Erik did not answer, as if he had not heard her words at all.
Bo Li was often astonished at his ability to control his emotions.
If she had not seen certain of his reactions, she might truly have believed that he was as indifferent as he appeared on the surface.
Bo Li decided not to press him on this for the time being, nearly forgetting the main matter at hand. “Darling, there is something I need your help with.”
This was the second time she had called him “darling.”
Erik turned his head toward her. His gaze seemed calm and unruffled, yet goosebumps rose along his arm.
Bo Li said, “Did you see the article Graves published in the newspaper?”
Erik paused. “You want me to kill him?”
Bo Li: “…”
She hastily said, “No, no, that’s not it. I want you to go with me to his ‘House of Strange Scenes.’”
Bo Li thought for a moment, then simply leaned close to his ear and whispered her plan in a hushed rustle.
Erik lowered his eyes to look at her, his attention fixed entirely on her lips.
So fresh, so moist.
There might still be traces of his saliva upon them.
At the thought that she might already have swallowed his saliva, he could no longer hear anything clearly.
Meeting his hungry, almost devouring gaze, Bo Li could not help but ask, “…Did you understand what I just said?”
“No.”
Bo Li: “…Forget it, I’ll write it down for you when I get back.”
Erik gave no comment.
Bo Li could not bear his silence, so she deliberately said, “If you don’t wish to go with me to the ‘House of Strange Scenes,’ it doesn’t matter. I can always ask someone else…”
At last, he spoke, his cold voice cutting her off: “I will go with you.”
Only then was Bo Li satisfied.
After saying this, Erik turned and left.
Bo Li did not go after him.
Her aim had already been achieved. She took her time admiring the theater’s décor before returning to the carriage.
Day by day, time passed, and New Orleans had entered winter.
Fortunately, the temperature was not truly cold; one only needed to drape a wool cloak over one’s dress.
Perhaps because he really feared she might find someone else to accompany her to the House of Strange Scenes, Erik no longer appeared and disappeared like before.
Now, every morning when Bo Li opened her eyes, she would see him on the bedroom balcony, reading a book.
Perhaps because she had once again begun to retreat, his attitude toward her carried a subtle hint of aggression.
After she rose in the mornings, he would take the comb from her hand and comb her hair for her.
His figure was far too tall, his face remaining outside the frame of the mirror.
At times, Bo Li wished to see his expression while he combed her hair, but the moment she lifted her head, he would seize her chin and turn her face back.
Though winter here could hardly be called cold, each time she went out, he would test the thickness of her clothing with his hand to judge whether she needed to add another layer.
New Orleans was damp, close to the swamps, plagued with insects and crawling creatures.
One morning, Bo Li even shook a lifeless centipede out of her boot—she was not fainthearted, but it still gave her a fright.
Yet that was the last time she encountered such a thing.
From then on, whenever she put on her shoes, they were always clean and dry.
As though someone had already checked them for dampness and for pests.
Bo Li could not help but feel that their relationship had grown exceedingly ambiguous, separated by only a thin sheet of paper.
Yet no matter how she hinted, he never pierced that final layer.
He had not even kissed her again.
Bo Li did not know what he was waiting for.
She had already seen his face, had even kissed it.
If she remembered correctly, in the original work he had once, in a fit of extreme anger, said to the heroine: “If a woman has seen my true face, then she is mine, and she must love me forever.”
Was it that he was not angry enough?
For some reason, Bo Li’s impression of the original story grew fainter and fainter.
Perhaps because the Erik before her was not as frenzied and hysterical as in the book, nor as cold-blooded and merciless as in a horror film.
He was at once a fictional character, and a living man.
The more vivid his figure became in her eyes, the more blurred the description in her memory grew.
Most importantly, they were now in New Orleans, America, not Paris, France.
And the place where they fell in love was not the Paris Opera House.
