Meg did not dare open her eyes. She had turned in her sleep and now she realized her cheek was pressed against his face…against the right side of his face.
I wish I hadn't asked him not to wear it…I wish he had that mask on now.
She didn't want to feel that twisted flesh against her own.
But you know what he looks like now…you should be used to the sight of it…of him…you've touched his face.
She felt the sting of guilty tears and took a deep breath.
It's just a face…just his face...just Erik.
She thought suddenly of the Vicomte de Chagny. He was considered very handsome, the object of the romantic daydreams of more than a few ballet rats.
But…if Erik had not been deformed…if he had not been condemned to this terrible isolation…would Christine have loved him then?
It's not fair…
She shivered a little. It was chilly there in the vaults below the theatre and the blanket had fallen out of her reach.
She rolled away from him carefully. It was almost morning, almost time for rehearsals.
Tucking her knees under her chin, she sat up and watched him sleep.
She dreaded the coming night. She regretted asking him for the truth concerning Christine and that too-perfect Vicomte.
She picked up the blanket and adjusted it over his tense and too-thin body. As she leaned over him, she suddenly felt the need to press a reassuring kiss on his marred forehead.
She couldn't do it. She couldn't force herself to brush her lips against his skin.
His hand lay across his chest, the fingers so long and pale and graceful against the black silk of his dressing gown.
Feeling the guilt rising in her, she bent down and gently kissed his wrist, feeling his pulse against the smooth, cool skin.
Then she picked up her shoes and slipped out of the room. It was going to be a long, tiresome day, she was certain.
------------------
Erik dressed slowly and a little awkwardly. He picked up his mask and slipped it over his face, realizing that the cool porcelain felt unfamiliar now against his ravaged skin.
He found his cloak where Meg had left it, draped quite neatly over a carved trunk that stood near the door to Christine's room.
Her room…with its carved bed and silken chamber. A queen's sanctuary meant as a bridal chamber.
He wondered if Meg had seen that room. Surely she had been curious enough to look. Yet she had not mentioned it.
He left, not by the lake or by the little path to the Rue Scribe, but through a narrow passage that lead up into the shadows beneath the stage.
He had never expected to venture out again, but now he made his way through a trap door and up to a tiny catwalk far above the flies.
Below him, he saw the same faces that had always been there…Madame Giry, Monsieur Reyer, even La Carlotta.
He was surprised to see her. Surely, after the death of that pompous fool Piangi…but there she was, her face free of its usual paint and her overly-fashionable frocks exchanged for one of plain gray silk.
He had stood there many times, watching the daily goings on in his theatre. Watched managers come and go, watched chorus members and ballet rats squabble over trifles, watch Carlotta preening with her hangers-on.
And, always, his eyes had been drawn from them to one young woman with dark brown curls and a shy smile…
Meg was there, a drab shawl hanging loosely over her plain white practice frock and her hair tied back with a broad ribbon.
His fingers curled around the cold railing as he steadied himself through a moment of dizziness. He was accustomed to these high, narrow walkways…like the trapdoors and black labyrinths below, they were second-nature to him.
Meg was right, he admitted to himself with reluctance. He was still weak. He should not have come.
But when he left the catwalk, he did not return to his lair. He found the tiny, steep stairs that led upward, following the absurdly ornate iron steps up to the rooftop.
He did not come up to the roof often by day. And he had not come back since that night when, hidden between the great wings of a gilded angel, he heard Christine betray him.
The cloak was painfully heavy on his shoulder as he pulled it close and walked out onto the leads.
He found a ledge on the base of a statue, a place to sit beneath a muse with the build of an Amazon.
Leaning back against the pedestal, he let the chill stone numb the pain and closed his eyes.
Then he felt something nudge gently against his leg. Looking down, he saw a petite black cat twining round his ankles.