A/N – And just for those who are interested, fox-gloves mean "a wish". They're also poisonous. Make of that what you will :) Red roses, of course, mean "I love you".

Double cookies to Julie for being the only person to recognise the ballet girls, and lots of love to everyone who's reviewed.

Oh – and only because I forgot last chapter:

Disclaimer: Gaston Leroux; Andrew Lloyd Webber; Susan Kay; Maury Yeston and Arthur Kopit. Anyone you recognise belongs to them. Not mine: don't sue.

Here presenting chapter two – in which Meg and Erik angst and Ayesha makes her appearance.

"Erik?"

Erik met her at the door. He was dressed to go out, and although he was courteous in receiving her, the momentary flicker of impatience in his eyes let her know that her presence was unwelcome.

"What can I do for you, my dear?"

He ushered her into the sitting room, and gestured for her to sit.

"I need some advice," she began, embarrassed now and unsure how to begin.

He inclined his head politely. "Of course."

"Martin Guise … came to my dressing room again last night," she began nervously. "He asked me to marry him." She saw Erik raise one eyebrow at that, and continued, flushing. "I don't know what to do." She studied her shoes, embarrassed.

"Do you want to marry him?"

She looked up sharply. "No!"

"Then tell him so." Erik spoke in a tone of the utmost simplicity, as though it were self-evidently obvious that Meg should risk offending one of her most influential admirers.

"I can't just …"

"Why not? He is only a man, albeit an extremely rich and vulgar one."

"But …"

"Only a man. Now …" He picked up his cloak and draped it over his arm. "I'm sorry, my dear, but urgent business calls me away."

Meg fidgeted with a fold of her skirt, hurt by Erik's apparent unconcern with her seemingly insoluble problem. "Are you going to see Christine?"

For a fleeting moment, there was a smile in Erik's eyes. "As a matter of fact, I am." He smiled briefly. "She is going to sing Marguerite tonight, you know."

Meg felt as though she had had all the breath knocked out of her. "Marguerite?"

Erik nodded.

"Why?"

The expression in his eyes changed; his voice became a little cooler. "Because she happens to be the most astonishing singer to cross the threshold of the Opéra in many years; and because it is a disgrace that she should have been allowed to stagnate in the corps for so long." He frowned, all his good humour gone. "She is going to be a star, Meg."

Meg was silent for a long time. "Oh," she murmured at last. She felt slightly sick.

She slowly became aware that Erik was standing, waiting for her to go, and she rose blindly.

"Thank you … for the advice …" she mumbled.

"My pleasure."

Erik escorted Meg courteously back up to the street level of the Opéra, then disappeared with ill-concealed haste, presumably to keep his delayed appointment with Christine.

Meg walked slowly to one of the smaller rehearsal rooms and sat carefully on a small piano stool in the middle of the room, folding her hands in her lap. To anyone passing, she would have appeared a small child meekly awaiting punishment; as it was, she had merely adopted the pose in which it was easiest for her to think.

She felt she should be angry with Erik. She had gone to him with a problem, as she had always been accustomed to do; and, for the first time in fourteen years, he had rebuffed her. He had been too busy to attend to her problem; he had abandoned her for Christine. She felt she should be angry with him; and yet all she felt when she thought of his callousness was an aching emptiness in her chest. She could not summon the bitterness she felt appropriate to the situation until she thought of Christine.

A person older or more experienced in black-edged emotions than Meg would have immediately recognised the terrible beginnings of jealousy. But Meg was still very young, and her experience of jealousy was confined to childish envy of another girl with prettier hair or newer pointe shoes than her own. Never had she wanted something she could not have with the kind of lacerating desperation that leads to sleepless nights and the wretched revolve of one thought throughout an excruciating day.

She had, however, read enough books and listened to enough gossip in the corps to be extremely well-versed in love and its manifestations. The thought that she might be falling in love with Erik had occurred to her before; but only now, as she sat alone on her small stool in the middle of an empty practise room, thinking of him with her best friend, could she no longer suppress that thought.

It was perhaps a good thing that Meg was still sufficiently young and romantic to believe in the importance of tragedy in a relationship.

That night's performance was an unexpected triumph. As Erik had said – and Meg was never quite sure how it had all happened – Carlotta was mysteriously indisposed, and with typical disorganisation, no appropriate substitute could be found.

It was fortunate, then, that the managers should have received a note informing them that they were nurturing a far superior soprano to their current prima donna under an extremely well-concealed bushel; and it was testament to their desperation that they actually heeded their mysterious benefactor's advice.

