One Good Turn part II
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The events of those two nights replayed rapid-fire through the little ballerina's head. Even now, four months later, she still had nightmares, still could hear the hideous squelch of Señor Fergus' head snapping back.
She had killed a man. But then again, so had he… tonight.
Meg looked up at the rafters again as they lowered the body of Joseph Buquet from the flies. The police were calling it an accident, but Meg had looked up and seen it all. She couldn't help her scream of terror. He had strangled him.
And the only reason why the police were calling it an accident was on her say-so.
In the theatre, packed full of people, no one but her had seen. No other had bared witness to the crime but her. And as her mother always touted, one good turn deserves another, Meg had lied. She had told them that she had seen Buquet earlier that night, stumbling around drunk as usual. She had watched as he climbed unsteadily to the flies and then proceeded to stumble, and then overcorrect, and hang himself on one of the many loops of rope found above.
The investigation was called off soon after.
Meg watched as Raoul took Christine's hand and led her upstairs. Her friend was sobbing hysterically, clutching the Viscount's hand like a lifeline. Meg followed, wanting to offer comfort if she could.
"—me Raoul, I can't go back. Don't make me go back!" Meg quietly opened the rooftop door and peeked out. Christine was in the Viscount's arms crying, almost hysterically so. "He has killed, Raoul. He is a murderer, and I thought him my Angel. Oh Raoul!"
"Shh, quiet Christine. What is this about Angels?"
"Oh, how he lied to me. Lied! He is a monster, and he lives in a house by the lake below the opera house. He has the face of a demon and the temper to match. And I—" Meg watched mystified as Christine began to sob once more, "I—I was so foolish, Raoul! So very foolish. I—I unknowingly made a devil's bargain… and he's c-come to coll-ect." Christine grabbed a hold of the front of the Viscount's jacket with a strength Meg was surprised her normally dulcet friend had in her. "Tell me—you do believe me don't you? Please tell me you believe me!"
"Of—of course, Christine. Quiet dearest, it will be alright! We will go away from this place—tonight if we must." Meg heard Christine's sobbing abate slightly as she threw her arms around the Viscount and nodded frantically.
"Yes—tonight. They are talking about finishing the performance, but I—I cannot Raoul. I cannot go back on that stage!"
Meg's mind worked frantically to absorb the information. Christine's mysterious tutor—her Angel and the Phantom— were one and the same.
Meg watched as Christine accepted Raoul's hand in marriage, and the two kissed passionately. She heard a gasp and then a moan from above and felt cold dread settle within her. Looking up, she saw a dark shadow crouching just below the chest of Apollo's Lyre. The phantom was watching this tableau unfold as well. And suddenly she realized something that Christine had not yet discovered; the phantom was in love with her.
The two lovers embraced passionately once more, and Meg heard Raoul tell Christine to look for him tomorrow after the performance for he had many preparations to make for their betrothal and journey together. The couple left hand in hand making plans, and Meg hid in the shadows watching them go.
She heard a muffled cry and then a groan—a litany of Christine's name intoned over and over. The sound was heartbreaking to hear. No human voice should ever sound that shattered— that devastated! At length, with an anguished cry, Meg watched as he rose up and braced himself against the sky, "If it is to be war between us, then so be it!" Meg felt chills go down her spine, and she held her breath, not daring to blink. The expression in his glowing yellow eyes held murderous intent. Praying that he wouldn't look down and see her, Meg pressed herself as far into the darkness as she was able.
With a caped flourish, the phantom disappeared from view, and Meg could breathe again. Just what the hell was he planning?!
She thought back to the events of the last four months beginning with Christine's replacement as Marguerite in Faust. It all seemed so obvious now looking back. The phantom had been tutoring Christine for months, and she knew her friend had developed a tendre for her celestial Angel. At the time, Meg had chalked up her behavior to the manifestations of grief. She had just lost her father, and it was to be expected that she find comfort in the church.
But oh! What a mess! The incident with the chandelier suddenly made so much more sense. That was when the Viscount and Christine started seeing one another openly. And oh! What could the phantom be planning?
Meg fought to remember every little bit of the conversation she just over-heard: a house near an underground lake below the opera house. She bit her lip.
Meg had never ventured further than the fifth cellar near the Rue Scribe and only but rarely. As far as she was concerned, that was as far down as the opera house went.
