He tried to ignore her when her face grew dark with pain, but it was difficult. He picked up the catiling, a flat silver instrument like a shaving knife. Stretching the skin around the wound, he began to pick at the unevenly torn skin to better visualize her wound. She shuddered as he peeled off a delicately scabbed later of skin, blood beginning to flow freely. Putting the catiling down he picked out the sounder, a long thin implement with a curved sinister hook.

The Phantom's hands were steady, skilled as any surgeon's.

Manon had felt plenty of physical pain before, but this was excruciating. It felt as if her side was flayed, the manipulations of the instruments lancing through her body like fire. She would have thrashed and screamed if she had the breath to.

She opened her her eyes as she had a moment's reprieve, then squeezed them close again as she saw the long, curved instrument that was nearing. She briefly entertained the foolish hope that it would never reached the wound.

Manon could feel nothing for a moment,

Then she let out a strangled gasp.

Pain.

"Merde," came quiet clenched curse from Moreau's mouth. The Phantom could see that she tried to keep from writhing, but she shuddered constantly. He began to open the bloody hole, stretching it. Not only was the blood already making the handle of the sounder slippery, but her trembling made it even harder. Reluctantly, he lifted the instrument from her wound and looked up at the woman's pale face.

She opened her eyes again. Aside from her ragged breathing, the dark room was silent.

Then Moreau reached out and clasped his bloodied hand in hers, pain and a new softness clashing in her bloodshot eyes. She gently drew his hand to her wound, the sounder in his grip.

"Please," she whispered.

Without a word, the Phantom continued.

Moreau was as pale a marble as he finished tucking the ends of the fresh linen bandage. He followed her gaze to the bedside table and to the single gory bullet that lay beside his bloody implements. She seemed to be in a daze, but he was relieved to see that her ragged breathing had lessened and that her eyes were clearer.

He stood, rinsing his bloodied hands in the basin and gathering the implements into it. He retrieved their tough canvas carrier and turned to leave.

As he did so she spoke,

"I appreciate…this, monsieur " came her murmur. Her eyes remained on the bullet, avoiding his gaze.

He nodded politely,

"Sleep now, mademoiselle."

And she did.

The Phantom had never heard of one who slept for so long. This woman slept for a whole night and a day, only drifting awake for moments. Knowing that sleep would do good for her healing wounds, he let her be. The Phantom retreated to his abode as she slept, returning to her room in the dancer's quarters only once to relight the candle lantern and to lay food on the side table for when she awakened.

His eyes fell on her as he crept back into the shadows and behind the safety of his mirror.

Moreau's skin was still so very pale, and dark circles hung under her eyes.

Perhaps we have a fever in store, he suspected dourly as he noted her pallid lips. His jaw clenched as he wondered if taking care of this woman was more than it was worth.

Then the memory of the touch of her hand, the softness in her eyes, came into his mind.

Her tired, hollow voice filled his ear, "I appreciate…this, monsieur" she had said, eyes turning away from him. Even in the midst of her pain, she still held onto pride.

It had been to many years since he had felt the soft skin of a woman, however callused Moreau's hand had been. It had been many years since he had felt one was worth knowing. And her soft appellation of him as "monsieur" hung in his unwillingly greedy ears.

The Phantom's eyes went to her again as she shifted in her sleep. Her chestnut hair was flung wide over the pillow, flowing around her head. He was torn between admiration and pity for this young woman even as his suspicion remained.

Did she know the price upon his head? Perhaps, though even if she did, it was a convenient security for him that it appeared she was a fugitive as well.

He wondered for what crime.

Movement from the bed disrupted the Phantom's thoughts, drawing his eyes back to the young woman.

Moreau was now awake, and pathetically attempting to sit up. Predictably, she failed, and slumped back on the pillow. She lay still upon the bed and raised her arm to shield her eyes from the light of the lantern, though the flame burned dimly.

He became aware of the cold in the room, though it no longer affected him, from the shivers that wracked her beneath the covers.

Or perhaps it's fever.

He watched for a few moments as she continued to shiver. But before it occurred to him to retrieve a blanket, Moreau shifted her body and slowly reached out to her canvas sack that lay on the chair beside her bed, dragging it toward her. She reached inside and weakly began to pull out fabric. It was a wool cloak, dyed in a rich midnight blue. Long and with a weighty hood, the cloak was clearly made for a man, and noticeably a rich one. This was certainly not a garment for a woman who lived on the streets.

To the Phantom, it looked oddly familiar.

The weight that she used to cherish in this cloak was rapidly becoming a ridiculous burden as she heaved at it. Finally retrieving it, Manon began the excruciating task of trying to get the cloak over her body without having hell shoot up her side. She managed to drag it to her chest before flopping back beneath the heavy wool.

Even with the new shroud, the cold air continued to make her teeth chatter. Yet the cloak helped nevertheless, summoning warm, quiet memories that warmed her from within. Under the soft wool, Manon could still smell the handsome musky scent like nutmeg. She turned her body slowly, taking in a long hissing breath at the pain in her side, as she curled toward the wall. She lay there for a few moments, tucking her fingers against her chin and waiting for her body to warm.

Manon didn't notice it a first, but slowly a shadow descended behind her, obscuring the lantern's glow. She felt her stomach clench in some unexplained fear. She knew it was him, The Phantom of the Opera, but such silence in his movement unnerved her.

"Are you still cold?" came a whisper.

Manon took a deep steadying breath before turning stiffly. With as much composure as she could, she regarded the man towering beside her.

"Y-yes." The word hitched on a shiver. Damn it.

Then Phantom nodded, mask glowing, and in one graceful movement he unhooked his own dark cloak. He gently draped it over her, sheet, blanket, wool cloak and all.

Manon looked at it, then at him. She saw that he wore a waistcoat of a soft burgundy with a loose linen shirt.

"Thank you," she said in surprise.

The Phantom nodded and sat down on the chair.

They were silent for a few moments, Moreau quietly fingering his cloak, the Phantom watching her out of the corner of his eye. He didn't know what to say, and was regretting staying, until his leg bumped into something as he shifted. He looked down to see Moreau's sack. Leaning down, the Phantom picked it up.

"May I ask what it inside, mademoiselle?" he asked as he handed the bag to her. She took it, eyes softening as she gave a grateful nod.

"Just some small things." She tried to sit up, wincing. The Phantom reached out to help her, grasping her arm and lightly propping her against the headboard.

She glanced at him in thanks and then reached into the sack. The Phantom watched curiously as she rummaged around for a moment. She then pulled out a book, the binding worn and the pages yellow.

Curious, the Phantom drew closer and read the cover.

Salons: Critique d'Art

Denis Diderot

A look of longing crossed his face.