Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee and for myself no quiet find.
-William Shakespeare
An hour after their little banter, Manon was to be found seated comfortably on the divan with a steaming cup of her own.
She adjusted herself, and the Phantom glanced up when he saw her wince and touch her side gingerly.
"It hasn't begun to bleed again, has it?" He looked at her sharply
"No, it hasn't." Manon, caught off-guard, became defensive.
He regarded her a moment more. Then, returning to his papers he said matter-of-factly,
"Just as well. Tomorrow I can clean the wound again and check its healing."
Manon nodded and leaned to place her now empty cup on the floor. It was unlike anything she had ever tasted - certainly nothing like the tea she was used to. It was a heady blend of nutmeg, pepper, cinnamon, and spices she didn't know, boiled with tea in milk to create a rich and soothing drink.
Savoring the ghosts of its flavors that roamed pleasurably about her lips and mouth, Manon suddenly caught sight of her foot sticking out from the tassels of the throw. The foot was rough and calloused – no surprises there – but it was streaked with dirt and grime. Remnants of a flight which was now, she realized, nearly a week ago.
She looked over at the Phantom, chewing her lower lip.
He looked up, and she pulled together her thoughts with surprising difficulty.
"Monsieur, I… is there anywhere…I mean to say, if it's not too much trouble…would you… accompany me to somewhere I can bathe?"
He looked at her incredulously, and remarked dryly:
"I hardly think that my "company" is just what you need at this particular juncture, mademoiselle."
Manon flushed with embarrassment.
"You know perfectly well that wasn't what I meant!" she cried. "I only meant I'd need you to tell me where…"
But she trailed off when she saw his mocking smirk. Damn him.
With supreme effort, Manon forced herself to wait for his response. At last, he rose.
"Come." He turned and beckoned her to follow. "Warm water will be good for your wound."
She followed without a word.
The Phantom lead her down the steps towards the edge of the lake and assisted her into the boat at the water's edge. Stepping in after her, he poled them slowly along the water's surface.
There was no sound except for the water lapping softly at the side of the boat.
Manon sat quietly, trailing one finger idly along in the water as behind her he steadily pushed the vessel onward, lost in his own thoughts.
She reflected on how strange the entire situation was, on how unsure and frankly bewildered she was at how little control she had over her fate at the moment.
And she was, if nothing, a woman who hated to feel helpless.
It was as though she were balancing on the edge of a blade: a precarious existence where she could only see the possibility of capture by Paris' finest….
Or else, the unfathomable other side of the blade – that with this Phantom. This strange existence was a complete unknown. Normal rules did not apply and reasonable expectations were dreamily warped and transformed. A man who was captor and savoir, tender yet ominous; a refuge that was both palace and crypt; an existence that felt impossible yet so very safe.
Manon felt as if she were plunging headlong onto a shadowy path ahead, and for once she could not for the life of her see any alternative, nor could she make sense of any of the fact that perhaps she didn't want to...
After a time, they reached the opposite shore. Erik stepped out lightly and tethered the boat to an iron ring fixed to the rock wall, and held the craft steady so that Manon could splash down next to him. He turned and began to stride down a passageway leading back up to the dancer's quarters, but turned after a few moments once he observed she was still several paces behind him.
She was walking, but slowly and slightly hunched, with one hand pressed to the slimy rock wall for support. Her jaw was set tightly, but her dark eyes were narrowed in pain and concentration.
Erik shut his eyes for a moment and sighed. Desire and willingness to walk on her own did not mean she had the capacity to, however stubbornly she tried. He'd been foolish to let her.
As he walked back to her, he realized that it was not just an issue of her injury, but of darkness. Compared to the grotto, it was full dark. His eyes, accustomed to the darkness, had no trouble peering cat-like through the gloom.
He retrieved a second lantern from the boat at the water's edge and walked back up to where she stood warily.
Erik stood for a moment, awkwardly.
"If you will…lean on my shoulder, mademoiselle, we can be on our way up the passage to the rooms above." He held an arm out stiffly.
She straightened abruptly.
"I can manage myself, monsieur, thank you very much," she said coldly. "This extra light will be all I need." She took a step forward.
"Mademoiselle…" Erik repeated, stepping forward again, and slipped an arm around her back to support her weigh. She pushed him away again indignantly, which resulted in a brief scuffle.
"MANON!" Erik burst out, startling her. "If you tear open the wound in your side, it is I who shall have to mend it! I am not trying to damage your pride, merely do what is sensible!"
The woman stood still, momentarily stunned. But after a second, the flame of indignation shrank in her eyes, and she hesitantly leaned upon his arm, gripping him as he tightened his hold on her back when she faltered.
After what seemed to Erik like an eternity, they finally reached the mirror in Manon's former room. Strange that he should be the one to be disconcerted by the lengthy trek upwards through the catacombs, as he had walked the passageways a thousand times or more.
Now, however, the walk seemed interminable.
He had to focus on navigating the passageways.
On holding the lantern high.
On making sure that Manon was walking easily.
On ignoring that disturbing but deeply pleasurable sensation of Manon's soft grunts of effort thrumming against his chest.
