Chapter Twenty-Six - Beneath The Wings of A Fallen Angel

She was completely enshrouded with him and had no choice to keep pace with him as he led her from the grotto.

"I will not bother to blindfold you this time, Mademoiselle. You have my warning."

It was chilly and damp in passageways that he drew her through, his body often grazing against hers at the narrow turns and ascents.

He seemed almost unaware of her presence, folded closely beneath his cloak, as if beneath the wings of a fallen angel.

She could not forget his presence beside her. She did not dare lean against him now, not grasp his gloved hand for support.

Not after the way he'd pushed her aside.

He walked quickly, his steps driven by some unspoken intent, yet he seemed to know exactly when she would falter.

Before her knees gave way with exhaustion, before she slipped from beneath the cape, he suddenly stopped and she lurched against him.

Suddenly, he lifted the petite dancer off her feet and into his arms.

He said nothing and his eyes did not meet hers as he carried her the remainder of the way, cradled between the warmth of his chest and the shelter of his cloak.

Finally, he set her down and drew back the cape. She shivered a little as he opened a grate-like door.

They were in a tiny alley that opened out into the Opera stable yard. At the far end, she could see that dull gray of the pre-dawn sky.

Meg knew that place well. As a child, she and Christine would sneak away from rehearsals to pet the horses, to feed them sugar and carrots from the commissary.

As a young woman, it had been the scene of several of her trysts with Monsieur Lefevre. Her mother rarely ventured down to the stables.

At the end of the walkway, he paused. The alley was so narrow, her body almost met his as he faced her.

"I trust you recognize this place, Mademoiselle."

Meg caught the insinuation in his low voice and flushed. Even he knew of that affair.

"Erik…is that why you drew me as a whore…I saw that picture, you called me The Harlot."

"No, Mademoiselle. I assure you that your…intimacy…with my former manager had nothing to do with it. I simply needed a pretty chorus girl who could sing and dance well enough for the part. You are far too curious."

He glanced out to the cobbled yard. The sky was only now beginning to pale a little.

"I assume, Mademoiselle, you can make it back to the dormitory on your own now."

She nodded and he left her, walking away into the shadows against the courtyard walls.

Bowed with weariness and despair, Meg climbed the plain wooden stairs that led to the ballet dormitory. A chair had been pulled in front of the door.

Raoul de Chagny sat there, his sword laid across his knees. He seemed half-asleep, but looked up as if startled when Meg approached.

"Oh," he said, "it's just you, little Giry."