A/N: I apologize for the delay in updating any stories- work issues came up. Then I got sick, then had even more work to catch up! :P Thank you for the fantastic reviews! :)
And now…
II
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Meg stood near the open hearth and stared, unseeing, at the envelope in her hand. The flames jumped from the logs as if eager to shoot toward her fingers at sensing new fuel to burn.
She should let them.
Shaking her head at such a ludicrous thought, she forced herself to think logically.
Why should she receive this - now - after all this time? Last year, she had hoped for such a missive and sent the boy to deliver her letter in the credulous weeks before her beloved Paris burned in hell. When months passed and she received no answer she took the silence as a reply and dismissed her girlish expectations as foolish and impossible. All of them cremated without a backward glance, giving off the pungent smoke of their unreality, like so many of her infantile dreams.
Had her mother not told her the truth of the baron's dislike? - that is, when she had finally chosen to speak the truth.
Meg clamped her lips together, the sparks of her anger rekindled. It wasn't so much that Mère had lied. Meg would be hypocritical to fault her for a deception as many times as she had bent the truth when confronted with a misdeed. It was in the telling of that truth - what Mère's lie had cost Meg - that Meg suffered. And for that she could never forgive her mother. She had destroyed the final remnant of Meg's dreams, no matter that she'd been pathetic to hope for what could never be.
Even if she wasn't nameless and her mother wasn't a whore, Vicomtes did not marry chorus girls. They wined them and dined them and bedded them. Nothing more…
He would have married Christine, a voice in her head taunted.
Meg crumpled the letter in one hand. Perhaps he might have gone through with the ceremony that he once planned with her dearest friend, who now lived out her dreams with another man, but this was too much for any member of the nobility to handle. Not that she would ever again anticipate such a prospect…
"Even without knowing the blemish of my past, he didn't tarry long enough to prove any sort of devotion to me," she insisted bitterly to the empty air.
And why should he? Despite his passionate kisses and warm embraces, Christine was still obviously his heart's desire. Whatever emotion Raoul felt for Meg had been bound up in guilt for inadvertently causing the accident that injured her leg. Later, they had been two despondent survivors within a short span of time when rank held no importance and the only morsel of hope in a world gone mad had been found in each other's arms.
Madness, in itself.
Of course their stations in life mattered, were all that mattered. He would one day become a Comte, and she…she was no one. A blemish on her mother's family tree. A stain that could never be wiped clean. Nameless. Unwanted….
No. She would not pity herself. For a time she had. Now it was time to put that part of her life behind her as well, and move on.
Meg held her hand out over the flames, intending to drop the crumpled parchment and let it burn with the rest of her erstwhile ambitions. But she could not force her fingers to unclench from the weighty burden of the fine linen. After a moment she pulled her hand back and returned to the divan with a sigh. She caught sight of the servant, Marian, skulking in the shadows of the doorway and staring at her.
Meg shivered at the malevolent look in the woman's dark eyes. She failed to understand why her charming hostess would engage such a dour woman to be her ladies' maid. Ever since Meg became Lady Helena's unofficial companion, Marian had shown nothing but frigid animosity toward Meg.
When months before, Meg gave in to her curiosity and ventured to a wing of the house where she'd never been, the woman roughly grabbed her arm and warned her that those rooms were forbidden. When Meg broached the incident to Lady Helena, the dignified Dowager Comtesse seemed uncharacteristically nervous and agreed with Marian that Meg should never enter the abandoned rooms, giving the excuse that they were in disrepair and could be dangerous, at the same time telling Meg she would speak to Marian about her harsh behavior.
Within weeks after that, Meg became more than just a guest seeking shelter at Whiterose, as she and Lady Helena grew close. Since then, the somber and stern aide- even more so than Mère!- treated Meg as an enemy, which suited Meg fine. She had gone up against harsher antagonists while working at the opera house and could certainly manage one arrogant maidservant.
"Did you wish to speak with me?" Meg asked, lifting her chin. "Or was your original intent to stand there and spy?"
Marian stood as frigidly cold as ever, showing not one ounce of emotion. "My lady wishes you to know that she will join you presently."
Meg was surprised to learn the Dowager Comtesse had not yet retired. She usually went to bed before ten o'clock and it was nearing midnight.
"Thank you," she said just as stiffly. "Then I will wait." She took a seat on the divan, dismissing Marian from her mind, relieved when she heard the maid's stiff skirts swishing away.
