A/N: This one is a bit longer than usual. Thanks for reading and for the lovely reviews! Enjoy the chapter!
Chapter 7:
Lady Dalrymple had always told her daughters that nothing was so vital after a late night at a ball or a rout party as sleeping in the following morning. This allowed one to regain both one's colour and liveliness. There were few things worse in a young lady than to appear overtired and sallow and proceed to spend the day moping about the family parlour.
The lady would have been struck speechless were she to know that Hero, having spent most of the night at the subterranean abode of a gentleman who might possibly be a little mad, completely unchaperoned, had then proceeded to appear in public looking very far from suitably refreshed.
Had it been up to Hero, she would have been perfectly content to remain abed several hours longer. That choice was taken away from her by an indignant yell.
Germaine had been trying to retrieve her stockings from the chair where she had left them the previous night when she had tripped over the boots Jammes had left in the middle of the room. The yelp was followed by some bickering, by which point Hero had decided that even without Erik having his bit of fun scaring the dancers, she was not going to get more than a minute's uninterrupted sleep in the dormitory.
Then she remembered Madame Collot and the fact that she had a job to get to that morning.
With a resigned sigh, she climbed out from under the warm covers and proceeded to get dressed as quickly as possible in the chilly room. Jammes was shouting something about her best boots being squashed and Germaine was shouting about her ankles. It was lucky that the lighting was poor and the others were sleepily watching the argument unfold, because upon glancing over at the mirror Hero discovered faint bruising at her throat, left by Erik's lasso. It would only darken and get worse as the day progressed, she thought irritably. She had then quickly buttoned up the high collar of her blue day dress, before anyone else noticed the discolouration.
Hero used powder and rouge to disguise the circles under her eyes and the wan-ness of her cheeks. Putting her hair up with a few expert stabs of her silver pins, she joined the others over breakfast in the opera refectory, where many of the busy employees chose to take their morning meal. Hero had never been one to shirk breakfast, even though the refectory food left much to be desired.
The first half of her morning was spent tracking down plumes for a tenor's hat, which had mysteriously gone missing, and sewing buttons on endless frock coats. She did not think it had been worth getting up for. It was very dull work and things did not pick up until after two in the afternoon, when Hero was at last permitted to break for lunch and to fetch some boxes for the costume mistress. Privately, Hero hoped never to set eyes on another brown frock coat again.
OOO
It was a surprisingly warm day as Hero walked carefully back in the direction of the Academie Nationale de Musique. The snow that had fallen prettily just before lunch had yet to melt into a grey slush, and instead served to make the city look somewhat like an illustration in a children's book. She wore her warmest cloak and was careful to avoid stepping on any ice that had not been melted by the salt sprinkled in the streets that morning. Whatever was in the boxes, she did not want to accidentally drop it. She considered hiring a hansom, then thought better of it – the crisp air had done a good job of keeping her awake and she was enjoying the walk.
Paying little attention to people passing her in the street, she walked right by a familiar face. The tall gentleman, however, had no trouble recognising her, despite the fact that she wore a large bonnet and a wide scarf.
"Hero? I say, is that you?"
Startled at the familiar voice calling out in English, Hero turned around, almost toppling the stack of boxes as she did so. A helpful pair of hands reached out and steadied them. Hero's eyes met the mischievous ones of Andrew Darnell, who was the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac, and who had been a dear friend since they had been children together. He seemed to have just come out of the coffee shop behind him, and was in the process of adjusting his fashionable greatcoat.
"Ah, I knew it was you. Dear Hero. I would embrace you, but I daresay you would lose those boxes of yours for certain then, and we would scandalise the public."
She chuckled, very pleased to see him. "I daresay. How good to run into you here, Andrew! Do you know, I find that I have missed you. What brings you to Paris?
"Why, it's a leisure visit, of course, my dear. What else would one come to Paris for?" He laughed inanely, projecting the image of the consummate dandy. Hero was not fooled. "I would ask why you are here, but that seems self-evident. Shopping again, Hero? You must be quite determined to ruin your father."
She smiled at him fondly. "Nonsense. My father could stand quite a few more of these. But as it happens I am not shopping for myself."
