The Angel's Return

Chapter 1

Erik.

I am not a man who is prone to fear, and yet there is no other name for the emotion that flooded me when I heard the howl echo through the Imaginarium'scorridors. It was a sound that hardly seemed human and jolted my weary steps into a run, down the last of the stairs and towards the stage. The backstage door was open, and I could see that the technical lights were on, illuminating the stage. I couldn't see anyone at first, but then the cry came again, and I looked up to the platform forty feet above the stage, where the trapeze artists began their routines. Meg Giry was crouched up there, her hands over her ears.

"Meg!"

Even as I called her name I was stripping off my coat and the jacket beneath, leaving them at the base of the ladder. I climbed as quickly as I could, and found Meg still crouched on the platform, rocking backwards and forwards with her eyes closed and her hands over her ears. She looked as if the illness that had hospitalised her mother had already resulted in death. Her face was white under make-up that had been smeared by distress and exhaustion, and the front of her long skirt was tucked into the waistband. Slowly, she lowered her hands.

"Meg," I kept my voice as soft as possible, anxious not to alarm her. One false move from either of us could result in a forty-foot drop to the stage below. "What are you doing up here, Meg?"

She looked back at me, and her eyes glassy with pain and the drug that I had laced her tea with. It had been intended to calm her, to soothe her, not drive her to the brink like this.

"I was thinking," she said, and her voice sounded like a lost child's. "I was thinking about how people fall out of my life. Like leaves falling from a tree." My eyes flicked to the edge of the platform, and the drop below. "My father. Christine." Her breath came out in a long, shuddering sigh. "Benedict. And now Mother. Everyone I love. All leaving me. Who is going to be next? You?"

I lowered myself onto my haunches, not wanting to frighten the girl, but trying to edge closer.

"She's going to die, isn't she?"

"We all will, someday," I replied. "It is life's one certainty."

I did not know how else to answer her question. The aneurysm would one day rupture, and there was no way to predict when it would happen. I could not give Meg an idea of how much time she and her mother would have together, and the fact of that was a glowing line of anger in the pit of my stomach.

"Do you think it will hurt her, when the time comes? Do you think there will be pain?"

"I don't know, Meg." It was the truth. A helpless, bitter truth.

"I don't think Papa felt pain when he shot himself. The way everything flew apart, I don't think there can have been time for pain." She stood up, and I did the same, taking another step nearer. "Benedict felt pain. Maybe not for long, but he died in pain. Nobody should die in pain." She turned towards the auditorium which gaped darkly like an open maw in front of us, and I felt every muscle in my body tense. "Perhaps it would be quicker, kinder. It couldn't hurt, could it? Not to break your neck?"

She looked down and I heard my own breath hiss in through my teeth as I readied myself to spring forward and grab her around the waist, to drag her back onto the platform. Would she fight me? Could I fight gravity? But Meg sighed, and turned to face me. Did she intend to fall backwards so that she could not see the stage, could not see death, rushing towards her? I wanted to seize her, but knew that I had to be restrained, and slowly reached to take her hand in mine. Her fingers were cold, and I could not help gripping harder than was necessary.

"Come along, Meg," I kept my voice quiet, an invitation, not a command. "It's time to go home."

I drew her towards me, away from that treacherous edge, but the noise of my own heartbeat did not begin to fade until we were both back on the stage, and safe. For the moment, at least. Meg leant heavily against me, her blonde head almost lolling against my arm I guided her off the stage, pausing to turn off the technical lights.

"Do you have your keys?"

"Mmm."

In my own coat pocket was the ring of master keys to The Grand Circle, the apartment block I owned, which had been secured in my office safe at the Imaginarium. If I had thought to have a second copy in my own apartment, we would never have ended up back here. We would not have been up on that platform.

I looked down at Meg, and seriously considered simply picking her up in my arms and carrying her like I would a child. She was practically unconscious on her feet, but I did not think that she would welcome being swept off her feet in such a way, even if it was in her best interests.

Thank God she hadn't jumped.

