Chapter 18: C

Nadir was quite sure that he was going to go crazy caring for Anna. She had not moved for the past half hour, but it felt like a whole day. Yes, she was beautiful to look at, even while ill, but she did not see him, nor did she speak except in her delirious ramblings. Thankfully her temperature had gone down a bit, and so had the frequency of delirium, so it was likely that she'd heal. How was he going to explain his feelings for her when she awoke? She would probably discount them, seeing as this is only a result of the quarantine.

Would she be herself again, playfully thieving, and a connoisseur of alcohol? Would she be changed by the fever, more subdued? He hoped not. He had fallen for the vibrant, energetic side of her, not a quiet, serious person. Had he simply fallen for a memory of her while in the sick room? Perhaps love is as confusing as Erik makes it sound at times.

He smoothed Anna's red hair from her cheek and let his fingers linger on her burning skin. She had not gone into a seizure, as some victims of the fever did, and he was very grateful for that. If she'd started to convulse, she'd have died almost immediately after the fit.

He decided he liked to hold her cheek. Her face fit to his hand as if it were made for his hold. A hoarse chuckle escaped him as he thought of what she would do to him if she ever caught him treating her as tenderly as he did now. She would undoubtedly slap him for acting as if she were some frail princess.

Erik had not come with the medicine the day before, so he prayed that the contralto would not suffer without the healing fluid in her system. Her condition was stable still, but he wished it were not so. He wished that her condition would be one of health and contentment.

Inside her head, Anna's dreams had been disturbing pictures of reality, but with odd twists and illogical scene changes that told her that her experiences were completely unreal. For instance, the pesky flirt Nadir had kissed her and she had enjoyed it. That had decidedly not been her best dream. Sometimes she could feel him holding her hand, or mopping forehead, but then she would be overwhelmed by the strange, whimsical things her mind subjected her to.

And then her mind decided to ascend back to clarity and wakefulness. First the awareness of breathing faded in, and the air seemed cooler than she remembered from her suffocating hallucinations. More suffocating still seemed the barriers of the many blankets and sheets, and they smelled of sweat and sickness. She shifted, trying to throw them off, but too weak to do so. Her sense of color and light returned, at last, but she blinked as a face invaded her field of vision.

What struck her first was that it was a surprised face, and a pleased face, and then that it was a rather handsome face. Then she realized it was Nadir's face. She bolted upright, knocking her forehead against his nose in such a manner that if she'd sat up any faster, she'd have broken it. "Bloody 'ell, Copper, wha' y'doin' 'overin' over me like tha'?!" He only grinned at her and pulled her sweaty self into a tight and stifling embrace. "Lemme go! 'S only been a day…" Her voice faded, and she pushed him away. "…Right? Please tell me it was jus' one day."

"Actually, it's been four days." Her eyes widened, and she checked under the blanket. "And yes, during that time, I have changed and bathed you, and spoon-fed you medicine and soup, and-"

"Stop't. I don' wan' t'know," she said, rolling her eyes and clamping a hand over Nadir's mouth. Then her eyes stopped rolling and narrowed. "Y'don' happen t'have any food 'round here, d'ya?" Her stomach grumbled quite audibly, causing a slightly darkened pink coloration on her part. He laughed heartily at that.

"Get washed up and burn everything on you." She raised a defiant eyebrow. "Do you want food or not?" Her head bobbed meekly as she succumbed to hunger. "Then go across the hall, burn your clothes, wash thoroughly, and use some of the spare clothes. They're men's articles, but you should be able to improvise, seeing as you don't have any clean corsets left. In fact, everything in this room is to be burned, excluding you and I." Her face tried to decide between turning pale and turning pink again. All her belongings could be replaced, but not without the wad of money she'd brought with her upon coming to France. That money was to be burned as well.

Nadir sighed, at last realizing what the burning would mean for all the possessions in the room. "I'm sure Erik would be willing to provide for you if Christine put in her plea as well."

"An' I'm quite sure I won' need 'is 'elp. I'm goin' t'get a job."

"What? You have a job."

"No' in th'off season. I'm goin' t'work outside th'opera, in a shop, or somethin'." She ran her hands through her hair, which was already beginning to regain its spring.

