Chapter 15: Love is Blind

Nadir had had typhoid before. He knew all the signs of recovery, and none of them were showing in Anna. He himself was immune, he knew, but it was very unnerving to have chatted with his roommate and then wake up two days later and find that she was burning up and in a restless, delirious sleep. Erik had checked on her the night before, but even he had not predicted such a desperate battle for life in the strong-willed thief.

Mostly, she muttered what seemed to be nonsense in Gaelic, English, or French, or a mix of all three. Sometimes it wasn't language at all. Nadir pulled up a chair so he could sit next to her, his face drawn with worry. Her once luxurious hair was soaked with sweat, and her pinkish, freckled skin was yellowed like parchment. If she wasn't tossing and turning, she was so still that he feared she'd died.

The door opened, and Erik walked in, clad in plain worker's clothes for once, for he did not fancy burning another finely crafted, custom-made suit and trousers. "Give her this, and if she wakes up, take her to the lavatory. You will need to burn those dirty bedclothes as well. Your chances of survival against polio are not in your favor if she's a carrier." He set a large bowl of steaming broth down on the writing desk, along with a small vial of dark fluid. "Has the medicine taken effect yet?"

"No. You only gave it to her last night. Speaking of polio, must you always be so negative? She will live. She has to." The masked man pretended he had not heard the desperation in his friend's voice and instead pulled his other sentences to pick apart.

"Polio has nothing to do with you finding my take on reality negative." He checked Anna's pulse at her wrist, finding that perhaps it was better if he did not reach for her jugular. If Nadir's voice betrayed any of his true feelings, he would probably object to taking her pulse at her neck.

"Well, I hope your outlook changes soon. How goes your business with the lady?" Erik paused, even though Nadir's voice held none of its usual teasing demeanor. He stood and began preparing the medicine, avoiding eye contact and instead looking towards the small mirror on the wardrobe's door. His white mask seemed different, more ordinary with a poor man's clothing to go with it.

"We kissed." A cough and loud spluttering was heard from Nadir as he looked up in astonishment. "Don't have a seizure, Daroga, I was surprised as well," he sighed, running a finger over his lips for the tenth time since the day before. He turned his attention back to the medicine, diluting it in order to make it easier to swallow.

"Congratulations, you've found someone who's different. Forgive me if I seem uncaring at the moment, but…Anna cannot be having a nice time all holed up in her head." He obviously cares for her, but will she take kindly to him standing over her when she wakes up? "I am happy for you, truly." Nadir gave him a tired but honest smile.

"Different indeed. Perhaps when she wakes, Anna can be the person who is different for you." He winked at his friend and gestured at the medicine and broth. "She can only wake up, though, if you feed her the formula, and it would be merciful to administer that stuff while she is unconscious. Trust me; she'll thank you for it later."

"Since when have I trusted you, scoundrel?" Erik chuckled. Nadir's spirits were successfully lifted. "I may trust you to sweep your lady off her feet, but why should I trust you when you give me advice about mine?"

"Ah, so you do have a lady? I was not aware that you had any romantic intentions towards anyone," he teased, "let alone a criminal. You should be ashamed of yourself, Daroga, deviating from the straight and narrow. Or did you have a dark side all along?" Nadir smirked.

"Do I need to gag you?"

"You'd need to catch me first, so I do not think you would be able to. No, the only person who will ever catch me is Christine," he sighed dreamily, leaning back against the door. "And I don't care if she can hear us right now, because it's true." His suspicions were confirmed by a rustle of cloth and the sounds of retreating shoes.

"And with what weapons does she catch the mighty and fearsome Dark Angel?" The policeman was delighted to see his friend's half-covered face light up with joy and longing as he stared off into some imaginary paradise.

"She captured him with her rosy lips and interminable kindness to his poor, tortured soul." Erik's eyes darted to the olive-skinned man as the Turk motioned for him to keep his voice down.

"Does she know anything more than the Ghost stories?"

"No. I know we must discuss it eventually, but…not yet."

When Erik emerged from the unofficial sickbay, Christine was pacing just outside the door. He held her in place, disrupting her anxious pattern. "You'd best not pace so much, cher. It might wear holes in your pretty dancing shoes," he warned, playfully referencing The Twelve Dancing Princesses. "I wouldn't want you to hurt your feet dancing with me." She looked down at her feet, which were currently wearing a pair of very comfortable ballet flats, and smiled. He always made her smile, and she couldn't help it.

"Will I dance with you, then, kind monsieur? I can't very well dance holes into my shoes without a partner, now can I?" she asked, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Kiss me again?"