Smoothing the parchment on her lap, Meg opened the flap with the broken seal that featured a crescent moon and five stars. As she'd done endless times since she received the envelope that morning, she pulled out its brief missive, hardly legible, the handwriting a sure travesty to any worthy scholar. The first lines were difficult to make out, but they seemed to refer to the missive she'd sent with the boy last year. The middle lines were easier to decipher:
We must meet. Please come to the manor any time during the last week of October. It is my hope that you will not…
Whatever hope the letter writer wished to bestow upon Meg was a wish known only to the sender of the communiqué. From there the sentence evened out in slanted scrawls with few loops or definitive variations of line to discern meaning. Nor did the bearer's signature offer a revelation of the sender, except for the surname which mirrored the crest: D' Legard. The origin of the letter was from Le Manoir de Clair de Lune. The childhood home of her mother. The current residence of her grandfather - the baron - who, according to her mother, despised her very existence.
Meg drew in a lengthy breath and stared into the flames.
After so long without word, she had taken his silence as a rejection. The letter had taken awhile to find her, dated almost two months previously, the time of the invitation to visit now upon her, since there was little more than one week left of this month. And what a strange invitation, to pinpoint that week, as with a specific purpose in mind. It almost seemed a trap, though Meg could find little reason why a snare would be prepared for her.
The baron had disowned her mother. Why should Meg be any different, especially with the label of bastardy she now bore? He could have left well enough alone and never contacted her. It would have hardly come as a surprise. No good could come from them meeting. There was no reason to hold on to such a letter.
Neither could she seem to let it go.
At a step on the parquet floor, she turned her head expectantly then smiled. "I had not thought you were one to keep such late hours. Could you not sleep? Would you like me to ring for some tea?"
"No, no." The lady Dowager Comtesse waved a dismissive hand as she moved to the sofa and joined Meg. The woman, who must be in her fifties, moved with the authoritative grace of a queen, a difficult feat to pull off in her current nightly attire of a dressing gown and slippers, with her graying fair locks wrapped up in bits of rags evident beneath her ruffled nightcap. She noticed Meg's surprised stare.
"Even I must have my little vanities," Lady Helena said with a soft laugh. "I never could abide my hair hanging limp and lifeless, despite that I always pin it up in the fashion of the day. Utter foolishness, but there you have it." She arched a brow. "You are up late as well."
"Yes…" Meg furtively slipped the letter beneath the edge of her skirts, not yet ready to speak of its contents. "The rain makes sleep difficult."
"This weather is spiteful." As if nature wished to emphasize its power over them, a thunderbolt struck near the manor, shaking the tall windows and casting the entire room in a series of rapid flashing white lights. Lady Helena flicked her eyes toward the ceiling. "As I was saying…" She looked for all the world as if she were addressing the sender of the lightning and Meg stifled a giggle.
"I must postpone our trip to the springs, my dear," Lady Helena continued with an apologetic smile.
"Oh, alright…" Her brief levity evaporated and Meg barely managed to conceal her disappointment. Upon her first and only week's visit to the healing springs, accompanying Lady Helena, Meg was disheartened to learn that for the waters to take effect as she wished them to, and thoroughly heal her bone so she could dance without pain or stiffness, would require additional visits. Nor was there any guarantee the waters would do as they were meant.
"We will attempt the outing again next month."
"Yes, of course." Meg faintly smiled. "May I ask, are you not feeling well?"
"This weather does tend to wear on my nerves, but no my dear, that isn't the reason for the delay." She hesitated as if uncertain whether to speak. "I declined telling you about the letter I received from your mother a fortnight ago. I had hoped you would feel differently about the conflict between you after all this time has passed."
"My mother wrote a letter?" The hackles of dread rose. "What did she say?"
"She is coming to Whiterose."
The Dowager Comtesse's smoky green eyes were steady, and Meg just prevented herself from the impulse of bolting off the sofa and running for the front door.
"When?"
"Her train arrives tomorrow afternoon."
Meg wanted to scream in distress. She wanted to accuse the Dowager Comtesse of duplicity, but of course could not speak ill to her hostess, who had gone far beyond the act of generosity in opening her home to Meg for more than a year, asking only for companionship, which Meg was happy to give. Lady Helena had become something like a grandmother to her, since Meg had never known her own. Their acquaintance helped fill the hole of no longer having Mère in her life, and Meg knew that Lady Helena appreciated having her near, where before she only had her witch of a ladies' maid to speak to.
"Do you think you might find it in your heart to forgive her?" Lady Helena urged. "It's been more than a year, child. We, all of us, make mistakes. I have made more than my share…"
As she was apt to do, Lady Helena trailed off and sadly looked into the distance as though thinking of a time long past. Meg had told her of Mère withholding the truth of her heritage but never was able to admit the rest. That she had been born out of wedlock.
