- - мy aяcнιvεs

[- - la nuit blanche]

He doesn’t care much for chocolate? In disbelief Vianne stuttered through those words in her head, again and again, trying to gauge whether it was true – that this strange foreigner actually didn’t have a taste for cocoa – or if she herself had simply frightened the man away. Although, he spoke politely enough; it didn’t seem he meant to snub her. Nevertheless, she wasn’t sure whether to be offended, or to merely take his response as a delicious challenge of sorts. She did not respond as he trudged off with his firewood, only watched him go with a curious smile upon her lips. Her eyes followed him for a long time, until she felt a determined tug at her apron. Looking down, she saw Cecile’s inquisitive gray-blue eyes, eyes which very nearly mirrored her own, directed up at her, along with her daughter’s signature pout – the adorable scowl which indicated that the wearer was feeling a little left out, a little slighted, and a little lonely.

“Mama,” she cooed in her tiny, persistent voice. “I told you to wake me so I could help set out the candies…” The accusatory whine faded as the nightgown-clad girl peeked out the glass of the half-open door, towards the mysterious man disappearing away down the cobblestone streets. As Vianne pulled the door shut, locking away the miserable weather at least until opening time, Cecile glanced from the figure of the man and intuitively up to her mother, who seemed just as interested in the unnamed stranger as she. “Who was that man?”

Vianne glanced briefly back out into the rain, thoughtfully, then turned back to Cecile. “Il est un etranger,” she answered, to which Cecile pouted again; her mother had been trying to speak French to her ever since they arrived, to try and teach her the language of her grandfather – it wasn’t working. While Vianne could speak the language quite well when she wanted to, Cecile only considered phrases in the foreign tongue to be merely more grown-up words she couldn’t yet understand. “Comme nous,” Vianne concluded with a small shrug, absently fingering one of her daughter’s brown curls. “Now,” she said decidedly after a moment’s pause. “What did I say?” With a grin, she swept Cecile up into her arms – an action that always garnered a giggle from the impish but mainly well-mannered child – and settled the petite girl on her hip. “Je ne sais pas!” Cecile answered with a proud grin. ‘I don’t know’ was the one phrase from her lessons which she’d bothered to remember, and it always served her well.

“I said,” Vianne sighed, smiling as she carried Cecile back upstairs to be dressed. “that he is a foreigner here, like us. And you know what else?” Cecile looked expectantly into her mother’s face. “He says… that he doesn’t like chocolate.” Vianne’s voice dropped low to express the dramatic gravity of this fact and Cecile grinned, stifling a laugh behind one hand. “But mama, everyone likes chocolate! Well…” she reconsidered thoughtfully. “Everyone likes our chocolate.”

“Indeed, everyone seems to, ma chérie,” Vianne answered, setting the little girl down when they had reached her bedroom. Rifling through dressers and drawers, she searched for a clean blouse for Cecile to wear. Things had been so hectic since they moved in; she’d scarcely had time to see to things like laundry. Though if she was forced to, Vianne would have to admit that she was not exactly a natural when it came to housework. Aside from the making of sweets, she was all but useless in the kitchen, and chores such as laundry always proved to be immense trials. A housewife, clearly, she was not. Though with some success, Vianne found an ivory sweater, a clean skirt, and some tights that only had a few runs yet to be mended, and dutifully helped her daughter to dress. “This man must be our conquest,” she decided with a grin, glancing back towards Cecile who smiled endlessly back. “If we can find a chocolate that he likes, then we may consider ourselves, without a doubt, the most talented, triumphant chocolatiers in all of France.”

All in all, in was a considerably successful day at the Chocolaterie Auclair, as the sign read. Before noon, two new customers had stopped by the shop, initially to duck in from the rain (though both Vianne and little Cecile knew better than to believe such an excuse), and happened each to leave with a few delicious treats: peppermints for the aging man with an upset stomach, and coconut-centered chocolates for a romantic young girl who dreamt of the tropics. Both promised to come back for more. Even Vianne’s landlady stopped by for a cup of that famous hot chocolate – but only because it was “so bloody cold” outside and she happened to be out of tea. However, every time Vianne watched that man, the stranger, walk past her shop without coming inside, she considered it a personal defeat. She wondered why he seemed to isolate himself in such a way, why he looked as though he hadn’t smiled in days. Nevertheless, if she was to reform him, she supposed it would take time. She continued about her day trying not to think on him too much. It was a little after noon, while she sat at the front counter helping Cecile cut cookie dough into the shapes of animals and flowers, that she was at last reminded.

Through the front window, Vianne spied the mystifying foreigner standing in the road outside her shop, peering pensively into another of the buildings. Cecile caught her mother’s gaze and followed it, then swiftly slid off her barstool and trotted to the window to look closer at the man. “Mama, it’s him again!” she exclaimed. Vianne smiled and followed the girl to the window. A tin of assorted chocolates was brought along with her and she fingered through them thoughtfully. “Would you like to offer him a sample?” Vianne asked her daughter, struggling to decide which candy to choose for the man. She’d place his accent somewhere in the North, one of the Scandinavian countries perhaps. She chose at last a piece of milk chocolate from Switzerland with just a hint of ginger and almond; it was nothing fancy, but a good sort of first test, Vianne decided. In answer to her mother’s suggestion, Cecile nodded excitedly and held up her hands to receive the selected chocolate in its paper wrapping. “Go offer him this one to start, and tell him he may come in from the rain if he likes.”

With an obedient nod, Cecile struggled into her coat then went out to perform this task, which she seemed to take quite seriously. After tugging on an ivory hat to keep her ringlets dry, she trotted from the chocolaterie and across the road to the sopping wet stranger. “Monsieur,” she called up to him politely. She gave his sleeve a little tug, then, as soon as she had his attention, plopped the candy into his hand. “Here’s a chocolate for you,” she explained abruptly. “Mama says you can come join us inside if you want.” With a shy but excited smile, and no further clarification, Cecile turned and trotted unsteadily through the mud, back into her mother’s shop, waddling sweetly as she went.

[- - la nuit blanche]

It had been several months since the night the Opera Populaire had gone up in flames, several months since the strange legend of the Opera Ghost turned from myth, to terrible, fearsome actuality. The whole theater-attending population of Paris was in a frenzy after that night, jabbering on about who had seen the infamous Phantom before his disappearance, who had almost been killed in the catastrophe, and finally, where one would find proper entertainment now that the Opera Populaire had been destroyed. But eventually even the most fanatical gossip dwindled away and people found new things to talk about. The decadent theatre lay in quiet, somber ruin, forgotten. Its artists and patrons alike abandoned the place, traveling away from the defunct playhouse in search of something better, or at least a stage that wasn’t haunted by a madman. After all, what remained there but ash and broken glass and foul memories?

For a young dancer, a great deal more died that night with the famed opera house. It had been her school, her home, her playground of sorts. It was safe haven from the streets where she’d been abandoned as a small child, and a refuge where she was able to polish her craft as a performer. Adela Beaumont had known little of the world outside that theatre and when it was destroyed, she felt as though she’d lost everything. How she’d missed those long nights of rehearsal, practicing alone on the vacant stage well after midnight, the sound of her toe shoes upon the old floorboards. Without such things, she was alone in the world, vulnerable, and often depressed – so alone and vulnerable that when a wealthy count offered her a proposal of marriage, quite abruptly after only a brief, awkward courtship, she felt obligated to accept. The Count Lefevre had spied her onstage at a ballet shortly after Adela’s displacement from the Opera Populaire, and became immediately infatuated with her. He promised her a home off the streets, a life of perfect luxury, and destitute as she was, Adele accepted the charming count’s proposal with little hesitance. He was some years older than her and the pair had little in common, but they tolerated each other gracefully when before the eyes of society.

Now Countess Lefevre, Adela had the world at her fingertips. After honeymooning abroad, she returned to Paris with her husband and requested from him one final wedding gift. She explained to him her attachment to the old opera house and begged him to fund its restoration. She would manage the plays, the actors, the musicians – it would ultimately be her project, she told him, her responsibility – if he would pay the bills. At length, he accepted. The Count knew that he had no other means of amusing his new wife. He enjoyed managing his businesses, counting his income, entertaining his aristocrat friends with cigars and expensive liquor; he hadn’t a clue what to do with Adela, being the vivacious, often emotionally charged young woman that she was. So, one chilly night nearing the end of winter, it was settled. In a few weeks time, the Count would hire the best architects and laborers to rebuild the Opera Populaire.

