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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 46/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3590
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Madame is not impressed.
GETTING WARMER
“Whatever it is you are looking for, Signor, I very much doubt that you will find it in Christine Daae’s dressing room.”
Madame Giry was gratified to see Antonio Rossi jump at the sound of her voice; clearly he had thought that no one had seen him sneaking into Christine’s room and had failed to notice her reflection in the mirror as she stood in the doorway. Slowly he turned, the corners of his mouth tilted in one of his barely-perceptible smiles. He spread his hands, as though showing her that he meant no harm.
“Signora Giry, how pleasant to see you,” he said smoothly. “You must forgive me; I did not hear you come in.”
“What are you doing in here?” Antoinette demanded, as unswayed by flattery as ever. If someone tried to compliment her it usually meant they either wanted something or were trying to wheedle their way round her; whatever the case, it would not work. “It is not done for the men of the company, especially those in senior positions, to be hanging around the female dressing rooms.”
“Forgive me,” Rossi said again. “Someone told me that this was my sister’s room before it came to Signorina Daae; I merely wanted a little look, to satisfy my curiosity.”
Madame Giry didn’t believe him for a moment. “The Prima Donna’s room is that way, near your own,” she told him, pointing down the corridor. “When Signora Giudicelli first arrived she was allocated the dressing room that is currently occupied by Marie Durant. Mademoiselle Durant is a generous and helpful woman but I don’t imagine she will much like your poking around in her things either. And woe betide you if I ever catch you anywhere near the dancers’ lounge - ”
“You misunderstand me, Signora.” The tone of the tenor’s voice took on a subtle change; she didn’t miss the threat in it, reminiscent of Erik at his angriest. His little black eyes narrowed. “My motives are not sinister or lascivious and I can assure you that I have no interest whatsoever in your ballerinas. Carlotta told me of your obstructive nature and I can see that she was not exaggerating.”
“Exaggeration was something to which she was, and no doubt still is, sadly prone. I do not recall her ever stopping to check the facts of a story before telling the rest of the world at as loud a volume as possible.”
Rossi’s olive complexion darkened as blood suffused his face. His hands clenched into fists and Antoinette was sure that, had she been a man, he would have struck her. She was not entirely sure what had prompted her to make such accusations about La Carlotta, whether it was the insult she had just been given or a desire to knock the troublesome diva off the pedestal upon which she had evidently been placed by her family. Either way, a desire to speak the truth rose within her and she surrendered to it, unprofessional though it may be. It was unlikely that there would be anyone within the building other than Rossi who would disagree with her statements. “It is unbecoming for one woman to belittle another,” Rossi said, “especially when the one being maligned is a performer of great talent and integrity. I would ask for you to take back those ill-chosen words, Signora, unless you wish me to make a formal complaint to the managers. I could have you dismissed from your post.”
Madame Giry raised an eyebrow. “I would not advise you to try, Signor. I am sure they would be very interested were I to tell them how I found you here in an artiste’s private room, apparently having broken in.”
“I did no such thing!” He looked scandalised, and those chubby hands flew up between them, palms outward as though he thought he could ward her off like an evil spirit. “I am not that kind of man, Signora, and I resent such an implication! The door was open when I arrived: I was drawn by the stories of my sister and could not help but wonder why a junior chorus member would require something as grand as that mirror.”
“Does it matter? As far as I know it has always been there; a whim of the designer, perhaps.” Antoinette tried to surreptitiously peer behind him to see if the mirror had been tampered with. Carlotta had not known about the tunnel that lay behind it, so why would her brother be creeping around nearby?
“I have to say that I find it ludicrous that chorus girl has something the Prima Donna does not,” Rossi said, bristling. “I have seen the diva’s quarters and I find them sadly lacking.”
“Mademoiselle Merriman has not complained. Perhaps you should do so on her behalf, Signor, if you feel she is not getting the recognition she deserves,” Madame Giry suggested.
The tenor stared at her for a long moment, lips pursed. When she did not even so much as blink under his scrutiny he waved a finger under her nose. “I am watching you, Signora,” he declared. “Carlotta was very vocal upon the subject of your collusion with this ‘Phantom’, telling me how you delivered his outrageous demands. The managers may not bother themselves with such concerns, but I have my eye on you. Do not think you will get away with such flagrantly illegal behaviour!”
