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Erik’s thoughts were becoming more and more unfathomable.
He had begun to speak, rendering her previous strategies of coping completely useless.
Now, she had to carefully observe his eyes, his tone, his movements, straining to consider every question he raised and the meaning hidden behind it, lest she give a wrong answer and meet her end immediately.
That day, when Bo Li awoke, she discovered a dress on the bed.
A new, pale-blue silk dress, its collar, cuffs, and hem trimmed with ruffled lace, a creamy-white satin ribbon tied at the waist. Beside it lay layers of petticoats and a skirt support.
Pressed on top was a postcard, the back bearing a pencil sketch of the theater. On the front were only two words, written in a cold yet elegant hand with dark red ink:
“Put it on.”
Drawing upon her years of playing puzzle games, Bo Li understood his meaning at once—he wanted her to wear the dress and go to the theater.
The dress fit her perfectly, as though it had been tailored for her; chest, waist, abdomen, arms—everything matched flawlessly.
Bo Li did not wish to know when he had taken her measurements.
At the hotel entrance, a carriage was already waiting. The fog was thick that day, and the driver had to lift a lantern to see her face clearly.
“You must be Miss Claremont,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you for quite some time. Come, let us go to the theater.”
Lifting her skirt, Bo Li stepped into the carriage, uneasy and apprehensive.
She did not know why Erik had gone to such great lengths.
Could it be that he intended, as in the original story, to hypnotize her and mold her into a celebrated soprano?
Bo Li knew her own capabilities well—she could perform in musicals, but opera was entirely beyond her; it was a wholly different realm from popular songs.
Anyone who had seen any version of The Phantom of the Opera would know how much he loathed those who possessed only empty fame.
If he discovered that she was an uncarvable piece of rotten wood, would he kill her outright?
Bo Li’s palms were damp with sweat.
Fortunately, she was not going to the theater to perform opera.
It was the same theater she had once gone to with Boyd—the same hall, the same performance, the same private box.
Erik never once showed himself.
And yet Bo Li could feel, unmistakably, that she was beneath his gaze.
He was always like this, never appearing openly.
Bo Li actually wished she could tell him that his figure was well-proportioned, nearly flawless, and that the length of his fingers had reached a rare degree.
In the hotel lobby stood a piano; when he stretched his thumb and little finger, he could easily span a twelfth interval, even a thirteenth.
Most people’s hands could only manage an octave. Those able to span a tenth were already considered exceptionally gifted.
And yet he harbored extreme shame toward his face, his hands, his neck, even his voice.
He did not allow her to look at the skin he left uncovered, nor permit her to praise his voice.
Bo Li was utterly bewildered.
Her face—she could understand. But his voice? What was the reason behind that?
“…What are we doing here?” She glanced left and right, trying to start a topic. “It’s so stifling.”
The theater’s ventilation was poor in those days, and she truly feared she might suffocate.
No answer.
Erik seemed absent from the box.
At that moment, the lights of the theater dimmed, leaving only the glow of the footlights. A single spotlight fell upon the velvet curtain, which slowly rose.
The girl in male attire appeared.
She wore a black top hat at a tilt, a black tailcoat over a white shirt, and sang a lively popular song, apparently titled Nellie Bly, accompanied only by a banjo.
Previously, Bo Li had been too occupied with dealing with Boyd to pay attention to what she was singing. Now, hearing it again, she realized it was a very cheerful folk ballad.
Because the melody was simple and strongly rhythmic, after only two verses she could not help humming along.
The next instant, a deep, cold voice sounded behind her: “You like it?”
The hairs on Bo Li’s back stood on end, her heart nearly leaping from her throat. “…It—it’s all right, it sounds rather nice.”
“Reason.”
Bo Li thought, what is this, a teacher calling on a student in class?
She was not a music major!
Fortunately, before acting in musicals, she had undergone systematic training and knew some basic knowledge of music.
“…Because the melody is entirely repetitive, easy to follow along?” She could not guess his opinion of this song, so she hastily added, “Of course, I can also appreciate refined opera, such as the Queen of the Night’s aria in The Magic Flute!”
That was, in truth, the only piece she had ever listened to.
The reason was that its piccolo-like sharp, piercingly bright high notes were particularly invigorating; when she listened while riding her bicycle, it felt as though the wheels might spark from the force of her pedaling.
Erik gave no comment.
Her answer seemed to have passed.
After the performance ended, his gaze vanished completely.
The dress, the belt, the petticoats, the skirt support, the coachman—he had prepared them all, it seemed, merely so she could rewatch this performance and give her opinion on a simple folk ballad.
After that, he seemed to grow enamored with this sort of game, a new dress appearing at her bedside every day.
Bo Li never once knew what his true purpose was.
To test her musical literacy?
To cultivate her aesthetic sense for women’s attire?
To train the speed at which she dressed?
His ambiguous attitude made her heartbeat race each day, filled with fear of the unknown.
