Chapter 22: New Paths and Old Memories

On Monday, the theatre's life returned fully to its normal rhythm, but Meg's mind stubbornly refused to leave the last ball behind.

On stage, she had danced with many partners, but she had to admit that never before had she felt the way she'd felt in Erik's arms. True, his movement had been a bit awkward, but somehow he had been able to combine an impressive strength with an endearing gentleness, giving her both the support she needed and the freedom to take initiative and add some improvised poses of her own. It was a striking contrast to both her formal training with her colleagues and her interactions with some of the opera patrons, who thought that, as a ballerina, she should just obey their whims and be delighted when they tried to put a hand on her waist.

Erik wasn't like those rich men at all. He had his own flaws, but he respected her and saw her as herself – as a person, not an element of decoration or part of the background. And for some inexplicable reason, her heart sped up every time she recalled the previous night.

However, the euphoria from the dance and their reconciliation mixed with a whole tangle of different emotions. Apart from their argument, it had been the first time she had seen the Phantom of the Opera in such a vulnerable state. His tormented gaze and words still haunted her, constricting something in her chest.

She was glad that it seemed that Erik trusted her enough now to reveal more of his thoughts, but with all her heart, she wished to do more for him than say a few clichés and squeeze his hand. The only question was: what? At the end of the ball, she had proposed that they meet again the next evening so that she could return to him the last volume of Les Misérables and talk through some extra details of the festival play, but unfortunately, that was where her good ideas ended.

Such musings occupied her as she left her mother's office after discussing the schedule of the nearest lessons for the youngest ballerinas-to-be. Most of the employees had already left by this hour, so it shocked her to find Cecile just behind the door.

Joy lit up the younger ballerina's face.

"Oh, Meg, it's so good that you're here! Recently, I often have trouble finding you!" The teenager's grin widened, then dimmed a little, a frown forming on her forehead. "Speaking of which, I wanted to spend some time with you during the ball, but you seemed to vanish into thin air. Almost like Christine after her debut."

The forget-me-not eyes focused on Meg, and she did her best to keep a neutral expression. She hoped that it could not be read in it that, despite the entirely different circumstances, both disappearances actually had had the same "source".

"I left earlier because I needed to talk with a friend about some matters. I'm sorry I didn't say anything, but it was quite urgent." Meg forced herself to smile apologetically.

"Oh." Cecile blinked, and a spark of interest flashed in her gaze. "Was it related to that festival play you were choreographing?"

Technically, this was partially true, so Meg allowed herself a vague nod.

"I understand, then." Cecile sighed and inclined her head. Her line of sight lowered onto an envelope she was holding, and she jumped. "Oh my, I almost forgot! I was supposed to give you or your mother this telegram!"

Confused, Meg accepted the item her colleague handed her.

"I'm helping Lucien with the post today," Cecile explained, a hint of pride in her voice. "This way, he will finish earlier, and we'll be able to go for a stroll to a park and then celebrate his birthday together." Her cheeks took on a pink hue. "I already gave him the handkerchief, and he liked it very much. Thank you," she added more quietly.

Meg felt her lips pull up in a less forced way. "You're welcome." She squeezed her colleague's arm gently.

Cecile beamed and gave her a quick hug. Next, she turned to leave only to stop mid-step, a playful curl at the corner of her mouth. "And that friend of yours? Is he charming and handsome too?"

Meg almost dropped the telegram.

"That's– We–" she stuttered, trying hard to stop a faint blush flooding her cheeks. The fact that a part of her believed that the answer should be "yes" – in his own way, Erik was charming and handsome, at least when he wasn't having one of his foul moods – definitely didn't help. "We are just friends, Cecile," she said finally.

The sixteen-year-old's enthusiasm faded. "Oh, what a shame. Anyway, if the two of you, or maybe just you and Christine, ever wanted, you could go somewhere with Lucien and me sometime." She grinned again and hurried off before Meg could form any further response.

It would be nice. The inner whisper made something shift in her chest in a weird way, and she quickly chased away that thought.

Trying to focus on something else, Meg unfolded the message.

