CH 39

My first suit was completed and delivered four weeks after Madeline dropped off my measurements to a Spaniard and his young, flirtatious son.

Madeline blushed when speaking of the tailor's son, and I politely suffered through her recount of their conversation when she came to visit me several hours before the performance dedicated to Cathedra.

"Try it on, try it on!" she said as she held out the new garments.

I ran my fingers over the fabric, scarcely able to believe that I owned not merely a suit, but one that had been made to my specifications: dark green with abalone buttons and an off white lawn shirt. I had found a cravat in the lost items beneath the theater that perfectly matched the suit as well as a slightly oversized abalone ring that fit onto my smallest finger.

Madeline turned her back to the wall of crates where I dressed myself. I took my time stepping into my new trousers and buttoning my shirt, imagining that I was a well-respected dignitary preparing for an important meeting with emperors and kings. I swept my fingers through my dark hair, which had started to grow thicker once more. In weeks it would begin to fall out in clumps, but for the moment I was more fond of the way I looked. The thicker hair made me feel more strong and masculine

Monsieur Erik, I imagined my butler saying as he waited dutifully to hand me my overcoat. You look dashing as ever. It is a sincere pleasure to serve you, my lord.

There was no denying I looked older and distinguished in the new suit. I smiled at my reflection, noting that the cut made my shoulders appear more broad and my waist not so horribly thin. For the first time in my life, I was pleased with the person staring back at me–at least from the neck down.

Madeline practically shrieked with delight when I walked out to greet her. She gracefully stepped toward me and playfully offered her hand, which I accepted. I bowed and she curtsied, and in a moment of light-hearted playfulness, we both laughed.

"You look very nice," she said, fussing over my collar and adjusting the buttons of my overcoat, tugging at the fabric until it was to her liking. Her attention was tender and motherly, and as she ran her hands down my arms, I found myself content with her attention.

"You are too kind," I said.

"How do you feel, my handsome friend?" she asked, looking up at me.

"Like a gentleman," I answered, smiling back at her. Handsome was not the correct description, but I appreciated the sentiment.

"You look like a musician and a gentleman," Madeline agreed.

Her approval meant the world to me. I stood up straighter and lifted my chin, imagining I was about to enter a room full of people with my dear Madeline at my side.

"Hopefully two more suits are done by next week, but I may be slow to deliver them. I have visitors for the next three weeks," she told me. "My cousins, my parents, and Gaetan will all be here. At different times, but I simply cannot wait to see all of them."

"Gaetan?" I questioned.

"Gaetan Giry," she replied as if frustrated that I was not familiar with the name. "A good friend of mine. He is in the Navy. You don't remember me speaking of him before?"

Instantly I bristled, recalling the man who had taken up a great deal of Madeline's time previously, leaving me bored nearly to death during his stay in Paris. "Ah, yes, you've seen him before."

"Many times. For many years."

I pretended to find my sleeves more interesting than the conversation. He annoyed me without being present.

"You could come to supper with us," she offered.

"That would be lovely," I answered, despite having no desire to dine with any of them, particularly Gaetan Giry. I secretly hoped his ship would sink and he'd never visit again.

But his ship did not sink and our meetings over the next month were brief and infrequent due to Madeline's show rehearsal schedule as well as a visit from her cousins, who were traveling for a month around Europe.

Twice I heard the three women–all similar in age to Madeline–shrieking with laughter as they skittered down the halls of the theater and out into the night for a late supper.

Madeline was overjoyed with their week-long stop in Paris. She hinted at me meeting the three cousins, but I politely declined as I had music to write and had no interest in listening to a flock of gossiping hens talk about fashion and young men.

After a day of successful composition, I rewarded myself with a much-needed evening of fresh air. I donned the best trousers, lawn shirt, and waistcoat I had in my wardrobe as well as a heavy cloak with a deep hood to obscure my face. I stepped out the side door, made my way down the alley, and walked across the street from the theater shortly after sunset.

Sullenly I stood in front of Cathedra's residence, which was still occupied by her widower and what appeared to be a full staff. Her cousin had moved out of the home and into a flat several streets away according to theater gossip, and she had hired a voice coach to prepare for her first production.

Unfortunately for Carlotta, it wasn't her voice that was lacking. She went through the motions of each scene as though being on the stage bored her. It was truly painful to witness what she thought was acting, and quite frankly, I doubted she would finish a single season with her lack of talent.