I led her out of the concert hall's stage door, to where the Hansom cab was still waiting for us, the driver smoking a cigarette. We could have walked the distance in ten minutes, if either of us had been up to it tonight.

I paid the driver when he dropped us at the entrance to The Grand Circle, and made sure to keep one hand under Meg's elbow as I unlocked the main door, then helped her up the silent staircase to her own apartment. It was the early hours of the morning, and the rest of my tenants would have gone to bed hours ago. Meg fumbled with her own keys to unlock her front door, and stumbled immediately through the dark parlour to the bedroom, directly opposite. I closed the door and followed, seeing Meg turn on the gaslight on the wall and then sink down onto the end of her bed. The bed was unmade, and yesterday's gown was bundled in the corner of the room. By the wardrobe, a collection of boots and shoes lay, and the vanity table was littered with bottles, tubes and jars. Makeup was not an unknown to me—one cannot spend so much time within the Arts and not be familiar with it—but why girls seemed to need so much of it was a mystery. Meg's fingers were fumbling with the strap of her high-heeled dancer's shoes, and I sighed and knelt to assist her.

"Let me help you."

"I can manage," she protested.

"Meg, just let me help."

I slid off her right shoe and saw with a jolt that her white stocking was reddened with blood.

"You're bleeding," I couldn't keep the alarm from my voice, and abandoned propriety to reach under Meg's skirt for her stocking top so that I could pull it off.

"What?" Meg looked down. "Erik, what are you doing?"

"You're bleeding." I repeated.

"Oh, that," she said wearily as I tugged at the stocking. "It's nothing."

"This is nothing?"

Her foot was swollen, blistered and bleeding, the mark where the strap had dug in standing clearly against her white flesh. The two smallest toes were blackened with bruising.

"You must have been in pain, why didn't you say anything?" I couldn't help feeling angry with the girl. She shrugged, the gesture heavy with fatigue.

"I'm a dancer, Erik," she murmured. "This is normal for me. I doesn't hurt, not really. I have a salve."

"Where?" I demanded as I pulled off her other shoe and stocking.

"On the vanity table. The white jar, with the silver lid." She was slurring her words. "No—that's foundation. That one. Thank you."

Meg took the jar from me, opened it and started to smooth the cream inside over her sore, blistered feet.

"Thank you for bringing me home, Erik," she said. "And for taking me to the hospital. Thank you for…" she hesitated as she looked up at me. "…for helping me in there and letting me stay. I honestly do appreciate it. I can look after myself now."

I sighed, reminding myself that however vulnerable she looked in this moment, she was not a child.

"Get some sleep, Meg." I told her. "Stay here tomorrow, don't worry about the shows. Rest."

She nodded. "Thank you, Erik. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Meg. Sleep well."

I locked the door with my master key when I left her apartment, and ascended the stairs quietly to my own, at the top of the building. The clock on my mantlepiece was chiming two when I opened the door, and I subsided into the nearest chair.

What a night.

Antoinette Giry's collapse, the initial panic of summoning of the emergency services, the news of the aneurysm. As I leant forward to untie my shoelaces, I wished I could have done as Meg had, and escaped some of that uncertainty in sleep. She was annoyed about my sleight of hand in drugging her, I knew, but I couldn't have let her remain in that state, so tense that her whole body seemed to be vibrating slightly like a violin string. Her reaction had been truly disturbing. I had known that she was afraid of medical professionals, even the gentle giant Dr Gotreich, known that she had been afraid of them even since she had been a child. But I still had not anticipated just how strong the fear had built up inside her, a physical wall that stopped her moving. When she had stared at the entrance to Ben Rush Hospital, I had been shocked at the expression on her face. It was an expression I had seen before, of course, but never at the mere sight of a building. It was the terror of someone who knew that they were about to die.

I went to my own bed, knowing that there would be more to deal with tomorrow. Well, later today. I would have to talk to Helen Roylott in the morning about taking on the leading lady role in Meg's place for the time being. I knew, perhaps better than anyone, how important it was to have an understudy. Meg would understand. And Antoinette Giry would recover, given time and the right care. I could not help thinking of her, lying in the hospital bed, the white sheets seeming to leach all the colour from her face as she stared at me with eyes as dark as her raven hair.

