Longer chapter compared to the last one as Phelan continues through the second worst night of his life.
Ch 63
As I sat outside in the alley with my back to the stone exterior of the opera house, I felt as though my soul was no longer attached to my body. My mind could not process all I had witnessed starting from the moment Christine drew back the hood and flung the mask aside, revealing the identity of the other actor.
Erik appeared thin, almost emaciated, his cheeks hollow and eyes that of a corpse. I couldn't erase the expression on his face from my thoughts, how betrayed he looked by Christine's action to not simply reveal who he was, but to expose him before hundreds of onlookers who responded with scream of terror at the very sight of him.
The collective reaction from the audience made me shudder in horror. Erik had been forced to hide his face, I was certain, shamed into concealing the scars because others were either afraid of the way he looked. I wondered if strangers had threatened to harm him–or if those threats had been the reality of his life.
The nightmare of his past that I had often guessed at became more of a reality. He had undoubtedly suffered more than I wanted to admit. The Devil's Son, Madame Giry had said–or something to that effect. I had no idea what was meant by her words, but it certainly didn't sound good.
I ran my hand down my face and took an unsteady breath, devastated by what Erik must have endured alone in the world since he was taken from me.
He had been so sensitive as a small child, desiring praise from Alak when he played the piano and from me when we built hideaways in the woods. He wanted to be told he was good, that he was wanted. I wondered when the last time had been that he'd been told something positive.
The hideous creature has a name? Raoul had snidely questioned.
Yes, he has a name, one that I gave him, I should have come out and said. A name that I'd heard before from fishermen in the local tavern, one that I thought was strong and suitable for an infant who was not supposed to survive past his first breaths.
Erik is my brother, and we have been separated since childhood. God knows what he has endured in all the years of my absence, what has hurt and changed him to deliver him here, to this point of no return. Perhaps people such as yourself who have called my brother hideous are partially responsible for his actions, vicomte.
Undoubtedly, whatever was to transpire between Erik and Raoul was taking place somewhere by a lakeside home beneath the opera house. Either Erik or Raoul could have already been dead in that mysterious hideout my brother had chosen to take Christine. There didn't seem to be another outcome; either my brother was dead or a murderer, or Raoul had taken Erik's life and no matter what, we could no longer be reunited as I had wished.
If he lived…if had killed Raoul de Chagny and the gendarmes from the stage surrounded and took him captive rather than shooting him on sight, he would be incarcerated and face a trial, which would ultimately lead to his execution. My last chance to know my brother would be visitations in prison, and I imagined if the dean caught wind of my intentions to keep Erik company, I'd be forced to forfeit my position at the university, being seen as a sympathizer to a terrible, blood-thirsty monster.
My heart was quick to say, 'Let them dismiss me from the art department, let them label me the brother of a cold-blooded killer. I didn't care as long as I had Erik back even briefly'.
But my head was more reasonable than my heart as I considered the detrimental aspects of standing beside Erik. My paintings would be removed from art shows, the Louvre would retract the offer they hadn't yet made for the summer. There was a chance Bernard would ask to return the artwork he had purchased and tell me he didn't want the drawings of Beatrix.
Erik's life would ruin my own. I closed my eyes and swallowed, unable to understand how it had come to this tragic end. I had loved Erik with all of my heart. I still loved him. I would never stop caring for my brother. I couldn't decide if my adoration for him was selfish or if my wariness to stand beside him out of fear of losing everything was truly the selfish decision.
My brother was an enigma to me, one who had not married and had a family as I hoped. He was not employed as part of an orchestra or composing music to share with the masses. He had abducted a young woman betrothed to another man before my very eyes and had released the sandbags, which could have very well killed someone.
Abducted was perhaps a strong description of his actions on my part. With the opera house in flames and the chandelier crashing into the theater, Erik had undoubtedly taken the swiftest path to safety, one that I could not manage to find.
Still, to all of Paris, he would be considered a monster or the devil himself no matter if he had saved Christine from succumbing to the flames. To me? I could not call him such derogatory names, even if the title was deserved.
I had sacrificed myself repeatedly to find him. I had financially put myself nearly into ruin running newspaper ads. I had drawn him hundreds of times, afraid I would forget something about him, some small detail that would snowball into no longer remembering him at all. I'd give him more than anyone else would have spared. I wasn't sure if I wanted to give up my career as an artist and a professor to comfort him in the days before he lost his life for his misdeeds.
"I am so stupid to believe for a moment that I would find him and everything would be wonderful," I muttered under my breath.
After everything you did, how could you possibly think it would work out in the end. This is your fault. You created him, Phelan. Your negligence created this horror. You are responsible for this thing they call The Phantom of the Opera. You're certainly dumber than you look.
The voice in my head belonged to Bjorn and it was the truth. I was an ignorant fool, one who had relied on fantasy to survive alone for three decades. Bjorn would have laughed in my face, finding pleasure in my misery. Our father would have taunted me and celebrated that Erik and I had not found one another, that the bond we shared was truly broken beyond repair and I had wasted my life.
