Disclaimer: All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.
De petite souris a monsieur chat: Chapter 12
November 1882: In the Dormitories
Usually her mother scolded her for using a needle and thread by candlelight. Rubbing her blurry eyes, Meg realized why. She tied off the end and cut the thread. The mend would hold. Because the opera house was still closed by the government, Meg had had plenty of time to do all of her sewing. She practiced her steps on her own and talked to the few other people still in the theatre. She could read, but her eyes ached from the poor light. The night before Meg had snuck into Box 5 to leave a short letter for the Phantom. She glanced at the cloak spilling off her bed and onto the rug on the floor. The previous night she had slept fitfully. Nightmares of hands around her throat gave way to dreams of her mother's embrace before ending in ivory half masks appearing out of the darkness. The Phantom's black cloak lay by her bedside where she had flung it away from her in the morning. The mingled smell of her mother and that man was not something she wanted to experience tonight.
Meg pulled her flimsy grey shawl tighter around her shoulders and settled back into her chair to think. Christine's letter made no mention of her visits to the Angel of Music. The letter had come from a small town outside of Paris to the northwest, and Christine wasted ink on describing the provencal countryside beyond the urban sprawl. The usual apologies littered the letter as well. Christine also failed to extend any courtesy to Meg's mother. Her friend had grown and learned certain social graces at the theater, but apparently, she hadn't learned enough. Or the no one had bothered to tell Christine of her mother's passing.
Meg sighed and sat forward. Her friend had always been concerned about herself first, but since her marriage, Christine had become worse. Agitated, Meg began to braid her dark brown hair for bed. She had inherited her father's coloring - tan skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. Her rest of her features were her mother's - the lithe frame and high cheekbones. As she wrapped the ends of her hair, she wondered if she should attempt to turn in. She glanced at the cloak. She did not want to sleep underneath it again, but the nights had turned cold. Its warmth had helped her to drift off to sleep since her mother had passed away, but the nightmares were growing more realistic. Last night she had dreamed of dark shadows and melodic voices. Her fingers toyed with the end of her hair as she stared at the cloak. Absorbed in her thoughts and memories of her parents, an unexpected rapping at her door made her jump out of her skin.
"Who is it?" she asked quietly through the door.
Erik frowned. Who else would it be at this hour? Then his mind wandered to the little giggles and groans of men he had heard from the rooms of the ballet rats over the years. His lips then curled into a slow, lazy smile. "The cat."
The door unlocked itself and the room was exposed to him. Meg closed it behind him and leaned against it, barring his only escape. Impropriety be damned, she mused. Manners didn't necessarily apply to the Opera Ghost. She wanted him at a disadvantage, and she did not want someone to see them talking. She saw him tense, aware that she stood in his way, but he chuckled. She tried to hide her disappointment at her idiotic idea of having the upper hand here. Meg knew she was no match for the man in a fight, but she wouldn't cower before him. She raised her chin slightly.
"So the mouse has caught the cat," he said finally. "And what shall you do with him now, Little Mouse?"
"Return his cloak to him," she said pointing to the bed. She watched him pick it up and throw the cloak over his arm. "And... apologize for my outburst. I didn't deserve your kindness that day, but you gave it willingly. Thank you."
"Think nothing of it."
An awkward silence lay between them. Meg sensed that Erik had more to say, but an idea struck her. It was a crazy idea, in fact.
"Phantom... I... How do you deal with the loneliness?" she blurted out. She noticed his head tilt to the side like a cat questioning its owner. "I... am used to having everyone around me, but no one is here. I've always had my mother's presence nearby, and to not have her here as well..."
"Is like missing a part of yourself?" he finished for her. He sighed and shrugged nonchalantly. "You learn to live with it. The loneliness comes and goes as does most things." He moved closer to her hoping to pressure her into moving away from the door. He suddenly felt how uncomfortable she was.
"Phantom... would... could you... show me another kindness?" she hesitated. She looked down at her feet. Here she was asking a man who nearly killed her for his attention. Had she lost her marbles?
"Keep me company tonight." He raised his visible eyebrow. Her cheeks grew hot as she saw his expression.
"Not in that fashion, monsieur. I can't sleep through the nights anymore. Without mother here... and everyone else gone..." She pulled her shawl tighter around her and crossed her arms defensively. She closed her eyes as if to hold back tears. "It's so quiet here now."
He hadn't been thinking of that when she asked for his company. He had been merely perplexed by her request. No one asked to spend time with the Opera Ghost. No one had the audacity. The girl had taken him by surprise with her humble request and he toyed with the idea. With Christine gone and Nadir busy with his own affairs, he had been left to himself. He owed Antoinette's daughter more comfort than a few kind words and his cloak for a few days. Little Meg may not be her mother or her father, he owed her nothing… but if he could ease her mind and gain her trust, perhaps her hold on his life would not chaff him as it did.
