Come the Dawn, Chapter Two

Intermezzo pour deux

He gaped at her, stunned out of his insensate indifference by the sheer lunacy of the sight in front of him. There, sitting cross-legged on the bed, clutching a white porcelain mask in her hands, sat Meg Giry.

He scowled at her, shocked to his core that Madame Giry's daughter had found her way down here, shocked even more that her mother had allowed it. Or perhaps Madame Giry was unaware her daughter's curiosity. And perhaps Mademoiselle Giry herself was unaware of the proverbs regarding curiosity's consequences. Something about cats…

As he contemplated all his reasons for ridding himself—by any means necessary—of the aggravation of her presence, balanced against his loyalty towards her mother, she unfolded her legs and moved to the side of the bed, finally standing up. Her eyes dropped to the mask in her hands before she lifted them to meet his, dark blue meeting stormy gray. Belatedly, he realized that nothing covered his face; his deformity was in plain sight, bare to her intrusive gaze. Unconsciously, he shifted his weight, turning his head slightly away.

"What do you want, Mademoiselle Giry?" he asked, refusing to look at her. "Have you come to gawk at the monstrosity? To pay your respects to the Devil's Child? Or have you simply come to select a souvenir from the lair of the Opera Ghost?" He set the flung his arms wide, tossing the candlestick onto the floor and turning in a circle to encompass the whole of the chamber in his gesture. "If so, you've arrived a bit too late. All the choice pieces have already been spoken for."

She remained expressionless, watching him with no pity, no curiosity, no fear. Eventually, she spoke. "I came to make sure you were unharmed. To see—if you were injured—if you needed help."

He blinked at the complete unexpectedness of her words.

"You…came… to help? Me?" He shook his head, unable to grasp the concept. Finally, he gave up. It was, simply put, incomprehensible. "Why?"

She shrugged and finally glanced away. "Because it was wrong, what they did." She moved toward him, stopping several feet away and extending her arm. He stared dumbly at the cold, colorless fragment of porcelain before setting aside the candle he still held and taking the mask from her. "To come here, to steal, to destroy…

She turned her back, allowing him the opportunity to settle his disguise back in place. It was uncomfortable—his face was grimy with dirt and sweat, and the tight-fitting porcelain ground the debris painfully against his skin. It was also questionable as to the effectiveness of the façade—the partial wig that covered the hairless portion of his scalp was gone—lost somewhere in the chaos outside, and in any event, young Meg had already seen what lay beneath. Still, he felt less naked, less exposed—less vulnerable—with the mask back in place.

"They said they were coming to get Christine. To save her…" Her voice trailed off, and he watched her as she stood there, still turned away from him. She held her back straight, her head up, the classic grace of a dancer evident in her posture. Her voice, though, was devoid of any grace, or of any emotion at all. It was as flat and colorless as the midwinter sky.

"They came down here, realized she wasn't here—no one was—but they didn't just leave. I asked them to, of course. I begged them to leave here and help me find Christine…" For a moment, bitterness seeped into her voice, before she squelched it and continued the bland narration. "They ignored me. They were too occupied, by then, with their looting and vandalism. They had lost interest in searching for the missing opera singer. Greed was more important to them. Greed, and perhaps vengeance."

She turned around, glancing over his form. "You seem to have escaped unharmed. My mother said you would have." Her gaze settled on his, and he was struck by the unblinking calm of her expression. "I didn't believe her. I saw what they were capable of. I wanted to see for myself."

He shook his head in bewildered disbelief. "I am…intact."

She nodded. "I see that. Mother will be pleased."

"Your mother…she allowed you to come down here?" For all the years he had known the indomitable Madame Giry, the one thing that had stood out above all else had been the strength of her protectiveness towards those she considered her own. She would not have allowed her daughter to come down here—not alone, not without protection against the traps and snares that the good woman well knew were scattered throughout his underground domain.

Meg shrugged. "I did not tell her."

Well, that question was answered. He almost smiled, before realizing he had nothing to smile about. And now to get rid of her. "Mademoiselle, you must leave. Now. Your mother will be beside herself with worry…"

"No," she interrupted calmly, "she won't be. Mother is quite busy organizing other accommodations for the girls in the ballet corps. They are, unfortunately, rather…displaced at the moment."

