Madame Giry

I stood there for several minutes, my mind contemplating every excuse as to why my Opera Ghost was creating a wedding dress for the life-size doll of his fourteen-year-old ingénue, but even as I reminded myself to trust him I felt a glowing, infernal anger well up within my ribcage. He lied to me when he promised he could overcome his lust. He lied to me. All along, he had been planning on taking the girl as his wife, to fulfil his fantasies and satisfy his desire. He lied to me. The fool lied to me!

A deep sloshing brought me from my thoughts. My arm ached from holding the curtain aside, and I let it drop, turning angrily, deliberately, to face him. He was submerged to his thighs in the frigid water, moving through it as if it were the simplest task in the world, as if he were completely oblivious to the chill. The chill that he didn't feel, though, raced down my bones at the sight of him, in his incredulity and evident, evident confusion.

For once, though, his anger did not scare me.

"What are you doing?" he cried, and I noticed that he wore no cape—he was clad in only his black trousers and a loose burgundy shirt. His mask, his frightening white half-moon, was not nearly as intimidating as the visible half of his face, which was contorted with bewilderment. The green glow of his eyes had darkened with the blue of night…or perhaps it was the grey of a storm. I put my hands on my hips, directing myself to match his rage, as he yelled at me again. "What do you think you are doing, coming here without my guidance? You could have been killed!"

"I wasn't."

"You should have been!" he growled, shoving at his gondola needlessly as he sloshed his way onto shore. "It would slay your insatiable curiosity and rid me of an unnecessary burden!"

"I am the burden to you, Monsieur?" I retorted, marching one stride toward him. "You never once told me that I was not allowed to come to this place without your permission."

"Do I need to be so blatant with you? I thought you had a head on your shoulders, woman!" he snarled, flinging water along his path as he stormed toward me. I stood straight. "You will never do this again, is that clear?"

"You have no right to speak to me in such a tone!" I reprimanded, wishing more than anything that I was taller than him in inches as I was older than him in years. "My entire life has been slave to your existence for longer than anyone else would put up with you! You owe me the truth at least."

"I have never given you anything but the truth," he spat, throwing his hand in exasperation. "It is you who has lied to me, Madame, and nothing else!"

"I have lied to you?"

"You swore to me that you trusted me. That was a lie."

I gasped in outrage, right in his face. "I never lied—I did trust you. I was a fool, an idiot, to trust you, but I did, and I have that!" I flung my gaze backward to the curtain, and stepped aside, pointing to it. "But what have you? Lies, only, and to me. To me, Erik, to me!"

"I hate that name!" he cried, and he moved past me, tearing the curtain aside. "What does this prove, Madeleine?"

I bit my tongue—I called him by his name, and thus I could not reprimand him for calling me by mine. Instead, I could get under his skin in a different way, one I knew would hurt. "You are very knowledgeable of the Bible. You have read the storey of David and his adulterous enthrallment with Bathsheba, have you not? His lust lead to a lie, and it has done to same to you! His sin of a lie—a simple lie!—lead to a thousand different sins, each consequently worse in nature."

He whirled on me, and I knew I was successful. He was a dark enigma, one I could never hope to understand, amidst his fixation with religion, for it was not faith at all, as I had. His knowledge of the Bible and his grudge against God was an obsession of his, one I could use to my advantage. "Why do you speak to me of lust, Madame, and lies? Tell me!"

For a moment my resolve dithered. He had said nothing to me about the mannequin upon entering his lair—his only anger had been expressed that I had come down without his approval. If he was hiding something there, surely he would have alluded to it. Am I really that mistaken? I pointed again to the wedding dress. "What are your intentions with Christine?"

"They are nothing more than that which you already know."

"Then explain your reasoning for adorning her with a wedding dress!"

The Phantom's storming eyes brewed for another few seconds, and then he blinked and in them I saw arrogance, and a dark streak of humour. A blink! He could transform so quickly! He sauntered toward me, making a show of lowering his gaze to meet mine. "Is it jealousy, Madame, that turns you so quickly against me?"

I let my mouth drop in disgust, but at the same time my heart quickened its pace. "Jealousy!" I exclaimed, unsure if I should take a step backward or a step toward him; I opted to stand still. I clenched my fists. My palms were warm, and moist. "Do you so easily mistake genuine concern for jealousy?"

His devastating smirk remained clear on his face, and half of his mouth turned up underneath the mask. "Or is it that you so easily mistake genuine jealousy for concern?"

