Chapter Twenty-four - The Blurred and Spinning Memories
Meg screamed when she saw the ghostly image of herself in the shadowed mirror, an image that was reflected around her, over and over and over.
Her face was pale, streaked with dust and tears…she did not known when or why she had been crying. Her golden hair had fallen loose, her dress was filthy.
She spun towards the door. It had closed and was lost somewhere within this devilish ring of turning mirrors.
She was trapped, alone in this dim room…alone, but surrounded by herself…her frightened self.
Why did she find herself remembering that first night with Monsieur Lefevre…had she been trapped then, too?
She reached out, trying to find some door, some way out of this hell of mirrors…and the others reached out to her.
Stumbling, shaking, she tried to turn. Her slipper caught the loop of the lasso and she fell to the floor heavily.
She screamed again, knowing she would die in this place…unless he found her first…
The room seemed to flood with scarlet…was it blood?
A figure…no, a hundred figures in crimson velvet surrounded her huddled body.
She raised her head, expecting to see his mask there, a white half-mask or a silver-gray skull…
She was not prepared for the horror of the distorted face she saw looking down at her…
She no longer fought to stay conscious, but let herself slips into the mercy of a blackness that was free from terror…
Meg was not quite sure what awakened her…the unfamiliar softness of the large bed, the gentle lap of water against stone, or the voice…
Shamed into solitude…I learned to listen…in the dark, my heart heard music…
She felt a gentle weight on her body…a black cloak lay over her like a pall.
She pushed it back slowly…she was still dress in her white gown, the stays of her corset jabbing her as she rolled onto her side to sit up.
He was at his work table, leaning back in his chair…a rose in his hand, his face covered by the comfort of the white mask…
She shuddered as she rose, feeling the cold stone floor through the soles of her satin shoes.
The blurred and spinning memories of that mirrored hell came back quickly…now she knew the truth beneath that mask…the twisting, ravaged features that it concealed…
He did not look up or turn towards her as he laid a rose on the desk, its petals resting brightly on a sketch of Christine.
"This is the third time you have trespassed here, Mademoiselle. I swear to you, the next time will be the last!"