"I would rather not speak of it," Meg said, looking down at her lap.
"Of course, I understand, dear. I only wanted you to be aware that we will have a guest for the next several weeks."
Meg fingered the edge of the envelope. "Actually, since we won't be going to Sérénité les bains this week, I thought I might visit…a - a friend."
"Oh? I wasn't aware that you made any new acquaintances outside of Whiterose. Someone in the village?"
"Actually, no. I received a letter only this morning and have decided to accept the invitation." Even as she spoke the words she could hardly believe she said them, given her earlier thoughts on the matter. But it seemed the perfect way out of this new dilemma. "That is, if you don't mind?"
The Dowager Comtesse studied her. "And if I do?"
Meg gathered her resolve. "Then I shall go, regardless. Forgive my impertinence, Lady Helena, I mean you no disrespect, but I am not yet ready to see my mother."
"Dear child, I do not think you impertinent, and you must cease to think of yourself as no more than a servant under my employ. This drafty citadel is much too vast for me to wander about in alone. I've enjoyed your companionship." She smiled, setting Meg partially at ease. "My home is yours, Meg, whenever you wish to stay. If you feel you must go, then certainly I'll not stop you, though I hope you'll reconsider."
Tears of gratitude clouded Meg's vision and she blinked them away. "Thank you. I think, for the present, this is best. Would it be too much to ask if I may have use of the wagon?"
"Nonsense, you'll take the carriage. Giles will drive you."
"But - I'm not certain how long I'll be away…"
She knew she couldn't remain absent for more than a week, the mysterious bearer of the letter didn't even suggest a one night stay, but Meg needed time to think before returning to face Whiterose's new guest. The unexpected news left her as nervous and befuddled as if the past year of relative tranquility had never occurred and she'd only just fled Manoir de Ravenswolf, the residence of the Comte de Chagny, Lady Helena's brother-in-law. Somehow, she would find accommodations, but wasn't about to concern her hostess with such a quandary when she'd already done so much for her.
"I rarely leave the estate and certainly can make necessary arrangements if the matter warrants such a need," Lady Helena insisted. "I'll hear no more of it. You'll take the carriage."
"You're too kind." Meg clutched the envelope and rose to kiss the woman's cheek. "I've never known anyone so generous."
Lady Helena's fair skin darkened to rose, but she waved off her praise. "The hour grows late, the storm seems to have subsided. I should retire."
"I suppose I should as well. I have a busy day ahead. Sleep well." Meg smiled in parting and headed for the stairs.
Before leaving the parlor, she glanced back to see that Lady Helena had not yet moved, sitting motionless and staring into the fire, as though mesmerized by its low-burning flames.
Meg hesitated, wondering if she should linger, then shook away the idea and continued up the stairs. If Lady Helena wanted her company, she would have requested it. But Meg sensed that the Dowager Comtesse had slipped into her own well of deep thought and preferred her solitude.
.
xxXxXxx
.
A hand relentlessly shook his arm, breaking him from uneasy slumber.
"Awaken, Vicomte, you are needed."
Five months of being conditioned to wake at any time of the night and be prepared had Raoul hasten out of bed, his sword in hand before his mind fully registered the minutiae of the situation. Sensing no apparent danger, his eyes sought and found the professor. Raoul awaited the introduction of his next test.
Professor Portier regarded his student with approval. "There will be no further training. You are needed elsewhere and must leave at once."
Surprised, Raoul tossed his sword to the bed and glanced up at the skylight. The moon hung crested high in a nighttime sky. It was nowhere near dawn. But he knew better than to question, having learned a reason always existed for the professor's bizarre and eccentric expectancies of him.
"Where am I to go?" Raoul pulled his breeches up over his nightshirt, tucking in the tails.
"To Rouen."
"Rouen?" He paused momentarily before resuming with dressing. "Is my aunt in trouble?"
"No, but she will have need of your services."
Raoul nodded, not asking further questions, and pulled on his boots. The professor gave him a plate of bread and cheese and a tankard of strong coffee that swiftly removed the lingering cobwebs of sleep from his mind.
"What have you learned during your time here, Vicomte?"
Raoul set down his mug on a nearby table. "Hesitation before action does not always denote cowardice," he cited the words by rote, the lesson having been a hard one to learn, "but a man must always remain on his guard to confront whatever situation arises."
"Very good. And rushing to conclusions?"
