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 20

January 1883: Beneath the Opera House

"Read," he commanded handing out the book to her. Meg took The Count of Monte Cristo into her hands and lightly brushed the damaged portion of its cover. The Phantom settled into the high backed chair and attempted to appear comfortable. He achieved some level of ease, but the chair was not designed for comfort. Meg tried to suppress a smirk.

She had agreed to join him this evening following a brief exchange of letters over the course of the day. The simple notes signed by the cat and the mouse had led to Meg being led by the hand down to the lair of the Phantom once more. Upon arriving, Erik had offered her wine (which she declined) and some food stuffs (which she accepted). He had played violin while she ate, and when she had finished, Erik had thrust the book at her.

"Very well," Meg said quietly turning to the printed title page.

Erik tried to ignore the girl sitting across from him and fought the urge to roam around his lair to fix whatever was to be had. She read aloud well and rarely fumbled upon Dumas' text, which was a feat. He had struggled long ago in reading the book, and he had always meant to read it again. Yet life had kept him from such simple pursuits.

Slowly, his gaze drifted from the fire dancing merrily in its hearth to the girl on the couch. I should stop thinking of her as a girl… or some small ballet rat, he mused. She is as old as Christine if not older. She has had suitors – no serious ones, surely, thanks to her mother. His eyes lingered on her form. She is the image of her mother… and her father. Erik's mind replayed that fateful day years ago when Josef fell from the cat walks. The Opera Ghost had been born that day… Not so much as an avenging angel but as means of replacing the great man that had been lost. Josef had given him purpose and companionship.

Early on, Josef had stayed with Erik, and the sharp young man had been the one to coax Erik out of his shell of despair. Josef had been the one to stay up and read to him in French, hoping the words would sink in. The stone mason's smattering of Italian did not help them, but they had found a way together to communicate in those early days. Eventually the broken man had formed the pieces to understanding the French language. Josef had rewarded him with the book. From then on, Erik or Josef would take turns reading aloud. It formed the basis of their relationship until life changed for Erik yet again.

Time passed unmarked by the pair until the soft chimes of the clock on the mantel grew too many to count. Meg paused in her reading. She had comfortably read through the first chapter and into the next without Erik speaking a word. Across from her, Meg had noticed the Phantom drum his fingers and then relax. He had fidgeted in the high backed chair only once in the past half hour; in the last quarter hour, he had closed his eyes. The mask hid part of his countenance, but Meg was sure the exposed side revealed much in the light. In the silence filled by the crackling of the fire, she admired him in the faint glow of light.

"Why did you stop?" he said softly in a sonorous tone.

"I thought you were asleep," she replied with a quirk of her mouth. "I prefer not to read aloud to an inattentive audience."

"Heh." Erik's odd noise – half response, half verbal shrug – made the corners of her mouth pull upward into a smile. She mentally marked the page and set the book on the couch as she rose.

"Perhaps I should return to my room," Meg said smoothing the skirt of her black dress. She turned slightly to retrieve her grey shawl. Erik's eyes remained half-lidded, and he didn't move at her suggestion. In looking at him, Meg realized he seemed… vulnerable, carefree, and elegant. He looks like a man at ease in his parlor, enjoying his time with his wife…Meg's thoughts stopped abruptly. She shook her head to rid herself of the thought. This was the Phantom, after all, and she was a ballet rat. That was all they were. They were lonely, seeking attention from the other in order to fill a void. They were two individuals who understood their roles in Life… and those roles couldn't be changed.

"Erik?" she asked quietly approaching him. Meg hesitated before reaching out to touch his arm on the arm rest of the chair. "Erik?"

"Hm?" Erik's half-lidded eyes spoke to his own weariness. He turned slightly towards the presence beside him. Blinking, his eyes focused as he stared up at the dark figure beside him. For a moment, he thought he saw feathery wings extending beyond the black figure's shoulders, but in the next second, they were gone. In another blink, his little mouse stood beside him backlit by the fireplace.

"Poor Monsieur Cat… The mouse has kept you up too late?" Meg chuckled softly.

