A/N: Somewhat of a boring chapter? I had to get through this, though I felt it was a little rambly and disjointed in parts. I know quite a few of you are probably anticipating Amelie's reaction to Erik's little secret, but I'm afraid you guys will have to wait a little longer (;
Savannah White: We'll see if the confrontation goes smoothly (; I'm guessing you guys may be surprised by how I choose to take this story!
Masked Man 2: Gosh, if Erik were my piano teacher I would have given up a long time ago X) I'm afraid I'm not as strong or determined as Christine is, it's a good thing my piano teacher was a kindly old lady.
icanhearthedrums: Hehehehe it wouldn't be Amelie if she didn't fight to put Erik back on the correct path.
Aria: Those lessons must have been agonizing for Christine to endure X) I cannot imagine anybody who would want Erik for a teacher, he must have been an absolute slavedriver!
Wild Concerto: Wow, I'm so glad it's exactly how you thought it to be! :D
Mystify: Eh? Who's Emily? I haven't written Christine meeting the Phantom yet, so we don't know whether or not she'll scream, though. (; I'm glad you like the story!
O.G: Never fear, for there is more to come!
Thank you PrettyRecklessLaura for the fav/follow! It is much appreciated xx
Chapter 24: Well-Laid Plans
Paris, 1895
When Antoinette entered her room, she could tell that someone had been inside. The room smelled of the exotic cologne he always wore, and she smiled wryly. I should tell him to stop using that lest someone smells it. Whoever heard of a ghost wearing scent?
And even before she looked at her table, she knew that there would be a note there, written in the familiar slanting script, folded in exactly the same way all its predecessors had been. It was the way Erik worked— like clockwork. She placed her cane on the table, and picked up the note, wondering what Erik wanted this time. His demands were usually small and trivial, such as a request to collect his monthly salary from Box Five, or various other errands. This note, however, was different.
It did not carry details on what errands she was to run for you. Meet me when you have the time. Knock on the door of your wardrobe.
Antoinette could count the number of times Erik had requested to meet her on her two hands. The two of them kept their meetings rare and in secret places, to avoid Erik being found out, and truthfully, there was very little reason for Erik to meet her anyway. Much of their conversation could be carried out via correspondence in the form of letters which could be easily burned and destroyed. Why does he want to see me?
Antoinette crossed over to the door of the room and locked it, before cautiously tapping on the door of her wardrobe.
She did not have to wait long. Within minutes, she heard a brief shuffling sound coming from within the large cupboard, and soon the doors of the cupboard opened to reveal Erik. He stepped out of the wardrobe, gingerly brushing cobwebs off his pristine suit.
Antoinette barely blinked at the sight of a man climbing out of her wardrobe—she had known Erik for a long time, and she knew that there were a multitude more secret passages throughout the opera house than he had deigned to show her. After all, he had to have had a way to leave the messages on her table without anybody noticing him. Antoinette was not surprised that the secret passageway came in the form of her wardrobe.
"Erik." Her greeting was clipped and short, but warm.
"Antoinette." He bowed deeply, with something like a mocking smile on his face. "How good of you to see me."
Antoinette resisted the brief urge to roll her eyes, unwilling to participate in the undignified action. "I see you every time you ask me to, Erik."
He said nothing, but merely smiled a humourless smile and settled himself down at her table gracefully. Antoinette brought over a pot of tea she had been warming on the stove, pouring it out into cups. Erik took a sip and grimaced.
"How you drink this tepid tasteless tea is beyond my imagination, Antoinette."
"How you drink that putrid bitter liquid that you call tea is beyond my imagination." Antoinette remarked.
"Amélie drinks it quite well." He retorted back at her, and Antoinette had to hide a smile at his indignant face, so much like the young boy she had known so many years ago.
"I am not Amélie, Erik. Therefore we shall both respect each others' tastes in disgusting beverages. Now, to what do I owe the honour of this visit?" Antoinette bantered back at him. "It cannot be another scheme of yours to run the opera house, can it?"
The look on his face told her that she had hit home. She frowned and opened her mouth, but Erik beat her to it.
"Everything I do for the opera house is for its own good, Antoinette. Have I ever made a decision that harmed the opera house?"
She pursed her lips, but knew that he was right. Erik ran the opera house far better than Debienne had ever done, so much that Debienne had given up complaining about the Opera Ghost, and now followed his orders with much less protestation. Antoinette even thought that Debienne was glad to have the Opera Ghost's guidance.
"What is it this time, then? You have been terrorizing Debienne well enough on your own without my help, so why the sudden visit? But I assure you, Erik, if your new plan involves yet another scheme to remove Carlotta from this opera house, it is highly unlikely that— "
Antoinette broke off when she saw the burning look on Erik's face, and the way he gripped his teacup tightly, his knuckles white. "Erik, you and I both know that Carlotta cannot leave this opera house. The establishment would flounder and drown without her presence to draw in the crowds. Is that not the reason why you have allowed her to stay on, with the odd incident to scare her back into behaving?"