Tears pricked the back of my eyes, my throat raw and tight from inhaling smoke and being overcome by emotion. I hurt inside and out, throbbing with misery that became unbearable.
"I just wanted to see you again," I whispered into the night. "I just wanted to speak to you once more, and now…now that will never happen."
We were so close, only rows apart, and then… Then hell had cracked open at the hands of the one person I loved more than life itself. Somehow it felt as though Erik had betrayed me worse than anyone else despite him having no idea we were in the same room.
Erik is still Erik, I had claimed. I wasn't sure I believed my own words spoken to Nadir. He seemed so far removed from the person I had known long ago. If not for the scars, I wasn't sure if I would have recognized him.
Frustrated, I gripped my left forearm with my right hand and pressed deep into the nerves, harder than I'd ever done before, as merciless as Alak had done to me the night Erik disappeared. I grit my teeth against the radiating pain, fighting against the urge to yelp as I had done at the age of seven, vocalizing like some type of dying beast felled in the woods.
Tears escaped from my stinging eyes as the physical pain consumed me, but I pressed harder, hoping the agony would turn to loss of consciousness. I wished I had been one to drink myself into a state of stupor, to consume some type of substance that would drown or dull the ache that was never sated.
But no. I had avoided anything that altered my senses and this is where it had led me: alone in an alley torturing myself with physical pain that could not be overridden by my body shutting down. I pulled my hand away and swallowed, my vision filled with pricks of light and hearing muffled. The darkened world before he spun violently, and I was certain the sandwiches I consumed hours ago were about to creep back up and into my throat and expel themselves from my mouth.
I forced myself to sit still, to accept what I had insisted upon doing to myself, but the pain in my forearm would not subside and I writhed in agony, certain it had been several minutes with no end in sight.
Breathe, Professor.
I can't, Bernard.
You got to breathe. I ain't giving you a choice.
I would rather suffocate and die here. And then it would be over finally.
My eyes popped open, surprised by the imaginary conversation.
Well, ain't that a real shit thing to say, I imagined Bernard responding. Take a breath, hold it, let it go. Then you know what you got to do?
I have no idea.
Then get off your ass, that's what. You can't just sit here and feel sorry for yourself. That ain't how it works.
Bernard was somehow as harsh than Bjorn, but kinder in his intentions, and I appreciated his voice in my head. Slowly I forced myself to stand, mindful that my arm was still throbbing long after it should have stopped hurting.
"Professor!"
For one fleeting moment, I was certain I heard Bernard's voice echoing from the end of the alley, but then remembered he was no longer in Paris.
Jovina, Mateo, and Ink sprinted down the alley toward me where they all began speaking at once, asking if I was injured and expressing relief that they'd found me.
"Praise God you're alive," Jovina marveled. "Mateo, please give me your handkerchief."
Mateo obeyed at once while Ink grabbed my chin and pushed my face upwards to examine me.
"He's bleeding," Ink observed.
"No, I'm not," I replied, my head swimming.
"Yes, you are," Jovina said, holding the handkerchief to my ear. "What happened? My God, you're covered in soot and… what are all of these white specks?"
"Plaster, I think," I said, dusting off my shoulder. "The ceiling began to collapse after the chandelier fell."
All three of them gasped at once, hands clutching my shoulder and upper arm as if they physically needed to hold me held together for fear of me falling apart.
"Soot and plaster all over your nice new suit," Mateo said.
I winced at his words, wondering what Abigail would have thought if she'd seen me. She had not crossed my mind at all once I spotted Erik, and I wasn't sure if I would have escorted her to the lobby and then ran back for my brother or left her to find her way out in the chaos unassisted while I pursued Erik. I wanted to believe I would have been a gentleman first and foremost, seeing her out before I set my sights on my brother.
"You're soaking wet," Ink observed. "Your trousers, the back of your coat…What happened?"
"I was sitting on the ground," I told them.
"You'll freeze out here," Mateo said. "Come, Professor Kimmer, we need to get you back home and into dry clothes."
"I'm fine," I insisted.
"Please, Flan," Jovina begged. "You take care of us every single day at the university. Allow us to take care of you, just this once."
"No," I said. "I need to find someone."
"But you're soaking wet," Mateo pointed out.
"I will stay with him and make sure he's home safe," Ink firmly said. "You two go back to the dormitories."
"Daniel," Jovina said with a sigh. "Are you sure?"
"Of course. You have my word that I'll make certain Professor Kimmer is dry and warm."
I felt like a child standing between parents discussing who would carry me off to bed for the night, but didn't argue. My throat, nostrils, and eyes still burned and my arm still throbbed, which was becoming worrisome, and the more I became aware of how cold and miserable I was, the less I wanted to be alone.
Jovina, Mateo, and Ink briefly discussed their plans for the night while I stood with my gaze averted and head pounding. I pulled up my overcoat sleeves as far as it would go, which was not far, and removed the cufflink to roll my sleeve up. The alley was too dark to get a good look, but my forearm appeared purple and there was blood dried on my wrist.
