The Mask and Mirror

Chapter 20

Light. It slanted in through the open shutters, harsh, afternoon Algerian sun. Raoul winced in pain. It hurt his eyes. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, heat flushing his cheeks. He could feel tiredness in his very bones, seeping into his wrists, his legs, his back; it burned him. Hoping to ease the stiffness in his limbs, he walked towards the window. He had a dim memory of perspiration-soaked cotton sheets abrading his skin, a restless, sleepless night. Dusk until dawn, and back again. He paused, hands resting against the sun-scorched wooden shutters. Low voices and the creaking of floorboards vibrated through his fingertips.

No, sleep was not the problem. It was the being awake that was the difficulty. Facing the hollow recurrence of a new day, thinking with less and less conviction that perhaps something would come tomorrow –

Tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that…

Damned to despair, to exile. Hours spent wandering the market, from bars to stalls, through the endless drone of meaningless voices. Heart stopping whenever he caught the glimpse of a slender figure, dark, curling hair. The dust of a thousand days on his hands (better dust than blood) and nothing but the endless seeking, searching for an end, a salvation he doubted would ever come.

Raoul looked out the window, eyes half-closed against the painful blinding light.

This, he thought dully, this place, this life I'm living – this is Hell. This hard, horrible world with its infernal sun and endless sand and swarms of cruel, lonely people. Nothing can be worse than this. Nothing.

In the close, low-ceilinged room, the air was stifling, he felt like couldn't breathe; he was slowly suffocating –

Destroy me. Burn me. Char me to ashes and bone until I can no longer think, no longer feel.

He was forced to suffer each moment the intolerable loss of his previous life of contentment and peace. Those formerly happier times seemed like something from a past life or a distant memory. How long had it been? How many weeks and months of trial and darkness and misery? It was not merely Christine. It had started… before that. A gradual deterioration of a life that had once seemed blessed. And now…

Raoul pressed the backs of his hands against his eyes, white spots burning into his vision. He wanted to crawl away into somewhere dark and cold, somewhere he did not have to face the hateful, glaring light that threw everything into bright and violent relief. Everything here was harsh. He tried to picture the quiet days on his estate, the pastel moderation of cool shades and soft grasses, but the memory eluded him.

Innocence lost could never be regained. He had once thought that good must triumph over evil, that life was a thing of beauty and happiness and hope; that bad things did not happen to good people. By God, how wrong he was. How blind he had been.

This was a man who had had the world's cruelty and ugliness suddenly and starkly exposed to him, and lacking the energy to change it, he had chosen instead to accept it and used the understanding of its workings to achieve his own ends. Raoul had always been someone who saw the ends over the means. Even when he had naively offered to trade his life for Christine's freedom in a sweeping noble gesture, he had been prepared to do whatever it took to keep her safe. What had changed was his delusional thinking that he could play the hero. Now he was hollow with certainty. He had gone beyond such a inexperienced conviction, and the wake-up call he had received as a result had merely hardened him to his purpose. Raoul would never be the same man again.

His had once been a merry, naïve soul. Now, little more than a year later, he was a man driven only by a bleak sense of duty, torn between despair at his inability to return to his former life and a fervent wish to end it all.

He hated this apathy, this emotional void, and hated himself for feeling this way. Yet there seemed no way out. The pain seemed normal now. Like breathing.

A dull, persistent pounding had begun in his temples.

What has happened to me? Why am I so changed?

The pounding increased. It was only then Raoul realised it was not coming from within, but from someone knocking on his door. He released a slow sigh.

"Come in."

Meg Giry put her head around the door. "Raoul? Maman says there's a man here to see you. He says you were expecting him."

Raoul dragged his gaze away from the glaring light of the aperture.

"Yes," he said tonelessly. "Yes, I'm coming."

In the parlour of the boarding house, Madame Giry watched the visitor – she used the term loosely – with narrow distrust. He had made a half-motion to sit down, but a severe flash of her eyes had caused him to change his mind. Instead, he had taken to lounging by the window in what she regarded as an intolerably insolent manner. She observed too, with dispassion, that his face was a mask of blood, but was not particularly inclined to offer any assistance. Thieves and cutthroats deserved whatever injuries they received. Her mouth twisted into a bitter line.

