"Beautiful evening, isn't it?"
Madame Giry sat at the head of the table with Erik to her left and Meg to her right. There seemed to be more food than necessary on the table, but he didn't argue or complain.
The small dining room was cozy, the fabric walls patterned with flowers against a crème background. Embroidered place mats with fine silver graced the table and he wondered how Madame and her daughter had paid for such a nicely furnished flat, especially on short notice.
Even without looking at Meg he could still feel her glaring at him, and even though he wanted to think her opinion meant nothing to him, the flat was entirely too small to ignore one of the only two people he knew.
Meg, however, seemed to feel as though ignoring him were not only an option but a preference.
"Do you remember that little theater across the street from the Nesier?" Meg asked. The sun was at her back, peering through the small dining room window as dusk fell over Paris.
Erik looked up from his soup, startled by her voice. Meg stared at her mother, her gaze not once wavering to acknowledge him. The room was small—or cozy as Madame had described it to him, far too intimate to completely close out one person.
"Yes, of course," Madame said. "Why do you ask?"
"They're hiring dancers," Meg answered. "I considered auditioning next Tuesday."
Erik vaguely knew the theater she'd mentioned as he'd passed the unassuming building tucked in between a bakery, a hat shop, and a few cafes and public houses.
With no parents or guardians, he'd roamed the alleys and shadows at night, snatched bread and sweets from bakery trays, lifed shoes and hats from carts during evening deliveries. He knew the city well enough.
The place Meg referred to had seemed relatively busy whenever he passed at night, patrons outside smoking and carrying on in between acts. He wasn't quite sure what sort of dancers they employed as he'd always thought of their acts as bawdy.
"Ah, yes," Madame said, sounding distracted as she reached for her wine. She kept her gaze trained on her glass and the merlot swishing around like the deep red eye of a storm. "Dancers, musicians, and a whole ensemble from what I read in the newspaper. Perhaps they would even consider works by a new composer."
Meg scoffed. "They already outlined their next two seasons," she pointed out.
"There is always next year." Madame shrugged and glanced at Erik. "Always room for talent."
"They're only accepting three new dancers," Meg interrupted. "I wonder if I would be accepted."
Her mother shrugged. "You've worked your entire life for your career," she said. "They would be fortunate to have you. Besides, they will recognize the name Giry, no doubt about that, my dear."
Meg ate in silence for a moment, stirring her soup as she managed to find the fabric wall of more interest than daring to look across the table.
"I want to be accepted because I am a good dancer, not because of my name," Meg replied at last.
"You cannot help who you are," Madame said absently.
Erik set his spoon on the edge of his plate and took a deep breath. For years he'd strived to go about his life unseen, but this was different. She refused to acknowledge him and he tired of being a ghost in the open.
He watched her a moment, wondered why she had searched for him in the catacombs but now wanted nothing to do with him. Perhaps her mother had sent her and she regretted being ordered around.
"I think you'd be accepted based on your talent," Erik said suddenly.
Meg slowly lifted her gaze and stared blankly at him. She took a careful sip of wine and he assumed she would simply look away and continue to ignore him.
"Ah, so you are now an expert on ballet, Monsieur?" she questioned.
"An observation," he muttered, regretting his attempt at complimenting her. "Nothing more."
"I don't need your observations," she replied as she slammed her wine glass on the table.
"I never said you did," he countered.
"Then why do you bother speaking?" she snapped.
"Then what do you want? Your mother's assurance that you will be accepted into their dance troupe and continue your career? How many performances have you seen there? What sort of dances do they perform to entertain their crowd?" He growled, his voice raising as he climbed to his feet and stared down at her.
Madame lifted her chin and looked sternly from Erik to Meg. "I would rather eat in silence than listen to the two of you argue."
"I didn't start this," Erik said under his breath as he collapsed into his seat and looked away.
Meg snorted. "This may very well be the first disaster you didn't have a hand in it."
He slammed his fist onto the table and Meg jumped, color draining from her complexion. Wide eyes stared back at him, her expression filled with horror at his sudden outburst.
Frustrated, he pushed his chair back and prepared to storm from the dining room and into his own dark, solitary space, but Meg stood first.
"Both of you sit," Madame ordered.