The wound had formed again, I realized, and by pressing into my flesh I had most likely torn it open. My stomach flipped, my mouth suddenly filled with saliva as I became more certain I would wretch.
"Professor?" Ink said, touching my right arm.
I pulled my sleeves down and dropped the cufflink into my pocket.
"I'll walk you home," Ink said.
"You don't need to walk all that way," I said to him despite hoping he would disagree.
"You're right, I don't," he answered. "But I will nonetheless."
Mateo and Jovina were further ahead of us and waved as they turned the corner and disappeared into a crowd of people watching the opera house disaster unfold. We passed through a billow of black smoke and were directed across the street, away from the barricades blocking off the front of the building.
The lobby windows blazed orange with flames, the glass roof shattering with the cold outside battling the heat consuming the structure. Dozens of people were laid out in front of the building, most of them on the cobblestones suffering from various wounds and injuries.
"My God," I heard a man whisper. "There are still people trapped inside."
I shuddered at his words. By now, anyone left inside was either dead or dying from smoke and flames with no possible rescue. Recovery would most likely have to wait until daybreak at which time I assumed there would be a list made of the missing and confirmed deceased.
Florine and Marco. I inhaled sharply, not knowing their fates as I had not looked for them despite their close proximity to the stage. Far too many unknowns threatened to buckle my knees, and I was certain that all I had witnessed would plague me until my last dying breath.
"May God be with them," Ink said under his breath as he took my arm and guided me across the street.
Exhausted and bewildered, I made no protest as he led me away. As much as I wanted full control, as much as I despised being told what to do, I didn't have the strength to walk home on my own or flag down a cab. Breathing was a chore, as was walking in a straight line. Without Ink's guidance, I wasn't certain where I would end up.
In a fight, I told myself. Wandering ever closer to the wrong side of town, in an area where the street lamps were not consistently lit and trouble was easy to come by. I would allow someone to shove me or follow me and turn around and drive my fist into their face repeatedly until there was nothing left inside of me to feel.
"Professor," Ink said, tapping me on the shoulder. "Professor, there is someone attempting to gain your attention."
Briefly I stared at Ink, his words barely registering. Something inside of the opera house exploded, and I jumped, certain the entire building would collapse, sending debris raining down upon the entire street. The ground beneath our feet rumbled, people shrieked in terror, and my throat tightened.
I didn't have the strength to run to safety, nor the desire to protect myself from harm. Remaining within the opera house would have been my preferred fate, dying at least somewhere near Erik. Perhaps then we would be together, our souls connecting in death.
"Monsieur Kimmer," Nadir called out, waving his arms. "A moment, if you would be so kind."
I stared blankly at him, my ears ringing from the explosion itself and the deafening screams that followed. There was nothing else I could possibly endure, and yet I fully expected Nadir Khan would drive yet another nail into my chest.
"Young man, if you would give us a moment," Nadir said to Ink, who looked to me for confirmation that he should step aside.
"It will be brief," I assured Ink, who nodded and walked a short distance away.
"Monsieur Kimmer, I am terribly sorry for how this night has gone," Nadir said.
I felt myself go through the motion of nodding and accepting his condolences despite the words not fully registering. Nothing felt real anymore. It crossed my mind that perhaps I had lost consciousness, but I doubted the pain would have remained acute.
"Is it possible to view the body?" I asked, unsure if I asked the words aloud. It was a more morbid inquiry than I wanted to voice, but I needed to know if I could at least see Erik again.
My eyes were clouded with tears as I stared at the blazing opera house, certain that Erik's remains were inside and would not be recovered. He would not be a priority; he was a monster whose corpse would be returned to hell where I assumed most people thought he belonged.
"He is still inside," I heard myself say. "He is…"
Burning, I thought. Unrecognizable at last, if only in death, no longer a spectacle to the rest of the world. Perhaps it was for the best that he was not removed. He could not be examined or placed on display if he was not recovered from the wreckage–and I could not bear the thought of my brother's lifeless body being used for entertainment. It seemed to me that he had suffered enough and deserved peace in his death.
"Monsieur Kimmer, are you listening?" Nadir asked. He had the audacity to slap me across the face, which certainly delivered me back to my senses.
"No, I am not," I replied.
"Clearly." Nadir furrowed his brow and shook his head. "Now, must I repeat everything I just said?"
"No, you do not need to repeat everything you said. Please, if it is possible to find his body, I would like to see him. If he can be removed, I will take full responsibility for the cost of labor to have him properly buried."
Nadir lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes. "God help you pay better attention when someone speaks to you," he said, thumping me in the chest.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Erik is not inside the building."
oOo
I gaped at Nadir Khan, my eyes still burning and heart slamming against my chest.
"Then…then he has killed Raoul de Chagny," I said under my breath, finding myself equally horrified by the young aristocrat's demise. Raoul and I were not close by any means, but he had seemed like a decent fellow–far more decent than many who had been born into wealth.
