Thank you again for all of the reviews! It means a lot to know you're reading.

Chapter 7

The door shut as quickly as it had opened and I wasn't immediately aware if I had been noticed. My head pounded, my shoulders and ribs throbbed, and I was not certain I could stand much less move.

My injuries, I assumed, were life-threatening, which heightened my sense of panic. My heart thudded, chest heaved as I laid wide-eyed in the cellar, unsure of precisely how far I had fallen.

With a stifled groan I straightened my legs and felt from my knees, which had started to swell, to my shins and at last my ankles. I felt along my rib cage, collar bones, and at last my head where my hair was damp and sticky with blood. I winced as I felt along my hairline and located the wound. Given how far I had tumbled, I suspected the injury was quite deep.

I wasn't certain if it was the loss of blood or the darkness, but I felt disoriented, the sensation similar to being underwater with my eyes closed. Afraid I would lose consciousness I forced myself to sit upright and take several deep breaths.

Once I regained my composure, I blindly searched for the railing. After several moments, I realized the overall pain wasn't nearly as bad as I had first thought, which I hoped meant I had not broken any bones.

I gripped the metal bar with both hands and hoisted myself up in order to test my legs. In the absolute darkness I felt as though I stood on a tightrope, my knees locked and hands like a vice around the metal bar. I feared one more misstep would truly cost me my life.

Despite my overall pain and panic, I imagined how disappointed Madeline would be if she discovered me sprawled out on the stairs-or worse yet how alarmed she would feel if someone else found me first. In silence I vowed I would not reveal her name if I was taken into custody and questioned, no matter the amount of torture. If Madeline were to tell the gendarmes she had aided me in any way I would tell them I forced her into being my accomplice.

Somehow I managed to reach the bottom of the first set of stairs, which was likely six steps at best. Seventy-five stairs in total, Madeline had warned me. Only sixty more to go before I was back to the fifth cellar. The feat seemed truly impossible as I stood against the wall shaking and cursing myself.

More voices filled the hall on the opposite side of the door and I froze on the landing between sets of stairs, resigned to my fate. I had sense enough to realize I could not flee, and with no other option, I took a deep, shuddering breath, and sat once more on the cold, damp ground like a fawn unable to outrun the wolf.

The door opened again, and this time a lantern illuminated the hallway and spread out before me. In the back of my mind I saw my father's silhouette in the lamp light, bigger than the giant Eros and meaner than the devil himself. Sheer terror pinned me to the wall.

Footsteps padded carefully down the stairs and I watched wide-eyed in horror as the figure neared. My legs straightened and I sat sprawled across the landing. Despite being on the ground, I still felt as though I were in an endless fall.

Madeline nearly fell over me as she turned the corner. She managed to leap over my outstretched legs and land, graceful as a cat, before me.

"God in Heaven," she muttered. "What in the name of the Holy Mother are you doing up here?"

Her tone was tight, which I deserved, but her expression was filled with alarm. She held up the lantern shoulder high and gasped once she saw my bloodied face. Based on her alarm, I suspected my injuries were as bad as I felt.

"You will bleed to death," she squeaked. Emotion filled her voice as she crouched beside me.

"I know."

"You know?" she asked incredulously.

If I did not die on the stairs, I was certain she would kill me.

"Leave me," I groaned.

Madeline set the lantern down next to my outstretched leg and placed one hand against the right side of my face and the other on the left side of my head. With her palm against the scars, my back arched and body stiffened.

"Madeline," I gasped. "Please, do not-"

"Be still," she snapped. Her hardened gaze briefly met my wide eyes, but she ignored my panic. Her fingers searched along my hairline and temple and I winced as she pressed into the laceration on the side of my head.

"Leave you? Do you honestly believe I can leave you like this? Foolish boy," she said through her teeth. "Doing foolish things. Did you drop your candle?"

"I did not bring one."

She frowned at me and ast last removed her hand from my face, for which I was grateful. "You walked all the way up the stairs in the dark?"

I nodded. Now that she said it aloud it seemed extremely foolish.

"Why?"

"I wanted to hear the performance."

My answer was innocent enough for her liking. She pushed my hair back from my face and squinted. I sat motionless while she examined my mortal wound. Again her fingers brushed along the scars and I inhaled sharply on her behalf, afraid she would suddenly realize her folly in touching such ruined flesh.

