"…Anyway, I think maybe my last brise in the second act is too choppy. I've been working on making it more fluid. Sometimes my short build really is a pain! I do think I land nicely, though. Cecile is the best at flexibility. Her turns are a dream! I always thought she…."
Erik listened to Meg without really taking her in. They sat near the dance bar in the Giry flat, the girl stretching her leg across it as she chatted on blithely.
Erik sat like a cornered animal, shoulders hunched. He looked at her bright hair, glittering eyes, and small curvaceous form with as much fear as desire.
He wanted this girl, this chatting little thoughtless doll. He wanted her eyes to warm over as they gazed at him, for her cheeks to blush for him only.
Oh, God….
He'd come here ostensibly to inquire if there was further word from the police, but really, he came to see if the fire of his realization would be dimmed by seeing her again through his new perspective. Maybe he'd jumped to the conclusion of attraction too quickly, and the sight of her would fall short of his fevered images of her.
The moment she opened the door, he knew he was doomed.
For what seemed the first time, he noticed how tight the bodice of her tutu was, how the straps freely revealed her rounded shoulders, her slender neck. Her cheeks were flushed from practicing. She was a brightly colored rose of a girl.
He swallowed drily as he watched her stretch and dance.
He was quite, quite doomed. Christine….
Both started as the door banged open. Madame Giry charged in, more fury in her features than either could clearly remember.
She waved a letter in the air. "Ha! A note from our Count! He has invited you to dinner, Meg!"
Erik felt like someone had poured acid down his throat.
Meg, meanwhile, felt a cold eerie calm claim her. "Oh."
Madame Giry sneered. "'Oh', indeed." She shook her head, her face hard with affronted dignity. "No, I won't have this, Meg. I've thought it over, and I cannot allow it. You will not be put in this position."
This sparked some fury in her daughter as well. "Mother, this is my decision! I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to this. I…I think I have a plan, anyway."
"What sort of plan?" Erik asked quietly.
He lost his breath as her great green eyes met his. "A plan to put him out of our lives once and for all."
The evening was a clear warm one. The street by the Count's house was mostly empty.
Around the corner was a coach from the opera house. Inside Meg and Erik sat across from Darius and Stephen Marcus.
Meg's mother was at headquarters with Cedric Berger, hammering out a contingency plan if Meg's did not work.
Meg's heart fluttered madly in her chest, but otherwise she still felt that eerie calm. Her large eyes were pure gray in the dim street light shining through the coach's window. Her little fingers squeezed very tight the straps of her reticule.
Marcus watched the streetlight play on her curls.
Is her hair more red or blonde? Marcus mused.
He found himself in desperate need of distraction. If he thought too much of what was going on, he'd have to think about Meg Giry in the Count's clutches, and then he'd have to think about how that made him feel.
He was jealous.
Hard-bitten former street Apache Stephen Marcus was jealous of some greasy crook for romancing a little dancing chit.
Yet something about the girl's clear-eyed directness, her sweetness absolutely devoid of any flirtatious design, had burrowed its way into Stephen's tom cat heart. Her devotion to upholding her virtue and good name, both for her mother and for herself, was such a quaint contradiction to the predicament she found herself in.
He was charmed by her.
The Phantom sat next to Meg, so still and silent it was easy to forget he was alive and not a ghost after all.
Darius finished his briefing. "…And the coach will be waiting around the corner if all else fails." A kindlier gleam entered his hazel eyes which before were as professional and detached as his dry words. The young girl looked more like a trapped rabbit than a cool vixen. "Are you ready, mademoiselle?"
Meg swallowed the lump in her throat. Eyes still wide and full of terror, she said, "Yes."
Quickly now she shot out of the carriage without a backward glance to Erik or Marcus. Both men felt a frantic loss.
"Thank you, Ramon," the Count said to his butler and associate. The Count corked the champagne himself.
Ramon was ever compliant in his formal butler coat and tails, in contrast to his large, rough, lantern-jawed appearance. He bowed silently before answering the door.
The Count heard dainty footsteps stop at the doorway of the drawing room. He glanced up and then swallowed his smile of eagerness.
"You may leave for the night, Ramon." The butler bowed again and then turned to leave. Whenever the master had a rendezvous, he did not want any of the servants around.
Meg decided not to obscure the look of nervous agitation on her face. She had convinced the others that tremulous innocence was the right angle to play, and she wasn't about to shed that mask now.
So far, this was her easiest acting exercise to date. She felt as scared as she looked, but for different reasons than the Count was suspecting. She hoped to project indecision of whether or not to abandon her hard-earned virtues in the face of such an alluring and powerful man, instead of the truth: whether she could get away with fooling him and if the rest of the plan would succeed – especially before things went too far.
"My dear!" The Count exclaimed, kissing her little hand as he did after the ballet's premiere. "You are a vision!"
The hot flush of scarlet along her neck bloomed like a sunset against the pale yellow silk of her evening gown. Yellow was a maidenly color, she thought, though the gown's design possessed a flash of elegance that kept her, in Marcus's words, from appearing too puritanical in her purity.
