I. The Mask you wear
Meg almost regretted that she had insisted that her mother stay behind. After all, the memory of last night's adventure was still fresh and strong in her. But on the other hand, she did not want her mother to think she was a coward. And moreover, if her mother so readily agreed to let her go the last part of the way alone, she would take the chance.
How did her mother know about the mask? She had not told anyone, not even Christine when she had seen her this afternoon – alive and well, the Heavens be thanked. There was only one possible answer: The Phantom had really been there last night, watching her from the darkness, and he had gone to tell her mother.
Plodding through shallow pools of water on the uneven stone ground, Meg wished she had the boots again, and the rest of her father's old clothes she had borrowed from the chest in her mother's room. They were so much more comfortable when venturing through a dark, wet tunnel; this way, she had to gather up her skirts so they wouldn't get dirty. Of course, her mother had not approved of her choice of clothing, and not of her going down into the cellars altogether. But surprisingly, Meg had not been told off as severely as she had expected. Maybe her mother had thought that being cold and scared was punishment enough.
She almost slipped on the wet floor and managed to steady herself against the wall just in time, nearly dropping her torch. How far still to go? And when she reached the place she was heading for, would she really find him there?
She was not sure if she wanted to. Part of her was eager to see this legendary Phantom from closer up, while the other desperately hoped he would be gone, and that she could just leave the mask somewhere for him to find.
The question which had arisen during the last night was haunting her still, but she tried to ignore it. She had not asked her mother. At first she had wanted to do so, yet when she had had the chance, she had not quite dared. No, she told herself, it was nothing but a crazy fancy of her mind, nothing more.
She had asked Christine about the Phantom, though, about what he looked like – and if, by any chance, he had glowing green eyes. Christine had said that he looked human enough, and that his eyes were blue, but she had been reluctant to speak about him and about what had happened to her and Raoul down in the cellars last night. And Meg had understood and not pressed her any further.
Maybe she had just imagined those eyes in the darkness. Maybe she had just thought to see something because she was so on edge about her friend.
But still… he had seen her, hadn't he?
And then she stopped short. Before her was a wide, gaping hole in the ground, stretching from side to side of the corridor. Dimly she could make out its other end, several meters away. There was no way to tell how deep it was, because it was filled with dark water.
Her mother certainly had not known about this, or else she would have told her. Should she go back to her and inquire about another way to the Phantom's lair?
No, she decided, she would not allow herself to be deterred by some stupid hole in the ground, especially not if there was a narrow ledge at one of its sides. If she was careful, she was sure that she could get across balancing on it. After all, she was one of the best among the Opera Populaire's ballerinas.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped onto it sideways. There was just room enough for her to stand, and though some pebbles rolled into the water, the ledge held her. Very well. Ahead, then.
Moving on slowly and carefully, all went well until she had covered almost half the distance. Then, very suddenly, her dress got caught on something. Tugging at her skirts angrily, she really wished her mother had allowed her to don her father's old clothes once more. This would never have happened had she only been wearing trousers! Once more she tried to pull free, more vigorously than before – and then there was the sound of ripping fabric, and she overbalanced and fell into the icy cold water with a scream, hearing the torch go out with an angry hiss before she herself broke the dark surface with a splash. The water was deep; she did not meet the bottom. Struggling upwards again, the cold stung her with a thousand needles, and the air she inhaled was not much better. It was so dark that she could hardly see her hand if she waved it in front of her eyes, let alone her surroundings. Only the white mask she was still clutching was a faint touch of a lighter colour.
Which way had she come, and which way was she heading? Very suddenly she was not sure anymore. Fighting down the rising panic, she tried to concentrate, despite the pain in her limbs. Think, she told herself, just think. The ledge had been on the left side of the wall, so if she managed to find the ledge again, she would at least know from which direction she had come. With renewed hope, she started to swim –
There was a splash off to one of her sides, and then she felt someone's arms around her middle, and she was pulled in the direction from where the splash had come… Without thinking, she kicked at him hard, struggled against his grip. There came a grunt from the darkness, and then a male voice said, close by her ear: "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't do that."
Meg froze. She knew that voice. She had heard it once before, only the day before, to be exact. And she knew who it belonged to.
"Thank you", the Phantom said, dragging her along through the cold water. It seemed to Meg that he was swimming quite fast, and indeed, very soon they touched the other side of the traitorous hole, and he pushed her up out of the water roughly before he clambered after her.
