Angel Hands (16 page)

"Well, until you're dead, you have a future," she quipped, gently easing herself out of his grip. "Therefore, you have a choice every minute, hour, and day of who and what you wish to be."

She let out a long breath, then rubbed her face with her hands. She was tired again, and her mouth felt fuzzy and foul. When she looked up, he was gone.

"Brilliant," she grumbled. "Just fucki-"

"Language, Mireille," A ghostly voice floated back to her across the cavern, a hint of a laugh behind it.

She grabbed a porcelain teacup that she recognized as a prop from the production of Don Giovanni and hurled it against the wall with a satisfying smash.

***

It would have been most gratifying to smash something, he decided, as he stalked along the narrow passage that led to the kitchen. Perhaps a mug from the scullery would suffice.

Why would that little imp keep refusing to admit he was a monster—at least a monster because of his face? She rattled off, easily enough, a charge sheet long enough to swing ten men from the gallows when accusing him of monstrous acts, but she shrugged off his appearance, dismissing it as ancillary to his moral foundation.

Well, she had dismissed what she had seen of his appearance, which was precisely nothing. At least nothing that he did not want her to see. If she were ever to see his full face, she would quickly sing a different—and much more familiar—tune.

Still, she was his wife now, and there was no getting out of it for her. He grimaced as he reluctantly gave her respect for clinging stubbornly to her demands for proof to help her remember.

She was a clever thing, always had been. Perhaps, one day, twenty years from now, if they hadn't murdered each other, he would let her in on the joke that yes, they were married quite legally, but she hadn't exactly attended the ceremony. Well, in point of fact, there hadn't been a ceremony, not a marriage one, anyway.

It was more the time-honored ceremonial tradition of handing over enough gold to various people to get one's way. The skilled forgery required was a secondary custom.

He let his thoughts drift back to the humorous idea of them murdering each other. Yes, once he had thought to die for love, but this wasn't exactly how he pictured it. No, love played no part in his game with Mireille Dubienne,
pardon
, Mireille de la Persie. Lust, perhaps, and the honest appreciation of a worthy adversary, but not love.

And yet, could he even claim to still love Kristin? Did the holy light still burn holes in his heart? Unconsciously, he touched his hand to his chest, as if to feel for the scars of the holes left by Kristin. No, no immediate shock of pain. No stabbing. No slicing. No agony beyond endurance. A slow, soft feeling of regret, and raindrops of bittersweet memories.

Was this how love died when not returned? Like lamp flame flickering then falling until a final winking out?

What came after love?

Indeed, that was perhaps a more frightening concept than love itself.

***

Mireille tore through the cavern that served as the Phantom's home. She reasoned that since she was his wife, it was her home now, and she had a right to do so.

"With my worldly goods I thee endow," she muttered grimly to herself as she rooted around for clothing to replace the shirt she wore, as it was decidedly becoming chilly.

She grunted in frustration as the one trunk she found in the place revealed itself to be empty. The whole place was oddly empty, she realized. Gone were all the ornate furnishings, the ridiculous props, the scatter of paper and empty inkpots.

Even the old organ—
Bon Dieu
, how had he built such a thing?—was strangely barren of music. The violin case was open, but again, no sheet music on the table next to it. It occurred to her that he had mentioned that he no longer made his home beneath the opera house. Perhaps he had moved all of his effects to a new location. She passed several amusing minutes trying to imagine where else he would find to make his home. Some unfortunate vintner’s cellar? The catacombs under a church? The sewers? Paris was riddled with subterranean real estate options for a man such as himself. 

She wandered into the alcove that she figured served as the Phantom's bedroom or dressing room, and that, too, was denuded of everything except an old blanket on a worn mattress.

Ah! On the back of a broken chair were draped some black garments. She picked up the clothing and made a face. Well, she supposed, it would have to do.

***

About half a candlestick later, she heard a whispery whoosh behind her where she sat at the organ, randomly hitting keys because she was bored.

Whirling around on the stool, she beheld the phantom standing before her.

She glared at him, and he started to glare at her when the expression on his face gave way to complete shock.

"What...what are you doing in those...my...." he said in a strangled voice.

"This?" she replied, shrugging and looking down at the white shirt (rolled up at the sleeves), the black silk vest she now sported, the black trousers (rolled up at the ankle), and the large black silk socks that sagged several sizes too large around her feet. "Couldn't very well hang about like in just your all day. I'd freeze my arse o-"

"Language, Mireille," he said automatically, his expression still slightly dazed. His eyes roved aggressively over her figure before he abruptly turned away.

"There is a plate of food for you in your sleeping chamber," he said coldly.

"Well, that's good since there's not much else of anything in there," she snapped.

"Go eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Go eat, Mireille."

"No."

"You will regret it if you do not."

"Why, because you shall sit me on your lap and force me like a child?"

There was a strained pause before he released a long, slow breath and replied, "Because we are leaving the moment you are done, and we will not stop for food until morning."

"Leaving?" Her voice sounded too high and too tight. Morning meant distance. Distance meant no way to get back to anybody for help...not to her cousin, not to Raymond, not anyone.

"Why yes, my dear," he purred, turning and regarding her with a glint in his eyes. "We are traveling to our new home."

"Oh."

"’Oh,’ indeed. Now, go eat."

She went.

21. Of Rocks and Ice

The whole concept of time seemed to have slipped away from Mireille since that fateful visit from the phantom after the death of her father. Days slipped between morning and night, without being able to tell which way was up. Chaos, difficult choices, and danger had been the only dependable markers of time, making each hour more dreaded than the last.

It was dark when the phantom had bustled her onto the seat of a precarious-looking gig and took his place beside her, slapping the reins to set the horse—which Mireille was fairly sure was César and therefore property of the Opéra de Paris—into motion.

