The next day Madame Giry and Meg breakfasted together. It was a rare quiet morning for the two, with no immediate obligations tearing them away. Therefore Madame Giry sat languidly sipping her coffee (forbidden to her dancers, but she indulged in her private time) and Meg poured over the newspaper open on the table.
Madame Giry watched fondly as Meg eagerly devoured the paper with her eyes. From practically the first moment she learned how, Meg devoutly read the top news stories, a seemingly unusual pastime for a giddy young lady of the opera house. But Madame Giry knew better than anyone else that Meg possessed a keen mind ruled by curiosity, and the fact her exposure to the outside world was comparatively limited made her even hungrier to know what went on beyond the opera's walls.
Meg's quick eyes focused on something in the police section. "Mother!" She suddenly chirped. "Listen here: 'the police are looking for a notorious thief they believe has settled in Paris. He goes by many aliases, mostly using titles in the nobility. He is approximately forty-five years of age, with black hair and a gray goatee. He has a glass eye painted blue."
She shot her own bright eyes up to her mother. "That sounds just like the Count that's taken to sitting in the Phantom's box! Do you think…." She squirmed just slightly in her seat, her eyes alight with the promise of adventure. "Do you think this could be the man?"
For the opera house had finally reopened, though so far there had only been symphonies and the occasional choral arrangement. The managers seemed bent on selling the place after the final disaster during Don Juan, until they witnessed the initial surge in ticket sales once the doors opened again.
As always, scenes of lurid reputations, heartbreak, and murder steadily drew in the macabre, and those who pretended not to be macabre, but claimed only to attend so as "not to let that madman win".
Yet Madame Giry was called in to a meeting with the managers for later that afternoon, and she knew why: even with the ghoulish obsession the public had with the opera house, they were at last starting to tire of what they deemed the lackluster productions. They yearned for spectacle to go along with the moody atmosphere. Madame Giry knew the managers were in negotiations with some producer or composer, and soon there would be a real opera playing again.
How quickly the young adapt, Giry thought to herself as she listened to her child's excited patter. Meg, ever so industrious in her various activities in the wake of the disaster, had quickly re-embraced the childlike excitement and gossip that came with a new season at the opera house, the new faces in the crowd to peer at in the audience – such as that mysterious Count sitting in the Phantom's box.
The Phantom.
Immediately Madame Giry's mood darkened. Her eyes dimmed. "It is no business of mine, my child," she answered in a low voice. Her eyes were sharp on Meg's. "And it is no business of yours, either. I do wish you'd remember that, Meg."
Meg lowered her head but looked up with guileless eyes and creased lips, as she always did when chastised by her mother: a half guilty, half quizzical expression.
In truth, it was a half-hearted reprimand. Madame Giry was tired. She knew, she knew that Meg went down there. And…and she knew she couldn't stop her.
Helplessness, fatigue, and resignation filled her.
Meg would do just as Meg wished.
And it was time, perhaps, for Antoinette Giry to let her. She could not cage her darling bird.
And Erik….
Erik would not hurt her.
Giry closed her eyes. Yes, she'd known that since the beginning.
Erik – the madman, the murderer, the tortured soul gone berserk at Christine's rejection – he would not harm her daughter.
These ruminations were interrupted by a sharp insistent tap on their door.
The two only rolled their eyes and suppressed their groans. Their once quiet flat was now as busy as a bustling train station, their moments together constantly interrupted by some new business or another now that the opera house was reopened.
Yet their faces lost some of their color when Madame Giry opened the door to Andre, Firmin, and a policeman behind them.
All three faces were taciturn, save for the anxiety plain in the managers' eyes.
Madame Giry carefully schooled her features into their usual stoic mask. "Can I help you gentlemen?" She asked coolly.
Firmin cleared his throat. "We – well, you and your daughter, too – we have been summoned, Madame. The date of the inquest has been set for 12:00 noon tomorrow."
Without a word, the tall gaunt policeman behind the managers reached one long arm between them and handed Madame Giry the summons.
She glanced down at the envelope, then steadily met the managers' eyes.
She read plainly their reason for coming here.
