Chapter Eight - Breaking Through

Checking on happenings in his opera house always helped Erik clear his mind when he was in troubled or irritated. He locked the door to his home before leaving and made his way through the lake and up the secret passages until he arrived at the opera. Remaining in the shadows, he slunk through the corridors until he found the hidden door he desired. Pressing a button, he slipped inside once more, casting a glance at the outside before shutting the door from within. Pulling the rim of his wide-brimmed fedora over his masked face, he walked calmly towards the managers' office, a new note in his hand waiting to be delivered.

Coming to the secret trapdoor in the office, he listened for a moment before pushing it open, his eyes scanning the area. There was no one at home for the moment, a perfect chance to reach up and place his letter on the desk where they would see it. Shutting the door over his head, he tightened the clasp on his midnight cloak before stepping away towards the halls that would take him to the front of the opera. It was strange that the managers were not in their room that morning, and he was curious to see just where they were.

Even before he found his perch – a nifty and clever hiding space behind a curtain at the top of stairway in the grand foyer – he could hear heated conversation, instantly earning his attention. Slipping into position, he inclined his head and peeped over the side, catching a glance at who could possibly be there at this hour.

"Madame, I assure you, if we knew where your daughter was, we would tell you-" Monsieur Moncharmin reassured their early clients, though there was an underlying tone that gave off the impression that he did not wish to share such information with the stranger. Both he and Madame Giry stood their ground as they spoke with the three visitors, none of which looked pleasant.

"Step-daughter, monsieur," a woman sneered as she corrected him. "She is an ungrateful little wretch who has up and left, running away from home and leaving us in a panic."

"They certainly do not look panicked," Erik noted with a frown as he took in the other members of the party.

The woman in charge was a tall, thin character, with a sharp angled face and piercing green eyes. Her dark brown hair was streaked with grey, wrapped into an elegant bun atop her head. She wore a long black dress, embellished with fine embroidery and appearing to have been made out of one piece of fine fabric. With this woman were two others – most likely her children. The first was a man, about thirty years of age, just as tall and intimidating as his mother. His bright red hair was combed back, leaving his green eyes free to glare down as his mouth permanently scowled at the manager and box keeper, an obnoxious cleft in his chin adding to his pompous nature. The girl with them was the shortest of the group, but she made up for it with her haughty nature. She couldn't have been much older than Angelique and Christine, her brown eyes almost appearing to be black, her nose turned up disdainfully at the commoners. Her brown hair hung in ringlets around her face as she violently curled and tugged one on a long, thin finger. Both children wore fine clothes also, with beautiful accents and embellishments.

"Angelique is a horrid child, ungrateful and spoiled," sniffed the woman. "She doesn't deserve to have our concern, but it would break my dearly departed husband's heart of I didn't go looking for her."

"Angelique?!" Erik's eyes widened at the mention of the girl. This was her family?

"We saw the girl pass through one night," Madame Giry answered hotly. "She slept on the steps and we had to shoo her away in the morning. Had we known she was of your family, Madame Acharmbault-Lenoir, we would have asked her to come in. To be perfectly frank, with the attire she wore, we mistook her as a street urchin."

The two women exchanged harsh glances, neither one happy to be in the company of the other. "I see… you have no idea where she could possibly be?"

"None, I'm afraid," Moncharmin said politely, shaking his head. "Perhaps you should check in town."

With another contemptuous glare at Giry, the woman curtly bid them good day and excused herself, stepping out into the street with her children in tow. Keeping a close eye on them, Erik began to move away when he heard Giry whisper, "What an awful woman! And she calls herself a mother."

"Now, now, Madame, remain calm," Moncharmin reasoned with her, walking up the steps of the grand staircase with the reinstated concierge. "She cannot find Mademoiselle Archambault if we do not know where she is… and we truly have no idea where she has gone." He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "With all the madness that went on last night, we hadn't noticed she had gone missing until Comte de Chagny came in this morning asking for her."

A dark tremor flowed through Erik as he heard the news of the Comte. He was beginning to despise him as much as that bratty little brother of his. Why was he so interested in Angelique, anyway?

"She will turn up, of that much I am certain," Jules Giry stated stubbornly. "I know she shall…"

Waiting until they were out of sight, Erik moved swiftly, not wanting to lose sight of the step-family searching for the new seamstress. Slipping through the hidden corridors and passages, Erik stalked his way through until he arrived at the west wall, lifting the slot of a grate before squinting out and taking a look around, finally catching sight of three pairs of feet.

