Madame Giry

"Maman!" Marguerite jumped as I entered the room, and flushed as she turned to face me. Christine stared at her wordlessly and folded her hands.

I moved slowly toward her bed where they sat, and I crossed my arms. "Why so flustered, Meg?"

"I'm not flustered!" she said, giving a little laugh and lifting her brow at Christine. Christine said nothing.

"Meg Giry, I do not need the paper, which you so swiftly stole from my flat, to take notice of the tents they are raising outside. Now give it here." I held out my hand expectantly.

Meg pursed her lips sheepishly, and without a word produced the paper from behind her back and released it into my hand. I didn't need to glance at the headlines to know what they heralded. The travelling Gypsy fair was again making its rounds throughout France, and it opened in Paris tonight. Each time, the dregs of humanity exploited their own kind to the morbid curiosities of willing audiences. Each time, I was reminded, at first by bits of gossip and then by the grandiose clamour of the gathered mass outside of the opera house, of that night. And each time, I had to deal with the undying fascination of my young daughter who wanted nothing more than to witness the carnival and all its grotesque appeal for herself.

The paper sported reviews of all forms of entertainment within the proximity. It was a small article and I hadn't bothered to read it after seeing the words "Gypsy Carnival," as I cared nothing for the opinions of one man who couldn't be bothered less by the evils that occurred within the tents. It was, as it was every year, a mere overview of the newest attractions within the fair—Meg's attention was always seized at this.

In the years that I was a ballet student myself and long before it, it was custom for the ballet de cour to attend the Gypsy festival whenever it happened to come about Paris. The autumn of my eighteenth year was my first and only experience, as the tour only frequented us one out of every three years, and for the previous two opportunities I had been either ill or away. From the very moment I stepped into the Gypsy camp, which had erected itself as custom directly behind the Opera, I was filled with what I could only describe as darkness. None of the "exhibits" amused me; in fact, far from it, as I was horrified and sickened at each. Perhaps it was a prelude, or foreshadowing for what was to come next. That night altered my life, irrevocably, for eternity. And thus, I became the severe and unfeeling ballet instructor who severed the long-lasting tradition.

"Maman, Christine and I are old enough to go on our own this year," Meg spoke up, breaking me from my thoughts. Christine shot a glare her way, but my daughter continued. "It really can't be all bad."

"Stop," I said, and held up a hand. Meg's eyes widened and her lips pursed at my sudden gesture. "I will hear nothing more of this Gypsy circus. I have not the energy to explain to you again why I don't want you going near there."

Her little brow furrowed, and she returned, "You just don't like Gypsies."

I opened my mouth to deny it, but it was true. Instead I said, "It is a wicked, disgusting, and corrupt place, swarming of thieves that will charm you with their eyes and rob you with their hands."

Christine watched me intently for a moment before speaking. "Meg," she said quietly, and turned her head toward her friend. "It's a painful memory from which your mother speaks."

I clenched my teeth in concentration, wondering what he had told her.

"Come, Christine!" Meg said, half-joking. "You are supposed to be on my side!"

Instead, the brunette shook her head. "I think it would be unwise."

"Well said, Miss Daae," I commended. I turned back to Marguerite. "We will not have this discussion again."

Meg harrumphed and made a show of reluctant resignation. She was very, very strong-willed; she spoke to me as none of my other girls would ever dare. Perhaps I was lenient in my willingness to put up with her attitude as compensation for my severity of her work schedule. She was my daughter; as such, she was allowed certain liberties, but when matters broached the art, bloody toes and bruises notwithstanding, I pushed her—I wanted excruciatingly for her to have the career I was denied. I loved her, I truly did. The Phantom did not know how much it pained me to keep such secrets from my child, but even if he did, and permitted her to know, I would not tell her. Far be it from me that I would burden Meg's life with such a secret.

In a way, Christine had to bear this—and she did not even know it. She was strong, there was no doubt in my mind. When I allowed myself to think of it, it saddened me to wonder of the girl she might have become had she not been nurtured so ardently under her false Angel's power. At first glance, she would appear naïve, but I could see past that, and the Phantom could as well. Her imagination fueled her trust in her father and her belief in the Angel. At times I marvelled that she still was so deluded, but was it any different that my own daughter believed so insistently in the Ghost I had helped to create? Both he and I did our best to deceive our charges, and neither of us could scoff at their subconscious obedience to our wishes. Christine's mind was not like the minds of the girls around her. I remembered how scarred she was by Gustave's death, and how desperately she clung to his memory. It was the only way she knew how to keep him; she was deceiving herself, and she needn't her Angel's help to be deceived as much he fancied it so.

She was mislead, but she was strong. He claimed that he harnessed her strength, but I suspected, at times, that he suppressed it. I had to trust him, though. I promised him I would—and he was far wiser than myself, in many, many ways.

I gave Meg a last warning look, and smiled a bit in affection, before turning out of the dorms, taking the paper with me. I'd burn it. He'd see it anyway. I'd burn it nonetheless.

