik's much larger one.
"Right then." He began to unpack his violin, tuning the strings and rubbing a light coating of rosin on his bow. What to play? What could possibly capture the very essence of how music could feel if one feels it from one's heart, hears it from one's soul? There was always... no. He vowed he would never play the song he played for her in the graveyard at midnight ever again. Too many memories would be brought back, ones he'd tried so hard to suppress. That part of his life was behind him now. Maybe... would it work? It wasn't done yet, but it was easily the most directly emotional piece he'd ever written. It was a sort of autobiography in song form.
"Well?" the child interrupted. Oh, he was a persistent one.
"Patience, I was merely finding the right song," Erik said, lifting his violin to his chin and settling the bow lightly on the strings, watching the small puff of rosin rise into the air and settle. He drew a long, deep breath and began to play. As ever, the music seemed to claim his body, taking it over like a living entity. He swayed gently back and forth in time, eyes closed and face relaxed, truly relaxed.
The song could have gone on for eternity, it may have lasted only seconds. Erik couldn't tell; time lost meaning when he played or sang. When the song finished, he slowly lowered the bow and lifted his chin from the rest on the instrument. Upon opening his eyes, he saw the boy sitting there with a slightly dazed expression on his face. The blue-green eyes were open wide and slightly distant, the small mouth slack with wonder. Erik hid a grin behind his hand. He couldn't have hoped for a better result.
"Well?" he repeated the boy's earlier question back to him.
"How do you do that?" Corbett breathed.
"As I said, I play from my heart, not my mind."
"That song... it was very sad, but the ending was happier."
"Yes," Erik murmured, sitting down again. "Yes, I suppose it was."
"Teach me how to do that," he demanded, almost immediately shrinking and whispering, "Sorry, sir. Could you please show me how to do that?"
Erik wondered what would give the boy cause to shrink so when he did something he feared would be considered wrong. "Well, I can certainly try. But you have to truly want to play. Do you?"
"Yes, yes!" he cried. Erik chuckled, pulling out a basic chart of notes.
"All right, then. Let's start by looking at these, shall we?"
The remainder of the lesson passed by in a flash and soon Corbett was on his way out the door, violin case in hand, a wide smile on his face. It wasn't until his next lesson, which was with a young girl in her early teens who wanted to sing, that he realized something. The girl's eyes had immediately flown to his mask and she hardly spoke another word for the duration of the lesson. But the boy hadn't mentioned the mask once. He hadn't even really paid it any special attention. Children never ceased to confuse and amaze him.
By the end of the day he was exhausted, but content. His new job made him quite happy, it was good to be teaching music again.
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Juliet took a deep breath, hand on the doorknob that led to the choral practice rooms. The managers—who were quite a lot nicer than Firmin and Andre, especially since one of them was her uncle—told her they were holding auditions that week since it was the end of the contractual period and they were deciding whether or not to extend several contracts. Breathe, Juliet. In and out, she reminded herself. You know how your throat constricts when you get nervous.
"Mademoiselle Leroux?" An older man who Juliet knew very well popped his head around the door, a smile lighting up his face at the sight of her.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Blanc," she beamed. "I didn't know you were still directing here!" He enveloped her in a warm hug that smelled of the musty pages of music he immersed himself in most of the time.
"I couldn't think of doing anything else, mon cheri," he replied, holding her at arm's length. "Oh, look at you! Quite different from the little Julie who would come running in here with a wide eyed stare to watch the singers rehearse, yes?"
Juliet blushed. "Yes, I would suppose so."
"So," the older man said, returning to business. "You're here for an audition? I haven't heard you sing for a long time, but I did catch wind that you were the prima donna at Garnier's opera house."
Juliet nodded, smiling through the flurry of butterflies evidently doing aerobics in her abdomen. "Yes sir, I was."
