Silver -chp 13-

-Chapter 13-
As always, Andrea was fixed to his stool, busily working on a set of cuff links for a gentleman customer of the shop.  Small blisters covered his fingertips.  He had burned himself repeatedly since last night.  Normally very careful, Andrea was distracted today.  
Adele was coming.   
The very thought made a bead of sweat form on his forehead.  Adele was coming to have breakfast with him.  SHE was coming to see HIM.  The innocent, delicate, graceful little ballerina was coming to see the awkward, socially inept, silver-smith hopeful.  Andrea pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned.
Setting the cuff links aside, he leaned against the wall behind him.  He swiped one hand across his sooth forehead, then down his abnormally smooth cheek.  His navy mask was balancing on the corner of his workbench.  He looked down at his blistered hands.  
They were fine hands.  Andrea had always been proud of them; large hands, with long fingers.  Save for a few small scars and the current blisters, they were nearly perfect.  His eyes traveled up his bare arm.  His sleeves were rolled up.
Scars varying in size started at his wrist and traveled upwards to his shoulders, back, and neck.  He scratched at one of them absentmindedly.  He wished Rosette was at the Opera House rather than in Rouen.  He did not like her being there.  It was a dangerous place for her.  
He remembered the night of the fire.  He remembered the beam falling on him and Rosette crying and scream as she was pulled away from him.  He remembered the pain and the panic.  The doctors would not allow Rosette to see him for the first two weeks.  His head and back had been completely encased in bandages.  He remembered the feeling of peeling, blistering, flaking skin that felt like it was on fire despite the medicine the doctors applied.  
When they finally permitted Rosette to see him, she refused to leave his side.  She became his nurse and constant companion.  She was protective, nurturing, fierce, and gentle, almost as if she was suddenly trying to make up for the loss of both their mother and their father.  
Months after the accident, Andrea was allowed to leave the hospital.  Once a beautiful little boy, he was now a scarred, damaged child.  Everything changed.  The only person who was kind to them was the pastor of the local parish, the one had pulled the two from the burning home.  An Irish immigrant, the pastor allowed the two orphans to live at his home.  
Then, when several infants and children suddenly became ill in the city, and Rosette and Andrea were blamed for the sickness, their life became dangerous.  Andrea was repeatedly attacked and nearly killed.  Those belonging to Satan were marked or scarred by Satan, so the people believed.  Thus, in the minds of the people, though the cause of his injuries was known, Andrea must have been some sort of demon.  The good pastor hid them and smuggled them out of the city.  They never heard from him again.
"Stupid people," Andrea muttered.  "They blame a fire and the death of father on the children?  And because of their misfortune they blame them for a sudden plague?"  he scowled, deep in thought and hatred.  Cruel, venal people like the citizens of Rouen had made him bitter and mistrusting.   
He was startled out of these thoughts when the bell attached to the store door chimed.  He heard Adele's voice sing a few notes of greeting to the store clerk before she skipped into the workshop.  Andrea suppressed a moan as he quickly put his mask to his face.  
"Good morning, Andrea.  Are you ready?" she asked brightly.  She did not even seem startled by the mask.
"Ready for what?" he asked, genuinely curious and confused.
"To go to breakfast, silly!"
"I thought you were meeting me here and we would eat here…" he muttered reluctantly.  He was not happy.  Why had Rosette arranged this humiliation?
"No, I don't want to trouble Cyril and his family.  We're going out.  It will be fun, you'll see."  Andrea doubted that.
With that, she turned and left the workshop.  When Andrea did not immediately follow, she called out his name.  Sighing, the young man pushed himself away from his bench, grabbed his coat, and followed the girl out the door.  
It was cold outside in the crisp, February morning air.  The girl chattered on about pleasant, simple things as she led him to a quite little café that was tucked away in the corner of a busy square.  It was directly across the street from a mask shop, and Andrea was pleasantly surprised that no one was starring at him.  Had Adele planned this?
