Thanks for reading!

Chapter 6

The Opera Ghost stared at the young woman as if, having finally arrived at the house by the lake, he wasn't sure what to do next. A part of him noticed that there was a bit of cobweb clinging to her dark skirt.

Hero watched him patiently, an unreadable expression on her face. He seemed to be having some sort of inner debate. She continued watched as he reaching a conclusion, and moved briskly past her.

The Opera Ghost picked up a candle from the nearest candelabra. "Follow me," he ordered, and Hero once again marvelled at his beautiful, compelling voice. It made her move to follow him before she gave the matter any thought, and this made her frown slightly at his back. He did not look behind him to see if she was following.

Erik led her through the door straight across from where they had been standing, which seemed to come out onto a pokey passage, also hung with tapestries, though the floor was bare, and made of stone. Hero supposed it was a cold passageway even in the summer. There were more closed doors coming off the narrow passage, and Erik selected the one at the very end. The room turned out to be a kitchen. It was dark, and even pokier than the tunnel outside, though Hero thought it could be made comfortable with a bit of effort. As it were, the room looked as if it saw very little use.

Erik placed the candle in a tarnished silver holder on a heavy wooden table, and motioned to one of the old-fashioned chairs.

"Sit," he ordered, in a tone that allowed for no argument, though Hero wondered why she should have argued at being offered a seat. She ought to have been feeling very tired, but the situation was much too interesting for that.

As she lowered herself into a high-back chair, which allowed for neither slouching nor leaning, she stared up at her host. He made no effort to produce any more candles, and the candle on the table cast flickering shadows all over the room and its only other occupant. Hero supposed he was doing his best to look intimidating, and waited for him to speak.

Erik's yellow eyes narrowed at her unconcerned expression. Hero guessed that a part of him was still expecting hysterics from her. The most he could expect, however, was a fair bit of grumpiness when her exhaustion caught up with her.

"Now, mademoiselle, you will tell me exactly how you found yourself to be wandering around my basement in the middle of the night." His voice was dangerously soft as he stood towering over her.

"I have told you that already: I was looking for you. It made sense to look in the basement. Though what you really want to know is how I made my way past all those traps in one piece. Well, I will tell you, monsieur, that I have some expertise in the matter of traps, and we shall leave it at that. If you find it any comfort at all, I did not precisely know where I was going, and some of mechanisms were quite difficult. You certainly made it an entertaining walk." She steadily met his hard eyes.

"Then I'm afraid your entertainment was about to be cut short, my dear. Very abruptly. There is a drop a little further north down the passage you were headed. It is sudden and impossible to spot until it is too late. It would have been a long and unpleasant fall." She could not see his face, though his tone suggested that he was smirking at her from behind his mask.

Hero remained unperturbed, except for a slight curling of her lips. "Ah, but it is entirely thanks to you, then, that I did not get that far. It seems, monsieur Erik, that I owe you my thanks. You have saved my life."

"Are you so certain of that, mademoiselle? Erik has saved your life, you say, but perhaps he meant only to introduce you to a worse fate." His voice was sinister, and the candlelight flickered fiercely over his mask.

"I am very certain, I assure you. I daresay if you wanted me dead, efficiency would have been the best solution for you. You could have let me continue. And I don't believe that you haven't a dozen traps even more gruesome where you might have left me, if you wished. You could have killed me a few times since then also, but you have been a perfect gentleman. No, Erik, you helped me, and so I thank you. I owe you a debt."

He seemed momentarily taken aback as though she had said something utterly preposterous. "A debt? And what could I possibly want from you, ballet rat or opera wench that you are. Erik desires nothing from you."

He had an odd manner of speaking, Hero thought. Perhaps it was meant to unnerve her, but she chose to ignore it. "Nonsense. And I am indebted to you whether you want me to be or not. It is a question of honour. Especially since it is my fault that your arm is still bleeding. I do apologise for that, again."

He snorted. "Honour? What a quaint notion, child. Your apologies are neither necessary nor wanted."

