marlowemuses | Heir of the Palais Garnier

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Heir of the Palais Garnier

One of the wealthy patrons of the opera was in the mirror room.

Laurent stood just outside, watching him through a pane of glass. His lair was dark, and the mirror room was bright, blindingly bright, and getting brighter by the minute. It made it very easy to watch without being seen, as did all the clever inventions of the phantom.

It was the handsome, nosy patron of the opera. This did not surprise Laurent. He was, after all, remarkably nosy, and remarkably persistent. If any of the opera patrons was going to end up in one of the phantom's traps, it could reasonably have been predicted that it would be this one.

He knew, not from experience, but from explanation, that the interior of the mirror room would be getting uncomfortably warm now. Enough to make a man squirm, or shed clothing.

Laurent had been watching for several minutes, ever since one of the alarms had rung to inform him that one of the pressure plates had been activated in one of the traps. There were many traps, and each one had a wire connected to a bell that would ring if it were activated. The pressure plate activated the trap and began a constant ringing of the respective bell. Laurent reached up and disconnected the wire.

This wealthy patron of the opera was a ghost hunter. Laurent had encountered them before. Most of them he simply ignored as not worth his time. This one intrigued Laurent, though he knew it was only because the patron was young, and handsome, with a healthy, well-formed body that looked more suited to a stage hand than a young heir. Most of the patrons Laurent had seen were fat, pale, cosseted things. This one was golden.

It would be getting hot now, inside the mirror room. Dizzyingly hot. Dry heat, despite the watery subterranean lair. The phantom had been most pleased about that, when he'd shown Laurent how it worked. Dry heat, wicking the moisture from the air, meant that the glass would never fog. He could watch every moment.

Laurent laid his palm against the outside wall of the room. It was pleasantly warm against his hand.

He'd encountered this patron more than once. He thought, though he was not certain, that this patron had seen him more than once. Each time, Laurent had been masked, and they'd been at a distance.

Once, Laurent had been in his box. He'd been in the shadows, impossible to see from the lower seats and difficult to see from the stage. There were the other boxes, but they never really paid attention. They were all glitter and gold, dressed to draw attention, and interested in others like them. But once, Laurent had looked out across to the far side of the boxes, and he had seen a young man, this young man, staring at him. Or, at least, staring at the shadows of his box. Laurent wasn't sure whether he could be seen, dressed in dark red with a death's head mask. He had slipped through his secret door, and away.

He'd seen the young man frequently after that. He was often at the opera house. He seemed to have open access to the place at any hour of the day or night.

Once, Laurent had been watching the rehearsal. He'd seen the young man on the stage. That had intrigued him, and he'd slipped closer, wanting to know if he was audience or performer, or merely being given a tour of the workings. Laurent had been as silent as ever up in the riggings, but this young man had looked up. Laurent had been all in white, with a beautiful, androgynous white mask with gold-painted features. The sailcloth then hung from the riggings ought to have hidden him in folds of white and ivory, and the young man could only have been gazing thoughtfully into space, but Laurent felt as though the young man saw him and saw through him.

There had been more than one close call in a corridor. Laurent had made note of the trap doors and secret passages that the young man had found and solved. It was deeply perplexing. It was concerning.

It would end here.

The glass walls and floor of the mirror room would be scalding to the touch now, though Laurent expected the young man would have better sense than to touch them. At least until he collapsed. The outside wall was uncomfortably warm against Laurent's palm.

The air inside the room, he had been told, would now be gaspingly hot. The young man would likely be feeling some degree of dizziness now, perhaps severe. He might soon lose balance or consciousness. Or he might stay conscious as the room became an oven, as it began to cook him, then to sear and burn, and eventually to char the skin and bones until nothing was left but ash.

The phantom had informed him that he would likely have to replace a few of the panes, after the room was activated. A few of them were always damaged in the process. He had said it with a touch of glee that made Laurent's skin crawl.

The young man would be in agony now. He would understand, now, that this room was meant to kill him. He would understand that all his stubbornness and folly and pride had led him to this.

He would be gone.

Laurent yanked the lever that deactivated the room. All of the traps could be deactivated or solved, if you were fast enough and could spot how the puzzle worked. But they also usually had failsafes on the outside. Christine, the phantom had explained, once got trapped inside this one.

The room went dark. It would still be hot inside, as the trapped air spilled out to warm Laurent's cold lair, but it had stopped heating.

