Back to Kire. Took a bit to get into his inner thoughts again. :)

Ch 154

The hotel desk was unattended when we made our way back in the middle of the morning. Phelan walked into his own suite and I returned to mine, thankful for a moment alone to remove my mask and allow my skin to breathe.

I tossed the mask onto the vanity table and walked to my trunk, removing half the contents until I found the jar of salve I'd brought from home.

With two damp rags in hand, I returned to the vanity and stared at my reflection, feeling as though I hadn't properly berated my appearance for quite some time.

I took the corner of the first rag and gently cleansed both sides of my face, carefully avoiding the small wound from where the mask rubbed my cheek.

My flesh was raw at the top of my cheekbone, but it wasn't nearly as bad as I had anticipated, for which I was grateful.

In the midst of cleaning the wound with the second rag, Lan walked into my suite unannounced. He was shirtless and barefoot, dressed in a new pair of trousers with his hair damp and combed out.

He eyed me suspiciously when he saw me studying my reflection, but didn't ask what I was doing. Instead, he turned his attention to my trunk, his lips parting in shock.

"What's wrong?" I asked as I twisted in my seat to look at him.

My brother bent and picked up the articles of clothing that had fallen from my trunk when I had searched for the salve, which he shook out and then folded. He muttered under his breath as he placed everything into the chest of drawers; shirts neatly stacked in the top drawer and trousers folded in the second drawer. He rolled up my socks and placed them beside my trousers. Absently he reached into the trunk and began folding my clothes before he paused and took a step back.

"You've…made yourself at home, I see."

"What did Marco say?" I asked before he began rearranging everything within my suite to his liking.

Lan pulled the telegram from his breast pocket. "It says, 'P.K: I hope you are having an enjoyable time with your brother on holiday. I have been gifted two tickets to the Exposition. There is a Columbian coffee house, for the normal people. You are receiving this telegram because Alex asked me to write to you. Regards, M'." Phelan lowered the telegram and took a seat on the edge of my bed, straddling the corner like he sat on a horse.

"An invitation to attend the Exposition with him?"

Phelan shrugged. "It sounds as though he wishes to take Alex, doesn't it?"

I furrowed my brow. "Alex has already attended and he doesn't drink coffee. Quite clearly Marco is inviting you."

My brother read through the telegram again, this time in silence. The corners of his mouth lifted in a barely noticeable smile. "He remembered I like coffee," he said, more to himself than to me.

"Yes, like a normal person."

Phelan grunted, his smile more genuine. "I'm surprised he remembered I said that at all."

"Why wouldn't he? You recalled how he has an aversion to cherries and he remembers your affinity for coffee."

Phelan nodded. "I suppose so. How is my most favorite nephew?"

"He is definitely still Alex," I said as I dabbed a pea-sized amount of salve onto my cheek and rubbed it into my flesh, creating a barrier against my skin that would hopefully prevent further rubbing from my mask once we left the suites. Three different stories on three separate telegrams, including an idea he wants to share for an opera he has considered writing."

"Alex wants to write an opera?"

"Apparently."

"I wonder if the man at the telegram booth charges extra for the inevitable hand cramp when Alex sends you a fifty page synopsis."

"I suppose I shall hope Marco stops Alex before that happens."

Lan shifted his weight. "You know, Kire, I must say I was surprised to hear you had no desire to play the organ when asked."

"Why?" I questioned, gazing at him through his reflection behind me in the mirror.

"Why? Because you played for Claude and his friends in the park, you played for Tadhg on the train, and you have agreed to conduct an orchestra for thousands of people to hear your music. Yet you swiftly declined to play here."

"Yes, well, the man who asked me to play was reading my telegrams," I pointed out.

Phelan gasped and slapped his hand against his chest. "The man whose occupation is to read and transmit telegrams happened to read what you wrote? My God, shall I contact the authorities or will you?"

I rolled my eyes, placing the lid onto the salve, which I placed on top of the chest of drawers. My own trousers were covered in straw dust and dirt, and I took a clean pair from the second drawer and walked into the room with the tub to change.

"Perhaps I should have agreed to the request considering Antonio has decided to make modifications without my consent," I said, peeking out into the rest of the suite.

"Without your consent?" Phelan questioned. He was reading the telegram from Marco again when I looked at him.

"Yes. For all I know, Antonio has eliminated me entirely from the program," I said as I walked out a moment later. There were two cookies left from the previous day, which I brought to the bed with me, offering my brother one.

"Surely you are being a bit dramatic with that assumption."

I exhaled. "Doubtful."

"I suppose you've never been dramatic a day in your life."

"Indeed."