With Raoul's murder on his hands, Erik would be a fugitive, one whose face would be plastered throughout Paris and all of Europe, a monster on the run. Somehow, thinking of my brother as a wanted murderer was worse than imagining him dead.
Nadir struck me again, this time in the ear, and I drew my fist back, my anger no longer able to be contained.
"If you raise your hand at me one more time, I will strike you far harder than anyone else has ever dared," I warned.
"I'd have you laid out on the street before you could extend your arm," he said, crossing his arms as if daring me to take a shot at him. "Shall I continue speaking? And if I do, will you pay attention?"
"I'm listening," I said.
"He released them," Nadir said.
"You will have to forgive my ignorance, but I don't know what that means."
"Erik," Nadir clarified. "Your brother, he released them."
"Who? Who did he release?"
"Raoul and his fiance."
"Released them? Released them from what?"
Nadir appeared annoyed by my questions. "From the lakeside home he has maintained," he answered. "A little cottage of sorts that he quite thoughtfully had stored an impressive cache of explosives. Decisions, decisions, my friend, the scorpion or the grasshopper. Those were the only two choices. Erik was not expecting a third. I dare say, neither was I."
"What in the hell are you talking about?" I demanded.
"As I said, Erik is not who you once knew and I can assure you, he is not even the person I knew when he was at the age of twenty."
"When he was in Persia," I said. "As a criminal."
"He wasn't…" Nadir pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. "He was not as dangerous as the Shah of Shah's was led to believe, if that comforts your troubled mind."
"No, it does not ease my troubled mind and you are not making this sound any better," I assured Nadir. "Now, where is Erik, if not inside the opera house?"
"Gone," Nadir said.
I blinked at him. "Gone?"
"Yes, gone," Nadir said.
I swallowed, my throat still burning. "Where?" I asked. "Where has he gone?"
Nadir issued a significant look at me. "Don't you think I would have mentioned his intended location if I was aware? New York, Tokyo, Cairo, Amsterdam? He could be anywhere. He could be fleeing the country or directly behind you."
I whipped around, searching the vacant street, but Erik was most definitely not standing behind me as that would have been entirely too easy.
"Where do you think he is?" I asked, feeling as though Nadir required riddles to engage in conversation.
"That I cannot say, Monsieur Kimmer," Nadir said. He remorsefully frowned at me. "All I can tell you for certain is that Erik was shoulder-deep in his own delusions, hell-bent on destroying himself if he could not have what he wanted."
"You mean to say if he could not have Christine?"
Nadir nodded. "Yes, I do mean that. His living wife, he called her."
I felt myself shiver. "He came to his senses, then," I said.
Nadir shook his head. "No, I do not believe that he did come to his senses. He drowned in his own version of reality," he said, "so submerged in his own self-made madness that he could not see another choice. The hour was desperate, Monsieur Kimmer."
"The scorpion or the grasshopper?"
Nadir looked past me. "The third choice," he said. "An unexpected choice."
"A bee?" I sardonically questioned. "An earthworm, a butterfly? An iridescent beetle, perhaps?"
Nadir's gaze snapped back to mine. "You speak just like him," he said. "Right down to your unnecessarily flippant tone at the most inappropriate moment."
I wasn't sure if his words were a compliment or insult, but I suspected the comparison was not meant as flattery.
"What was the third choice?" I asked.
At last Nadir smiled half-heartedly. "Compassion," he said. "Something he has been without for a very long time."
I shuddered at his words. Nadir had no idea that I'd set Erik up for a hellish life, one void of compassion.
"If you see my brother, will you give him my information?" I asked. "Will you tell him that I am searching for him?"
Nadir frowned. "No, Monsieur Kimmer."
"Why?" I demanded.
"Because I will not give Erik anything at all, I'm afraid. I have no intention of looking for him further. He is a ghost now, and a ghost he shall remain."
"I need to find him," I pleaded. "I still need to find him if he's alive. I can help him."
"How? How can you help him?"
"You will never understand," I said through my teeth, angered by his question. "No one ever will."
Nadir shook his head. "No, I understand completely, Monsieur Kimmer, but I do not believe he wishes to be found by anyone, not even you."
"I don't care what he wants–"
Nadir raised his hand and silenced me. "Ah, that is a very telling response, isn't it?"
My breath hitched, my lips wordlessly parted. I didn't know what else to say to Nadir for him to realize that my intentions were not nefarious in nature. I needed Erik back and it was clear he needed me as well.
"If you will not help me locate Erik, then this conversation is over."
Nadir took one last look at me. "This is for the best, Monsieur Kimmer. A man who does not want to be found is lost to himself. In time, I hope he finds reasons to emerge again. Then perhaps he will be ready to meet you."
Angrily I turned away, the last of my hope dangling by a thread. In the back of my mind I pictured the final chain holding up the chandelier snapping away from the ceiling, and the entire light fixture crashing to the seats below and setting the theater ablaze.