Laurent stared into the dark cell, though he could see nothing. He realized, belatedly, that the mirror room was now darker than his lair, and therefore he was the one who could be seen through the viewing pane. He stepped quickly to one side, though the young man inside could not possibly have seen anything but a mask and a cloak.

It occurred to Laurent that he now had a logistical problem. A scorch mark was easy to tidy away. A young man was not. The mirror room had two doors. One of them opened, one-way, from an underground passageway that branched into the Parisian catacombs. Laurent came through there, occasionally, if he was in a hurry. The other door opened into the heart of Laurent's lair, for his own ease of access, or for the entry of those few allies the phantom might ever have been willing to spare.

It wasn't too late. He could still reactivate the room and dispose of the intruder. But something in Laurent balked at that. He was not certain whether the problem was that the young man was innocent--and he was, as far as Laurent knew, as far as he had heard from the rumors and gossip around the opera house--or that the young man was appealing.

And Laurent was so terribly lonely.

Loneliness had never been a problem before. It was a permanent state. It was a fact of his existence.

And yet, as he began to realize that the young man could not be saved without him being able to catch a glimpse, at least, of Laurent's domain, Laurent began to wonder whether he might just keep this intruder.

The young man had, after all, been very determined to find his way here. He could just stay.

Laurent paced, considering how to handle the situation. The young man was larger, physically. Significantly more muscular. Laurent had wiry strength, but he expected that if it were to come to a physical altercation, he would lose.

There was a firearm buried in a cabinet drawer. Laurent could fetch it, and hold it upon the young man, to make sure that his commands were followed. But there was something distinctly vulnerable about that. It betrayed fear. And, if the young man were to get a hold of it, the situation would quickly reverse. Laurent wouldn't be able to operate doors or traps while keeping a gun trained on the young man. It was too inconvenient an advantage.

Which was why Laurent was bare-handed when he opened the door to the mirror room. There was a knife in his boot that he was accustomed to using. If the young man attacked, Laurent could kill him with it.

Standing outside of the mirror room, Laurent waited. He was dressed severely, in a dark blue tunic, a black cloak, and black trousers and boots. His hood was up, and his face was covered by a plain golden mask. Of Laurent himself, nothing was visible but his mask-shadowed blue eyes, some stray strands of blond hair, and the pale, sunless skin of his throat and hands.

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It was a chance to escape.

A chance that wasn't really a chance at all. He hadn't forgotten that the Phantom had mentioned traps, wasn't dull enough to think he could navigate this underground maze as well as the Phantom could, and still wanted to know more about this man in the shadows. So he simply continued to rinse himself of the suds and push himself up out of the pool, padding over to the towels and wiping himself down with one.

When Laurent returned, he was sitting on one of the benches, towel wrapped about his waist as he scrubbed his hair dry with another. Gancing up, he smiled a gentle smile when he caught sight of his captor, still nervous yet appreciative of the clean clothes.

"Thank you," he said, eyes lingering on the Phantom. He stood, taking a few steps closer so he could take the clothes and dress.

Laurent was just as skittish, even more so. He took a step back as his captive approached. Setting the clothes down on one of the benches, Laurent moved away, staying out of his reach.

The young nobleman was so beautiful. He had kind eyes, and a magnetic smile. Laurent wondered what his mouth would taste like.

As soon as the young man was dressed, Laurent walked out of the room, expecting to be followed. "You'll return to your room now. I'll bring you a book. Tomorrow morning you'll start work."

The clothes fit him well and he was relieved to be clean. Glancing one last time at the bathing chamber, he followed, disappointed that he had to return to the red and white room. A book was... fine, he supposed, but before he could ask what kind of books the Phantom kept in his collection, he said those words.

Tomorrow morning you'll start work.

"What?" Gansey cut in, sounding quite startled. "Work?" It wasn't that he disliked working. He often took care of his own business by his own choice. Pampering wasn't something he liked much, even if it came with being monied and of excellent pedigree. But... still. Work? He was a captive and he was also expected to do work?

"I don't understand. What am I working on?"

"There was a cave-in. I need it cleared." Laurent opened the door to the red and white room, expecting his captive to enter his cage again. "You look muscular enough."

Day or night didn't matter in his subterranean realm, but he was getting tired, and he wanted to give his captive a chance to rest before he put him to work. Eyes lingering on his captive, Laurent waited for him to enter the chamber so that Laurent could lock him in securely once again.

