Drawing closer to the one year anniversary of writing this story and it's been such a blast to write. Thank you to everyone who has been reading and to those who leave reviews.

Four more days in the timeline to the opening of Don Juan. Phelan is so close! I hope you're enjoying the agonizing slow melt.

Ch 48

I was in desperate need of an entire carafe of coffee, and by the time I walked through the door and selected a table for myself, Mona had a cup filled and waiting for me.

"Raspberry scone?" she offered, sliding the plate onto the table.

Despite not being one for sweets, I politely accepted, feeling quite ravenous as I'd not allowed myself time for breakfast. Alone with my sketchbook and thoughts, I felt more at ease with the sales. As Abigail had pointed out, I was perfectly capable of recreating the drawing of Erik as a child and could have turned it into a painting that I would keep and display in my studio.

I nibbled on the scone absently while sketching people bustling past the window in the middle of the day. Mona silently slid into the chair opposite mine and folded her hands.

"I detest people staring at me while I draw," I said without looking up. "Makes me feel quite like I am on display in the circus."

"Shall I close my eyes?"

"Yes," I said dryly. "Eyes closed, but do keep speaking."

Mona smiled and pinched her eyes shut. "Would it be rude if I asked about the art show?"

"One painting sold twice," I said.

Immediately her espresso eyes popped open and she gaped at me. "Twice? As in two individuals own it? I've never heard of such a thing. Do they display it in their homes for half a year each? Who has it first?"

"No, nothing of the sort," I answered, amused by her line of questioning. "It sold to one person who was asked to return it for resale."

"And they did as requested?"

"Apparently so."

Mona continued to gawk at me. "How peculiar."

"Indeed."

"Who is the victor?"

When I explained that the buyer was anonymous and that I was quite disappointed, Mona placed her hands flat on the table and leaned forward. "Give me three days and I am certain I will have a name," she assured me.

"And how do you intend to do that?" I asked.

She returned a sly smile. "Women have their ways."

I was beginning to suspect that if given the opportunity, women would overthrow the world and govern with their dainty fists, keeping unsuspecting men in the dark over all important matters.

"If you are able to identify the buyer in three days, I will be indebted to you."

"No debt at all. In fact, it would be quite a pleasure. You know, I was thinking of applying for employment with a detective agency out of London."

"As a secretary?"

"As a detective."

I furrowed my brow. "What detective agency hires women?"

Mona issued me quite the pointed look. "A very modern agency owned by Archibald Leach Senior."

"I wish you the best of luck, Mona."

"Three days," she assured me.

She stood as another customer walked into the cafe and I realized it was Jean, who smiled the moment our eyes met.

"The handsome devil himself," Jean said.

"In the flesh."

"Making certain your veins are thrumming with caffeine, are you?" he asked as he approached my table and unbuttoned his coat, which he placed on the back of the chair.

"I'm more pleasant filled with coffee," I answered.
"You?" Pleasant? Never."

I chuckled as he slid into the chair Mona had vacated and took a breath. "Phelan," he said. "Do you have a moment to spare?

"For you I have several moments," I answered.

Jean's features appeared strained and I studied him for a long moment, wondering what he wished to discuss.

"Phelan," he said without meeting my eye. "Are you well?"

I studied him briefly. "Well enough. And you, my dear friend? How do you fare today?"

Jean inhaled. "I'm not certain."

Immediately my brow furrowed and I leaned forward. "Is there something I can do for you?" I asked.

"You doing something for me?" he asked, his tone incredulous. "I would not burden you with my troubles," he continued, his words softer.

"We have been friends practically from the moment I arrived in Paris. If there is any way I may be of assistance, by all means, I am at your service."

Jean searched my face. "You mean that sincerely, don't you?"

"Of course," I said. "I may not be able to offer much financially, but my time is always available."

Jean offered a tight smile in return. "You are a most loyal friend, Phelan, one whom I don't believe I deserve most of the time."

