One Good Turn part III
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Weeks and then months passed and things eventually settled back to normal—well, as normal as could be for an opera house. A new leading Prima Donna was brought in to take the place of Christine as it seemed she wouldn't be returning after all. To say that the announcement of her engagement and rushed marriage to the Viscount de Chagny stunned all of Paris was to put it mildly. At best, she was considered a social climber up the duff, at worst, the Viscount's gold-digging whore.
Meg had stopped reading the papers.
And as for the phantom, she had not seen or heard from him since that fateful night. Of course she had tried to access the mirrored passage once or twice, but it seemed it was locked somehow. She even explored the fifth cellar, looking for the passage the Persian must have used when he came to visit. But that too was a mystery to her.
It was with a nameless disappointment, she accepted defeat, and gradually, she put the thoughts of the phantom behind her.
Rumors of La Sorelli's retirement in the coming season began to circulate amongst the battery. And it was with true surprise that Meg found she was in consideration for the ballet's lead in the upcoming production. Long were the hours she toiled and trained; up every morning before the first rays of dawn, and more often than not, she would practice late into the night. Sometimes, when no one was around, she would practice on stage with none but the creak of the aged, wooden floor and the gliding of her toe shoes to accompany her.
In her head, the ever-practical Marguerite Giry was transformed as the movements of The Dance took hold. She would imagine she was the fair and beauteous Dulcinea, the ever-graceful Giselle, or even the Swan Queen Odette herself dancing her heart out for her lover to see.
Currently, she was on the roof, practicing movements for the solo following the gran pax de deux of the current ballet they were working on. The moon was out, and it was a warm spring night, perfect for dance. Graceful and sure, Meg leapt into the air and performed a grand jete, landing lightly. Two quick steps later, and she was in a series of spins and turns, gliding across the rooftop.
Inches from the edge, she stopped, and leg held in attitude, Meg turned en pointe and looked down. The Paris skyline was literally below her feet. An inch more, and she would have plummeted to her death.
"And all of Paris shall be clamoring at her feet." At the unexpected sound, Meg broke attitude and quickly moved back from the edge. "What. Now you show fear, little Giry? And here I thought the word did not exist for one such as you." The Voice sounded fond, amused even.
Meg looked up.
There, hidden in the shadow of Apollo's Lyre, stood the Phantom of the Opera, his violin at his chin. Her heart started to beat a clamoring rhythm. "Well mademoiselle, you are here to dance, are you not?" He began to play the opening bars of the piece she was working on.
With a shrill note from the violin, Meg blinked, how long had she been staring? She had missed her cue obviously. Quickly, she moved into position and began to dance, moving through a quick series of pointed steps that led her to the roof's edge once more, she turned and glided back, graceful and sure, feeling the fabric of her gauzy white dress float around in the wind as she spun in a slow pirouette.
He played faster, and she spun, diving into a turn that then had her leg positioned beside her head. She overbalanced and fell.
He stopped playing.
Picking herself up, Meg took position once again. His playing resumed, and she repeated the series of quick steps that led to the lifting-balance of her leg. This time she held it, and he drew out the note as she registered the position, the feeling of doing it correctly. She spun, and with a leap, landed beside the statue of Apollo's Lyre, breathing heavily. She looked up to find his yellow eyes trained on her in approval.
"Again?"
She nodded, and they resumed.
Onwards this went. It seemed he never grew tired of repeating the same musical phrase over and over until she could feel it, get it right. He would play, and she would dance until she felt she had mastered the piece of music. And then he would move on to the next. It was with a start that she realized the sky was beginning to lighten for the moon had set long ago. She stopped dancing, fatigue coming fast on her heels as she realized she had literally danced the night away.
And he stopped playing, looking inquiringly at her. She gestured to the sky and watched his eyes widen minutely in shock. He lowered the violin and gave her a small smirk. "It seems we have chased the sun this night."
His comment had a small blush tingeing her cheeks, but for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why. "Yes, indeed. I—well, I thank you for your assistance." Meg winced; the words sounded trite and stilted even as she uttered them.
"You are most welcome, little Giry. If you keep dancing like you did tonight, you are going to have La Sorelli nipping at your heels." Meg drew a shocked breath. Accolades from the opera ghost?! She pinched herself to make sure she was still awake.
Yep, still awake.
She sought refuge in humor, "If I keep dancing like I did tonight, I'm going to end up in St. Mary's. Oh, but my legs ache!" Meg winced theatrically and fell gracefully to the rooftop floor, stretching her tired limbs before her. She looked up mid-stretch to find that the phantom had come down from the Lyre to stand before her, stowing his violin and then watching her stretch. His sole attention made her just a tad bit nervous, and so she chattered. "Umm, so where have you been these last few months?"
His eyes watched her, blinking, and she realized he was not going to answer her, "Right. Poor question. Umm, I guess a better one would be what have you been doing?"
"No. I believe a better tack entirely, Miss Giry, is to dispense with the questioning altogether."
Meg looked up in chagrin, and then mumbled to her pointe shoes. "Sorry. I was only trying to be polite. Not that I'm uninterested, mind. But that's what friends do. They inquire about the other's activities if they haven't seen them in a while."
She looked up to find him crouched before her. She started back. It was altogether too disconcerting how quietly the man could move! "And you consider me—Erik—your friend?"
"Well, yeah. I mean hiding a body will kind of forge a bond of friendship, you know?"
He looked at her like she was a particularly tricky puzzle to solve.
At length, he stated skeptically, "You are friends with Erik because he disposed of that trash for you?"
Meg narrowed her eyes, "Well, yes, you could put it like that. But not only for that." She held his golden gaze, "You've never even brought it up."
"Others could have, would have blackmailed me, Erik, at the very least. You knew just what to do in that situation. Which is kind of scary, admittedly, but I'm glad you did. And you wanted nothing in return for your assistance. So yeah, I consider you my friend." She reached out and touched his gloved hand. "And you should know I'm very particular about who I grant the privilege." She smiled brightly and made to stand, groaning loudly in protest as she did so. She felt his gloved hands at her sides, and then she was being lifted into his arms. "Monsieur? Phantom. Opera Ghost! What the hell are you doing?!"
"Quiet, Miss Giry, you are obviously too sore to walk back." He bent them both and picked up his violin.
Her arms automatically went around his neck, even as she stated firmly, "No, I'm not. Put me down!"
"No."
Meg huffed in outrage. He was carrying her as if she was no burden at all. Yes, she was light—all dancers had to be, but really, his muscles weren't even straining the tiniest bit.