The vast scooped neckline revealed the tops of her shoulders, and the little cupped sleeves showed off her arms. Meg was a little self-conscious about her arms in this case: like any dancer, she had quite a bit more muscle than the usual plumpness men desired in female limbs, even in her arms. However, the Count seemed more than satisfied by the tininess of her waist accomplished by the corset, the shapeliness of her neck, the fullness of her bosom and shoulders, to overlook her arms' sinew.
Her lips trembled as she looked shyly first into the Count's eyes and then at anything but. "Oh, Monsieur Count, I do not know if I should be here." Her voice was small but sweet.
Like the Count, she hid her satisfaction as his chest quite literally puffed up before her eyes. The more tormented and conflicted she was, the more inflated became his ego. "Nonsense, nonsense, my dear!" He soothed her. He never released her hand. "I am not some big bad wolf who will eat you up. I am but a poor worshiper paying homage at your feet."
So saying, he gestured to the red sofa against the windows – where the curtains were drawn. "Come, let us sit a bit while our dinner cools! I had my butler and cook prepare the entree ahead of time, so they would not distract us tonight."
Meg held her breath as he led her in, some thick haze of incense that gave her a slight headache wafting throughout the room. She let her discomfort show, knowing he would interpret it again only as more maidenly conflict.
"You have a lovely home, Count," she said as she accepted his glass of champagne.
He joined her on the sofa, crossing his leg. "Yes, rather swank, what? I've only lived here for about six months. However, a man who doesn't leave a mark no matter how long he stays somewhere is a man without any style, eh?"
Meg suppressed her shudder. How thickly coated with gel his hair was, how drenched in cologne.
She looked around the home. A large tiger skin was in the middle of the floor, face stilled in affronted agony. Various guns and animal heads filled the walls.
"You hunt, Count?"
He shrugged. "I collect."
His finger just lightly brushed one of her loose curls.
She inched just slightly away – hoping fervently that such a show of modesty would inflame him, not enrage him. "Um, and what do you do to preoccupy yourself besides collecting?"
Quite subtly the light in his good eye dimmed, hardened. She saw him fiddle with something in his vest pocket – the watch she'd seen earlier. "Oh, the usual sort of thing. Keep up with my correspondence, patronize the arts, travel…."
He eyed the watch.
Meg tilted her head, studying it. Like everything else the Count owned, this watch was ostentatious in its tasteful expensive splendor, unusually big for a pocket watch. In spite of its fine make, it didn't appear to close very easily –
She looked up at him at just the same moment he shoved the watch back into his pocket and looked at her. "But ah, enough about me, my dear! As I said, I am now but your humble servant. It is you I am so curious to know about."
He grabbed her hand and squeezed it hard, drawing it near him. He looked at her bosom, then at her eyes wide as any doe's.
How beautifully this little shy thing blushes and looks away, he thought happily.
"Me, Count? Oh, there is nothing too fascinating about me, I assure you. I am only a little dancer, monsieur!"
"Nonsense," he murmured. "You are a star, mademoiselle. You are the most fascinating of creatures." He kissed her hand again, his lips lingering.
Now, she thought. We'll begin now. She fanned herself with her hand, panting. "Oh, monsieur! I…I am terribly hot! The heat tonight! Could…could we crack the window open just a little?"
The Count knew she was trying to distract him, but again merely assigned it as one last desperate attempt to extricate herself from her true desires.
He shrugged easily. "Of course, mademoiselle. Just a bit."
He reached beneath the curtain and nudged the window open a crack, leaving the curtains drawn.
"Thank you," she said, looking down at her demure crossed hands folded in her lap.
Refusing to let those hands be, he swept one up again. Raw lust was in his voice as he at last launched fully into his own charade. "My dearest, I love you completely. I once believed falling in love at first sight was only something in stories, but now I know the truth! I am in agony, little one. I adore you madly, beyond all reason. If I can't have you, I shall run amok."
He kissed her hand once more, then, emboldened, planted one on her creamy white shoulder, sprinkled with little freckles.
Now. Pale emerald eyes full of tears, she continued fanning herself with increased violence. She leaned her head back.
The Count was too distracted studying the long extended column of her neck to notice that when she spoke, she was aiming her words out the open window. "Oh, monsieur! I can't! I just can't! I…I believe I shall faint!"
Sighing and with one delicate tear falling gracefully down her cheek, she did just that, in the Count's arms.
Oh, bother, thought the Count. I'm all for innocent reticence, but an actual swoon! That is a bit much.
Although annoyed, she was one of the most scrumptious morsels the Count had ever come across, so he hastened to the next room to fetch smelling salts.
The minute he left Meg's eyes flew open. She flipped over to the window and opened and closed it, three times.
Outside, Marcus gave the thumbs-up to Erik, who stood at the far side of the house near the gate. The Phantom disappeared around the corner.
In the cabinet of his washroom, the Count muttered irritated to himself as he sorted through the various tinctures and potions he kept for his own fastidious uses.
Just as he landed on the smelling salts, he heard a great crash of glass at the back of the house.
