Sorry the last chapter was kinda short. I didn't really like it that much, but I feel like the quality of my story's gonna drop. I don't know why, but I do.
Okay, so maybe "E/M interaction" was a bit of a misnomer, but they interacted, didn't they?
Anyway, ever wonder why no one was freaking out at the Opera House when Christine just dropped off the face of the earth for two weeks? Here.
Oh, and Meg's having one of those days. You know, the ones where you wake up feeling rotten and you just want to lie in bed until it's all over. That's how I'm feeling with my strep throat right now, but I actually wrote this part before I became sick. That's how she wakes up feeling.
…
Chapter 12A Lot of Lying, a Repulsive Return
As Meg was awoken the next morning by the familiar sounds of a stirring opera house, it was several moments before she could explain the cold feeling of dread in her stomach. She felt awful, as though she hadn't gotten a single wink of sleep. As the clatter of a single pair of high-heeled boots echoed down the nearest wooden staircase, Meg only rolled over in her blanket bundle so that her nose was an inch from the oak paneling of the wall.
Oh, no, Christine! She thought as she groaned. What was she going to do?
The distinctive click of her mother's boots reached Meg's ears, and it occurred to her that perhaps she wouldn't have to think up something to do after all.
"Time to get up, Meg, let's go," Madame Giry called, far too cheerful for the early hour of the morning.
Meg's response was an inarticulate groan muffled by the blankets pulled up over her mouth, but her mother made no comment as she continued down the hall.
"Christine? Time to wake up, dear!" Meg lay motionless as she listened to her mother rattle Christine's door handle.
"Christine?" More rattling.
"Christine!" Now a jingle as Madame Giry fumbled with the key ring tied at her waist, a rattle as she worriedly unlocked the door.
Here we go… Meg thought resignedly.
"Meg!"
Meg answered with another inarticulate groan as her mother stormed out of Christine's room and into her own.
"Meg, wake up!"
Groggily, Meg sat up, her new blankets falling heavily off of her thin shoulders and onto her lap. Madame Giry was taken aback by the sight of her. Her daughter's eyes were underscored with dark shadows, her blonde hair frizzed in a messy cloud around her head, her skin was deathly pale, and the prop of her arms on her pillows caused her sharp collarbones over her nightshift to stand out in stark relief.
Meg stared back at her mother with wide, empty eyes. Madame Giry was dressed in a loose, dark navy gown, with large gold buttons across the chest and a gold-embroidered navy shawl clasped neatly about her shoulders. She had clearly been in a good mood after the previous night's triumph, and Meg hated to ruin her happiness, but there were more important things at stake here.
"Mon Dieu, you look terrible, cherie!" Mme Giry said with a look of intense worry.
Meg waved off her exclamation with a limp flip of a wrist and flopped back down heavily onto her pillows, pulling the blankets back over her head to block out the light her mother let in from the lantern-lit hallway.
Brisk in her concern, Mme Giry crossed to Meg's bedside and placed a cool hand on Meg's forehead. The child was not warm – on the contrary, the girl's pale skin was cool to the touch – so there was thankfully no sign of a fever.
"Are you feeling alright, Meg dear?" Mme Giry murmured soothingly.
Meg nodded. "I'm fine," she muttered. "I just… didn't sleep well."
Mme Giry nodded, patting the blankets atop her daughter in a comforting manner. Suddenly she stopped, focusing on the thick, high-quality bed coverings under her hand.
"Meg? Where did you get these?"
Meg shrugged and rolled over, burrowing her face into her pillow.
"From the prop closet," Meg mumbled. "Mine were full of holes."
"Did you ask Madame DuLevre?"
"No, but there was a younger woman there at the same time, who might have been one of her assistants, and she said she's tell her."
Madame Giry nodded, satisfied by this entirely false explanation. Then she remembered why she had come.
"Oh, Meg! Christine – she's gone! She's not in her room!"
Meg didn't move. "Je sais."
Mme Giry's intake of breath was clearly audible. "Did she…that viscount…not Christine!"
Meg opened her eyes only to roll them. "Non, Maman, elle n'a pas parti avec le viscount heir soir."
"Then where –?"
"Je ne sais pas. I went to talk to her last night after the viscount had left, and she was not there. I heard her in her room, I saw the Viscount leave, I didn't see her leave, and then she was gone." Meg laughed bitterly. "Maybe it was the Phantom of the Opera," she said, her voice laced heavily with sarcasm.