It was not in Antoinette Giry's nature to betray the emotional tumults that had shaped her existence. Her husband's death had – outwardly at least – merely augmented her stern and self-reliant tendencies when she was left to rear a child single-handedly. She weathered change unflinchingly. Even now, after crossing continents, her angular figure was unaltered, as was the dark grey hair twisted into a tight knot at the base of her neck. Her severe expression too, had remained the same, but formerly, there had been a certain something about the mouth – that implied a wry sense of humour that emerged on rare occasions – which was gone.

She clicked her tongue between her teeth with mingled impatience and frustration. The stuffiness of the room caused sweat to trickle down her back. Each breath she took was dust and searing heat, tightening her chest within the strains of her rough-worn bodice, starch against skin. Beside her, Nadir was seated by the small table, large hands crossed one over the other. His patience was both admirable and provoking to Antoinette, who possessed so little of it herself.

At the sound of approaching footsteps clattering down the stairs, Nadir's soft, serious eyes lost some of their dimness, snapping into sudden darker clarity. Disapproval seemed to emanate from his quietly graceful and aged frame. Madame Giry stood up at once as her daughter entered, followed more slowly by Raoul.

The Persian cast him a reproving look that the Vicomte met with cool indifference. Madame Giry's sharp eyes noticed the tension at once but before she could consider it any further, Meg had given a sharp gasp at the sight of the stranger's face.

"What happened –"

Apart from a flicker deep within his eyes, Raoul made no reaction.

"Meg," Madame Giry said brusquely, "You should wait outside –"

"No," Meg said firmly.

"Fine," her mother said with unusual acquiescence, deciding the girl might as well be useful if she remained. "Get some water and bandages."

As her daughter left the room, Antoinette turned back to Raoul. The atmosphere had changed subtly since his entrance; he seemed to draw all eyes his way. Somnolent expectancy heightened into brooding tension. In the corner of her eye, she was aware of Nadir standing up, one hand leaning heavily against the table.

Raoul was staring at the guest with distaste, but then his mouth slowly curved into a smile. "I'd like to make an introduction," he said; and it was a shock, this seeming return to formality. But never had he spoken with such smooth derisiveness, never had he smiled with such cutting precision. "Madame Giry, Nadir… Jacques here is assisting us in recovering Christine."

"If that is even his real name," the Persian said cynically.

"Of course it isn't," said Raoul, as though Nadir had said something very stupid. The stranger merely smiled with apparent amusement at the evident disharmony within their small circle. Antoinette bristled with annoyance, several acerbic remarks burning on the tip of her tongue. However, before she could speak, her gaze met that of Raoul. He was looking at her, at Nadir, as though challenging them to criticise, to pass judgement. In that instant there was something remote and inexorable about him that made even Madame Giry stand mute.

Satisfied of their compliance, Raoul again returned his attention to Jacques. "I wasn't expecting you until tonight."

The smile left the stranger's face. "I came for my payment."

"You'll receive it when I hear something useful."

The man subsided reluctantly. Antoinette felt a flicker of uncharacteristic surprise. Never had she thought to see Raoul hold his own against such a man, much less dominate him utterly. Silence reigned over the small room.

Presently, Meg returned, bearing a bowl of water and a wad of cloth. Curls of steam rose from the water's surface, damp and cloying in the constricted heat of the parlour. She set the bowl down on the table. The initial shock over, she was looking at the stranger with a frank, almost impertinent curiosity. Unlike Christine, who was so often overcome with shyness with unfamiliar people, Meg possessed the enviable ability to be at ease in any situation. Antoinette looked at her daughter with an affection that she would never outwardly express. She was fiercely proud of her daughter; she loved the slight, fair-haired girl with an intensity all the greater for its very undemonstrativeness.

Meg dipped the cloth into the bowl of water and brought it to the man's face. He winced as she applied pressure to the long cut running from cheekbone to jaw.

"Who did this?" Nadir asked calmly.

"Who do you think?" said Jacques impatiently.

"So much for remaining inconspicuous," Meg muttered.

"Meg." There was a warning in her mother's voice.

"That'll do," said Raoul, and went to take the cloth from Meg. But the girl abruptly jerked her hand away, as though the touch burned her flesh. Raoul looked at her, bewildered, for a moment, then returned to the matter at hand.