After attempting to ignore him during supper, Meg refused to look away. She stared him down in a way no one had dared to do in a very long time. Despite his trepidation, he couldn't help but be somewhat impressed by her bold nature. He'd always thought of her as a shrieking child, but she showed as much gumption as her mother.
"I don't need or want your charity," he snapped, his words directed at Meg.
"Without our charity, where in the hell would you be?" Meg snarled in return.
"Dead," he answered without missing a beat. "Dead and rotting in hell."
Silence consumed the dining room and he wasn't sure who was more shocked by his revelation; Madame Giry, who remained seated, Meg, who stood with her lips parted, or himself for his brutal honesty.
"I left and expected to disappear," he said when no one else spoke. He took a step back, his heart thudding wildly. "You shouldn't have come looking for me."
Meg turned her attention toward her mother as though she expected an explanation. Madame folded her napkin and sighed, her lips forming a deep set frown.
"You wished to perish in a slum?" she questioned at last. "Die alone and disgraced?"
He owed her no answers. He didn't owe anyone an explanation of what he wanted. No one would understand how he had existed for years, the turmoil he'd experienced throughout his life.
"Is that what you wanted?" Madame questioned forcefully.
"I wished to be left alone," he replied, his tone matching hers.
She grunted. "Alone yet again."
There was no other choice, especially not now, especially after all that had transpired. The gendarmes would be on the lookout for a masked stranger for weeks yet, possibly months. They would seek their revenge—and he assumed they would eventually find him.
The vicomte de Chagny knew the dreadful secrets of a disfigured monster had been kept safe by Madame Giry. Even though the vicomte most likely had fled Paris, he assumed the gendarmes were aware of the relation between Madame and the Phantom. In time they would seek her out, question her, and possibly find him.
Now that a week had passed since the disaster, he felt as though he deserved to be found.
"Did you put my…" he hesitated, unsure if he could truly say the words.
"Obituary in the paper?" Madame said on his behalf.
He nodded, conflicted by grief and elation. Perhaps if he were dead to Paris he could live again, rise from the ashes like some twisted Phoenix. He should have been dead long ago, he thought, or more precisely he should have never taken his first breath.
"The obituary runs in three days," Madame answered casually. "As you requested."
He hoped at last this would bring about a sense of peace, though deep inside he already knew he would never find a sanctuary. Beneath the opera house had been one cage, a lonely yet masterful kingdom he had built himself. Now he lived within another cage, one where he couldn't quite escape. There he could live in misery and regret or step outside and into custody of the authorities.
The choice between the scorpion and the grasshopper, he mused.
"Does this please you?" Madame asked with a touch of venom in her words.
"This suits me," he corrected.
Nothing would ever please him again, especially with Christine gone from his life. He wished he had called out her name when she turned from him and left with her fiancé. He wished he had pleaded with her, asked for a moment of her time in order to prove his worth.
Regret knifed through him, nearly buckled his knees. His stomach churned and he held his breath, waiting for the swell of emotion to at last settle again. All of the years of his life had passed him by, useless and forgotten.
Madame's face paled. "What are you doing?" she asked, sounding frantic as though she fully suspected he silently schemed before her eyes.
Erik took a step back and turned from them, wondering how he would spend his last three days before his final act.
Meg and her mother exchanged wary glances once Erik exited the dining room and shut the door behind him.
"He's up to something," Meg said under her breath. Fear settled within her, which she attempted to push away. He'd been nothing but a nuisance, a plague like the vermin crawling beneath the opera house. She didn't want to feel sorry for him; in fact she wanted to feel indifference, if not pure hate.
"Yes." Her mother frowned and sighed. "The obituary," she said softly.
Meg felt herself shudder, an undeniable sensation of pure dread. "What about the obituary?"
Her mother pushed her chair back and clasped her hands in her lap. She looked tired and defeated, a shadow of the ballet instructor she had been.
"Mother?" Meg questioned.
Mother Giry wiped the tears from her eyes and inhaled sharply. "You don't know what he's been through," she sniffled. "What hardships he's endured, what cruelty he's experienced in his lifetime."
Meg sucked in her lower lip and sat again, realizing she knew very little about the man her mother insisted was worth saving. What others had feared and loathed, her mother had insisted was a misunderstanding, a conclusion drawn too soon.
"Tell me," she said quietly. "Please, Mother, tell me the truth."
