A/N – The quotation Erik uses to describe Christine is of course from Antony and Cleopatra; but as Shakespeare is well and truly out of copyright, I shouldn't think a disclaimer is necessary.
EmailyGirl – thanks for the advice: this chapter, you will see, is shorter :)
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Meg shook off her temporary paralysis, and extracted her hand from Nicole's. She ran through the wings towards one of Erik's secret passages, wanting only to be near him, to give him some solace in his pain.
"Meg!"
She turned at the sound of her mother's voice to see her pushing through the crowd of terrified dancers and shouting chorus members.
"I must go to him, Mother," she insisted before her mother could speak.
Antoinette shook her head firmly. "You will go back to the dormitories with the other girls. I want you to take special care of Rachel; she is rather shaken."
Meg stared at her mother in disbelief. "What do I care about Rachel? I must go to Erik."
"No." Antoinette's tone brooked no argument. "I will go to him. Go back to the dormitories; take care of the younger girls."
"But Mother …"
But Antoinette was gone. Enraged, Meg tangled one hand in her hair, and permitted herself one small sound of frustration. "It isn't fair!" She willed back tears.
Making a massive effort to contain herself, she turned back to the other members of the corps, and for the first time heard the high-pitched keening coming from Rachel, who was cowering on the stage. Nicole had her arms around her in an ineffectual attempt at comfort, but the younger girl was still sobbing uncontrollably, and several of the other dancers looked ready to join her. Meg sighed. She walked over to Rachel and, releasing Nicole from her duty of care, helped Rachel to her feet. As soon as she was sure the younger girl was not going to faint, she shepherded the girls back to the dormitories.
Had Antoinette been watching, she would have been proud of her daughter. Flighty, scatty, insubstantial as she was apt to be, Meg could always be depended on in a crisis to draw on the unsuspected reserves of inner strength that lay hidden beneath a mass of golden curls and the brightest smile in all the Opera House.
Several hours after Meg had guided the corps back to their dormitories and settled the younger girls down for the night, Christine was brought back to the dormitory by Raoul. They hovered together in the doorway, talking in low voices so as not to wake the sleeping ballet rats; Raoul touched her hair with a soft, solicitous inquiry; Christine nodded wanly; and with a chaste kiss goodnight, he left and Christine quietly got into bed without undressing.
When Meg rose later in the night to fetch a glass of water, she saw Christine still awake, lying on her back, with her doll in her arms, her eyes full of tears.
-
When Antoinette reappeared the following morning, grim-faced and tired, she did not elaborate on her encounter with Erik the previous night, saying only that he was not of a mind to receive visitors for a time.
When Meg finally slipped away from her mother's watchful eye to venture down into the cellars to see him, she could hear music pounding through the catacombs before she even neared the house. The music frightened her: it pulsed with rage and pain, a savage expression of grief. When she arrived at the house, its front door was locked, and she could not make herself heard by Erik over the cacophony of sound coming from inside.
Miserable, heartsore, she returned above ground. Her mother regarded her shrewdly, but made no comment.
-
It was a joyous day for Meg when, several months later, Erik finally made his way above ground to see her.
He looked thin and tired, and she did not dare to broach the subject of the night the chandelier had fallen; but he was kind to her and gentle: indeed, almost the Erik she had always known and loved.
He spoke of the approaching masquerade ball. Ever since Meg could remember, it had been a tradition between them to go to the ball together, both fantastically disguised in elaborate costumes. There was a decidedly ostentatious streak in Erik's character which found wicked delight in the opportunity to join other people in public: the bright colours and exultant music of a ball had always appealed to him in a way that amused Meg. They would dance, and talk, and laugh: some of Meg's happiest memories were from the Opéra's annual masked balls.
To Meg's intense disappointment, he did not suggest that they should go together; but she was so relieved to see something of Erik as he had been before Christine resurfacing in him that her disappointment was easily bearable.
Looking back on this brief period of happiness before the masquerade ball when Erik came to her several times a week, Meg knew that she should have realised that he was planning something. He was more cheerful than he had been in a long time; and again, Meg dared to hope that Christine's engagement to Raoul – now common knowledge around the Opéra, for all Christine's efforts to minimise its importance – had finally freed Erik of his obsession.
-
The night of the masquerade arrived clear and starlit. Meg looked beautiful clad in a flowing gown of pale pink silk with her hair spilling down her back in shining golden curls.
It was a shame, reflected Antoinette as she watched her daughter's barely contained excitement as she readied herself for the ball, that Erik's eyes would unquestionably be elsewhere that evening.