"You are going to be sore enough this morning as it is without compounding it even further with a senseless trek." He began to walk them back to a part of the roof she had never noticed before. "Miss Giry, if you could press that notch there. No, the one beside the fig. Yes." Meg did so, and the seemingly seamless passage opened up to reveal yet another labyrinthine passageway. He carried her inside and once more, they were bathed in darkness.
"So…ummm, how many passageways are riddling the opera?" she asked to fill the somewhat awkward silence as they descended.
"More than you could possibly imagine, believe me." was his long-suffering reply.
"Will you take me exploring one day?"
"No."
She turned her head to where she thought his face was in the darkness, "Oh, come on! Surely you must know how curious this all seems?"
He navigated them around a corner, and through some sixth sense, she could tell he was looking down at her, "Yes, and curiosity killed the cat, little Giry." he stated solemnly.
"Yeah, but satisfaction brought it back, Opera Ghost. By the way, I can't keep calling you Opera Ghost, can I? May I call you Erik?"
A long, silent pause descended, and Meg felt him stiffen. She back-pedaled, "Look, if it's burgeoning too much on impropriety, I understand. But at this juncture, really, I don't see the probl—" she felt a whispered hush along her ear, and she shivered slightly.
"Yes, Miss Giry, you have permission to address Erik thusly." Meg wished she could see his face! Well, not that that would have made much of a difference due to the black mask. But she could have seen his eyes. His tone sounded almost… reverential.
"Well then …Erik, I ask that you do as all my friends do and call me Meg." She heard him inhale slightly, perhaps in shock, but then they had arrived at her quarters. She could smell her mother's ambergris perfume.
He sat her down in front of him and pressed a notch on the wall. Before it moved to open, he stated, "I must ask something of you, Megan." Meg's heart stuttered at his use of the diminutive. "You must promise me you will not go exploring and searching through the hidden passageways."
"However clever and resourceful you are, you are no match for the tricks and traps hidden throughout. You could be hurt or even killed."
Her hackles raised, and narrowing her eyes, she made to respond, but his voice, pitched low and with a distinct warning, stopped her. "Do not think to disobey me in this; it is, indeed, for your own protection."
Meg licked her suddenly dry lips, not seeing a way to not promise him. "All—alright, Erik. If that's what you wish. I promise to never go exploring the passages without you." She heard a soft click, and the passageway filled with muted gaslight. It seemed they were across from the door leading to the quarters she shared with her mother.
She was gently pushed into the hallway, "Goodnight, Megan. Get some rest." and then the door closed with a barely discerned click, and she was alone.
She unlocked the door and wasn't a bit surprised to find her mother sitting on the couch, waiting up for her. She all but limped through the door, passing her mother by; she made her way to the bathroom and began to draw a cool bath to soothe her poor, over-worked muscles. Her mother followed. "Do you have anything to say for yourself, young lady?"
Her mother stood in the doorframe, her arms crossed; the very picture of barely concealed fury. Wincing, Meg stripped as carefully as possible and lowered herself into the tub. "I danced the shit out of the solo after the Pax de deux tonight!" She leaned back against the tub and closed her eyes. Her mother reached down, and with an irritated movement, turned off the water. Sitting on the lip of the tub, Madam Giry tapped her daughter's leg, and raising it with a grimace, Meg felt her mother begin to knead.
She groaned her thanks.
At length, Meg opened her eyes and met her mother's level stare with one of her own, "I am ready to try for the spot of Prima Ballerina, maman." She felt her mother knead and press the muscles of her tired legs. To another dancer, it was all but obvious what she had been doing all night long.
"Where did you practice? I searched everywhere. The second cellars, the stage, even the little studio near fourth floor entrance."
Meg winced as her mother found and massaged a particularly tight muscle group. "The roof."
"Meg Giry! You know how unsafe that can be. Why you choose to deliberately disobey direct orders is beyond me sometimes!" Meg moaned as her mother gave a particularly vicious twist and pulled her big toe. She lowered her leg back into the gradually warming water and gave her mother the other limb. "Frankly, it's a miracle, my girl, that you've survived as long as you've done! Good grief, dancing on the roof! You are going to have me spinning in my grave yet! Why I couldn't have been graced with a daughter that has more sense than God gave a hairbrush I will never know. Why, only yesterday, Madam Anne remarked that you looked positively scandalous with…" Meg's ears started to burn from her mother's words. Closing her eyes, and leaning her head against the tub, she sighed, and tried to block them out.
It had been a long night!
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Erik left for his quarters to the sound of Antoinette giving her daughter a blistering scolding. Miss Giry—Megan—had he really called her that?!
His only excuse was that, in his thoughts, she had been Megan for a while now. He just couldn't quite bring himself to call the young woman Meg; it was such a common-place diminution. And he had observed that she was anything but common.
He could feel nothing but gratitude for her discretion in not relating to her mother with whom she had been practicing. And he was also glad that Antoinette was up to care for her. What could he have been thinking, having the young woman dance for so long a time?
But it had just felt so... comfortable…yes, comfortable was the word for it: himself playing the violin while she rendered artistry to his accompaniment in the most expressive of forms. In dance as with singing, there was no medium for which to channel creative genius. The dancer or singer was the creative genius, limited only by mental creativity and bodily limitation. The human being was the instrument.
In the months he had been away from the day-to-day goings-on of the opera house, he had thrown himself into studying and perfecting an aspect of the opera he had let slide for far too long. He had watched and observed the ballet dancers, Megan included, learning their strengths and weaknesses, their distractions and motivations.
For example, he now knew that around the same time every month, Megan had a need for chocolate torte and would cry over the most commonplace of criticism. Luckily, this only lasted about two days at most, but during that time, she was an absolute hellcat to be around.
He knew that little Jammes liked to dance fast pieces with lots of movement but grew frustrated at the slow. She had difficulty sustaining position for very long and grew distracted easily.
He knew that the newest dancer, Veronica, enjoyed dancing as a hobby but did not want to make it her living. She saw it as a way to meet a well-appointed gentleman. Her form was beautiful but her technique sloppy, and she was given to temper tantrums and fits of spite for those she perceived as better.
But all-in-all, Megan was leaps and bounds ahead of the others in competition for the prime spot of Prima Ballerina, second only to La Sorelli herself.
And that brought Erik to her. He had studied her for many months, watching Sorelli's comings and goings, her behaviors. She was seeing Count Phillip de Chagny as well as his friend, the country squire. She had no plans to retire, but Erik helped her see that a retiring life in the country could be so much more beneficial to her health should the Count de Chagny find out about his friend. His mistress quickly agreed and made arrangements to quit the opera house after the closing of this season.