“The Phantom, such as he was, did this theatre a great service. It was unfortunate that neither your sister nor the managers at the time could see it; they preferred instead to hound him out and almost bring the Opera to ruin. But I would not suggest that you begin to spread such rumours, Signor; a line has been drawn under that whole episode and we are all anxious to begin anew. There is little to be gained in dragging up the past,” Antoinette said. “It is the intention of everyone here to make the Populaire great again; I am sure that you wish to be included in whatever acclaim we manage to earn.”
Rossi seemed momentarily lost for words. His mouth worked up and down once or twice before he shook that finger in her face again and repeated, “I am watching you, Signora. Do not forget it!” before stalking past her and disappearing around the corner. Antoinette counted slowly to a hundred before closing the dressing room door behind her and quickly approaching the mirror. To all outward appearances it remained untouched, but she had no way of telling how long Rossi had been there, or even how he had come to gain entry to the room in the first place. She decided to have a word with the cleaning staff; later she would need to have a very serious conversation with Erik about the future security of his subterranean home.
________________________________________
Bonner was looking typically disapproving when Madame Giry arrived at the Rue St Denis after rehearsal. Theodora had asked Christine to the Cafe de l’Opera for a bite to eat and after some persuading the younger woman had agreed to go. Antoinette was glad, for Christine had been looking wan and exhausted after so many days spent sitting at Erik’s bedside; now that he was on the mend it was high time she had a little fun, and Meg had joined them eagerly when the invitation was extended to include her.
The butler cast a pointed glance up the stairs as he took Antoinette’s shawl and gloves, and she soon understood why when the sound of male laughter came tumbling down the landing as she reached the top step. It took a moment for her to recognise the more high-pitched chortlings as belonging to Erik and she found herself temporarily astonished, stopped in her tracks. She had never heard him sound so unguarded, not even with Christine, and wondered what on earth was going on; Doctor Lambert had said only yesterday that the pain medication could be reduced if Erik felt that he could do without it and his patient had been only too glad to agree. Antoinette could not see him taking enough to produce the kind of hilarity to which she was currently listening.
Striding up to the bedroom door she rapped on it twice and entered without waiting for an invitation to find the Phantom reclining on the bed in his dressing gown, his face bare much to her amazement, James Patterson-Smythe comfortably settled in the armchair at his side. Both were rather flushed and holding glasses of deep amber liquid; a bottle that was more than three-quarters empty stood on the bedside table next to Erik’s mask. As neither appeared to have noticed her arrival, she loudly cleared her throat, wishing she had brought her cane. After a long pause the two men swivelled their heads almost in unison in her direction and blinked owlishly at her.
“Devil take it, is there no privacy in this house?” Erik demanded. “This room is worse than the Gare de Nord!”
Patterson-Smythe giggled. “Did you order a ballet mistress, Erik?” he enquired unsteadily.
“I did not, James.” Erik’s voice was as commanding as ever but the effect was rather spoiled by the way his words slurred into one another. “Can we assist you in some way, Madame?”
Antoinette resisted the urge to put her hands on her hips and reprimand them like recalcitrant ballet rats. “I would like a word with you, Erik. In private, if you please.”
Erik’s mouth twitched in annoyance, but James shook his head, getting clumsily to his feet. “Worry not, my friend, I shall remove myself. Your servant, Madame.” He gave Antoinette an extravagant bow and staggered off towards the door, taking his brandy glass with him. When he had departed, the door banging noisily shut behind him, Erik leaned over to the bottle with the evident intention of refilling his glass; before his fingers could do more than brush the surface Madame Giry snatched it up and held it well out of his reach. It was a Courvoisier, and ridiculously expensive; she wondered where it had come from.
“You try my patience, Annie,” Erik growled, unable to stretch any further because of his bruised ribs.
“And you have had quite enough,” she snapped back. “Erik Claudin, you are drunk!”