Gansey grimaced as he did as he was bid, stepping back into the red and white room. Was this the real reason why he was being kept? To do the dirty work that the Phantom didn't want to do?

"I can... try," he said, somewhat lamely, clearly not looking forward to being used for manual labor. However, didn't that mean that the Phantom didn't have any supernatural strength? Could vampire be struck off the list of possible creatures he might be?

Turning his eyes back on the Opera Ghost, Gansey's eyes lingered, still filled with questions.

"How about James? James is a fine name."

"Ghost," Laurent said, shutting the door and locking it again.

He went to fetch a book, as promised, selecting one that he liked, but not so much that he would have a problem if his captive decided to destroy it. He left it on the ledge where he'd left the tray earlier, and returned to the little room where he could watch. He curled up, hugging his knees to his chest and watching his young man. He wanted to be able to touch him, to speak to him, but Laurent couldn't cope with that. Just watching him from this close was more than anything he'd done before. A person knew about him. They'd exchanged words. And now this was his person, and he was going to keep him forever.

Just like that, Gansey was left alone again.

Sighing, he took the book from where it had been left on the ledge, lowering himself back down into his corner as he flipped through it. It wasn't one he'd read before and he did love books; he smoothed his hand down over the pages gingerly, smiled, held it close like holding something precious.

Even though his stomach gurgled and complained of hunger, he didn't eat. It wasn't appealing to him. The book, at least, promised to hold his attention for a while. So he read until he fell asleep, book still nestled in his arms as he leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed in light slumber. There was no knowing day from night down in the Phantom's lair. In a way, that helped. Normally an insomniac that woke as soon as the sun broke across the horizon, down here there was only darkness and candles. The disorientation confused his usual cycle. Not that his sleep was deep, and he certainly wasn't comfortable, sleeping on the floor in his corner.

Laurent eventually crept away to sleep, curling up in his overly grand bed and dreaming of the handsome young man he had captive. The dreams eventually soured into his usual nightmares, and he woke after a few hours, restless and spooked. He wanted to see his young man again, wanted the comfort and reassurance of his company.

Putting on his red death's-head mask and scarlet robes, he returned to the room with his captive, unlocking the door to let him out.

Gansey's dozing was more or less his usual amount of sleep: barely any. He might have caught a bit more if the sound of the door unlocking didn't instantly rouse him. Blinking wearily and looking at the door, he pushed himself up onto his feet and brushed off his clothes. Was it time to move rocks already? He was not looking forward to that.

But it was better than staying in the red and white room all by his lonesome. Gingerly, he stepped out of the room—only to have a mild heart attack by the Phantom's new costume. Which he chided himself for after—he was in the Opera Ghost's lair. Of course he was going to see some incredibly startling things. By that logic, the incredibly startling things shouldn't be startling at all.

It still spooked him.

He pulled himself together quite nicely, however, clearing his throat and offering his Opera Ghost a smile. There were bags under his eyes from the terrible sleep he'd gotten, and he still refused to eat, but such things were the aesthetic of a prisoner, he figured.

"Good morning. Is it time to... move rocks already? Fantastic." Not at all. Straightening himself up, he smoothed down the shirt he was wearing to have something to do with his hands. "I was thinking, you know, I never properly introduced myself. How can I expect you to give me your name when I haven't given you mine? I'm Richard. I prefer to be called Gansey, however. That's my last name. I like it much better than my given name."

Laurent hesitated when he was given the name, ending up staring for a moment before he repeated it. "Gansey," in an elegant voice utterly at odds with his apparel.

His blue eyes were striking, almost supernatural, against the red of his mask, and Laurent regretted his choice of costume when he saw how Gansey reacted. It hadn't occurred to him. He'd always worn an array of costumes, because they added to his Opera Ghost legend, just like it had for his predecessor, and that kept him safe. He hadn't meant to spook Gansey, and he felt guilty for it.

"This way," Laurent said. He led the way through the lair, which was a sort of underground mansion, and picked up a lantern near one of the outer doors. "Follow my path precisely," he warned, and led the way out into the underground tunnels.

It wasn't far, though the tunnels twisted and forked, inherently mazelike. There was a distant smell of rotted food, and somewhere a high rodent shrieking, like a wounded rat. Laurent ignored it.