They found a table that was separated somewhat from the others in the café and the two were promptly served.  It was a quite, simple, pleasant café, and the only noises around were those of the people in the café and the light speech of the young girl.  
As the morning wore on, Andrea was pleasantly surprised to find that he was actually enjoying himself.  No one stared at him.  No one gestured towards him.  In fact, the only eyes on him were those of Adele.  She was a charming girl.  Easily excitable, without any worry of drawing any attention to herself, the girl told Andrea of her experiences at the Opera House, her dreams of becoming a dancer, how much like a sister Rosette was to her, and various other events that occupy the mind of a young woman.  At last, when she had worn herself out speaking, she slumped comfortably in her chair and nibbled at the half-eaten pastry in front of her.  Wiping her mouth, she looked up and saw that Andrea was smiling.  She was glad he had worn the mask that revealed his mouth.
"Andrea?" she said at last.
"Hmm?" he answered as he took a gulp of coffee.  
"When we go back to Cyril's…. may I see your face?  Please?"
Andrea was silent.  He slowly, rigidly set the coffee cup down.  His movements became mechanical as a slow panic began to creep into his mind.  He knew this would happen.  Disappointment was the only expression on his mask-covered face now.  He had been having such a nice time.               
"I do not think that would be best," he answered her coldly.  Adele looked down.
"I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have asked," the girl apologized quickly.  A heavy silence fell on the table.  Andrea cleared his throat once, then stood up.  
"Should I escort you back to the Opera House?" he awkwardly questioned her.  She shook her head.
"No.  I have things to do before I go back.  But I would gladly walk with you back to Cyril's, if you would not mind?"  She looked up at him sweetly, pleadingly.  Andrea blushed and was more thankful than ever for the mask.  Nodding his head, he pulled out her chair for her and the two left the café.
-
Rosette stood on the platform of the busy train station with her suitcase in one hand and the package of fabric underneath her arm.  She absorbed the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of Paris.  It was sad to think she was more comfortable here in this sea of strangers than she was in her old hometown.  She praised God she had not encountered any of the old personages of the town who inhabited the young woman's darker memories.  
Climbing into a hansom, Rosette was quickly ushered to the Opera House.  It was a busy afternoon.  At eleven thirty in the morning, men and women of every class were racing back and fourth from store to house to café and back again.  It was not a long drive to the Opera House.
Rosette quietly made her way into the grand old structure, wound her way through the various passages and corridors, and hurried to Margot's dressing room.  Inside, she found two of the diva's attendants as well as her personal seamstress, who was asleep in the corner.  Gingerly, Rosette woke the old woman from her slumber.  She set the parcel in front of the drowsy seamstress, and watched with amusement as, with a sudden burst of energy, the old woman eagerly tore at the paper.  
"Magnifique!" she cried as she raced for her sewing box.  Just as this was uttered, Margot entered the room.
"That man is an idiot.  Why has Monsieur de Leon not hired a more competent maestro!?"  As she finished, her dark eyes flashed to Rosette.  She gave the girl a quick, half-hearted smile.  It was her way of welcoming the young woman back.  
"You found the material?"
Rosette nodded in response, gesturing to the seamstress who was already pinning fabric on a mannequin.  Margot smiled in relief.
"Madame," Rosette began, "… last night… did anyone come by to see me?"
Margot looked up and paused.  A confused expression marred her fine features.  She placed a crimson-colored, gloved hand to her chin as she thought.  At last, a note of remembrance entered her eyes and she straightened.
"Ah yes!  A young man came by.  He seemed very eager to see you.  I can understand now why you were so unwilling to leave; he was very handsome.  I told him that you would return today and that he could come see you then.  He never told me if he would or would not come back, though.  I'm terribly sorry."
"It is of no concern," Rosette answered quietly.  Her eyes were fixed to the floor.  A stone formed in her stomach.  
-
It was nearly midnight.  Rosette had been racing across every level of the Opera House, correcting mistakes that had been done in her absence, running errands for Margot, and catching up with work that had been put off for her.  She mumbled sarcastic 'thank you's' to the little imbeciles who had her cleaning up after their mess-ups.  As if she did not have enough to do as it was!
