... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
As promised ;D
...and please do remember how good your authoress is and has been to you and kindly leave her a review.
DGM
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
One Good Turn part VII
.
.
.
The new Prima Ballerina Absoluta had developed quite the reputation for being an 'Ice Queen'. She danced divinely, so the critics stated, but off the stage, she was as cold as Marley's ghost and just as inaccessible.
Again, so the critics said.
All of the critiques Erik read with a gimlet eye as he finalized the proposal and paperwork necessary to transition the Opera to a ballet venue only. It had been three months since the events of the second cellar; three months and nary a word or gesture of acknowledgment from Mademoiselle Marguerite Giry.
She took direction like a dream, or so Reyer said. And artistically, no one could fault her. But upon being given the mantle of Prima Ballerina, Miss Giry had promptly moved out of her mother's apartments in the ballet dormitories above and into an apartment situated very near the Seine. She was never once late for rehearsals; Erik could not fault her for her professionalism there; however much he wanted to. And she gave her all to practice and the performance of her art.
And while on stage, she was the character in portrayal—tragically beautiful or light-heartedly gay. Precise perfection and exceptional characterization in every single movement.
But Erik had made it his mission to watch and observe her nearly a year ago, and he knew, KNEW that she—the core of her—just wasn't there. Oh, she put on a good show, he'd give her that. She knew exactly the right things to say to allay suspicion and quiet talk. She knew exactly how to behave.
But it was all of it an act. She was untouchable.
And he knew for he had tried.
Two weeks to the day of their most unfortunate parting, Erik had gone to her to apologize.
In those two weeks of mutual silence, he had come to realize some very uncomfortable truths.
He had not believed her. Not really. How could he have? He had loved Christi—her—no, dammit! Christine! with all his heart and soul. He had given of himself completely as he had never done so before. And Christine, she had taken all he had to give as her due, never expecting him to ask for anything in return.
But why would she have?
He had lied to her from the very beginning, setting the nature and tone of their relationship. And she had only needed to play the part of betrayed ingénue in order to escape his wicked, fiendish clutches.
And she did so in the arms of another.
Erik had paid the Chagny's a visit that very evening to see for himself if what Megan had said was true. As he watched her sleep the sleep of the virtuous in the arms of her fop, the visual evidence could not be denied—her protruding belly bespoke of a pregnancy gone on well before their vows were trothed. Which meant what Megan said was indeed true. Which also meant Christine, his innocent, pure, and chaste love, had lain with the fop sometime in early February, perhaps even as early as January.
He had left them as quietly as he had come, leaving their little nest undisturbed, and made his way back to the Opera where he proceeded to get blisteringly, blindingly drunk. And he stayed that way for three solid days. When he had finally emerged from his alcohol-hazed cocoon, he had turned his thoughts to the little ballerina that, of late, had so captured them.
And there, they had remained for the last two months and eleven days.
His first thought was that she was strong; so incredibly strong. She met him, the Angel of Death, toe-to-toe and refused to back down, knowing fully of what he was capable as she had both seen and experienced it first-hand.
He didn't put her in the same class as Christine. How could he? She was night to Christine's day in terms of temperament and comportment. He would rail and bluster, and Christine would cower—the reaction he had come to expect from all who crossed his ire.
But Megan? She gave just as good as she got.
That was… up unto a point. And then she shut down. And this worried him, worried him very much. For as strong as she was purported to be on the outside, Erik had a sneaking suspicion that it was all a façade.
He thought back to the gang of American bores in the alleyway. If that had happened to Christine, Erik would have been compelled to kill them all in order to avenge her honor. But Megan had proved time and again that she was capable of fending for herself. And Erik had let her, needing give her only the barest scraps of direction and watching in wonder as she took down adversary after adversary with natural instincts of a predator.
With a bit of honing, she could be wonderful.
And since he was being so honest with himself, Erik had to admit his thoughts for Megan were far from those of a teacher for his pupil or even for one friend to another.
His nocturnal meanderings featured her prominently.
And although he never could bring himself to think about Christine in such a fashion, thoughts of Megan in his bed and in his arms, moaning underneath him as he worked over her came easily to him.
Much too easily.
And so this had led him to question why.
Why had he lashed out so viciously at her? Why had he said such unforgivable, irretrievable words? Erik closed his eyes, gritting his teeth, steeling himself once more against the thoughts to come.
