The Mask and Mirror
And if you say this life ain't good enough
I would give my world to lift you up
I could change my life to better suit your mood
Cause you're so smooth
(Santana, Smooth)
Chapter 29
The riotous tumult and clamour of the streets outside had long passed and now the terrible silence pressed down on him, engulfing him, leaving nothing but the suffocating weight of his own thoughts. No sound in the empty room but his own breathing.
Raoul slid down the wall. He could not take any more. It was too much. A choked, ragged gasp of dry air filled his lungs. His back was pressed against the rough wood surface, the abrasive friction sore against the damp flesh where, he suspected, her nails had left marks. His body felt drained from the shuddering aftershocks of pleasure and now all he was left with was this cold emptiness, his perspiration cooling in the sultry air of approaching dawn. But around him, inside him, all was darkness.
What have I done? What have I done?
Slowly, his seeking hands found his discarded shirt, draping it loosely around his exhausted body. The crisp cotton clung uncomfortably to his skin, almost unbearable in the stuffy heat of the upstairs room. In the close darkness, his eyes could discern the small square of the window, the horizon outside painted in unnatural streaks of russet and ochre. How far would he have to walk down those winding, labyrinthine streets until he lost himself? He wanted to lose himself. He wanted to run, he wanted to forget. He wanted to die.
After all, he had nothing left to live for anymore. He had lost Christine forever. In one moment, it had all been destroyed. He had destroyed it.
Oh God.
The enormity of what he had done consumed him. Everything… hurt. He had never known anything like this rawness. He couldn't stand it.
Christine.
Raoul pressed cold hands to his face, feeling burning moisture against his cracked palms. Overwhelming sadness filled him. Through the blackness, her image rose as a silent reproach; the ardent light in her eyes, the glow on her pale brow, the purity outlining her slender form, her devotion and perfect innocence -
How could he ever look at her again? How could he speak to her?
I did everything for you. I risked scandal for you, abandoned my life for you, travelled across the world for you, suffered for you, killed for you.
And it was all for nothing.
He had done something terrible. Unforgivable.
Oh God, what have I done? What have I become?
There was no going back. Everything was broken.
His stomach was churning sickeningly. Just breathing was too hard. Hopelessness settled over his shoulders like a cold weight. This ache inside him was unendurable, constant… except when he was with -
But Raoul shook his head stubbornly, refusing to allow his thoughts to go down a path he would not follow. He would not think of it. It was all too messy and horrible and confusing.
But he could not stop thinking about it. The scent of her still lingered in the room, around him, on him. Whiskey and amber inside his very pores, clinging to his skin as her hands had done while -
Between the shadows, silken lips opening beneath his, he swallowed those soft, frantic cries that were lost in the heady darkness. They had not even made it so far as the bed. Her naked skin, subtly lit by the hazy golden light, was impossibly soft against his as he slid a hand down the contours of her body, relishing the torn moan she breathed against his mouth, the intoxicating dash of whiskey still clinging to her lips. No concubine could have maddened his senses more than this girl did in the mere act of tightening her arms around his waist in a deliciously clinging entrapment, her actions fuelled only by innocence, instinct and insatiable need.
Dragging his mouth from hers, he inhaled the satin fall of saffron-scented hair as it spread around her in a fan of deep gold, wayward strands clinging to the perspiration that shimmered along her collarbone. An intimate twist of his fingers and she was clutching him wildly, eyes dark and opaque with mindless desire. That sinfully limber body twisted beneath his, thighs parting to welcome him, and he willingly slid inside her with a blissful groan. The pulse of drums beating in his ears, he drove into her more deeply still, losing himself in the decadent sensations, liquid heat, amber and soft shadows -
And he had enjoyed it. More than enjoyed it. He had drank in it, revelled in it and demanded more. Driven them both the heights of delirious sensation, their bodies so entwined he could no longer tell where he ended and she began. And the name he had called out in those last fleeting moments of coherent thought was Meg's. In the hot, close darkness, she had become his entire world as they came apart together.
I want her, he thought dully. I want her and I shouldn't. It was almost a relief to admit this to himself. Even now, he wished her here, longed for that warmth. But I killed that too, tonight. She will never want to see me again. And with good reason.
But why did he want her? He didn't… love her, he was sure of that. But still he needed her. Until tonight, he had not realised how much. Her strength, her stubbornness, her fire. Oh, her passion could burn right through him. She made him feel. She was so strong and fierce. Light and warmth. And now she was gone, it had left him dark and cold and empty.
I cared for her. More than I should have. More than I had any right to.
The one good thing he had left in this horrible world and he had ruined it. He had taken her innocence, too, and torn it to shreds. How must she be feeling?
Betrayed. Used. Violated.
And all because she tried to help me. She only wanted to help.
Barely had he come back to himself in that warm lethargic oblivion, when she was gone. She had left without a word. She had not spoken to him.
And why should she? After what I did, she must hate me. I hate me.
He had taken her on the dusty, nail-beaten floor of a cheap boarding house as though she were no better than some common whore. How could he have done that to her? What kind of despicable being was he to have done that? She didn't deserve that. She deserved a blissful marriage to a man she loved and who loved her more than anything in the world, she deserved years of light and laughter…
And he had used her.
He had just wanted to feel again. To have some proof that he was still human, that a part of his former self had still remained.
And now that self was gone forever.
When had he changed? Why had he changed? Why had he become this despicable shell of a being? Someone who lied and murdered and betrayed those he professed to care for?
He had turned the mirror to the wall. He could no longer face the stranger that stared back at him. A noble, innocent man lost and driven to madness. Yet worse still was the thought of what he looked like on the inside. His entire being crumbling into ashes. This slow, dull decaying of his soul. His soul… no, his soul had been left behind in Paris. He had lost a part of himself when he crossed the sea and it could never be regained.
There is no going back. I am trapped in this man forever.
His gaze fell on the two empty glasses. He wanted to hurl them across the room, only he lacked the energy. He hadn't slept. Hadn't moved. How long had he been here?
