A/N: Thank you all for your patience and apologies for the delay! Postgraduate work can be rather pesky…

Chapter 10

"We could go to the Bois de Boulogne, if you like. Though I can't imagine of what interest it can be at night, when it is all empty," Hero said casually to her less-than-enthusiastic companion. They emerged out of the opera cellars through the Rue Scribe entrance. It was an hour before midnight, and though the street they were currently on was empty and dark, they could hear the sound of activity from the Place de l'Opera and the streets beyond. It was a Friday night and many revellers had come out to walk, dine and socialise despite the cold.

Erik wanted nothing more than to return to the dark quiet of his lair, but Hero wouldn't hear of it.

"I know you must emerge from there sometime," she pointed out reasonably, determined to put an end to the sulk into which he had descended after Nadir Khan's visit.

"Only when I have no other choice and never when it is so busy. I have no desire to be chased by an angry mob."

"Oh, indeed, who does? But then I do not think angry mobs are to be found loitering about the streets of Paris on a Friday night. Pitchforks aren't at all en vogue just now. I'm afraid the closest thing you'll get are the music hall singers and the bon vivants flocking to the Café de la Paix." The fashionable cafe, ideally perched between the Place de l'Opera and the Boulevard des Capucines, really would be a frightful crush, she thought with some regret.

Erik's golden eyes were narrowed into dangerous slits out of the depth of his mask. He had obviously not appreciated her blasé dismissal of his concerns.

"Do stop worrying so much, monsieur. I hardly think they would look for the Opera Ghost outside the opera. And you are wearing a flesh-coloured mask. Now, I must see to our transportation, if only you will come and stand here in the shadows."

Erik was once again struck speechless at her pluck as she reached out, grabbed his arm and pulled him deeper into the alcove the doorway. She seemed to have overestimated the space available, however, because she was suddenly pressed up against his thin form.

Startled, Hero looked up into unreadable yellow eyes as Erik stared back down at her. Something in his piercing stare made her breath shallow and her face warm.

Reminding herself that there was no time for juvenile flushes, she focussed on the task at hand.

"I won't be a moment!" Hero said, stepping back quickly and hurrying down the street and into another set of doors.

And just like that, Erik found himself alone in the darkness, listening to the sound of tipsy chatter and the clinking of distant champagne flutes. His shoulders were tense and his hands were clenched into fists. He could still faintly smell her perfume about his person. Peaches, with a hint of rose. Christine had always favoured heavier notes…

For a moment, all he could smell was peaches. How had she dared come so near him of her own volition? How had she not been afraid?

Or perhaps she had been. Alone in the dark, feeling more and more foolish with every passing second, Erik wondered if she intended to return at all. Perhaps she had come to her senses and was even now hailing a carriage to flee as far from the opera as the cabbie would take her. It was only to be expected.

The sound of carriage wheels on the stone paving at the end of the narrow street startled him out of his dark thoughts. It was a phaeton-and-pair, and the driver, a woman, waved at him with unbecoming enthusiasm, before clambering down. Erik's excellent night vision supplied the driver's identity and he started towards the woman with quick, angry steps, wondering what she was about.

"Hello! What took you so long?" she said by way of greeting as he neared her. He could see that she was casually holding the horses in one gloved hand, for all the world as if she had been doing so her whole life. Her other hand reached out to brush the lightly falling snow off the sleeve of his dark woollen frock coat. He felt his breath catch at the casual touch and this only served to feed his ire.

"What exactly are you doing, mademoiselle? Where did you get that carriage? And why do you want one, when we have only come up to get some air?" he demanded.

"Well, you didn't imagine we would just stand around Rue Scribe, did you? How dismal. Now, pray don't go on at me in such repressive accents. I borrowed the phaeton from the opera stables. The stable lads were very obliging – said they didn't think anyone would want it tonight, and I could return it tomorrow morning. It pays to make friends, and I had been by a few times to admire the horses. Very pretty animals, but most of them aren't much good for any involved travel. These Holsteins, however, should more than suffice. Very fine steppers!"