“Am I?” Mood changing in a flash he chuckled, observing the dregs that remained in his crystal snifter. “I suppose I am, at that. I don’t think I have ever been drunk before.”
“You picked a fine time to start,” Antoinette told him, leaning over to pull the bell rope that hung next to the headboard. When Chloe appeared she sent the maid off for some strong black coffee and sat down in the chair Patterson-Smythe had vacated. “How could you, Erik? And with... we hardly know that man! How could you let your guard down like this?”
He glared at her, putting the glass down on the bedside table and sinking back against the pillows, arms folded like a petulant child. “I will thank you not to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do, Madame! Perhaps, just for once, Erik got sick and tired of having to hide behind his protective walls!” A sigh escaped him. “Perhaps he just wanted a friend...”
“You have friends, and ones who know better than to allow you to pour half a bottle of cognac down your throat!” she exclaimed. “I am disappointed in you; I have never known you to be so irresponsible before. Have you lost all your caution? You could have told him anything - ”
At those words Erik sobered almost immediately. “You are not my mother, Annie, and whether I behave responsibly or not is my own affair. Despite what you may believe, I have not completely lost my faculties; I would never allow myself to become so intoxicated that I revealed my most closely-guarded secrets to a new acquaintance,” he said coldly. “I had thought you knew me better than that.”
Madame Giry huffed. “What am I supposed to think when I arrive to find you stinking of alcohol and giggling like a schoolgirl? Too many men have met their downfall in their cups.”
“I can assure you, my self-appointed conscience, that I do not intend to be one of them.”
There was a discreet tap at the door and Antoinette opened it to admit Chloe bearing a tray with a china coffee pot and saucer, Bruno trotting at her heels. The maid hurried across the room and set down the tray on the bedside table; though Erik turned his head away to hide his distortion and thanked her civilly she still jumped like a startled rabbit at the sound of his voice and backed away looking almost flustered. Erik’s presence had no such effect upon the spaniel, who jumped onto the ottoman and then the bed, curling up at his master’s side and growling with obvious pleasure when Erik’s long fingers began to almost unconsciously scratch him behind the ears. Madame Giry had wanted to shut the dog out of the sickroom after the attack but Christine pleaded with her to allow him to stay and as Bruno’s whining and pawing at the door became unbearable after a few hours she had capitulated and Bruno was allowed to stay. It seemed that, whatever his attitude had been to the spaniel before the assault, Erik had become quite used to Bruno’s presence during his convalescence.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” he asked when she had poured a cup of coffee and he had accepted it with typical bad grace.
Antoinette took a cup for herself and grimaced as she sipped at the bitter taste. Erik was giving her one of his piercing stares, more effective now that the swelling around his right eye had almost gone, so she told him what she had seen earlier in Christine’s room. “It’s not safe for you at the Opera, not any longer. The mirror didn’t look as though it had been compromised, but I know very little of such things and I’m not sure I would be able to tell if it had. That man is always creeping about and being found where he should not be; goodness knows what Carlotta told him but it was obviously enough to make him suspicious. Perhaps one day he will find one of your entrances and stumble into the cellars!”
“One of my little welcoming devices would stop him in his tracks before he could get far.”
“We have had enough of dead stagehands and disappearing tenors, Erik,” Madame said seriously. “A line needs to be drawn under the Phantom once and for all; you need a proper home, somewhere fitting for Christine to live when you marry. Or had you intended to continue lurking about in the cellars after you are wed?”
“That is none of your concern.” His voice was clipped, a clear indication to her to go no further down that road, but as usual she ignored it.
“The house on the lake is no longer secure. Eventually someone is going to notice that you never enter the building through the front door and ask themselves why. If nothing else, deactivate the mirror and tell Christine not to use it any longer. Please, Erik,” Antoinette added. She rarely begged him for anything, but this was of paramount importance; sooner or later he would have to choose between the two worlds in which he was currently living. “Do it for Christine’s sake, if nothing else.”
Erik gave her a baleful look, but said, “Oh, very well. I shall deal with it tomorrow; I was intending to return home in any case and it will be easier to work when the theatre is closed.”