It did not matter. Time no longer had any meaning, not when every day was interminably the same. The days and nights ran together, each as hopeless as the last. They all began and ended in darkness. He gazed blankly at the floor, trying to summon some of the fire, the heat and passion that had briefly allowed to feel human again, but there was only this misery and despair. Months of pain (moments of ecstasy).
Was this what you wanted? Was it worth it?
He couldn't see her again. Not ever. He did not know himself around her. He could not risk something like this happening again. For her sake he could not.
Why had she let him? She couldn't love him, not when he didn't even love himself. No one could love a shell, a thing. Why didn't she push him away?
No, he could not blame her. She was entirely innocent in all this. It was him. Everything, all of this, it was him.
He had been the one to kiss her. But it had started… before that. He had watched her in the Kasbah with an awakened awareness, he realised that now. Had he known? Had he known all along that it would come to this? And if he had, why didn't he stop it?
Why did she have to be the one to make him feel again? It could have been anyone. It should have been anyone -
He halted that thought in horror. What was he thinking? It should have been no one. He should never, never have betrayed Christine. Not for anything in this world. Raoul was no stranger to a woman's flesh. Not with an older brother who had shown him all sides of society. But since Christine had come back into his life he had never been with anyone else, never wanted anyone else.
Even Erik remained faithful.
And now - now he was… worse. Worse than Erik, who had once been a symbol of everything he hated, everything cruel and wicked and wrong in this world…
And he was worse.
Even in hating Erik, it was only his own self that he was hating. What he had done was despicable. He wanted to go back twenty-four hours. No, he wanted to go back months, years -
This present existence was killing him. If only he could lose all feeling, or at least, all memory of the past.
But the past would not let him go. Memories of Paris tore through him with brutal intensity. Eyes alight with love, alight with longing (there is nothing more I want than to be with you for ever and ever) Clasped hands, soft dark hair falling over his neck (do you remember, my love? Do you remember Perros?) Winter to summer to winter again. When Meg Giry had been little more than a barely-remembered name. Because nothing, nothing compared to Christine. Nothing ever would.
He could recall it still, the pure, heartfelt adoration that was once so uncomplicated. Beginning along a wild and pounding shoreline and ending on a frozen terrace crowned with snow. A tragedy he could never forget. The clear sweetness in her soft voice, the spiritual face, lily-pale delicacy of her skin. He would think of her every day for the rest of his life. Oh, how he loved her.
And how he had lost her.
If I cannot be who I was, then let me no longer remember it.
Those thoughts that had once been his lifeline were now his torment. He no longer wanted to think or feel, no longer needed it if his life had narrowed down to cold, empty duty and a dull resignation to see the thing through to the end. It was all that was left to him now. No passion inflamed him, no conviction enlightened him. He was doing this merely because there was nothing else left for him. Paris was a shadow to him now. He had no ties, no friends, no love. Nameless. Anonymous. There was nothing left. Meg had been the last thing, and he had ruined that, too. He had destroyed himself, and if he gave up the search now, it would have all been for nothing. All the pain, and the loathing, and the emptiness would have been for no reason. To find Christine was all he had left tying him to this shadow of existence. And after that -
He paused. The idea that he even had a future was completely unthinkable to him.
I just want it over with.
He was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of drifting, tired of this nothing he'd had inside him for months and months. He wanted sweet rain and opening clouds and greenery. Instead, he saw scorched metal, perspiring heat. Incense drugging him into madness. Long, endless nights.
Even if died, no hell could be worse than what he was living now. The world was so much more painful than he could ever have imagined. Yet he could not bring himself to end his suffering.
God, how had it come to this?
His world had once been bright and colourful, and now he saw nothing but swirling grey emptiness. He was walking through grey space. He looked at it through hollow eyes. None of it touched him (except her). He was slowly dying inside.
There was nothing left to lose in this bitter half-life.
He knew what he had to do.
Madame Giry sat nursing a cup of steaming coffee, the beverage almost too black and bitter to swallow. The sinuous curls of steam rose in the dust-slanting air, the pungent aroma going some way to sharpening her mind that felt unnaturally drowsy. It was this heat. A hot, bleached afternoon. Too heavy. Stifling. She was wearing far too many layers of clothing, but nothing would have induced her to divest of any of the prudish trappings of hoops and underskirts and petticoats and bodices and shawls that were so cumbersome in this climate, so unsuitable. But Antoinette was nothing if not traditional and orderly in her appearance. Not even a hurricane would have shifted loose any of the grey hair from its savagely twisted knot, thrust in place by two chopstick hairpins. Her worn hands curled around the bone china handle of her cup, the Blue Italian design faded to almost white. She inhaled the fumes of caffeine as though they could be absorbed by osmosis.
She refused to obey her body's instinct to slouch down in her seat, not only due to years as a ballet mistress routinely positioning her spine to rigid straightness, but also because the Persian was seated across from her with a collected grace that it seemed only courteous to emulate. He was dressed in lavish peacock blue robes; dark eyes and skin standing out in startling contrast. Unlike the rest of them, he could blend in easily with the crowds here, no matter how garishly he dressed. His opulent garments were the most vivid thing in the shadowy vagueness of the sepia-toned room; she found it hard to look at anything else. She could smell the faint scent of expensive pipe tobacco, sweet and cloying as it clung to his robes. It was the smell of opium. Of oblivion.
They had returned late last night; so late that the sky had already been turning to striated brass by the time she had climbed the stairs quietly so as not to wake her daughter. Meg had not moved since she had left, still sleeping peacefully in her bed, through looking a trifle flushed and fevered. She had smoothed the tousled hair from the hot forehead with tender fingers, gazing down at the girl with silent concern. Sleep had not come easily to her that night.
Madame Giry sighed. Meg, something else that had given her cause to worry, when it seemed all she did was worry these days. The girl had been distant and evasive lately - not like her at all. Neither was it like her to be shut in her room for hours on end. And the amount of time she was spending with the Vicomte… doubt gnawed at her, uneasy fears that she would not consciously express. No good would come of it, of that Antoinette was certain. Perhaps it was time she had another conversation with her wilful daughter.