"You're going to keep this job, even with Christine kidnapped and all the crews looking for work in the city as well? Your job opportunities are quite slim." Her eyebrows rose.

"Jus' 'ow much've I missed'n th'past four days?"

…

Ciara had grown in the last three years, and now she was quite tall for her age, just as her grandfather had been. She and her mother had moved to a more respectable side of town, where Charlotte worked as a maid in a rich household. She was left to her own devices in the house more often than not, and learned quickly that her skin itched and stung in that warmth by the window that her mother called 'sun.'

She also learned that there was a window in her small, cool little back room. It was covered by a curtain that she'd at last reached with her new height and pulled away. The sun did not sting her, and the windowpane was cool. She'd learned that the piece of wood that scraped over the floor when Charlotte had company was called 'stool,' and was used to reach things.

She'd learned that she could open the window with a 'latch' if she stood on the stool, and that she could go into a cool, dirty place called an 'alley' where a group of other small creatures like her made noise and moved quickly and did something called 'laughing.'

Now she learned that they were not all called Ciara and that their guardians were not called Charlotte. They were called Jean and Marc and Luc and other small names for their small persons, 'boys.' Their guardians were called 'Mother' and 'Father.' Their voices all sounded different, so, hiding behind her corner with one ear exposed, she learned to tell them apart.

Today, though, there was someone different in their play group. His name was Philippe, and he was called 'rich.' That was a characteristic her mother's friends talked about often when they came for a hot, fragrant drink called 'tea.' As far as Ciara was concerned, it was just hot leaf juice without the luxury of something called 'sugar.' To be rich meant that one could afford expensive things like sugar.

She scooted a little closer to the corner, closer to finding out more about this Philippe. Where were his guardians? He seemed carefree, and happy. Was it because he was rich, and could afford sugar?

The footsteps grew louder, and the round, bouncing object called a 'ball' ricocheted into her little space. Her heart beat fast, and she froze. She would be discovered! "I've got it! It's back-"

It was the one called Philippe. His clothes sounded different from the rough material of the others'. She curled herself into a ball and promptly sat herself in the mucky corner of the alley. Perhaps if I pretend I am the stool, and I do not move- "Hello?" No, I must not resemble a stool.

Philippe carefully stepped closer to the shivering, unclothed individual. It was a little girl, obviously, and a scared one. What is she doing out here, without clothes? Did her parents abandon her? At any rate, I must be a gentleman, just as the tutor says. It would be good practice. He took his coat from around his shoulders and draped it over his arm, walking slowly so as not to frighten the elfish, tiny being. "Mademoiselle. Here is my coat. Here-"

The little girl almost flinched, and he, at ten years old, felt rather inadequate. Then, almost in wonderment, the girl lifted her head and reached out, hand groping for the garment. She is blind! He pushed the coat into her hand, and she stood up, cheek pressed to the soft cloth.

Ciara breathed in the smell of the cloth, and slid her tiny hands down it as if it were the curtain in the small room that was about a third of her world. Then she felt the article being adjusted around her, and she suddenly felt warmer. She was covered down to her shins by the fabric, and found that she liked it. It felt more secure than being shut away in her room, even if she was exposed to a person other than Charlotte.

"Here, let me help you with the buttons." She felt the hands again, at the opening of the coat, and she felt warmer still. No more cool autumn air crept through her and chilled her skin. Her hands followed Philippe's; curious as she detected the hard buttons and the regular slits they fit into. "There." He seemed to be considering what to do with her. "Why do you not speak?"

She shook her head, which then bowed so it appeared as though she were looking at her feet. She had found that this pose often kept her safe from her guardian's accusations of 'ghost' and 'cursed.' "You cannot?" Another moment of inquisitive silence followed. Then the rich, strange person breathed out. Her senses told her that he was glad, as she heard it in his breathing. Her senses also told her that he was cold without his coat. "Come with me. I have food waiting in the carriage, and a place you can stay."

That was all the motivation she needed. She cut her ties with the dark place and her cruel keeper, and followed this being that had food. Now she gained an understanding of the word 'friend.' She did not look back at the flitting, dark curtain or the open window.

Philippe had to pull her by the arm to get her past the other boys. "Jean, the ball is still back there. I need to get home now; the nurse has probably returned from the market."

