Chapter 13: Typhoid

Morning light broke over the Paris skyline. Salim heard something expensive break downstairs as he sat up in his bed. Infernal dishes…I think that someday I will invent dishes that do not break in my housekeeper's shaky hands…or else carve some out of wood. He stood, and feeling stronger than ever, and stretched. He felt tall and calm as he opened the sliding door and stepped out onto the balcony. There, three stories below his feet, Paris' shops and restaurants were slowly coming to life.

Recently, he had taken more time to appreciate the air he breathed. Perhaps it was because he breathed it anew, and didn't have an asthma attack every time he went outside. He stretched his arms far above his head and took in the various scents of the morning on the grounds of his manor.

Perhaps he appreciated life more in general because he was sure he was in love now, and the woman he'd fallen for (and would fall for a hundred times over) was on her way to come riding with him.

The visit was not for amusement alone; the police needed some interrogating of their own. Why had they not taken action despite Mme. Giry's numerous pleas?

Perhaps a visit from an eyewitness would open their eyes…or expose their guilt. With Meg there, they would not be able to deny that Philippe needed to be jailed and worse, perhaps even executed.

Salim leaned forward against the metal railing, and was thrilled that he did not feel vertigo as he had so many times before. The sunrise now reached far into the streets with rosy fingers, reflecting off cobblestones and glass windows. Reluctantly, he turned away from the pleasant view and returned to the indoors. His sliding door seemed to flow closed automatically at his touch, and the curtains did not trip him as they had so many times in the past. His body was no longer his enemy.

I should thank M. Erik, he thought as he changed into a proper shirt and trousers. He did not want to appear overly formal, but neither did he wish to humiliate himself by dressing inappropriately for a public outing. He chose a warm black coat, but didn't bother to throw it on; he was in no rush, and he didn't plan to make his time with Meg stiff by appearing too eager. In fact, he was almost sure that he did not want this day to end, even if it had only just begun.

A few minutes later, as he walked about with ice crunching under his shoes, he discovered that he disliked hats as well as stiff coats, for the wind blew his own away and forced him to sprint all the way to the front gates.

Meg was standing there. She leapt backwards to catch the flying piece of felt, turned a somersault, and landed on her feet again, the hat safely in her hands. Her dress and long coat were completely unruffled, but her hair did not seem to like obeying its restrictive pins. "Good morning," she greeted him as she stepped forward and handed back the object. "I must admit, you've surprised me. I did not think you would be ready at this early hour."

"And you've surprised me as well. Where did you learn to fly like that?" he asked, with a smile in his voice. She winked at him, and his heart beat faster at the sight despite her plain clothes.

"A dog taught me," she replied. "You haven't eaten yet, have you? I was rather hoping we could have breakfast together." To her relief, Salim seemed only too happy to comply.

…

Eter liked to fight. At least, she knew she was quite good at the art and could hold her own in almost any situation… She did not enjoy the kill. The kill made her physically sick and depressed- she knew because of her friend's death back in the Ottoman Empire.

Hayvan had been good to her in the beginning, almost a father, and a trusted friend; and then he was different. Perhaps it had been his blindness that frustrated him, or the fact that he relied on Eter for everything. In that last year before she'd run away, she had been little more than a tool.

Now, however, she knew she would need practice; her intuition told her that there would be violence soon. Her knives were sharpened and drawn for the sparring ahead of her, for Artur had agreed to let her take out her tension on something other than crates and old furniture.

They had not had breakfast, but the cold air whisked the sleep from their eyes. Artur breathed out slowly, and Eter stopped to admire the striking figure he cut in the morning light, even without formal clothes and combed hair. He looked like a giant out of a fairy tale, one that could grab the sun out of the sky and extinguish it. And, like a giant that sees not what he steps on, he did not notice Eter's admiring look. Instead, he turned around and faced his opponent.

"Are you ready?"

"I am when you are."

In the next few minutes, a crowd gathered outside the opera to watch the two. Whispers floated through the air- what barbaric land did this girl come from to have earned to fight so savagely? And this man, why did he not make it easy for the female to win? Was she really female? It was questionable, with her tied hair and boys' trousers on.

Their focus was of steel. Neither one noticed the multitude, which by now had started to cheer. Each blow was perfect and exhilarating, even though they kept the practice safe; no edges were used, and no vulnerability taken advantage of.

That is, until someone shouted an insult: "Unfeminine bitch!"

Artur's staff came down towards her head in a basic attack, which should have been blocked easily, but she turned around, eyes alight with fury at the uncouth man who'd spoken. She sliced upwards to meet the wooden weapon, but her focus was on the true offender, and not on her dearest friend.

The blade cut through the skin of his forearm. Blood, red and dark, flowed out, and Artur flinched, clenching his teeth against the urge to yell in pain. For Eter, the world went silent. She froze with the crowd. He is hurt. I hurt him. The crowd grew silent. They had not expected real wounds.

