Surrounded by fairy lights and veiled in mist, Meg spun across the vast stage of the Opera Populaire, propelled by an eerie tune she'd never heard before. She was alone, as though she was the Prima Ballerina and this was her solo number. A glance into the audience revealed only darkness.
Stretching out a graceful hand, another grasped hers, firm and cool, pulling her against a strong chest. The man, always out of sight, partnered her dance, never missing a move. Meg smiled serenely as she soared through the air, held firmly by her steady partner. The final strains of music died away and she turned to bow to the mystery dancer but there was only darkness and a silence broken only by the distant, steady dripping of water. Grey shapes gradually came into focus; a low burning candle cast hard shadows on hard grey walls. A gentle hand pressed a cool damp cloth to her forehead.
"Maman?" she croaked. If Madame Giry was nearby, she said nothing in reply. "Maman?" Meg rasped again, her voice breaking with agitation.
"Hush now, cricket." soothed the velvet darkness.
"Where is Maman?" she whimpered, trying to push herself up. The darkness caught her and held her firmly, pressing a cold metal cup to her lips.
"Drink." it breathed.
Cold water spilled down her throat, moistening her lips, restoring her voice. Meg drained the cup and it reappeared moments later, refilled. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light while she nursed the second cup of water, the shapeless darkness taking on the form of thin man, swathed in shadow. A seed of dread sprouted in her gut.
"Maman?" she tried again, glancing over the man's shadow.
"Your maman is not here."
"Where IS here?" The surroundings were as hazy as her memories. The thin man pressed her back onto the cot with little effort and turned away, rummaging around the room, once she had settled.
The space felt small and cramped. Fear crept over her breast like creeping vine. Meg realized that she could remember little of the events after Christine had vanished before all of Paris, kidnapped mid-opera by the phantom composer. Raoul pursued them, aided by her mother.
She had tried to follow them.
Meg frowned. "But why?"
Bone biting cold and crazy brittle laughter flooded over her and Meg drew in a sharp breath, cut short by a cold hand clamped hard over her mouth.
"No screaming, little one." his voice was soft but the command was unmistakable. "We do not know who may be listening." his grip loosened slowly and once he felt certain that Meg would not scream he withdrew.
Now adjusted to the weak light, Meg could see the opera ghost perched on a small stool at her bedside. He was much thinner than she had imagined without the bulk of his evening cloak. She realized the beautiful black garment was draped over her. It was silk lined and smooth between her fingers. Smells of the damp earth and sweet spices filled her nose; the scent of the opera ghost. It was strangely soothing.
"Focus, Meg..." she scolded. She remembered falling, wrenching her ankle.. and swimming through icy water like a damn fool. Had she really done all that just to reach the Phantom's lair? The throbbing in her ankle told her that she had. But she was feeling quite dry and the ankle had been bound. Beneath opera cloak and linen sheet, Meg was as naked as the day she had been born. Had he stripped her of her wet clothing and bound the ankle? Meg could feel the blood rising in her cheeks.
"Your honour has not been compromised, cricket." the phantom quietly answered her unspoken question.
"I never thought that you..." she trailed off, too embarrassed to even verbalize the suggestion.
"Why not? A monster is capable of heinous things."
"You are not a monster." her voice sounded small when she wished she had sounded more certain.
"You are a fool if you honestly believe that."
"Then I am a fool." she shifted nervously under his sharp eyed scrutiny. Christine had told her that the Phantom was no specter, but a man, a brilliant man, hideous to look upon but brilliant to the point of madness. Meg felt as though he could turn her to ash with the force of his gaze; she was the singular object of his intense focus and she would simply crumble to dust.
"What happened?" she finally asked, desperate to break the silence and perhaps shift his focus away from her even for a moment.
"I was hoping you would tell me." he had moved the stool and was very close. His yellow eyes were hard like topaz sunken in his skull. Meg gave a little cry; the phantom wore no mask.
"Because it is in your bag, you nit wit."
"Are you afraid of Erik's face, little cricket?" his voice was calm but his thin twisted lip curled in an approximation of a sneer.
Meg took a calming breath and looked carefully at the ruin of the phantom's - Erik's - face. There was a flicker of uneasiness in his eyes but he let her look. His right cheek bore the worst of whatever had made him this way, the skin wrinkled, grey and lifeless. His nose was poorly formed and thin strands of wispy hair, white as snow, grew sparsely on the top of his head. There were no eyebrows perched above his sunken eyes. The deformities didn't extend through the entire face to the same degree, but it was not handsome. Erik, she decided, was ugly, but that was all.
