The Treasure *Phantom of the Opera* (sequel to The Quest)

Chapter XII

A/N: Thank you for the votes! :)

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Chapter XII

Music is the medicine of the breaking heart.
~Leigh Hunt

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Meg woke to a strange rustling that disturbed the quiet in the small parlor beyond: the sound like coarse muslin sliding across wood. A muffled thump followed. Startled, she glanced at the nearby window. Deep cerulean silhouetted the wooden slats of the shutters. First light appeared to have broken hours before. Mère should have already departed to deliver the basted shirtwaists to the seamstress, yet the quiet intrusions of scrapes and bumps bore no resemblance to her mother's morning activities. The swishing of her stiff skirts as she moved about the parlor, the scratches of her quill pen while she sat at her desk, the clink of the decanter against the glass as she poured her remedial cup of wine –all were movements reminiscent of Mère and ones for which Meg had learned to listen during her convalescence.

Had a thief forced entry into the tenement, or worse, a solider of The Commune bent on causing harm?

Her heart pounded so fiercely the pulsations filled her ears. To Meg's knowledge, none knew of their ties to the deposed ruler of the Opera House. Few outside its crimson and gilt doors discerned the secret both Meg and her mother had labored to conceal. Moreover, it was doubtful that reports of a king from a mystical realm, or even an elusive "phantom," would cause a furor among the ignoble Marxists intent on their wretched cause. That presumption notwithstanding, the general title of "king" breathed in the wrong circles and linked to Mère's name or her own could provoke undue suspicion.

Distrust crept along the streets of the once blithe city, infusing each citizen with dark misgivings with regard to their neighbor. Meg doubted, should the soldiers come to arrest them, that they would grant her a chance to explain loyalties. Monsieur Durand informed her that Parisians were thrown in jail every day, suspected of lesser offenses than communion with a royal. Even so, if the interloper were a soldier, would he not have banged on the door demanding entrance or smashed it down, rather than slipping into the tenement like a serpent, hidden and deadly? Perhaps a true rodent had scampered inside.

Meg quelled a shiver at the memory of the huge rats scuttling down the dark corridor secreted beyond the mirror of Christine's former dressing room. She gathered her fading courage before she could question herself, drew her woolen wrapper over her arms, and reached for the crutches propped against her bed. With swift silence, she skillfully maneuvered her way through the door, ready to beat the filthy beast with her crutch if need be. She turned the corner and halted in shock.

Neither revolutionary nor rodent, though each bore striking similarities, a boy crouched on his hands and knees and peered beneath the sofa. From this angle, she had a good view of his backside. She took a moment to align her scattered thoughts into command, then swung herself forward, grateful for the tapestry rug that cloaked the sound of her approach. Balancing on one crutch, she lifted the other and gave the intruder a solid poke in the seat of his knickers.

He grunted as he fell forward, his head banging into the sofa. "Merde!" He scrambled to his knees, rubbing a thatch of wild hair, and turned to glare at Meg.

"Oui, you do rival the stench of it," she replied in a clipped tone. This time, she poked the knobbed wooden end of her crutch in his ribs. "You'll find nothing of worth to steal here, beggar." She poked again, sensing something spongy beneath his shirt. "Or have you helped yourself to goods other than jewels or money? What have you got hidden there?"