Cathedra's dog was barking incessantly at someone or something when I started to turn away, and soon enough I heard the door to the side of the home open. With a yelp, the dog had apparently been deposited quite harshly into the north garden, which was surrounded by a white wooden fence. I heard Maurice shake himself off and scratch at the back door to regain entry into the home, but his whines were ignored.

Hearing him paw at the door, I was reminded of locking myself out of the Opera House and frowned beneath my hood, feeling quite sorry for the neglected dog.

A moment later, the little pup wriggled his way out from beneath the gate and happily trotted to the front of the house where he urinated on a bush and wiped his back feet on the grass. He noticed me once he was loose, and his dirt-covered ears pricked to full attention. Before I could react, he charged and I froze, bracing myself for the Papillon to sink his teeth into my shin or attempt to chase me away.

Instead he dashed past me, his tail tucked beneath his small frame as he cut around the corner and wheeled toward me once again. He came to an abrupt stop, front paws down and rear in the air, instigating a game of chase.

"You wish to play?" I asked, patting my thighs. He ran toward me and bounced up and down as though desiring for me to pick him up. When I reached for him, however, he scampered off, weaving in between people walking down the boulevard. Women shrieked and men shooed him away.

"Maurice!" I called, fearing he would be kicked or struck with a cane if he annoyed the wrong person. "Come back!"

He paid me no mind as he lengthened his strides and crossed the street where he bounded up the Opera House stairs and sniffed each entrance before he ran to the side of the building where his owner had most likely made her way into the theater six days a week.

He is looking for Cathedra, I thought to myself. He doesn't understand she is gone.

I trotted across the street, hands stuffed in my deep pockets and head down against the crisp spring air where I found the little Papillon sitting patiently in front of the stage door, his ears pricked up and alert, tail wagging back and forth along the ground.

"Come on," I said, gesturing toward the other side of the street. "Back home."

The dog whined and pawed at the door.

"She's not here," I said. "I'm sorry."

He looked up at me with his soft, dark eyes and turned his head to the side.

"Cathedra isn't here. She's…she's not coming back, I'm afraid."

He gave a deep sigh and tried the door again. I understood his insistence, his desire to return to the side of someone who had loved him. Undoubtedly since her passing he'd been on his own, surviving off scraps and ignored by the servants who had no reason to tend to him.

"Come around to the other side," I said, nodding toward the front of the building. "You can come with me."

He looked up at me again, his tail wagging, and I smiled back at him. I'd always appreciated dogs and Maurice was no different. I could take him in for the night and provide him with a meal and a place at the foot of my bed. We would both be less lonely together, at least for the night.

I reached for him, but he ducked away and took off once more, this time further down the alley toward the carriage house and stables. He disappeared through an opening in the fence and scampered out of my sight. Frustrated, I exhaled hard and continued my pursuit.

I wriggled through the loose boards and shouted his name, but he ignored me and dashed across the street and away from his home. He weaved between people traveling on foot and darted in front of a carriage stopped on the opposite side of the street.

"Maurice!" I called again, this time whistling.

He paused, ears erect and tail up as he searched for the direction of sound. I watched him turn in a circle and make his way across the street toward me, but the carriage wheels slowly rolled backwards as the horses changed position and I lost sight of him. For all I knew he'd continued down the street and further from his home and the Opera House where I was certain he would get turned around and never find his way back.

"Come here at once!" I ordered.

I heard a man shout and saw stout white legs prance beneath the carriage. The dog paused, looked at me, then turned to continue on his way, disregarding my calls. The moment he faced away from me, the carriage lurched forward and I felt every muscle in my body tense.

"No…"

The yip tore through the evening air, a sound of distress and pain that sent a shiver through me.

Immediately I sucked in a breath, wide-eyed and shocked from the opposite side of the street as the carriage pulled away. One of the wheels rolled over Maurice's back legs and the dog cried out again, three piercing howls of anguish.

My mind reeled. The dog writhed in the street, front legs pawing at the ground, back legs sprawled out and useless after being crushed. His tail was bloody, as were his back feet.

"Damned thing, getting in the way," a man grumbled. He nudged Maurice in the ribs with the tip of his boot before he stormed away. "Serves you right, dumb dog."