"I looked after you," she whispered. "Promise me, that whatever happens now, you'll look after Meg. Promise me, Erik!"

I had leant over her and placed my hand on hers.

"I promise, Antoinette," I told her gravely. "I will look after your daughter."

I arrived at the Imaginarium a little later than usual the following morning, a Sunday, and almost collided with Irene Norbury, coming the other way along the backstage corridor with a cup of coffee from the staff's communal kitchen. I jerked back from her, since I was carrying a suit that my housekeeper Mrs Turner had pressed for me on Friday, but she stepped around me and the coffee did not spill. I wondered if she was used to people like me not noticing her quickly enough to her dwarfism. I let out the breath I had inhaled in anticipation of the spilled coffee.

"Good morning, Ms Norbury."

"Mr Danton," the small woman looked up at me anxiously. "How is Madame Giry? I did ask Meg but she was in a rush and didn't say much, apart from that she would be in hospital for a few days' more."

"Yes, I am afraid that she is quite unwell. The doctors have diagnosed her with an aneurysm, and we are not sure yet when she can come home." I frowned as I registered what Irene had just said. "Meg told you? When?"

"When she arrived, about ten minutes ago." She looked even more worried. "Was she not supposed to have said anything?"

I shook my head. "It is of no consequence. I did not realise Miss Giry was already here. I will give you further information on her mother's condition when I have it."

Irene nodded. "When you go to the hospital, please pass on our regards. We're all very worried about her."

"Of course."

Irene moved around me, and I continued along the corridor to Meg's dressing room, knocking firmly.

"Come in."

Meg was sitting at the vanity table in her corset and petticoat, already made-up and twisting her blonde curls into a bun on the top of her head. She caught my reflection in the mirror and a frown creased her brow.

"Oh. Hello."

It was not a cheerful greeting, I noted, as I closed the door behind me.

"I was not expecting you to be here, Meg."

"Oh? And why wouldn't I be?" There was a sting in her voice. "The public are still attending. The show must still be performed."

"Given the state of you last night, I had thought that you might obey me for once and rest." I clasped my hands behind my back. "Not to mention that your feet must be sore."

"My feet are fine," she said shortly, fixing her bun into place with aggressive stabs of the hairpins. "I told you, those shoes are nothing, it was because I was wearing them for such a long time. And I don't need any more rest."

"I beg to disagree, you're as white as a sheet."

"It's my choice," she snapped as she reached for the heavy stage make-up. "You seem to forget that I have been a ballet dancer for my entire life. I have danced on broken toes and I have danced with a fever. I am fine."

I moved to stand directly behind her, waiting silently until her reflected eyes met mine.

"What?"

"Meg, why are you angry with me?"

She twisted around in the chair to face me. "Why? Do you honestly not know?"

"I cannot imagine."

Meg sighed and closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Erik… we don't have time to discuss it now. I want to go back to the hospital as soon as the afternoon shows are over, will you take me?"

"I should have told you last night; the Benjamin Rush Hospital are rather strict on their visiting hours. There are none on Sundays."

"Yes," she agreed. "You should have told me. This evening, then. Come down to my apartment and I'll cook you dinner." She looked up at me, her eyes hard and her jaw set. "We need to talk. Bring wine."

Sundays were shorter days for the staff of the Imaginarium. The concert hall, sideshows, bars and restaurants opened just before eleven o'clock in the morning and closed just after three o'clock in the afternoon, the concert hall showcasing only two shows running at ninety minutes each, rather than the usual four shows of three hours. Usually I would be roaming the concert hall, ensuring that everything was running smoothly and stepping in to assist where needed. Today, there would be no roaming. I had agreed some weeks ago to give Victor Hatherly a day of leave, and so had to take over his usual role as conductor of the orchestra. I usually only performed this task during rehearsals, drilling the musicians into some form of perfection. Then it was left to Hatherly to maintain that standard during the performances as I was otherwise engaged. Today, however, I changed into the white-tie suit I had brought with me in my office, ensuring that I looked at smart as possible. I would have my back to the audience but the performers would be watching me closely as I conducted, and I sighed, adjusting the fit of my mask.

