A/N Sorry Guys for the long delay in getting this up...neither Erik not Meg would play along and my muse went out to lunch this week. Anyway, here it is and for those of you who care this takes place about last week in April/first week in May which means close to 7/8 wks out of Paris.

Chapter 19

"Point, flex, point, flex..." Meg repeated the mantra as she stretched out her toes on her bed. This was as much as she could do to keep the suppleness in her feet, that and the warm up exercises she performed religiously every morning. She itched to leap and twirl but she would get no further than dreams about it for the time being. She hadn't been thinking about her need to move freely when they had taken the rooms above the pasticceria; Erik had been her only concern. He could play his violin, read, draw and was safe and that was all that really mattered; her time would come when everything had settled down she supposed. In the meantime she could point and flex, keep the cramps at bay and prevent her muscles from seizing altogether. She looked longingly at the pristine and untried blush satin toe shoes her mother had packed for her, their wide matching ribbons folded neatly around the centre; perhaps when she came back from her appointment with Rosa...

With only four weeks to Elena Pellizzaris nuptials the bride's mother was making good on her promise to make the diminutive blonde's transformation her personal mission. Charles Worth's lavish gowns had been causing a sensation in Paris and Rosa had in on good authority that Signora Villani had made very faithful copies of several of his patterns enabling her young friend the pick of what was being called haute couture. The poor girl was clueless when it came to clothes and had even less of an idea how to dress for anything other than comfort. Well she would see to it that Meg's light would shine the night of Elena's wedding; she had an idea that there were a few shady corners needed illuminating in the rooms above her shop.

Meg was never so grateful for the long hours of vigorous exercise that had sculpted and maintained the trim waist obviously required to carry off any of the designs Rosa was suggesting. For hours she stood dutifully atop a wooden box while a wizened grey haired woman (who was allegedly a wonder with cloth) poked and prodded her with bony fingers clutching an infinite length of measuring tape. Signora Villani made numerous annotations in a ledger on her workbench while commenting at length on Meg's overly generous bust and the problems it would create. She really needn't have. Meg was under no illusions as to unsuitability of her irregular figure to any of the gowns she liked the look of. Bolts of silk in every weight and colour had been paraded in front of them and she had no idea how she was supposed to make a decision between ten shades of a colour that were so subtle she couldn't actually differentiate. She really wasn't very good at this; bar a few simple dresses she had lived in production costumes and they had always been dictated by the wardrobe department in the Populaire or in the case of Don Juan...Erik.

Meg did not feel comfortable with wearing anything too formal in church, not wanting to take from the bride, although Rosa had mentioned that most people would dress up for the evening entertainment when everyone would be masked as was custom. She pointed out that having a second bodice made up for the evening and perhaps the addition of a train was the "done thing" as it necessitated only ever buying one skirt for two completely different gowns. Meg bowed to her superior knowledge and was quite happy to pick out a design from several Rosa thought would suit having been assured by the older woman that no, the bodice was not too revealing and that Signora Villani was just envious. If she was going to expose that much of her décolleté she was glad of the chance to cover her face for she did not think she would be able to look anyone in the eye let alone Erik. In fact especially Erik.

"Meg you will look just perfect; trust me. You have been blessed with the figure to fill such a garment and will never have to resort to stuffing your under things like some women I know!" Rosa knew that no man in his right mind and one in particular would be able to take his eyes of the young blonde in all her finery and that was exactly what she was counting on.

Meg had never believed herself blessed with regard to her figure before; her height suited her art but her bust did not. It had been more an inconvenience if anything and she shuddered at the number of productions she had been forced to bind her chest for and she had stood out to one too many stage hands because of it. She had not considered it would ever come in useful but it seemed Rosa was intent on showcasing her voluptuous figure rather than minimising it as Meg was want to do.

"Oh I almost forgot and she would never forgive me; Bella turns seven next week and we are having a small party for her on Saturday afternoon. She wanted to make sure you both knew and would come. It will only be a few of her little friends and us of course..."

"We would be delighted, that is I'm sure Er... I mean Signor Erik will be when I tell him although maybe we could call in after her friends have left...we wouldn't want to spoil her fun." Meg was sure Erik would rather not have to deal with several curious little people running around staring at his bandaged face, asking awkward questions of Bella; it wouldn't be fair to the little girl or to him. He was going to have to face the Pellizzaris en masse at the wedding anyway so that would be enough to deal with. There was also the question of a gift. She would leave that to him as she suspected he would know just what to get her.

