Chapter Thirteen

Meg.

There was a substantial shift in the atmosphere of the Imaginarium from the day that the de Chagny family visited us. The Spring season was always slow to start, as America shook off the last days of Winter and tucked it away, the way Erik switched his heavy wool coat for a lighter one. Black, of course. This year, there was a spark of excitement in our little corner of Coney Island. A world-famous soprano would be performing with us, the freaks and the misfits, the lowest members of the entertainment industry. Christine Daaé could have sung on any of New York's stages, and the papers reported that half of Brooklyn's theatres were fighting to outbid Erik Danton, or at least to attempt to persuade her to perform for them once her obligations to the Imaginarium were complete.

"I'm afraid it is quite out of the question," The Comte de Chagny told reporters. "Miss Daaé is the prima donna of the Palais Garnier and has commitments in Paris."

I wondered who had taken on Christine's role while she was in the United States, but did not ask. She was staying in Brooklyn throughout the rest of March and into April, her performances at the Imaginarium taking place in the third week of the month. Erik's first action after informing his staff that Christine would be joining us was to take out a full-page advertisement in New York's most popular newspaper, her picture hovering over the Imaginarium's name and the details of her performances. That was incredibly quick work on Erik's part, so much so that Christine seemed unaware of them herself. She would be in the finale to the Imaginarium's shows on the ninths, eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth of April 1901. As was the norm, the Imaginarium would be closed to the public on Wednesday the tenth.

Tickets were already starting to sell for those dates, but the newspapers did not seem to know what to do with the information. Some reports saw this as a rise in the Imaginarium's fortunes and the legitimisation of Coney Island. The more right-wing articles indicated that Christine Daaé, opera in particular and society in general, was debasing itself to the lowest common denominator by appealing to the masses.

For the first time since he had opened the Imaginarium as far as I could tell, Erik's attention was focused entirely on a single thing. It reminded me of his attitude in the days approaching the opening of his ill-fated opera, Don Juan Triumphant.

That time had not been pleasant for me, and almost as if my unconscious was trying to warn me, I found myself plagued by nightmares, Philippe de Chagny haunting my sleep, waking with sweat soaking through my nightclothes. It grew so that there were some mornings that I woke up physically sick from fear.

It was also an unpleasant surprise to learn that the aria I had found on Erik's piano was not intended for me at all.

"Why on earth would you think that?" He asked me on one of the increasingly rare occasions when we were walking to the Imaginarium together. It was the first day of April, less than two weeks until Christine's much-anticipated performance, and Erik had become as elusive as the ghost I had once believed him to be. No longer did he spend his Mondays circling the Imaginarium, ensuing that each element lived up to his exacting standards, and his Wednesdays coaching me in the craft.

"Why would I think that?" I repeated. "Because you said that you were writing an aria for me."

"I know your limits, Meg. It is somewhat troubling that even after all this time, you do not."

His dismissive tone made me feel like he had punched me, and that feeling remained with me as we arrived at the concert hall. My teeth were grinding my eyes still stinging with insult as I followed Erik to the rehearsal room where Christine was sitting on one of the straight-backed wooden chairs at the edge of the room, holding a leather folder of sheet music and talking with Mrs Johnson, both of them enjoying coffee.

"Good morning, ladies, I trust that you are well." It was more of a demand than a question.

"Good morning, Mr Danton. Meg," Christine set the coffee cup on the empty chair beside her, rose and crossed the room to me in a rustle of olive green silk. Her arms encircled me as she kissed me on both cheeks, and I could smell the coffee on her breath. "I am sorry that we have not seen as much as each other as we would have liked."

I was sorry for that as well; Christine had been shocked by how much my commitment to my role in the Imaginarium ruled my life. She had invited me to supper with her husband, and I had to explain that the majority of my days ended at half past ten at night, and began again at nine the following morning.

I smiled at my old friend. "Well, today you have the pleasure of my company for the better part of nine hours."