The tunnel that had collapsed was one of the ones he used most frequently. He thought that it would be safe, if they could clear the blockages, since it was the side of the tunnel that had blown out, and not the roof. But several of the blocks were too heavy for him to clear easily, even with the help of tools, and he hadn't managed to clear the way enough to make a path.

He hung the lantern on a hook above a little platform where some tools had been laid. A crowbar, some rope and leather straps, and several wooden rods that he'd used to roll some of the rocks. Laurent, however, had only moderate physical strength, and that only from the basic amount of physical exertion--lifting gates and manipulating levers--that was required to maintain and navigate the lair and the opera house.

"Can you do this?" Laurent asked, because he needed it done, and he was very nearly at the end of his rope for getting it done.

While the costume was frightening, that voice... so clean, delicate, elegant. It was at stark odds with the Ghost's appearance. It was soothing. It was the kind of voice that Gansey could love—not that, he chided, he should allow himself to become besotted with the loveliness of the Phantom's voice. And his eyes were so human it was difficult to remind himself that he was trying to discover what manner of creature this man really was. How could he be human if he was so young, yet known for haunting the Palais Garnier for many, many years.

It was a mystery. One that was utterly intriguing.

Gansey followed as the Ghost commanded. At his warning, Gansey obeyed, not wanting to set off a trap and end up with a leg lobbed off. It was fascinating, how the underground worked. If only the people above knew about what was underneath them! The marvel muted a bit when he remembered that he would never be free to go and describe all of the wonders to them. And even more muted when he realized that also meant that he wouldn't see his family again.

When Gansey heard the shrieking and smelled the rotting, meaty smell, he felt sick. And sad. It was impossibly sad, even when a rat was suffering and dying, he thought. There was no time to stop and try to help it. They kept going.

Upon approaching the tunnel Gansey slowed, taking a good look around to assess the situation and how dangerous it was. The roof hadn't blown out; that was a good sign. Even if the stability was compromised by the wall being forfeit it wasn't likely to come all the way down and kill them unless either the breakage went much farther than it looked, or the other wall decided to collapse while they were trying to clean it out.

And, thankfully, there were tools. He had imagined he would have to dig them free with his fingernails.

Before answering, Gansey continued to assess the situation. He would make no false promises, even if it ended up with the Phantom choking him to death for being so utterly useless.

"I think so," he finally said, slowly. "I'll need water. For the larger pieces; it's easier to move stone when it's wet, particularly underneath it. With the reduced friction I should be able to pull them away."

Beginning to unbutton his shirt, Gansey looked at the Phantom, "If you can get me a few buckets, that would do nicely." Carefully folding the shirt in his arms, he laid it to rest on the platform so that it wouldn't get dirty, and began to stretch. Best limber up, if he was really going to do manual labor.

"Water," Laurent repeated. It was a good idea. It made sense. He hadn't thought of that.

Impressed by his new assistant, Laurent nodded, accepting the plan at once. "Don't stray from here. It's dangerous."

Leaving the lantern for Gansey, he slipped away into the darkness. He didn't need the lantern, he knew his way by heart all through these tunnels, even in the darkness. Darkness meant safety, for him.

He returned to his lair, quickly fetching a pair of buckets and filling them with water, carrying them back. His arms were straining by the time he returned, setting down the two buckets by the tools and the lamp. Intrigued, his eyes lingered on his captive, who was shirtless again. He'd so quickly shown that he was smart and resourceful. Laurent's heart ached by how much he wanted to possess him.

Gansey did not stray. He couldn't navigate the darkness like the Phantom could. At best, he'd end up battered and bruised. Light would always be Richard Campbell Gansey's safety. Golden, beloved, basking in sunlight and sunbathing on warm summer days.

When the Phantom returned with the water Gansey thanked him and picked up one with little effort, muscles flexing with his movements. He worked methodologically and smartly. Wetting the stone and creating a water trail, using the tools to pry up a corner of stone, building a harness to wrap around his torso so that he could use his core muscles to pull the stone rather than the strength of his arms. Even with all his care and cleverness it was still rough work—it did require strength, even under prime conditions.

It took time but he was largely successful. Clearing away stones as they were set, taking care not to unsettle any stones he didn't want to unsettle. Dust floated and beads sweat dripped down the contours of his body as he labored, once the way was clear he stood and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Even if he'd been reluctant, pushing himself felt good. It was why he did things rather than allowing the servants do them for him.