Meg's mask was presenting all manner of problems. Erik had abandoned his initial idea of making it in leather as it would require her willing participation and although she appeared to be completely at ease in his company he did not think she was quite ready for having warm wax painted on her face. One day he would do it perhaps but he hadn't forgotten her horrified reaction to the mannequin he had made of Christine. Papier maché would allow him to be infinitely more creative and actually lent itself far better to the idea in his head. His first stumbling block was that he had no bust on which to work which he would have had with a wax cast and so he concluded he would just make her image in clay allowing him to create the plaster cast in which he would form her mask. This was how the furious clandestine sketching began.

Erik was no stranger to covert manoeuvres but evading Meg's innate curiosity was proving exhausting. She was forever asking him what he was reading, what he was playing, what he was drawing and so for the past few days he had been furiously sketching anything that happened to be in sight to satisfy this need of Meg's to see what he had done and his need to keep it a secret. He got wise the first time she asked him what he was drawing and told her to wait until it was finished; a haphazardly thrown together china teacup and saucer complete with the lace cloth it sat on drawing gasps of delight not twenty minutes later. Erik now had countless detailed drawings of baskets of pastries, bowls of roses (he was quite fond of those), the potted lemon tree on the terrace and several kitchen condiments including one of the silver sugar tongs. She had commandeered the hastily drawn lemon tree for the kitchen, sticking it to a dresser door with drawing pins and another of a small bowl of roses (which he had coloured with chalk since she had professed to like it so much) had found its way into her room. He quite imagined she would be equally thrilled had he drawn a straight line on the page, such was her enthusiasm for even his most carelessly drawn images.

The only person other than himself he had ever drawn was Christine and then always from memory. He was unprepared for the raft of emotions committing Meg to paper would have on him, having forgotten what an intimate act it really was; the fact she was in the same room while he drew her held an unexpected but not unwelcome thrill. Unbeknownst to her he had replicated every eyelash and each tiny crease upon her lips, studying her quietly and intently while she cooked, wrote and read; all the while continuing whatever still life she would want to see on the page above the one that held her portrait. Studies of her from every angle, details of her eyes, nose, mouth and ears (she had curious little ears that were perfectly formed with a tiny pinch at the top of each just like an elf) littered his room and even though he had more than enough material to begin her mask he could not seem to give up his guilty pleasure. Close ups of her dainty hands holding pieces of fruit or a book were unnecessary for his purpose but he had captured them all the same; they were the warm, soft hands that touched his face every day.

He could not remember what Christine's hands looked like anymore or even if he had ever drawn them; in fact he struggled to recall her features to mind, the small details becoming hazy and blurred around the edges at times. Brief glances of the young Pellizzari bride-to-be Elena, who looked so like her (and yet nothing like her) were all that kept her image fresh in his mind during his waking hours. And since he told Meg all about what had happened in Paris his Angel-filled nightmares were less and less, their violent intensity gradually subsiding along with the vision of her he had thought would never diminish. She no longer clouded his waking moments so much and lately had eased her hold on his dreams; brown chestnut curls were slowly morphing into a long flaxen plait and laughing cinnamon orbs fought for dominance with the dark chocolate irises of his former pupil. He had not been conscious of it up to the time he had brought Meg to see Santa Maria Della Salute although he conceded she had probably been seeping into his subconscious from the first. That night he had known exactly what was happening, waking more times than he cared to remember, drenched in sweat, struggling for breath and seriously contemplating a cold bath. The one who condemned him to the dark was being systematically exorcised by the one who had pulled him into the light and he no longer feared sleep in the same way he had all his life; a deep sense of mortification when he met her innocent eyes across the breakfast table being a small price to pay for the rapturous and highly illogical dreams she had inspired.

Aching and tired from a day filled with too many decisions and nothing as yet to show for it apart from a childish fantasy of herself in swathes of luscious fabric and centre of attention for once, Meg fell on her bed having barely acknowledged Erik as she had made the transition from sitting room to stairs. Grudgingly she moved to peel off her coat and pulled off her walking shoes to step into the softer kid slippers she wore indoors and searched for her small sewing box before making her way back down to the sitting room.

Halting at the bottom of the stairs, she noticed Erik was drawing, again. Vaguely she had registered his outline at the table surrounded by his sketch pads and boxes of chalk when she had arrived home; she supposed he had spent his time much as he had been since they had been to post her letters. He appeared to have an insatiable appetite for committing odd objects to paper though they were exquisitely executed. Meg never really appreciated common household items before but Erik had managed to breathe life into dainty teacups, milk jugs and even cutlery. Her favourites were the ones he did of whatever flowers were on the table and she had staked her claim to one of these for her own room. He had finished it in colour for her when she had asked if she could have it and he had managed to make the roses seem so real, down to the veins in each petal that she could almost smell them.