Andrew eyed the packages. "Really? How curious. You must tell me all about it, of course, but first let us get out of this damnable cold or get moving, at least." He took most of Hero's boxes, which she was quite happy to hand over, and they proceeded in the direction she had been taking.
"You know," the baron began idly as they proceeded down the street, "I have heard the most entertaining stories of your whereabouts from our mutual friends recently, Miss Winterwood. Treasure, if you'll believe it, and something about a non-existent secret society objecting to having said treasure spirited from right under their noses."
They laughed together, their laughter carrying down the street and drawing disapproving glances from two elderly ladies who had stopped to exchange greetings outside a haberdasher's.
"Oh really, Andrew, how fanciful. Treasure? Why, I've been right here all along, in Paris, busy about my usual business."
"Ah, but didn't I tell you that you would laugh? No? Well, I certainly meant for you to be amused."
"I am surprised you chose Paris, though. You always swore that you couldn't abide French cooking."
"And so I can't but, you know, apart from the food, Paris is quite a marvellous place."
"Yes, of course. Another Grand Tour – your mother must have got the vapours when she heard. She's been waiting for you to tire of all the travelling. I understand she is getting quite impatient. She told my mother so in the greatest confidence."
"Fine lady, the Lady Dalrymple, I've always said so. I am sure she shares my mother's sentiments."
"She does. I, of course, could never take the Grand Tour. One would have to be a gentleman to do that. But I think a tour of the more respectable parts of Europe with my Aunt Clara vexes mother just the same."
He looked pointedly about for the absent aunt. "Your Aunt Clara found reason not to come, I take it?"
"She cannot abide travelling, at her age, and she likes museums even less. So here I am."
"And what are you doing here exactly? Where are we going?"
They rounded a corner and came into sight of the opera, surrounded by people, horses and carriages. Hero motioned at the magnificent building.
"The Garnier. It's in a bit of disrepair, and very chaotic just at present, but I believe it will soon return to its former splendour. I've taken a position there as assistant to the costume mistress, and she has sent me to fetch these boxes."
"Yes, I can see there is quite a crowd milling about the place. How dreadful – I can't abide that much milling. You must simply get lost in the throng. Your mother would be beside herself."
"How true. It can be a dreadful bore, mind you – why, just this morning I did almost nothing but sew on buttons."
"A bore, certainly. That is my opinion of all steady employment, my dear. It is obligatory to my station as a man of fashion and leisure. Very clever place to hide, however. I am impressed."
Hero did not deny the insinuation.
"I rather think so too. And now you have to tell me what it is that you are smuggling here in Paris – indulge my curiosity." Her voice had dropped and she grinned at him conspiratorially. Lifting her skirts with one hand as they crossed the dual carriageway, Hero carefully avoided the sludge on the road and the passing carriages and horses.
"Smuggling? Must you be so gauche? I prefer to think of it as the grey area in imports and exports."
"As you put it, then."
"Actually I am here with a mind to visiting old friends. You remember the good Comte de Chance, don't you?"
She did.
"Well, it seems he has managed to annoy his rather powerful relations. It's a wonder how he did it – they live all the way in Lisbon, you know. Besides, I struggle to imagine how anyone could dislike the fellow, but there you have it." His mouth curled into an ironic little smile. "It seems the comte has come into possession of a very special signet ring – key to his grandfather's fortune, which ought to have passed to his cousin by rights of succession. His cousin, I am given to understand, has not been in the best of health and is quite anxious that should he succumb to his malady, his daughter will not be left penniless. He has commissioned my aid to make certain that that does not happen. I am to retrieve the ring, and deliver it to the pretty Juana da Costa."
"How chivalrous," Hero commented dryly. "I daresay she offered a handsome reward."
"I'm greatly offended that you would assume I need the promise of reward to help a lady," Andrew sniffed indignantly, the overall effect ruined by an amused glint in his eyes. "But, yes, if you must know, the pay is just handsome enough to tempt – one needs to keep one's own estate afloat, after all. And I am somewhat in dun territory."
