Skeletons in the Closet (Phantom Rising Book 2)

by Davyne DeSye

  She sat up on the bed, and looked with fresh eyes around the room. What do I know? What has Erik taught me?

  She stood and walked around the perimeter of the room, near to the walls, but not touching them, simply looking as she had not bothered to look before.

  I know I am in Mazenderan. I know I am in the palace. I know Erik helped to build this palace.

  When she had completed her circuit of the room, she walked it again, this time focusing her attention on the floor, the location of the carpets, the location of the furniture.

  I shall escape this place. I do not yet know how, but I shall. I shall bide my time, I shall listen and learn, I shall be the strong woman in whom Erik has placed his faith and confidence.

  Christine stumbled as the door to her room opened, and then continued her walking, slumping her shoulders forward, and adopting the attitude of the disheartened. It was the servant girl returning with another bowl of soup. Christine lowered herself to the cushions and lifted the bowl to her lips and sipped. The girl watched as Christine replaced the bowl on the table, then she nodded and said, “Good.”

  Yes. Good. You cannot know how good. I have not felt this good since… A little of Christine’s elation bled away as she realized she could not remember when she last felt as well and alive. Not since Petter had left for London.

  I have been wrong, she thought. Not wrong to worry about or miss my son, but I am solely to blame for my feeling that my life somehow ended with his leaving.

  Erik, she thought as she took another sip of her soup. I am coming, my beloved.

  She pictured the two of them, he pushing his way over obstacles to reach her, she climbing equally difficult ones to reach him.

  We will be together again soon.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE OPERA HOUSE

  Petter was happy to note that as concrete plans were made toward the voyage and the rescue of his mother, the rage that so often seemed to infect his father diminished. Erik still seemed filled with tension, or was struck with bouts of anger that made him snappish, but the unsettling rage did not surface to glare like an unfamiliar beast from his eyes.

  Already, Erik had procured a ship that lay in wait for their use at Marseille, and the Persian had obtained the latest and most detailed maps of the Mediterranean, Aegean and Black Seas and their coasts, as well as that portion of the Russian Empire that must be crossed between the Black and Caspian Seas. From the Caspian Sea, they would proceed due south, and then both men knew Mazenderan – or at least the Mazenderan of forty years or more ago.

  Despite the desperate reasons for the journey, Petter could not help but feel excitement over the adventure to come. The dangers which the Persian exaggerated (for Petter felt sure they were exaggerated) and which Erik brushed aside with brusqueness, did not seem real to Petter. He had lived his entire life in Sweden, and had enjoyed the excitement of his journey to London. He had never imagined the thrill of his current prospective travels, and had not imagined that his father – his admired and loved, but ineffably stolid father – had traveled to such an extent in his youth. The intriguing comments sometimes exchanged between Erik and the Persian, while frustrating in their incompleteness, only added to the sense of adventure.

  Of course, as the more youthful and strongest member of the party, he was also suffused with the duty to act as protector of the two men he would accompany. Without doubt they had more knowledge than he, but the two were both now quite… not decrepit, but, without question, aged.

  Petter was startled when, in the midst of the frantic activities toward preparation and imminent departure for Marseille, Erik suggested a tour of one of the local sites.

  “The Opera House?” Petter asked, in surprise. “Why, no. I have not seen it.”

  “I have some reason to visit the place, and thought you may wish to accompany me.” Erik said.

  “Certainly,” Petter answered. He became more confused when his father emptied a large traveling case and brought it along.

  The hired carriage brought them to the building, and Petter gaped at the façade. “It looks like a palace,” he said as they left the carriage.

  “Mm,” answered Erik. Petter looked to Erik, but could not decipher the strange expression his father wore. It seemed both sad and yet lustful – the expression one might wear when meeting an old lover. Petter wished for a photograph of the magnificent building, but Erik had insisted he leave his camera behind.

  “Father? Shall we?” Petter asked, when his father did not advance.

