Hello, readers!
Long time no talk, hmm? Thank you for reviewing. While encouraging and appreciated, they don't normally fuel my muse to make me write any more quickly. But, these are hardly "normal" times. Wanting another chapter before my usual posting? You've got it!
I hope all of you are well, wherever you are, and whatever you are going through. Trying times, indeed. To quote a favorite, well-known lyricist:
Just remember…
Someone is on your side
Someone else is not
While you're seeing our side
Maybe we forgot
They are not alone
No one is alone
Someone is on your side
No one is alone.
To conclude this long author's note, I am repurposing (and slightly altering) "Why Does She Love Me" from LND. Not a bad song, but I've always found that the lyrics fit a different character, more so than the man they're assigned to.
Be well, and happy reading!
Jenn
Erik stood in the middle of the parlor, left alone. Christine was in the bedroom, where her son already slept, done with talking for the night.
After the things Christine had said…revealed…Erik was rendered speechless. He realized his love had only said his name the one time. At the beginning of their conversation, when Christine addressed only him. It broke his heart, to have her know an intimate detail about himself, but to use it as a weapon against him. She never cared to know his name.
Meg must have let it slip, he assumed.
And now that Christine knew, she refused to use it. "Leave me, Phantom." He was no longer a man, he was the Opera Ghost. The Phantom of the Opera. But without an opera house to haunt. That seemed more hurtful, for some odd reason.
He stood there for a few more minutes, unsure what to do. His plans had been dashed, night after night. Christine was being more difficult than he could have ever anticipated. She was talented, more so than the majority of her generation. Why would she waste her precious time on this earth as a common wife and mother?
There was nothing to be done tonight. His last resort was stealing her son away, so that she would be forced to leave with him. They would hide from Raoul, Erik would charm Christine, as he did with Meg…
Meg…
Christine's friend. And, in many ways, Christine's opposite. Meg was…amenable. She relished performing. Every aspect of Phantasma fascinated and excited her. Christine, since she had arrived, didn't appreciate the dark beauty the show offered. This was supposed to be a serendipitous reunion. Erik was immensely proud of the song he composed for his former pupil; she treated it as a burden. Completely unappreciative.
"You placed her name in my spot on the marquee…You removed my solo from the program…" Meg had voiced her displeasure, several nights ago.
Erik was subconsciously pulled to the opposite side of the theater. His steps brought him to Meg's door. He placed an ear against the hardwood surface, but he could hear nothing. And no light emanated from underneath. He paused, staring at the door, as if he could see through it to the inside. Then he made his way back to his own room, his mind temporarily empty of all thought.
But when he entered his room, he was confronted by the larger-than-life portrait of Christine. Younger, flawless, coquettish. He imagined the painting saying the same scathing words the real version had just spoken.
"I don't think I will ever understand how she can love a cruel man like you…You don't deserve her love."
He averted his eyes from the damning vision on the wall and paced the room in thought.
Meg was…well, someone special to him, most certainly. Not exactly a companion. Somewhat a partner, although he still held ultimate creative jurisdiction. He enjoyed their discussions. She was as witty and intelligent as she was beautiful. It was a pity she was not exceptional in her talent. Her dancing was fine, better than most, but she possessed no innate ability that others in her craft could not work toward. Although, she had proven to be quite the jack of all trades, when it came to the various theatrical duties she had taken on.
Choreographer, costume designer, lead act, prop and set conceptualizer, talent recruiter… he smiled thinking of how far she'd come in eight years. Eight years with him.
He couldn't imagine Meg leaving Phantasma…leaving him. Not that she couldn't succeed on her own. He knew she would thrive, based on her own work ethic and resourcefulness. But love…
She…Meg…loved him? She doesn't know me. Not all of me. She's never seen behind my mask. And she never will. How could someone love another without full disclosure?
The night passed, hour by hour, with a restless Phantom racking his brain to disprove Christine's allegation that Meg was in love with him. Not just loyal. Not dependent, not simply satisfied…but in love. With him.
"I told her you were my manager and that, yes, I was safe…" That seamstress from forever ago. The one who spoke broken French to Meg. Meg didn't take the opportunity to make a fuss or pass her a private note.