Nadir poured himself a drink from an engraved silver hipflask he pulled from the voluminous silken depths of his robes. Madame Giry's thin grey brows raised a fraction.
"Drinking during the day was a matter of course in Persia," he said calmly and without a trace of embarrassment.
The normally straight-laced Madame Giry then did something she never would have contemplated had her daughter been in the room - she slid her barely touched cup of coffee across the table, which Nadir obligingly enriched with a splash of whiskey. He handed the cup back to her without comment.
"This is not something I do often, Monsieur," she said sternly.
An uncommon smile softened Nadir's face. His dark eyes filled with warmth and suddenly it was easy to see what he must have looked like twenty years ago; young and strong and handsome, not old and frail and broken. "Your secret is safe with me."
She took a sip through pursed lips and did not return the smile.
"How long have you been awake?" she asked, more for something to say than out of any real sense of curiosity.
"Since early this morning. I walked about the market." He paused. "You do know she's not here, don't you?"
Antoinette stared at him for some moments. Then, "Yes, I know," she said finally.
"We would have heard something by now. It's evident that Erik has left Mustapha, maybe even Alger. I should have guessed before this. He never stays in one place long."
"Never used to, perhaps."
The Persian acknowledged that with a rueful nod. He spread his arms along the sides of his chair, long-lashed eyes regarding her thoughtfully.
"And the Vicomte? Does he know?"
Antoinette frowned. "I don't know what goes on in that man's mind. And I haven't seen him since yesterday. He's normally awake before any of us."
"It is rather worrying."
She made a reluctant motion to stir herself. "I should see if he is alright."
"Allow me."
Madame Giry nodded with uncommon acquiescence, lacking the energy to argue the point. Perhaps the Persian's serene temperament was more suited to dealing with the Vicomte than her own acerbic spirit.
She closed her eyes once he left, feeling the heat of the afternoon sun on her face. It would be easy to do nothing but sleep in a place like this. Sleep, and wake, and search, then sleep again. The days long and white-hot, without variation. How long had it been now? She shifted uneasily. The chair was hard and uncomfortable, though Antoinette was not one to complain of physical discomfort.
She looked down at her clenched hands, smudged faintly with dirt. The dist was infernal in this place. The sooner they left, the better. And not just this boarding house. The sooner they left Alger.
She was tired, she realised. Tired in herself. They all were, that was the truth of it, though none of them had said it aloud. The chances of ever finding Christine were becoming slimmer and slimmer with each day that passed. Her daughter was wasting her life on this mad pursuit and the fault of it was hers. Soon, she would have to decide what to do. She thought of Madame Valerius' imploring face and the consumptive brightness in those beautiful blue eyes. Fragile lace-netted hands closing around hers in a trembling grip. I know that you will take care of her, Madame, raise her as though she were your own. I trust that you will keep her safe. That was the last time Madame Giry ever saw her. Two weeks later Madame Valerius was dead. And every day since Antoinette had felt the burden of that last appeal.
To whom did she owe the most loyalty? How much more time could she invest in trying to honour the promise made to a dead woman? Yet how could she abandon the girl she loved as a daughter?
In her heart, though, she knew what she had to do. But still she pushed away the treacherous thought with both hands, dreading what it might mean for Christine. For Meg. For herself.
She never used to be like this, so riddled with doubt and uncertainty. But ever since Christine had disappeared (taken? kidnapped?) it was as though every piece of Antoinette's ordered existence had gone too. It had left her in the company of a man she did know, another man she did not trust and a daughter she was losing.
She had it in her power to put an end to this. And in that moment Madame Giry resolved that things would change.
Even if they never forgave her for it.
The door opened, disturbing the air, a dry mirage-shimmer of heat. Light streamed in from the hall, the rattle of carts returning from the market audible through the narrow walls. The Persian entered the room - alone. Madame Giry looked at his grave, solemn face, the dark eyes troubled within the aged creases. She sat up a little straighter.
"Is something the matter?"
"Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, I rather think there is."
…Amber and soft shadows, no sound in this hot, moist tangle of hands and limbs. Dimly she registered that the surface beneath her back was hard… she was lying on the floor, the wood scraping her bare skin… but impossible to care about that now, not when the warm weight of his body was positioned over her, his tongue trailing across the perspiration between her breasts… she twisted her head to one side, biting down hard on swollen lips to suppress a moan. Her torso arched shamelessly into his, demanding more, and a violent shudder passed through her as his fingers danced along the path of her inner thighs, and she could have sworn she heard him laugh quietly.
Bronze-hued skin, coppery hair brushing her collarbone as his head bent over her. His lips moved over her arched throat, the exhalation of breath sweet and burning against the flushed skin. His searing blue eyes, clouded with passion, softened slightly as he looked down at her with a heavy-lidded gaze.
"Am I hurting you?"
"Not anymore," she gasped, truthfully. Not now, on the second (third?) time -
She shifted beneath him impatiently. Her hot palms were pressing against the tensed muscles of his shoulders, moving down the curve of his back that was damp with sweat, pulling him more deeply into her. She felt his body shudder as he moved over her. All sense of reality distorted when he dragged his hips roughly against hers. She drew an unsteady breath, inhaling the masculine scent of warm skin and musk and spices, the closeness of him rendering her half-delirious, yet still she wanted more -
His hands curved around her slender waist, fingers digging almost painfully into her ribs as he raised her body to meet his with a strength that should have frightened her, but it merely caused a rush of exhilaration to flood through her veins. The mad, frenetic pounding of his heart against her naked chest as he grappled her closer still, his burnished head buried in the curve of her neck, sampling the willingly proffered flesh. Her head fell back, sweat-streaked hair entwining with his. His breathing was harsh, the words smothered heat against her burning skin.
"What have you done to me?" he whispered hoarsely.
