Chapter Twenty-seven

The journey to the Opera Populaire seemed to last forever. Finally, Meg left Erik leaning against a brick wall in an empty alley as she cautiously went to investigate the area. He closed his eyes and tried not to fall. His whole body ached and his heart still stung with rejection. All he wanted was to collapse on the ground and never wake up again, and yet…there was something holding him back. The words Madame Giry had said…she'd told him she loved him. That meant the world to him, and he was only angry that she hadn't said it sooner. He had a love for her too, in his own way, and he regretted the many times he had been cruel to her. He'd make it up to her, if he made it out of this alive.

And what did she mean when she said she wasn't the only one who loved him? It couldn't be Meg she was referring to. Meg might be helping him now, he reflected gratefully, but she still harbored some fear and resentment towards him. And it was clearly not Christine, he thought bitterly.

Who?

Suddenly the answer came to him.

It was unbelievably obvious, yet the realization struck him with such power that he nearly fell to the ground.

Could it be?

It had to be.

But it was impossible! He was…Erik. Alone. Unloved. But now…he wasn't.

How did he feel about that? He didn't even know.

And he didn't have time to think it over, because Meg had crept back to the alley, her face pale in the moonlight.

"The entire opera house is surrounded," she whispered, brown eyes wide with fear. "I should have known…the police must have anticipated you'd return there. I don't know what we're going to do now…"

Erik held up a finger. "Café Aria."

"What?" The girl looked at him like he was insane.

"I know what we're going to do now," he said. "Follow me." He dared to let go of the wall. His legs threatened to give out, but he managed to take a few agonizing steps before Meg took pity on him and let him lean against her.

The Café Aria was just a street away from the opera house, but the way appeared deserted. Just as they were about to cross the street, they heard the hoof beats of a mounted soldiers somewhere, coming closer. Meg pulled him back into the darkness of the alley, and Erik picked up part of the officers' conversation.

"…think he's underground? Oh, I couldn't say, but guarding the opera house is a wise decision."

"Even if he did make it underground, there's no way he can survive. There's all kinds of traps…"

"and there's no one to take care of him anymore, with all the opera people gone."

"No matter what, he's doomed. All this will be over soon."

Don't let it be over. Not yet. Please, not yet. He wasn't ready. The things Madame Giry had said…they'd given him a sense of curiosity, hope. He had something to live for. Though the two Girys would be better off without him, despite what they might say, there was someone out there who wouldn't. Someone who would miss him. Someone he didn't want to leave.

"All right, it's safe to go now," Meg was saying, and then he was limping as fast as he could without falling. They hurried around to the back of the restaurant, a café that had been open for as long as he'd been there. Madame Giry had often brought him food from this place; when he'd first come to the opera house, she'd begged the head chef and the owners to give her their leftovers. They'd agreed, and that way she was able to keep Erik from starving. In time, he was able to pay for his own meals, but Antoinette needed a quick way to deliver them to him without anyone seeing. Erik stumbled upon the answer himself when he discovered that many of the older buildings in the area, like Café Aria, were connected by countless underground passageways; one night he accidentally

found himself in the restaurant's storeroom. Antoinette paid the café staff not to tell anyone about the passageway and her later use of it, and from then on she had a safe, easy way to get food to Erik.

Café Aria had saved him from starvation, and now it was going to save him again. Erik took a pick from his cloak and fiddled with the door lock until it opened. Once inside the café, he and Meg silently made their way to the kitchen, and from there down a flight of stairs to the cellar storeroom.

As they entered, Erik tried to remember where he had come into the room from the other side, all those years ago. Meg lit an oil lamp and they examined the room, until Erik's gaze fell upon one shelf cluttered with kitchen equipment. Unlike the other shelves in the storeroom, that one appeared to be a few centimeters off the ground. He and Meg moved closer to investigate.

"It's on a sort of…track," Meg realized.

"Help me move it aside," Erik said, reaching out to push the wood away despite the pain that racked his body. With Meg alongside him, he pressed against the side of its shelf, and it moved across the track with surprising ease. A blast of cold, underground air hit both of them square in the face.