My feet couldn't move fast enough. I saw two other carts pass over the little dog, wheels dangerously close to smashing his injured body. No one appeared concerned for his fate and not a single person stopped to see how grave his injuries were. They continued on as though they stepped over rubbish.

My heart sank, my legs wobbly and stomach sick as he continued to yelp.

"Maurice," I called again as I approached. He was breathing hard once I stood over him. His eyes were wide and blood bubbled from his nostrils as he continued to struggle, but his attempts were in vain. His tongue flicked out several times as he struggled to whine again, but no sound came from his lungs once I stood over him.

He would bite me, I knew, the moment I attempted to lift him from the ground, but I couldn't leave him to be crushed beneath carriages and horse hooves. I gathered up my cloak, fit my hands into my gloves, and reached for him.

"Hold on," I whispered despite the chaos of the streets around us. "I will help you. I will take you home and care for you."

He let out one final, blood-curdling scream as I reached for him, sucked in a deep breath, then ceased moving as I touched his shoulder. His eyes were still wide, but there was no life left within his small body.

I crouched down over him, stroking his ears gently before I gathered up his body and cradled him in my arms. With nothing else to do, I walked him down the street, turned the corner, and placed his body near the front of Cathedra's home. He was cold and limp when I gently lowered him onto the steps and patted his head.

"You're a good boy, Maurice," I said.

I took one last look at him, my throat tight and eyes wet with tears, and knocked twice before running as hard as I could toward the Opera House, my mind unable to erase the image of the little dog lying in the middle of the street.

"Cathedra," I whispered as I made my way toward the chapel. "Maurice has come to you."

I sat hard on the bench near the stained glass window and tore off my blood-stained gloves. There I wept, head in my hands, knowing Maurice had returned to his owner while I stayed alone.

oOo

The death of Cathedra's dog took a great toll on me emotionally. I played through the scene repeatedly in my mind, wishing I'd had a length of rope in my pocket to form a tether so that I could have taken him back home with me. I wished I had simply tossed my cloak over him and carried the little dog back with me. He would have struggled, perhaps even bitten me through the fabric, but no matter what, he would have still been alive.

The thought tortured me. I felt as though I'd been the one to run him over with the wagon.

I often wondered if Madeline had been able to visit more often if I would have felt differently, but alone and with nothing to do but surround myself with music and swimming, my solitude existence was overwhelmed with sadness and regret.

I thought of my uncle and Girl, the dog who had taken a liking to me and who had died attempting to protect me. I thought of the scruffy mongrel whose trust I had earned back in my own village, who ultimately met his untimely demise at the hands of my own father. I thought of the bichons in the traveling fair that curled up around me at night and licked my face and hands, their tails wagging as they settled down, nestled up against me. I wondered what had happened to them, if the fair continued or disbanded. They would have been of no use to anyone.

The more I had thought about them, the more I wanted companionship in the form of a loyal dog that would greet me with unmatched enthusiasm when I returned from an evening at the opera. I wanted to feel the rise and fall of each breath that belonged to a canine that would curl up beside me in bed, keeping me company through the night. I wanted an end to the constant loneliness of hours upon hours spent by myself with a wagging tail and soft, dark eyes.

Several days passed and I decided I was in desperate need of fresh air. I dressed in my new clothes, a burgundy waistcoat, matching trousers, and a cream-colored shirt with burgundy stripes. The waistcoat pockets were lined with silk, which Madeline had said cost an obscene fee, but I could more than afford something luxurious and liked the way they felt.

Satisfied with my clothing, I ventured out of my underground home, my spirits already lifted with the prospect of being out in the city. Wandering into the night would clear my head, which I needed as I'd experienced bouts of relentless insomnia, which I attributed to boredom. Idle hands didn't suit me. I desired inspiration to write my next piece of music.

The moment the cool air hit my face, I smiled to myself. The weather had finally started to change, the chill of early spring turned to more pleasant, tepid evenings suitable for longer strolls. The promise of summer lingered just out of reach, but the streets were alive, the restaurants and cafes overflowing with people, and the night dazzled with music and the smell of food.

Paris was ready for late sunsets and warm evenings spent outdoors. I could feel it pulsing through my veins, this alluring sense of life as I'd never experienced it before. I bought roasted nuts at the first vendor I saw and enjoyed the snack while I glanced in shop windows and watched two men juggling while another played an accordion.