Erik had learned through experiences with Christine and her rise to fame to circumvent the managers as much as possible.
Which brought him back to thoughts of Megan.
She had talent; so much so, that if she could replicate on the stage what he saw on the roof, she could surpass La Sorelli and every other dancer Paris had to offer.
Perhaps even the world.
She was meant for great things was Marguerite Giry.
Thoughts of another young woman who had such talent flitted through his mind. He ruthlessly quashed them, focusing instead on the musical score he was composing for an adaptation of Hans Christian Anderson's The Red Shoes. The gory and macabre fairytale suited Megan perfectly, and he was tailoring the role for her skill-set specifically.
It was challenging and more importantly, it kept his thoughts centered on learning a new form of artistic expression and away from …her.
Humming absently under his breath, Erik made his way to his quarters below until that evening's performance.
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Meg thanked providence once again for making her mother the opera's ballet mistress. Knowing how hard she worked the night before, Madam Giry had allowed her to sleep in and skip out a bit on her chores. Meg awoke bleary-eyed and stiff-legged, but she knew she could dance tonight without many repercussions.
She thought back on everything that transpired. The phantom—Erik had played for her all night long. And she had danced! She had danced brilliantly, catching fire!
Getting out of bed, Meg began re-plaiting her waist-length hair into a neat bun held at her nape. She looked at herself in the small mirror's reflection. There was something about her eyes, a sparkle where there wasn't before.
He had carried her.
For no other reason than her legs were sore.
She blushed at the thought and brought her hands to her face. Things she wouldn't allow herself to think about while with him began to present themselves: the smell of his cloak—wood smoke and the damp from the cellars, the feel of corded muscle of his chest and arms—even though his frame was so whip-cord thin, the way it had felt when he had whispered hush directly into her ear.
She got chills from just thinking of it.
The man had something; there was some kind of compelling force about him that made the feminine part of her stop and take notice.
She looked at the clock. It was almost lunch time, and deciding to give herself the early afternoon, she grabbed an apple from the bowl and made her way out of the opera and to her favorite book sellers. There, she perused the stacks and picked up the latest two folios of fiction in the series she was reading. If Meg had one vice besides chocolate torte, it was romantic mystery novels. She loved her heroes to be dark and brooding and her heroines to be trembling in fright. The stories she devoured were fictions where the hero saves the heroine just in the nick of time, where the scenes take place in a deserted castle-manor far away.
She liked the story of Jane Eyre the best and would read her dog-eared copy once or twice a season, knowing many of the passages by heart. Devouring the apple as she read, Meg whiled away the afternoon, only pausing long enough to turn the page, and soon, it was bordering on dusk.
Finishing the last folio with a sigh, Meg looked up and blinked. Where had the sun gone?
She glanced absently at the watch at her lapel and gasped in dismay. The opera began in less than two hours.
And she hadn't even practiced, let alone warmed up. Clutching the folios to her, she ran for all she was worth back to the opera house and straight to her practice room. The room was in the second cellar, and shafts of the remaining sunlight beamed down on the old wooden floor from the grated windows above, lighting the dust motes as they floated by. She had set up a bar of sorts and a spare mirror from the various props and furniture that had accumulated in the opera house over the years. Removing her day shoes and stretching carefully, Meg took the spare toe shoes she kept in this room and began lacing them.
"And where have you been all day, Megan?" She looked around. Just where was his voice coming from? "Over here." She heard a click, and a small seam opened to reveal a tiny pocket door hidden in the corner molding. His white-glove could just be discerned through the darkness.
Absently, she replied, "I was reading in the park and lost track of the time; a most unusual occurrence, I assure you." All business, she began running through positions unhurried. It would not due to force her body into accepting the unnatural positions of the dance before it was ready; that was how many a dancer got hurt, "It was such a beautiful day!" In deep plie en pointe, she looked behind her at him, "Will you not come out into the light?"
"No." Meg hid the small sting his acerbic reply caused by turning into a deep backwards bend, stretching her vertebra.
"Alright. Suit yourself." Feeling a semblance of ready, she moved away from the 'barre' and to floor center where she ran through the positions again.
"Just what were you reading?" His tone sounded genuinely interested.
Meg did a series of pirouettes coming up in attitude to where she knew him to be watching. "The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole. The bookseller is re-issuing it a chapter every three weeks. Right now, I'm on chapter fourteen." She stood up gracefully and repeated the motions, this time slower, cutting her eyes to the side, "I could let you borrow the chapters I have already. You know, if you're interested?" With quick, light feet, she spun, performing a series of fast spins designed more to showcase speed and movement than grace.
"That would be… acceptable." Was it just her imagination, or was there a bit of warmth in his voice? Her cheeks tinged.
"So…I answered your question, Erik. You answer mine. What were you doing all day?" She looked over her shoulder at him and then began running through her dances for that evening's opera. "And before you tell me to very politely mind my own business," she turned and leapt, seeming to defy gravity, and landed gracefully on her feet, "—just remember that friendship is a two-way street."
Feeling ready for that evening's performance, she turned to face him expectantly. "Do you mean to be provocative, little Giry, or does it just come naturally."
She smiled a pirate grin and shrugged, waiting. He sighed, "Well, to answer your question, I was composing today—a musical score—"
She waited.
"—tailored specifically for ballet."
Meg blinked. "Really? Only the ballet and not opera?" The excitement she felt showing clear through. That was practically unheard of! She felt a rush of pleasure at his words.
"However, it seems my knowledge is a bit limited as to the inner-workings of the movements themselves. I know what movements I want to express my music, but I am having difficulty rendering them in a form that would be easy to follow for the average ballet rat." Going over to where he stood in the passageway, Meg peaked inside. He was dressed already in his opera regalia; the show would start soon. "In fact, Miss Giry, I would like to ask for your assistance in this matter." Meg lifted her eyebrows.
He was asking for her help? She felt flattered. "What is it you would ask of me?"
His yellow eyes gleaming in the darkness, he looked at her calculating, "I wish you to educate me on the inner-workings of a dancer's mind and art. It is an aspect of the opera for which I am, as of yet, ignorant."
"And what would this lowly ballet rat's duties entail, Opera Ghost?"
His voice was as smooth as warm cream in the darkness, "I propose a collaboration Miss Giry; I play, and you dance. And together, we decide which steps are appropriate for which piece of music. If we are successful in this venture, Megan, I am prepared to offer you one and a half percent the net profit gained."
Meg smiled like a shark, "Five percent, Erik, and you have a deal."