His blood cooled and his eyes narrowed as he leapt into action, instinct kicking in.
Meg blessed her genetics for her good ears. Standing just behind the door near the side of the room the Count exited, she could hear him race across the washroom to his study. She stood with her back against the wall, staring out the doorway. Such a rush he was in that he kept the study's door open just a crack.
Heart in her throat, Meg sucked in a preparatory breath and kicked off her shoes. Without making a sound, she hurried over. Flattening herself against the wall beside the door, she peeked in.
The Count removed the watch from his vest again. He tested it, looked inside it, and then snapped it shut. Meg squinted her eyes. The watch had a small lock, she noticed, but he failed to secure it. Meg frowned. He didn't look like he was searching in his study for any papers. He was instead looking at the walls. At last he found it: a short pistol.
Cocking the gun, he checked for bullets. Satisfied, he straightened his jacket, expression sharp.
Meg knew what that meant. She sped back to the safety of the drawing room. She heard him leave to investigate the disturbance.
Meg prayed fervently. Please, God, let Erik be safe. Don't let the Count find him or hurt him.
She tried to distract herself, pacing the room. In her mind's eye she kept seeing the Count in his study, fiddling with his watch.
The Count cursed himself for giving the servants the night off. The sound came from the kitchen near the servants' quarters, and were any of them present, they certainly would have apprehended the intruder by now.
You knew it was only a matter of time before the police or one of your enemies did something rash, you dolt, but you had to let your guard down for this girl….
Still, he did not suspect Meg. In the wake of whatever just happened, the swooning girl was temporarily forgotten.
His steps slowed once he neared the kitchen. There…there was no glass anywhere. The windows were unbroken. He twisted around, looking carefully. No intruder.
He opened the door and looked outside.
There he saw it: a shattered wine bottle on the short concrete patio.
The patio which was situated just beside the gate, the gate which separated this side of the house from the street.
Rueful fury filled him. It was clear what happened. Some drunk had had his fill of drink and carelessly hurled the bottle over the fence as he passed. Bastard.
He stood sullenly.
However…he started contemplating the matter more closely.
Some drunk just happened to throw his wine bottle over my fence on the one night there are no servants, the one night I'm distracted?
No. No, he didn't know exactly what was going on, but the story just didn't fit. While he was outside, maybe the intruder was climbing up to the top windows, or was rooting around in the cellars through the outside basement door….
The girl would have to leave, that much was clear. Damn, and he'd been so close!
And so the panic, the rush, and his own egotistical lust blinded him completely to the obvious solution: the girl Meg Giry.
He hurried back to her with a distracted apologetic smile. She sat with languid confusion on the couch, as if she'd only just come to. "My sweet, are you feeling better? Good! I do offer you my sincerest apologies, but I just received word from a business associate. It appears we will have to postpone our engagement for another night, you and I."
Meg stood slowly and her face was so soft and understanding. "Of course, my – Monsieur Count. I must go." She moved quite close to him as he helped her on with her white cloak.
Small gloved hands were tentatively yet lustfully on his chest, spreading over, into his vest. He was lost in her swirling eyes, full of shy longing. She looked like a child awakened for the first time to love and all its scintillating possibilities. "I thank you," she whispered. She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.
He shivered at the feel of her soft lips against his skin and her warm hands through his shirt. She left without another word.
So benumbed by frustrated lust and worry was he that he never gave thought to how she would get home.
Erik and Marcus made it back to the carriage. Each face held a hard anxiety, while Darius was a perfect picture of unconcern.
"What could be taking her so long?" Erik hissed, gazing out the window.
Marcus crossed his arms, glowering. "You sure the Count heard you?"
"Yes, of course I am!" Erik spat. "You heard it, after all, and you were farther away than he was."
"Perhaps we should have used a bigger bottle."
"You ass, show me a bigger bottle than that, and I'll crown you King of France!"
"Now look here" –
"Shhhh," Darius said, holding his finger up. "She comes."
They heard the tip-tap of her slippers on the pavement quickly running their way.
Simultaneously, Erik and Marcus pushed open the door just as she arrived. They helped her in.
She was panting in earnest now, out of breath.
Gone was all trace of the palpitating ingénue from the drawing room, the scared young girl from earlier this evening. She had the wild triumphant look of a jungle cat who'd caught its largest prey yet. In her rush, her hair had come out of her bun and was slipping down to her shoulders in thick curling waves.
Even Darius was a bit taken back by her fly-away beauty. It took him a moment to ask, "Well, mademoiselle? Were you successful?"
A wicked grin was his answer.
Three eyebrows raised as she revealed what she had in her hand:
A gold pocket watch.
This seemed a perfect symbol of anticlimax.
"Meg…." Erik said with a slight edge.
"In his haste he forgot to lock it," she said buoyantly.
She popped it open, then felt around the watch face. Discovering the catch, she peeled it back.
For the first time Meg saw true animation in Darius's face. "The papers!"
Folded again and again into the tiniest square imaginable was actually one paper: the Count had copied the original onto this one thin sheet, and tucked it into this large ornate eyesore.
The three men's grins matched Meg's.