Télégramme

Received: 21st February, 1882, Bureau Paris

To: Meg and Antoinette Giry, Opera Garnier, 8 Rue Scribe

From: Christine Daaé

Everything is great. We were offered a longer stay. Returning on Saturday, morning train. Sending greetings and warm hugs.

P.S. He did!

Meg grinned broadly as she read the last sentence. There was a slight twinge in her heart as she instantly thought about Erik, but she knew that he was already aware that this had been about to happen. She definitely planned to be very gentle about the topic around him, but for now, she just let a wave of happiness and excitement flood her.

Pumping her fist in the air, the blonde spun around, mouthing a silent "yes!". Then, not bothering with knocking, she burst back into her mother's office.

A second later, she was already conveying the news to her maman, watching the ballet mistress's face soften in a smile and her gaze moisten a little. Meg didn't deny herself the pleasure of a joyful squeal, and though Madame Giry was much more restricted in expressing her feelings, it was clear that she was just as happy. The mother and the daughter embraced each other, grinning and chuckling as they started planning how to celebrate the fact after the betrotheds' return.

When Meg finally left the room, part of her couldn't help but think that there was one more good thing coming from Christine's telegram: due to her prolonged absence, sneaking out anywhere would likely be much easier, especially now that the guards monitoring the opera house and its neighbourhood weren't as focused on their work as before. And that meant many more options to consider.

Meg smiled to herself as a plan started to form in her mind. Erik definitely deserved some consolation and a distraction, and she was going to provide that.


"Excuse me, WHAT?" Erik couldn't help but stare at Meg in utter disbelief. Lower, growling notes slipped into his shocked voice, but the ballerina seemed completely unaffected. He wasn't sure if he was more glad or irritated by the fact.

"Parc des Buttes Chaumont. At dawn. Any day until Friday that's convenient to you," she repeated calmly and warmly, holding his gaze. "There is something I really want to show you."

The scrap of the conversation flashed through Erik's mind as he strode towards the end of the tunnel with a weird sensation inside. The dim light of his kerosene lantern wavered on the stone walls.

It was not that he had never visited the outside world; occasionally, he had had to run some necessary errands. Furthermore, he would probably have gone mad (or, rather, would have gone madder) if he had never left the confines of the Opera Garnier. However, he always limited such escapades to the bare minimum.

Without Raoul de Chagny snooping around and his guards on alert, such a trip was definitely easier and less risky than before – particularly this early in the morning, when the city wasn't very crowded yet. Nevertheless, going for a visit to a park wasn't something the Opera Ghost would have considered a few months ago. Strangely, such things – once bordering on impossibility – had started to happen to him more and more often ever since a certain blonde-haired ballerina had literally stumbled into his world.

Taking a deep breath, Erik extinguished the lantern and approached a hidden exit, peeking outside through a tiny gap. Nobody was around, so he deftly slipped into the back of a small, empty yard. Cool winter air brushed his uncovered cheek as he quietly stepped onto the shadowed and silent Paris streets. His lungs and stomach clenched instantly.

With a pang of irritation, the Phantom chased away the feeling. As long as his face wasn't revealed, no one would be able to recognise him, he reminded himself harshly.

He wasn't able to imagine what could be so essential about this trip, but it seemed important to Meg, and somehow it was enough to make a part of him want to participate. Besides, he would be lying if he said that he wasn't at all curious about what she wanted to show him.

A stray gust of winter air tugged at his cape, and he once again adjusted his hood, making sure it hid his masked countenance. Then, he directed his steps towards the established meeting point at the intersection of the Rue Scribe and the Boulevard des Capucines.

The place was quite close to the opera house, but was shielded from it and the possible prying glances of its residents. And that would probably be enough. Especially since he would rather spend the whole day listening to La Carlotta butchering a new aria out of her pure stubbornness than let Meg Giry wander around some shadowy alleys. Even if she was supposed to have the company of a rented coachman.

The Opera Ghost winced at the reminder. The extra companion was another thing he wasn't exactly pleased about. Meg assured him, though, that she would ask for help her trustworthy old ex-neighbour, and he could only try to trust her opinion on this matter.