Christine, in spite of suffering terribly from nerves and looking very small and very young in her elaborate costume – hastily altered to accommodate her figure, rather slimmer than its usual wearer's – proved an unexpected sensation. She produced a truly astonishing voice, and even Piangi, who had been outraged by the suggestion that the show could go on without his cara prima donna, was forced to admit that she had performed "adeguatamente".

After receiving the astonished accolades of the cast and various dignitaries, Christine arrived back at her dressing room, her head spinning.

On the dressing table lay a bouquet of red roses, luxurious and velvety-soft, the stems stripped of their thorns.

She took up the card, her heart pounding.

For the most beautiful woman ever to grace the Paris stage. No tutor has ever been prouder.

She held the card to her heart, tears of joy slipping down her cheeks. The approbation of Paris and the squealing praise of her friends faded instantly in the light of this unhoped-for commendation from her teacher.

His voice came unexpectedly from behind the mirror and, embarrassed, she hastily wiped her eyes.

"Do roses upset you so very much? I should have chosen fox-gloves, had I known."

Christine shook her head, her face breaking into a smile through her tears.

"I'm … so happy," she began, and broke off, overcome by emotion. She sat down and took out her handkerchief, mopping her face, embarrassed.

"So you should be." There was a brief pause, and when his voice came again, it was soft with tenderness. "I have never seen such a Marguerite."

Christine looked up. "You were watching, then?"

"I would not have missed it for the world."

Christine's smile grew even wider; and then, overcome by emotion, burst into tears and hid her face in her hands.

From behind the mirror, Erik pressed a hand against the wall in alarm.

"Christine." He strove desperately to keep his voice calm. "Please don't cry. You should be … so proud of yourself."

Christine shook her head. "You are … so kind to me." She laughed a little. "What would I do without you?"

Erik closed his eyes in bittersweet yearning, and screwed up his courage. He spoke abruptly before his nerve could desert him.

"Would you like to never be without me again?"

Christine's head came up at once; she leapt to her feet, her eyes immediately searching the walls of the little dressing room. "Oh, yes!"

Erik was silent, tears trickling down his face, unable to speak through the growing knot of emotion in his throat. He had never loved her so well as in this moment, when she smiled upon him without knowing his unworthiness, her eyes radiating absolute trust.

In that moment, he could almost believe that it was possible that she could come to love him.

He could not speak; he did not trust his voice. Christine, her thrill of joy slowly fading into panic at his silence, looked wildly around the room.

"Angel? Oh … don't go … please, please don't leave me! …"

She heard a click, and turned just in time to see the mirror ease aside, revealing a half-silhouetted figure in a dark corridor. She stepped back in alarm; but his voice spoke to her, and she hastened forward towards it.

"Come."

He extended a hand, and she reached out to him, her fingers clasping smooth, soft gloves.

He nodded, and she stepped trustingly into the darkness with him.

Meg was rushing down the corridor towards Christine's dressing room. Christine had been wonderful tonight; even Meg, who had probably heard more of her singing than any of the rest of the corps, had been astonished by the voice she produced in spite of the nerves that had been making her ill before the performance.

But Meg never arrived at Christine's dressing room. She was accosted by Christine's dresser, evidently coming from that very place, hysterical and confused; and from her largely incoherent story she managed to infer that Christine had disappeared without trace.

This was the moment when the lance of jealousy first pierced Meg's heart, cold and savage, and utterly merciless; and when Christine reappeared several days later, she could barely bring herself to speak to her. She could not bear the thought that Erik had taken her to his home; that they had shared intimacy and experiences which previously had belonged only to her.

Meg dealt with the hysterical Sophie and packed her off home early, promising to report Christine's disappearance. In fact, of course, she did no such thing: well able to imagine Erik's reaction should the Surèté begin investigations into Christine's absence, she concealed the situation from the Opera as best she could, and went home late that night feeling cold and miserable inside.

Christine reappeared several days later, pale and wan and utterly unwilling to discuss what had happened in the labyrinthine depths of the Opera, and Meg began to feel, for the first time in her life, truly and terribly alone. She had always confided her feelings to her mother, who despite her formidable facade in public was at home the very picture of maternal affection, and that which she could not tell her mother, she had always confided to Christine, secret giggling after rehearsal in the comfortable dimness of Christine's little flat. But she and Christine were drifting apart, each holding tightly onto confused secrets which took on uncertain forms and were not yet quite fixed in either girl's mind, and which neither felt able to confide to the other. Even had she and Christine remained as close as they had once been, the uncomfortable prickings of jealousy and confusion that Meg was beginning to experience towards her friend would have prevented her from taking Christine into her confidence: for years now, Meg had been Erik's sole confidant and companion, and the nagging feeling that she was being replaced – and by her own best friend, no less! – affected her with a mixture of anxiety and resentment.

