Paige Turner: Hello again. End of the school year brings good writing times and bad writing times. I wasn't able to write at all while completing two really long projects for my English class, but I was able to use the time that everyone else in my classes were reviewing for finals to write and draw. So, here you have it, the first part of chapter 8.
I'm sorry the story seems to be going really slowly – I just start writing, and more stuff ends up on paper than I had originally intended. So…. bear with me, I'm trying to move as quickly as I can, and I hope the story still makes sense and all.
But I'm rambling.
And, on a side note, I looked for probably an hour straight on the internet, trying to find if the Opera Garnier had indoor plumbing in 1870. Needless to say, I was unsuccessful, so you get a rather fuzzy account of water pumps and heating cauldrons. If you know the real plumbing situation of the time, I would love it if you told me. Though for the sake of time and effort, I probably won't go back and change anything. Just so I'd know, you see.
Anyway, here you have it. Enjoy, and don't forget to review!
Chapter 8
A Glorious Gala
It was several seconds before Meg realized vaguely where she was. Slowly, she remembered that her body was sore from a morning of dancing, that she had not seen her father in nearly ten years, that she was safe. Still, she reached needily for a pillow and curled around it, hugging the worn material desperately with her whole body. She was exhausted and stressed, and she did not bother trying to stop her tears.
Seconds after her awakening, Meg heard the scuffle of feet in the corridor, inches away on the other side of the wall. Then came the rushed rattle of a key in her lock, then the handle turned and the door burst open, and a very mussed-looking Christine rushed to Meg's bedside.
"Meg, Meg!" she cried, hurrying over and falling to her knees beside her friend's nightstand. "Wake up, Meg, come on, wake up." Her voice, though quick, was low and soothing.
Meg's sobs quieted as Christine put a hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. Still half-trapped in the memory, at first Meg jumped and flinched at the touch, but as her hand contacted Christine's smaller one, she relaxed and opened her eyes.
Slowly, Meg sat up, bracing herself against the mattress with both arms. Christine rocked back on her heels, watching Meg warily. Meg looked around the room as though assuring herself that she was really there. Her eyes were wide and dark, still half-muddled with sleep.
Then she shook herself visibly, and when she looked back at Christine her eyes were once again relaxed, clear, and sharp.
"I'm sorry," Meg said softly. "You should be resting for tonight. I didn't mean to wake you."
Christine smiled weakly, still concerned. "It's quite alright. I wasn't asleep yet anyway."
Meg was surprised. "What time is it?" she asked. There was a large wall clock at the end of the corridor, and she thought that Christine might have glimpsed it as she hurried in.
She had. "Only a little after one-thirty," she said apologetically.
Meg swore mentally. She still had two hours' worth of rest available, but she was far too frightened to fall asleep. In her exhausted state, she did not know what other painful memories her dreams would dredge forth.
Christine saw her friend's discomfort and held back a pitying sigh. Meg was so strong when she was awake, it was a shame that her one weakness came when she had no control over her actions. For as long as Christine could remember, Meg had been plagued by nightmares. Though the frequency of such terrors had decreased, Christine still occasionally found herself woken in the dead of night by sobs or a piercing scream from the next room. She would always rush over to pull the unfortunate girl out of her dream, and sit with Meg until she was calm enough to sleep again. But Christinedidn't mind. Meg had helped her so much by being a friend over the past few years, that Christine was glad to be able to repay her in some small way.
"Do you want me to sit with you?" Christine asked kindly.
Meg shook her head. "No, it's quite alright. It wasn't too bad; I'll just read for a while and I'll be fine. You go and get your rest – you have a big night tonight."
The brunette nodded. She would not stay if she was not wanted – it would offend Meg's sensitive pride to insist that she needed company.
Besides, she had another reason to want to return to her own room….
"What was that all about?" boomed the Voice as Christine softly shut the dressing room door behind her. The Voice was deep and menacing, threatening anger if Christine did not immediately supply a suitable explanation for her hasty departure.
Trembling, Christine hurried to her full-length mirror and knelt before it. "I –I'm sorry, Angel," she stammered. She could not risk His anger – not on a night like this. "It was my friend, Meg Giry. She had a nightmare. I always wake her up when that happens—"
"Always?" the Voice interrupted, the heavenly tones slicing smoothly through her babble. That simple question demanded an answer.
"Y-Yes," Christine muttered, surprise at her Angel's momentary lack of knowledge warring with guilt at betraying Meg's secret. "Ever since I've known her, Meg has been plagued by nightmares. She never speaks of them, so I cannot be sure, but I hear her muttering in her sleep – she cries out in pain, and always wakes up sobbing or screaming. I think she is remembering her life before she moved here, but maybe an overactive imagination is all that bothers her. She is such a strong girl, to have such a curse." Christine fell silent, staring at her small white hands clasped neatly in her lap.