Sighing inwardly, Erik turned around the last corner. His keen ears picked up Meg's familiar voice a fraction of a second before his gaze found her too. The sun hadn't risen yet, but in the gentle gleam of gas street lamps and the carriage's lanterns, he saw her quite clearly, even from a distance.

The ballerina stood there, chatting pleasantly with an elderly man who sat in the driver's seat of an open vehicle. The man laughed at something Meg had just said.

Unwittingly, Erik slowed down a little. Just as always, Meg seemed to bring with her a trace of a warm, friendly atmosphere, wherever she was. He had seen her in her off-work time before, but perhaps he was still too used to her working dresses and ballerina outfits, because he couldn't stop his eyes from focusing on her petite silhouette.

Her hair was tied up in a chignon, more elegant than her usual simple half-updo, but a few loose stands were playfully slipping out of it, framing her face and adding more her character to the hairstyle. Her well-fitted dark blue woollen coat was completed by a cream-coloured velvet toque and a knitted shawl of a strictly rigorous geometrical pattern. He easily recognised the last as a work of Madame Giry's hands – mostly due to the fact that he possessed a scarf of similar origin (presently tucked under the high collar of his black wool overcoat, though he would rather avoid admitting that aloud). From below her outer garment peeked a pair of comfortable-looking boots and the end of a simple, ankle-length grey-blue dress with a decorative frill at the hem. Similar to her ball gown, her tournure was almost unnoticeable, despite its revived popularity.

Erik couldn't help but think that this outfit, though less fashionable, suited her much better. It was not like Meg to be garish or extravagant. Nor to bring attention to herself. And, knowing her dance-loving nature, he couldn't imagine her strolling around in anything that could impair her moves. After all, she was more like a lively and always-busy tiny bluetit than a gaudy caged parrot, wasn't she?

The thought brought a peculiar sensation of warmth to his chest.

Anyway, he couldn't deny that she looked like a charming middle-class Parisian. In contrast, the most he could say about his own appearance was that wearing a cape with a face-covering hood when there wasn't any sign of precipitation was a bit less suspicious in winter…

An unpleasant knot re-formed in his stomach.

He would never forgive himself if he somehow endangered Meg. He had thought it through several times, and he knew that the risk of any problems was minimal. And if anything happened, he would be prepared.

His fingers brushed the shape hidden under the left side of his cape, and he swallowed hard.

Straightening up, the Opera Ghost stepped out of the shadows, reminding himself in the last second to relax his clenched jaw and fists. A pair of gazes turned in his direction, finally noticing his presence. Not sure what he was supposed to do, Erik raised his hand in what he hoped was a polite greeting.

Meg beamed the moment she saw him. Stepping away from the carriage, she hurried towards him.

"We were just wondering when you would appear. In the meantime, we shared some anecdotes from the last rehearsals with the children." She smiled broadly, but her expression faltered as soon as her line of sight moved to his left hip. Her eyes widened, and she froze mid-step.

"You… you've brought some sort of longsword with you?"

Against his will, Erik felt not only his good cheek but also his deformed one grow unpleasantly hot.

"No, of course not." He promptly adjusted his cape to cover the controversial item. "It's a modern rapier. Or, to be precise, something between a classic rapier and the French infantry straight sabre," he explained stiffly, even though a part of him suspected it was not the type of white weapon that was the cause of Meg's worry. "Besides, it's only a precaution."

"A precaution?" The crease on Meg's forehead deepened.

Hell, did she always have to be so inquisitive?

"A last resort," he specified. His jaw clenched in irritation, and he looked away. "It's not like I can parade on main boulevards during the busy hours, and using darker alleys comes with certain threats. Having something to ward off unwanted attention is only common sense. Just a glimpse of the hilt has already helped me a couple of times." His lips twisted, and his tone hardened as he glared down at the ballerina.