“Home?” Antoinette looked him over. The bandages that had swathed his head for nearly a fortnight had been reduced to just a piece of gauze over the healing cut on his forehead; Doctor Lambert, impressed with Erik’s progress, removed the stitches that were holding the gash at the base of his skull closed two days before, a process that Erik had borne without complaint. The concussion he suffered from the blow to the head manifested itself in severe headaches which he tried to hide as best he could, though these were apparently becoming less frequent. His ribs were still bound for support, but though he was moving more easily and his breathing was freer it was quite obvious that he was still weak and would need to take things easy for a while. “Erik, how do you think you are going to be able to make up it up and down five flights of stairs in your condition? You can barely walk to the end of the landing and back!”
“I believe I am the best judge of that, Madame,” he told her imperiously, and then sighed. “I have people depending on me; I must be back at work on Monday.”
Antoinette laid a hand on his arm. “No one thinks badly of you for this,” she said gently. “It is hardly your fault that you were attacked.”
“In some ways it is,” Erik replied, glancing up to meet her surprised gaze. He flicked an eyebrow and then winced as it tugged on the still-tender skin of his forehead. “Surely Christine must have told you who it was that assaulted me?”
“She mentioned... something. But whatever happened all those years ago you did not deserve to be beaten half to death for it!”
“Those responsible would not agree with you,” he said with a bitter laugh. “They follow the old commandment of an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth...”
“You can’t go back to the cellars,” Madame Giry told him, sensing that there was no point in arguing. “Come and stay with Meg and I for a few weeks; there is always room for you.”
“And tackle the four flights of stairs to your flat instead? Thank you, Annie, but I doubt that would solve anything.” Erik patted her hand. “I will take my chances at home; at least there I won’t be turning Meg from her own bed.”
“It would mean that you will not run the gauntlet of being observed as you come and go from the tunnels,” she insisted. “You are not able to move as quickly as usual and someone might see you emerging from one of your hidden doors. With Rossi snooping around surely it makes sense to be as far away as possible?”
He said nothing, staring at the opposite wall and stroking Bruno, fingers moving almost automatically through the dog’s glossy coat. Antoinette finished her by now cooling coffee, wishing that she had thought to ask Chloe to bring some sugar and cream, as well as a few biscuits; she had not eaten since the lunch break, several hours ago now. Such concerns would never bother Erik; despite her attempts, and now Christine’s as well, he never did have much interest in food.
“Where are my things?” he asked eventually, making her jump. “My wallet and keys – who has them?”
“Here.” Antoinette opened the drawer of the bedside table and withdrew the ring of keys, still attached to the watch chain upon which they were normally clipped to one of the buttons on his waistcoat, and put them in his hand. “Your wallet is there too; those men took nothing from you, not even ten francs.”
She watched him sort through the keys until he found the one he was looking for. Separating it from the bunch he held it out to her; perplexed, she took it, and he drew a sheet of notepaper from the table towards him, picking up the fountain pen that also lay there and scribbling down an address. “I had not envisaged using it this soon, but I suppose it will do as well as anywhere,” he said, folding the paper and passing that to her as well. “The place will need to be furnished; I leave that to you, I trust your taste and judgement. Money is no object, obviously, but it must be done as quickly as possible, and with the utmost discretion. I want no gossip, and there must not be one word breathed to anyone who might inform the press.”
“Of course, but Erik- ” she began, utterly confused; he cut across her, continuing,
“As you are of the opinion that I am too decrepit to venture back to my own home I will have to ask you and Meg to pack up some of my belongings and have them delivered to that address. Christine may help if she insists but do not let her use the mirror; enter via the Rue Scribe gate and only after dark, do you understand?”
“No! Erik, what in the world are you talking about?” Antoinette demanded, waving the paper. “Why am I to do all this? What is this place?”
He looked surprised. “A sanctuary,” he replied. “You were advocating something of the kind yourself only a few minutes ago, were you not? I had already secured the property with the intention of showing it to Christine and seeking her opinion as to whether she could be happy there but events have evidently overtaken me.” When she stared at him he rolled his eyes and made an impatient grunt. “I am taking your advice, Annie! On your insistence the Phantom is moving house.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3590
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Madame is not impressed.
