One Good Turn part VIII
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The flowers had stopped appearing the day after her acceptance of the Demidov's offer, and Meg immediately knew he knew of her decision. She did not know how he knew, but he did. And even though a part of her was railing at her to go to him, to throw herself upon him and explain, she did not.
It was better this way.
He was better this way; she should never have tried to befriend him.
He was lonely, heartbroken, and embittered, and she—she had her future before her. Three more performances. Three more weeks, and then she would leave Paris and all the memories of him behind her.
At the thought, the lead weight in her stomach increased ten-fold.
Her future—without him in it.
Ruthlessly, she threw away her musings like so much trash and made ready for her outing with the Demidovs. They were going to a performance of Hamlet hosted by another up-and-coming opera house, and there was to be no singing, only acting with accompanying music. Her mother would be joining them.
Meg had told her mother of her decision only yesterday and made sure the managers knew of her decision just today. Her mother's reaction surprised her for she figured she would be upset that she would be moving so far away.
But she only studied her for the longest time, assessing, before she spoke, "My only concern, Marguerite, is that you do not know the language or the people there. I want to meet with this brother and sister and make sure they know of my concerns." Meg instantly agreed and sent a missive to the Demidovs to that affect who had then agreed to meet them for dinner and a show.
And so Meg donned her best frock and made herself ready. The Demidovs were to be picking her up before they would be journeying to the Opera to collect her mother, and Meg forced her thoughts away from him to those of Nikolai.
He was handsome, dashing, the perfect dance partner.
And while they danced, for he now partnered her every night after each day's performance and rehearsals were complete, Meg could indeed imagine that he was Duke Albrecht, Prince Siegfried, Prince Florimund, and a thousand other roles that she could then counter.
And she did, giving of herself to the stage, to him, and their rehearsals were sublime!
But outside the stage, he did not make her pulse race, and her blood quicken. Although his tender regard and jovial good humor were a balm she needed desperately, and she absorbed them like a flower soaking up the rays of the sun. But his brief kisses and caresses left her cold and empty, and she couldn't help but feel that it was wrong somehow. Allowing him to kiss her, touch her away from the stage, was wrong.
Hearing the carriage draw up outside, Meg grabbed her reticule and cloak and made for the door, pasting a cheery smile on her face and adopting a carefree air.
Tonight was a time for celebration, for decision-making, and a finalization of plans.
It was not a time for second-guessing.
That time had long since past.
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"Alright, so then it is decided moy malen'kiy kotenok, you will arrive to us in St. Petersburg a week after the season ends in Paris, and we will begin training for the opening in Spring." The four of them sat around the dining table, sipping their brandies and talking quietly.
"You do keep calling Marguerite that. Malin key coat-in-knock" Her mother's tone held a faintly disapproving note, "What does it mean?"
Nikolai smiled wolfishly at her mother, and raised his eyebrows suggestively, "I call her my love slave, Madam." Both Meg and Valentina threw their napkins at him, even as Madam Giry's outraged gasp drew the looks from other dining patrons.
"Oh! It does not!" Meg stated, laughing.
"Moy glupyy brother is teasing you Madam. He calls her 'little kitten'. It is a term of endearment, no more, no less." She gave her brother an arch look that had him snickering into his brandy. Madam Giry gave the younger man a look that had, in the past, had lesser stagehands cowering in their boots.
"But in all sincerity, Madam, your kotenok will be well taken care of. As soon as she arrives, she will be safely ensconced in our family home, and I will make her cry and her feet to bleed." Nikolai smiled sweetly, a dark promise in his eyes, "She will likely curse and want to murder me where I stand, but she will be the better for it as you well know Madam." Her mother nodded at this. "And when springtime comes to Russia, our kotenok will perform her debut and stun them all."
At the end of his speech, her mother had a thoughtful look about her, and at length, she nodded. "Naturally, I will be invited to see this debut." Her tone held some doubt that this would be the case.
"Naturally, you are invited to come along as well." Her mother gasped, and Nikolai smiled a genuine smile, "I have seen the work you've put forth for the Opera, madam; making silk purses out of the varied sow's ears you've been provided. You have done quite well, but like your daughter, you are too good for that place. I am offering you a chance to work with dedicated professionals intent on honing their art and becoming the best in their craft. What do you say, Madam Giry?" Nikolai smiled like a shark.
"I—I believe I will have to think on it." For the first time, Meg could see a light in her mother's eyes; a light of hope, of promise, that had been absent long before her father died in the carriage accident that had so crippled her and left her walking permanently with a cane. "I won't be able to leave, not at least until after the winter season." She warned, her tone filled with reproach, and Nikolai's eyes crinkled.
"Naturally, Madam." He bowed his blond head in acknowledgment, "I want no bad blood between you and the Opera house that has been so good to you and your daughter. Now, ladies, the time has come to adjourn to the Théâtre du Châtelet. We do not want to be late and miss the 'MURDER!'
And Meg and Valentina rejoined, "Murder most foul, as in the best it is." Laughing, they made for the carriage that would transport them to Shakespeare's fabled rotten Denmark and its murderous plot.
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Try as he might, Erik could not dislike this Demidov. The man was, in fact, very intelligent. He conducted his business much as Erik was wont to do, and he had quite woo'd both his prima ballerina and his ballet mistress right out from under his non-existent nose. Erik had just found out from the managers that Antoinette was planning on leaving in the spring, and even as the thought made him see red, he could appreciate the man's style—his finesse.
Demidov worked Megan hard, harder than she'd ever been. And he knew his art. Erik could not fault him there. Though discretely, he had made inquiries. The brother and sister were exactly what they claimed to be, and they were offering his Megan her dreams.
But the man still kissed her and caressed her, and Megan, she allowed it.
