Chapter Six

Meg.

Everyone dies, it is a fact of life. It was an unfair, brutal fact that all those I have loved and lost have been taken before their time. Antoinette Giry and Benedict Adair would never know the ravages and blessings of old age. Her His face would never count the lines of laughter and sorrow that time would etch there. Her hair would never whiten with thoughts of wisdom and folly. I would never bare my husband a child, or my mother a grandchild. Benedict had been twenty-four years old and had been stabbed during a mugging, when we had been looking at a church to host our upcoming wedding. Mother had not yet reached fifty. And then there was my poor Papa, driven to take his own life at the age of thirty-two as a result of the so-called treatments they subjected him to at the asylum.

As the days after Mother's funeral blended into each other, the snow falling, melting, freezing, falling again, I wondered what lifespan was meant for me. Would I die young like my fiancé, murdered in cold blood? Would I make it to New York's average life expectancy of forty-eight, as my mother had? Physically, I was a strong, healthy young woman, having been a dancer since the age of three. I had my share of health concerns, of course, but had fought through most of the illnesses through most of the illnesses that claim others around my age: influenza, measles, chicken pox. I cooked with the ingredients available to me, had been an active swimmer in the summer months, and woke with the sunrise. I had smoked cigarettes occasionally, but despite the health benefits advertised by the manufacturers, Mother had strongly disapproved. I had never found out why, unless it was because Papa said the smell of stale tobacco smoke made him feel sick. Whatever the reason, the one and only time Mother had caught me smoking with a couple of friends, she had beaten us so that we could not sit comfortably for a week. I did not remember if the other girls had received further punishments from their own parents, or if Mother had ever been rebuked for punishing a child that was not her own. I doubted it.

The other vice I knew to threaten one's health was drink. I kept wine and brandy available to me, but never considered myself to be an alcoholic.

Mother had led much the same lifestyle as me, but it had not stopped an aneurysm taking first her mobility, and then her life.

Of course, there was always the possibility that neither illness or murder would end my earthly life. I could also die by my own hand, as my father had. I can't remember how long he had been home from the 'hospital' – it was called that even on its signage, trying to disguise the fact that it was truly a madhouse – when I lost my ballet shoes. I do not remember why they were in my parents' bedroom, but when I entered it to look for them, I encountered my father, Claude, sitting on the end of his bed. He had his back to the bedroom door, but the full-length mirror was in front of him, and his reflection was clear to me. He was in his shirtsleeves, muttering a prayer as tears streamed down his face, and there was a pistol pressed against his temple. I stood, frozen in the doorway, a ten-year-old who, moments before, had been worried about being late for a ballet class. My mouth opened, but I could not make a sound. Even so, Papa lifted his eyes, met mine in the mirror, and through his tears, he smiled. His voice when he spoke, was soft.

"Look after Mama."

His eyes did not leave mine when he pulled the trigger, and his brains exploded across the room in a spatter of blood and gore, speckling my white rehearsal dress. Such an end might still be mine. Those thoughts had been distant, but crowded in on me as I struggled to cope with the loss of my remaining parent.

"That's something we have in common," I told Erik when he came to visit. "We're both orphans."

"Are you all right?" Erik was studying me carefully as he removed his outdoor coat, snowflakes still glittering against the black wool. "Are you drunk?"

"Not yet," I raised my glass of wine in a toast to him. "But there's a bottle of merlot open, if you feel so inclined."

"You are slurring your words. When did you last eat?"

I frowned down at the book in my blanket-covered lap, the text slightly blurry in front of my eyes.

"Porridge," I answered at last. "I had porridge for breakfast this morning.

"A roundabout way of getting an answer, but an answer nevertheless."

'My name is Sherlock Holmes,' I read on the page, and knew that I had read the same line several times before. 'It is my business to know what other people do not know.'

I was sitting on the sofa in my apartment, a blanket over my knees, a glass of merlot in my hand, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes open in my lap. I blinked, and reassured myself that I was fully dressed.

"You need food."

