One Good Turn part IV
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Erik waited patiently for Megan to emerge from the rooms she shared with Antoinette. And he spent his time, as he spent most of the night and a good part of the day, contemplating the mystery that was Marguerite Giry.
She had kissed him—him!
She had bestowed upon him his first ever kiss! And she did so completely unaware; no artifice or understanding from her at all. And this had shocked him… had scared him. His feelings for her could not be borne. He had given his heart, his art, his soul to another.
He thought he had nothing left.
And he had almost strangled the life out of her! Erik was not exaggerating when he spoke of having momentarily lost his sanity. He honestly could not remember throwing the lasso. But throw it he did, and he had brought the girl to her knees before him.
Thinking back, his eyes closed at just how close she had come to dying by his hand, and again, he paled at the memory. Just one slight tug of his wrist, and she would have—
But then, after it all, she had forgiven him; had verbally matched him quote for quote and had forgiven him! The memory of that moment stirred his blood, and he drew a calming breath to rein in the emotions provoked. And then there she sat, that little slip of a woman, and she had leaned down, pressing her primrose pink and perfect lips to his own grotesque face—a face she knew—KNEW—looked like the face of a demon's beneath the mask!—and she had kissed him—KISSED HIM!
And then she had gone on as if nothing, no fundamental change, had occurred.
And for her, perhaps this was true.
As he waited, the words to a poem by Robert Browning came to mind: 'such stuff was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough for calling up that spot of joy.' And Erik drew a vicious parallel between his own situation and that of the murderous duke's. Was it all a game to her then? He felt himself beginning to get angry and had to take measured breaths in order to steady himself once more.
It was early days yet, and she was very young—too young for him really—even though she was older than Christine by a year or more. And she had yet to have her first sip of what the world held in store for her.
But was that right?
Erik blinked as he realized he was doing Miss Megan Giry a grave injustice by discounting her in such a way. She had been attacked, at least once of which he knew, and she had killed a man.
Just then, the object of his musings appeared dressed in her spring green travelling cloak, hat, and mantle, and making sure the way was clear, he pressed the notch on the hall passage to allow her entry.
His thoughts dispelled like startled birds as he took her gloved hand in his and placed it firmly on his arm, "Are you ready to go, Miss Giry?"
Erik could see her in the darkness, staring up at him with a mild look of irritation couched in a glimmer of amusement. "So formal, Opera Ghost. Have we reverted back to our titles then?" Her eyebrows drew up in expectation, awaiting his response.
He knew he was going to have trouble keeping his distance from her; he felt his resolve already beginning to crumble away. He led them further down to the passageways where Caesar was kept. "No, Miss Giry—" he heard her drawn in a breath, "—we are not. It is just— I should not take such liberties, and you should not permit them. You are a young woman unchaperoned—"
"And does propriety and my reputation concern you overly much, Opera Ghost?" There was no doubt about it, the girl was teasing him. Erik studied her in the darkness. The little hoyden was grinning cheekily up at where he stood.
His heartbeat quickened, and he swallowed thickly. "It should—it does. Yes, Miss Giry, it does very much."
That time, she did laugh outright. "Erik, please, we are friends are we not? And business partners of a sort. There is nothing improper about our association." She made the word 'improper' sound a profanity. "If you are having second thoughts about taking me along, maestro, just say so, and I will return above." Erik detected a faint note of reluctant sadness in her voice. His other hand unconsciously moved atop hers where it rested on his arm, and he held her bound to him.
"No—I believe this evening to be an educational one for our little endeavor." Her faint exhalation of relief was just detectable past the susurrations of the lake.
"And just where are we endeavoring to go?" He had lighted a lamp near Caesar's stable earlier that evening and had no trouble making out her curious stare in the shallow lamp light. After situating her inside, he readied the cabriolet for their venture, inspecting it thoroughly.
Absently he replied as he led and tethered Caesar to the reins, "We are going to attend a new form of entertainment in the Montmartre district called cabaret. La Chat Noir is an establishment that showcases the newest and freshest talent that Paris has to offer, and I have had my eye on one or two musicians there for a while now." He swung gracefully into the cab, and taking up the reins, clucked softly, and they were off.
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As they were leaving the club, Meg noted the temperature had plummeted drastically, and she drew closer to her masked escort to share in his warmth, her breath coming in white puffs before her.
But never could she remember having spent such an entertaining evening!
At first, Meg was worried when Erik led her openly into the club, getting a table quite near the orchestra pit. But he had drawn the hood of his cloak and hers over their heads upon exiting the cab. And then Meg had taken a look around. Nearly all the denizens of the establishment were wearing a concealing item of clothing or another to shield their faces from view. Some women were even in masks! She slanted her eyes at her own personal masked man.
