Chapter 4: The Music

Meg could sing, and did. She'd not had any real training, being little more than a glorified chorus girl, but the raw ore of talent was there, and the Phantom possessed the means to transform it into the diamond it could become. With each scale, progressing upwards, the Phantom could feel in his heart the blade-winged phoenix of elation rising within him, dragging his heart upward into the rafters, the clouds, the heavens.

It had been so quiet, lately. No rehearsals, no performances, no singing, no humming, no chatter, not even whistling on the stage (a heinous faux pas at the opera). He'd been able to create his own music, of course, and he was thankful for that...but most often he preferred to listen. And now here she was...she was not Christine, and in his heart of hearts he could not lie to himself and pretend that she was...but she did posess talent, and in her young face was set the love of music that he, himself, saw in the mirror every day. Or would, if he had any mirrors left to look into, or any desire to look into them.

His fingers found the keys easily, by second, or perhaps by first, nature, and the organ obediently bellowed out the notes he'd chosen, grasping Meg's voice and pulling it upward, upward like the spiral of ecstatic energy that rose within the two people present. It seemed as if it was no longer just them singing, playing...a heartsong cried out into the darkness, of broken dreams and sunken hopes, of love unrequited and consequently dashed...and then, of those things refreshed and renewed, and a pregnant breath caught in the Phantom's chest...

Then, suddenly, as of an embracing couple rapidly realising they are being watched, the music and Meg's voice broke off, and there was the hint of an echo reverberating around the suddenly silent cave. The Phantom could feel Meg's blush, though he was not facing her.

"Good," he said, simply, willing his voice not to break with the tears that threatened to breach his defenses, "And now go."

He heard no footsteps, and he took a deep sigh to dispell the heartache long enough to speak again. "Are you deaf, girl? I said go."

Again, there was no movement from the mesmerized girl behind him. With a fluid movement, he turned his swivelling seat, and stood towering over the young ex-ballerina. "Go!" he cried, his hands coming up instinctively in a gesture of irritation. For only the tiniest of split seconds, he was afraid she would stay put, but with a choked cry she turned, quickly, letting the glass thread of Music between them fall to the ground and shatter, and leapt into the boat. She did not look back at him as she steered her way out of the cave, and therefore he did not see his tears mirrored in her eyes.

Confused and upset, the Phantom turned to his organ, lifted a piece of blank sheet music, and began to write down his feelings, in a series of obscure circles and swoops.

The letter folded under the pressure Meg's fingers placed on it. It crumpled into an approximate ball, and landed in her wastepaper basket. She looked at the letter that had inspired her to write, its neat, feminine handwriting drawing her gaze.

'Dearest Meg,

'I hope this finds you well. Raoul and I miss you so, do come visit soon! It really is very lovely out here, I think perhaps I shall arrange for you to visit in June. Do you think that would be all right? I really would like to see some of my old friends at the Opera. Have you seen Gerald or anyone lately? Give them my love if you do.'

There was some more of her cheerful writing, wishing Meg's family the best and asking if she was doing all right, financially. Questions about the weather. The usual. But then, near the end of the page...

'You did take my advice, didn't you? About the Angel? I would hate to think that you'd endangered yourself. Remember, he kills without feeling, without even thinking. No matter what you might want to think, you must remember that! That cannot be forgiven. I worry about you, Meg...Please write me quickly and reassure me, before I get too foolishly concerned.'

Meg broke off reading, and stood up from her desk. Her candle was nearly burnt down...she'd need a new one. Christine's letter lay, open and unanswered, amongst the debris. On each end was a pink ballet slipper, keeping it from folding up, the last remnants of Meg's ballet career. Well...almost.

The young girl reached down for her walking shoes and slipped them on. She had to go back. She wasn't sure why...but she had to. There had been something there, something between them. Something powerful, and Meg found herself unable to ignore it. There was a swish of fabric as Meg's cloak hugged her shoulders and fastened at her neck. She looked at herself in the mirror, squared her shoulders, and headed out of her room.

"Meg, where are you going at this hour?" Her mother was sitting in the living room, knitting needles in her thin hands, casting Meg an inquisitive look.