  “No,” answered Erik. At Petter’s confusion, Erik said, “You shall go. Ask for a tour, and be sure to say that you would like to go back of the stage, to see the various wardrobe and property rooms, and the dancing school.” Erik removed a handsome stack of francs from his pocket and said, “Offer to pay for the tour. Do not be afraid to be generous.”

  “Father…,” Petter began, but Erik interrupted.

  “I shall meet you backstage, and complete your tour. I believe you will enjoy the beauty and… depths of the Opera House.” His father smiled a knowing and secretive smile before he gestured toward the grand entrance again, and said, “Go.”

  Despite his confusion at Erik’s incomprehensible instructions, Petter strode up the wide stairs and entered the Grand Foyer. He drew in a sharp breath at the splendor that greeted him, and stood for some minutes gaping before the sound of footsteps across the marble floor awakened him from his daze.

  “It is magnificent,” Petter said, not even looking at the man who faced him.

  “Indeed, Monsieur,” came the respectful answer. “May I be of assistance?”

  Petter brought his eyes to the well-dressed man beside him. “I would like a tour, if that is possible.” Petter watched the polite beginnings of a refusal disappear from the man’s face as Petter removed the large stack of francs from his pocket. “I will pay any price for the inconvenience,” he continued. “I am new to Paris, I am a connoisseur of the arts, and I was told this was the most magnificent of buildings.”

  “Indeed, Monsieur,” the man repeated, this time rubbing his hands together and smiling. The hairline mustache above his lips mirrored the smile. The man smoothed his hair back unnecessarily, and checking his watch, he said, “I happen to have time at the moment, and would be pleased to assist you.” The man gestured Petter forward.

  Petter quite enjoyed the tour, with both the eye of a tourist, and with the eye of an architect and stonemason. The opulence was rather overdone for his tastes, but sublimely put together for all that. From the vantage of a box seat overlooking the stage, Petter indicated a desire to go backstage and his guide showed some small measure of hesitation. An additional offer of francs overcame the man’s reluctance.

  “There will be workers backstage,” the man began, as though he thought Petter would be bothered by encountering a less genteel person than the guide.

  Petter gestured to an old man sweeping the stage below them and said, “I will not be in the least discommoded. There must be many workers engaged behind this magnificent scenery.” Petter reassured him with a smile. “Perhaps we may start on the stage? I have never been on a stage, despite my love of the theatre.”

  The solicitous guide led Petter down stairs and through side passages until they emerged on the stage.

  “No, no. Please continue your work,” Petter said to the man sweeping the stage when his guide would have made him leave.

  The guide turned in the direction from which they had come and said, “Pierre, bring up the lights for the young master, if you would.” Turning to Petter, he said, “As a patron of the arts,” – Petter smiled, understanding the man’s solicitousness and the impression he had given with his sheaf of francs – “you may wish to experience the stage as an actor and dancer might, with the gaslights up.”

  It took some minutes for the lamps to come up, and during that time, Petter wandered about the stage, curious about the grid of frail bridges overhanging him, and the assortment of ropes,
pulleys, and levers which remained hidden from the audience by the hanging curtains.

  When the gaslights came up, Petter was facing the old man with the push broom, while the guide stood at the far side of the stage. Petter turned toward the gaslights, smiling at the warmth of the light they emitted, and then turned back to the old man. The man stopped his sweeping, and raised his eyes to Petter’s. The man’s eyes widened, and the broom handle dropped from his hands. The man’s mouth worked as though he wanted to say something, and he straightened spasmodically from his stooped posture. Petter was bewildered by the sudden look of fear that crossed the man’s face as if a seizure had gripped him.

  “The Opera Ghost,” the man muttered, and when Petter took a worried step toward the old man, the man screamed, “The Opera Ghost!”

  Petter froze, quite baffled at the man’s behavior as he spun and ran from the stage. At the sound of a great crashing just beyond his field of vision, Petter ran to investigate. The man was unconscious, apparently having run headlong into a sturdy piece of scenery. Petter was just kneeling at the old man’s side when his breathless guide ran to his side.

