Chapter Eleven

Erik.

By the time I was walking home, the painkillers that Mrs Johnson had bought for me were wearing off.

I was picking myself up from the Persian rug when she entered the office, her eyebrows rising as I gingerly felt my jaw.

"Are you quite intact, Mr Danton?"

"Yes thank you, Mrs Johnson."

She picked up the tray she had used to bring the Comte and I our coffee, and reloaded it with the used crockery.

"I will go to the pharmacy for you."

"Thank you, Mrs Johnson." I allowed genuine gratitude into my tone. She was such a practical person and sometimes she reminded me irresistibly of Antoinette Giry.

I met with the Imaginarium's lawyer Mr McFarlane. We argued about the contract for Christine Daaé's appearances in my concert hall, drew it up, and I instructed Mrs Johnson to type it up in triplicate. Once the copy for the Comte de Chagny was completed, I had the young stagehand Alfie Anderson run it over to de Chagny's hotel, the ink of McFarlane's and my signatures still wet.

It was necessary to buy groceries on my way home, so when I climbed the dozens of stairs to my apartment in The Grand Circle, it was with a paper bag of food under my arm and the bottle of painkillers rattling in my coat pocket, an insistent invitation to my throbbing jaw. Meg was sitting on the floor in front of the door to my apartment wearing her outdoor coat, hugging her knees and rocking slightly with her eyes closed. I stared at her.

"Meg Giry. Is there any particular reason that you are preventing me from entering my home?"

Her eyes opened, dark pools in her pale face, and her expression flickered in shock.

"Good God, what happened to you?"

I grimaced. "De Chagny took the opportunity to settle a score, and took me by surprise."

"Did you retaliate?"

"I did not. I allowed him to take his swing at me. It will not happen again." Meg's brown eyes were bloodshot, and her fingernails, which only weeks before had drawn blood from my back, were bitten right down to the quick. "Why are you blocking my door?"

"I need to talk to you."

I sighed, and reached down with my free hand. "On your feet then."

Meg gripped my forearm and I pulled her upright.

"Hold this," I tipped the bag of groceries into her arms as I fished out my keys. "How long have you been sitting here?"

She shrugged. "An hour, maybe."

"Have you eaten?"

A shake of the head. "Not since breakfast. My stomach is in knots, I feel sick."

"Then I had best invite you to supper. Come in, and tell me whatever it is that is troubling you."

When I had purchased the building that would become The Grand Circle, I had considered making it into a hotel, but its destiny as a block of apartments had already been secured. The project was more than half completed by the previous owner, but the money had gone and I obtained it for a song. Only the upper two floors had not been sectioned off into one and two-bedroom apartments, and when I saw the huge, unencumbered space at the pinnacle of the building, I knew that it had to be mine. All mine. To that end, I had created my own home above Brooklyn, almost as I had done so many years before in the hidden depths of the Paris Opera House. Except this time, I did not intend to skulk like a rat beneath the earth, but to live at the peak of my domain, like a king on the top of a mountain.

Like my tenant's, my apartment had a drawing room, kitchen, bathroom and bedroom, but since I had almost four times the space, those rooms were of course larger and in addition, I had a pantry, dressing room and music room. Meg had never been into my apartment I realised as she trailed inside, the unconcealed worry on her face turning to surprise and her familiar curiosity as she glanced around. I had chosen a creamy paint, the colour of sheet music, but it was mostly concealed on two of the drawing room walls by bookcases, the volumes splashes of colour in dozens of tones. The furniture was of dark brown wood upholstered in navy blue fabric; there was not much of it since I live alone, but enough for one or two guests. I could tell that my Spanish maid-come-housekeeper, Maria, had visited that afternoon. Not only was my apartment spotlessly clean and tidy, but I could smell a mixture of furniture polish and a sublime, freshly-baked loaf of bread. When she had discovered that I was fluent in Spanish, Maria had vehemently insisted on baking bread for me at least once a fortnight, telling me that I was too thin. She had the same irrepressible bossiness that all good leaders have, making her the absolute queen of her team of cleaners, who serviced all the apartments on a fortnightly basis.

