Chapter 5: The Other Mask
"Attention everyone! Mme. Giry will not be here today; she is away on family business." A murmur of discontent rippled across the crew assembled in the house seats. Madame was quite strict, but without her, everything would fall apart. This was the first time she'd been absent in fifteen years…
"In addition," Moncharmin announced, shuffling a stack of papers, "I must announce that management will be turned over to Mme. Giry once she returns, as M. Richard and I are retiring." Another whisper echoed in the auditorium. Retiring after just a year? Unthinkable!
Erik watched from his seat in the rafters and lights above the stage. At long last, freedom from those useless, lazy simpletons! He chuckled, but remembered that his students, and more importantly, Christine, would be unable to navigate the labyrinth down to his home without the ballet mistress leading them. I suppose I shall have to find them and escort them.
He scanned the group below for the singers as the meeting adjourned and the crews began to disperse. Eter was standing close to Artur, whispering something into his ear while he crouched down in an effort to reach her level. It was rather amusing, really; other men were so foolish, falling headfirst into love without thinking they'd even stumbled. And the two weren't even close to the suitable size for each other…
He swiveled his head to search the other dark corners and spotted Marcus talking to Christine about something serious. Suddenly, she smiled, amused by something the timid Greek boy had said. For some reason this irked Erik, but he ignored the twinge of irritation and narrowed his focus to one area at a time. It was in this manner that he at last found Anna putting her feet up in Box 6 (dangerously close to Box 5), taking swigs from one of his expensive, limited edition bottles of vodka. His eyes widened, and his fingertips, though covered by gloves, grew cold and tense as his hands curled into fists. I should poison her for thievery.
No, you shouldn't, his more reasonable side argued. You'll regret it a few seasons from now when you have need of a contralto. Anna smirked as she glimpsed her teacher and raised the bottle in a toast. He read her lips and sneered, projecting his voice across the empty space to her. "No, Mlle. Iseal, you'll pay for my vodka with hard work and unwavering attention, not to mention abstinence from your kleptomaniac and alcoholic tendencies."
Anna jumped and almost dropped the fragile bottle as she dove for cover behind the nearest seat. Have I suddenly lost the ability to hold my liquor? Then she peeked over the rim of the chair and growled low in her throat. Bholgchainteoir… She turned to leave the box, but took a long draught of the fiery liquid just to taunt M. Erik. Ha! Agus tú ag dul sé ró-!
…
Just as the next dawn touched the sky of the frosty morn, Mme. Giry returned to the dorm she'd used so many years ago, and slid back a panel in her wall to trudge down to Erik's lair. It was dark, but the lack of light mattered not. She knew the way by heart and had only to feel along the walls for the directing arrows etched painstakingly into the stone. Cold whispers drifted past the loose wisps of grey hair that had escaped her normally immaculate ballet bun. At last, when she reached Erik's door, she did not knock; he already knew she was there.
He opened the door for her. "Antoinette…what's happened to bring you here so early and in such a state of…disrepair?" he asked, wording his question carefully. She sighed heavily and leaned against the doorframe. This caused a jolt of surprise on Erik's part; he had not seen her lean on anything since the night of his rescue, which happened to be five years previous. "No, never mind that. Just come in."
Giry let herself be led almost roughly by the arm, tolerating his grip because she understood his worry better than even he did. "Meg's gone missing."
"How do you mean?" The multitalented composer had set a kettle over a newly lit fire and was now digging through an old trunk for some warm rugs for his friend's shivering, damp form. It was unlike him to be concerned over anyone's physical needs, he knew, but he wasn't about to let his messenger die of pneumonia or some abomination like strep throat…that, and he owed her his life. "Has she run off with one of her many suitors?"
Madame's voice was raw and pained from the tears she'd shed earlier. "No. I went to the police. There was a struggle, and both she and whoever she was with were taken…but they can't follow the trail on pavement, not after so many hours."
"Did they use the hounds?" Erik watched as the woman settled into a threadbare armchair and rested her head in her hand.
"They did, and the blasted bitches lost the scent." She was unhinged. Normally, she would've made her girls gargle soap and saltwater for such abrasive language. I know loneliness, but loss must be worse. It splits its victims down the middle and shatters them if they have lost what they love most. He shuddered. Loss was one of the things he could do without, despite the fact that most other humans experienced it. "And now the managers decide to turn their work over to me… Hardly a difference, except now I'm supposed to pay you."
