Beneath the Porcelain Mask

29. Beyond the Lake.

Beyond the Lake is a term used to refer to the final scene of Andrew Lloyd Webber's hit musical, The Phantom of the Opera, though most phans know it as The Final Lair.

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Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.

I looked up from my poetry book as the carriage was plunged into darkness; we'd entered the carriage rotunda at the Opera House, which towered above me into the heights of the dark sky, stonework lit occasionally by lamplight. I sighed and closed the book, setting it back in my suitcase. The footman's shoes clacked against the stone and suddenly my door was open with just a few clicks.

"Mademoiselle," he said, tipping his hat and standing aside.

"Merci bien," I replied under my breath, ducking to avoid knocking my bonnet off against the frame as an ungloved hand caught my suitcase from my grip.

I looked up incredulously at the man who dared take my belongings without my permission and opened my mouth to voice my annoyance.

Jeremy looked back, his other hand reaching towards me, open palmed and waiting.

I stared for a moment. As much as I'd have loved to jump into his arms from the height of the carriage, Jeremy's normally shining eyes seemed shadowed by a kind of fear, or perhaps disdain. It could simply have been the darkness of the nighttime, but I froze all the same.

He wasn't wearing all that much, even in the biting chill of winter, just a rough dress-shirt and pantaloons held up with braces. His hair was mussed and dusted with light grey sawdust, the same streaks strewn across his cheeks, coupled with rosy cheeks from the wintery winds. His shoes were falling apart in a mess of leather and lace, and his eyes were rimmed with dark circles, as if he'd been waiting outside all night. The bells of Notre Dame had long since chimed the witching hour.

The footman cleared his throat, still holding the door open. I took Jeremy's hand and let him lead me down.

I reached into my money pouch, fishing for the eighteen francs the driver wanted as a fee. "Your fare, Mons—"

But Jeremy was already handing over his money and saying a courteous 'goodnight, gentlemen,' and before I knew it, I was following him, hand in hand, into the warmth of the Opera House.

He closed the door behind me quietly and reached to unclasp my cloak. Draping it over the crook of his arm, the same one to hold the suitcase, he offered me his hand once more without a word. I took it again, slightly disconcerted by his silence, and let him bring me down to my bedroom.

"You missed La Traviata," he said beneath his breath, as not to wake the sleeping cleaners, scene shifters and bakers in the rooms behind the many doors, not meeting my eyes but staring straight ahead. "Nevel was wonderful, as always. Very well behaved."

"Oh," I whispered. "That's very... good."

"It is. I'd trust that horse with my life."

"Was there anything... specific you wished to tell me?" He stopped walking and looked at the ground. I moved to place a hand gingerly on his shoulder, over his brace. He tensed, but didn't shrug me off. His hand crept up and covered mine, his calloused thumb running back and forth over my glove.

"The murder has been confirmed. The Phantom left a note claiming responsibility. He also decided he would be making a careful note of your movements, because 'she keeps disappearing and never seems to be available for the duties attributed to her line of work, which is quite worrying for me as her employer.' Whatsmore, he threatened my safety for any of your continued, unexplained absences."