That night, Adela lay in her bedroom aching with excitement and impatience until finally, she couldn’t wait a moment longer. It felt like ages since she had stood within the old opera house and now that it would belong to her, she yearned for it with mounting enthusiasm. Slipping out of bed, she went to her wardrobe and withdrew a coat to be hugged tightly about her shoulders over her nightgown, then stepped into some slippers and quietly crept out of the bedroom and down the stairs of her husband’s lavish apartment. She called for a carriage and, despite the fervent protests of the valet, asked to be taken to the ruins of the Opera Populaire. She didn’t expect her husband to notice her disappearance. The novelty of a pretty, young wife was wearing off fast and the Count frequently left her alone for most of the day, retiring into his study often until supper. If he did notice that she’d slipped away in the middle of the night, Adela pondered, she doubted he’d be much troubled by her absence anyway. She was merely a glittering trinket for him to show off at dinner parties and galas. When she wasn’t clasped in his hands like a trophy, she could do as she liked.

Despite the frigid flurries of snow, the carriage pulled Adela onward until it had reached the charred building that once was the gilded Opera Populaire. The young countess thanked the driver as she stepped out and requested that he return back to her husband’s house; she’d find her own way home when she decided to return. It was singularly unorthodox for a young woman, especially one of status, to act so rashly, so independently, but Adela would not be swayed. After a few heartfelt protests, the driver turned his horses about and rode away home, leaving the girl to enter the abandoned theater alone.

Pulling her coat around her slight frame and huddling against the icy air, Adele walked into the lobby, stepping lightly over shards of glass and burnt debris. It pained her to see the place this way, so broken and lonesome, but the ache in her heart only strengthened her resolve that she’d be the one to mend it. Continuing on, she appraised the state of the stage, the orchestra pit, wondered if the shattered chandelier was totally beyond repair, and then she began to explore. Backstage and below, to the dormitories of old starlets where finally she stumbled into the room that once belonged to Christine Daae. Inquisitively Adela poked and peered about, and eventually her eyes were drawn to a half shattered mirror, and behind it, a doorway to a dark, damp passage. Wetting her lips, the young woman stepped closer, stormy blue eyes narrowing as she bridged another barrier of dirty, broken glass, and stepped into the lightless corridor.

[- - la nuit blanche]

Camille’s befuddled pout (along with the needy annoyance that had prompted it) withered like a fickle storm as soon as her glance found what she was looking for – James, standing casually in the doorway of the bedroom, looking nonchalant, subtly withdrawn, and achingly handsome as ever. Somehow he looked even more attractive to Camille’s sleepy brown eyes on this particular morning, probably because she knew damn well that his night had been spent not reveling in the usual debauchery of a confident bachelor, but dutifully taking care of her. Doctoring her, coddling her, positively spoiling her. She’d liked it, and at least for Bond, it was paying off now. As soon as she met his gaze, her own eyes softened and, in delighted remembrance of his unusual tenderness, the young woman favored him with a rare smile – a warm one, rather unlike her usual haughty smirk or mischievous grin. If ever she looked like she’d fallen hopelessly in love with the man, it was then. Lying bare beneath those covers, with a demeanor hardly defensive or even remotely uncomfortable beneath his gaze, looking back at him with those eyes and that smile, hair tousled, mascara black smeared about her eyes like a raccoon, she sighed almost amorously in response to his “good morning,” and lazily rested back against the pillows. All in all – now that she was feeling better, of course – she seemed perfectly amenable to the idea of James joining her there in bed, and already her eyes tried to beckon him; she didn’t seem too intent on abandoning those sheets anytime soon. After all, they were hiding away together in some shack of a hotel, not an obligation, responsibility, or care in the world outside of their own well-being, with the whole morning ahead of them…

And then he had to go and ruin it, excusing himself to “make a few calls.” One would suppose an agent so intuitive as he would know how to take a goddamn hint. She’d expected that her plainly available position of lounging about, just waiting for him, might’ve made it obvious enough that coffee wasn’t exactly the morning pick-me-up she currently desired. ******** b*****d.

As soon as he’d left, that pout returned and Camille huffed her way into the bathroom, rather unsatisfied and with all notions of slushy romance dashed from her mind. Fortunately her disappointment was nothing a hot shower couldn’t fix and once she was bathed and dressed – in a charming outfit that had been delivered either by James or the hotel management at some point in the day – Camille was feeling a little less slighted, and a little more hungry. She waited a few moments in the hotel room, disinclined to leave before James had returned as promised, but as her stomach began to ache and whine for food, she decided he’d find her later if he had to. With her hair still a little damp and only a bit of casual makeup applied, she tentatively stepped out of the hotel room and explored down to the lobby and, finally, towards a tiny dining room where breakfast was being served.

After ordering her meal, a pot of hot coffee, and two Aspirin for her dully throbbing head, she sat back and stifled a small yawn behind one hand. Always observant, she glanced about the brightly lit parlor and inspected her dining company. An elderly couple sat nearby, peacefully munching their meals over a pleasant conversation, a younger pair and their two small children enjoyed a lively breakfast at Camille’s other side, and similarly benign, friendly looking parties scattered the rest of the cozy dining room. Apparently what Camille had perceived to be a dingy, cheap hotel -- but a welcome refuge from last night’s storm -- was actually some charming little inn. She wasn’t accustomed to such places. As one of her profession, Camille was used to gaudy resorts, where decadent corruption and greed ran rampant, or otherwise soiled motels, hidden away from any sense of propriety or goodness or law. And here she found herself among normal people, modest civilians who had never had to nurse a bullet wound, never feared torture, never killed a man. They were people who had families, functional relationships, honest jobs... Normal. It was a life Camille knew, with a solemn sting in her heart, that she was no longer entitled to, a life that maybe she could never even hope to retrieve.

Though before the weight of such a realization could shatter her completely, she felt a warm kiss at the back of her neck and watched as James rounded her shoulder to take a seat across the table. Remembering that she was not entirely alone in her not-normal life, she sent him an earnest smile and reached to pour him a cup of coffee – black. She didn’t really see him as a “cream and sugar” sort of man.

“Good morning,” she answered pleasantly, looking up to his face as she set the pot back down. Her smile was momentarily hidden as she brought her own coffee cup to her lips and took a long gulp. When she lowered it again, her smile had broadened a little more. “You know... You weren’t half bad last night,” she complimented him from behind that grin. The elderly woman seated nearby sent a disapproving glance over at Camille and her brow had an inquisitive arch to it; clearly the suggestive tone of Camille’s flattery was noted not by James alone, and she gave a small laugh as the intruding lady turned back to her breakfast. “I was surprised…” she continued, keeping her words a little softer now. As opposed as she generally was to praising the egoist before her, he was momentarily on Camille’s good side, and he deserved some reward. She felt subtly indebted to the man, and rather happy to feel so proud of the way he’d looked after her. “I feel much better this morning.”

[- - la nuit blanche]

Though she tried hard not to make her interest too obvious, Vianne watched through the front window as Cecile went out into the drizzling rain to approach the strange man, eyes surveying his figure inquisitively. Her landlady, who still sat at the counter rather reluctantly enjoying her cocoa, eyed Vianne suspiciously and followed her gaze to the foreigner. “You shouldn’t take such interest in his kind,” the woman gruffly advised. Though after another sip of the warming hot chocolate, she added, a little more gently, “Not if you want to fit in around here…”

Taking a damp cloth to the counter, Vianne began cleaning away remnants of flour and the ever-present drips of chocolate -- white, milk, and dark. “And why is that?” she inquired, glancing up at the woman as she worked. There was a subtle tone of defiance in her voice and a strange determination flared in her eyes. “He seems kind enough, a hard worker… I can’t imagine he means to make any trouble.” Looking back out into the grey afternoon, she watched as the young man knelt down amiably to receive Cecile’s present, and smiled approvingly. “Why should he be so cast out?” she murmured softly, wistfully. Thoughtfully chewing her bottom lip, she glanced back to the wintry old woman, who merely scoffed and shook her head somberly.