"Join me," I said as he invited himself into my kitchen. "There's so much stew. The beef needs finishing."

It was true. Many people had visited me over the past few days, bringing cards, flowers and food. After the first three bouquets, I had run out of containers for the flowers; I owned one real vase and a couple of glasses tall enough to serve the purpose, but then I had to ask for flowers to be placed on Mother's grave. Other people had arrived at me door with stews, casseroles and pies. Someone had given me a jar of powered drinking chocolate. Those who cared for my mother wanted to contribute some comfort to those who loved her, and did not know what else they could give.

There was a smell in the air, something like meat and herbs. Erik was heating the beef stew on my stove. I looked around for the clock, trying to remember the day of the week. It was seven o'clock in the evening, and therefore Erik would only be here on a Sunday, Monday or Wednesday. Wednesday. It was a Wednesday evening, and Erik was in my apartment, heating food.

"What did you say?" His golden tones flowed from the kitchen. I blinked, confused, and then it came back to me.

"We're both orphans," I repeated. "How are you supposed to manage without your mother?"

There was silence from the kitchen. It was not a question he could answer, I realised. Erik's father had died before he was born, and his mother, Madeline Danton, had abhorred her son from the day of his birth, because he had been born with a disfigured face.

"I'm not drunk," I told Erik as he re-emerged. "You just caught me off-guard. You should have knocked, not just let yourself in."

"I did knock," he replied. "You did not answer."

"I must have fallen asleep reading."

"Hmm." He took off his jacket, then his waistcoat, hanging them on the back of the door along with his overcoat.

"Have dinner with me," I shifted on the sofa to a more ladylike position. "You look tired."

He sighed. "I am tired. But work still has to be done."

A ripple of anxiety passed through my body.

"You told me to take as much time away from work as I needed."

"And I wish that I could do the same," he fed a new piece of wood into the fire. "It was not meant as a slight against you, Meg. The plaque has arrived. They made a good job of it, particularly with the verse from Corinthians."

"I am glad of that," I told him. "And I will be back at the Imaginarium soon."

"You must not feel pressured into returning," Erik sat beside me, and the shadows on his masked face were even deeper as the fire caught and began blazing cheerfully again.

"I can be back whenever you want."

"I follow the doctor's advice," he settled himself more comfortably. "Mourning takes time; we know this from when—when you lost your fiancé. I told you, Meg, that the leading lady position will be open for you when you return." His tone softened. "You need have no concern about that. You need to mourn. You need to heal. At this moment, you need to eat, and maybe cut back on the wine."

"I'm not drunk," I repeated. Erik still looked unconvinced.

"Your potatoes are sprouting new growth," he told me when he presented me with a tray bearing two bowls of stew and two hunks of brown bread, large enough to be doorstops.

"I'll use them soon. Erik, I—I don't know what to do for you."

He frowned into his bowl. "What do you mean?"

"People understand what it is to lose a parent, but there seem to be no rules for when one loses a friend."

He swallowed a mouthful of stew and said gently: "You need not worry for me, Meg. I grieve in my own way, as you do. I am not performing, and I find it better to have a task to occupy my attention."

I nodded. "As do I, but I appreciate the break."

"Have you been practicing?" He nodded over to my piano, where the sheet music for his latest song stood.

"Of course."

"Good," he got up to pour himself a glass of wine. "As I said, I will give you the time you need to grieve, but I must ensure that you are familiar with the material when you resume the position of leading lady."

"I know that." Even though I had not been at the Imaginarium, I felt the weight of exhaustion on my own shoulders, and took a large gulp of wine.

Walking past Mother's grave for the first time was horribly difficult, but I was comforted by how beautiful it looked. Under the snow that was still fluttering down in sweeps and spirals, the earth looked rich and dark, as though something wonderful might grow there. There was not a gravestone like my father had in Paris, but the plaque Erik had told me about on an iron stand, its gold lettering gleaming coldly from the grey slate. There were vases balanced atop the grave, the flowers splashes of colour against the white snow, and the water in them had frozen solid. Mother and Papa were now together again, I thought, and wondered how long it would be before I would join them, my heart aching so that I felt it as a physical pain.