"No, Maestro. I am not afraid. I was merely surprised."
Erik was quiet for a moment, seemingly weighing the truth in her words.
"You followed me." he stated. "Why?"
Meg looked away into the darkness, nervous. She could die down here and no one but Erik would know what happened.
"I haven't decided whether to kill you, little one." his voice was harsh and brittle. "Speak."
Composing herself as best she could under the stony gaze, Meg tried to recount her steps as well as she could, hoping it would be enough.
"I followed my mother and the Vicomte."
Erik tensed at the mention of his rival but nodded his head slightly: Go on.
"I tried to follow, anyway. But my mother forbade me." Meg paused to cough and Erik moved to refill the water cup, helping her to sit up again, hovering while she drank. "Thank you." she murmured, jumping a little when her fingers brushed his as she handed back the cup.
"Your mother forbade you to follow and you disobeyed." it wasn't a question.
"I came another way. I didn't know how to find my way exactly. I kept heading down."
"The courageous ballet rat; it sounds like an opera." Erik mocked. "And the mob?"
"Mob?" she blinked.
"You stuttered out something about a mob." Erik snipped.
"The theatre was on fire.." Set by the Phantom, they both knew. "They followed after maman."
"You chose to follow after her-" He must have meant Christine.
"No. You. I followed after you."
"You followed me into the depths of a burning building?" there was edge incredulity in his voice, confusion in his eyes. Erik couldn't understand her actions or her concern for him. Meg didn't understand it either.
"I wanted to warn you." she said lamely.
"Warn me of what? You made your choice before that mob made theirs."
Meg opened her mouth and promptly shut it. What could she say to him that he could possibly believe? That she couldn't bear the guilt of her friend's betrayal? She imagined that Erik had very little idea of compassion or kindness. "I'm so..so sorry.. " she winced. Erik was not a young man, he was well acquainted with the fear and loathing of the world. He would not want her pity.
"At a loss now, little Giry?" his eyes glinted with disdain.
"Meg. My name is Meg." she replied calmly, levelly meeting the unnerving stare. She leaned over the edge of the cot slowly, her eyes still locked on his. He sat very still but his left hand twitched ever so slightly. "Hurry before he kills you." Meg grabbed the damp strap of her satchel and sat back up. She withdrew the mask from within and let the bag fall back to the floor. Hesitantly, she reached for his face. Erik flinched but did not withdraw; fear and suspicion were etched into his features. Meg cupped the side of his face gently, tracing the unhappy lines lightly with her thumb. He sat so still she thought he had stopped breathing.
"Not a ghost, not a dream." she whispered to herself.
"No." he sighed.
"Thank you." she kissed her fingers and pressed that kiss to his cheek. Meg offered the white leather mask to the dumbfounded phantom, who took it and turned away from her bewildering kindness.
A loud rumble of protest broke the silence and Erik faced here again, now masked, blinking slowly, and coming back from wherever his mind had gone. Her stomach had made its grievance known. He sat even straighter, in command and looking every inch the terrifying phantom. He leaned forward to check her temperature.
"You are still warm, cricket. Perhaps you should rest."
She lay back down, pulling her covers up to her chin. Erik turned to go.
"Are you leaving me, Maestro?" her voice wavered with alarm. The sensible part of her should be glad of him going, perhaps she could find a way out before he returned. "But I have no clothes." Dangerous as he was, the only way she would leave here would be through his aid. "And he's more than a little bit fascinating." She argued with herself.
"You are hungry, cricket." he reminded her. "Rest now."
Then he was gone, melting into the shadows, walking through the wall and Meg was all alone in the darkness.
Dreams filled with flames and horrid Wagnerian opera ended abruptly at the guillotine, her head rolling away before being tossed into a full basket with a thud - Meg woke with a start, shivering from a cold sweat. Erik had returned from his errand. He dropped a soft nightgown onto the cot and set about serving up a small loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese.
"All is quiet out there, for now. I'll leave you to dress." he told her, disappearing before she could ask for any help. Still feeling woozy, Meg took her time getting to her feet. She yelped at the shock of cold of bare feet hitting the floor. The injured ankle ached angrily in protest. By all rights, she should have had assistance; he'd probably had enough of seeing her déshabillé. Nervous now that he would return before she was decent, Meg hobbled around as quickly as her light head and poor balance would allow. It was ridiculous for a ballerina to be so uncoordinated.