Up in the rafters, balanced carefully in the crook where beams connected, Ciara listened to the conversation with interest. Kiss her? Does he mean…? A soft hum of pleasure floated up to her perch, muffled by the fact that their mouths were yet again pressed together. Oh, he does mean that… I wonder how a kiss feels. Very nice, I would think, to be able to pull sounds from them involuntarily. She absently ran her fingers over her own bleached cheek and bottom lip.

Then her relaxed, curious expression gave way to cold focus, and she stood up on the wide beams. Stay focused. You are here to capture M. Erik, not daydream. You can please Philippe this way. She made her way through the support beams and slid down the inside of the drawn fire curtain, senses trained on her target as he ducked into a dressing room to change, wash, and burn his contaminated clothes.

…

Marcus knew where the spy was. The only problem was that he was in the open, and any attempt at nabbing the culprit now would result in panic and probably his own arrest, as he intended to use a firearm.

He could see the odd individual now, trying to look busy by fixing the wrinkles in the curtains and testing various pulleys. The fire curtain seemed to dance as he fiddled with it. Then he seemed to trip, fall backwards, and proceed to look surprised about it and not right himself and continue oiling gears and the like. He is surprised that he tripped on the curtain when he was stepping all over it? Probably a clumsy lout.

Marcus, who was, at present, leaning against the back wall behind various scenes, glanced again at the fire curtain. It was still, and the spy had retreated backstage, probably to fiddle with the hanging props and moveable balconies. Time for some action. He discreetly loaded his pistol with blanks, so that no one could be hurt, and followed the enemy. The gun was slipped into his pocket.

He did not know he was being followed, and Marcus was too focused to accept an invitation to sit with someone during lunch or respond to a joke. He picked his way through the props, people, and strange, miscellaneous things that had been left lying around, eyes following the back of the man's head. Where is he going?

The spy at last climbed two floors up and settled into a corner. No one was in the hallways. The hums of conversation and clanks of machinery could be heard below, and light streamed in through tall, murky windows. Safe. The tenacious baritone almost rounded a corner, but ducked back in time. He wanted to surprise his quarry, and have the desired effect of fear. It would be easier to threaten and have the suspect come willingly than get into a fight.

He was confused, when he stepped into the light and leveled the pistol's barrel at the spy's head. The man was reading a book, and looked so engaged that he did not notice the weapon pointed at him. Marcus could not think of anything to say other than "Monsieur, you have a gun pointed at your head."

His victim looked up slowly. Upon seeing that there was indeed a gun pointed at him, he scrambled to his feet and dropped the book. "Come with me. We have quite a lot to discuss, namely your career as a spy for the duke."

A few floors down, Erik could not believe he had been so fortunate to receive and reciprocate not just one, but two kisses from the same woman within the space of twenty-four hours. His good fortune was intensified by the fact that he was absolutely in love with the one who'd kissed him. When he reluctantly released Christine from the kiss, he frowned suddenly and she could see the worry on his visible face.

"What is it, Erik?" She ran her hand over his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. Is it his mask? He should know that I would not have kissed him if I was worried about what's behind the mask.

"Now that we've kissed, is it official now? Am I a suitor?" She let out a relieved sigh in reply.

"Of course. What else would you be to me? All you need is my father's consent, and…" Her voice faded away. Pappa must be here in order to give his consent. He must at least know I am alive, and I might find out something from the spy. Erik was speaking to her again.

"I keep my promises, Christine. I will bring back your father, and find out why the duke took him. He will pay for tormenting you so." The hardness in her voice surprised him.

"Good. He deserves life in prison for all the people he's killed in that dark hold." Then what do I deserve, for being a wanton killer? I have taken hundreds of lives…so I must deserve death, or torture. The thought disturbed him greatly. "I would go outside now, and practice with this," she said, fiddling with her whip. She had tied it about her waist like a belt. It suits her. It shows that she is not weak or petty. "Care to join me? I look forward to seeing some deep lashes across Philippe d'Orleans' pampered face."

"Of course, Christine." He loved to say her name, and loved the way it sounded, even in the most ordinary moments. It was a beautiful name, but his mind was elsewhere. His mind was twenty-one years in the past, in the Ottoman Empire.

…

Erik, at thirteen years old, felt no guilt over one foreigner's life, even if that foreigner was from his original country of France. France was not his home. No place was.

He crept into one of the guest apartments in the sultan's palace, eyes narrowed and ears open for any sound. His team was not with him tonight, for if anyone saw any of them the night before the discovery of the body, they would be arrested and probably executed for the sake of satisfying the people.

It was a lavish room- silk sheets and curtains, polished wood and brass, and embers burning low in a granite fireplace. The minimal light was enough to see by, and Erik saw the steady rise and fall of his assignment's breathing. The ones he killed were not people, really. He had shut out that idea for years now. It was easier if the people were just objects to be disposed of.