"You don't have to do this."

I did not jump, having heard Erik's footsteps crunching through the snow behind me.

"Yes, I do. It's time."

I heard him stop, and then he did something so unexpected, that I almost tried to stop him. Standing at my back, Erik wrapped his arms around me, embracing me against his chest, resting his chin against the top of my head as a result of our height difference. After a few seconds, I allowed myself to relax against him, sinking into the softness of his coat, wrapping my arms over his and closing my eyes. He rocked with me in his arms for a moment, and it felt so tender that I experienced a warmth in my chest, lessening my icy grief.

"Thank you," I murmured. "You are a kind man."

"I wasn't, for much of my life. I still do not think that I am. I can be cruel, and I am a hard taskmaster. But I have become a better man in recent years, and it has been largely thanks to the women who have entered my life. I once believed that the world had never shown me compassion, but I was wrong. Your mother rescued me from captivity—"

"And my father," I reminded him.

"And your father. They did so of their own volition, not because I had ever asked for their assistance. If that is not compassion, then I do not know what is."

"I hope to live up to them."

"I have no doubt that you will."

I wiped my eyes, and turned to him, readjusting my hat where he had knocked it slightly askew. Erik offered me a gloved hand and I took it, noticing that with his top hat on, he looked taller than ever. He chucked me under the chin with the other hand.

"Remember, the smile is only for the stage. Your colleagues, your friends, know that you are suffering at the moment."

"I dance for Mother," I told him. "And for her alone, for as long as it takes to learn to live without her."

"And will you sing for me?"

"Only for you."

"Good girl," he smiled, and began moving towards the stage door.

I resisted the gentle tug on my hand. "There's one more thing."

"Yes, Meg?"

"If Thérèse Paris tries to trick me into thinking that she can communicate with Mother's spirit, I will punch her teeth in." Erik blinked at me. "The same goes for anyone in her little entourage."

"If you do that," Erik seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Then I would have no choice but to discipline you."

"Then perhaps you would have a word with her and let her know that baiting me is unacceptable."

"I spoke to her after the last incident between you; I cannot imagine that she will do the same thing again."

"But she may try a variation on the theme."

He sighed. "Very well, if you think it necessary."

I nodded, Erik nodded back, and we went into the Imaginarium's concert hall together. Sometimes it can be advantageous to have the boss's ear.

I did not know whether there would ever be a right time to return to my role as the Imaginarium's leading lady, but it was an age-old saying of the theatre that the show must go on. Life would continue too, and Erik and I had already discussed that continuing my career was the best way to honour Mother's memory, and continue her legacy. For the last few weeks, Helen Roylott had been performing the leading lady's role in my absence, taking on her role as my understudy. She was competent, Erik said, but he preferred not to use understudies whenever possible.

"I chose you as my leading lady for a reason," he told me. "Not out of nepotism and not because you asked me to. Grace Gibson is a lovely dancer, Helen Roylott has a fine voice, but it is not enough. You have been classically trained since you were an infant, and it is that training on top of your natural talent that has allowed me to mould you into my leading lady." He frowned at me over the list of carols he was holding. "Where has this come from, little dancer? You were absent for a short time because of external family circumstances, not because you suffered an injury or anything else that might affect your ability to perform."

I shifted on my feet so that I was standing in third positions, the habitual ballerina's stance.

"I am struggling with my confidence," I admitted reluctantly. "I expect it is all part of the grieving process. Mother was my rock, she made me into the performer that I am."

"Meg, you are a grown woman. You cannot keep putting your success on your mother, or on me. Accept the appreciation for your own hard work and your own achievements. Do you think that I would work with you as intensively if I believed that you did not have talent of your own? Credit me with more intelligence than that."

