A/N: Make sure your sitting down for this…
Paladin87
Erik and Madame sat in the parlor, neither of them willing to be the first to speak. He kept his gaze trained on the rug and the dog that had wandered in and plopped down before the fire with his tail brushing over Madame's shoes.
"The girl in your kitchen, she is Irish?"
"Yes." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
"Typical Irish mouth," she muttered.
"I don't much care what comes out of her mouth as long as there is food on my table."
"Is that all you care about these days?"
"I beg your pardon?" he growled.
She appeared nonplussed by his thunderous tone. "In the past you wished to control each tick of the clock. Now your only concern is whether or not there is food on the table."
"Then perhaps it is boredom," he said under his breath.
With a heavy sigh, she stared at the fire. "Such a beautiful estate and you find yourself bored."
"What do you want me to say?"
"Excuse me?"
"For Christ sake, say what you will." He slammed his fist into the arm of the chair and glared at her. "From the moment you first arrived you've been dying to tell me what you honestly feel. I'll be damned if I sit here at your mercy a moment longer."
"Ah, so the Phantom does exist still. I was afraid you'd gone soft."
Angered at himself, he looked away from her. "You act as I though I owe you something."
"Do I?"
"Madame—"
"What could I possibly want from you, hmm? From the sniveling little coward of a man I found in a cage?" she asked, keeping her voice low. "Should I ask you for money? No, I could never ask you for money. They're not your funds anyhow, are they?"
His nostrils flared but he couldn't bring himself to speak. For years he'd waited for this moment, to finally know exactly how she felt about him.
"Stolen. Everything you have in your life you've stolen or attempted to steal. Your clothes, your food, your belongings…women."
He wanted to storm from the room but her words held him fast, chained him with curiosity and shame. She was correct on all but one account. He had stolen his clothing, his food, and his belongings.
"It was necessary to survive."
"For a month or two, yes, it was necessary. And then what?"
"Emerge from the shadows and beg for employment? All of Paris knew of that…that man from the traveling fair. They would have known."
"Years passed and you continued to take what wasn't yours. Tell me, Monsieur Belmont, should I request your honesty? Never. You don't know the meaning of the word. Your entire life is based on illusion, lies, and treachery."
"I never asked you to help me," he said quietly.
"No, you didn't. You'd never ask anyone to help you because no one else matters but you."
Anger boiled within him but he silently shook his head. She didn't know him or his life. She had no idea how he felt inside or what made him continue to live.
"Then who matters? Christine?"
"She made her choice."
"Yes, she wrote to me once. Said very little of how she was doing." She paused as though she wished him to beg for additional information, but he merely sat and waited for her to continue. "She did say that they were finally alone, no shadow always in pursuit."
"You make it sound sinister," he replied softly.
Fidelio rolled to his feet and moved closer to his master's side, showing his loyalty.
"Why on earth would I want to make it sound sinister? After all, you only stole her clean off a stage in the middle of Paris."
"You saw what she did to me that night!" he snapped. "A full house! Every seat filled!"
"Should I pity you?"
"What good would it do? You want nothing from me and I want nothing from you."
"Then it seems we've reached an impasse here, in this house that bores you."
"Indeed. In my parents' home. My rightful home." He stood and stared at the doorway. "Where you are not welcome."
She smiled to herself. "I suppose I'd have to be a doe-eyed, innocent dancer to have you welcome me to your home."
"You'd have to appear as though you truly wished to be in my home for me to welcome you."
"I did want to be here."
"Why? To shame Sophia?"
"I've never—"
"Hold your tongue and listen to me for once. You stepped out of your carriage and expected I owed you my gratitude. I thanked you long ago for helping me."
She shook her head and rolled her eyes, which only furthered his irritation.
"I left new shoes beneath your bed, left you candy under your pillow—"
'Before you slinked away like an alley cat."
"Did you want to see me again?" he challenged.
She sat back and folded her hands. "With the manner in which you disappeared it was like you never existed at all. I risked my life to help you. Did you ever consider that—what would have happened if someone had seen me hurrying you into the opera house?"
"I would have told them I threatened you," he answered.
"How kind of you," she sneered.
"I never once harmed you. In all the years that have passed, don't you think I would have hurt you if I truly had ill intent?"
"Physically you never harmed me, but honestly I never knew your intent, Monsieur Belmont," she huffed. "You only made your desires clear when it came to Christine."
"You sound jealous, Madame," he blurted out.
With a humorless laugh she turned away. "Jealous? Of what?"
His eyes narrowed as he sat down and tapped his knuckles on the arm of his chair. "Of Christine."
"That's utterly ridiculous."
The arrogance in her voice slipped noticeably and he kept his gaze trained on her face. At last she seemed more like the girl he had first met than the woman she had become. He recalled the first few times he'd seen her once he was situated in his new home. She giggled when he spoke, trembled when he met her eye. He knew he frightened her terribly. There was no other explanation for the way she acted when he was near.
"Madame, why did you send me here? If you truly despised me all these years, why give me this address and send me here to live?"
"I didn't do it for you."
His head turned to the side, his heart beating faster. At last, what he'd wanted to know could finally be illuminated. "Did someone…send for me?"
"Months before the incident a woman walked into rehearsals."
He winced at the title she'd given that last night. He attempted to convince himself it was better than her referring to it as "the disaster", but he knew she meant it as an insult.
"I beg your pardon?"
She ran her fingers through the end of her braid and stared at the fire. "A woman came to me, asked if I knew a man by the name of Erik. She'd read about several incidents in the newspaper…a ghost with one half of his face white, the other flesh-colored."
He sat very still as she spoke, his heart beating faster, the sound of the blood churning in his veins almost deafening.
"I told her I had never heard of a man named Erik who worked for the theater." A short pause followed her words, one that left him on edge. "She handed me a picture, unfinished. Half of a boy's face. She didn't need to say another word."
He stared at her, silently begged her to turn and face him, but she didn't move. Her features softened. He looked at her and recalled a woman who always complained of the cold and never left the hearth when the winds rattled the house.
Lips parted, he wondered what she thought of the news that the child she'd abandoned had grown into an apparition. Perhaps she expected the gypsies would keep him under lock and key for the remainder of his life and she'd have nothing to fear.
"She handed me a bundle of letters and asked me if I would give them to you."
"But you didn't," he growled.
"I gave them to you. Left them in your box the first night of Hannibal."
"I never saw them—"
"Yes, you did. They were gone shortly before the performance began. You probably discarded them."
"I was not in my box that night."
Her fingers tapped together as she realized his box had been sold for the night. He started to protest but she shook her head. "It doesn't matter now. They're committed to the ash and rubble."
His gaze lowered, his nerves on end. He desperately wanted to know what she had said. Perhaps she begged for his forgiveness. Perhaps she wished to never see him again. He wouldn't believe it was the latter—especially if she had given him this house rather than sell it.
"Where did she go?"
"She said she would wait a week for you to answer her letter."
His heart crashed to the bottom of his gut and he shook his head. He'd failed her, though he didn't know how. "Then she intended to return home?"
"I have no idea. She merely said she would remain in Paris for a week. I didn't ask where she would travel next, though I imagine it would be to one of her estates. She hasn't contacted you?"
"No. She has estates?"
"Of course. She and her husband have several horse farms."
His blood ran cold as he stared at her. "Her husband?"
"Antole Turro. One of his estates is just a stone's throw down the road. Surely you've seen it?"