"Out. I feel like a walk. I may be back late," She replied, inwardly cringing. Her mother, who had insisted on walking her home every night from work; who barely let Meg breathe without exact instruction, was not likely to go along with her plan. Somehow, Meg suspected that her mother knew exactly where she was going, and why, despite the fact that she had never even divulged to her mother the continued vitality of the Phantom.

"Meg, it's too late, you are too young to be out at this time. Stay home." Madame Giry's voice was not one that was used to being disobeyed. There was no question in her tone that every syllable would be followed to the letter. The ballerina in Meg blanched, but the girl in her stood defiant.

"Mother, I just want a walk. I'll be fine. I'll be back before morning."

"Meg - "

The door shut. Young girls, of course, were not supposed to wander around Paris unaccompanied, especially at night. It was practically illegal, but Madame Giry was unworried, if not a little frustrated at her daughter's insistence. She sighed, with half a smile, and began a new row in her knitting.

Meg's mind had been wandering the entire time, as her feet took her instinctively to the Opera Populaire. She thought of Christine, her best friend in all the world, her surrogate sister. She loved Christine, of course she did, there was no question that it was so...and yet...yet Meg resented her.

She'd been happy for Christine when the Phantom had chosen her for training. She'd suspected her mother had suggested it to him, somehow, and it was that that Meg resented. She'd been happy for Christine when she'd gotten the lead. But her mother had suggested Christine, not Meg, and it was that that she resented. And while she could not blame her mother for Raoul's affection for Christine, she couldn't deny that she resented her friend for that, too. Meg didn't like to say, but she'd rather fancied the man, herself. But she wouldn't have dreamed of telling that to Christine, whose heart was set on winning back the man that she'd spent a summer with when she was barely seven.

Meg was torn between her good nature; her love for her friend, and the fact that she always seemed to come in second, when running against Christine. Even to her own mother, it seemed. Of course she loved Christine...but...

The stench of the standing water, of the many drowned rats, hit Meg's olfactory system like a flaming chandelier, completely derailing her unpleasant train of thought. She was almost glad for the interruption, for no matter how foul the smell, it could not be worse than the taste that her dreary thoughts had left in her mouth. It was now, as she made her way down the stinking tunnels, that she began to question her actions.

Was it really wise to try her luck like this? She was walking into the lair of a known murderer, after she had specifically been ordered to leave. She'd been in once before, and was lucky to have escaped with her life. Why on God's green Earth would she come back? These thoughts permeated her fearful mind, and her feet slowly stopped. She should just go home to her warm bed, to her mother, to her normal life. She knew that, if she came back now, her life would never be the same, if indeed it even continued.

She shook her head and turned to go, but at that moment, she could have sworn she heard something. Music. But not just organ music...there was something else there, something beautiful. Singing; a voice so perfectly pitched, so incredibly feeling, was dancing along to the eerie music. It was like a siren song, if sirens were male, and Meg found her feet being dragged inexorably forward. She suddenly felt compelled to run to the voice, to embrace it, to let it embrace her. She had to go to it!

In her trance-like state, and haste to get to the source of the voice before it ended, she nearly missed the boat and fell into the lake, but it seemed almost as if the transport darted to the side to catch the swooning Meg, and she landed safely, if slightly uncomfortably, in the dinghy. She took up the punting staff with trembling fingers and pushed the boat forward, forward, as the voice got louder and louder with proximity. She had to go to it!

Outside the Phantom's lair, the music seemed to suddenly fade away. Meg flung her arms out, reaching desperately with her hands to grasp the escaping strains of intangible music, and she cried out, wordlessly and animally begging the sound, the voice, not to go.

"Please!" she shouted, inarticulately, as her heart sank rapidly into the cold sea of reality. Only then did fear again grasp her. What music had she heard? Whose voice had sung to her, so obviously, intimately serenaded her? What sound had she followed, into this darkness? A siren-song indeed! And she had fallen prey, had doomed herself to the limited mercy of this Ghost, this monster. She cursed herself, mentally, and then thought only of escape. She put down the staff into the water and began to push away from the wall. Again and again she pushed, but she was fighting a current that was suddenly swiftly flowing against her.