Madame Giry's face paled several shades when it dawned on her that her daughter's bad-tempered joking was probably correct. If the Opera Ghost had been teaching Christine…and he would certainly have the power…oh my God…
Meg had turned her face back into her pillow, wiggling her feet until they were free of the winding sheets. "Well? Any plans as to what you're going to tell the new managers?"
Madame Giry took these words like a physical blow, and Meg immediately regretted her callous speech. Sighing, she sat up and flung the blankets off her, suddenly far too warm.
In a softer, kinder voice, Meg said, "I was thinking we could tell them what I told the Viscount last night, when Christine didn't want to see him anymore. We could say that she has fallen gravely ill with yesterday's excitement, and is in absolutely no condition to perform. We already had the gala – after opening night the audience descends the social ladder – no one will complain. I'm sure you could," Meg grimaced, "write Carlotta, and she would return to sing. If the new managers sent a bribe."
"Don't you think they will be suspicious, want to see her?"
Meg shook her head, warming to her plan. "All men know that women are delicate creatures, who must not be excited. They will believe that Christine has fallen ill, and we can say that she is healing at a friend's house in the city. She will be quite safe until she is well again, and she will return before the next opera is cast." If only I could be sure that that were true…
Madame Giry stood abruptly, and straightened her dress and shawl in Meg's large mirror. "Yes, that might work, dearest." She turned and gave Meg two swift kisses on each cheek, and cupped her face gently in one small hand. "Get cleaned up and dressed, Meg. We have a brush-up rehearsal this morning, and you shouldn't be late. I'll go speak to the managers about Christine's… illness."
Meg smiled weakly after her mother as she quit the room, the door swinging quietly shut behind her. With another groan, she pushed herself off of the bed and slid over to her wooden makeup chair. When she first caught sight of herself in her small makeup mirror, it took all of her willpower not to turn around and dive headfirst back into bed. God, she did look awful.
But Meg had been a member of the theatre troupe long enough to well appreciate the miracles of stage makeup. Putting her face close to the mirror over the table, she quickly applied enough concealer, powder, and eye makeup to lessen her resemblance to a cancer victim. After reassuring herself that she would no longer scare the other girls, Meg dressed in a practice skirt and leotard identical to the one she had worn the day previous.
Now considering herself mildly presentable, Meg made to follow her mother down the hall. At the doorway, however, she stopped, her eye having been caught by a pile of dirty laundry from the day before. Sighing, as she really didn't feel like dealing with anything today, she scooped up the discarded garments and dumped them in a hamper for the maids to collect later. As the bundle hit the bottom of the hamper, Meg heard a crunching sound, and she sighed. She dug trough the hamper until she emerged with the Phantom's crumpled note, with bits of wax sticking to the back the only remnants of the scarlet death's head seal.
As she stared at the wrinkled note, memories of the previous night flashed across her mind with an overwhelming clarity. The fabled lasso flashing toward her, the white mask glowing in the blackness, the skeletal hand on her throat, the grate of his powerful voice on her ears…
Meg arose from the memory to find she had her hands clasped over hear ears in an attempt to block out a voice that was only in her mind. Startled at her own actions, she lowered her hands to her throat, trying to forget the feel of those dead fingers there. She winced. Checking her throat in the mirror, she groaned. Faint bluish bruising was already showing up against her pale skin. Damn.
If that had been a man in that corridor last night, he was the most terrifying, the most powerful, the least to-be-trifled-with man she had ever seen.
And he had Christine.
Oh, God, please keep her safe. Wherever she is, let her be safe…
…
…
A sharp rapping on her door abruptly pulled Meg out of her prayer. Without waiting for a response, Lissette, Marie, and Julie came tumbling in, all trying to squeeze their way through the door at once.
Marie bounded across the room and plopped heavily onto the bed next to Meg. "Time to go, sleepy-head! Brush-up rehearsals today, don't want to be late! Where's Christine; she didn't answer when we knocked. Hey, when'd you get these sheets? We don't have any this nice upstairs, where'd you get them?"
With yet another sigh at her friend's incessant chattering, Meg lowered one hand, keeping the other to prop her head up. "From the prop closet. You can check later and see if there are any more, if you like."