She could have asked him the same thing, but each brutal, demanding thrust of his body robbed the breath from her, driving her back against the hard floor. Never slowing, never losing the rhythm, he stole delicious, melting kisses from her parted lips as wild convulsions shook her lower body. She felt her eyes roll back at the searing exquisiteness of sensation and he groaned his pleasure in her ear -
Meg's eyes opened slowly. Her blonde hair was a disordered mess over her shoulders, long strands clinging to the damp skin that - she glanced downward - were those… bruises? Hot colour flooded her cheeks and her shaking fingers tugged at her chemise, pulling it more tightly against her body. The bed covers were twined around her sweating limbs that were still slightly sore from - from -
Oh, what had she done?
The fact that she was entirely alert and clear-headed meant that she could not blame the whiskey she had drunk last night, either. And she could not deny the delicious languor that coursed through her body, nor the searing memory of exquisite sensation burned indelibly into her sated flesh, proof that last night really had happened and was not merely the fragments of some wild, scandalous dream.
How had it happened? And to her, of all people? She was always so rational, so in control. She had always scorned the girls that threw themselves into salacious affairs and became perfect slaves to men who were merely using them as temporary playthings. She had always kept her small, satin-clad toes on the right side of propriety, never going further than coquettish smiles and idle flirtations, extravagant presents received from amorous noblemen and saccharine kisses stolen in the perfumed, clamorous bustle between rehearsals. It was something light hearted and fun, a frivolous diversion that might one day result in marriage if the man was handsome and the purse filled enough. She had never let anyone glimpse past the whale-boned corsets and powder and fine lace that neatly imprisoned her dancer's body. Who would have thought, who would have imagined that it could all be stripped away so easily?
Who knew that beneath the fluttering fans and beribboned bodices and coy glances that there lurked these hidden desires and the propensity to sensual madness - she had not known it herself. Yet inside, there lingered that core of passion that no amount of culture or convention could ever hope to eradicate. She had welcomed every touch, the slide of his rough hands over her willing flesh, wringing every desperate cry from her tensing and releasing body… oh, how could she?
Yet she knew, if faced with the same choice, she would do it all over again. Here for the first time was a man she could not bully, beguile, or bend to her will. It was intoxicating, a mad thrill she had never known, a dark and primitive feeling that had made her succumb to those hands and lips, the forceful movement of his body over hers. She had let him do whatever he wanted with her and she had relished every moment of it.
Oh, how could she look at him after this?
But he had kissed her. He had been the one to… to… he had crossed that line, broken down the boundaries of respectability and decency… yet she hadn't stopped him. No, she had urged him on and demanded that he do more. She had gasped, moaned, begged, pleaded shamelessly. She had cried out her surrender to the night with such intensity that it frightened her. Overwhelmed by the rush of emotion, barely moments had passed after he collapsed exhausted beside her when she had fled to her room. And now, she, who was always so sure of herself, was conflicted with doubts.
Had it meant anything to him? His avowal of how much she mattered to him? What did he really think of her? Had it been merely a way for him to burn out his frenzied lust? Or something more?
He desires you, she told herself harshly. That is all. He certainly isn't the first man to, and he won't be the last.
Meg knew she was a pretty girl - looking glasses and men were a simple enough affirmation of that fact. She had revelled in being the popular belle of the Opera House, the admiring envy of the ballet rats, the pampered darling of the old hands and the object of desire to the rich noblemen that passed through its walls. For was she not the most merry, the most daring of them all? She enjoyed the attention - of course she did - but she, Madame Giry's daughter, had always been too practical and sensible to allow herself to get into a situation that could become… complicated. Well, the girls at the Opera House would laugh if they knew. Her actions went against every respectable lesson that had been instilled in her. Even in the blurring, ever-changing masquerade that passed for life in the Opera Poplaire, she had never once been tempted to abandon herself to the hedonistic temptations that lured so many other ballet rats to earn themselves unsavoury reputations. And now -
Of all the stupid, heedless things you have done, Meg Giry, this is the worst.
Why oh why had she been so foolish?
She had been a silly, sentimental fool. Such a thing would not happen again. For Christine's sake, it must not.
At the thought of Christine, the awful, constricting feeling in her chest intensified. Meg knew that what she had done was terrible, and something she never would have suspected of herself before last night. And deep down, in the depths of her fierce, loyal heart, she knew that Christine was a far better person than she was, and that just made it all the worse.
Christine… sweet, solemn Christine who was far too good for this world. Her dearest friend. Christine, who would probably think her some brazen little harlot, even if she was too kind to ever say the words aloud. The one person that Meg truly and honestly admired and she betrayed her in the worst way possible. She had perhaps irrevocably ruined a friendship that, since girlhood, had never once been tarnished by any cruel words or petty jealousies. She inwardly groaned and pressed her hands against her brow.
What had she been thinking?
And the worst of it was that she did not feel as guilty as she should. When had she become so selfish? I was always selfish. Only I never had cause to think of Christine as a rival before now.
Well, it was done now. There was no use in berating herself over the fact.
With a sigh, Meg slid out of her bed, shielding her eyes from the brutal, glancing sun. The rays were low, however… was it late afternoon already? Tempting as it was to remain in her room, she could not hide up here forever. She had to face him eventually and she would not have him think her some coward.
Would he be angry? Would he be distant? Or would he look at her as he had then, with desire flaring in his eyes and raw need in his voice?
She dressed with absent hands and a mind elsewhere. She did, however, pause to take in her appearance in the tarnished mirror that hung over her bed. Her hair clung damply to her neck, the colour running high in her cheeks. Meg peered closer. And her eyes… heavy, dark, languid… dear God, the evidence of last night was written all over her face.
With a silver-backed brush, she savagely combed her tangled hair until it felt soft as raw silk, and splashed water over her heated face. She pulled a gauzy shawl over her shoulders, certain that any telltale marks on her skin would not escape her mother's sharp scrutiny. The rest of her was daintily concealed beneath a satin bodice and lace-flounced petticoats, though it seemed a little late for such shows of propriety now.