Erik all but lunged for the hidden mechanism that slid open the mirror and the pair of them eased through it. He led her down the dark hallways into the opulent dressing rooms of none other than La Carlotta.
Erik left Manon at the door and entered the dusty room, savoring the memories of the callous entertainment of tricks he had so often played on the diva.
But as fortune would have it, the finicky primadonna had insisted that her dressing room be equipped with a porcelain basin attached to the public cistern for her to bathe in. This had turned out to be a boon for him, as it had been a simple matter for him to divert some of the piping to supply his own home with running water. With the opera abandoned, he still never bothered to use this room for bathing, but at Manon's request he had immediately thought of it.
He returned to the hallway where Manon still stood. She eyed him suspiciously, only to note him surveying her.
"What?" she demanded.
After a moment, he looked back up.
"Come," he said enigmatically.
The Phantom took her arm once again and led her a short way down the corridor to a second dressing room. Manon ducked beneath drapes of cobwebs and stepped into the room, twisting her head around to take in the scene.
Dusty rows of gowns and ballet costumes lines the walls in wooden armoires like a vivid rainbow disguised by soft gray veils. Spun-glass trinkets stood along carved wooden shelves; graceful flowers, prowling animals and angels all sat poised, as if they had all been in the midst of a dance when the inconveniences of time and neglect had taken them by surprise, sprinkling their festivities with a velvet layer of dust and freezing them mid-step. Manon was completely enchanted.
"This was the dressing room of La Sorelli, prima ballerina of the corps de ballet," the Phantom told her over his shoulder. "Those are largely ballet ensembles, but these…" he ran a hand over a row of garments in a corner among which appeared to be an array of cloaks, day dresses, evening gowns, shifts and petticoats and more. "You are welcome to choose several pieces to replace your own….frock. It does look rather the worse for wear," he remarked unkindly.
Manon scowled. Then to her surprise, his smirk faded slightly and he looked down at the ground. She watched grumpily as he avoided her eye and brushed his hand busily along the tops of the gowns, dusting them off, temporarily enveloping the two of them in a haze of dust.
Erik looked back up at her. "I will go to fill the basin with hot water from the cistern" he said, sliding back into a business-like demeanor. "You remember which was the room I showed you?"
Manon nodded.
"Good. There are plenty of….bath oils, and soaps and such left over from La Carlotta which you may use at your leisure." He conveyed this with almost comic awkwardness, as if he was uncomfortable with such frivolities as scented frippery. "When you have finished, call out for me and I will be with you presently."
"Alright…thank you," Manon said to his retreating form.
After he had left, Manon let out a long breath. She wished she didn't feel that she was imposing so much. Manon hated being so indebted to someone else, so reliant.
But then again, this Phantom had been nothing but accommodating to her for the entire time she had been in his care. Hadn't he taken the initiative to harbor her in the first place?
Oh well. No sense in pondering it now. She had the feeling that even if she wanted to leave, he would have made it…difficult.
She started thumbing through the armoires, examining each piece critically. Some of them were terribly provocative, she noticed. What's more, she hadn't worn anything like these in years…anything remotely feminine had always been too cumbersome for someone who spent their days in hiding.
Although, she thought, I'm not exactly on the run right now, am I? She fingered the lace-trimmed neckline of a midnight-blue gown with playful embroidery on its bodice.
Manon closed her eyes, breathed in as much as she possibly could, and blew it all out, smiling. She wasn't running anymore. For better or for worse, she had a safe and frankly placid existence in this "Phantom's" care. And damn it, she wasn't going to continue wearing ragged and serviceable clothing with all the comfort and appeal of a flour sack.
Humming to herself now, Manon continued to look through the gowns, adding to her blue choice ones in soft mossy green, black gossamer, dove-gray wool, wine-colored silk, and linen of russet and inky violet. They were all finer and far lovelier than she was used to, but they were actually the simplest and least extravagant she could find. Manon also selected a few delicate chemises, a corset and a robe.
This Sorelli character must have been quite the talented dancer, Manon thought, in awe of the extraordinary finery of just the undergarments, let alone the rest of the gowns. She caught sight of a few gaudy and risqué pieces. On and off the stage, I see! Manon laughed aloud.
She made her way down the corridor holding both her gowns and her side, and finally found Carlotta's dressing room again. True to his word, the Phantom had filled the large porcelain basin behind the partition with steaming water. She also found a long shelf holding several dozen glass vials, each holding some sort of bath oil or other. Manon examined them and smelled a few hesitantly, but reeled back, choking. Each one she smelled was some gaudy floral concoction more overpowering than the last.
In hopes of finding something, anything that would clean off the grime on her body but didn't make her eyes water, she shuffled the clinking bottles around and finally found a few bars of milled savon still wrapped in thick wax paper. Praying fervently that this meant that their scents weren't cloying enough for the former diva, Manon discovered to her pleasure that they held the softer scents of lavender, rosemary, almond, and vanilla.
Eyes on the steaming bathwater, Manon dumped the fine fabrics them unceremoniously onto a chair beside the basin and began stripping off her dirty clothing as quickly as she dared.
