Erik was reading Spinoza in his armchair when he heard Meg's footsteps above. He shifted in his seat and stared determinedly at the pages in front of him. One of the reasons for the miniscule leap in his blood pressure was due to the still novel notion of voluntary visitors to his abode; and the other was that this visitor in question was the aggravating, curious, kittenish Meg Giry – a paradox of kindness and charm enveloped in an annoying busy-body shell.
Yet there was no denying that face was enjoyable to look upon even in the dim light of his lower lair.
And Erik had so few enjoyments left him. Although this face was not the one that haunted him, it…interested him. At least, so far as anything interested him now.
She entered with a box full of new lantern bulbs, in a continued effort to lighten the lair in order to make it more "cheerful", as she put it.
"Good morning, Monsieur Erik!" She rang out, curls bouncing as she headed to the small oaken table against the wall.
"You seem in good humor today," Erik mumbled in acknowledgement, one eye on her and the other on Spinoza's words. "No censuring gaze or eye of fury this morning, I see."
He was pleased despite himself when he saw a spark of fire in the green eyes she shot momentarily at him. But clearing her throat delicately and chin up the barest amount, she instead said, "Not yet, monsieur. I am indeed in good humor, as you say." As if to prove her point, she started humming as she took out the bulbs and placed them on the table.
"Oh? Are they going to play another opera? Is that what's lifting your spirits?" He tried to keep the interest out of his voice. Remember, monster, that after Christine left you disowned your former life. You may dwell here still, but the opera is no longer your domain. Keep yourself hidden and deny yourself the concerns of above.
But how to stick to that resolution when a physical manifestation of those concerns was currently humming some ridiculous ditty as she wiped down lantern bulbs?
"No word on that currently," Meg replied. "Mother suspected the managers were going to speak to her on that, but then," She wiggled her shoulders, obviously dying to tell him what she was about to tell him. "Then we were called in to the inquest!"
A sharp intake of breath on Erik's part. Christine! Was Christine there? "So it finally happened. And…?"
Meg whirled around and the wide smile on her face practically blinded him. Lord, what a pretty girl (a totally objective appraisal on his part. Completely objective). "And everything went wonderfully, perfectly!" She spoke rapidly. "Mother was wonderful. She explained everything so beautifully. And I…well, I passed muster, that's all that matters. If I say so myself, I believe we are all free of suspicion!"
She carefully emphasized everyone without naming anyone in particular, which was her bid to let him know Christine was safe without actually saying her name. Just as she had made sure not to mention Erik too much to Christine, so she tried not bringing Christine up too often with him. For one thing, she knew it hurt him, and despite his crimes he'd been hurt enough in life; for another, well – it probably wasn't fair to the true injured party in this case (Christine) to constantly mention her to the man she'd probably would rather forget her.
But this way Erik was able to tell Christine's testimony went well. Like they had with Meg, the inquest board must have been impressed by the singer's tremulous air of innocence. Besides, as Raoul pointed out, the married couple had in fact done nothing wrong aside from failing to report to the police.
The Girys and de Chagnys dined together after the inquest and rehashed everything. Raoul also sheepishly revealed his ambitions for the Swedish police force, and his fears he might have ruined his chances before he even began. The way he presented his story to the magistrate, he tried to portray himself as a well-meaning but hapless sort of figure who didn't realize that taking himself and his wife to the police right after saving her was the right thing to do rather than run straight away to Perros-Guirec. That might not impress the Paris officials, from whom he might need a reference or two.
Now that Meg felt convinced there would be no more questioning from the police, this quandary of Raoul's weighed most heavily on her soul. The way he talked about his aspirations sounded so perfect! Raoul, one of the bravest and noblest people she knew, as a member of the police! In Sweden! Oh, how wonderful for Christine that would be! Of course she, Meg, did not relish the idea of her friend so far away. But what a true fairytale ending for that friend! Meg would not begrudge Christine that.
None of this she revealed to Erik as she turned back to finish wiping out a smudge that had gathered on one of the bulbs. She frowned as she realized the silence from his corner was a little too quiet – deafening and tense.
She turned to see the dark light from his eyes behind his mask focusing on her. This look brought a surprising fluttering to her chest, an odd warmth she'd never experienced before. Blinking the feeling away, she asked, "Well, what's the matter? They think you've fled, shouldn't that make you just a little bit relieved?"
"And you are absolutely sure that is what they think?" His voice was even.
"What makes you think they don't?"
"Nothing, really. Only it's never very wise to feel too secure about anything like this, little Meg."
