It had been two days since Meg had found reprieve from the dull ache behind her eyes, and that was the warn orange glow and amber light of a few small candles. The warm glow didn't sting her eyes like the harsh white light of the electric lamps, instead it enabled her to venture out of her room into the shared living space.
Meg's headache had been steadily growing worse with every passing day since they had boarded the God forsaken ship. She had been in good health that day, albeit slightly melancholy at the prospect of leaving France, but she was suffering from no disceranable ailments or complaints. It had been within the first day of their passage that the headache - alongside a constant feeling of nausea - had began to form. Initially she had brushed it off believing the change in climate to be the root cause - and firmly believe that once her body and mind adjusted to the smell and air of the open water she would be fine, but with the pain now preventing her from sleeping she was becoming more concerned.
It was the lack of sleep that drew her to the shared living space. During the day she avioded the communal space, often opting to remained curled on her bed with the shutters and curtains closed in a feeble attempt to grab an hour - or even a few minutes - of sleep. Her mother had taken to berrating her through the door for her anti-social behaviour, claiming that it was unbecoming of a young lady to shut herself away from social occasions, especially when they were dining in the first class restaurant, only for the ballet mistress to hear whimpering and words of illness in response.
Meg loved her mother dearly, and although she had been a stern ballet mistress her mothering of Meg had always been gentle and kind; Meg knew that her mother's shrill voice through the door was really one of concern, and that she had been trying to appeal to her daughter's desire to be treated as an adult and not a child, but in practise the shirllness would cause Meg to cower in pain. Meg hated that the sound of her mother's voice was having an overwhelmingly negative effect on her wellbeing - each time Antoinette Giry would call through the door the young ballet dancer would retreat further under her sheets in an attempt to block out the noise. On several occasions she had tried to explain to her mother that she wasn't being anti-social or ignoring decorum out of spite or want, she was doing it because she simply couldn't face the harsh light of day.
Without the harsh light of day to sting her eyes and exacerbate her headache Meg found the shared living space quite appealing. Over the nights she had sat in the dark velvet wing-backed chair she had admired the deep mahogany panelled walls, artisic drapings depicting scenes from classical literature and large windows proving a clear view across the ocean. As she had spent most of her childhood living in Opera Populaire's boarding house, she found travelling first class on an ocean liner to be unsettling. She wasn't accustomed to such grandeur, and the thought of interacting with others upon this deck made her stomach churn; she didn't know how to act around the ladies of the bourgeois and even her interactions with Christine, who had been her closest friend and confidante, had dwindled following the announcement of her engagement to Vicomte Raoul de Chagny.
Since the events of Don Juan Triumphant Christine had become increasingly distant from Meg, and had spent all of her time in the company of Raoul. Of course, Meg was very happy that her friend had found love - especially after the awful events in the catacombs beneath the threatre - but she was slightly resentful of Christine's increasing distance and even though her mother had warned her about the inevitable demands being placed upon the future Vicomtess Meg had believed - possibly niavely - that wealth and status would not change her childhood friend.
Before she had started her journey Meg found the darkness of the night bleak and frightening, but since her headache had begun its onslaught she had found it soothing. She took several deep breaths before opening her eyes, hoping that the silence and the darkness would be enough to allow sleep to consume her. Instead when she opened her eyes noticed a bottle of Vin Marinani and a whisky glass on the small end table next to her. Meg's eyes darted around the room in panic - she was certain the bottle had not been there when she had sat down - but she saw no one and nothing untoward.
With her mind at ease she put her oversight down to the low light and her overwhelming fatigue, before carefully opening the bottle and pouring herself a large glass.
The young dancer couldn't recall the last time she had taken Vin Marinani - she had always found its taste too bitter and had previously found that it made her feel lightheaded - but she knew it would help ease her headache and lift her spirits, so she raised the glass to her lips. The cool crystal met her bottom lip she caught a glimpse of a dark shadow moving in the corner of her eye, causing her to freeze. She spoke quietly, not much more than a whisper, "Monsiour, I know you are here. I merely wish to thank you for the Vin Marinani - nothing more".
The room remained silent. Meg turned back to the small end table and picked up her glass. With one gulp she drank the mixture, causing her to flinch and recoil in response to the disgusting taste. After shaking off the uncomfortable feeling the young dancer headed to her room.
--xXx--
The next night Meg had decided she would attempt to read, which was something she hadn't managed to acomplish since boarding the ship. The Vin Marinani had helped soothe her sore head and settle her stomach, eventually allowing her to sleep, and she wanted to thank the Phantom for sourcing the elixir.