Returning to Margot's private dressing room, Rosette took a moment to pause to breathe.  She brushed some hair, which had managed to wriggle free from the makeshift headband she wore, out of her eyes.  Her eyes found the clock on the wall.  She sighed.
'Twelve fifteen.  I was supposed to be in the dressing room now.  Oh well.  A ghost has all the time in the world to wait for a singing lesson,' she thought to herself.  
Just then, a coughing noise caught her attention.  Looking up, she saw Helen, Margot's seamstress, stitching furiously at the hem-line of the new dress.  
"Helen… you are amazing.  You've already made the dress?" Rosette said in awe.
"This is only a skeleton.  Tomorrow I must add the details.  Girl, do me a favor, please," she croaked.  Rosette stepped closer to the old woman.  "On the fourteenth floor, there are a series of storage rooms.  Go to the first one.  There should be a dresser pressed against the left wall.  In the first drawer, there's a small, old, wooden box.  Bring me that box.  It's full of imitation jewels.  I need them for the dress."
Sighing, Rosette smiled at the woman.
"Alright.  I'll get them for you.  Will you be working on this all night?"  The woman made no answer.  Knowing her, as absorbed in her work as she was, she would not make any reply.  Thus, Rosette picked up a lit candle, left the dressing room and began the long climb up several flights of stairs to the fourteenth floor.
The storage rooms of the fourteenth floor were dusty and practically forgotten.  They reminded Rosette of Rouen.  Her mouth twitched in slight revulsion.  Why was this floor so lonely?  Every other one was bustling with people!  Then again, there probably were people on this floor, but at half past twelve, very few of them would be moving around… most likely.  
Following Helen's orders, Rosette entered the first storage room.  It was a large, dark room with only one window offering light.  Immediately, something felt off.  Rosette bit her lip.  She felt uneasy.  Shaking her head quickly, she told herself if she found what it was she had been sent for, then left, she would be fine.  There was nothing to worry about.  Her tiredness was making her jumpy.  To distract her mind, she began to hum.  Of course, Bizet's love song from 'Pearl Fishers' was the selected piece.  
Scouring the room in search for the dresser Helen had spoken of, Rosette moaned when she spotted it in the far corner of the room.  Holding the candle out in front of her, she weaved her way between props and bolts of fabric until she reached the dresser.  She opened the drawer, and as Helen said, there was an old, wooden jewelry box.  Rosette sneezed when she pulled the cob-web covered box from the drawer.
The candle went out.  In the absence of light, the darkness seemed almost tangible, and an unnatural coldness seemed to creep into the room.  The hair on the back of Rosette's neck stood up.  Silently, she cursed that old woman for sending her on this errand.  She turned to leave, but froze suddenly.  Someone was there.  Someone was in the room with her.  
"Hello?" she called once.  She braced on hand against the dresser, readying herself.  There was no reply, but that did not dissuade her from the obvious fact that someone was there.  
The door leading to the corridor closed.  Rosette felt her heart hammering in her chest, reading to spring out at any moment.  She heard something crash to the ground.
"Stop playing games," she ordered, her tones icy.  
"Games?" she heard a voice whisper in her head directly behind her.  Before she had time to react, she felt arms around her, coming from behind her, reaching up and tearing at her blouse.  The jewelry box crashed to the ground, sending faux pearls and diamonds skittering across the floor.  She screamed, the sound hoarse and sharp, and felt rough hands whirl her around as a cruel and handsome mouth was forced on top of hers.  She struggled against her attacker, pressing and kicking, but he clutched her tightly to himself, grabbing and grasping at her sensitive places.  Her blouse was shredded.  The headband was torn from her hair as the hand yanked at the black locks.
