Chapter 19: A Lesson Learned in Listening

Ciara sighed and felt her breath cool in the night air. Christine was still in the closet, and she would have to return her to her room before Philippe noticed she was missing. Thankfully she was familiar with Philippe's night rhythms; he would go to his rooms to sleep, after having a late dinner.

That gave her just enough time to visit her favorite place in the city.

Her favorite place was the busiest tavern in town, and also the seediest. It was good to be able to listen to conversation and to people's troubles. She learned about their ways, and about the lives of the poor.

The world outside the mansion and Philippe was a loveless world; especially in places people went to forget their troubles. This tavern was devoid of even the physical sort of love, as the owner did not allow it in his establishment.

So, intent on drowning her frustrations in the frustrations of others, she used her customary mode of travel- she ran five miles in the snow, with her heart in time with her breathing. By the time she reached the bar, her fingers were numb and her white hair tousled.

The owner, a kind, thin man with the warmth in his demeanor as there surely was in his soul, greeted her at the door with a handshake. He said and did nothing more, knowing she had come to keep order and that she was a very quiet person. The few in the room that night who knew her stopped their drinking and arguing immediately. She knew because she heard several lungs stop momentarily in their constant bellows-like action. She also heard the owner, her platonic ally, move to his place behind the counter.

The conversations around her rose in volume as she sat and listened, thinking and analyzing. The two men in the corner to her left were business associates, meeting late at night for an illegal deal. It involved quite a lot of money, for they were to be selling weapons parts. She would stop them, yes, when- the name that the younger of the men had spoken cut into her consciousness like the finest steel razor.

"…M. le duc d'Orleans wants a full shipment of those parts as soon as possible."

"He's insane, you know- or do you? He's only just begun construction on the factory, and he has no workers. I doubt he can pay for another thousand people." Ciara inclined her head and discreetly touched her earlobe so that she might better catch the conversation. Philippe…what have you done? What have you kept from me?

"He's not mad. He has the means to start his factory, and the wealth."

"Pardon?"

"I'll present you with this clue: it has to do with the recent rash of disappearances." The other man, obviously the stupider of the two, radiated bewilderment. "Come now, M. Bernabe, surely you are not as ignorant as you look!" The clack of the dealer's bottle against the wooden table and a loud belch followed. I suppose he must look quite ignorant, then, and his looks do not deceive, Ciara decided, for the simpleton simply waited for an answer. She waited for an answer as well, with tensed arms and constricted airways. She would know, at last, what Philippe had not told her.

At last, the dumb man sighed and gulped down the last of his beer. "I haven't the faintest idea of what you're getting at." What his partner said next shattered what trust resided in her for her friend's good intentions.

"The people who disappeared are his slaves. Apparently they offended him, or some such thing." No…this must be a rumor, some sort of fiendish gossip… Still, she could not stop her heart from sinking to her gut. The stupider dealer had the same idea as she.

"No! Maybe you're the mad one, Rouxere! I don't believe even the king has that sort of power to own another human being," he laughed, letting the bottle slip from his hand. It splintered into glittering slivers of (in Ciara's darkened view) tangible sound. Mad, perhaps, but…it makes too much sense. He cannot be doing such things…and yet he must.

What the bartender witnessed next was another side entirely of his normally gentle and civil friend, who he simply called 'Blanc.' The bits of the broken bottle became deadly blades in her thin, calloused hands, and the stool she launched at the crude brick wall became the shafts of her small spears.

With deceptive strength, she heaved the two men up against the nearest wall and held them in place, her shard of refined silicate in one hand, and her baton in the other. "Blanc!" the bartender shouted, startled and suddenly afraid. She grew ever more insistent, however, pressing the makeshift weapons to their necks.

They would not be noticed. Brawls were often ignored by other customers, and treated as a mere annoyance. And if the barkeep got involved, who cared?

The men had the barkeep to thank for their lives, so the truly did care. He calmed himself quickly, assured that 'Blanc' would not commit manslaughter. He barked out the standard questions; they had done this before, with many a suspicious character. "Whom do you work for and what do they want?" The two unfortunates glanced at each other and hesitated, but the sharp points of Ciara's tools punctured the first layer of their epidermises. Rouxere stammered out a terrified but honest answer.

"I w- work for the d-duc d'Orleans, monsieur. He- he's building a m-munitions factory- one worked b-by slaves some of th-the imp-p-poverished of Paris' slums." Philippe is making weapons; using slaves to make his money! When did he become so…greedy? Why have I not witnessed this cruelty? The albino could feel her eyes beginning to sting, and she felt cold, even in the warm environment of the tavern. She released the men and exited the tavern without a further word.