His eyes narrowed. "Two."
"Four." She countered, crossing her arms.
"Three." And she knew by his tone he had reached the end of his patience.
She smiled beguilingly. "Done." Holding out her hand for him to shake, he promptly took it, but where she thought it only to be a handshake, he bowed low and kissed the air above her hand. She shivered, feeling warm breath caress her skin.
Taking back her hand, she cleared her throat, "So… maestro. When do we begin this little venture of ours, hmm?" Meg went to gather her stuff, needing a little space from him as much as to change into her costume.
"Tonight, I believe. Come and follow me, I know a shorter way to the ballet dormitories than traversing the halls." Without hesitation, she followed him, clutching lightly at his sleeve to guide her through the darkness. Noticing this time he had foreshortened his steps to suit her own, she felt his gloved hand cover hers where it held his arm, and she again had to suppress another feminine shiver.
Could she really be anticipating his touch knowing exactly what he looked like underneath the mask?
… …apparently, she could for that was exactly what the feeling was. Keen anticipation.
She looked forward to their meeting after tonight's opera; especially being able to hear an original composition of his.
His playing of the violin during her practice had been exquisite; beautifully rendered, expertly played. And she had also heard him play the organ on that dreadful night, but even when it sounded as if the hounds of hell were breaking forth, his music was compelling.
Terrifying…but compelling.
And now, she was to be his partner, his collaborator as he had called her. Well, wouldn't that be interesting?
She wondered if he had registered their attraction yet? Meg was not naïve to the inner-workings of human relations. She knew exactly what went on between men and women. Growing up in the opera house, regardless of her strict upbringing, how could she not?
But Meg had always been an observer.
And as much as she knew how to flirt and tease, she had never really done so with anyone—not seriously anyway. Christine and she had made a pair; the both of them prone to introspection. Meg, by nature, was the more gregarious of the two, and Christine the more sweet-tempered. But like as not, Meg held her own council, choosing to confide in anyone—Christine included—but rarely.
Christine did not seem to notice.
The fact remained, no one truly knew the real Meg Giry: the woman who could escape two would-be rapists and continue on as if nothing happened; the woman who had killed a man. No one knew of her quiet moments of introspection, of her bookish tendencies; for she rarely, if ever, let anyone see that part of her.
In her experience, people only saw what they expected to see, and if they expected an 'empty-headed ballerina', well that's what Meg would give them. She had made it a game of discerning human nature—this one's motivations, that one's feelings—and appeared as such, donning the expected persona as surely as Erik donned his mask.
The only two people for whom she had not had to put on her 'act' had been her mother…and now Erik surprisingly enough.
She wondered if that would change.
Thus far, their interactions had been relatively friendly and only mildly volatile. Time would tell, however, if they would be more to one another. And more of what was the question?
They arrived by yet another passageway, and she felt their progress halt. "This will take you to the dormitory closet. From there, I believe you will be able to navigate your way. Until tonight, Megan." She heard a click and her mind mentally supplied the idea of him giving her a slight bow upon taking his leave. She shook her head and made her way from the closet to the dormitories.
"And just where have you been all day, Meg?" Walking into the dormitory and looking up, she spied Jammes with a bunch of others donning their costumes.
"I was running an errand for the opera, Jammes. It took most of the morning and afternoon. I didn't get back until about an hour ago."
"A likely story. I'm sure you were meeting up with Prokiev or is it Dimetri this week?" She smiled viciously, "I can never keep track." Giving a crunch on the licorice candy she was forever chewing, she stated cattily, "If your mother only knew, Meg Giry, what you got up to, she'd never let you out of her sight."
Smiling slyly, Meg swatted her on her tutu-covered rump and moved past her to the costume rack. "But that's the thing, Jammes, she never will, and you will never tell her. That is, if you know what's good for you." Meg let her voice remain light, cheery even, but the underlying threat was still there. She, like many of the ballet rats in the opera house, had cultivated a rather lewd reputation among the cast. The only difference, though, was that her reputation was unearned.
The rumors began when she turned fifteen, and she didn't bother denying them. What was the point? To do so would not serve her purposes. To be branded as loose gave her power among the rats—the daughter of Madam Giry, able to pull off illicit trysts under the very nose of the master disciplinarian herself. They feared and respected her, and more importantly, they left her the hell alone. Never mind that all of her supposed conquests were a fabrication. Humorously, Meg thought, by her calculation, she should have been pregnant and have given birth several times over with as much sex as they ascribed her to having. But none of them seemed to catch on to that fact—again, people only saw what they want to see—and so she let them.
"Move it, Jammes. I need to get ready." She shoved past the little ballerina, but Jammes caught her on the arm.
In a soft high voice, Jammes stated slyly, "La Sorelli announced officially today that she will be retiring when the season ends. Tell me, Meg. Are you gonna audition to replace her?"
Meg looked down at the girl, two years her junior and three inches shorter than she, and smiled haughtily. She shrugged, breaking the grip Jammes had on her arm and sneered, laughing "Of course I am." Turning away, she let her mask of confidence fall away as she began to dress. They would expect that of the next Prima; that she be haughty and confident, aloof and sure. Meg definitely had aloof down and confidence in her abilities too, but she wasn't sure if she had what it took to be Prima Ballerina.
She had not been tried yet enough to know.
Stripping quickly, she changed and made her way to the stage to the sound of the casting call. The opera would start at any moment, and she had to be perfect.
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Ignoring the mediocrity of the singing, Erik flushed with pleasure at seeing Megan take the stage in the soubrette role. Flirtatious and coy. Lighthearted and girlish. The role suited her perfectly. He tuned out the wailings of the tenor and leading soprano. This time next year, the Opera Populaire would be dedicated solely to music and dance, forgoing Opera entirely.
Mentally, he made note of which dancers needed to work on their timing. Several of the rats looked to be asleep on their feet. He narrowed his eyes.
Madam Giry worked them hard: practicing, performing, and gaining a semblance of an education took its toll on the young women. It was clear many of them were not getting adequate rest, and it seemed some of them were not getting adequate nutrition either. He made a mental note to study this further as he went back to his observance of Megan as she danced the humorous role.
If she had the lead tonight, all of Paris would be bowing before her. Sorelli was good. That was fact. But his Megan was better.
At the end of the performance, Erik made his way back to the ballet dormitories to wait for her.
"—and it wouldn't surprise me one bit if she caught pregnant, the way she sleeps around." Erik's ears tuned out the sound of the rats' gossip as he awaited Megan.
