Chapter Sixteen

Erik.

The Monday after Christine's performances at the Imaginarium did not go the way I had anticipated. My wildest fantasies had featured Christine Daaé returning the affections I had confessed to her the previous Tuesday, declaring that she would stay to rule my Coney Island kingdom by my side, and sending the Comte de Chagny back to France with a flea in his ear. Of course, something would have to be done about the child, I would never separate my Christine from her daughter, but I had not divined how to take on the role of a parent.

Now, I was going to be a father in own right, a child would be coming into the world of my own flesh and blood. I was terrified.

Meg had cut her wrists on Tuesday the ninth of April, and the following day, Christine visited Meg in the hospital.

"Did she tell you why she did it?" I asked her when she returned. We were sitting having dinner in the Magnifique Hotel's restaurant, and I tried to ignore Raoul's inclusion at our table. The staff had been attentive and nervous, but I was not sure whether that was because Christine Daaé was a celebrity, or because I owned the hotel and was consequently their employer.

"No. We didn't really discuss her reasons and it seems that she is not entirely sure of them herself. I knew Claude Giry, Erik. Maybe not as well as you did, but I do remember him. Meg told me the truth when he died, not the story she and Madame Giry told the rest of the people in the Opera House about him dying in an accident. I have heard that madness runs in families."

"Meg is not mad," I said, more sharply than I had intended.

"I know that she is not mad, but she is clearly a very troubled and unhappy young woman. And one who has been poorly treated, not least by yourself."

I narrowed my eyes at her. "Your meaning, Madame?"

"That tone won't work on me anymore," she shook her head. "But I imagine it works on Meg. She told me some of the things that happened between you back in France. She told me that you beat her."

I rolled my eyes. "On a single occasion, to teach her obedience, and it was damned well deserved! It was a lesson I did not have to repeat. You cannot be inferring that a single punishment, years in the past, is responsible for her current state of mind?"

Christine merely lifted her glass to her lips and sipped her sparkling water, but when Raoul left the table, she leaned towards me and lowered her voice.

"Meg told me about the baby. How did it happen? I mean—are you in love with her?"

I sighed. "No, Christine, I am not in love with Meg Giry. It happened one night when two individuals were seeking comfort from one another, not because either one was seeking a romantic engagement. I didn't even imagine that one night would result in a baby."

It had been naïve of me, certainly, but it was the truth. Now, I had to face the consequences. I had conceived a child, and with a girl that I still found myself thinking of as the child I had known in Paris, even though she was most definitely a grown woman. It was in my best interests, not just Meg's, to restore her, mentally and physically, to health. Being a father would be a challenge all its own, one that frightened and yet excited me. I had thought that I would be dead long before this, had intended to go to my grave when I had completed the score for my opera, Don Juan Triumphant.

Christine, and her talent, had changed that.

Now, I was going to be a father. I would have to raise a son or daughter that I would leave the small kingdom I had claimed. I did not know how to be parent. I knew how to intimidate and to terrify, how to discipline and to punish. In more recent years, I had learned how to train and to encourage, how to negotiate instead of demand. There must be so more much involved in raising a child to adulthood, more so into a financially and socially acceptable adult.

Therefore, on Monday the fifteenth of April 1901, instead of taking Christine Daaé to my bed and making enthusiastic love to her or, as was more likely, seeing her and her family off on their journey back to Paris, I was in a taxi cab on my way to the Kirkbride Psychiatric Hospital. It had been easier than I had expected to manipulate Meg into choosing this particular asylum, and I was confident that crossing the chief doctor's palm with dollars would result in all the information I wanted, doctor-patient confidentiality be damned. I had my child to think of.

Dr Richard Lockwood met me at the entrance to Kirkbride, and guided me to his office, his smile leading the way. This was a man who knew money when he saw it. The building looked like it belonged to an English lord at the beginning of the last century, or between the pages of a Jane Austen novel, albeit for the American flag fluttering above the main entrance. It was made of white stone, in the neoclassical style inspired by the architecture of Ancient Greece and Rome, and resembled a medium-sized hotel, surrounded by tidy lawns like stretches of bright green velvet.