"I could say the same about you," I replied. "Allowing me a place in your home, purchasing my art–"

"Continuing to invite you into my social circle, which you constantly decline, for reasons that are beyond me."

I turned my coffee cup in the saucer. "You know I have never quite fit in with your other friends."

Jean inhaled. "You fit it in with me."

"I appreciate that, but–"

"I don't care what they think of you, Phelan. You are my friend and that is what matters."

"I care what they think," I said under my breath, knowing Jean would never understand what it was like to be the person within the room who had no servants at his disposal and no sprawling estate with multiple rooms. His parents had been wealthy beyond my wildest imagination while my mother and father had lived in a secluded shack in the backwoods of a village with a population of a few hundred people. His social circle was far larger than mine and filled with friends who shared a similar lifestyle.

And then there was my peculiar friendship with someone who had always been far above my station in life. Our paths had crossed when we were both in our early twenties and somehow, despite our differences, we'd become quite close over the years.

"The women are enthralled and the men are jealous," he said. "You walk in and the rest of us stags cannot compete with the proven stud."

"Then it is for the best that I decline your offers."

"You could leave at the end of the night with every woman in attendance and I would not bat an eye, so long as you graced us with your company." He ran his hand over his receding hairline. "It's been so long since you've agreed to stop by that I feel as though you don't enjoy my company."

"That is absolutely not true, and to prove it to you, I will meet you for supper Saturday night," I offered. "Anywhere of your choosing. You make the reservation and I will foot the bill."

Jean looked at me quite skeptically. "Yolanda's at nine," he suggested.

My heart stuttered. I'd never stepped foot inside of Yolanda's, one of the most exclusive restaurants in all of Paris with its meals allegedly served on gold plates and wine poured into flutes made of crystal. I'd heard a single plate with one beef medallion cost a hundred francs and that diners were thrilled to return home starving and broke merely for the opportunity to dine at one of the most famous restaurants in a city that loved its food. It would have cost me nearly a month's rent to dine with a guest, which was far out of my means on a teacher's meager salary.

"Six p.m.," I countered.

Jean offered a devilish smile. "Eight," he said. "And I will pay half the bill so that you are not out picking rags before the end of the semester."

"No, no," I insisted. "I've sold a drawing. Yolanda's is my treat to you."

"You've sold a drawing? That is fantastic. Why didn't you tell me immediately?"

"I would have told you at Yolanda's."

"You sly bastard and your secrets."

"Not the most exciting secret."

"How is this not exciting? An artist selling art."

"You flatter me, Jean, truly more than I deserve."

"We are like brothers, Phelan. You have no idea how pleased I am to hear that you are selling your work left and right while at the same time I have the desire to punch you in the nose."

"For what?"

Jean snorted. "I would not keep the most dull secret from you and I would hope that you would gladly share the news of your latest sale with me. I am quite dismayed you kept this to yourself. How am I supposed to brag about my dearest friend if he will not brag about himself first? Your modesty is infuriating."

"My apologies. I shall be more forthcoming going forward," I vowed.

"Be a pompous ass. Please, for the love of God, flaunt your talents."

The cafe door swung upon quite forcefully and I looked up in time to see Bernard lumber toward the table, his gaze pinned on me.

"Professor," he snarled, his tone having little effect on me as I had grown accustomed to his rough manner of speaking. "I got bad news." His gaze flickered toward Jean, who sat in wide-eyed silence. "Sorry about that. I didn't mean no interruption."

"You didn't mean no interruption?" Jean said under his breath. "Almost perfect French for a primate."

I stared at Jean briefly, my eyes narrowed, before I looked up at Bernard. "You are not interrupting," I insisted. "What seems to be the trouble?"

Bernard yanked his tasseled hat from his head and unwound his scarf, tucking both beneath his arm. "The train station master said all the tracks heading north are iced over due to a winter storm. Ain't no one getting out of Paris until at least Wednesday."

"I see," I said.

"What's this? The ape can speak in full sentences," Jean said under his breath. "What a marvelous party trick."

