Chapter 3: A Sliding Door

Eter knocked softly on the door she knew to be Artur's. A vivacious pink hue bloomed on her cheeks. She'd have to thank Anna for waking her up early with a sharp whistle in her slightly nicked, pierced ear. I haven't been this nervous since…

…

The dark weighed down the streets of Chios, an island in the Ottoman Empire. Eter crept silently through a dank alley, listening for the sounds of other feet. Her guts churned, threatening to give up the small lunch of seasoned rice and stolen (expensive and imported) apples. The worst part about being a thief, for her, at least, was the nerves. Every time she set foot onto another property, she had to hold back the nausea or risk her life for failing her mission.

The leader of her gang, a heavily tattooed brute named Hayvan, had sent her to rob a particular house, one just several blocks for her own. "It'll be dangerous," he'd warned through a leering grin, "and I want you to mutilate, not kill. But the little slave Eter knows what to do, and…" Hayvan had grasped her chin and tilted it up so she was forced to look into the eyeless sockets that had once served as his eyes. "My little slave lives for danger, does she not?"

Now, slinking around the streets, she approached the front door of the small dwelling, nose itching from the stench of defecate and rotting food. There were noises within: a younger man, an insistent cat, and a girl, hoarse and crying. Eter's intestines began to ache, threatening to be violently sick right there in the gutter. No. I have to do this. It's not as if I'll see these people again. I'll be living with the rest of the gang soon.

With that resolution in mind, she picked the lock on the door and burst in. The cat ran out between her feet as the girl screamed. A few bangs and rips later, the man was on the floor with Eter's knife in his chest, blood gushing steadily as his heart worked against itself. The girl scrambled for the now unblocked door, crying for help.

The world seemed to slow down, noise ceased. Eter retrieved her knife and let it fly to wedge itself between her victim's shoulder blades. She waited and listened for a minute. The neighbors had not heard, or so it seemed. Who have I killed on this dark night? She kicked the body over, exposing its face to a ray of moonlight from the doorway.

No… It can't be. Is this what thieves have to do? Kill their friends?!... Salty tears stung her eyes and fell to the dirt floor. Then…I won't be a thief anymore. But it's too late for you, my friend…too late because of me.

Eter fled the scene, never looking back.

…

"May I help you, G-zha Eter?" Artur looked down at the small Turk girl before him. He held the door partly closed, having forgotten his shirt and hurried to answer the door. He had to admit that she looked quite appealing in her loose cotton shift and multiple gold hoop earrings. "Is something wrong?"

Her face was quite flushed, and her hair was mussed. "Do you- I mean to say… Is there a way to wake everyone in this place at once? It is almost late, and…" She looked down at her feet, not wanting to face his crooked, ragged features. "I am anxious to start rehearsals."

Artur thought for a moment, and then ducked into his room for a minute. A shirt is in order. She probably doesn't want to look at any male who is…vulnerable. A good, modest girl… He pulled a simple white shirt over his head and dug through his iron-riveted trunk. Ah, here it is.

Eter's eyebrows rose as the man again exited his room and pressed a steel whistle into her hand. "I think this will do, G-zha."

…

After a light breakfast of Welsh rarebit, Christine scanned the stage for Mme. Giry. The woman had interrupted the cast's breakfast to announce that M. Erik would be in shortly, and that a new patron had volunteered to sponsor the production of Il Guarany. The chorus behind her was matching pitch and warming up with various intervals. Where is M. Erik? He didn't seem like the sort of person to be late, especially to a rehearsal.

As if in reply to her musings, Erik leapt out of the catwalks and swung down to the stage on a rope, effectively changing the scene that Buquet had been struggling with all morning. Knowing he'd caught her eye, he bowed low to Christine and approached her. "Well, that's one way of doing things, I suppose," she sniffed, trying hard not to look impressed.

"Ah, you honor me with your use of French. I thought you were born in Sweden?" Erik blinked his mismatched eyes and adjusted his cravat. I wish he didn't have those eyes. They're quite dizzying.

"I was. Do you mind if I ask something?" He tensed. And here comes the mask question…

"No, not at all," he lied, keeping up the easygoing façade. It would come eventually.

"Did you forget your toreador cape this morning?" she asked, smiling in satisfaction at how easy it was to catch him off guard. She spotted his eyelids' flicker of confusion. Then he recovered, his visible mouth plastered with an annoying smirk.

"Did you forget to comb your hair this morning?" Startled, Christine ran her fingers through her hair and found that she had indeed forgotten to comb her hair.

"Touché." The double doors at the entrance banged open, distracting the pair (and nearly everyone else) from their conversation. A short, stubbly man in an expensive handmade suit trotted forward on short legs, followed by a grumpy-looking Mme. Giry.

"…And yet you say that you cannot find those pesky managers anywhere?" The aristocrat's voice was nasal and slightly whiny. He pulled himself up onto the stage with a haughty puff. "Perhaps I should have picked a charity to sponsor instead of this lot of lazy louts."

"I assure you, M. le commanditaire; this crew will improve under my guidance." Erik narrowed his eyes at the confident way the man waddled forth and presented his many-ringed hand as if he deserved a handshake. "And I have recently recruited five promising new singers. Now, if you would be so kind as to give me your name?" He ignored the pudgy hand held out to him and instead rifled through a blocking script one of the stagehands passed to him.