"Why won't you kiss me?" she had asked him, on a night fraught with emotional confrontation. "We kissed on the ship, so why not now?"
Memories flooded his mind of their eight years together. Phantasma becoming a reality. Meg seeking his approval for her various contributions to the ever-changing show. Her delight at proudly performing all of the numbers he'd written for her over the years. Their easy conversations and passionate intimacy. How he'd smile down at her in the wings, when she would look up to where he stood and try to see him in the darkness.
He hadn't formally composed anything, but he sang as easily as if he was reading the many uncompleted thoughts.
"She looks for sympathy,
I give her sorrow.
She asks for honesty,
I've none to borrow.
"She needs my tender kiss.
She begs it off me.
I give her ugliness,
Why does she love me?"
He thought, again, to the interactions with Meg after Christine's arrival.
"You placed her name in my spot on the marquee," she had lamented on Wednesday night, clearly hurt by his favoring the brunette songbird. "You removed my solo from the program. And you gave her roses… We've had other guest performers, before. You've never placed their names above mine or took away any of my numbers. And you never gave any of them flowers."
Their similar interaction on Thursday night. When he had waited in Meg's room, without invitation, to confront her for speaking to Christine about him.
"I did you a favor. She didn't understand any of this."
Meg had always supported his endeavors. In the beginning, it was because she had no choice in the matter. Not really. But he had afforded her more and more freedoms. And watching her enthusiasm grow for the show…their show…
He took a deep breath and continued his melancholy song.
"She yearns for higher things
Things I won't give her
The rush my music brings
I don't deliver
"Though I control her strings
She soars above me
I try to clip her wings…
Why does she love me?"
Erik was furious, when Christine promised to persuade Meg to return to Europe with her. Looking back, he couldn't explain exactly why he was so damned enraged at the idea of Meg leaving. It had been many years since he had granted her complete independence. If she wanted to leave, he would let her. Wouldn't he? Yes, she hadn't been his prisoner for a long time, now.
And the relief that washed over him when Christine said, earlier, that she would no longer try to change her friend's mind on the matter. Because Meg wanted to stay.
Meg wants to stay.
Christine…doesn't.
He stopped his pacing. There was no more to debate within himself. Not tonight, anyway. He removed his jacket, his vest, and his shoes, then collapsed in his bed. The mask was still pressed against his skin. He took it off, as well, setting it down on the nightstand alongside him.
For the first time in a very long time, he had a dream about Paris.
His eyes adjusted in the darkness of the walkway above the stage. The upper portion of the grand theater was purposefully left unlit at all times. Even if a new backdrop needed to be placed, light was only temporarily shone from lanterns kept safely offstage. It was the perfect environment for the Opera Ghost to watch the musical performances below.
Occasionally, he would spot the stagehand, Joseph Buquet, also using the rafters for solitude. The older man was usually drinking while working, and his perceptive abilities were already poor when the miscreant was sober. On this occasion, Buquet was, indeed, in his favorite spot, leaning on a rail and drinking from a flask. He stared down at the stage, now empty after Christine's debut in "Hannibal."
When, all of a sudden, it wasn't empty.
Two young women made their way, taking slow, measured steps across the vast expanse of wooden flooring. One had long, brunette curls. She wore a frilled, full, white gown. Her pale shoulders and arms glowed like porcelain in the dim light. The crystalline jewels in her hair sparkled, though not as brilliantly as they had glittered in the brighter stage lights. Her companion had silky, blonde hair, held half up in a plain white ribbon that limply hung atop her less-curly locks. She wore the white corset and matching tutu that was merely the foundation of the ornate ballet costume used in the final act of "Hannibal." Her pointe shoes clicked softly on the floor with each step.
As the two walked, unknowingly watched from afar, they sang, starting with the blonde ballerina.
"Where in the world have you been hiding?
Really, you were perfect!
I only wish I knew your secret.
Who is your great tutor?"
The Phantom's heart swelled with pride. Great tutor. He was, that was undisputable. As the brunette star began to answer, he leaned further toward the pair, desperate to hear more.
"Father once spoke of an angel.