"No!" she cried out, stabbing the staff into the rock at the bottom of the pool desperately, and hearing a muffled snap. The broken stick fell from her fingers as she grabbed for the sides of the boat to avoid being thrown off in the sudden jerk. The boat hit the wall of the portcullis with sickening speed, and Meg screamed as she was bumped into the stone wall violently.

Suddenly, the wall lifted, gave way, and Meg went spinning into the placid lake of the Phantom's home like a leaf on a rapid river, trying desperately not to scream, or retch. It was dark inside, with the exception of a few candles atop the organ. They seemed impossibly bright, though they illuminated only a very small amount of the darkness, and a lot of that was obscured by the black silhouette of a man, seated at the instrument. He was playing, now, though Meg did not recognise the tune. The same couple of bars repeated over a few times, and an irritated noise issued from his throat. So engrossed in his music was he, that he seemed not to notice as Meg stepped woozily onto the shore and fell to her knees.

After a moment of holding her temples firmly in either hand and pushing on them, to steady herself, Meg gathered the strength to stand, and approached the Phantom, cautiously, in the demi-darkness.

With each step, she moved more and more slowly, as though wading through molasses. Seeing the Phantom's form before her, now, made her heart begin to pound in her ears, beating a tattoo against the intrusive organ melody. Not for the first time, but too late, the appropriate fear seized upon her. Her breath hastened in her chest, and seemed strangely audible, though it was surely drowned out by the Phantom's music.

His hand darted out in front of him to scribble down on parchment the music flowing from his fingers, while his other hand seemed intent on playing. Then he returned to his keys, patching together a quilt of Music, each piece hauntingly beautiful. Though her fear was not forgotten, Meg's skin began to gooseflesh. But still, the Phantom seemed displeased. Over and over, he played the last bar, ending it differently each time. Each time, Meg thought that it was perfect, but each time, it improved, somehow. Then, without warning, he cried out in frustration, and his arm swept all the candles off of the surface before him.

It was as if Meg had gone blind. With the exception of one or two will-o-the-wisp light spots dancing in front of her face, Meg could see absolutely nothing. Her fear morphed into absolute terror, and her hand immediately shot upward as if holding a pistol, and remained there. She backed away, each step uncertain, her breath deafening in the sudden silence. Where had he gone? There wasn't so much as a footstep to betray his presence, not a breath aside from her own.

There was a sudden pressure on her wrist, yanking it down from her face, and she cried out in fear and sudden pain. Then, a voice in her ear, behind her.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was gruff and angry, and Meg spun away from him with a quickness that was characteristic of her profession. As she backed away from the source of the sound, she came to realise that she didn't have an answer for him. Not really.

"I-" she choked out, and she could sense him advancing on her. As her eyes adjusted, she could almost see the white outline of his mask with each soundless step he took toward her. "I..."

"Why did you come back?"

Meg's mouth opened to answer him, but each reply that came to her lips was dumber than the last. To sing? To see you? Completely imbecilic! "I...don't know," she finished, lamely. "I...felt...like I should. Come back." She flinched. She felt that she should? Meg, gather yourself. If you're going to die, try to die as less of an idiot! "I heard music..."

"Music..." the voice repeated, like a thoughtful echo.

There was a pause. Then a flame pierced the darkness, illuminating the white leather exo-skull that covered a third of the Phantom's face. The candle, having shone its brightest in the excitement of being lit, now began to pace itself, burning moderately and shining unfondly on the Phantom. He stood before Meg, tall and somber. His hand came up, and Meg flinched...but it was holding a bundle of papers. Gingerly, Meg accepted them. She looked down at them, and the notes struck her as familiar. This had been the first piece she'd learned to sing since joining the chorus. She knew every part of every harmony, she could have sung it in her sleep.

"Do you know this?" he demanded of her, and the look on his face suggested that he was prepared to be extremely irritated at the first sign of a problem.

"Yes," she said, simply, though her mind added, "Like the back of my hand."

"Then sing."