"Not to mention the unthinkable expense of maintaining your meticulous wardrobe – why, I would guess that just the silk handkerchiefs alone set you back over five hundred a year, with the way you're always losing them. I would imagine that if not for such happy accidents as this unfortunate lady's ring, you would never be out of dun territory. You might wish to reconsider the Spanish lace edging."
"Nonsense! What has a gentleman to go by, if not his appearance?"
"You're right, of course – it is much more difficult to have a boxful of common sense delivered to your home in Town." While Andrew pretended to be offended by the rejoinder, Hero went on speaking. "Well! And how do you expect to retrieve the trinket?"
"Why, what a silly question, my dear – it is the usual sort of thing, isn't it? The rest of the fellows have already arrived to help, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Flynn will be happy to hear that you are about."
Charles Flynn, who never missed an opportunity to remind Hero of his devotion, had already offered for her on several occasions, only to be met with an amused refusal each time.
"One of these days father will overhear him and take him at his word, and then it'll take all Flynn's wits to escape my mother. Or perhaps I shall accept, merely for the pleasure of seeing the horror on his face. But you have not finished explaining your plans. How will you get close enough to the ring to steal it? The comte has taken certain precautions, I imagine, especially given the outcome of our last encounter."
"Why, is that caution I hear, Miss Winterwood? Shame on you – when uncertainty is what makes the whole exercise such a fine diversion.'
"True. I suppose next I am to hear your bid to get me involved. But you need not exert yourself – I shall help."
"Are you certain, my dear? It seems to me you would do well to keep your head down for a while."
Perceiving the twinkle in his eyes, Hero gave Andrew a long, earnest look. "I daresay I'll manage just fine, my lord. You know, I don't expect that I shall linger very long over my career at the Opera. 'Wardrobe Mistress's Assistant' is not a position to bring much in the way of excitement."
"I am glad to hear it. It's really not the sort of thing at all, for the daughter of Lord Dalrymple. What would they say in London?"
"You're teasing me."
"Ah, guilty. Well, Miss Winterwood, now that I have told you the whole and made a clean breast of it, perhaps you will oblige me by doing the same? What exactly did you steal?"
"Hah! I doubt you have ever in your life told the whole, my dear Andrew. But I shall oblige. It's really nothing too spectacular – a pendant that apparently contains some sort of powder to restore youth and grant longevity. It's said to have miraculous healing properties. I couldn't even find where it opens, so I highly doubt there is any truth in it at all."
"Some sort of Methuselah Stone? Well, that'll be a story worth telling – and a treasure worth finding, of course, provided that it's at all true. And it certainly seems to be worth something to your persistent new friends."
"Yes. That is why I have hidden it. I shall wait for them to lose the scent, and then dispose of it, privately and quietly. I am sure there are collectors who would have it, even if it's just a bauble. It's quite a pretty thing." They stopped outside the Opera.
"I don't suppose you would share the bauble's location?"
"Not just yet. Better that I alone should know where it is, if worse comes to worst."
"Why, my dear, do be careful. You are bordering on morbidity, and that is not to be borne."
"Ah, forgive me. But now we are here and I must bid you adieu and be on my way. The costume mistress will flay me alive if her boxes are late." She relieved him of her boxes.
"Are you certain you do not wish me to carry them the rest of the way?"
"Thank you, but I shall manage quite well."
"Very well," he said, walking her to the door and holding it open for her. "In that case, I will say goodbye for now. However, I insist on taking you to lunch tomorrow. Everyone will be delighted to see you, and we can talk further then." With a quick bow to Hero, Andrew withdrew.
"Hero?" Meg and Susanne had been in the foyer, curiously watching Andrew take his leave, and they wasted no time in coming over to Hero. "Who was that dashing gentleman? An admirer perhaps? He was speaking English."
"Andrew is the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac, actually, though he is English and an old friend of mine."
"How fortunate you are in your friends! Handsome and titled!"
"And you are very welcome to him, I'm sure, my dears, because he is certainly not my suitor," Hero teased, before making her excuses and hurrying off to find Madame Collot.
OOO
As luck would have it, Madame Collot had no further use for Hero and she was let off early enough that she managed to steal some sleep in the dormitories before making her way back down to the fifth basement as she had promised. She was not in a stormy mood at all, though she had threatened the Opera Ghost that she would be..