"Very well, but you must be silent like the little mouse that you are," he replied throwing his cloak out and over his shoulders. The motion blew out the candle drenching the room in darkness. He fastened the cloak around his neck and tried not to smile. Meg's gaze widened at his gesture, but she nodded once.
She turned, opened the door, and peered out into the hallway before opening the door fully. Erik strode forward as Meg ducked out into the hall and locked the door behind her. Unlike last time, he gently took her hand into his and led her back to the hall where he first left her.
"Close your eyes," he whispered and waited for her to do as he said. Reaching up, he pushed a rosette in the paneling on the wall. The mirrored panel, which no longer bore her shoe scuff mark he noted, slid open quietly to reveal a dark wooden tunnel. With a quick pardon, he picked Meg up into his arms and carried her inside. She didn't say a word and she kept her eyes closed like an obedient child. Erik smiled to himself as he pulled the lever to reset the door. Perhaps the ballet rat had some brains after all.
"You can open them, Little Giry," he whispered.
"Why bother? It's so dark," she replied standing still. His gloved hand took her's once more as he passed by her. She felt her heart skip a beat. It's my nerves. I'm following a murderer down to his secret home. Of course I should be scared! Meg thought to herself.
"Your eyes adjust over time," Erik replied casually leading the way. They walked down a makeshift flight of stairs, turned a corner, and walked down another set. He opened a door and crossed an empty room and led her down another set of stairs. She guessed they were in the third basement when they came to another trap door. Erik lifted the lid and motioned for her to climb down the ladder first. She hesitated before climbing down. The dank smell of wet stone hit her as she found herself beside the lake beneath the opera house. Erik didn't take her hand this time as he walked along the lake's edge. Meg followed listening to the lake lap at the shoreline to her left. Eventually they came to a wall. To Meg's eyes, he simply stood in front of it and a door magically opened.
"Welcome to my home, little mouse," he said standing aside to let her enter first. She glanced at him, a little wary. At any point, he could've killed her; for Heaven's sake, he could've refused her offer to begin with. He noticed her hesitation and without a word, walked inside annoyed at her sudden hesitation. If she was worried about her well-being, why did she ask in the first place?, his inner voice scoffed
"Excuse me, I have work to do," he said absently going to his desk in the far corner. Erik wasn't about to be a pleasant host to the girl. His game of trust did not require him to be a true gentleman; he didn't want her to know more of his secrets. The more she knew, the more she was a liability.
"Your home..." she said quietly marveling at its simple splendor. "It's... different. You changed some things."
"Of course I changed some things," Erik muttered pulling off his gloves. "My home was ransacked by a mob of angry Parisians. I'm lucky I didn't lose my head."
Meg brushed off his archaic comment. She found her eyes drifting from the still wounded organ to the piano, semi-filled bookcases, his desk, and back around again to the sitting area by the fireplace. The flicker of gas lamps mingled with the warm glow of the fireplace. She wandered over to the bookcases lining the wall to the left of the fireplace. They were partially filled with books here. Many of them were damaged but still useable. A few spaces on the shelves were given over to stacks of musical scores and random odds and ends.
"Don't touch that," Erik said eyeing her from the desk. Meg stood poised to touch a musical box topped with a monkey in Persian robes. She didn't bother to look over shoulder at him. He watched as she stood up and turned her attention to something else. With an inner sigh to relieve the tension in his body, Erik tried to concentrate on his score. He tapped his pen on the paper forming a ball of ink in the spot. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Meg rise on tiptoe to pull down a large book.
"You have so many books." Her tone of voice was one of marvel touched with awe. "How did you get them?"
"I bought them," he replied tersely. Erik wrote a note than a measure.
"Have you read them all?"
"Why do you care?" He lost his train of thought and irritation crept into his voice.
"I am simply trying to make conversation, Monsieur Fantôme."
He grit his teeth and tried to recall the melody he wished to write down. Slowly the song came back and he teased out the notes on the sheet. Meg continued to touch and examine his belongings. They weren't much, but Meg remembered the mob trampling and destroying so much. She looked behind her at the large black piano resting once more on sturdy legs. The throne where she found the mask was gone. The musical scores that once filled the shelves were less but still prominent.
"How did you do it?" she asked more to herself than Erik.
"Like any other man," he replied not looking up from his work. However, his pen hovered before marking one more note.