Behind her, Erik made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. He was irritated by his contractual obligation for Christine to be chaperoned while she rehearsed with her, but I remembered full well what had happened the last time Christine had been performing Erik's music. Even if Raoul had complete trust in his wife, as I had no doubt that he did, he would never trust Erik. As I sat in the rehearsal room, listening to them work, I wondered if Raoul's suspicion might not be justified. Yes, many years had passed and both had grown and changed, but Erik was still Christine's Angel of Music, and she was still his.

"Oh, Meg, you're crying!"

I smiled and wiped the tears from my cheeks.

"I'm sorry; it just sounds so beautiful."

Even if that song had been written with my voice in mind, I could never have sung it the way Christine did. Erik was right, I realised, I didn't know my limits. I had let my role as the leading lady of a Brooklyn freak show go to my head. I even tried to make it more highbrow by insisting that I performed a ballet routine. Who did I think I was?

I sat up straight and tried to rid myself of this wave of melancholia, but it continued as the excitement around me built and the days leading to Christine's performances grew fewer and fewer. I wondered if her nerves were as strong as mine. So strong that anxiety continued to plague my dreams, leaving me tired throughout the day, nauseous and even mildly dizzy. I tried to stave off those feelings, but that made me desperately need the restroom.

Everyone had experienced a full bladder at an inconvenient moment, such as on a train, while tucked up in bed, or in the middle of a business meeting. It was a new, unpleasant experience to feel the pressure of a full bladder while on stage in front of a packed auditorium. They were not all there for me, of course. It was Tuesday the ninth April 1901, and in approximately forty minutes' time, Christine Daaé would perform for the first time on this stage. I couldn't wait to finish my dance routine, my smile stiffening as the discomfort grew in my abdomen. Once I was off the stage and relieved, I allowed myself to relax a little. I had two more numbers to perform, and then Christine would dazzle the audience. That was what they wanted. Her. The rest of us were just a warm-up act. A two-hour warm-up act.

Perhaps that was all I was. All I had ever been. All I would ever be.

I had met Raoul and Matilda before the show began, on their way to deliver a bouquet of pink roses to Christine's dressing room. Technically, it was Helen Roylott's dressing room, but she had agreed to spend the week sharing with her twin sister Julia, so that Christine would have her own space. Strangely, Erik had not created enough dressing rooms to account for visitors.

"It's an opening night tradition," Raoul told me almost bashfully when Matilda excitedly showed me the flowers. The little girl looked adorable in a white satin dress with blue trim and a matching blue ribbon in her hair.

"That's a lovely tradition," I smiled at Raoul. "I seem to remember that you liked to send red roses." I looked to his daughter. "That was what he gave your mother when we were performing in Paris."

"Just so," Raoul agreed. "I sent her red roses when it was just Christine and I. When our little girl came along, they became pink roses, from the both of us to Christine."

He ran a hand over Matilda's hair.

"Did someone send you flowers today?" Matilda asked.

"No," I admitted. "But then, it's not opening night for me."

"Papa?" She tugged on his sleeve, and he smiled down at her, then reached into the bouquet and withdrew one of the pink roses, presenting it to me with a bow.

"Mademoiselle."

"Monsieur." I beamed at him, and then at Matilda. "Thank you very much, Vicomtess de Chagny. I hope you both enjoy the show."

I did not have a vase in my dressing room, so I took one of the glasses from the small kitchen area next to the greenroom. I filled it perhaps a quarter of the way with water, and set the rose on my vanity table, feeling pleased.

When my last number was done, I exited into the dark wings were Christine was waiting, in a white gown glittering with iridescent beads that made her look like a snow princess. She hugged me hard.

"I have such butterflies," she whispered in my ear.

"You'll be wonderful," I whispered back, and gave her a quick squeeze. The voice of the master of ceremonies was loud in the darkness.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is the moment you have all been waiting for! All the way from Paris, France, please give an amazing Coney Island welcome to this world-famous star of the stage! The Imaginarium is proud to present: Miss Christine Daaé!"

Christine walked from the wings with her head held high, and was standing centre stage when the lights rose on her.

In my mind's eyes I saw her years before, on the night when she had played her first role as leading soprano on the Paris Opera House stage. She had worked so hard under Erik's tutorage, and I remembered hoping that he had seen her. Unbeknownst to me, he had been watching from behind me, concealed in the shadows.

