Chapter Twelve

Meg.

I did feel better once I confessed to Erik that I had spilled most of my secrets to Christine Daaé. It was a relief to see annoyance rather than anger, as I was reminded once again how much he had changed over the past few years; it was only looking back on it that I realised I had fully expected Erik to strike me. It was true that he no longer considered it appropriate to beat me, but he was not above erupting into violence when he lost his temper. Or was that unfair? The last time I had seen one of those eruptions, it had been when he had realised that Mother had died. He had slapped me as he demanded to know when I had found out the inevitable, but even at the time I did not think that he knew what he was doing. Grief and shock had set a fire in him, where it had numbed me completely.

Nevertheless, the evening brought with it relief from the stomach-churning anxiety that had haunted me since midmorning, and on consideration, I remembered that I had not eaten between breakfast and Erik's beef bourguignon for supper. It had become almost habitual to skip meals since Mother's death. It wasn't deliberate, but I often missed lunch because I did not feel hungry. Perhaps those days and weeks of neglect had crept up on me, resulting in the nausea and dizziness that had struck me on Wednesday afternoon as I stationed myself outside Erik's apartment, determined to make my confession, eventually overwhelming me to the point where I could no longer stand. I sat with my eyes closed, trying to prevent myself from vomiting, when I heard Erik's voice:

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

Then, as Erik had prepared the meal for us, leaving me in his music room with only his piano for company, I had found a piece of paper that lifted my spirits. It was the Tchaikovsky piece I had chosen to play, but I had seen the hand-written sheet music among the papers on top of Erik's piano. It had been titled simply: An Aria, and I remembered the note I had written myself and stuck into the corner of my dressing room mirror: E is writing an aria for you. It was those few words that inspired me to give the best performance that I could each day, in addition to the picture of the Metropolitan Opera House on the wall of my dressing room. That was where I really wanted to be. The Imaginarium was a wonderful place, especially given what I knew of its growth, the hard work that brought it to prominence on Coney Island, where a holiday in New York would not be complete without a visit. I was the Imaginarium's leading lady, and yet I held onto the ambition that I would be a prima ballerina in the Metropolitan Opera House. It was a respected venue, unlike a freak show, and a position that would afford me respect, where people would automatically assume that I was someone of status. Even here in the United States, there was a wide gap between what was considered high art, like the opera, and what was considered the opposite, like the vaudeville I had been reduced to. But that too was unfair; I knew first-hand how much work it took to make the Imaginarium and its concert hall tick like a clock, day after day.

It was no secret that I wanted to move from light entertainment into something more highbrow, as every time a new season began in the concert hall—every twelve weeks or so—I argued passionately that my ballet number remained as part of the programme. All of my colleagues knew that ballet was my passion, that I began learning to dance shortly after I had learned to walk, and that my late mother had herself once been a prima ballerina. Perhaps that was why I did not encounter as strong a resistance as I might have; it would be disrespectful to Mother's memory to remove the ballet from the show. Erik and Grace Gibson might discuss the possibility, argue about it even when I added my two cents' worth, but it would remain for the time being.

As the Imaginarium's popularity had grown, it had attracted the attention of those with my influence in the entertainment industry, such as Arthur Thurlestone. I did not know whether the impresario intended to visit us, as he had proposed to do on the night we have met at The Fields. Personally, I thought he had contacted every performance venue in New York State with an invitation to the opening of his theatre on the proviso of preparing a number for the occasion. That way, Thurlestone did not have to pay for entertainment, the same way that a host asking guests to bring their own drinks to a party did not have to pay for alcohol.

I wondered if the de Chagnys had contacts in the United States. They must have, for Christine to have been invited to The Fields; but then, she had an international reputation, and I did not. As I soaked in the bath that night, I allowed myself to focus not on the remembered trauma, blossoming in my mind like an old bruise due to confessing my darkest secrets to Christine, but on my current feelings.

My dearest friend had come back into my life, and I had been overwhelmed with emotions. Shock, certainly, at seeing someone I knew intimately more than three thousand miles from home. Joy, surprise, and then jealousy. Jealousy had been quite slow in coming, as I had been concerned about Erik's reaction to my meeting with the woman he had once held a Roman Candle for. It was only when I was alone that I allowed that jealousy to seep into my consciousness. On the surface, Christine had everything from life that I coveted: fame in her chosen field, a husband, and a child. I had never aimed for fame, although I wanted Erik to be successful in the Imaginarium, with the hope that it would result in my move to a more traditional venue. Benedict Adaire had been the love of my life and I had lost him, brutally, through murder. Earlier still, I had miscarried the child that we had conceived together.

Envy was a sin, but wasn't it normal to feel that way? Probably, but then again, I did not live Christine's life, or know of her own problems. There must be downsides to being an international star, a wife and mother. Even so, that night, immersed in hot water, I allowed self-pity to overwhelm me, and I wept until I was exhausted, and could do nothing more than sleep.

