When they had gone, the shadows ceased to move. Meg did not follow them, though she knew that was exactly what she ought to do. Her mother would be waiting for her. And there was no telling who or what was here in this strange place.
She remembered the chaos that has followed that moment when Christine tore the mask from his face. Had she heard a gunshot amid the screams of the audience, the anguished cries of La Carlotta, the slam of the trap door…
Perhaps it isn't blood…perhaps it is ink.
Don Juan Triumphant…his opera…had been written in crimson.
Hesitantly, she touched one of the thick red droplets. It was certainly not ink and it was still warm.
She wiped her fingers on the costume trousers she'd hastily donned before following her mother and the Vicomte down beyond the fifth cellar.
Had one of the gendarmes shot the Phantom, despite the risk to Christine?
What had happened here? What had happened to him?
She took a candle and began to light the others. Gradually, she saw more of her surroundings.
A music box stood on a pedestal beside the throne, a forlorn little monkey with symbols in what seemed to be a place of honor.
A broken mannequin was twisted in its own limbs on the stone floor. Meg shuddered when she saw it resembled Christine. An exotic-looking coat of embroidered silk was tossed carelessly over a chair.
Not far away, a coil of rope…a noose…
She did not raise her hand to the level of her eyes, despite her mother's frequent warnings.
She saw a drape of black velvet fringed with gold. It hung askew, revealing a dark doorway.
She picked up the candle again and, taking a deep breath, pushed aside the heavy curtain.
When she stepped into the room, she felt something soft tangle around her feet.
A black dress coat lay on the floor.
The chamber was small. The carved mahogany bed seemed to fill it completely.
A man lay on the bed.
She kept her eyes averted from her face as she approached him. Mercifully, his head was turned and the worst of his disfigurement was not visible.
Still, she could see the dragged and twisted skin beneath the ragged strands of thin brown hair.
She held the candle higher and saw that his shirt was soaked with blood.