He stepped slowly towards the bed, flipping open a vial of neurotoxin. Poetic justice, really, to dispose of this political enemy just as people had done in Shakespeare's time. His work, of course, was a little more scientific. Once injected, the venom would overload the politician's nerves. If anyone attempted autopsy, it would seem as if he'd had a heart attack; entirely plausible, really, for a man of his age and stress levels.

He attached the needle to the vial and quickly stabbed it into the man's neck. The risk of being found out was increased, but it would be a quicker death. Within seconds, the doomed man's body began to tremble and sweat as he gasped for air. Erik turned away. It was better not to watch them die. Watching would only distract him and make him soft.

As he turned to leave the way he came (through a passage in the wall), a small, terrified gasp sounded from behind the door that joined the room to another. He made the mistake of looking. His mask showed in the small amount of firelight. There was a young woman standing there, pale enough that even her hair was a light yellow, and about six months pregnant. She swallowed and closed the door, unsure of how to react to the fact that a young boy had just killed her father.

Erik decided to leave before things got messy or the woman decided to attack him. It would look especially bad for the sultan if he came back scathed in any way. With no further delay, he ducked out of the room, the secret door closing with barely a click.

Once back in his own quarters, he stopped to think. It was not the first time he'd seen a pregnant woman, but it was the first time he'd realized that babies were meant to replace the deceased. The woman would doubtless be grieving, or calling the guards assigned her for help. Perhaps she would be stressed and go into labor, and require medical assistance.

He was jealous of that unborn child, for a moment. He or she would have a caring mother and probably a father waiting back in France. It would be unmarred, a perfect, beautiful little life made of love and sustained by a mother who actually cared enough to suckle it. Then it would grow to be strong, and if not handsome or comely, at least normal.

He quickly stamped out the jealousy and closed his eyes to the darkness of his room. It was dark, of course, but no darker than the black when he opened his eyes again. It was not darker than the day would be, and no darker than it seemed each day of his entire life would be.

Still, he had what he needed, and someone needed him. It was good to be needed, even if it was for dirty work. He had his talents, and the sultan was willing to turn a blind eye to his face and pay him for his work- magical entertainment, design, and assassination.

I have everything, he said to himself, and I need no more.

Yet he could not sleep comfortably, for something was missing. Something was always missing.

In the guest apartments, the young woman screamed for help, and with regret that her father would not see his grandchild. Erik shut her cries out and forced himself to sleep.

…

Two women walked through the hallways of the opera, heading in the general direction of the kitchens. Well, they walked and talked, more specifically. More specifically still, one begged and the other denied.

"Eter, do you truly believe me the kind to kiss and tell? For the last time, I do not wish to divulge the experience! It is to be kept private!" Christine insisted to her friend, giggling all the while. Eter tugged on the soprano's arm and gave her a classic puppy-dog look.

"Please? I told you about Artur and me! You owe me!" Eter whined, looking for the entire world like a child begging her mother for a piece of candy.

"I never asked for a story about you and your lover; please, leave me alone about mine!" she said, pulling her arm away. "At any rate, I have more weighty matters to think about. My father must be here, safe, before Erik can officially court me."

"I know. Marcus told me that he would catch the spy today and find out what he could," Eter replied, sighing. "It must be torture for you, not knowing what will happen and having to wait for so long to catch one person- and that'll be just the beginning."

"It is not so hard, not when I have hope…and Erik." At this, the shorter girl looked up at her companion thoughtfully.

"He makes you smile. See? You're smiling right now." Christine blinked as if coming out of a reverie, then nodded in agreement.

"He makes me smile, and seems amazed by the fact that he can do so."

"Well, then, he must faint in shock every time you kiss him!" They opened the door to the kitchens and strolled in. Erik calmly glided in after them, listening from about five feet behind with great interest, just as he had been for the last half hour.

"Oh no, not at all," Christine was saying. "He is very composed, I think; he is the one who initiates it," she explained. Erik could see the tips of her ears turning pink. The mezzo singer's smugness could be felt even as she seated herself next to Artur for her evening meal.

"See? You are divulging the experience, and I haven't asked you about it for the last two minutes!" Her companion's cheeks began to match the shade of her ears.

"Hush, you!"

"No, please, go on, ladies. This is quite entertaining," Erik's voice said from behind them. "I only hope my Christine is as truthful to you as she is to me." The girls whirled around. His voice was there, but he was not. They turned again and jumped. He was there, sitting across from them and gazing admiringly at Christine's curls.

She had obviously just washed, for they were less unruly and held together quite nicely, reflecting the light of numerous lanterns and cook fires. It was as if fate had arranged their personal candlelight dinner.

