Chapter Forty Two: The Superior Obsession

The man in the mask presented a curious spectacle, as he stood quite unheeding of the sunshine and the thronging crowds about him. It was true that in days not long past he would not have been so careless: indeed, if things were as usual perhaps he would have even now been lurking in the shadows, careful and quiet and suspicious as a night-beast. But things had changed as time had gone on; and he was as human as the next man, mask or no, and the one thing humans had always done admirably was adapt. Change. Grow. Move on.

Besides which, he told himself, putting his arms behind his back and firmly clasping his right wrist with his gloved left hand, he would not be known here. His tale had yet to travel so far, he trusted; and though the Irish were renowned as great and enthusiastic story-tellers, as yet there would be no reason for them to turn a suspicious eye on the masked man. He was a lively new anecdote, not a disturbing old legend, leaped to the flesh and here to despoil them, to curse them all. True, he was dressed in black, and somber in appearance; but at most the rumors concerned his proposed profession as an undertaker. Certainly there was no talk of monsters, or living corpses, or ghosts of any kind, Opera or otherwise. Certainly there was no talk of a phantom.

Here he was, after all! Large as life. Right there among them.

He was gritting his teeth the whole time, but he was there nonetheless.

He walked on through the marketplace, aloof and unchallenged. Here and there were booksellers, but more often he saw applecarts, tables of potatoes and carrots, fish eyeing him as he passed by, the vendors all hawking their wares as better, fresher, cheaper; he moved on, and looked upwards, at the piercing blue sky, so bright there was more clarity to the horizon than he had ever seen.

A little ways on, a fiddle player was tuning up; and as the man with the mask approached, the musician broke into a song; not the reel he'd been practicing, no, but something slower, sadder. Something nearing a dirge, brought back at the last moment by the tiniest upturn to the ends of the phrases, the tiniest bit of barely-expressed optimism. What was it— hope. Perhaps unfounded hope, the tune suggested, but hope nonetheless. Because where there was life—

Or was it, perhaps, the other way around?

The masked man had paused by the fiddle-player, his fingertips meeting in front of him like a man at prayer; he listened through the song and when it was over, gave the musician a deep nod before moving on. There was one thing that was the same, wherever you went— music. The pull, the lure and call of the notes, the spindly staggering sound turning unexpectedly rich and deep. To dim the light and set the mood; to enchant the hearer and bind them to your will. It was a game he had played often; one he had never lost. He walked forward with the knowledge of it weighty on his mind: it felt like goodness, and redemption, and forgiveness. The music would never leave.

Here he was in a foreign country; he didn't speak the language, he didn't catch the looks. All he knew was that he was no longer a story to frighten children with, and so long as he didn't set out to become so, he could remain untouched and untainted. As much as any human is, at any rate, he reminded himself; and when it came right down to it, perhaps he could play for divine justice and gain some absolution.

Perhaps he'd do a bit of looking around while he was here; it had been years since he'd been away from his home.

Perhaps he'd see if there was anything worth taking with him, when he went.

A/N: So yes, after about fifty years and endless procrastinatory tactics, I've finished it at last. Many heartfelt thanks to everyone who stuck with this through to the rather bitter end— I know I've disappointed many of you by my screwy updating schedule, since it's been kind of "one chapter every eight months or so." Thank you for being (somewhat) patient with me, and I'll see you on the dancefloor!