Meg was nursing a glass of pink champagne and watching the dancers, twisting one long curl around her finger. She was bored. She had spent the past half hour looking around the ballroom in search of Erik, but he had not yet materialised; she was beginning to doubt he was intending to come at all.
"What's this?" She looked around, startled, at the unexpected voice coming from behind her. "The future prima ballerina of the Opera Populaire without a partner?"
Meg smiled as she beheld Erik standing before her. He was resplendent in scarlet, with a crimson and silver mask that concealed his entire face.
"You look lovely," he said with gentle sincerity, and Meg blushed beneath her white eye mask. "Will you dance?"
Meg's heart leapt; but his next words deflated her even as he took her into his arms and led her onto the dance floor.
"Where is Christine tonight?"
Meg, resisting the urge to scream, shrugged in what she knew was a very unladylike manner.
"I don't think she's here yet. I haven't seen her."
She could sense Erik's frown even behind the full-faced mask he wore.
"Is she not intending to come?"
Meg shrugged again, frustration mounting inside her. She was beginning to be uncertain what was worse: to see Erik frequently and endure his constant questions about Christine, always Christine – gone entirely was that selfless solicitude that had so endeared him to her as a small child – or to bear his absence entirely, warm in the memories of the Erik she had known.
The answer to that question came to her a very few minutes later, when the concierge announced, "The Vicomte de Chagny and Mademoiselle Christine Daaé", and Erik stilled, ceasing to dance.
"Oh … Meg …" he breathed.
It might not have been so bad, Meg thought miserably, if every pair of eyes in the room had turned to look at Christine at the same time. But no; Christine looked much as she always did: pretty in a wan, washed-out sort of way, and those eyes that did turn towards her were largely female ones, sad with envy as they watched the tender way Raoul attended to her.
Erik resumed the dance, but his customary grace was gone, and Meg knew that he was still watching Christine over her head.
"She's not that pretty," she muttered sullenly, and heard Erik laugh softly.
"That she did make defect perfection," he murmured. Meg did not recognise the quotation, but understood his meaning, and anger boiled up inside her.
"She isn't perfect!"
She did not realise how loudly she was speaking until she saw her mother's head go up sharply at the sound of her voice.
"She's not perfect," she repeated, in a lower voice.
She was startled to feel Erik remove himself from the dance and, taking her hand, draw her from the dancefloor.
"Come with me."
He led her to a small alcove off the main ballroom, and bade her take a seat on the small carved wooden bench.
"Tell me what's wrong," he requested quietly.
"Nothing," she mumbled, and saw him arch an eyebrow in response.
"I just …"
He made an elegant, encouraging gesture with one hand, and came to sit beside her.
"I just feel … lonely," she finished lamely, staring resolutely down at her hands. "I feel I'm losing my best friend."
When she finally gathered the courage to look up into his eyes, she found him looking troubled.
"I had thought that it was of your own volition that you do not see much of Christine anymore."
Startled, Meg looked up, her cheeks flaming as she realised Erik's mistake.
"Not her!" she burst out. "You."
The moment the word was out of her mouth, she felt her cheeks flame hot with embarrassment, and began to talk quickly to prevent him from speaking.
"You are always with Christine," she rushed on, before her courage could fail her. "And when you're not, you talk about her. It's as though I never see Erik anymore."
He gave a small, sad laugh, and turned away. "I fear that loss is not a great one."
"How can you say that?" Meg rose in frustration, looking like a small, angry cat. "How can you say that when you know you are everything to me?"
She saw Erik's eyes change behind his mask, and turned away, unhappiness spreading through her.
"Is it so unwelcome to you?" she asked miserably. "Why is it so inconceivable that I should feel about you the way you do about her?"
The long silence that ensued was broken by the rustle of his clothing as he stood, and Meg closed her eyes as his hands touched her shoulders. She felt his lips brush a chaste kiss against her hair.
"Forgive me," he whispered, and was gone.
Meg let out her breath in a gasp, and sank to her knees on the cold stone floor, tears soaking through her fingers as she covered her face with her hands.
-
Antoinette's eyes scanned the ballroom, frowning slightly beneath her formal black eye mask. She had seen Erik and Meg leave the room together well over half an hour ago, and neither had yet returned.
She murmured a silent prayer that her daughter would not be inspired by champagne and memories of previous, happier masked balls to make a confession she would later regret.
Her eyes rested on Christine and Raoul, who were standing at the edge of the dancefloor, speaking softly together. He touched her hair, and she laughed, moving closer to stand in his embrace.