"None the less. Now, I beg that you let me do something about that arm," she said, pulling strips of bandage and a little glass bottle of green ointment out of her bag. "You will have to take off your coat."

The Phantom leapt back, scandalised. "I will do no such thing! Do not concern yourself with my arm, mademoiselle. It is nothing I cannot take care of myself."

Deciding that arguing was no use, Hero shrugged. "Suit yourself then." But she left the bandages and the bottle on the table.

"Then what are you exactly, since you claim not to be a dancer, though you share a dormitory with them. A singer perhaps? In the chorus?" His voice darkened, which piqued Hero's curiosity.

"No. My singing is not the least bit operatic. My former music master once pronounced it to be the most skilfully apathetic voice he had ever heard. I never had the slightest inclination or aptitude for studying music in any practical sense, though I have a reasonable enjoyment of hearing it played well and have a good memory for musical trivia. The latter, perhaps, ought to be charged to my mother's account. My sister is very musical, you see, so I find myself reading programmes a lot at operas and concerts. If you must know, I am assistant to the Costume Mistress at the Opera Garnier. It sounds grander than it is."

"Costume Mistress? Then you help make the costumes."

"No. I am also not much good with a needle and thread. I could never bring myself to put in the effort to improve. I make a dreadful mess of it when I try. My duties are mostly of the fetch and carry variety, with the odd bit of simple mending. Buttons and the like."

"Strange that you should seek employment in the field then. But you live with the dancers."

"The opera is not yet fully repaired, as I am sure you are aware. It is the only bit of room they had, and Madame Collot would not hear of me walking home at night, a lone young woman and a stranger to the city."

He thought she might have been mocking him.

"I am sure you would be very vulnerable," came the dry reply.

Hero surprised him by laughing.

"Not that I won much comfort by it. The junior dancers get the dampest rooms in the entire opera. But, at least, I am happy to say that that environment has proved itself to be very suitable for making friends."

"And it is on behalf of those friends you claim to have come here," he said with obvious disdain.

"In part, though I have also come to defend my right to a good night's sleep."

"Touching, my dear. Though I cannot imagine how you thought to convince me. You see, difficult thought it might be for you to imagine, I do not care a whit about the feelings of anyone at the opera. They deserve whatever vengeance I choose to carry out and much more besides," he said venomously.

"Maybe. But that doesn't mean you should keep carrying it out. Or perhaps you could opt for a bit of morning vengeance instead? After breakfast would suit me well enough. Though I must insist that you leave poor Sorelli out of it."

"Insist? What right have you to insist on anything?"

There was a hint of ice in her voice, though it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. "I can play at childish pranks as well as you can, Erik. Oh, but I am mistaken. Your particular pranks are ascribed to demonic powers. Forgive me. I quite forgot."

His angry eyes glared at her, and his ire began to rise again.

"You doubt my monstrosity, then? Or is it that you would mock me?"

"I confess myself guilty of both. Oh, you need not fly into such a huff! Do sit down, Erik. This is getting silly." She motioned at the only other chair at the table.

Erik had never experienced such a blasé reaction to his presence. He knew that even Nadir, who had known him for years ad who had seen him at his most vulnerable, still found him chilling at times. It would have been childish had he continued standing, after she had spoken in such a droll tone, and so Erik had no choice but to sit. His glare burned into her.

"Oh, don't be upset with me, monsieur, I beg. We've only just met, after all, and I am sure we will be fast friends before long. But you mustn't glare. I am sure you can be a terror when you wish to. You must admit, however, that your pranks thus far have been callous rather than evil, and I have no reason to suppose you a monster, no matter what stories I may have heard."

"You will. You are my prisoner now. Tell me, now that you have made your request and I have denied you, was it worth the price you will pay for violating my privacy?"

"Oh dear. I am to be distraught at that, then? But I am not through arguing my point – you really do need to find a better way to pass the time."

"Such as, girl? Perhaps I should join the local gentlemen's club? I understand they have a policy on masks."

"It's probably just as well. Dreadfully dull places, or so I'm given to understand. Full of the most inane idiots imaginable. I have never been myself, of course. Wouldn't be quite the thing, you know. For a lady."