Most of the opera house employees were still busy with Rigoletto and Hero knew she would not be missed. She had decided to miss dinner with the rats that night, so that she might be back earlier. Retrieving her little bag from her chest, she one again wrapped herself in her warm shawl and hurried to the corridor where Erik had left her the previous night.
OOO
She had no trouble finding the right passage, though she had to approximate the place where Erik's hidden panel blended with the worn wall paper. He had somehow reinforced the door, because when she had knocked along the wall in search of a hollow echo, there was none to be heard. She spent a long time minutely looking over every inch of the wall, wondering if she was even in the right place before she found it again, by a slight discoloration at the opening.
Once Hero had located the door, she began searching for a mechanism with which to open it, hoping that it did not only open one way. She found it at last by applying slight pressure to a flower pattern near the top of where she believed the opening to be. She felt something click quietly on the other side. The door opened with another push, swinging quietly inward on hinges that had been recently oiled.
Stepping into the maze, she scented a slight dampness in the air. Hero took a moment to light the candle she had stored in her bag the previous night, and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark before proceeding. Ignoring a persistent sense of déjà vu, she stepped lightly and carefully as she walked, in case she happened across anymore traps. A few times she had to double back, when she found that she had taken a turn down a passage she did not recognise. A rat crossed her path once, scurrying past her in the dark, and eventually, by a process of trial and error, she had found her way down to the underground lake. Hero was fairly confident that she had done so without accidentally setting off anymore of Erik's hidden alarms.
The lake was silent and dark before her, just as it had been the previous night. She wandered along the edge of the water a moment, taking in her surroundings for future reference. She wondered if there was a way out onto the street from the cavern, just as there was the shaft of light above the lake. She spotted a boat on her side of the lake, low in the water and hidden by a protrusion of rock, and a pair of oars lay in the wooden craft. Upon closer inspection, there did not seem to be any water inside the boat, which meant that it had no serious leaks.
She contemplated rowing across the still lake as she inspected the boat, wondering how steady it actually was. There was a light mist rising off the surface on the other side, suggesting the presence of a warm spring. She supposed she could simply take the tunnel Erik had taken the previous night, but it would be a while before she could locate the opening mechanism and rowing seemed a lot simpler.
Her mind made up, Hero clambered awkwardly into the boat, which rocked beneath her. Holding onto the rock outcropping, she carefully sat down in the stern. Carefully setting the oars in the rings either side of the boat, Hero almost dropped one into the water. She untied the rope that held the boat secured to an iron ring set in the stone and pushed herself away from the bank.
Hero's rowing was clumsy at first, as she got used to manoeuvring the craft across the glassy water while her loosely-tied corset creaked in protest. It felt somewhat eerie to be out on the lake, alone in the dark empty cavern, with her candle sniffed out and the only sound coming from the oars, which creaked, much louder than the muffled corset, and dripped water, disturbing the silence of the chamber. She felt like an intruder: as if she were not alone on the dark water. She had a vague sense that she was somehow disturbing some unseen presence just by being there.
The underground lake stretched out of the cavern and into another one, though Hero had no particular desire to find out where it led – her arms were already starting to complain. She was grateful to finally land near the wooden dock in the other side of the lake. It took a lot more fiddling to get the boat close enough to be able to secure it. Pulling the oars on the dock and tying the rope on another metal ring, she climbed onto the wooden structure, straightening her crumpled skirts as best she could and stretching her arms in an effort to relieve her aching muscles. She still had the unsettling feeling of being watched and stared steadily out over the water. She could spot nothing, and the mist continued to swirl. This annoyed her because she did not like the idea of being vulnerable to some unseen observer.
"I would not stand so long watching the water, mademoiselle." Erik had come up behind her, startling her and she spun around to face him, wide-eyed. Her legs somehow tangled in her long skirts and she almost lost her balance, toppling into the lake. Erik's arm instinctively shot out around her waist, steadying her. Hero inhaled sharply at the unexpected contact and Erik hastily withdrew his arm.
"Thank you." She smiled at him. "I wouldn't have liked to fall into the water."