Raoul's face warmed. "Can lead to more trouble than the original dilemma would have entailed."
The professor nodded pensively, smoothing his white goatee with the fingers and thumb of one hand. "You have learned well, young Vicomte, very well indeed... Yet bear this in mind: not every conquest requires a battle to be fought with a weapon of steel or iron. It is sometimes more expedient to end a conflict with the power wielded inside the mind. To think logically. To reason wisely. There too, you must be careful. Words can be their own arsenal and should be wielded with the greatest of care. A harsh or false word badly spoken can take far longer to heal than a cut from a blade or a hole from a bullet. Some never do heal."
Raoul nodded as he finished the last of his meal.
"You have come far since your prior visit within these walls. Your previous deficiency in certain areas no longer prove to be a grave flaw in character that could become a handicap to those around you. Yet in one area you have achieved an overabundance. It is an area that is a detriment to most men, and has been a stumbling block to all men of the de Chagny line. You know it as one of the seven deadly sins. Pride…"
Raoul winced, having not expected absolute praise, but he didn't see himself as overtly proud either. All nobleman achieved varying degrees of arrogance from the time they left their bassinets as tots, brought on by the responsibility of their station and necessity to learn to manage large estates. Raoul had been bred to issue orders to men and women four times his senior, ever since he learned his letters and numbers. He did not see a problem existed, as the professor thought, but chose not to air his petty grievances.
"Pride is a vicious impairment," Professor Portier went on, peering intently over his half-moon spectacles as if recognizing the sudden hardening of Raoul's heart and trying to get through that barrier. "It can cause a greater man to think less of those around him and a lesser man to feel he can never amount to an equal."
At Raoul's clear surprise, the professor continued, "Oh, yes. Pride takes on both extremes. To the man who thinks too highly of himself, it can become his destruction, since prudence is not often a method of choice and humility never acts as a buffer. And to the man who considers himself far beneath his peers, unworthy even to breathe the same air, pride takes on a perverse form, to the point of that man's utter exclusion from society - which, in turn, robs the world of receiving those talents awarded only to him. A pity indeed. Both extremes are lethal to the bearer and to those with whom he comes in contact, and both have been visited upon the men of the de Chagny household for generations."
"Why tell me this?" Raoul finally asked, frustrated by the Professor's warnings.
"Simply put, to be aware is to exercise true wisdom. To put that skill into practice will ensure victory, a feat you will need to accomplish much more in the days that are coming than in how to excel with your sword." The professor nodded to the discarded weapon on the bed. "Be aware, young Vicomte, a dark day is at hand. You must put behind you the tendency to be stubborn and truly listen to the message you will receive, not only with your ears but with the workings of your heart. Only then can you triumph over the adversity that will befall you and visit those closest to you. Only then can you become a guardian of light to help others find their way out of the darkness of their adversities, as you were meant to be and do."
Raoul had long been accustomed to the Professor's enigmatic orders of direction and prophetic words of caution and now gave his counsel grave regard. His astute teacher must have some sort of sixth sense to have known all the details with regard to the dark spirit that had been vanquished in Spain. His contacts must amount to many, though most were unknown to Raoul, save for the one time he had gone up before their secret committee, the same men who sent him on his first mission to the Paris Opera House. The council and his instructor were well informed with all that went on beyond these ivy-covered walls, whether in France or in Spain. Since the day he'd been approached to join their secret society, at a time when he thought all hope lost to him, Raoul often wondered the sum of their number. When he had asked, the professor's answer of, "many" had been vague and hardly rewarding.
"Once I arrive in Rouen, who do I approach that I might receive this message?"
The professor's smile was faint, almost secretive. "You will know when the time arrives."
.
xxXxXxx
.
With his eyes long accustomed to perceive images in the dark, Erik was at once aware that his daughter had not issued the scream. But upon hearing the terrified wail, Angelique came awake with a start, as did Christine, who instantly drew their now crying daughter into her arms.
"Erik?" Christine whispered, fearfully looking in his direction.
He knew she could not see as he could in such blackness and briefly clasped her shoulder in reassurance before hurrying to the foot of the bed where the cry had come.
"Little One," he whispered in her tongue, kneeling beside the child. "What ails you?" Once the small gypsy would have shied away from him in fear or issued another anxious scream at his approach. Those days were long past. Now the child burst from her covering to throw her arms tightly around his neck. He drew her quivering body close. "Tell me," he urged. "Another nightmare?" The child, no older than six, endured a vast number of them.
She shook her head violently against his neck. "A bad man." Her small fingers dug into his back as she lifted her head to look in the direction of the window.
