There was one person, integral to Meg's number, that was not given the information he needed to play his part. Meg entered the wing, and Gangle, leaning against the back wall near Fleck and Squelch, jolted upright. He recognized the costume. He saw that the opera diva was now in her final costume of the night, instead of the opulent white gown she usually wore at this time. The gears of thought pieced the visual clues together in his mind. He swore loud enough for his companions to hear, then raced to his own position.
High above the stage, Erik also watched the entry of the two long-time friends. He, too, noted the erroneous costumes the ladies wore. It was purposeful and very much not according to the program. Anger reflexively stirred in his heart, upset by having anyone make creative decisions about his show.
Our show.
His ire subsided, with keen understanding. Meg was proud of Phantasma. As much as Erik. In some ways, prouder. He always kept himself hidden away. Meg was a vital part of the show. She interacted with everyone. She knew everyone's names. She was the one carrying out Erik's visions, more so than Lefevre had ever done, not to mention the two idiots that took over after the director's retirement. He entrusted her with more of the crucial alterations than the relatively new Mr. Bailey. More than his trio of emcees, which, Erik knew, made Gangle rebel occasionally to reiterate his displeasure at having to play second fiddle to a woman. Meg carried out every task with an ease that made more sense to him, now. It was easy for her, because she shared Erik's passion.
The lights went out onstage, and two stage hands in black carried the large, white, circular pedestal to its usual spot in the center. Erik looked across the top of the audience, to where the spotlight operators were scrambling to change the lighting to fit a well-known, if not oft-performed song. They pointed the large spots toward the center, removed transparent colored frames from the ends of the lenses, and waited for their cue.
Meg stepped out, much more visible in her white costume than the single stage hand that stayed to help her onto the platform. Usually, there was a better transition into this piece: a scrim hid her from view, so the illusion of her being one with the music box was kept intact. But Erik knew this was more for her friend's benefit than for the audience.
She took her opening pose and the spotlights gradually brightened to illuminate her properly. A respectful hush fell over the crowd, seeing the beauty on display. Erik's brow lifted, unable to suppress his critique. That's much more powder than she usually wears. She hardly looks human.
The striking amount of powder made her skin look pure white. Painted. With enough of a shimmer to make her look…breakable. As if a careless bump would cause her to shatter.
Meg was frozen in place. Usually, she had a wistful smile on her face for this number, which remained in a plastered visage. Like a mask. Now, she looked forlorn. Desolate. Erik swallowed uncomfortably.
Gangle moseyed onto the stage, passing her by in a lazy version of the choreography she had given him. Still, she was a statue. He glanced at her, looking lewdly up her skirt, causing snickering amongst the patrons. Erik's gloved hands balled into fists at the improvised act.
The emcee made a full circle around the box, before coming back to its key. His hands grabbed either end of the enormous key's head, and he took a moment to smugly glare at the ballerina, before turning it multiple times. The mechanism slowly turned Meg on a disk at the top of the pedestal, and it would give her just enough time to complete her song once through. The lanky man walked off without any sign of amusement.
The orchestra played tentatively, at first, but the song swelled as the musical memory flowed through their instruments.
"What do you see,
You people gazing at me?
You see a doll on a music box
That's wound by a key."
Her movements were perfectly stiff and slight. She sang pleasantly enough, but her voice occasionally faltered where it had never done so. Mistakes that were mostly undetected by the untrained ear.
"How can you tell…
I'm – under a spell…
I'm – waiting for love's…first...kiss!"
Her voice cracked in a more obvious manner on the last word of the stanza. From his overhead view, Erik saw a tear splash onto her clavicle, creating a streak through the white powder. A crack. The dancing was still flawless, but her emotional descent severely impacted her singing.
"You cannot see,
You people gazing at me,
Turning around on this music box
That's wound by a key…"
More tears. More droplets of water that wiped away the white shimmering powder. Streaks that met in similar paths, showing even more of her natural skin tone. The porcelain ballerina was no longer perfectly intact. Erik couldn't see her face, but he imagined it, too, was a mess of tracks.
"Yearning…"
Her voice broke and wavered.
"Yearning…"
She pleaded to the audience, her arms outstretched to no one. To a ghost, perhaps.
"While…I'm…
Turning around and around."
She whispered the final words to her song. The audience was silent, but Erik doubted half of them could hear or understand the final verse.
The song played out, with the final few bars being instrumental only. She was frozen in her final pose, a fractured ballerina figurine atop a moving base, turning slowly for all to see every pitiful angle. After the final note, the crowd stayed hushed for a beat. Then, there was hesitant clapping. Polite applause. Meg's number was too much of a contrast to her previous time onstage. This was no longer the bubbly, seductive dancer that led her troupe with fierce confidence.
