Margareite looked around herself tentatively, the small, but well furbished apartment looking rather daunting to her. The wood frame work was a rich mahogany, shining with smooth polish, the wooden paneled floors mostly covered with intricately patterned rugs, most with tassels on the end. To her right, just ahead of her, was another room, a sitting room, she presumed, with equally as rich wood-carved chairs. The curtains were pulled back by a golden rope, the maroon and goldenrod shades matching the rest of the house, the rugs rarely holding any other color. Two women stood beside the doorway, one older, severe looking, her black dress tight about her neckline and waist, her hair pulled back into a tight bun that brought out the sharp contours of her face; her eyes however, were soft and kindly, smiling at her in a way that her lips did not. The young one, perhaps Christine's age, maybe a little younger, had blond hair, half pulled back and falling about her shoulders in a yellow shine of locks. Her dress was a simple one, light paisley blue without any details or patterns. She did smile at Margareite, gently, her clear blue eyes naive in a way hers had not been since being a toddler.
"Welcome, MaChere," the older woman said, her voice cool and controlled, but not unkind, a heavy cultured accent flaunted within it's tone. "The Opera Ghost-"
"Erik," Margareite interrupted her. "His name is Erik. He is not a ghost and he is not a creature. He is a person with a name and a heart." The woman looked at her, unruffled by her interruption, but approval shone in her eyes.
"Yes, Erik," she corrected herself calmly. "He has left you to my care and has promised to visit you every night. You are free to do what you like to entertain yourself so long as you do not tear down my home." Her lips twitched slightly with a smile. "This is my daughter Meg. I am sure you two will find each other great company," she nodded to the blond woman's direction. Her smile widened a bit in acknowledgement, but she said nothing. Margareite smiled back politely. "You may call me Madame Giry, as that is what I am used to. Erik tells me that you have quite the sharp mind so I expect to find conversation with you quite easy to carry on. The only rule is one set by Erik- you may not travel outside." Maragereite shook her head.
"I would not wish to," she answered softly. "The outside world is far too excited for me."
"You prove Erik's words well." Meg's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise at the girl's firm take on speaking, but sad nothing. "Meg will show you to your room. The lanterns are about to be lit on the streets, I would expect Erik soon."
Maragreite nodded and looked to Meg, who smiled again at her. She turned and walked gracefully down the hall, Margareite in tow.
"So you have become a daughter to the Phantom?"
"Erik," Margareite emphasized. "Yes, he is rather like a father to me." Meg nodded.
"It must be rather exciting to know him," she said, her voice curious. Margareite smiled to herself; over time Erik had told her of the different dancers that he had found particularly amusing. Meg had stood out indefinably, as Madame Giry's inquisitive daughter that was rather gossipy and loved a good mystery.
"I supposed you could call it that," Margareite answered. They topped at a door to a small, finely furbished guest room, the bed small with brass bars and a soft down of feather quilts, two of them, one folded down to the foot end of the bed. There was a desk and a chair, and paper and ink upon the surface. A bedside table upon which a lantern stood lit sat next to the bed. Maragreite's breath hitched.
"This is where I'm staying?" she asked breathily. Even in Erik's cave-like home, though Erik had shared everything he had with her, there had only been one bedroom, one bed. She, even then, had never really had anything to herself but the clothes that Erik provided, the products of his trips out for supplies.
"Yes," Meg answered. Everything in this room is yours until further notice." She smiled at the amazed look on the girl's face. "Erik has left your clothes with us- they're in the closet to your left. If you get hungry, feel free to go to the eating room, there is always a little bread or some other tidbit to tide you over." She paused as Margareite leapt onto the bed, reveling in the feel of the light quilts. "The Phan- Erik," she corrected herself; it felt odd calling the Opera Ghost by a human name. "Erik is supposed to come visit you tonight?"
"Every night," Margareite answered. Meg took a breath. The Opera Ghost in her home every night! If only some of the other ballerina girls could hear about this! But, no. Her mother had instructed firmly that no word was to be spoken of the Opera Ghost or his goings about that she was aware of.
"You…you don't think perhaps I could meet him?" she asked tentatively. Margareite looked at her sharply, eyes narrowing.
"To what avail?" she asked coldly, her Oak Eyes shining with protective energy. Meg was taken aback slightly by her quick defense of the Phantom and played with her skirt.
"I… have grown up with stories of his mysteries," she said quietly. "I have heard different things about him; it was not until recently that Mother told me that he was a real person, not a ghost. Now I wish to see the one that inspired nightmares in my sleep as a child." Margareite's eyes softened and she nodded once, stiffly.
"I'll see what I can do," she said coolly. "But I promise nothing." Meg nodded her understanding.
"I'll leave you to your sleep then. If you need anything, my room is the door to your left across the hall." She turned with a smile and left, shutting the door gently behind her.