After hauling the last of the crates, the boy finally reappeared, grinning as he offered a breezy apology.
Polly had too much on her mind to bother scolding him.
Lunch was a miserable affair: greasy stew and potatoes. The stew had barely a pinch of salt and reeked of something both fatty and fishy. The only edible part was the potato, but even that had patches of skin still clinging stubbornly to its flesh.
Polly nearly wept at the taste. So what if Erik really was the Phantom of the Opera?
He didn't know she was no longer Polly Claremont—but she knew who he was. She knew the pain he carried, the cruel silence that surrounded his brilliance, the loneliness that clung to him like a second skin.
He had been denied even a mother's love. No wonder he moved like a wild beast, raw and unrefined.
She remembered how the heroine in the original story subdued him—
A kiss.
Just one kiss had made him surrender, made him relinquish everything he could have taken by force.
A reckless idea slowly took shape in her mind.
Even if he was a horror-movie version of the Phantom, even if he wouldn't yield so easily—she wanted to try. She wanted to see what would happen if she kissed him.
She would do something the original Polly never would have dared.
Polly stepped forward.
Erik tilted his head—less like a man in confusion, more like a predator adjusting its angle of view, honing in on a sound only it could hear.
Her knees weakened at the sight. Her stomach felt as if it were filled with cold stones.
But she pressed on.
One step, then another.
As she neared him, the very air thickened—clinging, sluggish, hard to breathe. Erik's gaze fixed on her, and something cold and alert began to stir behind his eyes.
His stare gripped her like a vice.
Frozen beneath that gaze, she barely managed to speak, voice trembling. "Are you feeling any better?"
He said nothing, his eyes unreadable.
If only he were a beast, she thought. Then maybe she could reach out a hand, let him get used to her scent—anything but standing here like prey beneath his scrutiny.
The band played loudly. People had started to waltz. With more men than women, some had resorted to dancing with the mustachioed guards.
Laughter spilled from every direction, a world apart from hers.
Polly forced herself to focus. "Guess what I saw in the storeroom today?"
No reply.
"—A specimen. Of Emily's child."
Still nothing.
His eyes didn't so much as flicker.
He didn't care about Emily's child. That wasn't what Polly was after anyway.
"Do you think the manager would ever let any of us go? Look at what he did—over a few measly coins, he committed a crime punishable by prison. He forced an abortion, turned the child into a sideshow trophy."
"He won't let Emily go. He won't let any of us go."
Still, no reaction.
Polly didn't give up. She pressed forward, voice low and sharp.
"If I'm right, Emily's so-called brother is no relative at all. He's a freak-hunter—a middleman who trades in people like us."
At last, a flicker.
The word "freak" did something. His eyes dipped, heavy and rough as stones scraping against her face.
Her scalp prickled. Her cheek burned. Still, she held steady.
"The manager turned Emily's unborn child into a display. What if he's thinking the same about her?"
"Think about it," she said quietly, "if a jarred fetus makes more money than the mother—what happens next?"
She drew in a breath and lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. "You and I—we'll be next. Stuffed into jars. Stared at by strangers."
For one sharp moment, his eyes were like blades, threatening to slice through her skin.
She was getting close.
A dangerous gamble—but she still had cards to play.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.
"I mean it," she whispered. "Your mask—what if someone rips it off and your head ends up floating in a jar, on display for the world to see—"
Before she could finish, shadows swallowed her.
Erik lunged.
The breath behind his white mask was no longer shallow, but ragged, dangerous like the hiss of a threatened snake.
His hand clamped around her throat.
Polly's pulse surged wildly. Panic swept through her, swift and suffocating.
But she had to finish.
"Think about it—your face, unmasked, suspended in formaldehyde—people pointing, gawking—"
His grip tightened suddenly, fiercely.
She could almost hear the strain in her bones, the creak of vertebrae under pressure.
His breath hit her like a storm.
"I know you don't want that," she gasped, "I don't either. You're the most talented person I've ever met… I've never envied anyone before, but you—"
"I don't want the world to see you in a jar. I want them to hear your music—"
Still, he didn't loosen his grip.
He stared, cold and disbelieving. His eyes said she was lying.
And maybe she was. But she had one more bluff.