The doctor's office was square, with a brown wooden desk at one end, and bookcases on either side of the door I had entered through. There was a window in one wall and the others were painted a cream that matched the carpet, and displayed framed certificates of the doctor's multiple qualifications, and a painting of a King Charles spaniel. Lockwood and I sat down on either side of the doctor's desk. He wore a white coat and had a dark beard; he was younger than I had expected, in his early forties, with a neat, brown haircut topping a round, cheerful face. He had chestnut brown eyes and a friendly smile. Although they were nothing alike in appearance, there was something about him that reminded me of Wilhelm Gotreich.

"I understand that your ward, a Miss Marguerite Giry, will be joining us tomorrow."

"That is correct."

"And you want full access to her medical records throughout her time with us."

"Yes."

Lockwood opened the cardboard folder on his desk, and we discussed Meg's condition: melancholia, her told me, anxiety, self-harm, suicidal ideation, and of course moral hysteria. Meg's melancholia at least had an obvious cause.

"Meg has suffered the sudden and sometimes violent deaths of those she loves. When she was ten, her father blew his brains out in front of her, knowing that she was watching. He had recently been released from an insane asylum himself, not that it did him any good. When she was twenty, her fiancé was murdered during a mugging, and died in her arms. Last year her mother died of a brain aneurysm. Meg was by her side at the time and I—I lost my temper with her."

"In what way?"

"Does it matter?"

"When it comes to the mysteries of the mind, anything could be relevant."

"I shouted at her, and slapped her face. I may have implied that if Meg had acted sooner, the death might have been prevented, even if it was not true. There was one symptom, or condition even, that I wanted to ask you about."

"What is that?"

"Memory loss. Particularly in the weeks after her mother died, Meg was simply not retaining information. I could teach her a new song or have an in-depth conversation, and the following week she acted like had never happened."

Lockwood nodded. "It fits with the diagnosis; the brain gets so filled up with thoughts and worries that there is no room for much else."

The doctor used a pencil to make notes that had tooth marks on the end; I wondered what his own issues might be.

"You have known Miss Giry since she was child, tell me your impressions of her as a person. Give me a thumbnail sketch."

I sat back in my chair, and considered what was being asked of me.

"Meg Giry is a bright girl, well-read if not especially well educated. She loves extremely strongly and is loyal to her friends, family and colleagues. She can be very naïve. Certainly when she was a child she believed whatever her parents told her, unconditionally. I think that she has grown out of that now. She is curious, and that curiosity can land her in trouble, especially when she pries into places and situations that do not concern her. She will use her concern for those she cares about as an excuse to breach such boundaries. She can be very recalcitrant. She does have a good work ethic and is a very talented dancer. She is also a skilled singer and pianist."

Lockwood's pencil was speeding across the paper with my words, but either it was true that all doctors have terrible handwriting, or he was using some sort of code.

"So, Miss Giry's melancholia can be traced back to early childhood, when she witnessed her father's suicide, and he was also in a psychiatric hospital. Do you know the name of the facility, or if it is still operational?"

"I do not, I'm afraid. I only know that it was in Paris, and was brutal in its treatments."

"So many were in the last century," Lockwood sighed. "I don't suppose you know the man's official diagnosis? There is some truth to the idea that psychological problems are hereditary."

"I was never told, that I recall. It is certainly Claude Giry's fault that Meg is utterly phobic about medical professionals and practices. From what I understand, he described to Meg in detail the methods used. Those stories imprinted themselves on Meg's mind, causing her to paint all doctors with the same brush."

Lockwood looked confused for a moment, then his expression cleared to a smile.

"Oh, you mean that she tarred them all with the same brush."

I shrugged, hoping that my mask concealed my annoyance. "English is not my first language."

"Of course not. We actually have a French woman in our care at the moment, perhaps Miss Giry will be comforted by the presence of someone from her homeland. A lot of people are uncomfortable around doctors, although from what you describe Miss Giry's case is extreme. During her past periods of melancholia, has there been incidents of self-harm?"

"Not that I am aware of, no. I have never noticed any cuts of scars that appear to be self-inflicted. This is the first time that Meg has attempted suicide. But I suppose that the attempt only has to be successful once." I could feel a tightening in my throat. "I cannot think what drove her to it."