That was where my sanity resided, in a fiery ball of destruction that was on the verge of consuming me.
oOo
Daniel Lincoln didn't inquire who the man was that I spoke to or what had been discussed. He didn't start a conversation or ask anything of me at all. My mood plummeted, but still I felt quite ashamed for the lack of words exchanged between us. I knew he lived on the other side of the theater district, probably no more than a street or two from where the Opera Populaire stood whereas I was practically on the other side of the city.
Where the Opera Populaire had stood, I reminded myself. It was burning rubble, a pile of rocks that I doubted would ever be rebuilt.
"I suppose the backdrops were a waste of time," I muttered.
"A shame, really," Ink agreed. "I was very much hoping that one of them would hang in the Louvre and scholars would interpret your personal touches."
I turned my head and stared at him for a brief moment as he grinned back at me, unable to contain a snort of amusement.
"I suppose breasts and other things fit the subject matter," I agreed, thankful for a juvenile discussion to take my mind off the heaviness and despair.
"If I am being honest, I'm a bit surprised that the theater management allowed the performance to take place without massive rewrites. It was a bit…crude in parts, don't you think?"
"A bit? It was downright scandalous. Dozens of children were probably conceived during the intermissions."
"Oh my, what a thought." Ink pursed his lips. "Indeed, Professor."
I had no idea what Erik was thinking to compose such suggestive lyrics. For most of my adult life I had amused myself by thinking of him as the father of a very large family, but now I had my doubts that he'd ever been with a woman at all. The scenes played out like an adolescent boy's fantasy on what it would be like to coax a woman into his arms. Quite frankly I was embarrassed on his behalf for those lurid thoughts being played out for an audience.
"You don't have to walk all the way back with me," I told Ink.
"I know."
"But you will anyhow?"
Ink nodded. "You didn't have to come to the precinct and pay my fine," he said. "And before you lie to me and say there was no fine, I know that you were responsible for my release and that they were not about to let me go because you asked them."
"Now we are even," I said under my breath.
"No," Ink replied. "No, we will never be even, Professor Kimmer. I am absolutely certain I would still be sitting there if not for you. Or I'd be shipped off to some other location where I'd be subjected to hard labor and never be seen again."
"That would not have happened," I said.
"Given the charges against me, it is absolutely a possibility and I don't want to think about what would have happened if you had not come for me," he said.
We walked in silence for a while. I was shivering in my wet clothes and looked around, hailing a cab as we reached the end of the theater district.
"I don't know what I would have told my family," Ink said suddenly once we were inside of the cab and comfortably seated. "If they had found out. If I'd been forced to ask them to wire me the funds to be set free."
"No one needs to know," I said.
"I know," he agreed. "But…but I suppose my fiance would have broken off our engagement."
His words immediately garnered my full attention. "Your fiance?"
Ink nodded.
"You are engaged?"
Again he nodded.
"How can you possibly be engaged?" I asked.
Ink appeared uncomfortable. "I don't know," he whispered. "It happened before I left to attend the university here. I will return in a few weeks and then…then we will discuss marriage."
"It should remain a discussion for a while longer," I suggested, despite not being asked for my opinion on the matter.
"Because I have been called a homosexual? " He swallowed, his voice fading away.
I eyed him for a long moment, noting the significant amount of shame he carried. "Because you barely look older than fourteen and no one your age should be bound by marriage."
"I'm twenty-three," he pointed out.
"And you are not attracted to women."
"I am," he insisted. "Of course I'm attracted to women."
"But you would prefer a man?"
"No, of course I wouldn't prefer a man," he said dismissively. "I've always been attracted to women, but…I don't know how to say what I mean. I suppose living here in Paris has been different. I don't know what it is about this city, but I feel as though I am not the same person I was at home." He clasped his hands. "I've never eaten snails in my life, but here? It's a delicacy and although I don't prefer escargot to, say, broasted chicken, I didn't dislike it, either."
"Daniel, it makes absolutely no difference to me if you fancy women or men," I assured him. "But this woman you are engaged to marry? It will make a difference to her and will impact the rest of her life. And yours, for that matter, if you go through with this."
"We have already been…almost familiar with one another," he replied. "On a few occasions, actually, and the last time I saw her. I kissed her. With my shirt off."
"I wish you the best," I said, sensing he was agitated by the conversation. "As an artist and in marriage."
"I can be a good husband," he said as if attempting to convince himself. "A good father as well."
I nodded in agreement. "I have no doubt. My apologies if I made it seem like I have no faith in you, Daniel, nothing could be further from the truth."
Ink slowly nodded. "Thank you, Professor. I certainly value your words, quite possibly more than anyone else's opinions."
The cab came to a stop in front of my building and we both stepped out, which surprised me as I hadn't expected Ink to come up, given the hour–which I didn't actually know as my watch had stopped at some point in the night.
My arm still hurt to the point of making it difficult to concentrate on anything else, and once we were both inside my apartment, I excused myself and went directly into the lavatory where I removed my overcoat and shirt and stepped out of my wet trousers and into the pajama pants I had folded over the side of the bathtub.
