Dear faithfuls:
I will update again next week. I hope to make use of the extra day in this holiday weekend to do a bit of catching up. Have a great weekend!
Raoul woke; looking around the tidy room he'd been put to rest in. He blinked looking up at the ceiling. He'd never slept in the Opera House…had never intended to sleep in the Opera House, after all he was the Patron, and an honorable man… He glanced over. In the bed next to his was his father. He doubted that this man had ever slept in such humble surroundings unless he'd no choice on his many travels. The walls were a plain muted tone of a calming ivory. The room contained simple appointments, two beds, two dressing tables, two wardrobes, two dressing screens, and a single large window with a seat built in to take advantage of the space and the view. Save for that and a large mirror on one wall, this was all the room contained.
"How odd" he thought to himself, that someone would be satisfied with this existence, that this would be someone's entire life. His eyebrow rose, for some, it was a dream come true, an ideal come to fruition. He sighed, this was but one of several dozen rooms just like it, all arranged now to contain at its fullness, the very lifeblood of the Opera Populaire. Something in him was saddened. The current arrangement was a vast improvement over the dormitories that had previously sheltered the young women whose lives were dedicated to the ballet, and Madame Giry's instruction, and yet, in comparison to his own luxury, it seemed a cruel disparity. It was the first time in his entire life he'd taken pause to consider it, and something inside of him ached.
There were so very many things in this life that did not seem fair. Since his mother's death, he'd not taken time to appreciate the differences fully. She had tried to instill in him a sense of justice, a sensitivity to those whose circumstances had been less fortunate…..his father had done everything to make him remember only his position in society, and that to ignore his position was to cause upset to the hierarchy of things that had dominated society for as long as he could recall. To upset the balance, the nature of things would be cruel, his father had taught him. At least in this structure everyone knew their part, their place. To do anything to disturb such balance would be a greater travesty.
Raoul shook his head. The two had looked at life so very differently, both thinking their own way to be right. He inhaled allowing his eyes to roam the room once more. They rooms were simple, but adequate. He smiled thinking now of the original architect, and how forward a thinker he must have been considered for his time. For as much as society had its separations in the present day, certainly when the Opera Populaire had originally been erected, that entrenchment would have been far greater. To have given opera rats such luxurious living arrangements would have been considered absurd. And to have given them study rooms, a great room for dining, and providing the ballet mistress with such a fine appointment…Raoul laughed to himself. Perhaps he and the architect would have had a great deal in common.
The women who graced these halls were persons of human origin, worthy of respect, education, and privacy. The mere fact that they'd dedicated their lives to the art, the entertainment of the aristocracy, did not make them lower creatures, and the architect had understood that, or surely he'd not have provided for such in his plans. His only wonder now was why those who had finally built the Opera House had so fully ignored his plans. It was indeed most curious, but perhaps explained why the upper three floors of the Opera House had never been finished, used only for storage of props and such.
Raoul stretched a bit, now fully awake. He could wonder no more, for it mattered little what had been. At least during his lifetime, and at his family's financing, a wrong had been righted, even if not as fully as it should have been. He thought that perhaps now he would bring in his sister, ask her to help make the surroundings a bit more hospitable for females, perhaps in that small way he could sleep better at night knowing he'd done something with his new-found appreciation. There was never anything as effective as submersing oneself in a circumstance to appreciate it more fully.
He sat up, putting his feet on the floor, rubbing at his eyes. Standing, he walked over to the window. The City of Paris was awake, bustling already. He'd have to look at his pocket-watch, for surely they'd slept later than customary, in-part due to the hour they had retired.
He stretched, looking around the room. A vision flashed through his mind, a memory that would have, but would never be. If circumstances had been different, this very room would likely have held his Meg…and Christine. His heart suddenly ached, a deep bitter ache. The pain seized him; tears quickly collecting on the lower rims of his eyes, a sob rising in his chest. He turned back toward the window. He'd not thought about her in a long while, and certainly not she and Meg in the same thought, for he tried consciously, and unconsciously to keep the pair apart in his mind, for each woman deserved her own place in his heart. But how could he help but wonder? That room was closest to Madame Giry's, and surely would have been where she would have placed Christine, and Meg would certainly have been her roommate.