He inclined his head politely, eyes flinty as he watched her.
"Why am I not to watch the lake?" she asked at last, to break the strange silence.
"There is a danger in the water: a siren. A darkness that will lure you in if you watch it too long and never let you go. It cannot resist the temptation."
Cocking her head to the side as she contemplated the unexpected reply, Hero wondered if he spoke in riddles. "Can't it? Well, Erik, I daresay I will have to take my chances with this siren of yours. But you will have to do better than ghost stories and fairy tales to keep me away, monsieur, for you see I am very fond of those."
"I will keep that in mind, mademoiselle," he replied, and she almost thought she heard a smile in his voice. "But in the meantime, perhaps we had best go in the house? You can tell me what you are doing here."
She nodded, and followed the tall man into his home. He was dressed all in black again, except for an elegantly-tied white cravat at his throat and a handsome waistcoat, embroidered in gold thread over black satin.
"I am surprised that you should ask me that, monsieur. I promised that I would return."
"I do not set much store by promises, mademoiselle."
"No? I am sorry to hear that, for I am always careful to keep my word. Perhaps, I may yet change your mind."
He laughed bitterly. "I have had a lifetime to learn otherwise, mademoiselle. You had best not trouble yourself. I would much rather hear how it is that you have managed to find your way back here and row across the lake."
"I believe that I have warned you of my keen sense of direction. I relied on that, as I often do. It was a process of trial and error. Though I confess I had some trouble discovering the door to the tunnels: the one behind that ghastly floral wallpaper. It does not echo when one knocks! Of course, that seems obvious in retrospect, but it's not what one expects when looking for hidden doors. You were very clever to think of it."
"It is a necessary precaution to take in my position, nothing else."
"Well, as to the rowing, it did take some time to accustom myself to the oars. I am not dressed for rowing, you know. But it was the quickest way across and so that it the way I chose. I am hardly a helpless swooning female, monsieur, and it was just a boat."
Erik motioned her to the sofa, and Hero took a seat in one of the chairs by the fireplace, though the fire remained unlit. Erik took the other chair, steepling his gloved fingers as he regarded his guest.
"I may not keep up with current fashions, mademoiselle, but I understand it is not the usual practise with ladies, to be accustomed to rowing boats."
"Perhaps not – I do enjoy the odd bit of contrariness, Erik. You must allow me that. I am, perhaps, not the usual sort of lady."
"No. That much has become abundantly clear, though I have yet to decide what sort of lady you are, mademoiselle."
"'Hero', if you please. If we are to become friends, then we cannot stand on ceremony. And I am determined that friends we shall be. I will save you the trouble, however, and tell you that my interests lie in a direction that is not very appropriate for ladies of repute. I have an interest, you see, in treasure and artefacts, and the retrieval of such. I cannot quite help myself. I am afraid I rather thrive on such thrills."
Erik mulled over her words a moment before nodding. "I am not entirely sure I believe you, though your explanation would illuminate the extraordinary luck you had with my traps last night. It is, however, the sort of pursuit frowned-upon by our pejorative society, and you do not appear in any particular disgrace."
Hero laughed. "I am not in any particular disgrace. None would frown more than my mother, I assure you, and so I do not make a practice of mentioning such things in society. As far as my family is concerned, I am seeing Europe with an elderly great aunt. A sweet woman, but one not given to much letter writing. It is half-true. I am, indeed, seeing Europe. My eccentric Aunt Clara, however, remains in Ireland."
"How convenient for you that she does. But I am hardly one to judge transgression. You have yet to tell me, however, why you really came back. What have you to gain?"
"I came back to keep you company. After all, you did save me, and I imagine that you do not see very many visitors, living in the fifth cellar of the National Opera. And since I owe you a debt of honour now, I saw no reason why I could not call on you at home. It is the sort of practice common among friends."
Erik was startled and suspicious, which in turn sparked anger within him. He did not like being mocked or toyed with, and he did not understand the world of accepted social interactions well enough to recognise whether the girl was being genuine. He had a notion that she was being somewhat improper in her visit. He did firmly understand, however, that young women did not volunteer to spend time with deformed recluses in theatre basements. And they most certainly did not offer friendship to Opera Ghosts.