"Come through here," I took the bag of groceries from Meg's arms, led her through the drawing room into the kitchen, set the groceries down on the worktop and helped the girl out of her coat. She was biting her lower lip anxiously and fidgeting in various small ways.

"Meg, whatever is wrong, shall we discuss it before we eat or after?" I meant it as a joke, but she looked more worried than ever.

"It might put you off your dinner."

I raised my eyebrows at her. "As you wish. I have some left over beef bourguignon, will that suit? We can have it wish fresh bread and butter." I nodded to the loaf Maria had left on a cooling rack.

"That sounds nice," Meg's smile was so weak that it might as well have not been there at all. "Do you want me to heat up the food?"

"No, no, I will arrange the food. Why don't you go into the music room and play the piano?"

She hesitated. "Is it a real music room, or…?"

I knew that she was remembering the first time she had visited my home beneath the Paris Opera House, where I had attempted to prevent her prying by telling her that the bedroom I had created for Christine was in fact a music room.

"It is a real music room. Let me show you."

The music room was one of my favourite places in my apartment, holding the piano that had formerly lived in my tent while the Imaginarium was still a travelling show, and my violins. The cream walls held pictures of musical instruments and places that had significant memories for me and sparked my inspiration, all executed in pencil, chalk and charcoal by my own hand. Meg circled the room, gazing at the pictures. They included some places she knew—Saint Michael's Church in Corbeaux where Father Renidar had first taught me to read music, and of course the Paris Opera House. There was grief there for her as well as for me; she had grown up there, and before I had spirited her and Madame Giry away from Paris it had been her only home. Sometimes I felt guilty for that, but there had been no alternative. There were places she would not recognise, like the building in Rome I had helped to design. Had circumstances been different, I might have stayed in Italy, but Fate had other intentions for me.

Meg let out a sound that was half a gasp and half a laugh. "Is that me?"

I looked at the picture over her shoulder. "Yes, it is."

She had been swimming at the beach of Coney Island one sunny summer day. I had been sketching idly and had been drawn to her strong strokes through the water, and how relaxed she had looked. I had captured Meg with my pencils just as she was emerging from the sea at the end of her swim, looking happy and refreshed, and explained as much to her.

"I hope you don't mind."

She shook her head. "I don't mind. It's not an obscene picture."

I wondered what Meg would consider obscene; even as a child she had never had tastes that befitted a lady. She had been too fond of horror and detective fiction, unknowingly feeding that dark part of her soul that made her so much like me.

"Play something energetic for me." I put a hand on her shoulder and steered her towards the piano. There was a pile of sheet music on top of the instrument that I had neglected to put away, and she picked through it before eventually selecting one. I left her to the music, and after a few moments I recognised her chosen piece as Tchaikovsky's Les Seasons. Meg's poor, mad father had been a virtuoso of the piano.

I waited until I had served our meal, hoping that the music might have soothed her temper as it did mine, but she was still fidgeting.

"You have something you wish to say to me. What is it that is worrying you?"

Meg looked down, picking at a slice of bread and reducing it to crumbs in her half-finished bourguignon, but she nodded.

"I met with Christine today."

I had known this, so I prompted: "Madame de Chagny is well?"

"Very well," she looked up, her dark eyes meeting mine. "I met her daughter, Matilda."

I stopped chewing and swallowed the last of my meal. Did she know? Had Christine told her?

"She's a lovely girl, but I didn't spend much time with her. She went for a walk with her governess. Apparently she is a creature of habit."

I chose my words with care. "I did not know that Christine had a daughter."

"Nor did I. She is fond of the ballet."

"Is that what you wanted to tell me?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"I… I told Christine what happened to Philippe de Chagny."