I used to dream he'd appear.
Now, as I sing, I can sense him,
And I know…he's…here!
"Here, in this room, he calls me softly;
Somewhere inside, hiding.
Somehow I know he's always with me,
He, the unseen genius."
He despised that Christine still only knew him as a figment of her imagination. He was not Erik. Not yet, anyway, but that would all change, tonight. Meg continued the back and forth.
"Christine, you must have been dreaming!
Stories like this can't come true.
Christine, you're talking in riddles,
And it's not…like…you."
Of course it sounded like a dream to Meg. Although he had made Christine promise to not reveal his existence to anyone, he felt a certain pity for his pupil, that she couldn't share the most important part of her life with her closest friend.
The two ladies sang interwoven melodies, Christine calling out to her Angel of Music and Meg asking for more information.
"He's with me even now…" Christine sang, wide-eyed and frozen in place at the edge of the stage, almost at the wing. Erik tilted his head in curiosity. She sounded…scared.
"Your hands are cold!" Meg had been holding one of the singer's hands, but now she took both of Christine's hands in her own and looked at her friend with concern.
"All around me…"
"Your face, Christine, it's white!"
"It frightens me…"
"Don't be frightened."
Erik sneered at the unwarranted response. He had never given Christine a reason to fear him. She did not know he was the Phantom of the Opera, did she? How could she? How would she react, once he revealed himself to her?
Meg gave her worried friend a gentle embrace. Christine looked oddly stiff. Like a paper doll. Not a confident diva.
Buquet watched the exchange, as well, from his perch. He chuckled, adding a bit of levity to the troubling conversation between the two clueless girls. After taking another swig off his flask, he trudged less than gracefully toward the staircase that would take him down to the ground level.
Seeing where he meant to go, Erik headed in the opposite direction, determined to make his way to the hall behind the two-sided mirror in the prima donna's official dressing room. It was an entrance to his domain that he seldom used, especially after la Carlotta took the contract for the Opera Populaire. This would be Christine's first time using the room, and Erik did not wish to lose one second of being so near to her.
This is it, he thought while traveling, I'll make a dramatic entrance to thrill and impress her. She deserves nothing less, after the perfection she showcased on my stage this evening.
But when he arrived, he saw trouble through the looking glass.
Some nobleman…the new patron! A vicomte. In the room with her. Alone with her.
She had changed out of the voluminous costume, and, somehow, had removed all of the starburst clips from her thick hair. She sat demurely at the vanity in the room, wearing a white robe that left little to the imagination.
He couldn't hear what was being said. His wrath deafened him. But he could tell that they were speaking familiarly. She was smiling. The vicomte was gazing at her in adoration. As the younger man left, he raised his voice, and the Phantom leaned forward to hear every word.
"Well, I shan't keep you up late!"
"Raoul, no."
Erik narrowed his eyes, hearing his angel use the vicomte's name so informally.
"You must change. I'll order my carriage. Two minutes, Little Lotte."
Little Lotte? A pet name? Already? Erik frowned harder. The vicomte left the room before Christine could effectively stop him, standing from her seat to call out.
"No! Raoul, wait!" Her request did not penetrate the door, and she collapsed back onto the chair in exasperation.
This was it. It was now or never.
"Insolent boy!
This slave of fashion,
Basking in YOUR glory!
"Ignorant fool!
This brave young suitor,
Sharing in MY triumph!"
Christine trembled in fear. He was not displeased. This time, she had reason to fear him.
But a knock at the door interrupted their moment. Erik clenched his teeth, absolutely livid.
Christine looked to the door, equally surprised. It opened without an encouragement to the visitor, and it was Meg who peeked through tentatively. Thankfully, she shut the door behind her and smiled at Christine. She, too, had changed out of the rest of her costume. Her hair was still held up with the same ribbon, but strands of gold fell around her heart-shaped face. Oddly, she had a robe that was similar to Christine's. When Erik took the time to examine them more scrupulously, he noticed everything they wore was identical, from their robes to their white slippers.
Meg was slightly shorter and much curvier than Christine, and they were currently in an embrace. Christine was calmer, now, comforted by her friend.
