A/N: It doesn't always take me a month or longer to update. Thanks to those who encouraged me with my final (turns out there was only one); I did well! And as a beginning-of-summer-vacation present, I give you this latest installment, in which the plot really starts to get on its feet and Mme. Giry – well, you'll see…

Disclaimer: Once again, not mine, though you really should check out (most of) the stuff I'm quoting while you're waiting for an update.

Chapter Nine:

Eviction

-Annette Giry-

"The day after Rose brought home her cloak, we received a final blow. A letter arrived from Mogens saying that due to lack of payment of rent, we must vacate the farm in less than a month."

-Edith Pattou, East

"I was just as surprised as Gisèle to find that the man who persisted in dancing with her was Jean," Christine concluded with an emphatic raise of her eyebrows. "But I suppose that's the purpose of masquerades."

"Generally, yes," I responded with a wry smile as I tried to scrub off a particularly stubborn stain on the plate in my hands. It never ceased to amaze me how much larger the amount of housework became when one took even a short time away from it. I had departed with my husband and daughter early that day, leaving Christine to catch up on her sleep, and spent the better part of the morning helping Amèlie Firmin with her own housework, as well as conversing with her and enjoying her company. When I had returned and my niece had awoken, we set to cleaning our own cottage after the previous day's bustle and excitement.

We had just begun with the kitchen, as it was the smallest room. Perhaps the fact that we almost never had an excess of food was a blessing in disguise, for if Christine's and my frames had been anything but their usual petite size, maneuvering about each other in the diminutive room would have presented a challenge indeed.

"I am glad that you en-"

My words were interrupted by a short, resolute knock at the front door.

I turned to Christine. She wore a look of confused surprise, her hands pausing in the action of drying Meg's tin mug.

"Are you expecting anyone?" I enquired with a small frown as I removed my apron.

She shook her head. "No," she murmured, and her hands resumed their occupation.

I crossed the parlour, smoothing down my hair and gown. Strange, but I couldn't seem to shake the shadow of foreboding in my heart. Perhaps I was becoming too fatalistic.

I was surprised to find Claude du Flotte on the doorstep. Though he was Rouen's mail carrier, he hardly ever left his office during the day except on matters of urgent business. What was so important that it could not wait until my next excursion into town?

He removed his hat and gave a watery smile, which I returned nervously.

"Pardon the intrusion, madame, but I have a notice of utmost importance here, which I was told to deliver to you with as much haste as possible."

He handed me a small, thin envelope of rich vellum.

"I'm very sorry, Madame Giry," he added slowly. He donned his hat, then disappeared down the path.

My hands shook as I turned over the object in my grasp. A macabre yet unfamiliar seal of scarlet wax greeted me cheerfully; I felt a strange satisfaction in tearing it apart.

Inside was a single sheaf of parchment, covered in elegant, slanting penmanship. My eyes widened when I understood the letter's full import.

It was an eviction notice from our new landlord, the Comte di Ribaldi.

It was a struggle to keep my temper in check. In my mind, I railed against the Comte, taking a vicious pleasure in inventing the many ways I would like to insult the man.

That preposterous, stuff-shirted, two-faced baboon! Who does he think he is, evicting my family and me without so much as a weak excuse of a reason? How I'd love to box his ears and cane him thoroughly!

I had left Christine at home with the vague explanation that urgent business called me away. When I had reassured her that it was nothing that endangered our family and friends – at least, not at present – she had calmed enough to promise to stay and take control of the housework until I returned.

I did not know exactly why I had been loath to reveal everything to her. Perhaps it was because the situation was so like our previous misfortune in Paris, and yet not. We once again faced the possibility of losing our home, but this time I had the opportunity to take matters into my own hands. Jules was both intelligent and diligent, but I knew that a coerced eviction would surely break him. He would lose all strength, and would not even think to fight.

But I would.

I would persuade, threaten, wheedle, and even plead in order to keep our cottage. I would do anything – well, almost anything. If only I knew why the Comte wished to evict us! It could not possibly be our behaviour as tenants; even if we were anything other than meticulously well behaved, the Comte had not been our landlord long enough to know so. I highly doubted that it was because he was in need of more money, but if a higher rent could persuade him to allow us to stay, I would do whatever necessary to pay it so that my family would not be homeless once more.