Jean seemed very agreeable about it (he rounded the corner to retrieve the sporting equipment), but the other two boys were not. They blocked the narrow path to freedom. Ciara almost bumped into the one called Luc as she stumblingly tried to get past. Said individual narrowed his large, childish eyes in suspicion. "Who is she, Philippe? A witch?"

His friend backed him up in his efforts to bully their rich counterpart. "She looks like a witch. Her eyes are red, and she's all white." Philippe lifted his chin, even though he was several inches shorter than Marc, and sniffed.

"She is not a witch, she is an albino." He felt rather proud of knowing the term. He had read it in his book on medicine. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go." He shoved at Marc's shoulder, trying to push past. Marc did not move, but Luc did. The world spun, and his jaw ached, and he was suddenly flat on his back in the dirt. He looked up. The two street boys seemed quite smug for just having knocked him over. They had to fight him, because it was a disgrace to strike a girl, was it not? It was a disgrace to fight even a witch girl.

Ciara's little hands fisted. Her heart beat faster, and her face and ears felt as if they had touched the sunlight. She was moving before she realized what she intended to do. Philippe was up on his feet again, but she barely noticed. She was too busy beating the smugness from Luc's person, and giving him no time to react as she repeatedly struck at his stomach and arms, and wherever seemed to cause him pain. It was her unspoken duty to repay him for her new friend's hurts tenfold.

The child Marc, though stronger and taller than the young duke-to-be, was nowhere near as skilled in the art of fencing or boxing. He was unconscious within sixty seconds, because he did not know how to fight with a broken switch of oak wood. Luc ran from the white-hued little girl he had deemed a witch, mostly because he was a coward and did not want to be seen scrapping with a female.

"I would ask your name, but you cannot tell me, and you cannot write it to me." He looked down at his pale companion, who tilted her head slightly. An old woman dressed in black approached them.

"Philippe, have you been in another fight? You know how your parents will be upset," she croaked. Ciara could tell her throat was something called 'sore.' "And who is this young lady here? Does she not have clothes?" Said young lady felt the corners of her mouth twitch up. It was an unfamiliar feeling. Beside her, the old nanny's charge sighed.

"Yes, I know, this is my new friend, and no. Can we keep her?"

The nurse, who had long since become used to the boy's strung-out answers, turned around to head out of the alley with a sigh. "Your parents will be upset about this, for certain."

"So we are keeping her?"

"Of course we are keeping her. Now follow me, little girl. You look as if you are in need of some meat." Philippe cheered. Ciara had only one question, one that she could not voice, and did not feel interested in trying to voice. She would find out soon enough. What is 'meat'?

…

Erik had not planned on taking Jacques Bennue with him to investigate Philippe's office, but the man seemed to know more about the duke and his workplace than he. Besides, what was the harm if there really were two vicious, bloodthirsty beasts hidden inside the building? He had long since determined never to let any fight be uncertain, even with wild animals.

"M. Erik, are you going to tranquilize those animals or kill them?" M. Bennue asked anxiously. "I would kill them."

"Did I ask for your opinion?" Erik pointed out as he whirled about.

"N-no."

"Then please, M. Bennue, remain silent unless you have useful information." It was but two minutes before they reached the office. Erik picked the lock easily and stepped into the darkened room. As far as he could see, it was a plainer room, unnaturally humble for one so rich. A grandfather clock ticked next to the leftmost bookshelf, and stacks of paper were spread over an ornate desk. Aside from those two expensive pieces of furniture, there was nothing of worth- unless the papers were faked official documents. The duke probably uses those papers to get his way.

He rifled through the stacks. A bill for steel, for acres of land just outside the city, for various chemical items, letters to rich allies- a map of a warehouse? The lines drawn in addition to the shape of the building indicated halls and rooms added, likely with stone or concrete. Each small room had a number on it, but they were out of order. Some numbers were missing altogether. It's the map of the prison. If there are numbers for people, perhaps there is a key.

A sliding sound interrupted his thoughts. Light speared the shadows of the place, and not from the front door. "M. Erik, the animals are behind here." A rather guarded growl sounded from behind the moving bookcase. "I…believe that you are better qualified to handle them than I. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I will wait outside." Erik could not resist rolling his eyes as the skittish former spy hurried outside. How bad could a couple of near-tame large felines be?