They were telling her quite simply that Madame Giry and her daughter were under suspicion and that the inquest may result in charges filed against them.
Madame Giry looked over her shoulder to her daughter.
She felt a spike of both pride and regret at the sight of Meg's brave squared shoulders, the large eyes that showed fear but also a hard determination.
Meg sat at the edge of her seat on the bench outside the courtroom. Her posture was stiff and unnatural, she knew. But she had only ever felt this nervous once before, when she charged down to Erik's lair and confronted him for the first time.
Meg desperately wished she could be with her mother, who was currently testifying.
The managers had also come by their apartment to inform them that – though they did not say so outright – the suspicion surrounding the mother and daughter meant that the police decreed it was to be a closed inquest. In other words, Madame Giry and Meg would testify separately.
Meg swallowed hard against the lump in her throat.
She started as the courthouse door cracked open just enough for one figure to slip out.
The figure of Raoul de Chagny.
"Raoul!" Meg exclaimed, jumping up. She forgot all pretense of rank and title as she greeted him by name, eagerly shaking his hands. "You're here!"
"In the flesh, Flibbertigibbet." He winked.
"I…I had no idea…."
"I'm afraid we had no time to write you once we received our summons. In fact, I believe that was the point. The magistrate doesn't know what to suspect, frankly, but I think he vaguely believes the four of us might be working together in some manner of conspiracy. Thus, the subtle maneuvering to get us all alone."
Meg tilted her head, confused. "Then how did you get in there just now?"
Raoul raised an eyebrow ruefully. "Even the magistrate's suspicions can't staunch the influence my name still carries. I try not to abuse that influence, but Christine sent me here early to see how things are going."
"And how is my mother doing?"
He laughed. "That mother of yours! She has the lot eating out of her clever hand. You've never seen such a pitiful sight as your mother sobbing into her handkerchief delicately, pleading ignorance." He imitated her quivering voice. "'Ah, Messieurs! I did only what I thought best! You see, I thought all those letters were from M. Lefevre and the managers! They were always signed with their names, but with the instruction that I say they were from the Opera Ghost, even in front of them! Oh, I thought it was just some fun to drum up extra publicity. I see now that it really was the Opera Ghost, or whoever this wicked person is. I had no idea….'" Raoul suddenly lowered his voice as he imitated the barrister. "'And where are these letters now, Madame?'" He simpered as Madame Giry again. "'Why…why they all disappeared from my cabinet the night before Don Juan Triumphant. I looked everywhere for them, but not a trace'…."
Raoul straightened and was himself again. "I'm not doing it justice at all, but she is very convincing. I can see where you get your own acting talent from." He tweaked Meg's chin. "I wouldn't worry if I were you, my dear. I have a feeling you and your mother are going to get off just fine."
Meg almost sighed in relief. "And what about you and Christine?" She asked in a hushed voice.
Raoul shrugged. "We shall simply tell the truth. Nothing we can say will harm anyone. Christine was kidnapped, I pursued her, was threatened, but then – either through reawakened compassion or fear that the mob would reach him – the Phantom released us."
"Will you mention…you know…the kiss?"
Raoul was surprised. He hadn't known Christine told Meg about that…then again, maybe it was the Phantom himself who had told her. Raoul understood Christine's reasons for the kiss - that act alone saved him, saved her, saved that pitiful man from destroying all three lives - but the vicomte still didn't like thinking about it much. For all that it further proved the depths of his wife's kindness, he couldn't say he relished the memory of her passionately kissing another man.
"No, I see no need. They think the man is mad, so why shouldn't a mad man suddenly release a girl for no logical reason? I don't fear much for us; I'd wired the police anyway once we reached Perros. It's not exactly like we deserted Paris without a word, though in hindsight it might look a little that way." He scratched the back of his neck a little warily. "I don't think the inspector was thrilled, which makes me a little uneasy. See, I plan to wrangle a reference out of him."
"A reference?"
"Yes…well, it's a long story and now's not the time to babble about my personal plans. Anyway, I want to sneak back in and see if I can serve as a strong shoulder for your mother to cry on when she's done testifying. Must keep up appearances. Hopefully she'll be done before Christine arrives from the hotel."