Meg dropped the cloth into the bowl of bloodied water, and pulled out a wad of bandaging, which she began to apply with quick efficiency, tongue between her teeth as her brown eyes narrowed, examining the injury. She was looking rather flushed. It was very hot in the small room. Strands of dark blonde hair clung to her neckline, the skin beaded with drops of perspiration.

The man gave Raoul a sidelong glance as Meg finished the dressing. "With a pretty peach like that around, why are you so eager to track down another wench?"

"Any more talk like that and I'll finish the job Erik started," Raoul warned him before Madame Giry could strike the man for his impudence.

Meg however, merely smiled sweetly. A moment later, Jacques yelped as she tightened the bandage enough to cut through bone.

"Sorry," said Meg blithely, not sounding sorry in the least. Madame Giry's mouth twitched. She had almost forgotten how to laugh. Even Raoul looked briefly, sardonically amused.

"Why did you come alone?" he asked. "Where's Verges?"

For the first time, Jacques visibly shuddered. "He killed him. Almost killed me too – the man's insane."

"I did warn you," said Raoul, apparently unmoved by the news of another man's death. But the confirmation of another murder committed by Erik's hand caused a cold, sick feeling to spread through Antoinette's stomach. Hasn't he done enough? Hasn't he done enough already? How much further can he possibly fall?

And Christine? The unanswered question was like a knifepoint driven into her skin. She could only wait in agonised suspense, a knot of dread tightening in her chest.

Jacques winced in pain and looked up at the Vicomte through a heavy wad of bandaging (Meg had been very thorough). "He's aware you're following him. I thought you should know."

"I know," Raoul said wearily. "Tell me about Christine. Did you see her?"

"I saw her – briefly. I followed them as far as the town limits, but they hailed a cart, I was unable to keep up."

The self-contained, sensible Madame Giry felt her entire body weaken with relief. Whatever might have happened, Christine was still alive, at least. She glanced sideways. Meg had released a thankful sigh, but Raoul's reaction was startling. The detached self-assurance was gone. He had turned white – white to the lips. "She's alive?" he said. "You're certain?"

"Quite certain."

The Vicomte stared at him, his eyes wide and almost despairing. "She's alive – she's really here?"

"Yes."

Raoul turned away, his face drawn and haggard. "My God," he said, in a terrible voice.

"Raoul –" said Nadir, in concern. The Vicomte had retreated a few steps towards the door and was staring at the floor blankly. "I thought…" He could not go on.

Madame Giry frowned in bewilderment. "Monsieur –"

"I can't," he said, in an odd, dead sort of voice. "I just – I can't –"

Meg knelt down beside Jacques, her expression imploring. "How did she look?"

The man cast her a withering look, which she met steadily. "She was covered in another man's blood, being dragged away by a murderer. How do you think she looked?"

Before she could answer hotly to that, there was a clanking thud. Raoul had thrown a purse down on the table with a gesture of contempt. Some of the colour was returning to his cheeks; they burned with an unnatural, feverish intensity. "Take it," he said flatly. There was hard, narrow look in his eyes that darkened his irises to slate. "Take it and go. I don't ever want to see you here again."

Without another word, he strode from the room. There was such a stark and terrible expression on his face that nobody thought to hold him back. In the silence left by his departure, Madame Giry fixed Jacques with a steely eye. "I think your work here is done." Her voice was crisp, concise and effectual once more. "Meg, I think you can show our guest out." She laid a pointed stress on the word 'guest'.

Her daughter turned wide brown eyes of surprise on her mother, before perceiving she had something to say alone to Nadir. With a swift nod, she motioned Jacques to follow her, who, to Antoinette's surprise, did with no further difficulties once he had swept the purse from the table and checked its contents with intense scrutiny.

When they were left alone, Madame Giry turned at once to the Persian. "Tell me what has happened between you and the Vicomte." It was a command, not a request.

Nadir looked startled, but it was only momentary. He was becoming used to her bluntness. "We had… words. I didn't approve of his idea to place Christine's life in the hands of thieves and murderers."

"And what did he say?"

The Persian gave a short laugh. "He essentially told me to mind my own business and not to interfere in his affairs."

Antoinette heard this without surprise, although the news confirmed her apprehensions. Raoul had turned to deceit and ruthlessness almost unnervingly fast. She was seeing a slow erosion of any will other than that to recover Christine. Even his formerly protective instincts had merely dwindled to a prosaic sense of duty to the welfare of their small circle, but it seemed a tacked-on afterthought rather than driven by a profound moral conviction. Madame Giry frowned, her mouth a thin, tight line. "Perhaps I should talk to him."