I wanted to, but it will still difficult to believe that I could continue on without the woman who had been such an influence on my life for so long. The time of year helped; the Imaginarium had wound down substantially for the Winter season, and the decreased still further as Advent approached. For this week, we put on a Christmas concert entitled Carols by Candlelight, which had been a staple of the Imaginarium since 1897. The pièce de résistanceof the concert was a rearrangement of the 1818 carol Silent Night. Erik used it to highlight the multi-cultural nature of the Imaginarium by not just combining multiple harmonies, but having it sung in the native languages of his employees. English, German, French, Italian, and Spanish lyrics echoed through the concert hall, all to the same tune. It was a beautiful show of community at the time of year when community mattered the most; and I had never felt so alone.

"Are you going to open the bottle, Meg?" Mother asked, smiling.

"Of course," I extracted the cork with a pop and raised it. "Does everyone want some?"

Erik, seated to my left, shook his head.

"Thank you, but I have had more than enough." He was throwing his voice across the room, so it appeared to come from Mother's lips, and I scowled.

"I don't like it when you do that."

Most of my other dinner companions nodded, and I tilted the bottle, letting the red, viscous liquid ease into the glasses.

"Nice vintage," my father sipped appreciatively. "Is this the '94?"

"Yes," I admitted. On my other side, Benedict reached for my hand, and brought it to his lips.

"What's wrong?" He asked, seeing the frown cross my face.

"I'm not sure."

"Does he have to sit with us?" Papa nodded to the silent figure at the other end of the table, dressed in eveningwear. His head was lolling onto his right shoulder, the bones protruding through the skin where his neck had broken in two places.

"Yes," I said sadly. "I can't make him leave."

"Is that what the vintage is then? You really shouldn't get it all over yourself, you know, blood stains horribly."

I blinked and looked down at the blue floral dress I wore; why had I chosen this dress? It was not even mine, it had once belonged to Christine Daaé, a second-hand bustled day dress with lace at the collar and cuffs and white applique down the centre of the navy blue velvet bodice. I had borrowed it once in 1893, when being dragged into Erik's lake beneath the Paris Opera House had resulted in the need for a change of clothes. It made me feel much younger than my twenty-two years. There were spots of red on the white lace around the neckline, splattering across my breasts, pooling in my lap. My hands were covered in it and the glass before me, all the glasses on the table, were overflowing with blood.

"Oh, Meg Giry," Erik sighed wearily. "Why is it that when something bad happens, it is always around you?"

I looked up at him, the copper taste of horror filling my mouth.

"I—I—"

"It's because she's mad," Mother explained. "It runs in the family."

There was a noose around her neck. No, not a noose, a Punjab lasso. She, Benedict and Papa were standing side by side, looking for all the world like they were ignorant of the ropes around their necks, slack but reaching up into a blackness with no end. Our surroundings had changed; instead of my small apartment table, we were in a room made entirely of mirrors, fading into the darkness over our heads. Erik stood by my side, his hands behind his back. He was wearing the black suit I had only ever seen him don for funerals, the only white visible his collar and cuffs, his mask glowing like moonlit bone.

"So, which do you choose?"

"What do you mean?" I stared at him.

"You may keep one of them. The others you will watch die at the end of a rope."

"How can you do this?!" I screamed at him. "Erik! Erik…?"

The masked face tilted, and I realised my mistake.

"Phantom."

"The choice is not mine," said the Phantom of the Opera. "It is up to you to decide."

"I can't!" I looked back at the three people I had loved and lost. The ropes around each neck drew tight, and I began to sob.

"Choose."

My father, my mother, my fiancé. Whichever choice I made, two of them would be lost to me forever. They all stood there, as still and passive as statues.

"I can't!"

"You had no such concerns about him," the Phantom nodded to the mute figure of the Comte Phillippe de Changy, on my other side.

"I choose him! I trade him for the others!"

"That is not how this works, Mademoiselle."

I was sobbing so much that I could hardly breathe.

"Choose."

"I can't!"

"On your own head be it." The Phantom turned to the table, picked up the wine bottle full of blood, and emptied its contents over my head.