Her head suddenly spun, and she was conscious of a tenderness in her wound as she shimmied of her shift. She had to grab the back of the chair to keep from falling over. But the siren's song of the bath was one she couldn't resist, and so she ignored it.
Manon slid ecstatically into the feminine bliss of a good hot bath. Fugitive though she may be, she was still, above all things a woman. A small, feline smile tipped the corners of her mouth.
The minutes ticked by slowly. She lazily dribbled streams of water across her chest and knees and abdomen, creating patterns of little rivulets that flowed across her skin. She slid the bar of almond oil soap in patterns down her arms, flicking the suds with her toes. Manon remembered to pay particular attention to her feet, and scrubbed at them vigorously until they were pink. She kneaded the back of her neck and shoulders, reveling in the way that the heat, oil and pressure unbraided the tension which had settled so deeply in.
Letting her long, sopping hair trail down to the floor, Manon eased her head back onto the edge of the basin and exhaled in a hum of pleasure, closing her eyes.
"What, late again, Manon?"
Manon heard a chuckle as she rushed into the small room, banging the door shut behind her. The ever-welcome sight of Charles met her eyes, his curly hair the color of summer straw, rumpled from the day. He sat astride an old wooden chair, tapping a wood and horsehair bow against his knee as she flung herself into the matching chair beside him.
"I'm sorry, Charles, truly I am. It was absolute hell getting him to let me leave. You know how it is…I had to sit there for ages with my eyes down, and…"
"Enough, enough Manon," Charles stopped her, ruffling her hair affectionately and playfully smothering her face with a calloused hand. A relieved happiness swelled up inside her and released itself in a short, loud sigh that ended in a smile.
"You're here now, and the music is impatient. Start off, will you?" and he handed her the bow, reaching down into the velvet case at his feet to draw out his beautiful, beautiful violin. After looking it over fondly for a moment, he handed it to her with a smile.
"You play it today," he said warmly. "I'll play the old nag, see if I can make her sing."
He picked up the weathered violin that had been her longtime companion. Nothing special, but it was sturdy and faithful.
With a delighted wiggle, Manon held Charles' own instrument to her chin, smelling beeswax and nutmeg and a hundred fond memories. She looked forward to these evening lessons more than anything else (though that wasn't saying much) thanks to Charles. Even though she was only twelve, he had been teaching her for years and had fused to her soul and adoration for music and its emotional powers. After hearing him play for the first time years ago, Manon had found her young face wet with tears and her innocent heart beating fact with the desire to do the same thing… to that same wordless rapture and to weave that beauty for herself.
She couldn't believe she was getting to play his own violin today. She ran her thumb over the gleaming rosewood of the neck greedily and lovingly.
"Let's be daring today. Something cheery?" he prompted her. She began playing, and was shaky on the first few notes, as usual, but Charles guided her frustrated fingers and arms into that same position he urged her to use again and again. She continued, more strongly this time, letting the sound rise from the instrument, him correcting her grip from time to time or pointing out a note that didn't quite fit.
Once she had found a rhythm, he joined in, adding a chirping harmony that wound around and in between her notes, creating a shyly cheerful tune, rich and simple.
They played and played. Manon's eyes were closed, but she was smiling. Music was for her an intensely personal experience that she would only ever share with Charles. He knew he understood, would never ask her to explain things she couldn't describe, but would help her nurture them nevertheless. He would never judge, never blame, never laugh – only listen. And understand. For that, she loved him more than anything else in creation.
After what seemed like all too short a time, however, Manon heard the door behind her bang open.
She froze, bow in hand, as she smelled that hateful, telltale mixture of stale tobacco and flint.
Her father.
Manon turned around slowly, her eyes to the floor, letting the instrument slip quietly into her lap.
Edward Moreau, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe in a practiced gesture of indifference, authority, and mockery, folded his arms across his chest. He cast his pale, calculating eyes about the room and surveyed the two of them. His vest was unbuttoned and rumpled, and he had the reckless air of a man who had been recently displeased. Manon knew better than to say anything.
He ran a hand over his ruddy cheeks and short, coarse beard as if too annoyed to notice her, and settled his stare on Charles.
"We have work to do," he said shortly, and with a brief, appraising glance at Manon, he left.
Manon turned at once. She looked up at Charles pleadingly, but he avoided her eyes and put the old instrument he was holding back in its leather case.
"We'll continue where we left off tomorrow," he said, attempting to smile, but his eyes had dimmed. He took his own instrument from her to wrap in its velvet sack.
"Charles, please -" she began, but he turned suddenly and looked at her – sadly, frustratedly, pityingly – and she fell silent. Then he gave a small smile and he took her face in his hands, palms on either side of her young cheeks. Even his freckles suddenly looked sad. He kissed her on her furrowed brow.
"A demain, ma belle," he said to her as he walked out the door. He gave her one final smile before shutting it, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the dull thud of the door as it closed behind him.
Manon's eyes flew open and she jerked out of her reverie, sloshing water over the side of the basin. She looked around herself, realizing where and when she was.
Oh, she realized mutely. Lovely.