Meg's mind was far away from the after party. She smiled pleasantly at the eruption of applause when she entered the ballroom, but in truth she barely noticed it.
Her eyes scanned the crowd, looking for only two figures.
The first was Robard. Although she could tell by the warm look on his face from the orchestra stand that he was pleased by her performance, she needed to hear him say it.
Plus, she figured he must be lonely on this the day of his comeback. Meg had investigated, and discovered he had no wife, no children. No family. No friends, really, except for Carolus Fonta.
He had only his genius.
How similar he was to the second man she looked for tonight, though she was aware she could not see him. Still, she concentrated on the space around her, trying to sense him.
She knew she could feel his presence if she tried.
Erik.
What had he thought of the performance…?
"Ah, our fabulous Miss Giry!" Meg turned to see the managers mincing up to her. Each had the stunned look of a shot rabbit in their eyes.
She saw why.
They had with them the Count.
Meg sucked in a breath. She emptied her face of any anxiety.
"Miss Giry," Firmin said quickly. "Here is one of our most valued patrons. He is most eager to meet you."
Before Meg could react, the Count swept up her hand and kissed it. Her stomach turned. "Enchanted, my dear."
He smiled at her, looking for all the world like an oily crocodile. A large pink carnation stared out of his button-hole.
He smelled heavily of sandalwood.
Meg always had to be careful of her face. There the viewer could see everything. Her expressions were a window into her thoughts and feelings. The mildest of emotions was nakedly on display.
Yet the fire of determination burned in her chest, and like magic, all her face displayed was a modest pleasure at his attention.
Blushing expertly, she curtseyed. "You're too kind, monsieur." She spoke so softly he had to lean in to hear it. A masterful trick.
She mildly registered panic, noticing the managers had vanished. She hid the panic in the dimples she presented to the Count.
He had not let go of her hand. He pat it now. "Your dancing was breathtaking, little one! Such effortless charm, such fire!" He winked his good eye at her. "Of course, it's always you sweet, adorable ones who have the most spirit, I've found."
She chortled like a lark. "Monsieur!" Her blush deepened. "I…I don't know what to say."
"Don't say a thing, my dear!" He looked puffed up, his ego stoked by her flirtatious embarrassment. "You must allow me the honor, young lady, of toasting your success at dinner whenever you are at your leisure. I will serve you like the queen you are."
He bowed in what would have been a comical display of courtliness, if cunning violence didn't radiate from his every gesture.
Meg beat the fan she was holding fiercely, willing her face to stay serene and girlish.
He straightened and looked into her jade eyes. They were swimming warmly at him, in contrast to her humble blushing expression.
Whether or not the Count detected any artifice in her, it did not matter to him. She seemed innocent enough; and appearances were all that mattered to him. Why should he care if a winsome dancer is less candid than she appears? As long as she accepted his patronage, little mattered to the man.
He had other, more serious matters to concern him (he stole a quick glance at his pocket watch). He could scarcely imagine the starry-eyed young woman before him could have anything to do with those matters.
Meg learned enough to know she shouldn't linger too long with the Count right away – she must shroud herself in mystery, keep him wanting more.
A few more murmured replies – she neither confirmed nor denied his proposal for dinner – and she hurried off: as if her desire for him frightened her, and was chasing her away.
In truth, she rushed away because she saw a white crown of hair disappearing up the stairs near the foyer.
Robard.
She simply had to see him, talk to him.
Meg would be his surrogate daughter if he wanted – she knew, just knew he must be lonely. Here he was at his own after party, walking away alone!
She saw him disappear down the empty foyer. She followed.
She frowned as she heard murmured voices at the end of the darkened hall. She turned the corner then halted, stunned.
Robard stood alone with Carolus Fonta. The older man's hand was caressing the handsome dancer's cheek. "My love, you were incredible tonight. You took my breath away, my beast."
Fonta gave him a rakish smile. His eyes sparkled with adoration. "My prince," he replied.
Meg's mouth dropped open as the two men kissed.
Deeply.
She…she didn't know what to think. They…they…of course, she wasn't completely naïve; she'd lived long enough in the artistic world to hear of such things. But to see it!
She hid behind a pillar as they broke their kiss.
The two chuckled together lovingly, as one.
"And tell me, my prince," Fonta said in a light tone, "What did you make of our dear Miss Giry in her starring debut?"
Meg could not see his face, but she could hear the smile in Robard's voice. "Ah, enchanting! Simply enchanting!"
"She has your approval, then?"
"Of course. She passed the ultimate test: she made me jealous."
The two men laughed again and Fonta threw his strong arms around the handsome older gentleman's neck. "My love, you have nothing to fear!"
"I know, my beast. I know."
Meg could not take her eyes off them as they swayed in each other's arms silently. They looked as if they were dancing to a tune only they heard.
At last she tore herself away, sneaking off quietly.
Her heart was full as she returned to her dressing room. She stared at herself in the mirror. The pale pink gown she wore was lovely, more subtle than her usual selections in that shade. Her glorious hair was up again but with ringlets curled down about her face. She was very beautiful tonight.
She'd also just had the most successful night of her life. The audience's enthusiasm confirmed the sense of well-being and joy she felt at the end of that breathtaking performance.
Why, then, did she feel so terribly alone now?
She thought back to what she'd just witnessed. She couldn't sort her feelings. She dimly remembered her scant childhood religious teachings. The Bible said something or other about how sinful that sort of thing was.
But…how could it be?
The gentleness in their faces, their touch. No, there was no sin there.
There was…beauty.
Meg almost shook her head at herself. How could that be beautiful? What was beautiful was Belle and the Prince, after the spell was broken. That was everything she ever learned about love and beauty.
Yet why did that in retrospect feel oddly false, and what she saw between Robard and Fonta seem far more genuine?
Meg realized on some level she must have known all along conventionality was not always the desired outcome. Why else would she have decided to make Belle a little disappointed that she lost her Beast at the end?
Her thoughts flew immediately to Erik.
Tortured eyes in a massacre of a face. His voice haunted her whether it spoke in dulcet tones or was spiked with violence.
She had not sensed Erik tonight.
Her sense of loneliness was crushed further by disappointment. Sunny, optimistic Meg Giry never felt so desolate before.
Something on her vanity caught her eye. She'd been too distracted before to notice.
She picked it up with wonder, similar to what she felt when she picked up Erik's mask in the lair, months ago.
A single yellow rose.