"I am going to skin that girl when I finally find her," Madame Archambault-Lenoir hissed, cussing Erik's blood to curdle in disgust of the woman.

"We shan't feed her either, shall we, Maman?" the girl asked with a cruel giggle.

"No, Helen, we shan't," she cooed, clearly coddling her daughter. She sighed soon after, turning to face her son. "Yes Maurice, you may do with her what you like, but don't damage her too much, she still has to be able to stand and work."

"Of course, Mother," the man chuckled, his laugh rough and dark. "I shan't hurt her too badly."

"Good boy," she said sweetly. "Now, let's see if we can find the little wench in-"

"Hell."

The three figures froze at the sound of his voice. Erik grinned wickedly, enjoying their fear as he deepened his voice just a smidge and cast if off to sound as if it came from below their feet. "I shall carry thee all to Hell…" he hissed, wishing he could see their faces.

"M-Maman…?" Helen whimpered, ready to faint at once.

"Who is there?!" demanded Lady Archambault-Lenoir, shaken to the core by the horrific voice that seeped from below the ground.

"Do not return to the opera again, lest you wish to meet Angelique in Hell, where she is mine…FOREVER!" He cackled manically, struggling not to laugh as the women screamed – even the young man, Maurice, wailed like a child, before they ran off, quaking in their shoes. Pulling away from the grate once they had vanished, she covered his mouth in an effort to suppress his laughter, rather pleased with himself for scaring them away. "If that does not keep them away, Erik does not know what shall." Adjusting his hat over his head, he placed the slab back in its spot as a notion popped into his brain. Pursing his lips in contemplation, he came to a decision at last and took off down the passage, in dire need of francs, paper, and his special ink.

~OG~

Rounding the corner, Madame Giry glanced over her shoulder before stepping into Box Five. She was extremely grateful and pleased that she had been reinstated into her old position – no doubt influenced by the Opera Ghost and his mayhem caused the night before – but she was also very away of the managers' alertness and suspicion of her. The last thing she wanted was to get in trouble again, but she would not abandon the one who promised her daughter a bright future.

Standing at the center of the box, she waited, knowing that by this time, having completed her rounds, he would want to speak with her. Her eyes wandered to the seats, however, and her eyes lit up at the sight of a little box of English sweets placed upon a slip of paper, a little sack beside it on one of the chairs.

"Madame Giry," the familiar voice of the Ghost spoke, flowing all around her. "I am most delighted to see you have returned."

"As am I," she agreed, bobbing her head politely to the chair, though she really had no idea as to the source of the voice. "I understand it is thanks to you, monsieur."

"Partially," he answered vaguely. "I have a little welcoming gift, Madame, on the chair for you."

"You are too kind," she blushed, though she refrained from reaching out. There was more to be discussed, she knew, and she did not want to appear greedy to the invisible patron.

"And you are flattering. Now, Madame, I have an important matter to discuss – that paper on the seat, and the money with it, are for you to do some errands for me."

"Of course," she said, puffing out her chest just a bit, proud to be doing such work for the great Phantom. "May I see the list?"

"Please do," he answered. The voice paused for a moment, waiting for her to open the paper and read its contents. "Can you gather these items by suppertime?"

She read the paper, blinked, then reread it again. "…oui, I can…you have a lady, monsieur?"

"That is none of your concern," he said coldly.

"Forgive me, but I believe it is," she frowned. "I take it this young lady is either Christine Daae or Angelique Archambault. If it is the latter, I am quite concerned for her. I found the poor girl freezing in the cold and helped her get a job. She had nothing, and now there is a terrible woman searching for her, claiming that she is her step-mother. I may not know Angelique all that well, and she may not be my own daughter, but I worry for the child. She was kind to my daughter and the other girls, and works hard to help and please others, therefore, I find that she is indeed my concern."

There was a heavy silence that hung over her in the air, causing her to grip her shawl tightly, worried that she had offended the ghost. At long last, she heard a sigh.

"You need not worry, Madame Giry. She is safe under my protection – however, she does need clothes and other feminine items, and I would be most thankful if you would collect them today."

"Ah! I see," she nodded, a smile growing on her face. "Very well. I do hope she returns soon – we are in dire need of the new costumes."