She had even tried to talk to Erik about her feelings; but Erik had of late become moody and reclusive, even more so than usual, and utterly unwilling to talk about Christine. This sudden change in Erik, making him so sullen and unapproachable, was due, Meg had no doubt, to the arrival of an old friend of Christine's who evidently wished to revive their childhood friendship, and take it further: the Vicomte de Chagny. Raoul.

Raoul was young – barely twenty two – and devastatingly handsome. From his curly black hair to the frequently casual but elegant nature of his dress and bearing, he was the object of infinite admiration from the corps de ballet, and his obvious interest in Christine had rendered her the most envied girl in the Opera.

Christine had tried to gently distance herself from him, but even she could not resist a shy smile of pleasure when another single white rose found its way to her dressing room with an invitation to dinner.

Meg had watched the whole saga with bated breath, half-anxious, knowing that Erik would not be impressed should Christine finally give in and accept Raoul's all-too-frequent invitations. A part of Meg wished she would: Erik might be so angry at her betrayal that he might refuse to teach her again. But another part of her felt guilty at the thought. Christine had been, and ostensibly still was, her friend; and, much though she hated to admit it, she did make Erik happy.

"Erik? Eri -" Meg stopped short as she entered the room, seeing at once why Erik had not answered her call.

He was curled up in an armchair, his fingers resting between the pages of a novel which lay on the arm of the chair, sound asleep.

Meg smiled. Curled up in the armchair huge enough to dwarf even his long frame, his face open and unguarded in sleep, Erik looked very young, and very vulnerable. As she watched, he stirred, withdrawing his hand from the book, which toppled soundlessly to the thick plush carpet.

Meg knew enough of Erik's sleeping patterns to know that she should not even consider waking him. It was comforting to see him sleeping so peacefully: Meg had never forgotten the terrible night when, aged seven, she had wandered into Erik's room to demand a story, and had been greeted by the sight of Erik writhing on the couch in the terrifying grip of one of the nightmares that so plagued him.

They had never spoken of that night since, and Meg knew Erik, with no little relief, believed her to have long forgotten. But the erratic hours she knew he kept, coupled with the occasional days when he appeared too exhausted to receive her as normal, led Meg to know that he had not shaken off the nightmares with time.

Ayesha wandered into the room in search of food or companionship, and after studying her sleeping master for a moment, decided that he did not deserve to sleep while she was hungry. She opened her little mouth to meow crossly at him, and made to jump up at him when he did not stir.

"No, Ayesha, no!" Meg whispered, scooping the cat up into her arms to keep her from waking Erik. "Shh!"

Not to be outdone, Ayesha opened her mouth and howled as only a Siamese can.

Erik's eyes snapped open.

"Christine?"

Meg dropped Ayesha, who purred and rubbed smugly up against Meg's legs, satisfied by the horrendous noise she had produced that Erik's attention was once again restored to her.

"No," she said, a little put out by the immediacy of his reaction. "It's me. Meg."

Erik had risen hastily upon waking, but now he sank back into his armchair, passing a hand across his face to clear the clouds of sleep. Although he smiled drowsily at Meg, and gestured for her to sit, she could not help but feel crestfallen at the momentary flash of disappointment that had crossed his face at the realisation that it was not Christine who had woken him.

Erik smiled half-heartedly at Meg and gathered the now-purring cat into his arms.

"Hello, Meg." He still sounded rather tired.

"Were you expecting her?" Meg inquired, keeping her eyes firmly on her hands, feeling resentment rise up in her. That the first name to occur to him upon waking should be hers …

Erik looked up from rubbing Ayesha behind the ears to look inquiringly at Meg. "Hm?"

"Christine."

"Ah." There was a brief pause. "No. No, I wasn't expecting her. Not today." He gave her a wryly self-deprecating smile, then rose. "Would you like some tea?" he asked, rather abruptly, and she sensed he wanted to change the subject.

Meg twisted her fingers in her skirt, seething with resentment. That she should be the first name on his lips even when he knew she wasn't coming ... it was so unfair.