She clattered down the stairs with perhaps more noise than necessary. Her heart was pounding madly. This was ridiculous! She would not act like some blushing ingénue, no matter what had passed between them. Swallowing hard and lifting her chin resolutely, she pushed the door open and walked in.
She didn't know whether she was relieved or disappointed to see only her mother and Nadir within, conversing in low voices, their heads bent close together. Both immediately fell silent as Meg entered.
Her mother looked up, sharp grey eyes examining her face with an unsettlingly penetrating look. "What's the matter?"
Meg avoided her gaze, scuffing a foot against the dusty floorboards. "Nothing."
"You slept half the day away."
"I was tired."
Madame Giry's eyes narrowed as she looked closer. "You look… are you sure you're not falling sick?"
"I'm not sick."
There was no reply. Meg then registered the stagnant silence coating the air, the heightened, heavy stillness. Her heart thudded. Something had happened. She stared at her mother's impassive features, fearing... fearing something.
"What's wrong?"
It was Nadir who stood up, Nadir who walked across the stretch of room and held out his large hand towards her.
"You should look at this."
Startled, Meg took the small scrap of paper from him and unfolded it. Wordlessly, she looked down and read,
Do not try to find me. If you see me again, it will be with Christine. If you do not, it is because I am dead.
Tell Meg that I am sorry.
The paper curled up in her clenched fist.
"When did you find this?" Her voice was very quiet.
"Not half an hour ago."
"Then why are you still here?" She immediately whirled round in the direction of the half-opened door. "He cannot have had that much of a start, if we split up -"
Her voice trailed off as both Nadir and her mother remained unmoving.
"Why are you standing there?" She looked slowly from one to the other. "What is this?"
"Marguerite." Her mother's tone was pure steel. "Sit down."
After a moment of hesitation, she dropped into a chair, looking mutinous.
"Listen to me, Meg. This is… not what any of us were expecting. But try to understand it may also be an opportunity… It has been months now. And for all we know, we are still no closer to finding Christine…"
Nadir jumped at the violent crash that reverberated through the room like a crack of thunder. Meg had started to her feet, the abrupt motion knocking her chair to the floor. A cloud of dust skirled upward in the hazy afternoon light. It was evident she had understood the inference of her mother's words.
"You want to go," she said in a shaking voice. "You want to leave him - leave here - and go back to - to -"
Nadir realised he was intruding on what should have been a private scene, but Madame Giry was standing in front of the door; any chance of his discreetly leaving the room was an impossibility. He could only watch silently as Meg shook her head wildly, agitation visible in her bright eyes and the trembling set of her mouth.
Antoinette spoke with calm deliberation. "I am only doing what I believe is best."
"Best for you, maybe," the girl muttered petulantly.
"Best for both of us. This is a chance - a chance to have our lives back."
"And what about Christine's life?" demanded the girl, clearly not prepared to listen to reason.
"Meg," she said quietly. "You may have to realise… you may have to accept the possibility that you will not see Christine -"
"That's all you have to say?" Her voice rose, her chest heaving with passion and frustration. "You raise her for nearly ten years then just abandon her?"
Madame Giry's grey eyes flashed dangerously. "Do not act like this is an easy decision for me."
"Then don't make it!" Meg moved towards her entreatingly, her voice softening. "Maman, please… I don't want to fight."
The woman's hard expression did not falter. She faced her daughter, rigid, unmoving. "This is not a discussion, Marguerite. I have made up my mind."
"Since half an hour ago?"
"You knew that this arrangement could not be permanent."
The girl gave a bitter, strangled laugh and tried another tactic. "I thought you didn't trust Raoul. And now you're prepared to leave him here - alone - and hope for the best?"
"He will not be the only one. Monsieur Khan has said he is willing to stay in the meantime." Antoinette turned to him as she spoke, and he glimpsed a rare flash of pleading in her eyes.
"I am," Nadir said. Because I have to believe… believe that a part of Erik's humanity remains. And if it does not… then at least I will know. This need to know, this constant wondering was ever with him, like a carved etching beneath his skin.
Antoinette nodded, relieved, but did not inquire any further. He had not expected her to. It was always the same. Living in this uneasy proximity, this close distance. Neither Madame Giry nor her daughter truly understood him, but he had become accustomed to solitude. Nadir almost smiled at the irony of it. I was once Erik's only friend. And now he is mine.
"We could be in Paris in a matter of weeks," she continued fervently. "If we made arrangements, saw to it that out finances could adequately ensure our departure…"
Meg continued to look blankly at her, as though she were speaking in another language. Her mother's expression hardened.
"You knew it would come to this eventually, Marguerite."
But her daughter was shaking her head. "I can't…" she said slowly. "I can't listen to this…"
Antoinette stepped forward. "Meg -"
But she had already pushed past her mother and fled the room.
The silence her departure left was stifling. Even the clamouring noise outside had ceased. Nadir chanced a look at Madame Giry through lowered eyes. She seemed to have aged a decade in the space of minutes. Perhaps he should have gone up to her, laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, but something in her stark face and tense, unmoving frame stopped him. She spoke without looking at him.
"Thank you," she said tersely. "For saying you would stay."
"I always intended to. I feel… Erik's welfare has always been something of a responsibility for me."
He never said so, but it was more than that. The tragic reality was, he had nowhere else to go. Paris had never been home. Not like Persia.
Perhaps it was the heat, the scorching atmosphere that brought back the long familiarity of it, but he dreamed of Persia almost constantly now. He dreamed it as it once was, too bright, too vivid, people and colours and places that no longer existed except in his own memory. Through a drugged haze of opium and blood, Erik had been at the centre of it all, a mad magician who held power over life and death, yet could not save his son. He dreamed of Reza laughing and holding out his hands. He dreamed of Reza contorted with agony while his mother tried to hold back her sobs. He dreamed of the Khanum, her eyes alight with love and rage and insanity. Palaces and smoke and mirrors. Incense and lush, tropical gardens, and beneath, the sweet decaying smell of death. It was paradise, and it was poison.