He shook his head. "Shame the old place burned down, I liked going there on my infrequent stops to Paris." Stopping abruptly, he leaned down and put his mouth next to her ear. His voice was barely above a breath, urgent, inquiring. "What's all the business with the Phantom, then? I heard he vanished after the Daaé affair. Died, perhaps. But your friend M. Destler is making me think otherwise."
Juliet stopped her jaw before it could take a plunge in the general direction of the floor. "Sorry?"
"Oh Julie, surely you must realize your friend's rather odd facial attire is raising an awful lot of eyebrows, especially for those of us who frequent Paris," Monsieur Blanc said. "I just want to know, is he or is he not the man known as the Phantom of the Opera?"
"Monsieur Blanc, that's really a very odd..." she paused, faltering under his astute gaze. "Well... Yes, but he's not as he seems," she hastened to add at the rather stunned and terrified look on his face. "Yes, the Christine Daaé thing did happen, and yes, his record isn't exactly spotless, but he's changed so much."
M. Blanc's eyes were nearing the size of dinner plates. "Are you sure, though? How can you possibly know he's actually changed? Emotions can cloud one's judgment, cheri," he warned her, rubbing a gnarled, aging hand over her shoulder. "Especially love."
Juliet started. "Love, Monsieur?"
He gave her a significant look that spoke far louder than his rather soft voice. "I believe you know better than I what exactly that means," he said.
"Yes," she confessed. "I haven't let my love cloud my judgment, I promise you. He told me his life story before I made my decision whether or not to trust him. As you can see, I trust him. In fact, I trust Erik with my life. I have good reason to, he saved my life. I will never forget that as long as I live." She suddenly stopped, aware of her bold, blatant manner with the man who got her started in singing. "I'm sorry, I—"
He cut her off with a chuckle. "No need to apologize, ma biche. I see it in your eyes, you love your Erik more than you love your life. I believe you that he's changed, I would just caution you on one thing: don't let your love prevent you from seeing things as they are. Love can make you blind to outside events that may harm you if you ignore them."
Juliet felt tears of gratitude prick her eyes as she flung her arms around M. Blanc in a tight embrace. Finally, someone who understood. "Thank you," she whispered.
He patted her back softly. "Any time, cheri. Let's hear that prima donna-worthy voice of yours."
She took a deep breath, wiping her eyes with the pads of her fingers. "Okay." After a moment, she added, "Monsieur Blanc?"
"Yes, mademoiselle?"
"I'd like it very much if I didn't have to sing anything from Carmen, even though many of the songs are in my repertoire."
He blinked once in confusion. "I suppose, is there a particular reason?"
"That would be a spectacularly long story I would prefer not to tell."
About thirty minutes later, Juliet stepped out of the room feeling extremely satisfied with the audition she had just done. Some aspects of it were not perfect—she hadn't expected it to be flawless—but nevertheless, she was happy with how it had gone.
M. Blanc poked his head around the doorframe. "Come sing for me again sometime, yes? You've made excellent progress in the last few years! I'll let you know when the results are in."
"Thank you, Monsieur! I'll be sure to keep in touch," Juliet called. She wondered how Erik's classes were going. More than anything she wanted to go sit in on the lessons, but she didn't want to intrude and she had some errands she'd been ignoring all day.
With a sigh, she fluffed her fingertips through the back of her hair and pulled her cloak over her shoulders. The market was just exactly the last place she wanted to go right then. She'd never admit it to anyone, not out loud anyway, but she was still frightened of traveling in the open alone for any length of time.
She supposed she had a fairly good reason to be.
At the market, the back of her neck continuously prickled like someone was staring at her. There was obviously no one there when she stopped to look around, and she berated herself for being foolish. You're being paranoid, she told herself firmly. It's not as though Gaston is going to come leaping out at you in a public place like this.
That thought did little to appease the pattering beat of her heart and in fact made the prospect of walking home alone just that much more unappealing. "Oh, for heaven's sake," she sighed out loud, leaning against the wall and rubbing an exasperated hand across her forehead. The sense of impending disaster still abounded.