The pounding of her heart, the finely woven dress, the narrow and stifling box.
If not for the fact that he never appeared before her, and that the mere sound of his voice made cold sweat break out upon her skin, uncertain whether she could answer his questions that day—it would almost have resembled a tryst.
Bo Li had indeed thought of escaping, but when her gaze fell upon the heavy mountaineering pack, she lapsed into silence once more—she could not carry it.
Of course, one would not remain trapped in place forever simply because the pack could not be borne.
So long as she resolved to do so, she could leave this place by any means.
Yet she could not bring herself to decide.
Why?
Most pressing of all, perhaps because her nutrition these past days had been too good, her abruptly halted menstruation had returned.
And with unusual force.
Fortunately, she had sanitary napkins in her pack.
After changing, Bo Li poured herself a cup of hot tea. Looking at the dress upon the bed, she suddenly felt a surge of rebellious impulse, an urge to strike and refuse to go out.
Perhaps noticing she had yet to board the carriage, the door of the guest room suddenly opened.
Erik stepped inside.
A gas lamp glowed at her bedside, but with the lift of his hand, the flame went out.
No wonder Tricky had claimed his magic to be sorcery; even now she did not know how he had set fire to Tricky’s card.
Having not seen him for some time, he seemed taller. Simply sitting before him gave her the suffocating sense of being pressed down beneath his shadow.
He rarely fixed her with a direct, unwavering stare.
Yet whether it was because she had disobeyed him today, his gaze upon her was cold and unyielding, almost naked in its intensity.
Bo Li felt a chill surge upward from her stomach to the crown of her head. “…I am not feeling well today. May I take a day’s leave and go tomorrow instead?”
She dared to strike only because she felt she had done well recently, answering all his questions, even fabricating a few stories to amuse him.
…Surely he would not refuse her even this small request?
Erik did not reply.
He seemed lost in some thought, the eyeholes of his white mask gradually shrouded in shadow, turning obscure and menacing.
Bo Li said, “…Please, only one day. Tomorrow I will go with you to the theater.”
She probed her condition carefully—apart from the heat and clamminess, she seemed capable of going out. Perhaps she ought to grit her teeth and work through her illness.
Just as she was about to rise, Erik’s hand pressed down upon her calf.
He had never touched any part of her body except her neck.
Bo Li’s heart lurched, as though it had fallen into an icy abyss. “…Haven’t we been happy these days? You buy me dresses, take me to see performances… every answer you demanded of me, I have given…” Surely he would not break her leg for taking one day off?
“Do you remember, I once said I wished to form a circus?” Her heart was pounding madly, but she forced herself to speak calmly, persuading him. “…After seeing so many performances, I already have a rough idea in my mind… I have yet to tell you how I would build our circus…”
His gaze was so cold it was terrifying, sending a chill through her entire body.
She had never before seen such intense killing intent in his eyes.
Her throat constricted, as though she could taste the sharp tang of adrenaline. “Please, don’t kill me…”
At last he spoke: “Who said I intended to kill you?”
“…” Bo Li was choked into silence.
His hand pressed against her calf, his voice cold: “You are injured. Who did this?”
It was not a question but a statement, spoken with utter certainty.
The problem was…
She was not injured at all.
Bo Li was bewildered. “Ah?”
“I smell a heavy stench of blood,” he said.
She froze, then realization struck, and her ears burned with heat.
Even now, in many places, menstruation was shrouded in taboo, regarded as filthy and impure, unfit for open discussion.
Though he was more intelligent than anyone she had ever met, he had never once dealt with a woman—his ignorance of this was natural.
Only, the situation was too strange.
The mere thought made her scalp prickle.
It was not shame at her body’s natural functions that unnerved her, but Erik’s identity.
He was her watcher.
The one who could at any time take her life.
The greatest unknown and threat in her existence.
And yet, on another level, he was also her protector.
Until he chose to end her life completely, no one else could harm her.
The more Bo Li thought, the stiffer she became, even feeling the blood flow more swiftly in her veins.
She could only cut through the tangle with a swift blade: “I don’t know how you call this… it is something women experience every month, a few days of bleeding… in short, thank you for your concern, but I am not injured.”
When her words fell, the air itself seemed to fall silent.
Bo Li forced composure, taking a sip of hot tea.
Strangely enough, in her memory, few works of art ever mentioned this—yet if the protagonist were male, they would describe nocturnal emissions in great detail.
As though the latter marked the beginning of romance, while the former was a secret that must never be spoken.
At this thought, she felt entirely composed again. “I know in many places this is regarded as the cause of women’s supposed hysteria… but please believe me, it is a normal occurrence. I am neither ill nor injured.”
Perhaps because he had never before been in contact with women, he did not display the shame or evasiveness common in other men.
Yet his gaze truly had grown stranger.
As if before, he had only known from sight that she was a woman.
And this time, he had scented her womanhood.