Enjoy!

Thank you for your kindness after my author's note in the last chapter.

Christine

Chapter 59

The Lady

I stayed quiet about my late cycle for three reasons.

One, there was a possibility that I wasn't pregnant at all. The only symptom that I experienced currently was a lack of bleeding. But there was no nausea, no cravings. Nothing. Perhaps it was a fluke - the stresses as of late making my body behave in odd ways.

Two, even if I was pregnant, I knew that some ended early in miscarriages. I'd be terribly heartbroken if this happened, but I especially didn't want Erik to experience the loss of an unborn child. It could very well send him over the edge.

And three, I had no idea how Erik would react to a pregnancy at all. What if he found out and pretended to be overjoyed, but was quietly distressed? What if he feared the child would look like him? I would, of course, love it all the same, but how might that thought affect him? What if he couldn't overcome his guilt for passing his face onto the baby, and silently rejected it?

So I would wait until I could not wait anymore.

But every time I relieved myself and found no blood in my drawers, it weighed heavily on my mind for the next hour. To distract myself, I picked up my pencil to draw.

Or I would look over the drawings that I had submitted to Leroux's newsletter. As of this time, I'd only submitted two. Both had been published. The first was, obviously, Erik. The second was of the view from the front window of the apartment. Any kind of art, he'd said. And I had plenty to supply him. Years of work I could submit. I tried, of course, to select the best ones.

"People like the art you are submitting for two reasons, Mme. Perrault," Leroux had told me in his office while paying me for the work. "One, you are the wife of the increasingly popular Phantom, meaning people are going to be interested in what you create. But two -" He winked. "- the art is extremely well done, regardless of who your husband is."

Currently, I worked on editing a picture I'd drawn of Ayesha. It had been a quick sketch, but I loved the Christmas scene behind her, and I thought the way she was laying on her back, eyes closed and paws curled, was absolutely adorable. With a bit of cleaning and fine detailing, it would be beautiful.

My father was performing at yet another wedding, this time in Reims. The wedding was late enough, and Reims far enough, that he would be staying overnight. Erik was performing tonight as well, at the theatre. He was there early to discuss a salary increase, as well as some ideas Franklin had for his performance.

So here in the solitude of the apartment, in the peace and silence of early afternoon while the rest of the world worked or tended to their homes, I quite literally jumped in my seat when the knock came at the door.

Probably Ibrahim or Nadir. Even Vincenzo, though the latter was more likely to simply enter. I rose from my desk and went to the door. I opened it.

It was not Ibrahim or Nadir or Vincenzo.

Actually, I wasn't sure who this was.

She was very well-dressed - much better dressed than me - in bright pink, a matching bonnet on her head that barely revealed the golden hair underneath. Rich, pretty tawny eyes peered back at me. She was slim but curvaceous, and had an infectious smile on her face.

In her hands, she held about three sheets of what looked like newspaper, folded together.

"Hello," she said. "Please forgive my intrusion this afternoon. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"No, not at all," I said. "How may I help?"

"Is this the Daae-Perrault residence?"

"It is."

"And am I speaking to Mme. Perrault?"

"Yes, you are."

"My name is Meg Giry. I am a friend of Vincenzo's."

"Oh - yes, hello."

"How do you do?"

"Very well, and you?" I had a sneaking suspicion of how she knew Vincenzo, knowing the people he interacted with.

"Very well. Might I come in?"

"I - might I ask why?"

"I have something I wanted to discuss with you, Mme. Perrault. If you'd be so kind."

I felt uneasy about saying yes, but my curiosity was getting the best of me. So I made way for her. "Yes. All right."

"Thank you." Meg came inside, and I closed the door behind her. She looked around the apartment and smiled again at me. "You keep a lovely home, Madame."

"That's very kind of you." I glanced at the kitchen. "Would you...like some tea, perhaps?"

"No, I am all right. But thank you."

"Of course." I gestured to the couch. "Sit, please."

She did so, thanking me again. I sat as well, in the armchair.

"What is it you'd like to discuss, Mlle. Giry?"

"I insist you call me Meg." She smoothed out her skirt with one hand, the other still holding the papers. "And I wanted to discuss your drawings."

I was taken aback. "My drawings?"

"Yes. The ones in the newsletter."

"What - about them?"

