A/N This one's a little shorter...thank God! Finally. No more trains! EVER. Don't know if anyone spotted it but I absentmindedly referred to Innsbruck in ch 7 as being in Switzerland which of course it's not. Apologies! Thanks so much for the reviews...they are like oxygen to me now. Really. Anyway, enjoy this little breather.

Chapter 8

Meg woke early having slept like the dead. The last thing she remembered was Erik's velvety voice; he had been explaining about the Bridge of Sighs although she could not remember much of what he had said. Swinging her head over the edge to look beneath her she noticed with relief that Erik was still asleep. He had not woken her so she presumed he had had an uneventful night. Dressing quickly she quietly she slipped out into the lounge to await the steward with breakfast.

The little chatterbox had finally fallen asleep thanks to his relating the entire history of Venice for the past three hundred years. Erik had lain awake for hours afterwards staring at the bunk above him wondering what it would be like to sleep like that. Quiet, restful, peaceful. He had listened, his back to her, still as an owl watching a mouse while she dressed in the dawn light before leaving him to his thoughts.

Later, lulled by the smell of breakfast he went to open the door to the lounge and then stopped abruptly as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. His face was bare! He had not even realised it and he would have to go in there and let Meg see him.

Meg watched the door open finally and beheld man that walked through it. She observed the long powerful legs, the narrow waist and broad torso clad in a burgundy silk vest, the wide straight shoulders and knew that her old adversary from her bath was gracing her with his presence. Erik must be taking the morning off! Her eyes finished their journey and suddenly she knew why. His right hand covered the marred side of his face but otherwise he was just as she once remembered seeing him up on the catwalks. Tall, proud, mesmerising. All he was missing was his cape and he really did not have the space to use it to its full effect in this tiny room. Meg realised now thinking back over the times she had seen him before that he seemed to do this when he was unsure of himself, a fish out of water. This too was a mask, no different from the one he wore on his face. Beneath it all he was still Erik.

"Good Morning Meg, I trust you slept well?" Erik was all charm as he gave her a ghost of a smile.

There was an elephant in the room and Meg was not going to ignore it any longer, but out of respect for her friend she would not speak of it either.

"Good Morning Erik and yes, I slept like a baby thanks to you!" She moved quickly to retrieve her bag from the other room returning almost before he had a chance to question her.

"Sit." Meg motioned to the banquette and took a step towards him to highlight her intentions. Taking more clean rolls of bandage and a scissors from the bag, she gently began to wrap Erik's head once more. Neither spoke. Erik closed his eyes and found once again the place he had been before that irritant Gaston had shown up. The pain of laying himself bare like this was almost worth the feel of soft hands touching his marred flesh with no trace of fear or loathing. He felt her pinning the ends of his bandage and then for a blissful few seconds she let her hands rest on his shoulders before proclaiming him finished.

"Spectacular! I missed my calling! Now, would you like fruit or pastries?"

Amazing, he thought much later while the train was standing at the platform in Innsbruck. His little dancer had out manipulated the manipulator. He had been sitting with his eyes closed at the mercy of her ministrations almost before his unformulated brain registered her intent and her appraisal of his situation. She was proving incredibly astute in the short amount of time he had gotten to know her. He knew it would not be long before she would tackle him once more about the havoc he had created and if he were truthful he really had no idea what to say to her, where to begin, how to explain. He barely knew himself. He had gotten off lightly the previous day but he knew her well enough now to know she was just biding her time.

He had left her to deal with the steward while they waited for the officers to board. He had given Meg the only thing that proved he had existed on this earth aside from his bank account; his papers, altered though they were. His place of birth stated Montpellier and not Rouen. His was now an architect and not a composer and musician. He supposed it was not so far from the truth; it was all art. His rarely spoken name and unacknowledged date of birth were all that remained of his true origins. He was who he was and no one up until now really knew; those that did had promised to keep his secret. The Giry women. His saviours and protectors as it turned out. Had Antoinette kept Meg away on purpose so that she would be ready to help him when he would really need her? No, of course not but it made him feel a little less lonely to think of it that way. Her mother had never expressly told him to stay away from her but he always felt it was implied. Meg was her precious only child; pure, innocent and free of the knowledge of his pitiful existence and he was sure Antoinette had wished it so. Alas she had been overlooked, unnoticed until now and instead Meg's younger, parentless, lonely friend had called out to that same part of his soul that was broken. Therein lay the root of his downfall. Christine. The sad child who spoke to her father's spirit and he had listened.