"Well, I think I will. It gets cold up there, and the winter's only just beginning…"
Meg noticed that Lissette was peering at her, her exotically slanted eyes narrowing in concern as she leaned forward to examine her friend. She cut smoothly through Marie's babble. "You must look terrible under all that makeup, don't you, Meg? Are you feeling well?"
Meg was taken aback. Trust Lissette, who had never stepped out of the dormitories (or anyone's room, for that matter) without several layers of makeup to enhance her natural beauty, to be the first to notice her façade.
"I didn't sleep well last night," Meg said, shrugging.
"Oh, really?" Lissette said, a knowing note in her voice.
Meg gave her a severe look, and Lissette laughed.
"You look far too much like your mother when you do that."
Julie, who hadn't been able to say anything so far, quietly repeated her twin's question. "Where's Christine?"
Lissette was still giggling. "Maybe she didn't sleep well last night either…"
Marie jumped in with enthusiasm. "I heard the new patron, that Viscount, asking after her last night in the corridor. Maybe…" She fell silent at Meg's glare, but Lissette only laughed harder.
"Christine is very ill, if you must know," Meg said coldly, annoyed by their loud noises. They were making her head start to hurt.
That quieted them quickly, save for Julie's soft "Oh, no."
Meg nodded. "The Viscount did speak with her last night, and invited her to dinner, but she felt too poorly to go out. After he left, she became very ill – stomach, head, everything. She was so bad that I had to go get Mother, and we almost called Doctor Liber, but we assumed it was just all of the day's excitement, and that she had made herself ill with the great stress of it all. She's resting at a friend of Mother's in the city, but I don't know if she'll be back in time for any more of the performances."
"Oh, that's terrible!" Marie and Julie exclaimed, seconded by Lissette.
"I do hope she can make it back in time!" Julie added.
So do I, Meg thought desperately.
"Are you going to tell the new managers, et le director?" Marie inquired.
"Maman will," Meg assured her. "She's going to see what it'll take to bring Carlotta back for the rest of the run."
Three groans echoed Meg's sentiments exactly.
"I know." She sighed, and pushed herself off of the bed. "Well, we shouldn't be late. Andiamo," she said, using one of Carlotta's favorite phrases in honor of her imminent return.
More groans followed as the four girls exited the room.
…
As soon as they entered the backstage area, Meg was confronted by the two new managers, closely followed by her mother. The other young women fled at the approaching sight of them.
"You are the young woman who knows what has happened to Miss Daae?" Monsieur Firmin boomed, his broad frame looming over Meg imposingly. "Giry, yes?"
Meg curtsied, blue eyes briefly meeting her mother's for reassurance. "Oui, monsieur." She would say no more until asked to speak.
"Is it true she has fallen ill?" M Andre asked.
Meg's curtsey to him included the smallest of smiles. He, at least, seemed concerned about Christine's well being. "Oui, monsieur. Very ill. I—" but she stopped, not wanting to overstep her boundaries. There had been no way yet to learn how strict the new managers would be about ballet girls remembering their place.
At a smiling nod from M Andre and an anxious sigh and gesture from M Firmin, Meg continued. "I was called to her room after the Viscount visited with her, just in time to watch her be very sick. She was shaking, and very hot, and we – Maman and I – thought that the best thing for her would be to get away from the Opera House until she recovers."
"I have sent her to an old acquaintance of mine in the city," Madame Giry cut in, drawing the pressure of the managers' stare off her daughter. "She will be safe there until she is ready to perform."
"It's just as well," M Firmin muttered, turning to his shorter companion. "If the newspapers get a hold of the news that she has disappeared, it could be disastrous for business!" A calculating gleam appeared in his sharp grey eyes, and his brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Then again, a little mystery and intrigue never hurt attendance at all…"
M Andre ignored his partner, used to his incessant financial scheming. His kindly face was reddening in tension as he turned in supplication to Madame Giry. "But what shall we do now, Madame? We have no star!"
"I do not believe Madame Guidichelli has fallen ill," the ballet mistress reminded him in her most severe tone.
Messrs Andre and Firmin looked shocked. "The Senora? Eh, we, we couldn't…"
Madame Giry managed to look severely down her nose at the pair, despite the fact that M Firmin was a head taller than she.
Still nervous, Andre looked up at Firmin. "We…we could…"
Firmin looked thoughtful, calculating. "Yes, we could…"
Daringly, Meg risked an impudent whisper in the nearby ear of M Andre. "I recommend a bribe."
