Box five was not empty. Erik had not expected it would be, but he felt perturbed even so. He eventually resigned himself to the catwalks, dodging the fly-men. There was only one dancer he was there to see and half of Paris was there to see her too.
Erik had purposefully not looked for Madame Giry. She would be seated with the theatre manager and the less he saw of Monsieur Desjardins, the better. Snooping into Desjardins' private life had become Erik's entertainment after he stopped stealing from the dressing rooms. Once he noticed how the man looked at Meg.
He had not liked what he uncovered.
Spying an empty box on the third tier, Erik picked his way downward, rolling his eyes when out of tune music reached his ears.
"The more things change, the more they stay the same." He muttered, slipping into the dark box.
Unfortunately, he could still see Desjardins across the auditorium, with Madame Giry at his side. Erik had a hard time believing that his old friend would approve of a match like Desjardins for her treasured daughter. Steeped in debauchery, extorting money from associates and patrons alike, Desjardins only pretended to be a bumbling idiot. He would not treat a wife well; Meg could do far better.
"With who? With you?" his lip curled in a thin sneer. Erik settled into the shadows, with a somewhat obstructed view as Meg took the stage. A hush fell over the auditorium and the finest dancer in Paris drew them in.
The music picked up tempo and Erik leaned forward for a clearer view. Her every move was as graceful as he remembered from her childhood, fluid and refined by a lifetime of dancing. Meg laid her very soul on the stage, the ultimate gesture of vulnerability. It reminded him of Christine's debut, though there was pride mingled with that. A comparison Meg was unlikely to appreciate.
Ballet had never been a particular interest of his but when Meg danced, Erik could not look away. Every move, every look, made effortless by an artist at the top of their game. It wasn't until the final notes died away that Erik even realized he had been holding his breath. The theatre erupted into applause.
Meg sank into a deep curtsy, head tilted down, eyes closed, humbled by their response.
Erik clapped until his hands stung, an action he had rarely done at the Populaire. The ovation ended after several minutes and once Meg had left the stage, Erik was on the move again. There was a gala ball to attend after all.
Overcrowded ballrooms were the bane of Meg's existence. A rosy pink flush covered her chest, threatening to deepen into the lobster category. The music was loud, the conversations even louder, her slippers pinched and she wanted to go home. The opening gala performance had gone like a dream and it would have remained a good one had she been able to leave with her mother.
But all that turmoil was on the inside. Outwardly, Meg was all gracious smiles, cheek kisses and mindless courtesies.
"Mon Dieu, do they really need to invite the entire city to the ball?"
Surely no one would notice if a few dozen invitations went missing. Perhaps they were fishing for a new patron or five. She suspected Raoul's patronage might be at an end; the ballet was Christine's pet project, never his.
A black clad figure sidled up to her right, far too close for propriety. Erik.
"Would Cricket care for a dance?"
"Have I not danced enough for one evening, monsieur?" she asked lightly, glancing to the side.
"No, mademoiselle, for you have not yet danced with me." He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her into the sea of swirling humanity. Erik took her hand and placed his other at her waist and pulled her into the waltz before she could change her mind.
"Are you displeased with me, Maestro? You left quite suddenly." Meg tried to keep her voice steady but she was all too aware of his hands upon her. He didn't answer right away, his gaze fixed on some spot over her shoulder.
"No, I only wish you would see reason."
"I hardly think you're the expert in seeing reason."
"Marguerite." His tone was a warning, and he gripped her tighter. "You do not know me."
"Nor do you really know me." Meg had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. "Why not let me know you? Would it truly be such a bad thing?"
His shoulders shook with a silent laugh. "You saw what happened to Christine and you are running full tilt to fill her shoes?"
"I think everyone could use a friend." It sounded lame even to her.
"Friend." Erik's lip curled with disdain.
"What did you think I meant?" she asked archly. "Whatever I meant, I want to know you. Whether you let me or not, please do not leave me to the likes of Desjardins."
"And the time you spent in the care of the Opera Ghost, which was so much safer than the manager?"
Meg said nothing, watching the glitter of jewels on the other dancers, focusing on the steps of the waltz.
"Why are you so obstinate? What are you afraid of?" he pressed.
"This is not the place to have this conversation." She said firmly as the music ended.
A chubby hand tapped Erik's arm. "May I beg the next dance with Madamoiselle Giry?"
Meg silently pleaded with him not to go and Erik held her a bit longer than he needed to, momentarily conflicted, before placing her hand in the manager's and taking his leave with a curt bow. The music began again and Desjardins dragged her along as Erik vanished into the crowd.
"Who was that?" Desjardins looked at her suspiciously.
"Yet another admirer, I suppose." Meg smiled blandly, hoping they could get through the dance without much conversation.
"You seem quite familiar with him, but I've never seen him before." The manager's expression darkened.
"Monsieur Desjardins, it is entirely proper that I have acquaintances that you are unaware of. You are not my father."
"No and perhaps you would show more deference to your betters had you a father."
Meg's eyes widened in fury and moved to stomp on Desjardins foot when his expression suddenly brightened.
"Will you do me the honour of accompanying me to supper?"
"T-tonight? Are you insane?"
"I am truly sorry, Marguerite. Sometimes my temper does get the better of me." His plump face tried to look contrite but failed. "Please come, consider it my most sincere apology."
"Another night, monsieur. Tomorrow perhaps."
"Tomorrow is never promised to us." Desjardins gave her a sickly smile that he undoubtedly thought was charming.
"I prefer to bet on tomorrow and go home and rest tonight." Meg tried to be flippant but it sounded weak even to her. She tried to not sigh with relief as the music ended.
"Should I collect you after the performance?" He persisted, gripping her hand before she could make her escape.
Meg ripped her hand from his and gave him a stony glare. "How about not ever? Good evening, monsieur."
She flounced from the ballroom, leaving the manager flustered and red on the dance floor.