"You say something to me?" Bernard asked, turning his full attention to Jean.

"Not a word," Jean said. He looked at me and smirked.

Ignoring Jean, I cleared my throat. "Are you staying in Paris for another night then?"

"Already got the Gold Medallion until Thursday to be safe," he said. "Top floor. They got to move us from the second floor for someone else."

"The executive suite?" I questioned, imagining Celeste would be enthralled with the piano.

"Yeah. Told 'em they could move me to a new suite, but I ain't payin' a cent more for their fancy top floor room."

"A new exhibit at the zoo," Jean murmured, gazing across the table at me with a devilish look in his eye. "The ugliest silverback on display in the nicest cage imaginable."

Bernard looked at Jean from the corner of his eye, tongue rolling along the inside of his cheek.

"Jean, that is enough," I said. "You've no need to be rude to Monsieur Montlaur."

The amusement in Jean's eyes immediately vanished and he scoffed at my words. "May I remind you, this creature attempted to kill you, Phelan. Quite frankly, you should have put him behind bars where he belongs. Perhaps that would teach him a thing or two. How to speak properly, for one."

I shifted in my seat. "Bernard's manner of speaking is none of my concern."

"Well, it concerns me. I feel as though I've become an idiot merely being subjected to his way of speaking."

"Jean," I warned. "As a well-respected gentleman, you should apologize for your rudeness," I said quietly.

Jean gaped at me. "You want me to apologize to this primate attempting to masquerade as a man? Have you lost your mind?"

Heat rose up the back of my neck as I imagined what cruel words my brother had faced in his lifetime, from being called a monster to a beast and everything in between. Undoubtedly over the years he had endured the same snide remarks as Bernard.

"I would like you to apologize."

"You want me to apologize to him?"

"To a friend of mine, yes."

"Friend?" Jean scoffed again. "This beast is a friend of yours? Quite frankly I would have thought you more wise in the company you keep. By now he's probably given you lice or fleas."

Bernard stared straight ahead, his swollen face stony and blackened eyes vacant.

"He is a well respected friend of mine," I answered. "One who may join us if he so desires."

Bernard turned his attention to me. "I gotta get back to the kid," he said. "We're having tea at the hotel in their lobby at two," he said, sounding quite disgusted. "You want to meet us for supper since we ain't leaving yet?"

I nodded. "Of course."

"Nothin' fancy," Bernard said. "Maybe the same place as yesterday? Six?"

"That sounds wonderful. I will see you then."

Jean sighed to himself and looked away, muttering under his breath.

"If you want to say something to me," Bernard said, kicking Jean's chair, "we can step outside and talk, gentleman to dog."

"Are you calling me a dog?" Jean asked.

Bernard shook his head and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I sure as hell ain't."

Jean lifted his chin. "Relax. All in good fun, Monsieur Montlaur. Pity you have all of that muscle and not a scrap of humor."

"Good fun? You think it's fun being called an ape by someone who don't know nothing about you?" Bernard asked, his massive frame somehow appearing larger.

Jean blanched. "I suppose it is not."

"Then why'd you call me an ape, if it was all in good fun?"

Jean attempted to meet my eye, but I had no desire to look at him and offer an ounce of support or encouragement. "I suppose I thought my best friend would find it amusing given the circumstances."

Bernard looked the two of us over. "Best friend, eh? I don't think he finds you as amusing as you think."

Jean pushed his chair back. "If you will excuse me," he said as he stood. "Phelan, congratulations on your most recent sale. I will see you at nine on Saturday at Yolanda's. Your treat."

Jean briskly exited the cafe, not once glancing back at the table. He left me seated with Bernard standing over me, still scowling.

"You didn't have to say nothing to him," Bernard said, looking at a distant point over my head. "I know you two have been friends way longer than we've known each other and he's right. I ain't good at talking."

"Jean was being rude and as far as i'm concerned, his manner of speaking was far worse than yours."

"Yeah, but…" Bernard shrugged. "I'm used to people making smart remarks. Ain't nothin' new."

