Before the sunrise on another blistering summer day, Mrs. Giry left her little cottage that she had once shared with her little daughter, now far away. She used a little key that she carried on a little chain around her neck to open a little door in the hedge that separated her little home from the land surrounding the palace by the sea.
She moved swiftly and surely, a compact little figure all in black, effortlessly avoiding every thorn and briar. Only she knew the secret way to come and go, so that the hedge would neither tear her clothes nor scratch her skin. How many times had she caught little Meg, with rents in her dresses or marks on her arms from trying the little door, dear little Meg who had not come home for so many years. Mrs. Giry hesitated in the doorway, but the thought of her child steeled her nerves.
He would be asleep now, in his dark bedroom with the curtains fastened down to block out every sliver of light. Was he dreaming of Christine Daaé, lying still, wrapped up in pleasures that the waking world had denied him? Or perhaps he was lost in a nightmare, clawing his way back to the safety of the day. Or maybe he was with her, the cruel queen of faerie- her prisoner, her lover and her accomplice. Who could say? Suffice it to know that he was locked away in slumber, for the time being.
It was early, even for Mrs. Giry who came every morning with the dawn and left after the sun went down. The palace by the sea was quite long way from her little home, but she always walked. It was better to walk and keep one's dignity than to be like the silly Persian, teetering on his bicycle and looking the fool. She liked the walk because it gave her time to herself, time to think about dear little Meg, so far away. Poor little Meg, all alone in a far away city, struggling after a dream her mother could fulfill quite easily, if only Meg would let her. It was the least she could do, for her child.
The gnarled limbs of old trees reach across the path, but Mrs. Giry evades them with no trouble. She knows every last branch and has walked this way many times, always alone. It gives her time to think. Sometimes she thinks about her daughter. More often, she thinks about him. He slips unbidden into her mind and taints her thoughts.
Every morning, she prints the day's menu. E-mail is too familiar. It invites comments and confidences. The printed sheet is left on the desk in his office. He may send it back down without a mark on it, or he may draw slashes through every single item. He uses red ink. No one grudges rich men their peculiarities. On rare occasions, he writes in his preference, in thin, spidery letters that have an awkward grace.
The kitchen is silent and empty when Mrs. Giry arrives at the great house, the palace by the sea. This is her domain, and even he doesn't intrude. If he wants something in the night, he'll send one of the staff down for it. The lights flicker on, one at a time, triggered by her movement. When she is alone, sometimes she walks through the room, waving one arm in the arm in the air, so that the lights won't go out. There's something threatening about the dark in this house. Even he was once afraid of the dark, and Mrs. Giry knows the reason why. It's better not to think of those things, to think about the Faerie Queen is to give her more power. Instead, Mrs. Giry seats herself and begins to attend to the business of the day.
It's a little before seven and he is waking. She can always tell. The atmosphere turns a little bit colder and Mrs. Giry shivers. His apartment includes a bathroom, all in marble, with a sunken tub and a shower large enough to be the modern equivalent of the Roman baths. When he emerges, smelling faintly of soap that is hand-milled in France for the Van Der Luydens alone, he goes into his closet, the size of a dressing room to choose one of many near identical suits purchased from a firm in Europe that is so exclusive they don't bother with a label. Once every six months or so, a man flies out to take his measurements, just in case they have changed. His shirts are sent from London four times a year. He has never been particularly interested in shopping, not even when he would leave the house more often.
There was a time, when he was not more than a year or two past twenty, when he took it into his head to travel. A private plane was arranged and he flew away to some watering hole where the rich go to relax in their wealth. Everyone assumed that he'd come back with a woman. Certainly, the thought was in his head, that much was clear. A month later, he returned alone, looking a little weary and sounding hollow. He never talked about it.
Perhaps he did have women then, Mrs. Giry thought to herself, punctuating her discomfort with the tapping of the keys as she types. He had amused himself among the bleached, tanned, hard-limbed women whose eyes search out a man's income in the cut of his suit. Mrs. Giry can almost imagine sun-browned fingers running across his cold, white skin. There is something both enticing and repellent about that pale, dead flesh. If a woman preferred the sparkle of diamonds to the light of the sun, there would be little trouble. Women like that are easily bought. She sees manicured fingers and painted lips, but he closes his eyes and turns away, in his face a little death.
Mrs. Giry shakes her head. She doesn't like to think of him as a lover. She knows that he has succumbed to the Faerie Queen, in the night, in the dark. He fought for a long time, but his strength failed him at last. She is quite sure of it. She can sense it, but that is her gift.
