The approval of one's own conscience is a very heady draught; and specially for those who are not accustomed to it.
~ C.S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength
"We have to leave Paris."
Christine made the pronouncement later that evening, at the end of a quiet, awkward dinner that both their stomachs had been too knotted to enjoy. It was the longest sentence she'd said to anyone since fleeing out into the garden that afternoon, and Raoul's first thought was relief that she was, at the very least, speaking to him again.
"You're probably right." He set down his wine. "We ought to go somewhere quiet, until the uproar dies down." After a moment's thought, he continued, "What do you think of Bretagne? I'll find some sort of work on the water, and we can start a new life for ourselves, away from all of this." Trying to make her smile, he added, "We could even visit Perros again."
She hesitated, looking down at her barely-touched plate. "It's a lovely idea. But … there's somewhere else I'm thinking of."
He tilted his head, curious. "Where's that?"
Christine took a deep breath. "I want to go back to Sweden. Last night, after you asked me if I still had any relatives there, I started to wonder." She bit her lip. "And then earlier, after Philippe said all those things about me –"
"I still can't believe he was so vile to you," Raoul interrupted, his teeth gritting as he remembered. "I wish I knew what brought that out of him."
"I can only imagine. And truly, most of it didn't bother me all that much. But when he called me a girl of no family … he wasn't wrong about that."
She straightened up. "But maybe I can still prove him wrong. I've been thinking about it all afternoon. If I could go back to Sweden, and visit the village my mother came from, she might still have relatives there. I might have all sorts of family, just waiting to be found, if I only take the first step."
Raoul frowned. "You really want to undertake such a journey just because of a few rude words my brother said?"
"It's not just because of Philippe. Last night, after we talked, I had a dream."
She told him of the long-ago visit to the church with her parents, describing all the paintings her father had pointed out to her. She spoke of the vision that had come afterwards, of seeing herself speaking her own wedding vows at the church's altar. "What if that dream came to me for a reason? That church is real – I remember it. My father told me that he and my mother were married there. Perhaps I'm meant to go there now!"
Raoul was starting to grow uneasy. Hearing Christine talk like this reminded him entirely too much of how she'd sounded when she first told him of her visits from the Angel of Music – delighted, but also fearful, and desperate to make herself believe in something that she badly wanted to be true.
"I have a little money saved," she went on. "It's not enough for passage to Sweden, but it could get us as far as Calais, and we could live there for a while until we save more."
His frown deepened. "Are you so sure we need to leave France entirely?"
"Raoul, I have to do this!" It came out louder than she had meant it to. She paused, surprised at herself, and hesitated as she began to realize how troubled he was by all she'd said. "But if you truly don't want to, I'll go alone."
"I didn't mean that!" He was on his feet quickly, moving around the table to be by her side. "You know I'll go anywhere you go. I'm only saying, such a decision ought to be based on more than just a dream. Perhaps you should wait a day or two, and think it over some more? We have a little time before Philippe returns."
"I can't afford to wait." She rose from her chair. "You heard what Madame Giry and Monsieur Khan said. The gendarmes will be coming for me at any moment!"
He reached for her hand, intending to pull her close and comfort her. "They don't know where you are right now. And even if they did, you didn't do anything wrong."
Her eyes widened, and she drew away from him. "You still don't understand, do you? They don't care if I'm guilty or not! They just need to arrest and punish someone for what happened. And if they can't get Erik, I'm the next best choice!"
For a brief moment, Raoul considered if they ought to simply stop protecting Erik and turn him over to the police. It seemed like a wretched thing to do now, after he'd offered the man hospitality, but it might solve all their problems.
Except, he quickly realized, there was no way to do that without the police finding out that the two of them had helped Erik escape in the first place, and had been harboring him for the last few days. None of that would do anything to clear the allegations that Christine was the Phantom's willing accomplice. Raoul knew Philippe could most likely keep him out of prison, but after today, he suspected his brother would be only too willing to let Christine be sent to Saint-Lazare (or worse, to the guillotine) if it meant Raoul would be freed from her influence.
"At least think it over until tomorrow." He raised an eyebrow. "Surely you weren't planning for us to flee to Calais this very night?"
The way Christine froze for a moment told him that she had, in fact, been considering that. But eventually she relaxed, and nodded. "All right. I'll think it over until morning."
In the end, the decision was made for her. The sun had barely risen the next morning when Commissaire Mifroid and one of his junior officers appeared on the townhouse's doorstep.
Thanks to a timely warning from Marie-Inès, Christine was able to disappear down to the kitchen, where she could easily slip out of the house if she had to. Once he was sure she was safely hidden, Raoul did his best to compose himself before he made his way to the foyer.
"Good morning, Commissaire." He tried, perhaps a little too hard, to keep his tone breezy and his face guileless. "I do apologize, I wasn't expecting visitors at this hour."
"Then I'll get right to the point." Mifroid's tone was cold and formal. "We've come to speak to Mademoiselle Daaé."
"... I'm afraid she's not here. Is something the matter?"
The flinty-eyed young officer by Mifroid's side stepped forward. "There's no point in protecting her, Monsieur le Vicomte. We have it from her landlady that Christine Daaé left her flat the day before yesterday in your carriage, accompanied by your servant."
"I invited her for an evening's visit, yes," Raoul replied, pleased with himself for his quick thinking, "but she isn't here any longer. What is it you need to speak to her about?"
