Standing with her nose in the curtain, looking down at the golden border of light on the stage, barely reaching her toes, Meg was torn between nerves and nostalgia; the hum, the ambient white noise of the audience chattering in their seats brought back many memories. But soon they would be quiet and their eyes would be upon her, and all of her hard work and passion would be subject to their scrutiny. Erik was lucky, Meg thought; he would stand in the orchestra pit, hidden to the audience, perfectly in his element without any unfamiliar eyes on him. Although perhaps this was a stretch for him, too… he had shown much trepidation when it came to working with so many people. He believed he had much to fear: their questions, their suspicion, their rumours… but since everyone they hired came from nearby, they were grateful for the work and the community, and they followed his leadership wholeheartedly. If he seemed to have some demons clinging to his sides, they merely shrugged and said, "Doesn't everyone?"

"Nervous?"

Meg jumped and turned to see Jeanie, the lovely soprano would be playing the lead opposite her. After watching Carlotta and Christine butt heads over miniscule details, Meg had been afraid of the other women in the cast - but like Erik, Meg had been given a surprise. If there was any jealousy between them, it went unmentioned.

"Incredibly so," said Meg. "You?"

Jeanie smiled. "This is my first time ever performing."

"Wait, really?" Meg's jaw dropped. "I would have had no idea. How have you not told me that until now?"

With a shrug and a sheepish grin, Jeanie said, "I don't know. I didn't want to make a very big deal of it."

"Then you must be so nervous!"

"Well…" Jeanie peeked through the split in the curtains, her face briefly divided by a line of light. "I'm a little concerned that I do not feel nervous… shouldn't I be terrified? Shouldn't I already be imagining the audience indecently undressed?"

"It'll sink in," said Meg. "Oh, God."

"Meg," said Jeanie. "They're going to adore you. You are charismatic, beautiful, and when you sing it makes everyone want to sing, too."

"Thank you," murmured Meg weakly. "I hope you're right."

"I'm serious! Why would I lie to you?"

"To keep me from throwing up."

"Touche," said Jeanie thoughtfully.

"I don't want to embarrass Erik."

"What, Monsieur Dark and Gloomy? Please. He cares more for work ethic than performances. And you're his best friend, Meg, he's going to be proud of you no matter how you do." Jeanie put her hands on her hips. "This should be when we get to have fun."

Meg took a deep breath and nodded slowly. "You're absolutely right. I need to get my head out of the clouds. And you! You're going to stun them." She smiled. "Your debut."

"The great Jeanie Robertson, live on stage at the Vivaldi, for all of the great city of New York," said Jeanie with mock grandiosity, raising her hands in a dramatic pose that made Meg muffle her laughter. "Portraying for you all a beleaguered Civil War housewife."

"Exactly," said Meg, dragging Jeanie back to the wings as people motioned for them to get out of the way. The show was about to start. "They'll be tossing roses and shouting your name."

Half the cast clustered around them - the other half congregated across from them, waving and whispering to each other and mouthing offerings of good luck and inside jokes. Meg revelled in the warmth of being surrounded by her friends, her colleagues, and felt that the electricity of their excitement was as real as the electricity that powered the elaborate lamps that lined the auditorium on the other side of the curtain. (Giry had vetoed a chandelier.) Next to Meg, Ellen, a woman in her seventies who always brought baked goods to rehearsals, hummed absentmindedly. Behind her, the company's lead tenor, Raphael, said in a carrying whisper, "This is so much cooler than canning sardines."

"Shut up," whispered Jeremy, dressed in a mildly overdone chef's costume. "They're starting."

"You shut up," said Raphael, pushing him back lightly, and everyone muttered to themselves as the two began a friendly scuffle that was interrupted by the loud crash of the opening notes of the overture.

Meg stood completely still, and she felt Jeanie take hold of her arm.

"Meg."

She looked over, her eyes vacant.

"Meg, you did it."

Blinking, Meg focused on the silhouette of Jeanie's face, its features invisible in the darkness of the wing. "I did what?"

"It's open," said Jeanie. "The Vivaldi. Everything you and Erik have built. You've done it. The show has started. People are here. You did it."

As Meg stared at Jeanie, she heard the others grow silent around her, watching her. She looked around and in the dim light she saw that they were all smiling. Several reached out to touch her shoulders, a congratulation and a comfort-

"We did it," said Meg, her voice cracking and her eyes watering. She laughed in disbelief. "We actually did it."

Ellen said, "Yes, you did, sweetheart. And you should be proud."

From behind, Jeremy wrapped his arms around her, and the others followed suit. With their arms wrapped around each other, they all stood in silence, listening to the orchestra play the lively suite Erik had composed. Meg remembered the first time she heard it, waking up in the middle of the night to find that Erik had left the apartment and following him to the local church where he was allowed to play the piano. He'd hardly noticed her arrival but was fully immersed in his simple piano arrangement of the piece that was now flying on violin strings and warm brass notes. Meg wiped her eyes. Her makeup would probably need touching up during Jeremy's solo.

