Marguerite Giry stood just beyond the deep blue curtains, the velvet carpet of the same color sweeping down before her until it met the stage, pristinely painted jet black and scrubbed until it shone. The curtains were halfway open, and Meg could see through to the back wall, behind which, she knew, lay only the sea. The performance hall, which mere months ago had been in shambles, seemingly beyond disrepair - its shady Brooklyn real estate agents had been eager to get the old building off their hands - now stood stately and grand with such elegance that Meg's heart twisted with nostalgia.

"And they said it couldn't be done," said the man at her shoulder, as if she had spoken these thoughts out loud.

"We've been underestimated," Meg remarked. "But I'm sure that will end today." They grinned at each other. "Did you finish the wiring for the lights?"

"I did," said the man. "I had to consult Monsieur several times, however."

Meg laughed softly. "I'm sure he was annoyed."

"He didn't seem to be, actually. I think he's as excited as the rest of us."

"He is; he must be," said Meg. She turned around. "Thank you, Jeremy. I'll see you later this evening."

"I know you're going to break a leg tonight," said Jeremy, putting on his hat and pushing aside the curtains, giving her a mock salute.

"Thank you," said Meg. She watched him leave. Sinking into one of the seats in the last row, she hoped he would be right.

For a few moments, Meg simply sat and revelled in the product of months of late nights and hard work. Soon, however, the restlessness of nerves got the better of her, and she got to her feet and made her way down the aisle, rolling up her sleeves as she went. When she reached the stage she climbed up, her mother's voice in her head reminding her how unladylike this was. Turning around to face an invisible audience, Meg lifted up her chin and took a deep breath. It would be fine. It would all be fine. Their eyes wouldn't burn her, and their whispers wouldn't reach her ears. The only real danger would be the possibility of falling into the orchestra pit. She imagined her own petite form, limp in the air like a rag doll, everyone else frozen in place as she flew from the stage into the abyss below, no doubt crashing onto the piano and knocking over Marie, their fearless accompanist. The violin section would come to her aid; the trumpets would laugh at her. And the conductor, the Monsieur himself, would simply stand there, baton raised, with that look of exasperation she all knew too well.

Meg let out a laugh.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est?"

Turning, she saw her mother, Madame Jacqueline Giry, standing in the wings.

"English, please," said Meg good-naturedly.

Her mother scowled. Despite their five years since arriving in the States, Giry had not picked up on the language as quickly as her companions, but now that the theatre was going to open, she would be called upon to welcome patrons and speak to the press, and Meg had taken it upon herself to ensure that her proud mother would not feel foolish.

"What is so funny?" Giry asked, crossing her arms.

"Thinking of what would happen if I fell into the pit," said Meg.

"Do not be foolish. You will curse yourself," said Giry, turning on her heel and disappearing into the darkness of the wings. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Meg followed.

"They have finished everything," Giry went on, her French articulation shining through a bit more, although this was no matter for concern; Meg knew the American press would find it chic. "I did not expect them to clean backstage but it isn't too horrible."

Meg winced. Josephine and Jeremy and Raphael must have been up all night, the fear of Giry's wrath driving them to clean far more than Meg or the theatre's director and an old friend of the Girys, Erik, might have required. She made a mental note to mention their hard work to Erik during her lesson, so that they might be paid more. After tonight, Meg reasoned, they would certainly be able to.

"What else is left to do?" asked Meg.

"Nothing until we must begin - must begin our preparations," said Giry, holding the door for Meg as they stepped into a hallway with concrete floors and wooden walls, lined with doors that sat open, waiting. The dressing rooms, Meg knew, would be full of costumes and sheets of music and pairs of shoes and makeup, and later that evening, they would be full of people, too.

"Good," said Meg, although she wished there was more to do, so she might escape the growing sense of dread and excitement that had been building in her for weeks.

"You are nervous," said Giry.

"Yes."

"Don't be. You have performed many times."

"This will be my first performance in the United States," said Meg.

"Americans are stupid. They will see that you are pretty and not care about how you perform. It will make no difference to them if you are good or bad."

Meg looked at the floor. "I've worked very hard. I'd like for them to think I'm good."

"If you wanted opinions of value, you should have gone to Berlin," said Giry, continuing down the hallway.

But I didn't, Meg wanted to shout after her. I came here, with you, and with Erik, to protect us all, and don't you care if I'm any good or not? But she knew her mother wouldn't bother to turn and would only reply, Non, ça m'est égal.

At least she would be able to count on Erik for an opinion of some sort: whether he chose fervent positivity or disdain, he was not one known for indifference.