Still it was too dark to see, and Meg remained crouching where she was, afraid she might fall into another hole if she moved. How could the Phantom ever find his way in this blackness? Did he already know every square meter of the cellars by heart? Or could he see in this darkest night of all?
"Come on", his voice came from very close beside her, making her wince. "I'll have this back, thank you very much." A hand touched hers and gently loosened her grip on the mask, pulling it from her grasp. "Come on, move."
"I can't see", she objected feebly, slowly getting back to her feet and shivering in her soaking dress. "I don't know how you move around in this darkness, but I can't."
"Never underestimate my night sight", he answered, and his rich, melodious voice carried a very slight tone of amusement. "I'll guide you." She felt an arm around her shoulders, and a gentle pressure urging her forward. Taking a deep breath, she allowed herself to be led, wishing fervently for just the tiniest flicker of light.
When she turned her head and glanced upwards, she could discern the white mask beside her, like a blind spot in a flood of black. Nothing but a mask. She could feel him beside her, and his proximity made her shiver as did the cold, but she could not see him – while he could see her. She was completely in his hands now.
Where was he taking her? He might lead her anywhere; there was no way to tell, in this darkness. What was he going to do with her? Would he punish her for stealing his mask? Was he going to kill her, somewhere too far for her mother to hear her screams?
"Don't be afraid", he said gently, just as if he could read her mind. "I'm not going to harm you."
"Where are you taking me?" It came out as a scared little whisper.
"To my home."
As Meg turned her head towards him once more, she thought she could make out a shape beside her, where she felt that he was, and she thought to recognize that he wore a white shirt, but she could not be sure. Was she getting used to the darkness, or was it perhaps getting lighter? Hope arose in her, driving back the fear and even the cold. She would be back in the light. She would be safe.
The Phantom led her around a corner, and very suddenly she could perceive her surroundings clearly in the flickering glow of a few candles planted on a rock tooth, against which small waves of dark water were ceaselessly, but, due to the lack of wind, very softly, beating. The corridor had opened into a large cavern, and there was more light ahead, small specks of candlelight like a horde of glow-worms in a mild summer night.
Releasing her, the Phantom gave her a little mock bow. "Welcome to my wet, mouldy dungeons", he said smoothly, as if he had just led her into the marble entrance hall of a palace. "Have a look around, but kindly don't take any more things upstairs I'll sorely miss later on."
"I'm sorry", Meg murmured, not looking at him. Was he angry? She assumed he was.
He shrugged. "As long as you never do it again… You'll be forgiven this time. After all, you could consider me an old friend of your mother's." He hesitated a moment, then added, in a very light, conversational tone which sounded horribly staged somehow"And you're a friend of Christine's, too." Abruptly he fell silent and turned away, pretending to be busy with the candles.
Meg waited uneasily, not knowing what to do. Until now, he had not harmed her, and he had guided her through the darkness carefully, if not exactly gently. But he could change his mind any moment, of course. Any moment. Meg shivered, and not only from standing there in a soaking wet dress.
As suddenly as he had turned away, he turned back to face her once more. In the yellow light of the candles, Meg could make him out clearly for the first time. As she had recognized earlier on already, he was tall, and she had been correct in her assumption that he was wearing a white shirt. She found herself agreeing with Christine, he appeared human enough; that mask was eerie, however. What came rather unexpected was that he looked a lot younger than she had imagined him to be. His dark hair was hanging into his face in dripping strands, only brushed aside slightly from the right side of his forehead towards his temple, probably when fitting his mask back on. His wet clothes clung to his skin, but if he was cold, he did not show it. And he really had blue eyes. Could it have been him nonetheless, standing in the entrance to the dusty hall last night, between the sculpted cherubs, and gazing at her from the shadows? She was not quite sure. But who else would have been down there, and who else would have had reason to follow her? Unless she had only imagined it, of course.
Another thought came to her unbidden: This man was not only plainly human, but a rather gorgeous one as well. Why had Christine never mentioned that? Probably because he had scared her too much to allow any such ideas… or because she had never seen him in a wet shirt. What was revealed of his face was surprisingly pleasant to look at, and what his thin shirt revealed… He was quite perfect.
Noticing his tiny smile of amusement, Meg realized with a flash of embarrassment that she was eyeing him openly and quickly averted her gaze, staring hard towards the specks of candlelight in a little distance, feeling the blush creeping onto her cheeks. Her mother would never approve of such a behaviour!
