He slipped into Meg's room late every night that week, once she had returned from the theatre, and he continued to slowly spin the rest of his sad tale. Meg could not wrap her head around much of what he told her, she had never known the level of physical and emotional deprivation he had experienced. It made her heart ache and sometimes she wanted to clamp her hands over hear ears but part of her needed to know more; Erik's history was like an accident she could not look away from.
Broken dreams and ruined lives had followed Erik through Italy and Eastern Europe. He joined up with the traveling fairs again but he was a man grown then, tall and lean and strong; Erik called no man 'master' anymore.
Erik held himself aloof from all around him, the other performers, and the audiences who flocked to his tent. They came to hear his ethereal voice, and to witness the horror of his face. He withdrew from humanity as best he could.
"But people talk and my myth grew. Before long, a representative of the Persian shah came seeking me in Russia."
"You lived in Russia?" Meg asked excitedly, twisting around to look at him.
"Yes, Cricket but hush now before Erik loses his nerve to tell his tale." He admonished.
Chastened, Meg turned back around and waited patiently for Erik to continue.
"The shah's court was like out of a fairy tale, bejeweled and opulent beyond even my imaginings. But it was a dangerous place, full of intrigue and murder." His voice settled again into the rhythm of the tale and Meg clamped her mouth into a thin line, determined not to interrupt.
"The shah's mother, in particular, had an insatiable appetite for cruelty and delighted in the clever tortures I devised for her amusement. I was her Angel of Death and so my body count continued to rise."
"What sorts of things did you engineer for the sultana?" she whispered, not meaning to interrupt and uncertain if she really wanted to know.
"I would not sully your dreams with the particulars of what I did. It was a dark time."
"Did you enjoy being her Angel of Death?" she persisted.
"Enough, Marguerite, please let me save you from your own curiosity."
She sat on the bed in her very modest nightgown while he perched on the edge, brushing her hair out and braiding and unbraiding it over and over.
"Where did you go from Persia?" she prompted gently.
"I returned to France, came to Paris and helped Garnier build his temple of music."
It was a terse explanation that begged for her to probe further, to pry out the deeper secret lying between the lines but Meg resisted.
"You helped to build the opera house?"
"Yes, the foundations and subterranean floors, most of my work will never be seen by the inhabitants of the theatre."
Erik pulled a silk ribbon from his pocket and wove it through her hair. She sighed when his fingers brushed her bare neck as he pulled the ribbon through. He was more comfortable with touching her now, but still lightly and often with awe.
"Is that how your home on the lake came about? Did you build a place for you to hide in?"
"It was meant to be my tomb and I was determined to be a ghost. I never intended to be a man again until I heard .."
"Christine." Meg supplied, shifting in her spot until she was facing him. His discomfort was immediate but she was tired of him talking to the back of her head.
"Yes." Erik's gaze wandered, feigning interest in the faded flowers on the wallpaper. "The rest Erik thinks Cricket already knows."
"Why did you return, Erik?" she laid a gentle hand upon his but he snatched it away with a gasp. "I am sorry."
"No need to be sorry, Erik was only startled." He slipped his hand into hers, weaving their fingers together. His skin was cool and rough. "Erik wanted to.." he took a breath to steady himself. "I wanted to say goodbye to her, I thought I would play her a requiem; though at first, I did not believe she was really gone."
"How did you find out? Did maman write to you?"
Erik's grip tightened momentarily and she struggled to keep her expression even; she could imagine him easily crushing the bones in her fingers to fine powder.
"One of my students told me and madness descended, carrying me back to Paris." He laid his free hand over the top of their clasped hands. "Was she very ill, Cricket? Is that why child birth carried her away?"
"Not to my knowledge." Meg shook her head. "But the pregnancy seemed to weigh very heavily on her; she looked to be fading before our eyes, even as she grew with child."
"It is his fault she is gone." His eyes narrowed, his tone grew dark. "Could he not be content with the children she had already given him?"
"That is an act that requires two, Erik and they loved each other. They knew the risks."
"I know they loved each other!" he spat, wresting his hand from hers. "That was part of Erik's problem." His voice cracked with emotion.
"You said a student told you about Christine." She picked at the threads of the bed spread, and carefully tried to shift Erik's focus. "Do you have many students? Where are you teaching?"
"I have a few students, though they have probably moved on." Erik watched her fidgeting and delicately dancing around his mood swings. He knew what she was trying to do and he felt an odd sense of gratitude. "I never meant to stay so long."
"Why have you?"
Erik stilled her hand and traced the soft lines of her palm. The answer hung in the air between them but he chose to evade it.
"The hour is late, Cricket and your maman sleeps lightly. Let's not wake her."
He stood and gestured for her to climb under the covers. Bemused, Meg obeyed and let him draw the covers up to her chin. Erik bade her close her eyes and she felt the faintest whisper of lips against her forehead.
A smile curled upon her lips and she snuggled deeper into the blankets. When she opened her eyes again, he was gone without a trace, like the ghost he so often was.
** A/N: I do not take credit for the sketch of Erik's history. That credit belongs to Susan Kay and her masterful novel, 'Phantom'. **