Erik stood frozen behind the mirror, pressed against the wall, not daring to move or even to breathe as he watched Meg's retreating form close the door and finally leave the dressing room empty. He let out his breath, his lungs grateful to be able to resume their normal function but he did not move from his spot.
"She knows." Erik muttered, squeezing his eyes shut, willing the galloping panic in his mind to subside. "Little Meg knows Erik is here."
How had she known that he was there watching?
"Do not be absurd. Meg cannot see Erik through the walls."
If she had that ability, she would have seen him everywhere, trailing her every move like a .. Well, like a phantom. She knew his ways and had seen his calling cards at Christine's tomb.
"Erik has become very careless." He whispered to the darkness. Finally forcing himself to move, he reached up and slid his hand along the wall until he heard a faint click and the mirror slid away, granting him access to the dressing room. But he hesitated.
"What if Meg comes back to find Erik here?"
Again, would that have been such a terrible thing? She seemed entirely unlikely to alert the authorities to his presence, if he had understood correctly what Meg had said in the police interview, even submitting to the suggestion that Erik's prank had only been an accident.
"These things do happen." She had finally conceded, making Erik's thin lips curl into a smirk. Those words had not given much comfort to La Carlotta.
"Good riddance to that toady woman."
Erik stepped smoothly into the empty room, taking in the small touches Meg had added to suit her own tastes, which admittedly were few. Small tintype photos in cheap looking frames sat below the dressing mirror and a worn rug adorned the floor. The room still looked much like the dressing room he had taken Christine from.
An unpleasant odor, like sweat and stale tobacco covered by parfum, filled his nose (well, what should have been his nose) and Erik's eyes narrowed in distaste. The manager's office reeked of that smell; and, wherever else Desjardins went for that matter.
Erik had had little time to give to the sweaty and nervous man who called himself a manager. Whenever he had noticed Desjardins, the manager was attempting to steer situations that had no real need of him or insert himself into conversations with people who appeared to wish he would simply go away. Erik did not care for how Desjardins looked at the ballet girls.
"Erik did not like how he looked at Meg, either." He sighed. "Perhaps he is worth a further study."
Erik sat upon the dressing stool, looking anywhere else but into the mirror. He knew well enough what he looked like; he had no use for a looking glass. He opened the small drawers, browsing for what small trinkets Meg might have left behind but found only ribbons.
"Evidently Meg is tired of Erik's petty thievery."
He fingered a worn blue ribbon, enjoying the softness on his rough fingers. An image rose unbidden in Erik's mind of his hands buried in Meg's unbound golden hair, softer even than the ribbon and scented. He gasped and dropped the offensive object back into the drawer. Erik could not reasonably deny his affection for her much longer.
"But since when has he ever been reasonable?" he could not help a forlorn glance at his dark reflection. "She is not for Erik."
Even so, Erik took the rose he had put in his button hole and laid it next to the ribbons, then pushed the drawer shut. If he could not bring himself to speak to her, face-to-face, he would leave her a gift, rather than steal more of her things. It seemed a paltry offering next to all of the things he had pocketed.
"And for the sandbag."