This time, I would do this.

My walk to Silaton Place was a blur of anger and wild desperation; I barely felt my legs tread the unfamiliar path beneath me for the turmoil raging inside my mind. So lost in my thoughts was I that it was not until I had passed through the gates that I saw the difference.

I had not truly believed the rumours that I had nonetheless repeated to Amèlie. One would have to be a wizard or some sort of miracle-worker to renovate the mansion in such a short amount of time.

Yet, somehow, the Comte had done it. Gone were the wildflowers and twisted trees, the cracked stone, the broken windows, the half-empty doorway, and nature's wreckage. In their places were a groomed garden of jasmine, violets, lavender, cedar, lilies, and an abundance of roses; smooth, polished stone that I could now see was a gentle blue-grey; gleaming windows that serenely reflected the midmorning sun; and a large terrace free of debris and rubbish. The rough and splintered doors had been replaced with specimens appropriate for the beautiful grandeur.

There should have been birds chirping merrily in the foliage, with children playing and laughing in the garden. At every moment, I expected to see some sort of animal, an evidence of life in this changed place. There was not even an insect that I could hear. Instead, the place was as lonely and silent as a sepulcher.

It was a feast for the eyes, but poverty for every other sense.

I squared my shoulders resolutely as I traversed the length of the white gravel path and up the terrace steps. This ornate transformation would not blind me. I doubted that that was the intention, but I still would not allow myself to forget who lived inside there and exactly what I had planned to say to him.

I expected to find a large bell pull by the front door – or doors, as was the case – but there was none. Instead, I rapped soundly against one of the double doors using the brass knocker. It was in the shape of a fierce lion, its mouth open in a silent roar with the ring caught between its sharp teeth. I glared at it as I waited, the eviction notice clutched tight in my bare hands.

Finally, one of the doors opened halfway. Holding it in place was a swarthy man dressed in a dark butler's suit, blinking and squinting slightly when the bright sunlight reached his eyes. Behind him was all dim shadow.

"May I help you?" he asked formally, a slight accent flavoring his words.

"I'm here to meet with the Comte di Ribaldi." I responded, careful to hold myself up ramrod straight as I looked him directly in the eye.

He regarded me curiously. "And your name is…?"

"Annette Giry. His tenant." My eyes narrowed infinitesimally in accordance with my short, cold tone.

The man's eyes, which I noticed were an unusual but not unpleasant light green, widened the moment I stated my name.

"Madame Giry!" he uttered in what could only be termed as a gasp. "Please, do come in." He held the door open wider to grant me entrance as he made ushering motions with his other hand. Somewhat surprised at his manner, I nonetheless followed his direction and stepped inside.

"You must forgive my master," the man continued as he took my bonnet and pelisse, clearly flustered. I noted that his accent had thickened in his agitated state.

"He knew that you would come, but not nearly so soon! I assure you, madame, the house would not be in such a state otherwise!"

My jaw dropped slightly. "He…he was expecting me?"

He instantly stiffened, as if he had only just realized what words had slipped out of his mouth. I anxiously awaited his reply. Instead, he turned and put my things away in an empty closet not far from the door; then, as he gave me a stiff, formal bow:

"I will inform the Comte of your arrival, Mme. Giry."

He began to leave.

"Wait!" I called after him. "What did you mean, the Comte knew that I would come? Why is he expecting me?"

But the man disappeared through a door on the right wall without so much as a backward glance, his last clicking footsteps echoing ominously around me.

I sighed loudly in exasperation, and added "untowardly mysterious" to my rapidly lengthening mental list of the Comte di Ribaldi's faults. I was of a mind to pace, but as I began to truly look about me, I could hardly bring myself to take another step.

I stood alone in the foyer, and it was the most magnificent room I had seen in years. The floor was made entirely of white gold-veined marble, polished to an impeccable, spotless sheen. The ceiling rose high enough for two storeys; built into it was a large glass dome, from which hung an exquisitely intricate gold chandelier with surely fifty candleholders at least. The walls were a soft, gentle white, with delicate cornices and wooden molding painted over with gold leaf. It was a long room, with many doors built into both sides, and a grand staircase at the end.