Aimlessly I wandered several streets from the Opera House, drawn to the music from the taverns and public houses further down the street. The cafes were packed and several places had outdoor seating at round tables perfect for couples wishing to indulge in wine and plates of cheese. I saw several people holding hands and murmuring sweet nothings to one another. Their interactions were the inspiration for sweeping melodies of love, their smiles the swell of the orchestra and their laughter the reaction from the crowd.

Music surrounded me, enriching the night. I made my way toward the district Madeline had expressly forbid me to enter, the bawdy music like a siren beckoning me closer.

Unsavory women on every corner, she had whispered. Bathed in perfume and dressed quite indecently.

Why she thought that description would dissuade me from venturing south of the theater was beyond me. If anything, unsavory women on every corner only piqued my interest further. Indecent only sweetened the temptation for a young man my age.

I finished the roasted nuts and walked with my head down, glancing up at every corner to discover there were in fact no hoards of women offering their company. In fact, the handful of ladies that I saw were far from indecent as they were nuns.

"A prayer for you?" one of the nuns asked as I passed them. She was young–not much older than I was–with very thick eyebrows that met in the middle. Her front teeth were terribly crooked and pushed her upper lip out, giving her the appearance of a horse. I couldn't help but think she most likely had to be a nun as she was not the most pleasant looking woman.

"I haven't any money," I answered. I bowed my head, ashamed of my own cruel thoughts regarding her appearance.

"What is your name, child? We shall add you to our prayer list." Her voice was light and sweet, almost musical in nature. I looked at her again, hoping to find something beautiful about her, but still saw only a horse-faced woman with a single, thick eyebrow like a centipede resting on her face.

"Maurice," I said. "My name is Maurice."

"God be with you, Maurice. You are in my prayers," she said, bowing before she and the rest in her group continued on their way.

I inhaled sharply once they were out of earshot and found myself standing with my back to a building. Surely lying to a nun was a great sin, as was judging her appearance, and I had done both without a second thought. I turned to see the group rounding the corner and considered chasing after them, explaining that I had given a false name, but I had no desire to admit something so foolish.

Besides, I'd used the name of Cathedra's dog and he most certainly needed their prayers. Not all was lost, I reasoned.

I sighed and trudged on, disappointed with myself and no longer interested in women haunting the corners of the streets. I stuffed my hands into my cloak pockets and gripped the brass keys to the Opera House in my right fist, needing the comfort and promise of a place I could return to when I was finished with my excursion.

Home, I thought, smiling to myself. It was strange and comforting to be able to come and go as I pleased, to have my own bed, a table to sit and enjoy meals, and a cozy chair to read.

Dozens of times while sneaking out of the cellar in my parents home when they were not present, I'd marveled at their simple furnishings: the rocking chair that squeaked with my mother's rhythmic motion, the knit blanket draped over the back when she was not seated there for hours, the tin plate with crumbs from the meal she took alone.

When the house was still and my father was gone, I used a nail to pick the cellar lock. Once I was free, I would sit in my mother's chair, wrapping the blanket over my shoulders, and pretend she shared her warmth with me. I'd fasten it tight, enshrouding myself with something that she cherished far more than her child. Eyes closed, I would imagine our conversation, the way she would dote on me and squeeze my shoulders, brushing a kiss against my good cheek. I pictured her smiling and happy, her wits about her rather than mumbling to herself in words that sounded like a foreign language.

My son. My Erik.

How I longed to hear her say my name, the one she had given me at birth. I wondered when she had ceased loving me, when she had decided it was best to banish me into the cellar. I wondered what I had done to earn her distrust.

It never happened often enough, but if my father didn't return before midnight, I understood that he would be gone for three days in a row, most likely due to incarceration for tavern brawls or some other crime. I often waited, breath held, for the clock to chime with a new day–a day free of worry as he would not be there when I returned from an evening spent wandering the shadows.

Those were the times I allowed myself to breathe easier, to take my steps with more certainty. My father couldn't follow me through town or drag me back and punish me. He couldn't pull me from the edge of the water and tell me precisely what he would do when I was shoved back into the cellar.

He would never know I stood by the fire and warmed my hands or peered into the bedroom where my mother lay sleeping, oblivious to my presence. I ate from their pantry, greedily filling my belly with salted pork and bread and hard cheese when it was available. But mostly I sat where I was not allowed and thought of what it would have been like if they'd given me a place within their home at their feet on the rug, content to simply be in their presence.