Erik was here in the dark with me still, but this time he was by my side. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, standing very straight with his hands clenched into fists, the muscles in his jaw twitching as the introduction finished and Christine began to sing. It was the song I had watched them rehearsing together, and once again it moved me to tears. Erik was still tense, and I gently took his hand in mine. He was shaking, I realised, but he let me hold him. We stood together and his pulse thundered against my wrist as the music soared and her voice soared with it. I breathed a prayer that the journalists scattered throughout the auditorium were as enraptured by Christine's performers as we were, and that they would give the Imaginarium glowing reviews in tomorrow's papers.

I wiped my eyes as Christine finished singing, and the concert hall erupted into cheers and applause before the final note had faded away. As the noise blended into that of people rising to their feet, I could not help but put my arms around Erik's waist, turning to rest my head against his chest as I hugged him, briefly but hard. He jerked in surprise, but then I felt the chuckle rumble through his chest, the sound drowned out by Christine's standing ovation, and he patted me on the back. I stepped away as the introduction began for the second of Christine's four songs. I wondered if any of them had been written with my voice in mind. If so, Erik had either altered them to highlight Christine's superior talents, or had been intending to push me far beyond my limits.

If he had Christine as his leading lady, in both the professional and personal senses, life would have been so different for him. I looked back to Christine, and saw her expression soften, as though she had seen someone in the audience she loved. She must be looking at the box where her husband and daughter were seated. I wondered if that was how I had looked when Benedict had been alive, and had slipped into the audiences of our travelling shows. Since he had been a carpenter for the Imaginarium, helping sometimes with the set changes, he had tended to watch me perform from the wings.

Almost unwilling to do so, I turned my head from Christine to Erik, illuminated by the backwash of the stage lights into the wings. Maybe I was misinterpreting his expression, the desire in his bi-coloured eyes. Maybe I was projecting onto Erik the way I had seen Benedict look at me.

I walked onto the stage for the final number, the only one Christine and I shared, sung by the entire company of the Imaginarium. Christine began the song, and then I joined her, harmonising. Gradually, every performer in the Imaginarium entered from the wings, our voices joining in a glorious ensemble. It reminded me that, while Erik was composing the vaudeville that the Coney Island tourists wanted, he was capable of creating magic.

Christine took my hand in hers for the final bow. The applause was louder than I had heard it before in the concert hall, the well-dressed audience on their feet. When the curtain fell at last, Christine caught me in an embrace.

"That was so wonderful!" She murmured, and I could tell that she was fizzing from the applause and the power of Erik's music.

"You were perfect, Christine," I told her. "It is such an honour to share the stage with you again."

She let out of a breath of laughter, almost shy.

"Thank you." She touched a finger gently under my eye. "You've been crying again; your mascara is smudged."

"Like I said," I smiled at her. "You were perfect."

We drew apart, and the others approached to offer her praise and congratulations. Erik stood at the edge of the stage, his hands behind his back, allowing his employees a few moments of excitement before he cleared his throat to draw our attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen, congratulations on a splendid performance. Some of you are needed in the main foyer for conversations with the gentlemen of the press in ten minutes. Remain in costume."

He listed some names, and I was unsurprised to hear mine among them. I wished that Erik had told me before the performance, and tried to ignore my rumbling stomach; there was only an hour or so until the last show of the day, and I did not like the disruption to my routine.

I fixed my mascara before joining Christine and my selected colleagues. It was a comparatively short interrogation by the journalists, most of their questions aimed at Christine and Erik about the performance, and I dutifully sparkled and answered the enquiries put to me, about how pleased and excited I was to be performing alongside France's leading soprano. Most of the public had been shuffled out of the foyer to make way for the newsmen, but I could see people watching us through the glass-panelled doors that led to the bar. Raoul and Matilda were standing by the box office, hand-in-hand, and the little girl smiled and gave me a wave.

When Erik announced that there would be no further questions, Christine smiled.