Erik looked behind him. The pane was in darkness, the moon on the other side of the tenement. He doubted the child could have seen a thing.
"It was no more than a dream," he consoled, though he wondered if her dream was an omen. The little gypsy had been gifted or cursed, he wasn't sure which, with the ability to see the future in her slumber. The oddity had helped to save Christine's life, making Erik aware of the danger to circumvent it. But her unusual ability also made Luminitsa feared by the other children of her tribe. The veil she insisted on wearing over her deep scars and the cause for them also had made her an outcast among her peers. Luminitsa's plight had been one of two reasons Erik agreed to Christine's heartfelt request to bring the orphaned sisters with them to France and become their guardians.
A knock at the door caused him to swiftly look that way. "Enter."
Dominique opened the door, holding a candle. The sight of her in her nightdress, her feet bare and her hair dangling past her hip in a braid surprised him as much as the image of his face shocked her - judging by the manner in which she gasped, her eyes going wide.
Damn! He had forgotten. In a silent entreaty of demand he held his arm over the bed toward Christine, who understood and grabbed the mask, placing it in his hand. Before he could fasten it around his head, Dominique spoke.
"If that is on my account, don't bother. The sight of your face does not offend me, sire - that is, my lord…Count." She cleared her throat of awkwardness and stood taller. "I heard a scream. Is anything amiss?"
Erik wavered with indecision before laying the mask aside. "The child had a nightmare."
The girl, who had learned some of their language, fiercely shook her head against him. "No bad dream," came her muffled response, and he realized that Luminitsa had buried her face in his shoulder and the cause for it.
Miguel came up behind Doiminique, who lit two candlesticks with her flame. He gave her an intent glance before looking at Erik.
"The child? She is alright?" The former captain of the evil Don was the only other man Luminitsa trusted. He alone of the original inhabitants at the villa had helped save the girl from certain death by his men, initiating her escape, so that Erik and Christine would find and take her back to her people. He alone, of all the Spaniards, Erik had trusted enough to give the seasoned officer a position as his guard at the villa. This past winter Miguel's wife had died, and with no roots holding him to Spain he had traveled with them, continuing his service.
Erik gave the man a curt nod. "Dominique, if you would make a pot of coffee. It promises to be another long night."
He looked at his wife who had modestly pulled the sheet over their daughter, Angelique again trying to find comfort at her mother's breast. Christine nodded slightly to him in encouragement, her eyes gentle. The tenseness in his jaw eased. He took a deep breath and nodded in acknowledgement.
She alone understood his difficulty in relinquishing the mask in Dominique's presence. Among the gypsies, to go without the covering had become a habit, many of their number bearing grotesque scars from the Don's sadistic torture to care about the appearance of a deformed man who had been to them a savior. All in their tribe had grown up hearing the prophetic legend of the man with half a face, the only hope of saving their people, and had accepted Erik freely, knowing him to be that man, even making him their king. But he was in civilized society now, and Dominique had not seen his excuse for a face since he'd been a boy trapped in a cage. However, there were more urgent matters at present than the discomfort over the absence of a mask.
Narilla shoved her way between Manuel and Dominique and hurried forward. "Luminitsa - is she -?"
"Your sister is alright," Erik assured her.
Narilla knelt beside them and reached for the girl but Luminitsa's hold around Erik tightened. Armando and the fair-headed boy suddenly appeared at the door.
"Capitán," Erik looked at him then flicked his eyes to the door.
The man understood the unspoken order and moved toward the boys. "Come with me, the both of you."
"What is wrong with Luminitsa?" Armando insisted.
"Nothing that concerns you," Miguel said grabbing both boys by the shoulders and steering them to the next room.
"Help Madame Giry with what she needs," Erik quietly instructed Narilla. "Your sister will be alright."
The older girl hesitated then nodded and slowly retreated, looking at Madame. His aide gave a conciliatory smile to the girl, glanced at Erik in confusion, then both of them left the room.
"Erik, bring her here."
He looked toward his wife, who pulled back the sheet, exposing the empty mattress beside her. Erik pushed himself up to stand, still holding the girl. She wrapped herself around him like a vine and didn't loosen her hold, even as he came to a stop beside Christine. He tried to pry the child's arms loose from around his neck without exerting too much pressure to hurt her, but she only tightened her legs around his waist. She may be tiny, but she was strong and determined not to let him go.
"Luminitsa," Christine gently urged, smoothing one hand against her back. "It is alright now. You are safe."