When Meg entered the room she found it was unchanged - save the bottle of Vin Marinani and the whisky glass on the table. She couldn't help but smile at its unassuming presence - partially due to its ability to aliviate her ailments, and partially because it was an unsolicited gift from a gentleman. Granted, Meg didn't really consider the Opera Ghost to be a gentleman - far from it infact - but his apparent wealth (shown by their current residence in a first class stateroom on an ocean liner) would mean she could openly tell potential suitors that she had recieved gifts from a gentleman 'friend' without technically lying.
She placed her book on the sidetable next to the crushed velvet wing-tipped chair and made her way to the drinks cabinet. She hadn't been particulary fussed by the book, but Christine had recommended it prior to her engagement - when they still shared a closeness that resembled a sisterly bond - and she had promised herself that she would discover why Mr. Rochester had entranced her friend.
Meg carefully decanted some whisky into a small glass, unsure of the normal measure taken by the bourgeoisie. She was certain that the Opera Ghost was somewhere in the room because she could feel his presence in the air. When Christine had first spoken of "feeling" her angel of music's presence in the air Meg had found the notion ridiculous and childish, especially as she describe the feeling as "electric yet opressive". But since encouting the Opera Ghost on a semi-regular basis she had come to understand the meaning behind her friend's words.
Of course, the Opera Ghost had barely spoken two words to her for the duration of their journey, save a few pleasentaries while she helped her mother smuggle him to Calais and across la Manche to England. That was why she had found the appearance of the Vin Marinani surprising; her mother had told her snippets of the man's past, including his ability to understand medicine and surgery, so it was possible that he had a bottle among his belongings, but even so, giving it to her freely seemed uncharacteristicly caring and friendly.
"Please join me monsiour", she said holding the glass of whisky in her hand.
"I am glad it has helped mademoiselle" came a disemobied voice, "and I am thankful for the offer, however it is unseemly for a young woman to drink with a man alone". Erik didn't refer to himself a 'gentleman', for he knew he wasn't one. He wasn't going to insult Meg's intelligence by comparing himself to ordinary men - his previous actions showed he was anything but - a true gentleman didn't lurk in shadows, didn't pretend to be an angel, kidnap young women, or pretend to be the ghost of a deceased relative.
Meg knew his observation about drinking with him alone to be true, but no one would know, and although he was far from harmless she knew he owed her mother a great deal and that meant he wouldnt hurt her. "It can be said that only those with unseemly minds see unseemly things" she replied with a smile.
Erik was slightly taken a back by Meg's sharpness and found himself momentarily unable to respond. Of all the years he had known Antoinette Giry he had barely given her daughter the time of day, he had seen her as an annoyance - she was the product of Antoinette's marriage to that awful man and someone who could get in the way of his relationship with Christine - and worst of all she had a bizarre fascination with the stories of the Opera Ghost. It had been that fascination which had led her to spend time in the company of the lecherous Joseph Buquet, which had forced Erik to take action to protect her and the other ballet and chorus girls from his unwanted advances.
"Very well" Meg muttered as she crossed the room and placed the whisky on the small desk resting against the wall. She stood momentarily wondering what she should do next before sitting at the table. As soon as she sat a tall and imposing figure joined her, his masked side of his face facing away from her so that the dim orange light only showed his unruined profile.
During the last few months Meg had never really looked at the man sitting next to her - she had been terrified of what she might see and the anger she might invoke, yet - as she looked at him now she noticed his untouched side was quite handsome - and if he hadn't been deformed he probably would be a world renowned composer and renasissance man.
The young ballerina furrowed her brow as she considered how this man had changed her life, and how strange it was that her mother had known him for decades unbeknowst to herself. She recalled that night several months ago; the night that had changed everything.
Meg had returned home from the Opera populaire cold, exhaisted and dirty from having trapsed through the catacombs and cellars beneath the opera house; all she wanted was to wash, change her clothes and doze sitting infront of the hearth. Even in her wildest dreams she wouldn't have imagined the scene she found when she entered the apartment she shared with her mother; sitting in front of the fire with glasses of port in their repective hands were Antoinette Giry and the Phantom. Meg hadscreamed and staggered backwards with her mother moving swiftly to grasped her daughter's her hands while speaking of decorum in her ear.
Antoinette Giry's explanation of the current situation was certainly lacking. Meg understood that her mother and the Phantom had known eachother since childhood and that he had vanished after her mother had married, only to return some three years prior to the events of Don Juan Triumphant. She had explained to Meg that she had been the one who had given Raoul directions to the Ghost's underground lair meaning she felt partially responsible for the Victomte's decisions and the heated pursuit of the mob. She felt like she needed to make ammends.
Although Meg had automatically defended her mother's decision to aide Raoul becuse she knew her mother had Christine's personal safety at heart, Antoinette Giry raised her hand to indicate the conversation had ended. Meg had tried to press the issue of her mother's friendship with Erik several more times, but the only respinse she ever recieved was "it is not my story to tell".
