Rating: 'M' for adult content and sensuality
Summary: Meg had known of him all her life but had never had occasion to warrant his assistance… until now. Erik x Meg. Rated 'M' for adult content and sensuality.
Disclaimer: I own it. Leroux's PoTO is Public Domain.
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One Good Turn
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The little ballerina was in trouble.
She had gone on an errand for her mother: an errand that was only supposed to take an hour and half at most. Meg Giry had gone early in the afternoon to meet with Mr. Fortesque in her mother's stead. It seemed the opera could miss an extra ballet rat, more or less, but could not afford to miss its ballet mistress and chief disciplinarian.
Madam Giry's solicitor was a kind but aged man, and he had gone a bit absent-minded of late. The papers she was supposed to have verified were misplaced in a massive pile on his desk that was almost as tall as she. It had taken them almost four and a half hours to sort it all out.
And Meg realized it had gone full dark by the time it was completed.
She left quickly afterwards, keeping to the light of the gas streetlamps as much as possible. Mr. Fortesque's office was not in a bad part of town, but she did have to travel through a seedy bit to get back to opera dormitories. Vainly, she wished for her mother's rattan cane. She was foolish to not have taken it.
Picking up speed and clutching at her shawl to fight off the evening's chill, Meg all but ran down the deserted streets.
"Here now. Ain't you a pretty poppet?" Meg looked up and ran headlong into a burly man standing straight in the middle of her path. She was knocked to her knees. Luckily, with the inborn grace of ballerina, she knew how to fall and was on her feet once more taking a protective stance. "That was a clever trick, girl."
"Let me pass." Her young voice rang with authority and intolerance. She would be obeyed. Quickly, she scanned the area. No one was out patrolling the streets. It was dark, and she was alone.
"Oh, now, aren't you Miss La Tee Da? No, I don't think I will." The man crossed his arms in front of her and leered menacingly. "Seems what you've got to pay a toll to cross this particular street, poppet." He smiled cockily, "Isn't that right Franck?" Meg gasped as she felt thick arms wind their way around her from behind. She screamed as he dragged her in the dark alley, overflowing with the day's refuse and rotten vegetables. He clapped one of his hands over her mouth, and Meg fought using her teeth, her hands, anything. Using her considerable leg strength, she caught the man in the groin, and he immediately released her, doubling over. But the other had caught up to them and slapped her face—hard! She saw stars. "That wasn't very nice, poppet, not nice at all." He slapped her again and grabbing the front of her dress, ripped her bodice to the corset. He leaned in and whispered close, "Don't worry. We'll teach you how to play nice."
Meg head-butted him, having seen one of the scene-shifters do it in a fight once. The man stumbled back clutching his head. "Bitch! You're dead!"
Meg ran blindly down the alley, heedless of the garbage, the rats, the clutching hands. She ran until her legs ached with fatigue, until her lungs burned.
Finally, she was able to see the opera house in sight and her pace slowed. Leaning against a tree, she gasped, trying to catch her breath and still her quaking limbs.
Raped. She had almost been raped.
She had been attacked, and she had almost been raped and killed.
Every warning, every story her mother had told her about the evils of the world came back to mock her. She silently gasped and shook, letting the adrenaline in her body run its course.
She refused to cry.
At length, she took stock of her appearance, feeling gingerly the areas where the men had grasped, pinched, and slapped. She would need make-up, lots of it. She assessed her extremities. Her hands were a bit bruised from where she had fallen, and her forehead felt tender where she had slammed her head against his, but she would be alright.
She was alright.
She looked down at her dress. There was nothing for it, it was ruined, but maybe if she tucked in a piece here, tied a ripped bit there, it would cover her modesty enough, provided nobody saw her in this state, to make it back to her room.
On silent feet, Meg approached the Rue Scribe entrance.
In her younger years of exploring the opera house while her mother worked, she had come across this particular entrance having observed a Persian man use it a time or two. Hiding, little Meg had seen the man press and then move a particular stone in sequence, and the door itself had clicked open. The man had come out some time later, presumably by doing the same on the other side of the wall, and little Meg had spent the better part of the day learning how he did it.