The mouse should know better than to wake a sleeping cat, the nagging voice inside his head quipped. Casually, in spite of his natural reaction to her presence, the Phantom leisurely stretched his arms and legs before standing. He had let his guard down around his prey… because when he looked at Meg, he saw only Josef smiling back at him. A sense of comfort washed over him.

"Are you well enough to escort me home? If not, I can attempt to find my way home on my own."

"I will take you home," he said sticking his elegant hands in his pockets. "I don't need more mice running about my opera in the middle of the night." Erik sniffed the air and identified the faint scent of roses in the air. He looked at Meg, and gave her a smirk. "Shall we take the scenic route again, little mouse?"

"You mean the lake?" the little mouse responded with a paling of her cheeks. The cat chuckled darkly as he walked past the organ to take the mouse the long way home.

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

Meg groaned and opened her eyes at the sound. She rubbed feebly at the Sandman's deposit on her eyelids and listened for the sound again. She didn't even dare to move a toe. A shuffling nose, something moving in her room? Or beyond the door? Panic griped her. Was it the Phantom?

Scritch. Scritch.

With sigh, Meg rubbed her forehead. What was she thinking? That wasn't Erik. The stub of candle on her bedside table had burned itself out long ago. Meg forced her weary body up and out of the bed. She stumbled taking a step to the door.

As she opened the door, a low meow resounded throughout the hallway outside her door. With a chuckle, Meg crouched to give the burly gray cat with luminous green eyes a scratch on its head.

"Morning, Monsieur Chat," she whispered. "Oh, my apologies, you are Monsieur Chat Gris, no?"

The cat blinked, happy for the attention, and sauntered into her room.

"Would you like to come in?" she asked with a soft chuckle.

"Not while you are still dressed in your night gown," a masculine voice teased at her ear. Meg jumped and slammed her door shut. Caught mid-settling on her bed, the gray cat jumped and hissed at the sound. Leaning against the door, her heart raced. It felt like… Like… he was standing right next to me, her mind pieced together. As her heart slowed to a reasonable pace, an envelope with a familiar black, wax seal slipped under her door.

She heard a door squeak open down the hallway and a few muffled voices from the room next door. However, Meg wondered if she had heard the Phantom say with a chuckle, "Mes excuses, petite souris." She crouched down again to pick up the letter and read its contents. A trace smile graced her lips knowing it was another invitation to the Phantom's lair.

" 'A young and beautiful girl, with hair as black as jet, her eyes as velvety as the gazelle's, was leaning with her back against the wainscot.' ", read Meg aloud. Even as she read, her attention was split on a question that had plagued her all day. She held a half-eaten winter apple in one hand over the side of the chair's arm. With her legs tuck up underneath her, the book lay comfortably in her lap. The fingers of her free hand kept her place; smoothly, her hand brushed the book's pages.

Without looking at her directly, Erik's eyes lingered on her form. She seemed comfortable in his presence. As if she fit in that old, brocaded arm chair. He admired the contrast of her features with her surroundings, and he wondered… if he had been right in taking some of the opium this evening. Shifting slightly on the couch, behind his half-lidded eyes, he imagined Meg in the role of Mercedes. However, his mind did not linger long on the thought. The picture in his mind of Mercedes did not fit the slight, short, lithe figure of the ballerina. Just as he was drifting off to sleep, Meg's voice came to a stop.

"What do you do all day?" she asked suddenly. Her clear voice cut through his languor, and his inner voice growled at having his rest disturbed.

"I beg your pardon?" he replied in a questioning, disapproving tone.

"I am simply… curious," she stated. Erik heard the loud crunch of a bite being taken from the apple. His brow furrowed as he waited for her to finish. "You know what I do all day. You seem to have finished repairing your home…"

To his irritation, she trailed off again. He couldn't keep the annoyance out of his voice. "And?"

"You played for me once…" She began. There was a hesitancy to her voice as if she wanted to ask him to play again. Instead, she chose a different tactic. "Do you spend your days composing?"

"When the mood strikes me."

Another awkward pause punctuated by another bite of apple filled the space between them. He wasn't about to admit to her that he had spent the day composing. It had been a fruitless day. Inspiration had escaped him, flitting from his fingers and into the ether before being captured on the page. He had hoped this quiet time with Meg would alleviate his anxious fingers and mind. But, no, the little mouse is nosing around his business… his inner voice growled.