"And say what? If he wanted our help, he would ask for it."

"Those in the most desperate need for help are often those who rarely ask for it."

She did not mention Erik's name. She didn't need to. The significance of her words hung between them.

Lines of woe were etched in Nadir's face; there was no anger there, only deep weariness and part self-blame. "You know…" His words were slow and halting. "Terrible as it may sound, I still… I cannot hate him."

Brief anger flared within Antoinette. She had always – well, she couldn't say liked Erik, but had always had a certain regard for him, a mixture of pity and respect. And in turn, he had treated her with a curious deference that was almost amusing. She had thought at first that Christine's visits were good for him, that they would help draw him from his loneliness and encourage him to compassionate with another human being who had also known the pain of loss. But as his desires and actions became increasingly darker and more twisted, she had been horrified at the thought that she was at least partly responsible. But after his disappearance, a measure of her pity for him had begun to return, only for him to make a mockery of such compassion in taking Christine by force. Her fierce grey eyes flashed. Did the man's wickedness know no bounds?

Nadir's dark, melancholy eyes were full of a compassion that wasn't entirely welcome. Antoinette did not like to be pitied. "He always spoke very highly of you."

"Likewise," she conceded reluctantly.

Silence, pervasive and heavy, fell between them. They had been living like this for weeks, all of them. Close, yet distant. No Parisian culture or rules of etiquette to fall back on. Slipping into the shadow of routine, trying to find a rhythm that worked. Madame Giry was not entirely sure they had succeeded.

"We know for certain that Christine is alive, at least."

"Did you ever doubt?"

Now she definitely did not like the knowing look in his eyes. "I never allowed myself to doubt."

Wisely, Nadir didn't question any further. Somewhere upstairs, a door swung open, sending a brief, welcome draft through the stifling parlour. He looked up at the sound, then peered at her intently through the stream of dust and half-light. "I understand what brings him all this way. But why are you here?"

Her gaze caught his, and he didn't look away. "I made a promise to someone."

It had been ten years ago, but the memory was vivid still, sliding in the space between her heart and lungs, another twist of the remorseful dagger. Antoinette inhaled, and it seemed she was breathing in the perfumed air of a dress rehearsal production (Yevgény Onégin) and details rose before her mind's eye. Lights, a stage, a face old and lined, forget-me-not blue eyes lit from within with the feverish brightness of consumption.

"Taking care of a sick and elderly lady is no life for a young girl. I will be leaving her everything I own, but it is not a great sum. I want to know that she will be able to provide for herself."

"To be frank, Madame, I see little future for her here," said Madame Giry. Behind her, Lensky lay bleeding from his wound on the stage. "She is far too sensitive and easily distracted. A career in the Ballet Corps requires single-minded dedication and a thick skin. Neither of which young Mademoiselle Daae seems to demonstrate. She cries even at the mildest criticism."

"But her voice –" Madame Valerius insisted, "Have you heard her sing?"

"Her voice is passable," said Madame Giry coolly. Not for the world would she tell Madame Valerius what she really thought of Christine's singing. If any word of that reached the child's ears it would only cause an inappropriate degree of vanity.

"Of course she has suffered after her poor father. But if you were only to give her a chance, I am sure she would excel."

"The other children find her strange and unsettling," said Madame Giry, bluntly. "She does not like to socialise with them. Young Jammes found some of the oddest sketches under her bed, and Christine said they were pictures of Korrigans, or some such nonsense. She is not popular and makes no effort to fit in."

"But according to her letters, she has become very attached to your daughter. I am glad for her sake, for she has few friends, poor child."

Madame Giry was not entirely impervious, and it was always flattering to hear one's own children praised. "Yes, Meg has taken a liking to her. I suppose I could take her on." There had never been any question that this would be the case. The truth was, Madame Giry had already become very fond of the girl. There was an endearing quality to Christine that had won over the hard ballet mistress in spite of herself. And the Opera Populaire could always use more chorus girls. "But she must be prepared to give the Ballet Corps her full commitment. No more burying her head in storybooks or wandering off alone. Joseph Buquet found her on the roof a few weeks ago."

"But I'm sure she meant no mischief. Christine is never naughty. She is always such a good girl."

