Chapter Fourteen

Erik.

It was no co-incidence that the dress I had created for Christine to wear for her performances was snow white. The iridescent beads sewn all over the fabric glittered with every movement, making her look like the Angel she was to me. Perhaps it had been a mistake; give her a bouquet of flowers and she would be transformed into a bride.

I stood in the shadows at the back of the wings, my heart drumming with an unusual anxiety as I watched Christine embrace Meg, and then wait for her cue.

Tonight would be the first time that I hear her perform, live and in person, in seven years. Like my investor Thomas Seymour, I owned the recordings of Christine's voice, had purchased a phonograph solely for that reason. To hear her sing. However, I was disappointed. Perhaps in the future it might be like being in the same room as the artist, but in the present, the phonograph recordings were like listening to someone underwater, or so I felt. My instinct had been to destroy the phonograph and the recording with it, but I restrained myself, given the expense of the device. I had thought about selling it, but instead tucked it away at the back of my wardrobe, purchasing each recording that bore Christine Daaé's name, secretly hoping that the miracle of science could capture the voice of an Angel.

Christine walked to the middle of the stage, her costume sparkling as the lights illuminated her, the introduction to the song finished, and she began to sing. I knew how Christine's well-deserved celebrity could affect ticket sales, had counted on it, and felt my hands ball into fists as I moved forward into the area she had vacated, listening to Christine's breathing and pitch, the length of her vibrato. There were journalists in the auditorium tonight, and these few songs would colour their opinion of the Imaginarium. She was singing well and I acknowledged that her tutor, Duvall, knew what he was doing with regards to the human voice. He might have been another rival to me if he had not been a grandfather of five, and still mourning his long-dead wife. Of course, Christine was married, for what that was worth, with a child.

I was not aware that I was standing beside Meg Giry until I felt her fingers uncurl mine as she took my hand, and the rhythm of her heartbeat against my wrist somehow helped to steady me. We were both focused on the same person, and at last I allowed myself to hear Christine Daaé sing as she should be heard. I did not analyse each note for its correctness, each beat for its tempo. I just relaxed and let the aria Christine Daaé sang swim over me, without fear or favour. Her voice, the power she put into music, was unique. Meg's hand was cold in mine, but somehow that grounded me. She was crying.

Once the show was over, I let the performers celebrate their success, then announced that journalists were waiting in the main foyer of the concert hall. Had I been thinking more clearly and not overwhelmed with nerves for Christine's upcoming performance, I would have mentioned it earlier. It took a surprising amount of self-control to answer the questions the newsmen put to me. Duty done, I watched as Christine conversed with Meg, and then moved to her husband and daughter when Dr Gotreich interrupted with some message for Meg, and the little dancer left. I calculated the interval between the end of the performance and when Christine would want to be ready for the next, and I waited while her husband and child went with her. I concealed myself in everyday activities until I saw de Changy leave the dressing room, heading in the direction of the bar.

In those few minutes, I had made up my mind. The door opened again and Matilda skipped out. She saw me and beamed.

"Can I talk to Miss Giry?"

I shrugged. "Dressing room three," I told her and she smiled again and skipped off down the corridor. I rapped my knuckles upon the door of Christine's dressing room.

"Come in."

I accepted the invitation and entered the small room. Why had I allowed the dressing rooms to be so compact? Christine smiled as she saw me, still sparkling in the white dress.

"Erik. I think the performance went well, do you agree?"

"I do," I assured her. "You performed exceptionally this evening. In truth, I found no faults at all."

Christine beamed. "I do not believe you have ever said anything so generous to me. The songs you have written are beautiful, and a joy to perform. You are a truly wonderful composer, Erik."

"Christine," I crossed the space between us in two steps, and seized her small hands in mine. "It is all for you. You were my inspiration, back in Paris. You have been my inspiration ever since. Meg is a dear girl and I have trained her well, but she is nothing compared to you. She does not have your talent, your passion, or your fire!"

I did not need to ask the question aloud; she could read it, burning in my eyes. I wanted to lift her hands to my lips, to take her in my embrace and cover her with feverish kisses. I wanted to tell her how deeply I had missed her. When she spoke, her voice was very gentle.

"Erik… I am so pleased that you are still writing. I am flattered that I inspire you. But…"

"But," I sighed, bowing my head and releasing her hands.