Erik said nothing.

"We will just have to think of something else, won't we, to put a stop to this insanity you seem to be indulging in," Hero continued, as if she were discussing the weather.

He was up in a flash, his thin hands around her throat, his eye blazing into hers.

"Have no doubt, mademoiselle, that Erik is every bit insane, and that if you push him, he will not hesitate to snap your little neck. You will not meddle in his affairs."

Hero wondered if her neck was going to be bruised. She fought down an answering burst of anger at the whole ridiculous situation, and poised herself to act if he should try and carry out his threat. Her face, however, remained impassive as she stared steadily back. Something in her stare seemed to snap him back to sanity, however, and he let her go, stepping away abruptly as he did so and returning to his chair.

"You are English," he observed, as if nothing had happened. "though your French is good."

Hero inclined her head. "I had a tutor for many years as a child."

This surprised Erik: having grown up with tutors in music and languages seemed to suggest that the girl came from an affluent family. The wealthy middle class perhaps, or even the gentry, for the working classes did not have time or funds for such leisure. The daughters of such families, however, did not work in opera houses or sleep in dark, damp dormitories.

"Tell me, why did you seek work at the Opera? And why as a seamstress's assistant?"

"I needed to find work."

"They pay you a pittance." Erik had a very sound understanding of the Garnier's finances.

Hero smiled faintly again, and absently rubbed her throat, which Erik did his best to ignore. "They do, but money does not signify so very much."

"And you have no intention of saying anything further," he concluded when Hero allowed silence to resume.

"Quite right. After all, I have not asked why you are living in these caverns, either. You are a man of some education – that much is evident by your speech, your manner and your bookshelves. I noticed a book which appeared to have been written in Farsi. Therefore, I assume that you can at least read the language."

Erik laughed bitterly. "I did not live out my entire life in these God-forsaken caverns. I have travelled further than you could imagine, and I have seen things that would chill your blood, mademoiselle."

"Have you? How interesting. I wouldn't be so sure, however. I have seen the opera cast with their faces painted for the stage and yet I have had no recurring nightmares of the incident."

Erik chuckled darkly. "Yes, they are certainly determined to make the production as garish as they can."

"Not as garish as some of the productions at the Comique."

"Ah, but the manager there is even more tasteless than our Monsieur Richard."

"I understand you have written him to express this very sentiment. Though I think you are being unreasonably hard on poor Richard. He is only trying to draw in funds to repair the Opera. He means no harm."

"That is no excuse. And Moncharmin, who believes himself to understand music! When quite clearly, it is a thing he knows nothing of."

"You are a musician, then?"

"I am." The words were said with such gravity that Hero supposed Erik to have many particular, and not entirely generous, opinions regarding others in his field.

"I see. Well, Erik, since you have gone to all the trouble of kidnapping me, and since we are doing such a fine job of getting to know each other, I don't suppose you would be so good as to offer me tea?"

Erik was quite taken aback at her request. It was the thing to do, he knew, in social situations, but he doubted that this registered as a social situation. He was the abductor, after all, and the young woman was his abductee. He was also a murderer, a fact of which she was perfectly aware. He wondered how, being in possession of all that knowledge, she had the gall to ask him for tea.

"Oh, don't worry yourself," Hero huffed, when he took too long to oblige her, "I'll just do it myself, shall I?"

Rising from her chair, she ignored him, and proceeded to fill the cast-iron kettle from the little cold-water tap next to it. Shooting a pointedly disapproving glance at a near-by cobweb and the generous layer of dust, Hero used a long match to light the gas under the stove. She opened cabinets until she found two cups and a teapot, which she rinsed, wincing at the cold water, before looking for the tea. Erik did not offer to help. Stealing another glance at him, Hero confirmed her suspicion that he was probably as unfamiliar with his own kitchen as she was.

Hero sniffed suspiciously at the tea when she found it, half-expecting it to smell of damp, but it smelt alright, and seemed to be quite a pleasant blend. She wondered how Erik did his shopping. Silence reigned as Hero waited for the kettle to boil and dug around in search of sugar. When it gave a piercing whistle indicating that the water had boiled, Hero put out the gas, and grabbed a bit of her skirt on lieu of a towel, pouring the water into the teapot. She set the pot and two cups before Erik.