“Whatever it is you are looking for, Signor, I very much doubt that you will find it in Christine Daae’s dressing room.”
Madame Giry was gratified to see Antonio Rossi jump at the sound of her voice; clearly he had thought that no one had seen him sneaking into Christine’s room and had failed to notice her reflection in the mirror as she stood in the doorway. Slowly he turned, the corners of his mouth tilted in one of his barely-perceptible smiles. He spread his hands, as though showing her that he meant no harm.
“Signora Giry, how pleasant to see you,” he said smoothly. “You must forgive me; I did not hear you come in.”
“What are you doing in here?” Antoinette demanded, as unswayed by flattery as ever. If someone tried to compliment her it usually meant they either wanted something or were trying to wheedle their way round her; whatever the case, it would not work. “It is not done for the men of the company, especially those in senior positions, to be hanging around the female dressing rooms.”
“Forgive me,” Rossi said again. “Someone told me that this was my sister’s room before it came to Signorina Daae; I merely wanted a little look, to satisfy my curiosity.”
Madame Giry didn’t believe him for a moment. “The Prima Donna’s room is that way, near your own,” she told him, pointing down the corridor. “When Signora Giudicelli first arrived she was allocated the dressing room that is currently occupied by Marie Durant. Mademoiselle Durant is a generous and helpful woman but I don’t imagine she will much like your poking around in her things either. And woe betide you if I ever catch you anywhere near the dancers’ lounge - ”
“You misunderstand me, Signora.” The tone of the tenor’s voice took on a subtle change; she didn’t miss the threat in it, reminiscent of Erik at his angriest. His little black eyes narrowed. “My motives are not sinister or lascivious and I can assure you that I have no interest whatsoever in your ballerinas. Carlotta told me of your obstructive nature and I can see that she was not exaggerating.”
“Exaggeration was something to which she was, and no doubt still is, sadly prone. I do not recall her ever stopping to check the facts of a story before telling the rest of the world at as loud a volume as possible.”
Rossi’s olive complexion darkened as blood suffused his face. His hands clenched into fists and Antoinette was sure that, had she been a man, he would have struck her. She was not entirely sure what had prompted her to make such accusations about La Carlotta, whether it was the insult she had just been given or a desire to knock the troublesome diva off the pedestal upon which she had evidently been placed by her family. Either way, a desire to speak the truth rose within her and she surrendered to it, unprofessional though it may be. It was unlikely that there would be anyone within the building other than Rossi who would disagree with her statements. “It is unbecoming for one woman to belittle another,” Rossi said, “especially when the one being maligned is a performer of great talent and integrity. I would ask for you to take back those ill-chosen words, Signora, unless you wish me to make a formal complaint to the managers. I could have you dismissed from your post.”
Madame Giry raised an eyebrow. “I would not advise you to try, Signor. I am sure they would be very interested were I to tell them how I found you here in an artiste’s private room, apparently having broken in.”
“I did no such thing!” He looked scandalised, and those chubby hands flew up between them, palms outward as though he thought he could ward her off like an evil spirit. “I am not that kind of man, Signora, and I resent such an implication! The door was open when I arrived: I was drawn by the stories of my sister and could not help but wonder why a junior chorus member would require something as grand as that mirror.”
“Does it matter? As far as I know it has always been there; a whim of the designer, perhaps.” Antoinette tried to surreptitiously peer behind him to see if the mirror had been tampered with. Carlotta had not known about the tunnel that lay behind it, so why would her brother be creeping around nearby?
“I have to say that I find it ludicrous that chorus girl has something the Prima Donna does not,” Rossi said, bristling. “I have seen the diva’s quarters and I find them sadly lacking.”
“Mademoiselle Merriman has not complained. Perhaps you should do so on her behalf, Signor, if you feel she is not getting the recognition she deserves,” Madame Giry suggested.
The tenor stared at her for a long moment, lips pursed. When she did not even so much as blink under his scrutiny he waved a finger under her nose. “I am watching you, Signora,” he declared. “Carlotta was very vocal upon the subject of your collusion with this ‘Phantom’, telling me how you delivered his outrageous demands. The managers may not bother themselves with such concerns, but I have my eye on you. Do not think you will get away with such flagrantly illegal behaviour!”