"Think that's okay?" he asked, blinking away the dust from his eyes and resting his hands on his hips, chest rising and falling with some effort.

Laurent watched in awe as Gansey worked. This sort of thing didn't come naturally to him, and he was amazed by how diligent and clever Gansey was.

He made an effort to help, moving some of the smaller stones out of the path and handing Gansey things as he needed them, but for the most part he stayed out of the way, eyes lingering on Gansey's muscles.

"Yes. Thank you." The path was clear, and Laurent could use it again, though he'd have to be careful navigating the rubble.

He picked up the lantern so they could return. "I never asked, did you suffer any burns in the mirror room?"

He was a little surprised by the question; it hadn't seemed like the kind of thing that the Phantom would care about. The well-being of his captive?

"I... may be three shades darker than I was before I fell in there," he said, slowly, "but I'm mostly all right. Nothing major." He'd not touched the mirrors themselves knowing that they would probably peel the flesh back off his bones. Gingerly, he touched along his right forearm with his left hand, "Guess I took the brunt of it here, when I covered my eyes." The skin there was red and bothered, not noticeable unless you looked at how up his arm was a cooler shade. It stung.

Dropping his arms, he went to retrieve the shirt and put it back on, even if he was still sweaty. He didn't want to move back through the darkness shirtless.

He wanted to ask if he really would never return to the surface of the Palais Garnier. He wanted to ask what the Ghost was. Why he was here. How long he'd been here. So many questions. They so desperately wanted to fall from his lips; instead, he merely rubbed them together, taking a few steps closer to his Opera Ghost.

Laurent led him back to the lair, holding the door for him. He took Gansey straight to the bathing chamber again, expecting that he would want to wash up. "Stay here. I'll bring you fresh clothes."

Starting to trust Gansey more when left on his own, Laurent went off to fetch fresh clothes as promised. He took the time to change, putting on a much simpler outfit of black trousers and a white shirt, with a plain white half-mask to cover his face. It revealed his rose-petal lips and the elegant line of his jaw, but Laurent deemed that acceptable. Only Gansey was going to see.

He suppressed the stray thought that he wanted Gansey to see.

Bringing back the clean clothes, Laurent set them on one of the side benches, along with a little jar of ointment for his burned arm.

Washing up after that was indeed what Gansey wanted. Eager to see the interesting pumping system again, he messed around with it a touch before setting his own bath. It delighted him; while he had been born to luxury, there were few things he truly loved about it. Hot baths were one of those things. Nothing beat scrubbing away remnants of the day and using sweet smelling soaps.

When then Phantom returned Gansey did a double-take. Much more human now, the Phantom had the loveliest lips he'd ever seen. It almost seemed salacious to have such a strong thought.

He had to look away.

Scrubbing himself down and hopping out of the tub, he reached for a towel to dry himself off. It was both harder and easier to speak to the Phantom when he looked so much more... human. Like himself.

"Thank you," he said, glancing up in surprise when he noticed the jar of ointment. "That... will help." The smile he offered was shy but genuine. If the Phantom was really as cruel as they said, there was no way he would have brought the ointment for Gansey. He would have never asked about the burn to begin with.

"We can eat once you've dressed," Laurent said, waiting for Gansey to finish with his clothes and the ointment. Then he led him through the lair to a beautiful kitchen, fitted with a coal stove of intricate and brilliant design, just like the rest of the lair.

He put a pot on the stove, filling it partway with water and starting to chop vegetables. He didn't glance at Gansey, simply trusting that he would stay in the kitchen while Laurent cooked.

The kitchen was just as stunning as the rest of the Phantom's lair. Gansey brushed his fingers along the countertops and table, admiring the stove, wondering at it all. It was built to last. It suggested that someone had spent a great deal of time down here. Yet it still didn't make sense. His Opera Ghost was young. The slight show of jaw and lips had assured Gansey of that.

And if he knew how to cook... what vampire needed to know how to cook? Though he tried to take a note on whether or not the man used garlic in his chopping.

Oh, how he wanted to explore. He longed to puzzle out all the various pathways and traps, beautiful things. While he didn't leave the kitchen he certainly paced it. Looking at things, touching things, endlessly interested and not trusting himself near the Phantom, worried his desire to slide that mask right off his face would possess him.

"If James is no good," he continued, "how about Eugene? Maybe you prefer a more unique name?"