"I have a trump card." Erik declared firmly. "I have a way to replace Carlotta."
"Really? Does that way include you showing yourself to the world and taking Carlotta's place? Because you are the only person I know who could sing well enough to convince the operatic world that you are worthy of Carlotta's place."
There was a faint ghost of a smirk on Erik's face. "I have found someone better than Carlotta, someone who could beat her with the talent she possesses in a pinky finger. I vow it, Antoinette, she will take Carlotta's place."
"Why now, Erik? Why do you suddenly want Carlotta gone, why do you suddenly need a replacement for Carlotta?"
"I want to see my work performed on the opera stage, and then I can retire from the opera house for good." Erik wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Carlotta would never, not in a million years, be good enough for my opera. She may be good enough for Debienne, and good enough for the rest of the opera goers, but she will never be even close to adequate for me."
Antoinette was stunned. Erik had never mentioned, not once, an imminent departure from the opera house, not since he had returned from Persia a broken man. Antoinette inched a hand cautiously across the table to squeeze Erik's hand tentatively.
"Are… are you leaving, Erik?"
Part of Antoinette was scared. She was scared that Erik would leave once again, and leave her to pick up the shattered memories he had left behind. She was scared for Erik, for his future if he ever left the opera house. But most of all, she was scared for Amélie, whose face lit up every time she spotted Erik in the wings of the theatre. Antoinette had caught the mutual grins between them whenever Erik had appeared during rehearsals, and Antoinette knew that there was something beyond friendship there, as much as the two refused to admit it. And Antoinette was scared, for she did not know how she could comfort Amélie this time if Erik did leave.
"Leaving?" Erik looked pensive. "In a way, yes, Antoinette, I do intend to leave this opera house one day."
"And us? Do you intend to leave us without a word again?" Antoinette's voice was flat, and filled with dread.
"Leave the most important people in my life? Leave Amélie?" Erik raised his eyebrows at her quizzically. "Most definitely not. I said retire, not disappear. Really, Antoinette, I would have thought you would have a better opinion of me. Did you think that I would really leave again?"
"You left and disappeared, the last time you spoke to me about leaving." Antoinette said stubbornly. Erik made an exasperated sound.
"I was a fool then, Antoinette." He looked her squarely in the eye. "I did not know what I wanted back then, and I sought only to carve a future for myself. But now I know, and now I will get what I want."
"And what is it that you want, Erik? What do you intend this end goal to be?"
"Do you really not know the answer to that question, Antoinette?" He whispered softly, and Antoinette saw it in his eyes.
"Tell me your plans."
For Antoinette would help Erik as best as she could, if only to let him have his happy ending.
And so Erik spoke. He told her of the discovery of Christine Daae and her voice, so clear and lyrical like a songbird's, that he had mistaken her to be an angel when he had first heard her sing. How ironic it was that she now thought of him as her angel. Erik planned to train her to take over Carlotta's role. The Palais Garnier was showing a production of Chalumeau's Hannibal, and she would be the new prima donna, a prima donna worthy of the part of Elissa.
He would find a way to stop Carlotta from performing on the night that he deemed fit for Christine's debut, and then Christine would step onto the stage and sing. Erik was confident that the opera goers would be won over the minute they heard Christine's voice. But for Christine to even gain a chance to appear on that stage, Erik needed Antoinette's help to push for Christine to take Carlotta's place.
Once Christine was recognized as the gem that she was, Erik could demand for his own opera to be performed, with Christine as the lead. His magnum opus was almost complete—it had been written for Christine and only Christine to perform. Only her voice was good enough. Only she could sing it perfectly. She could bring his work to light, show the world his music.
And perhaps, finally, Erik could step out of the shadows he had spent his whole life hiding in.
What is my end goal, indeed?
When all this is over, I will be able to walk the streets as a normal man. When all is done, I will be recognized as an accomplished composer, will be able to earn my own keep like any normal man.
What I am doing now is not enough, not by any means. I am still hiding under the guise of a fake name, living a mere whisper of a life.
When all this is over, I will be able to live a life, the life I've always wanted to live.
I want… I want Amélie in my life.
And by doing all this, I will be able to give her the life she deserves. I need to try at least. She will probably reject me, the deluded fool that I am, but… I have to try.
Erik stared at Antoinette, though he was not focusing on her. She could see a steely determination in his eyes, as he clenched his fists, lost in thought. And for all of Erik's bravado, Antoinette knew that deep down, all Erik had ever wanted was to live his life as a normal person. Sometimes she even wondered if he would have willingly exchanged all his talent just for a chance to live life as a normal person.
And within her heart, Antoinette prayed that all of Erik's plans, so carefully laid, would come to fruition—then Erik could, perhaps, have the happy ending he so desired.