Angry yellow eyes continued to watch her out of the tan mask, seemingly unmollified, and Hero went on. "I know what you're thinking – a phaeton is no good in this weather. But it's much easier than any of the other vehicles they had – heavy, lumbering things. Look, the hood is up! There's a carriage blanket. And I don't think it will snow much."

"You mean for me drive us in that?"

"Oh! No! I would prefer to drive it myself, thank you. I am very good. And the carriage corners well, which will help, considering the sleet and the other vehicles about at this time of night."

"I don't think, mademoiselle, you realise that I am not at all the person with whom you wish to go for a ride about the town," he informed her icily, towering over her in his most threatening manner. If he had hoped to frighten the idea out of her head, it did not work.

"But you are exactly the person!" she replied, "I wouldn't have anyone else. Now, do stop towering like a scarecrow and help me up." Imperiously, Hero extended a gloved hand. Looking from the hand to her face, Erik hesitantly extended his, doing as she had asked.

The vehicle was precariously high, Erik realised, watching Hero take hold of the reins and whip. Perching easily next to him, she appeared completely unaffected, however. He felt his face heat under his mask as she put a driving blanket over their laps, before urging the horses into a slow canter.

"Where exactly are we going?" the Opera Ghost asked her coolly. He leant as far back as he could under the hood, making sure that he would not be recognised, though he was poised to take control of the horses the moment Hero began to struggle.

"I really don't know," came the cheerful reply. "I expect we'll find out soon enough."

Erik decided that perhaps Nadir had been correct and he had finally gone completely mad. It was, he knew, a bizarre situation.

Hero sped up their pace, and he realised with some surprise that she was a skilled driver.

"Tell me, was it your intention from the first to go gallivanting around the city in the middle of the night, with a known murderer at your side?"

"Certainly, if you want to be theatrical about it. Why does everyone at the Garnier sound as though we are living in some Jacobean tragedy?"

She was going quite fast now, overtaking some of the slower carriages on the road. The prickly winter wind and the soft snow flew to meet them, but Hero seemed unconcerned.

They drove for a while through the city, which was teeming with life. Erik's heart froze momentarily as she propelled them down the crooked little streets of Montmartre. The cafes of fashionable Paris and the music halls in the seedier parts of town were awash with colour and noise, until they all blended into one palette of hedonism and merriment.

"Ah, I think I know just the thing," Hero announced just as they were driving along the right bank of the river. She pressed closer to him against the chill wind, though she did not appear conscious of this.

"And what is it that you think you know?" Erik asked, in a tightly-controlled voice. Why did she persist in treating him as though he were any other man?

But question as he might, she would say no more on the subject, despite the various threats Erik threw her way. Shooting him a delighted smile, she took a quick corner, and he determined to wrest the reins from her even though she did actually not overturn them.

"You're very tense, Erik. Are you cold? Or can it be that you do not trust me?" Hero teased, moving closer still, so that they sat arm-to-shoulder. He could feel her warmth through her cloak and coat, and his heartbeat sped up inexplicably.

"Have I reason to trust you?" The Opera Ghost asked distantly.

"I imagine that's for you to decide," came the simple reply as they drew to a halt outside a busy little square in le Marais. The arrondissement perfectly captured the fallen splendour of the former haunts of the aristocracy, thought its buildings were little more than abandoned shells now, taken over by the city's artistic underworld. There was something in the peculiar mix of squalor and grandeur what had always appealed to the Opera Ghost.

OOO

In the square, there were little bonfires, people and the sound of musical instruments. The rag-tag revellers, talking and laughing loudly, were representative of nothing so much that the Bohemians for which le Marais was known.

Erik spun around and grabbed Hero's shoulders in his steely grip, pressing her sharply into the back of her seat. She looked back at him with a startled expression.

Leaning his masked face closer over her, his eyes blazed. "A crowd? What is this, girl? What cunning little trick are you trying to play on Erik? It will not succeed! Erik is very good at tricks, my dear, terrible tricks."

Hero brought her hands to his forearms, trying to loosen his grip, but to no avail.

