Dear Faithfuls: On this happy occasion, we should each have a birthday cake, or cupcake, or something to honor dear Benjamin Franklin…he would have been 300 today! There are so very many things to be thankful to him for, but today, as I sit in my heated room, lights overhead, typing on a computer, and listening to music, I am thinking most specifically of the discovery of electricity! So, if you can, take a moment to think of our dear Ben…he did so many, many, things for us!
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Meg felt unsettled as she tossed and turned on the divan. She'd been in a deep dreamless sleep, but it was not restful. There were dark overtones surrounding her every time she thought to be pulling herself through to consciousness, and she could see nothing but a great void…no sound, no sight, nothing. She'd reeled around in this half-sleep state several dozen times before she finally gave up any hope of true rest.
Meg blinked unhurriedly several times before her eyes would allow her full sight as she exposed then to the budding light. She stared up at the chandelier on the ceiling that lay far above her. It was beautiful and detailed, glittering ever so slightly at the top. It was not flame, but reflection of the first strained shafts of morning sun peering in the crescent shaped window above the French-doors that lay between she and the veranda just outside. The light was so orange, and so brilliant, one could hardly not smile at the promise of a new day.
Stretching her hands far above her head, she wriggled this way and that under the blanket. She recalled hearing through her groggy sleep, Nadir telling her mother he would be but several rooms away taking rest while she herself retired to her bedchamber. That had been all Meg could recall of the last hours since the bit of coffee and cake. She shrugged her shoulders. She should have known better than having sweets and coffee before bed, it never boded well for her to rest soundly. She blinked several more times, just staring up at the glittering, perfectly cut, crystals of the chandelier. As no others stirred, she thought to allow herself to drift slowly back into the netherworlds of slumber.
Slowly her eyes fluttered closed under the heaviness of her lids. They were seemingly weighted down with heavy anchors of sand. She'd not long been drifting in her relaxation when her eyes flew open hastily. There was a muffled gurgling sound. Sitting straight up on the divan, she looked this way and that. At first, the barely-lit room revealed little. Her focus still quite strained. Then her hand flew to her lips muffling a great scream, for there in the corner sat Raoul, bloodied, bandage wrapped about his head, trousers filthy, shirt sodden, he was in utter shambles. She sat erect, gasping, every movement now seeming involuntary. Her eyes flew around the room, how had he gained entrance? Had anyone come with him, why was he bandaged…what of the blood!
Meg felt herself going faint, as was oft her reaction to such fright, but she closed her eyes fighting the urge, telling herself to breathe in, breathe out, breathe in slowly, out slowly. As she settled into a slow, steady rhythm, she felt strong enough to open her eyes. She turned looking at Raoul, her lower lip quivering…he looked so small, so hollow, so defeated. She could neither imagine what had found him there, nor how he had stolen away from the doctor's watchful eye. How had he known where to find her? Why was he a disheveled mess, bound and bleeding? Her mind whirled with possibilities.
Instinct began to take over as she rolled to her side, slipping on her robe and taking the blanket, warmed from her own body, gently placing it over Raoul. He barely flinched. She looked down at what he clasped with the grip of death in his hands. She wondered at it, for if he'd had a cloak with him, why then did he not wear it for warmth? That was one of many questions she would ask him when he awoke. Now she'd simply want to make him comfortable and not disturb him to wake, for she was far from ready to greet him as a fiancé ought.
She was in shock, knowing full well she'd not be able to hide her horror of surprise from him should he wake and find her fussing over him. Was she happy to see him…yes, always…he made her heart pound beneath her flesh. But this very moment, her heart pounded from the terror that ran through her as surely as her own blood…how long had he been there, what had he seen, what had he heard, she, Nadir and her mother had spoken of a great many things. What should have happened if Christine or Erik had paid an unexpected visit, what if….
She shook her head. She had to stop this line of thinking lest she work herself once more into a frenzied lather. Her eyes had never left him as she'd rambled through her wonders. She looked down at the cloak, gently tugging from his hands. She laid it aside as she placed a small sitting pillow behind his head, tucking in the blanket here and there to keep him warm. She walked over to the fire that had dwindled in the fireplace. She'd set about building it into a goodly fire, warming the room thoroughly. Kneeling before the fire, she slid slim pieces of wood into it until it grew nicely.