She unfroze and clamped her hand over the accidental wound. The red liquid still seeped through her fingers, just as tears seeped from her eyes. The few people who remained watching were amazed at the tenderness with which this tall man treated the petite being that had cut his arm open.

"Artur…" She could not meet his eyes. She felt his pulse, soft under her fingers; the stickiness of his life's fluid through his thick wool shirt accused and condemned her. The grass crunched, and ice melted as he knelt to her level.

"Look at me," he said. It was not a command or a request. It was a plea- and at his word, she could not but obey. "Do not blame yourself. I am not hurt." The tears were wiped away by his large left hand.

"I need to get back. I know how to fix this," she babbled. He pressed a finger to her lips to silence her.

"Let me take you there." Take her there he did, cradling her in on one arm as she held tight around his neck and shoulders, blotting away her eyes' excretions with the fabric of his vest. He carried her all the way to the kitchens.

The cooks did not seem to notice them, and the various sounds of food being made or preserved rushed about their ears. That was all very well, since the two did not seem to notice the noise either. Their world was impenetrable.

Eter pushed him to make him sit at one of the tables and hurried to get a rag and hot water. It took only a moment to soak the cloth and wring it. "I will not let my carelessness pain you any longer." She looked up at him for his consent, holding out the wet rag. The pain reached his eyes even though his arm did not tremble. His gaze flicked downwards for a second, then away. She began cleaning.

The bleeding stopped easily, and she saw just now that it was a shallow cut, and nothing essential had been damaged. Still, she held his arm for the sheer comfort of being able to do so. Impulsively, she pressed a kiss to the laceration, but pulled away immediately when she felt him tremble.

The bandaging was done quickly, using a binding that had held the knife on her calf in place. Artur savored every moment of it. He had held back such cravings for touch, dulled his feelings, but he was a man, and could resist only so long. Each gentle stroke of her fingers left trails of sensitivity, eating away at his will.

He pulled her down to sit next to him, so close that he could feel her tense up. His arm, heavy and comforting, went around her now familiarly small frame.

"I will finish this game." He rested his eyes on her oval face, her many-ringed ears, and at last on her dark eyes. "May I kiss you, G-zha Eter?" She nodded slowly.

They kissed, and it was as if they had finally found home- somewhere where no one would beat them, or force them to fight, or punish them for what they believed right and good. Their world? It consisted of each other.

They didn't even notice as Marcus walked in on them. He raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Love did not wait until spring, apparently. He had come in for breakfast, but decided he'd wait until lunch. Watching couples was sickening. It was decided then and there that he'd never allow himself to slip into such immodest conduct.

…

"What do you mean, 'you don't know anything'?! There are people dying in that hellhole, and as far as I can tell, you refuse to lift a finger in rescuing them!" Meg ranted, digging her index into the chief of police's uniform and snagging it with a long nail. He was a portly little man, sweaty as a hog under the ballerina's accusations, and in her opinion, very much a blockhead. Salim didn't encourage Meg's shouting, but neither did her stop her. The lazy officer was getting exactly what he deserved. "As far as I can tell, you're leaving them there on purpose!"

She hooked a finger into her victim's double chin, forcing him to look her in the eye. "You had best answer me honestly now. If you lie to my face, I will know." Salim muffled a chuckle as Meg tightened her grip on the flap of skin and fat. The chief looked more like a pig ready for slaughter than a government official. He began to stammer and his eyes darted everywhere but to Meg's eyes.

"I- I know n-noth-thing!" He pulled himself from Meg's grasp (which left red lines on what could be seen of his neck) and brushed himself off. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some business in my office to attend to." He scurried down the hall of the police station as if it was his mission in life to avoid intimidating dancers.

Meg gave a frustrated grimace and huffed. "Eyewitness indeed. Really, the man must be blind!" Salim chuckled. "What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing." He sighed and smiled at her, holding out his arm. "Shall we go?"

"Not until you tell me what you laughed at," she insisted. "I can't have my future husband making a fool of me seven days a week!" He gathered two bits of information: she knew about the arrangements he'd made, and she had no qualms about marrying him. A shocked silence stopped the playful conversation as Meg realized just what she'd said.

"How did you find out?" he asked softly, lowering his arm to his side again to slip his hand into his coat pocket.

"My mother told me a year ago. She wanted me to know that every other person who courted me would not be the one I'd be bound to, that everything else was temporary." She played with the cloth of her skirts, wrinkling the fabric as she avoided eye contact. He, too, looked elsewhere as if he could diffuse the awkwardness by focusing on something else.

"I feel rather like I've taken too much of your life." His chuckle turned dry, and Meg found that she didn't like when his jokes turned dead.

