When she bent to straighten the blanket, she saw that he had fallen asleep again.

"Well," she said to herself, as she quietly returned to the outer chamber "I suppose that's what he needs now. Only God knows what really happened last night."

She stood in the center of the center of the room, hands on her hips and her back straight as if waiting for a cue, for some music.

She looked around and decided there was nothing else for her to do, but attempt to straighten up the chaos of up-ended candlesticks and scattered papers.

The broken mannequin still lay jumbled beside the throne. Its blank eyes were more than a little disconcerting and Meg quickly dragged the thing into a dark corner where she could not see it.

Picking up the noose gingerly, she stashed it beside the dummy.

A bouquet of flowers…a bride's bouquet lay on the floor near the organ. Most of the flowers were crushed as if someone had stepped on them quite carelessly.

One white rose was intact and it seemed a shame to discard it. She pulled it free of the damaged blossoms and, finding a chipped wine glass, set the flower in water. She placed the flower on the stand next to the organ.

She folded the heavy cloak and laid it over the arm of his throne, wondering what it suddenly felt so ordinary and natural to be tidying his strange domain as if it were a little house…the quite home in the country she'd often dreamed of, much to her mother's chagrin.

"Meg Giry," she'd snapped, "you don't have time for daydreaming and wool-gathering. Practice!"

When she'd picked up the last of the broken candlesticks and stacked the papers on the music rack, she tiptoed to his door again.

She was surprised to see that he was awake and he had managed to sit up a little.

"Still here, Mademoiselle," he said in a sarcastic voice that nevertheless betrayed how much effort it had cost him to move.

Meg didn't answer him, but turned and left him again. She opened the basket and, with spoon and bowl borrowed from the commissary, began to beat an egg into some wine.

The mixture didn't look very appealing as she squeezed some lemon juice into it before pouring it into a cup. But it had helped Jeromette and Meg was certain it would help him.

She brought it in to him and stifled a giggle when he wrinkle his nose in disgust at it, the mask shifting a little against his face.

But he made no protest and she helped him to hold the cup steady. She knew he was weaker than he would ever admit.

As she leaned over him, a lock of her hair slipped free of her ribbon and fell across his bare skin. She blushed suddenly and quickly tucked the curl behind her hair.

Odd that such a little thing should fluster her so.

When he had finished the concoction, she noticed that a dark spot was beginning to form in the center of the bandage.

"Monsieur, I will have to change that now."

He shrugged, a gesture that seemed one of habit and winced at the pain the movement caused him.
She picked up the small, sharp shears that she found in Darius' box and began to cut through the bandage, biting her lips nervously as she worked.

He saw her grow pale at the sight of his wound.

"Go away, little one, I can take care of myself."

She did not answer him as she rummaged through the chest, looking for the right vial.

"It's the large bottle with the dark brown liquid in it, Mademoiselle."

She gave him a questioning glance, wondering how he knew exactly what she was looking for.

"I'm rather well acquainted with the contents of that chest. This is not the first time I've been forced to accept such help."

----------------------

Meg carefully dabbed the contents of the vial onto the wound, knowing that her hand was shaking.

She knew she was causing him discomfort; the liquid stung her own skin and she saw him close his eyes, tightening his brow beneath the mask.

When she had finished cleaning the hole torn by the bullet, she pressed a fresh dressing onto it and bound it in place.

As she replaced the bottle in the chest and gathered up the remains of the old bandage, she realized he was watching her.

The wavering light of the candle was caught and reflected by his amber eyes.

He has such strange eyes…I don't think I've ever seen golden eyes before.

"Monsieur," she said, straightening his blanket and pillow again, "do you have a name?"

He looked away from her then.

"It's been so long since anyone has asked me that, Mademoiselle. So long, I've almost forgotten it."

There was a sad bitterness in his voice that hurt Meg more than the sight of his face or his injured shoulder. She sat down on the edge of the narrow bed and took his hand.

"You couldn't forget your name!"

He looked back at her, drawing his twisted lips into a bitter smile.

"It is Erik. Simply Erik."

"Is that your real name?"

"My real name? My real name? Little Giry, I never knew my real name."

Before she could answer him, he tugged his hand from hers.

She rose quickly, remembering it wasn't really proper for her to be sitting on the edge of a man's bed.

"It must be late now, Mademoiselle," he said coolly, "go and rest."

He seemed to accept the fact that she was determined to stay with him as long as needed, but the awkwardness of the situation suddenly struck her.

Where on earth do I sleep?

There did not seem to be any place for her. The stone of the floor was too hard and too cold, even if she found another blanket. She couldn't bear to think of spending another night curled up in that chair, either.

"Monsieur…I mean, Erik, is there another…place for me to sleep?"

Erik took a deep breath and let it out ever so slowly.

"I suppose, little Mademoiselle, you will have to sleep here. The bed is small and I'm afraid I cannot be a gentleman and let you have it to yourself. I am not a gentleman nor I am I strong enough to stand. But…if you have no objection to sleeping beside a monster…a monster you insisted on saving…I believe there is just enough room."