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 17

January 1883: Outside & Beneath the Opera House

Due to the moonless night, Meg found it difficult to find the passageway entrance from the alley. Dressed in her mother's old black dress and her dove grey shawl still (it was becoming a strange habit of hers but her other outfits seemed more threadbare than usual), she shivered in the unusually cold evening. She had been in a hurry and neglected to pull her hair back. Right after the performance, Meg had made some small talk in order to appear normal. Then she had dashed to the changing room and snuck to her room to retrieve the letter. From there, she did her best to seem nonchalant as she headed for the rear of the Opera House. She hoped no one had noticed her movements.

The church bells began to chime the hour of nine, and Meg cursed silently again. She had hoped to meet Erik early, simply hand him Christine's letter, and leave his home by herself. Because of her focus on this plan of hers, she had neglected a basic necessity of a ballerina. She had forgotten to clip her toenails before the performance. During a quick rehearsal of a movement in the studio, Meg had felt the toenail pop and felt that momentary flash of pain. Quickly, she had unlaced her slipper and wrapped her toe as much as possible. She fought the pain through the performance and ignored it as she prepared to find her way to Erik. She could feel the blood congeal in her boots in spite of the haphazard bandages under her stockings. Meg knew she needed to rest, but she was stubborn. She would heal. She had lost a toenail before and had survived horrible blisters. Meg wanted this business with Erik concerning Christine to be done as quickly as possible. Maybe if he hears it from me… she thought over and over again.

As the last bell chimed, she found the indiscernible spot on the exterior wall of the opera house that opened the secret passage. Or so she thought. A black caped figure with a soft hat pulled down low over a black masked face emerged from the black maw of the doorway. She was about to let out a cry of surprise when his black leather gloved hand shot out and pressed a finger to her lips. Before she knew it, Erik had grabbed her hand and dragged her into the dank passageway. The door slid shut silently, and in the darkness, he swiftly led her back to his home.

"What were you doing out there?" he asked in an annoyed tone and whirling around on the startled ballerina. "I told you ten." His annoyance turned to anger as he found her staring at him. "Do you enjoy staring at me?"

"I'm sorry, but I, " she began sounding meek. She shook her head while looking away from him.

"What were you trying to do, Little Meg?" he asked again angrily He used her diminutive nickname and let it drip with condescension. "Tell me. Now."

"I couldn't think of another way to contact you," she shot back with a glare. "It's not like I can send another of the girls to you with a message. Also, what I have to tell you is important. Ergo, I came to you early." Meg left out the fact she was in pain and wanted to sleep a full night undisturbed for once. She held a hand to her head feeling the headache return.

"Erik, what else was I supposed to do?" she said sounding resigned. "The matter is urgent, and I assumed you hadn't heard. I needed to find you. How was I supposed to know you'd be there? I didn't even know you left here or that you had planned on leaving before our meeting."

Erik let out a sigh of frustration. He should've known better, or at least he should've planned on problems in communicating. Her words, however, piqued his curiosity. Why would she seek him out before their appointed meeting time? What would send her rushing down here… to him?

"Come. Will you have a seat?" he muttered trying to sound like a gentleman but failing.

"No, I'm fine," Meg sighed and began to unbutton a few buttons over her chest. Erik's eyes went wide out of surprise. He was about to protest when she pulled out the letter she had tucked into her bodice. Little Meg held it out to him. Curious, he took it from her and walked over to one of the gas lamps to see better. She spoke as he read. "I didn't know if you heard… from the managers or however you gain your information… and I thought you deserved to know from me instead of finding out through Nadir or anyone else later." She paused for a moment to catch her breath.

"I'll leave once you are done reading it."

Meg re-buttoned her dress as she watched the Phantom read the letter again and again. The managers had already seen it. She had made it a priority to tell them that morning. They had been annoyed with her initially, as if it was her fault as the messenger. However, they appreciated her more after reading the letter and understanding her urgency in talking to them. Firmin had even outright thanked her and escorted her out of the office before Fornier began to cry out in despair over the loss of potential money. Firmin had shoved the letter at her before slamming and locking the office door shut.

Erik didn't particularly listen to Meg's short speech. He read and reread the letter with its fluid handwriting. His shoulders sank as he stared at the word "London." A part of him wasn't surprised; he had anticipated something like this shortly after Christine had left him. Except the part of him that had hoped Christine would return to him crumbled. Christine had no control over her life; she had traded one cage for another and her actions were no longer her own. Erik clung to the hope that Christine would not be whisked away to London, but the hope fluttered in his chest like a dying ember. If even she did leave France with her husband, he probably would not know. He may never see her again, and there was very little he could do for his beloved siren. Their song would finally die.