"The bad man…"
"No one will harm you. We will make sure of that."
Erik felt the tension slowly begin to drain from her body.
"Come, Little One. You may lay beside me for the night. Would you like that?"
Luminitsa hesitated and faintly nodded her silky head against Erik's cheek. He laid her on the bed and Christine brought her free arm around the child, drawing her close. Erik covered all three of them and shared a look with Christine, who smiled with a weary nod. He smoothed the hair from her eyes with a light sweep of his fingertips, glanced down at his daughter, sleeping peacefully once more, then moved toward the window. A small pane of uncovered glass, it sat high in the wall, out of reach to the tallest man. Whether the child had or had not seen an intruder, Erik would take no chances.
Putting his back to the side of the wardrobe, he pushed with all the strength he had in him, moving the heavy furniture the inches needed to block most of the window. He looked back to the bed to see Luminitsa's huge dark eyes peer over Christine's side, watching his movements.
"You are safe," he reassured the child then looked at Christine. "I must speak with Dominique. I will be near, should you need me."
She nodded, and he moved to the door, extinguishing with his fingers one of the candles in the wall sconce that Dominique had lit. Luminitsa whimpered.
"It's alright," Christine reassured, looking at Erik. "He'll leave one candle lit."
Erik nodded in acknowledgement, with one last glance at his wife, who looked like a glowing Madonna, with both children lying against her. How she could look both angelically reverent and enticingly provocative was a mystery to him.
"Try to rest, my love."
At her adoring smile, he closed the door behind him, leaving it slightly ajar, so that he would hear in case she called out for him.
In the main room both boys sat near the hearth, quietly conversing. Madame worked with Narilla near the cookstove. His officer was nowhere in sight and Erik assumed he swept the perimeter to ensure Luminista's fears were unfounded.
Erik took a seat at a nearby table, the events of the evening predominant in his mind. Narilla approached, barely stifling a yawn. Erik managed a weary smile.
"Go to bed."
"But Luminitsa…?"
"Luminitsa is safe. She will sleep with Christine tonight."
The girl nodded and left. His gaze went to the boys sitting by the fire, but he sensed eyes upon him and turned his head toward Dominique. Instantly she averted her attention to the task at hand. Three more times this happened, not doing anything for Erik's temper, which was on a short, explosive wick.
He slammed his palm flat on the table. "What?" he growled.
Dominique gave a little jump. The boys turned in surprise to stare.
"What?" he demanded, rising to his feet and glaring at his aide. "You wish to speak? Then damn you, say your piece!" His attention briefly went to Armando. "Go. Both of you."
Armando grabbed the other boy's arm as he scrambled to his feet and both boys scurried into the parlor without again looking his way. Erik's attention swerved back to Dominique. "Well?"
Mute, she stared at him, which only fueled his irritation.
"Can you not speak, Madame? Does the fear of this face unmasked now paralyze your tongue?" He waved his arms out to the sides. "Perhaps the memory of its horror waned since the time we were children and you first beheld the beast within his cage?" He struck his fist against his chest. "Then look, damn you! Go on- take your fill! Nothing here has changed. Nothing ever will."
"You have changed," she said in a low voice, betraying only a slight tremor. "And you have not."
"What in the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Sit down, Erik, before you wake your exhausted wife and child with your outburst."
He wasn't sure if he was more stunned by hearing her finally speak his name after over two decades of knowing her, or by her act of addressing him as a mother would an unruly child. Her former behavior of subservience had instantly disappeared. The dual shock swiftly drained him of the torrential eruption of anger, and he sank slowly back to the bench.
An awkward silence thickened the atmosphere as he stared into the flames with narrowed eyes, pressing his lips together, and listened to her resume her task. Miguel entered, followed by Celeste in her usual disguise of a boy's garb, and he assumed the girl had been with the horses. He thought about scolding her for taking to the streets after curfew and putting them all at risk due to her strong affinity for the creatures, then decided it wasn't worth the trouble. He felt certain from the stern expression on Miguel's face and the manner in which Celeste scurried to a far corner and laid down on a blanket, her back to them, that the former captain of the guard already had given her a sound tongue-lashing.
"Any sign of trouble?" he asked his guard.
"No, my lord. Save for the solider stationed on the corner, there is no sign of anyone lurking about."
"Very well. You should get some rest too. I will need you to drive Madame Giry to the nearest station whenever she wishes to go."
There was a clatter as Dominique turned, almost dropping a dish. "Oh, but I couldn't impose." She glanced swiftly at Miguel, then back to Erik. "I will hire a carriage to take me to the depot."