“He’s a drifter,” the landlady grumbled. “We’ve seen his kind here before. Now me, I don’t mind them so much, not if they behave – and they usually do. But the villagers, they’re so easily threatened. And the Count, well, you know what he’s like.” Vianne gave a bitter sigh at this. That Count had been trying to run her out of business and out of town ever since she arrived. He spread rumors about her, even about little Cecile, to the other townspeople, all in the hopes of ruining her income and forcing her away. Vianne was quietly surprised that he hadn’t yet succeeded, but his failure certainly didn’t mean that she had to like him. “Ever since that man’s arrival,” the landlady continued, “the Count’s been making his rounds, telling the villagers to ignore him, make him feel unwelcome. I imagine if he weren’t such a useful sort of man, he’d have neither job, nor roof over his head in this town. Mark my words, if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll leave this place as soon as the weather turns.” Somehow Vianne was inclined to hope otherwise; she wasn’t certain she wanted the man to leave just yet. There was a comfort in knowing that she was not the only outsider left to struggle in this town.

Only half drenched to the bone, and significantly less soggy once she’d removed her raincoat and hat, Cecile scampered back inside the shop and hurried over to her mother. As Vianne sat upon a stool behind the counter, the little girl warily rounded the cantankerous landlady and scurried up into her lap. Petite for her age, Cecile was warmly and easily held on her mother’s knees and Vianne cuddled the girl until all of the storm’s damp frostiness was drawn out of her. “Mama, he took it!” Cecile reported, momentarily fighting against the warmth of her mother’s arms to look properly into her face. “I bet it’ll be his favorite,” she surmised with a proud smile. But Vianne was less confident. Usually she could meet someone, look in their eyes, and know right away what sort of sweet they might crave. But this fellow, he was different. She’d chosen a chocolate near to his home for sentimentality, ginger and almond for his spice and vigor. But simply defining his personality, a personality that still eluded her, with her candy was perhaps not enough to ensnare him, not just yet. She’d have to take her time with this one, put in some real effort.

Absently brushing her fingers through her daughter’s fine brown hair, Vianne glanced pensively towards the window again and saw, a little to her surprise, the man from the North approaching her door. As he tentatively opened it – irked by its harsh squeak apparently just as much as she always was – and entered the shop, if only barely, Vianne smiled. A soft laugh was coaxed from her lips at the man’s moderately accusatory statement concerning her little messenger and Cecile smiled rather smugly back at him. Though when the fellow continued, acknowledging that the delivered chocolate was “nice” but again, that he was not fond of such sweets, Cecile’s smile was dragged into a pout and she tilted her head to look imploringly up at her mother. Vianne appeared, at least outwardly, less troubled however and her own warm smile didn’t fade for an instant. “My mistake,” she acknowledged casually. Her eyes wandered his appearance, now that his hat had been removed and she could see him better, to realize, though without much surprise, that he was quite handsome. A little scruffy, but attractively so, with fair skin and exquisite blue eyes. He stood out, which was perhaps all the more reason for the contentedly plain villagers to be wary of him. Vianne, however, was intrigued, and liked his appearance very much.

Delicately standing and lowering Cecile gingerly to her own little feet, Vianne leaned against the counter and beckoned the male a bit nearer. “Perhaps you’d care for some coffee instead,” she offered. “Please, do come in. That door is so drafty.” Not only did the damn thing squeak with the slightest push, but wind and rain somehow seemed to seep through without any trouble. Although Vianne supposed the man couldn’t get any colder anyway, sopping wet as he was. The shop itself was actually quite warm. The heating system was positively ancient but the ovens, which were in use at almost every hour, kept the place rather comfortable, a cozy, inviting refuge from the rain outside.

[- - la nuit blanche]

ooc; a little short this one; i had trouble deciding how she ought to approach him. hopefully this is enough for you to respond to. if you have any questions though, let me know.

As soon as Adela stepped into the dark, hidden passage, she wondered if perhaps she should turn back. While the Count wasn’t often interested in his wife’s manner of keeping busy, she suspected he’d be rather furious to know that she was rummaging alone through an old, abandoned building, and now rather recklessly considering an exploration of the derelict catacombs. The Count could be fiercely controlling when he wanted to, brutal even in his will to protect and possess his lovely young spouse. But Adela had never been the most obedient of girls, and her curiosity heavily outweighed any fear she might have of her husband’s reaction, should he care to find out precisely where she’d slipped off to in the middle of the night. With an inquisitive smile, the young woman stepped onward.

The passage was lined with old torches. A few still smoldered, as if they could’ve been lit sometime in the fairly recent past, but none offered any substantial light. Fortunately a break in the boards and stone above allowed a reasonable sliver of moonlight in and Adela walked carefully along its illuminated path. The rocks were slick and grimy beneath her feet; the graceful dancer found herself struggling to keep her balance and slipped at least once or twice. Rats scurried into shadowy corners, dark, bristly things that would occasionally brush into the girl’s bare ankles. All manner of things in that dreary hall seemed to urge her to turn back, but defiantly, almost out of spite now, Adela continued on.

How long she’d followed that path, she wasn’t sure. It felt like it should’ve been morning by the time it came to an end. And then a dark lake was before her, leading to a labyrinth of various channels and onward to some unknown destination. At the bank of the water was a small boat, fashioned somewhat like a gondola. Molded and surely not quite so watertight as it ought to be, it was no doubt a risky vehical, but Adela’s restless impulse drove her on. She stepped into the boat and took hold of the pole, propelling herself warily forward. The light from above was dimming here and the girl’s eyes had to grow accustomed to the new depth of the darkness. She struggled to maneuver the boat through the shadows, struggling anyway as her muscles began to ache. Certain she was only getting herself lost, the young countess almost decided to turn back, and then she heard it – music. The powerful resonance of an organ, played most certainly by expert hands, and not too far away from the sound of it. Filled with hope and trembling, Adela turned about and followed after the echoing tune. Her heart began to pound as it grew louder and louder; she was getting close.

But, to what?

Adela was of course perfectly familiar with the story of the Opera Ghost. After living almost her whole life there in his domain, how could she not be? But, only a mere chorus girl, she’d always been a little shy and by no means either a threat or an attraction to the infamous Phantom. Sometimes she’d hear Miss Daae speak of him, either to her friends in the ensemble or to the ballet mistress. Every time Adela was intrigued, fascinated by the other girl’s stories; they were both frightfully horrible, and exquisitely lovely. There never was a more romantic figure, perhaps, fearful as the man was said to be. A genius by all rights, a magnificent composer, a talented musician. But Adela had never thought him to be of any interest to her. And now Christine Daae was off and married, and until now, Adela had been left to wonder if the Phantom was really anything more than a myth at all. And if ever he did exist, she was certain he must’ve been dead. How could he life through that terrible fire, survive beneath the ruins of the old theater for so many months, entirely alone?

Though as that music, his music, continued, Adela knew that he must be alive, must be real, and she quivered in her anticipation as she rowed ever closer. Finally she emerged through an iron grate, into what appeared to be an enormous cave, lavishly decorated in the old decadence of stage furnishings and props. The light of a hundred candelabras greeted the young woman’s eyes but the music had stopped by now. She could see the vast, proud organ, but its musician was gone. As the bow of the tiny boat collided gently with the land, Adela carefully stepped out, splashing a little in the shallow water and wetting the hem of her nightgown. Padding up onto the “shore” of sorts, her eyes glanced upwards and then, finally, she saw him. His back was to her as he stood at his desk but bashfully the young woman looked away. She felt like such a wretched intruder, and with all her splashing, she was certain she didn’t need to say anything to make her presence known any further.

[- - la nuit blanche]

Though Vianne still felt as if this intriguing stranger continued to elude her, there was some sense of triumph when he caught sight of little Cecile, and at length, accepted her offer for a cup of coffee. As he entered the comfortable boutique, the tiny russet haired girl grinned and even Vianne smiled approvingly before turning to see to his drink. Behind the counter she knelt down and opened one of the lower cupboards. Within the cabinet was a veritable storehouse of assorted coffees, all neatly enclosed in glass jars and labeled according to the beans’ origin. There were coffees from the tropical Caribbean, from the humid jungles of South America, the arid plains of Africa, and from the farthest reaches of the exotic Orient. Upon another shelf in a cupboard nearby was an equally varied collection of teas; Vianne decided she would put together a small sample for her landlady, but she’d see to her other visitor’s coffee first.