"Be so good as to let me go, Erik!" she requested pleasantly, even as the anger in her eyes flared to match his. "You're being absurd! And I am not afraid of your tricks as you call them. Stolen handkerchiefs and flaming heads in dark corridors don't scare me, as well you ought to know by now. And this would be an awful lot of trouble to go to for a prank."

Taken aback at this collected response, where he had expected nothing less than frozen fear, Erik let go her shoulders, allowing his fury to ebb away. Almost, he felt the unfamiliar pricklings of guilt. Was his every interaction with women to be such a trial?

Shifting the whip into the hand holding the reins, Hero lifted her free hand to massage her shoulder. Erik waited for the inevitable outburst, for her to strike him, or leap off the carriage and run from him.

As Hero considered him quietly, her own anger came to be replaced by regret. His impulse to manhandle her was not to be borne, of course, but she was struck by how quickly he had come to expect betrayal. And how little he seemed to understand of the boundaries of friendly interaction.

She surprised him by taking one of his hands in hers. "I won't have you lashing out at me Erik. That is not acceptable. And you do have a foul temper. But I believe I understand why you feel that you cannot trust. It is a survival instinct that I am certain has helped you many times in the past. Therefore, think we'd better say no more on this head – at least, not now."

Erik wondered why she was so freely giving him the forgiveness for which he had not even asked. He considered lashing out again, severing all ties with the tiresome creature that was so intent on turning his world upside down and outside in. Something, some traitorous part of him, stopped him cold.

A clear sound of violin cut the night air around them.

"Come, or we shall miss everything, and I'm rather fond of this tune." It was a jig, merry and carefree.

"You may go if you like, but I will not accompany you." He threaded his voice with immovable finality. She would have more luck moving the Norte Dame, he told himself.

"Fiddle! It won't be any fun to go by myself. I did not bring you here to stand guard over my phaeton. It is dark, and this crowd is sure to be off gallivanting with Green Fairy by now! You won't draw any attention," she said confidently. "We can always leave if you wish it. But your identity won't matter in the least here. Come, give yourself this one night, at least!" Her bright eyes focussed on him and Erik could not help feeling a faint stab of hope. It was a frivolous emotion he knew, a luxury he could not afford. And yet he so longed to have hope, to indulge in it just once.

A stray bit of music wandered into his head then, something he had heard only recently, L'etranger la regarde, elle reste eblouie… The stranger looks at her, she remains dazzled… The Bell Song. Lakmé. But it was he who was dazzled, all of a sudden. Drunk on music, hope and memories of Lakmé. Would Hero risk wild beasts to meet him, armed only with a wand of bells?

No. Certainly not.

Yet, despite his better judgement, Erik found himself helping Hero off the phaeton, carefully ignoring her proximity before she moved off to tie up the horses near one of the outlying bonfires.

As they joined the laughing throng of people, keeping to the darker edges of the square, the elderly violinist finished his bright melody and the dancers came to a halt like marionettes, calling for another one. More musicians joined the old man, cheerfully obliging the crowd. There was a flautist and a lady playing a guitar.

Uncomfortable in the crush, yet strangely hungry for this unfamiliar music, Erik chose to sit at the back of the courtyard, on a wooden bench that had been protected from the snow by a carved wooden dome acting as a canopy above. No one paid him much attention as he claimed his seat, and he was surprised to find that Hero sat down next to him, after exchanging a few jovial words with a young man in the crowd and procuring two glasses of something almost certainly disreputable.

"Don't worry," Hero informed the Opera Ghost, noting his wary glance at the brass mug she'd handed him. "It's just cherry liquor – no different from that which the dancing girls indulge in, in their dressing room. It'll warm you up!"

Taking a sip of her own drink, she turned back to watch the musicians as the guitarist began to sing something bawdy about a young maid of Poitou. Erik was surprised when Hero started humming long with notable enthusiasm – he did not think French folk songs were very popular in England. He was immensely grateful that she stayed in key.

In her turn, she seemed completely aware of his scrutiny. He did not miss the amused sideways look she shot him as the chorus came in. "So, what do you think of the music, monsieur?"

"It is not quite torturous, I'll admit – though I do not think much of the artistic merit of the genre." This was not entirely true, he admitted to himself. But he would have died before admitting it.