And he missed it with all his heart.
She must have been mad to come here.
But then none of her decisions could exactly be called responsible as of late.
Her mother would be furious if she knew she was here, but she didn't want to think about her mother now, though it increased the sense of urgency that filled her. Almost impossible to see clearly through the haze of incense burners, the opaque smoke spiralling upwards to the row of lanterns swaying along the canvassed ceiling. She could taste the spices at the back of her throat. Rugs lay across the ground. Night music beating in her ears. A frenetic, rhythmical jingle. Heavy, seductive, delirious. The heat of closely-packed bodies pressed around her. Glimpses of bare flesh were visible through the curling air. Meg moved further into the darkening depths of the plush tent that enclosed her in a murky labyrinth.
This was where it had begun. His lingering looks, the fleeting touches… oh, she should have known, then. Perhaps she had. And she did nothing to stop it.
Clouds of sand, swirling from the motion of light, dancing feet. The movement of lissom waists, slender arms curving. The sweep of perfumed hair black as oil, tanned skin, and gold, gold, gold. Coins passed from hand to hand. Meg ignored the wanton gazes of inky eyes that slid over her like water. Grasping hands were easily eluded.
He must be far away by now. Probably already set off down one of those straight and dusty roads that led to… wherever they led. He would never have come here.
But then, where better to hide than in the midst of so many people?
Her quick, dark eyes scanned the masses of people, searching, searching… the faces were barely discernable through the shadows of falling hoods, the veils of the women who were not performing. Hazy eyes, clouded with opium, stared through her vaguely. She pushed her way past the glittering veils, the intricately designed canvas flaps. She ducked beneath a line of swinging lamps and emerged in the cloying nocturnal heat of a back alley.
The scorched skyline was barely visible in the confined space. The closeness of the heavy canvas slanting across the low rooftops made her breath catch in the thick, incense-laden air. Her mind spun. The dark crept into the narrow spaces. She made her way cautiously through the narrow alley, her small feet in their light slippers barely making a sound against the soft, densely packed earth -
Meg paused.
The hairs on the back of her neck were prickling nervously. The tent flap rustled softly. Faintly, she could hear the clatter of kettledrums drifting out from the canvassed interior, the muffled shouts. Yet she was sure… Her small shoulders stiffened. A dry, rasping wind whispered through the alley; the veils fluttered madly and set off the discordant jangling of tiny bells -
"If you're expecting a proposal…" The low drawl made her jump. "I'm sorry to disappoint you."
He emerged slowly from the shadows. Her pulsing heart seemed to leap against her chest. His face was as impassive as a gold Venetian mask, though the eyes were a brilliant, burning blue. He was watching her without amusement. A shiver of apprehension and something else (desire) rippled down her spine. It took a moment for her to react to the shock of his words.
"What?" Her voice came out far less steady than she would have liked.
The atmosphere hung around them in heavy, burning veils. She fought the unreasonable urge to back away as he prowled towards her. There was something raw in his stance, alert and powerful and intimidating. The shirt hung loosely from his tanned shoulders, burnished hair barely held back by the leather thong. It was hard to believe she had once seen him in nothing but finery; ruffled shirts and velvet waistcoats and silken cravats that had all sat so well on his lean figure with its former ease and light grace. But now he seemed like some tantalising stranger (though he stopped being a stranger last night) -
Meg shuddered at the memories that evoked. The caress of warm fingers. Panting breaths. Arcane desire.
"I've ruined your reputation." Raoul continued to stare at her unnervingly. "The honourable thing to do would be to marry you. I'm sure even a place like this would have some barbaric mummery of a wedding ceremony. But then… something tells me you didn't come here for that. So why are you here?"
Those few moments were all it took to recover herself. Meg summoned a breath; forced an arch smile to her lips. The old, coquettish dip of the head, the delicate gold brows raised just so… yes, this was more like the Meg Giry of the Opera Populaire. She knew he saw it too, the rapid, startled glance he threw her almost made her laugh. Hand curving around her hip, the light material of her dress pulled tight against her waist.
"A little foolish, wasn't it? Coming here of all places? Unless, of course, you wanted to be found."
"Not as foolish as you following me."
"You knew I would."
His eyes were burning in the dim light. "I thought you would know better."
Closer still. She hated (loved) the way he towered over her, eclipsing her diminutive height with no effort on his part. If she reached out, she would be touching his chest. The sweating air was suffocating. She inhaled sharply. His scent. Dark and bitter and dangerous.
Meg realised she was trembling. Let him think it was from anger… he couldn't know it was from longing. But she was not about to lose her nerve. She rested a hand against the wall to steady herself, bracing her slim body. She could feel heat radiating from the tightly-pressed clay, the dust caught in the folds of heavy fabric. Light skirts fluttered around her legs that were slightly apart, white slippers reddened with dirt. Her shoulders arching forward like an aggressive cat.
"Listen to me," she said insistently, "Yes, I followed you. Or rather, took an accurate guess at where you might be. Slipping off in the night is not the answer. You can't just go off alone. So whatever twisted logic you've used to persuade yourself that this is somehow a good idea…" God, she was rambling.
"I'm not going to justify my reasons to you."
She felt his exhalation against the hollow of her exposed throat. In spite of the dimly flickering shadows, she could see every minute detail of his unmoving face, the shifting of bronze light over the chiselled contours and shadows, cerulean eyes hooded by heavy lashes, his parted mouth barely a whisper from her own. It took an effort not betray herself with a shuddering sigh. But somehow she managed it.
"That's right. Because I'm just some frivolous little girl. That's what you think, isn't it?"
Raoul gave a harsh laugh. "Surely you don't believe that? Not after -" He broke off, his hard mouth pressing into a stubborn line. He wouldn't even say it.
She met his gaze challengingly. "Not after what, Raoul?"
"Don't -"
"Why, will I be compromising myself?" Her soft lips curved mockingly. "A little late for that, wouldn't you say?"