Rarely did she use this entrance, but tonight, she would have to. She did not want to be seen.
Erik paused before the gate hearing soft footsteps approaching. Someone was outside the entrance to the fifth cellar. With barely a thought, the Punjab lasso was in his hand. Hiding in the darkest shadows, he waited.
He heard the intruder tap the correct sequence on the stone interface and then the grated door swung open. A flickering streetlamp caught waves of spun gold and then dainty feet. A dress. As the obviously feminine figure lowered herself gingerly to the stone floor, his mind instantly identified who was intruding upon his domain. Marguerite Giry, Antoinette's daughter. Erik narrowed his eyes, seeing much in the darkness.
The girl had been assaulted. Her dress was ripped, torn across the bodice, artlessly patched to give her some semblance of dignity. Just what had she been out doing? And why? A flick of his wrist and the catgut disappeared back up his sleeve. Furthermore, how did she know about the Rue Scribe entrance?
The girl began to walk, and silently, he followed.
She headed towards Christine's dressing room and immediately he was on alert. Just what did she want from in there? He hid behind the mirrored passage and silently stood vigil.
Meg fumbled for the watch held at her lapel. The time was late, almost midnight. She cursed silently as she entered Christine's dressing room. Looking around, she made sure Christine was not present then immediately went to the pitcher and basin in the corner of the room. Pouring herself a glass of water, she gargled, swished, then spit. Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, and feeling a modicum more human, she filled the glass the rest of the way and drank thirstily. Thirst assuaged, she poured water into the basin, and with courage she certainly didn't feel, she met her eyes in the mirror.
She winced.
It was definitely worse than she thought. Somehow the bastard had managed to split her lower lip. Gingerly, she prodded the injury with her tongue. It wasn't too deep, but it would cause problems for her tomorrow. She assessed the rest. She wore his handprint on her cheek, a flaming reminder. Grabbing a clean cloth and a cake of soap, she bathed her face, washing the stink of sweat and fear from her skin, and then she just held the cool cloth to her cheek and breathed. Calm strength. That was what was needed to see this through. Shrugging out of her ruined dress, she stood before the full-length mirror in her corset, chemise, grey wool tights and sensible shoes.
Absently, she catalogued the rest of her bruising. There was some along her shoulders and arms. She felt gingerly along her ribs. The area was tender but wasn't injured enough to warrant investigation. It seemed the rest of her escaped unscathed. Thanking God for small blessings, she quickly washed what was uncovered, and then looking through Christine's wardrobe, she found a serviceable blue day dress that she could borrow to get her back into the rooms she shared with her mother.
After donning the dress, and wincing slightly as she bent to tie the sash, Meg approached the vanity: an assortment of cosmetics stood in well-ordered rows before her. Grabbing powder and grist, she made a paste that approximated her skin tone and slathered it on. Using a bit of green, she covered the area of the hate-filled handprint generously. And with years of much practiced expertise, she began to artfully wield the brushes and sponges until all that remained was her split lower lip.
She sighed. She could do nothing for it. Throwing on her shawl, she dug through the pouch she kept in her ruined dress and placed a coin where she knew Christine hid her mad money. Checking to make sure all was as it once was, Meg flipped the switch to lower the gas lamp, and the room was bathed in darkness once more.
She crept to their quarters and silently opened the door. Still, she heard her mother say from the bedroom, "Marguerite Giry! Do you know what time it is, young lady?" Madam Giry made her way to the parlor, her rattan cane thumping softly on the worn wood. "I expected you back ages ago." Meg turned away from the sight of her mother in her wrapper, her hair a thick, black rope falling across one shoulder as she hung her shawl on the peg.
"I returned ages ago, Maman. You just didn't see me." she muttered tiredly. "I was practicing in the second cellar and lost track of time." She turned back to her mother and started.
Her maman was standing right before her, a suspicious look on her face. "That wasn't the dress you left in."