The night air was cold, but now she was numb. What could she say when she saw Philippe again? Was she to think badly of him when he had been nothing but kind to her for most of her life? She closed her eyes to shelter them from the chilled blasts of air. Ice crystals melted dots of cold onto her cheeks and melded with the first tears.

…

It had been a piece of work to sneak two large cats into the opera without alerting their presence to civilians, but Erik had succeeded. The panthers followed him readily enough when he held pieces of sow belly and dangled them on strings behind him. After delivering them to his vast underground home, he strode into the kitchen and was greeted with the sight of the now recovered Anna Iseal dining with Nadir, so engrossed in conversation that she did not see him enter.

"…So that's 'bout it f'what's happened 'round 'ere?" she was asking, and took a swig from a bottle of something amber-colored and most likely alcoholic. Nadir was rather indignant.

"'That's about it'? I believe you've downplayed the situation quite a bit!" he exclaimed, a smile creeping over his dark features. "You've overlooked something quite important!" Erik smirked, listening in. Nadir is much less annoying when he has someone to pester beside myself.

Anna gave a rather mischievous smile and licked a drop of her drink from the corner of her mouth. "Wha' might tha' be, M. Khan? Care t'tell me?" Their watcher almost snickered. Quite a pair they made, a petty criminal and a retired law official. Even now, she was pinching his topaz-colored cufflinks from off his sleeves. He would leave the kitchens missing quite a few valuable trinkets.

Nadir raised an eyebrow and laughed. "You haven't noticed my falling for you? Oh, but of course you wouldn't have noticed- you were unconscious throughout the whole occurrence." His eyes were serious even when he returned her smile. Anna felt her heart skip a beat. How dare he look so dashing as to steal all coherent thought from her mind?

They had drifted closer together, she noticed, and she could hear his breathing. Her eyes closed as he brushed his lips over hers. It was a rather sloppy kiss, but he had probably not kissed anyone since his teen years- almost twenty years previous- and hence had not had much practice. She was glad to reteach him, however, and the soft caresses of lips on lips were quite enjoyable once he gained confidence. She was just starting to lose track of her thoughts when-

"Well, Khan, if you were so keen on her, you could have at least alerted me first instead of seducing her in public." Nadir's eyes shot open and he quickly detached himself from his lady.

"Th'feelin's mutual, thanks very much," Anna purred, sliding a hand up her companion's chest (and snatching a few of his shiny gold buttons). "'N fact, y'could say I seduced him."

Erik made a face in reply, and though most of his expression was invisible, the sentiment was thoroughly conveyed by his smirking mouth. "Away with you, you indecent foreigners! I have no need nor wish for the details of what you do behind closed doors or in near-deserted kitchens!"

Nadir laughed, more than a little distracted by the sensation of Anna's hands plucking at his front. He knew she was stealing every bit of valuable metal off of him, but at the moment, he couldn't care less. "Well, I don't object to leaving our current location unless she does- do you?" He turned his attention to the woman. There was more implied by a simple departure: an entrance into another room, where other things might take place.

"Let's go, Copper." She pulled him up by the shirt collar and disappeared to into the hallway to some of the unused dorms. Erik chuckled. His friend had certainly found his match, in more ways than one.

…

Christine gasped awake as the closet door was finally opened. Her back was bruised from lying on a shoe for so long, and it was so early in the morning that her eyes were foggy with tiredness. Still, she was conscious enough to see Ciara's red eyes looking even redder from crying.

"Ciara? What's happened?" The girl just pulled her up and began hauling her back to her room. She will tell me when we reach the room. They hurried up the stairs. There was no telling how early Philippe would rise for work. They stumbled up together and the door was locked behind them.

Ciara sat at the piano; more emotionally exhausted than physically, and drew a small, leather-bound book from a hidden pocket. This is his diary. Will you read it to me?

"I do not think it is right to search his private thoughts." Christine looked at the little book with doubt and trouble in her eyes. "Why not tell me what's happened?" The other took a deep, shuddering breath and pressed her hands to her face in sorrow.

Philippe has slaves, and he intends to create a munitions factory. A pause. When did he become so greedy that he must make weapons for money on top of his royal fortune?