"No," she said shortly, standing up abruptly, bristling with hurt pride. "No, I don't want any tea. Forgive me for disturbing you; I'll let you get back to ..."

Words failed her, and she turned and ran out, feeling the hot sting of tears prickle behind her eyes.

Erik was only a step or two behind her, and caught up with her on the shore of the lake, catching hold of her arm.

"Meg ..."

Her hair flying in her face and obscuring her vision, Meg took a hasty step away from him, anxious that he should not see the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. In doing so, she caught her foot against a stone and fell heavily, twisting her ankle under her. She let out a yelp of pain that was more like a sob, and the tears finally cascaded down her cheeks in a scalding rainfall.

Erik knelt beside her, his eyes concerned.

"Are you all right?"

"Don't touch me!" she snapped, turning her face away from him, her anger dissolving into tears.

She became aware that Erik was sitting back on his heels, and was now regarding her with confused hurt.

"Meg ..."

She began to sob in earnest.

"Oh, Megan ... what's the matter? Tell me."

She felt him place a hand on her shoulder, turning her gently but inexorably to face him.

She looked up into his face, her eyes large and tear-filled; and in his eyes she read exactly what had been there ten years ago when she had fallen and scraped her knee on the rough shingle of the lakeshore: earnest concern and almost paternal affection for the child as whom he had never ceased to see her. And she knew that she could not tell him; she would die before telling him.

"Do you love her so very much?" she asked at last through a haze of tears, and felt him draw away from her, his hand leaving her shoulder.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked in a voice suddenly grown wary.

"Christine."

Erik looked at her in open astonishment before trying to laugh.

"What sort of a question is that?" he asked, his voice not quite so steady as it had been.

"I just want to know," she said in a low voice. "Do you really love her so very much?"

Erik stood up and walked away from her. There was a very long silence, broken only by the faint splash of the lake water washing up against the shore. He did not turn to face her as he finally spoke.

"Yes," he replied at last, still not looking at her. "Yes, I do."

Meg was silent for a moment. "Have you told her?"

Erik laughed shortly. "No."

The silence stretched out the length of the lakeshore. Meg fiddled with her dress, her fingers seeking out a worn spot in the skirt. "Why not?" she asked timidly, looking up at Erik standing aloof and imposing against the light spreading out from inside the house.

Erik glanced at her before turning to stare out over the black waters of the lake. "Because I rather feel I would be wasting my breath – not to mention my self-respect."

Meg found herself at a loss for words. "Oh," she whispered.

Once again silence grew and spread out over the lake.

"Perhaps ... perhaps if you were to tell her, she might surprise you ..."

Something in Erik's eyes lit, and in one swift movement he was at her side. "What has she said to you?"

Seeing how Erik had misinterpreted her, Meg hastened to explain. "Nothing! I didn't mean ..." She shook her head, words failing her. "We haven't talked about you. I just meant ... I just meant that I don't see why you think she would react so badly."

As if in a dream, Erik rose and crossed the shore to stare out blindly into the lake again.

"You are ... so sweet, Meg," he said wearily. "So sweet, and so naïve." He passed a hand through his hair.

"I don't know why you say that," she objected, rather indignantly. "Why does my believing that she might not react so badly as you seem to anticipate make me naïve?"

Erik looked back at her, astonishment plainly overwriting his distress. "You see me in too kind a light," he said at last. "Her own is not so forbearing. She … has seen that which you have not; and I think that she will never forgive me for it."

Meg understood with a sudden flash of clarity. So long had she been his friend, accustomed to all his little quirks and eccentricities, that the mask had long ceased to hold any mystery for her.

But Christine …

"You showed her your face?" she breathed in disbelief, and felt a sharp blade of jealousy thrust into her ribs again. Erik had never even been prepared to discuss his face with her; and yet he had shown it to Christine of his own free volition?

Erik gave a bark of laughter that was utterly devoid of humour. "Not exactly." He glanced at her and made a swiftly-curbed movement of pain with long eloquent hands. "She took it upon herself to … uncover whatever it was I was hiding from her," he clarified stiffly. "I am not such a fool as to have entertained any hope that she might not have been affected by it. But I had not reckoned on her … damned curiosity." He sighed and drifted into silence.

"Erik …" Meg hesitated, feeling somewhere in her throat that she ought not to ask. But if Christine had seen …

Jealous vanity gave her the spur she needed to plunge ahead. "Would you show me …"

He whirled to face her, his eyes alive with fire. "Don't ask it, Meg!"