I put my cutlery down, making sure that my knife and fork were exactly parallel. I straightened my spine, and glared at the cowering girl.

"Why on Earth did you do that?"

Meg spread her hands. "I had to. It haunts me, Erik. I killed a man," her voice trembled with emotion. "And that man was her brother-in-law. God, Erik, sometimes I think you don't even feel guilt! Well I do! I am a murderer and I have to atone!"

"Meg. Meg! Calm yourself, this will not help anything, will it?"

There were tears in her eyes. "I had to tell her, it has been such a weight on me. Once I started talking it was like I had no control over my tongue. I told her everything. What he knew about you, about your relationship with my parents and myself. What he wanted to do to me."

She swallowed, and I held up a hand. "A moment. In what order did you relate this information?"

"What do you mean?" She wiped her eyes on her forget-me-not blue sleeve.

"Did you start with de Chagny's death and then explain why, or did you relate the events in chronological order?"

"The latter. I told her how he had gone through my things."

"Was she shocked?"

"Of course she was shocked, what a question!"

"It is not necessarily a certainty; you and I both know the reputation aristocrats have with singers and dancers. I highly doubt that you were the only girl de Chagny manipulated in such a way."

"So he was a blackguard," Meg looked confused. "That doesn't change the fact that I killed him!"

I sighed and picked up my glass of wine. Whatever Meg believed, I did feel guilty. I felt guilty that Meg had been forced to take Philippe de Chagny's life. She had told me how the Comte intended to defile her, and I had instructed that she leave him to me. I had intended to take action, to drown him maybe, or concoct something creatively nasty. But my attention had been consumed by Christine Daaé, and how I would make her mine. I had failed Meg Giry by forgetting to exorcize that demon from her life, but my pride would not allow me to utter that aloud, and Meg was still talking.

"I told her all my secrets. About Brooklyn, about my jobs, about travelling around America, everything."

I could not fathom why she was telling me that. Since the day we had left Paris we had essentially been living together, I knew all about those years.

"And how did Christine react to your admission?"

"Like I said, she was shocked. She was very kind to me."

"Did you tell her what happened between us?"

"No. I haven't told anyone. I don't want anyone to know."

That was a relief, at least. "Do you think that she will tell her husband what happened to his brother?"

"I don't know. I begged her to keep the information to herself, but I don't think I specified the information about Philippe de Chagny." She bit her lip, her eyes dancing around the table as though she was tracking the path of an invisible fly. "If I were married and got such news, I would tell my husband."

"Well, we shall have to see. De Chagny will be bringing Christine to the Imaginarium tomorrow, I will speak to her then."

"You're… you're not angry with me?"

I met her huge, anxious eyes. "I am extremely annoyed with you, young lady. There are some secrets that should remain secret, regardless of the circumstances. I will rectify the situation if I can, but I make no promises."

x

The de Chagnys arrived at the Imaginarium just after ten o'clock the following day, while it was still relatively quiet, but after the first show in the concert hall had started. I was there to greet them at the entrance, and felt the same lurch in my stomach when I saw Christine that had struck me when I saw her in The Fields after so many years. She looked so beautiful, dressed like the lady she was in a dark gold gown with black trim and a co-ordinating hat and handbag. I realised that this exquisite taste must be the height of fashion in the French capital.

Of course, she was not alone. Raoul de Chagny was accompanying her, and I saw him smirk to himself as he took in the bruise colouring my jaw. The discomfort had necessitated another dose of aspirin that morning.

Behind the couple was a woman with usually white-blonde hair and I remembered Meg mentioning a governess, but my eyes focused on her charge. The little girl slipped her hand into Christine's, and I felt that lurch in my stomach again as I saw that she had her mother's brown curls and bright blue eyes.

"Comte and Comtess de Chagny, Vicomtess de Chagny," it was an effort to keep my voice calm and welcoming, the showman introducing his creations to the world. "Welcome to the Imaginarium."

