Instinct told her to run away.
She set the candle down and leaned over the bed, wondering if he were even alive. She still kept her gaze from lingering on his face too long.
"Christine?"
He had not moved, but she recognized the same fallen angel's voice that she had heard in Don Juan Triumphant.
"No, I…I'm not Christine," she said, hearing the sadness and hope in the way he'd whispered the name, "it's little Meg."
Her hand rested on the bed, only inches from his, and she leaned over him.
He opened his eyes and shifted on the bed a little. She had no choice but to look at him, grateful that the light in the chamber was dim.
"Madame Giry's daughter?"
"Yes, monsieur," she answered, not knowing how else to address him.
"What are you doing here, Mademoiselle?"
"I was looking for Christine," she said, looking him over in the hopes of finding his wound. The sight of his bloody clothes was easier to see that his ravaged face.
"And you can see for yourself that she is not here. Now, go away. Let me be."
"No, monsieur. You are hurt. You…you could bleed to death if I leave you."
Then she gave a little cry of surprise his long thin fingers curled around her wrist.
"Perhaps, little Giry, that is exactly what I want!"
There was only despair in his voice and that inexplicable need to protect him that she had felt when she faced the mob through the portcullis suddenly returned, drowning out the fear.
She shook off the cold fingers and, taking up the candle again, saw that his shirt was torn and that the blood was seeping around the edges of a bullet that was lodged in his shoulder.
"Monsieur," she said, amazed at the firmness of her voice, "I am not going to sit here and watch you die!"
"You don't have to," he countered weakly, "I told you to leave me."
"Why? Why are you so eager to die?" she snapped at him.
His hand found hers again, holding it loosely as his strength continued to diminish.
"Because," he whispered, "my angel is gone. There is nothing left. It is over."
She didn't know what had happened between that instant when Christine tore off his mask and her departure with the Vicomte. She didn't know what she could do to help him…she was nothing but an Opera dancer.
But she knew she could not simply walk away and forget about, leave him to die alone.
"Monsieur, tell me…how do I stop the bleeding? I don't know what to do!"
--------------
There was a silence that frightened her. What if he…what if he had died?
She prodded his thin wrist cautiously.
"Monsieur?"
He turned to look at her, exposing even more of his face to her and she couldn't meet his eyes.
"Monsieur, tell me what to do!"
"Take some heavy cloth and make a pad over the wound," he said with what sounded like a resigned sigh, "then bind it tightly with something. It will do until the Daroga comes."
She nodded and tugged off her vest. It was the only thing she could think of to use. But there was no way for her to tear the fabric.
"Under my pillow, Mademoiselle, you will find a knife. Use that to cut the cloth. And do be careful with it. It's exceptionally sharp and there's more than enough blood here."
She gingerly slid her hand under the pillow, not wanting to touch his face. She drew out a thin dagger and sliced her vest into large squares. She folded them together and laid them over the wound.
She heard him wince as she began to tie them in place with the large black ribbon from her hair. Already, she could feel the blood soaking through.
"Now, I know you little ballet rats are familiar with the Persian. I want you to fetch him. Tell him to come here at once with his servant."
He paused and looked at her, her white blouse smeared with his blood.
"Cover yourself with my cloak. Once you have found the Persian, go home to your mother.
He gave her the address as she wrapped the massive cape around herself, gathering it up to keep it from trailing on the floor.
"Monsieur, what if…what if I don't find him in time? What if you…"
"What if I die? Would that be so great a tragedy, little Giry?"
She turned to hurry off in search of this Persian, but he called after her.
"You needn't go back by the lake. If you will look in the alcove beyond the organ, you will find another door. It will take you up to the Rue Scribe."
She could hear the growing weakness in his voice and she ran to find that door, afraid she would not bring the Persian and his assistance in time to save…
To save the Opera Ghost…