Mifroid's eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. "She's wanted for questioning about the events at the Opera Populaire. We have reason to believe she was more intimately involved than what we had been told."
Raoul tensed. "And just what do you mean by that?"
The young officer's lip twisted in a sneer. "Surely it's obvious? You saw for yourself how she behaved on the stage that night. She threw herself at the Phantom! Rubbed herself all over him like a cat in heat. And when he took her offstage, she certainly didn't put up much of a fight."
Mifroid nodded in grim agreement. "Innocent men are dead, monsieur. There has to be justice done. The Sûreté was more than cooperative when you and the Opera asked for our help, but your plan failed, and now it's time to let the law put an end to this farce."
Raoul was silent for a long moment, trying desperately to think of something he could tell the officers that would make them leave. This sort of subterfuge had never come easily to him.
And worse, despite all his love and trust for Christine, he couldn't quite brush off the young officer's words.
He had seen the way Christine behaved when she sang with the Ph– … with Erik. How she'd let him caress her far more intimately than the blocking called for. How she'd clutched his hands, and pressed her body close against him. And when he'd finally fled the stage with her in his grasp, it had almost seemed as if she was following him willingly.
In the dark corners of Raoul's heart, it still troubled him now. And it made it hard for him to think of anything to say at all, let alone something clever enough to get through to the officers …
"What crime, specifically, is she being accused of?"
Marie-Inès' question snapped the vicomte out of his thoughts. He saw Mifroid frown at the woman standing beside the door in her plain dress and apron, as if paying attention to her presence for the first time. "That doesn't concern you."
"But it does concern me, " Raoul spoke up quickly, with a grateful glance at the housemaid. "As her future husband, I have a right to know what the charges are against her. Unless there's some new law I'm not aware of, being a splendid actress and trying not to enrage a maniac making advances on her are not illegal."
Mifroid hesitated, clearly not having expected this response from the naive young aristocrat. "As I said, we wish to question her. Let us escort her to the station, and I promise, she'll come to no harm."
The commissaire's tone was calm, almost gentle, and Raoul could almost have believed him. But out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the flinty-eyed officer stroking his fingers over the handle of his truncheon. It might have been an unconscious gesture on his part, but it left little doubt in Raoul's mind about what sort of 'questioning' the gendarmes had planned for Christine.
He straightened up, taking on the commanding military posture from his time as a midshipman. "If she's not being charged with a crime, then we have nothing more to discuss. And regardless, for the last time, she is not here."
Mifroid's frown deepened. "Monsieur, you may think you're being a gentleman by protecting the woman you love. But Daaé isn't worth your protection. You're too good a lad to let yourself become mired in whatever this is she's got you involved in."
Raoul's jaw tensed at being called 'lad'. "Who I offer my protection to is my choice, commissaire. I do thank you for all you've done, and should I see Christine, I'll of course inform her of your visit. But until then, our business is concluded."
"Monsieur –"
"I must ask you to leave, gentlemen. I have a busy day ahead of me." Raoul stood his ground, facing down the gendarmes.
To the visible dismay of his younger officer, Mifroid finally lowered his gaze. "Very well. But we will be checking in again soon. If Daaé truly is as innocent as you say, there's no reason for her to hide."
Raoul managed not to flinch at the commissaire's choice of words. He held his tongue, watching in straight-backed silence as the two gendarmes departed and Marie-Inès closed the door behind them. It wasn't until he saw them cross the entrance court and disappear through the logis-porche that he finally allowed himself to breathe.
"Christine's right. We have to leave France entirely."
Comtois offered to ask the rest of the staff if they could each spare a few francs to help pay for ship's passage, but Raoul refused. "You've all done more than enough already. Christine and I can certainly stay hidden in Calais for a while until we have enough to pay our own way."
He hoped that would be true, at least. In reality, he knew it was all too plausible that the gendarmes would look to Calais as the likely destination for someone seeking to flee north out of the country.
As he made his way to talk to Christine, Raoul was suddenly aware of a presence behind him in the hall. At the top of the kitchen stairs, he paused, and turned to find himself face to face with Erik.
Raoul tensed, watching his former enemy closely. Alone with him in the shadowed hallway, the vicomte was all too aware that the once-Phantom was half a head taller than him. Behind the eyeholes of the leather mask, his yellow eyes gleamed in the dimness in a way Raoul had never before seen in a human being.
For a moment, his healing throat seemed to burn with remembered pain, and it took him time before he managed to say anything. "... Did you wish to speak to me?"
"... Yes." There was a note of nervousness in Erik's voice. He cleared his throat, and Raoul began to realize that the other man was almost as uncomfortable right now as he was. "I overheard you speaking to the gendarmes earlier. And I understand that you and Christine intend to leave the country?"
Raoul frowned, wondering just how many conversations his guest had eavesdropped on over the last few days. Realizing it was probably pointless to lie now, he nodded. "She wishes to return to Sweden."
"As worthy a destination as any, I suppose." Erik tilted his head. "Do you speak any Swedish, vicomte?"
"I'll learn." He glanced at the stairs. "Besides, we won't be able to go there right away. I'll have some time to practice while we earn enough money for passage."
"... As a matter of fact, that's one reason I wished to speak to you."
Raoul narrowed his eyes, suspicious but curious. "Is that so?"
