He could still hear her singing. He would forever hear her singing. It was as if he was sitting in an echo chamber, her sweet notes reverberating in the dark rooms of his skull.
"Christine…." Erik whispered, eyes glazed as he stared at the black around him. Christine.
He was already beginning to lose track of time, little wondering how much had passed since the Giry girl left him. It was probably morning by now, if not later. All he knew was the dark.
The light had vanished, had rowed away on his gondola away from him, leaving with her young man.
He was still in the same position Meg left him in. As he had told Meg, he was dead already. The only part of his soul still beating inside him was with Christine. His soul was floating up to her voice, singing only in his mind….
So lost was he in his reverie that the Phantom himself practically jumped at the "ka-CHUNK" of the throne seat now sliding down a bit more smoothly as Meg continued mastering the mechanism.
He reflexively shielded his eyes at the faint light flickering in the lantern little Meg held in her hand. "Good morning," was the vehemently lively voice that greeted him as Meg approached him, her tone of voice incongruous in this dreary dark.
His eyes adjusting to the light, he saw that she was dressed in riding gear again, with jodhpurs and boots. He thought irreverently of her Masquerade costume, though this was of a quiet brown and beige color scheme, unlike the wild pink and black polka dots of New Year's.
Her thick curls were pulled back a little by her usual white ribbon. In her other small hand she held a tray.
She removed the lid, revealing a roast beef sandwich, a cluster of grapes, a small bowl of broth, and a flask of what he could only assume was water. "This was the best I could come up with," she said in that marked matter-of-fact tone again. "I couldn't stay in the kitchen too long or I'd get caught by the cook who likes to talk. You see, the opera is closed after everything that happened yesterday, so nobody should be snooping around. Everyone still thinks you're out in Paris somewhere, or that you've fled elsewhere. No one knows when we'll reopen, or if we will."
He slit his eyes, searching her face for – ah! – there it was: a glint, just a glint there in the pale green-gray of her eyes, of fear.
Yet she stood as straight and prim as always, her feet falling now into the ballet first position, even though she wore heavy boots.
Finally he spoke. "What…are you doing?"
One blink, but she kept her face steady. "I am feeding you, monsieur."
There was something achingly quaint about the whole set up: the pretty wide-eyed girl feeding the persecuted monster. In his gentler frame of mind since Christine revealed he "was not alone", he might have been touched by Meg's gesture. However, he noticed that there was a hard blankness to her face that revealed she thought of this more as an unwanted duty that must be done with than an act of kindness on its own.
Suspicion crept over him. "Why?"
"Because."
"That is a maddeningly insufficient answer, little Giry."
"The broth is chicken and cabbage. I think I see a few carrots in there, too."
"Enough." He brought his hand down with a smack upon the ground. "Why are you here, girl? Infatuated, eh? Come to gaze once more upon this beautiful visage?" He sneered, which twisted his deformity even more.
She rolled her eyes and wrinkled her nose. "Don't be silly. I don't care about your face" –
"Of course you do."
"—I don't care about your face, but I'm certainly aware you're a murderer and most likely rather evil. But," She threw her head back, avoiding his eyes, "I'm feeding you anyway." She knelt down and placed the tray at his feet.
He clasped a theatrical hand to his heart. "Ah! What altruism! The little angelic rat takes pity upon the wretched bogeyman murderer! With no other ulterior motive, I'm sure!"
Her eyes flickered to the corner. "Ah-hah!" Erik cried. "There it is! There is another motive. Tell me, girl."
She placed the spoon in the bowl. "Eat."
"Come now, little Giry. I've been watching over you since you were but a toddler. I can spot a lie on your face. You look just as you did when your attempt to steal La Sorelli's cookies from the jar in her dressing room resulted in a mass of powdered sugar all over her costume. Your pathetic attempt to hide the truth then is just as pathetic now. Tell me: why are you here?"
But she only stared at him with eyes wide open, head tilted, her face suffused with sincere curiosity. Her eyes are clear and enormous, he thought idiotically.
"Watched over me? Watched over me, did you say? You…watched over me?" Her little voice was breathless.
She may be pretty, but rather dull in the head, apparently. "Yes, you little mouse, it was the specter which terrified you all your life that saw to it you never fell from the rafters when you'd climb them or fall into the arms of some rich scoundrel waiting in the wings for you." He sniffed indifferently. "Was an arrangement made with your mother."
"Arrangement?"
Loves repeating what she hears, doesn't she? "Yes. I would make sure you didn't break your silly neck and she'd…run certain errands for me. Quid pro quo, if you know your Latin at all, little Giry."
Her eyes were brighter and more penetrating than the candle in her lantern as she leaned in, her reddish-blonde curls almost touching his face. "But…why? Why my mother? How did you even meet her, anyhow?"
Her small voice raised almost to a squeak in her eagerness, sounding all the world as if she really were a mouse.
And he, he was the Cheshire Cat as he smiled slyly at her. "Quid pro quo again, little Meg: you tell me why you're here, and I'll tell you all about your mother and me."
Meg drew back a little. Her nose twitched, agitated.
A dark chuckle. "Fine. You'll learn nothing from me, then."