He could hear men's voices now outside in the lounge, more than just Gaston 'the punctual'. He could feel his hands itching to caress the fibres of his lasso as the mere thought of the steward. He knew of course that he was just fulfilling his duties but really the little weasel managed to be maddening without even trying. His fingers were bored, that was his problem. It had been days since he had touched the silken ivories of the organ or drawn the bow gently across the strings of his beautiful violin. He had never gone this long without playing something, anything. It was a ritual, part of his routine, sacred. Some people prayed; he played. He played when he woke, before he slept and as the mood took him at any time in between. With no one to talk to he spoke to his instruments and they had always answered him. It was a conversation he needed to resume before he lost all control of his mind. Music, whether he wrote it, played it or paid homage to a fellow composer had never failed him, always succeeding in straightening the kinks in his mind and soul. He reached under the bed and pulled out the case that held his most prized possession. Sitting down he lifted his only mistress reverently onto his lap with both hands and raised her to his face inhaling her scent like a drug. He was instantly transported to his former home, the pungent aroma of burning wax and ink, the softly flickering light and the wonderful acoustics. He could not have built it better if he had designed it himself. No one could hear him play down there, his compositions lost to the lake, the rats and the dark. Christine was the only human being who had ever heard him play...just before she removed his mask for the first time. Once had not been enough it seemed where her betrayal was concerned! His beautiful fiddle would always be faithful and true, would always understand him, comfort him and speak to him. Filled with blissful memories of their life together he remembered fondly how she came to him. She was the first thing he had bought when he began drawing a salary; a newspaper left behind in the auditorium, an advertisement in the classifieds for an estate sale. The man had been a violinist, his destitute family selling off his worldly goods. She had been listed in the inventory. Stradivarius! He had found Antoinette and begged her to attend the auction, to pay any price and bring her back to him. She would sing for him again, just as soon as they got to Venice.

Meg was drawing on all of her almost eighteen years of experience dealing with stroppy singers; the two officers who had arrived to check their documents subjecting her to something akin the Inquisition. What is your employer's profession? How did he become injured? Why are you travelling to Venice? How long have you been in his service? You are very young to be a nurse, are you not? If only it were not impossible, she could really have used an intervention by her Opera Ghost. His particular brand of mind altering persuasion would have cut the encounter to mere minutes. She had never lied and embellished so much in her entire life and she was sure she would be heading straight for the depths of Hell for it. The two rigid and pompous looking men standing like dry sticks in the lounge each held an elaborate official stamp, holding them teasingly over the documents she had handed over.

"Oh just stamp the damned things and be gone. Fools! Horrid, horrid men! Where the devil is Erik when I could actually make use of him?" Meg screamed inside her head, dearly wanting to stamp her foot and tear her hair out but restrained herself in anxious anticipation of ink hitting paper.

Finally with a thud, Austria granted passage to Mlle. Marguerite Giry and M. Erik Destler.

Bowing violently the two sticks retreated almost taking each other and Gaston to the floor with their ridiculous swords as they turned. Meg had to bite her cheeks to keep from whooping with laughter at their incompetence and utter failure to impress her with their ceremony. The steward hung behind as they left. "Mademoiselle, we shall arrive in Venice just after five. I shall some bring refreshments shortly." Then he too took his leave.

Meg clenched her fists and danced on the spot, snatching up the two documents freshly stamped with the seal of the Kaiser in bold red ink.

Erik Destler, Male, Born 13 November 1836, Marseille, Eyes Green, Height 6 feet 2 inches.

That made him thirty five next birthday. Funny, she could not imagine him having such a thing. And his eyes were not green, they were blue green but then she supposed on those documents they must be one or the other. How much of it was real?

Erik stayed in the relative safety of the sleeping compartment until he felt the train pull out of Innsbruck once more, barely containing his curiosity before opening the door and joined Meg in the lounge.