Erik winced, knowing that he was the reason her performance suffered. This was an audience favorite. A novelty. Have I inflicted that much damage?
"It is as much your song as it is mine, Meg," he recalled saying to her, once.
The applause died at the same time the spotlights dimmed to black. Relief seemed to permeate the room, as the awkwardness passed and a much livelier act took its place. Erik watched Meg run out of the wing into the hallway that led to the dressing rooms and the living areas. Christine did not follow. She waited for her own solo. Her final performance for Mr. Y. Erik watched as she folded her arms under her chest. Her breathing was steady and deep.
Meg ran to the dressing room and gasped, when she saw her reflection. She hadn't planned on crumbling into a sobbing mess onstage. Trails of tear-stained skin were all over the top of her shoulders and face. Some of the powder was missing from her hands and arms, where droplets of salted water had most likely landed when thrown from her cheeks during the jerky movements of the dance.
The ladies in the room stared at her, covertly, not wishing to directly address her. Suzanne whispered to Ellie in the corner. Greta gave no notice of Meg's emotional state. She simply started removing the articles of clothing with steady hands and her calm demeanor. The costumer took the accessories back to the storage compartment she had found them in.
Meg stared at herself in the mirror, knowing that she was, technically, supposed to leave on this final costume to be recognizable for the bows. But she didn't even recognize the creature that stood in her shoes. She removed the rest of the garment, gently placing the loved pieces on their hangers, placing the shoes and tights in her designated drawer space, and grabbing her silk robe from where it always hung, when not in use.
She left the room to be alone in her own and not a soul stopped her. Once inside, she stripped down to her undergarments and used a wetted cloth to wipe away the remaining powder. She washed her face, too, and smiled tiredly at the haggard expression that was left. At least there were no visible signs of tears.
She grabbed a white blouse and a long black skirt from her wardrobe and dressed. There was no need for stockings or accessories, aside from a worn pair of black boots. Although she would not be present for the curtain call, again, she would join the rest of the cast in cleaning the theater after the paying customers were gone.
The pins were removed from her hair, and she sighed with relief at her loose curls falling freely down her back.
It was then she noticed the book on her vanity. Right in front of her. Mocking her.
When did…
She looked around, but found nothing to be out of place. But she had a strange feeling…
For a moment, she picked up the book and contemplated throwing it away, for a third time. But, without care, she tossed it back onto the table. It didn't matter, anymore. With a second thought, she removed her mother's brooch from her jewelry box and fastened it to her blouse's neck. She admired the way the center stone glinted in the mirror. Black, with flecks of light deep within. Like the sea at night, she imagined.
The jewelry box was still opened, and she took out her mother's ring. A plain cameo. Nothing of significance. Except to those who knew her. She turned the object around her fingers, letting it roll along all its edges. She opened the drawer where her mother's letter to her still lay, undisturbed.
Christine knows so little of what actually transpired, Meg realized.
She left the letter and ring upon the book, sitting in a prettily posed pile, and left her room. Walking down the hall, she saw her blonde locks still hanging down upon her shoulders. A lady would never traipse around without her hair fastened in a sophisticated pile upon her head. No gloves, no stockings, no hat… it mattered little, thankfully, in their private theatrical world. Decorum was considered, to them, more of an offense than most of the language the company used on a daily basis.
Christine's voice lilted through the hall, pouring from the stage door. Her song had just started.
"Who knows when love begins,
Who knows what makes it start?
One day it's simply there,
Alive inside your heart.
"It slips into your thoughts,
It infiltrates your soul.
It takes you by surprise,
Then seizes full control."
Meg arrived at the guest rooms and glanced over to the room the Phantom occupied. No light coming from the floor or the keyhole. He would never miss his love's final performance. She turned the handle on Christine's door and entered.
Phantasma was wrapping up, so no one was present. Raoul had undoubtedly packed all of their belongings, as the luggage was ready at the entry. She moved past the bags and onto the bedroom. The door was left open, and Christine's outfit was laid out on the bed. The clothes she would change into, so that she could leave everything behind from her experience in Coney Island.
Christine would be arriving at any moment, so Meg returned to the parlor to wait for her friend. She sat on the same sofa where they had shared many stories back and forth, over the past week. The sounds of someone fiddling with the door could be heard on her side of the room, and Meg sat straighter in her seated position.