"Well, that is my job." The doctor smiled kindly.

"She asked me once if I truly believed that her father was mad. I told her that yes, I did." It was strange to realise that my honest answer to the girl now made me feel guilty.

"The human mind still requires much exploration," Lockwood's tone was gentle. "There are some conditions that remain beyond the reach of science. Perhaps Mr Giry's really was one. I am confident, however, that his daughter's is not." He scanned over his illegible notes. "Is Miss Giry well-liked by her colleagues?"

"On the whole, yes. She makes friends easily and is happy to converse with anyone."

It was a natural ability that I certainly did not possess.

"Is she a promiscuous woman?"

"I beg your pardon?" I felt myself go tense in shock. Lockwood raised his eyebrows at me.

"She is pregnant and unmarried, Mr Danton. Is she in the habit of sharing her bed?"

"No, she is not." I could feel myself reddening as I gripped the arms of my chair, although whether it was out of anger or embarrassment I was not sure. "The child is mine. And before you ask, I am not in the habit of sharing my bed either, particularly not with those in my employment or care. We were both still grieving, and seeking comfort in one another. I would certainly never take advantage of—"

"Mr Danton," Lockwood interrupted. "The question is intended to find out if the patient is hypersexual, or has a sexual orientation disturbance. I am not judging you, or indeed her."

I took a deep breath and mentally counted to five.

"To the best of my knowledge, Meg lost her virginity to her fiancé when she was twenty years old. They conceived a baby together, but she suffered a miscarriage."

"A miscarriage," he repeated, writing again. "Now that is interesting. How advanced was the pregnancy?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "Not far, I don't think., there was no change to her shape." I hesitated. "I do not know if it is relevant, but Meg was a ballerina back in Paris. I expect you are aware of how upper-class gentlemen behave towards girls who perform on stage. There was at least one incident in which she was the victim of a violent attempted rape."

Meg had been sixteen years old, a sheltered, foolish little girl trying to grope her way into adulthood. It was only due to an unfortunate bout of insomnia that I was on the scene at all. A masked phantom cannot walk the streets of Paris in daylight like an ordinary man in any case, but on that night I had counted almost twenty-four hours without sleep, my creative energy was expended, and yet I was still too unsettled to rest my mind and body. So I walked, habitually keeping to the shadows in spite of the darkness, treading the paths of fellow night-time creatures, the thieves, the drunks, the tomcats and the whores. One such tomcat was exiting the public house, his arm around the waist of a small, slight girl with blonde hair. Meg Giry. Suspicious, I followed the pair as the man somehow managed to turn the little dancer away from the Opera House, her home. He was far soberer than he would have Meg believe, and was pressing a bottle to the girl's lips.

"Drink, little Meg, or you'll freeze."

She drank, stumbled, and shared about her, trying to orient herself.

"Where are we going?"

"Don't be afraid, child," Tomcat's voice was gentle, the silky tones of a predator. "It'll be all right. You said you were going to be a prima donner, one day. I'm just taking you to somewhere you can perform for me."

It was clear what kind of performance he had in mind. I scaled the scaffolding surrounding one of the buildings and used the rooftops as a private pathway, paralleling them into the back alleys of Paris. Another few streets, and Tomcat was pinning Meg against the wall, grinding his hips against hers and his mouth muffling her questions and protests. Watching from above, I could see his impatience building as she struggled to regain her senses, fighting back weakly. What had been in the bottle she had made Meg drink from? It seemed likely to have been some drug more sinister than alcohol, and he had brought it with him, fully intending to capture an innocent in his web.

As the man forced Meg onto her back on the cobbled street, his breathing was becoming angered; he must have expected Meg to be pliant by now so that he could take her without objection. His hands ripped at the bodice of Meg's dress, exposing her creamy skin to the scattered moonlight seeping through broken clouds, opening a red line over her left breast with ragged fingernails as his lust took hold.

I had seen enough. Silently, I wrapped my cloak tightly about myself and lowered myself from the edge of the roof by the fingertips. I let go, trying to land with as little noise as I could manage, although the air was forced form my lungs as I hit the cobblestones.

The girl was being crushed underneath her assailant now and there was a bleeding cut above her lip.