Was this place really so scandalous as to warrant that?!
And then the music began, and Meg smiled and laughed as the Master of Ceremonies proceeded to cause each and every woman in the room to blush, and even some gentlemen as well. She had never heard such talk! And this coming from a ballet rat! She looked over at Erik. He was watching her, an expression of amusement reflecting in his yellow eyes, and his mouth held a small smirk.
She blushed harder as two of the girls, both dressed very scantily, proceeded to get up on stage with the MC and sing a song about a ménage a trois! She heard him whisper in her ear, Blush any brighter, ptitchka, and you will be mistaken for a stage lamp. She looked over at him. He had not moved from his position to her left, and he was a good foot away from her in distance. And yet, she had heard his Voice as if he were speaking intimately to her, whispering directly in her ear. She shivered and ducked her head, and his soft and knowing laughter caressed her senses even as his gloved hand reached to draw her chin back up to watch the rest of the show.
Her heartbeat thudded and remained heavy as she watched, seeing the gratuitous displays before her, but her awareness was solely centered on the man to her left.
And it seemed his attention was centered on her every bit as much as his surroundings, and rare were the moments when she didn't feel his eyes upon her. And so, the show ended with a grandly scandalous bang, and even as Meg looked around at the crowd dispersing for the night, a light rain began to mist and fall.
It really was outlandishly late or ungodly early—however which way one chose to look at it, and only the streetlamps lit their way as Erik quickly ushered her to the cab and situated her inside. A moment later, he leapt in as well and they began the return journey home through the abandoned streets of Paris.
"Well, what are your thoughts, little Giry?" There was much amusement lacing his tone, and Meg knew he was having fun at her expense for having taken her to see the lurid display.
She sniffed, propelling her nose high in the air, "Now I can see why you were so worried about my reputation, Erik. Good Grief! If anyone were to have recognized me in there, I would be working the street faster than you could say 'two-franc strumpet'. Hmm…" she assumed an air of thoughtfulness, "Although… with what I learned tonight, I might be able to pull down three." His gale of surprised laughter filled the cab with its merry sound, and she continued on, "At any rate, this does bring me to another question. Just how did you direct your Voice so that it sounded in my ear as you did when you were seated so far away and the orchestra so loud?"
You mean like this? Meg whipped her head around to her shoulder: the one not facing him and then turned back to look at him. He hadn't moved. Or this? This time, she looked up into the cab overhang. Or even this? Meg felt his Voice surround her, coming from all directions. It was very—well, intimidating…as well as …arousing. She bit her lip.
It is all to do, Megan, with the power of the belly. Ventriloquism it is called. His Voice sounded right in her ear, as intimate as any whisper. Meg looked over at him. And through the weak streetlamps as he spoke, she could just make out his throat working to make the noise. His bottom lip never even moved, and his eyes were trained on the road.
"Do it again!" Meg pleaded, squinting her eyes in the darkness to watch him, absently registering as the rain began fall harder still.
Shall I tell you of the plans I have for the opera house, Megan? Nearly all of the se— his Voice was cut off by a grinding crack in the wheel. And suddenly the cabriolet was listing on its side, and Erik was grabbing for and holding her steady as the assembly broke free, overturning them.
Had he not held her, she would have been crushed in the ensuing melee. Caesar reared, nearly trampling the entire cab completely, and the only thing that stopped him from doing so was Erik's steady pressure of his hand on the reins and his reassuring tone of Voice as he spoke to the animal, calming him.
Throughout the entire ordeal, he never let go of her, his other arm around her, holding her close to him and keeping her away from the crushing impact of the wet ground, sharp metal, and splintered wood. When Caesar was once more calm, he looked down at her. "Are you injured, Megan?" Meg was in shock; she tried to answer him, repeatedly she did, but no sound would emerge. "Megan?" His hand that wasn't clutching her to him began running over every part of her he could reach. Meanwhile, he kept up a chanting litany of her name, begging for a response.
Meg swallowed and taking a deep breath, tried to speak, "I—I'm… fine, …Er-Erik. Just c-cold, I th-think." He reached for her wrist, counting, and she saw his eyes widen as Meg began to pant, feeling light-headed. Beads of sweat began to dot her forehead.
"Hold on, ptitchka, I'm going to get us out of here." He put her hands around his neck, and Meg was stunned to realize she couldn't help him; she could not will her body to move. What was happening to her?