"The blade isn't sharpened, and I'm a decent enough fencer to try not to inflict any serious damage, if that's what you're anxious about. In the circus, before everything started to go wrong, I had been training with the sword master for half a year. Apart from choreographed steps for the show, he taught me the basics of a real fight. I've done all I can to improve my skills since then. Besides, I'm not planning to use them unless it's necessary." The Phantom drew himself to his full height, squaring his shoulders.

For a moment, Meg just looked at him, her doubts and concern clearly written on her face. Then, she lowered her head and exhaled loudly.

"I… I won't deny that I don't feel fully comfortable with the idea of carrying a weapon," she said quietly, "but I do believe that I can trust you. And so, I'll try to trust your opinion on this matter as well." Her eyes met his own, a smile once again gracing her lips.

A weird lump formed in the Opera Ghost's throat.

"Anyway" – Meg tilted her head – "if you are ready, we can set off." Her hand grasped his, and before he could overcome the shock caused by this gesture, he was already pulled towards the fiacre. Meg's cheerful voice resounded in the winter air.

"Monsieur Jean, I have the pleasure of finally introducing to you my friend I told you about."

The coachman sent the Phantom a rather wary glance as they got closer, and Erik bowed rigidly.

"Monsieur."

The corners of elderly man's mouth twitched. "The pleasure's all mine. Can't say I didn't have doubts 'bout this, but every friend of Little Meg's is a friend of mine. 'Specially someone who's helping with our festival play." A cordial smile spread over his wrinkled face, undermining everything Erik believed in.

Completely unaware of the effect, the coachman went on: "My grandchildren, monsieur, all eight of them, take part in it. And they're loving it! The youngest, Joséphine, even wants to be a ballerina now. And I positively think it's going to be the best spring festival ever!" His excited grin grew big enough to reveal a missing molar. "I only regret that I ain't supposed to tell anybody that we've met." His tone became more serious, and his pale green-grey darted towards the Opera Ghost's hood.

"I promised I wouldn't talk too much or ask questions, but there's one thing I need to say: I ain't one to judge folks by appearance, and I understand the choice to stay in the shadows. My best friend, René, was accidentally wounded during the Siege. He's the kindest ol' chap you can imagine, great with horses, and yet he lost his job as a city coachman all 'cause an ugly scar! A scar!" Monsieur Jean shook his head, frowning. "This world ain't fair, no doubt 'bout it. Or, as my Pa used to say, it can kick you like a horse. It doesn't mean you should stop trying to hold the reins, though." He smiled again. "Anyway, welcome aboard." With such a statement, he turned back in his seat.

Too shocked to do anything more, Erik followed Meg's example and climbed inside the carriage, sitting down next to her among the thick blankets. He had agreed to the ballerina's plan to reveal a part of the truth to her ex-neighbour, but he would have never expected it to work like this.

Their driver flicked the reins, clucking at the horses, and the vehicle started forwards with a slight jerk.


The hooves and wheels hit rhythmically against the cobblestones, accenting the relative silence of the darkened streets, which was broken only by the occasional bustle of the first scattered passersby.

The sky above them had just begun to change colour from black to deep navy, but Paris was already showing early signs of waking from the night's slumber. A few servants of richer households were already starting their daily routines, and several labourers were setting off for their shifts. Janitors were shovelling the snow away from the paths before the buildings they took care of, and lamplighters were preparing for their duty of switching off the gas lamps as soon as the sun announced its reign. Nevertheless, it was still much more peaceful than the day's hubbub.

Meg drew in the cold winter air, feeling some of the tension finally leave her. The fact that Erik considered a sword necessary equipment for such an escapade had worried her for more than one reason, but she decided to put it away for later and just enjoy the ride and the company.

The ballerina glanced to her right at the Opera Ghost's shadowed silhouette, and her good mood dimmed a little again. She had hoped that Erik would relax after a few minutes as well, but his posture was as tense as before, his gaze sweeping the surroundings. He wore a deep hood, but he kept it slightly askew to fully conceal his mask, and that allowed her to see a part of his left profile; she would have been blind to miss the tight set of his jaw.