Lifting her skirts and wishing she were in her costume with its sturdy boots and trousers, Meg trudged up the stairs. The second floor, directly above the dressing rooms, housed several offices. One belonged to Giry, and was strictly organized; another was Erik's and could constantly be found in a state of disarray. One more belonged to the theatre's manager, Peter, whom they had befriended while looking for work during their third year in the states. Purchasing the theatre had been Peter's idea. Meg liked him and Giry found him competent, and even Erik warmed up to him after Peter met the eccentric man's stand-offishness with unbreakable geniality. Meg did not know where Peter found all of the energy he brought into his work, but she was grateful to whatever force it was that motivated him. The fourth office belonged to Lily, a lovely young woman who led their rehearsals and worked with the actors. Truly, Lily deserved better than their dysfunction, Meg thought, but her parents had spent their lives as slaves in Virginia and she had not received a formal education, and furthermore, few other theatres would hire Lily for such a substantial employ, something that both outraged Meg and her companions and motivated them to give her the responsibility she proved to be capable of receiving. Meg enjoyed working with Lily, and wished her mother might have more of Lily's natural humor and kindness when working with the dancers. Everyone who set foot in the theatre respected Giry greatly, but there was not a soul who did not fear her, from the young student who volunteered to work in the ticket box to Erik himself.

The establishment was called the Theatre de Vivaldi, it would open that night - open to the enjoyment and scrutiny of all of New York.

Meg's destination was past the offices, to the vast rehearsal space above the lobby and the last few rows of seats. One wall was lined with windows; on the wall opposite, Meg and her colleagues had hung many mirrors that varied in size and design, so that the performers might watch themselves as they rehearsed. Meg could recall that weekend, when Erik, Peter, and Meg herself walked for what must have been miles and miles, searching every shop they passed for mirrors and buying every one they came across. Peter's carriage had been so full by the end of the day that Erik and Meg had to walk home, and they hadn't arrived until after midnight and had nearly been mugged several times.

The floor was scuffed from use, but the piano in the corner was carefully maintained. The grand piano, with its glossy chestnut wood and heavy ivory keys, was the pride and joy of the entire cast; while in nearly every case, they had chosen to put in the work themselves instead of paying someone else (many of the performers worked professions by day that were quite useful). However, when it came to the piano, they allowed for the luxury. It did not go unnoticed the way Erik, whom they referred to only as Monsieur, smiled whenever an opportunity came about for him to play it. And for a man who was often quite gloomy and conservative with his words, it reassured them to see him smile, and to see him alive and breathing and feeling in the way he was when he played.

These days, Erik was Monsieur Erik Barreau, the nephew of Madame Giry, a tale that was believable because he used her maiden name, and also because after so many years it may as well have been true, for the Girys were the only family he had, something they all were aware of but never felt the need to acknowledge. They treated him as family, and he echoed their behavior. Meg wondered if, should he be forced to concede it, he would call her a friend. Erik might be inclined to say he had no friends at all; however, if he did, Meg would undoubtedly be first on that list, no?

In the rehearsal room, Erik already sat at the piano, playing chords subconsciously as he stared into space, lost in thought. He did not look at Meg as she made her way over. He did not acknowledge her existence at all until he said, "You look nervous."

"You haven't even looked at me."

His eyes flicked over to her. "Is that better? You're clearly nervous."

"How could I not be?"

Erik nodded. "I understand."

Meg breathed out a sigh of relief. "My mother is not so quick to sympathize."

"What did she say?" The corner of Erik's mouth turned up slightly. Meg knew Erik was subject to her mother's bedside manner, or lack thereof, as frequently as Meg herself.

"Ze stupid Americans, zey vill not care if you are good or bad," Meg said, mimicking her mother. Erik chuckled, turning back to the piano.

"Do not let her hear you." He played a few notes. "Let's do the usual warm-ups."

When they first spoke of buying the theatre, Meg asked Erik to teach her. He said no outright. His previous foray into teaching had ended badly, a death-count level of bad, and he was in no way eager to bring up memories. Madame Giry had intervened on Meg's behalf, pointing out that Meg had uprooted her career in ballet so that they might help him escape certain execution, that Meg had not been the one to break any laws, and that the very least he could do was listen to her once a week and provide some notes. Erik had been unable to argue that Meg owed him a debt, even though Meg did not feel as if it was so: even though they had been responsible for his emigration, since then it had mainly been Erik who worked, sometimes multiple jobs at once, to support them.

Halfway through the third vocal exercise, Erik stopped playing abruptly. "What?" he said.

"What?" Meg repeated.

"You're tense. You're not concentrating. Whatever is on your mind, get it out now, so that we may focus on the matter at hand," said Erik, watching her expressionlessly.