"I believe Matilda wants to talk to you about the ballet. I've told her all about my training in the Paris Opera House, but she wants to hear it, in her words, from a 'real ballerina'."

I laughed. "I'm not sure that I'm a 'real ballerina' anymore, but of course I'll talk to her."

"Miss Giry?" Dr Gotreich had approached me, looking smart in the dark blue and silver uniform worn by all of the Front of House staff that he managed. "I am sorry to interrupt, but there is a Mrs Merriweather asking to see you."

I frowned and shook my head. "I don't recognise the name. Did she say what it is about?"

"No, Miss Giry, but she is insisting on speaking with you. I did explain that you needed to prepare for the last show, but she says that it is urgent."

I sighed, and resigned myself to the knowledge that I would have to eat between numbers. It wasn't unusual, but recently it was giving me indigestion and I had been attempting to modify my eating habits.

"Very well, I'll talk to her in my dressing room. Give me five minutes?"

"Of course."

"I'll tell Matilda you are otherwise engaged," Christine smiled.

"Oh, I don't suppose this will take long. I honestly don't know the name Merriweather at all."

"It sounds like someone who forecasts the weather for a living."

I chuckled. "It does. Not that I can help with that, but she might be journalist angling for a more in-depth piece. That happens from time to time."

I returned to my dressing room, using my assigned five minutes to tidy the small space and change. I had taken my civilian clothing off the armchair and hung it, along with my costume, on the clothing rail, sighing in relief as I removed my corset. It felt uncomfortable lately, constricting, and I decided to get measured for a new one as soon as my finances permitted. I put on my dressing gown over my shift and petticoats, and Dr Gotreich knocked.

"Come in."

"Mrs Angela Merriweather to see you, Miss Giry."

He showed her in, and closed the door as he left us. Angela Merriweather was a surprise to me. The name had conjured the image of a middle-aged woman, possibly a widow, like Charity Bailey. Instead, she was barely out of girlhood, only a year or two younger than I, about five inches taller than me, with alabaster skin, bright blue eyes, and smooth, shiny black hair secured into a fashionable up-do. I gazed at her, wondering why she wanted to see me. I could tell from her dress that she was wealthy, a gorgeous silk evening gown in pale gold with short sleeves and a short train, embroidered all over with metallic threads and glass beads. She wore a sparkling comb in her black hair, a gold diamond necklace with matching drop earrings, a diamond engagement and gold wedding ring over the fingers of her cream elbow-length opera gloves. Her eyes scanned the room, and then fixed on the picture on the wall under one of the high windows, a photograph of the Metropolitan Opera House.

Sudden hope and excitement flared in my chest. Erik had female investors, could it be that the Metropolitan did too? Perhaps Erik had spoken to them as part of his advertising campaign for Christine performance. Perhaps Mrs Merriweather had been drawn by Christine Daaé, and had enjoyed my performance too. Perhaps there was an opening at the Metropolitan for a ballet dancer, and my dreams were about to come true.

I indulged the idea for a moment, then dismissed it as I smiled and gestured to the armchair.

"Mrs Merriweather, please take a seat. I'm afraid I don't recall us meeting, so if we have, please forgive me."

There was something about her face that looked familiar, I decided as she sat, arranging her gold silk skirts, maybe something about her cheekbones, but I could not place her.

"We haven't met, Miss Giry," she replied. "But you could say that we have an acquaintance in common. I want to have a conversation with you."

I took my own seat on the stool of my vanity tale, shifting it to face her, and glanced at the carriage clock next to the mirror, partially obscured by the water glass holding the pink rose Matilda had given me. There was plenty of time before I had to be ready for the next show, but I liked to be ready at least ten minutes' before curtain up.

"What can I do for you?"

Mrs Merriweather was staring at me, and I fought the urge to check the mirror, in case I had marred my makeup again, or had something caught in my teeth or hair. She had not smiled since she had entered the room.

"I lost my mother just under eighteen months ago."

"I'm so sorry. I lost my own mother in November. I know how difficult it is."

"I wasn't aware of that," she murmured, and then was silent for a moment. "It doesn't change matters."