"Thought you would try to run from me?" Aksel's horse voice whispered in her ear.  "I told you I'd have you.  We had a deal.  I leave your brother alone, you do for me a simple deed in return."  Rosette managed to free one arm and swiped it across his face, drawing blood.  He did not release her, though he hissed in pain.  By what little light came from the window, she thought she could make out a flash of teeth in a cruel, self-satisfied smile.  She felt him growing large against her.
Suddenly, his weight was off of her.  There was a solid kicking sound and she heard Aksel gasp.  The sounds of a struggle followed, men grunting, Aksel hissing things she could not understand.  She heard something wooden splinter into a thousand pieces, then something heavy fell to the ground.  
Before Rosette could rise to her feet, she felt arms around her once more.  However, instead of forcing her down, they were pulling her up.  They clutched her to the body gently, and the ground beneath her gave way.  She screamed again, but no sound came.
Movement, breathing, and another heartbeat were the only things Rosette was aware of.  She was trembling, her vision was blurring.  Nothing was making sense.  She saw things without seeing.  
She felt herself being lowered onto a bed.  In the darkness, she could barely recognize the surrounding area as the dressing room she frequently occupied.  As the arms left her, she heard the clicking noise of a buckle being unfastened, and something was suddenly thrown across her shoulders to cover her.  Her fingers clutched at it, recognizing its texture as a cloak.  
Choked sobs began to sound from her dry throat.  She felt a hand lightly touch her head.  Due to the darkness, she could not see the figure that was still near her, breathing steadily.  It moved away from her, but her arms quickly reached out for it.
"Stop!" she cried.  The figure froze, but inches from her, and she threw her arms around it.  The figure knelt in front of the bed where she sat, and her arms moved around its shoulders.  She sank from the bed and to her knees in front of the stranger, burying her face in his chest as she cried.  Slowly, arms folded around her, encasing her, and pressing her close.  A hand stroked her hair gently.  A whisper soothed her with gentle tones, trying to calm her.  These arms and this voice protected her.
At last, Rosette's sobs ceased, and all that remained was a flow of tears and trembling.  The figure began to pull away from her, but she clutched at him frantically.
"Please… please no… don't leave…." She begged, terror in her voice.
"He will not find you," the gentle, familiar voice answered her.
"It's you…." She breathed, her fingers becoming limp.  The Ghost took advantage of her shock and quickly eluded her grasp.  
"Rosette, for the night, do not leave the dressing room.  Do not leave for anything.  Remain here until the morning.  Hush, child.  You are safe here," the voice whispered to her.  She felt a hand atop her head, then it was gone, and she was left alone in the darkness.
There was no knowing how long in the darkness Rosette sat alone, clutching the cloak to her bare shoulders and trembling in fear.  At last, a cry was heard.  Rosette's head snapped up.  The scream was a blood-curdling cry of terror.  It was Adele's voice.
Leaping to her feet, Rosette raced for the door.  Her hand landed on the brass knob, and she froze.  She recalled the instructions of her Ghost.  
From the dressing room, Rosette could hear everything going on in the massive Opera House.  She could still hear the girl crying.  At last, Rosette yanked the door open and raced to find her friend.  
It did not take her long to find the girl.  Adele stood on the great stage, pale and trembling.  No one else was there.  
"Adele?" Rosette called as she caught the girl by the shoulders and shook her.  Her own voice was tremulous, her own form looking as if it would fall to pieces.  Adele's frightened eyes turned to her friend and saw the tattered blouse, and the cloak which kept Rosette modest.  She mouthed her friend's name, confused and terrified, then pointed to what had stricken her with horror so.  
High above, dangling from the rafters and beams where only the most skilled stage hands dared, swung Aksel Fredrickson.  The frayed noose cut into his fair skin.  The rope, held taut by his weight, swayed only slightly.
Rosette was ashen in color.  There in the rafters hung her attacker, now dead.  She knew who had done this.  And more frightening still was the fact that she was pleased that the crime had been committed.  No longer would Aksel pose a threat to her or Andrea.  He was dead.  
Her vision blurred, and as more people arrived to the scene, she swayed, and fell to the ground, engulfed in a black oblivion.