"I know. To think, skipping rehearsals today. What must Madam Giry think? But we all know Meg has had her snowed for years!" They both tittered, "I saw Dimitri leaving after she did early this afternoon. I bet you it's him!" Erik's eyes narrowed.
"No. My money is on that new Baron patron we have. He has developed quite the taste for blondes, and Meg is no exception." The girl, Genevieve, patted her own dish-water blond hair. "Did you know he sends her flowers after every performance? Someone should tell him not to bother. The price of admission is cheaper if you just stroll on up to the gate."
"Yeah. Gratis more like." They both cackled.
"Quiet. Here she comes."
"Oh, Meg! You simply danced divinely. Tell us, what's your secret?"
Erik saw how Megan quickly shut down, hiding away her previously cheerful expression. He watched her look at the girl's frankly as she went behind the screen to change out of her costume. He saw the girls mouth slut and whore to one another. "Plenty of hard work, blood, sweat, and tears." came from behind the screen. Yeah, right. One of the girls mouthed to the other and gave an extremely lurid gesture with her tongue in her cheek and hand. More like sleeping her way to the top the other girl murmured. Erik watched as Megan came from behind the screen in her chemise and corset, her green day dress thrown over her shoulder.
"So tell us, Miss Giry. Where are you going tonight?" He watched as Megan scrubbed off the stage makeup, looking fresh-faced once more.
"I'm meeting a friend for dinner and discussion." The other two gave each other knowing looks.
"Discussion, huh? Is that what they're calling it these days?" The other laughed, and Megan smirked and gave a saucy wink.
"Perhaps." She donned her sturdy boots, and Erik watched as she left, the other two giggling foolishly.
"Oh, she is such a slut! If Madam ever found out…"
Erik couldn't stand to hear any more.
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"WHERE WERE YOU REALLY?" Meg had only just walked into her practice room in the second cellar. Immediately, she halted her steps and made to retreat. The Phantom sounded more than furious. She heard a muted click and realized the door to the room had been closed and locked, effectively trapping her in with him.
She swallowed.
"Come, come, little Giry. There is no need for you to be frightened so." His tone belied his words. Meg backed up until she was against the closed door, absently scrabbling for the handle. "Tut, tut, mademoiselle. You would try to leave so soon?" She heard a whisper of air and then a wired rope was around her neck, pulling taut. Meg gasped, her hands immediately going for her throat, clawing ineffectually at the wire as it began to cut off her air supply.
The Phantom of the Opera broke away from the shadows and stood menacing before her. He looked every inch the Angel of Death. She closed her eyes at the sight, trying to draw more air into her oxygen-starved lungs. She began to fill light-headed, and then she was on her knees before him, gasping against his hold and looking up at him, begging with her eyes. "That's right, Miss Giry. The Phantom of the Opera has had quite his fill of being lied to. And so, I will ask you once again, where were you really this afternoon? And do not lie for I will know." Just then, a fold in Meg's pocket gave way and the fourteen folios of The Castle of Otranto she had been bringing to him spilled to the ground.
The grip on the lasso lessened but slightly as he examined in scorn the piles of paper. A receipt dated for the day's purchase stood out starkly against the wooden floor.
She had used it as a bookmark, hating to dog-ear the pages.
With the toe of his boot, he turned the receipt and read it, and immediately he let go, the wired rope disappearing from around her throat as suddenly as it had appeared.
Meg backed away, gasping, almost hysterical in her need to breathe and get some space between her and the monster before her.
"Miss Giry—" Meg turned away from him and made for the door, stumbling weakly to gain her feet. The lock on the door wouldn't budge. She could feel her hysteria rising as well as nausea for what had almost just—but no, she wouldn't think of that. For now, she needed to concentrate on getting free. "Megan—" She could feel him behind her, and suddenly, Meg grew still.
She would block him out.
She had done it a thousand times before to a thousand situations; situations too hurtful, too painful to contemplate. "—abjectly apologize and ask for your forg—" she tuned it all out, going instead to the place where she was Odette dancing for her prince. Where she could be free to indulge her wildest dreams and darkest fantasies.
They—he could not touch her there.
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"Miss Giry— Megan are you hearing a word I'm saying?" Erik grew more worried as he watched a peculiar change come over her features.
It was like a candle being snuffed out. One moment, she was there crying, almost hysterically so. The next, she was center-most calm, an unnatural quietness emanating from her.
If anything, this worried him more. "Megan— Miss Giry, answer me, please."
Again, this request garnered no response whatsoever.
She wasn't even blinking.
Erik used the unusual power of his Voice to compel her compliance.
Still, no response.
Had that ever happened before? Now, he was very worried. Wherever the young woman had gone, and he was sure she was gone, he was not permitted to follow. Bending, he lifted and carried her over to a spare divan and sat her down gently, kneeling before her and studying her carefully. Her breathing was deep, even and regular. Her pulse a steady thrumming beat.
And still she stared blankly and had not moved. And in shame, he could see a vivid bruise where his catgut had marked, and in some places cut her; little beaded rubies dotting the delicate skin at her throat.
"Megan…Megan please come back to me." He grabbed for and held her hands, bringing them to his lips and kissing the soft flesh found there. "I—I am so very sorry, my girl. Please. Come back from wherever you've gone."
Had he broken her? Was his harsh treatment her undoing?
Nausea warred with an unbearable sense of shame. Oh, what right did he have for even touching her like this? For questioning her?
She was not his. Not his Megan to question. And now she never would be.
Feeling broken himself, he laid his head in her lap and sobbed. "Oh Megan, Erik is sorry— so sorry for his behavior. He will punish himself, and most severely so, if only Megan would come back to him." He put his arms around her, forcing her arms to lay on his wigged head and shoulders. If she would come back, he would show her just how sorry he was.
If only she would come back—
How long he lay there was anyone's guess. Hours could have passed, but then was it his imagination or did he feel the slightest pressure on his head? Quickly lifting up, he found her calmly blinking down at him, her eyes pools of tranquility.
But even as he watched a tear fell and then another.
She looked away from him and made to remove her hands from around him, but he wouldn't—couldn't let her. "No—no, my Megan. Please. Erik is so very sorry. Please accept his apology." He lifted up her hand on his shoulder and kissed it once again. He flinched as he felt it gather into a fist.
If she were to strike him, then it would be no less than what he deserved for his behavior.
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Meg needed to get out of there. NOW.
But he was grasping at her hands, pinning her down with his weight, and she couldn't move. She couldn't speak.
She wasn't even angry, not really. Just afraid. And she wanted to leave and never return to this man—this mad, broken, and lonely man. "Please, Megan. Erik is so very sorry. He didn't mean for this to happen. Please."