Her cheeks flushed with anger and disappointment. Meg nudged the tray closer to him. "Eat."
Damn this girl, Erik thought. I felt sure I was done with everything earthly, including the joy of toying with imperfect mortals like her. But dammit, this little dancer makes tormenting her so easy! He carelessly tilted his own head and studied her as he deliberately changed the subject. "Just how did you get this tray down here without spilling anything? All those trapdoors and steps…."
"It was difficult, but I rode Caesar down this time, taking the route you must usually take. Much smoother journey, and quicker, too. Then of course I took the boat the rest of the way." She stirred the soup, trying to keep it warm. "Eat."
The mention of the boat brought back the image of Christine in a flash. He winced. Meg had said she would bring the police if she could not find Christine and the vicomte…yet she made not one mention of either of them. And here she was with a tray….
Oh, Christine! Where are you now? Did you leave Paris as I asked, my angel? All I want now is your safety, your happiness. Forgive your forgotten angel for ever bringing you grief….
The sharp tap of the spoon on the bowl distracted him. "It's getting cold," Meg said in her breathy, businesslike voice.
Fury filled him, heating his insides like lava. This damned girl…she was reality, hard, bright, garish reality. He had no need for reality, no want of it. His hatred of reality was what first drew him to Christine: the unreal quality of her voice. She was a dream brought to life, a dream that tried to survive in an unimaginative world ruled by the hardnosed and limited Meg Girys.
His contempt rose as he watched the young girl unfold a napkin and otherwise fuss about the tray. She…this gossipy little chit…she'd probably never had an original, pure, creative thought in her empty head. She'd relied on her pretty looks and her technical skill to get by. Shrieking, giggling, and twirling about with the rest of her idiotic herd was all she cared about. She might have the common cheap spark of a charming street urchin all dolled up for the stage, but she had not the majestic, ethereal soul her friend – his Christine – possessed.
In his fury, he made himself forget that her dancing held more than technical skill, it held fire. He forgot her innate kindness which led her to befriend and take care of the unpopular Swedish girl who couldn't dance to save her life. He forgot the bravery she must possess to take out on her own to find the Phantom, to confront him, to try to feed him now.
What he saw was a small girl with an adorable face, her birdlike arms darting this way and that on the tray, nudging it nearer, poking, prying. In that adorable face, he saw instead of innocent involvement with the tray a vapid emptiness. He saw not a brave, kind girl who happened to be attractive, but instead took her beauty as evidence she was no different from any of the other flirtatious attractive pieces fluttering around the theater.
What he saw most of all was that her hair was bright and fair instead of dark, her eyes pale and whirling with varied shades of green and gray instead of a deep, warm, steady brown. He saw someone petite and curvaceous instead of tall and almost waifishly lithe.
He hated her, oh how he hated her.
That is why when she nudged the tray at him one more time and chirped "Eat" again, he quite gracefully took the corner of the tray with his hand and flipped it over.
Meg Giry flushed bright red as she leapt to her feet, her mouth open as she took in the spilled soup and ruined sandwich. "Oh!" Had there been any joy left in him, he would have laughed hysterically at her infuriated little face, at that circular mouth. As it was, he only felt a hard, bitter satisfaction at her discomfiture.
She struggled to find words, her fists clenched at her sides. "…Oh!"
"Such a cool wit even when angry," he said smoothly.
Her eyebrows came down violently on her stormy forehead. Her almond-shaped eyes narrowed. "You're a…you're a…." She shook with pent-up rage.
He merely smiled at her pleasantly, eyebrows up. "Yes?" He asked mildly. "I'm a….?" He imitated her by hanging his mouth open in a perfect "oh" shape.
Then he sputtered and choked as she hurled the water at that open mouth, which also splashed up his nostrils and in his eyes.
As he wiped it away, spitting, he noticed her quickly collect the upside-down tray.
Her proud nose up in the air, she marched delicately back to the throne seat. "There," she said like a snotty little girl getting an answer right in school. "At least you got some water today."
Sitting straight and serene like a proper princess, she ascended again into the upper level before he could properly vent his rage at her.
Twenty-four more hours passed by.
Erik remained immobile in the dark. He was so still, so silent, he liked to pretend that his physical form dissolved into the darkness around him.
Such fantasies distracted him from a disturbing, bothersome truth:
He, the Phantom, was mortal and frail enough to feel the stinging pangs of hunger and thirst.
He had fasted the two days before Don Juan, too taken up with his last minute preparations - the quick alterations to Christine's wedding gown, planning the timing of Piangi's murder, his entrance onstage, etc - to bother eating.
Now the emptiness in his stomach was incredible, pervasive.
This can't last too much longer, he comforted himself. Soon I will lapse into delirium, and if I'm lucky, my Christine's lips upon mine will be my last hallucination. That or her song. A final mercy. Then I will feel nothing. I will simply…fade.
He licked his lips with his parched tongue. Yes...fade….
He thought of this one word so intently he did not notice the "ka-CHUNK" this time.
But his body did seize with primitive desire as the alluring scents of herbs, spices, meats, and roasted vegetables wafted to him.
The most heavenly mélange the Phantom ever came across.