My pulse pounded in my temples. He was not angry with me now, but he still acted the predator. My mind flew desperately backwards to the last time he had such a glint in his eye, and his horrible, dangerous reaction replayed itself across my thoughts. More than that, though—also reliving in my mind were my own thoughts then, the familiar heat coursing through my body at the mere touch of his hands, the gentle and harsh whisper of his voice. Shocked at myself, I blinked these thoughts away, and focused on the wedding dress. "You think far too highly of yourself. I could never be jealous of your student, who has inflamed your lust—simple lust!—and bent your thoughts on marriage. Did you entertain such fantasies when it was only me?"

I clamped my jaw down on my tongue, stunned that I had let that thought slip. You are a fool, Madeleine. Keep your wandering thoughts to yourself.

The Phantom's eyes widened in actual surprise, and he grinned maliciously. "Which of us is entertaining fantasies now?" I opened my mouth to protest, my embarrassment dousing the spark that had sprung, so unbidden, into my awareness. Before I could say a thing, his hand caught mine, and he lowered his face to it, pressing the lightest of kisses to my knuckles. His fingers stroked my wrist and he pulled me several inches closer. I had thought the spark had been doused—now it threatened to ignite into a real flame. I had to fight it, or it would end the same as last time. And last time had scared me more than anything else in my life.

"Please let me go," I said, forcing my voice from my constricted throat, but it emerged as little more than a husky whisper.

"Is that what you want?" he returned, his voice matching my own and tickling my hand with its vibrations, and my eyes closed. I forced them back open, then, and thought of how I would answer him. Before I could, he released my hand and stepped back, and drew in a shaky breath. "I'm sorry," he said, and met my eyes. "I am sorry, Madame. I was not thinking." His lips remained parted, and his gaze swept over my chin and throat, and he quickly averted his eyes. He shook his head, and turned back to the curtain, leaving me reeling where I stood. "What you saw in there is not what you assume. It is merely a costume, one I intend for Christine to wear in an upcoming production." Without looking at me still, he motioned to the chamber that held the mountains of fabric. "I have begun several costumes, and plan to create several more, as my own work would suit her more than anything my seamstresses could produce. And Christine would appreciate the personal touch, I believe."

My heart began to slow its pace as I listened to his explanation, and if I was not humiliated enough, I realised my awful mistake. "Oh…naturally." I fought to find words. "I saw the painting, and then the dress, and I assumed…I did assume."

"Think nothing of it," he replied, and he absently began to straighten the scattered music about his organ. It puzzled even me, that his calm and nonchalant attitude toward my immature conclusions bothered me. Though it was much more dangerous, I handled my own embarrassment much better when he exploded in anger—because then I could explode back in his face, and I would not have to think on my mistake, as I did now.

But no. This was better, no matter what my pride suffered. Suffering the pride was far less painful than suffering the body, and the heart.

One thought still nagged at me. "These costumes…how can you be sure they will fit her when she is ready to perform?"

A pause, and he returned, "Perhaps she will be ready sooner than you think."

I looked down, though his back was still to me. I was an idiot to doubt him, a scoundrel to accuse him, and I knew it now. It was maddening, that in his presence I could be entirely confident and authoritative in one moment, and then be reduced to a humbled, submissive mess the next. Thank Heaven he was the only soul in the world to see that side of me. Then again, I would almost rather that the whole world would see that side if he didn't have to.

I straightened. The reason I was ever such a childish dolt in his presence was because of thoughts like that. I placed far too much importance on his opinion than he was worth, and it was exhausting.

His hand stilled about his music. "What is this?" he asked, turning to me, the paper I had brought with me in his hand. Just as abruptly, he dropped the paper to the floor and stared at his fingers, which were smeared with flour. Oh, how could this be worse? I looked down at myself again, and was reminded, for the first time since I had arrived, that I was covered in the stuff.

The Phantom's gaze left his fingers and fixated themselves upon me. Our vexation with one another had blinded us both to the mess that was made of my clothing. His face brightened in a real, amused smile, and he began to laugh. "Madame, what did you do?"

Fortunately, I was not a furious blusher, no matter how embarrassed I could become on the inside. "I was in the kitchens," I explained, dignified as possible, "and a bumbling busboy dropped a sack of flour."

He shook his head, his grin wider than I had seen it in…I was not certain how long. "Surely you didn't let him get away with that."

I rolled my head to the side, and felt the beginnings of a smile set into my features. "Under usual circumstances, I would have surely struck him with my cane, but I was…preoccupied." I suddenly remembered my purpose for coming. "The paper—you dropped it." I moved toward him as he leant to pick it up. He never bent; he always leant. Everything he did was with panther-like grace. "I was going to burn it; that was why I was in the kitchens. But I couldn't…I read it first, and I had to show you," I said carefully.