I suppressed a shiver, my thoughts once again drawn to Erik and how Jean would have treated my brother. Perhaps he would have been kind to Erik if I were present, but if he wasn't aware of our relation, I was certain Jean would have been relentlessly barbed with his comments.

"You should not have to be accustomed to cruelty," I said under my breath.

Unexpectedly, Bernard pulled out a chair and took a deep breath. He looked me over briefly in silence. "Somethin' happen at the university? You look real tired."

I wiped my hand down my face. "Most likely because I've spent an hour looking over a financial ledger for a friend who owns a tailoring shop and has misplaced several receipts," I explained. "Sixteen twenty, fourteen-fourteen, twenty-six sixty-two, eight-thirteen." I sighed. "Practically left me cross-eyed adding up the totals for the month."

"Sixty-five francs and nine centims," Bernard said.

I blinked at him. "I beg your pardon?"

He repeated all of the amounts back to me. "Total of sixty-five nine."

My eyes narrowed as I continued to stare at him. It took me quite some time to do the math in my head before I double-checked using my fingers. "That's…that's correct, I believe."

"It is," he assured me.

"How on earth did you do that?"

Bernard eyed me as if I had gone mad and nodded. "Do what?"

"Total the amount so swiftly."

He shrugged.

"What if there was an additional twenty-six sixty-two–"

"Ninety-one seventy-one."

"Divided in thirds."

"Thirty fifty-seven."

"Take away two-twenty-two."

"Twenty-eight thirty-five."

"Multiplied by six?"

"Hundred and seventy," he said. "And ten centims."

My lips parted. "You did that with remarkable speed and no paper and pencil."

"Yeah."

"How?"

He shifted his weight, appearing uncomfortable by my observation. "Numbers are numbers. It ain't that big of a deal."

"I disagree. That was quite remarkable."

"To a fancy artist, maybe."

"To a former bank employee who spent many miserable years dealing with numbers and hated every minute of it. You are quite numerically inclined."

"Nah," he disagreed.

"Have you ever considered an occupation in finances?"

Bernard scowled. "Why would I?"

"Because clearly you're very good at numbers."

"I'm better at boxing."

"That's quite debatable."

Bernard looked away from me. "I got nothing going on in my head," he said quietly. "Nothing worth a damn. But I got two fists and I know how to use 'em."

"Whoever instilled in you that you are empty-headed was truly the one lacking brains."

"Numbers don't change, is all. Six minus two is always four, fifteen plus six is always twenty-one. It ain't no secret."

"True, but to be able to add, subtract, divide and multiply it in your head and with not a moment of hesitation to think it over is what's extraordinary."

"Maybe my math is wrong."

"Is it?"

He smirked at me. "Hell no."

"Then I stand by what I said. Extraordinary."

Bernard eyed me with suspicion, as if he expected my praise was merely leading him into an insult or making him into the butt of a joke. "You really think it's impressive?"

"Absolutely, and quite frankly I'm astounded that you do not. I cannot think of a single person I've met who is able to add in that fashion, including several senior bankers who spent nine hours a day at their desks.

"Truly, I think once you leave the boxing ring behind, you should consider employment with some form of math required. Unless you secretly abhor mathematics."

"I don't dislike it," he admitted. "I just…I just never been told it was anything special is all."

"It is special," I assured Bernard. "And I will tell you right now that your abilities are at a level of genius."

Again he eyed me suspiciously for a long moment before at last offering a crooked smile that relaxed his features. "Genius, eh?"

"Without a doubt in my mind."

"I ain't never been called that before."

"Then I am honored to be the first. I will absolutely recommend you to my cousin if you're interested in banking in the future. He's a senior account manager and he would be delighted to have you on his team. You would undoubtedly run circles around everyone else at the branch, including Val."

Bernard grunted and started to stand, but paused. "Did I hear you sold another one of your scribbles?"

"I did," I answered.

"Someone likes your drawings, eh?"