In a slight daze, Erik saw the bright figure of Meg Giry come near him, once more carrying a tray. This one was much larger, the girl struggling to carry it.
The closer she came to him, the more overwhelmingly enticing were the scents from the tray. He could see the steam rising, could feel his mouth water and his stomach cry out in response.
He could say nothing as she knelt down before him. She fixed him with her clear gaze. Was this a dream? Then she removed the tray's lid and he gasped as paradise itself was revealed to him, waking him from his stupor.
Sole Duglere. Potage Germiny. Beef cutlet with truffles. Asparagus hollandaise. A tall class of water with lime. All on the finest plates with gleaming silverware.
"What…what…." Erik could only stammer.
Meg very daintily took a forkful of filet and picked up Erik's limp hand, wrapping his fingers around the fork's stem. "Bon appetit, monsieur," she said softly as she gently directed his hand to his mouth.
The smell, the sight was too intoxicating, too hot, and already he could imagine the forkful melting on his tongue….
Erik broke.
He stuffed the morsel in his mouth, not able to help the moan escaping from his closed mouth.
Meg swallowed her small grin of triumph, picking up a spoonful of the soup. "Chew more slowly, monsieur," she advised.
After he swallowed the fillet, she handed him the water. "Slowly, monsieur, slowly!" She admonished again as he took gulp after gulp.
She sat back on her heels as he made his own way through the rest of the delicious meal, tears in his eyes as he savored the hollandaise, as he popped a truffle in his mouth. Aside from a few perfunctory reminders that he should take it slow, Meg was silent.
As he took a break to wipe his mouth with a silk napkin, she spoke again in a quiet voice. "Louise from the chorus – you know, the mezzo-soprano – her stepbrother is sous chef at Café Anglais," she said, naming the most renowned restaurant in all of Paris. "That's why I was able to take out a tray. Once I stepped into the café's kitchen I knew no one could resist, not even a formidable phantom – especially one who must be quite hungry by now."
She watched him eat for a few minutes more. She wasn't sure if he'd even listened to what she'd said. Still, she continued in a more solemn voice. "It cost me a whole six months' allowance. But I did it, monsieur. And I did it not just to be kind, you're right about that." She took a deep breath. "I did it – and will continue doing so, monsieur – because I promised someone I'd take care of you."
This certainly caught his attention. He looked up from the potage, his eyes boring into hers. His immediate thought was Madame Giry, but….
One more deep breath and she relented. "Christine, monsieur. I promised Christine."
Erik felt his heart break all over again.
"I did find her, monsieur. You did not lie. And she…" Meg shifted. "She told me you are not heartless, you are not evil. She told me you've been badly used in life." Her eyes struck him with more fire than he expected from the petite rat. "I don't know if that's true or not. Oh, I'm sure you've had a hard time of it, but that doesn't make you a saint either, monsieur."
Bitterness scorched him at her pedantic tone.
But then her countenance softened as she spoke of Christine. "Still, she made me promise. She was so desperate, monsieur. So desperate you stay alive." Hesitantly, like a child does with an animal that might lash out and bite, she rested her hand on his arm. "Don't disappoint her, monsieur. It's her wish that you should live. You owe it to her."
Tears misted his eyes again. He glanced down at the half-eaten tray, feeling self-contempt at his weakness. Christine.
"Very well, little Giry," he acquiesced in a defeated voice. "For Christine's sake, I will live out whatever's left of my pathetic life."
"You will eat, drink, take care of yourself?"
He closed his eyes and bowed his head in assent.
Erik privately acknowledged it was to the girl's credit that she did not gloat in her triumph. She only stabbed another truffle with the fork. "Surely you can take a couple more bites, monsieur."
She watched him eat for another few minutes. She was so relieved that she forgot to collect her half of the bargain after telling him why she was feeding him: the story of the Phantom and her mother.
So consumed Erik was in savoring every bite and ruminating on his joy and despair that Christine should care enough to force such a promise from him that he almost forgot Meg's presence.
Then her little voice spoke again. "What is your name, monsieur?"
The Phantom froze.
He stared at her, searching her face. There was a quiet, grave curiosity there. Her hands were folded in her lap.
His name.
She'd asked for the Phantom's name, the ridiculous girl.
Not even Christine asked…
He shuddered away the disloyal thought.
He bristled for a moment and then uttered, "Erik."
"Erik," she said, like a chirping bird repeating what it's told. She tilted her head, furthering her resemblance to a bird. "No last name?"
"None I wish to share," he replied, returning his attention to the tray. It had been a long time that anyone outside of Anahid used his name. He himself had long ceased thinking of himself as Erik, and devoted himself instead to the fantastical persona of the Phantom.
When Christine left him, he'd abandoned both personae and considered himself nothing but an empty husk.
Yet here was little Giry demanding him his name. Taking him back to the beginning.
Meg sat there, thinking, running his name through her mind. Erik. Simple but foreign. The lack of a last name lent it an air of warning. It was a human name shroud in mystery. Just like the figure before her.
From then on, he was no longer Opera Ghost, no longer the Phantom of the Opera. To Meg, he was always 'Monsieur Erik'.