"Erik," she lifted my chin with her fingertips. "I am happy in my life. I am happy being Raoul's wife and Matilda's mother. And you have built a wonderful life here. You did not need me to do that, and you are living in the light after all those years in the shadows. You have turned Meg into a splendid leading lady. I cannot stay, Erik. You do not need me."

"I love you, Christine," I murmured.

"I know. But now I know that you are alive and have a permanent address, at least we will be able to write to each other."

I forced a smile onto my masked face. "Of course, if that is your wish."

"I would like it very much," she returned my smile. "Thank you for understanding."

I gazed at my Angel of Music, and wondered if she would let me kiss her. However, as I leaned forward to enact my desire, I heard someone call my name in a panicked, high-pitched voice, almost a scream.

"Matilda!" White in the face, Christine darted around me and opened the dressing room door. Alarmed by her alarm, I followed her into the corridor.

Matilda de Chagny was further down the corridor, her hands flapping in distress as she ran to her mother.

"Mr Danton!" She almost sobbed the words.

"What is it, what's wrong?" My question came out sharper than I had intended, and she hid her face in Christine's beaded skirts as they clutched each other. Christine frowned at me, and I dropped to one knee beside the weeping child. "Matilda, please tell me what has upset you."

"Miss Giry," she turned tear-filled eyes to mine.

"What of her?"

"She's hurt."

"What do you mean?"

She trembled in her mother's arms. "There is so much blood…"

I was on my feet again in a second, striding to Meg's dressing room. Meg was lying on the floor by an upturned vanity stool and there was blood all over the skirt of her cream dressing gown. One arm was thrown out, and I saw the gash in her wrist.

"Good God!"

I was by her side at once, and as I knelt, I saw her eyelids flutter, like someone in the midst of a nightmare. She was alive, but already unconscious.

"I need help in here!"

I shifted Meg's limp form so that I knelt behind her head, lifting her arms into the air to try and slow the flow of blood.

"Jesus Christ!"

Lucy had arrived in response to my call, and was standing in the doorway with a hand clamped over her mouth.

"Get in here!" I ordered. "Hold her hands up, I need to get something to staunch the bleeding!"

Lucy was shaking as she took my place, and I scrambled for something to use as a bandage.

"What happened to her? Was she attacked?"

"This is not the time for stupid questions!" I dragged a petticoat from the clothes rail and began ripping it along the seams. "It is perfectly obvious that these wounds were self-inflicted!"

There were more voices and swarm of movement in the doorway.

"My God!"

"What happened?!"

"Was there an accident?!"

I glanced up at the gathering crowd as I began wrapping the torn strips of cotton tightly around Meg's left wrist.

"Donnelley! Fetch Dr Gotreich, tell him that we have a medical emergency! Anderson! Run upstairs to the telephone, call an ambulance!"

I stared down at Meg's face, so white that it seemed as though all the blood in her body had already drained from the cuts in her wrists. But she was still alive, I could see the pulse flickering in her neck, and could only pray that I had acted quickly enough to save her life. I hated to think what might have happened if the young Vicomtess had not gone to Meg's dressing room when she had.

What in the name of the devil had compelled Meg to slash her own wrists? I had been by her side only an hour before and had not noticed anything in her demeanour to indicate that she was in pain. She had been happy as she hugged me, elated by the music.

Everything around me seemed to be blurred apart from Meg, the centre of my attention, the bright red blood soaking through the makeshift bandages catching my eye in sharp focus.

Dr Gotreich arrived quickly, taking over Meg's immediate care, and then Alfie Anderson led the paramedics to the dressing room. They spoke in low voices as they assessed the girl, but my mind was spiralling and despite my fluency in English I could not interpret. I was starting to shake; going into shock, I realised, as they gently lifted Meg's unconscious form onto a stretcher and carried her out of the dressing room.

"I have to go with her," I said vaguely to Christine, who was waiting in the corridor. Raoul was a few paces away, carrying Matilda in his arms, her face buried in his shoulder.

"Of course you must," Christine agreed.

I blinked at her and looked around, seeing that the concerned crowd had dispersed. "Where is everyone?"

"They are getting ready for the late evening show," Christine said, almost apologetically. "Miss Roylott is taking over Meg's role, they thought it would be for the best. You will let me know how Meg fares, won't you?"

"Of course," I looked back at the paramedics, exiting through the stage door. "I have to go."