The older man drew in a deep, uneasy breath. "I am … very grateful for your hospitality these last few days. You opened your home and offered me help when I'd given you precious little reason to."
"Christine asked me to. That's reason enough."
Erik's scarred mouth quirked. "I can certainly understand that. Vicomte …" He hesitated for a long moment, as though he were having to drag up his next words from some deep, shadowed place in his heart and force them out into the light. "... We both love Christine, don't we?"
"Is this really a subject we need to discuss?"
Realizing how uneasy he was making the younger man with his choice of words, Erik changed tactics. "What I mean is, we both wish for Christine to be happy, don't we?"
Raoul remembered three nights ago. He thought of how Erik, still reeling from what Raoul now realized might be the first kiss he'd ever received, had told Christine to leave with the man she loved, and to forget him and all that had happened. "... Yes, we do."
"We both wish to see her safe, and out of reach of the law?"
"I should hope so."
"Then surely it makes sense for us both to do whatever we can to ensure that happens." Erik started to slip one hand into his waistcoat. "Therefore, I wish to give you this."
To Raoul's astonishment, he produced a pair of thousand franc notes. They were deeply creased, obviously having lain folded in a pocket for a long time, but the blue ink was still perfectly legible. As the vicomte watched, Erik carefully unfolded one of the banknotes, and held it out to him.
Raoul stared. "Do you always carry this much on you?"
Erik laughed quietly. "An old habit from the life I used to lead. It saved me more than once in the past, and I've never seen reason to give it up. And it would seem that's turned out well for you and Christine now."
The banknote loomed in Raoul's vision, deeply tempting. A thousand francs was more than enough to take both him and Christine to Sweden, with enough left over to live on for a few months if they were frugal with their spending.
But he knew where this money must have come from. He was already guilty of helping a murderer escape, and harboring a fugitive in his home. Was he willing to make himself complicit in extortion as well?
"... Are you truly only doing this to help Christine?" He watched Erik closely. "You don't expect anything from us in return?"
"Consider it a small repayment for your hospitality." Erik hesitated. "And, I may have listened in on your visit with some acquaintances of mine yesterday, when they told you that helping me would end badly for you. Ever since then, I've found myself haunted by the desire to prove them wrong." He gave a small, bitter smile. "Out of spite, if nothing else."
Raoul couldn't help smiling a little as well. That, at least, sounded like something he could believe the Phantom might do.
He reached out, and took the banknote from Erik's hand.
"Thank you. This will mean all the world to her."
The Café Providentia was not the sort of establishment Carlu Santoni was used to doing business in. Located not far from the Pont Saint-Michel, it was a quiet, elegant little place that catered mostly to students from the nearby university. As he made his way up the sunny street that ran along the south bank of the Seine, he could see, as he always did, the looming shape of Notre Dame just across the river – Santoni was far from a devout Catholic, but he still couldn't help feeling a little uncomfortable about conducting his particular sort of business under the eyes of a church.
But this was where his current employer preferred to meet, and Santoni knew better than to argue with those who paid for his services. Especially when they paid so generously as this one.
He stepped through the door under the painted sign of the goddess Providentia, in her flowing robes with her book and astrolabe in hand. Silently, he approached the bar – a lone, stocky, middle-aged man with a hard face and graying black hair, dressed in an old brown topcoat, standing out among the youthful students and strolling lunchtime couples like a fleabitten street dog who'd snuck into the place for scraps.
The bartender, recognizing him, gave him a nod of greeting. "They're expecting you. The usual room."
Santoni nodded in return. Through a narrow, smoky corridor, he made his way to a hidden room at the back of the café, well familiar from other visits over the past few months.
The room was small and windowless, lit only by a single candle in a wall sconce near the door. Seated at the shadow-draped table was his employer, the man that Santoni's corner of Paris' criminal underworld had come to refer to as Le Chouette. An already-drained cup of coffee sat before him (Santoni had never seen him touch anything stronger than coffee, but he drank the stuff in nearly inhuman quantities), and he watched Santoni's arrival with the chill, piercing gaze that had earned him his sobriquet even when out of his brass-beaked mask.
Voclain, one of Santoni's associates, was already at the table with him. If the unfortunate Théodore Remy had been present, instead of currently strapped to a bed at Sainte-Anne hospital, he would have recognized the foppish man with spectacles who had approached him the day before. He'd switched the bright red wig for a mousy blond one closer to what was left of his natural hair, but his face was still heavily made up and eerily smooth-looking.
To Santoni's disgust, Voclain removed his spectacles. His nose and most of his right cheek came off with them, revealing scabby, oozing lesions and the sunken, decayed ruin that was his real nose, and he began cleaning the inside of the painted prosthetic with a silk handkerchief and no trace of shame.
"Must you do that this very moment?"
Voclain chuckled, amused by the other man's revulsion. "Yes, I must. I'll hardly be any use to you if I suffocate on my own phlegm."
Le Chouette, for his part, seemed unbothered by the sight. He gestured for Santoni to take a seat, and pushed his coffee cup aside to rest his folded hands on the table.
"Have your men confirmed the information?"
Always right to the point, Santoni thought. It was a trait he appreciated in an employer. "Yes. They spotted the Girys leaving the building this morning. Their flat's on the second floor, on the corner next to the alley."
"Excellent. I will make the visit tonight."