Antoinette looked at the Persian intently a moment before speaking. "Madame Valerius was a proper lady, one of the few women I had a real respect for. There are not many women I would keep such a promise for. She raised Christine well, and wanted to see to it that I would continue to do the same." Madame Giry took a breath. Better not to dwell on the past. Better for her. Better for all of them.

She straightened her shoulders, worn hands smoothing down the crisp, conservative material of her skirts. It rustled like old parchment, a sound reminiscent of drawing rooms and afternoon tea, a sound very out of place in this sandswept corner of the world. "I will speak to the Vicomte."

She swept out into the hall, her booted feet sounding startlingly loud as they struck against the wooden floor. Quiet here, too. The noise outside reached her ears as a vague echo, somehow unreal. She could see no sign of Meg… upstairs perhaps, although she hated solitude and idleness – two things that they had become very used to over the past weeks. Antoinette was unwilling to let her daughter wander the market alone, however vehemently Meg insisted she could take care of herself. She had already lost Christine –

Madame Giry almost walked into Raoul as she reached the top of the stairs. He would have passed on by in silence, but her voice halted him.

"Monsieur, wait."

He turned back to face her. Madame Giry was struck by a sudden memory. It had been a humid summer's day, the windows of their apartment thrown wide open. Raoul had come calling on Christine, and Madame Giry, unnoticed, had walked in on the pair as they were standing in the hallway, waiting for his carriage. Raoul had been talking, smiling, his face animated and lively. He gesticulated with his hands as he spoke, and he said something that made Christine laugh. Antoinette smiled. It had been a long time since she had seen Christine looking so happy and she felt a rare feeling of affection towards the man who had been the cause of it.

Now it seemed to Madame Giry as though she were looking at the shell of that man. The smooth lines and fluid contours of his face had gone beyond all trace; the once pleasant physiognomy had become sharp, harsh even. Although only twenty-one, small lines were already creasing the corners of his deep-set eyes; small furrows were visible between his brows. But it was also in the way he held himself, with a strange, almost savage alertness. There was darkness, a hardness to him that she never would have thought to find in the mild mannered and easy-tempered nobleman who always promised to have Christine home by ten o'clock. The former courteous respect he had shown her was gone, too. Now, he was watching her coolly, and Antoinette knew that this was a man who would no longer be cowed by her, or stand for anyone to dominate him. Nothing would ever intimidate him again.

It took a moment for her to find the words. She had never been able to warmly and openly speak of her feelings of love and affection that expressed itself so openly and naturally in her daughter. She had always liked the Vicomte but his interest in Christine had resulted in her being sterner and more critical, not wanting to express her approval too demonstratively.

"I know I have been stern and harsh with you perhaps, but I always held you in high regard and could think of no one else whom I would be more willing to give Christine to. I thought you should know."

The words came out cold and austere, not how she intended. Then she wondered if they were even true anymore. Raoul made no reaction, merely looked at her with that same blank-behind-the-eyes expression, as though she had not said anything worth replying to. Antoinette knew then that her assertion came too late, he was beyond her offering of kindness, beyond anyone's. He seemed to have just… stopped caring.

She would have preferred anger, tears, recriminations – anything but this cold withdrawal into himself. Not once in the last two months had she witnessed any loss of control or alteration from this chilling detachment. But it was more than that.

It had never before occurred to her that there could be something dangerous within him, that the formerly polite and eager-to-please exterior could hide the potentiality for a darkness so deeply rooted that he himself had been unaware of it. But she knew now – knew with an uncharacteristic chill of vague horror – that if they found Christine tomorrow, she would have serious misgivings in handing her surrogate daughter over to this man.

Madame Giry frowned as she watched him walk away, aware of a strange emotion tightening her chest. It felt rather like fear.

Why, she thought, do I feel like Christine is safer in the hold of a murderer than with her own fiancée?

The sun outside was a high, white inferno that bleached everything outside to bone. Silhouetted in its blaze of light, Raoul was stood still, shoulders set rigidly as he gazed out the window with a strange expression of distaste twisting his features, as though something about the view appalled him. Meg could not imagine what. There was only the hot, twisting streets and bustle of the market below, sights they saw everyday. Nothing special or different about it.

But, a voice whispered in her head with a rare flash of insight, It's probably that sameness that he hates, it brings him no closer to finding Christine. There's a whole world standing between him and what he wants. Of course he must hate it.