He would be good for her.
The thought stabbed him, tearing at him like so many talons. He had to let her go—he couldn't let her go!
She was his Megan, his ptichka. She was his before she was Demidov's, and Erik would be damned before he saw her gracing the arm of another man.
She was his.
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It was a beautiful fall day as Nikolai escorted her along the Seine. The wind had a nip of cold, and the air smelled of winter spice and wood smoke. Valentina was making preparations for their return journey home taken by train. The both of them would depart this evening, and this would be the last she saw of them for two weeks until she joined them in St. Petersburg.
Nikolai stopped them by a gnarled oak and turning, sat with her on a bench. In the ensuing silence, he studied her carefully, his nearly transparent grey eyes narrowing to slits, "You must tell me who he is."
Meg looked at him, a question forming in her eyes.
"The man that has taken your heart, moy malen'kiy kotenok. He must surely be exceptional to have done so." Feeling like she had been punched in the gut, Meg looked away, tears forming quickly in her eyes. She felt a gentle, gloved hand draw her chin back to face him, as Nick gave her a level look of concern. "Tell me, does this man know of the treasure he possesses?"
The dam broke, and her tears flowed quickly, even as Nikolai reached for and drew her close to him, whispering shushing noises. "It's alright, kotenok. It's alright."
"How ca-can it be alright, Nikolai? I am leaving. Leaving him. My final performance is in three days ti-time." He held a handkerchief up to her cheek and dried her tears.
"Hush now, Marguerite. All will soon right, you shall see."
"How d-do you know?" she snuffled, blowing into the handkerchief he held for her.
He smirked. "I am Russian and Demidov; we know these things." He puffed up his chest, looking arrogantly regal, "Isn't that enough moy kotenok?"
She rolled her eyes and smiling, hugged him back, "Too much. It's too much."
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Her final performance came and went with nary a hitch. Her trunks were packed and still she waited—waited for some sign, some acknowledgment from him of her leaving. Nothing. No note, no flowers. No prettily prepared speech begging her to stay.
She snorted. As if he would ever do that.
And she felt childish, and she felt petty. For hadn't he tried to apologize so many times before? And she had stone-walled him, ignored him.
She thought about trying to make her way one last time down to his underground chambers.
But no. What would she say? It would change nothing.
She was going, he was staying. And that was that.
"Marguerite, if you don't hurry, you are going to miss your train."
Meg looked up from her reverie to find her mother anxiously hovering by her dressing room door. "You have your passport, your money, your letter from Monsieur Demidov explaining the nature of your immigration?"
Meg stopped herself from rolling her eyes, but just barely, "Yes, maman."
"And you are going to use caution, and be safe while on the train ride there?" Her mother gave her a piercing look.
Meg couldn't help it, she smiled cheekily, "Yes, maman." Madam Giry tutted, and making her way over to her daughter, hugged her fiercely.
"Now come on, Fredric has hired a handsome, and we don't want to be late." Meg took a deep breath, and gathering up her valise, took a look around the little dressing room where she had had her first taste of independence even as she checked once more in vain for some sign that he would miss her.
She did not allow herself to feel sadness.
The time for grieving would come. Instead, she gave a small goodbye to her life in Paris, and drawing a deep breath, shut the door.
One chapter of her life had closed.
Another set to begin.
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Meg approached the booth, and giving her name, waited for the man to hand her a boarding pass. "Ah, Miss Giry. Yes. Your ticket has been upgraded to a private car. The gentleman felt you would find the accommodations more to your liking." Meg blinked and then smiled widely.
The Demidovs knew how to travel in style! She followed the directions the stationmaster gave her and made her way to the private car, where she had been assured, her luggage and portmanteau had already been loaded.
Climbing the steps, she spared one last look at the Parisian skyline, and then stepped inside.
The door shut with a muted click, plunging her into unrelieved darkness.
Meg's eyes strained, trying to adjust from daylight to that of unexpected, impenetrable dark.
"Hello, ptitchka."
Meg paled even as her heart beat a staccato rhythm inside her chest.
"Er-Erik?"
"You were expecting someone else, perhaps?" Suddenly a match was struck and Meg looked over into the corner, even as a lamp was lit. There he sat, studying her, his black mask reflecting golden from the light of the lamp.
Meg licked her lips nervously. "Wha-what are you doing here?"
He rose with the leonine grace that made him so compelling, and began walking slowly towards her, stopping scant inches from where she was pressed against the door. His eyes seared her, unblinking. "You were going to leave without saying goodbye, Megan?" His Voice and eyes held pain.
Meg bit her lip to stop it from trembling. "I—I thought it best."
He lifted his gloved hand and caressed her cheek, "Best? Best for whom? Surely you couldn't have thought it best for me—for us?"
She turned her cheek, pushing herself away from him. "Us? There is no us. You made that abundantly clear." Just then the warning whistle began to sound. "You need to leave." She turned the handle on the door; it held fast.
Feeling for the lock, she tried again.
It still wouldn't budge. Meg began to sweat, turning toward the door and pushing with all her might. The door held still. She looked back at him. His eyes watched her steadily: blank, no expression. "Erik. What have you done?"
He backed away from her and resumed his seated position once more. "I have given us time, ptichka. Time to make amends. To begin anew. To say goodbye. The choice is yours, my dear."
Just then the train began to move, and Meg closed her eyes, feeling anger war with profound relief.
It was going to be a long journey.
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A/N: He's ba-ack . I know I'm happy. Are you, dear reader? Do let the authoress know, won't you?
As an aside, I do declare I'm goin' to be takin' off for the weekend. But I do promise to have an update come Monday… …with perhaps a smidgen of smut, you lucky, lucky phans you!
DGM