The nightgown was warm and soft, nicer than any of her gowns. Lace edged the cuffs and modest neckline.
"Christine.." she murmured, fingering the lace of one cuff of the pretty gown her friend would never wear. Once dressed, Meg slipped back under the makeshift covers and waited for the phantom to return.
Erik re-materialized almost immediately and brought over a plate with a slice of bread and chunk of cheese.
"It is not much." he apologized. "The cook was not expecting company."
Meg picked off a crumb of bread, slowly realizing that it had been a jest. She looked at him curiously. Drawn up to his full height, he cut an imposing figure even as thin as he was. Slicked back dark hair had taken the place of the white patchy hairs and the mask was securely in place. The Phantom wore a wig? Catching her eye, Erik gestured impatiently.
"Eat."
She tucked in, devouring the bread at an unladylike speed. Sensing Erik's amusement, Meg forced herself to slow down and savor the cheese. She chewed slowly, sneaking glances at the opera ghost. His posture was incredibly rigid, left hand still twitching. Did a mere girl really unnerve him so? Or was he in the middle of deciding her fate?
"I suppose he wouldn't know much about conversing with ladies." she thought wryly, recalling Christine's abductions through various trap doors. Definitely not a flowers-and-bon-bons sort of phantom. Meg traced the dainty painted flowers of the plate, wondering what sort of suitor he would make, given half of a chance. "You stupid toad. He is a kidnapper and murderer and God knows what else. Do not let your sensibilities get away from you." The inner voice could not be denied.
The plate slipped from her hands and straight into Erik's. Meg gaped at him. She hadn't even seen him move.
"Can I trust you with the rest of my dishes?" he gave her a withering look and handed her a glass of wine.
"They're very lovely." she remarked, fighting down the rising blush.
"They were my mother's." he all but mumbled. "I'm not here to poison you." Erik said acidly, noticing Meg's hesitation in drinking the wine. "Poison is not my style." he told her with a dismissive wave of his elegant hand.
Meg shrank back and took a slow drink. The wine was sweet and heady, filling her belly and bones with warmth. Erik had resumed his perch on the stool next to her and they drank in almost companionable silence.
"Then what is your style?" she ventured, the liquid courage kicking in. Erik said nothing, perhaps considering whether to answer.
"Nothing messy." he said finally.
"Poison is not messy."
"No, not for the person who administers it. But poison is a woman's weapon." Erik sneered, refilling their glasses. "If I were to kill you, little Giry, you would know, however briefly, that death was coming." his voice low and smooth like silk. Meg remained silent, her courage fading as quickly as it had come.
"You sought me out to warn me." it was not a question. Erik seemed like a man unaccustomed to asking many questions. "To warn me -" he scoffed. "- of a danger you were aware of only after you decided to invade my home."
"Not invade, I was afraid -" she tried to protest.
"Then you came to the wrong place."
"Afraid of Raoul and what he might do."
The phantom laughed, a sharp barking noise. "You feared for the wrong man, cricket. What could that child have done to me?"
"He was very angry." Meg looked everywhere but at Erik. Something about him felt very..changed. The air around him felt sinister.
"I would imagine."
"He tried to capture you." "Yes, I was there." Erik replied dryly.
"He would have killed for Christine."
Erik recoiled with a hiss at the sound of her name. The glass in Meg's hands trembled.
"As would I." he said flatly.
Meg drained her glass, her annoyance finally overcoming her fear of that arrogant man. "That child had a pistol. You're not a real ghost, you know?"
"It is hard to hit a moving target." Erik said simply.
"Are you always so insufferable?"
"Are you always this impertinent?" Erik snatched her glass before she could turn it into a projectile and dared to quickly check her temperature before stepping out of her reach. "You are still very warm."
"From the wine." she protested.
"You should rest more." he urged, persuasion heavy in his voice.
"I want to go home." Meg huffed.
"Rest, cricket." he sang, sinking to her side.
"Stop that. I'm not -" a damp rag clamped over her mouth and nose, she struggled briefly and then slumped unconscious against his chest. Erik lay her down gently, tucking her in.
"You talk far too much, little gnat." he told her still form. He extinguished the candle, plunging the room into blackness.