The red-faced manager nodded absently. "Yes, yes, certainly…"
And the pair wondered off, already deep in conversation about how best to draw la Carlotta back to their stage.
The ladies Giry watched after them and sighed, identical feelings of relief and regret washing over them.
"Ah, well," Madame Giry said wistfully, clapping her daughter on the shoulder. "We should get practicing." And the pair wandered over to where the rest of the girls had congregated, stretching or talking in hushed tones.
Madame Giry tapped the stage floor loudly with her cane, and every ballerina already not on her feet leapt upright embarrassedly.
"As you may have already heard," she began, with a severe glance at Meg's three closest companions, "Christine Daae has fallen ill, and is unlikely to be joining us again tonight." No sounds of surprise greeted this announcement, so it was obvious that the news had already been spread. "Even though Signora Guidichelli," her tone did little to hide her poor opinion of the ill-mannered diva, "will most likely be returning to us, we will follow the same steps as we performed yesterday evening."
She paused, and glanced approvingly around at the ballet girls. Her girls. "You did very well last night, mes filles," she said, pride tinting her voice. "There were very few mistakes, and I could not have asked for harder work in light of yesterday's recasting. I am very proud of each and every one of you."
The girls turned to each other, smiling and speechless; the younger, still-in-training girls bouncing up and down in excitement. This rare praise made all their endless hours of hard work worthwhile. Even the curvaceous la Sorelli glowed inwardly at this praise from her instructor, though she did her best not to show it.
"However, there are still a few corrections that need to be dealt with. In Act I, Scene II, when Elisa's watching Hannibal leave from her balcony, Meg and Lissette, you two need to move right and back a little bit. Don't be downstage from Elisa, you blocked her from a few of the Grand Tier boxes in that scene last night…"
…
And so it went, with minor corrections and run-throughs of dance numbers, until nine-thirty. Then M Reyer took over, putting the orchestra on break and rehearsing lines with the girls where he thought they had been unclear. At periodic intervals, M DuGaulle would swagger in, a voluptuous blonde woman hanging on his arm whom everyone knew wasn't his wife, to offer some "constructive criticism" that either the ballet mistress or the conductor had already covered. His visits only served to make those running or in the rehearsal more annoyed, but he was always too absorbed in his companion to notice the exasperated looks and occasional dirty gestures thrown his way. However, he swept through only rarely, and the brush-up rehearsal ran exceedingly smoothly.
Until suddenly, predictably, horribly, the grand gold-embossed oak doors to the Grand Foyer were thrown open, and Signora Carlotta Guidichelli stormed in, tailed by Signor Piangi, two seamstresses, Carlotta's white poodle, a wigmaker, and several other lackeys whose purpose was not immediately determinable.
As the doors banged heavily off their braces (quite a feat, since Carlotta was a small woman and the doors were nearly twice her height and made of six-inch-thick solid oak, designed with thick golden spirals), Carlotta paused, backlit in the shaft of light spilling in from the windowed Foyer. In her enormous fluffy pink wrap, voluminous pink silk skirts, and gigantic pink-feathered hat, the diva made an imposing silhouette in the doorway. As she made her sweeping way up the center aisle between the scarlet velvet seats, followed by her small crowd of followers, Messrs Andre and Firmin appeared in the sunlit doorway, hurrying after the irate soprano.
The attention of everyone onstage was pulled from the rehearsal as the group approached Carlotta stomped up the stage right staircase, the vicious step of her pink high-heels muffled by the scarlet carpet. Her heavily make-upped face, as beautiful as it was meant to be, was twisted into an ugly sneer, her eyebrows drawn together, her lips twisting, her eyes narrowed to malicious slits. Her elaborate, rigidly set curls bounced off her pearl-embroidered pink bodice as she flounced up the stairs, viciously wrenching her long-nailed grip on her skirts from side to side with each step. Most in her path fled upon meeting her fiery glare, but she was quick to roughly shove aside any ballerina foolish or slow enough not to immediately vacate her path.
"Signora!" M Firmin was shouting after her, "Signora, please!"
Carlotta angrily tossed her curls over her shoulders with a shake of her head, never speaking or slowing.
"Signora," M Andre echoed, struggling to keep up on his shorter legs, "Signora, you are our star! We need you! Your public needs you!"