Gotreich was already sitting in the ambulance, and after they got Meg settled, the paramedic raised his hand.

"I have to go with her," I insisted.

"You are a relative?"

"She is my ward, I am her legal guardian."

They let me into the ambulance and I sat beside Gotreich, who gently patted my shoulder.

"You did the right thing, Mr Danton. You acted quickly and I do not doubt that the doctors will be able to help Meg."

"Which hospital are we going to? Benjamin Rush?"

"No, there is a community hospital that is closer. Once Meg's physical condition is stabilized, we can look into facilities for her psychological care."

"Oh, Wilhelm," I dropped my head into my hands, feeling my mask press into the flesh beneath. "How can this have happened? Meg is doing well in her career, she is delighted to be working with Christine Daaé, is this because she is still mourning her mother?"

"This is not an area I have much experience in, but I believe there is rarely one single cause for situations like this. Things build up over time. Am I right in thinking that there is a family history of melancholia?"

I looked up at him, surprised. "She told you?"

"No. But I have been able to deduce it from things she says or the way she behaves. Madame Giry was one of the strongest individuals I have ever known. Was it her father?"

I nodded. "He was certifiable, and institutionalised for a short time."

"And he… took his own life?"

"When Meg was ten years old. I found out relatively recently that Meg was watching—and that he knew she was watching."

"Mein Gott."

"Indeed." I sighed, gazing at the girl on the stretcher. When we arrived at the community hospital, Gotreich and I got out first so that the paramedics could rush the stretcher passed us and into the emergency room. There was nothing I could do but wait, pacing the corridor in a swirl of coat and agitation.

"You're a doctor," I snapped at Gotreich. "Can't you go in there and get some information?!"

"I cannot, Mr Danton, I am not a surgeon. We just have to be patient."

It was infuriating in an unfamiliar way and I was filled with memories of waiting in a building so much like this one, to find out if Antoinette was going to survive. Only a few weeks later, I lost her anyway. Was I going to lose Meg too?

It felt like a full twenty-four hours later when Gotreich and I were allowed into the private hospital room. Meg still looked as pale as the sheets covering her, as white as the snowy bandages around her wrists. There were thin strips of gauze around her lacerated fingers. She looked like a corpse, lying on her back with her eyes closed.

There were two men in the room. One was a fair-skinned, light-haired man in a doctor's coat, much of his face obscured by a beard. The second man was sitting in one of the chairs against the walls of the room, wearing the white uniform of a hospital orderly, with the dark hair and skin of a mixed-race heritage.

"Mr Danton? I recognise you from your picture in the papers."

"Yes. My friend and colleague, Dr Gotreich."

"My name is Dr Collins," he shook each of us by the hand. "I am one of the physicians looking after your ward." He nodded to the orderly. "This is Mr Blake. We were able to stitch the wounds closed and action was taken promptly enough to ensure that there was not major blood loss. I judge by your shirt cuffs that you were involved."

"Yes."

"You did well. The cuts to her wrists will heal in a couple of weeks, and those to her fingers in only a few days. Of course, we will need to be vigilant about infection."

"Was there any damage to Miss Giry's arteries or tendons?" Gotreich asked.

"No, and there is no damage that could prevent her from using her hands and fingers. Mr Danton," Collins shifted his attention back to me. "I am afraid that I have some rather delicate news."

"I know that Marguerite did this to herself, doctor." It did not sound real, even as I said it. "I take it that is why Mr Blake is here?" I flicked my eyes to the orderly.

"It is standard procedure in cases of suicidal ideation that the patient not be left alone. Mr Danton, we are not equipped for the kind of ongoing treatment that Miss Giry needs, but we do have connections with such facilities."

"Facilities like Blackwell's Island?" Gotreich's tone was cold.

"What is Blackwell's Island?" I asked.

"It is a madhouse, Mr Danton. A particularly vile one."

"Not anymore," Collins corrected. "It is part of the Metropolitan Hospital now. But I would recommend somewhere that specialises in the care of female patients, especially given the moral hysteria, since she is unmarried."

"Moral hysteria?" I echoed. "I don't understand."

Collins glanced at Blake, and then at Gotreich before locking eyes with me again.

"You did know that your ward is pregnant?"

I physically felt the blood leave my face as the shock set me trembling again. "You're—you're sure?"

"There can be no doubt."

I looked at the unconscious, ghost-like figure on the bed, and rounded on Gotreich.