She began to panic, her breathing coming on faster, making her even more light-headed and dizzy. With a mighty heave, Erik climbed the wreckage with her in tow and they were freed. He stood there holding her in the pouring rain, and quickly, he carried her to a nearby stable that was all but deserted at this late hour. He laid her gently on a bed of clean straw and began his inspection of her person once more, examining at length her fingers, torso, head, and legs.
Meg's breathing continued to come in quick gasps even as he urged her to slow it down, try to calm. She had never felt this cold in her entire life! He left her and returned with Caesar as well as a pile of smelly, but dry, horse blankets that he tossed next to her. She heard him explain that she was having a medical episode, but she was afraid she couldn't make much sense of anything else.
She thought she also heard him mutter "propriety be damned" but she couldn't be sure. And then she felt a tug as her cloak was removed, and then another tug on the back of her dress and the soaking wet garment was removed as well, causing her to shiver more. And then there was a pull on her stays, and her corset too was removed, leaving her only in her slightly damp chemise. Absently, she registered she could breathe a bit better. He then removed her shoes and then her tights as well, and Meg felt herself growing still and numb with cold.
Absently, she catalogued she no longer felt cold, she felt free and feather-light. "No, No! Megan, you must stay with me! Don't you dare lose consciousness, ptitchka!"
She watched from far away as he began covering her with blankets and elevating her legs so they rested above the level of her head. He pleaded, "Come back to me, my little bird. Come back to your Erik." She began to shiver again. "That's right, my dear. That's right. Good girl. Let the shivers run their course."
She watched as he removed his cloak, and then he was atop the blankets, lying next to her, his damp cloak thrown over them both as he used his body weight and heat to add to her warmth. "Megan, can you hear me? …Megan?" She nodded slightly in the near perfect darkness, and he breathed a relieved sigh. "I need you to try and follow my breathing. Can you do that for me, little bird? hmm?" And slowly, he began to count. In…two…three…four…Out…two…three…four… and he repeated this sequence until her breathing began to match his own.
He reached under the blanket and felt for her wrist at her side.
And a moment later, the breath of relief that he gave was palpable. "Your pulse is almost back to normal, my dear, as is your breathing. Tell me, do you feel better?"
Meg closed her eyes and nodded slightly. "Good." She didn't have to look at him to know he was smiling. "We shall rest here for an hour but no more. The longer we do so, the greater our chances of being discovered. And hopefully, the rain will have abated by then."
Just then a crack of thunder sounded, and Meg jumped.
She felt his arms come around her and draw her close, and she registered the sensations of being itchy and smelly but warm. "Hush, now. It's only a spring storm. You are now quite safe, I assure you." His Voice was coming from right next to her ear, and turning her head slightly, Meg registered that his masked face was just below hers, his head almost, but not quite, resting on her shoulder. She felt his warm breath on her neck, and it only served as a reminder of just how undressed she was beneath the layers of cloak, male, and smelly blanket.
Turning slightly, she drew her head down until it rested near his, until she was laying on his bony shoulder, breathing in his masculine scent rather than the barn smells of damp horse and fresh manure. And she felt his hold of her tighten slightly as he adjusted to her new position. Turning slightly more, she insinuated herself until her lips and nose were pressed to the bit of bared flesh of his neck between his collar and the mask. She heard him give a sharp gasp, and she snuggled even more, breathing in deeply.
And thusly, Meg drifted to sleep.
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Erik couldn't believe how close he'd come to losing her; first in the wreckage of the cab and then through psychogenic shock. Her warm breath fanned lightly on his neck causing him to involuntarily shiver. Mentally, he catalogued the curious sensation even as he calmed his body from the response she was eliciting within him.
What a dear bit of baggage, and she had almost died!
He drew a deep breath, breathing in her scent beneath the layer of manure and smelly blanket. She could not put her dress back on; it was soaked through. But she would be alright.
He would take her below and put her in the Louis Philip for the night.
Hearing the rain begin to lessen, Erik knew now was the time to act, and with luck, she wouldn't awaken. Carefully, so very carefully, he began to disentangle himself from her. He appropriated a saddle and set Caesar to bit and bridal. And then discarding the blankets and stowing her dress, bundled Megan in her cloak and then his own. So very carefully and gently he picked her up and sat her atop the horse. And then he leapt up behind her, his arms coming around her holding her closer to him.
After drawing the reins, he looked down, she was watching him quietly, her face buried in the cloaked material, her eyes solemnly peeking out. She closed her eyes and leaned back against his chest, and he swallowed, his heart suddenly in his throat.
With a cluck of his tongue, Caesar began to trot, and Erik felt her body sway against his, absently registering the feeling of being so near another, a young woman at that.