Coming to a decision concerning the right coffee bean for the man, however, was as difficult as surmising his favorite taste of chocolate. Perhaps even more so; a barista Vianne was not. So, after thoughtfully nibbling her lower lip, she turned and called to Cecile, who trotted over and bent down beside her mother. Pointing to the gathering of jars, Vianne smiled and gave her daughter a playful nudge, “Pick one,” she whispered to the little girl, making the request sound a bit like a challenge. Screwing her lips into a small, deeply reflective pout, Cecile surveyed the numerous jars within the dim cabinet, narrowed her eyes, then finally stuck out one finger and pointed to a jar near the back. Vianne retrieved the container with a smile then nodded approvingly as she looked down at the young girl. “Good choice,” she complimented, to which Cecile grinned quite confidently and straightened up. The bean she’d chosen came from Ethiopia and was known for its rich, mysterious flavor and long, lingering finish, with a certain acidity almost reminiscent of a fine wine. More than this, though, the coffee was made and refined entirely by hand, and Vianne prized it as something rare, uniquely foreign. Cecile’s choice had surely been made at random, but her mother was ever more pleased with it, deciding that it would suit her stranger well.

Standing up and closing the cabinet, Vianne began to prepare a pot, listening behind her as the spunky landlady gruffly chided the young man for looking her way for too long. Stifling a small laugh, she let the coffee brew and turned back just as the woman announced her departure. Vianne watched carefully as she lowered herself from the stool, ready to rush forth if she needed assistance, but it seemed that the man would’ve been there first. Already offering his help, he was mildly told off by the grumbling old woman and Vianne watched with a smile as she departed into the rain. “She’ll be fine,” Vianne assured the young man. “I mean to bring her some tea later on.” It wouldn’t be the first time Vianne would attempt to check up on the crotchety but somehow immensely likable old landlady. Almost every other night since her arrival she’d tried such affable visits, only to be roughly turned away with course and sometimes vulgar protest. But now that the woman had a bit of that enchanting cocoa in her, Vianne suspected she might be a little more willing to accept some friendly company. “She’s very independent, you know,” Vianne mused softly, resting her elbows lightly upon the counter. “But I think something may be troubling her… Everyone in this village seems to have something to hide…” Her eyes lifted pensively to the man’s face, searching his expression with a deep, meaningful wonder. She suspected he was hiding something as well, but she’d never been one to pry. “Anyway,” she concluded with a smile. “I like her.”

“I don’t think she likes me,” Cecile whined softly from behind the counter. With a grin, Vianne lifted her up and settled her upon a stool, just across the table from their new visitor. “Well perhaps if you hadn’t stepped on her kitten’s tail the first time we visited…” the young woman chided teasingly, prodding a soft tickle into the girl’s ribs. Cecile answered with a bashful giggle and sent a shamefaced smile towards the foreigner. “I didn’t mean to!” she insisted. Vianne grinned and gave a small shake of her head, but while Cecile excitedly related the tale of how the landlady’s cat deliberately tried to trip her, and therefore deserved being stepped on (if only accidentally), her mother’s attention wavered, looking again towards the roguish young male. She eyed him pensively once again, then turned to retrieve that ancient wheel from a shelf behind the counter. It was set down before the man, vibrant colors staring up at him from the intricately carved pattern, and as Cecile quieted, her attention turned to the odd disk as well. She grinned and looked forward towards their visitor, attentively perching up higher on the stool with her legs folded beneath her.

“Ancient Mayan, from Guatemala,” explained Vianne, absently fingering the edge of the circular object. Then, lifting her eyes up from the disk, she gave it a gentle spin with one hand, sending it round and round. The pattern swirled into a mixture of colors and unclear designs. After glancing surreptitiously towards Cecile, an inquisitive smile came to Vianne’s lips and she moved her glance again towards the handsome blue eyes of their foreign company. “Would you like to play a game..?”

Before the man was given a chance to answer, Cecile piped up again, “What do you see in it, monsieur? In the colors. Everyone sees something different.” She grinned and watched the young man carefully while Vianne turned momentarily away to pour out the coffee. When she stepped back to the counter, she set two mugs down – one for herself and one for her visitor – along with cream, sugar, and a small teacup of cocoa for Cecile.

[- - la nuit blanche]

As the man’s voice boomed throughout the cavern, echoing menacingly from every stone wall, Adela started and warily took a step back. Her intrigue, fascination, whatever it was that urged her to come here, unknowing of what she might find, turned quickly towards terror. That voice, the voice that was a legend in its own right and was supposed to sing so beautifully, was an angry bellow, a fierce intimidation that made even the stubborn, inquisitive dancer recoil. Looking horribly mortified, she sent her guilt-ridden eyes up towards the man as he half hid his face behind one hand. “Monsieur, I…” Despite her evident alarm, her voice did not waver as she tried to speak, but the words were snuffed away like a useless flame; she didn’t know what to say, how to possibly explain herself. She was an intruder, trespassing upon the man’s home, his privacy. Her eyes lowered sheepishly away once more and she anxiously bit her lower lip, only listening as the infamous phantom rummaged about in search of his mask. Even as he righted it upon his scarred face, the young woman didn’t dare look up again, not yet.

When he roared at her once more, demanding that she get out, Adela, unsurely, began to turn away, ready to step back into the wreck of a boat and sail off. After all, celebrated musician that he was, this man had been accused of kidnapping, murder, and certainly half a dozen other dreadful crimes. All he had to do was wring his hands about her delicate neck and she’d be done for. Every sensible impulse within the girl urged her to heed his command and make a desperate escape, before he began to feel somewhat less understanding. Though before she could take a second step towards the water that led her there, she heard a small clatter as the man sank to his knees, coughing and wretching with his head hidden in his arms.

Adela hesitated, but only for a moment, then stepped warily towards the man. Despite the ferocity of his voice, the sheer resentment that reverberated with each word, she sensed a frailty in him. He was sick, fragile, entirely alone, and she pitied him for it. Each step that brought her nearer became more and more confident. She simply knew she couldn’t leave him, not in this condition. So finally, when she stood quite near to his side, she knelt down and cautiously touched a hand to his shoulder. “Monsieur…” she tried again, softer this time. Her voice was timid but full of sincerity and her eyes meaningfully searched his half masked face. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you… I never dreamt that you…” Again her words faded unsurely away. She’d never dreamt that he could’ve survived the fire. But evidently he had, and that threw into perspective just how the man must’ve been living for the past several months. Alone here in the derelict opera house, surely struggling for food every day, with only his instruments and misery for company. Tentatively wetting her lips, Adela let her hand lay a little more surely, warmly, against his shoulder. “But you’re ill, monsieur,” she continued carefully. “You must let me help you.” As she quietly implored him, she stood and attempted to aid the man back to his feet, easing another hand to support his arm.

“My name’s Adela,” the woman added delicately, supposing that if she introduced herself properly, he might be a little more willing to offer his trust. However, she refrained from explaining everything; her title as countess was left aside, along with her married surname. If he was at all familiar with her – being that he seemed at least moderately familiar with all goings-on of the opera house before the fire – he wouldn’t recognize her by such a lofty designation. “Adela Beaumont. I used to dance here, in the chorus,” she explained. “It feels so long since I’ve been back…” If he knew anything of her at all, he would recall only a somewhat plain little ballerina who often kept to herself and spent long hours practicing alone upon the stage. She was talented to be sure, but a skilled dancer found no renown in the production of an opera. The vocalists and musicians won all the attention; a chorus girl was little more than a theater harlot. Though Adela had never bemoaned her station. While other girls, even Madame Giry, advised her to join a real ensemble, the prestigious French ballet company perhaps, she never bothered to consider it. The opera house was her home, and she belonged there.

“What name may I call you, monsieur?”

[- - la nuit blanche]

The more Adela listened to the man, studied him quietly with careful, sensitive eyes, the more her fear began to wane. This poor brute, emaciated and feverish with infirmity, hardly looked to be a fearful criminal, hardly seemed ready to wring her neck, though he certainly didn’t want her pity. He commanded again that she leave him, but his voice was withered and hoarse, weakening the strength of his unfriendly order. Likewise her stubborn resolution to aid him grew stronger. Her lips drew into an obstinate sort of pout and when the man pulled back, she tentatively stepped forward. He was simply wallowing in his own depression, so extravagant in his own misery even that he would hand himself to death before accepting her help. And Adela would not have it.

