Chapter 11: Fat Rabbits
Meg had rather reluctantly enjoyed her stay at the nobleman's house. She was, of course, anxious to get back to her mother, but Salim had proved to be charming and even attractive despite his skinny limbs and body. He had introduced himself rather gallantly after their tense first meeting and kissed her fingertips at the door of his home… But Charles…no, I can't think about that now. He's dead, and there's nothing to do except mourn for a while and move on… This Salim seems familiar. Perhaps he is a patron of the opera?
She steeled herself even as her vision blurred with tears, and tied the white cloth loosely over her eyes, enabling her to see in the bright light of day without going blind. The week of darkness had made it hard to adjust to sunlight, but she had managed to eat breakfast with the curtains closed. Now she was preparing to return to her own place, and it almost terrified her. Knowing the police, they most likely have not done anything. What would everyone say? That she had eloped with the baron and only now returned, rejected and poor? No, that's far too ridiculous… However, ridiculous is the ballerina's specialty. I suppose I shouldn't put it past my fellow dancers to start rumors like that.
She blinked several times to adjust to the feel of the gauzy blindfold and decided to investigate the gargantuan closet in the corner. Salim's maid had pulled out a fine linen nightgown for her to wear after her warm bath the night before, but she couldn't come back to her mother looking as if she'd been made a permanent resident of this young man's household already.
In the wardrobe was a rack of expensive-looking dresses, arranged neatly by size and as far as she could tell, occasion. There was even a costume from some long-ago masquerade ball. Whose room is this? Does it belong to an aunt of his, or do nobility regularly stock their guest rooms with fancy attire? Meg's curiosity yielded a silken, graceful result as she chose a slightly plainer dress from the back of the wardrobe. It was rather casual and extremely indecent compared with the other skirts and gowns, as it left both shoulders bare. The dark red contrasted nicely with her sun-starved skin. Mother will probably say something about this before she welcomes me back, she thought with a mischievous grin, but as much as I regret Charles' death, he wouldn't wish me to mope about in black. Yes, he'd like something like this…
With a determined smile, she marched down the stairs and into her host's lavish dining room.
Salim turned from idly watching his large front room as he heard graceful dancer's feet padding down the steps. It was to Meg's feet that he first looked, and saw that she still wore her ballet slippers, as they had been cleansed by his one attentive maid. Then he noted that the red dress that she'd chosen was shorter than was appropriate for a noble lady, which, as his eyes trailed over her dainty ankles and toned calves, looked quite appealing.
Then he remembered that he was supposed to play the gentleman and tried not to let his gaze linger too long at the girl's exposed shoulders and neck. The mouth above those shoulders and neck startled him into a somewhat sheepish expression.
"Are you quite done looking anywhere besides my face, M. Castelot-Barbezac? I would like to return home now, if you please." Meg took the last steps down to the carpeted floor and strode towards where she knew to be the front doors.
"O-of course, mademoiselle…" He pushed the door open for her, and if he had not been focused entirely on the girl's clean-smelling blonde hair, he would have been surprised. He had pushed the heavy double doors to home open without assistance for the first time.
…
Marcus heard the faint clipping of hooves against the pavement outside and wondered who was visiting so early in the morning. Lazy patrons or tourists usually visit much later. He glanced back at M. Erik, who was instructing Christine on the finer points of projecting one's voice. His hand was over her diaphragm and she was blushing light pink in the spotlight. He looked away again and forced himself to focus in on the sounds from outside rather than the blooming romance before him. It might be that Daroga man who interrupted the attempted kidnapping yesterday…
Erik at last managed to draw his gaze away from Christine's lovely, slightly abashed face as someone entered the auditorium. Ah, the boy in the sickbed who gave me information… How did he manage to find me? He could not have followed me from a third story drop…or perhaps he does not know me. Beside him, Christine, who had not bothered to remove Erik's gloved hand from her torso, squinted towards the back of the dark theatre.
"I know that face…it's…" Her blue eyes widened in amazement. "That's Meg Giry!"