Turning, she looked at Raoul; he'd not moved so much as a hair. He looked decidedly more comfortable than when first she'd laid eyes on him. Meg turned again looking into the fire as she stood, examining it to be certain it would not falter if left untended. Meg had already made up her mind, she'd go first to her mother, warning her of Raoul's presence, lest she'd rise and frighten to within an inch of her life upon finding him there. Then she would seek out Nadir… No…she shook her head. A more prudent course would be to counsel with Nadir at the outset. If something was amiss, she'd want for him to be looking into it before she needless frightened her mother. There simply must be some explanation as to his appearance there, unguarded as he was.
Meg rose from her haunches, walking with the trained silent gait of a ballerina. Part way to the door she spied the cloak laying on the floor. She'd hang it by the fire so that it was warm and dry when Raoul was next ready to make use of it. As she walked toward it mindlessly she thought…his presence would most certainly complicate things as they could not reach Erik and Christine to warn them, neither could they, she was entirely certain, find a way to circumvent Raoul's attendance at Sara's service. He had, after all, befriended the woman in his own way.
Meg was improvising as she thought. Perhaps she herself could feign illness, convincing Raoul to stay at her side whilst her mother and Nadir ventured to the cemetery. The thought of not saying a proper goodbye to Christine and Erik pained her greatly, but what other choice did Raoul's unexpected arrival now leave her?
She lifted the cloak quietly shaking out the length of the fabric. It was much smaller than she'd imagined, and then her breath caught, this cloak had a hood! This was surely a ladies cloak, Raoul's cloaks had no hoods….to whom did it belong? She held it out in front of her, it looked oddly familiar, but then all cloaks of that sort were similar, there was no way of knowing… Her eyes widened, she reached inside the pocket, the first produced nothing, and the second the same. Meg folded it over her arm, then went to hang it on the hook on the hearth. Perhaps it had been offered him along the way, or was even one he'd gathered by mistake. She would ask Raoul where he had found it when he woke.
She turned to leave the room, then she returned to the garment. Often young ladies would tuck a handkerchief inside the small pocket designed for coins on the inner side of the cloak. She slipped her hand beneath the cloak, fully expecting to expose nothing more than she already had. Her eyes widened as she felt the soft fabric that fell out of the pocket into her hand. She quietly slid it out into plain view, lifting it so that she could see in the light of the fire. A daffodil pattern…..and then, just before the room went black, she saw the embroidered initials that she knew belonged to one person alone…for she'd seen them so many times as a child….CD…Christine Daae!
Madame Giry rose from the bed in a flash, pulling the doors open, having heard a loud aching gasp and a thunderous crash. She flew through the door, Nadir having made his way in, gun in his hand, just as Madame Giry knelt beside Meg unconscious on the floor. Neither had looked just beyond at the form that now stirred in the shadows.
"Is she alright?" Nadir was panting, blinking heavily trying to wake himself fully.
"She's fainted, I dare say something frightened her!" Madame Giry was looking around frantically trying to find something to fan her. She reached down taking the small cloth from Meg's hand, and began shaking it loosely over Meg's face. It was then that she saw…her eyes growing wide… "where on earth did she…" her voice ran cold.
Nadir motioned for her to be silent; he looked as if he'd seen a ghost. His one finger pushed tightly over his pursed lips, the other now pointing at some point over her shoulder. Nadir's eyes were wide with horror. Slowly he walked toward Madame Giry, placing a hand on her shoulder as she turned to see what Nadir was pointing at. She gasped, nearly fainting herself, for there, sitting in the chair was Raoul…and before him on the floor…was Christine's cloak! Madame Giry had given it to the girl herself…and she had been wearing it just hours before to shield herself from the cold of the caverns below. Madame Giry nearly keeled over on top of Meg, and were it not for the fact that Nadir had firm hold on her, she would have done just so.
Nadir helped Madame Giry to her feet, taking her reticently away from Meg's side to her bedchamber, closing the doors. He lead her to the bed sitting her down before he ever let go of her. She gasped, though she tried to stifle it.
"Nadir…what on earth does this mean?" she said through strained breaths. "How is it that he arrived here, and where…oh there is but one way that he'd found that cloak…" she gasped…the thought was too terrible to speak of. They'd have been caught venturing to wherever they had been going, and now, only the good Lord knew what had become of them! Had they been shot, Erik trying to protect Christine…the two of them fleeing…Christine being spotted, and Erik trying to resist… She shook her head, all of the possibilities led to the same conclusion, they had been found, and all that Raoul could return to Meg with was Christine's cloak. But…if that had been so, why had he not woken them? She gasped, realizing she'd been holding her breath, wringing her hands.