"Don't," she managed. "Please don't!"

But Tomcat clamped a large hand over her mouth and tore her drawers from her completely.

"Please!"

The desperate scream was muffled. I grabbed Tomcat from behind, one black-gloved hand on either side of his skull, and twisted with all of my strength. The snap of his neck confirmed that the deed was done as he lurched sideways and I couched over him, breathing hard, feeling a rush of adrenaline and power. Meg was too shocked to move or speak. It was the first time that she had seen me in real life, a man of flesh and blood, rather than the mysterious creature from her parents' tales. We were bound together by trauma.

"Meg has suffered," I acknowledged. "Perhaps more than some, but I have seen nothing to indicate that she was suicidal."

Or had I? I could feel a headache starting between my eyes, the kind that could only be relieved by a quiet lie down in a darkened room, without my mask. Lockwood tapped his lips with the end of his pencil.

"The theory is that it is down to personal training, especially in women." He paused and I could sense that he was choosing his next words carefully. "Society dictates how we should behave, and deviating from those rules can have disastrous consequences. You know, I think, what it is like to live outside of those rules and expectations, and there is a certain power in that." I tilted my head in disbelief, and he continued. "When a person can be threatened by society's wrath by even stepping out of their norms by a margin, then they will do whatever they can to appear normal, to stay in favour. They pretend, they act, they wear a mask for the world to see, and they hide behind it. For some people, they become absorbed into their character. For others, they can't keep up the pretence, and they break."

I considered his words, and was not sure how I felt about them.

"How do you propose to treat Meg?" I asked eventually.

"I can't be entirely sure until after I have assessed her and made an official diagnosis. The conditions I have listed today are only suppositions based on her symptoms and the notes from Brooklyn Community Hospital. What you have told me today helps to clarify matters, and the baby certainly changes things. There are some medications we can try—"

"You can try?" I interrupted.

"People respond to the medicines differently, and the first couple of weeks with any new patient are something of a trial and error process. If hysteria is a root cause, then we can try stimulation therapy. One of my colleagues has achieved great success with hypnotism—"

"Hypnotism won't work with Meg," I told him.

"No?" Lockwood raised his eyebrows. "Why do you say so?"

"I have some small talent with hypnotism myself. Meg is not susceptible."

"Well, there is also hydrotherapy and talking therapy. We have a variety of techniques at our disposal, and will find the right one for your ward."

I had to believe what the doctor told me. I wanted Meg back, I realised. I wanted the happy, lively young woman she had been when she was loved by Benedict Adaire, creative and eager to learn. How had I not noticed, since I met Christine in Thurlestone's theatre, that Meg had been practically sleepwalking through her days?

On that Monday night, I sat in Meg's room at the Brooklyn Community Hospital, and watched her sleep. She did not know I was there, and I had paid off the orderly so that he would not make a fuss about my being there outside of visiting hours. In the dim glow of the lowered gas lights, Meg looked terribly young; too young to be a mother.

For the first time, I allowed myself to think beyond the next few weeks. Supposing that, unlike her previous pregnancy, Meg carried this baby to term, what would come next? If Meg was not considered well enough to leave Kirkbride in time for the birth, would I need to provide a wet-nurse for the baby? What if she was deemed unsafe around infants, would custody automatically be mine? Supposing Meg was out of hospital by then, the societal rules Dr Lockwood had been talking about earlier that day would dictate that we marry, if for no other reason than that we would raise the child together. Doing so would preserve her reputation, and mine. The way I lived now, I could not see how there would be room for a child in my life, but knew that I could not be an absentee father, and could not allow Meg to be a single mother. How did other impresarios juggle their business and family lives? Were there other parents out there who brought up offspring without the bindings of matrimony?

It was not as though I had shining examples of parenthood to look to for guidance. My father, Charles Danton, had been a wealthy, intelligent architect, and had been killed in a building accident three months before I was born. All I knew of him was that he was tall and dark-haired. I had never even seen a picture of him; so although it had been commented by those who knew him that I had inherited his height, I did not know if there was any further resemblance.

My mother, Madeline Danton, had been a woman of fire and poison.