"But you won't." Erik at last found a blanket and tossed it at the tired woman, who intercepted it and gratefully clenched it about her body. She gave a dry, almost hoarse chuckle.
"Correct. I won't. You can pay for everything with the money you've gotten from every which country and crime." The corners if his mouth twitched upwards a bit. It cheered him to know that his ally would always stay rigidly principled. It made up for his twisted ideology of revenge and death penalties. In fact, she reminded him of the Daroga…
…
He was said to be possessed by a Jinni. After all, how could he be so adept at killing? How else to explain the rages that shook him far beyond the limits of ordinary teenage rebellion? And what else could explain the unearthly, horribly, angrily expressive music he produced with any instrument? No one had seen him in the flesh before; he stole the night and wove it into a cloak when he pleased, and flew on the wind with his wings of black magic. But Nadir Khan had no say in the boy's moods, and frankly, he wasn't sure what caused them. In addition to this, he had other matters on his mind. The veteran Janissary before him did not seem to understand that the loss of his eyes would impair him in battle and be an obstacle to his comrades.
"I can still fight! I am as good as any other soldier, Daroga!" Hayvan's cries did nothing to move his superior officer. "I need the money for my family!"
"You are a mercenary, and you could not have enlisted if you had a family. Now, though, you can have one because you are officially released from service." He watched with pity as the man before him stumbled forward, disoriented by the loss of sight. "You will have compensation, if it pleases you."
The sightless, broken former assassin clenched his fists in frustration. "I don't want any more money. I want someone to look at me without pity and I want my life back!"
In the shadows, Erik flinched inside. Pity? Hayvan, you cannot avoid pity when people think themselves above you. He had personally trained this man, from a distance, of course, directed his every movement until he was a perfect killer. He knew his elite team's every strength, weakness, preference and reaction to danger. He could send them on the most impossible assignments, and they would return successful every time. Hayvan was responsible for these victories. Nadir was dense enough to believe that Erik could simply recruit another man and train him in time for the sultan's next request.
"You are dismissed, Hayvan. I will send the money to you in a week's time." The veteran howled with rage, helpless as the place guards dragged him out. Nadir only sighed- and found Erik's dagger a hair's breadth away from the major arteries in his clavicle. His breath was coming in soft hisses; his mask was almost out of place over the contortions of rage on his face.
"What have you done?! He was my best man and you fired him for nothing!" The knife pressed gently into Nadir's skin. One thoughtless move and he would find himself mopping the marble floors with his own blood.
"Erik… He has been blinded. Surely that disqualifies him and negates his value as a soldier?" He did his best to hide the tremble in his voice. This genius child would take advantage of any perceptible fear.
"It does not! Blindness is never an excuse to get rid of one of the world's most skilled assassins!" Erik growled, fingers tightening around the weapon. Nadir threw one last, desperate fact at Erik's visage.
"Erik, look out the window. Look who is with him." When he dared command anything of Erik, it was usually serious. So he strode with his silent feet over to the large, partially frosted portal to the outside and gazed out at his trainee. The man was sitting on the white steps with a young girl of about twelve years of age. She was sharpening a long, curved blade and practicing holding it between her teeth as he gestured and spoke seriously. The masked man's eyes widened a bit behind the leather cover as he witnessed Hayvan touching the little girl's hands and showing her a knife hold that he'd learned from Erik.
She had ink for hair.
...
Erik left Mme. Giry to her somewhat fitful nap and made his way back to the world above. She would recover eventually, and if he had his way, he would return her daughter to her. He intensely hated that new look of despair at the corners of her eyes.
It looks as if I will have to commence lessons in the orchestra pit, or some other unsuitable place for today. A stagehand in dirty, grease-stained clothes tugged the pulleys and lifted the red curtain. A few others, mostly young men, were flirting and laughing with the ballerinas, who'd decided that Mme. Giry's long absence could be interpreted as 'playtime.' One of the boys, much to his distaste, was in the process of boldly approaching Christine. She glanced at him once and then looked down again. Something was troubling her.