"You could have killed yourself." She poked me in the shoulder and left blood stained on my shirt. "Then what would you have done?"

Another rhetorical question on her part, but nonetheless I shrugged. There would have been nothing more to do if I had died, but I didn't say a word.

Madeline shook her head. "Lucky for you it appears to be a very shallow wound. Not one likely to be the death of you-or me." She narrowed her eyes and I looked away, ashamed of how I had worried her. "My goodness, you gave me a fright."

"That was not my intention."

"Stand up," she commanded. "You must return to the fifth cellar at once. Can you make your way down alone if you take this lantern?"

My head pounded, but now that I could see the stairs I felt slightly more confident in my ability to navigate. I nodded in silence, afraid to further disappoint her, and climbed to my feet.

Madeline sighed heavily. "You are fortunate no one else saw you. Now go, go back where you are safe and wait for me. I will come to see you as soon as I am able."

At once she scurried up the stairs and disappeared from sight.

By the time I managed to make my way to the fifth cellar I felt quite sorry for myself and the ordeal that was entirely my doing. I stared at my gruesome, reflection in a small, oval mirror I kept in a small crate under the table. There was a knot the size of a goose egg nearly in the center of my forehead, which was not nearly as concerning as the split just above my temple. Blood had dried in long, jagged trails down my face and splattered along my jaw and neck. With trembling hands, I removed my blood-soaked shirt and washed my hair in the lake.

Once the wound was clean, I examined my head in the mirror again and saw for myself that the cut was not deep. With the salve and one of the bandages Madeline had left from wrapping my arm, I slathered the wound in ointment and dressed it myself.

My watch had stopped, which meant I had no idea how long I had been gone or what time of day it was now that I had returned to my underground abode. To me it had felt like half the day had passed. Then again, I had been certain I would die and that was clearly not the case.

Nearly every inch of my body seemed to ache now that I had made it down to the last cellar. I made my way through the stacks of crates and furniture and pulled back the cloth on a large oval mirror.

Without a second thought I stripped off my clothes and left them in a heap on an armchair and stared at my reflection.

A sullen monster stared back, bloody headed and bruised. I raised my right hand and covered the scars on my face with my outstretched fingers, but it did not make as much of a difference as I had hoped.

My hair was thin and missing in large clumps. For months it had fallen out quite easily and left me with bald patches, particularly along the back of my head. I ran my fingers along the base of my skull, through tangles of almost shoulder length hair, and attempted to comb it out as best I could.

I examined the fresh bruises along my rib cage, left shoulder, and both knees and shins. My right wrist was swollen, but as I rotated the joint I felt little discomfort.

Gaunt was the first word that came to mind as I took inventory of my wounds and overall appearance. My hip bones and ribs protruded, my eyes somewhat sunken in. Never before had I seen my full reflection and now that I seen it, I was devastated. Garouche had been correct in calling me The Living Corpse.

What a vile creature, I said to myself, barely human and hardly passable as a man. I wished I had died in Austria on the night Eros disappeared or beneath the cellar stairs in my parents' home. I wished Madeline had turned me over to the gendarmes. I wished to lay beneath the ground beside my uncle...and yet I feared what was beyond this life. Something much worse, I suspected, waited for me in eternity.

You are not at fault.

My uncle's words rang louder than my own self deprecating thoughts.

You were born with the scars on your face. Your father is a heavy-handed drunk and your mother too consumed by her own demons to give you a second thought. You must find value in yourself, not wait for others to find it.

The tears fell fast and hot down my cheeks, and I made no attempt to wipe them away. I considered the words he had spoken to me almost a year ago. On the outside there was nothing of value, at least not that I could see. I wanted desperately to curl up in my own self loathing and pity, but again I thought of his words.

My uncle was partially wrong as it was my fault that I had ventured up the stairs and fallen. It was my fault that I had strangled Garouche and placed a burden on Madeline. He of course did not know the current circumstances.

You are impossible.

Those were, however, not my uncle's words but Madeline's.

I scrambled to dress myself before she found me naked and standing in front of a mirror like a crude pervert. Unfortunately, in my haste of stepping into my trousers I managed to knock over a coat rack and a smaller mirror, which crashed onto the floor but by the grace of God didn't shatter. I landed with a thud beside both items.

"Erik?" Madeline called. "Are you back there?"