Meg blushed hotly, knowing she was going to have to prevaricate. "No. It isn't. I'm afraid I'm going to have to retire the gray to the rag heap. When I was coming back, a woman was dumping refuse from her second story window." She winced. "It didn't hit me personally, but it was a near thing. The bottom of the dress took most of the damage." She watched as Madam Giry drew back, repulsed. It was well-known that her mother had little tolerance for filth and waste—considering them creaturely. Ballet, she was forever touting, was a way for men and women to rise above and overcome their inherent bestial natures. "I borrowed a dress from Christine's dressing room upon my return and have been in the second cellar ever since."
Her mother still looked skeptical, and Meg turned her face away lest she see the amount of makeup she had on. It would not do to have her mother find out what really happened tonight; she was held on a tight enough leash as it was without her mother tightening it even more.
"Anyway, I went to Mr. Fortesque's premises as you asked, and we were able to draw up and duplicate the papers requested." Casually, Meg grabbed an apple from the bowl in the larder and began to munch, "You know, I think Maman, that it might be time to look for a new solicitor." She swallowed. "Mr. Fortesque is getting a bit dotty in his old age. His office—" She took another bite and wagged the apple, "If you'd have seen it, you would have exclaimed it a fire hazard." She smiled jauntily while chewing. And keeping a straight face, lest she wince when she sat on the couch, Meg propped her legs on the living room table, knowing what was coming next.
"Meg Giry, get your feet off the furniture THIS instant! Honestly, you would think you were raised by a pack of wolves."
Without guile, Meg stated, "But Maman, wolves don't own coffee tables." She smirked slightly and bit into the apple, the very picture of innocence.
"BED! To bed with you, young lady! And don't forget you have to get up early for practice tomorrow with Senor Fergus."
Meg groaned theatrically, "Oh. How could I forget Senor Fergus?" She proceeded to do a passable imitation of the little man. "Ms. Giry, your leg…move it just this little bit here. Yes? Miss Giry, your toe. It should be en pointe not on point! Your hands, senorita! Your hands! They're supposed to look like wings not weights. And where's my attitude? Just once, I would like to show him attitude." Meg grumbled sotto voce.
She looked up at her mother and knew from the twitch of her normally severe expression, she was struggling to keep a straight face. "That is quite enough Marguerite! He will be here at six, and so I expect you up, warmed up, and the chores to be completed by no later than five thirty." Meg looked down at her watch. That gave her barely four hours of sleep…if she could get to sleep.
"Yes, maman." she stated with ill grace and an eye roll. Meg turned away and made to get up off the couch. She drew in a sharp hissing breath. The bruises on her arms and torso were starting to swell. She looked quickly. Her mother had already turned away and gone back to bed. Meg threw away the rest of the apple in disgust and went to her bedroom.
She didn't think her mother suspected anything from her performance, but who could know? One thing was certain. Tomorrow was going to be hell.
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Erik watched as, grimacing, the young woman rose from her casual pose and went to her room. Marguerite Giry was quite the accomplished liar.
She was hiding something.
And Erik would not rest until he uncovered what that something was.
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Meg awoke with a pounding head. Her stomach muscles screamed in agony as she moved to get up, and she hissed back a breath. Everything felt swollen and sore. Taking a deep breath, she rolled over and up. It was time to begin her day.
After getting ready and reapplying her makeup. After doing her chores and warming up, Meg left their rooms and went to meet Señor Fergus. The man was a first-class letch but he knew his art. If Maman only knew half of what Meg had to put up with from the man, she would make sure he left with a broken knee at the very least.
She sighed as she donned her toe shoes. He was, however, making her a better danseur. The things she put up with for her art. Going down to the second cellar, she began moving through positions. Yes, she was warm, but she was also sore from yesterday's troubles, and the Señor enjoyed 'helping' her every moment he could. He was sure to notice. Checking once more to make sure her makeup was on properly, Meg did a deep plie en pointe and looked up.
There, across the room, was a mug and a note. Getting up, she made her way over and picked up the note. In spiky scrawl, the note read:
Ms. Giry,
After last night's exploits, you will feel much better after you've ingested this.
Your servant,
O.G.
Meg dropped the note on a gasp.