But wait, didn't Christine tell her once about a mirrored passage?
Meg's hands flew up to her cheeks. Of course! The mirror in Christine's dressing room! She would bet her toe shoes that the passage led to his underground home.
Leaving the shadows, the little ballerina began to make her way down the stairs to the stage once more. She crept up behind her mother, who was still in deep discussion with the managers and Reyer, and laid a gentle hand on her back. As quietly as could be, she stated, "I am going to bed, Maman. It has been quite the eventful night." She felt her mother's answering squeeze of her hand and a nod, and Meg left them to make her way to her rooms.
She would need a lamp and plenty of matches. Water perhaps and food: just in case she became lost. A change of clothes for she did not want to change from wearing pants; they were infinitely more liberating, and some latent instinct of self-preservation made her grab her mother's silver letter opener and place it in her belted shirt waist…just in case.
She looked in the mirror. She was dressed still in her costume of white peasant shirt and black pantaloons. But she had braided and tucked her hair under a cap and was wearing the warmest tights and most sensible leather boots she could find. As an afterthought, she grabbed her father's old leather duster and put that on as well.
In short, she looked absolutely ridiculous, but she was well prepared for whatever she would encounter in the underground depths. Grabbing her small duffle, she slung it over her shoulder and checked once more that her bed indeed looked like someone was sleeping in it. Just in case her mother checked on her during the night, it should pass muster. She lowered the gaslights and set off.
Two hours later found her still trying to get the damned mirrored passage to open. She had tried everything: running her hands up the seam, pressing little notches in the ornamental frame. She even tried prying the frame away from the door. The closest she got was feeling the slightest bit of musty air flow from the cracks she made in the casement. Finally, with a growl of frustration, she hit the damned thing with the palm of her hand.
She heard a click as the door swung open.
Her mouth opened and a short, strangled laugh emerged. That—THAT was all it had taken to open the damned thing! Cursing to herself soundly, she lit the hurricane lamp she had brought. And once more, checking to make sure her pack held the matches and plenty of spare oil should it prove necessary, she set off.
The stone corridor was tomb-like. It reminded her of a mausoleum she visited with her mother once long ago. Her hushed footsteps made swishing noises on the stone and more than once, she was dismayed to see rats. She came to the first intersection where the underground passage diverged into two, and taking a piece of charcoal and paper, Meg began to sketch a rough map of where she was. The paths looked level, but Meg put the charcoal on the floor and watched as it rolled back toward her on the left and rolled away from her on the right. The right obviously led downwards, and so downwards she would go. Two more times she did this, always cataloguing where she was in relation to the intersections along the way. On the fourth, she encountered three passages. Two led downwards and one up.
She quickly discarded the upward passage for a choice, and wracked her brain for clues as to which way to choose. Her mind centered on the lake. And so carefully setting down the hurricane lamp, Meg took a moment to clear her nostrils of the smell of lamp oil and breathed in deep. The passageways smelled musty and stale. But wait. The middle one smelled of damp, and was she imagining it or did the air smell a little less stale? She went back to the far left passage and breathed in. Nope. She wasn't imagining it. The middle passage definitely held more circulated air. Gathering her belongings, she made her way carefully downward on silent feet.
Two more passages later found her hearing the lapping of water against the shore. Her pulse quickened. She dimmed the lamp as much as she could without actually putting it out, and turning the final corner, came face to face with the underground shore. Black water reflected golden in the slight lamplight, and Meg put up the shield to dim it even more. She remembered Buquet's stories of the 'magical lasso', and she saw first-hand how the phantom wielded it only tonight. Meg checked the watch on her lapel, squinting in the low light. Make that last night; it was coming on early morning now.
She looked up. If she squinted just right, she could make out a light in the darkness on the other side of the shore. Looking around, she looked for any means at all of access to the other side. A boat perhaps?
Yes, just there she spied a tiny pontoon boat bobbing slightly on the shore. But what did that mean? Was the phantom out? Was he home? Did he have another entrance to his underground abode?
Her mind spun with possibilities.
This was perhaps one of the least intelligent things she had ever done. She was going to surprise a known murderer in his home. Her palms started to sweat as her mind was filled with Gallows' humor.
She barely suppressed a snort as she thought of what she'd say when she got there: something about giving to Christian Charity perhaps? Or how about making a contribution to the opera house retirement fund? Maybe a campaign for women's suffrage?