"Good morning, Mr Danton," Christine smiled at me, her tone warm and happy. Her husband merely nodded. "Matilda, I would like you to meet Mr Danton, a friend of mine here in New York; he owns the Imaginarium. Erik Danton, this is our daughter, Matilda de Chagny."

The word 'our' sent flames roaring through my chest. I bowed deeply to the child.

"Vicomtess de Chagny, I am charmed to meet you." I reached into my coat pocket and presented Matilda with a small oblong of card baring my signature. "Show this to the operators of any of the rides here in the Imaginarium, and they will grant you access free of charge."

"Really?" Her eyes, so much like Christine's, widened in excitement. "Me and Sophie?"

Sophie, I assumed, was the white-blonde governess, and I nodded to her.

"Of course, Sophie as well."

"Remember your manners, Matilda," de Chagny murmured to her and she blushed, but I waved his words away.

"The young Vicomtess did not forget her manners. Mademoiselle de Chagny, all the staff here know that you are my guests. If you need anything, from a couple of toffee apples to a tour of the Imaginarium, you have but to ask any of them."

"Thank you!"

The young governess smiled and nodded to me. "It's very kind of you, Mr Danton, thank you."

"It is my pleasure. A little bird told me that you like the ballet, Vicomtess, so I have taken the liberty of securing your family a box for the early evening performance of the show in the concert hall. I'm sure you will enjoy Miss Giry's ballet piece."

"Oh, how wonderful!" The little girl clapped her hands, but de Chagny frowned.

"I am not sure we will be attending," he began.

"Oh, Papa!"

"I do not believe that the content of your vaudeville offering will be suitable for someone as young as Matilda."

I did not miss the insult behind his description of the Imaginarium's shows as a 'vaudeville offering', but kept my tone light.

"We took the family market into consideration, it is part of what makes us so successful," I looked at Christine. "And I daresay the Comtess de Chagny would like to see the show that she will be headlining."

Raoul opened his mouth to retort, but Christine spoke first.

"I would like to see it, and especially to see Meg in her role as leading lady. She has worked very hard and suffered much to achieve what she has."

I nodded. "Of course. She told you about Madame Giry?"

"Yes."

"Please follow me. Mademoiselle Sophie—" I did not know what else to call her. "—I will provide you with a map of the Imaginarium, so that you and the Vicomtess can find your way around while I talk to your master and mistress."

"Thank you, Mr Danton."

I walked the group to the concert hall, trying not to notice Raoul's arm wound possessively around Christine's waist. My first task was to provide the governess with a map and a voucher for food and drinks at one of the refreshment stalls. The child seemed to be charming and I certainly had questions to ask, but I wanted the entourage out of the way so that I could speak to Christine privately. The pair were not even out of earshot when Matilda started talking:

"Mr Danton's very tall, isn't he, Sophie? Why do you think he wears a mask?"

Christine smiled at me apologetically.

I took her and her husband around the outside of the concert hall, through the locked gate in the fenced-off area that prevented the public from stumbling this way by accident, to the spot near the stage door where Antoinette Giry was buried.

Within days of burial, white clouds had billowed over Coney Island, coating the disturbed earth in snow, but once Winter finally relinquished its grip, seeds had been sewn in the soil of the grave. Antoinette's presence six feet down would, I had been told, provide additional nourishment, and life would bloom over her resting place. In a few years, the flora and fauna taking route here would attract dozens of species of butterflies and insects, who would collect pollen and spread Antoinette's influence further.

Today, though the snow had long melted, the grave still looked like what it was, a dark, rich pile of earth, the brass plaque baring Antoinette's details gleaming in the March sunshine.

Tears glittered in Christine's eyes and she whispered, "Excuse me."

Raoul and I took a step back as Christine knelt on the paving stones surrounding the grave, then crossed herself as she closed her eyes and bowed her head in prayer.