The hallucinogenic powder was ready to rise through the mist of fog he had prepared for this moment. There was enough to affect Meg, as well. He could take her friend right from under her nose. Christine would be too entranced to refuse. And Meg would be complacent in her drugged state, happy to sit in a world of enchantment around her. She'll see what she wants to see…
"I am your angel,
Come to me, Angel of Music!"
The words reverberated within the room, startling Meg. Christine, however, looked both horrified and curious. The latter rooting her to her spot. As the mirror parted, the laced smoke wafted toward both young ladies. They did not react to it, as he knew it to be odorless.
He intended to show himself through the mirror, but nothing had gone to plan. It was all improvisation. The reveal would be less grand, but spellbinding, nonetheless.
The mirror opened to reveal a doorway, and he lit the torch as it slowly did so, trusting that their awe and haze would keep them from retreating. He was right.
Both of them looked directly at him. And as they did so, their faces changed drastically. Meg took a step toward him, while Christine stepped back. Meg looked serene, fascinated, delighted. Christine was pure fear. Her eyes darted around the room, apparently distressed with what her surroundings had morphed into. She couldn't or wouldn't look at him.
Erik stepped toward his angel, trying to soothe her. He held out a gloved hand.
"I am your Angel of Music!
Come to me, Angel of Music!"
Meg stayed in place, staring into Erik's eyes. His face was still turned to Christine. The terrified girl made a hasty exit, not bothering to take anything with her. He called out to her once more.
"Christine! Angel!"
His heart shattered in his chest. This had all gone so wrong. So horribly wrong. He planned everything, he had improvised when needed, and she left anyway. Not just left…fled. In horror.
Remembering that he was not alone in the room, he glanced to Meg.
She stood in place, waiting. Somehow, she had picked up Christine's rose from its spot on the vanity. Beautiful red bulb, a stark contrast to her fair features. The black ribbon trailing from the base of the lovely flower's head. Dainty fingers clasped it delicately, wrapping around the thorn-filled stem.
He regarded her. Unlike her friend, she did not seem to be adversely affected by the hallucinogen. She stared with wonder at him, as if she could see and forgive all of his sins at once.
Erik turned to leave, dejected that his angel would not follow him. He had beautiful things to show her and more to teach her.
"No!"
He looked over his shoulder to make sure he'd heard correctly. Meg was looking at him with pleading eyes. He faced her, then, and saw blood seeping through her fingers. The hand that held the rose was clenched, and the unforgiving thorns caused her pain that she did not acknowledge.
He winced at the droplets of red marring her smooth skin. The powder was supposed to heighten all feelings, including pain. There was no possible way for her to not feel the harm she was causing to herself. He sighed. He didn't wish to see her hurt. He held no ill-will toward her.
As he drew closer to her, she lessened her grip on the stem and smiled hopefully at him. He held out the same gloved hand, which she took without hesitation. The hand that held the rose dropped to her side, as they made their way through the passage. Red drops occasionally fell onto the dusty bricks that lined the floor.
His dream-self materialized them instantly to the small ferry. Meg's hand no longer showed signs of being maimed, and she smelled the rose happily, while Erik rowed them to his lair. He helped her from the boat, lustfully taking in her pleasing form. She left the rose behind, joining him in the candlelit cavern.
He had imagined Christine here. He would help her from the ferry. She would be hesitant, sure, but adventurous. He would placate her fears with a song. He would sing to her of the beauty that darkness held.
Meg looked up at him, a little shy…a little playful. Erik held her and she did not protest. She was down here with him. In the dark. In the night. Christine was not.
With both hands, Meg cupped the sides of his face. She did not seem intent on unmasking him, so his anxiety lessened. He smirked winningly down at her and pulled her tightly against him, relishing the curves of her body pressing into his broad frame. As he bent down to kiss her parted lips, she let out an ardent moan. His desire for her engulfed him, and he deepened the kiss.
She saw it….the beauty underneath. She saw it, without having to see the worst of him. She accepted him, without demanding to know everything.
He kissed her harder, thankful that he felt no need to break for air.
It was her. All along. Right under his nose. Little Meg.
She would help him make the music of the night.