"So Christine is coming?" Meg asked anxiously.
"Oh, yes. She's very nervous, so I wanted to stay with her. But like I said, she sent me ahead. I…I think she wanted some time alone."
Meg understood all too well. When overwhelmed, Christine sought solitude and then comfort.
Raoul took her slightly trembling hands in his. "Don't you worry now, Flibbertigibbet. You'll be fine." As always, Meg felt nothing but joy that her vulnerable friend found such a supportive man as this, his smile one of the more comforting sights of the day.
"Thank you," she whispered.
One more wink and then he disappeared back inside. "Oh, blast!" Meg said to herself the moment he left. She had forgotten all about congratulating the newlywed man!
Luckily her chance was not gone with his other half. For at that moment Christine entered, pale but beautiful as always.
Both friends' faces lit up at the sight of the other.
"Christine!"
"Meg!"
They embraced, laughing and crying. Meg spread Christine's arms out like the first time they met, looking her over once more. "Oh, Christine, look at you: a bride! No," Meg corrected herself. "A wife!"
They embraced again. "It's seemed like ages since I left, Meg!"
"No wonder! A lifetime of changes has happened to you in the meantime. My, but what a couple of crows we are," Meg said deprecatingly, referring to their matching black dresses. Meg possessed so few regular garments that her mother insisted she wear the sober black reserved only for funerals. Christine, of course, still wore black in memory of Mamma Valerius.
"Christine, I'm so sorry," Meg said.
Tears glistened in Christine's eyes but she managed a sad smile. "Thank you. But she was happy, I think, in the end. At least I hope."
They sat on the bench together, holding hands.
Meg decided to take Christine's mind off this loss, since her friend had suffered enough already – and was about to dredge it all up again in the courtroom. "And what is married life like?" She asked in a quiet eager voice, leaning in with that familiar impish grin on her face. "Shall I start referring to you as Viscountess de Chagny, hmm?"
Christine laughed sardonically. "That title is the one thing I'm not thrilled about. I hate the way the papers are talking about it: that I married for that title, or that Raoul only married me to defy his family. And while I admit Raoul certainly has a strong rebellious streak, I can't say he's much enjoying defying his sister. She's a terror, though I haven't met her yet."
"And Raoul himself? How is he as a husband?"
Christine's features seemed to melt from within. "Meg…you have no idea. All the little fantasies I concocted about him as a child, they are all so silly and shallow compared to having him truly at my side."
Meg squeezed her hand. "You're happy, then?"
"Yes." Meg looked at her quizzically. There was serenity in Christine's reply, but an underlying sense something was off. Christine noticed Meg's look and elaborated. "I mean, I'd be happier if I knew…." Boring her eyes into Meg's, Christine asked in a small whisper. "How is he, Meg? How is he really?"
In her mind's eye, Meg could see only a solitary figure in a dark lair, standing staring into the black around him. "Sad but alive," Meg answered simply. She tried smiling encouragingly. "He'll be all right, Christine."
Christine's dark eyes lowered to the floor. "I do hope so."
Meg fidgeted nervously, wondering how to broach the topic that had been weighing on her mind since her visit to Carlotta. "Christine…I know I said I'd never bring him up to you without your leave, but since you brought Erik up yourself…."
Christine blinked, confused. "Erik? Who's Erik?"
"Oh, I forgot you might not know. That's his name."
"Erik," Christine enunciated slowly. "I…I never even asked him what his name was…" Her shoulders slumped under the weight of what she perceived as her self-centered behavior. We could never have been, how could he not see that until the end? Even before I took off his mask, I never saw him as a man who could have an actual name. No. He was either an angel or a pitiful creature to me, never the man he deserved to be. We both need someone real, who acknowledges us as such.
"Never mind about that, Christine," Meg hastened to assuage her guilt, patting Christine's arm with her quick hand. "I wouldn't have thought of it either in your shoes! No, don't blame yourself. That's silly. But there's something that isn't silly." She bit her lip, hesitant to unload her troubled mind on her even more troubled friend. But at last determined, she blurted out, "I'm at a loss. He's destroyed lives. Carlotta's in such a state! And here I am looking after him! Christine, how do I reconcile that?" She looked at her friend pleadingly, penetratingly.