Raoul closed the shutters. His eyes in the half-shadow were charcoal grey, bleak and distant. Meg stared at him, at the lean angular lines in his face that sharpened his beauty, lending it a new, heightened intensity so far removed from his formerly straightforward handsomeness. Yet he looked tense and tired, as he often did, but it was more than that. It was as though some newly awakened horror had just unfolded within him. His mind was elsewhere. Always elsewhere. A mystery she could never solve. Somewhere in her clear, forthright, uncomplicated mind, this infuriated her. For the first time, her passionate wilful nature had found someone she could not subdue, someone whom she could not beguile, bend or break. It was perhaps the one time in her life when something had not come easily to her and she felt a petulant flash of stubborn irritation at the thought.

She who lived everything she was on the surface found herself inexplicably drawn to the reserved, the distant, the enigmatic. Her fierce curiosity and deep capacity for tenderness drove her to unearth this sombre and haunted man from the recesses of his darker self.

How odd it was that she had not thought or cared anything for him when he was faultless and healthy. That she was only drawn to him now, when he was flawed and imperfect. She recalled how Christine had interested her on their first meeting. The pale, painfully shy and grief-stricken girl had held a kind of powerful fascination, and Meg had determined to set about getting to know this girl. She inexplicably felt she would prefer Christine as a friend to the other more popular girls at the Opera.

She wondered why she had come here, why she had followed him when he never sought company, seemed rather to consciously hold himself apart. Meg shook her head. It did not matter how or why they had come here. All that mattered was that they were here. All that mattered was this, here, the heavy silence, the smell of dust-and-musk, the pulse drumming in her ears with a rhythm as vivid and primal as that of the Mustapha drummers who played outisde her window at night.

"You left so suddenly," she said at last. There was a tight, hoarse feeling in her throat she knew was not due to the parched quality of the air. "I was worried." Inwardly, she winced. God, I sound like my mother.

"She's alive," Raoul said slowly, as though not speaking to her. "Christine's alive."

"But that's good."

"Yes," he echoed. "Good. Wonderful."

"Then why are you looking as though it's something terrible?"

He closed his eyes, clenching the windowsill with white-knuckled hands. "It's better if you don't know."

Meg drew herself upright. "It's better if I do."

"You won't want to come near me," he rasped. "Not if you knew –"

But the problem was, she did want to go near him, nearer than she should, nearer than was good for her. She recalled the vivid spark of electricity that had leapt across her skin from the brief brush of his hand against her own. She wondered whether reaching out and touching him would incite a similar flare, whether it would charge and restore some life to his faded and shadowed countenance. She clenched her jaw. I can never know.

It occurred to her how strange it was for him to keep secrets, someone whom she had always regarded as guileless and open about everything. She could not imagine bearing solitary burdens and shutting everyone out; that she would feel pain so intense that others would need to be protected from it. She was aware of a burning need to know the cause of this buried resentment, this secret unhappiness. She hated the thought that those she considered and trusted as friends could hide things from her. How betrayed she had felt when she finally learned the full nature of Christine's music teacher, when Christine had confessed all to her some months later. Some secrets are necessary, Christine had said sadly.

Necessary? Meg thought disbelievingly. It's killing him.

Raoul stared straight ahead, speaking with obvious reluctance. "I thought she might be dead. And for a moment – just a moment – I wanted it."

There was a ringing in Meg's ears. She was certain she had misheard him. The words echoed resoundingly, like pebbles dropped into a dark well. She stared at him. "You wanted it?"

"I wanted it over. If Christine died… it would be awful, my heart would break… but it would be over. Finished. No more of this endless uncertainty, this purgatory. I just wanted to be done with everything." He stared at her through the fall of his bronze hair, hollow-eyed. "In that moment, I wanted Christine dead."

I should have known. That look when he found out Christine was alive – it was guilt. I should have seen it. "It's understandable you wanted a second's release. But that's all it was. You didn't have to come out here, but the fact that you have shows that you care for her."

The distance left his eyes then, his awareness of her snapping into sudden, sharper focus. She was almost near enough to touch him. Almost. Heat radiated from the crisp cotton of his shirt. Her palms began to sweat.

"It's one of those things I like best about you," he said. "That things are so simple for you. I think I envy you that, a little."

