She had been dancing for days, for weeks, it seemed like an eternity. Her muscles burned and her feet bled and a small part of her wanted nothing but a nap, a very long nap. But the ballet was new, the music sumptuous and lush and dancing as Aurora in The Sleeping Beauty was one of the hardest things she had ever done. Meg loved every moment of it.
Weak afternoon sunlight dappled the floorboards of the modest flat she shared with her mother. It was a rare afternoon off but much too cold for her to take the air outside. They had never returned to live in the opera dormitories after the fire but Madame Giry would not have them too far away. The apartment was clean and snug, with a small stove for cooking and heat, a sitting room and a small water closet between their bedrooms.
"And only a ten minute walk to the theatre so it will almost be as good as living there." Meg thought ruefully as she laid out afternoon tea for herself and her mother. She would have loved to have a small garden to tend and sit in but that was a luxury they could not afford on her wages. The nearby Tuileries Garden would have to be enough for her.
The slow percussive thunk of a cane heralded Madame Giry's approach and Meg stood, quietly waiting for her mother to take her seat at their small table. Though still a striking looking woman, the years had not been kind to her mother's body and the dampness of winter inflamed her joints. Meg did what she could to ease the burden but Madame Giry had always been proud and the growing infirmity made her snippy.
"This is lovely, ma chere." Madame Giry wrapped her hands around the steaming tea cup while Meg lightly buttered the croissants. She smiled tightly, wondering what her mother wanted. Madame Giry was not viciously critical but rain drops fell from the sky more often than compliments dropped from her mother's lips.
"Are you in rehearsal again tonight?"
Meg nodded. "There are a few things they want to run with the crew, scenery changes and the like, while the dancers are on stage."
"Is that not what a technical rehearsal is for?"
"Yes but I know I would feel better if they had a better idea of where things are going before we reach those rehearsals." Meg picked at her croissant, popping small pieces into her mouth. Her mother had committed the rehearsal schedule to her iron trap of a memory weeks ago, this was just her way of moving onto an uncomfortable topic. "Christine will be there tonight as well."
Madame Giry's brows knitted together. "Her time is not far off, should she not be resting?"
"She insists to Raoul and I that she has never felt better and truth is she does look quite well."
"Ma petit." her mother began, her lips pursed the way she always did when she anticipated an argument.
Meg shifted her gaze to the brooch at the base of her mother's throat. "Here it comes."
"Mon petit, I am .. very.. proud of you." Madame Giry's hands shook just a little. "Could not be more proud."
"Are compliments really so hard, maman?"
"I think.." Madame Giry carefully sipped her tea. "It is time you thought of being married."
There it was. It had taken her mother longer to get to the point than in the past. The last mention of it had been on her twenty-fifth birthday; it had been an awful fight and the memory still rankled. Meg and she met her mother with a hard stare. Madame Giry was not wrong; a daughter nearing thirty should have been many years married by now, and Madame Giry should have been surrounded by grandchildren. But Meg had neither the time nor inclination for courting or falling in love. That part of her heart had been sealed shut a long time ago.
"Maman -" Meg began but her mother held up her hand to silence her.
"Listen to me, Meg." she tactfully ignored her daughter's huff of annoyance. "You will not dance forever and I do not think you will want to dance forever. We will not have Christine's kindness forever either. I would rest easier in knowing that you were settled and cared for after I am gone."
"Are you really talking about death again?" Meg snapped. She did not want to think about death.
"Watch your tone." her mother admonished and Meg hung her head. "I have the names of a couple of fine gentlemen that I would like to introduce you to."
"We do not know any fine gentleman, maman, how could we possibly obtain these introductions?"
"The Comte de Chagny and Christine proposed their names and will initiate the acquaintance in the appropriate manner."
Meg stared at her mother aghast. "You asked them to find me a husband I do not want?"
"Who better to introduce you to wealthy gentlemen than a wealthy gentleman?" Madame Giry asked, ignoring the dark look from her daughter. "You know I am right, Marguerite." her mother's voice was dangerously calm. Meg stood abruptly, the napkin on her lap fluttering to the floor in a shower of crumbs.
"I need to go." she declared. "Before it grows much darker." Meg hurried around the room lighting lamps to compensate for the dying winter sun. How dare her mother corner her like this! Meg ripped her heavy cloak from its hook and tugged the hood tightly over her head and around her face. "I will be home late." she said flatly, her hand on the doorknob.
"He is dead, Marguerite." her mother said softly. "You cannot end your life a spinster for a childish infatuation."
"Can't I?" she cried.
"You will take this seriously, ma petit. The time for your selfishness has long passed."
Tears burned Meg's eyes but she would not let her mother see her cry. There had been too many tears for Erik since his death. She dropped a slight curtsy to her mother. "Maman." she whispered hoarsely and swept from the flat, thundering down the staircase in a most ungraceful way and all but threw herself out the door into street, gulping a lungful of the cold Paris air. Meg leaned against the icy stone of their building, her chest tight with panic and unshed tears. Could her mother force her into a marriage she did not wish for? Meg knew she could; once Madame Giry had set her mind on something, the best anyone could do was scramble out of her way.
"Stop being so silly, Marguerite." she scolded herself through chattering teeth. There was never anything for her to mourn, no passionate lover lost, just unrequited love for an imagined phantom. The reality of the man was unknown to her but she couldn't let it go. Despair hung heavy like stone on her heart; Meg would rather die than try to love another.
The wind rustled the bottom of her cloak, icy fingers of air grasping at her ankles. Meg took one last calming breath, squared her shoulders and set off for the Opera Garnier, ready to set herself aside and spend a few hours as a cursed princess with a happy ending.