The twelve musicians sat up a little straighter in their chairs when I joined them in the orchestra pit, a murmur of slight nervousness rippling through them, knowing that I would expect excellence. To their credit, they delivered it – I do not pay them half again what they could get elsewhere out of the goodness of my heart. I make my employees work for their pay.

I watched Meg from my place in the orchestra. The average patron would not have found fault in her performance, but I could see that she had lost her sparkle. Behind the theatrical smile, her eyes were glazed with worry and some of her dancing was a little out of time with the others. Under the makeup, her face was pale and her voice cracked on the highest note as tension tried to strangle her. I could not chide her for that. I was as worried as she.

Between shows I talked to Helen Roylott about taking over Meg's role for the final show the next day, so that we could visit the hospital, and answered the questions people put to me about Madame Giry's condition. It was frustrating to be so short of information to give them, and when I asked Dr. Gotreich if he knew anything of aneurisms between performances, he could only shake his head. It was not in the realm of a general practitioner like Gotreich. Meg did not join us in the green room, and when I passed her dressing room, the door was firmly closed. As she wanted, talk would have to wait until later.

I was not used to being summoned, but that evening, I selected a bottle of red wine and descended from my top-floor apartment to the first floor, knocking on Meg's front door.

"It's open, come in."

The aroma of roasting beef washed over me as I entered and my stomach rumbled in expectation. It was the first time I had been in Meg's apartment since I had confirmed her let of it, and I glanced around as I entered. Meg was not a tidy woman; there was an empty coffee cup and a book, splayed open with the pages down, on the little table where she ate her meals, the cushions on the sofa were disarranged, the piano open with sheet music on the stand, and the doorway to the bathroom was standing ajar. There was a multi-faceted glass star hanging from a thread at the window, which would catch the sunlight and send rainbows across the room, and on the mantlepiece a framed picture of Meg and her mother, taken the month before by the newspaper photographer. He had been there to photograph the Imaginiarium for a review, and I could not imagine how Meg had persuaded him into taking this picture of the mother and daughter.

Meg was in the kitchen area with her back to me, wearing an apron over a cream blouse and bottle-green skirt, her feet bare and I could see the bandages around her toes.

"Good evening," I prompted, removing my coat and hanging it on the back of the door.

"Is it?" She sounded a little flustered as she opened the oven door and took out the meat, turning towards me to put it on the countertop. "Oh, good, you did bring wine. Open it, will you? Glasses are in the cupboard to my left and the corkscrew is in the cutlery drawer to my right. I'll be with you in a moment."

With a slight raise of my eyebrows at a tone I considered more of a command than a request, I skirted her as she moved dishes in and out of the oven, reaching over her head for the wine glasses. She was no longer wearing makeup and without it looked pale, sickly almost, with dark shadows under her eyes and a trio of pimples across her left cheek. Grief had dragged a wasting hand over her, since the death of her fiancé, but over the last nine months or so she had been slowly improving, seeming happier. Antoinette's illness was like a fresh blow to newly-healed skin, and was bound of bruise before it healed. I did not know how to help her, or if it was even my place to try. I had named myself her guardian on the legal documents for ease of purpose, but Meg Giry was not merely an employee and never had been. I had delivered her at birth and that made her mine. I once read that a woman in the final stages of labour should birth the child unassisted, as that first contact binds two people together irreconcilably. But if I had done so in the case of Antoinette, both mother and daughter would have died. It is nonsense, anyway.

We moved around each other in the small kitchen, a pas de deux of food and crockery as I took the opportunity to remove cutlery from the drawer as well as the corkscrew, so that I could set the table.

"Placemats?" I enquired.