"Meg!" Christine called out in surprise. The brunette woman was obviously relieved to see her friend in a composed state. "Where have you been? Are you well?" She ran to Meg's side and was seated, still in her silky gown.
Raoul and Gustave appeared behind her, both nonchalantly looking past the two ladies. Meg saw the awkwardness in their manner, and she ignored Christine's questions to address the room.
"I'm so sorry about that," she bashfully spoke to the family. "I'm usually so proud of that number, but I fell apart during that performance. I can't believe that will be the final thing you will recall, when you think of me onstage. I'm mortified, truly."
"It was still a beautiful song," Raoul placated the worrying blonde. Gustave held onto his father's side and shyly watched a broken version of the woman he had spent so much of his time with. "Your costume, the concept…the unique style of dancing…it was quite the dazzling display."
"Thank you," Meg responded graciously. "Your assessment is too generous, after my poor performance."
"We understand, Meg," Christine spoke up, no longer bothering to keep up the façade of her friend's new moniker. Gustave didn't bat an eye at the alternate name, remaining by his father's side. "After all you've been through, with what this week must've been like for you… I just can't imagine." Raoul nodded solemnly.
"Dear?" Christine looked to her husband, now. "Would you mind taking Gustave and our belongings to the carriage? I'd like to have a moment alone, if you'd please."
Raoul hesitated, giving his wife a pointed look. "Don't be long. Or I'll come charging in."
"There's no threat. Not anymore. Just goodbyes."
"Tell Miss Addie goodbye, then, Gustave," he ordered his son. The boy slowly moved closer to Meg, obedient but uncertain.
He stopped out of her arms' reach, and she smiled reassuringly at the little man.
"If you'd like, Gustave," Meg quietly said, "you may call me Meg. I only let those I care for the most call me by that name."
The young lad smiled and walked into her embrace. "Goodbye, Miss Meg," he affectionately murmured into her shoulder. "Thank you for watching over me."
Meg's heart soared in hearing the innocently-spoken words. Hearing him call her by her true name, for the first time since they had met. She released him and he went back to his father. Raoul gave his son a small bag and took the larger items within his arms.
Before exiting through the open door, the gentleman looked once more to Meg.
"Our offer stands now and forever, Meg," he kindly reminded her. "If you need anything, passage to Europe, a place to stay, help in any form…please contact us. You and your mother are extensions of our family. We owe you so much."
Christine's countenance tightened, at the mention of Madam Giry, and Meg wondered at the reaction.
The man and boy left, and Christine rose from her seat to close the door behind them. Their privacy restored, she returned to sit next to her friend. Neither spoke, as they enjoyed the final moments of their physical proximity. In the silence, Meg began to cry, again.
"I will miss you so much!" the fair-haired dancer blurted out. They hugged each other tightly, and Christine's eyes also began to water.
"Is there nothing I can say to entice you to come with us?" Christine asked.
Meg pulled away and wiped at the tears on her cheeks. She had wiped away enough evidence of her sadness for one day. The last thing Meg wanted was to return to her room to wash tear-stains from her face.
"Nothing, I'm afraid. Not at this time."
"Will you come visit us, then, someday soon?"
The blonde contemplated how to answer. "Perhaps. I need to find the strength to leave, first, don't I?" She smiled sadly.
Christine returned the gloomy look. "Can you come with us to our hotel, see us off properly? You can dine with us at Astor House, tonight, and we can order a carriage to bring you back."
The thought of stepping foot back into that hotel was too depressing for Meg. She shook her head as calmly as she could, not wishing to alarm her friend with a more emphatic reply.
"After the final show on Sundays, the entire company is required to thoroughly clean the theater house," she explained. "It would be unfair for me to leave without doing my part."
The singer received the flimsy excuse, without any further attempts to pull Meg away from Coney Island. They embraced a final time; both promised to write frequently, and their goodbyes were completed with less tears and more genuine smiles.
Holding hands, pulling away slowly to exit on opposite ends of the stage. Opposite directions in life. One last time.
They had met briefly, for a fleeting moment in the breadth of their lives. Brought together by fate, but kept apart by choice. And, now, left with only memories of a visit that flashed by with the importance and brevity of a comet.
Meg left the room, closing the door behind her and leaving Christine to change into her own clothing and leave Phantasma for good.
Christine took a moment to breathe and take in her surroundings. It really is a lovely room, she reflected, walking to the bedroom. She closed the door to the parlor, needing an extra measure of solitude, taking her time to change out of the lilac gown and accessories. She placed each item on the large bed, giving each piece enough space as to not snag or become damaged in any way.
Once her new vestments were secured, she turned in front of the cheval mirror in the room. She held her breath and walked back out the door to the parlor.