X

The following day, everything felt frantic. I woke up late, and had to scramble to leave the Grand Circle on time, but I was back on track by the time I reached the Imaginarium. Even with my cup of coffee steaming in a white china cup on my vanity table, I still felt agitated, my skin flushed from the hassle and the hurry. It was not the way I liked to start my day, and increasingly I found it more and more difficult to shake a frazzled mood. On days like that, a niggling bad mood could sit with me all day, like expired milk irritating my stomach, with no relief to be found. I wished it was Summer, when I could swim those negative emotions away, but it was only two weeks into March, and attempting to swim now would no doubt result in hyperthermia. I wondered what it would be like to die of hyperthermia—better or worse than drowning?

In any case, there was no possibility of swimming that Thursday. The sky was slate-grey with yellowish edges defining the shapes of the clouds, similar to a sky getting ready for snowfall. Even as I was cloistered in my little dressing room, sipping coffee and applying my makeup, I fervently prayed that the weather would be kind to Brooklyn. It had taken what felt like an ice age for Winter to unhook its claws, and there had been so much snow that I had gone from thinking that it looked enchanting, like something from a Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale, to the ugly bane of my existence.

Would freezing to death feel different to dying of hypothermia?

I knew that part of the reason for the anxiety fluttering in my stomach was that Christine and her family would be visiting the Imaginarium that day; Erik had said so over dinner. I wasn't sure whether they would be having a tour of Erik's fiefdom, or seeing the show, or maybe both. As I went to get my second cup of coffee, my face an exaggerated expression of current beauty standards thanks to the theatrical paint and powder, I heard the name spoken like a charm through the backstage corridors.

Christine Daaé.

It was official, then. Christine must have agreed to perform at the Imaginarium, or at the very least Raoul had agreed on her behalf. My colleagues knew who she was, and there were conversations in the greenroom about whether Mr Danton might be trying to steer his concert hall in a more highbrow direction.

"What do you think, Meg?" Irene asked me as we had lunch together. "You know Mr Danton better than any of us."

I was silent for perhaps half a minute, considering what to say.

"I think that Mr Danton is taking advantage of a business opportunity. You know, Arthur Thurlestone had Ms Daaé perform at his new theatre. If he'd been quicker, Ms Daaé would still be on the island of Manhattan right now. I'm sure she will bring a huge audience to the Imaginarium while she is here, and if they like us, maybe they will stay."

"You might be right."

I hoped that I was right. Erik was an intelligent man, but he was unpredictable when it came to Christine Daaé. She was a married woman, protected by the law and by holy matrimony, but that was no guarantee that he would not try to seduce her once again.

Please, I prayed, please let him show sense.

If the Comte de Chagny was displeased, it was possible that he could ruin the Imaginarium. Why would Christine have been invited to perform at The Fields if there had not been a previous relationship between Thurlestone and the de Chagnys?

Unless Christine's fame was as powerful as I had always thought it might be. She was in the international newspapers after all, it was a possibility that Erik's motives were as I had said—that he was taking advantage of a chance encounter in New York—and not that he had clinically and systematically kept track of her for the last seven years. I did not know the truth, and did not want to know.

If it was the case that the meeting with Christine and Raoul de Chagny had been coincidental, then maybe I could take advantage of old connections. Raoul was rich, and rich men knew other rich men. Maybe he remembered me as the star ballerina of the Paris Opera House, or as the little dancer his wife had called her best friend, but who had not come to their wedding. If he enjoyed my performance as the Imaginarium's leading lady, maybe he would invite his wealthy friends to see it. Maybe one of those friends was Arthur Thurlestone, or, God willing, the owner of the Metropolitan Opera House. It was a rare spark of optimism in the dark cloak that had draped itself around me in folds of grief, disillusion and despair almost without my realising.

My life felt artificial. All performers much have felt the same way during their career, that we spent our lives playing make-believe. It was usually a feeling I could ignore, but on that day, which had started badly and never settled itself back into shape despite its unstoppable routine, it stuck with me like a burr to cotton. My father had felt like this, I realised. When I was little too young to understand his sadness, his madness, Mother had told me that he had gotten out of bed on the wrong side that morning.

I was so much like my father

I had a job to do. I had to put on my theatrical mask and sparkle to my public. That mask felt unusually heavy, as though it would suffocate me. How would it feel to die of suffocation? Would it feel like drowning?

I drank my umpteenth cup of coffee that day, only my cream dressing gown separating my undergarments from the view of the Imaginarium's cast and crew, taking a break after the early evening performance. Another habit was to have a cup of coffee, a last injection of caffeine before the final performance of the day, in the large greenroom with my colleagues. That day, I was joined by Irene, eating a salad, Lucy, also in a dressing gown and little else, her feet up on one of the tables as she frowned over a riddle in the newspaper, and a fleet of the Imaginarium's other performers crowded around a fruitcake someone had baked. The ambient noise I was used to tuning out was interrupted by an excited chattering. It was like the sound of the starlings that gathering on the roof edges every morning, an irrepressible bubble of enthusiasm that turned heads.