Watching him carefully, Hero regretted being unable to see his face. Nonetheless, she felt him almost-visibly draw back, though he did not move an inch.
When he spoke his voice was terrible, the sort of voice she imagined death would have. "Enough! I will not permit you to play games with me, mademoiselle! I am neither a fool nor naïve! Friendship! As if you would offer friendship to a madman and a murderer! And Erik is a murderer, many times over, mademoiselle, he has told so you before. You wish something of Erik, and he will discover what it is, but you will not mock him, or you will be very sorry."
Hero waited until she was sure that he had calmed enough to listen. She wondered at the sort of life he must have led to have taught him such dreadful distrust. "And I have told you before that I am not playing any games. I need nothing from you, as you will soon discover. But I will not have you shout at me whenever I say something not to your taste. You will find, I think, that I have very little patience for shouting. I mean to be your friend, monsieur, whether you believe me or not." She bristled as she spoke, and rose abruptly from the armchair, irritably straightening the skirt of her dress.
She shot a dark look at the Opera Ghost before turning her attention to the cold fireplace. "Now, the least you could do, monsieur, is play host."
"I did not ask for any guests."
This earned him another dark look, before she turned to kneel at the cold fireplace, the skirt of her dress spreading over the carpet. Taking her little bag from across her shoulder, she dug in it, until she found what she sought, while the Ghost watched her without comment. Pulling out a box of matches, she struck one with nimble fingers and carefully lit a bit of torn newspaper in the grate. It had a picture on it of a handsome blond couple standing next to a train carriage. It was quick to catch aflame, and she shifted it with a poker until the logs began to catch fire as well.
Then, Hero turned to face the Phantom again, who had not moved from his armchair.
"Well, if you refuse to be polite, then I must look to my own comfort. It is cold as a tomb in here. It cannot be healthy and I will not have you catch your death just because you do not wish to accommodate your guests."
"You cross a line, mademoiselle. You have no right to meddle in my home, or light fireplaces that do not want lighting."
"I have a strong dislike of the cold, Erik, and if I must play at being Prometheus, then I shall. Now, I have also skipped supper to be here, and since you will not be a gentleman and offer me any repast, if indeed you have any to offer, then I must take care of that myself also."
Erik could not believe her impertinence as she swept out of the room and headed for the kitchen, grabbing a candle on the way. He had no way of knowing that the sweeping had been carefully executed to be as vexing as possible. He was caught between following her and putting out the fire, which was unwelcome in his home. Fire was no use to the dead: it served only to remind them of what they no longer possessed.
At last, with a hiss of impatience, he followed her, wondering if he had grown so tired and weak at last that he could not even get rid of a tiresome young woman invading his privacy. He wondered if her bravery was in part nothing more than bravado, but something in the amused way she sometimes looked at him told him that this was not so. She seemed genuinely unafraid, and he wondered why.
She was pottering around his kitchen, having lit his stove also, and placed two candles on the table. It made the place seem almost comfortable. It had probably never seen so much activity, and he felt a stranger in his own kitchen.
Humming to herself, she disappeared into his pantry. He could hear her rummaging in his icebox, before she returned with some eggs, which he did not remember having but which the Persian must have dropped off when he came for his regular visit to irritate Erik and deliver foodstuffs. It was beyond Erik why he did that, since the food would mostly all go to waste.
She ignored him, and returned to the pantry. Erik followed, trying to determine what she was about, only to find her balanced precariously on one of the shelves, reaching for the last remaining onion, which sat just out of reach. He watched as she stretched, snagged the onion with her fingers, then squealed and lost her footing. He caught her before she could destroy half his pantry.
His thin arms were surprisingly strong and Hero's startled eyes met his as he securely lowered her to the ground. Hero noted absently that she could feel his touch on her bare wrist, even through his leather glove, and that it was unexpectedly cold. Something in his eyes arrested her and she did not immediately move back. Erik, too, noticed her continued proximity with pronounced disbelief.
"Your hands are cold," she whispered, a little breathlessly, for lack of anything else to say to fill the strange moment.
Her words seemed to break him out of his reverie. He drew back immediately.
