Beneath the Porcelain Mask

9. "I advise you to comply."

"I advise you to comply:
My instructions should be clear.
Remember, there are worse things
Than a shattered chandelier..."

~ The Phantom.

Andrew Lloyd Webber, The Phantom of the Opera.

~•~•~•~■~•~•~•~

Jeremy pushed his crêpe around his plate absently. I watched him over the rim of my cup of tea, sipping it occasionally.

His emerald eyes were glazed over as we sat by the window, staring at his breakfast without really noticing it, and his fork clinked against the plate once or twice. I'd already cleared my throat a few times, trying to subtly get his attention; only once had he glanced up at me, before returning to his mind when I smiled.

"Ahem. Jeremy?"

Something in his eyes flickered, as though a bell had rung in his head like a master calling his servant. I smiled again and, finally, he put his fork down.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine."

I took another sip. "Are you sure?"

He looked back at the crêpe, pushing it about again. I set my cup down and caught his hand, squeezing gently. "Jeremy."

He froze at the contact, breath caught in his throat, and stared at my hand resting on his. Clink went the fork, and he shovelled some of the crêpe into his mouth.

"Please, tell me the truth. Why so silent?"

I felt his hand leave mine and reach for the napkin. He wiped his mouth and fingers, daring to meet my eyes through my new mask, a pretty gold one this morning to compliment my tsunami of hair.

"Scared, Nikki," he said at last, his voice barely just a whisper. "Frightened."

"Why?" I asked, crossing my cutlery on my plate neatly. "If you don't mind me asking, that is."

Jeremy blushed. Had he been in uniform, he'd certainly have pulled his cap down. But he wasn't. He'd dressed up a bit for our breakfast in Le Café de l'Opéra, choosing a clean, white shirt, dark trousers and a brown waistcoat. His tailcoat hung over the back of the chair. I wasn't sure how he'd manage to change in time for the morning routine checks at eleven, just three hours away, but I tried to have faith in him.

"It's the Opera Ghost," he said quietly. I glanced at a mark on the table, already knowing where this was headed. "Nikki, I... the truth is... well I'm not sure how to-"

"You were onstage at midnight, painting," I said slowly, staring at the remainder of my tea. Jeremy looked up at me with a frown.

"Yes," he said, leaning back in his seat and eying me warily. "But how do you know that?"

Now you've done it.

Oh, shut up, brain, what would you know?

"Because I was the one playing the violin in Box Five."

You are a terrible person, Nikki.

Jeremy stared across the table like a goldfish, all eyes and mouth. I quirked the sides of my mouth up sheepishly and fiddled with the handle of my teacup, waiting for him to say something, anything.

But Jeremy simply closed his mouth, a firm line setting into his brow, and took five francs from his pocket. Without a word, he left it on the table and walked towards the exit. I bit my lip as the bell chimed and the door closed softly.