"Did you know?!"

"She did not consult me," he answered calmly. "And so it was not my business."

"But you did know?"

"I suspected. I was not aware that Miss Giry had taken a lover."

His green eyes pierced into mine, and I felt the blood return to my face, my colour rising. It must be fairly early in Meg's pregnancy, as I had not noticed any changes to her shape recently. Her belly had not appeared rounder, nor her breasts larger. I would have noticed, surely, given the style of the costumes she wore every day. But then, for the last few weeks my attention had been consumed by Christine Daaé, almost to the point of my former obsession. It was possible that Meg had taken a lover, and that he had fathered her child.

"When will Miss Giry regain consciousness?" Dr Gotreich sounded like he was speaking from another room. Collins took a pocket watch from his waistcoat and looked down at it. The gold, illuminated by the electric lights in sconces around the walls, shone the same shade as his hair.

"We sedated Miss Giry in order to close her wounds, she should be coming 'round in the next hour. In the meantime, I will get you the literature relating to the other facilities who can take care of your ward's further needs."

"Thank you, Dr Collins," I managed, and pulled on the skin of a successful businessman. "And thank you for your treatment of Marguerite thus far."

"You are welcome, Mr Danton. I'll leave you with her and there will be a nurse along soon."

Gotreich gave me a sympathetic smile. "I will fetch some coffee."

I nodded, and drew up one of the available chairs to Meg's bedside. In an effort to drown out my worry over Meg, I wondered about the late evening show at the Imaginarium. It was already half-past nine, by the time Meg came to, it would be over. For a single second, I calculated the time it would take to get to the Imaginarium and return here. I could, conceivably, watch Christine sing, and make sure that Helen Roylott was performing her understudy duties to my standards. But Meg had no-one else, and I could anticipate how she would react when she realised that she was in a hospital. With a sigh, I admitted to myself that the repercussions would be severe when I told her that making her well would involve forcing her to live her worst nightmares.

x

Meg drifted in and out of consciousness several times over the course of the next hour, at one point being aware enough of her surroundings to attempt a terrified bolt from the bed.

"No, no, no, no, no—"

"Oh no you don't!" I seized her around the waist, but she had stood up too fast and was already losing consciousness. I laid her back down and covered her with the blanket.

When she woke again, Meg's eyes appeared darker than ever as she registered her surroundings and every muscle in her body went as taut as piano wire.

"Meg, try to stay calm," I put my hand on her shoulder, partly in comfort and partly to hold her down in case she tried another escape attempt. "You are perfectly safe."

"I'm going to be sick!" She gasped, struggling against my restraining hand. "I'm going to be sick!"

I let her up immediately, reaching for a ceramic bowl, placing it in her lap and pulling her tangled hair away from her face as she vomited, removing the bowl when she was done.

"The nurse said this might happen, it is a side-effect of the anaesthetic. There is no cause for alarm." I picked up the glass of water from the nightstand and held it to her lips. She sipped, her eyes on mine, then:

"Where am I?"

"Brooklyn Community Hospital—and don't you dare look at me like that! You could have died, girl! We had no choice but to call an ambulance!" My mood was turning again, like a pendulum swinging from left to right. Meg covered her face with her hands, weeping into her palms. "Meg, dear girl, you must realise that this has gone too far. This is more than feeling low or grieving for a lost loved one. This is serious, Meg, you tried to kill yourself!"

"I don't want to die!" She sobbed. "I don't want to die!"

"Then why did you slash your own wrists?!"

"I don't know! God, I don't know! I just wanted the pain and the guilt to go away! The glass was broken and I just—I don't even remember doing it! I wanted everything to stop!"

"Meg, you need proper help, specialist care."

"I need to walk," she pushed back the bedsheets. "I have cramps in my legs, please, I have to walk."

I looked at the orderly, who had not stirred from his chair since I had entered Meg's room, and translated her words from the French we had been speaking into English. When he nodded, I leant Meg my arm as she rose shakily from the bed, Gotreich supporting her on the other side, and we began a slow circuit of the room, she wincing as the blood-flow returned to her numbed limbs. When we returned to the bed after our third circuit of the room, she sat down on its edge, I sat in the chair opposite her, and Gotreich retreated to the edge of the room, sitting beside the orderly.

"Meg, this is not an incident that can be brushed aside. To that end, your physician, Dr Collins, has provided information about places that are suitable for your ongoing care."

