Beneath the Porcelain Mask

11. "Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant, Opera Ghost."

"IF YOU WISH TO LIVE IN PEACE, YOU MUST NOT BEGIN BY TAKING AWAY MY PRIVATE BOX.

Believe me to be, dear Mr. Manager, without prejudice to these little observations,

Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant,

Opera Ghost."

~ Erik, regarding the selling of Box Five without his knowing consent in a letter to the managers.

Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera.

The beginning of this chapter is marked as a potential trigger warning. Self-harm is briefly referenced.

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I swung my legs over the side of the stage, staring into the rows of empty seats without actually taking anything in. My mind had become one messy blur, a jumble of wool that I couldn't find the ends to. It was gone four in the morning and I'd given up any hope of sleep for the night.

I gazed up at the shadow that was Box Five. It was locked and I'd left my key in my pinny pocket in my room. I could have simply gone and fetched it, but that required moving from my spot on the stage and moving was not something I particularly wanted to do for the time being.

The soft light of a candle eased its way across the floorboards, slipping over my hand. I watched it absently, playing with the little rays of light with my fingers and creating shadows on the floor.

"I thought I'd find you here," a man's voice said. I turned to him, hissing at the sudden glare of candlelight and turning away again. "Come now, Nikki, you aren't a cat," he said gently, setting the lamp on the floor.

Jeremy paced over to where I was sitting and offered me his hands. I glanced at his feet, noticing just how close to the edge of the stage they were, and swallowed.

I'd put Erik to bed - well, coffin - with a cup of tea and a soft melody on the pianoforte in his bedroom, but it hadn't been enough to soothe my own mind. No matter how hard I tried, I simply could not suppress the memories of him walking along the edge of the rooftop, or those of finding him in the torture chamber with a shard of bloody glass to hand some years ago.

I looked back up at Jeremy and he smiled, bending slightly at the waist. His hands remained open, offered, ready. I sighed. It was too early in the morning to argue with my pride.

He pulled me to my feet, steadying me when I nearly overbalanced and smiled again, warm and kind and comforting. My eyes trailed to his chest, to the scruffy dress shirt that probably served at night clothes, along with loose fitting trousers and a belt.

You're going soft.

"Does your offer of that hug still stand?" I said, trying to keep the wavers from my voice and hold my chin up a little more. The façade didn't work: he simply smiled that same smile, his eyes soft and gentle like a trusty workhorse, and held his arms open to me without one questioning word.

I relished in that silence and flopped into his arms. A few rebel tears slipped beneath my porcelain mask.

"Thank you, Jeremy."

"Anytime," he whispered back.

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"You're early," Beatrice called as she headed into the corridor I was cleaning, carrying her own bucket and rags. I leaned against my mop and smiled, although the edge of the mask dug into my face. It now hid dark circles beneath my eyes as well as what it was supposed to cover, and the mirror's verdict this morning had been harsher than normal; I looked like a panda that had been involved in a knife attack, and had tied it a bit tighter.