"Yes, I–" My eyes narrowed. "What makes you believe it's a drawing that sold?"

Bernard frowned at me. "Beats the hell out of me."

"Are you the anonymous purchaser?" I asked.

"What the hell's the point of being an anonymous buyer if you tell the artist you bought his stupid drawing?" he grumbled.

"Did you?" I asked. "Did you purchase my drawing?"

"I ain't stepped foot in the gallery."

"Allow me to clarify. Did you purchase my drawing at Goupil and Cie?"

Bernard looked away from me and sniffed. "I don't got time to argue. I got to go to a damn tea party."

"Monsieur Montlaur–"

"Anonymous," he said. "Quit asking me questions."

I exhaled.

"Why do you look all pissed off?"

"The drawing is…." I turned my attention back to my cup of coffee. "I suppose it doesn't matter if you are not the one who purchased it."

He looked me over briefly. Without another word, he lumbered out of the cafe, leaving me with my cup of coffee and a dozen unanswered questions.

OoO

I walked through the theater district on my way home and passed two dozen advertisements for various shows, some which interested me far more than others.

Being that it was a Monday, none of the theaters were open for the evening, and the entire boulevard appeared eerily vacant.

Over the years, I had spent a great deal of time at many of the theaters ranging from the Opera Populaire to the ever-changing smaller theaters that struggled to stay open. No matter the capacity or the performances, the theater district had enthralled me from the first moment I had sat in on a performance at the age of seventeen.

I could still recall wandering inside the eighty seat theater that had now been closed permanently for a number of years. The interior was quite garish; the walls painted green as algae, the ceiling most likely was supposed to be gold, but the lighting cast a yellow hue. Being from a small village with a tavern as the only entertainment, I'd been beside myself with excitement to experience a real theater in a large city.

The budget was low, the script lacking in many ways, but the actors put forth their best effort despite the challenges on the stage and a Saturday evening performance with a crowd of twenty in attendance.

Seated off to the right and near the front, my first experience with live theater had been mesmerizing, and I desired to see at least one play a month or an opera every other month. With little financial ability to fund my theater experiences, I found my way into the theater as the guest of many young female actresses, ticket takers, seamstresses and wig makers.

With each opportunity, I was captivated by the larger performances, enthralled by the music and the sets and the actors who stepped into the roles they were given and became great warriors, chaste maidens, and powerful rulers.

For several hours in a darkened theater, I escaped the mind-numbing boredom of the bank or the emotional torment of my buzzing thoughts. I followed the storylines, allowing myself to be immersed in another world with characters battling for love, honor, and freedom. I forgot what it was like to be myself while the actors interacted on the stage, and once they took their bows and the curtains closed, the elation often lasted for hours after I returned home.

All the while, I kept an eye out for Erik, both in the audience and in the orchestra pit whenever there were musicians present. I scanned the opera boxes during arias and watched the crowd file in and out of the theater. Before performances, I made my way to the orchestra pit and peered inside, becoming quite familiar with many of the musicians, whom I knew by name.

One of the musicians I had come to know quite well was walking in the opposite direction as I passed the Opera Populaire, and I waved when he glanced up.

"Carlos," I said as he approached. "What a pleasure to see you."

"Oh, Phelan," he said, tipping his hat. "I haven't seen you in ages. How have you been?"

"Very well," I said.

"I would hope so," Carlos replied. "I see you have several paintings hanging in a gallery. Jeuliette and I attended Sunday afternoon while the children were with her parents."

Carlos barely looked old enough to be wed let alone the father of three children. His wife was several years older than him, but the two of them combined were a breathtakingly beautiful couple that looked as if they'd stepped out of a romantic fairy tale. Both of them had posed for portraits in the past as well as their children, who had proven to be excellent models with their parents' good looks.

"How is your wife and your lovely children?" I asked.

"Good. Jeuliette will be delighted I saw you. She was very impressed with your paintings. I think she would have purchased every single one if we had the means."

"Give her my best," I said. "And anything that truly catches your eye, I will gift to you."