The staircase – also built of white gold-veined marble – split into two halfway up its flight, and I was forcibly reminded of the foyer of Garnier's opera house. This one also had a gallery built into the second storey that overlooked where the stairs split, but there was a significant difference between the two. Affixed to the base of the Comte's gallery was a golden statue unlike anything I had ever seen before. It depicted three beautiful women arrayed in drapery that looked as if it had only been sculpted to avoid a scandal, all the while enticing the easily excitable male imagination. Two male figures – their features closely resembling the generic ones of Greek tragedy masks – reached out from each edge to the woman closest to him. The two women by their male counterparts gazed below them with ecstatic smiles stretched across their cherubic faces, but the woman in the center was raising both her eyes and her arms heavenward, a garland of ribbons and flowers held up like an offering in her graceful hands. A large pair of wings, which I thought belonged to the woman in the center, stretched out behind them all.

It was beautiful, barbaric, and bizarre.

But the room was like the garden: beneath the beauty and opulence, cold silence and solitude reigned. The only light that filtered into the grand room emitted from the glass dome overhead, and dust motes descended slowly in the weak, ethereal light. All of the windows that I could see were covered by large, heavy drapes that were as red as a bloodstain against the pure white. One of the walls was dirty and unwashed; dust and cobwebs still lay undisturbed in some corners. Only two of all the doors that lined the walls of the first level were open, and both were dark inside. The gallery and what I could see of the floor above were completely covered in oppressive shadows.

Shuddering slightly, I folded my arms protectively across my stomach and began to tap my booted toe against the floor. I stopped quickly, spooked; the sound echoed much too loudly against the watchful stillness.

The door through which the swarthy man had entered opened again to admit him. He stepped briskly towards me, expressing a little confusion at finding me still in the same place that he had left me.

Perhaps he was unused to well-behaved guests, though why he should be so I could not begin to understand.

"Madame Giry, the master will see you now."

He began to lead me towards the room that he had just departed. The man's previous agitation had completely disappeared. His present manner was now calm and aloof; one could even call it grave. Faintly, I wondered exactly what it was that he and the Comte had been speaking of for so long as I had examined the main room.

The man paused outside the door without opening. I very nearly reached for the door handle myself, but his next words stopped me.

"Madame…you may enter this room only with the promise that you will step no further into it than the Oriental rug."

My brow creased in puzzlement. "The – the rug? Why?"

"To the rug and no further. Madame," an earnest light coming into his eyes, "if you step onto it, or go any further…you have this assurance from my master that your interview will come to an abrupt end. Do you understand? This is of utmost importance." He ended in an urgent whisper.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The man sighed quietly, evidently relieved, and opened the door for me.

The room inside was even darker than the one I had left. At first, the only things that I could see were the dying embers in the fireplace and the weak sunlight that filtered through a pair of yellow gauze curtains: also framed by heavy crimson drapes. As my eyes adjusted to the shadows, I began to distinguish shapes: glass-covered bookshelves, a Broadwood Grand pianoforte, a small gold clock that chimed merrily, a harp, twin chairs, a violin and its bow, a painting above the fireplace – the content of which I could not discern – an empty birdcage, and a large, dark Oriental rug that lay within inches of my toes.

And on the other side…

I could barely see a large, thronelike chair across from me. It looked to be made of iron: even in the dull light, the carvings in its sides did not gleam as brightly as silver. The cushioning was covered by black velvet; at least, what I could see of the material, for lounging nonchalantly in its shadows was an imperceptible yet very male figure.

"Good morning, Madame Giry."

The Comte di Ribaldi.

I stepped as close to the edge of the Oriental rug as I dared.

"Your – your butler said that I–" I began as I gestured towards the carpet before me.

"Take three steps towards the pianoforte, then stop in the light. I want to keep an eye on you."

It did not occur to me to disobey. Stopping in the small patch of light – if it could indeed be called so – that issued from the gauze curtains, I peered fruitlessly into the darkness. Though his ostentatious chair was drawn up by the fire, the dim red glow did nothing to relieve the stark shadows that obscured the Comte's features.

Frustrated by this, I blurted out, "I also like to be able to see whom I am speaking to."

"Sight is overrated, Madame Giry," he answered with deadpan quickness. "And if that was a request to move closer…"

He trailed off, dangerously quiet, and the pause that ensued seemed to last for an eternity.

"…then my answer is no. State your business."