De Chagny murmured to me: "How do you stop this area becoming an ashtray?"

"You forget, Comte, that Madame Giry was a valued member of staff and a friend to all those who currently work here. They know that it would amount to desecration for them to be dropping cigarette butts here." A slight blush tinged his cheeks and I relented. "There is another door on the North side of the building, that is the designated smoking area. It's why we had a pass through a locked gate, to stop people trespassing on the grave sight."

We watched Christine as she prayed, I with my hands behind my back, and I tried to respect the solemnity of the area where I stood and banish unclean thoughts from my mind. When Christine stood and brushed the dust from her dark gold skirt, Raoul was at her side in an instant.

"Are you sure you feel up to this, darling? We can collect Matilda and return to our hotel if needs be."

"I am quite well, love," she replied, and my hands momentarily clenched into fists behind me at the endearment. "Let us see the concert hall, since this is where I will be performing."

Her bright blue eyes met mine, and I nodded graciously, leading the couple to the stage door. Since there was a show underway, the backstage corridors were largely deserted, the performers either onstage, in the wings, or in their dressing rooms.

The people we did encounter were Seamus Donnelly, the lead carpenter and head of the Imaginarium's sets, who was sitting at one of the small tables in the greenroom with Thomas Seymour, one of my investors, discussing a new set design.

"Well, as you know, I am always looking for the most reasonable price possible."

"Gentlemen," I interrupted. "May I introduce the Comte de Chagny and his wife, Christine Daaé."

Both men had risen to their feet in the presence of a lady and I was preparing to introduce Seamus, but Seymour had rounded the table, wide-eyed, and held out his hand to Christine.

"Miss Daaé, I am a great admirer of your work. I have all the phonograph cylinders you have released since your first one in 1899. It has long been a dream of mine, Miss Daaé, to hear you sing live."

Christine let him kiss the back of her hand, while acknowledging Donnelley's respectful smile and nod.

"Well, sir, your wish may shortly come true. My wife will be performing here at the Imaginarium," Raoul told him, and I felt my hackles rise; it was my news to share, not his. "Perhaps we should arrange a smaller, private event in addition to your performances, Christine, especially for your New York admirers. Since Mr Danton is covering our costs while we are here in New York, there is no need for us to hurry home."

Seymour's eyes went from the Comte to me. "Is he indeed?"

"I have arranged a suite for the de Chagnys at the Magnifique."

"Ah, that's as well," he grinned at the couple. "As Mr Danton's début investor, I have a vested interest in the Imaginarium's finances."

"Début investor?" The polite smile froze on Christine's face. "Then you must be Mr Seymour."

Seymour glanced at me, but I could only shake my head.

"Yes, I am Thomas Seymour."

"And you invested in the Imaginarium while Mr Danton was still refining the idea, here in Brooklyn."

"That's right, I'm a local businessman. Have we already met, Miss Daaé?"

"No, Mr Seymour." Her tone was frosty now. "But I am a very good friend of Meg Giry."

"Ah. Such a charming girl."

"She is a very kind and talented young woman," Christine told him, and then she essentially dismissed Thomas Seymour from her attention by turning to Seamus. "And you, sir, I don't believe that we have been introduced."

Seymour and I looked to Raoul, and he shrugged. I wondered if Christine had been more influenced than I supposed by her station of Comtess. I knew full well how people of means treated those they viewed as lesser than themselves, but I would not have believed it of Christine Daaé. I would have a talk with her when we started working together; if she thought that she could use the same tone on me, her new employer, then she had another thing coming.

Seamus was introducing himself to Christine and explaining his role in the Imaginarium, and she had reverted to being as charming and well-mannered as ever.

"Then you must have known Benedict Adaire?" I heard her ask, and I wondered how much else Meg had confided in her old friend.