The dark skies, cold air, and rocking of the gig lulled her into an uncaring stasis. It didn't matter that the sky seemed to be growing lighter, for who could tell how long it had been dark? Of what importance was it, anyway? Nor did it matter that the phantom—her
husband
—flinched when she nestled against his side, seeking warmth. He must have felt her shivering, for he quickly shifted his great, heavy cloak to encompass them both.

Birds cautiously chirped their way awake, and everything became eerie and blue. Mireille looked up at the white kid leather mask her traveling companion wore and only mildly wondered what was behind it. She knew it must be some kind of deformity, but for the life of her, she just couldn't be bothered to think of anything that was so awful as to send her screaming. Perhaps she was just tired, tired of everything, too tired to care.

Even at that thought, a flicker of rebellion and indignation flared up, and she wearily acknowledged to herself that a good sleep and some food would in all likelihood restore her to her full feistiness. She sighed. Life would have been so much simpler if she had not, by nature, been so insistent on being insistent.

The countryside had turned into a town that seemed familiar, but Mireille was hard put to place it. A few buildings showed lights in their upper story windows, but the shutters were mostly closed and the streets empty, save for the occasional cat winding down its night of hunting.

Blinking, Mireille looked around, attempting to get her bearings. The rattling of the gig's wheels against the cobblestones of the street jolted her mind more awake. She realized with some embarrassment, that at some point, she had wound her arms around the Phantom's waist and was nuzzling and snuggling against his chest.

Well, she argued with herself, she had been quite cold. Besides, he was the one who had dragged her out in the middle of the night to
Le-Bon-Dieu
-knows-where.

"Well, my dear," her
husband's
voice broke into her angry reverie. "We are here."

The gig had come to a stop in front of a rather decrepit narrow building that looked like it had been a kind of public gathering space. By the look of it, the Revolution hadn't been kind to it, nor had any of the subsequent monarchies or republics.

"What exactly is 'here'?" Mireille asked testily, burrowing in further against his chest—only because the air was cold, of course.

"Our new home, of course. Now, if you would be so kind as to...untangle yourself from my person, I will help you inside."

Being cold and stiff from hours in a bumpy carriage did not make for an elegant exit from the gig, and she could feel the waves of silent laughter radiating from him as her numb legs fumbled down the step, causing her to pitch forward into his arms.

"So eager, my bride?" he cooed, and if she could have felt her fingers, she would have slapped him.

Out of nowhere, a boy appeared to take the horse and gig, the phantom giving him a quick nod of acknowledgement.

"But, that's...that's Pierre Buprès!" Mireille exclaimed.

"A pleasure to be in your service again, mademoiselle!" the boy said with a grin and a flourish of his cap.

"That's 'madame' now, Pierre. Now, go take care of César."

Mireille turned to him, pursing her lips. "I've been meaning to talk to you about César. He's stolen property now, you know."

"As is young Master Buprès," the phantom replied with a shrug. "I prefer to think of it as a severance package rather than larceny."

The retort on her lips was swept away as he caught her up in his arms and carried her up the front steps of the building, pushed open the door, and carried her across the threshold.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, wriggling in an attempt to get down.

"Tradition," was his reply before setting her on her feet.

He produced a lantern, and soon, a weak light that made the shadows dance in what appeared to be a grand entrance hall.

"What is this place?" Mireille asked, her hushed tones echoing against the dust.

"Why, it is the brand new Opéra de Versailles," the Phantom said, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Consider it a wedding gift."

Mireille froze. Her heart dropped like a leaden weight, and an unexpected surge of bitter disappointment washed through her.

That's all this was. This sham of a marriage, the seductions, the teasing.

It all and always came down to business.

He didn't want her. He had never wanted her. She knew that, and yet...marriage. It had seemed so drastic and permanent, and something deep down in her heart had secretly hoped that perhaps he had felt...

But the permanence of marriage was merely a convenient way of securing himself a presentable public face, since he was loathe to show his own. She doubted that she would have any say in anything in the running of this opera. It would be all his glory and his own ideas. She would be nothing but a puppet.

A lifetime of this rose up before her eyes and crushed her. She was nothing but another scheme of his. Not that she had ever truly wanted to be more, but...it was...it was the indignity of not even having his respect that tore her apart inside. At least, that is what she insisted to herself. Any other reason would be too shameful to admit.

Anger flared up, burning hot enough to freeze her, and she felt a thin layer of ice encapsulate her. If she was nothing to him now, she would be even less going forward. She would be rock and ice. She would do his bidding, for as his wife, she had no legal recourse otherwise, but never again would she take an interest in interacting with him. The phantom wanted to own a puppet, then a puppet was all he would ever get.

And deep, deep down, she hoped he suffered for it.

"Do you like it?"

His rich voice resonated against the cracked marble and moldy wood.

"When should you like to open?" Mireille asked dispassionately.

Heartbeats stretched the silence tight between them.

"You have not answered my question," he said.

"There is no point in my answering it, sir."

She heard the swoosh of fabric behind her, and she could tell he was gone.

Her lips twitched in a brief, bitter little smile.

22. Of Women and Water

"The way I see it," Pierre Buprès said conversationally as he munched on an apple, "is that you don't really understand women."

The glare directed at him seemed to have no effect, as the urchin continued to wax philosophical.

"Not that women are easy to understand, mind you," Pierre continued. "Very abrupt and changeful, some of them. A bit like horses. Take old César. He acts, for weeks, like he'd give his forelock for a carrot, and then, one day, he will take nothing but an apple. No matter what, it has to be an apple. Stubborn, horses are. Like madame. But, I'll tell you what," he added with a grin.