He was in his usual spot inside the balcony doors, left knee wedged against the table, balancing precariously on the back legs of the chair he sat on. She was waiting for the day that chair got the better of him and he landed in a heap on the floor but it hadn't happened so far. He raised his eyebrow at the small sewing kit she had in her hand and then noticed the satin shoes she clutched in the other, giving her a brief nod of comprehension.

"Taking to the stage Meg? I'm sure the table would hold you, though perhaps a little cramped for a tour jeté or pas de chat I think. Still, a pirouette or two would not be out of the question. I'll stay down here in the orchestra pit shall I? " Erik swung lazily on his chair as he envisioned the impossible performance. He had wondered when the shoes would make an appearance. For a girl who had spent her life on her toes she had spent the past six weeks on her soles and he knew it must be killing her especially if dance to her was anything like music was to him (and he suspected it was).

"What, not in your own box? Sometimes Erik you are quite hilarious; on the table indeed! Just because I cannot dance here does not mean I can't at least sew my ribbons on and soften them up a little." Meg answered somewhat indignantly, throwing a glance about the cosy but limited space, instantly regretting her words. She had not meant to make Erik feel like it was his fault because it was no one's fault. It just was.

"Yes, quite." Suitably chastised, he realised bitterly that he had taken her from her passion in life and it pained him to see the frustration on her face. Erik knew she was like a bird beating her wings furiously against the cage door and lately while she bound his face he could feel her bouncing from one foot to the other, humming some nameless tune to her movements. He could sense the energy coursing off her and knew she must be like a coiled spring at this point. He could still do all the things that kept him sane yet she could not. Erik knew he would eventually have to start thinking about the future (something he could not remember ever doing before), about the possibility of somewhere more suitable for his needs and hers of course. And he knew that day had finally come. He liked Italy and Venice in particular but thought perhaps something just across on the mainland would be even better. Somewhere he could have lots and lots of space...

Meg settled herself on the settee across from him, folding her legs beneath her having slid her little kid slippers from her feet and unwound the long satin ribbons from the middle of the shoes in her lap. As she concentrated on threading her needle she heard Erik scribbling again, his right hand having resumed its path across the sketch pad he held on his knee. He must be getting tired of cups and flowers by now; she thought of the beautifully detailed drawings she had seen of her friend and realised the images were probably only another means to capture Christine in some way, to keep her near, like the wax doll.

"What item of crockery has you so enthralled this evening Erik?" Meg craned her neck to look about the room although he was facing her and there was nothing but his art materials on the table in front of him.

Erik's hand stilled on the page, raising his eyebrow at her rather apt choice of adjective and allowed himself a second to deliberate on his next words, finally deciding on the path he had least followed up to now.

"You. Although I would hardly describe you as crockery. Do you mind?" He enquired softly, inclining his head and raising his eyebrow in question. No one had ever willingly sat for him before but neither had he asked permission of the only two people he had ever drawn and he worried that perhaps she would be uncomfortable with it knowing what she did about him.

Meg fought hard to keep the colour from her cheeks that accompanied her complete astonishment, dropping her sewing into her lap as she sat to attention. He was drawing her - little nowhere, everywhere Meg!

"Of course I don't mind! No one has ever drawn me before. Should I sit still or change position? Will you let me see it when it's finished?" She couldn't contain her excitement at the idea that she would be immortalised and thought what a privilege it was to be so by Erik who could draw anything and make it look beautiful so maybe he could do that with her too? A lifetime spent alone in the dark, secret, nameless, faceless and friendless; he had existed in the shadows and merged like a chameleon with the scenery much as she did. It was heartbreaking really, the hidden talent that no one had ever seen or acknowledged. He seemed pathetically grateful and almost embarrassed every time she commented on something he had drawn even if it was of something simple. Of course compliments and praise for his efforts would be completely alien to him and that she could identify with to a certain extent. She reflected bitterly that being her mother's daughter meant she had been exposed to far more criticism than she necessarily deserved during her years of training.

"Relax Meg, just go back to what you were doing and ignore me. I promise to show you but only when it's finished." So many questions and just like Bella; if he didn't know better he would swear they were related. He had watched her begin fidgeting the moment she knew his attention was on her where before she had been lounging contentedly, head bent to the side exposing the long elegant line of her neck from her right shoulder to her ear and completely oblivious to his intent. Perhaps he shouldn't have said anything?