"Well, I think they are extremely well done. You are very talented." Her smile became tight, and she cleared her throat. She picked up her head a bit higher, but it was in the way a cat might arch its back. Not due to confidence, but because it feels threatened. "But - I should first tell you my occupation. So that...the rest of what I'm about to say makes sense."

"All right." I stared, waiting patiently.

"I work at the Pink Silk Inn," she explained. She searched my face. "Do you know what that place is?"

I nodded slowly.

"You can say it, Mme. Perrault."

"Call me Christine."

"Christine."

I blew out a breath. "I know what it is." I didn't want to say it. Memories of the Flowers flickered before my eye.

"A brothel."

"Yes."

"So you understand my occupation."

My chest tightened. I remembered Amir, my harem trainer. I remembered being dressed in clothes that barely counted as underthings, paraded through the palace to be gifted away. I remembered just how close I'd come to...to... "Yes, Meg. Yes." My voice was cold and clipped, a frigid winter night. "I understand. You are a prostitute. What is it that you want?"

She misunderstood my ice. She inhaled, shifted, and held her head even higher. "Yes, Mme. Perrault. I - well, it's not every day that women receive opportunities such as the one you've been given."

"What do you mean?"

"You've been given a voice. With your art being published."

"I...suppose."

"And, if you so choose, could make significant change. At least, the start of change."

"What sort of change?"

Her smile returned. "You no doubt know of Comte Philippe de Chagny."

"Yes, of course."

"And I'm sure Vincenzo has let you know of the man's opinions of prostitutes."

"He dislikes them."

"It's more than that. He's put forth political opinion articles in larger newspapers, much larger than La Coupe en Cuivre. In these articles - here." She handed me the papers. I opened them. They were indeed clippings of a newspaper from a few dates, written by Philippe de Chagny. "He's spoken out for outlawing prostitution altogether."

"Would that be such a bad thing?" I whispered. Almost without thinking. Those images of the Flowers were still in my mind.

Her shoulders tensed. "Mme. Perrault - Christine - I understand why you might find the ethics behind my profession reprehensible. Truly. No doubt it is not a Christian occupation. But prostitution will exist whether it is legal or not. All making it illegal does is ensure that girls like me face a higher chance of illness, of abuse. If it is regulated, then it is easier to go to a doctor for disease, or report a man who harms or cheats us."

I said nothing, merely nodded. I truly did not want to have this conversation, but I was willing to hear out what she desired of me.

"He also wants to give longer sentences to prostitutes who are not registered with the French government. He wants to make it illegal for doctors to treat them. Yes, I do think all girls who want to take up the profession should register themselves, as it is safer for everyone involved, but sometimes women become desperate for money and cannot wait to be approved. Punishing them harshly is not the answer - they should be helped. The same goes for the poor in general. Comte de Chagny is against public programs to help them financially. He proposes that it will disrupt the social order. The poor will have more power if they have more money, which means a less educated and less cultured society, leading to a second revolution. It's all there in the articles I gave you."

"Why would more money for the poor lead to a less educated society?"

"He thinks that the poor are naturally stupid - that if they were more intelligent, they'd make more money on their own. But he's never known poverty - he grew up surrounded by servants and eating from silver spoons."

I finally looked down at the articles. Skimmed them. I found what she said to be true - his reasoning was bothersome. It was...sound. But unempathetic and misinformed. And that's what made it terrible.

"And..." I said, looking up at her again, "what do you propose I do about it?"

"Christine." She moved forward a bit, to sit on the edge of the seat. "If I spoke out against the comte, no one would take me seriously - no one would take any of the poor seriously either. But you - you are a woman with a good reputation who has been given an audience. You can do whatever you want about it."

And when she left shortly after, when I went back to my drawing desk, when I looked at the drawing of Ayesha-

It seemed to me extremely shallow.

I loved Ayesha to death, and of course Paris deserved to see her sweet little face.

But.

I thought about throwing those articles away, for how much they made me uncomfortable.

I couldn't. Meg's words continuously replayed in my mind. The words "ignorant poor" and "filthy women" that I'd read on the pages niggled at my mind. Troubled me. Moved me to do something.

I opened up the drawer of my desk and put the papers there. I put Ayesha's drawing to the side.

And set to work on something else entirely.