Phelan started to stand, but I motioned for him to remain seated, and together we reclined on my bed, both of us splitting the dozen pillows equally and the plate between us.

"How do you know he made changes?" Phelan asked.

"Because he apparently left an envelope at my home stating as much even though he was aware I was on holiday."

"Perhaps there is a small change to the order of your music?" Lan suggested.

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. With every passing second my frustration grew. "I have a feeling it's more than that."

"Well, then. The audacity of that witless, tone-deaf idiot. He clearly doesn't know the first thing about music."

I looked at him from the corner of my eye. "Considering Antonio has managed the Golden Palace for a number of years, I highly doubt the validity of your claim."

"Well, I've encountered plenty of individuals in positions that they should not have held. I imagine Antonio is one of them. I find him to be rather disagreeable."

"Of course you do," I said under my breath.

Lan bristled. "Well, forgive me for supporting my favorite composer."

His words made me smile. "Favorite indeed."

"I admit, it took a few operas for me to understand what the fuss was about–"

"The fuss?" I grumbled.

My brother took a breath. "On Summer Nights was…not my favorite."

"Noted."

Phelan tilted his head back and groaned. "I didn't say anything negative."

"Nor did you say anything positive."

"Kire, if I received a franc for every painting of mine someone disliked, particularly when I first started out, I would have been able to retire at the age of thirty-five."

"How did you happen to see On Summer Nights? It only ran for a month at two different theaters."

As far as I knew, not even Luc Testan had the opportunity to attend and give his negative review.

"Season tickets." He shrugged. "Once the Opera Populaire closed its doors, a newer theater down the street offered a full season for half of what the others were asking."

I took a bite of my cookie, surprised to find it was raisin instead of chocolate, and furrowed my brow. I recalled the newly renovated theater advertising their new management, new principal soprano and tenor, and a tentative schedule boasting nine operas.

They had eagerly acquired On Summer Nights to start their season, much to Madeline's disgust as she thought the entire last act needed a revision. Once it closed, to a handful of mixed reviews, I reworked the ending, omitted an aria, added a duet, and renamed it Mauro and Jewel. Two years later, the new production debuted.

"That was The Imperial, correct?"

"Imperial Garden," Phelan said. "Jade green everything inside of their lobby from the horrid carpeting to the garish light fixtures." He feigned gagging at the description of the interior. "That place was damned from the start."

"How so?"

"The owners commissioned an obscenely large but poorly carved statue of Buddha at the entrance. It cracked nearly in half a week after the theater opened and had to be removed after a month before the stone toppled over and crushed someone. I believe they officially closed their doors six months after they opened."

"Hmm," I said.

If I had known at the time, I suspected I would have considered myself cursed.

"It was a packed theater the night I attended, if that's any consolation."

I simply shrugged. Packed or not, it wasn't my best work.

"My feelings for On Summer Nights aside, The Fox Pursues, now that is a magnificent night at the opera. Sometimes I wish I had purchased tickets to watch both the matinee and evening performance. The vixens." He whistled. "The very best of what theater has to offer."

"Now you are simply attempting to flatter me."

"Is it working?"

I grunted. "Slightly."

"Good." Phelan chuckled to himself and broke the cookie in half.

"When did you realize that…that the composer behind those operas was me?"

Phelan inhaled. "I knew from the first one," he answered without meeting my eye. "As soon as I saw the name I knew it had to be you, however, I assumed that since the newspaper had stated that you were dead years before the first opera came out that they were published posthumously. Even so, I saw every single one on opening night."

I turned my head and looked him in the eye. "Really?"

"Of course. It was still you." He shrugged to himself. "And it was all I thought I'd have."

The heaviness of his statement, of the years we had missed knowing one another, burdened my heart.

"In order it was The Fox Pursues, Margarite, The Soldier and the Shell, North Star and lastly Mauro and Jewel." He paused and turned his head to the side. "Now that I think about it, were On Summer Nights and Mauro and Jewel quite similar, or am I thinking of something else?"

"Mauro and Jewel was a rewrite."

"A vast improvement, if I may say so," Lan took another bite. "Experience aside, Antonio doesn't know your music like you do. Surely you asked Julia to open the envelope and describe the amendments? Perhaps ease your mind a bit that he hasn't destroyed your ideas?"

"Of course," I said. "But I have a feeling I know what Antonio is up to."

Lan leaned toward me, his jaw set and eyes hardened in the most dramatically threatening way. "Well, if that's the case, there's only one thing to do. You bind his hands, I'll toss him in the Seine. That will teach him a lesson, little brother."

"You are in no way helpful," I groused.

"Apologies. I was not aware you wanted a solution. I thought we were merely in the stage of complaining."