"Bottom drawer." Meg was making gravy on the stove. I found them and took them to the table where I had already put down the glasses.

"Why are you reading A Christmas Carol at the end of March?" I wondered aloud, flipping the book over and looking around for something to use as a bookmark.

"Because not even Charles Dickens is allowed to tell me when I can and cannot read a good book."

"Fair enough." I reached into the pocket of my coat and found a train ticket, marked her place in the book with it, and placed A Christmas Carol on the arm of the sofa instead. I set the table and carried the empty cup over the sink as Meg began dishing up the meal. The cork popped from the bottle and I poured two glasses as she brought the plates over to the table. Once seated, I raised my own glass.

"To your mother's recovery."

"To Maman." Meg clinked her glass against mine, and took a deep swallow of the wine. We were almost finished with the meal when Meg said:

"I want to talk to you."

"You said," I nodded. "What about?"

"Last night." She refilled her wine glass and set it back on the table, but still held onto the stem and turned it, looking at the colour of the wine rather than at me. The silence hung in the air between us.

"Speak." I ordered. "What do you have to say to me about last night?"

She spoke to the wine. "What you did to me last night was appalling. And I want an apology."

I felt myself go cold, and then hot as anger sent the blood rushing to my masked face.

"What I did to you?" I repeated, my voice rising. "When I took you home last night, right to your very bed, you were thanking me!" I could not believe what I was hearing, the unappreciative brat. "What the devil do I have to apologise to you about?!"

Her eyes lifted to mine.

"You drugged me." It was a flat statement. "Without my knowledge, without my consent. And it's not the first time, is it?"

I huffed my frustration. "I had no choice."

"Rubbish."

"You don't understand!" I put both hands flat on the table to prevent myself from squeezing the wine glass so hard that I broke it. "If you could have seen yourself! I didn't know if you were about to vomit or faint or both! And when I got you in there and we were waiting, you were shaking so badly you looked like you had hypothermia! I had to do something, you ungrateful wretch! I know you are afraid of doctors, I know you have nightmares about hospitals, but—" I trailed off, and shook my head as I struggled to complete the sentence. "I couldn't just leave you like that."

There were two lines of red across Meg's cheekbones, but I could not tell if they were a result of anger or the wine, for when she spoke, her words were quiet.

"You should have asked me."

I stared at her, and felt a spike of shock. I could have asked if she wanted something to soothe her. Maybe I should have, but it had never even occurred to me. I had seen the problem, and taken pains to remedy it in the quickest and most efficient manner possible. She continued:

"You seem to forget, Erik, that I am a human being with my own agency. I was in a quite a state, I know that. But if I had wanted something to calm me, I would have said so. Yes, I was terrified. But I wanted to be conscious. I wanted to be able to talk to Mother. In case—" she swallowed. "In case it was my last chance."

She looked away, as though trying to hide the tears that gathered. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself.

"Meg, it was not your last chance. Your mother will get well."

"This time."

"Yes." I picked up my glass and sipped the wine. Meg was still staring at me, her expression a little stony.

"I'm still waiting for an apology."

"Are you?" I sighed. "Very well. You have my apologies for not seeking your consent."

"And I want you to promise that you'll never do that to me again."

"What, are you going to have me swear on the Bible next?"

She glared at me.

"Fine. I give you my word. Have I ever given you reason to doubt it?" I added as uncertainty flickered across her expression.

"No," she admitted, looking at the glass again. She dipped her fingertip into the wine and ran it around the rim of the glass so that it sang. I let the sound fill the room for a few seconds before reaching out, placing my hand on hers.

"Meg, I know how worried you are. I share that worry, believe me. You know how dear Antoinette is to me. As I told you last night, I will make sure she gets the best care she can. You must trust that the medical professionals know what they are doing. They work to heal, little dancer, not to harm."

I did not know what else to say to her, and could only be thankful when she nodded, and eased her hand from mine to pick up her cutlery and finish her meal. I did the same, watching her, and tried not to feel guilty that she had extracted an apology from me, and that that apology was entirely justified.