The slightest hint of a smile curved Laurent's lips at the question. There was a bundle of garlic hanging inside a cupboard. He pulled some out and chopped it, adding it to the soup along with the other things, not ever suspecting Gansey's theory.

"I don't think I'm much of a Eugene," he said, adding herbs and salt. He didn't seem to have any limitation to his supplies. He still demanded the Phantom's salary from his opera, after all, which kept him living comfortably, and he had several contacts who took his money and shopping lists and returned things to his specifications.

Gansey's company was incredibly pleasant. He'd been uncomplaining, only curious, and his help had been extremely valuable after only a day. Laurent wanted to keep him, and it was with a feeling of utter ecstasy that he realized he could. Gansey belonged to him now. There wouldn't be any leaving without Laurent allowing it. The air of sadness that surrounded Gansey was unsettling, of course, but it had diminished considerably since his initial capture. Laurent allowed himself to believe that Gansey was accepting his new life here. That he could be happy here.

Garlic. So he couldn't be a vampire. So not a ghost, and not a vampire. What other creature stayed young? Not werewolves. They aged. Unless the rumors that the Phantom had made a deal with the devil were true? Eternal youth? Would that make him a demon? He was very polite for a demon. Interesting.

"Okay, so not Eugene." He wanted to get closer to the Phantom. Should he? Not knowing, he continued to pace, picking things up and examining them. Listening to the sound of the Phantom cutting. He was cooking. Every so often Gansey stole a glance.

"Henry? Jacob?"

He inched closer, fingers grazing the countertop.

"Maybe... Edward?"

"What's wrong with Ghost?" Laurent asked, continuing to cook. It felt ... right, to have Gansey here. Natural. He glanced over, heart quickening to find that he'd moved closer, but he didn't seem threatening in his approach. "I'm no one. I don't need a name."

Laurent added a chicken leg from a bundle, sniffing it once to make sure it was still fresh. He'd received it in his goods delivery that morning, and things didn't spoil quickly in the year-round chill in his lair.

His captive seemed surprisingly relaxed. Eternally curious. Laurent reminded himself to be careful. That inquisitiveness could--and had--lead him into trouble.

When he saw the chicken leg, Gansey realized just how hungry he was. He hadn't eaten a lick since before he'd fallen into the mirror room and the smells were beginning to make his stomach twist and growl. Before, he hadn't been hungry, but it had finally caught up to him. Plus, it was smelling quite good. Apparently the Phantom knew his way around the kitchen.

Licking his lips without quite realizing it, "It's not a matter of need. It would be... nice. Ghost is an occupation. A name is... something different."

Even if he had relaxed a bit he still didn't allow himself to approach too close. Lingered, just outside arm's length, as he looked at the bundles of spices.

"How do you get all this?"

"It's not an occupation," Laurent argued, bemused by the suggestion. "It's a state of being."

It would be... nice. Shouldn't Gansey hate his captor? Laurent was perplexed further.

"I leave money and a list in a basket in a certain tunnel near an entrance to the catacombs, and the basket is returned promptly by mid-morning the next day," Laurent explained, because there was no harm in that. He wasn't about to reveal the identities of his contacts, just as he trusted they told no tales about shopping for the Opera Ghost.

Stirring his pot, Laurent let it simmer for a few minutes, fetching bowls and setting the table, which was large but had only two chairs. "There are several bottles of wine, there," he said, pointing to a wine rack along one wall. "You may select and open one, if you like."

So he had someone to shop for him... then he was the sort of creature that needed to eat. For what other purpose would a Phantom need to shop? So that scratched the actual ghost element entirely. A true ghost would not need to eat. A vampire would need blood. It was looking more like something involving eternal youth.

Gansey touched the back of one of the chairs. There were two. Having two meant that there was a reason for two. For if the Phantom was always alone, why would he expect to need more than one? Curious.

At the mention of wine Gansey was distracted from his thoughts. Glancing toward the wine rack, he almost said that he wasn't much a fan of drinking, but then remembered his circumstances. He went to the wine rack.

Scanning the bottles, he selected a rich red wine that seemed like it would go nicely what the Phantom had cooked. The thought almost made him laugh—the Opera Ghost had cooked a meal, and they would be sharing it together, along with some wine.

Popping open the bottle, rest it on the table, allowing it a few minutes to breathe before he poured it.

"A state of being is still not a name."

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