A/N: Yes, I know, the build-up is slow, but I promise they'll finally meet in the next chapter. Bear with me until then and leave me some feedback? :) Also slight tip of the hat to Gaston Leroux's book in this one.
Chapter 3:
Being a ghost came with certain advantages. Omniscience, for example. It almost bordered on extraordinary how many secrets the Opera housed and how many of them Erik was aware of.
There was little Meg Giry who appeared to have begun an affair with Baron de Castelot-Barbezac. A scandalous match, of course, since the ballet girl could hardly pass as a member of the bourgeoisie, let alone as someone of higher status. Or Monsieur Millet who seemed unable to oversee a single rehearsal without a gulp from his trusted hip flask. And then there was the curious question as to the current creative leadership of the opera house.
For all intents and purposes that strange, little fellow, Monsieur Moreau, appeared to be in charge, yet for a man of such power he seemed rather concerned that certain occurrences would reach the ear of one Madame Doucet. Erik had watched with some amusement how first his letter had been pocketed and stored out of sight and then instructions had been given to the rest of the ensemble not to breathe a word about the other disrupted performances.
Curious as to what all this fuss was about, Erik had made it his mission to discover more about the woman. An unpredictable pawn could be dangerous for any game of chess and he wasn't in the habit of losing.
It came as a surprise then that the person in question was hardly ever present. Nonetheless, he tirelessly attended every gathering until at last he was rewarded with his first glimpse of her. She was smaller than he had imagined and far more voluptuous, but she walked with a purpose and determination that appeared at odds with the dress she wore which clearly labelled her to be in mourning. But at least it explained her continued absence from the opera house.
Intrigued by her conduct and the ferocity with which she had clearly thrown herself into the investigation of his person, he decided that it was only just for him to reciprocate. Another letter would be in order, but this time he'd make sure she'd receive it.
The hours between the rehearsal and the evening performance awarded him just enough time to return to his house by the lake and set in motion a series of preparations. Writing paper that wasn't crumpled, ripped or burnt was scarce and he knew that he'd require much more for the correspondences that awaited him in the near future. But even more importantly, there were certain other items he needed for survival, such as a new packet of morphine, a fresh set of dress shirts, waistcoats, dress pants, frocks and cloaks and some caviar for Ayesha.
The feline had taken refuge in the bed of the room that had once belonged to Christine since his coffin had not survived the devastation either. But thanks to his anger the rest of the room was largely unrecognisable as he had burned every thread of female garments in his possession. The delicate writing desk had also met its end against a nearby wall. It was a bitter twist of irony that the only resting place he still had left was the bed he had been born in, the very bed in which he had hoped to find wedded bliss with Christine.
"I've been neglecting you, haven't I?" he greeted the cat which eagerly lifted its head to welcome his touch. "But don't concern yourself, my darling, I shall make sure you are well looked after now."
As if in agreement, Ayesha began to purr. Several minutes he lavished affection on her and entertained himself with her company, but then he reminded himself that valuable time was going to waste.
But how he abhorred reaching out to tedious merchants, how he despised dependency on another human soul!
Nonetheless, it needed to be done.
Reaching for a handful of remaining blank papers that had been haphazardly discarded onto the bedroom's floor, he used a three-legged, wobbly nightstand to scribble two hasty notes. Upon his return to the Opera he would leave them both on the armchair of box 5 where Madame Giry was sure to find them. And if curiosity wouldn't force her to venture there on her own accord, a few whispered words into her ear were sure to do the trusted her to open up only the letter addressed to her and pass the other on to his messenger as requested.
The note for Madame Doucet needed more thought, however.
With the remaining pieces of paper as well as his pen in hand, he paced towards the sitting room. The question that plagued him was how much information he wished to divulge in order to get her attention. It simply wouldn't be suitable to lay everything out just like that. If she wished to know more, the least she could do was put forth more effort. No, all that was needed was the right hook to pique her interest and then he'd simply have to reel her in.
To his disappointment, Madame Doucet did not attend the evening performance, however. He had not spotted her on the grand staircase, nor had she joined Monsieur Moreau in the manager's box.
This show of tactlessness, when he had gone to such length to prepare for her arrival, was unacceptable. And he'd had quite enough of disobedient females to last him a lifetime. No-one would ever have the gall to disrespect him again. And if she did continue to disappoint, he'd simply have to resort to more drastic measures.
That evening, his fury forced down the curtain before the second act had even begun.
Not usually a morning person, the restlessness that resided in his bones made sleep impossible and caused him to abandon his lair at the crack of dawn the following day (or so his pocket watch told him). His knees protested at the effort the ascent to the third cellar required of him, but the tingling current that seemed to run through his veins propelled him forward.
From the third cellar, he worked a series of cleverly hidden trapdoors until he at last emerged in one of the Eastern corridors leading into the Rotonde du Soleil. The rays of the rising sun flooded through the large windows and bathed the opulent hallway in their glowing light. It was truly a sight of immeasurable beauty and for the longest time, Erik stood rooted to the spot, watching as the rich golden hues climbed higher and higher until every mirror, every chandelier glistened and reflected them.
Hesitantly, he stepped further into the deserted hallway, feeling strangely moved and small all of a sudden. This was his creation, his masterpiece but already at sunrise it outshone and surpassed him.
With proud but mournful fingers, he began feeling along the walls he had erected. His hands sliding lovingly over marble as well as glass, so absorbed in this surge of emotion that his own reflection did not startle him. But the moment brought confusion as well as peace, for he suddenly yearned to connect with something real again, a sensation he had violently fought since Christine's departure.
Thankfully, he was saved by a cacophony of voices emanating from the grand staircase.
Instinct made him retrace his steps until he was hidden in the hollow space between the walls once more. No doubt, he could have easily confronted whoever it was that dared disrupt the quiet of the opera house at this time of day, but he felt so inexplicably fatigued and uncertain that he rather abhorred the idea of a physical altercation. No, best to remain a shadow, a humble by-product of the sun's radiance.
Consulting his watch once again, he directed his steps towards the back of the house where the manager's office was located. It was as good a place as any to wait for the arrival of Madame Doucet. He kept his movements light and silent, listening intently for any piece of gossip he might be able to use to his advantage, but the only sounds that reached his ears were those of the awakening opera house around him. There was the cleaning staff that made sure the building was well-maintained, the stable masters that tended to the horses outside in the courtyard and a few seamstresses who had risen early to put the finishing touches on some urgent amendments.
But something told him Madame Doucet would favour the tranquillity and privacy of the early hours of the morning.
When he arrived, however, the office was still empty which gave him enough time to put his note into place. He turned it so that the red ink was sure to catch her attention, and then resigned himself to waiting in the deep cavity beneath the floorboards.
Thankfully, his hunch had been right for not long after the door opened and footsteps indicated someone's presence. Erik remained perfectly still until a sharp intake of breath informed him that his letter had reached the correct person this time. Disappointment that he couldn't witness the look on her face threatened to taint the fleeting feeling of glee, and so he decided to vacate the room, safe in the knowledge that they'd, no doubt, soon have a proper encounter.