Again that odd fluttering, this time as he said her first name. She shook her head. Nonsense. "Oh, you're just like Mother!" She said dismissively. Madame Giry was incredibly withdrawn and quiet over dinner – more so than usual, even. Quietly Meg asked her about the one thing other than Raoul's future that still worried her – the man with the odd cap at the back of the courtroom.
Her first answer was two black eyes filled with the most painful anxiety. Then a quiet voice: "I did not see the cap, as he was standing half concealed in the shadows when I arrived. I still noticed him, though. And I could swear I've seen his face before…." She'd trailed off as an odd look of bewilderment briefly crossed her face. "But where?" She seemed to speak mainly to herself. "That cap you described…but who…?"
She would say no more about it.
Meg deliberately made herself forget this now as she spoke to Erik. "Everything will be fine," she said adamantly, sweeping away the last of the dust from where it collected on the table. "I don't see what good living in constant fright will do anyone."
Erik shrugged, returning to his book. "As you wish."
Meg couldn't quite describe why, but she felt discomfited by this response. She was used to his argumentative retorts: they had become the standard for interactions with him. His uninterested acceptance made her more uneasy than anything else had.
She shuffled a bit uncertainly, then affecting carelessness she pressed, "All right, so what do you think is going to happen? Think we'll all be arrested?"
Again that demon's glance that seared into her over the book's pages. He suddenly looked tired, older – yet somehow more vital than ever. "Believe it or not, I do not know everything, Miss Giry." He sniffed disdainfully. "I have seldom been taken in by palm readings and prophecies and the like. Better to just keep your pretty eyes and ears open, girl. Save yourself getting caught unawares."
"Such as now, monsieur?"
Meg shrieked and whirled around at this stranger's voice. Meg and Erik's words had drowned out the sound of the throne coming down.
There stood the figure from the courtroom, wedge-shaped woolly cap still on and his face more full of quiet satisfaction than ever.
"Who are you?" Erik barked, striding forward, yanking Meg behind him.
The man's serene hazel eyes met Erik's without any violence. "You do not recognize me, monsieur? Ah, no great surprise there. You must have seen me only once or twice, when I was barely older than you at the time. Even Anahid hasn't recognized me."
Meg noted something slightly foreign in his accent. Anahid? Who's Anahid?
"Well, I gather Persia is the origin of our acquaintance, if you are not lying about that," Erik hissed out through bared teeth. "But if you do not elaborate now, then I shall" – He lifted his arm, but it was too late: whoever this figure was already had his hand at the level of his eyes.
"I would not do anything too hasty, monsieur," the man said smoothly. "You see, even as we speak, a fellow officer is perched at the opening of the throne seat." He raised his voice. "And what do you have in your hands, Cedric?"
"A smoke bomb," a voice answered from above, again causing Meg to jump.
Raising an arch brow, the stranger gestured to the throne. "Join me above, monsieur, mademoiselle?"
Numb terror squeezed Meg's chest as she ascended first – the strange figure below made sure to join them last, in order to keep an eye on the slippery Erik's back.
Once Meg was in the upper lair again, she gasped.
Along with a stout mustachioed man in plain clothes who held a canister warningly in his hand, there stood the harried managers – and her mother.
Meg ran to her. "Mother"—
"Say nothing," she hissed. "I know as little as you do. I was speaking with the managers when this lot rushed in and dragged us here – showing us their badges and claiming they are the secret police."
Secret police? The war drum in Meg's heart beat again. Paris has a secret police force. And two of them are here. With us. How…extraordinary! And awful, of course. But…extraordinary, still!
She felt a detached thrill.
At last Erik and the policeman from below joined them. The former's face was stoic and still beneath the mask, the latter's casual and – Meg could not lie to herself – not unkind.
Firmin and Andre sputtered at the sight of the erstwhile Phantom. Both men's faces held fury and terror in equal measure. "Y-you!" Firmin cried out at last, pointing at the man. "You've been here the whole time!"
A quiet bow from Erik that stung more than any nasty retort.
Next the managers turned their stormy gazes to Meg. "So," Firmin fumed. "Miss Daae was not the only one entangled in the madman's web. You too have become his lover."
At that Madame Giry was suddenly nose to nose with Firmin, eyes wild with rage. "If you dare even imply such a thing again, I will make you rue it. I swear."
The stranger approached and with a gentle hand steered the enraged mother away from Monsieur Firmin. "I would not be so hasty, Anahid. You have no say in any such matter at the moment."