The false nose cleaned to his satisfaction, Voclain fixed the spectacles and prosthetic back onto his face. "And what is it you wished me to do, monsieur? You said there was a special task for me alone."
"There is." Le Chouette reached for a valise on the floor beside him. "Madame Giry is our best lead at present, but there is still a chance we may catch the target elsewhere. If he has not already left the city, he will probably attempt to go north. Therefore, you are to go to the Gare du Nord, and watch for any sign of him."
He produced a photograph, still encased in an engraved silver frame, and laid it on the table before Santoni and Voclain. "This is the man we are seeking."
Santoni leaned in for a closer look, and grimaced. "Poor fellow. No wonder he looks unhappy about having his picture taken."
"Indeed," Voclain chuckled. "One of my fellow invalids?"
Le Chouette shook his head. "A deformity from birth, by all reports. This image was taken twenty-three years ago, but I am sure he will still be recognizable now. And regardless, he will almost certainly be wearing a mask."
Voclain struck a match, casting more light on the photograph. He studied it closely, memorizing it with all the determination of a bloodhound taking in the scent of the quarry its master was about to set it on. "What of his voice? What should I listen for?"
It wasn't an idle question. The disfigured man had an uncanny talent for recognizing both faces and voices in a crowd, even when their owners made an effort to disguise both – it was the reason Santoni had brought him into the fold of his associates.
"I have never heard him myself, but I am told his voice is a haunting, divine thing." Le Chouette sniffed dismissively. "But it is probably enough for you to know that he is a tenor, and he is eloquent when he wishes to be. His accent is French, but other Frenchmen have described it as difficult to place."
"That should be enough to go on." Voclain doused the nearly-spent match in his glass of wine, and set the photograph down. "And what should I do if I spot him?"
"Do not try to engage him. He is a dangerous opponent, you will not stand a chance. Take note of where he goes, and what he does, and notify me right away so we may follow him."
Santoni raised an eyebrow. "Are you so certain he'll go north by train?"
A hint of a smile touched Le Chouette's mouth. "He has burned too many bridges on the rest of the continent to go any other direction. He probably intends to leave Europe entirely, and as fast as possible. The train is his best chance, whether he travels openly or in concealment."
He narrowed his eyes at Voclain, who was in the middle of pouring a generous dropper of laudanum into his wine. "Did I not say you were to go watch for him?"
Voclain gave a sour frown. For a moment it looked as if he might refuse, but instead, he simply downed the opium-laced wine in one smooth, swift gulp ("It'll keep my nerves steady," he quipped when he saw the look Santoni was giving him), and retrieved his coat and hat.
As he watched his associate depart, Santoni considered, not for the first time, that a different man in Voclain's place might have viewed being stricken with syphilis as a warning that he ought to mend his ways. He might have tried to find some healing for his soul in the time he had left – dedicated himself to charity, perhaps, and made use of the education his rich family had paid for. At the very least, he might have stopped spending so much on the libertine lifestyle that had led to his sickness in the first place.
A different man might have done any of those things, but Étienne Voclain was not that sort of man. If anything, the disease had made him worse, for now he lived as though he had nothing more to lose. But with his inheritance gone, his appetite for fine clothes, intoxicating substances, and other pleasures of the flesh (not to mention the ever-increasing cost of prosthetics, mercury treatments, and whatever quack nostrums he was currently trying) meant he was willing to do just about anything for money, which made him useful enough to Santoni that he'd learned to tolerate most of his vices.
When he'd first made his way over from Corsica as a young man, Santoni had brought with him his grandfather's vendetta knife and a loyal handful of fellow gangsters, but no particular ambitions of his own. Over the years, he'd made a living hiring himself and his growing network of associates out to those who would pay – Paris had no shortage of rich folk who needed dirty business done but preferred not to soil their own hands.
Even so, Le Chouette was by far the most prestigious employer they'd ever had. Only Santoni himself had managed to uncover his real identity (he'd always found it wise to know exactly who he was doing business with), but he'd been both awed and a little intimidated to learn just what a lofty social circle his gang had entered.
Which made it all the more vital that his gang do the job well, with no mistakes.
"Monsieur, about the Girys. How many of my men will you want with you tonight?"
From his jacket, Le Chouette drew out a length of black silk cord. The silver weight at the end was shaped like the head of an owl, and he turned it in his hand, admiring the way the black jewel eyes glittered in the candlelight.
"I will be content with you alone, Carlu. I hardly think that a lame old woman and a dancing girl will give us much trouble."
Christine was as delighted as the two men had expected when she learned she wouldn't have to wait to make the journey back to the land of her birth. She surprised them both, however, when she suggested that the three of them should all travel to Calais together.
"It makes perfect sense. Raoul, we'll look less like we're running away to elope if we have someone with us who could pass for a chaperone. And Erik, the gendarmes won't expect you to be traveling with the two of us. We'll be a disguise for you, just like that new mask."
The new mask in question was finally finished, and Erik, never one to pass up a chance to prove his talents, was eager to show it off. Turning his back for only a moment, he swapped the worn old leather mask for his new invention, and displayed it for his small audience with all the flourish and pride of the performing magician he'd once been.
It was unquestionably a work of art. Instead of a single solid piece, the mask was formed of flexible panels that moved slightly when he changed expression. Every detail of the molded wax features was perfect, the color and shading exactly matched to his skin tone. Instead of a strap that might have given away the secret, Erik had fixed the mask to his face with a pair of dark-tinted spectacles, which also served to hide his distinctive yellow eyes.