The overture finished and the curtains were drawn open, and the opening number began. Meg watched her friends go onstage, one by one, and although they had rehearsed on that stage many times, their voices sounded different - more alive, more human; the air in the room was water spilled on hot iron, and Meg was the last to step onstage.

There was a measure of music and a fermata before she began, so Meg was allowed to take whatever time she wanted or needed.

She took her place among the others and faced the audience.

There were so many of them. Faceless heads, suits and dresses, lamps and doorways and the ceiling so high above her. Erik in the orchestra pit, hands raised expectantly, waiting for her command to continue.

Meg breathed in deeply. She could do it. She would.

And then she began to sing.

"Meg!"

She turned as she made her way down the hallway to see Lily running towards her, radiant in a deep blue dress and glittering silver earrings. Lily grinned widely and there were tears on her face. "Meg, you were magnificent!"

"Thank you," said Meg, stumbling backwards as Lily hugged her tightly. "I couldn't have done it without you," Meg continued, pulling back and mirroring Lily's smile. Meg's cheeks already hurt from smiling, and the night was far from over. "I can't believe it. We did it."

"We aren't done yet!" Lily exclaimed. "It was just our first show! You'd better go change, Meg, they'll be looking for you out in the lobby."

Once the final spatter of applause had dissipated and the curtains closed, the cast had rushed backstage to change into their formal wear - since many of them had little money for finery, simplicity would have to pass for elegance. As Lily continued in the direction Meg had come, other cast members passed Meg on her way to her dressing room, shouting and laughing and half-dressed, hugging each other and re-enacting Jeremy's noticeable but well recovered fumble in his solo song. Meg smiled as she passed through dazedly, as if she were a ghost among them and could only watch the happy chaos around her.

This reverie was broken by the appearance of Erik further down the hallway, a sight that caught the attention of all, and they collectively leaned forward to see what his verdict on their performance might be. The pandemonium in the tight space quickly dropped to a low hum.

"Well, Monsieur?" called Lily from the other end of the hallway.

Erik lifted his chin, surveying them calmly. He didn't smile but the gleam of pride in his eyes eased Meg's anxiety. "Excellent work," he said. "You should all be proud."

A cheer went up - Erik was certainly not known to lie - and quickly the performers delved back into chaos, and somewhere Meg heard her mother order them not to waste any more time chatting, they had patrons waiting outside, and their work was not done yet.

Meg lifted a hand to catch Erik's attention, and when their eyes met she raised her eyebrows inquisitively. With a slight smile, Erik nodded firmly. Meg had performed well, too.

Satisfied, Meg grinned back and hurried to her dressing room. Her feet hurt like the devil already, and she couldn't wait to soak them once she finally returned to the Giry's apartment later that night, but there were hours to go before then. Meg pulled off her heeled shoes and shut the door behind her, not bothering to lock it since no one would bother her here. Her dressing room was very small, not the sort that would house the European divas, but Meg preferred it this way. It was tidy and never too cold, a little cave to which Meg could escape for a bit of calm and solitude. Meg pulled off her costume and hung it up, taking a moment to knead the balls of her feet in hopes of easing some of the pain before the second round of her performance began. And in a way, what came next would be more difficult, since there were no scripted lines for her to say and no map of what would happen next.

There was no time to take off her heavy stage makeup, so Meg quickly pulled on her emerald green dress - simple skirts, buttons in lieu of a corset, with white sleeves and collar. Madame Giry criticized that she seemed more of a businesswoman than a diva wearing it, but Erik reasoned that this could be seen in a positive light: their theatre was not built from wealth or professionalism but rather from the hard work of very ordinary people - in short, Meg was a businesswoman, and she was proud of it.

The hallway was mostly empty when Meg stepped outside, and she hurried towards the heavy double doors that led to the lobby. She did not hesitate before pushing them open, and immediately she was met with sound and light and many faces.

"Hey!" Raphael jumped out from behind the door. "Careful with that! You nearly hit me."

"Sorry," said Meg. She let go of the door, letting it swing shut. "People stayed?"

"They want to meet the cast," said Raphael. Side by side, the two of them surveyed the room. Employees and audience members alike stood crowded in the narrow foyer. It was Meg's favorite room in the building - the walls were lined with a smooth, dark wood, and the ceiling rose high above, slanted to accommodate the mezzanine and the rehearsal room. For a brief moment, Meg stood in the eye of the storm, but then people began to recognize her, and soon, Meg found herself surrounded by finely dressed audience members, joyful co-workers, and several journalists. Their voices and faces blurred together even as Meg tried to speak to each of them. One journalist pushed forward from the rest, notebook and pen in hand.

"Miss Giry, this was the Vivaldi's first formal performance under the management of Mr. Barreau's leadership," he said, butchering the French name. "Thank you for your magnificent performance tonight."

"Thank you," said Meg, smiling graciously.

"It is true you were born and raised in France?"

"Yes."

"What brought you to America?"

Looking around at the crowd, Meg caught Lily's eye. "It's the land of opportunity." The journalist smiled at the response, but Lily, unobserved behind him, smirked to avoid laughing, and Meg knew her sarcasm had been detected by her even as it evaded the journalist.

"Will we be seeing more performances from you in the future?"