"Of course not." Hero attempted to look grave, and failed dismally. "It has none of rich, thematic value of that silly aria in The Marriage of Figaro – the one concerned with the making of hats."

"You are mocking me."

"Not at all! I am mocking Figaro – but do not fret, I mock indiscriminately and, should it become absurd, this music will fall under the axe as much as any other."

Watching the tilt of her sharp chin and the soft lines of her mouth, Erik was struck with the most outrageous notion that she was flirting with him. Of course, Erik had never actually been flirted with before, so he had nothing to compare it to, and the flirtations witnessed at the opera were not at all the same. He decided that being out in society was skewering his sense of reality.

"You know this ditty, it seems. I wonder where you had occasion to learn it," he commented instead.

"At an event similar to this one, a few summers ago, when I had occasion to pass through Paris with some friends. It's dreadfully catchy, don't you think?" She said this as if catchiness were one of the deciding factors by which she judged music. Exasperated, Erik strongly suspected this really was indeed the case.

"Catchy is hardly a suitable term for respectable musical criticism, mademoiselle. The violin line is very rudimentary."

She snorted softly at him. "You know, you are a dreadful snob. Not everyone can lay claim to musical genius. I expect, not everyone would wish to."

She could only imagine, from having heard him in his music room, that Erik's grasp of the violin was fit for the finest salons of London and Paris, Vienna even, though she knew better than to tell him so.

They sat in companionable silence through another refrain. Inspecting his glass suspiciously, Erik risked a sip of the sweet, slightly burning drink. He took care to drink carefully through the mouth-opening of his clever mask.

The people around them paid no attention to the new arrivals, and they caught scattered snatches of poetry being recited, a rather heated argument over the literary merits of George Sand, and an enthusiastic description of a winter garden. A young lady nearby tearfully accused her guilty-looking lover of being inattentive, before storming away, pleadingly followed by the young man.

Another jig started, and Hero turned to her companion with a winning smile.

"Come now, Erik, don't tell me we have come all this way and you won't even ask me for a dance?"

"A dance! I should hope not, mademoiselle."

"A gentleman would never be so callous as to refuse a lady." Her eyes sparkled at him laughingly.

"Surely we had established by now, my dear child, that I am not a gentleman."

"We have done no such thing! And I am much too old for you to call me 'child', even when you mean to be patronising."

His eyes narrowed at her. The cherry liqueur, or maybe the painful impossibility of the whole evening, sparked a strange flame inside him. "You wish to dance? So be it! You shall have a dance with Erik," he hissed, rising fluidly to his feet and pulling her to the farthest edge of the dancing couples with surprising strength.

She barely had time to drop her cloak onto the nearest wooden bench before he whisked her off. Hero felt a prickle of suspicion as his long-fingered hand came to rest at her waist. It wasn't like him to be so obliging. She was sure he was plotting something, even as she felt his hold settle on her, gentle but determined.

Hero was surprised at how easily Erik moved through the steps – she had never thought of him as a dancer, but she supposed his natural rhythm and affinity for music had come to his aid. The music began to speed up, an obvious challenge well-received by the other dancers, who cheered and whistled at the musicians. Erik seemed to have no trouble following the new tempo, when Hero found that she was almost stumbling. He moved them into a spin and they circled faster and faster, on the edge of the other dancers, until the faces and the bonfires and the shadows blurred like smudged watercolours.

Hero felt heady and light. She couldn't help laughing in delight as her head began to spin as though she'd had too much champagne at supper. Quickly, so as not to get dizzy, she focussed his yellow eyes, boldly meeting the strange gaze, which remained steady on her face. Suddenly, the laughter left her and a different sort of dizziness spun her head as she watched him looking down on her.

As he watched her face, Erik was sure that Hero must be on the very precipice of a swoon. He had been trying to teach her a lesson in caution. They were moving very fast now. Surely, at any moment, she would beg him to quit the dance floor! He could feel the fingers of her left hand tighten their hold on his shoulder, drawing her closer to him. He could smell the cherry liquor on her breath, feel the warmth of her down in his bones.