“The Phantom, such as he was, did this theatre a great service. It was unfortunate that neither your sister nor the managers at the time could see it; they preferred instead to hound him out and almost bring the Opera to ruin. But I would not suggest that you begin to spread such rumours, Signor; a line has been drawn under that whole episode and we are all anxious to begin anew. There is little to be gained in dragging up the past,” Antoinette said. “It is the intention of everyone here to make the Populaire great again; I am sure that you wish to be included in whatever acclaim we manage to earn.”
Rossi seemed momentarily lost for words. His mouth worked up and down once or twice before he shook that finger in her face again and repeated, “I am watching you, Signora. Do not forget it!” before stalking past her and disappearing around the corner. Antoinette counted slowly to a hundred before closing the dressing room door behind her and quickly approaching the mirror. To all outward appearances it remained untouched, but she had no way of telling how long Rossi had been there, or even how he had come to gain entry to the room in the first place. She decided to have a word with the cleaning staff; later she would need to have a very serious conversation with Erik about the future security of his subterranean home.
________________________________________
Bonner was looking typically disapproving when Madame Giry arrived at the Rue St Denis after rehearsal. Theodora had asked Christine to the Cafe de l’Opera for a bite to eat and after some persuading the younger woman had agreed to go. Antoinette was glad, for Christine had been looking wan and exhausted after so many days spent sitting at Erik’s bedside; now that he was on the mend it was high time she had a little fun, and Meg had joined them eagerly when the invitation was extended to include her.
The butler cast a pointed glance up the stairs as he took Antoinette’s shawl and gloves, and she soon understood why when the sound of male laughter came tumbling down the landing as she reached the top step. It took a moment for her to recognise the more high-pitched chortlings as belonging to Erik and she found herself temporarily astonished, stopped in her tracks. She had never heard him sound so unguarded, not even with Christine, and wondered what on earth was going on; Doctor Lambert had said only yesterday that the pain medication could be reduced if Erik felt that he could do without it and his patient had been only too glad to agree. Antoinette could not see him taking enough to produce the kind of hilarity to which she was currently listening.
Striding up to the bedroom door she rapped on it twice and entered without waiting for an invitation to find the Phantom reclining on the bed in his dressing gown, his face bare much to her amazement, James Patterson-Smythe comfortably settled in the armchair at his side. Both were rather flushed and holding glasses of deep amber liquid; a bottle that was more than three-quarters empty stood on the bedside table next to Erik’s mask. As neither appeared to have noticed her arrival, she loudly cleared her throat, wishing she had brought her cane. After a long pause the two men swivelled their heads almost in unison in her direction and blinked owlishly at her.
“Devil take it, is there no privacy in this house?” Erik demanded. “This room is worse than the Gare de Nord!”
Patterson-Smythe giggled. “Did you order a ballet mistress, Erik?” he enquired unsteadily.
“I did not, James.” Erik’s voice was as commanding as ever but the effect was rather spoiled by the way his words slurred into one another. “Can we assist you in some way, Madame?”
Antoinette resisted the urge to put her hands on her hips and reprimand them like recalcitrant ballet rats. “I would like a word with you, Erik. In private, if you please.”
Erik’s mouth twitched in annoyance, but James shook his head, getting clumsily to his feet. “Worry not, my friend, I shall remove myself. Your servant, Madame.” He gave Antoinette an extravagant bow and staggered off towards the door, taking his brandy glass with him. When he had departed, the door banging noisily shut behind him, Erik leaned over to the bottle with the evident intention of refilling his glass; before his fingers could do more than brush the surface Madame Giry snatched it up and held it well out of his reach. It was a Courvoisier, and ridiculously expensive; she wondered where it had come from.
“You try my patience, Annie,” Erik growled, unable to stretch any further because of his bruised ribs.
“And you have had quite enough,” she snapped back. “Erik Claudin, you are drunk!”