Madame Giry's dark eyes flickered at the mention of that name. Meg only grew more puzzled. There's that 'Anahid' name again! Why is he calling Mother that? Why?
She waited for her mother to correct him but the ballet mistress only scrutinized this stranger's face. "I know you. It is obvious you know me. Who are you?"
The man's grin was melancholy. "How the years have changed us, Anahid. I was only a very young man of about eighteen, after all, when you, Erik, and your late husband fled Persia. But I never forgot you, nor your late father's kindness to me. He took the disgraced orphan of executed Babi dissenters and turned the boy not only into his most trusted servant but his pupil as well. Do you really not recognize me? After all, you helped give me my earliest lessons, and got me a job as page to the police force after your father died" –
Epiphany widened Madame Giry's midnight eyes, more vast than ever. "Darius…Darius Shahzad."
His turn to bow.
Anahid could say nothing. How he'd changed…the reedy sad-eyed boy was now gray at the temples and calm, so very calm. Darius….
Realization was dawning in Erik's half-face as well. "Yes…you were indeed a boy, like I was…you ran errands for me…."
"For everyone," this man called Darius elaborated. "You see, monsieur, I was one of the first to realize your days were numbered in the Persian court. I let Anahid know. I had no idea she meant to flee the country with you."
Suddenly a high-pitched, desperate voice: "Hold on, hold on!" Meg looked frantic. "What…what's going on? Persia? Anahid? Darius? What"—she ran to her mother and clutched her hands. "Mother, you know what they're talking about? What's all this about your father and…and a police force?"
She was a little girl again. Her mother's heart broke.
No choice anymore. My daughter is strong. She can survive this. She can survive.
Gentle hands on each side of Meg's face. "Yes, my love. I know what they are talking about. I was born Anahid Najami, daughter to the chief of police in the shah's court of Persia. There I met Erik and your father, an ambassador from Paris." She absently ran her finger through one sunny ringlet on Meg's temple. "It…it is a long story, sweet girl."
Meg looked, looked hard at her mother. Looked at that face more familiar than any in the world to her. Looked for what was different now. Looked for the obvious signs she had missed her whole life.
As Anahid stared into her daughter's large mystified eyes, she readied herself for any reaction, any at all.
Her heart felt about to burst with joy when suddenly Meg dived into her embrace, burying her head into her mother's shoulder, the dancer's arms tight around the older woman.
Anahid sent wordless thanks to all the deities she was never sure she believed in as she held to her chest the one light in her life.
In spite of the managers' bemusement, Darius's mission, and Erik's caginess, each person in that lair felt touched by the image of mother and daughter erasing all lies between them and finding acceptance.
This, this is love, Erik thought. Not like what I feel for Christine, of course. No, that is the love of a tragic fairytale, ecstatic and doomed. No, this, this is the instinctive love every creature is born yearning for, yet so many never receive.
The shaky image of his own mother appeared before his eyes and he was suddenly crushed with sorrow for the boy he once was.
Yet Darius returned them to the present. "I hate to force you to reveal everything you worked so hard to conceal to your daughter, Anahid," he said in a low sincere voice. "But my life has changed as well. When you left, Persia was no longer safe for me. The shah in his fury accused me as your accomplice, so I too fled to Europe. I've worked on Paris's secret police force for many years now. I knew from the moment I heard gossip about the opera ghost – the so-called ghost's tricks and apparent interest in music and the arts - that the true identity of the Phantom was none other than the boy from court. Yet like you, I still felt pity for Erik. So long as he didn't hurt anyone, I thought, what's the harm? Then," his eyes glowed. "Then he did start hurting people. I've been away for over a year, tracking a criminal masquerading in the aristocracy. When my efforts to find him failed, I returned to Paris where they think he now dwells, and I heard reports of the chandelier's fall, the Don Juan disaster, and the corpses in both events' wake. And I knew I must do something, Anahid."
He tilted his head. "I did not expect to find you wrapped up in all this, but when I saw you at the courthouse, everything came together. I didn't recognize you right away, seeing as you acted the part of the flustered matron so well. But something about you…my suspicions were confirmed when I saw your daughter." He nodded to Meg. "She may have the coloring of her French father, but something in those features…." A fond nostalgic light in his eyes. "Ah, there is Persia."
Persia, Meg repeated in her head. The room was spinning – but in an exhilarating way. Persia. She brought a hand to those very features of hers, feeling them as if for the first time.