"I don't know what I want and even if I did, there is nothing I can do about it until I've returned home."

"What do you think Le Blanc changed, anyway?"

I exhaled hard, frustrated with the situation, but grateful for my brother's interest. "During the auditions, it was fairly obvious which of the performers would be selected for the solos," I explained. "Antonio and Adrian made their lists of soloists shortly after the auditions ended, but I asked to turn mine in at nine the following morning."

"Who was on your list?"

"You wouldn't know her name."

Phelan lifted a brow and blew air past his lips. "Kire, I will have you know that I have spent hours becoming more familiar with sopranos, mezzo sopranos, tenors and baritones so that I may better converse with my musical genius of a brother," he said. "Humor me. Who did you select?"

"Rachelle Debutee."

My brother lifted his chin and gave a slow, contemplative nod. "Ah, I see."

I turned my head to the side, frowning at him. "You have no idea who she is."

"You're correct. I've never heard her name in my life. Who is she and how did you pick her?"

"She's a member of the chorus," I answered.

Lan made a face. "And you decided she needed a solo because…?"

"Because I said so," I answered.

My brother's eyebrows shot up. "With all due respect and an abundance of adoration for you, little brother, I can see where that answer may not go over well with the theater manager."

My jaw twitched. "Then you agree with Antonio?"

Phelan pursed his lips, choosing to be level-headed while I preferred outright anger. "I said no such thing, Kire. Now, if you would be so kind, please explain why you picked Debutee. I'm confident you had good reasons."

"Her voice is good, not great. Her stage presence needs work, but once we have rehearsed I believe she will do fine."

"Forgive me, but those aren't reasons."

"Rachelle has never been given an opportunity to showcase her talent. I believe with a bit of rehearsal, she will do justice to the aria I have assigned her."

My brother snorted.

"Why are you making porcine noises?" I grumbled.

"Because the mysterious composer chose an unknown chorus girl. A bit of history repeating itself, don't you think?"

I stared straight ahead, my nostrils flared and jaw tight. "She is my selection, for my music, which is being performed under the guidance of my conducting. Anything that has been altered without my consent will be swiftly and severely remedied as I see fit…"

I felt Phelan staring at me, mulling over dangerous words spoken in a moment of anger. "And then what? The Phantom shall make an appearance?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

My breath hitched. "I'm not The Phantom. I'm not...I'm not who I was in the past."

"You sound like him."

"I…no… no I don't."

Phelan turned his head to the side, his gaze still searching my face. "I certainly hope you've put that behind you," he quietly said.

My lips parted, but I wasn't sure what to say to him in return. I knew my brother disapproved of the way I had lived beneath the Opera House and that his one and only experience with that part of my life had been the opening to Don Juan Triumphant, which he apparently found drawn out and excessively dull.

But Phelan hadn't known me in any capacity aside from the rumors, most of which I was certain had been sensationalized. No one had known anything about me, not even Madeline.

"Kire," he sternly said. "Regardless of what happens at the Golden Palace, I think you should still consider playing for this inconsequential dot on the map."

"In a barn?" I questioned. "With a questionable goat."

Lan nodded. "Especially because of Gammel Ged. How many composers or musicians can say they've played in a dilapidated barn with an attack rooster and mean goat? And also noteworthy, you'll be tasked with playing an organ that sounds as if it's been fed a steady diet of broccoli and brussel sprouts for the last decade."

I made my most valiant attempt at issuing a look of disgust, but my brother laughed at his own juvenile humor, which proved to be contagious.

"You find yourself very amusing, don't you?" I asked, unable to mask my own laughter.

"I do." My brother grinned back at me. He sat forward, placing his hand on my knee.

There was no one else in the world I would have rather shared a chuckle over rude humor with than my brother. He brought out a part of me that I had never known existed.

"My humor aside, Kire, rest assured, if Le Blanc has the audacity to make a mess of your music, he will answer to me."

"Will he?"

"I've been a season ticket holder for as long as he's been the theater manager. By now, he is well aware of how miserable I can make his life."

oOo

The Swan hotel had provided a light lunch with small cakes instead of cookies, most of which I had absently consumed while looking through the music I had brought with me in my trunk.

Given that I had an extensive catalog, I brought a total of twenty-six compositions ranging from violin solos to overtures and accompanying music for arias. In all, it was over two hundred pages, all of which had somehow managed to fall toward the bottom of my trunk, the folders trapped between clothing and the interior.

With the different compositions spread all over my suite–from the chest of drawers to the coffee table, settee and even my bed, I stood with my hands on my hips, attempting to select two that I would bring to our grandparents home along with my violin.