"Don't say that. You haven't taken my life- only begun it." That got his attention. Suddenly, he was smiling again, like the sun after a bout of sleet.

"Well, I'm glad you think that. Would you wear this? Just to make it official?" He pulled a ring out of his pocket, one with a sapphire that matched his own. I'll have to thank Nadir for returning my ring; otherwise this one would never have been finished on time!

Meg took the piece of jewelry and slipped it onto her left hand. "It was official long ago, I think. We just have all the time in the world now to fall in love."

Inside the chief of police's office, Philippe rested his feet on the expensive mahogany desk and glared across the room at the unfortunate officer. "Do you know nothing?!" He punctuated his sentence with a pound on the table that shook the whole room. "First you let that slut of a dancer go without arresting the bastard baron for rape, then you go ahead and tell her that you 'don't know anything,' which really means that you do know something!" he roared, causing the policeman to tremble at the force of his anger. Then the duke sighed heavily and ran his fingers through his hair, seeming to calm momentarily. "However, by now, I think you were telling the truth- you are an idiot. I should have replaced you long ago." He returned to his seat and put his feet up again.

"M. le duc d'Orleans, please, do not replace me! You have replaced the chief three times in the last month!" the officer reasoned, trying to appeal to this tyrant's sense of status and logic. "The public will know something's up, and I'll lose the men's loyalty! You would start a war!" The noble who was most definitely not noble only smirked.

"I am fain to start a war with our neighbor Germany. They've grown too powerful anyway."

…

Marcus watched the various stagehands, dancers, staff, and crews come and go throughout the opera house, just as he had for the last three hours. Or, at least, he had been pretending to watch the people. He was, in reality, looking for one man in particular: the spy.

At the other corner of the stage, to his left, stood Nadir, who was also on the lookout for the suspect. He had also enlisted Anna to search, as it took one to know one, but she was nowhere to be seen at the moment. The general hum of people working to repair props, parts of the lighting, and trapdoors for the upcoming season was suddenly interrupted by the trademark tap of a cane; Mme. Giry and Anna exited the managerial office, both of them looking extremely confused.

"I don' understand't. 'S no' logical to jus' suddenly return 'n important paper like this." Anna read the sheet over again. Satisfied that it was no counterfeit, she turned it over to the Madame and sighed. Her hand shook slightly, and she felt a bit weak, but she decided to ignore it.

Complete abstinence from alcohol was taking its toll on her. She had not had anything to drink but water since the previous night, and now she had a headache so severe that Marcus' voice only sounded like a distant thunder. In addition to this, she had been forced to use the lavatory (for both vomiting and excretion) three times in the space of the last five hours. Doctor's orders, 'e says…well, I ain' seen a doctor'n all m'time 'ere, and blast if M. Erik's a real one as well as ventriloquist, tutor, composer, and magician.

She had also gone to the kitchens several times to get her large flask refilled. If she couldn't drink something strong for real, she could at least look like it. She liked to think of it as her last bit of defiance against Erik's command: no alcohol.

"It is logical, actually," Marcus was saying. "The spy is guilty, so he returned the deed. That also proves that he is still at the opera, and that Philippe has not fired him yet…or that Philippe knows nothing of his missing fake deed." Nadir nodded in agreement. Bloody headache. Can't hear a word, don't know what they're saying, don't care. Her stomach churned again, and her skin felt as if it would itch right off her body. The pounding headache morphed into spikes driving into her skull and behind her eyes.

"It also implies that-"

Anna cut him off and took a seat, suddenly exhausted and feeling that the room was swaying. "Enough wi' th'deductive reasons an' catch th'man already! All y'can do wi'out 'im is go 'round'n circles!" My head cannot take any more of this bloody nonsense. She at last gained everyone's undivided attention by vomiting (again) into the neighboring seat as her innards heaved.

For once, there was blessed silence…mostly because everything had faded into to the darkness of unconsciousness for the formerly strong pickpocket.

…

She awoke again in her dorm, with Nadir standing over her, looking more concerned than ever she'd seen him. Everything felt unbearably cold and sticky, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't seem to lift her heavy limbs and sit up. She tried to speak, but for once, her tongue was drunk, and stumbled over the words. Nadir put a finger to her lips. No use without her sharp tongue if…when she recovers. He had to keep himself optimistic, as he had learned with Erik; otherwise, he would not survive.

"You're not well, Anna. Erik will take care of you." The woman's eyelids fluttered weakly. She at last managed to speak.

"What's 'e say I'm down wi'?" Erik's voice sounded from the door.

"Typhus. Nadir, both of us will be caring for Anna. In fact, you are quarantined with her because you were the first one exposed." The contralto singer almost sat up in surprise. Her voice was hoarse, and she was tired, but she managed to croak out a single word:

"How?" Erik rather enjoyed the expression on his friend's face as he divulged the information.

