Chapter Thirteen - The Fragmented Sky
Meg did as he had told her, turning right and feeling her way with her hands. A door gave way before her and she found herself in a tiny hall near the chapel.
She ran upstairs to change before her mother or anyone else could question her clothing.
The noise and the chaos of the theater she had been raised in suddenly seemed so foreign to her, so unreal compared to the mysterious peace of that candle-filled grotto on the lake.
During evening rehearsals, she was little more than an automaton. Her encounter with the Opera Ghost played over and over in her heard, his words almost drowning out her mother's instructions and the sound of the piano.
Again and again, she felt his hand on her wrist, on her mouth, on her neck…the warm black leather pressed tight against her skin.
"Your shoulders, Meg Giry, your shoulders!"
She looked up at her mother's reprimand and adjusted her posture.
Watching her mother walked back and forth along the line of dancers with her silver cane ready to point out lapses, she thought of the picture she had found among the Phantom's belongings.
They know each other…she is more than just his messenger.
But she could not imagine what link could exist between the Opera's ballet mistress and its Ghost.
She knew she could not question her mother about her ties to this man, this man who covered his face from the world and hid himself amidst books and paintings and music.
To question her mother, though, would mean admitting to her own encounters with him.
In less than two days, the strange man destroyed the trust she shared with Christine and with her own mother.
She sighed, knowing that the betrayals were mutual. Neither her mother or her dearest friends saw fit to confide in her.
As she dismissed them from practice, Madame Giry reminded them that their costume fittings for Il Muto were scheduled for the morning.
She lay awake, staring up at the fragmented sky beyond the round window, beyond the Opera rooftop.
A low rustle caught her attention and she rolled over to see its source.
Lorette, one of the older ballet tarts, had thrown back her coverlet and risen. She picked her way to the door, glancing nervously about to see if she had been noticed.
Turning her attention to the window again, Meg saw the tall girl step out onto the roof. It was a chilly night and the wind tugged at the girl's drab shawl.
A man stepped out from beyond one of the massive statue, the half-empty brandy bottle sparkling in the starlight.
Lorette seemed to giggle as Joseph Buquet bent her over and pushed up her nightdress, her black hair whipping back and forth in the wind.
Meg turned away from the window. She remembered the times when Monsieur Lefevre had done the same to her in the ornate clutter of his office.
She settled back in her bed. As she did, she caught a glimpse of Christine.
She was sitting up and it seemed as if she were listening for something in the darkness. But, whatever it was that she hope to hear, she did not. Slumping with disappointment, she buried her face in her pillow.