The kitchens were bustling with the maids who rushed to clean up after the cooks, and servers who lounged lazily and spoke amongst themselves despite the mass of busy workers around them. There was to be another gala tonight succeeding the performance, accompanied by an extravagant dinner, as the patrons themselves would be attending, as well as an entourage of high-class theatre-owners from Italy who had been informed of Giudicelli's success at the Populaire. No doubt they would be impressed. No doubt they would work to get her back. And no doubt my council would be invoked the next day, as Lefevre honestly was in over his head and really didn't know what to do with such a situation. I sighed. Tomorrow, I would don my wise face, sit with my shoulder's back, and feed him every word he would give to the Italian bargain hunters.

I sidestepped two cooks with great circles of dough, giving them my best glare. Turning around to continue my plight, however, proved even worse. I flattened myself next to the ovens as a cook's aide lost his grip on an open sack of flour. Bringing the paper to my face to shield my eyes and nostrils, I hollered a reprimand at him. The kitchens grew quiet.

Lowering the paper, I surveyed the mess. The soft powder still lingered in a cloud about the ovens, and caked the poor boy's forme in an unrelenting blanket of white. His bright blue eyes peered out from his white face in fear, and a few cooks began to chortle. I looked down at myself. My black dress was black no longer, needless to say. A great dust of white flour had coated the entire front, both cotton and lace, and was smeared against the skin of my neck and bare hands. I turned the paper slowly, deliberately, back and forth, to accentuate the mess he'd made. The front of the paper, where my fingers did not grip it, was also floured generously.

"I's sorry, Madame Giry, truly I is," he sputtered, standing and dusting himself madly, leaving amongst the carpet of flour two slight circles of clear stone floor where his knees had been. "Your dress—"

"Don't bother," I snapped at him, and I slowly surveyed the kitchen. I let my mouth drop and my eyes widen, and I flung out my hands. "Back to work! Is a simple mishap reason enough to drop your tasks? Back to it! The manager would not be pleased."

The cooks blushed as they whirled to their stations and their aides rushed to be of assistance, and the cleaning ladies tackled the floor immediately with their brooms and mops. Even the servers worked frantically to make themselves look busy, and had I not been so annoyed I would have savoured the moment with pride at my eminent authority.

Not even the manager could command them as I could. I was second only to O.G. himself.

I turned back to the hearth and crossed the paper to my other hand, prepared to drop it into the flames. Instead, my hand held it stationary against the heat of the inferno, and my eyes glued themselves to the flour-dusted surface. There were a few untainted marks upon the paper where my fingers had been, much like the two clean spots about the floor where the aide had dropped to his knees. The words where my fingers shielded the text were readable, and extremely clear.

"Devil's Child."

I blinked the flour from my eyelashes, and studied the paper again. The words were there, right there where my index finger gripped it. Slowly I brought it forth from the hearth, and smeared my fingers across the surface of the page, clearing the flour away. I grasped the paper with both hands and fervently read.

"For the first time since the much-gossiped-of murder of a handler more than two decades since, the Devil's Child attraction has been reinstated. Legend and intrigue will surely draw crowds, but the highly overrated—"

Two servers fussed over my dress and hair, but I pushed them aside, my eyes throbbing at the words "Devil's Child" over and over again. My mind fought—should I burn it? Surely he's seen it by now. Then again, he cared nothing of the news and entertainment of the outside world, and perhaps he didn't busy himself with reading the paper. Image after image of that night struggled for remembrance. There was a new child, another Erik, trapped within the bars of a resurrected circus sideshow. My heart surged with disgust and compassion, and for an instant—for only an instant—I allowed my mind to wander.

No, I demanded myself. I will never, EVER do that again.

Something, though, had to be done. Not by me. Never by me. It was clear enough in my mind that my maternal need to rescue and force salvation upon the cursed was my weakness, and had always failed me. I was not capable of helping this poor child—this innocent soul that had newly been branded both the offspring of Satan and "highly overrated," as if it were merely a thing to be defined and critiqued by its deformity. My wavering trust in the Phantom strengthened in only a moment's thought, and I knew what I had to do. He knew what it was like—he could help this child. I had to see him. He had to know.

I forced my way past the servants and out of the kitchens, leaving a slight trail of white dust behind my steps. The trail faded after only a few strides, and I turned corners in darkness, my mind taking me toward one of the many hidden entrances to his lair that he'd revealed to me. I had navigated his passageways countless times, but had ventured into his catacombs rarely, and each time he had been directing me, steering our path away from his trapdoors. I trusted my memory well enough to make the journey on my own; I had to see him.

I looked around me, certain that there was no one to witness my disappearance.

One corridor was visible, and it led to the chapel. It was the invisible one, however, that I would take. There were no windows or doors that would allow sunlight into this hall, and the gaslights illuminated only so much. One corner alone was always shrouded in darkness, a darkness so thick that it was nearly impossible to see. I backed into the corner and felt along the wall. My fingers drifted in slight rounded motions over the bricks until I felt it: one unstable brick, loosened just slightly enough for those who knew what to look for to recognise. I rocked the brick free from its notch and held it with one hand while reaching into the vacant spot with my other.