"I can only assume since we are both still here that we have been admitted to Austria without trial." Erik was almost weak with relief. This had been his biggest fear on this journey. Now they were across the border; France was finally behind them.

"I confess your powers of deduction leave me quite breathless! Of course we have been admitted. Without trial you say? Did you not hear the litany of untruths and myriad of stories I had to contrive to please those two self-important, pretentious twits? Surely with your ears you cannot have missed it? Oh the questions, the interrogation. You owe me Erik Destler. Green eyes, born in Marseille. Do you hear me?" Meg stood with one hand on her hip, the other pointed at his chin, her eyes throwing sparks around the room. She had been so terrified of being caught out, they had asked so many questions; sometimes the same question in five different ways. She was dizzy.

"Meg, I do believe you were frightened! I cannot believe it. You are shaking with it! Sit down before you fall." Erik was incredulous. Brave, immovable Meg had been scared out of her wits of being rumbled by the Austrian guards but she had outwitted them all the same. Good girl. He was proud of her.

Throughout the afternoon Meg had alternately dozed and daydreamed, watching the changing scenery as it flew by in a blur. Erik sat beside her sharing pastries and drinking coffee with the latest edition of Paris Matin on his lap. She did not want to read anymore about what happened and he did not volunteer the information. Reading about it would not change what had really happened. She did not understand why he had felt compelled to hurt people as he did, perhaps he did not know either. She could only imagine the life he must have led down in the cellars, alone. He would tell her soon enough, she hoped and she would wait.

Erik had watched his brave little dancer as she nodded off throughout the afternoon, her head jerking as she fell awake each time, smiling to himself as she looked around to see if he had noticed. He had read the paper cover to cover, noting that he had been relegated to the inside page today. There had been talk of Piangi again, the Viscomte and his prize and when work would begin on the refurbishment of the Populaire. His greatest achievement it seemed was the loss of his love and the destruction of his only home. A monster he had been called and a monster he had become; the Devil's Child who had dared consort with the angels. He would be punished, of that he was sure.

They were nearing their destination he thought as he shifted in his seat, seeing as it was well after four. Meg was awake now staring at a spot on the glass. She turned to him at his movement.

"We will be there soon. Perhaps we should get ready, pack our things such as they are?" She rose and Erik followed her into the sleeping compartment where his violin lay on his bed. Damn! He had forgotten to put her away.

"Oh Erik! How beautiful...may I?" Meg gazed in awe at the stunning instrument on the sheets, the warm caramel wood aching to be touched.

He panicked suddenly at the thought of anyone laying a finger on his precious violin. No one but him had ever seen her before not even Christine, never mind touched her. But it was Meg. She would be careful with her.

"Alright." Erik swallowed the lump in his throat and winced as she picked up his life in her hands.

Meg sat on the bed and lifted the violin carefully with her two hands, reverently running her hands along its sides. She imagined Erik playing it, eyes closed, lost in its melody. "It is really quite beautiful Erik. Will you play it for me someday?"

"Yes, if you wish...someday." He took the violin from her hands and put his salvation back in her case and continued to put away rest of his things.

Venice was getting ready to go home for the evening by the time their train rattled across the great lagoon that separated it from the mainland. Dusk was falling and the glow from the gas lights mixing with the fog created a corona over the ancient city. Santa Maria station was their destination and after almost two whole days they were nearly there.

Meg's faced was pressed to the window and Erik had to restrain himself from doing the same. He was gripped with a feeling alien to him all these years, a feeling he thought entirely lost to him, a feeling he was more than a little afraid of. Hope.

"Meg look! St Mark's - Chiesa d'Oro, the Church of Gold" He placed his hand on her shoulder and pointed to the huge dome dominating the approaching skyline.

"I dared not believe I would ever see it." Erik stared in awe, afraid to blink lest it disappear.

The overwhelming relief that they had finally made it caused Meg to bite her trembling lip as she took in every spire and tower against the fading sky. She turned back to look at Erik who was glassy eyed like her, mouth open in wonder. They had done it. She put her tiny hand over his and squeezed.

"Welcome home Erik."