Darius continued. "So, I tracked her down here, and then I gave the signal out the Rue Scribe gate for Cedric. We gathered you and Messieurs Firmin and Andre."
At the mention of their names, the managers sprung to life again. "Yes, well, are you to arrest them?" Andre asked harshly, looking first at the Girys and then hesitantly at the Phantom, whose arms were crossed as he listened silently.
Meg squeezed her mother's hand.
Darius's eyes were now deeply sorrowful. "I am sorry, Anahid," he practically whispered. "But the law is the law. You have hidden a murderer" –
"No!" Meg eagerly cut in. She stood between Darius and her mother, a pathetic but touching human shield. "No, you've got it all wrong! I've been the one watching over Erik! Mother's had nothing to do with it!"
"Hush, Meg," Anahid said soothingly, a hand firm on Meg's shoulder. "You only took up my mantle. I've been looking after him all these years beforehand."
The managers started up again, filled with remonstrances, but Darius shot his hand up in the air, halting them. "Yes, so I thought. All three of you are currently under arrest, I am afraid."
A shiver rattled everyone's spine as Erik began to cackle ominously. "At last! The music of the night is truly done!" And he laughed all the more hysterically, arms out. He looked broken, mad, and dangerous.
Meg suddenly found herself wanting to comfort him, steady him. She reached out, but then she saw the policeman called Cedric approach her mother.
She was lost, small, afraid, she didn't know what to do – "WAIT!"
It was her own small voice, now full of authority. Darius glanced at her. "Yes, mademoiselle?"
Darius was surprised the once sheepish, bewildered eyes of Meg Giry were now sharp and focused, like an alley cat defending its prey. "Listen here, monsieur," she said rapidly. "You mentioned a criminal earlier. Would I be right in assuming he's the one mentioned in the paper a while back?"
Darius frowned, puzzled at this apparent nonsequitur. "It is indeed," he at last assented.
She sped up to him and grabbed his wrist. Her back was as straight as a sergeant-major's. "I've seen him. Seen him here in this opera house. I know it."
Her eyes narrowed as she watched Darius's face. "And you know he comes here, don't you? That's why you returned to the opera house, not just because of Monsieur Erik."
He would reveal nothing.
Meg gave a conspiratorial smile. "But you don't have evidence enough to catch him!"
"What is the girl blathering about?" Firmin exclaimed impatiently.
Now both small hands were clutching at Darius's. "Listen to me, monsieur. You have at your fingertips three wonderful resources: the Phantom of the Opera, a former member of the Persian secret police, and…well, me. A performer sees a lot, you know. I have access to all sorts of gossip. With that and Erik and my mother's experience, we can…we can…spy!"
She let the word hang there, not in the least embarrassed or doubtful of its use.
Still, the initial reaction of everyone present was almost to laugh – but then, a simultaneous realization throughout the room:
What she said made sense.
But no…it was ridiculous, surely.
Before anyone could ruminate further, Meg hurried on. "Our service at your will in exchange for our freedom! And this way you can keep a close eye on us as well! We'll serve you as long as need be." Now those eyes were yearning, beseeching. "Won't you please, please consider it?"
Silence now. Darius's face was as empty of discernible emotion as the Death's Head at Masquerade.
Madame Giry spoke before him. "Madness! I did not bring you up to see you fall into my same former life, Meg!" She practically trembled with vehemence. "No, it's madness."
"Total madness," Cedric spoke for the first time. There was something managerial and overly officious about him; in a way, his manner reminded Meg of Reyer's, only less comical. This man was obviously no fool, and he had the air of faint but fond exasperation when interacting with the calm Darius. "You aren't seriously considering this, are you, Shahzad?"
Darius's eyes never left Meg's.
His voice was speculative. "We have as yet to report them to anyone outside our own crew…we could possibly place them under house arrest…."
An immensely likable grin stretched his face. "It might be mad, but it might also work."
Meg ignored the sounds of surprise around her. She saw only that odd gleam of camaraderie in Darius's eyes. Then he said swiftly: "We shall let you know, mademoiselle, after we consult our associates. In the meantime, we shall have our policemen posted around the clock outside your flat and the opera house. Same for you down here, Monsieur le Fantome." Then he turned on his heel and left a sputtering Cedric to take care of the details.
Meg watched as the managers erupted in protests, her mother's eyes close sadly in resignation, and Darius disappear down yet another passage way. She watched through the blood pumping in her temples, the excitement coursing through her veins.
And Erik watched her, watched her become the mouse that was learning to roar.