That time she did let out a soft snort.
Checking to make sure she still had the silver letter opener tucked in her belted waist, she got in the boat and quietly began punting towards the other side. She guessed about halfway over, she began to hear the music. It was frantic and frenzied, and her pulse sped as her breathing hitched with exertion. She stopped punting and tried to rein in her body's traitorous response, but she quickly realized it was the music that was making her feel that way, not overexertion through energy expenditure.
As she drew closer, she realized the music was pure malevolence played at a demon's pace, and it took every single bit of nerve Meg possessed to keep silently punting along towards the shore. Upon making contact, she disembarked lightly from the vessel, doused the lamp and stowing her duffle, hid near the portcullis to observe.
From her vantage point, she could see the phantom sitting at an honest-to-goodness pipe organ, playing manically. Every so often, he would stop playing and scribble something on a sheet of music. On one of these occasions, Meg heard screaming. She strained her hearing again over the den of music, and yes, towards the back of the lair entrance, there was screaming—and sobbing.
Just what the hell was going on here?!
"Come on, the monster has taken her this way!" Meg looked over at the other shore, Raoul and the Persian man from before were there bearing torches. "Remember, keep your hand at the level of your eyes, monsieur!" And even as she watched, the Persian led the Viscount to a hidden entrance in the rock, and they disappeared. Meg stood there in terror, paralyzed. Should she try and help Christine. For that was who was crying; she was certain of it.
Some self-preserving instinct made her stay just where she was, and after perhaps an hour, she heard gears beside the wall from which she was hiding start to grind and shift. The pipe organ stopped immediately as the phantom stalked over to the far wall closest to Meg and looked through a flapped hatch. She made herself smaller. Hearing a growl of rage as the door closest to her was flung open, she watched as an unconscious Raoul was carelessly dumped on the Abyssinian carpet. Next came the Persian man, and Meg watched as the phantom expertly bound them both with rope, dragging the Persian none too gently into another room.
Once the phantom left, Meg quickly abandoned her hiding place and went over to Raoul checking his pulse. It was thready but there. Taking the letter opener, she sawed through some of the rope that bound him, loosening it slightly and placed it in his hand so he could finish the job. She couldn't untie him fully, that the phantom would notice, but that should help him once he regained consciousness.
She heard a door close and just made it back to her hiding place when the phantom appeared… this time with a sobbing Christine in tow.
She was wearing a wedding dress and her head was bleeding.
"You really are a monster! Raoul! Oh Raoul! Wake up!" The phantom unceremoniously tossed her to the organ bench.
Meg saw Raoul's eyes open, and he groaned. "Christ-ine. Christine!" He tried to sit up, but the ropes that bound him were too tight.
"Come, come, Monsieur. It is so good of you to drop by to wish us congratulations. It is after all, our wedding day."
Raoul spat. "Monster! Demon! Can't you see she doesn't want you!"
"And yet, she will have me, monsieur, as her husband. Isn't that right?" The phantom stalked over to her and caressed her cheek.
"Never! I will never willingly marry you!" Meg was impressed with Christine's pluck. She stood toe-to-toe with the Phantom, her chin tilted at a stubborn angle, and jerked her cheek away from his gloved caress.
She watched as the phantom's hands shook in frustrated rage.
"I think you will find you shall, my dear, for I am giving you little choice. But choices, you do have mademoiselle. You may choose between the scorpion and the grasshopper. Choose the scorpion if you consent to be my wife. As a wedding present, you will give the denizens of most of Paris the gift of their lives. Choose the grasshopper if you do not. But be wary of the grasshopper, my dear, for it jumps jolly high!"" He gestured to the mantle where Meg saw two gilded figurines holding place of court, and Meg saw her friend look at them, confused wonder warring with horror on her face. The phantom tsk'd. "Let me speak plainly, my dear. Either marry me and we leave this place together, or deny me, and we all shall die." He laughed maniacally, and Meg knew true fear at that moment.
They were not dealing with a rational man. He was mad.
"Monster. That is no choice at all. You would steal her away, and what then? I vow that I will hunt you down and strike you where you stand." Meg narrowed her eyes at Raoul. He really wasn't helping matters in the slightest. She prayed he would notice his bonds were less tight. She saw his hands begin to work behind him and knew it was only a matter of time.