"The touch of death," he said in a chilling voice. "What did you think you were doing, climbing my shelves?"
Frowning at his first statement, she did not immediately register the question. "I was reaching for the onion. Why would you keep onions on the top shelf? And I had a hold on it, when I felt something scuttle across my other knuckle. It was a silly thing to do, but I let go, and you caught me before I could really fall. Thank you for that. You keep catching me." She shot him a winning smile before handing him the onion, picking up a piece of cheese and leaving the store room.
"It was a spider, you know. I am very sure. Dreadful things! I simply can't abide them."
"Of course not. They are so dreadfully ugly to behold," he hissed, eyes flashing intensely. "Well, mademoiselle, it would surprise you to know that spiders are the least of the horrors that await down in my lair." The next moment he had left the room, his strides angry.
Hero looked at the empty doorway for a while, reviewing the conversation in her head, wondering what she had said to offed him. Absently, she cleaned the onion and began chopping it, ignoring her stinging eyes in favour of the puzzle. She chopped quickly and untidily, emptying the onions into a large bowl, where the added the eggs and cheese, whisking the lot with a fork she had found.
Erik was such a prickly man; she found she had a lot of trouble predicting his reaction one moment to the next. But she remembered what she had been told about the horrors that lay under his mask, and the pretty singer he had apparently loved. The singer he most likely still loved.
"Idiot!" she berated herself. Rinsing her hands, she quickly melted butter in a large pan, poured in the mixture and sprinkled some salt and pepper. In a matter of minutes, the omelette was ready. Dividing it in half, she picked up Erik's plate and followed the Opera Ghost out of the kitchen.
Erik was not difficult to locate. She followed the music, past the sitting room and through another door, which opened into yet another tapestried passage. Singling out the first door on the right, Hero opened it without knocking, and was astonished with the sight not only of a piano, a desk and stacks and stacks of parchment and music sheets, but a myriad other instruments placed around the room. Erik sat at the piano, his shoulders tense as he played a series of grim minor chords.
"Erik."
The music stopped.
"Mademoiselle. Again you encroach upon me. I believe I made it clear when I left your company that I wished solitude, and I will have solitude in my music room when I wish it." His voice sounded dangerous. Hero sighed.
"I believe I may have said something to offend you, Erik. I did not mean to imply that you were in any way repulsive to me, or compare you with the spider. Nothing could have been further from my mind and I am sorry that you took it that way. Now, I will leave you to your music, but I have made supper, a poor supper though it may be, and I have brought you some."
"I do not eat," he informed her imperiously, turning around to regard her stonily.
"Fiddle. Of course you do, though perhaps not as much as you should. Now, don't be childish."
"Childish? I beg to disagree, mademoiselle. To be childish is to deny what is right before your eyes. A corpse, a ghost, cannot eat. Cannot live."
"By nature of being dead. You are, perhaps, being a touch dramatic, but I agree with the logistics. How fortunate for us, then, that you are neither a corpse nor an apparition, Erik. If that is what you believe then it's no wonder the ballet corps are telling stories of walking skeletons! And if only you ate more, you might not have to worry over your touch being so cold. I won't have you starving yourself to death." Leaving the plate next to him, she exited the room, failing entirely to slam the door dramatically in her wake.
Outside, she froze silently, listening. There was the faintest metallic sound of a knife and fork. Smiling in satisfaction, she headed back to the kitchen.
By the time she had finished her own supper and went in search of Erik, she found him in his study, two doors away from the kitchen. The room was in anarchy, though she was sure that Erik would have insisted that he knew exactly where everything was to be found. Inkwells and pens lay scattered about on tables, which were piled with books and papers and sketches. The sketches appeared to be architectural designs for buildings and models of strange machines. The plate she had brought him lay on an old stack of parchment, which appeared to be a plan of the opera, covered in scribbles and notations in red ink. The plate was almost empty.
Erik sat at a tall-backed chair amidst the chaos, deeply immersed in a book the title of which was too faded for Hero to be able to make out. Erik tried to ignore Hero as she made a show of smugness picking up the plate. Just as she was about to leave without having said a word, he slammed his book shut and looked up at her, pinning her with his stare.
