When Meg reached the outer room, she sat down at the organ and leaned her head on her hands.
The blood had dried on the keys.
I'll have to find a way to clean that…later.
She hadn't meant to wake up in his arms like that. She thought she could sleep without moving at all.
I expected him to be angry…
So that's what it's like to wake up beside a man.
Rising, she did her best to straighten her rumpled frock, noticing that the only mirror in the room was riddled with a sharp web of cracks.
I should find another place to sleep tonight.
Once she'd fixed her appearance as much as possible, she again mixed together the beaten eggs and wine for Erik.
"Erik," she said to herself as she worked, "the name suits him."
He frowned when she brought him the drink.
"Mademoiselle Giry," he said, taking the cup from her without help, "I'm not certain which is worse…bleeding to death or being forced to drink these revolting concoctions of yours!"
"You don't need to call me Mademoiselle," she said, idly pinching a bead of wax from the candlestick on the armoire, "no one does."
"No one," she added with a laugh, "but some of the fat, old patrons who make advances on me in the dancers' foyer."
There was silence between them again as she changed the bandage, finding it easier now. He flinched only once as she gently applied the salve Darius had provided.
As she neatly arranged the items in the chest, the sharp sound of a woman's footsteps echoed outside the room.
And a single ray of light slashed across the stone threshold of Erik's room.
He put a single thin finger to his lips, warning Meg not to make a sound as she crept to the door and peered out through the dusty velvet curtain.
She saw her mother standing just beyond the massive portcullis, a small lantern in her hand.
She rushed back to Erik's side, her cheek brushing against his temple as she bent over him.
"It's Maman," she whispered in his ear.
"The portcullis will not open," he said.
His voice was not a whisper, but pitched so low Meg could only hear him by leaning even closer to him.
"But she knows another entrance. Not the one from the Rue Scribe…another one. You had better go to her."
She left his side and went out to meet her mother.
Madame Giry stood just beyond the gate, raising the lantern a little when she caught sight of her daughter in the gloom.
The low, encased flame made her face seem to pale in contrast with her coiled braid and, even from a distance, Meg could see the delicate traces of kohl around her eyes.
"Meg Giry, what are you doing here?"
Her tone never seemed to vary. She might have been chiding her daughter for ruining a costume or rushing into rehearsals too late.
Meg didn't know how to answer her. She never knew how or why her mother had become the Opera Ghost's messenger, whether it was a matter of trust or convenience for him.
She didn't know if her mother couldn't be trusted to keep Erik's secrets now. She had, after all, led the Vicomte de Chagny.
Her mother took a step closer to the cold grating. Meg did not come forward. She remained in the center of the room, twisting one hand into her skirt as she did when she was little and her mother would scold her for poor posture during the endless hours of lessons.
"He is alive isn't he?"
Her mother hung the lantern on the bars and waited for her daughter to reply, but Meg remained silent.
Of course, he is alive…alive and in need of help! Why else would I be here in this awful cavern?
Suddenly, Meg wanted nothing more than to crawl back up to the dormitory, to curl up in her own little bed there.
"Yes, Maman. He is."
She would not tell her that he had been wounded when he fled the stage with Christine, that he had nearly died there…alone.
"Why did you help him? Why did you lie to protect him?"
Again, Meg did not answer. She was only too aware that this was the first time she had ever defied her mother.
Her mother began to slowly pace back and forth along the portcullis, something she rarely did…only when quite displeased at some serious mistake by a dancer during a performance.
The heavy silver chatelaine she always wore rattled faintly as she moved. That chatelaine had been her own mother's and it hung at the waist of her black gown, an unexpectedly domestic touch for a woman whose entire existence was the Opera's corps de ballet.
"You missed practice for two days, Meg Giry," she said coldly, as if the previous questions about the fate of the Opera Ghost were unspoken or forgotten.
"Yes, Maman."
"You are one of many, Meg. One of many."
It was a litany that Meg had heard so often.
You are only one of many, Meg Giry.
If you do not value you position in the corps, Meg, there are others who will.
Do not expect special treatment because you are my daughter.
"I cannot leave him now, Maman."
"Cannot? Are you his prisoner, too?"
Her mother paused, one hand grasping at the bars.
Too? She must mean Christine.
"I am not his prisoner. And I cannot leave him now."
She heard her mother's slight exhale of relief.
Her mother let go of the gate and took the lantern.
"If you do not return in a week," she said, "Isobel will take your place."
With that, she turned and left her daughter, a white face vanishing into the darkness.