"Is Erik not gracious and merciful, Christine? There he lays, your swain, alive and unharmed. Even though, by rights, he should be dead for trespassing in Erik's home. I will not kill him, dearest, if that is your wish."
"No Erik! Don't kill him! God in heaven, what choice do I have?" Meg watched as Christine went over to the mantle and after but a moment's hesitation, turned the scorpion. A vacuous sound bubbled up from the lake and then all was silent once more.
The phantom smiled drolly, "All of Paris rejoices at your choice. Come then, my wife. We leave this place." The phantom—Erik—grabbed Christine, and then everything happened at once.
Raoul broke free of his bonds and lunged, knocking the phantom and Christine to the floor and breaking his hold on Christine. Meg quickly went to her friend and drew her up.
In the resulting tussle, Meg saw the silver letter opener flash, "Do not move, demon, or so help me God, you will be dead!" Meg drew a nearly hysterical Christine to her, shielding her from the sight. Raoul had the phantom pinned, the silver letter opener at his throat, and the black mask having been discarded in the tussle exposing the monstrosity that was the phantom's face for all to see. Meg watched as Raoul's grip on the letter opener tightened.
"Viscount de Chagny, don't!" Meg screamed.
Never taking his eyes off the phantom, Raoul asked quite calmly, "And why not, Miss Giry? He will never stop pursuing us until he has what he wants. I said NOT TO MOVE!" Raoul made a shallow cut on his throat and the phantom grew pliant once more. Meg moved quickly to the other room and untied the Persian, bringing him to the scene.
"You are a disgraceful fiend! Thinking you could steal her away."
"We must fetch the gendarmes." The Persian muttered as he began looking around for a rope. Finding some, he began to bind the Phantom's feet and hands. Once finished, the Persian had his hands and feet trussed neatly behind him; he was quite incapacitated. "They will know what to do with him."
Meg thought fast, her mind spinning. "Monsieurs, surely you must see that no one has been injured tonight." They both looked at her as if she had lost her mind. She stood up straight and tall, her chin a stubborn point. She let softness creep into her voice, "Look at him. Can't you see he's broken?" They all of them looked down. The phantom—Erik was weeping softly, reluctantly at their feet. Even as they watched, his malformed face turned away from their stares. She stated quietly, "Please. Just take the boat and get out of here."
"He will continue to pursue us, mademoiselle. I dare not take the risk." Raoul drew a weeping Christine away from Meg's arms and closer to his side. He still clutched the letter opener as one would a dagger.
"The Viscount is right in this. Of all of us, I believe only I know the full measure of what Erik is capable. Trust me, mademoiselle, you do not want this monster to go free."
Meg could feel the tide of sympathy turn against her, and she pushed herself until she put herself between the phantom and them. "While at the opera, he has not harmed a single person."
Both gentlemen drew breath to argue the point. Meg held up her hands, staying them, "Joseph Buquet's death was ruled an accident, and no one can prove otherwise. No one." They both looked at her affronted. "Look! The phantom has only asked the managers for his dues as the unofficial 'shadow' partner in the going's-on of the Opera. Through his actions, however bullying and tyrannical they may seem, he has made the Opera Populaire a success. No one can say otherwise or dispute this point." Meg looked pointedly at Christine, and she reluctantly nodded. "Please—" Her voice broke slightly on the word. "Please. If he promises to stay away from you, will you just go? Will you just please let him go?"
Meg watched as Raoul hugged Christine tighter to him. "Well, what say you, monster? Will you do as Miss Giry suggests?" All eyes trained on the sobbing man, and Meg felt her heart shift at the being before them brought so low.
"You really will leave me, Christine? After everything? After all I—your Angel of Music—have given you?" His voice had lost its strength, and Meg saw Christine biting her lip and looking away.
At length, she stated quietly, "Angel? Phantom? My tutor but never my friend. My protector and my tormentor. And you expected—expect my love. I—" Meg watched as Christine shook her head, turning away from them all. In a steady, cold and indifferent voice, she stated, "I cannot. I will not ever see you again, Erik. Do you understand? Even if you are in front of me, I will not see you." Meg's mouth opened. "You are dead to me." A glint of something metal dropped to the ground with a clink.
At that one moment, Meg hated her friend. For with one masterstroke, the shy and retiring Miss Daae ground the bound and sobbing man to dust.