"Juliet?" A voice materialized centimeters from her ear, causing her to jump, clutching at her heart and bags of groceries. "I didn't mean to frighten you, I'm sorry." It was Tristan. She liked him well enough, but she wasn't in the mood for a long, most likely pointless, conversation.
"It's all right, Tristan," she said, hoping she could manage to sneak away before too long. "I'm just feeling a touch jumpy today."
"I was going to ask you about that," he said. "You look rather pale, you're certain you feel all right?"
She smiled reassuringly. "I'm perfectly fine, I think today is just a bit of an off day for me. I suspect it's because I'm so busy today. Speaking of which, if you'll excuse me..." she trailed off meaningfully, glancing at the exit discreetly. His buoyant behavior dropped just a fraction.
"Of course, I'm sorry for keeping you," he said. "Perhaps I'll see you tomorrow?"
She winced internally, sincerely hoping it wouldn't happen. "Perhaps. Have a nice day." She sped out the door, sighing in relief only when she was back home.
Something had to be done about Tristan. Juliet suspected his intentions weren't all in the name of friendship.
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Meg hitched at the straps on her purse, tugging them further up her arm. She had just been to the store to buy some sewing supplies for her mother, who was fixing up some costumes with holes in various places from the wear and tear of dancing. As ever, her neck prickled and she looked behind her, expecting to see nothing.
She definitely saw something.
A carriage was barreling in her direction, seemingly out of control. A shriek tore from her lips as she tried to dive out of the way, the image of a spooked horse filling her vision entirely. She wouldn't make it, it was going to hit her.
Suddenly, a hand yanked her out of the way, a strong arm holding her tightly with her face against his bicep. She looked up to see a man with swarthy skin and a thinly muscular build. He was reining the horse in with the other hand, speaking sternly to the driver. There seemed to be something staged and false about him.
"We don't want to hurt any pretty ladies, do we Monsieur?" the man asked. "Be a little more careful, keep your animal in control."
"Thank you, Monsieur," Meg gasped, trying to calm her wild pulse. "I think I might be—" She was suddenly rather drowsy. Through hazy senses, she realized just how sickly sweet the man's arm smelled. No. She tried to struggle out of his arm, but he was too strong for her. He had drugged her.
"Bit premature for thanks, don't you think, mademoiselle?" he sneered. "Don't fret, a friend of mine just wants some questions answered and we were told you were the best one to ask." Through ears that felt like she'd been shoved underwater, she heard him say in a louder voice, "Oh dear, I believe she's fainted from too much excitement. Could I trouble you to drive us to the doctor? It would be the least you could do, nearly running her over and all."
She was dimly aware of being hefted into the carriage like a sack of potatoes. "Stop," she slurred, her tongue far too fat and heavy for her mouth.
"Why would I do that, mademoiselle? I'm just doing my job, after all. I got paid quite handsomely for this job. I'm certainly not going to jeopardize that. I think you look awfully tired. You should rest." He pressed his sleeve to her mouth and nose again, more harshly this time.
Meg fought against the effects of the chloroform, but it was too much. Slowly, she sank down against the seat, drifting into a place where there was no sound or light.
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Back at her house, Antoinette Giry began to worry when her daughter failed to return after an hour. What had happened to her?
Settling her hat firmly on her head, she went to Nadir Khan's flat and knocked briskly. He opened the door with his coat on already, looking like he was on his way out the door. His brows were tightly knitted in a worried frown. "Have you heard?" he asked urgently, eyes filled with what looked suspiciously like pity. Antoinette's heart kicked up a couple notches.
"Heard what?" she inquired, hand wrapped tightly around Nadir's muscular forearm. "What's happened?"
He lowered his eyes as though he couldn't bear to meet her gaze as he delivered the news. "Meg's been kidnapped." His voice was barely audible.
Antoinette's world came to a screeching halt in that moment.
A/N: Oh dear. Return of the cliffhanger!
Review? :3