Then came the Voice, caressing her ears lovingly, as warm and comforting as a warm blanket and a seat by a fireside after walking through a cold winter night.
"You have done well, my dear child," the Voice told her. She thought her heart would burst, it swelled so with the praise! "You have a kind and compassionate heart." Oh joy, that he should compliment her twice!
"Now, child, you must rest. Climb into bed, and I shall sing you a lullaby."
Christine obeyed immediately, eager to hear his glorious voice lifted in a beautiful song meant only for her ears.
"But, Angel, it is not yet two o'clock. I did not practice as the other girls did; I –"
"Do not question me, child." The Voice was an immovable rod of iron that barred any protests.
Obediently, Christine climbed into bed, drawing only the thinner of her two blankets over herself. For all it was early winter, it was warm in the Opera House after a morning of so many bodies rushing about and rehearsing.
"Now, close your eyes,"
This was spoken is so soft and ordinary a voice that, for a moment, Christine could believe that it was spoken by a real man bending over her – her father, perhaps – rather than her powerful Guardian Angel of Music. Still, she obeyed.
Even if she had not chosen to close her eyes, she would have found them shut regardless in the next few moments. The Voice began a soft, sweet lullaby, one that Christine had heard many times as a child but had nearly forgotten. The song called her into a dreamland of soft pillows and billowy clouds, of Angels and music.
After less than a minute of the beautiful, wordless song, Christine was fast asleep.
Ending his song with a subtle diminuendo, Erik stood silently with one gloved hand resting lightly on the glass of the mirror. So easily did his Angel succumb to the power of his voice, his one beauty. Would she be so willing once she saw his face, saw who – no, what he really was? Maybe this was a bad idea, after all…
No, Erik told himself firmly as he turned form the mirror with a swish of is long black cape. This is no time for regrets. He began to head down the secret corridor, back to his home in the cellars. For some reason, he did not want to watch his Angel as she slept just now, hypnotized by the beauty of his voice. It was giving him a very peculiar sensation in his gut, what he believed the performers called "butterflies in the stomach" – nerves. The Phantom of the Opera did not get nervous, Erik told himself. It wasn't right. And that was why he left.
Not normally being one to peep into the girls' dressing rooms, Erik surprised himself by stopping at the next mirror, that of little Meg Giry. He watched with detached interest as she rose shakily from bed, still in her practice clothes, and crossed to a tall shelving unit between her nightstand and the mirror. He watched as she selected a large green book with simply the word "Mythology" embossed on the spine without seeming to look at it, turned, and nearly dove headfirst back into her bed. As it was, she landed with a rather heavy flump, and Erik was sure she must have hurt her head with the impact. But she merely rolled over, flipped the matted blonde locks over her shoulder with one hand, opened the book to an apparently random page, and began reading. Every now and then, her eyes would unfocus, showing a lapse in her concentration. She appeared highly distracted, but was obviously doing her best to occupy her mind with legends of peoples long gone.
What was it that so haunted this girl in the darkness? Erik wondered if her nightmares had been the initial cause of her midnight stroll the night before. And why did this girl come so suddenly into his life, just when he was the most stressed and worried, when everything else was requiring his full attention, with so many plans being set into action? She was turning into and interesting little enigma, and remembering their past history of association, he was mildly interested in learning about her. After all, she was a permanent resident of his Opera, and everything that occurred in his Opera was his business.
However, he had no time to worry about the girl now, and decided it would be best to ignore her. If necessary, he might have to discover the subject of her nighttime fears. He would bring them to life in front of her if it was necessary to remove her from his business. Erik would suffer no pangs of conscience about torturing her so – after all, he had driven his own mother mad with is voice and imagination. Why should he feel bad about doing the same to a mere ballet rat?
Unfortunately, it never occurred to him that perhaps Meg would not allow herself to be ignored.
With a shudder, Meg let the thick book fall from limp fingers, where the pages crumpled and folded against the floor. She immediately set the tome right, trying to block the surprisingly vivid image of poor King Oedipus blinding himself with some of his wife/mother's pins. She shook herself again, trying to rid herself of the painful image.
Was there to be no peace for her? she wondered as she reluctantly climbed out of bed and headed to her washbasin. Last night, this morning, her dream – she had more excitement in the last twelve hours than she'd had in the last several months. Even reading brought her no escape or peace of mind.
Meg decided to take a bath. She thought that all the other girls would be asleep yet, and wanted to clean up for the performance while there was no line for the baths.
Quickly, Meg gathered a change of clothes – chemise, corset, stockings, slippers, and dress. She also brought a washrag, a small bottle of bath oil, and some soap. She slipped silently out of her door, shut it softly behind her, and then padded quietly through the maze of backstage corridors.