As she began to walk away, her bridal train dragging on the cold, damp ground, Raoul made to follow. But first, grimacing in disgust, he took the phantom's deformed face in his gloved hand and forced him to look up at him. In a cold voice equal to that of his fiancé, he stated, "This will be the last time you ever see the two of us, I guarantee it. If I ever see you again, monster, I WILL KILL YOU!" With a twist, Raoul let go of the phantom's chin, and peeling off his now soiled glove, threw it in his face.
He went after Christine.
Meg looked at the Persian and lifted her brow. He looked back at her steadily. "I cannot leave you—a young woman— alone with him, mademoiselle. You really do not understand what he is capable of doing."
Meg met his steady stare with a level look of her own. "Believe me, monsieur, I am fully aware." Her eyes held the knowledge of Buquet, as well as her own past misdeeds, and she saw with satisfaction, as the Persian drew back slightly. "He has done no great injustice this night, and he does not deserve to suffer the indignity of our presence in his home a moment longer. Leave him be." The Persian's shoulders collapsed, and with a resigned sigh, he made for the portcullis entrance.
"I will call on you in a few days' time, Erik." The Persian's tone was disciplinary—condescending at the very least. Meg's eyes narrowed, and he threw up his hands. "Alright, mademoiselle, I'm going. I'm going."
Crossing the room, Meg grabbed the black mask, and averting her eyes as much as possible, in consideration from the sight of his hideous face, she began to loosen the ropes that bound him. Once they were clear, she expected him to help her, but he didn't. He lay there, quiescent, silent tears falling from his closed eyes into the rubbed and raw infectious waste that was his face.
She bit her lip and knelt before him, grabbing his gloved hand in her own. "There, there now. It's alright." She heard him moan quietly, and Meg closed her eyes; would that she could close her ears as well to block out the sound of this man's heartbreak. Drawing a breath for courage, Meg lifted her other hand and placed it gently on his cheek.
Flinching, he sobbed even harder, bringing both his hands to his face, effectively trapping her hand, clutching at it desperately. He cried, and she held still, feeling his warm breath, his tears bathe her hands. At length, she whispered, "Hush now. It does no good to cry so. You will only sicken yourself." She patted his ruined and raw cheek, feeling snot and tears mingling with the raw, abraded flesh. "I'm going to get up and get some water from my bag, alright? And then I'm going to come back, and we are going to get you cleaned up." Her heart sank when she felt him grab for and hold her hand again in desperation. "Alright. Or I can just stay here until you're ready." She situated herself more comfortably on the stone and propped her back against the organ stool.
What was she doing? Huddled on the floor with the weeping Phantom of the Opera. For a few moments, she pondered the surreal direction her life had taken. His open sobs had lessened considerably, but he still held her hand in a bruising grip. She tried to ease it, but he just held tighter. She sighed, "You know, I never did have the chance to thank you for your assistance in the matter of Señor Fergus." she stated quietly as she felt him stiffen. "He was a repulsive man, and although I was sorry to have ended his life, I cannot say I was sorry to see him dead." She looked down, and gasped to find his cat-like yellow eyes trained steadily on her, blood-shot from tears.
"Why are you here, Miss Giry?" His beautifully deep voice broke the silence.
She shrugged, "You're going to have to be a bit more specific, Monsieur Phantom." She felt his hold on her hand loosen slightly, and she waggled her numb fingers. He released her hands instantly, but tutting, she grabbed his and held them where they were beside the ruin of his face.
"Why haven't you run screaming already? Why are you being so kind to me? Why did you lie to the gendarmes for me about Buquet?" He closed his eyes, his questions taken what remaining energy he had summoned out of him.
She drew breath, "Alright. To answer the first, that would be silly. As to the second, I truly believe one good turn deserves another, and finally, because the man deserved death. He and Señor Fergus had a bet going on who could despoil the most dancers; I heard them joke about it one day. Buquet was ghastly, and if he didn't fear my mother so, I know I would have been one of his victims. So… I thank you for performing that small service, and in demonstration of my gratitude, I lied to cover your deed." She squeezed his hands and looked at him questioningly. "Now, my legs have gone pins and needles, and I need to get up off the cold stone floor otherwise I'll be useless to dance tomorrow. And you need to bathe and care for your face. It looks prone to infection."
