A/N: Thanks for your reviews and thanks to Belle of the Demon Opera and MrsChaolWestfall for following/favouriting. Erik and Julianne are slowly...I don't want to call it bonding...well, they're evolving, I guess, and the next chapter will help with that. The plan is (to fan this spark into a flame) to have them at least a little bit attached by the end of Part 1. Let me know your thoughts!
Poem: Le Pont Mirabeau by Apollinaire.
Chapter 14:
His parting words ghosted around her head even when the soft sound of water splashing up against stone had subsided. It had become apparent to her that he really did not know how to interact with another person, had almost grown accustomed to the strange courtesy he displayed one time, then an obvious discomfort the next. What truly disappointed and frightened her were his violent mood swings and needless threats that placed her body under unnecessary tension and conjured up reckless plans of escape. Exploring the route the man called the daroga had taken beckoned her – for he could not have used the boat- but she tried to soothe her wild instincts by reminding herself that someone like Erik had surely taken certain precautions that would not allow her an easy departure. Her best chance was to stay there, reason with the man behind the murderer and hope it would be enough, a strategy that was difficult to endure when the rest of her was screaming to run.
Taking a deep breath, she looked around the house that was once more illuminated by a handful of torches and the mess that she had offered to clean up. It felt almost more suffocating without his presence, made her fear what kind of objects and secrets she would encounter throughout her work.
"You will keep me company, won't you?" she addressed the Siamese cat who lifted her head and then lowered it back upon her crossed paws. "Or perhaps you won't," she muttered in her direction and pulled herself up into a standing position.
The bread she had consumed wasn't enough to sustain her for long, she knew, but she was determined to bite her tongue. She did not want to beg him for anything and secretly hoped that his weird sense of duty would compel him to protect her from malnourishment.
Hesitantly, she approached the nearest pile of rubble, deciding that she might as well begin there since everything looked the same. Sinking to her knees, she carefully lifted a broken piece of china from the top of the mountain. It was as beautiful as it was fragile, containing detailed, colourful depictions of birds and landscapes. The hairline crack that ran through it showed the path of destruction that had broken it in two. Brushing some dust away, she managed to locate the other half a little while later and gingerly held it up against the first. Perhaps with patience and skill they could be united.
If only she could hazard a guess what kind of reaction the proposal would prompt from the masked man. But it was impossible. His mood seemed capable of changing from one second to the next, making him patient during her outbursts and menacing during her tiredness. It no longer came as a surprise to her that Meg Giry had been trying to stop her mother from further interactions with him, nor was she unable to understand why she had been reluctant to pass on Christine's address. She surely had received a first-hand account of the events that had taken place in the past. It was only natural that she had wanted to protect her friend from being confronted yet again with the man who had clearly upset and abused her greatly. It was an even bigger testament to the Vicomtesse's strength of character and generosity then that she had found it in her heart to respond.
While Julianne's thoughts had wandered, her hands had kept busy filtering the items they encountered. She doubted that Erik possessed a container in which they could be distributed, but for now she would keep them like this. Rubble and dirt seemingly chiselled off the walls – although she was yet to spot the source- on one side to be discarded and objects that had retained their beauty despite the violent force that had broken them on the other.
It wasn't long before her hands found the small mask again. She stopped then, sat back and moved the mask around between her fingers. It felt soft and fragile, was made out of cloth and clearly stretched to its maximum capacity, almost like an ordinary piece of clothing a child had grown out of. She sighed and ran it through her fingers once again, stirring up ambivalent feelings of long abandoned dreams of motherhood and the sickening knowledge that for Erik life always seemed to have been limiting and constricting.
She glanced up from the little white mask to the house around her. No ordinary man could have built this, she realised. The craftsmanship was remarkable, of course, but it was doubtful that anyone else would have chosen this dark and dreary location. This could have only been the decision of a man who was used to solitude and who yearned for safety far away from the rest of humankind. It had to be a disfigurement or something of the like, for nothing else would warrant the mask, not even his temperamental behaviour. Holding it up into the light of the torches one last time, she finally pocketed it, forcing it down the top of her corset where it rested against the letters and acted as a kind of cushion against the hard wires that had been digging into her ribs.