She soon came upon a door marked "Salle de Bains." She knocked quietly, remembering one time when she was thirteen and she had forgotten to knock. She had walked in on an elder ballerina and a stable boy in one of the bathtubs, making quite a mess and racket. Ever since, Meg had never once forgotten to knock before entering the bathroom.
Receiving no response, Meg slowly opened the door and peered inside. Good, the room was empty. A large pump stood in the center of the room, with a large iron kettle on a stand over it. Another kettle lay to one side of a large dark fire grate, over which stood another iron hanging frame. A row of fine bathtubs extended the length of the large room, and on the far wall were propped a number of tall dressing screens which were rarely used, and a number of small benches.
Meg selected the tub nearest the pump and set her wash things on its rim. She carried one of the wooden benches from the side of the room and set it beside her chosen bathtub, and set her clothes on it. In the event that she spilled some water, her clothes would remain dry.
Next, Meg lit a fire in the pit, using tinder and a lighter already near. Then she pumped a kettleful of water and hung it over the growing, hungry flames.
While this heated, Meg pumped another large amount of water. Then she retrieved a towel from the cabinets at the back of the room and placed it beside her clothes. Then she set a dressing screen around the tub, which would shield her in the case of any unexpected visitors. Most of the girls were comfortable with bathing in front of each other, most of them having grown up together, but Meg found it exceedingly awkward to be walked in upon by only a single girl, almost as awkward as walking in on someone else.
With some difficulty, Meg carried the now steaming cauldron of water to her bathtub and poured it in, careful not to slosh it over the high sides. She set the empty kettle to one side and set its fellow to heat. While it heated, she rearranged her bath things, and added bath oil to the warm water. Darn. That was the last of her oil, and it was her favorite. She rinsed the bottle out in the bathwater to get the last of the oil out, smiling and inhaling deeply as a sharp citrus scent filled the air. Shame. That bottle had been a birthday gift from her mother, and she couldn't hope for another until Christmas, which was still several weeks away.
After carefully adding the second batch of water, Meg peeled off her sweaty leotard, skirt, flounce, and underthings, and climbed gratefully into the warm water. The tub was a bit small for her long limbs, but that was why she had used a double amount of water. She had no idea that the soap-skimmed water was protecting her modesty from the prying eyes of the stagehand Joseph Buquet, who was at that moment standing on a footstool and peering greedily through an air vent in the next room.
Meg sighed happily as the warm water soaked into her tired limbs and allowed herself to relax. She imagined all of the pain and bad memories lifting out of her body like a stain being washed out of clothes, leaving her clean and peaceful. She sat there motionless for several minutes, and then decided that she should get washed and out before the other girls came in to clean before the performance. She also decided to use the time constructively, and turn her mind to more pressing matters.
Lathering her hair quickly with soap, Meg took a deep breath and sunk under the water. Her blonde locks turned dark in the water and waved loose and weightless like Medusa's snakes. With the water pressing in on her ears, she could hear no sound except for her slow heartbeat – a base drum's beat pounding out a rhythm to her thoughts.
Now, to the matter of this Angel, Meg thought in her most brisk, businesslike manner. She knew she had made some connection just before falling asleep, but for the life of her, she couldn't remember.
She tried to recall what Christine had told her. A mysterious man "angel" had heard her sing three years ago and had since been giving her voice lessons from behind her dressing room's mirror. In addition, during these three years, Christine had shown very few signs of improvement, and Meg herself had never learned of these private lessons.
It all seemed very odd. Yesterday, Meg would have doubted that Christine could hide something like that, for so long, from a girl who was as close as a sister to her.
Have there been signs all along that I've just not noticed? Meg wondered, briefly coming up for air.
But one thought still stuck firmly in Meg's mind. She couldn't help having the strangest instinct that this sudden revelation of Christine's Angel and her recent incidents involving their resident Ghost were closely connected. If only there was a way she could be sure!
Wait a minute. Maybe there is….
Meg hurried to finish her bath and dressed at top speed. She drained her bathwater and set the screen and stool back where they belonged, then gathered her things and hurried from the room.
She stopped by her dressing room to drop off her bath things, then hurried through the maze of corridors into the section of the Populaire where the higher-paid staff members like her mother had their rooms. She found the appropriate door and rapped three times sharply, in accordance with the small sign on the doorknob reading "Please Knock Before Entering."
Meg bounced up and down impatiently on the balls of her feet as she waited for the room's occupant to open the door. At last, it creaked slowly open, and Meg leaned forward eagerly.
"Tell me everything you know about the Phantom of the Opera."
Well, this is only half of what I've written for chapter Eight, but I think it's long enough for its own post. I'll get the rest up as soon as I can type it in; hopefully that'll be some time later today. But I make no guarantees.
Lovelove,
Paige Turner