He looked at her incredulously, stunned. She shrugged, "What? Life goes on, monsieur. Whether we wish it or no, and you strike me as a man who has a fighting spirit." She lifted a corner of her mouth and made to rise, groaning at the stiffness in her joints as she did so.
Dusting herself off, she held out her hands, "Well? Are you going to rise?" Again, he looked at her with an expression akin to amazement, but finally, he took her hand in his and made to stand.
Meg gulped. Standing toe to toe with him was a little intimidating… the man was TALL!
She looked up and watched as he hid his face from her, grasping the black mask and made to put it on. "Wait!" she stilled his movement with her hand.
"What is it mademoiselle?"His tone held the slightest trace of impatience.
"I wasn't joking when I said you need to look after your face. It's got dirt and snot, and Lord knows what else in it from your tussle on the floor."
"We will not discuss the matter of my face again, Miss Giry." His tone was chilled, arctic.
"But—"
"Enough!" With a roar, he turned around and donned the mask, and facing her once more was the persona of the Opera Ghost.
She gulped. "Ri-right then. Well I can see you're starting to get back on your feet. So… I'd best be going; my mother's probably worried sick." Meg made to depart, but before she'd even gone a step, he was in front of her blocking her way.
"What's the rush, mademoiselle? Besides, you sent away the only boat. How else do you propose to return to the dormitories above?" Meg swallowed and backed up a step. He advanced. "For that matter, how did you get down here in the first place? It is clear you did not arrive with the Daroga?" Meg looked at him, puzzled. "The Persian, Miss Giry."
"Ah, that." She rubbed the back of her neck, feeling suddenly very nervous. "Well, I arrived by boat obviously." He tutted and advanced another step. One more, and Meg was up against the wall looking high above her at his menacing visage.
"And how, prey, did you find your way to the boat?"
She laughed nervously, "Hmm…well that is truly an inspired tale— quite! And one best told late at night in the comfort of one's sitting room with a roaring fire and a spot of German cider and —" she blew hair out of her eyes, "you're not buying any of this, are you?"
He looked at her levelly, and she imagined him arching his non-existent eyebrows. Her voice sounded so small, "Right, well. I had gone up to the rooftop to see if Christine needed help—she was pretty distraught. And so I followed her and Viscount de Chagny up to the roof where I heard…well, you know what I heard…" she winced as he sucked in a breath, "and well, I discoveredthemirroredpassagewayandmademywaydownthe labyrinthtotheboat." She took a deep breath, possibly her last, and closed her eyes, waiting for the explosion that was sure to come.
At length, she opened one eye and found him looking down at her, his eyes agleam in the lamplight. "Have you ever heard the expression 'you're so sharp, you'll cut yourself' Miss Giry?"
Meg gulped and nodded. "Good. Then I need not expound. What you did was patented foolishness, but then again, I suspect you probably already know that." She nodded once again sharply, agreeing with him. He turned, and she took the opportunity to sidle away from the wall. She did not like the feeling of being trapped.
He gave her a sharp look, pinning her in place, "I will escort you back up to the mirrored passageway above, and Miss Giry," Meg looked at him inquiringly, both eyebrows raised, "Do not ever think of coming down here unaccompanied again." Meg gulped and nodded once more, feeling a bit like a bobble-head.
She grabbed her hidden duffle, and as a courtesy, left the food and cider she had brought on the organ bench. Hoisting it on her shoulder, she looked up at him inquiringly, "Ready when you are, sir." He led the way to the side door she had spotted from which Raoul and the Persian had come. He gestured her to precede him, and she did so. As he closed the heavy, metal door, several lime lights came on, blinding her.
"Do not look at the lights, foolish girl. Keep your eyes to the ground." Meg blinked against the glare and did as commanded looking at the sanded floor. Absently, she noted many revolving mirrors in her periphery; the sight was making her sick. His hand grabbed her arm roughly as he pulled her to base of a tree—a metal tree. She looked up. A lone noose hung from one of the branches.
Meg began to sweat.
"Umm…sir?"
"Quiet girl, and pay attention!" Meg blinked back the film of sweat in her eyes as she watched the Opera Ghost work the nobs and notches on the tree, and suddenly, the hatch above opened and blessedly cool air bathed the uncomfortably stifling room.