Briefly I stared at my own soot-covered face, noting the whites of my eyes were bloodshot and cheeks tear-stained.
Unintentionally I clenched my fist, drawing my attention away from the mirror and to my arm.
The wound had not only returned unbeknownst to me, but the amount of pressure I'd placed on the scar tissue had resulted in bruising, which had never happened before in all of the years I'd dug my fingers into my own flesh.
I cursed under my breath, horrified by the damage I had done as the wound was much larger than it had ever been before, nearly the size of a walnut.
"Daniel?" I called, cracking the door open just enough to peer out. My head swam, my knees threatening to turn to jelly.
Ink stood in front of Elvira's stand while she reached out with her foot as though she wanted to walk onto his arm.
"Yes?" he said, turning to face me.
"I wouldn't stand so close to Elvira," I warned.
"Careful! She bites!" Elvira said.
Ink took a careful step back. "She's so magnificent. I forgot that she is dangerous as well."
"Just like most women," I said dryly. "Beautiful and dangerous."
"I will stay back so as not to tempt her into misbehavior."
"Would you mind fetching the medical kit? It's on the shelf in the kitchen by the canister of coffee."
Ink readily nodded. "Of course, Professor Kimmer."
He briskly disappeared from my sight and returned seconds later with the medical kit I kept in a white, rectangular tin that contained bandages, gauze, and several types of ointment, most of which I had on hand specifically for the weeping wound that had never permanently healed.
I thanked him and shut the door, the back of my neck damp with perspiration as I examined the bruising and fresh wound. When I looked up at the oval mirror over the sink, I noticed my right ear was crusted over with blood, but didn't hurt–at least not nearly as much as my arm.
Again I cursed under my breath. There were bits of debris that had someone managed to find their way under my sleeve and stick to my arm, seemingly affixed to my flesh by the blood. I swallowed and exhaled, placing my arm beneath the faucet where I pumped out cold water, shivering as it gushed onto my damaged flesh.
My arm throbbed still, worse than it ever had before, and I closed my eyes, angry with myself for adding to the damage. If the wound became infected, I risked amputation–and I was ruined enough as it was, both inside and out.
"For safekeeping," I whispered.
The next breath rattled through me and I sat on the closed toilet seat, flooded with pain and misery that gripped me so violently I could no longer ignore the sorrow.
I thought Abigail would be upset with me if she saw what I'd done to my arm. Perhaps concerned at first, but ultimately angry that I was capable of harming myself to this extent.
And Erik? What would my brother think if he saw me in such a state, a giant pit of agony I couldn't climb out of because I cared for him more than I cared for myself.
No matter how much effort I had put forth into a friendship with Abigail and being reunited with my brother, I was alone–more alone than I thought possible.
"Professor?" Ink called out, knocking on the door.
I inhaled sharply, realizing he could probably hear me whimpering like an injured child with a scraped knee.
"I will be out in a moment."
Uninvited, he opened the lavatory door, his gaze immediately drawn to my arm. "What needs to be done?" he asked.
I stared at him for a moment. "Nothing."
"You're injured."
"I'll tend to it," I said. "If you would give me a moment, I'll give you twenty francs for cab fare."
"No, Professor Kimmer, that is not what I think is best at this time." Ink grabbed the towel from the hook behind him and crouched on the floor in front of me. "Should I use this one or something different?" he asked.
I looked away from him and swallowed. "There are a few more in the linen closet," I said. "If you would grab a more raggedy one that can be disposed of–"
He was on his feet immediately and dashed into the hall where he returned a moment later with several older hand towels, which he placed over the sink basin before returning to the floor in front of me.
I eyed him skeptically, unsure of what he thought he could possibly do.
"My father is a physician in Evanston, which is north of Chicago," he said. "Well, he was a physician. He started to develop a tremor a few years ago, so he no longer practices."
"I'm very sorry to hear that," I said.
"Thank you. It was quite difficult on him to close his practice. Now, extend your arm," he said, guiding my arm straight with my elbow resting on my knee. "Is that comfortable?"
Despite nothing about the situation being comfortable, I nodded, assuming if I was combative I would make everything take longer.
"My father used to allow us to sit in the exam rooms, me and my brother, because he wanted the two of us to be physicians like him and assumed if we saw lacerations, or missing eyes and the like that we would be drawn to following in his footsteps."
"Given that you are studying art here in Paris, that doesn't seem to have worked," I said.
Ink smiled to himself while he unscrewed the lid from an amber bottle of iodine and covered the top of the bottle with a bandage. "My brother, Edward, passed out enough times where our father allowed him to stop sitting in on procedures. Eddie was a lost cause, I suppose."
"You had a stronger stomach, I assume?"
"I never batted an eye at the worst of injuries. We had a fellow from a town over come in with his arm dangling off and I was right there beside my father as he removed the appendage."
"How old were you at the time?"
"Thirteen?" Ink guessed. "Farm equipment and factory injuries were quite prevalent."
"What made you decide to go into art, if you had the makings of an excellent physician?" I asked.