What was this? And which of them was really being taught a lesson in caution?

Hero tried to read his eyes as they spun: she saw the old familiar anger there, at war with wicked amusement. But there was also determination, and a flickering confusion. She supposed he had meant to be malicious, to scare her, and she wondered why he even brought himself to try anymore. But the nearness of him was rather enjoyable, and she could not bring herself to chide him.

His own grip tightened instinctively around her waist and the fingers resting trustingly in his, to keep her from flying unexpectedly into the crowd. Erik wondered at the strange energy between them, trying to imagine where it could possibly lead. It was a morbid curiosity. He was certain that she had guessed at his intentions, and he tried to decipher hers.

Her cheeks, previously pale from the chill in the air, were pink from the exercise. Strands of her hair had come undone under her bonnet, framing her face. Erik noticed her quickened breath, and when he focused on her eyes again, he felt sure that she had the outrageous audacity to be enjoying herself. In his arms! Even as he spun her through the crowd, faster and closer than was safe or decorous! Surely any woman ought to have been frightened out of her wits by then.

As she leaned towards him, her warm breath brushed his neck as she spoke. "I hope you won't be too disappointed to learn that I am not even remotely upset, Erik." How had she guessed his thoughts? Her voice, saying his name with such familiarity, was breathless with the exertion of the dance, and he could not quite suppress a shudder.

"You should be," he warned in a deadly whisper.

"Perhaps."

The dance seemed to go on for years, and the moment the music came to a thrilling conclusion, Erik wasted no a second in halting them. Hero had to hold on to her strange partner to keep from losing her feet, as the world continued to spin.

They stood still and close, lost to all propriety, staring at each other and trying to catch their breaths. Hero grew vaguely aware that their fellow revellers had moved away, returning to their companions or seeking refreshments.

It took another moment for her to collect herself enough to steer them back to their bench.

This was certainly an inconvenient turn of events, she thought, as she remembered his hand at her waist, and how enjoyable she had found it.

"I think, mademoiselle, that it is time for us to take our leave." Erik's voice was calm again, tightly controlled. It reflected none of his inner turmoil as he tried to understand how it was that Hero Winterwood had the singular ability to make him behave so inappropriately. And why he felt rather sorry at having to let go his hold of her.

"But of course," she murmured absently, picking up and refastening her cloak before mechanically taking his arm, lost in her own thoughts. They returned to the phaeton, which stood untouched, and Hero paused a moment to pet one of the horses, which had been munching on a patch of dry grass peeking through the snow.

Almost without thinking, Erik gave her a hand up to the carriage, remembering too late that the last thing he needed just then was the touch of her gloved hand.

The ride back to the Garnier was a lot shorter than Erik had expected. This was largely due to the fact that Hero drove most of the way as though the Devil himself were on her tail.

"Mademoiselle! Slow down this instant!" he barked at her, as she flew through the space between two carriages parked either side of a narrow Parisian street. Much to Erik's astonishment, she did as he wished and slowed the horses to a pleasant trot before turning to glance at him with an innocent expression.

"I'm sorry, Erik. I was under the impression you were eager to be back at the opera," Hero said obligingly.

"You were no such thing!" the Opera Ghost snapped. "You were driving that way to rile me up for your own amusement."

"I was not! I enjoy driving fast, for my own amusement. I am very careful – I would never risk injuring the horses. Only, I was quite curious to see if they were as nimble as Lachenel, the head groom, had claimed them to be."

They were nearly at the opera when Erik realised that he had somehow quite forgotten the introspective melancholy that had begun to creep over him earlier that night.

Once more he waited by the Rue Scribe gate while Hero returned the horses, and this time he felt quite certain that she would return as promised.

When she re-joined him at last, her eyes warm and earnest, he thought again of the Bell Song.

"Now, wasn't that much better than sitting in that cavern of yours all night and thinking up new ways to terrorise the chorus?" Hero asked brightly, while slipping into the dark passageway that would lead to the house by the lake.

"You have a very fanciful idea of how I spend my time, mademoiselle."

"I don't suppose I can persuade you to call me 'Hero'?"

"No."