"Enough. I took care of your needs when you lived in my kingdom. I made the vow to do so again once I returned to Paris. Let the matter stand."
Dominique gave an uneasy nod. Miguel looked away from her and announced that he wanted to take another look outside then left.
Erik was physically exhausted but mentally alert and knew the effort would be wasted in an attempt to sleep. Dominique brought a bottle of wine to the table and two glasses. He raised his brows.
"The coffee won't be ready for some time. I thought, given the circumstances of the evening, this would help."
She poured. Erik lifted his glass in a halfhearted toast and drank a third of it.
"May I?"
He motioned to the bench across from him with a casual wave of his hand and nod. "Sit."
She did and poured herself a glass then took a sip. Her gaze went to Celeste, lying with her back to them.
"Perhaps now you would ease my curiosity about the children?"
He set down his glass, keeping his fingers at the stem, and gave a short nod. "Armando's father is the present king of his gypsy band, with whom Christine and I gave our aid and remained for over a year. The boy's presence with us is due to the request of his father, to be my apprentice and see the world so that one day he might become a better leader of his people."
Her mouth parted in amazement. "Your apprentice?"
He gave scoffing chuckle. "Ironic, isn't it, that a band of gypsies in the forest could see what no one save for you and Christine would acknowledge at the opera house? Music…"
"They know?"
"They know." He glanced to the far side of the room. "The boy in the corner is Cedric, a French orphan who found his way to Spain and the presence of our company - after robbing me of my purse and Christine's ring on our journey months before that. He tends to the horses."
She blinked, shocked by the revelation. "The ring? But it was on Christine's finger. I saw it."
"Yes. It is now in its rightful place. She did not have it for months."
"Mon Dieu," she whispered. "That could have been bad."
"That time in our lives was hardly without difficulty. We had enemies at every turn." He looked at her. "I take it from your words, you know of the legend?"
"Oui, of course. Gustave told me the story when he entrusted me with the ring, to keep in safety until Christine chose her husband."
He gave a slight, pensive smile. "And all those years I thought I chose her."
"You chose each other. I knew of her decision on the night of the Bal Masque."
"As soon as that? You might have told me."
"Would you have listened?"
He snorted softly and raised his glass in a mock toast. "Touché." The whispers of darkness were all he had heard at the time.
Dominique worked to curb a smile and took another sip. "She may have attended the ball with another, but her heart was with you. It was clear in her every gesture and look as she approached you on those stairs. You two might as well have been alone, for all the notice you gave the other guests once you focused on each other." She helplessly shook her head. "But there were so many difficulties, too many difficulties. And the Vicomte -"
Erik frowned. "I have no wish to speak further of that night or of all that led to the demise of my kingdom."
"Of course." She sighed and drank more of her wine. "And the other children? How did they come to be in your care?"
"Narilla is Christine's ladies' maid and also helps her with Angelique. The Little One, Luminitsa, is her sister."
"Why does she wear the veil?" she prodded gently when he paused.
He narrowed his eyes. "A necessary adornment that stemmed from the evil of demons who posed as soldiers."
"Soldiers? They harmed her?"
"Imagine the worst scenario that could exist," he said grimly, "and you might come close."
Dominique pressed her hand to her heart. "Oh, how terrible...the poor child."
"She insists on wearing the veil except while sleeping. The other children in her band showed their disgust of her face. They mocked and belittled her for all of what she has suffered. Their actions came as no surprise." Erik grimaced. "We who have suffered life's injustices, the scars, the deformities, are nothing more than outcasts and monsters in a world of perfect people." He sneered the last words.
Dominique looked into her glass. "The soldiers, they hurt her very badly then?"
"They tore her face open with a blade after they smashed her innocence."
"Mon Dieu," she whispered and set down her glass with a bang, clearly shaken as she realized the full extent of his words. "She is but a child!"
"And bears the wisdom of men ten times her age, without needing to speak a word."
Dominique stared at him curiously. "You share a special affinity with her."
"We bear a common hardship."
"No," she said thoughtfully, staring at him. "It is more than that."
"I know how cruel the world can be to the innocents who bear the vicious mark of being different. She has yet to learn the extent of such persecution, though Christine and I will do what we must to safeguard her." And that was the second reason he had agreed to bring Luminitsa to France - the need to protect the girl had grown inside Erik since the night he and an unconscious Christine lost their first child, when the Little One had looked past his scars and been his sole comfort.
Dominique shook her head sadly. "You have come so far, yet in some matters you haven't changed."