"Well, we will continue to perform Called to Arms through the end of the month," Meg replied.

"What can we expect after that?"

"It's difficult to say, but I have no doubt that Monsieur Barreau will have something to dazzle us all," said Meg. It was a decorated version of the response she and Erik had agreed upon. The journalist thanked her and pushed past, already focused on someone else, and Meg was once again surrounded by people, theater-goers taking her hand and complimenting her voice, her dancing, her beauty - Meg was overwhelmed.

Someone took hold of her shoulders; Madame Giry, who must have forced her way through the crowd with her imposing glare, said, "Marguerite. Regardez."

Meg glanced over her shoulder, following Giry's gaze, and saw the same journalist who had just spoken to her trying to push past an oblivious Raphael and several more cast members to speak to the man who lingered by the door, nondescript and unassuming. Erik, unaware of the approaching journalist, met her gaze with confusion. Meg was surprised to see him in the lobby - he wore a flesh-toned mask that was not completely noticeable, and if he looked somewhat strange, a stranger wouldn't be able to name exactly why.

"Please excuse me," said Meg to the people around her, gesturing to Jeremy. "Mr. Salazar here will have far more entertaining answers to your questions, I promise you."

Meg ducked through the shifting crowd, and on instinct her colleagues got out of her way, so she reached Erik first. "Soyez gentil," she said. Be nice.

Erik said, "What?"

"Monsieur Barreau himself!" exclaimed the journalist, appearing by Meg's side, and to his credit, he'd corrected his pronunciation. "You're the composer behind the performance tonight, correct?"

"Yes," said Erik gruffly.

"Is this your first major work to be performed in a theatre such as this?"

Erik blinked. "It is." In truth it was his second; Meg recalled the disastrous opera she herself had performed in on the Paris stage. There wasn't much time to reminisce: several others had noticed the lurking composer and Erik looked around anxiously, noticing many more eyes on him.

"I must congratulate you, sir," said the journalist. "It was wonderful."

Surprised, Erik looked back at him, eyes widening almost imperceptibly. "Thank you."

"Are you satisfied with tonight's performance?"

"There is always room for improvement," said Erik, eliciting mild laughter from the performers in the crowd. "But I am quite proud of them."

Raphael let out a whoop, and the room resumed its chaos as theatregoers began to depart and performers began to return backstage. The journalist stayed.

"You are from France as well, sir?" he asked.

"That is correct."

"Have you performed there?"

"I have not."

"Are you familiar with the French arts scene?"

"Relatively so, yes. I am, at least, familiar with how it was before I left."

The journalist nodded. "Do you plan on inviting La Daae to perform here during her visit?"

Meg stomach dropped.

"I'm sorry?" said Erik, glancing at her.

"Perhaps as a fellow native of France she might be willing to grace the Vivaldi with her angelic voice," said the journalist, and the line sounded rehearsed.

"Are you referring to Christine Daae?" Erik seemed uninterested but Meg saw the way his jaw clenched.

"Madame la Vicomtesse de Chagny," confirmed the journalist. "Had you heard that she and the Vicomte are visiting the United States? You ought to invite them here!"

"I was…" Erik glanced at Meg and then past her; in her periphery Meg saw her mother standing at her shoulder. "I was unaware of their visit. Please excuse me." Erik turned and pushed through the door leading backstage, and Madame Giry quickly followed.

Meg turned to the journalist and smiled even as she felt dread growing in her chest. "Thank you very much for your kind words. I'm glad you enjoyed the performance."

"Thank you so much for your time, Miss Giry," said the journalist, staring after Erik with confusion. "I- I hope I did not upset Mr. Barreau."

"Not at all," said Meg warmly. "He is not one for large crowds."

"Ah, I understand," said the journalist, brightening. "I'd love to speak to him about the theatre more, when he feels more comfortable. I very much admire what he's doing here. And you as well, miss."

"I can't guarantee Erik's time, but I could surely speak with you a bit about the theatre," said Meg. "We would very much appreciate more publicity."

"Of course," said the journalist, digging in his coat pocket. "Here's my card-" he handed it to her. "-and be sure to contact me whenever you like!"

"Thank you very much," said Meg. She glanced at it. "Mr. Edwards. I appreciate it. Please excuse me as well, I have business to take care of backstage."

The journalist nodded and left, and Meg hurried backstage. She felt a hand on her arm and turned to see Lily.

"What the hell was that about?" she asked.

"The journalist? He-"

"No. I mean Barreau. Why did he bolt?"

"It's - it's complicated," said Meg.

Lily sighed. "He is so sensitive," she said. "I don't understand. Whatever did the man say that upset him so?"

"That's not important," said Meg, reaching the door to her dressing room. She'd change and then she'd find Erik and her mother. Meg wouldn't get to sleep for much longer than she anticipated, and her feet ached. "What's important is finding out whether he already knew."

Lily passed her, already hurrying to whatever her next responsibilities would be, but Meg stood in the doorway, taking a deep breath.

Maybe it had been foolish, Meg thought, to think that they could leave the past behind them.

Sorry about the delay for this one! I moved in with my brother this week. Thanks so much for the support I've received so far!