"May I have the letter back?" Meg asked quietly as she approached the man. She wasn't sure how he was going to react. At the moment, he appeared to be a dejected lover, which Meg understood. She sympathized with the man behind the mask. How often had she, the other ballerinas, or friendly stagehands been in Erik's shoes? She hesitated for a second before placing a hand on Erik's arm. "Erik... She made her choice. She has to accept the consequences and attend to her husband's needs."

"Indeed," he agreed handing the letter back to her. He wanted to thrust the girl away from him. As if sensing his ire rising, Meg pulled her hand away. Another kind gesture? Is the woman mad? The nagging voice, so often sardonic, sounded actually surprised. Erik swallowed and tasted bitterness. "Thank you for showing it to me."

"Will you... be all right?" she asked looking up at him. The concern in her voice quelled the storm of feelings surging in his heart. He glanced at the young ballerina but looked away. He felt himself growing numb at the thought of Christine's indefinite absence and his lack of control of the situation.

"I will make do," he said with finality. He eyed the ballerina for a moment and considered if he should seek her opinion on his recent work as he had planned that evening. In the dim light, he saw her dark eyes catch the light. They stood out on her swarthy face framed by her loose black hair. He hadn't noticed her appearance that evening. She looked the same as she had the last time they met but there was something different about her. Indeed, Meg looked as vulnerable as he felt on the inside. Her hair, usually pulled back, fell in soft, black waves around her. She smiled a little at him.

"Now who is staring?" she teased making him look away. "I must return or I will be missed." Meg turned to leave and she failed to miss Erik's eyes shining at her in the light. She winced at the pain from her foot and tried to shift her weight off of her foot as she walked towards the passageway.

"Stay a moment, Meg," Erik's voice commanded. She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. "You hurt yourself tonight?" The question sounded more like a statement to her.

"I'll be fine," she said continuing to move forward. Yet a hand fell upon her shoulder to stop her. Meg found herself looking up at Erik beside her. "I'll be fine. It was my own fault really, and it will heal eventually. I can make it back to my room. "

"That's what your mother said following her accident," he replied sounding grave. Before Meg could protest, Erik released her and walked to the bookcases behind the piano. To Meg's amazement, the bookcase swung open like a door and Erik disappeared behind into the opening. Gingerly, Meg walked up to the bookcase door and peered around it. The illuminated hallway ended in a dark room from which Erik emerged. In the brighter light, Meg saw Erik more fully. He had a long stride and wide shoulders. He wore a long wig of dark hair underneath the cap that gave him a Bohemian appearance. On the right side of his face, the black mask had more definition, however, than the white and ivory masks Meg had seen before. The rounded brow gave way to stern eyebrows that shadowed the eye socket. The cheekbone rose in accord with the curled corner of the lips. The brow of the mask actually covered most of Erik's natural one and his nose. She peeled herself away from the bookcase as he approached. He seemed surprised to find her standing there, but he shrugged the matter aside. He held out a small wooden box of some gauze, linen strips, a bottle of ointment, and another bottle that smelled medicinal.

"Take them," he said in a matter of fact tone. Before she could protest, Erik continued, "It's not charity. Use them as an excuse to say where you went if anyone sees you. Since you need to rest, the composition can wait. I don't want to have an inattentive listener critique my work."

"Thank you, but I have supplies in my room," she muttered. Yet her fingers plucked the bottle of ointment out. She frowned. "Although… Maybe I borrow this? I am running low and I fear the other girls may have turned in already."

"You may," he said. He pointed at the other bottle. "Take that as well. It's a lotion with menthol in it to help ease muscle ache."

"I…" Meg began to protest, but the slight frown on the Phantom's face made her pause. "Thank you. That is very kind of you. I will return them to you soon."

"Don't bother. I can have Nadir retrieve more at a later date," Erik replied nonchalantly. He tucked his hands into his pockets to quell his desire to fidget. Meg's small smile of thanks was warm and reminded him of another from long ago. "You told me about Christine. It's the least I could do."

The smile faded as Meg set the box aside and held the two bottles in her hand. She used her free hand to pull her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The memory – an old one, one that hurt - tickled at him and he looked away.