"What do you mean?" I frowned; the loss of my mother had changed everything.

"I need to start at the beginning. Until I got married last year, I lived with my parents and my younger brothers. Alexander, the youngest, has just turned twelve. John is fourteen. We were happy. They were good and attentive parents, and while my father can sometimes have a temper, he never hit us. He says that it is ungentlemanly to use violence, especially as a form of punishment, and once fired a tutor who beat John with a cane. He was a very busy businessman, but he made time for his wife and children. He taught me about art," she smiled, and I wondered if I had the same expression when I thought about my father, teaching me how to play the piano. "We used to paint or draw together. Mother wasn't skilled in that area and my brothers showed no interest. They were more interested in adventure, and loved to visit Coney Island. We've been coming here for the best part of twenty years. Alexander especially loves it." Her expression changed. "Things started going wrong about six years ago. My father started going away on business trips. Woman to woman, they were nothing of the sort. He was telling Mother than, but in reality he was visiting brothels in the sea. I understand that his wife and children have no control over his money, but his patronage of such places was threatening our lifestyle. He found a whore that he especially liked and devoted much of his time to her. Mother did not know about this woman, at the time, nor that my father infatuated with her. She found out several years later, while she was heavily pregnant with his second daughter, my baby sister. She found my father, and I am sorry to be indelicate, pleasuring himself to images of his prostitute. They were his own drawings, and he is an incredible artist, so they were as good as any photograph. The shock sent my mother into premature labour. She died on Christmas Eve of 1899 while in labour, and my baby sister died too. The pictures had a name on the back—Odette. And as soon as I saw your picture in the Times, I recognised you. A different name, of course, but then any whore would adopt a pseudonym. My father is Thomas Seymour, Miss Giry. And it is because of you that my mother died, and my sister with her."

I sat frozen on the stool, tears gathering in my eyes. I had known that Thomas Seymour was married, that he had two sons and a daughter, and that his wife had died in childbirth. But not that I was the cause. It was my image that had robbed Angela of her mother her baby sister. I had robbed Thomas of his wife, and less than a month later, he had been sitting beside me at a table in the Magnifique Hotel, celebrating the opening of the Imaginarium as a permanent establishment on Coney Island. We had nearly made love that night, but had stopped short, and had never been intimate since. It had been four years since I had been intimate with Thomas Seymour, but what difference did that make to his loved ones? I had not known that his daughter was almost the same age as me, that he would become the first investor of the Imaginarium, that I would see him around the concert hall about once a week when we settled there in 1900. I swallowed hard.

"Mrs Merriweather, I am truly sorry for what happened to you, and whatever part I may have played in it. No woman wants to become a whore, and no woman choses that a man becomes infatuated with her."

"You worked as a whore in 1896?"

"From November of that year, yes, for a few months. I had medical bills that had to be paid. I never intended to break up any marriages."

Angela snorted delicately. "You don't deny that used the name Odette."

"I don't. It was after a character in Swan Lake."

She looked at me, disgusted. "How old are you, Miss Giry? Or Odette, whatever I should call you."

"My name is Meg Giry. I am twenty-three years old. It was my eighteenth birthday when I was attacked and hospitalised. By the time I was released from hospital, my job as a textile worker had been given to someone else. I didn't know what to do. I found work selling my body. Thomas Seymour was one of the few who did not hurt me."

"That doesn't make it right that he betrayed my mother!"

"No, it doesn't."

"Stand up!"

"What?"

"You heard me, get up!"

I rose to my feet, standing with my hands by my sides as Angela examined me from head to foot.

"The pictures were nudes, Meg Giry. When I saw you performing on stage today, I saw nothing more than a whore, prancing about in front of the public, pretending to be a lady! I wanted to expose you for what you are, believe me, I still want to expose you because of the hurt, the death that you brought to my family!"

"Angela, I never meant—"

"How dare you address me in such a way!" She shot out of the armchair, glaring venomously.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Merriweather. I can only say that I am truly sorry for what happened to your mother."

Angela Merriweather, née Seymour, simply glared at me, and I saw how much she resembled her father in her colouring, with the same high cheekbones. Her mother must have been stunning.