Yet Christine's eyes were fogged over in a dark reverie. "I can't answer that for you, Meg," she said in a faraway voice. "I know it might not seem fair to ask this of you, but you must…must keep your promise and continue looking after him for me." The singer's lips trembled, but her steady, foggy eyes never left Meg's. "You helped me find confidence when I was just a shaking girl in toe shoes, Meg…I never realized how much you helped me until recently. You can do the same for him, maybe. Until he finds his own way."
The friends were silent for a moment. Then the courthouse doors swung open.
"Mother!" Meg called out, jumping to her feet.
Madame Giry was practically wailing as she stumbled out of the courtroom with Raoul at her side, her handkerchief pressed to her face. She was a quaking tower of dignified but helpless vulnerability, a defeated and plaintive Hecuba.
She flung her arms out as soon as she saw her daughter. "Oh, my poor girl! Come to me!" Madame Giry threw her arms around Meg, seemingly sobbing into the girl's neck.
Yet Meg heard her mother whisper rapidly and calmly into her ear: "Stick to your story, Meg. You know nothing."
The dancer couldn't help the very small, wicked smile of pride that she quickly hid in her mother's shoulder.
Meg felt like a sleepwalker as she entered the practically empty courtroom and crossed numbly over to the witness stand. Three men sat at the table in front of her and the bored-looking but austere magistrate sat above her to the right.
The questions asked were quick, clipped. In the sincerest voice she could muster, Meg echoed her mother's story: the Giry women were innocents caught up in a madman's web, and Meg remembered nothing but terror throughout her childhood when whoever this man was made his presence known. Meg remembered the late Joseph Buquet cornering her before he died and regaling her with stories about a shortcut to the Phantom's lair. The night of Don Juan, Meg followed those instructions. Although she'd always doubted his words before, Meg found that they had indeed been correct here, and she reached the lair before the others. She arrived in just enough time to see the Phantom on his gondola escaping out the Rue Scribe gate.
She certainly did not know why no one saw a trace of him afterward. But if he could deceive her mother for all these years, who is a very intelligent woman, then maybe it's not so surprising after all.
Luckily her fear worked to her advantage as she spoke, since the members of the inquest took one look at this frail girl with her trembling hands and big eyes and saw a perfect picture of innocence.
"Thank you, mademoiselle," the magistrate said at last. "You may leave."
Releasing another quiet breath of relief, Meg stood and courtseyed awkwardly. She saw this bring patronizing smiles to a few faces. They think I'm silly, an addle-brained little ninny. Good. After all, that's not too far from the truth right now.
As she crossed to the exit she felt the same as Raoul had: like she and her mother were in the clear. After all, what evidence against them was there, really? Madame Giry had burned all of Erik's letters (except those few Meg was able to sneak out beforehand and hide behind her closet - who knows when they might come in handy, and besides - well, Meg was curious). The managers were too flustered and taken up with the reopened opera house to take much time to contradict any of her statements, plus they had already testified.
No, surely they were all right now. She'd wait outside for Raoul and Christine to finish their testimony, and then maybe they could all finally go on with their lives – at least, as much as they could with Erik still to look after.
However, just before she reached the doors, Meg spied a figure at the back she hadn't noticed before.
He was a slender man of indeterminate age, though if Meg had to guess, she'd say older rather than younger. He had a lean, pinched face and a tall slim frame, from what she could see of him where he sat. His complexion was swarthy, his manner quiet. He wore a unique cap made of some sort of dark wool, almost wedge-shaped. He must have been there since the beginning of the inquest.
What really struck her, though, was the look in his stony eyes.
It was a look of grim satisfaction, as if any suspicions he might have held were confirmed, not dispelled.
A/N: Updates might be a bit infrequent for a while, but they're coming, honest! I know a lot of you Merik fans are probably chomping at the bit, seeing as the last two chapters haven't even had our favorite masked loon in them. But, well...there's more coming, not to fret. :P