But yet, when the infamous Phantom looked down into her face, recognizing her for just a fleeting instant as his once beloved, the young woman found herself at a loss. Of course she knew of the illustrious affair between this man and Christine Daae, how his deep love for her had never been fully requited, how her ill-placed devotion to that Viscount drove the Opera Ghost to jealous madness. It was a sad story but for all Adela’s attachment to the Opera House and every one of its tales, she’d never fully grasped, perhaps until now, just what that unfortunate love affair had done to this man. She looked up into his eyes as he studied her, noting the desperate warmth that seemed to flood behind those expressive browns at the remembrance of Miss Daae, until the timid hope of his expression made her heart ache and she was forced to look away. How he must’ve loved her, she thought. How it must’ve utterly destroyed him when she too shunned him away, abandoned him.

But that moment was brief and as soon as the man realized that she was not his Christine, his bitterness and self-loathing seemed to return. As did Adela’s resolve to cure him of it. “If I thought your name to be so unimportant,” she began, quietly but with a certain, chiding sting. “I wouldn’t have asked for it.” Stepping near to the desk he sat behind, she rested her hands delicately upon its surface and surveyed his half-hidden face. She wanted his name, but she was not one to pry. He would trust her in time, she was certain of it. But she was not finished with him yet.

“And if you truly are such a poor, pathetic creature, as you say,” she added, glaring subtly with this accusation. “Then I will be terribly disappointed.” Lovesick or not, she hated to see him so weakened, so wretchedly frail. But as she gazed at him, her eyes softened a little and she breathed a weary sigh. “Monsieur, you are the Opera Ghost,” she reminded him, almost desperately. “You are the most gifted musician in all of France, Paris’ greatest composer. Enough with this indulgent self-pity…” Wetting her lips, the bold young woman straightened a little and looked down, pausing a moment before quietly continuing. “If I do as you say, if I leave you now… You’ll be lost.” From the look of his condition, he had little time left for this world, unless he allowed himself her aid. On one hand, the deprivation of a madman could be a rather positive loss. Just as Adela meant to revive the theater, it could perhaps be easier on her role as manager if she left this man to die. There would be no extra salary to pay, no one to threaten the actors, ruin the sets, frighten away prospective audiences. Any businessman would turn away, leave well enough alone, and simply let the Phantom rot there in his watery caverns. And yet, Adela could not bring herself to think this way. For better or worse, this man was part of the Opera Populaire, and somehow she felt she needed him. She couldn’t simply abandon him there to await a slow, lonesome death.

“I suppose I ought to inform you,” she added after a moment, looking back up to the sickly man huddled in his chair. “I mean to have this theater rebuilt, precisely as it used to be, brick for brick. Construction should begin within a few weeks time; all the arrangements have been made…” Quietly she surveyed his reaction then stepped around the desk to stand near at his side. She looked soberly down at him and bit pensively at her lower lip for a moment before gingerly continuing, “If you wish to die here in the meantime, I suppose I cannot stop you. But if you would see your opera house restored, then please… Let me help you.”

[- - la nuit blanche]

As their voices contended, interruptions sometimes bitter, sometimes subtle, even stubborn Adela found her will to argue beginning to waver. She hadn’t ventured into the watery depths of the opera house, hadn’t followed the beckoning of his music, only to argue with an angered musician. But fortunately it seemed, at least in this case, her will was stronger than his, or else the Phantom realized he had indeed something to live for, but that he could no longer entertain the solitude of living alone; he needed medical attention, proper food and drink – he needed her aid. And when reluctantly he offered that he could object no longer, Adela exhaled a hushed, satisfied sigh and gave a smile that was not arrogantly triumphant or victorious, but relieved. If he’d continued to deny her, honestly she wasn’t certain how she ever could’ve left him like this. Abandoning such a man, a man whose worth to her was more than he might ever know, would’ve been a dreadful chore, more difficult, surely, than any complication she’d face while trying to care for him.

But as the indignant male fell into another spell of violent coughs, her vague smile vanished and her brow knit together in worry. She stepped in, timidly touching a hand to his shoulder as he turned away from her. In a bit of hesitance she left it there, rubbing soothingly, delicately, until the fit of coughs had subsided. “I will never try to lord over you,” she promised quietly, “Or think myself your master… But if you wish for your health to return, you must do as I say... You must trust me.” Her hand lowered carefully from his shoulder blade to support his arm, again working to help him up to his feet. Thinned and weakened as he was, the man still towered over the fragile dancer but she sustained his weight nonetheless beneath her grit and stubborn persistence. Helping to steady his balance, she walked him away from the desk and towards the welcoming sheets of his bed. “You need to rest,” she advised him carefully. “Sleep if you can… No one will disturb you now.” With the deed to the Opera Populaire in her husband’s hands, only his employees would come snooping around to appraise the theater, but not before they were given leave to do so. And despite Adela’s eagerness to see the opera house restored, she would be sure that all progress was delayed until the Phantom’s health had been regained. For better or worse, she’d made him her responsibility, her charge, and she would see that nothing hindered his recovery.

Once the man had settled himself in bed, Adela promised that she’d return with medication the following evening, then went on her way. Part of her yearned to remain with him, felt so protective of the man now that she didn’t dare leave his side. And of course, part of her was simply reluctant to return home to her husband. All in all, disagreeable as this man could be, she was tempted to hide away with him a while longer. And yet, she wasn’t certain how amiable he’d be to the idea of her extended company. No, for now, she decided, it’d be best to leave him on his own. Anyway, she had plenty of business to see to in the meantime.

Confronting her husband was the most grueling of chores. If she was to be tending to the Opera Ghost throughout the majority of each day, she would need an excuse. Her occasional absences were never questioned, but surely the Count would wonder if his wife was missing for days and days. So, she lied, claiming that she had a lady friend on the outskirts of the city who was in very bad health and requested her immediate presence. The Count could not deny her this and, grudgingly, gave his consent, but only on the condition that she return to make an appearance at one of his parties later in the week. Adela accepted, allowed the man to kiss her, then hastened to gather all the necessary supplies. Food was collected from the kitchen and she threw together a small trunk of clothes, both for herself and for her newly acquired patient, then went purposefullyon her way to the physician. She’d known the man for quite some time – he’d often seen to the various sprains and muscle aches of the dancers at the theater – but she told him only a very little about the invalid she meant to aid. She explained the severity of his cough, likely due to prolonged smoke inhalation, his fevers, weight-loss, fatigue, all such symptoms. The doctor grumbled that it’d be near impossible to make a proper diagnosis without seeing the patient properly but Adela bluntly advised him that no such thing would be possible. Fortunately he did not press the issue and merely sent her off with an assortment of tonics and capsules, and the warning that if her friend’s condition grew worse, she ought to bring him to see a physician directly. With her thanks, Adela departed.

By nightfall, as she’d promised, she was on her way back to the Phantom’s lair. The poor gondola was loaded down with supplies, hardly able to skim over the water and exceedingly difficult for Adela to maneuver. Fortunately she managed well enough and, with the thought that she must someday find an easier way to enter this place, at last emerged through the rusted gate and into the familiar cavern. She was dressed more properly this evening, clothed in a champagne colored gown that elegantly reflected her newly achieved status in society – and yet the fine fabric of her dress was carelessly disregarded as Adela hopped into the shallows to pull the small boat onto shore. Half drenched and noticeably wearied from her day’s work, she remained somehow determined and carefully unloaded the cargo. With only some amount of trouble she pulled the packages of food and drink ashore, along with the small trunk of clean clothing and the boxed medication received from the doctor. All of it neatly piled, she allowed herself a small, triumphant smile then straightened at last to greet her patient.

[- - la nuit blanche]

Adela’s stormy blue-green eyes found the man at last, seated at the desk from which she’d taken him the previous night. She gazed at him a little warily, noting his presence but hardly offering a warm greeting. After all, he’d made it quite plain that he didn’t wish for a friend, a companion. He didn’t trust her or seem even the least bit grateful for her kindness. Warm and careful she’d always tried to be with him, offering only the most sincere and consoling of touches, and every time he flinched away. She was scarcely pleased. Part of her wondered if he only meant to use her, and only because now he knew the opera house was to be rebuilt, to be his for the taking once more. If she was more prone to bitterness, resentment, she’d have called him undeserving of her generosity. Always she’d been told that his disfigured face was the Phantom’s most fearful quality, but Adela could not believe it now. Even the most gruesome scars, she considered, could not sting or repel her so much as his coldness.