I struggled these days to remember what she looked like. I could recall hair in some unidentifiable shade between blonde and brown, fierce green eyes and hard hands with long fingernails. She might have been taller than the average woman, or I might have retained that impression because I was absolutely terrified of her. She had been terrified of me in return, and full of hatred. The deformity I had been born with made it impossible for her to form a maternal bond with me, and as far as I could tell, she had never even tried. Maybe it was just because of my face, which she never allowed to be uncovered, or maybe she had not wanted to be a mother at all, but in any case her method of parenting was alternately distant or abusive. My education, including my introductions to music and art, had been left in the hands of the local priest. It was the priest who called me Erik Yves Danton; she had never given me a name. My mother had specialised in punishment, and by the time I left home, not yet in my teenage years, I had spent the majority of my life beaten black and blue.

I severed all ties with that she-devil, and would not even have known of her death if I had not seen my full given name printed in the Époque. A firm of Normandy-based solicitors was looking for me, to inform me of my good fortune. Madeline Danton had not made a Will, and as her only living child, I inherited everything that she and my father had ever owned.

I would soon have a child to leave all my worldly goods to.

Meg gave a quiet cry in her sleep and rolled onto her side, the sheets wrapping around her. I wondered if I had done something irreconcilably wicked by planting my seed in the girl's womb. What if I passed on more than my wealth to this child? What if I cursed him or her with the same ugliness God had inflected upon me? What if Meg was so disgusted by her deformed baby's face that she rejected it, as Madeline had rejected me?

I did not want to believe that; Meg had a kind heart and had grown up with the love of a mother. Whatever happened, I would not force Meg into a loveless marriage and I would not allow her to raise my child alone. Whatever society had to say on the subject, we would find a way to raise our child together.

xxxxx

At ten o'clock the following morning, I entered Meg's room at the Brooklyn Community Hospital with a bundle of her clothes in my arms.

"We leave for Kirkbride shortly. You need to get dressed."

Meg turned from the window, crossed the room to take her clothes from me with a quiet, tight "Thank you," and set them down on the bed. She looked at me, expecting me to leave, but I shook my head.

"I have to remain in the room, Meg. I'll turn my back."

I heard Meg sigh as I shifted the armchair to face the window and sat down.

"You forgot my corset," there was a slight shake in her voice.

"You are not permitted one. Nothing with laces, belts, sashes…"

Nothing that might be fashioned into a noose, I finished silently, knowing that Meg was bright enough to complete the thought for herself.

Corset aside, I had done my best to pick a complete outfit from Meg's wardrobe, although it had felt very strange going through her clothes, particularly her undergarments. I had chosen a white blouse with insertion lace on the yoke, and a navy blue walking skirt with the necessary petticoats. I also found the hat in the same blue as the skirt, but of course I could not include the hatpin to secure it. I had heard of hatpins being used as weapons before; Helen Roylott had once stuck hers into the nose of a thuggish individual who had tried to kiss her without permission.

Meg had to pause twice while dressing to vomit, although whether that was due to nerves or a symptom of her pregnancy I did not know, and she waved me away when I asked if I could help. I also noticed that her shaking hands meant that she took a full five minutes to button her boots.

At last, I held her coat open for her so that Meg could slide her arms into the sleeves, and freed her golden hair from the collar as she fastened it.

"Meg," I kept my voice gentle as she turned to me. "It says in the pamphlet that you should not take any valuables into the hospital. I need you to give me your jewellery."

She nodded and undid the silver chain she wore around her neck. Hanging from it was the silver cross that had belonged to her father, and the St Christopher pendant she had bought for Benedict Adaire before he had died. Looking utterly miserable, she dropped it into my waiting palm.

"The ring too."

"No, no, no…" The tears rose in her eyes.

"Meg, I promise you that I will not lose your ring. I am going to lock it, and your necklace, in my office safe at the Imaginarium. They will be waiting for you there when you return home."

Reluctantly, Meg eased the silver Claddagh ring from her finger. It had been her engagement ring, for all intents and purposes, but the couple had never been able to exchange it for a wedding band. I put the jewellery into the inside pocket of my jacket, and then placed both hands on her shoulders. She stared up at me with eyes full of fear.