"Follow me", the Phantom said, and it seemed to Meg that his voice was still tinged with amusement. Of course, for him there was nothing to disapprove of. Her gaping at him would rather cause him to feel smug. But Meg promised to herself that this was the last time she let her eyes wander like that. From now on, she would restrict her gazes to his face – if this wasn't reason enough for another blush, that was.
He led her on towards the cluster of lights, and soon the space between rock wall and water became wider and then began to show signs of inhabitation. Illumined by candles, there were two narrow store cupboards looking suspiciously like those she had seen in the laundry chamber, and a table that originally stood in the cantina, as it seemed. The ornate chair beside it, not quite matching with the plain wooden table, strongly reminded Meg of one she seen in a stage production before, many years ago, though she could not exactly recall which. There was another table further on, small and half-circular and pushed against the wall, with sheets of paper covered in writing piled high on it, and a massive, brass-bound chest close beside it.
And there were the mirrors, the cracked mirrors. As her eyes fell on them, Meg realized that they had now arrived at the place where she had been yesterday, where she had found the mask. She recognized the table with the stage model on it, crowded with small painted figures, and the harmonium, but the niche in which she had seen the strange dummy figure was now hidden from view by a curtain. All looked just as she had last seen it. Had the angry mob not come here at all? Or had he already tidied up the jumble they might have caused? However, she was sure that the black boat pulled ashore a few paces away, with its decorations reminding her of a Venetian gondola, had not been here the day before.
He brushed aside another curtain, revealing a short, narrow corridor like a crack in the wall, which quickly widened into a small chamber. Rows of hanging clothes lined the walls, except on the right-hand side, where there were several shelf-boards piled with more items of clothing, and a collection of various boots waited underneath them. So this was where the Phantom kept his fancy attires. Had she not been scared of him still, she would have immediately started searching around in his things.
"I'll find you something dry to wear", he said, brushing his wet hair out of his eyes as he started going through his store. "I can't be providing you with dresses currently, but from what I saw yesterday, I judge you will not take offence."
"So it was you I saw last night", Meg said, excited like a little girl about the idea to try on some of his things. She only hoped that there was a mirror somewhere to be found that was not too cracked to properly regard herself in it.
He paused, turning to look at her. "I think not", he answered, frowning. "I was well hidden."
"But I think I saw your eyes for a moment." He had to know; after all, she had panicked and run from him because she had realized he was there. "You were standing in the entrance to that large room, I think, and I was getting the impression that you were coming after me."
The look he gave her was thoughtful. "Which room exactly?" he asked after a moment.
"Along that corridor forking off a bit further from here", she described the way, willing herself to look at him steadily and trying hard to push all thoughts about his appearance out of her mind. "Then down the stairs, then along another corridor. It's a large room really; I couldn't see the other end when I came in. There's a pair of angels carved into the stone, one on either side of the entrance. It's quite empty, and it's covered in dust, and surprisingly quite dry."
"That is impossible", he said slowly. "Unless…" Then he visibly jerked himself out of his ponderings and turned his attention on selecting clothes for her again, leaving what had just been on his mind unspoken. "I wasn't down there last night", he finished, his back turned to her.
"Oh." Meg felt more embarrassment flood her. "I must have imagined it, then."
He shrugged. "Maybe not", he replied enigmatically, but left his remark unexplained. "Here, I think this might fit you more or less. And it might go together with this", he added, picking up something from one of the boards. "Any chance anything of what you're wearing is left dry?"
"I'm afraid not", Meg answered, more than ever aware of the cold. Why wasn't he shivering in his wet things?
"Well", he said, tugging a rebellious lock behind his ear"I'll have to find you some more things, then." Soon he presented an armful of clothes. "Try those", he said. "You can get changed in here; I'll wait outside. No, wait a minute." Depositing the pile on one of the boards, he slipped out past her and soon returned with an armful of towels, which bore remarkable likeness to those she knew from her own quarters. "Your mother wouldn't be delighted if I let you catch a cold", he remarked, handing them over. "She might even –" Suddenly he paused, and his eyes lit up with what seemed to be a most amusing recollection. "Say, did she ever… box your ears?"
"Box my ears?" Meg repeated, surprised that he would ask such a thing. "No, not really… but it's a regular threat of hers."
"I see." The tiny smile from before was back. Meg wondered what this phrase meant to him. Surely her mother had not threatened to do so with him? No, this was completely out of the question. "Oh, and there is something I almost forgot", he added, putting a piece of bright scarlet on top of the pile. "Needless to say, it's well washed." Snatching up a few items for himself, he left the room with another little bow.