Without a smile, the young woman dipped her head, nodding in answer to his astonished statement but turning away from him to shuffle back through her belongings. “I said I would,” she answered simply, her voice quiet, a little tired. She’d been running all over town gathering things to please this ungrateful, disagreeable man. His medications, hot soup to soothe his throat, clean shirts and trousers, soaps and salves to ease his aches, even a decent enough bottle of cognac, to be enjoyed in modest doses of course, to quiet his mind and help him sleep. Not to mention the effort she had to put into covering her tracks, as it were. If her husband or any of his staff found out that she was not where she should be – helping an old female friend on the edge of town – she expected to see a good deal of trouble. And the Count could muster quite a temper when it suited him.

But at last her work – the preliminary work, that is – appeared to be done. She’d unloaded what supplies she felt she needed and began to ladle some hot soup into a mug. Once it was filled to the brim, steaming its warm aroma in hot wisps, the young woman straightened and brought it to the desk. It was set down before the man along with a spoon and a small brown bottle – one of many syrups prescribed to hush his cough and relax his throat. “Two spoonfuls,” Adela murmured by way of instruction, indicating the medicine. She didn’t suppose he was so feeble that he needed her aid in such matters. He could fill up the spoon and drink the syrup on his own.

Crossing her arms about herself, Adela turned and leaned idly against the desk. Her back now faced the man – indication enough that she was ready to offer no more warmth and camaraderie than he was willing to accept. She exhaled a fatigued sigh and vaguely examined the pale palm of her right hand; she’d slipped on her way to the boat and scraped it against a rather unforgiving rock. A few light streaks of blood continued to seep to the surface of her skin but Adela didn’t seem interested in her own little injury. She closed up her hand and crossed her arm back around her torso. Considering her slightly harried appearance – the wet hem of her dress, her hair falling in wisps out of its tidy curls, and now her bloodied hand – the young woman gave a grim smile inward and exhaled a weary sigh.

“You didn’t think I’d come?” she murmured at last, glancing over her shoulder to peer back at the masked man. One corner of her soft lips turned upwards in a vague, slightly amused smile. “I’m afraid you’re not so lucky, monsieur.” Still she didn’t know his name. She wished almost to ask again, but she supposed that would only vex the man. If anything was clear about this Phantom, it was that he’d neither do nor say anything he didn’t want to, and she doubted she’d gain anything in forcing him. Turning forward again, she turned her eyes from him and glanced absently about the cavern.

“Yesterday you voiced the presumption that you must be nothing to me,” she added quietly after a time. Still turned away, she wet her lips and sighed once more. “But you were mistaken. You are everything to me. You are the very spirit of this opera house.” At last she looked back to him, her expression grave, sincere. This was the reason she’d bothered returning to him after his less than friendly welcome the night before. It was not all selfless charity that urged her to help this man. Now that she knew he was still alive, if only barely, she needed him. He was perhaps the only part of the old opera house, the Opera Populaire that she had for so long been a part of, that she could truly salvage. “If I were to let you die,” she murmured, allowing her eyes to look bravely and directly towards his. “This place… It wouldn’t be the same.”

[- - la nuit blanche]

With a childish sort of worry swimming in her eyes, Adela stood by and expected the Phantom to object to her extended company. Even though the man seemed in much better humor today, she guessed he would grumble and snarl and be sure that she was sent away as soon as possible, no matter the reason why she seemed so reluctant to go home. However, he surprised her, as he was beginning to all the time. With a casual shrug that betrayed neither pleasure nor annoyance in her presence, he commented that she was to do as she wished. Mutely relieved, the young woman smiled faintly and nodded in acquiescence when the Phantom continued to add that if she meant to stay, she should first tend to her bloodied hand. Adela’s smile grew a little; he was worrying about her. Was it only because she brought him hot food and effective medicine that he took some concern in her well-being? After all, if she was to fall ill herself with some sort of infection, she’d be much less a help to him in his time of need. But perhaps it was more than mere necessity that urged him to offer that consideration. Perhaps his heart would again know some use after all.

After a simply murmured “thank you” Adela turned and stepped back to the few trunks she’d brought along across the river. Casting an irritated glance towards the boat that had inadvertently caused her injury, she unfastened a box of ointment and bandages and began swabbing the blood away from the raw scratches of her palm. She winched, inhaling sharply at the stinging of the antiseptic, but finally managed to finish the wound with a strip of clean gauze. Peering over her shoulder, she sought out her charge and found him retiring to bed. He was accepting her help more kindly than she’d ever hoped. He’d drank up all of his soup, downed the necessary dosage of that dreadful cough syrup, and now heeded her concerned beckoning and went off to rest. Even after she’d dedicated herself to this new cause, she’d expected to be met with nothing but agitated objections. A man so accustomed to living alone, she thought, would be none too eager to accept the orders and will of another. But again he surprised her.

With a curious smile, Adela turned back to the trunks and organized little piles of supplies. A pot of preheated water was withdrawn and added into a clean cup with some mint, eucalyptus, and honey, all to be stirred and served up as a soothing tea. The herbs, she hoped, would further sooth his throat and fight away at his cough. Certainly it would taste much better than the medication she’d forced upon him earlier. The cup was placed upon a saucer and Adela, careful not to spill, stood to walk the hot drink over to the Phantom’s quarters. Both cup and saucer were set gingerly upon his bedside table, along with two capsules from the doctor. While the pills were disconcertingly large, once swallowed, they would hopefully reduce the man’s fever and ease him to sleep.

She had just set the two caplets upon the saucer when the man spoke once more, suggesting that if she desired to stay the evening, he could offer her somewhere to rest. It was far more than Adela had expected and she looked up, moderately surprised. In regards to her remaining there overnight, she’d guessed that she would simply make herself comfortable in some derelict armchair for the evening, well out of her host’s way so as not to be a nuisance – and she’d have been perfectly happy enough to do so. She was forced to pause a moment, somehow thrown off balance by his unexpected hospitality. A vague notion of propriety entered her mind. Her husband knew that she was to be away quite frequently in the coming weeks, but it hadn’t been made entirely clear whether or not she’d be returning to join him in the evenings. She did not wish to, to be sure, but how morally honest would it be of her to remain in the quarters of another man instead, platonic though their relationship may be?

As she deliberated this for a time, leaving the Phantom’s question to momentarily hang between them, one slim thumb toyed with the glinting wedding band about her left ring finger, absently twisting the expensive trinket round and round. The way she touched the ring, it was in a manner less than nostalgic, and far from affectionate. As she spun the band about, it was in almost a nervous fashion, as if that golden gem was meant not to resemble a tie of eternal love, but a glittering shackle, the seal of Adela’s bondage to her less than beloved husband. She was thinking of him just then, considering how the Count would react if had any idea what she was up to, if he knew at all that she was far more inclined to spend her nights in the company of a half-masked stranger, rather than spend them alone with him.

What felt like an eternity of anxious consideration had only really lasted a few seconds and finally, with a timid smile, the young woman looked up to meet the smoldering brown eyes of her unexpectedly hospitable host. “That’s very kind of you,” she murmured gently, offering at last a small nod to indicate her acceptance. “If you’re certain you don’t mind, of course.”

[- - la nuit blanche]

With the cup and saucer settled upon the small table and the sick composer settled in his bed, Adela stood patiently by. She made a few timid motions to help draw the icy sheets over his feverish body and watched with dark concern as he kneaded his temple, surely trying to coax away some stinging ache from his mind. It was then that her eyes fell upon his mask, which she considered surely helped the migraine not at all. She’d never really noticed that stark plate of white before, not on its own. It had always been plainly considered part of this man’s façade, part of his own skin, part of all that he was. But that was when Adela, like many of that time, only knew him to be a fearful specter, prowling the theater more like a demon at some times, an angel at others, but never quite human. He’d been so intangible, understood only through his notes and the threatening deeds he did about the opera house. However, now Adela knew better. Now she knew there was a man behind that mask, a man who could feel and ache and love and die, just like any other. And all of this made the presence of that famous mask a little disconcerting to the young woman. It was perhaps not so much a part of him as she’d always thought, which brought the inevitable question: What was he hiding beneath it?

Now especially, as the man lay sick in bed, Adela considered that there could be no reason enough to keep him in the discomfort of that half guise. Scarred, burned, disfigured, she’d heard a number of tales concerning the portion of his appearance that always went unseen. But truly, could she be so easily frightened? If her dear patient, who surprised her with a certain kindness and gratitude just moments ago, yearned to relieve himself of that mask, was there anything beneath it that could possibly turn her away? Adela confidently suspected not. However, if the man could not confide in her enough to even give her his name, how could she ever ask him to reveal a part of him that had always remained much more private? Now was perhaps not the right time to beg him to remove that mask, but if ever a more suitable opportunity came, Adela considered, she would be ready, and she would not abandon him.