An impressive work of art, but to Raoul, it was also rather unsettling. There was something chilling, in a way he couldn't quite put into words, about that shifting, too-perfect false face with its shadowed, unreadable eyes.
He would almost have preferred Erik's real face, ugly as it was. At least that one belonged to a human being.
It would be enough to fool a casual glance, though, and the three of them had no intention of letting anyone get more than a casual glance on the journey to come. And to that end, Raoul knew he'd need to put together a disguise of his own.
Up in the master bedroom, he dressed himself in his plainest shirt and trousers. The expensive high-buttoned shoes that Comtois kept so carefully polished were left behind, exchanged for a pair of heavy-soled boots. In the back of the wardrobe, he found his old pea coat. The final touch was a flat wool cap borrowed from Griffiths, and Raoul settled it over his neatly-combed blond hair, studying himself in the mirror while Comtois looked on.
"It should do nicely," said the valet. "No one would take you for one of the nobility in those clothes."
"I'm not so sure." He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look windblown and rakish. "Something's still not right."
"I can't say what. You look every inch the part of a young sailor about to set out to sea again."
Raoul brightened. "Yes, that's just it. I look too young." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps I should grow a beard."
Comtois tried not to laugh. "With all respect, m'sieur, you may need to wait a few more years for that. You barely need my help shaving as it is."
Undaunted, Raoul turned his head in the mirror, looking at his face from new angles. "A mustache, then. Surely I can manage one of those."
There was little packing that remained to do after that. They would have to travel light, Raoul knew, and besides, there wasn't much in the townhouse that he wished to keep in the new life that lay ahead of him. With the excitement of a child on a treasure hunt, he made his way from room to room, gathering one by one the few small items that held sentimental value – a silver and lapis rosary that had belonged to his mother, the engraved compass his aunt in Brest had given him when he'd graduated from the naval academy, one of his father's old pocket watches to replace the one he'd left below the Garnier …
The last thing Raoul decided he must have was the book of folktales he and Christine had read to each other during that summer in Perros. As he searched through the shelves in the library room, however, he came across something else that caught his attention.
Raoul had never been the most high-minded soul when it came to literature. As a student, his teachers had often despaired over his marks in the subject, especially when it came to the sort of grim, philosophical writings their curriculum favored. But the young nobleman did have a deep love for stories of adventure, chivalry, and romance. Like many French schoolboys, he'd become enamored with the works of Alexandre Dumas, and there, on a low shelf, he recognized the twin volumes of what had been his favorite of Dumas' tales, The Count of Monte Cristo.
When he picked up one of the volumes, the feel of the worn leather cover immediately brought back happy memories of sneaking out to the sunlit garden to read during free moments at school. If he'd been a few years older when he met Christine, he liked to imagine the two of them might have read it together.
Well, perhaps it's not too late for that. They would have to find ways to pass the time on the journey ahead of them – getting reacquainted with a favorite book seemed like an excellent one.
As he left the library with the books tucked under one arm, Raoul was surprised to find Marie-Inès waiting for him. "Monsieur, may I please speak to you for a moment?"
"Of course." He smiled. "I'm very grateful for all the help you've given us these past few days. If you still want the housekeeper position, it's yours."
Her bright black eyes widened. "Thank you, very much. But that's not what I wished to speak to you about. If I may ask, are you and Mademoiselle Daaé planning to marry before or after you travel to Sweden?"
Raoul shrugged, a little surprised by the question. "After, I suppose. She's said she wants to visit the church where her parents were married."
"Then you should be prepared ahead of time. Not all countries have marriage laws as simple as placing a notice and making a visit to the mairie. And it will likely be even more complicated by you being a foreigner."
The young vicomte froze. He hadn't thought that far ahead, but now that he considered it, he knew she was right.
Seeing his dismayed expression, Marie-Inès offered a reassuring smile. "But I may be able to help with that too." She reached into her skirt pocket, and produced a small card. "This attorney makes a special business of helping those who wish to immigrate, shall we say, discreetly. He was a tremendous help to my family when we were trying to help my cousin escape from her husband and join us in France. If you arrive in the morning half an hour before the time on the card, he'll know that's the kind of help you're seeking."
Raoul studied the card, more than a little stunned. It was an incredible show of trust for someone of her class to share such secretive information with someone of his, and he knew it.
"... Thank you, M–" he stopped himself, and called her by a more respectful name, as deserved by her new position, "– Madame Baptiste. I owe you a great deal for this."
"Just keep yourself safe, monsieur, and keep Mademoiselle Daaé safe. And be careful who you trust."
There was a writing desk in the study, well stocked with paper and ink, and Erik found Christine seated at it later that day. She was so absorbed in her writing that for a moment she didn't hear him approach, and he caught a glimpse over her shoulder of what she was working on: a letter of resignation, addressed to the managers of the Opera Populaire.
Erik gave a dismissive sniff that was not quite a laugh. "Do they really deserve such a courtesy? I'm sure they'll realize you're not coming back without you having to spell it out for them. They may be fools, but they're not so stupid as that."
Christine stiffened. "Regardless of that, my conscience will feel better if I take the proper steps to end my contract. Besides, it isn't really for them. The news that I'm leaving to marry Raoul will spread to the rest of the Opera quickly enough, and those who still care about my welfare will know I'm safe and happy."