  “My apologies, Sir,” the guide huffed and motioned to two men close at hand. “I cannot imagine…”

  “He said ‘Opera Ghost,’” Petter said. “Or at least so I thought.” The two men were now trying to revive the man, and Petter turned to the guide.

  “A foolish legend, Sir,” the guide said, taking Petter’s arm and guiding him away from the men. “Stupid old man,” the guide muttered under his breath. He seemed quite agitated, and Petter decided not to press the matter further other than to ask if the old man would recover.

  “I am certain of it, Sir,” the guide said. “Think no more of him.” He swept Petter down a corridor, explaining the purposes of the various rooms they passed.

  Petter and the guide were just passing out of a vast wardrobe room, when they were met by Erik in his now familiar mask

  Petter, shocked to see his father despite the previous promise to be met backstage, did not utter the startled “Father,” that came to mind.

  Erik bowed to the guide, and spoke. “Monsieur, I have been told that you are needed at the ticket office. I am to continue this portion of the tour,” and here Erik bowed to Petter, “if the young master wishes to continue.”

  Petter stuttered his response. “I… Yes, thank you, I wish to complete this fascinating tour.”

  The guide looked nonplussed at the interruption by a man he seemed not to recognize, but rather than admit this, he said, “Yes, of course. Thank you.” With a brief glance at his watch again, he said to Petter, “It has been a pleasure, Sir, and we hope to see more of you at our great theatre.” He bowed his head, and spun to return to his duties.

  Erik gave a low laugh that seemed to echo in the dark spaces around them. Petter forced a laugh in response, confused and somehow nervous, feeling as though he were engaged in a dishonesty.

  “Come,” Erik said. “I will show you more than that peacock would have known to show you.”

  Petter grew more and more mystified as Erik led at a quick pace down corridors, through a hidden doorway that opened at a touch, and through more darkened corridors lit only by the torch he carried. Petter carried the empty travel case as he followed.

  “Father,” Petter said as they moved down a small wooden spiral stairway. He spoke in the whisper demanded by his surroundings. “There was a man back there. He looked terrified when the stage lights came up. He cried out the words ‘Opera Ghost’ and ran into a wall. My guide suggested it was a foolish legend, but I must say, these cobwebbed passages bring the idea of ghosts to mind. Do you know of the legend?” Petter hoped his own discomfort at his surroundings did not sound in his voice.

  Erik chuckled, and the sound echoed away from them. The skittering of small animals could be heard at its conclusion. Erik turned toward Petter, holding the torch between them raised at the level of their eyes.

  “Our eyes, hmm, yes,” Erik answered, and laughed again. He turned away without answering Petter.

  “Where are we going?” Petter asked when they had traversed the length of a descending ramp and another stair.

  “My old home,” Erik answered.

  “Home?” Petter asked. “Down here? How on Earth…?”

  “In the Earth, I should say,” Erik answered. “I built all this. I came to… escape. To build my own castle and to hide.” After another several steps, he said in a lower voice, “The world is not always as kind as you expect it to be, Petter.”

  “You built all this?” Petter answered, looking around again, although now with some measure of awe and calculation. “How?”

  “I tendered for a part of the construction of the double foundation. Once ensconced, I made free with the space. At the time I intended to hide myself forever from the eyes of men.”

  “Your masks,” Petter murmured. He trembled at the tragic treatment to which his father must have been subjected to desire a home such as this. He followed his father without speaking, wondering – not for the first time – at the history indicated by the various bits of information he had gleaned.

  “It was your mother that drove me from my home. My love for her. The dreams she set afire in my breast.” And again, Petter heard the mix of longing and satisfaction.

  “Does Mother know about this place?” Petter asked.

  “Your mother knows everything,” Erik answered. After another moment, during which Erik swept aside a curtain of cobwebs with the torch, he continued. “Your mother has been in this house.” The words were tinged with bitterest melancholy. Petter had the urge to reach out and put a hand on his father’s shoulder. Before he could close the distance to do so, Erik’s tone lightened again.