He grabbed at the sill of the window, the tears running down his cheek. Meg would be spared this life…he loved her, and she would be one he had rescued from this life, this pecuniary existence. Meg would be his wife, bare his children, share his life until their final breath….Christine would be a childhood memory, a sweet memory he would keep locked deep within his heart forever, gone but never forgotten. He looked out at the cityscape again wishing, if he could have a wish, that wherever she was at that moment, that whatever obsession had possessed that monster to take her, had also been strong enough that he was treating her with care and tenderness, for he could only assume someone driven as the Phantom had been to possess her…that he had to have loved her…perhaps…Raoul swallowed hard…perhaps as much as he himself had.
His hands rose to his face, wiping away the moisture that had freely flowed down his cheek. Pressing his eyes closed, he turned back toward the inner room, his eyes readjusting to the light. It was time to go and embrace his life, to look into the eyes of his future wife, mother-in-law, sister, father, and close friend and confidante Nadir, for one can not alter the past, nor manipulate the future, one could only fully embrace the present. That had been one life lesson his mother had taught him, that his father had never been able to remove. The present was his to make of it what he would, and he chose to embrace it now, for all that it was. He went to the pitcher that had been left for him, pouring the water into the basin, splashing water on his face. Yes…it was time to embrace the day.
XXX
Meg, her mother, and Raoul's sister had been awake for awhile. They'd already consumed a press of coffee, and now sat in their robes in Madame Giry's quarters. Meg was at the dressing table, her mother working the length of her hair so that it could be braided. Raoul's sister sat off to the side on Madame Giry's bed watching.
The trio had found in their laughter over men, over garments, over the very mundane, that a bond was quickly forming. Raoul's sister had always been pleasant, and now to know for certain that they would all be family, gave them cause to relax in one another's company, and it felt as if they'd been in this routine for years. Raoul's sister had never had women in her life that were family since her mother passed, and the thought of it pleased her to no end. She'd admired Madame Giry at a distance for years, and in truth had learned some of her poise by watching the woman herself, so in an odd way, she'd been part of her life many years before, perhaps that explained with what ease they had come into their present circumstance.
"Now Madame Giry, you must tell me, however did you learn to do such things?" Raoul's sister watched as Madame Giry flipped her hands with ease, and without any assistance or even the use of mirror, she twisted and pulled at her own hair twirling it up into an elegant coif, affixing it with a pair of silver picks, a recent gift from a certain friend.
Madame Giry smiled, walking over and touching her hand, "as with all things in this life, practice!" The trio began to laugh again.
"Surely you knew that would be her response," Meg said looking over her shoulder at Raoul's sister. "Practice is my mother's favorite word, next to discipline of course." She smiled at her mother as she walked over to her. Madame Giry took her daughter's brush from her hand and laid it down on the dressing table, turning Meg's head forward as she began to braid her hair.
"Yes, practice, discipline, those are two very important things, no matter what your station in life." She smiled at Meg, and then catching a glimpse of Raoul's sister in the mirror. "Wouldn't you agree?" she said smiling at her.
Raoul's sister returned the affections, "of course Madame Giry, but of course." The three women smiled at one another as a comfortable silence fell over them until the last strands of Meg's hair were tucked into her braid. "There you are my dear. Now we best see to getting you dressed!" Meg rose, walking over to the contents of her trunk that had been laid out for her.
"Which to choose…hmmm.." Meg pondered.
Madame Giry walked over to Raoul's sister, sitting on the edge of the bed next to her. "This has been a revelation for all of us, has it not?"
His sister nodded, "indeed Madame Giry, indeed it has."
Madame Giry reached out her hand placing it over the young woman's hand. "There have been very few in our lives that we have become close to my dear, but now….now that we are destined to be family, it seems that your having to address me as Madame Giry, especially when in private, would seem far too formal." She looked into her eyes, "when we have the luxury of the company of family, would you do me the honor of addressing me by my first name, Antoinette?"