There were many reasons; the most prominent being that he had not truly allowed himself to surrender his feelings for Christine. He had not grieved. He had not mourned for what could have been and would now never be. He had instead boxed them up, labeled them neatly, and stowed them away; only thinking of those emotions when they turned up at the most inconvenient of times—such as those spent in the intimate company of Megan.
The next was that he was unsure of Megan's sincerity in her attraction to him. She was a gifted actress was Megan, able to make almost anyone believe what they wanted to believe. And she was young and quite beautiful. She had the world before her, a titled gentleman clamoring for her favor, and the brains and talent to really make something of herself without anyone's help.
And that was another thing that worried him; for he had no hold on her—no claim whatsoever.
With Christine, she had needed him, needed his constant reassurance as well as his guise of 'Angel' in order to fully develop her talent into what it had the potential to be.
Megan's victory was solely hers to savor. She needed no one to guide her save herself. No one's approval for she already knew she was worthy, that she could do and be whatever she set out to be.
And this intimidated him; it scared him.
For, if she did not need him in some fundamental way, then why would she want to befriend him, be anything more to him? It was a feeling that the young, scarred boy still looking for approval in Erik could not reconcile, and so he had tried that horrid, awful day to pigeon-hole their relationship, their friendship, into nothing more than a working one. Through the long weeks they had collaborated on that cursed ballet, he had repeatedly told himself that this was all it could be.
His feelings of ownership, of possessiveness, were unjustified, and her continued advances meaningless. He had lied to himself and rebuffed her advances during the day even as he came to the thoughts of her kissing and holding him at night.
And then that horrid day! It had proved to be the breaking point in tension for them both. Just like a wire too finely taut, it had snapped, and Erik did not think it would ever be able to be put back together.
At least, not now.
.
.
.
"Oh, but doesn't the milen'kiye dance divinely, Nikolai?" Valentina Demidov asked her brother as they sat in a box overlooking the stage.
"hmm…da, moya sestra, she does." Just then the little ballerina did a series of quick, light movements that had her sweeping across the floor towards them, coming to rest right below.
"Oh, isn't her Bourrée fantastic?" Valentina clapped her hands enthusiastically and whispered in his ear, "This seals it. When the season ends, I'm asking her to return with us." She looked over at her handsome brother; his warm grey eyes never once having left the little ballerina on stage, and she smiled to herself.
With luck, Nikolai wouldn't let her refuse.
.
.
.
In the privacy of her dressing room, Meg Giry took off her stage makeup and costume and donned her practice tights and dress. She was thought ludicrous for having chosen this little room no bigger than a closet, so far away from the rest of the opera staff and dormitories, but she had chosen it for very specific reasons.
The room had no wall-mounted mirrors, and only one inner wall that did not connect to a hallway. And Meg had gone over it with a fine-toothed comb, inspecting it for hidden doors and hatches. And too, the little room was quite forgotten, which is how Meg liked it. She knew what the critics said of her. Ice Queen, Frigid Princess. She entertained no one: no autographs, no admirers, no kind words to and from her adoring fans whatsoever; an attitude very unusual for that of a Prima.
But when Meg danced, she danced for herself and herself only, much to the managers' chagrin. And she refused to kow-tow to the masses that would have her gallivanting from patron to patron and lover to lover for publicity and sensationalism's sake.
Oddly enough, her strange behavior only endeared her more to the public.
She plaited her hair in a simple style and twisted the length of it around her head looking at his latest 'offering' of apology. They had started a month before after each performance when his missives went unanswered by her. At first, he had tried to speak to her, but Meg chose not to listen, effectively blocking him out and retreating to the paradise inside her head as she practiced.
What more could he say, really? He had called her a cheap whore that effectively threw herself at every man she saw, never to equal that paradigm of virtue that was his Christine.
And Meg realized she never would be Christine's equal. She couldn't compete with her, not in his eyes. And so, she stopped trying.
Instead, she danced. While in her little world, she was no one's second best.
When she felt herself beginning to feel again, feel the hurt, the shame, the heartbreak, she danced. Morning, noon, and night; all the emotion, all the pain from his hurtful words and actions drifted deep and far away while inside the mental constructs of her imagination.
Without so much as a second thought, she threw the bunch of eglantine roses into the rubbish heap and made her way back to the stage, already immersing herself in the part of Giselle dancing for Duke Albrecht; compelling him to fall in love with her.