Ink made a face.
"I apologize if I'm prying into your personal life," I said.
"No, it isn't that, Professor Kimmer."
I eyed him, unsure of why he was still making a face that appeared very uncomfortable until he pressed the iodine soaked pad onto the open wound, at which time I very nearly jumped off my seat, sputtering every obscenity I'd ever learned due to the amount of alcohol stinging deep into the wound.
"I am so very sorry," Ink said. "I know it hurts, but that wound is quite concerning and I worry about infection setting in if it isn't thoroughly cleaned."
"I have a very high tolerance for pain," I said, my vision threatening to go dark, "although at this moment it doesn't appear to be benefiting me at all."
"I'll keep talking and attempt to distract you if you'd like."
I nodded, my breaths harsh and labored.
"I actually went to medical school for two years," Ink told me. "All the way in St. Louis, Missouri."
"Something tells me St. Louis, Missouri is closer to Illinois than Paris," I managed to reply.
Ink chuckled. "It is, most definitely, but at the time it felt like an insurmountable distance from my family." He paused, lifting the pad and examining the wound. "That's where I met Harriet."
"Your fiance?" I guessed.
Ink nodded. "She was walking with her friends along the Mississippi River when she twisted her ankle. I was able to bandage it up for her on the spot and helped her home. We started talking, then we went out for lunch and…" He shrugged. "She is very lovely."
He spoke with great sincerity, and I didn't doubt he was fond of this woman.
"When did you see her last?" I asked.
"A year and a half ago," he answered. "But we write to each other every few months."
There was nothing I wished to say in response for fear of sounding judgmental concerning a situation that I was unfamiliar with, so I nodded instead and watched as Ink took great care in examining my arm.
I didn't much care if people gawked at the scar tissue as I was aware of the grotesque nature and the desire to take a closer look, but Ink's interest was not out of the need to blatantly stare, but as the son of a physician who had undoubtedly seen much worse wounds.
I relaxed my hand and stared past him, attempting to take slower, more even breaths despite my uneasiness.
No one had ever treated or bandaged the wound on my arm or tended to the burn. When it had originally happened, I'd stuck my arm into the snow outside the rear of the house where I had been born, cooling the injury. It had blistered immediately, the golden hairs on my arm burned clean off and my skin raw and bloody.
I had not thought it would remain that way, assuming that once it healed, it would return to normal and no one would ever be able to tell what my father had done to me.
But it had not healed the way I hoped, and because at the age of three and a half I had no knowledge of proper wound treatment nor the supplies to keep it clean, I was quite fortunate my forearm didn't decay and need to be removed. If there had been salve available, perhaps I could have lessened the severity of the scar's appearance.
It had never crossed my mind that an adult to rely on would have been the best option for healing.
"Relax if you can," Ink said. "I will do my best not to cause you any further distress."
I took a deep breath and exhaled, preparing myself for further discomfort, not necessarily because I anticipated pain, but because I was not accustomed to anyone tending to me in any capacity.
"You would tell me if you plan to amputate, wouldn't you?" I asked lightly.
Ink looked up at me from his place on the floor and smiled. "Have a little faith in me, Professor Kimmer, and know that I am skilled enough to treat a wound like this."
"I have the utmost faith in you, Dr. Daniel Lincoln."
He smiled brighter for a moment as he blotted my arm dry and then applied ointment to my arm, which I was perfectly capable of doing myself, but decided against pointing out. For the first time that I could recall, I allowed someone else to have control.
"You are the type of person who is accustomed to doing everything yourself, aren't you?" he asked. "And everything for others as well, I would assume."
"Is it that obvious?"
"Well, a little, but mostly because my father has always been the same way," he said. "Always the one to treat the wounded and ill, but quite intolerable if he needs help–and God forbid Dr. Lincoln ask his own son to come to his aid. He would put up such a terrible fuss."
He clearly had no idea how much I wanted to apply the salve to myself.
"My father has always been a proud man. He would never wish to be a burden on his own children, but I think he forgets that we do love him in return, and I cannot think of a better way to express my adoration than doing for him what he cannot do for himself. It isn't a burden as he has let himself to believe. It is a pleasure to be of assistance."
I considered Daniel's words in silence, thinking of everything I'd done for my brother, for my students, for my niece and Hugo. There was not a single action I would have ever thought of us as an inconvenience and yet if the roles had been reversed, I absolutely would have told them that they didn't need to go out of their way for me.
"I am surprised you haven't referred to me as Father thus far during the school year," I said.
Ink looked up at me and smiled again. "You aren't all that much like him, to be honest."
"I cannot tell if that's good or bad."
"It's not bad," he admitted. "You are a bit more…well, French."
I eyed him, amused by his words. "Should I be concerned that your assessment of me is that I am French?"
Ink's cheeks reddened. "I am a painter, not a poet. You are not my father. I love my father. I love…" He cleared his throat. "I respect you."
"You drew me as a donkey at the start of the year. Respect indeed."