I was a terrible child, always sneaking about. But I never once regretted it.

That place–that lonely and terrible place–had never been my home. A prison, yes, but never a home. I shouldn't have given it a second thought, but I wondered how my mother and father would have reacted if I'd knocked on their front door, dressed in my new fine clothing with freshly polished boots and a pocket watch on a brass chain. They would not have loved me, I knew, but I imagined they would have been quite surprised by my newfound wealth.

"Hello there, handsome," a woman said as she stepped out from a doorway and attempted to block my path. The way in which she leapt into my path startled me and I jumped back, realizing I hadn't paid much attention to my surroundings. It was foolish, and I was thankful there was only a slight girl before me. "Care for a little company?"

"No, thank you," I said as I walked around her.

She caught my arm, her fingers hooking around my elbow. She stepped closer, her body nearly pressed to mine in a way I found more alarming than appealing.

"Thirty francs," she offered. "And you have me until dawn."

I glanced at her hand. Her knuckles were quite red, the back of her hand bruised and scratched. Her wrist was slender and decorated with a tattoo that looked like a rope tied around her flesh. Bound, I thought, a woman bound to the trading of flesh.

"I am not interested in your services," I said as I shook her off.

She snorted. "Probably couldn't get it up anyhow, you cheap bastard," she said as she stormed off.

My cheeks burned as I stalked away from her. I wished I'd said something in return, something that would have insulted her. You're hardly worth three francs, let alone thirty. Why would I desire to keep you for the entire night?

I squeezed the long brass key that opened the door closest to the servant hall where I could easily slip into the Opera House and down five flights of stairs to my abode. My solace, I thought. A place I looked forward to returning to when I'd had enough of Paris–and I'd had my fill of the city.

I released my grip on the set of keys and straightened my spine, relaxing as I briskly walked across the street and turned around, heading back toward the theater. The cooks had made both apple and pear pies, the scent of baked goods permeating the halls. Once I returned, I would take one off the rack and indulge for the evening while I read in the comfort of my bed.

Alone. Yet another evening spent in solitude. For a mere thirty francs–which I could well afford–I could have had the company of a woman with a rope tattoo until dawn.

What would she have done once I removed my hood? Screamed, I assumed, or perhaps hurled a candlestick to keep me away from her. Once she saw my face, she would have thrown the banknotes back at me and ran.

Or perhaps she would have demanded a greater sum of compensation for her time: an extra twenty francs to sit at her side, another fifty for her to hold my hand or put her arm around me and ten more to touch her hair.

Twenty thousand francs could have bought me six hundred and sixty-six nights of her company. I could have bought her, one evening at a time, but no matter the sum of money, I didn't want to purchase conversation or false affection. I wanted someone to desire my company as much as I desired theirs, someone like the girl Amelie that I had danced with over the summer, a memory that had become increasingly distant with each passing day. I wanted a connection to someone like I'd had with my uncle, who had loved me in a way I never thought possible. Or a friendship with someone like Madeline, who made time for me when she could and whom I adored and missed terribly.

I wanted my first kiss to come from someone who had feelings for me and I was willing to wait until I was sixteen or eighteen years of age to find a girl that would look into my eyes, smile, and lean in for a chaste kiss to the lips. I wanted to experience falling madly, deeply into love with another person, to look into someone's eyes and feel like there was nothing else in the world I would rather see than their face or hear than their voice. I wanted the warmth of an embrace and the sensation of breath on my cheeks.

I desired an intimate moment given freely, not purchased for the seller's named price. I wanted something that no sum of money could buy.

I wanted the impossible, something not even twenty thousand francs could offer me.

I took a shuddering breath and glanced behind me, half-hoping to see a glimpse of the woman who had approached me, but she had most likely gone off to pursue another client whom she would give more of herself to for less money.

Given my past and my appearance, I had more than I could have ever dreamed of obtaining. I told myself to be grateful, to appreciate the life I had built for myself, even if most days were spent without company. There were worse fates than being lonely, I reasoned. I could have been a penniless beggar residing in the gutters, cold and starving. I could have still been imprisoned by Garouche, beaten six days a week. I could have been in an asylum, languishing for years. Or I could have been–

"A ghost!"