Meg was glad to be able to peel off her wet clothes at last and rub herself dry. The air was still chilly down here, but not as cold as it had felt when she had still worn her soaked dress. Her hair would take some time to dry completely, but at least she could do something about the rest now. When she had finished drying herself, she gingerly approached the pile of clothes he had prepared for her. The mere thought of wearing things belonging to the Phantom was absolutely outrageous. He would kill people before giving them his –
She picked up the scarlet thing, and realization hit her like a hammer. Oh. At first she felt another blush coming up, then she broke into soft giggles. So this was what the Phantom wore for underwear. It looked like a pair of shorts, made of a light, elastic fabric similar to what their male ballet colleagues wore…
And then a violent giggling fit forced her to steady herself against a wall with one hand, clutching the towel around her tightly with her elbows. One of her colleagues, a nice young fellow named Xavier, had indeed had such a scarlet pair of tights, which he had regularly worn for training. He had been rather fond of them, too, Meg recalled. Until one day, about a year ago, when he had informed them, seemingly upset, that someone had broken into his locker. Nothing had been taken, except part of his scarlet tights – he had only found the neatly cut-off legs, or most of them, while the rest was gone and nowhere to be found. One of the girls had mentioned the Phantom, but the others had all laughed at that. After all, they had reasoned, what would the Phantom go and cut ballet tights for? Now Meg knew, and the knowledge was enough to fill her with mirth for a week. Xavier would never in his life guess what had really happened to his favourite tights!
Still giggling to herself, yet not without a slightly guilty feeling towards Xavier, Meg pulled the maimed tights on. Actually, she decided with another little twinge of guilt, they were quite comfortable. Then she inspected the rest of the pile. A shirt, a jacket, trousers, boots, even a pair of socks… it seemed he had thought of everything. Meg got dressed hurriedly, then left the chamber to look for a convenient mirror. Walking in boots several sizes too large was not that easy, but she assumed that she would get used to it soon enough. The boots she had borrowed yesterday had been smaller – which meant that it had really just been a strange fancy of hers, that the Phantom couldn't be her father. Anyway, he looked younger than her father ought to be.
Stepping in front of one of the golden-framed stand-mirrors along the wall and positioning herself so that her reflection was not too badly distorted by the cracks, she studied what she saw. Altogether, it looked not too bad. Of course, the clothes were too large for her, but she still liked what she saw; she liked it better than the dress, when she considered it. Quite a lot better. When wearing a dress, she was just another young girl, one among many. Yet in a man's clothes, she felt… dashing, adventurous. And this excitement even increased when she remembered who the things she was currently wearing belonged to.
Her mother would have something to say about this, but for now, Meg did not care. For now… she felt good.
There was a faint sound of movement behind her, and then the Phantom appeared in the mirror right at her shoulder. How lightly he walked for such a tall, muscular man, even when wearing heavy boots! Due to the cracks in the glass, his reflection was blurred, but it was obvious enough that he, too, had changed into dry clothes, because the shirt he now wore was red. "Comfortable?" he asked, and his voice coming from behind her made the tender hair at the back of her neck stand on end.
"Fine", she assured him. "Thank you."
"It suits you", he stated, moving closer to her. "You should dress up more often."
Meg thought she could almost feel him behind her, and once again the heat settled in her cheeks. She turned so that she could at least see what he was doing – and realized that he was even closer than she had assumed, only one pace from her. Too close. Much too close. The heat increased. Trying to be at her ease, Meg took a careful step backwards and forced the corners of her mouth into a friendly, noncommittal smile, hoping for once that the blush would not come.
Again that smile appeared on his face in response, that tiny smile of amusement, of inward laughter at something very obvious. He knew exactly what was going on inside her. Meg wanted to slap him, Phantom or not. He had no right to grin at her embarrassment like that!
His smile broadened a fraction, and he raised his eyebrows at her, or at least the one that was not hidden behind the mask – and immediately the blush was coming back. Meg lowered her eyes from his face and glared at the delicate thread-of-gold embroidery on his red shirt instead. It was rather loose, as she saw now, and possessed what would be, on a woman, considered a generous cleavage; maybe it could not be exactly called indecent on a man, but it still left too much of his chest exposed for her taste, especially since there were a few small buttons he could have done up. Somehow Meg got the nasty suspicion that he was doing this just because of her.