"I think we found our way in," Meg said as they stepped into the dark tunnel and closed what appeared as a heavy iron door on this side. She let Erik lean against her as he led the way, the oil lamp lighting their path a little. "It's so dark." The girl shuddered.

It was terribly dark here, Erik thought to himself. All the years spent in this cold, dismal place…

He was losing the strength to reflect on his past, or think about anything for that matter. His thoughts were growing hazy; his world was one of darkness and weariness and pain. He was walking blind, conscious only of the agony and the presence of the girl at his side, helping him along. She was so much like her mother, he thought distantly, and he would have smiled if he'd had the strength.

"So many secret pathways," said Meg as they walked. "A person could be lost down here forever."

It seemed they walked through the cold darkness for a lifetime, but Erik could have traveled through the passages in his sleep. Finally, they stepped through the door that opened to Erik's living quarters. They passed his storage rooms and library and came to his bedroom, and before he knew it Erik had collapsed into bed and Meg was covering him with blankets.

He'd never felt so tired in his life, or so relieved to be able to rest. Sleep could take him away from his pain. The hope Madame Giry had given him still could not make the overwhelming sorrow he felt cease from torturing him. He clutched the ring around his neck, but he was too exhausted to cry. He let the weariness take over, and felt himself fading away…

"Oh no you don't. You can't go to sleep yet. You need to get something to eat and drink first," came Meg's voice.

Erik groaned. She was just like her mother.

Meg had some wine and what looked like a tin of crackers from his storeroom. He choked down the wine as best he could, but the crackers were far worse. They were

the only food that hadn't spoiled in the months he'd been gone, but they were stale and tasteless. He thought he'd never survive the crackers; Meg insisted he finish and wouldn't leave him in peace until they were gone.

At last, he was done, and she left him for home after lighting some candles so he wouldn't be in utter darkness if he awoke before someone came back for him.

My angel may have forsaken me, Erik thought as his head fell back against the pillow, but I am not alone after all. Antoinette was right. She and her daughter will always be there when I need help. They love me. They actually love me. And so does…

Then sleep overcame him.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When Meg finally returned home after a nerve-wracking journey through the patrolled streets, she found her mother packing suitcases.

"What's going on?" Meg asked, her pulse quickening. This could not be a good thing.

"We're fired," Antoinette said, not looking her daughter in the eyes as she continued to pack.

"What…?"

"The Vicomte de Chagny," her mother practically spat the words, "has convinced the master that you and I are hiding something from him. The two of us are fired, and evicted as well. They've also tipped off the police with the possibility that we know where the Phantom is, so if I were you I would start packing as quickly as possible."

Speechless at first, Meg began to fill a case with clothes. "But Maman…where are we going to go? If the police are suspicious…" She slammed her suitcase shut. "This is all Erik's fault! We could go to prison because of him! He ruins everything," she said bitterly.

"But he needs us, my dear," Antoinette said, putting a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "You did a good thing, by helping him today. You saved the three of us from a terrible fate."

Meg cheered up a bit at her mother's approval, but couldn't rid herself of her anger and bewilderment. "But where are we going to go now? We don't have anything, anywhere to live…"

Antoinette just gave her a wry smile. "Then we will have to go to the place for those who have nowhere else to belong."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Andre Valjean was released on bond from the Détente jail.

It had been a long ride back to Paris, with Raimond, Amelie, Cerise, Alana, and Andre all crammed into the single small carriage. They'd managed to get Andre out on bond, and he'd sat in the carriage between Amelie and Cerise. It was the quietest journey Alana had ever taken in her life, the uncomfortable silence only broken by her father's irritable complaints. He wasn't as angry as he normally was, but he was clearly suffering from withdrawal. He looked and felt terrible, and complained about problems that no one else noticed or bothered to point out, and spoke of how much he needed a drink. Alana did not speak a word the entire journey; she was busy trying to repress the painful memories of her father and remember the good ones. Eventually, she grew too depressed and weary of thinking of him, so her thoughts went to Erik. She was glad to be going back to Paris, to see him again.