Ink appeared grateful for the jest. "You encouraged us to draw you as a barnyard animal."
"Yes," I said. "Probably because I'm French, whatever that means to an American from Illinois."
Ink sighed. "You aren't going to hold my observation against me, are you?"
"Not in the least. There are worse things to be, Monsieur Lincoln."
"Such as a homo–"
"Such as an American," I assured him. You poor creature, hailing from an uncivilized country."
"We are practically knuckle-dragging barbarians."
"Your words, not mine, Daniel."
Ink sniffed as he dried off the wound, which was no longer bleeding. The flesh around it was deep purple in color, but there was no sign of infection, for which I was grateful.
"You know what is incredibly odd, Professor Kimmer? I can examine this wound and it doesn't bother me one bit, but if I were to look at my own arm and see myself bleeding?" He shuddered. "I'd be sick to my stomach. I've always wondered why that is. Why, I'd be a physician in need of a physician if I ever cut myself."
"Does Harriette have a strong stomach?" I asked.
Ink inhaled, his brow furrowed as he gently brushed the pad of his thumb over a small section of flesh that had not been burned. "I actually don't know," he said, pausing to look at me. "I suppose I should inquire before she is my wife."
I nodded in agreement, and Ink's expression became increasingly distant.
"There are many things I don't know about her, now that I think about it," he said, furrowing his brow. "Her eye color, for one. I think her eyes are brown, but I cannot say for certain." He glanced up at me. "That is concerning, isn't it?"
"You have not seen her in quite some time," I reminded him.
"Yes, but…but I should know what color eyes my future wife has, shouldn't I?"
"You'll be back home in a few weeks," I pointed out. "I assume you'll see her then?"
Ink nodded. "I suppose I shall and then I have much to consider. Perhaps marriage is something I need to put more thought into rather than committing."
"It's a very big decision."
Ink wiped his hands on one of the towels I'd asked him to fetch from the linen closet and grabbed the bandages from the medical kit. "Do you know what left this bruise behind?"
"No," I answered practically before Ink finished speaking.
"It's very deep," he commented. "Perhaps someone stepped on you while attempting to escape? Or you were struck with a door? I don't know what else could have caused this."
"Both are possible," I replied.
"Has your arm bruised like this before?"
I shook my head. "Not that I can recall."
"May I suggest liver and onions twice a week for dinner?"
I wrinkled my nose. "You may certainly not," I said.
Ink issued a peculiar look in my direction.
"I'd rather be bruised than ingest onions."
His eyebrows shot up. "Liver by itself then?"
"With all due respect, Dr. Ink, I will choose death over consuming liver."
Ink snorted. "Come now, Professor Kimmer, that's a bit dramatic, wouldn't you say?"
"Given how this night has gone, I believe I'm allowed to be dramatic," I said under my breath.
"I suppose you are correct and even the most demur and sensible of professors is allowed to detest liver and onions."
"Demur and sensible are absolutely not words anyone would ever use to describe me."
Ink very gently wrapped my arm starting from my wrist and made his way up to my elbow, using two separate bandages that overlapped.
"You are tense again," he commented.
"My apologies," I said, nearly choking on my own words.
"No apologies needed, Professor. I am truly sorry if I've caused you pain. I will try to be as careful as possible."
I had caused my own pain, I wanted to tell him, almost thirty years of it, with still no end in sight.
A deep sense of gratitude washed over me as Ink sat on the wooden floor of my apartment lavatory and finished bandaging me up.
Daniel Lincoln treated me with more compassion than I had reserved for myself. He spoke softly as he finished wrapping my arm, mindful that toward my wrist hurt worse than the rest of my arm.
"You would make a very good part-time physician," I said when he shut the medical kit and stood.
"Part-time?" he questioned.
"Yes, I still believe you should pursue art, but perhaps in your spare time you could become a physician."
He smiled pleasantly, despite looking quite exhausted. "Did my father tell you to say that?" he lightly questioned.
"No," I said, looking over the bandage. The way the edges overlapped was quite perfect, like medical care turned into art. "I thought of it all on my own."
Ink returned the rest of the supplies to the medical kit and secured the latches. He stifled a yawn while cleaning his hands while I placed the used towels into a basket and pulled a fresh shirt and dry trousers from my wardrobe.
Taking a breath, Ink turned to face me. "Your brother wasn't in the audience as far as you are aware, was he?"
I took my time to reply, the night replaying through my mind from the moment I saw Erik on the stage to him disappearing through the trap door. He was still out there somewhere, still alive.
Still alone, I reminded myself, as if I could not possibly stand a moment of feeling at peace. The truth, however, could not be ignored, and Erik was more alone than I would have ever foolishly guessed.
"No, he was not in the audience," I said at last.
"At leas that is something to be thankful for, I suppose."
"I suppose."
My brother was out there, however. Still breathing. Still very much alive.
And I had every intention of searching for him. Every alleyway, every shadow, every inch of Paris would be thoroughly examined until there was nowhere else to look. As long as Erik was living, I would find him.