"I am thinking about the matter at hand," said Meg. "The opening tonight."

"That is something else entirely," Erik replied sharply. "The opening is elsewhere. The matter at hand is what you are singing right now."

"I'm just nervous," Meg protested.

"And that is good. Nerves show you care. If you didn't care, I would throw you out and have Jeanie sing it," said Erik mechanically. "But if you want to get anything done today, you need to relax."

"I just - I-" Meg took a deep breath. "What if I'm not any good?"

Erik sighed, taking his hands off the piano and turning on the bench. "Meg, listen to me. Do you think I would teach you, encourage you, put you out there on that stage if you weren't any good?"

She shook her head slowly.

"You trust my judgment, don't you?" He raised his eyebrows, practically daring her to admit otherwise.

"But I can't sing as well as…" Meg stopped. That topic was untouchable. "Professional singers, opera singers…"

"Hmmm. Perhaps not," said Erik. "Opera is a difficult genre to sing, and requires a certain tone quality that, as of yet, you have not learned how to use." Meg's face fell, but he wasn't finished. "However, do you recall Carlotta Giudicelli?"

Taken aback, Meg let out a nervous laugh. "Dear God, how could I forget?"

He nodded. "Yes. The curse that plagues us all. Now, La Carlotta sang - and I use the word sang with the loosest possible definition - opera, and she was renowned for it. But you, Marguerite, have a certain quality that she does not."

"And what's that?"

Smiling wryly, Erik turned back to the piano. "You are actually pleasant to listen to." As she continued to laugh, he went on, "Meg, you're going to be fine. Allow yourself to feel nervous. Allow it to drive you. You have worked very hard. The fact of the matter is, you are already done. Your performance will be what it may, but your hard work and your determination have already proven themselves."

"Thank you," said Meg.

He nodded. "We'll take it easy today. Don't want to put any strain on your voice."

"What about you? Are you nervous?"

Narrowing his eyes, Erik looked at her sideways. "Why do you ask?"

Meg shrugged. "It's a big deal."

Frowning, he considered this. "I wouldn't use the word nervous. I'm… I see this as being more about all of you," he said. "It's my job to fade into the background."

"You shouldn't," Meg pointed out. "You rebuilt this place. You're the one who got us this far. Shouldn't you be thanked for that?"

"The limelight is truly not my venue," said Erik. "I appreciate your sentiment, Marguerite, I do, but I would rather simply watch."

Meg frowned. "Fair enough," she said.

The rest of the vocal exercises went well; Erik seemed genuinely pleased and Meg felt some of her anxiety ease off. He left her with orders to rest and drink water and tea and nothing else, and she climbed another flight of stairs to the apartment above where she lived with her mother, unlocking the door and locking it again behind her. No one else would be in the building at this hour, but years of habit did not leave Meg easily. Thankfully, Giry was not home, and Meg picked up the newspaper she'd tossed onto the table that morning and ventured down the hallway into her bedroom.

Giry had allowed Meg the larger room; the widow claimed she preferred minimalism and seclusion, and Meg certainly did not mind - she appreciated the corner placement that presented for her two windows; one looking out towards the ocean, another to the decrepit but ruggedly lovely apartment building next door. Many of the performers, Meg's closest friends, lived there, and they'd pointed out their windows to Meg. Sometimes, Meg imagined that she could see Roberto arriving home from work, Marie drinking her coffee in the morning, Jeannie dressing her small children for church.

Years of hardship had made Meg hesitant to spend money, but secretly, she adored having nice things. She'd limited herself when moving into this room: the comforter on her bed was new, clean, and white; she had a bookshelf, a place to finally organize all the books, English and French alike, that she'd accumulated as the years passed; and on her wall was a map of the city, neatly drawn and labeled and framed. Meg could spend hours staring at it, wondering at what each street looked like and when she might return to the ones she had already seen. Meg's other belongings - the rug, the chair, her dresser and clothes, and so on, were remnants of the apartment they vacated several blocks away. Sometimes, Meg missed it, but the neighbors had been so damned loud…

Sitting in her small chair by the window, Meg unfolded the newspaper. Of course the main story was that of some municipal politician who had been arrested for money laundering, but Meg did not care for those types of stories in the least. There was bound to be something about the theatre opening somewhere, if only she could get past the politicians, and the message from the presidency, and this week's financial news, and whatever self-important knowledge the New York social nobility chose to share about themselves…

It was here that Meg saw a name she had neither read nor spoken in years.

Retired French Opera Star Christine Daae and Rich Husband Viscount Raoul de Chagny scheduled to arrive on Friday for holiday in New York.

Meg sat back in her seat. She put the paper down. She said, "Damn."