Among her own people, Mrs. Giry is known as a Raven: sharp-eyed, bright-witted, clever and perceptive. Her place is to see things that other do not or cannot see and to know things that other cannot or would rather not know. Her talents are greatly valued by the Harvest Court and her influence extends to the highest and most respected of their leaders. For the sake of the Good Folk and the Harvest Court, she watches Mr. Van Der Luyden, careful to make certain that he does not learn what she knows. For the sake of Mr. Van Der Luyden, for the sake of the child he once was, or whatever shred of brightness might still flicker in him, she has never betrayed him to her court. She only watches him and waits.
At home, alone in her little cottage, Mrs. Giry has been reading the signs. She can hardly help but read the signs since her sharp eyes can see that there are signs in everything. She sees the future in a hand of solitaire and a cup of tea. She sees portents in the flicker of candles and the changes in the weather. It's all there for her to see, laid out plain as day. She can see that something is going to happen but does not yet know what it will be. This year, the Goblin Market will last for one night only. That alone promises an eventful year, and if the year is to be eventful, even dangerous, then she must have her darling Little Meg back home.
Little Meg Giry lives in New York now- far from her home, far from her family, far from her folk. She is determined to succeed on her own, sensing that her mother aches to help her but refusing the favor. Little Meg knows better than to accept a favor from a Harvest Courtier, even if it is very own mother who loves her above all other loves. Mrs. Giry hears whispers here and there. Little Meg was singing the role of a gypsy woman. Little Meg is living with a leather-jacket-wearing temptress named Jennifer. Little Meg is breaking her little heart far away. Little Meg found out that she is an alternate for the Resident Artist Program at the Santa Cecelia Opera. Well, Little Meg must not be an alternate. There must be a place for her. They must make another place for her. Mrs. Giry knows who can make that happen. He's upstairs right this moment, sitting at the piano, pouring his bitterness into one of Rachmaninoff's preludes.
By nine o'clock, he is in his office, sitting in the shadows as he always does. It may be a trick of the darkness, but he looks restless, almost unwell. The skin around his eyes is discolored, as if he has not slept, or has been weeping yet he no longer weeps so that cannot be. He is both present and quite far away and Mrs. Giry believes that she can see his thoughts, flashing somewhere behind his cold, blue eyes. He knows what she is going to ask, and he is thinking. He is plotting something and working out precisely how this will affect his plans. Nevertheless, Mrs. Giry does ask for her favor, knowing that it will put her in his debt. It is worth it for the sake of her poor Little Meg, her beloved child.
Mrs. Giry is very careful not to say too much. He doesn't need to hear it and he certainly won't ever ask. Besides, she cannot quite bring herself to explain how she has quarreled with her dear Little Meg. She would rather not speak of letters unanswered and calls unreturned and hearts broken. What can he know of a little apartment with cracked linoleum on the floors and heating that never seems to work quite the way it should. These matters cannot interest him. It's always better to speak plainly with his kind. Little Meg must be given a place at the Santa Cecelia Opera and that is all there is to it.
"Of course," he says. His voice is quiet and low, as if he knows that people will listen carefully for any word he speaks. There is something intimate in that tone. It draws people in and makes them forget. Then he looks down at the papers on his desk. This is his way of indicating that the conversation is over. He is scowling today, his mouth twisted into an expression that could make anyone unattractive, whatever charms they might possess. His black hair falls across his face, but he takes no notice of it. He has no reason to be bothered, since he sees no one.
Mrs. Giry slips away in silence, knowing that he will likely call the Persian as soon as she is out of the room. No, he won't call, he'll send a message on the phone of his. He has become a great one for texting. The Persian will receive the message and he'll make the calls needed. When it is done, he will send a word or two back and the matter will be concluded to everyone's satisfaction. In the early afternoon, the house phone is ringing.
"Ms. Marguerite Giry has accepted a place at the Santa Cecelia Opera," says the Persian before he rings off. The Persian is always so dignified. Everyone here is dignified.
In the evening, Mrs. Giry sits alone in her cottage, waiting for the call from her sweet child, which will surely come soon. The wheels are in motion. Things have begun to happen. She can smell it on the air, like new rain. Why hasn't Little Meg called? The Persian said she had accepted her place at the opera, so why hasn't she called? Surely, there was no catch to her request!
Afraid to move too far away from the telephone, lest she miss her daughter's call, Mrs. Giry's thoughts drift back to the conversation with her employer. With a start, she realizes that Mr. Van Der Luyden didn't speak to her in English. He spoke in the language of the Good Folk, a language she knows so well that she doesn't think twice when she hears it. She is sure that she can remember his voice, speaking the words, carefully pronouncing them with scrupulous accuracy. Something has been set into motion, but what?
At last Mrs. Giry lies in bed, sleeping fitfully. Little Meg never calls.