She tilted her chin upwards and met his haunted eyes with a hard, resolute look. "Do you want Christine dead now?"

"Of course not. But I just – I don't know how much more I can take. After Philippe… it's too much."

His voice fractured slightly at the mention of his brother's name. Meg felt a sudden sense of shame. All that time – all that time she had thought him merely despairing over Christine, she had completely forgotten about the death of his brother. If it had been you, a part of her whispered, if it had been someone you loved… The room was suddenly far too silent. She wanted to scream.

How far back had this gone? He had never given himself time to grieve over his brother's death. How was he supposed to move on from a loss when he had nothing left but pain? Had he even cried? Somehow, she couldn't imagine Raoul crying; not this chilling, reserved Raoul, anyway. He was staring ahead, blue-grey eyes cold and unreachable. The crescent shadows beneath had deepened into indigo. Her heart felt as though it was fraying apart at the edges. How could he look so beautiful yet so broken? "After Philippe died, it was easier somehow because – because I had so much to do. Running the estate, organising a wedding… I don't have that anymore." His voice was bitter, old.

It occurred to her that this was the first time in weeks that she had seen him exhibit anything less than total self-control, that this was the part of him that her mother and Nadir would never, ever see. Meg was too sensible to flatter herself that Raoul had singled her out for any particular reason to divulge these confidences to. He had just wanted to tell someone. She wondered if he drew any comfort from her presence, or merely wanted her gone. Her simple, direct nature could not fully comprehend the complexities of his dark state of mind. She knew only the most basic causes of his misery; she had no knowledge of what else haunted him – how could she? She was not aware of the nightmares, the despair and self-loathing, the crippling guilt that made his life a living hell.

"Philippe was always the strong one. He always knew what to do. He looked out for me and I never even realised it… never even had a chance to thank him. And Christine… the last thing I did with her was quarrel."

Meg tried to say something, but no words were forthcoming. She had never had trouble speaking out before. On the contrary, her pithy opinions and outspokenness had been something of a cause for chagrin even in the relatively liberating environment of the Ballet Corps. So why was it, at the moment he needed it most, she could not think of anything to say? She could only sit in mute (inadequacy? Longing?) pity and hear him say these terrible things.

"She was the one thing in my world that made sense. And now she's gone, I feel –"

"Lost?"

Raoul stared at her and said nothing.

"The thing about Christine," Meg said slowly, almost surprised to hear herself speak, "Is that she's different from the rest of us. She believes that all people are as good and generous as she is; she sees a better world to the one we all live in, and when you're with her, you can almost believe in it, too. And when she's gone, everything dark and unpleasant and miserable comes rushing back, and you want to be near her again just to feel like you're a part of that better existence, and that you're better, too –"

She suddenly broke off, embarrassed. She had never been one for making long speeches, or for any kind of deep insightful remarks and it threw her off balance. That was the kind of melancholy introspection she had come to expect from Christine that she had only ever listened to with a vague sense of boredom. Perhaps Raoul isn't the only one who's changed, she thought, a little wryly.

"But the down side to that," Raoul continued, "Is that you can never feel good enough to measure up to her high standards of you. And then you wonder if the person she loves is even you at all or just some idealised vision you can never live up to. And if she knew who you really were, she would just… leave."

Meg's heart beat, queerly, strangely. She was standing close to him. Close enough to catch the hard, bitter scents of dust and sand and dried blood. "She didn't leave willingly, Raoul. I don't believe she would, not for one moment."

"Maybe not. But she took something of me with her; I think it's that better self she always saw. And whatever's been left behind is… the other things. Things I never –" A shadow crossed his face, of disillusion and defeat. His fingers ran across the wooden shutter in an idle movement, tracing out something – a face? A name?

"This place, this life… you have no idea how much I…" He paused and stretched out his arm so the light the shutters could not fully conceal fell across it, and he gave an odd, half-bitter laugh. "You feel sun on your skin, where I feel only the searing fire. Every day, burning me inside out."

Yes, she knew something of fire. How it ran through the body, circulating the blood with a feverish heat she had never felt when the preening, self-absorbed noblemen flirted with her at the Opera House. Perhaps she could have said so, in the formerly daring way she so often used to.

But she didn't. She remained silent.

She thought that Christine might have been right, after all.

Some secrets were necessary.

A/N: Reviews are appreciated. Raoul bashing is not.