She appeared suddenly over me as I lay on my back. Her gaze flickered from me to the mirror and back again. Her face looked more angular with her hair pulled into a tight bun, her lips a straight line of frustration. Her light eyes, however, displayed warmth and sympathy when I expected fury.

"How is your head?"

"It hurts," I said as I averted my gaze and wiped my swollen eyes.

"I certainly would expect as much." Her tone was more stern than I had grown accustomed to in our brief time knowing one another, her face somewhat drawn when I risked a glance.

I didn't know how to respond to her. Whenever Garouche snapped at me I fell silent, which seemed to shorten his temper. If I dared to meet his eye or utter a single word, he seemed to strike my harder. I had yet to see Madeline lose her temper and I prayed I never would.

She tapped her fingers against her hip and looked around the piles of crates and refuse. I realized she was still dressed for the ballet right down to her ivory tutu and satin slippers.

"You should be on the stage," I blurted out.

"The show has ended. They are eating now."

"You are not with them."

Madeline appeared annoyed by statement. "No, I am not."

I had no idea what to do or say to staunch the proverbial bleeding. I stared at the leg of the nearby chair where my shirt and sweater were still balled up.

Dreadful moments of silence passed. Madeline continued to look around at the crates and ignored my presence completely, which made it impossible for me to gauge her feelings. After what felt like an eternity I realized I would have rather she yelled or slapped me clear across the face as opposed to outright ignoring me.

With an exaggerated sigh she turned on her heel and marched out of the narrow pathway I had created, and the angry ballerina all but disappeared. I started to reach for my shirt and sweater when she stormed back toward me. Pure instinct took over and I shrank away, my heart in my throat as I awaited punishment at last.

"You could have gotten yourself killed," she said between her teeth. She snatched the shirt from the chair and looked it over, her bottom lip quivering. Once she held it up, I noticed the substantial amount of blood covering the fabric. "You realize that, don't you?"

To my surprise the conversation was not over. Indeed, it had hardly begun. I lowered my gaze and clutched the woolen sweater in my fists. She had no idea how much I desired to no longer live, and yet feared my own demise. I was not sure what to think or feel.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

I considered asking her what she wanted me to say, but kept quiet a moment longer. A moment or two stretched into eternity and I resorted to saying nothing at all. Nearly every encounter with my father and Garouche had ended in this manner. Eventually they would storm off and I could catch my breath and take inventory of my injuries.

"You have nothing to say then?" Madeline asked, her voice trembling with either emotion or pure rage.

Somehow my respectful silence had made the situation exponentially worse, which I had not anticipated.

"I do not know what to say to regain your favor," I said at last. My voice shook as well, the result of emotions I could never control. Her anger confused me as she seemed to be upset that I had injured myself and that I could have been caught and yet I couldn't comprehend why she cared so greatly.

Without warning, she threw her hands up in the air and instinctively I closed my eyes and turned my head. My fingers curled into fists, my body stiff as I braced for the impact. This was familiar to me, familiar and yet dreaded. I held my breath and felt my skin prickle in anticipation. Whether she struck me once across the face or a dozen times, I would not move or offer any protest.

It came as a surprise when she did not strike me, which I felt I more than deserved for the inconvenience I had caused. After several seconds I gazed up at her and found anger replaced by sorrow.

"Oh, Erik," she said under her breath. Tears flooded her light eyes as she bent at the waist and shook her head in dismay. "I had no intention of hitting you."

"You are in the minority then."

Madeline shifted her weight and motioned for me to stand. "Are you still in one piece?" she asked. "Or should I go up the stairs and look for parts of you scattered about?"

Her words, though spoken lightly, did nothing to ease my sullen mood.

"One piece." I struggled to my feet and finished dressing while Madeline navigated her way out of the mess. With a great deal of hesitation, I joined her near the table and discovered she had brought me more food. Despite my actions, she still cared for me.

"Bruised?"

"Considerably."

"Nothing broken?"

I shook my head even though she wasn't looking in my direction. "It does not seem so."

"Do you have much of a headache?"

Without thinking I reached up and touched my bandaged skull. "I would rather not have my head attached to my neck at the moment."

Madeline grunted. "I imagine you will feel that way another day or so." She motioned toward the chairs and rug I had set up into a parlor of sort. "I see you kept yourself occupied for part of the time I was away. It looks very nice."

