Chapter Twenty-five - If I Came To Him Here And Now

Meg was not sure how to respond to him. His voice had been sharp with anger, but that anger seemed muted, too. Shaded by preoccupation.

She hesitated…she could not explain to him why she had come, she could not explain it to herself. She felt so helpless, recalling the look in his eyes in the Grand Foyer.

And what do you think you can do about it? Reason with him? Try to turn him from her?

"Monsieur, I…"

He leapt to his feet and advanced on her.

"I have a name, damn you!"

He strode past her so quickly that she was forced to step aside, backing against a velvet-draped mirror.

On the steps, he turned and spread his arms out as if embracing the cluttered lair with all of the books, the pictures, the furnishings stolen from the scenery warehouse, the scattered sheets of music, the pipe organ in the center of it all.

"I am called angel, devil, murderer, phantom, but I have a name…a name…it is Erik!"

He continued up the steps and threw himself down onto heavily-carved black chair. Theornate throne seemed to dwarf even his powerful figure as he rested his chin on his clenched fist. The white of his mask and his half-open shirt stood out against the inky upholstery

His shoulders shook, but Meg could not tell if it was with rage or sorrow.

She followed him up the steps, letting the sullied train drag across the Persian rugs.

What would he do if I tried to comfort him…if I put my arms around him and held him close…if I came to him here and now.

Slowly, she knelt down in front of him, resisting the child-like impulse to rest her head on his knee.

"Erik, Erik," she said the name so carefully, "Erik, let me help you."

As she spoke, she laid her small hand on him, feeling the hard warmth of his thigh beneath the expensive ebony cloth of his trousers.

He seemed, for a moment at least, unaware of her existence. He was looking out across the lake, out beyond the portcullis.

Meg let her hand wander a little further, feeling the strength of his body beneath her palm.

"Erik…"

He looked down at her hand as if it were a scorpion crawling along the length of his thigh.

"Help me? There is nothing you can do for me, Mademoiselle," he said through clenched teeth.

He laid his hand over hers, his fingers completely enveloping it. Then he rose abruptly, causing her to fall back on the intricately patterned, but badly faded rug.

Picking up the waist coat and dress jacket that on the scarred wooden trunk, he stepped past her, almost over her.

When he returned, he was dressed and the sword was buckled at this hip. He wore the black cloak that had served as Meg's blanket, but a larger hooded cloak lay over his arm.

"Get up," he ordered her.

She did not obey him, too tired and humiliated to move.

He bent and, taking her by her arm, pulled her to her feet.

He draped the cloak over his own shoulders, then swept it about her, too.

She was stunned by the sudden nearness of him beneath that swirl and drape of heavy wool.