“Am I?” Mood changing in a flash he chuckled, observing the dregs that remained in his crystal snifter. “I suppose I am, at that. I don’t think I have ever been drunk before.”
“You picked a fine time to start,” Antoinette told him, leaning over to pull the bell rope that hung next to the headboard. When Chloe appeared she sent the maid off for some strong black coffee and sat down in the chair Patterson-Smythe had vacated. “How could you, Erik? And with... we hardly know that man! How could you let your guard down like this?”
He glared at her, putting the glass down on the bedside table and sinking back against the pillows, arms folded like a petulant child. “I will thank you not to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do, Madame! Perhaps, just for once, Erik got sick and tired of having to hide behind his protective walls!” A sigh escaped him. “Perhaps he just wanted a friend...”
“You have friends, and ones who know better than to allow you to pour half a bottle of cognac down your throat!” she exclaimed. “I am disappointed in you; I have never known you to be so irresponsible before. Have you lost all your caution? You could have told him anything - ”
At those words Erik sobered almost immediately. “You are not my mother, Annie, and whether I behave responsibly or not is my own affair. Despite what you may believe, I have not completely lost my faculties; I would never allow myself to become so intoxicated that I revealed my most closely-guarded secrets to a new acquaintance,” he said coldly. “I had thought you knew me better than that.”
Madame Giry huffed. “What am I supposed to think when I arrive to find you stinking of alcohol and giggling like a schoolgirl? Too many men have met their downfall in their cups.”
“I can assure you, my self-appointed conscience, that I do not intend to be one of them.”
There was a discreet tap at the door and Antoinette opened it to admit Chloe bearing a tray with a china coffee pot and saucer, Bruno trotting at her heels. The maid hurried across the room and set down the tray on the bedside table; though Erik turned his head away to hide his distortion and thanked her civilly she still jumped like a startled rabbit at the sound of his voice and backed away looking almost flustered. Erik’s presence had no such effect upon the spaniel, who jumped onto the ottoman and then the bed, curling up at his master’s side and growling with obvious pleasure when Erik’s long fingers began to almost unconsciously scratch him behind the ears. Madame Giry had wanted to shut the dog out of the sickroom after the attack but Christine pleaded with her to allow him to stay and as Bruno’s whining and pawing at the door became unbearable after a few hours she had capitulated and Bruno was allowed to stay. It seemed that, whatever his attitude had been to the spaniel before the assault, Erik had become quite used to Bruno’s presence during his convalescence.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” he asked when she had poured a cup of coffee and he had accepted it with typical bad grace.
Antoinette took a cup for herself and grimaced as she sipped at the bitter taste. Erik was giving her one of his piercing stares, more effective now that the swelling around his right eye had almost gone, so she told him what she had seen earlier in Christine’s room. “It’s not safe for you at the Opera, not any longer. The mirror didn’t look as though it had been compromised, but I know very little of such things and I’m not sure I would be able to tell if it had. That man is always creeping about and being found where he should not be; goodness knows what Carlotta told him but it was obviously enough to make him suspicious. Perhaps one day he will find one of your entrances and stumble into the cellars!”
“One of my little welcoming devices would stop him in his tracks before he could get far.”
“We have had enough of dead stagehands and disappearing tenors, Erik,” Madame said seriously. “A line needs to be drawn under the Phantom once and for all; you need a proper home, somewhere fitting for Christine to live when you marry. Or had you intended to continue lurking about in the cellars after you are wed?”
“That is none of your concern.” His voice was clipped, a clear indication to her to go no further down that road, but as usual she ignored it.
“The house on the lake is no longer secure. Eventually someone is going to notice that you never enter the building through the front door and ask themselves why. If nothing else, deactivate the mirror and tell Christine not to use it any longer. Please, Erik,” Antoinette added. She rarely begged him for anything, but this was of paramount importance; sooner or later he would have to choose between the two worlds in which he was currently living. “Do it for Christine’s sake, if nothing else.”
Erik gave her a baleful look, but said, “Oh, very well. I shall deal with it tomorrow; I was intending to return home in any case and it will be easier to work when the theatre is closed.”