"I'll escort you home," he said in a clipped voice. His offer startled Meg and Erik smiled at himself. He had caught her off guard for once.

"Erik, thank you, but you have done enough already," she began to protest. The shawl slipped off her shoulder slightly.

"Tut, tut," he said in a warm tone and turning on his heel. When Erik didn't walk past her to the passageway they had taken earlier, Meg stood still and stared at the man. He stopped and looked back at her. He raised the eyebrow on the exposed side of his face.

"Do I need to carry you home again? Or do you prefer to take the long way home and hurt yourself further? Personally, I'd rather not have you stay in my home looking like a statue."

"I- No," Meg replied feeling a blush of embarrassment grace her cheeks. She hoped in the dim light Erik couldn't notice. He had caught her twice now in her own thoughts. He's so… arrogant even when he tries to show some care. Now he's teasing me? Did he tease Christine? She thought glancing up at him chuckling softly. Meg was used to his more dangerous and dark sides… but this other side surprised her. Maybe there truly was more to the man than his monstrous tendencies.

She followed Erik silently down to the subterranean lake. Meg stopped short of the lapping water and felt panic seize her. She swallowed hard to control her panic as she stared at the cold, dark liquid lapping gently at the manmade beach. She took a step back from the water, deathly afraid.

Erik struck a match and lit the lantern hanging from the gondola boat's arm. When he turned to look at Meg, he had to pause. In the lantern light, Meg's face seemed to emerge out of the darkness like a ghost or a scepter. Her look of fright puzzled him until he noticed her eyes staring not at him but the water. Of all the things to fear in this world… the nagging voice in his mind breathed slightly astonished. The wretched, noisy, curious, stubborn, and prideful ballet rat… becomes a mouse at the sight of water? Erik saw her take a second step back away from the water. And yet she had waded through the water to the portcullis and found her way into my lair that night… The voice scoffed at the brave and apparently stupid, frightened mouse.

"Meg," he said quietly to draw her attention to him. When she didn't move, Erik chose a more commanding and authoritative tone. "Meg." She shivered but didn't move. He chose a different tactic.

"Marguerite," he purred in a velvety tone, throwing his voice to brush against her ear. Louder than a whisper, stern for a command but soft to imply empathy, he mused. At that, she looked up at him. He held out his gloved hand. "Come to me. I will keep you safe."

His words moved her one small step at a time. When she was in reach, he continued, "I apologize, but may I pick you up?" Her pale face bopped in the lantern light. He easily lifted her up and set her inside the boat. He ignored how her free hand clutched at his shirt as he stepped into the water beside the boat. She didn't look at him but at her hands clutching the bottles.

The Opera Ghost shouldered the boat further into the lake before climbing in himself. Dripping he stood in the stern to pole the boat out onto the massive underground lake. He focused on maneuvering the boat instead of his passenger.

"You were expecting me to drown you, weren't you?" Erik teased. He kept his tone of voice warm and velvety like he had on the shore to coax Meg out of her fear and anxiety.

"No… I just…" Meg began and wet her lips. Her gaze drifted from the water to the Phantom working the pole of the gondola boat. "You fancy yourself a comedian tonight, Monsieur Noir Chat."

He let a chuckle escape him. "I assure you, I do not drown little mice or ballet rats in my lake."

"That's not…" she whispered but did not continue. "Where were you going when I arrived? To prowl the streets and alleys like the cat you are?"

"Ah, no. This cat prefers to remain aloof," he replied continuing their little jest. He also found an easy lie to tell her. "He sought out sustenance and perchance to sing to the moon. A cat cannot survive alone on his music."

"If only one could survive on what they love…" muttered Meg more to herself than to Erik. He tensed, however, hearing her. "When you leave, do you normally disguise yourself?"

"Normally… I do not," he lied again. He wasn't about to divulge any of his secrets to her.

"Such as delivering your letter to me this morning?" Meg let her gaze linger on the man in his black mask and cape. At some point, the soft hat had been thrown aside. She wondered when that was. She could not make out his expressions easily since the lantern behind him shone too brightly. He was, in fact, a dark, masculine shadow before her.

"Oh, no," the Phantom's voice took on a smug tone. "I can't tell you all of my secrets, Little Mouse." He smirked seeing Meg's reaction in the faint lantern light. "Suffice yourself with knowing young Rosalina is a rather gullible girl and easily bribed. I have my ways, Little Meg. There is very little I don't know about my opera house and its performers."

