Magical Lasso
Meg didn't like the fear and secrecy she sensed in her mother. "Maman, what was that back there? And what of Christine? Was that-"
"Hush, mon mioche! No questions, please." Her mother's brittle tone was one Meg had never heard before.
"But Maman," she started.
"Non, non, not now." Her mother's voice came quieter. Meg wasn't sure if the words were spoken to her, and fell silent the rest of the way to the rooms.
"Bigre! I left the key in the dressing room, Maman," Meg exclaimed just as they mounted the staircase to the dormitories. She turned to retrace her steps, but her mother stopped her.
"Never mind. I shall go and retrieve it. To bed with you." Without another word, her mother gathered her skirts and headed back to the dressing room.
The ballet rats were rushing about, preparing for bed, and Meg was able to enter the room unnoticed. Wariness and discomfort pricked at Meg when she saw that Joseph Buquet stood in the room, flirting and bantering with the other girls in the ballet corps.
He feinted and lunged, extracting shrieks of horror and delight from the dancers. They enjoyed this dangerous game, their protests only a façade of propriety. Meg found the entire charade repulsive.
"Like yellow parchment is his skin," Buquet sang mockingly. "A great black hole serves as the nose that never grew…"
Once again, he was bragging about his supposed sighting of the Opera Ghost. Meg had her doubts over whether or not Buquet had indeed seen the Phantom of the Opera, but the other girls always took a perverse pleasure in the stagehand's tale, as did Buquet himself. Meg hurried to her bed in the corner and tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore Buquet.
He pulled out a length of rope that he had fashioned into a noose. "You must be always on your guard," he commanded, pointed a stubby, dirty finger. "Or he will catch you, with his magical lasso."
He looped the rope around one of the dancer's shoulders and drew her close. He then pretended to ravish the girl, but Maman appeared from nowhere. She stepped between them, releasing the girl from Buquet's clutches.
She took the rope and fingered it thoughtfully. "Those who speak of what they know find too late that prudent silence is wise…"
Maman looked around the room, studying its occupants. For a moment, Meg saw her mother's gaze land on her, and sensed the silent apology for the unspoken words between them.
Maman turned to Buquet, anger entering her voice. "Joseph Buquet, hold your tongue…" she let her open palm fly across his face in a loud slap. In a quick move, she slipped the noose over his head and tightened it snuggly on his throat.
"Keep your hand at the level of your eyes!" she cried.