Beneath the Porcelain Mask

40. Passion Play

Neither of us spoke in the carriage as it bumped over the occasional outlying stone in the road and jolted us in our rickety seats. The world passed in a blur as I stared through the window, worrying constantly at my lip. A hundred thoughts rushed through my mind, none coherent enough to let me think properly. I vaguely noticed Jeremy muttering an address to the driver and something about speed, but my tapping foot drowned out most of his words. The gunshots still rang in my ears and I couldn't for the life of me erase the picture of Erik dying in the puddle of blood. Each time it crossed my mind, it was worse: Erik crying, Erik heaving breaths with a new hole in his lungs, Erik choking on his own blood.

The worst image by far was Erik as the child I remembered, lying there and crying out to me in fear as tears ran down his cheeks and blood dripped from his clothes.

I hadn't realised I was still crying until Jeremy brushed his hand over my glove and slipped his fingers through mine. He didn't say a word, just caught my eye and looked back through the window, leaning against his hand with one finger over his mouth. His waistcoat was falling to pieces now, and his trousers were no better, shredded from the knees down. It was almost impossible to imagine he could be so elegant when he needed to be. I bit my quivering lip and breathed as much of a shaky breath I could, trying to regain what little composure I had left.

After all, which words could possibly be suitable for this?

By the time we pulled up at the side of the road, in the middle of the Rue Bichat, the clouds had darkened over Paris's sky and the coachman lit his lantern as Jeremy paid him. He led me through the building, up and up to the very top floor, where he let my hand go and procured a key.

"It isn't the Chateau de Versailles or an underground house lit by a candle factory," he said, leading me inside, taking a heavy cloak from a nearby rack and hanging it over my shoulders. "But you should be comfortable here for tonight."

I thanked him quietly, flopping down in the thinning armchair he pulled over for me before the fireplace. Jeremy sank to his knees and kindled it, before striking a match against the stone and letting it spark into life.

He fetched a blanket for me like the gentleman I knew he was and another chair. In the meantime, I slipped my gloves off.

"Did you hit him?" I said quietly, staring into the flames and beginning to bite my nails. He caught my hand with a sad smile.

"I'm sorry?"

"Erik. The gun. Did you hit him?"

He went very, very quiet. "What would you do if I said yes, Kitty?" he said after a number of seconds.

I bit my lip. What would I do about that? Four months ago I would have shouted, slapped and rushed to Erik's side to protect him, would have thrown myself between him and the bullet. All I've ever done in my life was for him.

But what about the man he'd grown into?

"I'd probably be the one firing the gun."

It was the truth. It was a month late, but it was the truth none the less. I pulled my hand from Jeremy's and ran it through my hair, screwing my eyes shut. There would be no use for tears and useless pity. The Phantom was a monster. That was just that.

"Why didn't I kill him when I had the chance?" I muttered. "I never had to listen to Mansart. The world would never have grieved something like that child."

Jeremy stared at the thin carpet. "Would you like some wine?" he asked under his breath.

"Of course. But not right now. It isn't wise."