Ignore him! Did he have any idea how completely and utterly ridiculous a request that was? Contrary to what he probably believed he was and always had been impossible to ignore, even when he disappeared for weeks and months on end back in Paris he was on everyone's mind in some form or another. While his presence may not always have been welcomed it was always felt and in the weeks she had the benefit of his company it was almost overpowering. Remembering the incident in San Marco and then again in the dome she felt somehow captured whenever he turned his full attention to her. It was thrilling and unsettling all at once. He was like the bellows that fanned the chest full of glowing embers she felt she carried around with her now into an inferno.

"I can't relax; no one has ever drawn me before. I don't want to spoil it." She almost wailed in protest sticking her bottom lip out like a sulky child, terrified he would lose patience with her and stop.

"You won't spoil it. Just go back to your sewing and tell me what you did today; you'll soon forget about me." Erik knew he should have kept his mouth shut and told her he was sketching the door handle or the salt cellar. Perhaps if he could get her wittering on about fabrics and patterns she would calm down.

"Oh I forgot to tell you earlier! It's Bella's birthday next week and Rosa invited us to her party on Saturday but I didn't think you would want to have all her little friends poking at you so I said we would call down later, when they were gone? We should think about getting her something and I thought you might have some ideas." She knew exactly what ideas he would have but he needed to come to that conclusion by himself. She was a bundle of nerves now she knew he was watching her every move and was sure she would sew her fingers together. Taking her thimble in her left hand she proceeded to tack the ends of the ribbon to the inside of one shoe running her fingers over the heavy dull satin; it was much like the material she had been persuaded to choose for her new gown except for the colour. Absently she wondered what Erik would wear. She assumed he would turn up looking resplendent as he always did most especially if he thought he was going to have an audience and with a legitimate excuse to wear a new mask. She was sorry he wouldn't have the pick of the props like in Paris; she had definitely seen the sword with the moulded skull on the hilt before. For someone who had no contact with the outside world he really made the most of the unrivalled access he had to the inside; picking costumes, wigs and props for his use whenever the need arose – the opera house had been his personal grown up toy box.

So the little doll from downstairs was having a birthday! It actually gave him the perfect opportunity to give her something he had been planning for a while but would have seemed out of place otherwise. Tomorrow he would begin his search and perhaps seek out a tailor seeing at it was long past time he had a new wardrobe. Meg wasn't the only one who was attending this wedding and he was damned if he would let her down by looking anything less than perfect...or as near to it as he could aspire to. Trust Meg to make their excuses while Bella's friends were there. She seemed to only ever think of him and it made him more determined than ever to take the best representation of her possible.

She was yawning now, no doubt exhausted from a day shopping with Rosa, and hadn't gotten very far with her sewing by the looks of it. He sat and watched rapt as Meg slowly succumbed to sleep, shifting position on her seat so she could rest her head on her left arm, her satin shoe still held loosely in her right hand. Furiously he committed her faithfully to the page, noticing how her long spidery lashes fanned across the tops of her cheekbones like spun sugar. She had managed to tuck herself into a graceful arc not unlike the creature she often embodied, although now he studied her features he saw the youth and innocence shining through all her earlier sarcasm and bravado and realised she was still so young; a tiny little thing really.

When he had sketches as much as he needed to finish the piece Meg was well and truly asleep. It was still early so he set down the pad and moved across to the settee taking the needle from her hand lest she hurt herself. She had only managed to barely tack one ribbon on - she would never make her fortune as a seamstress! Smiling at the faint purring sound she was making, he bent down and gently prised the satin shoes from under her right wrist.

"Sogni d'oro gattina" he whispered softly before moving back to the table, resuming his position on the chair propping his knee against the table once more. With a deftness that belied the size of his hands he unpicked Meg's effort and proceeded to finish both of her shoes with tiny even stitches that a surgeon would have been proud of.

A/N

Gattina is "kitten" in Italian for anyone who was wondering and sogni d'oro is their version of sweet dreams - it literally means golden dreams ; ) I thought it was time he got native with his pet names.

Charles Frederick Worth (1825-1895), an Englishman based in Paris - he was said to be the father of "haute couture" and his gowns were to die for. Check them out on Google. His patterns were copied all across Europe so designer knock offs is not a new concept!

For anyone who's interested in how the Venetians (and therefore Erik) do a papier maché mask – check out CaMacana's website.