I was beginning to feel unnerved. The silent yet beautifully thriving garden; the glorious yet dirty foyer; the butler from the East who feared his master as if he were a god; the Comte himself, who had expected me but would not explain why, all the while hiding in darkness, his deep hypnotic voice slowly calling down my defenses…it was too much of an alien experience for me. Even in Paris, where one is certain to come across an extremely eccentric personage at least once every few months, I had never encountered anything quite like this. It was almost as if I had stepped into another world, one in which I had no idea of the customs or rules. Even my temper, which had waxed eloquent not ten minutes ago, had been quelled into silence since I had stepped onto the grounds.

Oh, this is ridiculous.

I cleared my throat, deciding that the most direct appeal was best. "I am in receipt of your notice."

He made a low, scoffing sound. "And I suppose you've come to protest it?"

"Wholeheartedly!"

His head – or, the dark outline that I was sure was his head – fell back to rest against his chair. He sighed in exasperation, as if he had been continually pestered with an inane question hundreds of times, and replied in a tone that was only beginning to strike me with its beauty, for all that I hated the meaning it conveyed: "On what grounds? It is my property, and therefore none of your concern."

A hot flash of anger filled my body, and for a moment I was speechless with rage. Not my concern? How could this man be so callous? Just because it was legally his property did not mean he had the right to turn out my family, who had more of a right to call the cottage home than anyone else!

"It is my concern! It is my family that lives there, and not you! If you turn us out, my husband and I will be without work, and without work we will have nowhere to go!"

I stopped myself before I could make things worse with my outburst. The silence stretched on, only broken by the odd pops and cracks from the fire. I was sure that the next words from the Comte would be a sound dismissal, but he surprised me yet again.

"This cottage," he murmured, half in incredulity, half in some deep emotion that I could not fathom, "this tiny, rustic, insignificant cottage means so much to you?"

"Of course it does."

"How much?"

I took a deep breath to steady myself. "My husband and I were paying Philippe de Chagny 25 francs a month, but I am prepared to pay you 30, perhaps even 35 francs."

A low, rumbling sound emitted from the darkness, and I realized belatedly that it was a darkly amused chuckle.

"Is your home really of no more value to you than 30 or 35 francs a month?"

"Of course it is worth more, but that is all I can afford to pay! Besides, what could this old house be worth to you?" I rebelliously muttered the last sentence to myself.

To my dismay, he heard me.

"Very little," was his enigmatic response. "You see, to me this is a house, while yours is a home. One is merely physical, while the other is also spiritual."

I heard more than I saw him shift forward in his seat.

"You of all people in this godforsaken hamlet ought to know such things, Madame Giry."

Perhaps it should have occurred to me to be offended by his intended slight towards the place that had come to mean so much to me, but I was instead extremely confused by what he had meant.

"I should? How?"

He did not answer. Instead, he leaned back slowly in his seat, and I suddenly felt that I had disappointed him somehow.

"Allow me to ask you again: what value do you place on your home?"

I shook my head, too confused by his cold, mercurial manner. What was he truly asking? What was I supposed to say?

"I-I don't understand –"

"Just think for a moment." His tone became more patient, a tone that I had never expected to hear from him. "What is of greatest value to you, something that you care for more than anything else in this world?"

I did not have to think twice.

"My family." I smiled for the first time since I had received the eviction notice, as I remembered each beloved face.

"Yes, your family," he repeated, his voice now more of a growl. "More specifically your oldest daughter, the one who sings."

I shook my head again. "Christine is my niece, not my daughter."

A ripple of surprise broke the tenuous and temporary serenity.

"Your niece?" the Comte repeated. He was silent for a moment, then muttered: "That changes things."

I felt a tremor of foreboding at his words, but before I could enquire further, he continued. "If you want something of value from me, then it is only fair that you provide something of great value yourself."

I barely suppressed a shudder. There was something wrong; his words, the earnest way with which he uttered them…whatever it was, I knew I would not like whatever he would say next. And yet, I was not in a position to refuse. As much as I despised my current helplessness in this situation, I hardly had a choice. He had caught me neatly in the trap he had set. I knew it, and he knew that I knew it, and I hated him fiercely for it.

"What do you propose?" I whispered.

