Slaying the Silence

Chapter Five

    Isabelle Rousseau cleared away the servants' table, humming quietly to herself. It was a piece that had brought her husband much solace in the last weeks of his illness. The memory would once have bothered her, but in the past eleven years she had grown to accept his passing. True, it still stung - but time and the grace of God has blunted the sharp pain of lonely loss.

    Quiet pattering came from beyond the door. Isabelle paused, straining her ears. The sound continued, though faint. She shook her head and resumed her work. It was likely no more than a mouse. This business with the Silent Phantom had clearly unnerved her.

    Once the table was cleared, she gingerly lowered herself down onto a stool, careful to make no sound. The noise continued, growing gradually louder. It stopped, however, seemingly just outside the door. Drawing a deep breath, she rose to her feet and slowly crept towards the door.

    Her heart beat loudly, making Isabelle cringe. She straightened and leaned against the wall, silently berating herself. She was becoming afraid of her own shadow, likely all for nothing. If it was indeed a mouse, she could put it out.

    At that moment, the door flung open. A dark-clad figure stepped into the room and ran lightly up behind Isabelle. Before she could make a move, the figure clutched her neck in a vise-like grip and clapped a hand over her mouth.  She thrashed about, opening her mouth to scream.

    But she could force no air out, and it was growing difficult to breathe. The sensation of cold steel against her skin stilled her struggles. Her captor slightly relaxed his grip on her neck and whirled her about, removing his hand from her mouth. She opened her mouth to speak, but fell silent as she saw the man's face.

    The man wore a fitted white mask. "Your name, Madame?" he asked in a quiet voice.

    He released his hold on her, and she stumbled backwards onto the floor. "What is your name?" he repeated.

    "Isabelle Rousseau," she stammered, rising to her feet. Forcing her trembling limbs to still, she straightened and looked the man in the eyes. "I am the woman you threatened."

    Recognition clicked in those dark eyes.  "It was your daughter, Madame," he corrected, folding his arms over his chest.

    "When you endanger my daughter's life, you threaten me."

    He blinked rapidly, and began to pace in a wide circle around her. "I imagined you to be older, Madame," he commented.

    "You are too young to be a murderer and a thief," she countered.

    "You will find age has little effect on the blackness of a man's soul." He said it almost cheerfully.  Isabelle felt suddenly ill at his words. 

    Sighing, he unfolded his hands and clasped them behind his back, bowing mockingly. "I must thank you. Your provision for me has proved most beneficial."

    "You left me little choice," she reminded him, her voice cold. She thought back to the first note she had received from him, an elegantly written letter asking for her service. He had told her that he knew of her daughter Céleste and would not hesitate to harm her if Isabelle did not conform to his requests. She had, of course.

    He had instructed initially that she daily leave food at the outskirts of the forest. Later on, he had sent her a letter including his measurements, and she herself had made him clothing. When she returned the next morning, there was always an empty basket, and nothing more. Not once had she seen his face, though he had told her who he was.

    Now, he was standing in front of her. The Silent Phantom, ruthless killer and wanted thief, was standing in her path. The thought weakened her, and she nearly fell. She propped herself up on the table, closing her eyes briefly.