I ignored her compliment, feeling utterly unworthy of praise considering how the evening had gone thus far. "There is more still to do."

"You should wait a few days before you continue moving furniture. Allow yourself an opportunity to heal."

There was still something quite stilted by the way she spoke to me. I lingered near where she stood and placed my hands on the back of the armchair, unsure of whether or not I should come closer.

"I forgot to bring you supper, but I did bring you a few apples to tide you over until I return," she said absently as she continued to search the cavern.

"You left plenty the last time," I replied.

Madeline didn't respond. My brow furrowed, the distance between us strange and uncomfortable. I watched her from the corner of my eye as she wrung her hands and swallowed hard.

"You are still upset with me," I said.

Lips pursed, she shook her head. I heard her choke back a sob, which garnered my full attention.

"I am not upset with you," she said through her tears. "Concerned for your well-being, but not angry with you."

"You appear upset," I said.

My words triggered a sudden onslaught of emotion. I stood within arm's reach of her as she buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders trembled, slender back hunched as she wept. My lips parted, but I could not find suitable words to offer comfort.

In silence I moved beside her and placed my hand on her arm, but my gesture only made her sob harder. Alarmed, I pulled away, but to my surprise she grabbed a fistful of my sweater and buried her face against my shoulder.

The unexpectedly intimacy paralyzed me. I stood with my arms straight at my side and hands in fists, deathly afraid of upsetting her further. In such close proximity I noticed she smelled sweet, like strawberries, and there was glitter in her hair and the shell of her ear.

I swallowed hard and placed my left hand between her shoulders in an attempt to comfort her as best I could. Eyes closed, I felt her hot breaths against my chest as well as the way her body seemed to rattle against mine.

Her sobs were comprised of mostly deep, shuddering breaths that reminded me of my mother. I distinctly recalled the sound of her weeping for hours on end, sometimes with such force the floorboards shook beneath her chair. Unwanted and helpless, I stood in the cellar beneath her and merely listened, haunted by her despair.

So many nights I wondered if she would have allowed me to embrace her just once if I could have provided a shred of comfort. Despite her indifference toward me, I would have done anything to see her smile kindly in my direction or call me by my name.

Without a word I placed my arms around Madeline, gently at first as I feared she would break away from me. Instead she leaned harder against my chest, and as I looked down at her, I caught a glimpse of her features twisted in grief.

"What has upset you?" I asked at last.

"My brother," she sniffled. At last she released my sweater, stepped back and wiped her eyes with her closed fist. "My parents sent a telegram during the performance. He was shot in a duel."

I felt as though my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. "Is he wounded badly?"

Her lip began to quiver again. "Mortally, they think."

I blinked. "When did this happen?"

"Today at dawn." Her features crumpled again. "I do not know if he is still alive."

"Will you travel to London?"

"Only for a funeral."

Her words gave me pause. Goose flesh rose along my arms and I clenched my fists as I thought of how I had not only watched my uncle die, but had single-handedly buried his body. I could still feel the dirt beneath my fingernails and the blisters to my hands as I dug his shallow grave. How I had wept for him, how every pour seemed to hurt as I covered his body and said my final good-bye. His death was still the most painful event I had experienced. While cuts and bruises healed, the pain I carried deep inside was always raw. It was the wound that would never heal, and hearing Madeline speak seemed to open it wider than before.

"You should not have come down here," I said, consumed by grief and guilt. "You should be awaiting their response."

"I know, but I was worried about you."

"I am fine."

"You are not." She frowned, her bottom lip quivering. "You are anything but fine."

"Madeline, I have survived worse and I have done so alone for as long as I could recall. You need not look after me."

She nodded at last and wiped her eyes again. "You should know I do not find comfort in your suffering."

"I know," I responded. "You are one of the few."

Madeline took one last look around and promised she would bring additional supplies if she was unexpectedly called away to England. As much as I attempted to tell her it was unnecessary, she would not listen to reasoning.

"I hope to see you tomorrow," I said to her. As much as I wanted her to go to her family, I still did not want her to leave me. Temporary, I told myself, her absence would only be temporary.

She pursed her lips briefly. "Thank you. I hope to see you as well."

She slipped out the doorway, and before I closed it completely, I heard one final wail of despair that sent a shiver down my spine and pricked my eyes with tears. How I wished I could have done more to ease her pain in the greatest hour of need.