He reached into his cloak and grasped two vials of tranquilizer. It was fairly strong stuff, more like a drug than anything else. The little kitties would be out cold for at least three days. This way, they could be spared the taste of human flesh and their imminent deaths at the hands of frightened Parisians. Quite honestly, he valued the specimens' lives more than the safety of a few citizens. They would make fine additions to his theatre…or the city zoo. Still, there were two of them, he didn't have to share.

A low growl sounded from behind the bookcase. Did the duke not have the creativity to keep his secret room behind something other than a shelf? I wonder how he survives his own clichés, Erik thought with a wry smile. He eased the door (or shelf) aside and contemplated the oversized cats before him.

They were large and black, just as he remembered from his world travels to places such as Southeast Asia. They had the typical reflective, yellow-green eyes with their slit pupils slightly dilated in the dark. All in all, there was nothing unusual about them, except for the fact that they had not attacked yet and were watching as if he were the creature out of place and not them. They cannot be kept in such a small place the entire time. The duke must let them exercise somehow, and that means-

He stepped forward carefully. The panthers' eyes followed him without suspicion or fear. If they feared him, or if he made any sudden moves, they would rip him to a bloody mist. Then M. Bennue would have to have them killed, and he would be stuck in the afterlife.

A particularly large nail snagged his shoe as he took another slow step into the room. I should tranquilize them now, but why should I when they are part of Mother Nature's best when awake? They are tame- mostly. He knelt and examined the nail. It was not rusted as the other metal parts in the room were; it was a newer nail, and from the dents in the head, intentionally installed. He ran his index over it and was almost nudged onto his face by an angular feline nose. He had not heard one certain cat's silence.

The slight stumble made him move forward. He reexamined the nail and pulled it- a section of flooring lifted, and a draft blew up from below. Yet another cliché- he has a passage under the floor. Does he have no creativity? The wood was pushed aside and he hurriedly ducked into the tunnel.

Chains clanked behind him, and the grating of claws on stone and wood irritated his eardrums. He looked back. The two pairs of eyes stared back at him. Perhaps they wish for a walk. They seem harmless enough… He climbed back up into the room and examined the collars around the cats' necks. It was simple to pick at and undo them. They followed him into the darkness.

Now there were three pairs of reflective eyes.

…

Christine huffed and slid open yet another empty drawer. She had hoped that there might be some clue, perhaps a map or a deed or an official document of some kind in the downstairs region of the mansion, but there was none to be found. She had been searching the house with Ciara for nearly eight hours now, and with no reward but the occasional snack and trip to a lavatory. "Well, nothing here…again; it's a record: Twenty-five rooms, two cabinets, and two drawers with nothing useful in them." She looked up at her silent companion, who was digging through the twenty-sixth writing desk of the day. The albino held up a stack of unused envelopes. "No seals or official marks. Sorry."

Ciara shrugged and placed the stack back into its container. It had been a little harder for her to distinguish between papers because she could not read, but with Christine's eyes to assist; she had come up with the same as her charge. There was nothing found.

With a resigned sigh, the captured singer exited the room and settled on an old but clean couch in the sitting room. It was now late in the afternoon, and Philippe had not returned. She noticed Ciara at the piano and reluctantly rose to join her. "Is there something on your mind?"

Everyone makes many sounds when they speak. I have learned to hum, but it is only one sound. Comprehension both caused a small intake of breath and raised eyebrows on Christine's part. It makes sense, then, that I learn the sounds next.

Even though the thin, white fingers pressed the keys slowly, her understanding left her almost floundering. Vocalizing was easy compared with teaching specific sounds. "It will take some time. How long before Philippe is back?"

Not long. I hear his horse at the gates. You should hide. Her eyes widened.

"What?! Where?" she asked, looking around frantically for someplace to hide.

Try the closet around the corner. He won't be looking there anytime soon. Christine soon disappeared. The sound of a door closing followed, and for a moment, Ciara was alone again. Then the large, heavy front doors opened, and she was not alone. She waited for Philippe to sit down.