"Munitions…" Christine's mind was spinning faster than the wheels of a chariot behind a racehorse. Philippe had taken Meg, but she had escaped him too easily. Now he had captured her, and for… Her heart nearly leapt from her mouth with her next, painful utterings. "I know what he wants: Erik." Erik was a genius in many ways, and his talents had extended to weapons, as she had witnessed firsthand. Philippe wanted someone to design these guns for him, and possibly much more…free of charge; hence, her own capture.

Ciara only nodded sadly. She felt like an old hermit crab shell, used and broken, outgrown. He said it was for me.

"What?"

He told me that everything he did was for me. He does not know, then, that I have never wanted more money or a factory or- Here she stopped, and laid her forehead against the wood of the piano. The tears were flowing again, and her jaw was tightening as she fought against sobs. A hand on her shoulder stilled her shaking for a moment.

"Do you truly wish to hear what he has written?" She nodded, sniffling a little. The other girl felt the need to comfort her. "Whatever you hear, know this: you have shared much with him, even your heart. If he cannot appreciate this, if he cannot give you what you need, he does not deserve you." Then she opened the book and started at the first page, dated almost five years ago.

...

Diary:

Today I have found the cause of great pain. Ciara's mother was the daughter of a politician, an old man who had several children. She was the youngest of their family, and favored, treated to trips with her father to exotic places and political ventures. Her siblings, of course, resented her. They are all dead and gone now, of course, but the events of one particular trip are burned in my mind.

I was searching the archives of the royal library for anything on the Daestro family when the reports of one of their deaths came up. This, of course, was Ciara's grandfather. He had always been said to die of a heart attack, but after leading such a healthy life and illustrious political career, such a thing seemed impossible to me. I read on, and found that a highly skilled assassin called 'Dark Angel,' who wore a mask always, had actually killed him. The French government had covered this assassination for fear of starting a war, and Ciara's mother was left to fend for herself and her daughter on the streets.

She is dead now, of course, but bits of her legal records and pieces of her journal were left in the apartment when she died, and cleared out by the police- who in turn, stored them in the library. As it turns out, Ciara was born on a train, prematurely, and because of her albinism, her poor, tortured mother believed she was the reincarnation of the dead politician; hence, her imprisonment in a dark room for the first five years of her life.

This is the catch, the most important part, though. It came from an outside source, really only a rumor from the opera. As I left the library, I glanced about and saw a young dancer frantically reporting something to the police about a man in a mask. She used many descriptive words and trailed off into a long description of what he looked like, what he was called, what he did, and the raging temper he had that had prompted her to run to the police. They, being the dimwits they are, did not believe her, assuring her that the owner of the opera would never treat her ill or kill anyone if he wanted good business.

It is my belief that this man in a mask is the same who killed Ciara's grandfather and caused her miserable isolation.

I must find this man.

I must eliminate him.

Only then will my dearest Ciara be paid in full for her many misfortunes.

Until tomorrow, Diary.

…

Christine sat in stunned silence. Philippe wanted Erik for inadvertently causing Ciara's various handicaps. He loved her, yes, but with a strength previously unseen and completely undetected. The albino was crying again, shaking silently, but for what reason she did not know.

At the same time, she herself was wavering on the brink of breakdown. Was this masked assassin, the Dark Angel, truly her Erik? Assassins could have many reasons for wearing masks, but how many wore them every day, every hour? How much did she truly know of this man she had come to love? Just wait for him, escape, maybe, and- no, I need to know more.

Half of her wanted to deny everything she had just read, and the other half wanted to have Erik before her to demand answers and truth. Her mind was twisted around, scrambling to decipher what was true and what wasn't. Yet, much of it made sense. He had confessed to some heinous crimes of the past, and she had promised to love him, no matter what he had done. She knew a little of the truth- truth was in the love she felt for the man, despite everything she had just read. Beside that, there was only a rumor, a few papers about someone in a mask, and yet… Either way, if he was the assassin or if he was not, Erik and this Dark Angel are two different men. He has changed, this I must believe.

Ciara curled her long limbs in on herself, shaking as if the wind could blow her away. Philippe was killing people in her name. In her name. In some misguided sense of guilt or debt or God knew what, he had gone about behind her back, capturing all who might give him leverage about the city and leverage to gain control of the masked man- all in her name. Can he still be my Philippe, who took me in and cared for me? Her jaw clenched tight, and she felt sick, as if struck by a sudden vertigo. Her face was damp with sweat and tears, and the softest of whimpers escaped her as she tried to suppress her crying.