"Actually, I'm just like you…" she choked out. "My mother hated that I wasn't a boy. She tried to stab a pen in my eye…"
(A lie, of course. Pieced together from what the manager had once said: "Polly's mother was insane—almost drove a pen into his eye.")
"She wouldn't let me wear dresses. She shaved my head like a dog. Sometimes I wonder—if I were you, a talented boy—would she have loved me more…"
His grip fell away.
She had won.
Air crashed into her lungs. Polly doubled over, coughing like someone pulled from a river just before drowning.
But it wasn't enough.
She didn't want him to spare her—she wanted him to stand beside her.
"Let's work together…" she whispered. "We'll leave this place. Start our own troupe. You have everything—you don't belong here."
Still, silence.
He stood motionless, retreating into that eerie stillness, unreadable and hollow.
She had one final card to play.
Polly stepped forward, rose on tiptoe—and, before he could pull away, kissed his mask.
For several seconds, he was utterly disarmed—like a dog lashed by a whip, eyes wide with bewilderment.
And in that moment, Polly finally saw it—he was a person. A living, breathing human being. Not a shadow. Not a monster. Not a dagger waiting to strike.
She opened her mouth to speak—but when she looked up, he was already gone.
***
Lunch hadn't been entirely useless. At least she learned the boy's name—John. Next time he tried to slack off, she could scold him properly.
Just like in the morning, Erik was nowhere to be seen.
Polly began to worry. What if yesterday had only been a last burst of strength—what if he was dying?
After lunch, the men gathered to smoke and boast. The women cleaned up and mended clothes. A few people lingered near her backpack, trying to figure out how to open it.
The manager strolled over too, but quickly lost interest and walked away.
The afternoon sun burned away the mist, and the view cleared. Polly finally noticed they were camped near a swamp. The air hung thick with moisture, like a soaked towel. A river glinted not far off—deep, green, and ominous, buzzing with mosquitoes.
Polly could swim, but leaping into that water would be suicide. Not to mention, the original Polly had written about crocodiles in her diary.
There were two exits from the camp. Men with rifles guarded both. One was near a horse trough.
Polly had never dealt with horses. Apparently, they spooked easily—strangers' scents could send them into a frenzy.
So unless she learned to tame horses overnight, she had only one exit.
Too difficult.
She had considered feeding the manager some modern songs like a transmigrated heroine might—to win favor and rise through the ranks.
But that only worked if the manager wasn't a man who turned fetuses into showpieces.
In the 19th century, abortion was a crime. Yet the manager had risked a life sentence to put an unborn child in a jar.
What else was he capable of?
Murder?
Even if she struck a perfect deal with him, it wouldn't help. She was a sixteen-year-old girl—at most. He wouldn't offer her respect, let alone a fair contract.
In the end, her gaze once more fell on Erik's tent.
He was her only option.
Time to take the risk.
But then, a new problem arose.
Evening came, and Erik still hadn't appeared. His tent remained dark.
Polly began to worry. Still, she kept her expression calm.
Compared to lunch, the party feast was luxurious: beer, cider, pies, smoked ham, roasted potatoes, blood sausage, and meat pudding.
Polly was curious about the pudding—but one whiff of suet and kidney sent her reeling. She settled for pie and potatoes, choking them down with sips of cider.
The alcohol warmed her thoughts and loosened the knots in her mind.
She'd been too cautious. Too silent. Too afraid to meet anyone's gaze. Even though she suspected Emily's "brother," she hadn't dared dig deeper.
That had to change.
She needed to take action—do things Polly would never have done.
A burst of applause broke out.
The manager appeared, pushing Emily's wheelchair. Smiling brightly, he called out, "Emily's leaving soon. She wants to sing one last song for everyone. Anyone want to join her?"
Hands shot up. The band struck up a lively tune. Everyone began to sing and dance around the bonfire.
Polly turned—intending to slip away to Erik's tent—but froze in place.
He was there.
Standing in the dark, a slender silhouette. The white mask gleamed, the hollow eyes as blank and distant as a wax doll's.
He stared silently at the crowd, expression unreadable.
Then—he turned and met her gaze.
A cold chill swept down her spine. Her fingers clenched tight around her cup.
But she held her ground.
—She had to act first.
She had to do what Polly never could.