"That's what they're all saying."

Voices bellowed from a group of people milling around the corner I approached. There were three women and three men gathered together in front of the last tavern that stood between the nicer part of the city and the unsavory portion.

"No one honestly believes there's a ghost at the theater. Come now, that's absurd," one of the men said.

I stopped walking and pretended to look into the nearest store window as I assumed they were discussing the Opera Populaire and greatly desired to hear the rumors of the aforementioned spector.

"Don't speak ill of the ghost," one of the women said. "You'll only stir up trouble."

The man scoffed. "Trouble indeed. I have stood on a sinking ship with the mast destroyed by cannon fire, Charlotte. A ghost does not trouble me."

"He killed a man," another woman said.

"Adeline, stop or I'll shriek!" Charlotte threatened.

"You dancers," one of the men grumbled. "So superstitious."

"It's true! Every word of it! The theater is haunted and the dreaded phantom takes lives," said Adeline.

I risked a glance at their group, horrified by their words. I'd taken pies and violin strings, harming no one in the process.

"I'm certain Cathedra sacrificed herself to him," Adeline continued.

"A sacrifice?" one of the men questioned.

"Yes, after she gave herself to him, if you know what I am saying. She was enamored with his death's head and bewitched by his golden eyes."

"None of you are amusing," a familiar voice scolded the rest.

"Anne Edward, the only person in the theater with sense."

I recognized Gaetan Giry's voice as well, the deep, resonating tone of the naval officer.

"Surely you believe in the ghost, Anne," Adeline said. "He's been spotted numerous times around the theater, floating across the halls before he vanishes.."

"A trick of the shadows," Madeline–Anne to the rest of the group–assured them.

"Then to whom is Cathedra di Carlo offering such a generous salary?" Charlotte asked. "I've heard the ghost has already collected a hundred thousand francs in the last month.."

I raised a brow. The theater would have gone out of business its first month paying such a hefty sum.

"That isn't true and you know it. Perhaps it is nothing more than an extravagant jest on the part of the theater owner," Madeline suggested.

"No, it isn't," one of the men said. "I have heard from a very reliable source that the ghost is real and that Cathedra did offer him twenty thousand francs."

Madeline didn't argue. She shook her head in dismay and fixed her hair.

"Why?" Gaetan asked, crossing his arms. "Why would anyone compensate a ghost?"

"Because he threatened to burn the theater to the ground," Adeline said.

"That's absurd," Gaetan said. "If he burns the theater to the ground, then where would he haunt?"

Charlotte cleared her throat. "Do you really want to know why Cathedra offered him compensation?" her voice dropped lower, making it more difficult for me to hear what was said. I took a step closer and turned my head to the side. "He escorted her to the underworld. Twenty thousand francs was his fee."

Adeline gasped and the men murmured amongst themselves, nodding in agreement. Madeline stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head at all of them.

"The underworld?" Gaetan asked.

"Everyone knows that woman sold her soul to the devil. She abandoned her own infants in favor of her career. The ghost, you see, was her first born. He volunteered to deliver Cathedra di Carlo to the dark lord himself. He both hates and adores her."

My breath hitched. I stood frozen within twenty feet of Madeline and her friends, my heart hammering as I listened to their rumors, rumors that were about me.

Gaetan offered a mocking laugh. "And I am certain if we listen closely, my dear friends, we will hear her singing to the devil himself right this moment."

As if on cue, a woman somewhere in the night released a blood curdling shriek of laughter. Both Charlotte and Adeline screamed in unison while Madeline clutched Gaetan's arm.

The naval officer chuckled to himself as he snaked his arm around Madeline and kissed her forehead.

"You needn't worry, my dear Anne," Gaetan said to her. He planted a kiss on her cheek. "I shall protect you from that demon."

"There is no phantom of the opera," she said firmly.

"No?"

Madeline turned her head and looked in my direction, then wrapped her arm around Gaetan and settled her head on his chest, seeking his comfort. "Of course not."

Gaetan smiled. "If there was a ghost in the theater, make no mistake, Ann Edward, I'd kill him with my bare hands."

I clenched my jaw while my nostrils flared at his words. Rage threatened to consume me with his threat. "Mind yourself, Gaetan Giry," I said under my breath. "You have no idea with whom you are dealing."