Meg tried not to notice, but her breath caught. Never had her mother ever given anyone such privilege. She smiled to herself pretending not to have heard. She busied herself with her garments, but deep inside she felt the warmth grow…they would indeed be family…in every sense of the word, and her mother, would indeed become something of a mother to this young woman, and it pleased Meg…more than she might ever have opportunity to admit.
Raoul's sister blinked, smiling up at Madame Giry, she took her hand into hers, "I would be honored….Antoinette…" she smiled as Madame Giry patted her hand.
Madame Giry bent at the waist, kissing her on the cheek, smiling at her, straightening herself. "Very well then ladies, we've dressing to do and then to breakfast, the coffee has done nothing more than woken my appetite!"
The trio laughed once more. A family breakfast in the great room, how wonderful a thing it would be. Then there would be the certainty of the arrival of more books, samples of lace and fabrics. This taking place with ease under the auspices of garments for the new production that was close at hand. It would only be the select few in the confidences that would know the truth. It would be for the wedding of the century. After Dickens funeral, and after the welcoming of Raoul back into Paris as the hero that he was being heralded, then would come the announcement, and then all eyes would be on the planning.
Meg, having selected a garment walked toward the dressing screen, pausing at Raoul's sister's side, smiling she reached out and touched her hand. "Thank you…." She paused, looking into her eyes, "sister..."
Raoul's sister felt a tear grow in her eye. Perhaps in the small confidence of this special bond, she could let her guard down, for a sister, Meg certainly would be. She leaned over embracing Meg.
"The pleasure here is mine dearest Meg, for all of my life I've longed for a sister, and now I shall have one." She leaned back smiling at Meg. She slipped her hand into Meg's. "Now once the engagement has been announced, I have a wonderful seamstress in mind, you will at once admire her work, for it is elegant and beautiful, but it is really her ability to do such work given her circumstances, that you will find truly amazing…." The pair walked off, arm in arm to dress.
XXXXX
Erik laid the book down on his chest. He glanced out toward the curtain fluttering with ease in the gentle breeze. He bent slightly, placing a kiss on Christine's forehead. She was his life, and their children…he'd lay his life down at the feet of the Sultana to protect them.
His mind was swimming. What did this old woman, the author of such words know? What did the books mean? Why had she given them to him, and him alone? He'd pushed through page after page of the first book. Excerpts meant nothing to him. It was weight, and feeding, and crying. The care of a baby; at first he'd thought perhaps it had been Nicole's mother herself, though he doubted it much for no mention was made of such an association. The words she used to describe every manner of note was curt. She'd no compassion for the infant that was described in those pages. Would a mother speak with such little feeling of a soul born of her own womb? No…
He reached out his hand brushing the back of it against Christine's cheek. No, a mother would never speak of her child with such indifference. He stared at her for a long while, then turned his attentions back to the book. Surely he'd missed something…it was the woman's dying wish… He closed his eyes, wandering back to that night…the storm…the blood…the woman's last words to him… He inhaled, a renewed determination set in. He'd promised her, and he was a man of his word. He lifted the book once more and began to read.
21 July Night is brutally hot. Child slept fitfully today in the sweltering.
Erik's eyes scanned page after page of single line entries, each separated by a strange scrolling.
18 August Entering the fourth month today. Survival seems likely. No request or suggestion that other arrangements be made to the contrary of what has been done thus far. Dark hair growing thick. Nourishment easily taken in now.
Erik pushed at a few more pages, and read on.
27 September First teeth broke, three at once no less. Child eager to rise to sitting. Demeanor is quiet but strong. Rolled from stomach to back.
Erik took note of the change in tone. Perhaps it had been at first a child foisted upon the woman, and she'd been obliged to care for the infant. But, it was evident in the words she'd chosen that her interest in the child's survival was growing. He paged through until he'd seen something different, a small drawing next to the an entry, the only bit of color he'd seen in the book thus far. He drew the book closer, it was a tiny holly set of holly leaves, with bright red berries. His eyes roamed to the entry. Certainly this one was special.