Meg's eyes were wide as I drew the pamphlets Collins had provided from beneath my chair.

"But those are…"

"Yes."

"You can't be serious!" Her breath hitched, and panic was written large on her face.

"I have never been more so." I tried to keep my voice calm so as not to exacerbate her distress. "Meg, you need help and it is my duty to provide it."

"How is it your duty?!"

"I promised your mother that I would look after you. How do you think that she would feel if she saw you like this?" Her eyes were full of tears. "How long have you felt this way, Meg? Why didn't you tell me?"

She closed her eyes, and the tears fell. "Please, Erik, don't do this to me."

"Meg," I placed my hand over hers, which was clutching the edge of the mattress so hard that her knuckles were white. "I know you're afraid. I know that what we have to do next is something that you have been dreading for years. So tell me: how have we ended up here?"

"Because it is inevitable," she wept. "It always has been! I told you, years ago, that this would happen! And now you're going to lock me away in an asylum, and that will be the end of me!" She snatched her hand away from mine and stood up on trembling legs. "And you lied to me! You promised that you would never send me to an asylum! You promised that what happened to my father would never happen to me! You're a liar!" She seized the handful of pamphlets and threw them into my face. "You're a liar!"

Blake had risen from his chair, but I shook my head.

"Stop it." I ordered. "Sit down before you faint again." Her eyes burning with betrayal, she did as she was told. "Now you listen to me, and listen well. It brings me no pleasure to break my promise to you, but you brought this upon yourself. And this is not just about you anymore. There is the child to consider."

Her expression went from betrayed to bewildered. "The child? You mean Matilda de Chagny? God, I saw her. She came into the dressing room and I saw her staring at me." She swallowed. "That was why I stopped. I told her to fetch help." She looked down at her bandaged wrists.

"Meg, look at me." I waited until her eyes met mine. "There is no gentle way to tell you this. Dr Collins says that you are pregnant."

"Pregnant…" It was barely more than a whisper as she rested her hand on her abdomen. She was still looking at me but not seeing me, her gaze turned inward to the life growing inside her. "I didn't know—I didn't think…"

"Whoever did this to you will have to accept the consequences of his actions. Who is your lover, Meg?"

"I don't have a lover."

"Do not lie to me," I wanted to be gentle but it was too late and I was tired.

"I'm not lying! I haven't had sex since…" Her gaze focused on mine. "Since you."

"But I—I withdrew, Meg, exactly to prevent this from happening!"

"It is not a fool proof method of preventing a pregnancy, and I have not been intimate with anyone else! You have to believe me! The child is yours, Erik!"

I got up and went over to Gotreich.

"Did you understand any of that?" When he shook his head, I continued: "Meg and I made love in January, but I withdrew before—" I spread my hands, allowing him to find a euphemism of his own. "She still insists that the baby is mine, that she could still become pregnant despite my caution. Is she right?"

Without a flicker of his expression, Gotreich nodded.

"Yes, she is. Withdrawal is not effective every time. I take it you did not wear a sheath?" I shook my head. "Then unless you have a good reason to believe that Miss Giry is lying, then the child is yours."

"Oh, God," I breathed.

Mine. I am going to be a father.

I took a deep breath and returned to the bedside, wishing that I could be dealt just one life-changing piece of information at a time. With an effort, I pushed impending parenthood to the back of my mind, and focused on the issue in hand.

"Meg… then you must see how important it is for you to be well, in body and in mind. I don't want to lock you away. I only want you to get better."

"That's what Mother wanted for my father as well. He still blew his brains out a few weeks after they released him from that hellhole."

"Things are different for you. I swear that you will get the best care money can buy. You are in a different country from your father, and a different century. Science has advanced in the last ten years. We need you to be well, so that you can return to singing and dancing. So that you can watch your child grow up."

Meg was still crying silently, and her voice trembled slightly.

"You'll—you'll let me decide where to go. From these choices." She indicated the papers scattered across the floor. "This will be my decision."

"Yes."

"How long will I have to stay?"

"I don't know, Meg. Until the doctors say that you are well enough to come home."

"Oh, God," she put a hand over her mouth, muffling a sob and holding up her other hand to stop me from speaking. "I'm so scared!"

She closed her eyes, took several deep breaths, then drew the back of her hand under her nose and blinked away her tears.

"Well then. Let's have a look at my options."