At the sound of her daughter's name, Mme. Giry rushed out with what could only be called a desperate yell. "Meg! My Meg, where is she?!" Salim, who had stepped aside to admit the relieved mother, watched with something akin to fondness as his former charge took the full force of the embrace. Surprisingly, she did not fall backwards, but gracefully stepped back and accepted the ballet mistress into her arms.
A startled but tender moment passed, and then: "Why are you blindfolded? What in heaven's name are you wearing, Meg Giry?" Eter tried to keep from giggling as she noticed that the maestro Erik had still not removed his hand from Christine's front. In fact, he had shifted to a more comfortable position; he was holding her about the waist, and she had yet to notice.
The young soprano watched with tenderness as Meg only hugged her mother tighter and smiled as the older woman tried to cover her bare shoulders with a shawl. If I'd had a mother, perhaps she would fuss over me just so. Her hand drifted downwards and came into contact with the cool skin of Erik's wrist. "Oh!"
She tried to turn around in his grip, but he rested his chin on her shoulder and kept her firmly in place. "Relax, little angel," his smooth voice purred in her ear. She instantly and involuntarily did as she was told and relaxed, even daring to lean backwards a bit. When did he gain such complete control over me? He can manipulate me almost at will… It was hardly unnerving, truly, for she felt quite secure in his grasp.
Erik relished the physical contact that Christine seemed to give him of her own free will. I am a moth, and she is a flame…but if I fly too close, she will consume me. While he was unsure of where his thoughts were going, he was certain that his eyes would close in bliss if he remained holding the beauty he held now.
Meanwhile, a somewhat amused Salim tried to reconcile the little child he saw in her mother's arms with the feisty young woman he had taken into his home just a few hours prior. A deep voice growled something behind him and a thud was heard as something hit the carpeted floor. He decided not to step forward immediately and looked out of the corner of his eye.
"Iseal, you do not pickpocket a guest!" They house thieves? He whirled around at the stern exclamation and ran into what appeared at first glance to be a wall covered in cloth. The wall moves and speaks? No, that can't be right… He stepped back again and was faced with a kind, scarred face a distance of about a foot and a half above his own. "Hello, guest. I thank you for returning the little dancer," Artur said in his awkward, accented French. "The ingrate behind me is Iseal, and she is a…"
"Kleptomaniac?" finished Salim and Anna in unison.
"Yes. Now, Iseal, apologize to the guest for your thieving, and return his pen." Salim watched as the slightly disheveled redhead recovered from her spill and scowled at the tall Russian. "Apologize."
"Very well then, Glubokiy, I 'pologize," she said, and slapped the pen into the young baron's waiting hand with a sarcastic emphasis on her last words. Artur glared back at her with such disapproval that Salim feared for Iseal's health and interrupted. She did not strike him as one deserving of death.
"I'm sorry; I never quite got your name. I'm Salim Castelot-Barbezac, by the way," he said as he held out his hand. He almost instantly regretted offering his hand. Artur's hand encased everything from his fingertips to his wrist and squeezed hard enough that he felt he would be bruised black and blue.
"I am called Artur Glubokiy." Anna had the mercy (or mischief) to separate their hands.
"Glubokiy, y'don' crush th'hand'v a guest!" she cried in a mockery of Artur's earlier admonition. She turned to Salim and grinned. "I'm Anna Iseal. I know y'name already, no need t'tell me again." She looked serious for a moment and said, "This's random bit'v information, but M. Erik's'n love with Christine."
Artur looked to the stage where said persons were watching as Meg and her mother exchanged news and reassurances. He almost choked on his own spit at Anna's next comment. "…And you're'n love w'Meg. Y'should court her."
…
Nadir narrowed his eyes in concentration as Anna walked back to her room. Why would she go back now? Practice is not over… Perhaps she has gone to deposit something she's stolen. He had been waiting for the opportunity to enter the thief's room and steal back his gloves, but being caught going through a young woman's things was not something he wanted to have to explain.