"What else do you do?"

"What I do with my time is my business and not yours," he replied curtly. With a sigh, he held out his hand and made a grabbing gesture. "Give me the book."

"Why?"

"You are not in the mood to read," he replied. The Phantom turned to look at the girl sitting in the chair. "And I am not in the mood to answer questions. Give it here."

In moments, Erik's robust tenor filled the lair as he read. Only the occasional sound of someone taking a bite of apple interrupted his elegant reading of the fateful meeting of Edmond, Mercedes, and Fernand.

"… but we know very well what had become of Edmond," read Meg aloud. She paused and a yawn escaped her. "Shall I continue?"

"No," he replied from his perch upon his piano bench. He glanced at his handiwork – a series of melodies scratched into the margins around a large sketch of a female figure seated in a chair. Rising, he slipped the sheet under several other pieces of parchment on the piano's top. "I shall take you home."

Meg leaned back in the chair and eyed the Phantom as he crossed the lair to her. He reached down for the book, but she refrained from handing it over to him. It took Erik a moment to realize why she hesitated. Self-consciously, he rubbed at the dried ink on the calluses of his fingertips. With his other hand, he reached into his back pocket to find his gloves and slid them on.

"Come, the lake is the faster route to get you home."

He smirked seeing steel replace the sleepy countenance of the girl at the mention of the lake.

"I would prefer the other route, Monsieur."

"Very well," he replied taking her hand and helping her to rise from the chair. The book took her place as he led her home the long way. As they walked the dark passages, her hand did not leave his.

Opening his eyes, Erik rushed to capture that ephemeral song he had composed. Quick and furious, he wrote on the music staves. The notes, little more than tick marks and scratches, danced between the bars. The echo of the song he played moved him to write, it held his very soul.

"Yes, there. There," he breathed as he wrote. With two broad strokes, he ended the piece. Finally, the song let him go. Placing his hands back on the piano, he played what he had written, stopped, and edited the written piece. Excitement filled him. Joy filled him. He wondered what Meg would think of this piece. The thought stopped his hands.

Erik glanced at the large armchair, empty like usual, like it always had been. Why did it seem so empty now? Except for the book resting on the seat, there was no sign that she had ever been there. He found her presence in this moment of absence unnerving. With a shake of his head, Erik turned his attention to the sheets on top of his piano. His song could wait for Nadir's next visit, he told himself, but he felt that its essence would escape Nadir. He wanted someone to hear it, to appreciate its raw core of exuberance, to understand what it meant.

His gaze returned to the empty chair and its solitary occupant. A soft whir and click filled the stillness in the lair. The clock on the mantle chimed. Was that truly the hour? he wondered vaguely. His mind raced to remember what day it was, and a smile began to pull at his lips.

"Perhaps…" he breathed as he moved to implement his plan. He had no time for scribbled notes. He was the Opera Ghost after all.

Elsewhere in the Opera House, a performance had just ended. The prima donna took a second bow and blew a kiss to her adoring audience. Flowers were strewn on the stage around her. From the wings, the stage hands busied themselves with closing the curtain as the prima donna stepped back. Ballerinas, still in their costumes, milled about back stage. For their part, Jammes, Meg, and Marianne had returned their costumes already. They were walking back to the stage with at least two of the three eager to enjoy the evening. Young Jammes tugged on Meg's arm, whispering in her ear about something scandalous. Meg rolled her eyes, but laughed anyway. Marianne walked in front of them but turned and made a pleading gesture at Meg.

"Please," begged Marianne. "Come with us."

"Oui, oui," agreed Cecil before pouting. "You haven't spent an evening with us in weeks!"

"I have!" Meg argued, but even as she said it, she realized her evenings had been spent elsewhere.

"You haven't gone out with us in weeks!" amended Marianne. "We will buy you the first round."

"And your second," added Cecil quickly. Marianne turned and widened her eyes looking at Cecil. Unspoken, facial expressions conveyed a conversation over Meg's soft laughter.