"Now, I know it is not at all the thing, but we shall have to be barbaric and have our tea in the kitchen," she said, seemingly unconcerned at his lack of reply.

After a while, she poured out the tea, stirring sugar into her own cup. She smiled encouragingly at Erik, who was staring silently at the cup. He was not used to being served tea by strange women in his own kitchen. As she gratefully drank the hot brew, she noticed that Erik had not touched his. She supposed that perhaps he did not wish to remove his mask. She wondered if there was any truth in the stories about his face, though she hardly supposed that it to be anything like the ballerinas had described it.

The steam rising from the cups and the light of a single candle created an odd intimacy between two strangers. Erik studied the young woman. Her face was pleasant enough, though plain, and her dark hair was unremarkable. She was not a beauty by any account, and yet her eyes were animated and mischievous, adding an unexpected charm to her appearance. She was very definitely not the golden-haired angel he had so often pictured pottering around his kitchen.

Something twisted in him at this thought, and suddenly he could not bear to look at her.

Rising abruptly to his feet, Erik strode out of the little room, his cloak swishing behind him. Hero looked up in surprise, before returning to her tea. Now that the excitement had subsided, she felt very sleepy. She hoped that he had gone to tend to his wound.

As she sat alone in the dark room, Hero let her mind drift to the Opera Ghost. He was a very singular man, and she could tell he was very unhappy. He certainly had a dreadful reputation. And yet apart from a few moments of rage he had not been cruel or attempted to hurt her. If he had been telling the truth about the drop in the tunnel floor, then he had also saved her life. She suspected there was much more to his story than was told in the ballet dormitories, which certainly made him a figure of some interest.

And yet, it wasn't like her to wish to actively go out of her way to meddle in the life of a stranger. She kept returning to the fact that he had saved her, and that she owed him for that. He was also correct in accusing her of having intruded upon his domain, though she felt quite justified in doing so. Hero suspected that he somehow believed himself worse than he really was, and she found herself wanting to help him, even if just by offering her friendship.

Perhaps her exhaustion was to blame, but before long Hero had quite made up her mind about things.

As her sleepy mind drifted further, she wondered what time it was, and wished that she had thought of taking along her pocket watch. She was sure she had seen a clock on the mantle of the fireplace in Erik's sitting room. She thought of England, and what her family and friends had been doing in her absence. Her mother would be up in London, perhaps subjecting her sister to dress fittings and milliners. Her father would have remained at home, most likely reading in his study. Her friends could be just about anywhere. She was quite content at the Opera for the present, and would be for a while yet, perhaps, but eventually she knew she would grow tired of it, and would long for her old life and for the adventure it promised.

Finishing her tea, Hero placed it in the basin, before picking up the candle and making her way back to the sitting room. She could hear the sound of a piano being played fortissimo somewhere nearby, but she did not recognise the piece. The music sounded angry and was played with an astounding virtuosity.

In the music room, Erik was lost in his own racing thoughts, as he worked away on a nocturne, a piece of his own composition. He should not have let his thoughts stray back to Christine, but they had and it was too late. He had tried to keep her from his mind, but she was like a wound that had never quite healed. The painful throb in his injured arm matched his inner turmoil in a way he found oddly satisfying. The presence of another woman in his home, so decidedly not Christine had forced him to make comparisons, however superfluous. The last shreds of sanity were quickly spiralling under control as the piano bent to his will. Again, he cursed himself for having brought the girl with him. What could have possessed him to do such an idiotic thing?

Hero had taken one look at the clock ticking carelessly away on Erik's mantelpiece, and felt a sense of sinking dread. It was four in the morning. She had very little time to get back up to the Opera and steal a few hours of sleep before the others started waking. She contemplated her options. She could wait for Erik to finish with his piano before interrupting, but if she was any judge, he looked set to bang away at it for hours yet, and she did not have hours to spare.