He was not lying to her, his heart rate and scent could not lie to her. He felt for her, but how far that feeling extended, she now knew. Should I not consider this the least bit…flattering? He has killed for me. She should have been flattered, perhaps honored. Instead she only felt nauseous.

Christine hiccupped back her breath. "Well- at least- at least you know he loves you now."

…

Eter, Artur, and Erik stood together outside Philippe's warehouse. They had received a tip from the young baron Salim as to when the guards were likely to fall asleep. It was currently about four o'clock in the morning. A false dawn was had slipped over the horizon like the grey film of secrecy. "There is only one objective tonight. We cannot afford to retrieve anyone else but M. Daae," Erik said as his breath turned to white clouds on the wind.

Eter spoke up, curious. "Why are not Anna and Nadir here? They would have been useful." Artur only grumbled and rubbed his cold arms, but Erik decided to explain.

"Too many people equal too many liabilities. If he and Anna had come along, they would be a hindrance." The mezzo's unthinking tongue got the better of her mind for a moment.

"I do not think so. They are skilled." The composer only sighed.

"You are going to regret demanding an explanation. It is not my place to reveal where they are or what they are doing, only know that they are having a bit of private time to themselves." The girl's face flushed in shame despite the biting wind.

"Oh. Never mind my…excuses, then." Artur sighed in the same exasperated tone that the maestro had used and received a sharp elbow to the ribs for his impudence.

They drew closer to the warehouse entrance, stepping over crunching snow and ice. The ground was drenched with the customary sleet, and the gas lanterns blocks away did a poor job of lighting the way. It was as if the prison was meant to be dark and intimidating. Erik's eyes reflected what little light they could, but the other two were helpless, only following his stealthy steps.

The double doors were locked, held in place by a heavy beam. Artur needed no cue. He lifted the beam away, careful not to brush the rough wood against rougher iron. On either side of them, four guards snored on, leaning against the concrete wall. Erik pitied them, really. Come sunrise, they would be awakened as per usual, and find one of their prisoners missing, then be promptly fired by the duke. He picked the lock and oiled the hinges of the great doors just in case. They opened silently.

The halls of the prison were quiet. Every prisoner had either slipped into unconsciousness or died. The Dark Angel was accustomed to such an air of despair, but Artur and even the hardy Eter were shaken by the smell of death. Erik retrieved the map of the prison to from his cloak pocket and reexamined the numbers and letters. It was but a simple code for him to follow. Amateur. He could at least have turned the cipher into symbols instead of numbers. Such was his skill with encryptions.

For Eter, all was pitch black, opaque and murky. The smallest bit of light would have helped, but there was none. Thankfully, Erik seemed to know what they were doing. Then, a small, warm light emerged from the blackness. Guards! Artur's large hand pulled her back.

"They do not know we are here," he whispered down to her. He watched as Erik skillfully went ahead of them and knocked them unconscious with a flick of pebbles against their heads. They would not know what happened, and they would not be able to identify their attacker in the morning.

They followed him again through the black hold, guts clenched tight against butterflies and shivers. As easy as this venture might be for the three of them, they were still unnerved. Erik himself was morbidly impressed with the sheer number of captives. I wonder, what methods of torture have they used here? I could likely teach them a thing or two, but- Christine. She would not wish for me to torture.

His fingers brushed the little numbered tags, lifting each to see it in the most minimal lighting. At last, they reached the right door. His hands almost shook as he jiggled a pick into the lock, turning gears and levers gain access. What if he is dead? With a creak, the heavy door swung back.

The stench of all possible human wastes hit the three rescuers. Blackish liquid leaked out into the corridor, an organic slurry of vomit, urine, and excrement. A soft wheezing in the back of the cell followed by soft coughing revealed the darkest bits of information. Erik was quite familiar with this disease. "Cover your mouth and nose with these, quickly."

They tied the rags to their faces. Artur stepped into the center of the cell and picked up the man in rags. He was so light, barely more than skin and sharp bones, but thankfully still alive. "We should go."

So, they went.

The doors were still open when they emerged, but this time the guards were awake. Someone yelled an order: "Fire!" Erik never blinked. He had predicted something like this.

"Fire indeed, gentlemen," he agreed, throwing jets of flame from his sleeves. The startled men jumped back, dropping their firearms. The smell of singed leather and hair drifted away on the breeze. "Hold your breath," he warned, and tossed several vials down to shatter on the pavement. A thick fog engulfed the area, and the confused guards slumped, snoring rather loudly.

Together, they ran through the streets, slipping on ice and through puddles, never slowing until they were safely inside the opera.