She glided upon the stage, shy and beautiful, alternately teasing and tempting her disguised Duke that wore the clothes of a peasant.
And he would come and partner her, and Meg danced those parts as well, gliding seamlessly along the floor imagining her Duke holding her in his arms.
And then she was being held and lifted, gracefully and surely.
And she was being twirled around the floor, swept off her feet by her Duke as he held her close to him, showing her through reverent and sure movements, how much he loved and was devoted to her.
And he lowered her gently to the ground, drawing her against him. And sweetly, oh so sweetly, he kissed her lips.
She could feel herself waking up from her self-imposed emotional exile, and trembling, Meg closed her eyes to savor the sensation; one of comfort, of familiarity, of home. Only coming out of her dream-filled haze when applause resounded from the wings; Meg jumped, her eyes snapping open meeting those of molten mercury.
Quickly, she broke away, a gentle blush suffusing her cheeks even as the applause continued. "Oh, that was marvelous! Absolutely marvelous!" Meg looked over, a fair-haired young woman, maybe ten years her senior, with eyes the color of the Duke's came smiling up to them. "Greetings, mademoiselle! I am Valentina Demidov." The woman clutched Meg's hands drawing her into a friendly hug and kissing her on each cheek, "And you, Marguerite Giry, dance divinely! I just know we are going to be fast friends!" Meg's look of shocked bemusement caused the Duke-the man-her impromptu dance partner to laugh boisterously.
"Ease up a little, Valentina, you are smothering the kotenok, moy dorogaya sestra." The woman—Valentina—not looking for one moment contrite, let go of her shoulders, and winking, put her arm around Meg's waist.
"Mademoiselle Giry, may I present to you, my brother, Nikolai Demidov." The grey-eyed man bowed from the hip, and only then did Meg notice he wasn't wearing a jacket or shoes. His feet were that of a dancer's—ugly and well-muscled. Her eyes travelled up the rest of him. Fit and toned, with a dancer's grace and build. He was perhaps ten or twelve years older than she with little crinkled laugh lines starting to fan the sides of his eyes. He was giving her a warm look filled with humor and Meg's lips tingled from the remembered kiss even as her cheeks burned. "We have been watching you perform and stuck around after show's end to speak with you, but we could not find your rooms."
Valentina explained this as her brother went to don his coat, hose, and shoes once more. "This place is an absolute labirint." she tsk'd, "But then you showed up again on stage, and you can imagine our surprise! And when you began to dance the part of Giselle! Oh priyatel'nitsa, you were sublime! Nikolai could not help but to partner you." The woman gave her a knowing grin.
Meg pulled away slightly from the jovial woman, and smiled bemused, feeling her spirits begin to lift for the first time in three months. "Yes, but just who are you?" her voice was mystified.
The man—Nikolai—came up behind her, and settled her cloak around her shoulders. "That, moy malen'kiy kotenok, is an excellent question, and one best answered over dinner. Come, we will escort you. But first, kotenok, a change of footwear." They all three of them looked down at her toe shoes, and Meg drew up on pointe holding her leg in attitude, feeling Valentina's arm holding her steady.
She replied airily, "Oh, I don't know. I could go out like this…"
"And give the people a show for free?" he tsk'd, "Kotenok, that is just bad business." His grey eyes filled with gentle humor, he spun her around quickly, her cloak billowing. "Now lead us to your dressing room. We are all of us starved."
.
.
.
Meg couldn't remember having spent a more enjoyable dinner out, or if she could, she refused to acknowledge it.
The brother and sister Demidov were quite the entertaining pair, keeping Meg in stitches with their traveling exploits across Europe as they made their way back to their home in St. Petersburg. "Oh, and let us tell the kotenok about the bar man from Brussels." Valentina looked at her mischievously and winked, "Ah, but the man- he had big muscles!" Waggling her eyebrows, she gestured widely, laughing as her brother began regaling them with yet another tale.
The wine flowed freely, and the three of them wiled away the evening, exchanging stories and getting to know one another. It seemed they were dancers in the Russian Ballet in Moscow, having danced and partnered one another for years, and they were on leave, traveling the continent before heading home to their family estate.
The Demidov's, it seemed, were of the merchant class and had quite made their money in shipping and transportation several generations back. Their family was fabulously wealthy, and the children—there were six of them—had been encouraged by their parents to follow their dreams, whatever they might be. Nikolai and Valentina had chosen to study ballet, and had been principals in the Russian Ballet Academy for seven years now.