"What do you know about Madame Webber then?" Meg's question made him pause in his rowing and look at her. "You said you know your opera house well." She gave him a smirk as she challenged his claim.

You sneaky girl, he thought to himself.

"Madame Webber certainly isn't the Russian Czar's lovechild for one thing," Erik replied confidently. As he spoke, he imitated her friends Cecile Jammes and Marianne St. Michel, the main gossips of the corp des ballet. "Perhaps she really is the deceased King Albert's long lost bastard daughter. Or the widow of a famous American banker. Or the bitter ex-wife of a Prussian ambassador. Oh dear, have you seen her limp? Mayhap she was in a terrible accident!"

Meg tried to stifle a giggle. "You're as bad as them! You even sound exactly like them!"

"Ah, but unlike your gossiping friends, I do know Madame Webber's history albeit only what was in the letter from La Sorrelli," Erik divulged. "The managers really should not leave important documents on their desk over night. Anyone can sneak in and read them."

"So, the Phantom enjoys bribing young girls, reading the managers' mail, picking locks of rooms he should not be in, eaves dropping on the troupe, and inviting aspiring prima ballerinas to his home under false pretenses of aiding in composition," Meg muttered to herself and shook her head. Erik noted that she tactfully left off "seducing beautiful singers and murdering men" from the list. He also noted the way her dark hair fell over her right shoulder. Against her dove grey shawl, he could make out the soft waves from her hair being tightly wound and bound for hours every day. Where the lantern light touched her, her hair shifted from black to its dark brown against the pure black lace of her dress. It held a warm sheen that stood out from the gloom surrounding them.

"A man has to keep himself entertained," he responded in a slight attempt to keep the tone of the conversation light. Erik turned the pole and let the boat glide to the stone outcropping along the wall. A series of stairs grew out of the outcropping and reached up into the shadows. "Here you are, Mademoiselle. If you take the stairs, you will find yourself in the cellar above. Hopefully you will not be seen until you reach the main level. From there, you should be able to make your way back to your room."

Carefully, Erik walked towards her in the boat and helped her to her feet. He deftly took the glass bottles out of her hand and set them on the outcropping. Then, before she could think, he took her hand and held her elbow to steady her. She exited the boat in a rush and seemed to breath a sigh of relief at finding solid ground underneath her feet again.

"I enjoyed your brief company, Little Giry," he said holding her hand still. To his mild surprise, Erik found himself speaking honestly rather than lying to appease his captor. "Hopefully next time I can play my composition for you or we can read if you do not feel up to the task."

Some of the tension between them had eased. Erik glanced at their hands – black leather holding onto tawny, elegant fingers – and he let her go.

"If you need to reach me again, leave a candle down here," he offered. He watched the little mouse with rosy cheeks like a hungry cat. She stooped to pick up the bottles, and her hair over her shoulder fell forward.

"That may prove difficult at times."

"Leave a note in your room then."

Meg froze and stared at the man with his black mask. The mischievous grin on the mask nearly matched the one on his exposed, handsome face. Surely he was teasing her; he wasn't serious. "In. My. Room?"

"I can do more than pick a lock, Little Giry," the Phantom said in a low, suggestive voice. "So much more." Meg shivered and wondered if it was from the cold or the implication behind his words. The modern Mephistopheles gave her a small bow. "You should go."

"Right," Meg replied turning towards the stairs. She stopped with her ankle-high boot on the first stair and her skirt in her hand. She looked back at Erik over her should. "Thank you again and... I'm sorry for being the bearer of bad news."

Erik watched her climb the stairs and waited until he heard nothing. The boat's soft knock against the stones failed to echo across the still water in the cavernous cellar. Upon taking up his position in the stern again, he mused on the numb feeling clutching him. A month before he had accepted Christine's return and eventual departure. In that time, he had encountered the young woman and daughter of his only true friend. She had matured from an unpleasant ballet rat into... Someone else. Unbidden, her face in profile against the warm, dark curtain of her hair came to mind. She showed him compassion tonight and Erik wasn't entirely sure why. She had given her reasons, but there seemed more behind her actions this night. The nagging voice, his constant companion to his inner thoughts, was silent on the issue. Erik loved Christine still... but as he poled the boat back to his home, he wondered. He puzzled. He mused.

"If Christine's hair smelled of sunshine, does Meg's smell of moonlight?" he whispered to the lake.