Eter was delighted, and immediately snuggled up close to Artur. "You've spoken about it? Even better!" Artur put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head, but otherwise remained quiet. He seemed more in favor of simply holding his woman instead of chattering idly. Erik glanced at the two for a moment. Artur's face was scarred. In fact, half of it seemed abnormally colored and rough; yet Eter had no qualms about it, or about kissing him in public. If Christine were the only one in the world who could stand to kiss me without my mask, I would be content.

He looked back at Christine, with her rose-colored lips and pink cheeks, and wondered how he had failed to notice how beautiful she looked during dinnertime. She was saying something, and he was looking at her eyes and perfect mouth, but he didn't hear a word. "…are you… Is there something on my face?" He chuckled as she ran her tongue over her teeth in order to cleanse them of any food that might have gotten lodged in her gums.

"No, Christine, there is nothing on your face. I simply enjoy taking in the sight of the woman I shall never tire of." They spent the evening talking comfortably, yet he dared not take her hand, not with so many people around them to watch. He was not ashamed of her. No, on the contrary, he was proud to have attracted the company of such a beautiful, unique young woman. He only hesitated because she might not want to appear frivolous or loose.

Christine was fixated by his eyes. She had heard a legend before, of the god Horus, who had one gold eye and one silver eye, just as Erik had- one for the sun and one for the moon. Quite fitting, truly, for in a few short weeks, he has become my heaven, just as my father is the earth I stand on.

…

Ciara arrived back at Philippe's mansion late that night, having needed some time to breathe the cold night air and clear her thoughts. However, when she entered the sitting room, there was Philippe, and her muddled thoughts returned with just as much persistence and confusion as before. It is as if he was meant to keep me under a spell.

His scent tonight was driving her towards him, and she had to forcibly slow her walk. He smelled like leather and wine, two things that would normally clash, but in him, seemed perfectly natural. He plinked out a simple sentence. Where have you been?

She sat down next to him, turning her face upwards towards his so that he knew she understood. I broke up a brawl at the tavern. None of them will use their left hands for the next month. She was pleased when she heard his laugh, but heard something else in it: envy. Are you jealous that you didn't get in on any of the action? I know you've been itching for a fight.

He gave a half-truth answer. Yes, actually. I would like to exhaust myself physically, not mentally. He did want to be exhausted, and he was tired of the mental strain of paperwork and the complaints of displaced tenants. However, he desired a different exercise, and a different way to release the tension. Perhaps it was his constant nearness to Ciara that sparked this. He pushed the urge away. It would be offensive to her, and maybe even drive her away completely. Then again, if she saw it within her rights to stay out late and perhaps pay for favors in a bar-full of sketchy men, what was to stop her from being with him for just a few hours?

It is late, but I do not tire this night. Would you like to spar for a while? It will help you rest. She rested her hand on his shoulder, secretly taking pride in his build. Before he had learned to fight with her, he had been naught but skin and bones. Now he was tall, fast, and strong, and it was her doing.

No, not tonight, he keyed in, regretting his words the moment they sounded. It would be good, though, to work the kinks out of my shoulders. I will return the favor, if you wish. Thankfully, she seemed pleased with the idea.

I would like that. On the couch, please. They had done this many times before, after they were sore from whatever drill they had practiced. Still, as familiar as the gesture was between two as close as siblings, during the late hours it was more of an opportunity to touch one another than either cared to admit. Philippe obligingly laid himself on his stomach for her, and she set to work on his back.

He was glad that he had blown all the candles out, for Ciara had no need of them, and he did not want to move from his place on the wide leather couch.

He sighed as she kneaded her way down his spine. It was hard work, the revenge business, but he was glad she did not know exactly what he did with his time to be so fatigued every day. If he told her, she would stop him. If she found out through her spying at the opera, she might just let him go through with his endeavor. He would not stop until M. Erik was utterly destroyed.

The massage grew so relaxing that he found himself struggling to stay awake, but it was over all too soon. The leather groaned slightly as his weight was removed from it and replaced with Ciara's. She cushioned her head on her hands and breathed slowly as he undid knots formed in her fight and allowed her tightened, wiry muscles to loosen. Philippe did not know when she fell asleep, but he suspected she had succumbed just after he had finished all the work that was necessary and moved on to simply stroking her back.

He draped his coat over her and moved her so that she could rest in a more comfortable position, on her side, with a real pillow under her head. Then he took a long moment, letting his hands remain at her shoulders, to lean down close enough to let a stray strand of his hair touch the whiteness of hers. She had often said to him that every person had a unique scent.

After pulling away, he decided that what she had told him was true. She smelled of incense and sweet grass, and he wished the smell would stay with him longer than a few moments. It was just possible, in the near future, that he might win her…but no, not him, He was a brother, probably, not her lover. Still, it was good to live for her, and better still that he might die for her. Perhaps she would love him then.