Come the Dawn, Chapter Five
Introduction
Meg looked over from the barre where she was working through a progression of stretching exercises, and watched as her mother worked with a group of the company's younger dancers. She smiled as she noted the ease with which her mother balanced the stern discipline of a ballet mistress with the softer, gentler guidance of a mother. The result was that in a little less than a month, the young girls in the corps de ballet had gone from a respectful fear of her mother to something approaching reverential awe. That, Meg supposed, was the secret to her mother's success in her chosen field—she was a tireless taskmaster, but she never let her love of dance override her innate love for the dancers themselves. And, instinctively, the ballet rats understood that, and worked harder and with more enthusiasm for Madame Giry than they would for any kinder, but more indifferent, mentor.
"Madame Giry—your mother—is quite the teacher, isn't she?" The voice was soft, appealingly musical, and carried the barest hint of an English accent overlying a German one. It also came from directly over her right shoulder, and startled Meg into stumbling slightly as she spun around. The owner of that voice put a steadying hand on Meg's shoulder; leaving it there for the second or two it took for her to regain her balance…and perhaps a second more.
Meg pulled away, looking up into the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. They were set within a face that instantly reminded her of the Greek god, Apollo—golden, sun-kissed skin, high forehead, square jaw, straight nose—and a pair of full, sensual lips that were now curved into a smile of almost boyish delight. The overall effect of those eyes and that smile was so innately appealing that Meg smiled back, charmed.
"She is indeed, monsieur," she answered, straightening her shoulders a bit and turning ever so slightly, so that her profile was shown to its best advantage.
"She has a grace about her, and a quiet sort of authority," the man continued. "The dancers flock about her like cygnets flock about a mother swan."
Meg hid a grin, for the man had aptly captured the image that the chorus girls made in their filmy, flowing practice gowns. The movement of air through the sheer material bore a striking resemblance to a breeze ruffling downy feathers. And in the center of them all was her mother—calm, poised, graceful as an elegant black swan. But still…
"I hardly think my mother, or the chorus, would enjoy being likened to waterfowl, monsieur." Her continued smile softened the put-on sternness of her tone. He smiled back at her, clearly understanding the age-old dance they'd begun.
"A swan is hardly just a waterfowl, my dear. That would be akin to calling Shakespeare just a writer, or Mozart just a musician." Still smiling, he bowed low, peering up at Meg through thick, golden lashes. His eyes twinkling, he straightened and took her hand in his, bending again to press a light kiss on her knuckles. "Allow me to introduce myself, Mademoiselle Giry. I am Stefan Goss. My father is…"
"Rainaldo Goss?" Meg cut in, quelling the flutter of excitement the press of his lips on her skin had caused. "The manager is your father?"
"He is."
"But I had heard that Monsieur Goss' son—you—were at school in England, and would not be returning until…"
He held a finger up to her lips to still her words, and his eyes held a cynical amusement. "A surprise, my dear. My father knows nothing of my arrival. It will be our secret."
Meg pulled back a step, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the familiarity this Stefan Goss was displaying. He was handsome, true, and undeniably charming, and his father was the manager and a respected man, but even so… In the short time she'd been living there, she'd heard the whispered conversations among the older chorus girls, stories involving the manager's handsome son. Stories revolving around the young man's own talents—for music, for theater and…for other things. In fact, from what she'd heard, Meg had deduced that the gentleman presently flirting with her was a bit of a rakehell, and had perhaps been sent off to school in England not so much to further his education and broaden his horizons, but more to get him away from the temptation of the all-too-willing members of the chorus and the complications that such dalliances could cause his father.
Meg backed up another step and pulled her hand out of his. His fingers tightened slightly on hers, but she was able to extricate herself with little difficulty.
"I am Meg Giry, sir," she said, with a quick curtsey, although it was quite obvious that he was already aware of that fact. "I am sorry, but I must get back to rehearsal. My mother may seem a swan, but I assure you, when she believes her flock is inattentive to their lessons, her demeanor is more that of a lion." With another quick bow, Meg spun on her heel and walked over to the group of dancers.
As Stefan watched Meg's retreat, a sly grin curved the corners of his mouth. "Ah, mademoiselle, if the lioness is your mother, that means you are one as well." His face took on a calculating expression. "I have always fancied going on safari." His low chuckle was an unpleasant sound. He watched Meg for a few seconds more, then sauntered off.
Balancing with ease on a catwalk high above, Erik frowned. He was not at all happy that Meg and her mother were here, and resented the memories that their presence made inescapable. Still…
He didn't like the way this young man had looked at Meg. It had been an appraising, assessing look, and the expression in the boy's eyes had instantly made Erik's hackles rise.
Little Giry had left quickly enough, but Erik had heard the boy's last words. The young pup would bear watching.
In a swirl of dark wool, Erik faded into the shadows above the stage.