Nadir shook his head. He did not know…and there was but one way to find out, and that was to wake Raoul.
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Erphan was carefully pacing the long halls of the woman's shop. Everyone else, save himself, was sound in slumber. He'd wait dutifully until someone woke. He'd thought about loading the sleigh with what had to be returned to the winter house, but then realized it was precious little that could be taken out, as nearly all would be needed before they'd depart.
He stood, looking longingly out at the streets of Paris through the imposing beveled glass door that he'd passed through just the day before. It had been a fine night, and a fine visit to the City. He'd fought with himself, thinking that a mere hour would mean little to those who now slumbered, and he could quite easily venture out with nary a notice, as all were soundly asleep.
He'd left and returned to the door several times, with each return he'd admonish himself that traveling without express permission from his master could lead to a great many things, but what he feared most was the loss of trust that he'd worked so hard now to earn. He was entirely torn, but in the end, he picked up a book in the woman's library, and settled once more into room where the other young man slept. He'd made himself a strong cup of Earl Grey. A story, he'd learned as of late, was a worthy companion for time that could not be occupied with some other duty or distraction. He sat back on the divan, resting comfortably before he opened the book. It mattered little the title, the book was full of short stories, and that was suitable for the moment, for he'd never have time to finish a lengthy volume, and he'd not want to abandon a story half-read if it held his interest.
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Outside, on a lamppost, not far from the seamstress shop, hung the remnants of a faded and weather-worn poster. A sketchy drawing of a woman gone lost during the great fire at the Opera Populaire. Most notices had been diligently removed throughout the City, at the behest of elder DeChagny, some long weeks before. This one remained, likely overlooked as the location was rather obscure. It would rarely be seen, and certainly only by those who passed through that part of the City. And to them, it would be old news. The City had been healing itself, and the disappearance of a poor little chorus girl-come betrothed of a Victome, was all but entirely forgotten. Though weather had diminished nearly all its distinguishing marks, to the inquiring eye it was unmistakable, it was Christine Daae.
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The Barron was barely able to function, imagining where along the path into Paris he would find Raoul. He'd kept his eyes peeled for signs of blood or struggle, but thus far there had been none. The lone set of the prints of a horse at full gallop was the only evidence that was visible that indeed the horse that left DeChagny's house was bound for Paris.
The doctor was castigating himself; how could he have given in to his exhaustion so irresponsibly? He did not know. He'd stood watch over a great many men and women in their hours of need, and not once had he ever been so remiss in his duties. True, Raoul had not been in grave danger, but he had been under his watchful keep. He'd given Meg his word that he'd look after him; that she could easily and without worry accompany her mother into Paris…that Raoul would be mending and waiting for her return.
Having reached the last turn by the cemetery, before the straightaway into the City, he glanced over. He shuddered. The normally dormant knolls looked other-worldly. Bits of turned earth, flung carelessly about on the top of snow. Dead hares and possums scattered here and there...surely some beasts having hunted after enduring great hunger during the storm. No matter if it was nature or not, there was something entirely repulsive about seeing it first hand. He'd be glad to be once again within the civilized walls of the City.
The horse's stride beneath had him had been steady and true. Traveling in such a mess of melting snow, muddied soil and every other combination of earth and water that could be imagined, had not been easy. Not having found Raoul along the path, there was only one plausible locale for the man, and that would be the Opera House. He'd punish himself a long while for ever having told Raoul of Meg's whereabouts. Had he not told him, he'd not have known where the object of his affections had ventured to.
He thought of the Opera House, hoping that Raoul would have made it that far without incident, and so far the prospects of an unblemished ride into the City, looked to be quite promising of such a favorable outcome. The knowledge that the sleigh was at the Opera House comforted him. Once he was certain Raoul was safe and well, he'd administer a good dose of medicine and return him to DeChagny Manor for a proper rest.
As he came to the edge of Paris he thought to himself, Raoul had no idea how very fortunate his circumstance were…he could well have died from a blow to the head such as he'd endured. It was the arrogant, determined, selflessness that Raoul suffered from, that caused the Barron to worry for him as he did. It was both a blessing and a curse on Raoul's soul. He would be beloved by those in his charge for his compassion, and pitied as a weak-minded man by Parisian society for the risks he took saving and helping the un-notables. He hoped, that one day Raoul would not have to learn through great hardship, that he'd need to heed the cautions shown him, or those he cared for, would be deprived of far more than whatever loss he'd intended to protect them from.
