With her days spent in rehearsals and nights spent tending her mother, time passed by in a blur and the opening gala of the autumn season was upon suddenly upon her; and, for once in her life, Meg did not feel like dancing.
Her reflection in the mirror seemed like a different person. Mirror Meg looked clear eyed and creamy skinned with delicately pink cheeks. Beneath the heavy makeup, Real Meg waited, with pale skin and sad eyes ringed with exhaustion. Madame Giry's decline had been slow and painful. The end had to be near, but she still clung to life, though for what, Meg wasn't sure.
"I can hazard a guess though." She stifled a yawn.
Desjardins had persisted in his courtship, or rather, his intentions of such. She had not accepted any of his calls or the gifts he left for her, though Madame Giry had done so on her behalf. Something had to give and it wasn't going to be her. Meg slipped floral combs into her hair at the base of her bun and patted her head, satisfied with her handiwork. She breathed deeply, to calm the disquiet within, though it was never far away or silent for long.
Prickles on the back of her neck caused her to hold her breath. The hair on her arms stood on end. Glancing over at the full length mirror, Meg jumped.
Erik, finally, in the flesh. Silent, imposing and wraith-like all in black.
Meg had given up the hope that he would reveal himself and when the pranks ceased, the rose he left felt like a goodbye.
The gaslight lent a ghostly aura to the white of his mask. They stared at one another for a long moment. Her mother's voice in her head telling her to tremble before the Opera Ghost, to be afraid, but she was not. Erik silently crossed the room to the dressing table.
"Maestro." She breathed, hardly daring to speak louder. The dozens of questions she had wanted to ask scattered like dead leaves on the autumn wind. Erik knelt before her, taking her hand, giving it a light squeeze.
"Marguerite." He murmured. Erik reached into his opera cloak and produced a dark blue box, which he offered to her, almost shyly.
"An opening night gift?" Meg took the box, opening it carefully to find two silver combs, decorated with heavily wrought silver roses. She set the box on her dressing table and eyed her reflection thoughtfully, wondering how best to set the combs in her hair without starting over.
"Do you not like them?" his tone was neutral but Meg heard the worry that crept in around the edges.
"They're beautiful. Will you help me put them in?" she could have sworn that a smile tugged at the visible corner of his mouth.
Erik slipped off his evening gloves and rose to stand behind her. He studied her hair critically for a few moments, and then held out one slender hand, waiting for a comb. She placed the first in his palm and sat still as he firmly worked it into her hair among the others she had already used. Meg gave him the second comb and he repeated the process; she tried not to wince. He gave her head a light pat and nodded solemnly, an artist satisfied with his work.
"Your mother?"
"Is here against all the odds, in the manager's box. I wish she had stayed home."
"Your mother is fiercely proud to see her daughter shine before all of Paris."
"Are you fiercely proud of her daughter?" it slipped out before she could stop herself. Meg shook her head and sighed. "She will leave after I have danced. Desjardins will take her home." She watched his still reflection while he appeared to be lost in thought.
"Cricket is staring."
"Maestro is thinking"
Erik pulled his gloves back on. "The manager is very familiar with you."
"Too familiar." Meg slipped a shawl over her shoulders.
"He does not court you?"
"You know that he does not." She sighed, picking up her pointe shoes, ignoring the glint of feigned innocence in his topaz eyes.
"Does the manager know that he does not?" Erik sat on the very edge of the divan. "You would be comfortable." He added hurriedly at Meg's look of annoyance.
"Now you sound like maman. I would rather starve."
"Cricket does not know what she is talking about" Erik snapped.
"Do you want me to marry him? Perhaps you would like to give me away?"
Erik regarded her coldly for a moment, then stood abruptly and crossed the room in a couple of strides
"Your public awaits, La Giry." He gave her a curt bow and flung the door open, sweeping into the hallway, leaving her alone and fuming. How dare he finally appear to her only to frustrate her before a performance?
"What did you want from him though?" the little voice in her head asked. Meg touched the ornate combs in her hair. She wanted him and always had. No one would understand it, least of all Erik. There would soon be no one else on earth that knew her, had known her and her history. There was a comfort in that.
"Rather the devil I know than the devil I do not."
Her back straightened at the first, faint strains of the opening overture. Shedding her shawl, grasping her shoes tightly, Meg strode from her dressing room. It was time for the cricket to dance.