When they pulled up in front of the house in the city, Andre stopped complaining. Instead, he stepped out of the carriage and stared. "It looks just the same as it always has," he said. His eyes took in the lush grass of the small front garden, the sunflowers growing up tall on the left side, the lilac trees that lined the street, and the simplistic charm of the house. The sight seemed to give him some kind of comfort. Almost smiling, he looked at Alana, but she averted her gaze. She still wasn't able to speak to him.

She didn't see her father look down at the ground, clenching a fist as he wiped something from his eye with his other hand.

They went inside and Raimond showed Andre to a guest room. Cerise immediately went to Alana's side. "How are you doing?" she asked, though her face showed that she already knew.

Alana sighed. "It's hard for me to even look at him…I love him, I really do but…I don't know…"

"You don't want him to hurt you again," Cerise said for her. "But don't be afraid…we're all here. You'll be safe. And this is your father's chance to prove all of us that he can change."

"Just have faith," said Amelie as she went to the kitchen to prepare supper for all of them. "I think Andre wants to get better. And he doesn't want to disappoint you again, Alana."

She wasn't sure how to respond to that, but she didn't have a chance anyway. Her thoughts were interrupted by her aunt's sudden gasp. Alana and Cerise hurried to the kitchen, where they found Amelie staring at the jagged shards of broken glass from the window above their back door, the pieces scattered all across the wooden floor. "What on earth…" Cerise began.

"Someone's broken into the house," Amelie finished. She turned and headed out of the kitchen and upstairs, with the two younger women following her. Amelie went into her bedroom and opened her jewelry box. She closed her eyes and put a hand over her mouth as she turned to face Alana and Cerise. "And we've been robbed."

As soon as Raimond found out, everyone did a quick search of the entire house. Jewelry, some kitchen silver, and a few gold pocket watches were missing.

"Nice place you've brought me to," Andre said with biting sarcasm. "What a good, safe neighborhood my daughter's had to be living in."

Raimond said nothing in reply to his half-brother but gave him a look that Alana understood. What her uncle had wanted to say was, She's been safer with us than with you. And he was right.

"Nothing like this has ever happened to us before, Andre," Raimond said. "I'm going to have to go down to the police station now before the curfew takes effect."

"Curfew?" Andre looked confused.

"A lot has changed since you were last in Paris. I'll tell you about it on the way to the station."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Raimond Valjean did not usually frequent police stations, but this one, he realized, was unnaturally quiet and empty. There was a man at the front desk, but the rest of the building was nearly silent, with only a few men working inside.

"I'd like to report a break-in and a robbery," he said to the tired-looking man at the desk, as Andre wandered around the room, gazing at the posters for wanted criminals in the area. As soon as the report was filed and the man at the desk informed him that someone would be at the house shortly to investigate, Raimond asked, "Where is everyone today? Is there something going on?"

The man looked at him in surprise. "You haven't heard? Nearly all of our taskforce is out hunting for that man." He pointed to a large poster on the wall, and Raimond and Andre both turned to look at it.

"An opera ghost?" Andre laughed. "This country's gone mad…your men are searching for a phantom?"

"He's no ghost," the man countered. "He's a man of flesh and blood like any other, we're told, but no one knows his name. For years he terrorized citizens at the Opera Populaire, and you can read the crimes he's guilty of right there on the poster. He was spotted not far from here a few days ago in Parc de Seigneurs, and he attempted to abduct a woman who lived there."

Raimond moved closer to scrutinize the drawings of the man. One of the images depicted the fugitive with one side of his face strangely deformed, and the other showed the man wearing a mask hiding that side of his face. Somehow he had missed the news of this man and his crimes, and he did not recognize the images. Still, something was stirring in his mind, something like a remembrance, but he couldn't make out what it was. "Have either of you seen this man?" the desk sergeant asked them.

Raimond shook his head. "I don't think so, but there is something vaguely familiar about him…I can't quite put my finger on it."