Again proving his humanity, the young woman caught the unwilling look he cast towards the cup of tea and pills and smiled a little herself. Like a child who could not stand the taste of his vegetables at dinner, the Phantom seemed to have little appetite for another regimen of medication, no matter how effective such things might be. Adela watched him challengingly and as he turned away into another fit of coughs, her determination to see him drink that tea and swallow his pills only doubled. She wished not to prove herself over him, however, to gain some haughty notion of her own power simply because she managed to feed him bad-tasting medicine. Selfless and perhaps too compassionate for her own good, she merely longed to see him in better health, to see him not so much weakened and in pain. A murderer, a thief so many people used to call him. But he was none of those things to her, not now, and some part of her sincerely believed he deserved every kindness she had to offer.

When he’d at last recovered from his coughs, bitterly cursing his own ailments, Adela breathed a quiet sigh and tentatively, consolingly touched a hand to the man’s forehead, testing his fever. However when she followed the gaze of his eyes, directly to the ring she still continued to anxiously twist about her finger, she sharply withdrew her touch and straightened a little. She knew the Phantom’s response before he even gave it; she could see it in his eyes. And yet as he bitterly growled his contempt, as if she had somehow betrayed him, Adela did not wither in meek, girlish guilt. She looked down into his eyes, her expression a mix of hurt, frustration, and regret. “Enough,” she snarled back at him at last, her voice quiet, somehow pained, but pointedly audible nonetheless. “My marriage is of no concern to you… You know nothing, nothing of what it is like.” As furiously as she’d willed them away, bitter tears were gathering behind her eyes, though she was too proud to let them fall. Nevertheless, she’d already given herself away by now. So warm and genial as she could be, the woman was clearly miserable outside of this opera house and had almost certainly never been in love with her husband, nor the least bit contented by her marriage. “Is it not enough for you that I am here?” she accused, vaguely motioning one hand to indicate the damp cavern about them. “Is it not enough to show you that I wish to stay here, with you, because I cannot bring myself to return to him?”

She paused a moment then looked down, roughly drawing the wedding band off her finger. She set it down upon the saucer by his bedside, dropping it there with a tiny clatter. Exhaling a trembling sigh, she brought a hand to her forehead, then combed her fingers back through her tousled, coffee hued curls as she lowered wearily to her knees. “My husband believes I am staying with a woman on the outside of town,” she explained, struggling to tame the excited frustration in her voice. “He will not question my absence, nor do I think he will miss me. He will be no trouble to us… But I’d thank you not to speak of him again, or hold my attachment to him in disdain. I suppose you understand now… I would be rid of him if I could.” Her gaze lowered and she breathed another quiet, unsteady sigh. It was a moment before she managed to calm her nerves, still kneeling by his bedside, and found the inclination to look back up to his angered brown eyes.

[- - la nuit blanche]

Adela sat almost quivering in her distress at the Phantom’s bedside. While she continued to hold back frustrated tears, her throat felt choked, burning with the agitation of her long suppressed sorrow. There was a time, she mutely recalled, when she thought her husband loved her. While their relationship had never been the passionate, romantic affair Adela might’ve dreamt of, the Count was rightly civil as he courted her, charming, debonair, and always sincerely complimentary. Young Adela, who had known little of love before then, was timidly delighted at all the affection. She enjoyed the Count’s various gifts, new dresses, pieces of jewelry, trips out to his country manor. And yet, after that ring was fastened about her finger, after he became sure that he’d thoroughly won his prize, all of that stopped. No longer did she feel so cherished, so singularly beloved. She was meant simply to sit across from her husband at the dinner table and dance with him at his ridiculous parties, his lovely ballerina. She was little more than the most interesting piece of his art collection, to be flaunted, paraded, put on display for all to admire. The Count liked to think himself “bohemian” for having married a dancer. There was a flamboyant mystique about having accomplished such a feat, and for having the sheer gall to do so.

And yet, there was still a part Adela had to play, something she’d never foreseen prior to her marriage. Now that she was a count’s wife, and so constantly under the inspection of high society, she could not be fully herself. Whenever any of the Count’s guests asked about her theatrical background, her husband ordered her to say that she’d been part of some prestigious ballet ensemble. He ordered her to lie. It was not good enough that she’d spent the vast portion of her life beneath the roof of the Opera Populaire, that she’d been quite content to remain a chorus girl for the majority of her career.

So, little by little, Adela began to lose herself behind this new mask, left to drown in the murky depths of her own sadness and regret. It was not a situation she liked frequently to ponder, and so when the Phantom forced her to realize her unhappiness once again, she snarled and snapped, enraged as she’d never been in his presence before. And when the anger subsided, she was left with only her grief and remorse, biting sharply down on the lower lip that threatened to tremble as she awaited the Phantom’s reaction.

His calm apology was wholly unexpected and Adela was surprised how effectively it helped to ease away the burden of her own agony. When his hand gingerly reached to meet her hair, she found herself relaxing at once to the touch and a few bitterly restrained tears were allowed to fall at last. They trickled down her fair cheeks but without any sobs to accompany them; the ache in her throat had dissolved. Soothed as she was by the man’s voice and cautious touch, her emotions quietly calmed and she merely exhaled a long, quaking sigh as her nerves began to settle. It hadn’t immediately occurred to her that the Phantom might sympathize with her situation, and while surely each of their troubles were in their own way different, they both knew what it was to ache beneath the burden of an empty heart.

“You have no need to apologize,” the young woman murmured, her voice hardly more than a small whisper. When his hand withdrew from the tresses of her hair, she timidly moved to lay her own hand delicately upon his forearm. “I am the one who is at fault… I should have been more forthright. I did not mean to deceive you.” Another heavy sigh parted her soft pink lips and she lifted herself warily to stand, bringing her hand away from the man’s arm to wipe the last remnants of tears from her cheeks. “You see, it is my husband who will make the restoration of this theater possible. He is a very wealthy man…” A sour taste touched upon Adela’s tongue as she spoke those words, realizing the implication that arose with the grouping of an unhappy marriage with her husband’s financial affluence. “I married him in good faith, you know,” she struggled to add. “I never meant to exploit his wealth, his status. There was a time when I honestly believed we could make each other happy, when it was his attention that mattered, not his money. But… Life with him turned out to be… less pleasant than I’d imagined. It has been a long time since I felt any stirring of love for him, and longer still since I believed he remained capable of reciprocating such affection.”

Wetting her lips, her eyes glanced aside, catching the gaudy glint of that golden ring still sitting upon the saucer, just beside the tea she’d served moments ago. It seemed to glare up at her, demanding that she put it back in its rightful place upon her finger. And yet, she could not bring herself to retrieve it, or even look upon that elegant band for more than a moment. With a faint smile, her eyes retreated back to the softened brown hues of the Phantom, finding an immense, unexpected solace in their warm depths. “I’m sorry,” she murmured a little nervously. She supposed he probably didn’t have the vaguest interest in the story of her marriage, and she realized she’d gone on explaining a little more than she meant to. “I ought to leave you to your sleep.”

[- - la nuit blanche]

Adela looked modestly, timidly down as she drew the man’s hand from her lips, unsure of how he might react to such affection. She half expected him to wrench away from her and roughly steal his hand back, though he did no such thing. Surprising her once again, he left his fingers within her grasp and after moving to stand close against her, drew her palm up to touch his face. Adela breathed a hushed, easy sigh, feeling how warmly his cheek fit in the gentle curve of her hand, and she leaned carefully into him. He felt more like a man then than ever before, more real, more tangible and more human. This was no ethereal opera ghost, no transparent, ghoulish phantom, but a man, warm and strong and everything a man ought to be. And Adela relaxed into his embrace so easily, so trustfully, as though under a sort of spell. She hesitated not for an instant as he led both of their arms around her torso and when he sang softly into her ear, her eyes drifted contentedly closed. But all too soon the melody ended and after pressing a small kiss to her hand, he vanished. Adela turned after him, perhaps to object to his departure, to beg him to sing to her once more, but he was already gone. The dark curtains swayed and rustled slightly; the only sign that he’d ever stood there with her at all.