She watched as he climbed lithely into the tree, his height a definite advantage, and then up into the hatch. She felt a moment of panic when she thought he had left her. But she soon saw that, bending down, he gestured for her duffle bag. She threw it, and it too disappeared through the hatch. Lastly, he offered her his hand. Jumping, Meg scrabbled for purchase on the blistering metal tree, trying to catch it, and wincing as the heated metal came into contact with her bare hands and arms.
Gathering herself, she took a breath and stepped back. Keeping her eyes on the hand held out to her, she ran headlong into a grande jete, catching his gloved hand at the last possible moment. She dangled for a few seconds, until she felt him begin to pull. And working together, she was able to climb the tree and through the hatch.
He closed the door with a clang, and they both sat back in the darkness breathing heavily. She dug in her duffle for the skein of water and took a deep pull. Groping in the darkness for her box of matches, she lit one, and finding his position, held the water out to him. "Here. Drink." Meg saw him look at her again with a look akin to shocked amazement before the match burned itself out, and they were in darkness once more. She felt the skein of water lifted from her hands and then heard a sound that told of it being drunk. It was unerringly restored in her hands once more. Holding up her hand, she blinked.
In the unrelieved darkness, she couldn't even see her hand.
Replacing the skein, she dug her way through the duffle until she found the spare canister of oil and her spare dress. Sighing, she began ripping it into segmented pieces, preparing them for a torch. "Miss Giry, what do you think you are doing?" His hand was at her elbow, drawing her up from her place on the stone floor.
"It seems obvious, doesn't it? We need light, and I left the blasted hurricane lamp in your quarters." She proceeded to tear more pieces of cloth. She was stayed by the pressure of his gloved hands on her own.
"We don't need light, you foolish girl. You do. I can see just fine down here." Meg gaped. "Do close your mouth, mademoiselle, you'll let in flies." She heard the tiniest bit of humor lace his voice. "Gather up your bits of cloth. There's one by your left foot there. And your…lamp oil? My, but the indomitable Miss Giry does come prepared, does she not?" She heard him bend and place the things in her duffle and then it was being lifted and placed once more over her shoulder. "Now, follow me."
She heard his footsteps grow faint as Meg stood there in the dark, blinking, trying to still her panicked heartbeat. "Umm…Monsieur?"
"What is it girl?" In three beats, he was at her elbow, taking it roughly in his own, and pulling her along. She stumbled to keep up with his longer stride.
After about five minutes of this treatment, Meg had had enough. "Really sir! Is it necessary to escort me thusly?" She stopped and pulled her arm away from him, panting with exertion. They had done in five minutes in the dark what had taken her thirty minutes to traverse with light. Her sides ached.
"Perhaps you would like to go on your own from here, mademoiselle?" Meg heard the mocking tinge in his voice daring her to argue. She wasn't known as Mulish Meg for nothing.
She laughed lightly, "Of course I can make it from here. If that's how you want to escort me? As you've recently observed, I am most indomitable…and did I mention resourceful?" Digging in her duffle bag, Meg found the box of matches and lit one. "I can, indeed, take it from here." She held up her chin in a defiant angle, daring him to discredit her.
The match went out, plunging them into darkness once more. At length, she heard him mutter, "You forgot modest, mademoiselle." She snorted. "No. As I told you I would escort you to the mirrored passageway, and I will do so." He made to take her elbow once more, but she very deliberately took his instead. As he began to walk, or rather stalk down the corridor, she purposely slowed her pace until he risked pulling her arm out of socket or leaving her behind again.
She could feel his eyes upon her.
Stubbornly, she raised her chin; her useless eyes staring straight into the unrelieved darkness ahead.
Their pace slowed, and turning her head away from him, she smiled to herself. After another ten minutes of walking, the darkness began to turn a murky gray, and then she saw a small gleam of light that became the mirrored door of Christine's dressing room.
He paused just outside it. And they both looked into the room. It was in shambles, costuming and makeup everywhere. Momentos and keepsakes gone—taken by their owner, never to return. She felt the man beside her stiffen at the visual manifestation of what had transpired in the depths below.
"Good day to you, Miss Giry." His tone was stiff in clear dismissal. With a gloved press to the mirrored surface, the latch opened, and the mirror swung free. She looked back. The phantom had already turned away from her and had gone a good way down the stone corridor.
She felt strangely bereft.
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review please. it means the world to this little authoress and all feedback is welcome.