A lever was there, and I pulled on it. A square of stone shifted about the wall in the deep shadows, revealing a hole even blacker than the darkened nook from which it opened. I had exactly fifteen seconds before the hidden counter-wheel would reverse and the square would be returned to its seamless spot in the wall. I forced the brick back into its notch and crawled breathlessly through the hole, standing and feeling for the torch as the stone replaced itself. His genius and mechanisms I would never understand.

Lighting the torch, I moved swiftly down the dank passageway until my eyes could clearly see the grand stairwell ahead.

…

Meg

I took both of Christine's hands and set my face in a desperate pout. "Please, Christine?"

My best friend's eyes wouldn't meet my own. "No, Meg."

"But why ever not?" I demanded, feigning anger. "Maman was just trying to scare you with her storeys. It will be great fun!"

Christine shook her head, and her lovely curls shook with it. "I don't want to be disobedient."

"Christine!" I objected. "You have never had any difficulty with disobedience before today. Are you not thinking of all the times we sneak to the kitchens for sweetmeats? And if I recall, I saw you just yesterday tie Lisette's shoes together in knots, which is clearly against Maman's rules."

Christine reddened, and I folded my arms triumphantly. "That's much different!" she protested.

"Of course it's not! It is time for a change. You have always been the one with ideas, and I have always been the one to encourage them. Now I have an idea, and it is your turn to go along with it."

For a moment she smiled. "It was always like that before my father died."

Clearly she wasn't listening to me. "You won't be alone…you'll be with me! You know, you cannot fool Maman much longer—she still thinks of innocent do-gooder Christine."

Her lips pursed as if she were trying to hold back a grin. "But I am!"

I punched her arm playfully. "Please, Christine. It won't hurt anybody! All you need is a bit of encouragement. That's all you ever need."

Her brow furrowed fiercely, and she shook her head again. Was she serious? Was I really not able to convince her this time? "I'm sorry, Meg. This is not like all those other times. I don't want to be disobedient."

I sighed, exasperated, much like Maman always did. "You already said that, and we've already disposed of that argument."

Now Christine folded her arms. "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe it is not your mother's scorn I fear?"

I raised an eyebrow in doubt. "The manager?"

Christine looked down. "No. Never mind that. Meg, really. Wouldn't you rather…I don't know…go through Sorelli's cosmetics in her absence, or something of that nature?"

I let my shoulders drop dramatically. "We did that last month. And Sorelli would be having much too great a time in her absence, as you call it, than we will, because she will have snuck out to the carnival!"

Christine stood, hugging her forearms as if she had a chill. She took two steps, and swung back to face me, with a devillish grin about her features. "We could rummage through Carlotta's dresses!" she offered, her voice full of wicked animation. "I still have a key to the closet, and she will be terribly preoccupied with the gala tonight."

For a moment, all thoughts about the carnival were forgotten. "Oh, Christine," I whispered, and she hopped atop my bed, taking my hands. "Do we really dare?"

She nodded wildly, and I noted how her curls bounced around her face doing so. How I wished I had curls like hers! "Of course those extravagant dresses will be far too big for us…well, at least for me, but I daresay you are growing into quite the woman up top." She giggled and I pushed at her. I was terribly self-conscious of my newly developing chest, except, of course, when Etienne flirted with Christine; then I was quite satisfied that I had something physically that she did not.

"All right…wait!" Thoughts of the circus stopped me, and I drew back from Christine, sitting tall, business-like. "I will do this with you under one condition."

"Name it, friend of my heart," Christine teased, dropping her delicate white hand over her hardly-there chest.

I smiled. "We will sneak into your old dressing room tonight, if only you promise that tomorrow we go to the Gypsy circus."

Christine's hand fell, and she turned from me. "Meg, I said no."

"Come now, Christine! You've always been hesitant, but you've never been so final before! You're just like Maman—you just don't like Gypsies."

Christine whirled on me, her eyes flaming. "No, Meg! Gypsies aren't like what we hear about in fairy-tales. The idea of Gypsy life is incredibly attractive—mysterious men and exotic women and clothing all bedecked in gold coins. But in actuality they're thieves, and they are cruel people, worse than murderers!"

"Who says?"

"The An—your mother says. She's been there."

"The who?" I enquired, crinkling my nose.

"Your mother. Madame's been to the Gypsy carnival before, and she would know better than any of us. I trust her; you should too."

I shook my head. "What better way to know for sure than to find out on our own?"

Christine busied herself with her hair at the small mirror. "We should leave for the dressing room now, before it's too late."

"Not unless you agree to go to the carnival…and not now, Christine! Carlotta is surely still in it!"

"Not that one, silly," Christine returned, and she grasped my hands and pulled me from the mattress. "The communal ladies' dressing room. Die Zauberflöte is a mere half-hour away." We walked arm and arm toward the doors. Before exiting, however, Christine lowered her voice and smiled impishly. "We'll discuss our plans for later after the performance."

We giggled and left the dorms.