Sometimes Bo Li wondered, had she truly entered a horror-film version of The Phantom of the Opera? Was Erik really the Phantom?
Did he truly exist?
Erik caught the look in Bo Li’s eyes.
Every so often she would regard him with that disquieting gaze—as if she were peering through him at another stranger.
He could control the direction of her sight, but not the final place her gaze would fall.
This sensation filled him with a nameless restlessness.
Each time she looked at him that way, he longed to force her to answer—who exactly are you looking at?
But in the end, he still did not ask.
Though he had removed the mask, he had yet to lay bare his true self completely.
She only knew that he seemed to be a dangerous man, yet she did not know precisely what he had done.
As for her past, he did not fully understand it either.
Before encountering Bo Li, he had never felt fear, as though he had been born without the emotion.
Yet the mere thought that his filthy, bloodstained secrets might be exposed before her—that she might cease to regard him as a genius and instead see him as a cold-blooded murderer…
…this filled him with an uncontrollable terror.
In the blink of an eye, another week had passed.
Graves’ “House of Strange Scenes” was finally ready, and it was announced in the newspaper that it would soon officially open.
Bo Li had already prepared her manuscript, and immediately contacted the paper to have it published:
—“Whose performance is truly more frightening? Miss Claremont will personally challenge the ‘House of Strange Scenes’ in the coming days!”
At the same time, Bob—the reporter from the paper—brought Bo Li some good news.
The news agency had selected one of their articles and intended to distribute it to newspapers across the country.
Bo Li was momentarily stunned when she heard this. “Which report did they choose?”
Bob said, “The one about the three gentlemen who were so terrified they vomited without cease. They also heard of your wager with Graves—if you win, the New York Times may even send a journalist to interview us.”
He was beside himself with excitement, unable to restrain himself from seizing Bo Li’s gloved hand. “Miss Claremont, you were right—we will be famous!”
Bo Li blinked, just about to withdraw her hand, when Bob suddenly released her with a violent start.
His face had gone deathly pale, cold sweat pouring down as he looked past her shoulder. His voice trembled: “…Miss Claremont, this is—”
Before Bo Li even turned, Erik’s tall, imposing figure had already cast its shadow over her.
This was the first time he had appeared before her “employee.”
Though she and Bob had never signed a contract, nearly everyone tacitly assumed Bob was part of the circus troupe, only stationed at a different workplace.
Bo Li had never been strict about maintaining distance with her own people, and Erik had never displayed the slightest oddity about it, seldom even appearing before them at all.
Yet this time, when Bob had merely held her hand, Erik had appeared outright.
Was this a good sign?
Thoughts raced through Bo Li’s mind, though her face betrayed no change. “This is my friend. The mechanisms in the circus were all designed by his own hand. He will also be accompanying me to Graves’ ‘House of Strange Scenes.’”
The cold sweat on Bob’s back grew heavier, nearly soaking through his shirt.
Under Erik’s gaze, his whole body turned cold, his stomach sinking like a stone.
For one dreadful instant, he nearly blurted out—Miss Claremont, your friend’s eyes are terrifying, like those of someone who has killed before.
The strangest thing was that this man even wore a white mask.
Apart from wanted criminals and robbers, Bob had never seen anyone wear a mask outside the circus grounds.
“If he is a friend, then I am at ease.” Bob dared not look at Bo Li, nor at Erik. “I shall take my leave now, Miss Claremont. When there is news from the agency, I will come find you again.”
Bo Li asked, “Won’t you stay for dinner?”
“No—no, thank you!” Bob waved his hands frantically and fled as though chased by ghosts.
Bo Li lifted her gaze to Erik, feeling that his eyes were not particularly frightening, yet somehow they had scared Bob so badly.
Erik lowered his head to meet her eyes. “What is it.”
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Bo Li deliberately asked.
She expected him to refuse, or to leave directly as he had so many times before.
Who would have thought he would, without a moment’s pause, say: “All right.”