Their carriage rolled next to a loud, laughing group, receiving a few stares and hoots, and a spasm went across the Phantom's face, sharpening its contours in an unsettling way. His teeth gritted harder, and his hands almost convulsively closed on the material of his coat. Maybe it was just Meg's imagination, but she could have sworn that his breath turned into short, ragged gulps as if he were in pain.

Her stomach twisted into an unpleasant knot.

"Erik?"

She didn't receive an answer. Even more scared, she moved closer.

"Erik?" She reached for his hand. Erik jerked at her touch, spinning to her so violently that she recoiled, slamming her back against the backrest. His powerful silhouette cut her off from the rest of the world, darkening everything. He was once again the fearsome Phantom of the Opera, breathing heavily in rage and towering over her with a fierce expression; his dilated pupils seemed to both pin her in place and go through her, not noticing her.

Against her will, a shiver ran down her spine.

"Are... are you angry with me?" Despite her efforts, the voice that came out of her mouth was a bit squeaky.

Erik blinked, and his steel gaze finally fully focused on her; his scary scowl melted away as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by shame and something she couldn't quite name. Within a heartbeat, the Opera Ghost jolted back, escaping as far away from her as was possible in the limited space.

"Forgive me," he rasped. His wide eyes flitted aside, and he shrunk in on himself, clenching his hands into fists on his lap. "I got lost in my thoughts, and you surprised me. I wasn't angry with you."

Meg felt her eyebrows rise almost to her hairline. She surprised him?! It was he who had started to behave angrily and unsettlingly without any logical reason!

"It… it looked quite extreme for being just lost in thought." Her quiet statement slipped into the cold space between them. Just like Erik, she tried not to speak too loud so that Monsieur Jean couldn't hear their conversation.

The Phantom's broad shoulders hunched even more. "Some of my thoughts or memories can be quite… engulfing," he said hoarsely. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down, and his fingers twitched in a nervous rhythm. "I'm more used to brougham types of carriages. That audience threw me a little off balance. I'll try not to make it happen again. And I'll keep a proper distance."

Meg frowned. An audience?

The echo of Erik's words from their conversation at the last ball reverberated in her mind, and a sickening feeling slipped into her stomach. I still have those hellish memories.

Had those laughing men somehow reminded him of the circus?

Heavens. She had been so excited by her idea that she hadn't even thought that he might feel uncomfortable in an open vehicle!

Her chest constricted painfully.

"I don't need you to keep your distance," she stated firmly but softly. "Instead, I would prefer to know if there is anything I can do to help." She scooted closer, glancing up.

Erik stared at her with so much incredulity, as if she had just suggested that they run away together and set up their own theatre.

His mouth opened and closed. "I… you…" He inhaled sharply, and his expression hardened again. "I think that it would be wise if you avoided sudden gestures. Anything more isn't necessary," he ground out, averting his gaze.

Meg sighed inwardly.

She should have foreseen that he would react this way. For a second, she had hoped that he would open up more, but expecting that he would drop his guard and the Phantom's pride completely was wishing for too much for now, wasn't it?

"I understand," she whispered. After a short hesitation, she slowly reached her hand and put it in the Opera Ghost's, giving it a tiny squeeze. His muscles tensed at the contact, but a moment later, his fist relaxed a little under her palm.

Not wanting to overstep his boundaries, Meg withdrew her hand. Part of her considered offering that they could return if he felt unwell, but she quickly discarded the idea – she would only offend him more by it.

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The angle Erik held his head now prevented her from seeing his face and reading anything from it, and that concerned her more than she wanted to show.

Meg bit her lip, then shifted subtly forwards on her seat, twisting her neck. She was probably prying again, but how else could she know if he felt all right? He was just too stubborn to admit to any weakness most of the time!

To her utter frustration, the new position didn't help much. The dancer moved even more towards the edge. Unfortunately, at that exact moment, the carriage jumped on some bump, and she felt the bench slip away from under her. A muffled gasp escaped her lungs, and she fell headfirst towards the floor.

She never met it, though. Erik's right arm shot towards her, wrapping around her torso and jerking her upwards while his left hand clasped her right wrist. Her temple bumped into his shoulder, and she froze in a weird position, half suspended mid-air, half nested into his chest.