How are you? She tugged a loose strand of hair from her forehead and smoothed it back again. Guilt gnawed at her mind. What would he think if he knew she had been trying to pry into private business matters?

I tire of thinking. Philippe watched her eyes, and the way they blinked, but did not move. Sometimes he wished that her sight would be restored, just so that he could feel what it was to be looked at by her. Then he would remind himself that restoring sight to the blind was impossible, and that wishful thinking caused depression, hence his tiring of thought.

Then sleep. Sometimes that is the least tiring mode of thinking. She leaned against him just slightly, so that their shoulders touched. Why have you never tried to teach me to speak? He tensed, and knew she could feel it. You have heard that I can cry.

You never mentioned that you wanted to speak. He laid his palm over her thin arm and felt that she was warm despite the lack of sunlight in the house. The doctors had examined you, and thought that you could not speak, since you had not learned. His hand did not remove itself, and he also felt the hard, sinewy muscles in her forearm shift as she played out another sentence.

Let me show you something. Her hand was familiar on his shoulder as he nodded his consent.

Ciara took a calming breath and tried to relax. Her thumb pressed the middle C key, and she opened her mouth. At first, only a whisper of a buzz came out, a buzz similar to a croak, and she ducked her head, blushing. Her hands slipped from the keys. What if she couldn't do it again? Then the weight of her friend's arm around her shoulder pulled her closer to him. "You are amazing. Never let a minor embarrassment stop you," he whispered, and placed her right hand on the C again. "Try again."

She played the note again, breathed, opened her throat, and expelled the sound of the note. It felt strange, the vibration and the loudness of her own voice in her head, as well as the fact that the sound did not mimic any particular vowel or soft consonant. Stranger still was the fact that she was cut off after only two seconds. Philippe had caught her in a crushing hug (not that she minded it very much).

"You did it. You will be able to speak soon, I know it…" Her face was buried into the crook of his shoulder, and her hands were finding their own purchase on his back, but she could still feel the moisture as it dripped from his face onto the cloth of her shirt. He whispered wonderful, kind things, and held her, and best of all, did not tire from it as he did from thinking.

Yet there was still that odd smell of a thorough wash under the smells of dust, leather, and his horse. Her hand on his back felt that he was still tense from something, and he had gone silent. His embrace seemed for his own relaxation as much as for celebration. She had to remove herself from him and ask: What is wrong? Where have you been today?

I cannot tell you now; only when it is done. Mlle. Christine Daae will be released when I finish, and we will spend time together again. I will tell you then. He kept his gaze forward again, awkward in the wake of her suspicion and sorrow. He was happy that she fought her mute state, truly, but her distrust hurt, even when it was earned.

He felt her slim fingers squeeze his hand, and he watched dumbly as she played on. I will be out tonight, or for a few nights. I will come back soon. He nodded and sighed, his disappointment almost tangible.

Be safe, and don't put yourself in any danger.

You know I will. This cracked a grin from him. Then his smile sobered.

Yes, but I tell you so because I care. There are people who would kill you for your looks. Her fingers slipped through his barrier of awkwardness to hold his hand, and suddenly, they were best friends again. Neither was ready to let go, but Ciara finally did.

Never worry for me. I am as safe on the streets as I am when we train. Slowly, her timid fingers slid up his arm to settle at the back of his neck. It gave her a small rush to feel his skin temperature rise slightly. His heart was fluttering, and hers adopted the same rhythm simply because she now knew he must feel something more for her than friendship.

The corner of her mouth twitched as he playfully elbowed her side. What do you mean? You are most certainly not safe when we train! He sniffed in mock haughtiness.

I know I am, actually, because you would never hurt me. Another awkward silence permeated the air around them, and then: I must go now. I should be back by tomorrow night, at least.

Good night, Ciara, and good luck. He felt her leave his side and it hurt more than he had anticipated. It hurt because she was so sure that he would not hurt her, but he was not sure at all. The soft shuffling at the door signaled the donning of her cloak. In a moment, she was gone.

Christine sighed to herself and knelt in the small place of heavy coats and expensive hats. She would have to spend the night in the closet, it seemed. Perhaps she would be able to sleep as well…no. The expensive, heeled shoe behind her was too insistent on gouging at her shoulder.