Clearing her throat, she tried to recall what he had last said. Oh yes, he had complimented her… Why did he have to do that? Was he embarrassing her on purpose? "Thank you", she answered as evenly as she managed to. "It's quite comfortable, but I couldn't wear it all the time. It would surely cause comment, and my mother would never allow it. She wasn't too pleased yesterday, too."
"Right, I think I can see the problem. So you'll have to stay in a corset, poor you."
"You get used to it", Meg said, still avoiding his eyes.
"Really?" He sounded doubtful.
"Does it look that bad to you, or what?"
"Well… let's say I tried one on, many years ago."
Meg couldn't believe her ears. "You did what?"
He shrugged. "It was a bit of a joke really, and I was just a boy then. Your mother was showing me where the old costumes were kept, so I could select some spare clothes for myself, and there was that truly horrible dress, all pink and frilly… I laughed about it and said it might just fit me, and she said she would have to stuff me into a corset if I wanted to try it on, and, well, we did just that."
Imagining the Phantom in a frilly dress, and her mother putting him into a corset, Meg giggled. "What did you look like?"
"Stupid. And my old rags were more comfortable."
"I didn't realize you knew my mother that well."
"She's a friend." Obviously he did not want to say too much about his past, although he had just revealed a rather curious fact. "Come with me, now."
Further along what might be called the underground lake's shore, he had a fire going in a crude kind of fireplace, and they sat down beside it, their wet clothes hanging nearby to dry. Grateful for the warmth, Meg snuggled into her cushioned armchair, avoiding to look at the Phantom too openly, who was lounging in another chair opposite hers. His trousers were rather tight, and he definitely had nice legs.
Why couldn't Christine have told her about that? She might have at least warned her.
"You remind me of your mother", he said suddenly. "When she was your age, I mean. Very much so. She was just as adventurous as you, and she had the same giggle." He smiled, his eyes unfocused, as if seeing something that wasn't there. "She was kind to me when no-one else was. Without her, I wouldn't be here now. She gave me all I have – well, a lot of it, at least. She might well have saved my life, too. I owe her much."
Meg could only stare at him. What was it he had just said? How could he have known her mother when she had still been a young girl? "Can I ask you something?" she began carefully. Maybe he would find the question too personal. "You needn't answer it if you don't want to", she added, just to make it clear that she was not in any way pressing him. He would not like that. When he gave her a little nod to continue, she took a deep breath, then said it at last: "How old are you, exactly?"
Her eyes flickered to his face worriedly, but luckily it seemed that he did not take offence. "Exactly, I don't know", he replied after a moment's consideration. "But if this is any help to you, I have been here for thirty-six years now, and I must have been around fifteen when I came here."
Meg stared at him in utter astonishment. "You… you look a great lot younger", she stated.
"I know." If there was any emotion hidden in the utterance of these two simple words, Meg did not sense it.
When she considered her situation, she was highly surprised at his behaviour. All the things he had done recently, and all the others of which rumour said he had done them, and there he lounged in an armchair, was altogether too much a pleasure to look at and chatted with her in a friendly way, like any other old friend of her mother's would. He did not look dangerous at all, except maybe for an occasional gleam in his eyes. Maybe he would accept that other question she was longing to ask, that one question that was still on her mind, that had always been since last night. "Did you by any chance… know my father?"
"Not well", he answered immediately, "but I did. As you probably know, he was, just like your mother, a ballet member, and a good one, at that. I regularly saw him at the performances, always in the front ranks, and always your mother's partner when they formed up into pairs. They got married, eventually, but their marriage did not last long."
"My mother told me he died in a riding accident after two years", Meg said.
"That's a simplified version, but I assume she doesn't like to talk about it. Well, there was something he regularly did apart from the ballet, and this was horse-racing. He was quite successful, and he was well aware of that. As a matter of fact, he became overly proud, boasted in front of the others. During one of those races, he shouted an insult at one of his opponents, and that one, a regular victim to his taunting, it seems, struck at him with his whip. It might not even have been a hard blow, yet it missed and hit the horse in the eye, and the horse reared and threw your father off. And one of his fellow contestants' horse following at full gallop could not be stopped in time and ran over him, or maybe he was back on his feet already and it reared, I'm not quite sure about it. What I know for certain is that its hooves smashed his skull." When Meg winced, he added: "He must have died instantly and without suffering, if this is any consolation to you."