He followed her down the hall, careful to step close to the wall so that the floorboards would not squeak under his weight. She seemed completely unaware of his presence, so he nearly had his shirt front sliced open when a broken bottle was swung at his gut. "Damn you! Stop followin' me!"
He gathered his nerves and manipulated his expression to one of smugness and determination. "My gloves, Mlle. Iseal, if you please."
"I didn' take 'em!" Her hair flew about her face like a mane of fire. She looks like a phoenix. If she weren't female, she would make an excellent soldier, provided she could be broken in.
"You blinked. You are clearly lying." Anna stood to her full height, looked the suit-clad Turk in the eye without blinking, flinching, or looking away, and backhanded him across the cheekbone.
"I did no' take y'gloves." Nadir felt a cut open in his left cheek and looked down at the thief's right hand; a sapphire ring glinted in the dim light of a nearby lantern.
"You did take the Baron Castelot's ring, however. Hand it over," he ordered with his most formal voice. He watched the woman tip her head to the side with a sly, almost villainous smile.
"May I offer y'a bargain?" As a regular customer in the international network of black markets, he could not turn such an offer away. Of course, that particular habit had been instilled in him by the ever-lawless Dark Angel…
"The ring for… What do you wish in return?" he asked, suddenly wary. She could be asking an impossible price. He needn't have worried, though…or need he?
"Tell me a story 'bout M. Erik. Y'know 'im well enough." Perhaps she is only curious. He has never told anyone of his past, it seems… How will Mlle. Daae deal with his story? Or will they ever be together? I certainly hope so. He is in need of a woman's touch.
"I should not tell tales without his consent. And if I should tell you anything of him, I will be dead. Dead men tell no tales," he said, smirking with his earlier wit and exaggerated charm.
"Then no ring." Anna shifted her weight to one hip and raised one strikingly bright eyebrow. This wiped the smugness from Nadir's face in a hurry.
"You are a wicked vixen, did you know?" The petty criminal before him cracked a smile.
"Oi, y'jus' noticed, did ya?" She handed the ring over as previously requested. "Now tell me a story!" Khan pocketed the scrap of jewelry and grimaced.
"I suppose as undeserving you are of a story about M. Erik, I must keep my end of your deal and tell a tale…" He sighed dramatically, extracting a giggle from the redheaded girl. When he looked out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Erik walking with Christine to the kitchens. She has enormous power over him and has yet to discover it…
Anna poked his shoulder to regain his attention. "Th'story?" He turned away from the blissful but oddly disturbing scene and put on another of his saucy grins.
"Erik used to breed rabbits when he lived in Italy." Then the Daroga of Mazenderan sprinted away and back out onto the stage, leaving Anna wondering if her maestro was as scary as he tried to look. Then she finally gathered her wits. The clever man was gone, but she decided to shout up the hall anyway.
"Tha's no' a story!"
…
Erik had been extremely reluctant to release his hold on Christine, but unfortunately, walking required that both his feet remain on the ground, and they could not stay so unless he put away the concentrated happiness of holding her. Therefore, he now refrained from any forward contact with her, for fear of losing his train of thought.
"Where are we going, Erik?" He felt his heart pounding furiously as Christine blushed and folded her hands against her dark skirts. "I mean- if you would consent to my using only your first name. I know you by no other."
"There is nothing I should like better. Allow me to reintroduce myself, then," he said, stopping a moment. "My name is Erik, mademoiselle." He could not help but linger a second longer than necessary as he bent to kiss her fingertips. They smelled as if she had been out in fresh grass despite the onset of winter. She is so full of life, and so young and delicate…as if she were born to make me a good man…as if she were born to tame me.
Christine felt shivers skip up her arm at his touch. If his hand and his skin had been cool, his lips were warm indeed…or was that simply her imagination, leftover attraction from their embrace as she had cried for her father? Part of her hoped it was not. What am I becoming? A wanton, loose woman, or an immature little girl fallen in love? Pappa would not have approved of my letting him hold me the way he was earlier…
Then he stood tall again (very tall, almost a head taller than she) and tried to keep from impulsively kissing her lips as well as her hand. "It is not as if I have any other real name for you to call me by," he said, more to himself than anyone else.