With a small, inward smile, Adela turned back to the bed and carefully slipped out of her gown. The hem of it was still damp from her wading through the shallows of the lake and the corset tightly laced beneath it was hardly suitable to wear to sleep. After undressing to her pale stockings and chemise, the other garments were laid aside, the candles were carefully extinguished, and she hurried beneath the sheets of the bed. Having lain unoccupied for so long, the blankets were like ice to the touch and Adela shivered a little as she waited for her own body to heat them. Huddled with her bare arms wrapped about herself, she closed her eyes and realized how dearly she wished her host had remained with her. She could’ve stayed enfolded in his arms forever, warm against his chest, his voice murmuring lullabies into her ear.

But for some time the young woman laid awake, unable to fall asleep. Even as the crimson sheets finally warmed around her, her body comfortably positioned upon the soft mattress and her cheek nestled cozily into the pillow beneath her head, she looked contemplatively into the darkness, suddenly quite awake, or at least intent upon ignoring her fatigue. She could think only of him, her patient, her host, and how dearly she felt she cared for him when he was kind. The moment he willfully drew her hand to touch his face, her heart positively ached with emotion, perhaps even love, and she continued to reflect on how tender his lips felt when he touched them to her hand. Though what sensible girl would allow herself to feel these things for such a man? Scars and deformities aside, most would agree that he’d committed atrocious crimes, that was mentally and emotionally unstable at the least. Surely Christine would consider her story testament to the phantom’s madness. And what of Adela’s husband, the notable Count Michel Lefevre? What would he think if he knew his wife was feeling rapidly devoted to another man, and a supposed criminal at that?

With a troubled sigh, Adela hid her face closer against the feather pillow and closed her eyes. There would be nothing simple about her situation if indeed she came to love the infamous phantom, and similarly, if he came to love her. Besides, while it was perfectly good that she could adore him so tenderly when he was friendly to her, how she hated him when he was cruel. When he acted so cold and distant, or when he berated her about her marriage earlier in the evening, she despised the man, thought him incapable of true kindness and unworthy of her own compassion. And yet, Adela considered, at least he urged her to feel something, whether in his gentleness or bitter hostility. With her own husband, she felt so despicably hollow, numb. The Count seemed incapable of sparking any emotion within her these days, and he appeared hardly interested in doing so anyway.

Sooner or later, her own thoughts lulled her into deep exhaustion and Adela drifted to sleep. She rested peacefully through the night, warm and comfortable in her gifted quarters. When she again opened her eyes, however, she felt somewhat disoriented. She had no idea what time it might be; the Phantom’s underground home was surely dark all day long, save for constant candlelight. But Adela felt rested and alert and she carefully slipped out of bed. After smoothing the blankets back into place, she drew the curtains aside and stepped out. She shivered with a slight chill, not yet properly dressed, and hurried first to her trunk to retrieve a pale, satiny robe. With it drawn about her shoulders, the sash tied about her waist, the young woman combed her fingers through her hair and peered about for her companion. As she looked for him, she considered with a curious smile whether or not he ever forced down the medicine she’d left for him the previous night.

[- - la nuit blanche]

It was well past midnight this Saturday evening in one of London’s more exclusive districts. The well-kept, immaculate boulevard was now quite vacant, save for a trio of three young girls, chattering and giggling as they made their way down the quiet road. There was a taller blonde girl and one with mahogany curls, and between them walked a slim brunette with lovely gray-blue eyes. All three seemed in a rather pleasant mood, though the auburn haired girl suddenly gave a surprised squeak as one of her heels caught on the cobblestone road, sending her tripping and just barely managing to catch herself.

The brunette couldn’t help but laugh, right along with the leggy blonde at her side, though the two girls helped to steady their friend as she regained her balance. “I told you that last shot back at the party wasn’t a good idea, Gemma,” the brunette teased as she tried to contain her giggles. The one called Gemma smoothed her skirt indignantly and sent a playful scowl towards both her friends. “Oh shut up, Evey,” she snapped at the chocolate-haired girl. “I didn’t have that much to drink… It’s these damn heels. We’ve been walking for miles! It’s really all Ella’s fault.” Gemma sent a teasing smirk towards the blonde and gave her a little shove. “You just had to pick the one party on the other side of town, didn’t you?” Ella seemed quite pleased with herself however, despite her friend’s accusation, and turned to send Evelyn a knowing little smile. “Well, at least we know one good thing came out of that party…” the blonde began slowly. “That Jason Brewer couldn’t keep his eyes off you, could he, Evey? Or his hands for that matter…” Both Ella and Gemma giggled softly and looked over towards their friend, who only rolled her eyes and exhaled a long sigh. “Jason Brewer can keep his eyes, and his hands, to himself from now on,” she declared. “Maybe you two swoon over every bulky football star that struts by, but I don’t. Unlike you ladies, it takes a bit more to make me drool over a guy.” With this proclamation, Evelyn shoved her hands into the pockets of her fitted jeans and looked dreamily up at the night sky. It was a lovely evening. The moon was nearly full, glowing bright among the softly twinkling stars, and a pleasant little breeze was in the air. It ruffled in Evey’s hair and swept her bangs across her eyes. Those two stormy orbs had now grown faraway and wistful, and the girl’s two companions snickered softly.

“At least we’re realistic,” Ella retorted with a little grin. “You won’t be pleased until bloody Prince Charming himself knocks on your door.” Gemma laughed softly and nodded in agreement, “Yeah, Evey. Your standards are much too high. You have Jason Brewer wrapped around your finger, but you still won’t bother to actually date the guy. How do you absolutely know that he’s not worth the time? Any other girl would die to be in your shoes,” Gemma continued, sending Evey a puzzled, almost frustrated look. Evelyn seemed perfectly unaffected however, simply smiling vaguely and giving a small shrug of her shoulders. “He just isn’t. I want a gentleman. And I’ll know him when I see him,” she responded decidedly. The other two girls still seemed unconvinced, but it was not a matter worth arguing on anymore. Besides, it had come time for the three to part ways. As the road split in two, Ella and Gemma each hugged Evey goodbye in turn then went down the left street, while Evey turned and headed down the right towards South Kensington.

Being that it was one of London’s nicer districts, Evey felt no anxiety walking these familiar streets alone at night. Her home was only a few minutes away. So as she leisurely walked down the road, she allowed her mind to wander. She thought momentarily on this idea of her “Prince Charming” and her too-high expectations, according to her friends. Though these trivial notions were hastily shoved aside as much more serious thoughts came to mind. She would be getting home soon, which meant seeing her father.

Now, Evey’s father was not a bad man by any stretch of the imagination. Charles Ashcroft was a rather brilliant writer in fact, a true artist. He had sold at least a few popular novels since Evey’s childhood, hence the family’s ability to afford one of South Kensington’s more expensive homes. Though despite his talent and kind nature, things spiraled downward a few years past when Evey’s mother died in a car accident. It had been a traumatic time for both Evelyn and her father, though Mr. Ashcroft went through a particularly difficult time coping. At first, he was merely a little more somber than usual. Then he had trouble bringing himself to write. Money still wasn’t a problem, though for the talented novelist, this inability was utterly maddening. And as things grew worse, he took up drinking. It became his only hobby, practically his profession these days. And Evelyn couldn’t help but feel as though an immense amount of responsibility had been thrown upon her. At just seventeen, she needed to look after her father’s finances, keep fresh groceries in the house, take care of all the domestic chores, and tend to her dad when he was too hungover to take care of himself. It was an obligation she had by now accepted, but sometimes the strain felt like too much for her.

At school, everyone saw her as if she were entirely without any faults. She was a clever, intelligent girl from an affluent family, and not too bad to look at either. She attended parties with her friends, though she never drank, and so far as anyone knew, she had not even a single vice. And truly, that’s how she hoped it would stay. The panging emptiness she felt inside, the stress of her home life, the left-over feelings of loss after her mother’s death -- these were all things she preferred to hide away inside. It was just easier that way.

As she continued down the road, Evey fumbled through her handbag for a cigarette and lighter. She really smoked only rarely, and never in front of anyone else, but after a particularly hectic evening (fending off a teenage boy’s groping hands was never an easy task), and with the knowledge of what awaited her at home, she could use a good smoke. Once she’d lit her cigarette, she passed it between her lips and inhaled deep before sighing out a thin wisp of smoke into the night air. She was just a street away from her home but for the moment she paused, resting quietly against one of the buildings. She would give just about anything for even the briefest moment of peace. Such tranquility seemed so difficult to find these days.