24 December The winds
have grown cold, and a bit of snow is beginning to arrive. Certain
additional funds have been provided for winter. Child is content and
sitting in the midst of a swaddle of blankets playing with a toy
fashioned in the shape of an animal.
Oddly quiet child, perhaps
is part of the condition. Sad that on the eve of such a holy day
that mother and child are separated, but then again, none expected
its survival. Will stay up with child until the break of midnight to
greet Christmas properly. Child seems to be comfortable with reverse
sleeping patterns...almost seems to be natured for it.
Erik closed the book, and laid it aside. His eyes roamed the ceiling, child and cherub at play, guarded by a great guild of angels in each corner. He began to wonder. What would have separated child from mother? And what odd description of a young child, that whatever sleeping arrangements they had, it seemed to tolerate. His brows furrowed, and then a look of recognition crossed his face. "Yes of course," he said under his breath, "the mother had left this world upon the birth of the child! It was the only rational explanation. He sighed, but why the journals…why the secrecy…but more importantly…why he? Why had she not entrusted them to someone else, or no one at all, for surely none would be able to calculate nor soon understand of what she wrote.
XXXXX
Erphan tried to smile at that beautiful face, though his head pounded as if he'd a hundred drummers inside it all competing for dominance. Through the din of the thrumming in his head he fought to focus on her face. Everything else was a blur to him, but he knew from the pain he was yet alive, though gazing upon her smiling down at him…holding him, would have convinced him that he'd already arrived in heaven. There was a strange pink glow in the room, and he'd no idea what time of day it was, or how long he'd slept. The light was news of certain morning, and the gentle touch of her hand slowly flowing over his forehead and into his hair was affirmation that he'd lived to see it.
"Erphan?" Misty's gentle coaxing was not without fruit, as he turned his head to look into her eyes. She smiled at him, taking one of his hands into hers. "Erphan…can you hear me?" She looked down into his eyes. The white was red and spidered, the remainder looked strained and fogged. Being struck by such a force was certain to have consequences, but of what sort and their duration was always a mystery.
Misty's hand continued to reassure him that she was there for him. Erphan inhaled again sharply, a forced bit of utterance rising from him.. "Misty…"
She smiled, an eager look of anticipation on her face. He was awake, his eyes seemed to dance….and….he'd said her name…. She ran her hand across his forehead. "Now relax, let me tell you a story…" she began. Misty filled the next hours with every story she could recall that the two of them had shared. He felt like he'd finally come home…the only home he'd ever really known, in the comfort of her affections, and he was content to stay there, no matter what it cost him.
XXXXX
The shopkeeper was decidedly quiet as he ran through his normal morning routine. He'd found himself quite out of sorts. He'd get the shop ready, excuse himself, and find his way quickly to the undertaker's. He wished he'd never gone there, but what was done was done, and it had to be seen through now. He went through the motions of his work, though his mind wandered time-after-time through the events of the hours previous. Who was that man that lay dead in the barn in the winter house of Monsieur Courtland? He'd strange garments, and his mass alone was intimidating, he could only imagine his presence should he have encountered him erect. He couldn't help but wonder what had felled him, why he'd been left there, and what was his business on that property when surely it was not occupied.
He hurried along, his wife looking at him curiously as if to inquire, but he'd said nothing, would say nothing…to anyone. He'd heard spoken of this new undertaker that he was the epitome of discretion, and he was very soon to take this man into his confidences. He finished his work, and made his way to the door, cloak in hand he looked over his shoulder, giving his wife a knowing glance. He would return, and explain everything, but for now, she was simply to trust him…and cover for him, lest anyone come seeking him.
The last time he'd required as much of her had been when he'd gone to look in on a shipment that Pyotr and Sebastian had been curious about. Though she knew it was not that concern that sent him out this morning, for they'd not been seen or heard of for some time. Just as well, they added an element to Chauesser that had not been missed since their departure. They had been like two goslings in a yard full of ducks, birds true, but certainly not of the same feather.
