I'm sorry.

Chapter 32

Failed Food and Freedom

From that moment on, Meg decided to make herself at home in Erik's lair. She knew that she wouldn't be allowed to stay until she was no longer ill, and under Erik's watchful eye she was getting better every day. Her cough was nearly gone, and she got lightheaded less often upon standing. If she wanted to have enough of a foothold in Erik's world to have an influence on his plans, then she'd better get to work on getting him used to her. To this end, after breakfast she continued going through the material for Il Muto for as long as the sounds of rehearsal drifted through the trapdoors and into the dining room on the lake. She was following along with the chorus's lines, jotting step directions that she could hear her mother shouting in the margins beside the notes, her eyes filling with tears as she thought of how her mother must miss her, if she wondered where she was, or if she suspected. At first, she corrected herself; she had always known that her mother did not believe in the Phantom. But now she knew that that had all been an act to protect Meg, and that she had always known of – known the Phantom, spoken with him, bargained with him. However, when Erik passed by the sofa and saw her notations, he hesitated, then spoke. He seemed reluctant to initiate a conversation after her pre-breakfast outburst.

"Those aren't your lines," he began, affecting indifference.

"What?" Meg looked up from her writing, blinking as she focused on something that wasn't two inches from her nose.

"You are not part of the chorus line in those scenes."

"What do you mean? Of course I … unless I didn't make the line. Why would you have brought me the script if I hadn't made it into the play?"

"In this scene, as in the rest of the play, your lines are headed as 'Maid'."

Meg blinked at him. "You mean… I got the part? But… I fell. I ruined my audition!"

Erik turned and began to head down the dark hallway to his room. Over his shoulder, he said softly, "I think you impressed a lot of people with your audition, Mademoiselle, regardless of how you ended it. I believe your illness has been taken into account."

Meg set the score aside and stood, staring suspiciously after Erik's retreating form. "Did you have anything to do with that?" She paused, then added, "Erik?"

Erik paused in the hall, standing very straight in the shadows. His head turned slightly, as if he were going to address her, but then he changed his mind and pressed the hidden latch that opened the door to his bedroom. He entered it without another word, leaving Meg standing alone in the dim living room. She remained there, contemplating how she would manage to insert herself into this enigmatic man's plannings, until Ayesha wandered up to her and began rubbing up against her dark skirts. Meg picked up the purring white creature, and carried her down the hallway and into the library. Time to continue making herself at home…

Meg set Ayesha down in the lone armchair by the lamp in the library and began browsing the shelves for an interesting read. She finally decided on ­a history of Italian architecture because it actually had illustrated examples of the specific terms it used and settled back down into the armchair, Ayesha curling up into her lap. She read until she the dim light and the soft feel of the cat's fur made her too sleepy to continue. Her mind began to wander, and thoughts of how worried her mother must be attempted to overwhelm her. As she felt her eyelids growing heavier and heavier, she tried to consider the logistics of her promise to Erik – specifically, how could she help him without becoming just another pawn on his chessboard. She had no doubt that helping him was the right thing t do – even if she didn't care much for being a matchmaker, Erik's care in helping her recover told her that he at least deserved to compete for Christine's affection as much as any other man. And, on the chance that she managed to retain some autonomy as she journeyed through the web she was now so tangled in, she might be able to prevent Erik's dangerous, powerful moods from harming anyone; Christine, Raoul, or even himself.

Raoul – yes, that would be another problem. He wouldn't be leaving with the Royal Navy for the North Pole until the end of winter, which put him in considerable danger for the next few months if Christine were to entertain his affections. She'd have to see if there were a way to disengage his interest from his childhood friend, or to cause Christine to reject his advances in favor of Erik. Meg had a feeling that it would be dangerous at this point to be a part of the losing side in any counter in which Erik was involved.

Well, she'd never be able to influence anything if she didn't get Erik to rely on her before she returned to the surface world. She already felt hugely removed from the sunlit world of the Opera Populaire, but she knew Erik would never see her as belonging to his world. Maybe proving herself comfortable wouldn't be enough to make her seem anything more than a tool.

Rousing herself by vigorously knuckling her eyes, she shook her head and reluctantly left the library. She migrated back to the dark living room, Ayesha padding close at her heels. What could she do to appear useful? The room was already nearly spotless, Meg having had many days to clean and with neither she nor Erik being particularly messy people. She could straighten up the Louis-Philippe room, as Erik would probably want that room extremely tidy for Christine's next foray into his underworld…whenever that was. But Meg wasn't going to put the final touches on that room until her coughing and lightheadedness went away, and Erik told her she could return to her normal life.

What else was there? She knew that though Erik was a gourmet chef from the simplistic yet sumptuous meals he had prepared for the pair of them, he rarely ate otherwise. However, she couldn't think of anything else to do. She was desperate to do something – anything – productive, not having Erik's hobbies of music, art, and manipulative scheming to occupy herself with.