Her cheeks turned pink. She was hardly ever clumsy, so why did it always have to happen around him?

"Thank you." She glanced up to send her rescuer a grateful smile, and her breath hitched in her throat as she found Erik's grey-blue eyes staring at her from a much closer range than usual. For some inexplicable reason, it was an immensely captivating sight.

Meg quickly lowered her head, grateful that she could bury it in the Phantom's cape to hide her growing blush. He had her pressed so hard to his right side that any other retreat wasn't possible.

There was an awkward pause, after which Erik finally realised that she wasn't able to move without his cooperation. He hurriedly loosened his vice-like grip and, without waiting for her reaction, lifted her and placed her back on her seat as if she were a porcelain doll, then moved away. She didn't know if she was glad or disappointed by this fact.

"Are you all right?" His hushed voice was much more throaty and strangely breathless.

Meg nodded.

"Yes. Just a little ashamed that you had to catch me again. You have excellent reflexes, by the way, and I'm endlessly grateful." The corners of her lips pulled up, and she risked a fleeting glance at her companion.

Erik's mouth twitched. "For such a talented and sensible ballerina, you have a peculiar tendency to fall into trouble, so I try to be vigilant," he said louder, tone teasing.

On the front bench, Monsieur Jean huffed laughter, unsuccessfully disguising it with a coughing fit.

Meg grinned and gave Erik a gentle nudge. The musician still seemed somewhat tense and shocked, but in his eyes gleamed a hint of amusement and something she couldn't quite name.

Monsieur Jean obediently sat with his back turned to them, trying not to pay too much attention, just as she had asked, but as his hand rose to wipe away a stray tear, Meg heard him mumble to himself something about being "just like Jules".

A tiny wave of heat flooded her cheeks again. The ballerina chased it away and cleared her throat slightly.

"I haven't asked you before, but I assume that you are familiar with the Parc des Buttes Chaumont, aren't you?" She looked up at Erik again and received a short nod.

"It's a park placed in the 19th arrondissement and created in the years 1864–1867, during Haussmann's renovation." The Opera Ghost glanced down at her as if he wanted to discern what else she wished to know, but the architect part of him picked up the topic anyway. "It took its name from a bleak hill called Chauve-mont with a rather sinister past," he continued. "Imagine a gloomy, dark area that was once an execution site, and that later turned into a refuse dump, located next to the barren land of a former gypsum and limestone quarry. Most people would think that nothing good could come out of such a place, but thanks to the work of architects, engineers and workers, it's been turned into a picturesque mountain with steep cliffs and an interior grotto. Now, it's the heart of the lush garden, forming a rocky Belvedere island surrounded by an artificial lake." A hint of professional respect slipped into his tone.

"It's connected with the rest of the area by two paths – a long suspension bridge designed by Gustave Eiffel and a shorter, 22-metre masonry construction. The pavilions and objects of the small architecture, including the Roman-style Temple de la Sibylle built on the promontory, were designed by Gabriel Davioud. The head of the whole project was Adolphe Alphand, but he surrounded himself with experienced specialists, such as…" he broke off, a frown forming on his forehead as something occurred to him. His steel gaze locked on her again. "I guess that a list of names isn't what you want to hear right now?"

Meg let out a muffled chuckle. "Not exactly, but I don't mind. I like to listen to you." She smiled warmly. "I should have known that I wouldn't be able to surprise you with any facts regarding architecture. Even those regarding municipal greenery…" Her grin widened. "I'm curious, though, if you have ever visited the park before?"

It was just an ordinary, innocent question, but it was enough to make the Phantom's countenance darken, and Meg instantly regretted it.

Erik's lips pressed into a tight line. "I don't exactly have a lot of occasions for recreational strolls," he stated dryly.

A twinge of guilt pierced her instantly. "Right." How could she have forgotten? "I hope that you will enjoy this trip even more, then." She looked away, ashamed.