He has no surname? Why not? Is he an illegitimate child? Perhaps I shall ask if when- if- we become closer friends…or closer still than friendship is. She quickly pushed the implicit thoughts out of her mind, pretending not to have heard his soft speech. Instead, she tried to keep the conversation running. "You have not answered my question."
Erik felt his heart stop for a second with worry. What? Had she asked about the mask? He looked to examine her expression, and let out a relieved sigh. She was smiling mischievously, almost smirking at his momentary confusion. "We are going to my house. I have-"
His breath caught as she nibbled at the tip of her finger, but he willed himself to breathe again and continued. "I have a gift for you, waiting just downstairs. Think of it as my condolences for the loss of your father." The sadness showed in her eyes, and he feared that he'd made a mistake in his good wishes, but she kept her smile up.
"Thank you, Erik." He thought his heart would burst. It was she who should be thanked. Not one person had ever thanked him as courteously as she had just then (Nadir did not count), and his chest swelled with joy.
"You are most welcome." Christine noticed that his voice was sincere as he replied as courtesy demanded. She was indeed most welcome. He sounds as if he would give me the heavens if he could. Why? I have done naught but exist and be his pupil and friend…but he knows despair. He must, else he would not be so…vulnerable.
They stood there in the corridor for a moment, absorbing and realizing for the first time the meanings behind the words of politeness. Then Erik broke the comfortable silence. "Shall we depart for a bit, little angel?" She only giggled in reply and made for the vague outline of the secret door set into the wall. She leaned against it, and a dark tunnel seemed to swallow her, leaving only a trace of her sweet voice behind.
It took five seconds of his life to be amazed at both his student's cleverness and eyesight. She had learned the door's mechanics within a minute after spotting it without his notice. Then again, she was his student, wasn't she?
He smiled and followed the girl into the passage, letting the false wall slide back into place behind him with not even a click.
…
The stagehand with dirty clothes was gulping his lunch down far faster than was healthy. Marcus was careful not to let his brow crease or stare so that his quarry would not notice its tail. Some workers go places during their lunch breaks. Who would notice if this one, who works with oil and pulleys, was absent for just a slight while longer than needed for a walk in one of the city's parks?
The plan was simple: create a diversion, let the spy 'escape,' and send a trained dog to follow him. The perceptive baritone lacked all but the first and essential step, the distraction that would send his devious victim scurrying back to its master. Then he let his eyes drift to avoid suspicion, as the spy eyed him for a moment.
As it happened, his gaze fell upon Artur and Eter, who was using her straight knife (the kard, she'd called it), to cut an undercooked potato. She stabbed at it with enthusiasm, even vehemence, as if it had done something to offend her mother. Well, this audience may prefer operas, but no one ever tires of comedy… He tuned in on Artur's deep, gravelly speech, which was quite easy to pick out in the clamor of higher-pitched voices.
"…there is no use in killing dead vegetable, G-zha Eter. It has not willingly insulted you, yes?" Eter glared up at the man, putting on a childish half-pout.
"I prefer my potatoes mashed; better, pulverized," she replied, punctuating her clauses with more precise cuts to the partway-boiled tuber in her chipped bowl. "Besides that, it decided to launch itself at my nose when I tried to cut it with the other knife- and don't deny it! You saw it as well as I did!"
Marcus stood and stepped over the heavy wooden bench, purposely going around the table and passing the spy. He was rewarded with a greasy cotton handkerchief, which was quickly stuffed into his own casual work trousers. His elbow bumped the man's back as he turned nervously, and he wheeled around again, instinctively tense.
Thankfully, the guilty-looking individual only muttered a quick apology and went back to trying to stomach his meal.
The bickering pair didn't seem to notice his approach until he was just behind the small, sharp-tongued girl. Artur raised his eyebrows and grinned as if he were having the time of his life, if only because of the companionship of the witty little creature sitting adjacent him.