"Meg, listen to me. I know that what I am asking of you represents, in your mind, the worst thing that could even happen to you. You know why I must take this action, to help you, and my own child. But, Meg, I am not going to let you suffer abuse like your father did. If you feel that you are being mistreated, then I will take those feelings seriously. If you truly believe that being in Kirkbride is doing you more harm than good, I will withdraw you."

She nodded, her eyes shining with tears, and I leant forward and pressed a kiss to her brow.

"Are you ready?"

She swallowed hard. "Yes."

The word came out as a whisper. I took her hand in mine, and led her out of the Brooklyn Community Hospital, the orderly following us like a ghost. Outside, there was a four-wheeler waiting for us, and I opened the door for Meg, gave the address to the driver, and climbed in myself.

On the opposite seat was a carpet bag that contained the few possessions that Meg was allowed to take into Kirkbride with her; toiletries, nightgowns, pencils and writing paper, and the photograph of Antoinette and Meg that usually stood on her windowsill, removed from its frame.

"How—how long will the journey take?" Meg swallowed hard as the carriage lurched into motion.

"About thirty minutes."

It had been barely thirty seconds, and Meg's breath was already becoming short.

"Talk to me!"

"About what?"

"Anything, I don't care! How—how were Christine's performances received?"

"Extremely well, I'm pleased to say. The papers have glowing reviews, and I am hopeful that the publicity will serve us well. Are you sure that you want to hear about this?"

She squeezed her eyes shut. "Not especially, I just want the distraction."

I glanced out of the window, seeking wildly for inspiration, and then looked back to Meg. "Did you know that the Donnelley family have asked me to let them have a puppy?"

"I thought that the Grand Circle was a pet-free building?"

"So it is, but Seamus set his children on me."

She smiled in spite of herself, as I had hoped. "Don't tell me that you have softened quite so much?"

"No, I have not. I can just hardly believe the gall of his tactics. Take some deep breaths, little dancer, and count to ten."

I began tapping my fingers against her knee and she closed her eyes, trying to match her breaths to the rhythm. As the carriage rattled along, I talked to her about whatever entered my mind: local news, politics, science and music. Even so, by the time the carriage stopped Meg had turned a pale shade of green, her breaths were shallow and quick, and there was a light sheen of perspiration across her forehead. I felt my own face flood with alarm.

"You look ever so peculiar."

"Let's just get this over with, shall we?"

I picked up the carpet bag and exited the carriage. Meg followed, but her legs wobbled and both the taxi driver and myself had to hurry to catch hold of her before she fell.

"Easy now," I shook Meg gently to make sure that she was still conscious. "Come."

I wrapped my arm around her waist and guided her to the entrance, where a small plaque bore the building's name: The Kirkbride Psychiatric Hospital.

The lobby was a large, tidy space with two squares of cream carpet on either side of the door covering the pale, shiny floor. Each square of carpet held a cream armchair next to a large window, so that the lobby was filled with light. Behind a huge marble desk, a woman in a pristine white dress and cap looked at the pair of us with an expression little short of hostile.

"We have a midday appointment with Dr Lockwood," I told her, and Meg slid her hand into mine, her skin clammy with anxiety.

"Name?"

"Giry."

"Wait here."

She rounded the desk, opened a door in the right-hand wall of the lobby and marched through it in a clicking of heels.

"Polite woman," Meg commented, gripping my hand so tightly that I was at risk of losing the feeling in my fingers.

The nurse returned with a brief announcement: "Dr Lockwood will see you. Follow me."

I felt Meg shudder beside me, releasing her hold.

"Come along, little dancer," I kept my voice low, gentle, and rested my hand in the small of her back. I wasn't going to force her onward, but I saw her glance at the doorway, could read her desire as clearly as though it was written in sheet music. I leaned closer and whispered in her ear: "I'd catch you before you went three paces. Please do not attempt it."

She tried to smile and took a step forward through the open door, and then another. I guided her along the corridor and into Dr Lockwood's office, and Meg looked more and more nauseated with each step she took. The doctor was standing waiting for us, and he smiled at my sickly ward.

"Good afternoon, Miss Giry," he greeted her. "Would you like to use the bathroom? It is just through this door."

An expression of relief spread across her face, and she practically sprinted for the door.