Andre looked up from studying the drawings. "I don't know this person, but like you said, Raimond, there's something familiar about him." He scratched his head. "Strange."

"Well if you gentlemen remember, or see or hear anything of him, come back and report it immediately. This fugitive is extremely dangerous."

Raimond and Andre nodded, then left the police station, making their way back home.

"I don't like this," Andre grumbled as they walked down the street. "I thought Alana would be safe with you, but this city's turned into a madhouse. God, I wish I had a drink right now. I feel like I'm going to die."

"We'll be all right," Raimond said. "You'll see. And I thought you weren't going to drink again."

"I'm not," said Andre firmly. "But it's not easy going without it…it's all I can think about."

"Instead of thinking about what you can't have, you should think of your daughter. Taking care of her, making her proud of you for giving up your addiction."

"Protecting her from myself," Andre added, solemn. "And all the thieves and murderers and kidnappers around here. I wish I could remember something about that man on the poster…it's so strange…I don't think I've ever seen him before, and yet I feel like I have."

"I know what you mean," Raimond said thoughtfully. "Maybe we'll remember in a little while."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

That night, when everyone else was asleep, Alana left the house and crossed the street to the church, eager to see Erik again. It would be so wonderful to be with him, to become absorbed in him and in the music. For the first time in days she'd be able to stop thinking of her father, and escape the dark thoughts and memories. She went to the sanctuary and began to practice singing and playing the piano while she waited for Erik to come. And waited. And waited.

He never came.

The next day, the investigators were supposed to arrive at the house, to look for clues so they could catch the person who had robbed the house. But they didn't come either. Alana happened to catch a glimpse of a newspaper as she and Cerise went to the market that afternoon. The headlines read, "Entire Paris police force still searching for dangerous fugitive," but before she or her cousin had a chance to read further, the last of the newspapers was sold to someone else. At least now she knew the reason the police hadn't showed up at her house. Her thoughts went to Erik, and panic began to overtake her. What if the fugitive had attacked him? Killed him? It was crazy…after all, he'd only been missing for one night, but she couldn't shake off her worry.

The next night, she was at the church early, waiting for Erik.

And once again, he didn't come.

First she worried he'd been murdered by the criminal. Then she considered the possibility that he'd decided he didn't want anything to do with her anymore. Maybe he'd run away with Christine, and forgotten about her. The thought of it had brought her to tears as she waited at the church for the third night in a row of Erik's absence. Then she recalled what Madame Giry had said, about her friend having many enemies. Maybe they'd caught up with him and killed him…maybe the fugitive was one of those enemies.

And then she had another thought: What if Erik was the fugitive the police were searching for?

Days and nights passed, and the date of the ball was approaching. On Sunday, Alana spoke with Damien at the church. He was friendly and courteous, but a bit distracted, and looked as though he felt uncomfortable. She felt ill at ease as well when she remembered their kiss in that garden. Did he still have feelings for her? Was their friendship ruined? And why did he seem so distracted?

That night she went to the church as usual, but Erik still did not come. The only person she found was her father, passed out drunk in the closet where the communion wine was kept.

Those days were a time of darkness and loneliness for Alana. It seemed all were disappointing her, and though her father apologized to everyone for breaking his promise and stealing the wine, she worried he would never be himself again.

And her suspicions about Erik…

Even as the search for the fugitive died down, her worries about him grew stronger.

One night, as she played the piano alone in the sanctuary, she heard the door open. She turned, and there he was.

Erik.

Looking just the same as he always had.

No, wait. There was something different in his eyes, but she didn't know what it was.

It didn't matter.

Alana got up and without another thought, ran to his side and threw her arms around him. It felt so good to be close to him again. Oh, how she'd missed him. And instead of backing away as she'd anticipated, Erik stayed in their embrace, pulling her even closer to him.

"I've missed you so much," she said softly.

"I've missed you too," he replied in his deep, quiet voice.

"But I have to ask you something."

Erik let go of her and stepped back, his blue-green eyes searching her face. "What is it?"

"Who are you?"