Displaced. A euphemistic term for the blazing inferno that had consumed not only the ballet corps' careers, but also their lodging. Madame Giry must, indeed, have her hands full. He felt a momentary twinge of something akin to remorse, before he recalled that he too was…displaced. A euphemism, indeed.

"Even more reason to return swiftly then, mademoiselle. I trust, since you managed to arrive here without incident, you can depart safely as well. Use the same path—whatever it was—that you took to come here—do not take another. Go."

Meg gave him a long look, then nodded and turned away. She reached the door to the chamber, then paused, turning towards him once more. "Monsieur, you have not asked, but…Christine is safely aboveground once more. She appeared soon after the mob dispersed. She…and the Vicomte."

He swallowed hard. Good. They had gotten away before the ravaging madness of the horde had reached his underground sanctuary. It was, after all, what he had demanded. Christine had gone back into the light, and would be safe—secure, cherished and protected. The boy would see to her well-being. He had the means, and the name, to do so.

"Thank you for telling me, mademoiselle. I am glad they escaped the destruction unscathed." He walked over to the small table and picked up a small framed drawing. A woman's likeness stared back at him, lips curved into an innocent smile, warm brown eyes shining with light and goodness. Oh, Christine…

"The Vicomte took Christine with him, to his family's home. She said they planned to marry quietly, quickly…"

He made a non-committal noise, wanting nothing more than for her to just shut up and leave him to his misery. He couldn't bring himself to show her any violence—he owed her mother that much—but her sudden urge to babble on about Christine's—and the boy's—future plans for wedded bliss only served as a grim reminder of all that he had lost. Not that he'd ever really possessed it to begin with.

She drew another breath, and he braced himself for whatever further revelations she felt necessary. "Monsieur? Erik? That is your name, is it not? It is what my mother called you when she assured me of your…resilience. When she told me that she was sure you would have escaped somehow—through the tunnels, out to safety…"

He sighed and lay the drawing face down upon the table. Another relic of the past. "Yes, mademoiselle," he said, turning to face her. "I am Erik. But it is a name you would do well to forget."

"A difficult request, monsieur. You have made a most…memorable impression over the course of my life here." He could have sworn she almost smiled, but the expression was lost in the shadows that obscured her face and clouded her eyes.

He didn't reply. The smile—if it had been that—faded away, and she nodded again. "Very well then. I will leave you to your…" She looked around the room, obviously at a loss as to what, exactly, she was leaving him to. There was not much left to be leaving. Finally, she gave him a dismayed frown. "Monsieur, whatever will you do?"

"Do?" A good question, he supposed. He hadn't the damnedest idea. This place, and the opera house above it, had been his home, his life. He shook his head. "I really don't know."

She took a step towards him, and he saw a speck of sympathy in her eyes. It shot straight to his heart and turned it to ice. Time to cure her of that misconception. "I assure you, mademoiselle, I will be fine. Your mother is absolutely correct. I am resilient. I have survived worse—much worse—than this." He glared at her. "Save your concern for the poor fools above—those who have lost everything. It is they who deserve your pity. Not me."

"So they tell me," she replied, with a lift of her chin. She approached no further, and Erik noted with satisfaction that the glint of pity he'd seen had winked out of existence. "Still," she continued, "I cannot help but wonder…"

"Curiosity has proven lethal to others, my dear," he stated ominously, straightening to his full height and sneering down at her. "You would do well to heed the well-intentioned advice you have received."

She narrowed her eyes at his threatening demeanor. For a moment, he was reminded of a cat—cornered in a dark alley, faced with a much larger predator, but still with its pride unbroken and its back up, hissing and spitting defiantly. He had to concede that the girl was no coward.

"I bid you farewell then, monsieur…Erik," she amended, tilting her chin up stubbornly, as though daring him to correct her. "Godspeed to you, down whatever path you choose." And, in a flash of color and a rustle of fabric, she was gone.

Erik looked around his now-empty bedchamber. The silence descended again, loud and remorseless. There really wasn't much left to sort through. The past was dead; it needed burying.

He pulled together the items he required and slipped away through another passageway, leaving all else to whatever specters remained.