Meg nodded gratefully. Now her doubts were quelled. Yes, she did have a father after all, even if her mother refused to tell her much about him. Something else was still bothering her, though. "And what is the relationship between you and my mother?" she blurted out before she could stop herself. No, she couldn't ask him that! "I mean", she hastily added, "how comes you know her?"
"That's a long story", he said, and Meg knew that she would not hear it. "You might sum it up like this: Your mother saved me from torture and humiliation when I was a boy and brought me here to hide me, and I've lived here ever since." With yet another of those small smiles, he added: "And I'm not and never was her lover, if this is what you dread."
"I wasn't thinking of that", Meg assured him hastily, feeling the heat in her cheeks increase violently once more, but she was not sure if he really believed her.
For some time they sat in silence, but it was not an awkward one. With some surprise, Meg realized that she trusted him and that his company was soothing her. Maybe he would even be a friend one day, just like he seemed to be to her mother.
"You know", he began after some time, and the sudden strange and clearly false lightness of his tone told her what was coming, "I just wondered if you'd seen Christine recently. Since yesterday, I mean."
At first she wanted to deny it, but somehow she felt that he would be able to detect a lie, especially if it was about Christine. "I just returned from seeing her", she answered carefully.
"Is she well?" There was a strong tenderness in those few words, as well as sadness.
"Yes", Meg answered truthfully, not sure if this was the right thing to say. "Yes, she is well." Their eyes met for an instant, and his bored into hers, and at once she found herself telling him about her and Christine's time in the city this afternoon, with some detail. He listened eagerly, almost hungrily, occasionally nodding or sometimes even smiling to himself, but never interrupting. She tried neither to mention Raoul nor where Christine was staying currently, but she assumed that he would be able to guess nonetheless.
"So she is getting married", he stated after she had finished. "I can read between the lines, you know."
Meg nodded, not looking at him.
"I feared she might." He sighed and turned to stare into the flames, his features outlined sharply by the light of the fire, as if hewn from marble. It seemed that suddenly the uncovered side of his face was even more a mask than the one covering the other side.
The texture of the air seemed to change. Although it was comfortably warm by the fire, Meg suddenly thought that she was breathing thin, sharp ice crystals. Was it still safe to be around the Phantom? She began to doubt it. "My mother is waiting for me", she said slowly, carefully. Who knew what might make him turn into a killer once more? "Down here in the cellars, I mean. I think I should maybe return to her."
He nodded assent immediately, and Meg assumed that he was glad to be alone once more. "Tell me where she is waiting, and I'll take you to her, so you won't take any more unexpected detours. You can have your things back another time."
Once more he led her through dark, wet corridors, but this time he took a candle with him. They did not pass the treacherous water hole again, and Meg wondered how many corridors there were exactly.
Her mother was still waiting where she had left her, a lantern in her hand, and she raised her eyebrows at her when she saw what she was wearing. Meg stared back defiantly, but her mother did not pay her much attention, but addressed the Phantom instead. "I'm sorry for my daughter's curiosity and her desire to take a souvenir." Meg's stare turned indignant.
"The latter is forgiven", he answered. "And as for curiosity… You were once a curious little girl, too, remember? There is much of you in her."
Her mother smiled, seemingly forgetting about Meg completely. "And you were a curious little boy, too, weren't you? How well I remember… But you will keep our agreement in mind, will you? Don't draw attention to yourself, remain concealed for some time?"
"I will. I promise."
Her mother touched his shoulder for a moment. "Be safe."
He bowed his head, smiling fondly, then, with a nod at Meg, turned to go. "Wait", Meg said quickly.
He stopped, his eyes resting on her calmly. The fierce gleam was gone from his eyes, as was the icy feeling around him. Only a sense of sadness remained.
Maybe this was what made Meg do it, despite her mother watching her. Standing on tiptoe, she quickly kissed him on the uncovered cheek. "Thank you", she whispered. "For everything."
For a moment his features bore a look of clear surprise, which was quickly replaced by the same warm fondness they had shown towards her mother. "You can keep the stuff if you like", he said. "I have plenty more to wear. Except – oh, you can probably guess what. I'm rather attached to those." As he leaned down to her, she for once enjoyed the feeling of heat his proximity produced in her. His lips brushed her forehead lightly, then he stepped back and blew out the candle, and the darkness quickly swallowed him.
Remembering what Christine had first deemed him to be, Meg said: "He's an angel."
Her mother sighed. "Yes, but a fallen angel, and far from Heaven."
