When she hadn't appeared either downstairs or up, Erik went on. The jacket was off, and he'd unfastened the first three buttons of his fresh dress shirt by the time he'd entered his bedchamber. And there she was, beautiful and perfect, the moonlight in her hair, waiting for him. His heart warmed, regardless of the night so far.
"The Opera House will mend," he said, finishing the buttons and walking to the closet. "There are a few damaged sets. The costumes fared quite nicely -- just a bit of washing will do them. We lost a few instruments, but nothing irreplaceable."
He stepped out of the closet, then, bare from the waist up. The bandage around his waist was clear, but it was white, not red. "Hannibal came, despite my orders. He gave me some orders of his own." The doctor in that young man was fearless and demanding. His mouth twitched, though in annoyance or fondness, even the composer couldn't have said.