She felt his shoulders tense. Warm breath caressed her cheek as he leaned forward, every word carefully punctuated. Her body gave an involuntary tremor.
"Don't provoke me, Meg." There was a dangerous edge to his quiet voice.
"Why not?" she demanded recklessly, knowing she was riling him, but at this point she was beyond caring. There was a burning in her eyes and throat. It was a struggle to speak. "Was it really so terrible?"
Raoul looked away at that. All once his eyes were distant and remote, grey as an icy lake on a bleak winter's day, yet last night she had seen those eyes hot and blue and smouldering, blazing with passion and fire and raw hunger. "You wouldn't understand," he said heavily.
Once, she wouldn't have. Once he had been hopelessly elusive to her, a closed book. It had been part of what fascinated her about him. But now she could read him with ease, understand every dark thought that was consuming him. She had a savage urge to tear away that darkness he had buried himself, to rip it to shreds with her bare hands. What good were his useless feelings of guilt and remorse when Christine was still missing and in danger?
"I think that I do. I want to help you, but it's as though you're doing everything in your power to try and make me hate you."
"It would be better if you did."
"That's for me to decide," she snapped. How did he manage to rile her effortlessly?
"I'm serious. Being near me… it will destroy you. You should let me leave. Because then I wouldn't have been near you, never tried to use you as a means of –"
She held up a shaking hand in a futile attempt to stop his words but he continued regardless. "I'm telling you now - let me go."
"No," she said simply.
His gaze moved lingeringly over her slight figure. His mouth curved. "Are you going to stop me?"
Meg found herself shaking with anger. He was laughing at her.
"I seem to recall stopping you running headlong into danger before," she pointed out sharply. "You clearly haven't learnt anything."
"Or perhaps I could have ended it then."
"All you would have ended was our own life - though perhaps that's what you wanted."
"But of course," he returned in low voice, heavy with irony. "You see right through me, don't you Meg?"
"Only when you make stupid decisions." Fine scorn trembled around her tightly pressed lips.
"Well you would know something about that, wouldn't you?"
The words struck her like a whip lash. A consummate actress, Meg forced herself not to react, forced down the furious tears that threatened to surface. She could have slapped him for that. Anger surged white-hot adrenaline through her veins. She crossed her arms to still her livid trembling. Her voice was heavy with contempt. "This isn't about us slowing you down. You just want to wallow in yourself. Then go. Rot in hell for all I care. You're almost there anyway."
She heard his sharply indrawn breath. Whatever he had been expecting her to say, it wasn't that. He hesitated momentarily, watching her almost with regret.
"For what it's worth…" His voice was a rough-edged whisper. "I wish it did not have to end this way." His fingers brushed her cheek, fleetingly. "I truly am sorry."
Seeing she was not going to respond, he had half-turned… He was going to do it… he was really going to leave…
The words burst from her before she could prevent it.
"Raoul de Changy, you're a fool!"
Suddenly, the painful apathy fled from his body and there seemed a kind of tightly-wound energy beneath his skin that carried that subtle Algerian smell of leather and spices. Fire flashing in those blue eyes that drew her in deeper even as they sought to hold her off. Looming over her, excruciatingly close, the musky scent of his hair as it hung damply over his brow, almost brushing her upturned face. She could fee the heat of him creeping along her waist. Pressed back against the heated surface of the wall, she had lost track of what she had wanted or intended… did it even matter? Not when his partly raised hand seemed to hover on the brink of caressing her slightly parted lips… She was breathing hard, she had not realised that… There was fever and longing in his expression, but she could not think of that, for it was exactly the way he had looked at her last night, when - when -
"I thought you wanted me gone," he murmured.
"I changed my mind." The words left her in a shaky whisper.
The music and clamour of the tent had receded to a distant dream. Meg swallowed hard. Burning dryness in her throat. Like desert sands. She met his searing gaze with her customary directness.
"Just tell me one thing. Why don't you want us to help you?"
Raoul didn't answer. Neither did he move, which she took as encouragement to go on.
"You don't think you deserve it," she said bluntly. "You'd prefer to be miserable alone than confide in anyone who might actually be able to make you feel better. Well, I've seen the worst of you, Raoul. And I'm still here."
He brought a hand against the wall in frustration. "That only goes to show - how generous you are, and how selfish I'm being. There is nothing left for me - I have to finish this. But there's no reason to drag anyone else down with me."
"You didn't force us to come, Raoul."
"But I didn't invite you, either. This is - I have to do this alone."
Reason fled, and caution with it. She needed him, she needed him so much it made her ache. And she no longer cared if he knew it.
"You can't leave," she said choking, "Because I couldn't stand it."
"You can," he said quietly. "And you will."
Before she could react, Raoul had taken her small hands in his, his rough grip tightening with a strange urgency. Worn fingers brushed against the softness of the skin on the inside of her wrists. Her pulse. Throbbing through the clouds of incense. Beating (for him?)
She could feel the lifelines of her palms pressed against his fingers, the leap of blood beneath the caress of his thumb. He was gazing down at her tenderly and that was somehow worse than his derision… His tones were raw, filled with emotion. "You are so strong, Meg. You are fine and brave and far too good for this. You can take care of your mother and Nadir. You have a chance to return to Paris, to make something of your life -"
"To hell with Paris!" she said fiercely. "I don't care about any of that -"
"You should care. I'm giving you - all of you - a chance. To get out of this… madness, while you still can."
She shook her head, a coil of coppery hair coming loose, curving down the line of her throat, dipping into the shadowy glimpse of her cleavage. Raoul looked away, quickly. He would not do this, not again. Though you want to.
She had pulled her hands out of his firm grasp, pressing the tips of her fingers against her mouth. Raoul stared at her uncertainly. She was… laughing? Through a fringe of gold lashes, there was a questioning look shining in the depths of those mocking eyes. "You really haven't thought about who you're leaving behind, have you?"
"Meaning what?"