"Is she going to be alright?"

"Yes, it's perfectly normal for a new patient to have something of an upset stomach when she first arrives, especially if she has a nervous disposition."

"Is there a window in the bathroom?"

"Not one large enough for a woman to get through," he said, answering the question I had not yet voiced. "There is no way for her to leave except the way she came. Please, take a seat, I'm sure Miss Giry will join us shortly."

He sat behind his desk, and I took one of the two chairs on the visitor's side, clasping my hands over my waistcoat. When Meg joined us, I saw that she had splashed water on her face, and while she was still pale, she no longer looked completely overwhelmed with panic. She took a deep breath, and sat down in the seat beside me.

"I'm sorry for delaying proceedings," she said.

"Think nothing of it," Lockwood replied, "It is absolutely usual for women on the first day. Now, Miss Giry, my name is Dr Richard Lockwood, and I will be your primary physician here at Kirkbride. I understand that your main issues are melancholia, anxiety, and then the desire to end your own life. In addition to that is the recent revelation that you are with child, outside of wedlock."

I tried to hide a wince at hearing Meg's faults listed so blatantly like this. Even delivered in the doctor's kindly tone, Meg gazed into his eyes, and burst into tears. I patted her on the back helplessly as, without speaking, Dr Lockwood opened his desk drawer and handed the girl a fresh cotton handkerchief. She accepted it with a word of thanks, and mopped her eyes.

"Miss Giry, from what Mr Danton tells me, you have a phobia of medical professionals, and of hospitals. I am sorry that your condition means that you are here, but please be assured that all of the staff here have only their patients' best interests in mind. We believe in a humane method of treatment, developed by our namesake, Thomas Story Kirkbride. The Kirkbride Psychiatric Hospital only treats female patients and is selective in them. We have a capacity for sixty-four patients to ensure that our doctors, and the nurses who work with them, cannot be overwhelmed. At the moment, we have forty-four. Miss Giry, we have successfully treated many women for the conditions you are experiencing. I am confident that I can make you well. I can ease your general anxiety, reignite your spirit for life, and make sure that you are the best mother you can be for your child."

"How long do I have to stay here?" She asked.

"In all honesty, Miss Giry, I would recommend that you remain in our care for the length of your pregnancy."

"I can't!" She gasped, instinctively gripping the wooden arms of the chair. I placed a hand over hers and her eyes closed as more tears escaped.

"Will you at least try?" I asked, and she opened her eyes and stared at me. "If not for yourself, then at least for the baby?"

Meg dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief, and nodded.

"Please sign this," Lockwood slid a sheet of paper across the desk to her, dipped his pen in the inkwell and proffered it.

"What is it?"

"It is a consent form, showing that you are here willingly, rather than at the behest of the State. It also means that you agree for Mr Danton to be kept updated on your progress."

Rather more than that, I thought.

Meg's hand was shaking so badly that her signature was barely legible. I do not think that she was capable of hearing what Lockwood was saying to her as we both rose to follow him through the building, my hand on her back gently propelling her onwards. As he led us up flights of stairs, Lockwood kept talking, but I was not listening to his speech. He was saying something about there being thirty-two rooms with twin beds, and by a happy co-incidence a room on the second floor was vacant. The room that he led us to contained two single beds, matching nightstands, a wardrobe and a writing desk. It might have been a cheap hotel room, or even a dormitory like the one Meg had shared with Christine at the Paris Opera House. There were pale blue blankets on each bed and pale blue curtains at the window, through which bright sunshine streamed in, illuminating the cream wallpaper and wooden floorboards. It was a little old-fashioned and scruffy, but nothing about it was threatening. I passed Meg and placed the carpet bag on the bed closest to the window, and then saw with unease the beneath the neat sheets and blankets, the shape of restraints were clearly visible, wide leather belts that would tie the patient down. However pleasant it looked, this place was still an insane asylum.

I turned to Meg at her sharp inhalation, saw that she was also staring at the restraints, and reached to draw her into my embrace.

"It is for the best, my dear," I said, wishing it was not our only option.

"I know," she whispered, her tears being absorbed into the fabric of my coat. "It is for my own good. I have always known this was going to happen."