An hour later, Meg was frantically trying to fan smoke out of the kitchen, through the living room, and out into the lake cavern. Between breathing through a wet towel and using it to fan the smoke, Meg desperately tried to see if there were any salvageable remnants of the chicken she had tried to cook. There weren't. On her umpteenth time of returning to the kitchen after chasing a cloud out of the door, she was startled by Erik's thin, black-clad form poking despondently at the blackened meat in the smoky cloud. He looked up as she enered, and had o suppress a sad smile. Meg's apron (his apron, technically) was smeared with soot and spices, and the dishcloth she was using was faring no better. She looked flustered and embarrassed, with her hair frizzing out and her sleeves rolled up past her elbows.

Erik shook his head in sad amusement. This girl was so much inconvenience. Christine, the Angel that she was, was never nearly this much trouble! Sighing, he filled a glass of water from the kitchen tap and offered it to his harried-looking houseguest. She accepted it gratefully, not flinching as her hand accidentally brushed his skeletal fingers, though it was an effort to keep here nose from wrinkling as she drank; even through the stench of the burned meal, Erik's grip had still left a lingering stench of death on the glass that cut through all other smells. However, she did her best to ignore it, and returned the empty glass to Erik with a thankful smile.

Surveying the smoky, charred wreckage of what used to be dinner, Meg and Erik both let out a sigh. They looked at each other, surprised, then Erik spoke first,

"Go and study your music, mademoiselle," he said coldly. "You are expected to perform adequately before rehearsals must stop in preparation for the Masquerade Ball in a few weeks' time, and I expect you to spend a considerable amount of your time once you return on things other than performing."

Catching his meaning, Meg added sarcastically, "Still performing, just not for the opera…" Not sensing a smile from Erik, she quickly wiped her own off her face and removed her now-filthy apron. She silently handed the apron and dishcloth to Erik and left the room to retrieve her rehearsal notes. She was already tired of going over the music, particularly because there would be no rehearsal going on above that she could listen to at this hour, and also because she had no place secluded to practice out of Erik's earshot. It was practically her goal in life at this point to never have her voice singled out (a difficult task when you were horrible at staying in key), and there was no way she'd lower herself further in Erik's eyes by singing in her presence any more than was absolutely necessary.

Carrying her thick folder of music tight against her chest, Meg walked down the hallway towards the library. At least this way there could be several walls dividing her from Erik in the kitchen. She trailed one hand lightly along the wall opposite the library door as she walked, not wanting to accidentally trip the hidden switch to Erik's room by touching that wall. She didn't want to mess anything else up today.

Unfortunately, that plan changed as she couldn't help noticing the strange feel of the apparently stone wall beneath her hand; most importantly, that it didn't feel like stone. It felt lighter, less sturdy – like a plaster imitation of stone. Then she noticed that at one point in the wall, the stone panels seemed to line up into an oddly straight line for the rough design of that particular wall. In fact, it was odd that that single wall was so rough in design; the rest of the house, though simple, had an elegant design that looked as though it had been designed and built by a master architect. (The longer Meg stayed in the little house on the lake, the more the simplicity of the house revealed itself as a precise design of aesthetic elegance.) Why was this one wall designed so roughly, and out of an unnatural material?

Meg set her folder silently on the ground and ran her fingers lightly along the mysterious vertical groove that divided the rough stones of the wall. With a start, she felt the wall give slightly under her hands. She dropped her hands quickly to her sides, looking guiltily around her. This was obviously something she was not meant to discover. She stood there for several moments, staring at that crack in the wall, trying to decide which would keep her up more at night: her conscience if she looked, or her curiosity if she didn't. In an impulsive decision, she threw caution to the winds, placed her hands on either side of the crack, and leaned into the wall.

With only the barest whisper as the wall slid across a dusty floor, the sections of the wall swung inwards on invisible hinges and opened into a pitch-black room. Meg stepped tentatively inside to allow her eyes to adjust to the light. Slowly, she seemed to be able to make out a large – enormous, really, -- mass piled in one corner, though she couldn't tell what it was. There was also another wall at the far end of the room, but this one seemed to shimmer slightly in the faint light refracting in from the hallway. Meg wanted to take another step in to see which of these mysterious objects she could identify, but she was rooted to the spot by a strange sense of darkness and evil that was pressing in on her. There was something very wrong with this room, and she suddenly decided that she had no desire to learn its dark purpose.

Her heart beginning to pound wildly, Meg spun to run from the room, and crashed into something very solid and unyielding. For one brief moment, she thought the wall had closed behind her, but this was stronger than the ersatz wall. Her terror only increased as what she had collided with suddenly enveloped her, seizing her by her upper arms and shaking her. Her heartbeat growing even more erratic, Meg stared up terrified into Erik's mask. This was even worse than when he had cornered her in his passageways, worse than when she had seen his face. His eyes blazed red in the darkness, glowing like iridescent pools of blood, and through his iron grip on her arms Meg could tell that he was shaking with rage. Meg was shaking too, but with fear. She could think of nothing but her almost certain and immediate death as she tried to look away from Erik's burning, furious eyes.

The silence stretched for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Erik spoke, his voice clenched with rage.

"I believe it is time that you left my home."