He was still amused, and thus he went about reading the page with his smile still in-tact. It vanished quickly. Staring into his eyes as he read, my heart began to tear a little. I was not inside his head, but I knew what was; I knew he was reliving every moment of that night as I had, of the three years that preceded it. I knew he was reliving every moment of his life.

I didn't say a word.

The Phantom's jaw set itself, and his left eyebrow furrowed as fiercely as the crease on his mask where his right brow was hidden. His eyes looked away from the paper, and he strode heavily toward the shore. I stepped back; he passed without seeing me. Throwing it into the lake, he lifted the oar of the gondola and plunged it into the centre of the paper, forcing it to the floor beneath the water, and stood there, for several moments, in silence.

From my place beside the steps of the organ, I watched him. His muscles were tense, extremely so, beneath the white gauze of his shirt. I could see the back of his head, and I only wished I could be inside of it, or that I could put my arms around him to comfort him. Instead, I stood where I was. I was afraid of touching him again, after the brief and ridiculous ordeal of only a few moments ago. "What are you going to do?" I chanced at the silence, wondering if he could even hear me.

He was quiet for another moment before responding. "I am going to kill them."

It was only intelligent that I should have been prepared for that, but I was not. Fighting off a chill, I continued. "You cannot do that."

He said nothing; he was too intent on forming his plan.

"No. Listen to me." I had to stop him. "You will not murder again. You will never murder again. I showed you this because I want you to help the child—that is all. Killing his keepers will not help him. You once told me that Lombardi's death did not give you what you wanted." I knew he was listening, now, and I had to be very careful with what I would say. Slowly I walked toward him, soothing him with my voice as I knew I could. "You will force your own life on this child if you do this. Think this through; think it through wisely. I trust you. I doubted you, and I was wrong to. I trust you now, and I trust that you can do this the right way." I rested a hand on his back, between his shoulder blades. The mother in me conquered the woman, thank Heaven, and no spark was ignited between our contact.

He turned, and for a moment I thought I saw his eye glisten with a tear. "What would you have me do?"

I stared at him squarely. "That is your call, Er—Monsieur." My hand tingled.

He shook his head, smiling a little, mirthlessly. "It would be fruitless to stop yourself. I have been Erik ever since I came down here. That is why I advanced on you in such a way."

My heart fluttered a little at this, but I wasn't sure what it meant.

"He's been fighting for control of this body relentlessly. I have to give him what he wants, at times." He smiled at me, fondly, sadly. "Do not worry. I won't kill the child's handlers, as much as I want to. The Phantom will make sure of that."

I searched his eyes fervently. "Who is it, though? I no longer understand: is it Erik who kills, or is it the Phantom?"

Again, he shook his head. "I don't know. I have never truly known. But I believe it is neither—we have both come to an agreement that it is neither on his own, but it is when Erik and the Phantom are in conflict and struggle against each other that I put others in danger." He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "The Phantom is stronger than Erik…and that is why I have given him control, because he is relentless. Erik, at least, is less stubborn. At times." A shallow, shuddering gasp went through him, and he tried to hide it. "The Phantom is more angered by Erik than by anyone else…more angered by him than by Buquet, or Lombardi, and the world, or even by you." He pursed his lips. "Which makes no sense at all…even he knows that Erik is a good man."

The man was truly an enigma. I would never be sure if it was two different men that shared his body, or if he was possessed by an evil spirit, or if, as I was most convinced, he was just plainly at war with himself. He was a genius, and he was, in some essence of the word, insane as well. And yet he went on. And I helped him to.

"I will help him escape," he said at last. "The child. I will show him myself, and tell him what has become of me…and I will make sure of it that it never happens to him, the way it did to me." He paused. "I am not certain how, yet. But I will be."

I smiled, and took his hand to squeeze it for encouragement. He stiffened, though, and I released it. It made sense to me now; the Phantom feared human contact unless he needed it more than he feared it, or unless he invoked it. Instead, I smiled at him, with as much pride and trust as I could muster—I knew how much he depended on my belief, and in that way I was sure I could help him. "Thank you, Erik."

He returned the smile, and nodded his head a little. "Thank you too, Madame." For a moment we stood in mutual affection for one another, and then he straightened, touched his mask to make certain that it was in place, and moved toward the gondola. "Now, Madame, we will make certain rules clear. You are never, ever, to come down to my home without my permission. If you do so, I will ascertain that you do not trust me, and you will widen the rift in our association by your own doing."

I let my eyes roll imperceptibly and followed him to the gondola…careful to blame the sudden racing of my heart on the chill of the water.