XXXX
Nicole stirred just slightly, hearing the door to the outer room close. She sat straight up in bed, blinking fiercely. Her heart pounded, her mind raced, in her half-sleep she had to find her surroundings, but it was the warmth of a gentle hand on her shoulder that reminded her of where she was…and who she was… She smiled, her hand rising to her cheek in a blush. She felt the bed beneath her move as he rose to embrace her back, wrapping his arms fully around her. John Paul placed a delicate kiss on her shoulder, gently pulling her back down into a warm embrace. She nestled her cheek against his neck.
"Good morning," he said to her, kissing her forehead as he drew her even closer to him. "What shall we do today?" John Paul said, running his hand lightly up and down her exposed arm.
Nicole smiled, closing her eyes, she hadn't a care or preference, as long as they were together. She drew his hand to her lips kissing the palm. "I think we should partake of the breakfast I'm certain that was just delivered," Nicole smiled, knowing full well that Kathryn had taken that liberty. "Then…" she smiled, turning herself so that she may look into the eyes of the man that was now fully her husband, "then, I say we do nothing…absolutely nothing at all…" she reached up kissing him tenderly. They'd begun just months ago utter strangers, had grown into friends out of mutual need, had come to know each other by caring for her mother, but it was one night, and one night alone that had given both what their hearts had sought, and now they were joined forevermore, to love and to cherish until death parted them.
XXXX
Nadir woke with a start. His normal routine had been so altered that he'd nearly forgotten where he was. He stretched, yawning loudly. There was much to do this day, and he'd need to see to it. He'd the tribute to have approved for Dickens, he'd Raoul and Meg to attend to, and the last of Sara's estate to settle so that the building might be sold to a couple eager to make a café of it before the Opera Populaire opened again. He spun himself around in the bed, his feet resting on the floor, rubbing at his eyes. He glanced toward the door, his eyes instinctively going to the one thing that was out of place in the picture he'd remembered. There on the floor, just inside the door was a flat white envelope.
"What's this?" he said as he stood walking over to retrieve it. He picked up the dozen or so sheets of parchment, turning over the first to read it. Inscribed in the corner of it was a note; "Items of consequence in Dickens life; a humble contribution to your work sir." Nadir cocked his head. He returned to the bedside and sat down. Moving his thumb quickly beneath the wax seal, releasing it. He turned the pages open and began to read.
XXXX
Lucien slept soundly in his quarters. Something about delivering that bit of dialogue to Nadir had proven to be a sleep agent, he now resting easily as his body had bid him. He'd shared much with Nadir in ways that only he, and few others knew. If none other than Nadir knew of his contributions it was enough. To see it as part of the tribute in the Opera House would be all the reward he needed. He was quite accustomed to surviving the lack of accolades, his affirmations normally came from the words he overheard of the man who wrote for the "other" side of things.
XXXX
The Sultana had finished her breakfast and paced the room down and back and down and back. She waited now. She'd not be able to leave that god-forsaken place until the men returned. She needed to know the whereabouts of all she sought. She had to know if they'd recovered the painting, if justice had been meted out with Sebastian and Potyr. She wondered about Abbas…he was no doubt her favorite, and she rather looked forward to his return. Malden was not much for company, a barely adequate conversationalist, and as interesting as stale bread.
XXXX
The pair of men had sat quietly just off in the woods beyond the winter house. They'd waited a long while since the last man had left on a horse. The hour grew late, and they'd still not seen so much as one movement to or from the carriage house. There was little left to do now but to casually stroll up to the house and check. Abbas should have returned hours ago, and they'd in fact seen his horse not long before.
The first of them crossed the open field. Having raised no more than a few flies that were sitting in the warming sun, the second decided to follow. They moved quickly into the carriage house, drawing the door closed behind them. The sudden rush of flies, told them what they feared to know. The first striking a match lighting the lantern in his hand. They both gasped, for at their feet was their greatest fear come true. Abbas lay stiff and dead on the cold ground. What they would do now was up to them, either way the Sultana would not be pleased. Bearing the news or the body mattered little, it would be viewed as a failure, and they'd likely come to grieve for it.