She steeled herself against his entreaties, his tear-filled pleas. To ask 'why' would be to give in, and that she would not, could not do. She sat there immobile as he filled her lap with his tears. And dammit! NO! She would not allow him to explain. That way was weakness. And Meg Giry was not weak. But she was curious. And hadn't he said curiosity killed the cat?
She snorted softly and made to rise without looking at the man at her feet. She spoke, and her voice was hoarse and raw, her throat aching from what he'd done. "I do believe Christine had the right measure of you, Phantom, and at great risk of being unoriginal, I will, however, endeavor to adopt her words as my own. I never want to see or speak to you again."
Firmly disentangling herself, she calmly began walking to the door, but she realized that he still had to let her out. It was locked, and only he knew the correct sequence to open it.
She waited. No sounds but the sounds of his tears. Again, she had to steel herself against them. No shushing footsteps, not that he would make any. "please." She closed her eyes. "please don't go, Megan." No! He had tried to strangle her for God's sakes. And there was absolutely no reason for him to do so. He should be locked up at the very least for what he had done. NO!
She could be waiting here all night. Trapped. With him. Absently, she examined the locking mechanism, trying a few combinations. None would work. His sobs had quieted. And Meg realized that silence reigned once more. Some sixth sense told her that he was right behind her, but still, she didn't turn around; her posture rigid, her mind firm on never seeing him again.
"Erik will allow you to leave, Miss Giry. But first, he must treat your neck and throat." His Voice sounded very small in the silence of the room. It had lost much of its resonance and power. For a moment, Meg could imagine the child Erik had been.
She felt a tugging pressure on her hand, and then it was placed solicitously on his arm, and she was being led to the secret passageway. She balked, digging in her heals, but his other hand came to rest on hers and gently he entreated her to follow. "Please let Erik do this, Miss Giry." His eyes pleaded with hers, and she gritted her jaw, anger quickly surpassing the fear she felt.
"Miss—Megan, please." Her jaw went up. "Please, allow Erik to make amends." He was not going to let her go. She would have to endure him until she could escape. The thought definitely rankled, feeding on her wall of anger. With a look of utmost loathing, she nodded once affirmatively making sure to keep her posture rigid and a good bit of distance between them. And slowly, he led them into the darkness, beginning the trek that would lead them through the dark passageways to his home. His Voice broke the nearly stifling silence between them, and Meg steeled herself to block it out. "I would like to offer you an apology, my Megan, in the Greek sense of the word."
She drew breath to tell him not to bother, but he stopped their progress, and Meg knew he was looking at her. She flinched when she felt his hand move to caress her cheek, and she heard his sharply indrawn breath. "Know that I have never— would never—that is to say I have never harmed a woman in my entire life, Megan. And believe me, I did not mean to start now." She felt his gloved hands caress her throat gently, and she couldn't hold back a hiss of pain as he touched one of the raw cuts. "I—I wish I could say there was a good excuse. But there is not. I heard the gossip of the rats as I was waiting for you to appear. I heard it, and I believed it, and I am very much afraid that I lost my sanity for a moment." His hands dropped away from her, and Meg felt the vaguest sense of loss coupled with a small lessening of the anger she felt. "I don't remember much, but I do remember thinking that it was like losing Chri-her all over again."
He drew a shaky breath, then continued, "They were calling you all of those perverse and horrible names, and you, Megan, you let them. What's more, you even helped give credence to their claims. Why?" His tone was mystified. "Why would you do such a thing? The only explanation I could come up with was that it was true. You were what they said you were, and I—I…well, there is not a good explanation for my behavior, Megan and so I won't try."
He began to walk once more, leading them ever carefully downward, but at length, he stopped them again. "It is unnatural for one such as you to be this quiet. Please, speak to me. Even if it is words of condemnation, I need to hear them—hear you. Please speak." She felt his gloved hand reach out and touch her cheek, and mostly against her will, she felt herself lean slightly into the caress. He drew a gasped breath, and then she was moving, enfolding herself in him, in his caped embrace, and she was shivering and shaking, and the walls—all of them came tumbling down as his arms came around to hold her fast.
"Oh, my girl. I am so very sorry!" she heard him whisper in a reverential Voice as he picked her up and carried her the rest of the way to his subterranean home. For once, Meg allowed herself to feel—the anger, the fear, the all-encompassing terror at such a close brush with Death. All of it—emotions she usually brushed aside and pushed down deep never to think of again—open and exposed to him—the man who caused them in the first place.
And she was shaking and crying and breathing heavily into his collar. And she just knew she was getting snot all over his fine linen shirt and cape, and he had stopped walking. His hands holding her, surrounding her as he made shushing consoling noises intermixed with his apologies. And she really should be angry, she knew she should want to get away.
But instead, she only clung to him harder until finally, her tears and quivering had lessened.
And she was being cradled to his chest, the only noises to break the silence were her periodic sniffling as she attempted to staunch the flow. He shifted her weight slightly, and then she felt a square of cloth pressed into her hands. Blotting her eyes and then blowing her nose heartily, she took several deep breaths and felt a semblance of calm return once more. "You can put me down now, Erik." Her voice still sounded hoarse and raw, but also now stuffy due to her bout of crying.
In response, he only held her more tightly to him and began to walk once more. "I do not think I shall, Miss Giry. I do not think I shall." They turned a corner and then they were at the shallows of the lake. And he placed her very carefully in the boat, situating his cape so that it was around her, and then agilely, he leapt in behind her and began rowing them both. "Where did you go?"
Meg stiffened. After all of that, and he still didn't believe her? She felt anger return as her cheeks started to burn. How dare the ma—"Not when you left earlier this afternoon, little Giry. I believe you there. I'm asking about where you went when I was trying to apologize. Your face was blank; you were unreachable, and believe me, Megan, I did try."She looked up at him and watched the play of muscles in his arms and chest as he slowly stroked them across the lake; his eyes so serious and filled with curiosity and concern as he studied her in kind.
She swallowed and licked her lips, needing a glass of water most desperately.
Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink. She snorted. His eyes looked at her inquiring, and she repeated her thoughts. He smiled a bit sadly as he continued to paddle, and stated, "And I had done a hellish thing, and it would work 'em woe: For all averred, I had killed the bird that made the breeze to blow."
Meg bit her lip, and then quoted softly, "The spirit who bideth by himself in the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man who shot her with his bow." She heard him draw a sharp breath, but she continued on undeterred, "The other was a softer voice, as soft as honey-dew: Quoth she, 'The man hath penance done, And penance more will do." He ceased rowing and took one of her hands in his.