  “You must know that I met your mother in Paris,” he said. Petter recalled having heard this, but had never pictured his mother and father anywhere but in Sweden. “I met her at this Opera House. She sang for me. Ah!”

  With this last utterance, Erik halted, pushed open a door which appeared nothing more than a slab of rock – Petter mused that the pivot joint must be perfectly balanced – and stepped through. Petter drew alongside him. There, to one side, was what looked to be a normal wooden door, standing ajar and revealing only darkness beyond. Yet, from where they stood, Petter could also sense that in the direction opposite the door a great space – a great cavernous space – stretched before him. The air here was humid, and smelled of damp rock.

  “What is it?” Petter asked, the cool and the damp bringing thoughts of ghosts unbidden to his mind again.

  “The lake. I will show you. But first, to gather my tools.” Erik pushed open the wooden door to his side, which opened perhaps halfway before catching against something and stopping.

  Erik stepped through the doorway, and handing the torch back to Petter, began pushing at what sounded to be a large piece of heavy furniture. Quite soon, the door swung open and Erik said with a flourish and a bow, “Welcome to my home!”

  Petter stepped into a room that – other than the scattered debris, the covering of dust and the smell of mold – seemed quite as commonplace as many he had seen.

  “There are more torches near the door,” Erik said, moving away into the darkness. Then, with an oomph of pain as though he had barked his shin, “Watch your step, son.”

  The torches were not far from the door – a scattering of half of dozen – and Petter lit two, leaving the torch they had used outside the door to sputter. He brought one to his father, and raised his own to look about the room.

  “Your home is quite in disarray,” he said, noting overturned furniture, broken lamps and dishes, and other debris too covered by dust to allow identification.

  “Mm,” answered Erik. Petter recognized this as his father’s response when unwilling to give an explanation.

  “Follow,” his father said. Petter did, careful despite his curiosity over his surroundings not to trip and perhaps lose his grip on the torch. His father moved f
rom the entry room to another, grasping at items along the floor or shelves and placing them into the carrying case he had brought. At the far end of the room, the wavering torchlight glowed on a piano and the grand candelabrum that lay toppled across its closed top.

  “Did mother sing for you here?” Petter asked, as this dusty vision overlapped with his memory of their singing in their home in Sweden.

  “Yes,” Erik answered, “although not often.” Again the answer was tinged with sadness.

  “What are you gathering?” Petter asked, focusing on his father.

  “My tools – some of my own invention. I will want to make modifications to our ship upon our arrival in Marseille.” Erik pushed aside a large chair, and said, “Ah. Yes, this is what I’ve been looking for.” He put the last piece – Petter could not make it out – into the bag, and said, “Come. I will show you the lake, and then we must return to Faraz. He will be wondering at the length of our absence.”

  “Will not the man who accommodated me for the tour wonder also?” Petter asked, as his father reached the door that led out to the lake.

  Erik laughed, and this time the sound of the haunting laughter echoed throughout the large cavern, leaving Petter an impression of size far greater than his imagination had supplied. “He may indeed wonder,” answered Erik, and Petter could hear the smile in his voice. “For we shall not leave the Opera House by any means of which that bag of wind is aware.”

  Erik led Petter to a small boat, and they pushed off onto a vast black lake. Despite the enclosing darkness, Petter relaxed as his father maneuvered the small craft, a smile playing at his father’s lips as he hummed a strange but mesmerizing melody. In far less time than Petter would have thought possible after reaching the far shore, he and Erik were standing upon Rue Scribe, opposite a gated entrance which seemed unassociated with the Opera House. Petter was stunned to find himself in the afternoon sun after all the darkness of their travels, and was overwhelmed with all he had seen. They both had a layer of dust upon their clothing. They patted themselves free of the worst of it leaving a great cloud of the white-gray dust to dissipate in the breeze.