"But this place... Everyone was intent on murdering you. When they couldn't find you, they turned to your belongings," she muttered walking over to his desk. "I thought they had destroyed everything."
"They didn't." He scratched out what he had just written. He blinked and noticed her tan hand reach over and pick up the small enamel music box. His gaze traveled upward to see the curious but amused look on Meg's face. Her swarthy complexion and black hair in his domain seemed somehow fitting.
"This is beautiful," she stated looking at him with eyes as black as soles. "Does it play?"
Erik held out his hand with fingertips stained with ink. She placed the silver and black enamel device in his waiting grip. Earlier in the day, Erik had finished repairing the small music box. However, he had failed to fit it with a proper music key. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a small pair of pliers and set about twisting the peg where the key once attached. Letting go, the music box began to slowly unwind itself and played the simple melody Erik had constructed for its cylinder. He held the music box up to Meg who smiled and began to hum along to the song. When the melody ended, her eyes sparkled in the golden light.
"Where did you get this? I have never seen one like this nor have I ever heard one play La Marseilles before," she asked eagerly taking the music box from him again. He was grateful that her fingertips failed to brush his hand. "Such a shame it lacks a key."
"I made it," he said pretending to refocus on his composition. He frowned. There were more scribbles of nonsense than actual music on the page. The girl was proving to be more a distraction than he had anticipated. Granted, he had hoped she would simply sit and be silent. How naive of him to think the inquisitive ballerina would sit still. He caught Meg looking at the sheet, and she pulled away embarrassed. Giving him a half-smile, she set the music box back down onto his desk.
"Monsieur Fantôme, do you have a name other than Opera Ghost?" she asked looking him in the eye. "I feel awkward calling you Phantom when I'm standing next to you." He raised an eyebrow at her. She swallowed wondering if she had crossed a line and angered him.
"If I tell you, will you leave me alone to compose this evening?" he returned with the same note of irritation in his voice. She nodded her head. Her gaze made him feel uncomfortable. Meg reminded him in appearance of someone from his past.
He rose taking the sheets with him and went around to the other side of the desk to avoid her. He glanced at her, his good eye and better half in profile. "It's Erik."
Meg watched him settle down on what looked to be a throne turned into a piano bench and he fussed over the sheet music. She found him odd; nearly every chair with the exception of his organ bench faced the inside of the room. It was as if he was afraid of someone sneaking up behind him. He warmed up with a series of scales played flawlessly. Shaking her head, she crossed the lair to the couch beside the fireplace and sat down. Her unease at being in his presence faded as he began to play parts of his score. The song was mournful and haunting like the fugue by Mozart Dmitri had played to impress her. She wrinkled her nose remembering her old Russian beau.
Suddenly Erik's song became discordant and the hair on the back of her neck rose. Meg felt herself tighten inside as if he had pulled a string. The tension became intense until he shifted tempo and key into something more melodic and soothing. She stared at him with his blank mask and expressive face. His eyes were closed, and his body swayed in time with the music. Meg wondered if he was playing the sheet music or something from memory. She caught only glimpses of his face as he turned into the music to hear. Meg recalled Christine's comment that the Phantom's - no, Erik's music had been hypnotic. That it had filled the hole left by her father's absence. Meg thought she had understood when Christine had told her; she now realized how wrong she was. Then the melody and harmony shifted again.
Over time she gradually found herself lulled into sleep. The soft melodies and plaintive harmonies seemed to wrap around her tighter and tighter. Meg fought to stay awake in order to watch the ivory mask reveal the man. In the end, she lost the battle. Meg laid down on the couch to listen with her eyes closed.
When she awoke, Meg found herself still dressed in the same clothes as the night before. The soft touch of her pillow under her cheek and the familiar surroundings signaled to her tried mind where she was. Lying there, she wondered, Did I dream last night? She huddled back under the blanket. She paused feeling it's texture. Half rising, she gazed down at the black gentleman's cape laid over her and crumpled by her sleep. Meg flushed feeling embarrassed and grateful. The Phantom - no, Erik had risked leaving his home to see her safely in her bed. He had carried her all the way back and left the cape, the same one she returned to him earlier. He didn't kill me in my sleep… she mused.
"So I didn't dream it," she muttered flopping onto her back to stare at the ceiling. Fingers of pale blue and rosy pink crept through the window. Meg realized her mother would scold her for being so bold with Erik, but a part of her felt it was right. She wished her mother was still here, to give advice or a hug in the private of their rooms. As the ballet mistress, Antoinette refused to show any weakness; as mother, she knew how to soothe and heal with words and compassion. Meg let the tears trail down her face while she stared and wished for her mother.