Beneath the Porcelain Mask

17. In the Bois de Boulogne.

The days that followed the death of Firmin's concierge are nothing but a haze now. I spent them cleaning the halls and statues, the staircases, the giant painting frames on the walls and whatever else I could find to keep myself busy and distracted; Erik had been slaving over Don Juan night and day for weeks, taking breaks only once or twice. He'd stopped eating and sleeping altogether, which in turn made him snappy - the slightest thing seemed to set him off, and if it wasn't me, it was a problem with the score, so, on both occasions, he would throw a fit of anger.

Two of my Spanish vases had already been smashed within the past week and, not daring to risk any more of my fragile belongings being ruined, I'd stopped frequenting the fifth cellar.

Jeremy still took me out to breakfast as often as he could, but I think we both sensed the barrier that was beginning to grow between us as I worked my days away, because one morning he simply smiled and went on his way without a word.

I'd done it on purpose; put a barrier between us. With Erik in such a state, I couldn't afford any distractions, in case he tried to do something drastic. And that was what Jeremy was: a distraction, one much more serious that cleaning the Opera House's finery. We hadn't spoken all that much since the night of Faust, and though I always reminded myself that it wasn't fair to drag Jeremy into my problems - how could I taint him with my company when I'd done unspeakable things before and he was so pure and loyal? -, a lingering sense of loneliness always seemed to hang over me without him.

The days turned into weeks and those weeks into a month. I spent every one in a trance, lost in my own mind for hours on end as I worked. Some began to talk that I'd been possessed by the Opera Ghost and that he was controlling my mind, making me wander the halls like a spectre. If only they knew how true it was.

Due to our negligence, Ayesha had begun foraging for herself and César could barely stand anymore. I'd managed to remember to start feeding them, but it meant stealing from the stables and I wasn't sure how long it would be until they noticed the shortage of hay or the fact that their ratting cats were being forced to catch more than usual.

The first fall of snow came in early December, shocking me into remembering the upcoming Christmas cheer that would soon fill the Opera House. On my lunch breaks in the Café de l'Opéra, I saw an abundance of couples, young and old, wandering through the streets of Paris together, hand in hand and dressed in warm clothes. Once I saw Christine and Raoul admiring some items in a window down the street, which reminded me of Erik and sunk my heart even lower. I'd gone to see what it was after they'd gone: a window of Venetian masks. The find did nothing to soothe me. Why did everyone seem so happy in love?

I wanted to dislike Jeremy - not hate him, but whatever was happening to me whenever I looked at him, thought of him, felt his hand on my arm or the small of my back... it had to stop. I wouldn't be a slave to the butterflies in my stomach. I, I, was a woman capable of much more than a man's expectations. I lived life how I chose without a masculine figure to rule my life, and I liked it that way. Of course, the occasional stabbings did dampen the respectable feeling.

But still, I craved company, and I loathed myself when I realised one day that it was his company I wanted, not Erik's.

December 15th, 1881. After twenty-three days of nothing but work, light eating and disturbed sleep, I rubbed some more polish onto the hundredth statue - I'd lost count by now - and spread it about with the cloth, lost once more in a fantasy of a life beyond the Opera House walls. Beatrice worked just down the hall, humming some Jamaican tunes I assumed she learned from her mother.

"Nikki?"

I frowned, barely hearing the voice that penetrated my thoughts. But it came again, as if the owner had been repeating himself for a while now. A hand found my shoulder. Not fully out of my trance, I jumped.