Like so many encounters with Megan, this night had been extraordinary in its number of firsts. And Erik replayed each and every one of them in his mind's eye as he savored the sensation of holding a living woman in his arms. Never mind that she was oblivious to it all. That did not matter.
What did matter was that he held her—she trusted him to hold and care for her—and again, that peculiar feeling in his chest and throat occurred, and he had to swallow it back. He did not examine the feeling too closely; it was wholly foreign and unfamiliar. But it left him warm in the cold night, and it came as some surprise when they had arrived at the stable where Caesar was kept.
Alighted deftly, he drew her down in his arms once more. Once he got her situated, he would return and care for Caesar; the old man had certainly earned his oats this night. "You're carrying me again." Erik looked down to see her eyes once more watching him steadily beneath the many folds of cloak. She looked exhausted but very much alert.
"Why ruin a good habit, my dear?" he rejoined, making his way deep into the passageways.
"You'll throw out your back." This stated chidingly from the darkness.
"You worry needlessly, Megan. Your weight is slight, and to carry you is no burden." He proceeded to show her that he could indeed do so one-handed if necessary.
"How did you come to be so strong?" There was a bit of wonder and awe in her voice, and the very masculine part of Erik preened at the praise.
"Plenty of hard work, blood, sweat, and tears, Megan." He fed her own words back to her and felt her stiffen slightly in his hold.
"I tell people the truth, and they don't believe, Erik."
"Yes, and I am telling you the truth. Will you believe me, ptitchka?" His Voice was laced with humor. She grew more pliant in his hold.
"Well, you could at least tell me how you learned some of the things you've learned. I think I counted at least four different languages when I had a look at the books in your study. Can you speak them all fluently?"
"Vy , moya ptichka , daleki k lyuboznatel'nym vdvoye. Wǒ huì hěn lèyì fēnxiǎng wǒ de zhīshì. Das ist, wenn Sie ein Talent dafür zu zeigen? Ma anche se non lo fai, posso ancora rivelare a voi che siete un bel po 'di bagagli da per me tengo tra le mie braccia." *
He felt her shift and knew she was trying to peer through the darkness up at him. Her eyes were round with wonder. "What did you say?"
"I said that if you had a talent for assimilating language, I would teach you to do so."
"Really? Oh, that would be wonderful! I've always wanted to learn another language." She tilted her head, "Russian perhaps? After all, Tchaikovsky was Russian, and I've always wanted to go to Moscow." Her excitement was a tangible thing, and Erik smiled in the darkness. He turned a corner, and the lake was once more before them.
"Megan—"Erik was hesitant to voice his decision to have her stay the night in his quarters, but he wouldn't want to abduct her. His Voice filled with uncertainty, he stated, "I would like for you to stay as a guest in my quarters tonight." Was it his imagination or did he just feel her relax slightly in his hold? Your condition needs to be monitored, and it is late—far too late for you to return to your own quarters at risk of waking your mother."
He saw her smile gently in the darkness, "I have a confession, Erik. I told my mother I was staying with my Cousin Adele for the night because I did not know how late we would be in getting back. I had planned to sleep in one of the dormitories upstairs and return in the early afternoon."
Unconsciously, Erik pulled her closer to him, "Well then, it is a fait accompli." He loaded her once more into the boat and punting, made his way home. He was unsurprised to see that she had dozed off once more on the journey there.
As he unwrapped her from the cloaks and placed her in the Louis Phillipe, she looked up, and smiling, brought a hand to his masked cheek, "I reek of horse blanket, fear, and sweat, Erik, and I would really like a bath."
He placed his hand over her own and held it tight. "Tomorrow, ptitchka. Tomorrow. For now, you need sleep." And Erik hummed a little string of the melody he had composed with her in mind and watched in satisfaction as her eyes drifted shut and she relaxed once more, succumbing to the healing powers of rest.
After returning from tending Caesar, he sat by her bedside and watched her until the candle at her bedside gutted low and then went out. And finally, he permitted himself to rest, for a moment only he told himself, with her at his side.
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A/N: Just what did Erik say?! *Russian: "You, my little bird, are far too inquisitive by half. Mandarin: And I would be happy to share my knowledge. German:That is if you show a talent for it? Italian: But even if you do not, I can still reveal to you that you are a beautiful bit of baggage for me to hold in my arms."
I trusted Google translate—blame them if it's wrong—and if it is, please let the authoress know ;-)
Also, I borrowed a wee dram a' poetry from Robert Browning's My Last Duchess—a truly scintillating read if ever there was one. I like my Erik to be a smidge malevolent in his possession and desire, and I think this poem would appeal to him greatly as pertaining to our little ballerina. What say you fare reader?
review please. it means the world to this little authoress and all feedback is most welcome.