"The man with the dummy that talked! And the woman who made those scarves disappear! And the ladies on the swinging bars—what did you say it was called, Papa?"

"The trapeze, darling."

"Yes! It was so exciting, but frightening. What if they had fallen?"

"I imagine they practice a lot so that they don't fall."

I knew that a few of the Imaginarium's performers could speak French, but even I struggled to interpret this stream of excitement in my native tongue.

"Straight ahead," Erik directed and I could hear footsteps approaching. I tightened my dressing gown cord around me and rose to my feet, as the greenroom was entered by visitors. Raoul was holding his daughter's hand, and Christine was a step behind them, smiling fondly as she listened to her daughter's opinions. Lastly, Erik entered the greenroom, and although every individual has already stood up there was another shift, like soldiers drawing to attention in the presence of their commanding officer. Even if they did not recognise them, everyone there knew that these foreigners were important.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Erik began. "I would like to introduce the Comte Raoul de Chagny, his daughter the Vicomtess Matilda de Chagny, and his wife, the Comtess Christine de Chagny, better known to you as Christine Daaé."

A ripple of recognition passed through the room, a murmur associate with the presence of someone famous, all eyes on Christine. I smiled at her, pleased that she had visited us here, and felt the breath forced from my lungs as a small form barrelled into me. Matilda had rushed at me, and thrown her arms around my waist.

"Oh, Miss Giry! Your ballet piece was so good, I loved it!"

This was such a contrast to the shy, solemn child I had met the day before, that I could not help but chuckle.

"Thank you, Vicomtess."

"I loved all of it. I pointed you out to Mama every time you were on the stage in case she missed you."

I was touched. "That is very kind of you. Can I introduce you to my friends?" My eyes sought her parents over her head, and Christine nodded. "This is Lucy, she's a dancer like me, and this is Irene, she did the aerobatic tricks where she was wrapped in silk."

"You're a dwarf!" she cried. "Like in Snow White!"

I saw Christine wince, but she translated her daughter's comment into English; I wondered when she had learned it.

Irene smiled at Christine. "Does she speak English?"

"Only a little."

"Please tell her that I am a dwarf, and that I have six brothers and sisters."

I smiled in spite of myself; I did not know how many siblings Irene had, but she had told me that she had been the only member of her family with dwarfism.

Matilda was scanning the room, gasping in delight when she saw people she recognised from the stage. She talked constantly, delightedly, taking Raoul by the hand and leading him around the greenroom. Christine stood beside me, beaming at her daughter, then looked at Erik, standing in the doorway with his hands behind his back.

"The Imaginarium is a wonderful place, and we have all enjoyed our day here. You should be so proud of what you have achieved."

Erik acknowledged her praise with a deep nod, and I wondered if, for once in his eloquent life, he was lost for words. Christine raised her voice to address the greenroom as a whole.

"The show was spectacular. I am very much looking forward to being a part of it, and to performing with you all." She turned to me, smiled, and then hugged me. "You are a star, and you shone out on that stage today. Madame Giry must have been so proud of you, your dancing is astounding." I could feel myself blushing, the pleasure radiating out from my heart. "And I never knew that you could sing like that."

"I couldn't, when we knew each other in Paris," I nodded to Erik. "My teacher settles for nothing less than perfection."

"I remember." Her expression became serious. "I met Thomas Seymour today. You deserve better than him."

She was prevented from saying more by Matilda, returning to us, still talking, and seizing each of us by a hand to pull us across the room to share in some new delight. But I wondered what she meant, and whether she had deduced the nature of the relationship Thomas and I had once had. It was all in the past now, even though he was a continual, if harmless, flirt. He was almost the only one of Erik's investors who visited the Imaginarium frequently, at least three or four times a fortnight. The only other investor who was similarly keen was Charity Bailey, an immensely wealthy widow in her mid-forties who, she told me cheerfully at our first meeting, had more money than she knew what to do with.

"My father was a preacher, a proper fire-and-brimstone man," she had said. "When I was sixteen, I swore to him that I was going to run away and join the circus. I guess this is as close as I'm going to get."

Others would grace the Imaginarium with their presence on an occasional basis, and I had a premonition that once Christine's presence was made public, they would descend upon us en masse.

As Matilda pulled her mother and I around the greenroom, telling us the skills of the people I had been working with for the past four years, I felt a pricking of my thumbs, a creeping across the back of my neck. My colleagues were star-struck by Christine, and surprised by our friendship. I looked over my shoulder to find that Erik and the Comte de Chagny were both staring, like cats who had spotted a mouse attempting to hide. Their sharp-eyed focus was not on me, but on the young woman beside me. In the shadow of Christine Daaé, I became invisible.