"But why?" Frustration overtook Meg, and the certain unfairness of it all overwhelmed her. "Why must you distrust me because of her?"

Erik was silent.

"I sometimes feel …" he began at last, slowly, "that because of her I will never trust anyone again." There was a long silence, and Meg felt her heart wrench inside her. "And then I realise that without her, there is nothing I care for enough to make trust a risk."

Meg stared at him, stricken to the heart by the unthinking cruelty of his words. She felt the pain as a physical blow to the chest and took a shaking step back.

"Thank you."

The expression in his eyes changed, and his head went back with a gesture of regret as he realised what he had said.

"Oh, Meg, forgive me …" He reached out to her in apology, and she recoiled from his touch, sobbing wildly now. "You should have told me years ago; I would have ceased to burden you with my tedious company!"

Erik seized hold of her shoulders and shook her. "Meg!"

She stood still, shocked into silence.

"What is wrong with you today?"

Meg gave a sobbing, incredulous laugh. "What's wrong with me? You can say such awful things … and then be surprised when I …"

"No."

Meg looked into his eyes, surprised.

"I was wrong. I have apologised. That is not what is troubling you. Now, if you don't want to tell me what is, then tell me so and have done with it." His voice softened, and his fingers released their bruising grip on her shoulders. "But my dear …" He tilted her face gently, bringing her eyes up to meet his own. "We have never kept secrets, have we?"

"I have not," Meg muttered sullenly.

"No," he agreed, ignoring the double edge of her response. "So what can be so serious that you now feel the need to?"

Meg looked up into kind yellow eyes and felt her heart lurch within her. Quite how he had managed to wrong-foot her again and lay bare her every change in mood she would never understand; she had never been able to keep secrets from him, and yet she shrank from the thought of revealing the most deeply-hidden secret she had ever held.

"I …" She stopped. She felt much as she had done when approached by a small English child on the streets of Paris and realised that her paltry English could not supply her with the words she needed to guide the child on his way.

Erik smiled gently. "Why don't we go inside and sit down, my dear?"

Meg's eyes followed his gesture to the warm, inviting interior of the living room … and caught on a flash of red draped over the back of the second armchair. Her chair!

Christine's scarf.

That single symbol of the way Christine had wrapped herself around Erik's life to the exclusion of all else hardened Meg's heart as nothing else could have.

"No, thank you," she replied coldly. "I am busy today."

She wrapped her own scarf more closely around her throat and marched off, tears stinging her eyes, dreading lest he should come after her; feeling she would die if he did not.

Erik remained where he was on the lakeshore, confused and bewildered by Meg's inexplicable anger. So harmonious was their relationship accustomed to be that he was unaccustomed to and ill-equipped to handle such animosity from his most gentle little friend. He watched her stride away, stumbling on the pebbles in her agitation, and slowly turned to return to the house.

Erik sat down thoughtfully in his chair, and his eyes lit on Christine's scarf, adorning the other armchair like a Christmas ornament. He reached out for it, and took its softness into his hands, breathing in the faint scent of her perfume which still clung to the worn fabric, and sighed.

The beautiful, ice crystal dreams he had spun in the air of this underground prison were disintegrating before his very eyes, even as he reached out desperately to cling to them; they melted under his touch as he fought frantically to maintain some semblance of their shape.

All he had left of the one woman who had ever coloured his world was a worn red woollen scarf; and, despite his own contempt for such inadequate sentimentality, he missed her so hopelessly that he could not let it go.

He pressed the scarf momentarily against his cheek, and closed his eyes.

When he came to look back on that day, much later, he could not think of how he had come to be so unfeeling to Meg. She was so dear to him; the child he had never had: and yet he knew, deep in his heart, that she had been eclipsed in the overwhelming, flaming brilliance of his love for Christine as the tender, unassuming light of the moon is lost to the brightness of the sun. He should have followed her; he should have gone to her mother; he should have done anything, anything other than sit alone in his sitting room with a worn red scarf as his only companion and torture himself by repeating and repeating the expression of horrified, anguished terror in Christine's eyes as his shame was revealed to her.

Later, Erik was heartily ashamed of his conduct that day. But as it was, he did not go after her. He sat and thought of Christine – less than a mile away from him, and utterly beyond his reach – and less than a hundred feet away, Meg sank down onto the rough stone floor of the path back up into the Opera, shielded from the underground house by a crudely hewn wall, and cried hot, scalding tears of hopeless misery.