Chapter Five

Miford massaged his temples for what seemed to be the twentieth time that morning alone. Three wasted, unproductive days of clues which all led to dead ends. He was no closer to solving the case than he was when he first learned of it.

He'd been through many futile questionings with nearly single one of the Opera's staff, and all he'd gained from each was a piece of Ghost lore, sometimes new, usually something he'd already heard, until he was sure he knew all there was to know of the legend, not that he believed a bit of it. Occasionally there was some judgement of Daae's character or a bit of her history, but otherwise, no one had anything to offer. Whether they really did not know or simply didn't want to contribute to what seemed to be a pointless investigation, he did not know.

The only difference between now and then was that now the general public was well versed in the matter, the story having been retold several times on newspaper headlines, and wanted posters having been distributed throughout the city.

He'd been in the midst of a third questioning with Antoinette Giry when the feeling came along. The feeling usually showed up in major cases, especially complicated ones with many unanswered questions, like this one. The feeling was a warning that if he didn't take a break, he would likely never solve his current case, nor any more thereafter. He had no doubt that the feeling had saved his sharp mind many a time, so when it surfaced during his interrogation, he had the good sense to heed it.

Politely, he'd told Madame Giry he was in dire need of a bit of a break, and she'd readily agreed, though he could not help but hear her mumbling under her breath, something about interrupting at inappropriate moments. Miford was never one to pay disrespect, least of all to elders, but from past experience, a recess was called for.

He graciously took a proffered shot of whiskey and drained it, followed by a cup of herbal tea. He always found it useful for refocusing his brain cells and calming his body.

Halfway through his tea, Monsieur Richard appeared in the doorway with a slip of paper in hand. "This came to the office," he said, a bit disdainfully. "Addressed to you."

Richard couldn't say he liked Miford, nor this whole affair, to be true. Terrible publicity for the opera house, promoting the idea that madmen ran wild within the fine alabaster walls of the grand structure. Though, Richard couldn't argue that after the opera took one day of closure to reboot, the crowds had never been thicker.

Terrible publicity...but publicity nonetheless.

Richard was usually a sensible man, but given the events of the past few weeks, he couldn't help but let himself fall into the popular speculation of a ghost. How else could the kidnapping, the letters, Box Five, and the house be explained? What else could have built such a grand structure beneath everyone's noses and never be caught? Certainly no mortal man.

Miford snatched the telegraph from Richard's hand.

"Opera Garnier Managers, care of Inspector Miford," it was addressed.

The body read: "Three days ago early in the morning, a masked man and a pretty woman came to my station and purchased two tickets to Stockholm, Sweden. Their descriptions match those on the wanted posters. They are almost unmistakably who you seek. Their train should be arriving in Stockholm this afternoon. From there, I know not where they are bound. -- Monsieur Jacques Grinot"

A wide grin split Miford's tired face. Richard gazed at him curiously.

"Inspector?"

"Monsieur, I think we may finally have a lead."

-------------

After three days of hearty meals and restful nights, Christine knew that she was in excellent physical form. A bit of color had returned to her cheeks and her hair had recovered a bit of its sheen. She only wish her mental state would match.

Christine thanked God for the comfortable, satin-dressed bed she'd been alloted the past few days. It was her escape from her wretched circumstances, her medium between the hell that was life and the emotionless yet somehow, at the same time, blissful world of sleep. She'd retire shortly after dinner and rise only moments before breakfast was to be cleared away. She knew it could not be healthy to sleep so many hours regularly, but she was also quite certain that without her surplus of sleep, she'd surely be a wreck both physically and mentally by now.

In her waking hours, Christine agonized over where she was going, what she would do when they reached Sweden, what Erik would do, what would happen if they were caught...her worries grew with each passing hour.

When Erik had asked where she wished to go, Sweden had been her impulsive, completely honest answer. She had been longing to return ever since her father had died, and she could not help but feel a bit of joy in returning to the land she loved so, even in the face of all this ugliness and pain. However, could a place spoken in pure desire truly be the wisest, safest option for them? Christine had been surprised when Erik had agreed without a word more on the matter.

Erik...

Mostly, he'd been staying at bay, which for the most part was a very wise move. The stronger part of her had no further desire than to tear him limb from limb whenever he neared her, and yet...

The part of her that wept was not so furious. The part of her that wept was not so brave. The part of her that wept, though hidden, was sometimes so full of fear and grief that she had to remove herself from the room to keep from begging Erik to take her in his arms and hold her and coddle her and tell her everything would be alright.

Was it so much that it was Erik, the person? No, not necessarily. Though Erik had destroyed her, he was, ironically, the very last person she had in the world, and the frightened, insecure part of her had every intention of holding on to him with every ounce of strength she possessed.

But she could not do that. Her pride -- her honor, her wrath -- would not allow it.

She readied herself for departure as Erik waiting patiently in the backdrop. They would be arriving quite soon, and she'd once again set foot on the soil which begot her.

When she'd deemed herself presentable, she turned wordlessly to Erik and nodded for him to lead the way to the main compartment. They needed to wait only five or so minutes before the locomotive slowed and the doors were opened revealing a station full of bustling Swedes. Christine followed Erik out of the station to the street where he began to hail a taxi.

Gazing around, she felt her eyes fill with tears. Although she was not from the city, these streets were just as familiar to her as the country plains. Here, she'd gone to the market with her mother before she'd died, memories which she could hardly recall but in brief images and scents. Here, she and her father had retraced the very same path she and Erik had just taken when they'd begun their life of travels.

Finally, she felt a sense of belonging.

This is home.