"Are you married?"

"No. My fiancé was murdered three years ago."

"Then your shame will be sooner rather than later."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar!"

She came at me before I realised she had moved, her hands shoving against my shoulders. I stumbled backwards into the vanity table, knocking the carriage clock and water glass to the floor, hearing them shatter as the stool I had been sitting on tumbled over sideways.

"You are nothing!" Angela snarled. "You call yourself a leading lady, but you are nothing! You should see Elizabeth Seymour's face in your mind every time you breathe! You are responsible for her death! Don't touch me!" She jerked away from the hands I had raised in defence, her beautiful face twisted by anger and hated into an expression that could have turned me to stone. "You killed my mother, Meg Giry. You killed my sister. And you deserve to burn in hell for that. I hope that you burn in hell for that!"

I could not speak as Angela Merriweather, daughter of Thomas Seymour, turned and stormed out of my dressing room. I slid down against the leg of the vanity table to sit on the floor, my vision blurred by tears. I had not known Elizabeth Seymour, had never met her, but I was as responsible for her death as I was for Philippe de Chagny's. I had not given a thought to how his loved ones would mourn him, because to me he was just a predator. While we were sleeping together, I had known that Thomas was married and a father of three, but I hadn't cared. I had been too selfishly interested in the money he provided me, that he treated the whore like a human being, that he thought me beautiful enough to model for his drawings.

Elizabeth Seymour had been pregnant, and her baby had also died. Like my baby had died. Like my mother had died, my father had died, my fiancé had died. Angela was right. I called myself a leading lady—a lady!—but I was nothing more than a whore. I was nothing.

I had failed Mother by not trying to pursue the ballet career she had lain before me, being too scared to step out of the comfort of Erik's freak show. I had failed Christine by fleeing Paris, not being there as a best friend should be during a difficult pregnancy and childbirth. I had failed Erik by not living up to his expectations of me.

There was something wrong with my right hand. I turned my head slowly, heavy with the weight of the truth, only vaguely interested in the hot pain shimmering through my palm. When I had sat down on the floor, my hand had landed among the broken remains of the water glass, one sharp point imbedding itself in my skin. There wasn't a lot of blood and I lifted it into my lap, then pulled the glass out. It was longer and had penetrated deeper than I had thought, and the wound began to spurt blood with each beat of my heart, pulsing in my wrist.

You deserve to burn in hell.

Angela was right. I had killed three people, there was no salvation for me. I would burn. Like father, like daughter.

I do not remember making the decision to draw the shark of glass across my wrist, but the slash of pain shocked me out of my lethargy. It hurt, and that somehow surprised me. But of course I deserved the pain. I had killed three people.

Erik would replace me with my understudy, Helen Roylott. That was what understudies were for. Lucy would mourn for me, maybe Christine would too. But she would recover quickly, she had a husband and a family. Erik had a lifetime of experience looking after himself, he did not need me. No one did.

I raised the glass, felt it pierce my fingers as I switched hands, and touched the razor-sharp edge to my left wrist. I did not even have to apply pressure for the red line to appear.

"Miss Giry?" The voice was cheerful, bubbly. Young.

I lifted my head sluggishly as the door was pushed open by a small hand, and I expected to see Irene Norbury. I was wrong. Standing in the doorway, staring at me, at the glass, at the blood pooling in my lap, was the Vicomtess de Chagny.

"Matilda…"

As I whispered her name, I was suddenly a child myself. Not much older than Matilda was now, standing in the doorway to my parents' bedroom and watching my father, sitting on the edge of the bed with a gun pressed against his temple. He had smiled at me in the mirror.

"Look after Mama."

He had left me as shattered as the piece of glass in my fingers, and it hit me as I looked at a face so much like Christine's, that I could not make this little girl suffer as I had. I would not let her stand there and watch me die.

"Matilda," I forced strength into my voice as I dropped the glass and pressed my shaking right hand over my left wrist. "Matilda, I need you to go and find Mr Danton. Tell him that I need help. Go, now, run!"