Meg was pulled from her memories by the smooth voice of her companion, "Your mother said you have been suffering from a headache and nausea",
"I have. Although I am certain mother thinks I am inventing such ailments to aviod society luncheon".
"You are incorrect", his tone seemed firm and authoritative, yet somehow wispful, "your mother believes it is meloncholy brought on by leaving France". He paused as though waiting for confirmation or denial, but Meg remained silent. "It is not." he continued, "you are suffering from motion sickness. It is quite common and easily cured, however staying in your room and not venturing to the sundeck will not aide your recovery".
Meg lets out an audable and visual sigh. She knows her mother has coerced her friend into doing her bidding. There would be little she could do or say that would appease the Opera Ghost - she knew that -as she had witnessed his temper first hand.l, so she knew it was best to comply. She searched her mind for a plausible excuse and opted for, "The light stings my eyes". A feeble excuse, but at least it wasn't a lie.
"Then you shall go at night".
Meg decided that it was best not to engage in such a debate or argument, instead she opted to attempt to distract him in hopes that it might cause him to let her avoidance slide. Meg glanced towards the untouched whisky glass in front of him, "don't you not like whisky?"
"I do. However this measure would cause me to lose control of my senses" he spoke in a slightly jovial tone - one Meg had never heard or considered possible coming from the Opera Ghost - gesturing to the glass in front of him. In her innocence and inexperience Meg had filled the glass nearly to the brim, which was something Erik seemed to find ammusing.
"I am sorry Monsiour, I have very little experience with alchoholic beverages except wine", she said meekly, raising from her seated position, "I merely wanted to thank you for your kindness and didn't mean to offend you"
"I am not offended". Meg nodded and turned away indicating she was going to retire for the night, "let me accompany you to the sundeck tomorrow night. At this hour there will not be other guests, and the fresh air will help with your sickness".
--xXx--
Meg was unsure of why she had inially agreed to their midnight walks - but she suspected it was down to sheer boredom. Over the three nights she had accompanied him she discovered that the Opera Ghost wasn't a casual conversationalist, which wasn't exactly surprising, but she had noticed his body language expressed his emotions more clearly than mere words could.
The first night she had found the silence overwhelming, so she began to recount stories from her childhood and her time at the Opera Populaire. She had noticed early on that her monologues about her time as a dancer in Paris were met with clenched fists, pursed lips, a tight posture and harsh movements, which indicated he did not find the topic pleasing. With that in mind they had briefly spoken about literature and Politics - unsurprisngly Erik did not the the aristocracy, but he also disliked Marx, calling him "unrealistic and delusional".
When they would talk Meg had become accustomed to Erik standing a few paces behind her while she leaned over the handrail while looking into the sea. She knew her mother would througherly chasitise her for behaving in such an unladylike manner, but she also knew it would not be in Erik's interest to tell her. She did wonder if her mother knews about their night time strolls.
Meg had been prattling on about Jane Ayre and the role of religion, when she was take slightly off balance by Erik's voice. She looked over and was startled to find that he was leaning casually over the railing mimicking her own stance staring into the bleek ocean below. "I am sorry" he mumbled.
She straightened her back, cocked her head and looked at him with narrowed eyes. "You have nothing to apologise for Monsiour"
"On the contrary my dear, I have much to apologise for. Your life has been insurmountably changed due to my actions - and my very existence- and for that I am profoundly sorry"
Meg looked over at her unlikely companion, his unmasked side showing a pained expression. She was suddenly overcome with an intense feeling of sadness and pity. The man next to her was a murderer, an obsessive, and had proven himself to be unhinged on several occasions, yet she felt sorry for him. She reached out and softly placed her hand a top of his - a small gesture aimed to show sympathy and comfort.
Erik pulled his hand away as though her touch burned him.
"It is said that America is the land of opportunity. It will provide a new start for all of us all" she said with a smile, "and please remeber that you have done me no ill will".
Although Erik appreciated Meg's words, he doubted that Antionette felt the same way. He hadn't asked his old friend to accompany him to the USA, she had done that of her own vilicition, but he knew her actions were driven by guilt. It had been Antionette that had told Raoul where to find him, it had been Antionette that had directed the mob to his home, and it had been Anionette that had brought Chrstine to the opera house.
Meg reached.out and took his hand in hers - not saying a word but offering a small gesture fort and understanding. It was at that moment Erik made the decision to bid the Giry's fairwell after disembarking tomorrow evening - neither woman needed ties to his role in their old lives - and he needed to distance himself from any connection he had to Christine.
Meg and Erik stood in an uncomfortable silence staring out into the ocean. Both knew that tonight would be the last time they would be alone in each other's company, and Meg suspected that she wouldnt see Erik after tomorrow.