"That is the second time you have made such a declaration. Explain yourself."
She hesitated, framing her words. "To see you walk so…freely…among others, comes as a great surprise. To see how freely they accept you."
"Without the mask," he interjected sarcastically.
"Yes." She straightened her shoulders, bolstering her courage. "In all the years I have known you, I have never seen you without one."
"If my face offends you…"
In disgust, he pushed himself up with one palm against the table, intending to quit her presence - stunned when her hand suddenly covered his. He narrowed his eyes at her in curiosity.
"Your face does not offend me. That is not what I meant. You have not changed in that respect. And I had hoped that by now…"
Her words trailed away as he continued to stare so intently, and she withdrew her grasp.
"As I told Christine, for what must be over three decades I have daily lived with the knowledge of hatred, fear, and disgust - over this." He waved a hand toward his flawed face. "Do not expect some miraculous conversion to occur and that I will forget all the torment or tormentors of my past."
"Not everyone is to you an enemy, but I think you have discovered that truth from what I have seen here tonight. That you would give aid to gypsies…." She shook her head in amazement.
He laughed in scorn and reclaimed his seat. "Do not give me credit where it is not due. I was backed into a corner. Agreeing to help the Romani was the only way I could obtain a priest who would ask no questions and perform the marriage ceremony for myself and Christine." He picked up his glass and drank the rest of his wine in a few swallows. "I have satisfied your curiosity and I tire of this subject. Tell me now, of your daughter. Christine is worried. Does she have just cause?"
With a sigh, Dominique poured more wine for herself. "She learned the truth of her heritage and despises me for it."
"All of it?"
"Most. Enough."
Erik recalled the day when Dominique Giry with her infant Meg had come to him when he'd been a young man, telling her sad tale of a naïve woman betrayed. She had pleaded for him to intervene with the imperious managers to give her a position and lodging. She had given him aid as a young, frightened boy, bringing him to the opera house to live. He could do no less and had not refused her, penning a note that night with instructions to hire Dominique, his first official communiqué as the Opera Ghost.
She shook her head bitterly. "I should have told her sooner. As the years passed, I had foolishly hoped that if the truth was never mentioned, it would never have to be. That it would somehow cease to exist. But she found a stack of old letters I kept and later confronted me about them. She has not spoken to me since she learned of my deceit."
"This trip you are taking involves your daughter?"
He noted her hesitance to speak and wondered as to the cause.
"Meg has become a companion to a Dowager Comtesse who lives in Rouen, and I have decided to move to that town and find a home there. Paris is no longer what it was since the terrible unrest of last year." She tilted her head, deep in thought as if reliving those moments then gave another weary sigh. "After receiving a recent letter from Rouen, I feel I should not tarry, but you and Christine should stay. My lease is not up for three weeks. The place is small and spare, not what you might be accustomed to, but my neighbors keep to themselves and you would be safer here than at a hotel, where it would be more difficult to hide."
"After what happened in the last hour, can you be so sure it's safe?"
"The child screaming? I thought she had a nightmare."
"Luminitsa has the uncanny ability to see the future in her dreams. If in her slumber she did witness a stranger's threat to my family, I will not so quickly dismiss her words as insignificant. Her dreams are what saved Christine."
"Perhaps then, you will not wish to remain. But in all of Paris, I can think of no place safer. There are those who might still remember the night of the Don Juan."
He gave an abrupt nod. "The past shall always haunt me. Mistakes cannot be so easily erased…I will consider your offer to stay."
She nodded and stood slowly then moved toward the cookstove. "Or…perhaps I have a better answer." She looked in his direction. "Come with me."
"With you?"
"Yes. Bring your family to Rouen."
He arched a wry brow. "The Dowager Comtesse would not mind uninvited strangers showing up unannounced on her doorstep?"
"I know her well enough to be assured that you and your family would be welcome at Le Manoir de Blanc La Rose, what is fondly called Whiterose." She poured coffee into two cups and brought them to the table, setting one before him. "The estate is huge and peaceful, nestled away in the countryside. It has rose gardens and a pond with ducks and geese. Vast expanses of lawn, with a forest nearby. It would be a lovely place for the children to roam and know safety..."
Erik peered intently at her face. Since Dominique introduced the subject, she had avoided his eyes, as if in guilt, making him wonder. But her rambling words were light and hardly blameworthy. He shook his head. The hour was late. He was exhausted after weeks of travel, with little sleep and mounting tension that never seemed to ebb. Surely he read something into her actions that failed to exist.
"Very well, Dominique. I will consider the matter."
.
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