XXXXX
Erik was padding silently through the quiet corridors of the opera house when he heard a soft whimper. He stopped and frowned. Rehearsals for the day had ended, and most of the staff should have taken the opportunity to rest in their rooms, or to visit the town. He had spotted a few lone employees walking around the corridors, picking up their belongings before making their way out of the main section of the building that housed the theatre, rehearsal rooms and storage rooms.
When he heard a muffled squeal, he pressed himself tighter against the wall. It would not do to be caught wandering around the opera house, an unnamed stranger.
"Gag her!" He heard a distinctly male voice hiss, and the sounds of fumbling and more squeaks.
Erik's pulse quickened. He walked toward the source of the sounds, and carefully glanced around the corner of the wall. There was a little nook in there, a small, cramped space which was hidden quite nicely by a wall. Erik himself had hidden there many times.
It was now occupied by two, large, looming figures, who, upon squinting closely at their features, Erik recognized as two of the stagehands. They were looming over a small, prone figure that was leaning against the wall, struggling to get free of the iron grip one of them had around her wrists.
"Let me go, you brutes!"
"Not until we get a chance to sample your wares, my sweet flower." One of the stagehands rasped in a greasy voice. "You would not want to deny us, would you?"
Erik would recognize that sinister voice anywhere—Joseph Buquet, the chief stagehand. He was a large lout of a man, rude and lecherous, and Erik had caught him cornering ballet rats in dark places for far too many times. This will be the last time. Quietly, quietly, Erik inched forward, reaching out his hands toward Buquet's neck. The Punjab would leave telltale signs of rope burn, but the quick snap of a neck with bare hands would leave less evidence.
His gloved fingers slid quickly around the man's neck, tightening over rolls of fat. Buquet choked, his hands coming up to his neck to grasp weakly at the skeletal fingers of death around his windpipe.
Erik concentrated his strength, determined to finish it once and for all, but he had forgotten that Buquet had had a companion. The man, looking around in the darkness in fright and trying to squint to get a clearer picture of Erik, wrenched a knife out of his boot and waved it wildly in the darkness.
One of his wild swings hit Erik in the arm, and sliced cleanly through his skin. Erik hissed in pain, and loosened his grip on Buquet's neck slightly.
"Get him!" Buquet rasped, still struggling to pull Erik's hands off his neck. His companion, having felt the slice of metal through flesh, began to jab and swing in Erik's direction.
"I'm over here… come and get me." Erik threw his voice to right behind the man, and the man swung around wildly, his eyes wide.
"It's the Opera Ghost!" He yelled. Buquet grunted in pain as Erik began to tighten his grip again, ignoring the burning pain in his arm. He had felt worse before.
"He's right over here, you idiot!" His voice was choked and pained now, and Erik would have finished the job cleanly if not for the thudding of footsteps and shouting that signaled the arrival of other opera house employees.
"What's going on here?"
"Who's that?"
Erik cursed silently and turned, pressing one hand over his wound in an attempt to staunch the bleeding and stop the dripping blood from creating tracks leading to his house, making a dash for the nearest passageway he had.
The flickering lamplight from the lanterns and candles the other employees had brought with them bounced off the stone walls and all the men saw was a dark shadow before their eyes, before it disappeared into thin air, and all that was left behind was a faint whisper of a cackle, like the residue of an unpleasant encounter with the supernatural lingering in the air.
One of the set painters stepped forward with his lantern, peering at the darkness.
"For shame, Buquet. Your misbehavior knows no bounds." He shoved Buquet aside and helped the girl to her feet. "We will be forced to report this to the management if we see this happening again."
He spat on the floor next to Buquet, and left, with the rest of the employees trailing behind him, murmuring in displeasure.
Buquet, still massaging his throat, snarled and made a rude gesture at their departure. He turned to his companion, who was still staring at his knife in wonder. He raised the knife, and Buquet saw that it was stained satisfyingly with fresh blood.
Buquet looked at the other stagehand, a satisfied and predatory smile inching its way across his mouth, a cross between a smirk and a snarl creeping over his face. He wrenched the knife from the stagehand's hand, running a hand over it and rubbing the fresh blood between his fingertips.
"Do you know what this means, Francis?" His voice was still rough and crackly, a testament of the recent strangling. "The so-called Opera Ghost was nothing but a man."
"What? No can be; I heard the Opera Ghost behind me as I was tryin' to stab your attacker. I am sure it ain't him." Francis said dumbly, scratching his head.
"You fool!" Buquet snarled. "That must 'ave been one of his tricks, trickery of some sort. Mark my words, that was the Opera Ghost with us, and he is a man."
Buquet tucked the knife lovingly into his shirt. "And I'll be damned if I don't get my revenge on that stinkin' ghost. Or should I say dead man?"
He cackled as best as he could, and walked off into the darkness.
A/N: Ooer, someone's got a lead on our leading man! As usual, please read/review/follow/fav/let me know what you think! xx hazel