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Christine dreamed as she slept in her half-prone position. She traveled through the mists, to a place where she'd found herself more times now than she could count.
Erik was wandering on the shore of a beach, a small son in his arms, a young rather stately girl walking beside him, her small hand in his. As many times as she'd had this dream, Christine had never heard them utter so much as a word. Today was different. She heard the little girl speaking, matter-of-factly to her father.
"Daddy, why is mommy so sad?" The little girl inquired of Erik, as she looked up with undulating adoration at her father.
Erik looked down, all the compassion one could ever see conveyed from one human to another in his glance. It was obvious in his gaze that he loved his daughter more than the life that coursed through his own veins. "My dear Katherine, your mother is not sad, she merely misses them as she would miss you or I if we were in heaven."
Katherine looked up at Erik, love abounding in her glance. "Does mother love all of us the same?" She looked down at her little brother who was now dipping his toes into the surf of the low tide.
Christine seemed to watch from above, as though suspended in air as a pendant hanging from a cloud. She felt as if she could travel at will between conversation and thoughts as quickly as her heart bid her.
"Your mother loves each of you, as I most certainly do." He reached out his finger touching the tip of her nose playfully. "Of this you can be certain. Each of you were conceived in love, born in love, and raised in love. I shan't be able to think of a time that I did not love your mother with every shred of my being. And as strong a love as we have for one another, and do not discount that love, for it is a great one, that can still not compare to the love a mother has for those she bares of her own flesh. For me to say that she loves you no more nor less than she loved them would be anything but truthful my dear Katherine."
The girl seemed to be satisfied with her father's reply. She scampered along the shore, running her toes in the clear warm waters, picking up shells, showing them to her brother. For all the things that seemed to matter most, the assurances of the love of her mother was tantamount to being in heaven itself.
Though she did not understand the meaning of it, Christine no longer feared the dream. Whatever made the dream twist this way and that she did not know. It seemed that she never knew which way the dream would turn, and surely it was but a dream. She smiled at having seen Erik with babe in arms. She knew in her heart of hearts, that he would be a wonderful father…she'd seen it so with her own eyes now, and her heart did not doubt it. It warmed her to think that in delivering his own flesh and blood to him, she would fulfill for him, the one wish that he had…to be loved by flesh of their flesh, without condition.
She opened her eyes cautiously. Erik was still sound asleep on the divan. She'd only left him for but a moment in her slumber, but somehow just gazing upon his sleeping form made her feel as though she were once again at home. For she'd learned long before, it was those that you loved that gave any structure to the word home, leastwise the very special place in one's heart, the inner court where only those one held with the closest affections were permitted residence.
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A small huddled mass of four stood around a rather obscure grave at sunrise. There was no fanfare, no formal gathering of a gaggle of humanity mourning the loss of some member of their society. There, the mother, daughter, doctor, and vicar, stood silently reflecting on the words they'd just recited from the Psalms. It was as Victoria would have wanted it.
The few tears that were shed, were hastened to a premature end, by the knowledge that outside of the cemetery gates, closed to afford them privacy, was a group of intruding curious eyes.
Seemingly all wanted to know, what caused her to go out into a storm so dreadful that no man had dared venture out into it for fear of his own demise. They had bantered hungrily amongst themselves, certain that though they knew not WHY, they did know WHAT. It had indeed been her curious ways that killed the woman, they'd surmised, as surely as the glass that ran her through, draining her of all life's blood.
But as much as they were curious of the laying to rest of the woman whom all thought to be crazy, and though they'd not admit it forthright, were glad to be rid of her, they were far more curious yet of something beyond her death. What did they truly know of this man who so gallantly saved her? From where had he come, and for what fitting reason had the woman that now lay in burial chamber, find fascination with him such that she'd cause a furor whenever she encountered him? Though they would remain silent out of respect, their minds raced heavily in speculation. Perhaps one day the story would be revealed, lest rumor, being what it often was, created a tale all its own.
The doctor thought he'd understood the poor woman until he stood over her motionless body, offering up her penance. He hoped that, posthumously, she could be redeemed for all she'd done in her life. Though what details he knew were scant, he'd come to understand that there was much more to the woman's life than anyone had ever…or had ever cared enough to know.