A/N: Yes, it has been a long time. I've been busy. Sorry! Here you go.

Chapter Three: The Mirror

Arjay's pale countenance darkened in a split second. "I'm going to get him."

"What?"

"I'm going to catch that man and hang him with his own rope." He said it as calmly as if he were announcing his intention to eat out that night. "He deserves it. Are you alright, Meg?"

"…Yes…" Meg was more frightened by Arjay's calm intentions than by the whole incident.

"No, you're not!" There, that was the stagehand she was used to, inspecting her hands with a displeased but friendly frown. "Rope burn. You need champagne."

"Champagne?" Meg was confused. Many of the best stagehands were very opposed to drinking before or during a show, for safety reasons, Arjay especially.

"Yes, of course champagne. There should be a bottle or two in Miss Daae's old dressing room. The managers like me to stash them there so they're cold and close by after the…"

"What?"

"Oh. Right. The treatment for rope-burn is to hold something cold. Helps with the pain and keeps the swelling down. You've got to go and throttle the first champagne bottle you find –just pull it out of the ice and wrap both paws around it. Hold it until you can't count your fingers without looking. I'll get you some gloves in the meantime."

"But the next scene…"

"There isn't a change until three scenes past intermission, not counting the lighting cues. You'll be fine. Go on, Meg."

So she went, feeling entirely confused by the whole affair. Arjay was a passionate fellow, especially about the Opera. The cold, unnaturally calm way he declared his intent…it was more frightening than the rope and the Phantom had been, somehow.

Perhaps it was a question of nature. Ropes were meant to be extremely high and a little dangerous. Phantoms of Operas were meant to be extremely mysterious and a little scary. Stage managers were –she was not thinking clearly.

Christine's dressing room was very dark when Meg entered it, but it smelled very familiar. Carlotta used a stifling perfume composed mainly of roses, which, according to Opera legend was capable of raising the dead. Christine had never bothered with perfume, mainly because the petites rats couldn't afford such things, and partly because she'd never liked it. Instead, her old dressing room smelled nicely of sandalwood, which was inexpensive enough that even the littlest rats could afford to keep some in their stocking bags, and lavender, which was free if you knew where to go. It was a nice, reassuring scent –and not just because it reminded Meg of her best friend. As she lit the gaslight, she noticed the little bouquet of lavender had been tied with a very unique knot. It had been hung up, no doubt, by her late mother, who always remembered little touches like that, and always tied everything with her special toe-shoes-ribbon knot. Meg shut her eyes –eye, so as not to cry, and obediently 'throttled' the cold champagne.

Numbness crept into her hands as she gazed into the old mirror. The dim light sent a shadow across her face and almost hid…that. Again, she closed her remaining eye and inhaled slowly, trying not to cry. Tears burned still, though the sisters had said that would fade away in time. It was painful in more than just that way, though. No more dancing. She didn't mind the loss of her looks or the new job half as much as she missed dance. Her muscles had begun to ache the second day in the hospital –to a dancer, lack of use was as uncomfortable as overuse. She had felt awkward, tense and ungraceful, ever since.

Until the weight had been added to her rope, that is.

It was better than pirouettes, that swift but controlled descent. The sound of the other rope against the leather of –maybe it wasn't the Phantom's glove, but it sounded even softer and nicer than the crush of new crinoline underskirts or tights when she put them on. It wasn't dancing, not by a long shot, and she'd been invisible, so there was no thrilling to the audience reaction or basking in applause. And yet, her muscles were no longer tight and dulled from disuse. She felt like there should be applause when her feet touched the ground, the action was so…so perfect.

And then the man…

Arjay was superstitious. Yes, the Phantom had haunted the Opera, but he was no more than a man, Christine had said, and with the gendarmes' search, how could he still be there? What sane person would have stayed?

On the issue of sanity…since when did Arjay coolly speak of killing? That remark had shaken her deeply, and she was surprised that it did. A lot of people had expressed ill wishes toward the Phantom, and Arjay's was hardly creative, or even the most vehement. His tone had been calm, matter-of-fact, even.

"I'm going to get him."

For what? His uncle? That made sense. But Arjay had never mentioned any ill toward the man before. Why at that moment? Even in the unlikely chance it had been the mysterious Phantom, which Meg was beginning to doubt, it had been a stroke of luck for the production. She couldn't have stayed up there indefinitely, after all, and the restoration of the fly to its' position meant that the scene changes in the second act would be on schedule. Whoever the man was, he had helped keep the show going, assisted a fellow stagehand, and quite possibly saved her life-

That was it, Meg realized suddenly. Arjay was acting protectively of her.

Protectively…and jealously.

Arjay cared for her.

The idea took some moments of pondering. Certainly, she like Arjay. He was kind, always eager to help others, skillful…but did she like him in that way? The calm way he had spoken that fearsome threat, when normally his voice was so shot with passion for every aspect of his craft and affection toward his fellows…it frightened her, more than the Phantom –the man in the fly system, ever had.

She couldn't feel her hands. Good. She moved to set the champagne bottle back in the ice bucket, looking down…and it was then that she saw the leather gloves on the pair of larger hands covering her own. She looked back up to the mirror, which reflected a dark patch in the shadows behind her. Meg's face had gone white, as white as Christine's had been…and it seemed to match the bandage covering her eye.

The bandage, frighteningly enough, was in the exact opposite position of another patch of white. Visible on the shadowy figure's face, Meg dimly perceived the mask.

The leather gloves were in perfect position to catch her an instant later.