"Nadir carried you back here. He was quite gentle about it, too." This caused a red hue to show through the Daroga's dark coloration.

"Only because Marcus couldn't and Mme. Giry wouldn't! As for 'gentle,' I didn't want your vomit on my jacket, thank you very much." Weak as she was, Anna winked and pointed at his face. Nadir let his fingers run over the scratches she'd given him with the baron's ring.

"Y'didn' need t'do tha'. Y'coulda woke me an' lemme walk t'my own sickbed." Erik smirked at her façade of toughness. Nadir, if you can survive her sharp tongue until she is well, I will officially count you as immortal.

"Actually, Marcus couldn't, Mme. Giry wouldn't, and I found myself occupied with incinerating that seat you left your digestive fluids on; outside, of course." And flirting with Christine while he's at it, Anna thought to herself. Really, he should just kiss her and get it over with. He can't beat around the bush forever…

Her half-closed, clammy eyes drifted to Nadir's face. The red hue was suddenly gone, replaced by a slightly greenish look. "Do I truly have to stay in here until she's better?" he asked, realizing for the first time the implications of his situation. Erik almost laughed at the plaintive expression, and would have if it were not a life and death situation. The mood shifted as quickly as it had been created.

"Until she's better, as you and I play doctor to that insufferable thief, true…or until she's dead." A grim expression came over his entire person. "Until you are both dead." He left the room, presumably to bathe thoroughly and dispose of his clothes. Nadir breathed in a sigh of what he now knew to be contaminated air.

"Both dead? Well, that won't take long…though in this case, I believe I'm more likely to be killed by fever than by a knife in the back." Anna, weak and exhausted as she was, smirked.

"Don' be s'sure, copper. I could still steal y'shoes off y'feet if I wanted t'do't." Her roommate laid back on what had been Christine's bed and inwardly prepared himself for the symptoms of typhoid fever.

"No, I think you would more likely steal the breath from my lungs and the steadiness from my innards. Unintentionally, of course." He turned and studied her profile for a moment. Perhaps she would do it intentionally, just to prove a point. After almost a week of having been acquainted with Anna, he had gained a respect for her…the sort of respect he held for only the boldest criminals- and she fit this criteria, because she stole from him every day. I'm not entirely sure I would not enjoy her thievery of my…functions and faculties. She kept her eyes closed, and her breathing was growing steadier, but he still heard her loud and clear:

"Look a' y'feet, Copper."

"'Copper'?"

"Look a' y'feet." He was growing impatient with her. Was his nickname derived from his skin tone?

"Not until you tell me what 'Copper' means." A few seconds passed. She was asleep. He looked at his feet and rolled his eyes, but couldn't help but smile. One-upped again. He wiggled his toes and glanced under Anna's bed. The tips of his boots peeked from beneath the blue blanket. This is going to be the longest stay in one room of your life…so you'd best get comfortable, Nadir Khan.

A last query crossed his mind before he succumbed to the humid air and slept. Just what does 'Copper' mean?

…

Christine chewed at her finger, just as angst simultaneously chewed at her mind. What if Erik's infected as well? He could die… She immediately shoved that particular thought from her head. The best thing to do was to wait and see, not predict death. The best thing to do was hope, just as she still hoped for her father…even though it was not likely that he was still alive.

From what Meg had said, the prison was only well- kept in its halls. The cells were left to the prisoners to maintain.

Erik emerged from the borrowed dorm room, still buttoning his new white shirt. "Ah. I see you waited for me."

"I- I was worried." She self-consciously removed her finger from her mouth and folded her hands.

"What for, cher?" He placed his hands on his hips and waited, with his mismatched eyes compassionate. She looks so beautiful in her blue dress…no black, no more mourning. Blue suited her, he decided. It brought out her eyes' true, glowing brilliance. She could easily pass for the goddess Nyx in that deep navy color…yes, Nyx in her youth at the beginning of time.

"Whom, you mean… I am worried for my father. I know, even though you will bring him back, it's possible that he might not live much longer, and…" Her words drifted off for a moment as she stopped herself. Erik dared take her hands in his again. He had left his gloves in the room on purpose, and he savored the sensation of her small, warm hands in his.

"I will bring him back. You shall see what the master magician can do, Christine," he said as he produced a dove from her hand. The tame bird cooed softly and landed in the girl's nest of curls. "Who else are you worried for? You needn't be so." She smiled, and was about to reply, but Marcus came from up the hall. Premature lines showed on his face.

"M. Erik, you had best come and look at this."

"Why? How urgently am I needed?" Interrupted yet again. Perhaps I should adjust myself to these sudden intrusions.

"There- one of the water barrels in the kitchen is contaminated." The measure of urgency required suddenly did not matter. "The barrels are all refilled from the same pump at the same time, and only one is dirty. Either this is a terrible accident, or the spy has attempted to poison someone- most likely someone other than Anna."