Carlos shook his head. "Still a terrible salesman, I see."

"That is why I have a broker now."

Carlos gave an appreciative nod. "Any luck with finding…?"

I forced a smile. Carlos and Jeulietta had been aware of my search for Erik. They had been employed together by several different theaters with Carlos being a musician and Jeulietta working behind the scenes in makeup and wigs. "I am quite hopeful I draw nearer every day to finding my brother."

"I pray every night that you have your happy reunion, Phelan. God will answer one day. I am certain of it." Carlos glanced over his shoulder and nodded at the Opera Populaire. "Are you attending the show this Friday evening?"

"I am."

"The score is quite…interesting," he said.

"Are you employed by the Opera Populaire these days?"

Carlos took a step toward me and whispered, "Only temporarily. Their second violin quit two weeks ago and I have been tasked with learning the entire opera before it opens. I must say, the music is quite complicated. I personally cannot blame the musician for leaving abruptly."

"The theater seems to be cursed in that respect. Many of their set builders and designers also left."

"Yes, so I heard." He glanced over his shoulder again and frowned. "I assume you've heard the rumors."

"Of the ghost?"

Carlos' black eyes bulged in their sockets. "We are advised not to speak of the ghost," he said quite nervously. "They say he is always listening, inside and outside of the theater."

"You don't truly believe there is a spector at work here, do you?" I asked.

Carlos swallowed. "I've seen him," he said quietly. "This ghost of a man or man pretending to be a ghost." He looked at me, his jaw working in silence. "I've seen him when no one else was around."

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. "Where?" I asked.

"One of the opera boxes," he answered. "Box Five, which he has claimed as his own, apparently."

"When was this?"

Again he risked a look at the opera house steps. "Yesterday afternoon, before anyone else arrived for rehearsals, I was in the orchestra pit looking over the overture when I heard what sounded like a pocket door rolling open or closed. I didn't think much of it until I looked up and saw him."

"Did he see you?"

Carlos nodded once. "The devil looked directly at me. It was absolutely bone-chilling."

I raised a brow. "Bone-chilling?"

"His eyes," Carlos said, keeping his voice low, "red as flames. And his head was floating above his body."

"Surely a trick of your imagination."

"Jeuliette said the same, but I assure you, Phelan, I am quite aware of what I saw with my own eyes. He is not someone I wish to ever see again. He lingered for several moments before he vanished into the shadows. When he was out of my sight, I heard the haunting final notes of the overture. Pardon the pun."

"He plays the violin?"

Carlos nodded. "I've heard he plays like a lunatic beneath a full moon from the opera house roof. He cackles like a madman, chasing away the other spirits."

"And on the steps as well?" I questioned.

Carlos took a deep breath. "I would not be surprised. He is omnipresent, Monsieur, everywhere and nowhere at once, listening from the cracks in the walls and beneath the floorboards while also swinging from the catwalks far above the stage." He paused and looked around. "I have heard rumors it is the spirit of an orphaned boy who grew up within the shadows of the theater, wandering the catacombs."

He roams the dark. My breath hitched as I thought of the old gypsy woman's words, her vision of my brother who was scared of night somehow perpetually clinging to the shadows.

"They say he was born with some sort of affliction and shunned by everyone, including his parents. They attempted to drown him in the river when he was quite young, but somehow he escaped and survived. Now he wanders, seeking his vengeance."

"A vengeful, opera-writing ghost with a detached head," I said, summing up Carlos' words.

"Peculiar, to say the least," Carlos agreed. "I must return home, but I do hope you will stop by the orchestra pit and say hello before the show starts this Friday. It will be wonderful to have a friendly face in the audience."

"Of course, it will be my pleasure," I said. "Wonderful seeing you."

Once Carlos was on his way, I lingered a moment longer, scanning the opera house roof for a hopeful glimpse of the ghost. Uneasiness settled over me, like a damp chill draped over my shoulders.

What if the ghost is...

No...

No, I would not entertain the thought.