Erik watched as the boy proceeded to use a joke to strike up a conversation. It fell flat, and he walked away, bored. Immediately, Erik's hackles rose. If that unsavory individual cared anything for Mlle. Daae, he would've inquired as to what was wrong…and what still is wrong. The girl kept her head down, hands folded. Today those smooth, white hands were enfolded in the black veils of a costume from Swan Lake: a dress of black satin, black lace, and only a matte, velvety torso. Who is she mourning for?
Sighing, Christine turned away and walked back to her dormitory. It was silly to think that anyone would offer their sympathies when she hadn't told anyone the cause of her sadness. Anna hadn't said anything about her peculiar dress, probably because Anna always dressed in black.
She stepped into her room and held back a startled cry. M. Erik was sitting at the desk, looking as if he'd been waiting for her. She briefly noticed that the first button of his shirt was undone and he didn't have a waistcoat or cravat, then worked up the nerve to ask, "May I help you, M. Erik?" Her heart skipped a beat as she waited for his answer.
"On whose account are you in mourning?" She saw the honest curiosity in his eyes, not needing to look at his mouth for his expressions. Erik, on the other hand, assessed her appearance with something akin to masked surprise. She had even donned the hard, black mask of the Black Swan, with its intricate embroidery and crystal beading. Why wear a mask when she is pleasing to look upon?"
Her soft, tremulous reply distracted him from her odd (but pleasing) accessory. "Min pappa… It's his birthday today." A tear trailed down the mask, looking almost like one of the finely crafted beads. Erik stood and wondered if his own father had ever missed him. His fingers toyed with the tip of a long-dry fountain pen.
"I have never known the loss of a loved one…but I am sorry for yours." Christine looked up. She hadn't expected any comfort. They hardly knew each other, for God's sake! But suddenly she was holding him around the torso and pressing her forehead to his chest, crying aloud for the first time that day.
Erik was beyond shocked at the sudden gesture. The sensation of Christine's hands grasping the back of his shirt, of her warm, slender arms almost paralyzed him. Eventually, he remembered to breathe and decided he quite liked the feeling. Her shoulders trembled as she sobbed, so he slowly put his hands over them and did what he had sometimes seen Mme. Giry do to her Meg when she cried. He ran his cool, gloved hands through her hair and hummed softly.
Slowly, she calmed, going from a small child back to a young woman as she recalled exactly who she was hugging so desperately. The impromptu, wordless lullaby faded away, and the cold leather loosely twined in her hair trailed back to her shoulders and down to her wrists. "I… I'm sorry, I just…" She took a breath, dreading the unavoidable flush in her eyes and cheeks. "Thank you, M. Erik," she said, locking her fingers with his for a moment. "And…I apologize for your shirt."
He sighed at the softness of her grip on his gloved hands. It took him an extra second to register that she had expressed concern over his now wet cotton dress shirt. "It's quite alright, cher," he assured her, voice softening from sharp and commanding to a wisp of awe.
It took another second for him to realize that he had used a term of endearment for the first time in his life. He gazed back at her, marveling at the icy lines mingled with sky blue in her red-rimmed eyes. And I thought tears couldn't be beautiful… He checked himself suddenly. He was slipping, and she was the cause. If I am not careful, Christine could be pregnant in the streets before long.
Thankfully, he did not have to break the contact (and he didn't think he had the will to), but another dilemma came up.
"Eter? Where are you?" The door swung open and Artur raised his eyebrows. Christine again had her arms around Erik's waist and was dressed in what appeared to be an overly lacy costume… "Please excuse me, M. Erik. I did not mean to intrude on your…" His ears burned as he chose his last word. "…privacy."
The door closed again and the girl hurriedly released her hold on Erik, much to his regret. If her cheeks had been tinted before, they were now blooms of fire. "M-my apologies again, E- I mean, M. Erik, I shall have to explain to Artur that it wasn't what he thought!" Then she rushed out of the room in pursuit of the confused bass and some thicker powder from the makeup crew.
Erik tipped his head to the side. What could possibly cause a female to vacillate so rapidly between emotions?
Hidden in the cramped, muffled wardrobe, an individual in dirty working clothes watched through a crack of light. It paid extremely well to be a spy…