Reverently, he brought it up so that it rested just below his lip. Turning her palm open and upward, Meg gasped as she felt the moist air of his breath and bottom lip just graze the center of her palm. He closed her palm, and Meg was shocked to feel something cool resting in its center. Squinting, she held it up to what little light reflected from the boat lamp on the water, and gasped in shocked surprise.
It was a finely cut emerald…as big as her thumb!
"Erik!" she rasped. "I cannot take this." She made to give it back, rocking the boat a little as she made her way closer to him. She aimed for the pocket on his lapel. Both his hands clasped hers and gently but firmly brought them to her lap.
"You will, Megan. And you will use it to do whatever it is you would like to do. Or I can have it set, and you may wear it proudly. It is yours."
She shook her head, clutching the stone tight in her fist. "I don't know what to say."
"Say nothing. It is no less than you deserve. However, you never did answer my question." Meg felt the bottom of the boat drag along the shore, and then they were alighting, and she was still being carried by him into his home. He sat her down on the sofa and lit a fire in the grate. He left the room momentarily, and Meg took a moment to look around. It was a bit of organized chaos. The Phantom's many and varied interests were strewn throughout the room. The violin he had played was resting propped against a table. Sheet music was everywhere as were books in several different languages.
He returned bearing a tray that held an assortment of cloths, vials, a kettle and a mug. She looked up at him in question. "For your throat, my dear." She watched as he prepared the herbed tea concoction, stirring in the slightest trace of honey. And then he handed it to her, urging her to drink while he prepared one of the cloths with water. She sipped and noticed that his hands were bare. They were pale, long-fingered, and they moved gracefully as he began to mix some powder and salve together.
Turning to her, he knelt in front of her and held the cloth up to her throat expectantly. Meg looked into his eyes, eyes filled with abject apology. And maintaining eye contact, she bared her injured throat for him to tend, closing her eyes at the first brush of the cloth. "In answer to your question" she mumbled, "I have a retreat inside my head I go to when the world becomes too much." Her voice was less hoarse, but it still sounded rough in the silence.
"And where did you go, my Megan?" His tone was hushed, and Meg shivered at the cool sensation of his fingers working the mint-infused salve into her abraded skin.
"I was dancing for Prince Siegfried in Swan Lake." she replied absently, "The part of Odette, though tragic, has always appealed to me." His hands began to gently massage. "The both of them, ill-fated, yet still managing to surpass death and be together forever. It's beautiful." She sighed as the salve began to tingle and gently warm her neck. He kept his hand there, rubbing occasionally, warming it. With his other hand, he began to wrap her neck in a thin cloth bandage. Feeling his fingers on her chin, she opened her eyes and met his very direct gaze.
"And do you do this often, ptichka? Escape into your head?" She bit her lip. His eyes held kindness and concern. His hands still held her throat, warming it with his heat and occasionally massaging it.
"I used to when I was much younger. When father was still alive. He and maman would have horrible arguments sometimes. I would hide away and imagine myself far away, living in the fairytale stories maman would tell me at night."
She thought she saw him smile softly, but she couldn't be sure because of the mask. She suddenly felt a deep loathing for the cursed thing. "I too have a mental retreat. But mine is in music. Come, I have prepared dinner for us both, and we need to discuss our collaboration. That is, if you are still interested in such a thing?" His tone was confident, but his eyes held uncertainty. And Meg was sure he was holding his breath waiting for her response.
She lifted her hand slowly up to his masked face, and her heart ached to see him flinch the slightest bit. With deliberate slowness, she drew her hand until it rested just under his cheek where his mask parted to reveal flesh. He gasped as he felt the pressure, his eyes widening. "I hated seeing that behavior from you, Erik. What you did, it is inexcusable." His eyes lowered, but she lifted his chin until they met hers once more. "But I don't expect it to be repeated. No matter what."
Her eyebrows lifted, and he spoke softly, "You have my word, Megan." Bending her head slightly, Meg drew close until only a breath stood between his lips and hers. Gently, sweetly, she kissed his bottom lip, feeling the cool sterility of his mask hit her top one. He gasped and didn't move. He didn't breathe.
And Meg held there, a gentle pressure for one beat then two. And then she felt his hands at her neck begin to tremble, and slowly she pulled back and looked into his eyes once more.
"There now. A bargain sealed with a kiss is irrevocable." She smiled tremulously waiting for his reaction. A full minute passed before he even blinked. "…Erik? … … …Erik?" Meg waved her hand in front of his eyes, and finally, finally he came back to her with a start, one of his shaking hands slowly moving to cover his lip.
Me g smiled, "I don't know about you, maestro, but I am hungry. You mentioned dinner?" She looked at him expectantly and made to rise. His hands were immediately at her side assisting her.
"Tell me, Megan, would you be free tomorrow night to attend a production?" Meg smiled her thanks as he led her to his dining nook and held out her chair. Tomorrow being Monday, a performance was not scheduled. Her mother would expect her help with their weekly errands and chores. Not to mention practice.
But if she got up early…
"I suppose I could get away." Situating herself at the table, Meg's mind was already thinking of what she could tell her mother in order to make her excuses. Cousin Adele always expected her to pop in. Perhaps she could use her as an excuse to be gone?
"How long would we away?" She took a bite of the cold chicken that she knew they were to be serving upstairs, and she smiled. All of the food had been pilfered from the opera kitchens from above.
"Tomorrow evening. Seven o'clock. I will arrive outside your rooms." Meg nodded and took a sip of her wine, noticing her throat felt almost fully recovered. Absently, she touched the cloth bandages.
"Nuh-uh-uh. Don't touch. Not for another few minutes at least." He drew her hand away from her throat, but whenever he would have pulled back, she held on and smiled, setting their joined hands on the table between them. After a beat, they resumed eating once more; her thumb sweeping occasionally across his index finger; his middle finger drawing circles in her palm.
She smiled up at him, feeling keen anticipation fill her core, "So tell me, Erik. What is this new ballet, and is the score complete?"
He wiped the bottom of his lip with his cloth napkin and drank some wine, "hmm…yes. The score is nearly finished. I will need to make adjustments though for the dancing of course. Would you like to hear it?"
Meg nodded eagerly, tossing her napkin on the table and making to stand. His eyes were filled with humor as he stayed her with the pressure of his hand in hers. "Sit, finish ptichka, we have time, and you need to eat more. You are almost skin and bones as it is."