Like Meg, she thought. It ached to know that she might never see her best friend again, and oh god, she hated the thought of leaving without a proper goodbye – all the more so because the last words she'd said to her had been lies.
But she couldn't risk implicating Meg by writing to her directly. At least this way, she wouldn't be forever left worrying about Christine's fate.
She saw that Erik seemed to accept that response, and her expression softened into a smile. "I can't tell you how grateful I am for you giving us the money. And for agreeing to travel with us."
Her words and her smile sent a powerful flood of warmth through him. Helping another person out of sincere generosity, and seeing them find happiness because of him, was an experience Erik hadn't known for longer than he could remember, and it was as startlingly intoxicating as a drink of fine wine after long, dry years of abstinence. His heart might still be torn and throbbing, but seeing Christine smile like that because of him was a balm that made the pain ebb away for now, even if it did nothing to heal the deeper wound.
"I did say I could refuse you nothing. And you're right, no one will expect me to be traveling with company."
She gave him a curious look, glancing at the old leather mask that covered his face once again. "I hope I won't offend you by asking this, but, that new mask. If it's so effective, why haven't you worn one like it more often?"
"Truthfully?" He gave a dry chuckle. "Most of the time, it's more trouble than it's worth. The added weight makes the spectacles grow uncomfortable after a while, and the wax has a troublesome habit of softening in hot weather." He paused. "Besides, for most of the last decade, I've gone out in public so seldom that it didn't seem necessary."
Erik was silent for a long moment, biting his scarred lip, as he realized that that last part would have to change now. He'd spent so long resigned to the idea that he would spend the rest of his life hiding alone in the darkness – the thought of venturing out into the world again was still new and overwhelming to imagine.
"Where do you plan to go?" Christine asked gently, sensing his worries. "After Calais, I mean."
"I still haven't decided. America, perhaps. That should be far enough away from the reach of the Sûreté, and it seems to be the destination of choice nowadays for those seeking to start a new life." He turned his eyes on her, curious. "And what will you and the vicomte do, once you reach Sweden?"
"We're going to seek out my mother's family. It may take some time to find them, so we'll probably settle in Uppsala for a while. I remember their village was a few days' north of there."
He nodded, thinking back on some of the memories she'd shared with her Angel during their lessons. "And after that, perhaps Stockholm? I understand the Kungliga Operan is a fine company, even if their venue isn't as grand as the Garnier."
Christine's smile vanished as if it had been struck from her face. She stared at him, her shoulders tensed and her eyes wide and not entirely believing.
"You don't actually think I'm still going to be a singer?"
Now it was Erik's turn to stare in disbelief. "How can you think of forsaking it?!" He gritted his teeth. "Is this the vicomte's doing –"
"This has nothing to do with Raoul. I can't be a singer anymore. Erik, I'm a fugitive! Even if I went onstage under a new name, sooner or later I'd be recognized, whether by my face or my voice." She narrowed her eyes at him. "I can't sing, ever again."
"You can't let fear hold you back from something you love so much. It would be a sin to deprive the world of your voice!" Erik tried to speak more calmly – not quite falling back into the hypnotic tones he'd used on her in the past, but treading very close to it. "You were afraid when you first took the lead in Hannibal. But that fear passed, don't you remember? And all that remained was the passion you had for music." He leaned in closer, insistent. "This will be no different. Before long, this whole affair will be forgotten, and you can return to the stage in triumph …"
For a moment, Christine looked like she might be listening to him, and Erik's hopes rose. Vocal hypnosis, he knew, was always most effective when the subject was being told something that, in their heart, they already wanted to do and believe.
But then, to his dismay, she realized what he was doing. She was on her feet in an instant, pain and fury blazing in her blue eyes as she faced him, and her voice was as powerful and chilling as the north wind.
"How dare you speak so lightly of everything that's happened! This isn't some minor scandal that will blow over in a few months. You murdered people, Erik! Those deaths are going to be tied to me forever!"
"If Firmin and André had followed my instructions, I wouldn't have had to act as I did!" he hissed. "Your career deserved –"
"I don't have a career anymore because of you! No opera company in Europe is going to hire Christine Daaé after this! My name is stained with Piangi and Buquet's blood!" Her teeth showed in her fury. "And don't you ever try to claim you killed them for my sake. You did it because of your petty, wretched feud with the management. You did it to get what you wanted. That's all that ever mattered to you."
"That's not true!" But at the same time, he struggled to think of any moments when it hadn't been true.
… Perhaps there had been one, at least. The moment when he had first spoken to a lonely, grieving chorus girl from behind a mirror. When he'd felt his long-dead heart awaken for the first time in years, moving him to offer her comfort and companionship in her darkest moment, and the promise to help her improve her voice and reach new heights of glory. When she'd asked him those words, "are you the Angel of Music?" , he had lied to her, but in that moment, the lie had seemed the less hurtful choice for both of them.
"Christine ... I never meant to hurt you."
The words rang hollow and pathetic in both their ears even as Erik said them. After the night of Il Muto, he had wanted to hurt her – to see her suffer for denying him. He'd crashed the chandelier without a thought for whether she might be in its path. When he'd tightened his clutches on her along with the rest of the Opera, he hadn't cared if such a stranglehold might injure her. It wasn't until she'd kissed him that all his jealous, desperate wrath and thwarted lust had finally abated and he'd remembered that, underneath it all, he loved her.