Bo Li was stunned.
He could not possibly remove his mask in front of others.
Then how was he to eat?
Half an hour later, Bo Li had her answer.
The dining room of the villa had a rectangular table that could seat eight people at once.
Until now, Bo Li had always sat at the head of the table, while the others were scattered along either side.
Today, however, when the circus troupe entered the dining room, they saw at the far end of the table a tall, unfamiliar figure.
He wore a finely tailored black coat, a platinum watch chain glinting faintly, the collar, cuffs, and hem all displaying exquisite workmanship of no small value—he looked every bit the gentleman of noble birth.
Yet his face bore a white mask, a gun holster and rope hung from his belt, and a dagger was even tucked into the side of his boot.
Bo Li did not take the initiative to introduce him, nor did the others dare ask who the man was.
Only Thorn’s face turned deathly pale—the man was his teacher, Erik.
In truth, every member of the troupe could be called his teacher: Theodore had taught him to read, Emily to sing, Rivers to reckon.
Marbelle and Flora had taught him how to argue—for he was timid and cowardly by nature, and the two girls feared that if Bo Li were ever in trouble, he would be useless at her side, so they trained him harshly until he could hurl retorts as though they were weapons.
But among them, the most terrifying, without question, was Erik.
To this day, Thorn could not forget the sensation of his body and soul both being controlled.
If it had only been hypnosis, he would not have feared Erik so much.
The problem was, he clearly remembered that during the hypnosis, Erik had looked down upon him and, without warning, asked: “What are your feelings toward Polly Claremont?”
At that time, Thorn’s mind had been clear, yet he felt the thoughts from the depths of his heart swelling, pushing outward, forcing themselves through his lips:
“…Feelings of admiration.”
Erik had stared at him with a terrifying gaze for a long time before letting him go.
Afterward, Thorn recalled that scene countless times, always with the sense that if he ever harbored improper thoughts toward Polly, the man would not hesitate to kill him.
That feeling of having walked once through the gates of hell pressed upon his chest still—so that whenever he saw Erik, cold sweat would bead upon his brow, and his legs would tremble.
Bo Li did not notice Thorn’s fearful, uneasy expression.
She was pondering what Erik intended to do.
There he sat at the far end of the dining table, leaning back, one hand resting upon the table, watching them eat through the eyeholes of his mask.
The members of the circus sat on either side of the table. Under his gaze, they scarcely dared to breathe, forcing themselves to eat with desperate haste.
Bo Li: “…”
Forget it—though the scene was a little eerie, it was strangely warm as well.
After dinner, once the remnants and scraps upon the table had been cleared away, everyone quickly scattered like frightened birds and beasts.
Erik also rose, seeming about to leave the villa.
Bo Li called out to him.
He halted, turning his head slightly.
Bo Li said, “You’ve come to my home so many times, yet you’ve never once taken me to yours…”
“What are you trying to say.”
“My meaning isn’t obvious enough?” Bo Li stepped up to him, tilting her head to look into his eyes. “I want to see your home.”
Erik lowered his eyes to meet her gaze.
In that instant, countless images flashed across his mind—music scores scrawled in a frenzy, a piano with broken strings, and paintings of inexplicable meaning in his study.
Especially the paintings.
At a glance, they were all different: vivid portraits of people, layered landscapes of mountains and rivers, still lifes that captured light, texture, and material in exquisite detail.
Yet without exception, every painting bore traces of Bo Li.
Even if it were nothing more than an ordinary dark-brown clay jar upon the canvas, one could discern, in the faintly raised brushstrokes, the subtle outline of her features.
As though from the beginning, what he wished to paint was Bo Li—only to have her image forcibly overlaid with something else.
That was not his home.
It was a house suffused with “Polly.”
There, she was everywhere.
Even the very air seemed to be the breath he exhaled when thinking of her.
Thus, Erik turned his gaze aside, his voice calm: “Another time.”