At last, I was able to lead the de Chagnys to the elevator, and up to my office at the Imaginarium's peak, the top of my own personal mountain. I introduced Christine to Mrs Johnson, and noticed my secretary's dark look at Raoul. Mrs Johnson had been through a difficult time before joining the Imaginarium, forced by poverty into situations that were unfit for her.

"No one else will hire me now," she had told me when I interviewed her, fully expecting another rejection. "I'm too old and have been forced to do too many unsavoury things."

Despite how blunt Mrs Johnson had been about the Imaginarium being beneath her, I had been impressed by her honesty. She had the required skills and I had hired her on the spot. In return, Mrs Johnson had provided a valuable service, and immeasurable loyalty. In her eyes, it seemed, I could do no wrong and since Raoul had punched me, he must be a pariah and was not to be trusted.

I was pleased by Christine's admiration of my office. The room had been designed for me, rather than to impress visitors, but I had been unconsciously desirous of her praise.

"This is such a lovely room, so full of light!"

I was delighted when de Chagny asked to use the bathroom, and Mrs Johnson directed him to the door opposite my office. For a few, precious minutes, I was alone with Christine Daaé for the first time in years. If I could have stopped time, I would have. Instead, time seemed to be racing forward, as though determined to rob me of the prized moments.

"Meg told you about Philippe de Changy?"

"Yes. God, to think what he did to her, what he was planning to do—"

"Did you tell Raoul of her part in Philippe's death?"

"No."

"Will you?"

Christine hesitated.

"Raoul is my husband," she said carefully. "If he asks me, then I cannot lie to him. But he has not asked me. Philippe has been declared dead, and the circumstances unknown. Raoul has had to make his peace with that. I believe that Meg did what she had to do, and I know that God will forgive her for her actions."

I felt some of the tightness leave my chest in a whoosh of breath, and nodded, then took a step closer to Christine as she turned to window, admiring the view of the Imaginarium.

"Your daughter."

"Matilda?" She looked back at me.

"She is a lovely child."

"Thank you."

"Is she mine?"

"How dare you!" I had anticipated the slap and allowed it to land, a colony of tiny wasp stings on my unmasked cheek. "How dare you! Matilda is my daughter with my husband! You have no idea what we went through to—"

"You cannot deny that we were together," I kept my voice calm. "That night in Calais, in 1894. I can tell you the exact date, Madame, if you do not remember it."

"I remember. I made a mistake. You caught me when I was melancholy and lonely, and I made a mistake."

"Quite a mistake, Madame. I daresay that it is one your husband knows nothing about."

Christine stared at me. "Of course he does not know, and I don't believe that you will tell him."

"Why not?" I reached my desk and settled myself in my chair, facing Christine across steepled fingers.

"Because while you hate Raoul, you know that I love him, and you do not want to see me disgraced. Because, despite everything that has passed between us, you wish me well. For the instrument you nurtured in my throat, if for nothing else." Were there tears in her eyes? "Because you value the past between us, and have no desire to ruin me."

She opened the small handbag hanging from her wrist and pulled out a photograph of her daughter. It was a little ragged at the edges, as if Christine was in the habit of taking it from its hiding place and looking at it often.

"I'm sorry, Erik, but Matilda is not your daughter. Just look at her."

I liked to think that I had superior powers of observation, and I had recognised at once those features that mother and daughter shared. But the child had been excited, restless, and I had barely half a minute to study her features. Now, holding the portrait, I could look more carefully at the solemn face. Christine's eyes gazed back at me from the black and white photograph. The longer I looked, the more I saw the de Chagny features in the face before me. Matilda had Raoul's jawline and the notable de Chagny nose.

I gave the picture back to Christine but stayed silent, collecting my thoughts. I was just deciding what to say when the door opened and the Comte entered the room, followed by my secretary.

"Ah, Comte de Chagny, you are just in time to see the aria I have in mind for your wife. Mrs Johnson, would you be so good as to bring my guests coffee?"