The patron, slightly unnerved, cleared his throat and said, "I am M. le Baron de Castelot. I believe one of your crew is to marry my half-brother, should I receive what I want from this place."

"You are very presumptuous, M. le Baron, if you think I will comply with your every demand." He handed the blocking script to Mme. Giry and stepped off the stage. "I will be in my office, should you continue your failing campaign." Christine blinked, and Erik was gone. Mme. Giry sighed and hurried out into the halls, towards the manager's office. The short baron gasped indignantly and strutted out after the ballet instructor.

"Well," Anna commented from somewhere up in the catwalks, "'ere's t'the start of a great relationship wi' our new patron, M. le Fussy."

…

Erik poured himself a glass of sherry and sipped at it, feeling the alcohol burn down to his gut. Castelot is mad if he thinks he can run this place better than I can. Merde! He probably doesn't know even know what an arpeggio is!

The door opened, and the composer didn't bother to look up. He already knew who it was.

"I have an interesting offer for you, M. Erik." The baron closed the door behind him. "The government is in need of an engineer, and as of yet, no one has even come in for an interview. You would be paid double the amount a theatre rakes in during a whole season…every month." Erik scribbled a note to himself: Send a humiliating note to La Surete about M. le Baron de Castelot's opium addiction.

"I have told you that your campaign is failing. You should have paid more attention." A sinister chuckle escaped his thin mouth. His mask flashed like a glimpse of his skull. "I am a man of music, M. le Baron. I make art, not war." He stood to his full height (which was about twice Castelot's height of three feet and one inch) and roughly ushered the noble out of the office. "Do not come back here if you wish to save your reputation. I have a great deal of unflattering truth to release to the press about you."

…

Christine watched from the wings with Anna as Eter contemplated the whistle Artur had given her. "Do you think he'll warm up to her eventually?" Anna took a swig from a bottle of something rather pungent.

"'Course. They're destined."

"I don't know… He just seems so… closed. Wouldn't Marcus be a better match for her? He's quite nice to her, as far as I can tell." Christine ran her fingers through her newly combed hair. It was already tangling with a mind of its own.

"Ifreann aon! Heck no, lass! Are yeh mad? She threatened to slit 'is throat before breakfast for takin' the croissant she conquered!" The brunette giggled, finding for the first time that feminine gossip could be fun.

They watched as Artur approached Eter and sat with her on the edge of the stage. "Hm. I think you're right, Anna. He seems fond of her already."

…

Anna watched the clouds shift in the sky from the roof patio of her rich father's estate. From here, she could pretend she was flying, that she was a songbird for the world to hear. She could fantasize that her father was not in jail for his part in the No Rent Manifesto, and that she was free of the politics involved with being a relative of those in power.

"Ms. Anna?"

"What's it now, Letty?" she sighed, "It'd better be somethin' important." Letty cleared her throat.

"Your father died this morning. They executed him." Anna could hear the servant girl choking on her tears. "His last wish was for you to move somewhere else- so- so his enemies wouldn't get you, too." So 'e's dead. And he finally cares enough t'send 'is bastard girl 'way. She squinted out over the rolling green hills and sparse brush. No need t'pretend he ever loved me. I'd've left his family anyway. She turned and strode back inside, red hair blowing about her face in the breeze.

"Ms. Anna? What are you doing?" Letty's young, undocumented mistress glanced behind her at the familiar, forbidding land.

"I'm goin' t'pack my bags for Paris, o'course."

…

Mme. Giry trod home through a finely sprinkled first autumn snow. Since she was of higher status in the theatre, she could afford her own house. She unlocked the creaky door and hung up her coat, reveling in the comparative warmth of the indoors. The cold is in my bones, she thought to herself, and it frosts my old joints over.

She struck a match and lit a fire in the small potbellied stove that had come with the house when she'd purchased it. In a few minutes, her small kitchen was warm and lit with small but effective lamps. Her slightly stiff fingers decided to warm themselves with a bit of knitting- the current project was a baby's sweater, something for Meg if she ever decided to marry. Hopefully that problem will soon be solved. Theatre life could ruin her, and that must not happen…

A knock sounded at the door. Giry reluctantly stood and set aside the knitting to answer. "Who is it?"

"It is M. le Baron. Would you please open this rotten door previous to my contraction of hypothermia? I have an offer for you." She slid back a small panel so she could gaze condescendingly into the midget's eyes.

"And what if I don't open this door? I'm sure I'd be doing the world a service if I left you to freeze."

"Because your daughter will marry my relative if you accept my offer."

"Speak your piece," Giry ordered coldly.

"I will have your daughter at the head of her own household if you help me capture M. Erik for the government. And I know you are in need of managers; I found Moncharmin and Richard working for a cobbler this afternoon. Would it interest you to have them back?" The stern lady pretended to think for a minute.

"Well, let me recount their services… No, I don't think they're worth having back. Good evening, M. le Baron. I hope you catch your death in the cold." On that frigid last word, she slammed the peephole shut again and retired for the evening.