"You shall have your new costumes, I shall see to it," he answered coolly. "Now go, Madame. Leave the materials here in the box and I shall collect them. You shall receive payment for your troubles."

"If it's for dear Angelique, it's unnecessary, monsieur, but I thank you all the same," she shook her head. Curtsying, she gathered the three items and left Box Five at once, mumbling to herself on what she should do once she arrived at the market.

Satisfied, Erik departed from his hiding place, moving quickly towards his next destination. He crossed nimbly through the rafters above the stage and swung down into the hall, checking over his shoulder every so often for any unwanted viewers. Stepping towards the repair's room, he stopped, hearing voices from within. Thinking fast, he slid behind one of the props – a castle for Romeo and Juliet – and peered through the tiny hole of a window to see who was in the room.

The door swung open and two men stepped out, both equally agitated for very different reasons. "Are you quite satisfied, Comte? I've already told you that Mademoiselle Archambault is nowhere to be found," Firmin Richard repeated, exasperated that the man was so determined to find her. "We have not seen her since last night!"

"There must be some clue as to her whereabouts!" Philippe insisted, his brows furrowed in frustration. "People do not just up and vanish!"

"Tell that to Archambault and Daae," the manager muttered.

"I tell you, Monsieur Richard, she must be here somewhere!"

"If you find her, please tell her to get back to work – we need those costumes fixed at once!"

Erik bit his tongue as he watched them depart, still bickering all the while. Glaring malevolently at them, he sneered before stalking out and into the room. Setting to work, he caught sight of the stack of sketches Angelique had begun as inventory of the outfits, as well as the catalog Moncharmin had given to her. Gathering these, he selected a variety of simple outfits before searching the walls for a loose nail. Grasping the item, he shoved it into place, watching the planks of wood shift away, leading to another hidden passage. Setting the items into the hall, he languidly walked back to the workbench and checked the materials available, selecting what he deemed to be appropriate for the current costumes he was able to gather.

"Check in here again, Meg!" little Jammes's voice drifted in, causing him to jump. Whirling around, he could see their shadows in the hall through the crack from the door. Working fast, he snatched two more bolts of cloth before jumping into the opening and shutting it from within. Tossing the materials aside, he placed his hand over his heart and gave a sigh of relief, growling as he heard the girls enter.

"I told you we wouldn't find anything," he heard Meg grumble, when Jammes gasped in shock.

"Look! Her pictures are gone!"

"They were sketches, actually-"

"And the catalog, and look! Those shelves are empty! They were full of cloth this morning!"

Meg gasped, acknowledging her friend's discovery. "Heavens, so they are!"

"It's the Phantom!" squealed Jammes, causing Erik to roll his eyes at them. "Quick! We need to find Sorelli!"

"What's she going to do about it?" Meg asked.

"Nothing, obviously, but we have to tell someone!"

Erik chuckled as he listened to them scurry out, looking down at the items he had collected. "Mon Dieu…that was close."

~OG~

Angelique's eyelids fluttered open slowly, reluctant to obey her brain's command. Groaning, she raised her hand to her face and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes.

Since running away from Erik, she had locked herself in her room and cried herself to sleep, waking nearly an hour later to Christine knocking on her door. The two were alone and remained together in Angelique's room, speaking softly for fear that the Opera Ghost might pop in when they least expected.

"What happened earlier? I heard you both raising your voices and then you were crying and slammed the door," Christine asked, perplexed by all the drama she had missed.

"Oh, our tempers got the better of us and I got frustrated," she said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Her heart still stung from the insults he had tossed at her, and she knew that when he came back, he might not be so kind or merciful to her confrontations against him.

The girls shared a quiet lunch before splitting off once more. Christine locked herself in the bathroom while Angelique locked her door and pulled out a single item from her basket that Erik had left in her room. Her fingers traced the curves of the frame while she stared at the portrait within, her eyes watering unconsciously as she remembered her past. Curling up on her bed, clutching the photo to her breast, she wept once more, tired of running and putting up walls, drifting back into sleep.