It was almost reckless to keep hold of it, she knew, for surely he would miss something so poignant, but it served as the perfect reminder of his vulnerability and humanity, and should she find herself in the depth of despair once again or fearing for her life, the little mask resting against her chest would help her endure. She smiled then, knowing that Édouard would be proud of her. It had always been his strategy to try and rationalise his opponent's thoughts and actions so he may not get lost in the flurry of emotion instead.
Looking at the little piles in front of her, she shook herself out of her reverie and continued her work. There were more beautiful pieces of porcelain, of course, or figurines and papers burned to ashes, but nothing she encountered gripped and touched her quite like the mask had done.
"Perhaps I should not have supplied you with a new dress."
His voice startled her but she took great care not to let him see, dusted her hands off on the skirt of her dress and slowly turned around to find him leaning in the doorway.
"Yes, perhaps it would have been wise to wait," she acknowledged, "though I am grateful nonetheless."
His curious eyes narrowed as if he was assessing her honesty and then he walked with measured steps back to the black leather sofa.
"I assume that two books will suffice for now?"
"Two books will be plenty," she nodded and stood up.
Even one would have done the trick, offering her an escape route into another world. Nothing helped settle her quite as well as a good book. When surrounded by crowds of people and abandoned by Édouard at one social function or another, she'd often carried a little book with her, giving her something to do, somewhere to look at that wasn't uncomfortable. But then of course people had started to whisper and Édouard had advised her to stop this habit.
"Could I perhaps take a look?" she now asked tentatively, stepping closer to the sofa.
Erik leaned forward as if to inspect the work she had done and then dragged his shoulders up. Taking his reaction for a "yes", she sat down beside him and curiously studied the two leather-bound volumes.
"Crime and Punishment," she read out loud and drew a soft chuckle from the masked man.
"Rather an apt title, wouldn't you say?"
To her surprise she found herself smiling. "I might be inclined to agree, Monsieur, were you not insinuating that it was me guilty of crime and worthy of punishment."
She held her breath after having spoken so carelessly, expecting him to snatch the books away or worse. But instead he only laughed.
"You have quite the nerve to suggest otherwise, Madame."
She glanced at his eyes, still uncertain whether he was responding with true amusement, but when she could not detect any menace, she slowly relaxed against the cushions.
"And poetry," she said, deciding to abandon that topic nonetheless.
"Have I not satisfied your wishes?" he inquired dryly, draping one long leg over the other.
Julianne remained silent for a moment, thumbing through the pages.
"I have never been able to access poetry. Perhaps it is the shortness, but I've not yet discovered a poem that's gripped me quite like a novel."
"Then you are demonstrating once again that this Opera's management is lacking in taste."
"What a sweeping statement, Monsieur," she pointed out, unable to bite her tongue, "have you not shown nothing more than a taste for destruction. Where is your expertise?"
This time, his eyes flashed dangerously and she hurriedly stared down at the book in her lap.
"Certain matters don't require proof, Madame, just take my word for it."
His voice seemed to slither across her skin, cold and dangerous.
"As you wish," she responded, keeping her eyes downcast still, "I was merely hoping you'd supply me with an example."
"Don't lie!"
A low warning in her ear and she squeezed her eyes shut.
"Let night fall, let the hours go by. The days pass on and here stand I. Love runs away. Like running water flows. Love flows away. But oh how slow life goes. How violent is hope. Love only knows."
The quality of his voice instantly transformed, became something mournful; something softer took hold of it, coaxing the tension out of her body.
"Hope can be cruel indeed," she sighed before she could stop herself.
"Yes," he answered clipped and suddenly rose to his feet.
It was as if by lifting the tension from her shoulders, he had taken it upon himself.
"Now if you don't mind, I'd prefer it if you returned to your room. I have important matters to attend to."
Sensing a dark mood descending upon him, she hurriedly followed his instructions, gathering the books and fleeing to the strange room she now had to call her own.