Erik walked down the stone steps to the fifth basement of the Opera Garnier. The steps terminated at an underground lake that Charles Garnier’s finest engineers had not been able to drain; its origin was doubtless in a spring. Haussmann had decreed that the opera house would go on this location, though, and the civic planner’s vision was not to be denied.
Erik stepped into the little boat that he had moored just out of sight of any potential prying eyes and poled it toward the secret house he had built in the center of the lake. His expression was pensive. He had just seen a woman for the first time in the opera house … a small, chestnut-haired woman who rode an enormous black mare with flowing mane and tail and unusual feathered hocks. There was something about her demeanor that intrigued him; melancholy and resolution were an unusual combination.
Stepping out of the boat, he inserted a key into the door and entered his home. There, he doffed his mask and cloak and sat at his desk. He opened a drawer to take out stationery, pen and wax seal; it was past time for another note to the managers of the opera house.
Also in the drawer was a ring, set with an aquamarine stone. He’d given it to Christine … and she’d given it back. He toyed with the jewel briefly, his long, elegant fingers moving as casually as though he played his beloved piano, organ or violin; his musicianship also made him a brilliant magician, for sleight-of-hand comes easily to those with dexterous digits. The gem sparkled in the gaslight as it passed from fingertip to fingertip. He fell into something like a reverie each time he handled the ring, remembering Christine.
Erik dropped the ring back into the drawer and slammed it shut. How could he be thinking about the woman who had harmed him?
Instead, he wanted to find out who had harmed the equestrienne; it was abundantly clear to him that she was in pain. And he wanted to know her name.