Chapter Four - A Delicate Veil

As Meg watched, the Opera Ghost gently cradled Christine in arms before settling her limp form onto the crimson velvet.

She knew instinctively that Christine was all right, that she had merely fainted. But why?

As the Phantom's hand lightly trailed along Christine's pale cheek, Meg found herself mimicking his actions. Her own hand slid along her cheek and neck, stopping only at the edge of her tight linen bodice.

The man back away from the bed slowly. Even as Meg couldn't bear to take her eyes from him, it seemed as if he could not tear his own gaze away from Christine.

You alone can make my song take…help me make the music of the night.

You alone…

He lowered a curtain, a delicate veil between himself and the bed.

Meg leaned against the bars again, hoping that she was not noticed.

As he walked away from the odd little bed chamber, he shrugged off his black dress jacket, the heavy brocaded vest, and silk cravat. He let them fall carelessly onto a worn divan. He removed his gloves and tossed them onto a table cluttered with papers, with masks.

I should go…it is so very late…if Maman or Madame Breault finds I am not in the dormitory, I shall regret it…

She made not attempt to leave, only stayed and watch as he unbutton the collar of his white shirt before sitting down at the pipe organ.

She wondered if he would remove the mask. He made no move to touch it, only bent forward to briefly examine a musical score.

She watched as he laid his hands on the keys as tenderly as he touched Christine.

The music he played was so low, so gently that Meg could barely hear it over the faint lap of the water. So muted that it did not awaken Christine.

After a few minutes he paused and ran his long fingers through his hair. It was a simple enough gesture, yet even at a distance, Meg could feel the frustration in that act.

He turned from the organ, reaching for a velvet robe that lay across a chair nearby.

For a moment, it seemed that his gaze reached the portcullis where she stood, hardly daring to breath.

In those brief seconds, it seemed as if no one else existed. There was no Christine in a strangely carved bed, no sleeping Opera company above.

Only a ballet girl in a sodden dress and a ghost in a white mask, a man whose eyes strayed to close to her hiding place.

He looked away, settling the velvet robe over his shoulder and caressing the ivory keys again.

Meg turned and backed away, hurrying up onto the ledge.

Despite the pain her feet, she did not rest until she crept into the ballet dormitory.