Christine seemed to be remembering it too. When she finally spoke again, her voice was softer, but still cold. "Tell me something, Erik. If I had stayed with you, and we'd been married as you wanted, would you have let me keep singing?"
"… I don't know. I never truly believed you would stay with me."
"I would have. I was ready to stay with you after that first visit. Even when you frightened me so badly after I took your mask, it wasn't enough to make me flee. You were the one who sent me back."
His insides clenched and grew cold as he realized she was right. He remembered that fateful moment – how he'd been torn between making good on his threat to keep her in his realm forever, and letting her return to the world of light. Even in that moment, despite all his hopes that her fear could turn to love, it had never entered his mind that she might want to stay with him, of her own choice.
He swallowed a sob, and it was some time before he managed to speak.
"If you no longer want me to accompany you to Calais, I'll understand."
She sighed. "Of course I still want that. And I still want you to have the chance to start a new life."
"And what about your life? Are you certain you'll be happy, living as a peasant again?"
Her reply was quiet and resigned. "It's the life I was born into. If Father and I hadn't met Professor Valerius, it's probably the life I'd still have now. It will be no hardship to return to it."
"But is it what you want?"
She hesitated for a long, painful moment.
"What I want is to live in peace. That will be enough." She sighed again. "It'll have to be. I can't want anything more than that now."
She gazed into his eyes, feeling tears threaten in her own. She imagined pulling him into an embrace, imagined kissing him again – more tenderly this time – and soothing away all the hurts between the two of them ...
Shame lashed at her, and she forced those imaginings away.
There are a lot of things I can't want anymore.
A cold rain was falling that night as Antoinette and Meg Giry returned home to a darkened flat. As her daughter shook out both umbrellas, Antoinette took off her wet capelet and tried to pretend she didn't feel the cold in her joints.
Meg, seeing her tight-lipped expression, wasn't fooled. "You go and put on something dry, Mama," she said kindly as she hung up the umbrellas and capelet. "I'll get the fire going."
Antoinette thanked her distractedly. She didn't bother to light a lamp yet – they'd lived in this flat for many years, and she knew her way through it with her eyes closed (and perhaps an occasional nudge of her cane).
Her bedroom was even chillier than the parlor, with an unexpected dampness in the air. She frowned as she realized the window was open, the curtains billowing and the iron rail balconet shining wetly in the light of the streetlamp below. Strange, she thought, I'm quite sure it was shut when I left.
It was true that she'd been distracted that morning. Her disastrous visit with Christine the day before still weighed heavy on her mind, as did her conversation with M. Khan afterwards. The former daroga was fully convinced (and Antoinette agreed with him) that Christine and the vicomte were still in contact with Erik, and perhaps even hiding him in the house.
"He might still be holding some threat over them," he'd said. "But it's even more likely she's doing it simply because she cares for him. And when it comes to Erik, that's far more dangerous."
Even so, as a longtime city-dweller, Antoinette had always been careful to keep her doors locked and her windows latched. She closed it now, but found herself shivering once again, even with the night breeze gone.
Unable to say what it was that still left her chilled, she reached for the box of matches on her nightstand. She struck one, lighting the waiting oil lamp. The bright flame came alive, bathing the room in soft golden light –
– And revealing the waiting figure in the black cape.
Antoinette froze, too shocked for a moment even to breathe. The man's expression was unreadable behind the domed black-and-white mask, but there was faint, predatory amusement in his voice as he spoke.
"Good evening, Madame Giry."
The ballet mistress gripped her cane tight, raising it defensively. "Who are you? What are you doing in my home?"
"I have a question for you."
The lamplight flashed on the glass lenses of his mask as he lunged. Before Antoinette could raise hand or stick to the level of her eyes, the black silk cord flew through the air and caught her around the throat.
Pain shot through her head and back as the masked invader slammed her against the window. She struggled, gasping, primal terror flooding her bloodstream as he pressed the silver owl's-head weight against her windpipe.
"I will make this very simple, madame." He loosened the cord and weight, just enough for her to draw breath for an answer. "Where is the Phantom?"
Antoinette stared in shock. For one terrified moment, to save her own neck, she came very close to sharing her suspicion that Erik was hiding at the Chagny townhouse.
But if she did that, it would send this strange, dangerous man in Christine's direction. Antoinette had already failed to protect the young soprano when she had the chance before – she would not put her in danger again.
"... I don't know," she whispered, hesitating just a moment too long. "No one does."
Her attacker drew in a sharp breath through the mask's curving nozzle. "Do not lie to me, woman. All of the Opera knows of your connection to the Phantom. I can hear it in your voice – you know something."
Antoinette stiffened, starting to regain her nerve. "I tell you, monsieur, I know nothing –"
The weight crushed her windpipe again.
"It is no matter to me if I must kill you," the stranger hissed. "I have other ways of tracking that which I hunt. But I will be generous a little longer. Tell me where the Phantom is, and I will spare your life."
She hissed back with what little breath she still had, "I – don't – know."
He leaned in closer, until their faces were nearly touching. Behind the glass lenses, Antoinette could see that his eyes were a deep brown, cold and penetrating. She could not tell what color his skin might be – his eyelids and the skin around them were painted ink-black, making his eyes seem to pierce from the void itself.