"You presume to meddle in my life, mademoiselle, yet you know nothing of it."
"No? Then enlighten me. Is there anyone who does?" She riposted.
"You believe me to have chosen this solitude of my own will? It was imposed upon me, and now I have no need of society. I have no need of a confidante. I answer to no one!"
"And you have grown so accustomed to this solitude that you fear to lose even a miniscule shred of control over it, by confiding in another. Because, to confide you need to trust and to do that you must give of yourself. You fear the chaos that is an intrinsic part of people, and that is ironic, because you thrive on chaos."
She supposed from the angry silence that her summation had hit the mark.
He rose from his chair and briskly crossed the room to tower menacingly over her. "How dare you to suppose you know my fears! That I possess any such fears! You, a child of light!"
"If I am wrong, then prove me so!" Hero snapped back, refusing to be intimidated.
"I have no reason to wish to prove myself to you!"
"Very well, if not me, then what of yourself? Even as we argue, in your head you are listing all the reasons why I cannot possibly be correct. Prove wrong that voice at the back of your mind, whispering questions you'd prefer not to answer. If you are not afraid of chaos, of people and of me, then live the life that you believe closed to you. Accept my challenge. Live, if only for a week."
He knew she was baiting him, purposely picking a quarrel, and that the thing to do would be to dismiss her words and send her away from his home – Erik had a brilliant mind, after all. But he was also aware of his own brilliance, and this made him arrogant. Hero was very good at issuing challenges – her grey eyes glinted mockingly at him, and her lips were twisted in a smirk, as if she was well aware of the direction his thoughts were taking. It was dreadfully infuriating. Before he was even properly aware of it, his pride had outweighed his common sense.
"I assure you, I am not afraid. Very well, you may have your week, and then you shall realise your folly. After that you will never again speak of the matter." His tone was calm now, making plain how little her challenge affected him.
Hero flashed a maddening smile of triumph. "Good! Then we have an accord, monsieur. Why, this is almost operatic, don't you think?"
A yowl coming from the study door startled them before Erik had a chance to say something cutting. A brown and white Siamese cat sat disdainfully in the doorway.
Hero's face broke into the sort of ridiculous grin only cats can inspire, proving that a little fluffy animal with big eyes could reduce a grown woman to a babbling idiot.
"I wouldn't go too near the cat, mademoiselle. Ayesha is none too fond of strangers." Erik could still remember the inexplicable antagonism between Ayesha and Christine. Hero paused half way to Ayesha and her expression suggested that he had just said something very stupid, before turning her attention back to the cat and extending a hand to stroke her soft fur.
Erik watched with some astonishment as Ayesha failed to shred Hero's hand on first contact. In fact, the cat seemed to purr as Hero knelt next to her, murmuring some kind of inanities. He could make out the words 'kitty', 'precious' and 'fluffy', and concluded that he was better off not hearing anymore. Approaching Hero just as she was straightening, and making a half-hearted attempt to bush the fur off the skirt of her green dress, he scooped the cat up with surprising tenderness. He produced what looked like a genuine diamond collar and fastened it around Ayesha's neck while she lay obediently still in his arms.
While he did not take care of himself at all, Erik seemed to dote on the cat. Ayesha looked every inch well-fed and happy. She had a soft, shiny coat and a self-satisfied manner.
"Now, how did you do that, I wonder? She usually wastes no time in employing her claws," Erik said to Hero, briefly glancing up from the cat.
"I've always held it that cats can naturally recognise people from who they have the potential of getting more food than they ought. I have no doubt she spotted the omelette. You called her Ayesha?" Hero asked, scratching under the cat's chin as the feline basked in the attention. Erik's shoulders stiffened at Hero's nearness but she did not appear to notice.
The Opera Ghost nodded. "It is a Persian name. I found her during the Commune and she took that as an invitation to make my home hers permanently."
Erik sat the cat down on one of the lavish divans around his study and Ayesha contentedly turned away from them, curling up and going to sleep.
"That music you were playing, I have never heard its like before. Did you compose it?" Hero asked, because he suddenly appeared to be in a better mood than usual, and she thought she might convince him to divulge something of himself.
OOO