"I am not in the mood to go drinking," Meg stated plainly. Cecil hugged her arm and pouted again.

"You always say that."

Marianne crossed her arms and planted her feet. They had reached the backstage area, which still had people bustling about. Marianne pointed to between the backdrops and they rushed away for a secret conversation. In accusatory whisper, Marianne stated, "You are seeing someone…"

"I am not!" Meg denied but a blush to her cheeks did not sway her friends. She pulled out of Cecil's grasp. She masked a lie with truth in the hopes of dissuading her friends. "I simply do not have the funds to go out with you, and Eleanor needs the help on occasion."

"Pfft. Old Eleanor does not need your help," Cecil replied.

Marianne shook her head. "Meg's lying. You are seeing someone…"

"Yes, I am seeing a man," Meg began but her tone changed to one dripping with sarcasm. "He is invisible, imaginary even, because he is only ever seen by me." Marianne smiled and laughed while Cecil huffed with a grin on her face. Meg touched the high collar of her dress. "Would I be seeing anyone dressed as I am?"

"Next time, you will join us," Marianne stated firmly. "When you are ready and not dressed as a matron."

"Enjoy your ghost!" called Cecil over her shoulder with a wave. Meg waved back and sighed as they disappeared from her sight. As she turned to exit the recesses of the stage, Meg felt something change in the air around her. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw something shift in the darkest shadows. Turning back around, she stepped forward.

"Who's there?" she demanded. "Show yourself."

Something slammed behind her and shouts went up. Meg jumped out of her skin and looked wildly around her. One of the backdrops began to sway unnaturally. Without warning, darkness from a cape engulfed her and she felt a strong arm wrap around her waist. They dropped through the floor and a gloved hand muffled her cry of surprise. They landed with a soft thud as he cushioned her fall on something that smelled oddly of mildewed mattresses. Quickly, the trap door overhead snapped shut with a loud tap.

"Imaginary, am I?" he asked quietly. "If you would be so kind as to get off me…"

"You… just…" she stammered staring up in the darkness to where the trap door was overhead.

"Cat got your tongue?" he asked, trying to get a reaction out of her. Instead, he felt her twist and a hand push into his chest.

"What were you thinking?!" she rejoined angrily in a whisper. "What if someone saw you? Or me with you? What if someone heard the trapdoor or is down here already?"

Shocked by her response, the Phantom paused. All of the humor and excitement at the thrill of whisking the young girl away to his lair vanished. She was right, but her disbelief in his abilities galled at his pride. Anger was the easiest emotion to grasp. His grip tightened around the ballerina in his grasp.

"Do you think I am an imbecile, Madamoiselle?" he whispered back in a menacing tone. "That I would be so careless as to let some immature fool capture me? That I would let someone draw so close as to see me?" He paused. The irony in his words caught him unawares. Once he would've thought the ballet rat in his arms had been a fool. She had gotten close to him. His anger ebbed.

"There was no time for notes, no time for a question from the shadows," he began in a softer, more apologetic tone of voice. "After watching from the shadows, unnoticed by all, I waited for the past hour to find a moment to speak to you."

He wanted more than to speak to her. He wanted her presence, her in the chair reading in that clear voice from the book about revenge. His words had failed him this evening. The impulse to grasp what he wanted had brought him to this awkward moment with Little Meg in his arms.

Muffled noises far above their heads filled the gap of silence between them. Then he felt her forehead fall upon his chest. She made a noise, a sound of amusement mixed with relief and exasperation.

"Next time… Monsieur Le Fantome," she breathed against his chest. "A note will do."

In the quiet, he felt her hands pressed up against him and then they were gone. She slid out of his grasp, and he missed the comfortable pressure of her body against his. He felt the mattress shift with her weight as she moved to the edge. With that brief remark, she had quelled the inner voice in his head. A next time promised another meeting, that she truly wasn't mad at him. Deigning to call him by his old moniker proved she respected his abilities and superiority. Her concern for him touched him. Carefully, he followed her suit and moved off of the mattress. Comfortable in the darkness, he found her and took her hand. She didn't shy away.

"I will remember that," he replied. "Will you join me this evening? I have a composition for you to hear."

"Gladly."