She supposed he probably would be none too pleased to be interrupted, but decided that he would simply have to get over his ire.

"Erik!" she called, before setting out to look for him because she didn't think he would be able to hear her over the piano. He did, however, and the music came to an abrupt halt, though it seemed to ring through the little house for a few seconds yet, and Hero marvelled at the acoustics of the place.

She heard a door opening somewhere, and then another. The Opera Ghost was framed in the doorway to the right of the one that led to the kitchen. He had changed his shirt and, presumably, he had also taken the time to bind the cut on his arm. His body language seemed to suggest a great deal of irritation. His shoulders were rigidly tense.

"There you are. How is it that you heard me? I didn't think you would have, with the music."

"Mademoiselle, I do not appreciate interruptions when I am occupied by my music. What is it?" His beautiful voice was terse.

"My apologies, I'm sure," she replied in a well-bred tone that seemed to irritate him further. "Only, I just noticed that it is already four in the morning, and I must be up at eight."

"And what is it that you would like me to do about that? I have no mastery over the passage of time, no matter what the fools above might say." His tone was tart, and Hero's answering smile was just as biting.

"Well, sorry as I am to learn that, since we have now established what you cannot do, then perhaps we could move on to what you can? It is time that I was getting back to the dormitory."

"I have told you already, you cannot go back. Sleep on the sofa, if you wish." With a careless wave at the furniture in question, he half-turned to go back to his music room. Already, he could feel the melody slipping away from him, soon to be lost forever.

"As kind as your offer is, I don't think so." Her dark hair had got tangled and was half-falling in her eyes. She brushed it away impatiently before continuing. "I have a very few hours to get any rest at all, and I will already be no good to anyone tomorrow. As much as I have enjoyed this adventure, it is time that I went back. Trust me, monsieur, it is for the best. I get very unpleasant on little sleep. If you do not take me back, then I shall go myself, but I mean to go back before much more time has passed." Her black dress swirling around her, she made to head towards the hidden door that led out into the tunnels.

"You will do no such thing!" he barked, crossing the room and stopping just short of touching her. Hero stopped and half-turned, looking over her shoulder at him and raising her eyebrow.

"I assure you that I will. I daresay it might take a bit of time, but I have an astounding sense of direction, and I will eventually find my way. There can be no keeping me here, you know, not really. Now, be a dear and show me out. They will presume you took me, if I suddenly disappear. They presume you take powder puffs and spare wigs and matching socks. They are bound to blame you for this. It wouldn't do to have a mob down here. Especially with the Opera not even rebuilt yet! Think of poor M. Richard – I don't think his frazzled nerves could take it."

Before Erik could voice his opinion on M. Richard and his nerves, Hero sighed tiredly.

"I still owe you for saving my life, Erik. I will return."

Erik knew he could not trust her to return. If she should speak even a word to anyone, if she should reveal one of his secrets, to which she had been witness in his domain, then the results could be disastrous. But she was correct – her absence would be noted. And there was no conceivable use in keeping her.

"Very well," he conceded, "I will return you to the Opera, where you will be able to go back to whatever futile existence you wish. However, should you whisper so much as a word to anyone of what you have seen this night, the consequences will be dire. I am the Opera Ghost, mademoiselle, and not a whisper escapes me within the walls of the Garnier."

"Then you must suffer from frightful headaches, Erik," Hero riposted wryly, "but you waste your breath on threats. I will keep your secret and speak not a word. I will return later tonight, as I have already promised, though after four hours of sleep, you might find yourself wishing that I had not."

Erik motioned towards the door, inclining his head in mock courtesy. The walk was conducted in silence as Hero tried to memorise the route. At last, they emerged in one of the plush corridors in the lower parts of the Opera, near to the chorus's dressing rooms.

Hero turned to smile at her strange new acquaintance. "Thank you," she said softly, "and goodnight. And Erik, do at least try to be a little kinder to the prima ballerina. She's recently lost the love of her life, you know." She walked away humming a bar of his nocturne. He watched her retreating back in astonishment.

She's recently lost the love of her life, you know.