He was sitting there.
Of course.
Tranquil, rested. He stood up to acknowledge her, as she entered his space. She stood her ground, straight and tall, looking magnificent and refined in her rich garments. He matched her, in both presence and grandeur, wearing his elegant suit and accessories. They stared across the room at each other momentarily, before Christine raised her voice.
"Will you allow me to leave?" her tone didn't waver in fright. She asked honestly.
Erik sat back down and looked straight ahead to the empty chair on the opposite end of the low table.
"I came to bid you farewell, Christine." His words were soft. Softer than he had ever sounded, she thought.
Her brows elevated in surprise, and her stance relaxed. "I fulfilled my end of our bargain."
"Yes," he agreed. "You were magnificent."
Silence fell between them, thick with tension and unresolved emotions. It was Erik who filled the void, on this occasion.
"Your payment will be sent to Astor House, tomorrow morning, at the start of the business day-"
"I hardly care about the money," Christine snapped. It was Erik's turn to be taken aback. "I'm worried for my friend. I hate leaving her like this, with a man who knows nothing of love and who uses her to suit his own purposes. I hate having to walk away, left only to imagine the sordid tactics you used to keep her under your control!"
The words clicked inside his head, as he remembered their original source. "Ah, so you read the late Madam Giry's letter to our dear Meg, as well?" He smirked knowingly at the self-righteous woman before him.
To her credit, Christine didn't buckle under the accusation. She continued to stand tall, positive that she was still the benevolent party. "I did," she confirmed.
"How did you feel about her admitting her regret in helping you and your Vicomte on that final night? And I recall her writing to Meg to stay out of my way, should I choose to abduct you, again. To 'protect herself' or something in that vein."
"I'll say this," Christine coolly spoke to the Phantom. "I no longer have Madam Giry placed on a pedestal, when reminiscing about our shared past." She took a step toward the dark composer and shot back. "What did you think about her scathing review of your character? That you are incapable of receiving or giving love, and that you act rashly, selfishly, to attain what you feel you deserve?"
He leaned back in the chair with a pronounced arrogance. "I suppose, to an extent, she was right. I was pleased she accepted as much blame as she did." His eyes dropped to his lap, with a sudden humility. "But a lot changes in eight years," he shared, deep in his own thoughts.
"Apparently," Christine scoffed. "I hardly know Meg, anymore. When we speak of our past, the conversation is easy, but anything dealing with her time with you, and she alters to a degree that makes her almost unrecognizable." Christine's voice also hushed to a melancholy whisper. "She's not the same girl I knew."
"No, she's not," Erik stated plainly.
The two stared at each other, organizing their thoughts privately.
"Please take care of her, Erik," Christine pleaded. Erik's heart grew in his chest, hearing his name spoken with such care. "She is not well; we may not be bosom friends, but I know enough to know that. I feel very strongly that her fate will be closely entwined with yours. If you know her better than I do, after watching her mature into the person she is now, then I am expecting you to watch over her. I am hoping that you are as good of a man as she believes you to be."
Erik stood and slowly walked toward his former pupil. She watched his advancement with a wary eye, but she did not retreat. He gently grabbed her gloved hand within one of his own and brought it to his lips for a chaste kiss.
"I have protected and cared for her for the past eight years. I won't stop now," he vowed.
His heart beat like an achingly large drum in his chest, thinking of Meg. The desire he had felt earlier, to speak with his companion, was dwarfed by the new sensation that seemed to radiate from his very soul. A feeling that had grown and ripened over eight years. Something that he had never wished to acknowledge, out of some misguided fear and denial.
"Try to deny it, and try to protest. But love won't let you go, once you've been possessed…"
"I'll speak with her tonight, after everyone has left," he added. He gave his former protégé a reserved smile. No superior smirk. No arrogant sneer. "Goodbye, Christine."
She heard the finality in his tone. Tempted to ask if he would seek her out, again, she withheld the question. She already knew the answer. Her smile, too, was genuine.
"Goodbye, Erik."
He left with a volte-face, striding out of the room without so much as a backward glance.
Christine felt lighter, somehow. She, too, left the room, walking the winding path to the front of the theater, where her carriage waited. Various workers and actors were dotted along her trek, and they wished her well, as they performed the chores and tasks they had been given. When Raoul saw her, he couldn't hide the relief in his face, and he jumped out of his seat to help Christine into hers. The horses pulled their transport toward the next destination, and Christine watched Phantasma fade from view.
A gorgeous sunset painted the sky, paving the way for the darkness to come.