"You may have your home free –" my breath caught in my throat, "– on one condition: Christine will live here on weekdays and work as my housekeeper. As long as she works for me, you will never want for a place to live."

The bottom of my stomach dropped. This was a price I had not anticipated! Christine, the niece whom I had promised to look after, the person whom I cared for almost like my own daughter…she was to work for this man? But they had never even met! Surely, with all of his accumulated wealth, he could hire a skilled and experienced housekeeper without going through the trouble of blackmailing a family with nothing to give! What sort of interest could the Comte take in Christine? She was beautiful, to be sure–

My blood ran cold as I unwittingly began to suspect the dark man in front of me of more malicious intentions than I had heretofore suspected him of.

"But Christine is so young!" I protested. "She is still rather inexperienced. Why not take me instead?"

The Comte's baritone voice was low and reassuring when he spoke again. I almost believed him when he said, "Madame, if it is truly your charge's safety that you are anxious for, then you need not worry. Her tasks will be simple: dusting, sweeping, washing dishes, and so on. She will be allowed to spend Saturdays and Sundays with you, as long as she does not leave before Saturday morning and returns by Sunday evening. Trust me: this house is the safest place imaginable for her, for I will not allow her to be harmed in any way."

Almost I believed him.

Almost.

But then I remembered the notice and the cold, emotionless words that formed it. I remembered his selfish, arrogant manner at the start of our interview when he had spoken of his property. Even now, when he was presenting me with a life-altering ultimatum, he would not do me the courtesy of showing me his face. I understood his whole plot as it really was: a trap set to bring me and mine to our knees, entirely at his mercy, so that he could steal Christine away for secret intents and purposes which I could not understand and he would not reveal.

I would not subject Christine to this. The cottage was not worth so much that I would give up one of my family members to keep it. I would rather that my family be homeless but together, than to have a roof over our heads and Christine always absent. I had promised my sister that I would look after Christine and keep her safe; blindly committing her to the hands of an enigmatic and inscrutable nobleman was surely not the best way to go about doing so.

In fact, it was quite possibly the worst.

My short, staccato answer rang loudly in the waiting silence.

"No."

There was a short, breathless pause as I awaited the Comte's reply.

"No?" he gasped in incredulity. "No…and why not?"

"Because…because you're so cold and cruel! How dare you evict my family from our home without reason! And how can you expect me to just give up my niece to your care when the only thing I know of you is that you are heartless enough to expect me to do so?"

His fingers, encased by black leather gloves, tightly gripped the edges of his armrests.

"'Cold'? 'Heartless'? What, you think me without feeling like a common beast?" He spat the last word in horror and derision. My skin turned into gooseflesh as his anger began to crackle in the air, heralding the approach of a frightful storm.

We were both silent for a moment; I waited in fear and dread of his reaction. He drew in a sharp breath as if he were summoning all the powers of his fury and scorn, and then expelled it with two words.

"Get out!"

I flinched. The biting edge in his beautiful voice was now sharper than a thief's knife.

"Leave!" he cried when I did not move. I gasped, and then crossed quickly towards the door that led away from this horrid room. "Be gone, and never come back!" he shouted at my retreating figure as he rose from his chair.

I paused with my hand on the smooth doorknob, and turned back to look at him once more.

It was a mistake.

Though the Comte was still shrouded in shadows, I could see that he had straightened to his full height, which was considerable. He seemed to fill the whole room with his blackness, and I thought I saw the gleam of two blue eyes burning like the fires of Hell. My heart almost stopped with fear.

"GET OUT!"

I did not need to be told again.

I nearly collided with the butler when I ran out of the room. I did not even stop to explain what had happened, but perhaps I did not need to; as I ran across the marble floor, I could hear the Comte shouting again.

"Nadir! Nadir Khan, if you value your Persian skin, you will come to me NOW!

Tearing the door open, I seized my hat and pelisse from where they hung in a dusty closet two-thirds the size of Jules's and my bedroom. Not bothering to put them on, I ran out the double doors and down the steps, away from that transfigured manor of bizarre mystery and black ugliness.

A/N: -shivers- Uh-oh, she made him angry! I really am so excited that this chapter is up; I've only been looking forward to this for months on end.

If you have any suggestions for any moments you'd like to see between our somewhat-doomed prospective lovers, please include it in your review. :-)