Those deadly brown eyes narrowed. With his free hand, the stranger drew out a curved knife, the blade glinting razor-sharp in the lamplight. "If you will not talk for your own sake, perhaps you will for your daughter's."
The threat to her child turned Antoinette's terror into blind fury. She struggled like a woman possessed, heedless of the thought that she might be sealing her own fate by doing so. In vain, she scratched at her attacker's hands, but her nails did nothing against the thick leather of his gloves.
"I do not have to kill her, you realize." His voice was frighteningly calm, almost cordial, the gleaming blade of the knife reflecting on his lenses. "I could cut her face, or perhaps take an eye. She will survive, but they will never have her on the stage again."
Out of raw survival instinct, Antoinette struggled one last time. Burning agony gripped her throat like a demon's claws. Gray and red swam before her eyes, drowning out the world as unconsciousness began to close in.
A single thought rose in her mind: I'm going to die. Even if he released her now, she had neither breath nor strength to tell him anything.
"I will give you one last chance. Tell me where the Phantom has gone, or –"
CLANG!
The ringing strike echoed through the flat. The masked man staggered to one side, reeling, letting go of the cord and clutching at his head.
Antoinette fell to the floor as if she'd been cut down from the gallows. She lay huddled on the carpet, every breath a torture that she welcomed, and stared at the sight of Meg charging straight at the intruder, the coal shovel gripped in her hands.
"Get away from her!" Meg screamed as she swung the shovel again. "Leave my mother alone!"
Still clutching his head, the masked man snarled a furious string of words at his new opponent.
And down on the floor, fighting to stay conscious, Antoinette listened.
When the man had attacked her, he'd addressed her in perfect (if overly formal) French, with no obvious sign that it was not his native tongue. But now, caught off guard and forgetful in his pain and indignation, he had lapsed into another language entirely.
She didn't quite recognize it, or understand what he was saying (not that she needed to – Antoinette knew cursing when she heard it in any language). But the way he spoke it – from the throat, with his tongue held low and each syllable emphasized …
She knew that accent.
The intruder slashed at Meg with the curved knife, but she whirled out of reach with a dancer's swift grace. She stepped between him and her mother, her entire body trembling with terrified energy.
"Get out of here!" She brandished the coal shovel again, with a look on her face that said she wouldn't hesitate to drive it through his skull if he came any closer. "You heard what she said! She doesn't know anything, and neither do I. Get out before I start screaming, and the gendarmes come!"
The intruder's shoulders tensed, as if he was uncertain whether to flee or go in for the kill. Shovel or not, he could easily overpower the petite ballerina if he chose to, and all three of them knew it.
But that moment, the noise of someone pounding on the front door caught their attention. The Girys' closest neighbors, the Mathieu family, had heard Meg's screaming and the sound of the fight, and were coming to investigate. They could hear M. Mathieu calling for the two women, his booming voice full of worry.
The masked man drew another sharp breath through the brass nozzle. The knife vanished from his hand, and in its place appeared a metal canister that Antoinette recognized, too late, as a smoke bomb.
With a flash and a hiss, pale smoke flooded the bedroom. Antoinette struggled to get to her feet, coughing, her eyes stinging and her injured throat on fire. She managed to catch one glimpse of movement as the intruder snatched up the cord he'd dropped, before he disappeared from sight.
"Mama, come on!" Meg helped Antoinette to her feet, all but dragging her as they fled from the choking, stinging smoke.
They made it past the front door, out into the gaslit hallway. M. Mathieu was waiting for them, his son Albert by his side and his wife watching from their own doorway.
"My god, what's going on?!" Mme. Mathieu screeched. "Is it robbers? Assassins?!"
"Madame Giry, what's happened?" M. Mathieu hurried to Meg's side, helping her support her mother. "Is she hurt?"
"She's been attacked," Meg panted. The strange, herbal-smelling smoke still lingered in her lungs, making her feel feverish and overheated. Thinking of some of the crime and mystery stories she'd read, she thought, he must've drugged it with something. "Please, someone go find a doctor!"
"No …"
Antoinette's voice hurt almost as much to hear as it did to use. She clutched Meg's arm, dragging herself up from the edge of unconsciousness.
"Mama, he almost killed you! You need to see a doctor!"
But Antoinette shook her head. "M'sieur Khan … have to go … he'll know …"
She slumped against Meg's shoulder.
Meg bit her lip, torn between honoring this peculiar request and getting her mother medical attention as soon as possible.
Then again, she thought, perhaps we should go see Monsieur Khan.
She'd heard the stranger demanding information about the Phantom. Considering their own long and intimate history, the Persian might know why someone else would be hunting him now – someone who also used a mask, smoke bombs, and a Punjab lasso.
No doubt they could find a doctor there just as easily too. And in any case, staying in a flat filled with drugged smoke and an assassin probably still lurking nearby was certainly not an option.
"All right." Supporting her mother's limp form as best she could, Meg turned to the Mathieu family again. "Please, help me get her downstairs. Can someone go fetch a cab?"
"I'll do it," Albert spoke up. He was a few years younger than Meg and had long had a crush on her, and his eagerness to please was sweet, if a little pathetic. "Where are you headed?"
"The Rue de Rivoli. Number two-oh-four."
To Be Continued …