She looked at him and raised a lone blond eyebrow as she gestured between the two of them, "Pot-kettle black, Erik. Besides, I can't eat too much or Henri will begin to complain of back trouble when we pax de deux." She did take another sip of wine, however, and looked up at him questioningly, "You keep calling me that—chich-ka? …pitch-ka? …errm, what is it?"
His hand resumed its drawing of gentle circles in her palm. "It is Russian for 'little bird'. I thought it fitting in light of recent events." His eyes definitely held a measure of warmth when they met hers, and Meg felt a delicate blush begin to stain her cheeks. "Since it appears you are finished" his Voice was laced with dry humor, "are you ready to listen?" She nodded eagerly, and he rose, pulling out her chair for her and helping her to stand. "Then come my dear, and listen to my version of the Andersen tale 'The Red Shoes'."
Meg gasped and clapped enthusiastically. "Oh, that is my favorite!" She couldn't help from teasing him as she winked, "You should know, maestro, I have very high expectations for its portrayal."
He seated her on the organ bench and bowing, kissed her hand, "I would expect nothing less, ptichka. Nothing less." Meg watched as he gathered up his violin. Without further adieu, he began to play, and Meg was at once transported to a marketplace square where a foolish young girl begs her gentleman to buy her the red shoes.
Through the beauty of his music, Meg could picture it: the curiosity, the wonder of seeing and wanting the shoes on her feet. With the shoes, she would be someone, she would be the most beautiful and the most graceful of girls—and how she would dance! But there were sinister notes pervading the music as well as the cobbler made his entrance, and Meg could picture Henri as the wicked cobbler, persuading her to buy the cursed shoes.
The music shifted and Meg could picture the carnival atmosphere—the girl, gay and merry, dancing her way through the scenery, wanting to explore and savor every bit. She would be the life of the party, the center of attention. No other girl would even come close to her beauty, elegance, or gaiety. And all the while, there were sinister, discordant shrill undertones throughout, reminding the audience that this was no happy tale.
And then the music shifted again as the girl began to make her way home after a wonderful night of fun and frivolity. The girl would be tired, exhausted, and ready for bed. Home. Sweet relief was in sight. But… one shrill note from the violin, and she was compelled to keep dancing; her feet moving frantically as she tried to make it to her door, to her mother and to her bed. Another shrill note and the wicked cobbler appears. He smiles cruelly and gestures to her shoes. She realizes in horror that she must keep dancing—she will never stop dancing— while she wears the red shoes for they are cursed.
The music Erik was playing reached a frenetic pace, and Meg's heart began to beat wildly. She could just imagine it: the girl, obviously reluctant, compelled to dance. Already so weary, and yet, she must still dance—all through the night, and then through the days, weeks, and months that pass by in a blur. And still she dances; the music a malevolent accompaniment to her plight, sometimes mocking, sometimes soothing. But always the shoes compel an irresistibly challenging beat.
The girl, surrounded by horrors both beauteous and grotesque, is led from macabre curiosity to curiosity, left to wander alone— always alone.
And then his music shifted once more, and it was holy: a funeral dirge. And Meg could visualize her scorned suitor refusing to aid her, turning her away. And the music was incredibly sad, so poignant, Meg began to weep softly. The exhausted girl who had coveted the shoes was dying, right in her scorned suitor's embrace. The cautionary tale a tragedy and warning for those that would seek to appease their vanity and selfishness in worldly vice. With a final pleading note from the violin, the piece was completed, and Erik was staring at her expectantly awaiting her response.
And Meg…Meg was speechless.
She blotted away the tears with the handkerchief he had given her earlier, and then she was on her feet, launching herself towards him and hugging him fiercely.
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Erik looked down at the arm-full of female he had clinging to him and swallowed. His Voice came out hesitant, unsure, "so, I take it you like it then mademoiselle?"
He heard her give a choked laugh as she looked up at him incredulously, "Like? LIKE? Such an insipid little word, Erik, for the talent you've shown. Oh, maestro, it was brilliant! And I cannot wait to begin planning the steps! I could see it! See it all in my head." He saw her look past him, tilting her head and squinting into the distance, "The role will be challenging to be sure, but oh! It will take Paris by storm!"
She let go of him as quickly as she had grabbed him and began to outline steps. In amused wonder, he watched for a time, seating himself on the organ bench and playing snippets of the piece. "And of course Jacques would have to be the scorned suitor. His gran fillipes would be divine." She mumbled to herself as she proceeded to dance the part she envisioned. Erik recognized the look of creation, the look of possibility, she held. His music had inspired it. He had inspired her.
He let her zeal continue for a few minutes more, but absently, he noted the time was drawing late. He put down his violin but on she danced, oblivious. The irony of this did not escape him. Quietly, he crept up behind her and held her waist gently. "Megan."
"Hmm?" She looked up distractedly, just noticing where his hands rested.
"It grows late, ptitchka. And we have a long day tomorrow."
She turned around in his arms and looked at him plaintively. "Oh, but—"
He placed his finger on her lips to hush her protests, "There will be time, my impatient one. There will be time." Her eyes grew slightly rounded, and she swallowed, moistening her bottom lip with the pad of her tongue, and Erik drew a quick breath as her tongue met the pad of his finger.
He drew his hand back quickly and turned away. "Come. I must escort you above." He quickly donned his cloak and hat, turning back to her, and just managing to catch the look of disappointment before she masked it with a small smile. Putting on his gloves once more, he held out his arm to her, "Shall we, Miss Giry?" This time, he knew he wasn't imagining the injured look of disappointment, but gamely, she lifted her chin, and placing her arm lightly atop his, allowed him to lead her to the boat and above.
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Meg left him in the second cellar, watching as he made his way below once more. Yes, she was disappointed he hadn't tried to kiss her. But really? What did she expect?
He was in love with Christine, not her, and she needed to remember that fact, no matter how much his Voice quickened her blood, and his music fired her soul.
They were business partners only, and she should not, for one moment, forget this fact.
Absently, she looked at her reflection in the mirror, just remembering the bandages on her throat. She slowly began to unwind them, and then gasped as she studied her mirror's reflection. Her neck was perfectly white, unmarred; the scratches and bruising from earlier were non-existent. She looked back at the passage from which he'd left her only moments before.
And Meg wondered yet again for what must be the thousandth time just who was the Phantom of the Opera?
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*A/N: I played fast and loose with some lines from Coleridge's The Rime of The Ancient Mariner in this part. Those of you who got the reference, give yourself kudos! Those who didn't, your missin' out on some fine lit'.
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review please. it means the world to this little authoress and all feedback is most welcome.