There were no more major incidents after Erik's sandbag assault and he stopped taking things from her dressing room. Every now and then, the ribbons and pins that had disappeared were back exactly where they had been and sometimes, replaced with something new altogether.
At least, she assumed it was Erik but she could not imagine it being anyone else. Any other man trying to get her attention would have made himself known to her by now.
"Like Desjardins" Meg wrinkled her nose, tossing aside his hastily scrawled note, inviting her to supper. She made a mental note to burn it later, adding to the pile of ashes his previous notes had been turned into.
The theatre manager had been quite persistent in his attentions lately. He had taken to sending her flowers and candies after rehearsals, which she found rather improper. Meg dispersed the unsolicited gifts among the younger girls like she would have with gifts sent by any other man.
"Well, not like any other man." She lightly touched the wide red ribbon tied around her wrist, which Erik had left tucked in her pointe shoe when Meg had gone for luncheon one afternoon. She wished he would simply present himself, but nothing the Phantom did was ever simple. He would take his time, even if that time never arrived. And since he had ceased stealing from Meg, he had turned to thieving from the chorus girls for his petty amusements; moving pointe shoes and hiding hair brushes. No one ever thought it was more than one of the girls having a laugh.
"Lord knows that Christine and I stirred up plenty of trouble in our childhood."
Meg grabbed the newspaper and curled up in a chair near the window of their apartment to idly skim through L'Echo de Paris. She glanced frequently at her mother, sleeping fitfully on the sofa nearer the stove. The consumption had ravaged her and they both knew there was not much time left. Madame Giry's breathing was laboured, almost wheezing. The only thing that disturbed her more than her mother's wheezing was when the wheezing stopped. The afternoon light was fading and Meg folded the newspaper, tossing it aside as she stood to stretch her legs.
Meg drifted around the sitting room, lighting gas lamps, tidying the sewing basket and then wandering to their kitchenette to worry over their dwindling pantry. Her mother could no longer get up to make her meals nor did she really seem to care about food. Meg forced bread and broth into her so far as her mother would allow it, and water, but little else. She frowned into the small cupboard.
"Meg?" Madame Giry rasped.
"Yes, Maman." Meg moved swiftly to her mother's side and filled the empty glass from the water pitcher. She propped her mother up and held the glass to her lips.
"Merci, my child." She murmured when she had drained the glass. "What are you doing home?"
"There is no rehearsal tonight, Maman." Meg picked up the blankets that had fallen to the floor and rearranged them on her mother's legs.
A frown flickered across her mother's face. "No ma petite, the note you tossed away so disdainfully."
"Don't worry about that right now, Maman." Meg held her mother's bony hands and tried to not think about how diminished her once formidable mother was now; gaunt face, sunken eyes, the former ballet mistress was the weakest of shadows. It made her heart ache.
"But I am worried, my sweetling." Her mother weakly squeezed her hand. "About your welfare when I am gone."
"Hush now. I will get you better."
"There is no getting better, little one. You know that."
Meg winced at the sting of tears and reached for the pitcher of water. "I will be fine because you will get better." They both knew it was a lie.
"Who courts you so earnestly?" it was more of a demand than a question; flickers of the stern mother she used to be.
"Monsieur Desjardins." Meg mumbled.
"The manager?" there was surprise in Madame Giry's deep set eyes.
"Oui. I do not encourage him, but he needs little encouragement."
"He would give you a comfortable life and you could still dance."
"Mon Dieu! Even at death's door you hound me towards matrimony." Meg snapped, but instantly regretted it when she saw the familiar storm in her mother's eyes. "Would you like some broth, Maman?"
Madame Giry coughed in response, painful, wracking coughs. Meg leaned in and let her mother brace herself against Meg's shoulder until the coughing subsided. The dark stains on the handkerchief were difficult to ignore.
"A new ribbon, ma chere?" Madame Giry asked when she had regained her air. "Do you have a new admirer?"
"You know full well who the 'new' admirer is."
"Call it the wishful thinking of your worried mother."
"At least you are not insisting that he could be dead now."
"Have you seen him?" Madame Giry's gaze was piercing and Meg hurriedly looked away.
"No." Meg mumbled, rubbing the silk of the ribbon at her wrist.
"Better for you that he remains unseen." Madame Giry's grimaced. "He would kill you in a moment if he thought it would amuse him."
"Do you really believe that, Maman?" Meg tossed the stained linen into the laundry basket where it joined several others similarly stained.
"Look what he tried to do with Christine.. and he loved her."
Meg resettled her mother among the pillows and drew the coverlet over her. "But he didn't try to kill her."
"But he killed others; he tried to kill the Vicomte."
"Perhaps the Phantom loves me too?"
"When would he have had that chance? Does he sing to you from within the walls now?"
"No, Maman." She absently traced the quilt pattern with her fingers. "But he has returned to the theatre, there is no doubt of that."
"I hope his pranks do not turn serious." Madame Giry sighed, giving up the conversation for the moment.
"So do I." Meg left out the incident with the sandbag.
Madame Giry's eyes fluttered shut. Meg caressed her mother's cheek and got to her feet. "I will get your broth, Maman." Meg murmured, kissing the top of her mother's head and leaving her to yet another light and fitful sleep.