Carlotta whirled, nearly causing her wigmaker and a flustered-looking seamstress to step on her skirts. She shot them the briefest of contemptuous glances before addressing the managers as they hurried up the stairs after her.
"My public does not need me," she hissed, her Italian accent and rage twisting her words nearly beyond recognition. "My public would not know true talent if someone threw it in their stupid faces, the fools. All they want is that horrible croaking crow, Christine Daae." The Swedish name was the worst of curses through Carlotta's painted lips. "They want that glorified whore, that chorus girl." She ignored the way everyone around her stiffened and drew breath dangerously, oblivious in her anger. "They do not deserve my voice! I have worked for months to prepare a work of beauty for my public, and yet you replace me on a moment's notice with that impudent child!"
Meg was so angry at the slights on her friend that her duties to the Opera were momentarily forgotten. She was a moment from reminding Carlotta coldly that it was she who had walked out on them the day before, nearly throwing the entire production into chaos and ruin, but her mother's restraining hand on her wrist prevented her from doing anything rash. They needed Carlotta, as much as they hated the fact.
Messrs Andre and Firmin exchanged glances that said much the same. "But, Signora," M Firmin cut in smoothly, "Miss Daae was merely a temporary replacement – she could never compare to your…overwhelming presence."
"Parisian nobles are enchanted by the nouveau," M Andre continued, "but is the true artists that retain their support and love…for five seasons," he reminded her gently.
Carlotta was placated, but her show of anger barely lessened.
"Why should I waste my talent on those who cannot tell the difference between a true artist like myself, and a presumptuous ballerina like Christine Daae? Why should they deserve my effort, my time, my voice?"
Meg looked up, hopeful that another backdrop might be making its swift way down towards this blaspheming diva, but apparently their convenient Phantom was otherwise occupied.
M Firmin shot a significant look at M Andre, and the shorter man drew a thin square box from inside his suit jacket.
Carlotta's interest was instantly peaked. "What is that?" she demanded.
Andre opened the box to reveal the most stunning set of diamond earrings and necklace that any of them had ever seen. Carlotta's gasp of delight managed to drown out those from the surrounding chorus girls, all of whom were captivated by the enormous (and expensive) bribe.
The diva scurried forward and snatched the box from Andre's hands, fingering the jewels lovingly. With great difficulty, owing to the long pink talon at the end of each finger, Carlotta attempted to remove the jewelry from its container. After several moments of struggling unsuccessfully, she thrust the box at the nearest ballerina – Meg.
Meg automatically accepted the box, and stared at it. Oh, God, she hated this woman. But every eye was on her, and they did need Carlotta, detestable as she may be.
Just think of the Opera, she told herself as she delicately removed the beautifully cut stones from their velvet-lined box. Jealousy flared up inside her as she was reminded of the remarkable beauty of the necklace, and how wasted the time and effort spent on the flawless gems was on this ill-tempered…
She resisted the temptation to tighten the metal band around Carlotta's neck until the diamonds snapped apart and ruin this degrading bribe. But she forced herself to gently clasp the necklace behind the shorter woman's neck, careful not to catch any of her dark curls in the clasp, and lightly placed the earrings in her manicured, outstretched hand.
They're hideous, gaudy things anyway, she told herself bitterly, hating the sight of the stones around the diva's slender, olive-skinned throat, the way they made a sparkling V-shape that drew attention to the ample filling of her low-cut pink bodice, everything about her.
Carlotta was immediately appeased by the glittering bribe around her neck. She flashed the sweating managers a smile as sparkling as her new diamonds, and gave a simpering, sickly-sweet laugh.
"Alors," she said, too-sweet. "I shall be in my dressing room. Send Madame DuLevre to me if she needs to…refit any of my dresses." She gave on last all-encompassing, contented smile to the stage at large, and then flounced off backstage, taking the shortest route to her large, treasure-filled dressing room.
"After all," her accented tones floated back to them, "the show must go on!"
…
…
Sorry this took so long, and isn't that interesting. I'm taking a class at my local college, and it takes up all of my mornings, and we're adding a room onto our house, so I have to do a lot of construction-type work. So, I don't have much time to write.
Right now, though I have a case of strep throat and have felt miserable, and I haven't been able to bear looking at the glowing computer screen.
However, I have finally gotten all my crap up on my DeviantArt page. Yay.
Anyways, thanks for sticking with me. I love each and every one of my readers, even if they don't review.
Paige Turner