"I know that it's probably overly sentimental," she added more quietly, "but that park has always had a special place in my heart. We lived not far from there, so I used to visit it quite often with my parents as a teenager. Papa really liked the place…" Fragile notes slipped into her tone. Meg lowered her gaze to her hands, clasped on her lap, and a longing smile flitted across her face.

"He was even enthusiastic about its infamous past. He used to say that it's just another piece of evidence proving his favourite motto – that even items with cracks and scratches have true beauty hidden in them. And they can be turned into something even greater, given proper care." Her features softened, and she glanced back up.

Erik stared at her with an undefinable expression. A muscle twitched under his mask, but she couldn't guess if it meant that he was irritated or moved by her words.

She didn't get a chance to find out, for that same second, Monsieur Jean's rumbling voice filled the air, making both of them flinch. The Opera Ghost shifted, adjusting his hood.

"Oh, one could not phrase it better!" The coachman waved his hand. "Jules Giry was an extraordinary man, ain't doubt 'bout it." He accented the statement with a loud slap against his thigh. "He worked miracles as a carpenter. I still have the chairs and table he repaired for me. And when he repaired furniture and knick-knacks, he somehow mended their owners' souls. He wasn't exactly impressive when it came to height, but he had the biggest heart. Just like his daughter." This time, Monsieur Jean turned in his seat and glanced at her over his shoulder, a playful glint in his eye.

Meg blushed again.

There was a short pause, and then Erik's baritone resounded softly above her, surprising her completely: "I couldn't agree more." The man shifted, and his eyes found hers.

For some reason, something inside of her made a strange series of pirouettes.

In front of them, Monsieur Jean beamed.

"Why, of course! It's as true as the fact that the sun rises!" His grin widened, and he turned to the Phantom. "I would gladly talk about it more, but I've promised our favourite dancer that I won't be too chatty. And so, I'll obediently stop and leave you alone." With one more smile, he spun back forwards.

A tiny voice at the back of Meg's mind couldn't help but joyfully point out that Erik hadn't protested about the phrase "our favourite dancer."

For a moment, they all sat in silence, interrupted only by the sounds of the street, the carriage clatter and the quiet yet merry humming of their driver. Finally, Meg cleared her throat slightly.

"So…" she said, "since we still have a few minutes of riding before we reach our destination… do you mind sharing some more interesting facts about the Haussmann's renovation?" She glanced back up and saw Erik's features relax.

The Opera Ghost furrowed his forehead in thought. "Well, have you heard about the rebuilding of the infrastructure? Eugène Belgrand, the engineer responsible for new water pipes and sewage disposal, was so proud of his work that he even invited tourists to visit his sewers and ride in the boats under the streets of the city. Now, about the old, cramped sewer tunnels we can only read in Victor Hugo's novel…" He looked at her with warm sparks in his gaze, and she could only smile even more.


Author's notes:

1) Fiacre – a horse-drawn four-wheeled carriage for hire. The name probably originates from the Saint Fiacre hotel in Paris, where in the 16th century an office for renting such vehicles was placed (at least according to information I found on the Internet).

A brougham is a type of enclosed carriage with four wheels, doors and a roof.

2) The siege of Paris took place from September 1870 to January 1871, during the Franco-Prussian War.

3) Haussmann's renovation was a vast programme rebuilding Paris in the years 1853-1870, commissioned by Napoleon III and directed by the prefect of Seine, George-Eugene Haussmann. It was criticised because of financial matters and the demolition of many medieval neighbourhoods, but it certainly improved sanitary conditions in the city, bringing air and light to the centre and making the city more beautiful. The modernisation included building new boulevards and buildings, but also renovation of infrastructure – improvement of the water supply and rebuilding the sewer system – as well as adding new parks and green spaces.

The facts about Parc des Buttes Chaumont, which Erik mentions in this chapter, I read on Wikipedia when I was trying to read more about nineteenth-century Parisian parks, looking for the right location for my story. I found its picturesque look and dark past fitting for my plot. :) Here's a link to an old photo of it: enDOTwikipediaDOTorg/wiki/File:Paris_et_ses_environs_1890-1900_square_des_buttes_chaumontDOTjpg (just replace the word "DOT" with real dots)