"My mother and Nadir. You never even considered how much use they could have been all this time… But you don't value them - you never valued them -"
"What are you -"
"Did you realise that Nadir has a better chance of getting to Christine unnoticed than anyone? Who better than him to get through to Erik? Who better than Maman, who always treated him well? This man looks at you and sees only an enemy. He looks at them and sees people he respects - maybe even likes. I wouldn't abandon them so lightly."
There was sense in her words, though he hated to admit it to himself. It just made things harder. He could not afford to be indecisive. Not in this. Even if she was probably right and perhaps he had overlooked them. Trust her to make him see that. Raoul exhaled in frustration, wondering again just what hold she seemed to have over him.
He became almost painfully aware of how pretty she was; her upturned face expressive and vivacious in the dim, aureate light. His warm hand curled around her shoulder. The white muslin of her dress seemed to melt away to nothing beneath his fingers, burning against her skin, so soft… He could see the rapid rise and fall of her breasts beneath the restrictive corset… God, what was he doing? Yet he somehow could not summon up the force of will to release her.
The air was sweet, scented with dust and the burning of perfumed oils. Dark blonde strands of hair crisscrossed her face in the close heat. Raoul fought down the urge to brush away those wayward tresses gently behind her eyes. Then perhaps to trace the curve of her cheek, the slight swell of those lips…
"Meg -" His grip on her tightened involuntarily as he sought to argue against her logic, tried to convey the cold conviction that had possessed him earlier. This was for her own good. She must understand -
At his uttering of her name, passion leapt into her small frame, straightening her spine and setting the slender shoulders forward in an expression of stiff hostility. Damn her stubbornness, damn her infuriating persistency, damn the irresolute set of her chin as she thrust it forward, bringing the soft coral of her lips dangerously into his line of vision -
"They can help you. We can help you."
She lifted her gaze to his, her small face blazing. There was a wild, defiant, reckless look in those maddening brown irises that were flecked with impish hazel and amber and gold. God help him, if she kept looking at him like that…
The slim body that trembled close to his was soft and warm and fevered. Her hair a spill of molten gold over her shoulders. The very air seemed charged with her. He could still vividly recall the taste of the satin skin of her neck and breasts. Raoul's mind reeled, overcome by the tantalising urge to spin her around, sample the promising sweetness of her lips, to once again savour the sensation of her coppery thighs tightening around his waist as her back arched beneath his hands and she cried out for more -
Raoul dragged his hand away, searching for some semblance of sense, reason… What was this, some hopeless infatuation borne of misery and need that had no bounds in the dull, emotionless purpose he had resigned himself to? Yet still she was here, too damned proud to back down, some cord he could not sever (had no wish to) and why should he when she stood before him irresolute, so persistent, so maddeningly perfect -
"If I left, you would follow me anyway, wouldn't you?"
She gave a bright, hard, careless laugh and the sound was almost enough to provoke him to madness.
"Don't," he said hoarsely. "Otherwise I will - I won't -"
That silky mane of hair swung forward. The scent of her surrounded him. Crazily swaying gold lights were dancing in her eyes. The air was hot and close, enveloping him completely. The entrance to the alley seemed a hundred miles away.
Raoul realised he was breathing heavily - too heavily. He suspected that with little perseverance on his part - the subtle press of a thigh against hers, the brush of fingers across the tantalisingly fine lace openings of her bodice, his lips breathing a tortured plea into her sensitive ear - that any flimsy layer of resistance would be effortlessly stripped away. In the frenzied rush of last night, it had not occurred to him the sheer pleasure that could be derived from slowly seducing her -
God, how he wanted her. Why did she have to be so damned tempting?
She was the closest thing to sanity in this world, the closest thing to madness. She saw right through him, never misunderstood him. Never had anyone gotten under his skin the way she did. Making him listen to her when all he wanted was to -
What did he want?
Escape.
Deserts and loneliness and punishing solitude (smooth arms drawing him closer, reverent kisses along his jaw line, gold hair falling down around his face). In a second, he could pull her close, brush his lips against hers, feel how perfectly she moulded into his body -
Didn't this girl realise she was going to be his undoing?
But he couldn't fight her. He could never fight her. She could talk him into anything. She would follow him into the depths of hell, laughing all the while. Yet she was the only one with whom he could find release from his tormented mind, burning away all thoughts of loathing and anger and darkness that threatened to consume him. Awakening his senses. She drew him, like a moth to a flame, like some unresisting Icarus. Bright flame of life. Of passion.
Circling each other, pushing, pulling. Even now she was bracing herself for a fight, he could see it in the set of her jaw, her body (so achingly close) no longer soft curves but stiffened and tense, rebellion flaring beneath those dark gold lashes.
A shuddering sigh left him. I tried. God help me, I tried.
I almost left. I was so close.
Not close enough. He was stuck with her, for better or for worse. He had tried isolating himself all this time and what good had it done him? Was he really prepared to take that last step and sever himself entirely from everything?
He should. But he didn't know if he could.
Watching him, Meg saw his inner struggle, torment and despair wrestling over what he wanted and what he thought he deserved.
That was his problem, she decided. He thought far too much. He would certainly be happier if he thought less.
But then, considering where not thinking had gotten them -
In distraction, she curled her clinging skirts into a moist ball between her hot palms. The proximity, the warmth of him was starting to cloud her senses. Her eyes fluttered shut. Why had she really come rushing after him? Was it for his sake, or for her own?
For a moment, a sweet, wholesome Mediterranean wind blew through the alley, dispersing the scented haze of incense and smoke. Smells of the sea, of Paris, of home filled her heart. She drew an unsteady breath, trembling with emotion.
"Please, Raoul," she said.
He turned to her, and his gaze was blue and clear and direct. And slowly, he nodded.
"I'll come back with you. But only because of Antoinette and Nadir."
Her entire being seemed to crumple inwards with relief. The sigh stuck in her throat as Raoul's outstretched hand caught at her arm.
"Meg," he said slowly. "About last night…"
She turned to him with a bright smile that did not reach her eyes. "I lost my head," she said simply. "It won't happen again."
She was almost certain that was true.