"Ah, holla, Marcus!" Then the bass stage-whispered, "I have been reading Shakespeare- 'holla' is meaning to be expressing joy," he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, with an arch of his burnt, scarred eyebrow. His grammar needs as much improving as my accent, Marcus thought. "So, friend, this is not a social visit, I think."
"You are correct, Artur. Though I'd love to stay and socialize with the both of you, I need a favor that requires your skills." He took a knee between them, smiling as if only joking, but letting no one hear his calm instructions but them. "Do you agree to this?" They nodded solemnly, and rose as if to request seconds from the cook. Marcus sat again, leaning against the table as if waiting for their return, and waited for the show to begin.
About three yards from the rest of the group, Eter shouted, "For my murdered potato!" earning the crews' full attention. "I must avenge my potato!" she yelled out above the clangs and rushing sounds of the dishes being scrubbed. Artur struggled to contain his laughter as she brandished her dagger, reaching high in order to threaten his arched, thin nose.
"The potato is food! It is meant to be eaten. So, I am not a cannibal as you claim!" If the kitchen workers and various cooks had not been attentive before, they were now. A few of the more delicate ones gasped as he drew his own weapon, the long steel pipe, and pounded the warm stone floor. "I will not be falsely accused!"
"Flesh-eating monster," Eter sobbed out, exaggerating her motions, "you shall die for your crimes against potato-kind!" A moment later, the giant was seized by the collar and hurled into a pile of empty potato sacks, raising both a cloud of dust and flour and a rousing cheer from the audience.
Only Marcus noticed the spy in grimy clothes slip out of the mess hall. He hurried to follow in the chaos, and ducked into the passageway, following on silent feet.
The spy followed what seemed to be a familiar route, and exited the opera house through a worn side door. He knows this way. How long has he been leaking information to the Duc d'Orleans? The Greek waited until his quarry was out of earshot, and then whistled. His two small mutts, whom he had appropriately named Mikroutsikos and Mikro, came scampering up, scruffy fur and collarless necks eager for a pat. Mikro, wagging her tail, sniffled at the oily cloth in Marcus' back pocket and sneezed.
He retrieved the scrap and held it to the dogs' noses, then clicked his tongue and pointed up the street in the direction his victim had gone. "Go." The faithful animals ran as he directed, noses near to the paving stones, and looked for the entire world like a pair of ordinary strays.
…
Christine had had a wonderful time with Erik, enjoying his magic tricks and the way he charmed the newborn rabbits. …So that rabbit he punished Anna with was fat for a reason, she mused. "Erik, do you think they've noticed our absence yet?"
"I hope not, m- Christine. I should like very much to spend another hour or so here with you," he said, editing the possessive pronoun out of his speech for fear of alienating her. He smiled for about the twentieth time that day at her laughter as she cupped one of the baby bunnies in her soft, pale hands.
"And I should also like to spend more of the day with you, visiting, and not always practice." See how she smiles, Apollo, and how she laughs with me…you see all and know all in our shared domain. I dare you tell me that she is not happy with me!
The sound of hard pointe shoes against the stone made the pair look up with surprise at their visitor. It was Meg, obviously still resting from her ordeal in the prison, and looking out of breath and anxious. Christine, still cradling the tiny, white bundle of fur and warm flesh, asked, "Meg, what brings you here? I thought your mother would want you to rest, not go running about in that red dress…"
Mlle. Giry took in as much air as she could so as to prepare for what would be a long, rapidly spoken explanation. Erik frowned. He had not expected or wanted an interruption, least of all from the tiny dancer. "What is your business here, Mlle. Giry? Does Mme. Giry require something of me?"
The ballerina stretched her arms, sore from the quick rowing of the boat, and gazed about with eyes uncovered by gauze. They had fully adjusted to light, it seemed. "Christine, I don't know how to break this to you, and I know you've been mourning, but please bear with me and-"
"State your business and be done with it!" Erik interrupted, almost shouting in frustration. Interrupting his time with his Christine was a crime. To his irritation, Meg seemed completely unruffled.
"Alright." She smoothed her skirts out and took a last deep breath. "I remember the name of the man in the cell next to me. Christine, your father is alive."