Mme. Giry was beating her cane rhythmically against the stage, watching her girls for any signs of confusion. Meg danced strongly, her light little figure barely touching the ground. Christine danced gracefully, but her heart was not in it. Mme. Giry shook her head and locked her gaze on the girl. Long nights of singing had drained her, though Christine denied it.
"Madame!" The voice was Linnea's. The girl was getting old for the opera's ballet, but no one could bear tell her. Besides, she was dong well with Fabrizio. Perhaps it would all work out without interference. "Madame, I must speak with you!"
Picking up her cane, Mme. Giry walked over to the girl, whose face was clearly lined with worry. "What is it, child?" Her voice was hard and quick, the result of many years under a much harsher ballet mistress. Still, her eyes were soft.
"Madame, it's Cecily. She's been in bed all day…" Linnea bit her lip. "The doctor says it could be influenza," she whispered.
Mme. Giry's face paled at the news. Influenza could kill her easily. She turned to her students. "Rehearsal dismissed for now. Go!" Turning to Linnea, she continued, "She is in her room."
The girl nodded, and Mme. Giry took off at a brisk pace for Cecily's room. She met the doctor at the door. "There is nothing more I can do for her at the moment. I'll come back in the morning."
Mme. Giry nodded, then proceeded in. Cecily lay in her chemise, sweat covering her waxy skin. She shivered slightly against the chill of the room, but her eyes were glassed over. A deep cough suddenly issued from her throat, and Mme. Giry nearly flinched at the harshness of it.
Taking a seat several feet from the bed, Mme. Giry watched the girl until the coughing fit passed. She turned to write a note to M. Lefevre, but her eye caught another piece of paper, one with a broken red seal. Unable to contain her curiosity, she picked it up.
Mlle Pencombe,
Faust is going well, it seems, but do not think that all is fine. Consider it a promise that I will not withdraw my demands from the opera house, and that if you should stray, it would be disastrous to you and those you care about. But there is no one you care about is there?
There was no signature, but Mme. Giry knew who had penned the hateful note. Her jaw set, and she turned to the secret passage. She knew the passages that moved her around the ground floor, and was set determined to find that blasted man. She had only to continue a little way before she heard music coming from a vacant room. Christine's singing lessons must have started early. Turning toward the music, she felt the crumple of paper beneath her feet and stooped to pick it up.
Her hand moved to put the letter in her bodice when she felt the scratch of rope against it. Pushing roughly back against the rope, she spun on him. "You stupid man! What do you think you're doing?"
The rope disappeared, and Mme. Giry felt a hand placed roughly on her elbow, dragging her away from the wall. "What are you doing here, Marie? You should not be here!" His voice was low and threatening.
"Release me this instant, man! Have you truly gone mad? First your harsh words to Cecily and now to me! The only ones who are kind to you!"
"Kind to me?" His voice was venomous now. "Kind? Mlle Pencombe can hardly be considered kind."
"So you are one and the same. Do you not care she could be dying?"
"What?"
"She is fevered! Perhaps even influenza! And still you continue your little tirade!" Mme. Giry broke free and continued up the passage, pausing before she pushed open the door to Cecily's room. As she stepped back into the light, she looked down at the paper in her hands. It was a bit smudged, but still readable. Dear Erik, it began. "And apparently, this was for you." She dropped the paper just inside the passage and closed the door, leaving Erik alone is his darkness.
Walking slowly over to the door, Erik knelt to lift the paper. On the other side of the door, a vicious hacking cough began.
"Angel?" His sensitive ears picked up the small, pleading voice. "Angel, are you still here?"
Rushing back through the passages, he replied, "I cannot remain, I am called away. I will come for you again, child. Believe that."
Back in his lair, Erik sat roughly on the steps. Taking out the letter in shaking hands, he began to read. Dear Erik… "She called me dear…" he breathed. I cannot speak what I am about to say, and now it does not matter, for I do not think you would listen to me. I have made a grave error, one that I hope you can forgive in time. I can offer no excuse worthy of you, so I will offer none. Here I place the only explanation I can think of, though it is not in its entirety. Perhaps someday you will deem it well and good to forgive me, and then I will fill in joyfully. I am sorry.
His eyes read quickly through the rest of the document, his stomach tightening its knot with each word. "Cecily…" he breathed. "My poor little cat…What have I done? What have I done?"