Disclaimer: All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

De petite souris a monsieur chat: Chapter 25

February 1883: Dormitories, Cellars, & Rooftop of the Opera House

A soft rapping entered Meg's dreams until the rapping became a demanding knock. She had fallen asleep in her normal clothes with her ballet practice costume and slippers left on the floor. She awoke and stumbled to the door. Her feet ached horribly from the en pointe work. She tried to stifle a yawn and failed.

"Oui?" she asked through the door. A letter slipped underneath the door at her bare, sore feet. Dried blood hid in the crevices of her toenails, or so she thought in the pre-dawn twilight. Reaching down, she picked it up and felt her muscles protest. Opening it, she held it up to see. The word "tonight" stood out in scratchy red script and punctuated with a question mark. There was no signature, but no signature was needed. She knew it was Erik. Walking over to her bedside table, she picked up her graphite pencil and scribbled a few words. Folding the letter in half, she slipped it back underneath the door. Curiosity struck her and she pressed her cheek on the floor to see underneath the door. Something blocked her view that wasn't there a minute ago.

Meg thought she heard a soft good night from the familiar voice, but she wasn't sure. Had the voice been in her room or on the other side of the door? She couldn't tell. After counting her heart beats, she rose to her feet and drew a breath. She unlocked her door and opened it. Glancing up and down the empty hallway, she saw nothing. Then something caught her eye on the floor. At her feet sat a brown package tied in twine. Meg picked it up and shut the door.

"What are you up to?" she said sitting down on her bed to unwrap the package. Her smile softened finding a small envelope on top of her dove grey shawl. Letting the brown paper and twine fall to the floor, she set the card aside and wrapped herself in the shawl. The gentleman phantom strikes again, she mused to herself. It smelled faintly of him - a warm smell of cinnamon mingling with the musk. It held none of the dankness that she recalled from his cloak months ago. Picking up the envelope, she cracked the black seal unsure of what to expect.

On the other side of the door, Erik knelt to pick up the letter and set down his package. Erik threw his voice in a quiet whisper into the room beyond the door before slipping away like a shadow from the dormitories. His stealthy footfalls took him upward instead of downward. Erik found himself on the roof waiting to watch the sunrise. In an hour or so, he knew the city would come to life. The birds were already ushering in the coming celestial orb. He closed his eyes and listened. Sunrises were both promises and curses for him. Sometimes the day promised hope and understanding; sometimes he wished he had died in the night. He stood there among the angels adorning Charles Garnier's beautiful Baroque masterpiece. The lightening dark blue of the sky gave way to pale azure and finally the pinks, oranges, and violets.

He fingered the folded letter in his coat pocket wondering if he dared to read it. Meg's simple acts of kindness confused him. She held his life in her hands. He had threatened her life a number of times. Yet... she tried to comfort him, to quell the maelstrom that surfaced. She had mentioned doing it for her career, for her family, and finally, for Christine. Her gentle touch, her attempts to comfort him, to stop him from hurting others... Erik wouldn't have done that. He pulled out the letter and opened it. Inside his tonight had been crossed out and replaced with her tight, script of "tomorrow, after performance. dinner? m."

At first, he didn't realize that he was smiling. The sun's warmth began to tickle his exposed cheek and he shook his head. Hopefully today proved to be a better day.

In the first cellar of the Opera House, the Phantom busied himself with retrieving a few items. Tools mostly, but he had found a few other items that would not go a-miss. Then the sound of footsteps made him still his movement. Crouching low, he hid himself among the shadows as the voices approached. One voice sounded oddly familiar – a Russian accented French, which was odd to the ears. The other voice was obviously French and Parisian at that. They were obviously stagehands if they had to traverse to this cellar for an item.

"If I am caught again dallying with a ballerina or seamstress, Tolbert threatened to throw me out to the gutter."

"Better be more discreet then... especially with Anjelica."

There was a pregnant pause, and French voice spoke again in a disappointed tone. "You didn't…"

"Ja… She came to me crying about how Madame Webber already suspected and how she can't hide it any longer and how she'll lose her place and how no one wanted a fatherless child." There was a grunt and a curse. "Carry your end!"

"I am!"

The Russian snorted. "What about you? How is the sweet Mademoiselle?"

"She blushes prettily. I will give you that…" said the French voice. There was a pause and something clattered to the floor. "Damn it, Dmitri. Watch your hands or Tolbert will throw both of us out!"

"Then carry your share!"

There were grunts and groans and a grumble. Stealthily, the Phantom moved through the shadows and behind objects in order to hear the rest of their conversation. However, objects blocked his path. He could go no further. Rather than peer over the objects, he strained his ears to listen.

"What do you care? I gave her the money and the address to see the physician." Another groan and a shifting of hands but the pair were already moving out of the cellar and out of earshot.

"…take my time," replied the French voice. "With her."

"…it'll ruin her," said the Russian voice. Their conversation ended. They carried away their items and the cellar was quiet again. Something about their conversation did not sit well with him. The Phantom stared at the tools and other odd things he needed. His mind rustled with questions that needed answers. Did he dare to follow them? He hesitated. Buzzing with activity, the theater above was in preparation for the performance that evening. Did he dare to take such a risk?

He couldn't. Not at this moment. Anejlica did not deserve to be treated so poorly by Dmitri… Perhaps the Opera Ghost could find a way to expose the young man's lack of discretion and keep Anjelica in the Opera House. The other young man… He did not know, and he would take the time to find out when he could. However, now was not the time. Clutching the tools and other things he needed, he made his way home.