He truly had a gift for storytelling, did Nikolai, and more than once, Meg was caught up, spellbound in his words and voice, as he related them to her. "But we have got to tell you, kotenok, the real reason we are here in Paris." Meg looked at the pair, the both of them smiled and looked at her with expectation.
Meg leaned in closer and listened carefully; they looked at one another and nodded.
"You see, Valentina is getting older, and is desirous of a role more behind the scenes. You see, Marguerite, we are starting a new ballet company in St. Petersberg and have been scouring the continent looking for the best of the best." Nikolai's molten gaze assessed her appreciatively, "You, kotenok, are of the best, and we would like to offer you the chance to be the leading principal in our new company." Meg's eyes widened.
"You look shocked. Valentina, she looks shocked. Ply her with wine and quickly." His grey eyes crinkled with laughter as his sister compelled her to take a large sip from the glass. "Naturally, you will be making a substantial amount. After all, in mother Russia, dancing is considered an art form without equal to any other, including this opera the French—," he wrinkled his nose, "—are so fond of employing." His tone told her exactly what he thought of the opera.
"Well, what do you say, priyatel'nitsa, is it something that would interest you?" Valentina looked at her hopefully, smiling.
Meg bit her lip, looking from one to the other of them. "I accept." The moment the words left her mouth, she felt a lead ball of heartache pierce her core, but she ruthlessly squashed the feeling and smiled brightly.
Squealing, Valentina rose from the table and drew her up, kissing her on each cheek and hugging her. "Oh, Marguerite, you are going to be sensational! We will take St. Petersberg by storm! Oh, Nick what a joy-filled day!" and Megan smiled and laughed, and listened as they began to make preparations for the journey and months to come.
And all the while, she felt as if her heart was breaking.
.
.
.
He had taken to wearing his flesh-colored mask around the opera house, able to flit and mingle somewhat seamlessly with its denizens during performances. For after each performance, after each extended practice she would give herself, he would secretly escort Megan home to her little apartment by the Seine.
He had inspected her quarters himself while she had been absent, ensuring the locks on the doors and windows would keep out various undesirables from molesting her. He had made it his business to know the business of her neighbors to ensure she maintained her anonymity, her privacy—as that was what she seemed to need at this time.
And so, as he waited for her to finish yet another extended practice, where she danced in her imagined world, he watched entranced as she floated and glided upon the stage, a beautiful creature to behold. And then his heart plummeted, for Erik could see a man join her. Another dancer. Equal to her talent in every possible way.
And they danced with one another beautifully! And then the man kissed her—kissed his Megan! And she closed her eyes and surrendered to the man's arms. And Erik felt his heart slow its beat until it seemed time had stood still as he watched the pair of them embrace. And then her eyes opened, and Erik could see that she had emerged, awakened from her self-imposed cocoon. She was back—his Megan—back to feeling emotion.
And it was not his kiss that had made it so. But another's.
He felt nauseous. He felt broken.
Mostly, he felt an ineffable sadness take hold of him.
But still, he grew closer to them; listening as the brother and sister introduced themselves and all but corralled Megan into dining with them.
And smiling, she had accepted, laughing and teasing as she used to do with him. And oh, it was very much a death from a thousand cuts, as each smile, each laugh she gave was not directed at him; it was not his to savor as he had not put that spot of joy on her cheek!
Erik followed them, his hat tilted low over his brow, as they made their way through the Parisian streets to a little restaurant on the skirt of Rue de Rivoli. Taking a seat near the wall, facing away from them, he listened as they talked and laughed. And he heard Megan's laughter—her genuine laughter—and he heard the man's—Demidov's— flirting quips, even though he doubted at times, Megan even knew what he was saying.
And then the two of them—the brother and sister— had asked her to be their principal.
And she, his ptichka, had accepted. Erik closed his eyes.
With two words, he had lost her—lost his Prima Ballerina and lost his chance at getting her back.
He knew no amount of begging, of pleading, would work. Hadn't he tried that already? For her, the influencing, mesmerizing power of his Voice held no sway. His letters and flowers had gone into the rubbish bin as so much trash, and Erik knew once Megan set her course, she would not be swayed.
Watching as they left, both of them agreeing to escort her home, Erik made his way back to the opera, feeling a kind of numbness take hold.
The calm before the storm.
.
.
.
review please. it means the world to this little authoress and all feedback is most welcome.