Lan remained on my bed with his arms crossed and tongue rolling along the inside of his cheek. Every so often I heard him sigh heavily or click his tongue along the roof of his mouth.

"What?" I finally asked, throwing my right arm in the air. The left one was still too sore to lift above shoulder level. "What are you grumbling about?"

"Nothing," he insisted. "Do as you like."

I glanced at him from over my shoulder. "It most certainly is something. You've been huffing for fifteen minutes and I find it highly irritating. Either be silent or tell me why you insist on grumbling."

He pressed his palm to his forehead and grimaced. "It's…" He exhaled and closed his eyes. "Like being surrounded by chaos."

I turned to face him and scoffed. "Chaos? I'm organizing the compositions," I pointed out.

"While in the process making a giant mess."

I shook my head. "Quite frankly, I fail to see how I could peruse all of these compositions in a more organized fashion."

"I will resist the urge to tell you what to do. Believe me when I say it is taking every ounce of strength I have to stop myself from pushing you aside and lining everything up in alphabetical order and much straighter lines."

"If you dislike this, you would have detested the Opera House," I said under my breath.

"The entire building or the part that you called home?"

I grunted, somewhat surprised he'd been able to hear me. "Specifically the part I occupied."

Even I had to admit that my home was a bit of a disorganized nightmare, but there was nothing out of place to me. I could have the first act of an opera in my bedroom and the second half on my dining room table, buried beneath various symphonies and concertos and known exactly where it was located.

Lan remained silent for a long moment and I regretted bringing up the Opera House, a point of contention between us.

"Did you ever return?" he asked at last. "After…everything?"

I picked up one of the longer pieces of music and thumbed through it, avoiding eye contact. "Yes," I answered, hating to admit how difficult it was to leave that part of me behind. "A few times."

Phelan reached for his cup of coffee, but didn't take a sip. "How did you get into the building unnoticed? Aside from being boarded up, the entire structure appears quite unstable."

"I gained access through a tunnel," I answered.

"A tunnel?"

I nodded, surprised when my brother didn't ask further questions.

"Did you want to see it?" I asked, keeping my gaze trained on the papers in my hands. "The…the home I built on the lake," I said.

I could see my brother clutching his cup of coffee, brow furrowed. "Will I be tempted to tidy up?"

"Probably," I answered, imagining him with a feather duster in hand, swiping away cobwebs while he gathered stacks of unfinished compositions slowly decaying due to the high level of humidity, and tossed them into the furnace. "It's been abandoned for nearly a decade at this point, but the last time I was there everything was relatively intact."

"When were you last there?"

"April."

"The damnable month of April," he said lightly.

"Indeed," I said under my breath.

"I should say, Kire, I had every intention of extending an offer for you to visit me in Brussels, but I may need to reconsider if you are prone to such a complete lack of organization."

"I always thought my lack of organization, as you would put it, was part of my creativity," I said, collecting the different sheets and placing them into a larger pile. With my brother still watching me, I felt obligated to make sure they were properly aligned and fit neatly into the folder. "At least that is what I told Madeline from the time we first met."

"Did she believe you?"

I shrugged. "She stopped cleaning up after me at some point," I said. I held up the folder. "Does this truly bother you?"

"You have no idea," he muttered.

"Have you always been this way?"

"What way? Organized?"

"Obsessively organized," I corrected.

Phelan made a face. "Shall I ask you, little brother, if you've always preferred living in a pigsty?"

I resisted the urge to snort like a pig. Returning the compositions to my trunk, I retrieved my violin.

"If you would care to see the lakeside home I created, I will show it to you," I offered with my back to him. "It's not what you think."

"And what do I think?"

My lips parted, but I paused, attempting to choose my words wisely so that our early afternoon didn't turn into an argument. I turned to face him and inhaled. "I think you are under the impression that I lived in a mausoleum."

Phelan looked away first. "I suppose that's true."

It had felt that way toward the end, as though I had taken up residence in a tomb while awaiting my last breaths, but for years it had been simply a home, furnished with supple leather chairs, the finest Egyptian sheets, and warm, woolen blanks imported from Scotland. I had plenty of food, an entire wardrobe of impeccable suits, multiple timepieces hand-crafted from Switzerland, and beautifully made rugs from the Orient.

While I remained hidden away from the world, I created an oasis that felt as if I'd traveled every corner of the globe, collecting items from far away lands.

"It's not as nice as it once was," I said. "But...you can decide for yourself."

He nodded. "If you would care to visit me in Brussels, I would gladly welcome you. And your ten thousand sheets of loose leaf paper, all of which I will organize on your behalf."

I grunted. "I shall accept your offer. And I may even bring ten thousand and one sheets of paper."

"I would expect nothing less, Kire."