“Home?” Antoinette looked him over. The bandages that had swathed his head for nearly a fortnight had been reduced to just a piece of gauze over the healing cut on his forehead; Doctor Lambert, impressed with Erik’s progress, removed the stitches that were holding the gash at the base of his skull closed two days before, a process that Erik had borne without complaint. The concussion he suffered from the blow to the head manifested itself in severe headaches which he tried to hide as best he could, though these were apparently becoming less frequent. His ribs were still bound for support, but though he was moving more easily and his breathing was freer it was quite obvious that he was still weak and would need to take things easy for a while. “Erik, how do you think you are going to be able to make up it up and down five flights of stairs in your condition? You can barely walk to the end of the landing and back!”
“I believe I am the best judge of that, Madame,” he told her imperiously, and then sighed. “I have people depending on me; I must be back at work on Monday.”
Antoinette laid a hand on his arm. “No one thinks badly of you for this,” she said gently. “It is hardly your fault that you were attacked.”
“In some ways it is,” Erik replied, glancing up to meet her surprised gaze. He flicked an eyebrow and then winced as it tugged on the still-tender skin of his forehead. “Surely Christine must have told you who it was that assaulted me?”
“She mentioned... something. But whatever happened all those years ago you did not deserve to be beaten half to death for it!”
“Those responsible would not agree with you,” he said with a bitter laugh. “They follow the old commandment of an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth...”
“You can’t go back to the cellars,” Madame Giry told him, sensing that there was no point in arguing. “Come and stay with Meg and I for a few weeks; there is always room for you.”
“And tackle the four flights of stairs to your flat instead? Thank you, Annie, but I doubt that would solve anything.” Erik patted her hand. “I will take my chances at home; at least there I won’t be turning Meg from her own bed.”
“It would mean that you will not run the gauntlet of being observed as you come and go from the tunnels,” she insisted. “You are not able to move as quickly as usual and someone might see you emerging from one of your hidden doors. With Rossi snooping around surely it makes sense to be as far away as possible?”
He said nothing, staring at the opposite wall and stroking Bruno, fingers moving almost automatically through the dog’s glossy coat. Antoinette finished her by now cooling coffee, wishing that she had thought to ask Chloe to bring some sugar and cream, as well as a few biscuits; she had not eaten since the lunch break, several hours ago now. Such concerns would never bother Erik; despite her attempts, and now Christine’s as well, he never did have much interest in food.
“Where are my things?” he asked eventually, making her jump. “My wallet and keys – who has them?”
“Here.” Antoinette opened the drawer of the bedside table and withdrew the ring of keys, still attached to the watch chain upon which they were normally clipped to one of the buttons on his waistcoat, and put them in his hand. “Your wallet is there too; those men took nothing from you, not even ten francs.”
She watched him sort through the keys until he found the one he was looking for. Separating it from the bunch he held it out to her; perplexed, she took it, and he drew a sheet of notepaper from the table towards him, picking up the fountain pen that also lay there and scribbling down an address. “I had not envisaged using it this soon, but I suppose it will do as well as anywhere,” he said, folding the paper and passing that to her as well. “The place will need to be furnished; I leave that to you, I trust your taste and judgement. Money is no object, obviously, but it must be done as quickly as possible, and with the utmost discretion. I want no gossip, and there must not be one word breathed to anyone who might inform the press.”
“Of course, but Erik- ” she began, utterly confused; he cut across her, continuing,
“As you are of the opinion that I am too decrepit to venture back to my own home I will have to ask you and Meg to pack up some of my belongings and have them delivered to that address. Christine may help if she insists but do not let her use the mirror; enter via the Rue Scribe gate and only after dark, do you understand?”
“No! Erik, what in the world are you talking about?” Antoinette demanded, waving the paper. “Why am I to do all this? What is this place?”
He looked surprised. “A sanctuary,” he replied. “You were advocating something of the kind yourself only a few minutes ago, were you not? I had already secured the property with the intention of showing it to Christine and seeking her opinion as to whether she could be happy there but events have evidently overtaken me.” When she stared at him he rolled his eyes and made an impatient grunt. “I am taking your advice, Annie! On your insistence the Phantom is moving house.”