Now, as she awoke once more, she sighed and forced herself to sit up, wondering just what time it was. Picking up the photo, she slipped it back into her basket and entered her bathroom, washing her face and unbraiding her messy hair. Looking at her reflection, she bit her lip and inhaled deeply. "There's no point in hiding…that's why I came here, isn't it? So I wouldn't have to cower anymore. I won't let him frighten me, and I can't let his words get to me…no matter how painful." Stepping away from the small mirror, she forced herself to walk out into the hall, glancing over at Christine's door as she passed. "She's asleep," she thought, continuing on her way towards the Louis-Philippe room, when she heard movement taking place. Her brows furrowed in confusion at this. "Odd…" "Christine?" she called out. "Is that you-?"

The elegant room appeared to have been taken over by a tailor, with mannequins and costumes, a set of boxes and bags set by one chair, as a masked man set a bolt of cloths down by the fireplace. Her eyes widened at this, her jaw nearly dropping as she raised her hand to her lips. "What-?!"

"Ah, you're awake," he noted, brushing a speck of dust from his shoulder before turning to face her, taking his fedora off upon seeing her. "Erik has been quite busy since this morning."

"…what time is it?" she asked, still stunned from the sight.

"Suppertime. Nearly seven, last Erik checked," he informed her, clasping his hands behind his back as he took a few steps towards her. He paused, waiting for her to say something, anything at all, but there was nothing. She could only stand and stare at all the items, unable to believe that he had brought it all down to his house. "…Erik thought that, perhaps, you might like something to do…the designs and catalog are here, and these are the costumes that you already have materials for," he explained awkwardly, motioning towards the mannequins and related items. "Erik has also give you some ideas for other designs, should you be interested."

Still she gawked, her eyes falling upon the boxes.

"Ah, those are yours, also. Erik had Madame Giry run into town to make some purchases."

"Purchases?" she echoed, raising an eyebrow at him.

"You do not have your own clothes," Erik clarified, pointing at the little hill of items he had bought for her. "Erik thought you might like to have your own things…Giry got them this afternoon, and Erik…he thought that…perhaps-"

"Why?"

The word struck him suddenly, his eyes suddenly locked with hers, as if there was a magnetic force that made them connect at once. His heart began to thump violently within him, making him wonder whether or not he was ill.

"Why did you do this? I thought you hated me," she said, her eyes and voice tinted with the hurt that he had seen this morning.

"Hate you?" he asked, his voice lowering to a soft whisper. "…Erik thought you hated him."

She gazed at him, making him want to squirm. Slowly, she moved her eyes from him to the boxes of clothes, the costumes, the materials, and finally back to him. "…are you trying to apologize?"

He stiffened, straightening a bit and crossing his arms over his chest, clearing his throat as he stammered, "E-Erik does not like to be proven wrong…however, he is…very sorry for what he said." His eyes darted back to her as he added, "He saw your step-family today at the opera." He watched as she now stiffened, her eyes unwittingly flashing with fear as her face paled. His stomach churned at the memory of the horrid family making promises to ruin her life for all time, compelling him to walk towards her and reach for her shoulder. Realizing what he was doing, he stopped, pulling his hand away before he worsened the situation. "Madame Giry and Monsieur Moncharmin sent them away…they do not know you are here…the family, that is. Erik has left a letter with the managers stating that you and Miss Daae will be away for a time, but shall return as soon as possible. He also made sure that those cretins would not return to search for you here."

There were tears in her eyes once more as he spoke, and he feared that perhaps he had gone too far, until he heard her whisper, "…thank you."

He blinked, startled by the simple words. He remained still as a statue as she reached and cautiously wrapped her fingers around his right hand, a strangled gasp escaping him.

"You didn't have to do all of this…you have no idea how much this means to me, monsieur-" she confessed.

"Erik," he breathed. "My name is Erik, not 'monsieur'." He grimaced at once, wanting to smack himself for his stupidity. Why did he insist on her saying his name?!

"Erik," she whispered, making his heart leap into his throat as he listened to her utter his name and gently bring his hand to her lips. "Thank you…Erik."

The moment her lips were pressed onto his yellow, bony, cold hand, he trembled and released a soft cry, falling to his knees and clutching the skirts of her dress, weeping into them.

"Erik?!" she gasped, frightened by his reaction. "Have I done something wrong-?!"

"No woman has ever kissed Erik, forced or willingly," he cried, still covering his masked face with her skirt. "Not on his face, not even his hands! Oh, Angelique…!"

Her eyes leaked tears, a sad smile growing on her lips as she reached down and run her fingers through his hair, her free hand placed on his neck. "Poor Erik," she said gently, letting him sob into her dress. "Poor, dear Erik…"