Antoinette smiled. It was good to see Christine smile again: since the last disastrous performance of Il Muto, she had been quiet and withdrawn, and Antoinette suspected that her maestro's fit of temper had affected her more deeply than Raoul liked to admit. Even now, as they stood together, they looked more like brother and sister than the wildly in love young couple all the Opéra assumed them to be. Antoinette knew that she had refused to wear Raoul's ring on her finger: it lay instead on a slim gold chain, resting over her heart. That Raoul was earnest in his desire to make her his wife Antoinette did not doubt for a moment; but run as she might to the safety of her childhood friend's arms, Christine could not quite hide the flicker of doubt, or perhaps indecision, in her eyes when he bent to kiss her.
There was a cracking noise like a thunderclap, the lights of the ballroom flickered, and several ballet rats screamed. The ballroom was headed by an enormous gilded flight of stairs leading to the auditorium: at the top of the stairs appeared a figure, tall and elegant, power apparent even in his apparently relaxed posture. Clad in silver and crimson, he held a leather case under his arm, and extended a hand towards the managers in an exaggerated gesture of courtesy.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
He took a step down the stairs, and those dancers nearest to him scattered. Raoul drew Christine protectively into his arms.
"It is good to see the Opera House looking so prosperous again." He gestured to the opulent decorations of the ballroom, and glanced behind him to the auditorium. "The renovations are … most attractive."
He laughed softly, menace in the sound.
"Come now, gentlemen, your surprise is unworthy of you: ghosts do not die, after all. You will be pleased to learn that my absence has not been for nothing: I have been putting the finishing touches to the first production of the new season." He indicated the case under his arm. "A dramatic opera in four acts, entitled Don Juan Triumphant." Light danced briefly in his eyes, and Antoinette knew that under his mask, he was smiling. "You will, I am sure, be able to anticipate my casting requirements;" – Christine stepped closer to Raoul – "but just to refresh your memories, the score comes complete with full instructions." His eyes darkened. "Let us have none of last season's foolishness: you know I do not like to be disobeyed."
He held out the case, and when no one stepped forward to claim it, tossed it with a sound of contempt to Andre, who caught it and held onto it as though he did not know what to do with it.
But Erik was no longer looking at the managers. He had stepped further down the stairs, his eyes now fixed on Christine; as Antoinette watched and the ballet rats twittered with terrified excitement, he extended one hand to her, and – ignoring Raoul's hand insistent on her arm – Christine stepped forward to take it.
Antoinette saw her daughter step back into the ballroom, her face set and cold beneath her mask, as Christine moved forward and Erik took her hand.
He raised one hand to touch her hair. "You look very beautiful," he said in a voice so low that only those standing close to them could hear. "I would question, however, your choice of jewellery …"
He slipped deft fingers beneath the chain she wore, and lifted it from her neck. He quirked one eyebrow at the ring, offering her an opportunity for explanation.
"Freedom is not so easily bought, my dear," he hissed, when she did not avail herself of it. "The Devil has played his song for you, and he will collect his fee!"
He tore the necklace from her neck; there was a blinding flash of light and an explosion accompanied by clouds of choking smoke; and even as Raoul rushed forward, his sword drawn, the Phantom of the Opera was gone.
Christine's hand clutched emptily at the spot on her chest where her necklace had lain. She swayed; and Raoul caught her as her strength gave way and she sank to the floor.
The shouting and confused panic that accompanied this scene was startlingly reminiscent of the night of Il Muto. It was the memory of that night that drove Antoinette to action: stepping forward, she addressed Raoul, who was helping Christine to her feet.
"Monsieur le Vicomte."
He looked around, and seemed displeased by her presence.
"Not now, Madame Giry, please."
Settling his arm protectively around Christine's shoulders, and pushing away the inquiries of the managers and other revellers, he led her away.
Antoinette went up to her daughter, who was standing very still, steadily drinking a glass of champagne. She was very pale.
Antoinette asked gently if she was all right; Meg responded coolly and flatly that she was.
"I saw you and Erik go out together earlier," she remarked, hoping to elicit some reaction from this pale, cold child.
"We went to get a breath of fresh air. It is very warm in here."
"And yet you look very pale."
"Perhaps I have stood outside too long."
"Meg –"
"Mother, don't fuss!" Meg snapped, putting her glass sharply down on the table. "Excuse me, I think I am overtired. If you will give me leave to go, I think I shall retire now."
Without waiting for permission, she walked away, ignoring the greeting of little Rachel, who looked very pretty in a light green fairy costume.
Antoinette watched the hurt expression on little Rachel's face as Meg walked coldly out of the ballroom. She lifted her daughter's glass of champagne into her hands, rolling the smooth glass between her palms, and wondered what had become of the sweet, happy little girl who had once given the Phantom of the Opera a rag doll as the most wonderful gift she could imagine.