"Ah, there's my pretty senorita. Are you warm and ready for me, pet?" Meg spun around absently kicking the note under the table leg.
"Good morning Señor Fergus." she stated dutifully, her mind spinning with implications.
The oily man made his way over to her. "Ah, what is that, pet? Hair of the dog?" Meg watched as Señor Fergus picked the mug up and sniffed it. With a shrug, he slung it back, and Meg winced. "Ah, peppermint. Refreshing." He belched. "Now, have you been practicing your squelches like I asked, hmm?" He bent down and felt the muscles of her legs. Meg gritted her teeth and backing away, removed herself from his grasp.
"Yes, indeed, Señor." She went floor center and took position.
"I'll be the judge of that. And one-two-Ti-Ee-Ana." The man clapped his hands and Meg twirled, coming to rest, hands extended. "One-two-Ti-Ee-Ana." She twirled again. "One-two-Ti-Ee-Ana." Once more as he picked up the pace. "One-two-Ti-Ee-Ana. One-two-Ti-Ee-Ana. One-two-Ti-Ee-Ana. One-two-Ti-Ee- No. No. No, senorita. You must keep the beat. Too slow. Too slow." Meg stopped and caught her breath. "Again!"
"One-two-Ti-Ee-Ana," and on they went in this manner for two hours. By the time they were through, Meg's legs were trembling with fatigue, and her bruised shoulders and sides were on fire.
"You did good work today, senorita." The Señor brought his arm to rest around her bruised shoulders, and she fought a wince. "You have it in you to be Prima Ballerina little Marguerite," he tapped her nose, "that is if you know what it will take to get you there." He looked at her leeringly and slowly dropped his hand so that it rested possessively on her backside.
Meg quickly moved away. "I have told you repeatedly, Señor, that your advances are not welcome. If that is what you seek, I suggest you find it with one of the other girls and not me!" Meg turned her back on him as she went over to where she kept a spare cloth to dry off.
Her hackles came up as she felt him once more at her back. His arms came around her. "You will come around, Pet. I have no doubt of that." He kissed her neck lightly and something within Meg snapped. She spun and slapped his face—hard. She narrowed her eyes and stated lowly, "I believe I will tell my mother our lessons together are at an end, Señor. Good day to you." Meg took a protective stance as she gestured for the stairwell. She would not allow herself to be caught off guard again, and standing straight and tall, she dared the man to try anything.
He rubbed his jaw, and she had but a second's warning before he was on her, shoving her hard against the wall, and turning her so that she was faced away from him. Meg screamed. She felt his fingers fumbling at her tights, clutching and ripping the fabric. And then she heard the metallic snick of his belt as he fumbled to undo his trousers. NO! This would not happen to her! Screaming with rage, Meg threw a blind jab, elbowing him in the groin. Quickly, she spun and kicked high, clipping his jaw with the toe of her pointe shoe.
His head snapped back, and he crumpled like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
She looked down in hate and disgust, and she screamed, letting her anguish consume her. How dare he? How dare any man think he could—that they could…." It was too much for her to take in such a small span of time, and feeling her legs give way, she fell beside his inert form.
She refused to look at him, burying her head instead in her hands and gasping in outrage. His head had made such a horrid sound when it had snapped back. Oh, God! What if he was…?
Could she have…?
Drawing a deep breath for courage, Meg quieted her sobs and slowly lowered her hands. The sight that met her eyes instantly had her sliding back three paces against the wall.
The Opera Ghost was crouched before the Señor, his black-masked visage reflecting ebony in the gaslight. Meg gulped back the scream that wanted to break free. Instead, she watched as the Ghost felt the Señor's neck for a pulse, and then his eyes—his yellow, devil's eyes met her own. She read in them solemnity as well as determination. "Go back to your room, Marguerite." he uttered quietly. "Tell your mother Señor Fergus never came for your lesson." Meg blinked. Could he be suggesting—? "GO! Go now, you foolish girl!" His tone was imperious, brooking no disobedience.
Meg scrabbled up from the floor and ran full-tilt from the room, never once looking back.
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review please. it means the world to this little authoress and all feedback is welcome.