Meg found there was no word she detested more than exotic. Perhaps it was the recent discovery of her Persian heritage, but the word was catching her attention more and more - such as in little fluff pieces they published about her, like the one in Secrets of the Seine she read now:
'…since our most cherished little Giry returned to Paris three months ago after her sojourn in Sweden (visiting her friend Christine Daae, whom our sources report as a new mother), the exotic beauty has quickly reclaimed the spotlight.
'Here she is at the side of another exotic, the former Cecile Jammes of the ballet corps, now Cecile Segal, at the latter's wedding.'
Meg did enjoy the picture spread of Cecile's wedding. Her friend looked like a dream in her wedding gown, fitted by none other than Mademoiselle Li.
The article quickly moved on, however, returning her to her state of unease. '…Miss Giry is well known not only for her dancing, but for her distinct fashion sense and beauty. The last in particular has won her Berlin's title of 'Miss Europe' – the young dancer's unique looks, a reported mix of Spanish or Bulgarian blood, was deemed a perfect mix of European ideals.'
"Blech," she said, flinging the paper away from her as if it were an unusually large spider. Something about that tone grated on her. European…if they only knew. How dare they talk of her like she was some sort of racing horse? She'd put up for years with others objectifying her and the rest of the ballet corps. Even her mother discussed them in terms of muscle, leg, and form with managers and directors. Now that Meg achieved independent fame, she was surprised how much it rankled her to still be discussed in such terms.
Still, 'Miss Europe' had a nice ring to it, she mused. Just as she disliked the scrutiny, she enjoyed the flattery. Although just what a 'Miss Europe' is supposed to do, I'm sure I have no idea. She contemplated it a bit then rested her head in her hands on top of her dressing room vanity, bored. Her mother said she'd be another few hours hammering out the latest details for the third act. Meg was playing the lead in Coppelia, and although she enjoyed the chance to play comedy, today's rehearsal was overtaken by technical problems, leaving the dancer nothing to do but wait.
She glanced at the clock. It ticked on monotonously. She fiddled with the white gauze covering her pink skirt for the show.
She glanced at the mirror.
She looked way.
Then she leapt to her feet and pulled at the glass.
As she made the familiar path down the dark twisting catacombs, Meg couldn't help but think about Erik's behavior since her return. He had been avoiding her, she knew it. By now he must have heard about little Gustave. Was he mad at her for hiding the baby's existence? If so, Meg herself felt put out. It was absolutely none of his business! Who was he to judge her actions?
Yet Meg could not quite convince herself it was anger she felt from him. He was more…watchful, and at the same time resistant. When she first saw him after her return, at the dinner she'd invited him to, he inclined his head with his usual courtly grace and offered her a soft, "Welcome home, mademoiselle" (that voice, that voice! It was always in her head now). There'd been no anger then. There was…relief? Contentment?
But now avoidance.
She knocked three times on the trapdoor to his lair, as was her usual custom. She waited a few moments, then smiled as she heard the returning three knocks.
She entered to find him with his back to her. His hands were clenching with some nervous anticipation at his sides.
"I am glad you came, Meg," he said in that same soft tone from the dinner.
Her breath caught in her throat. He's never used my first name before.
What were these tumbling feelings causing her heart to race, her cheeks to burn?
"I have something to show you," he continued.
"What is it?" She approached with tentative curiosity. "Why won't you turn around?"
"I've been working on something. I'd like your opinion."
He turned. Her heart plummeted.
"Erik," she said weakly.
His face.
It was….
Normal.
Well, not normal exactly. The other side of his face – the once deformed part – had an uncanny waxy quality when studied closely. At the corner of the eye and the mouth the so-called skin was pulled too taut. He looked as if he'd suffered a small stroke or seizure.
Otherwise this new visage matched the non-deformed side of his face. The once bloated part of his lips was now proportional to the other, the chalk white color of his skin pinker; the deep twisting craters gone (save for faint veiny stretchmarks where they once dwelt). His wig was in place.
His eyes, though. The ice blue one remained. It and the brown watched her now, waiting, waiting.
"Erik," she repeated. In dismay now.
He calmed the blood pumping in his veins. "Well? I adopted your idea." He gestured theatrically to his newly formed face. "A mask to make me look like anyone."
Meg remembered. She swallowed.
His tense posture, hands tight behind his back, gave away his apprehension. "Well? What do you think of it?" His voice was clipped.
She looked like a little dumb doll, all staring eyes and stillness.
"I don't like it."
He felt nothing at first. Then encroaching sorrow.
She could sense that sorrow rumbling beneath his staccato words. "Don't like it? Why? It was your idea."
She tilted her head as she always did, as she always did. "Well, it…" Tilted further. Eyes slit in contemplation.
"Well, it what?"
"It's…not you!"
He barked a laugh. "Of course not! That's the whole idea, mademoiselle!"
"Yes, but…" she struggled to find the words. "It doesn't suit you. Not the true you."
His eyes seemed to vibrate as he soaked in her reaction. Beneath the waxy mask, she could see his brow furrow in anger.
All at once he tore off the mask and hurled it at the ground. "What more do you want of me?"
Fury, frustration, and heartbreak warred in his tenor voice. The wig came off as well, and his sparse hair flew in every direction, his deformity particularly gruesome in his hysterical state.
He looked at her through this red haze of emotion. He panted.
She looked like a stunned child.
"I…" She trembled as if some wind chilled her. "I'm sorry," she whispered. She looked almost through him with her large hurting eyes.
She turned back to the trapdoor. She hopped down like a rabbit, shutting the door behind her.
All through that night Erik sat with his head covered in his hands atop his pipe organ, muffling his screams of indignation and confusion.
What was happening to him, what was happening to him?
You built the mask for her, you dolt. You thought you did it for you, so you could function in society, play the spy better. But it wasn't until you saw her face fall that you realized it was all for HER.
He growled, gripping his scant hair.
He stared at the unsettling scrap of what looked like true human skin beside him on the pipe organ. His new mask. Always he wore a mask. Always he was in a masquerade, no matter what lie he told himself.
He stared at the mask and felt ill.
He threw himself into its constructions in the weeks she'd been gone. Anything to get her out of his mind, his sleep, anything.
Stretch of the alloy here, darkening of the pigmentation there; make more malleable, malleable.
Then she returned.
And the sun seemed to shine again.
For the next few weeks he was too taken up with her return to finish his normal face. Yes, the sun had returned, and it was so bright and overwhelming he could do nothing more than ruminate on her, watch her dance, hear her trill to her friends in lighthearted gossip backstage.
Then word came to him (through eavesdropping on different gossipers) of Christine's child.
Her child.
Christine.
All the old feeling came back again in a staggering rush. That celestial vulnerable face loomed before him, brown eyes that were by turns despairing and hopeful, and again her voice, her voice.
Christine with a child. Christine as a mother.
And Erik nothing to do with it.
And still there was Meg.
Should he feel betrayed, he wondered. She'd concealed all from him. To spare him, or to spare Christine?
He felt resentment, yet when he looked upon her guileless face, he also struggled with feelings of warmth and sympathy.
Poor strong Meg, caught in a trying conundrum. Sisters in all but blood with Christine, and…associates? Friends?...with Erik.
Yes, a trying situation indeed.
This storm of feeling brought back his resolution to finish the mask. With every adjustment he made, every smoothing of the material, there beat Meg, Meg, Meg.
His fists clenched and his blood cooled when he recalled her reaction.
How dare she?
Hypocritical brat. She gave him the idea, and then –
His head shot up. The trapdoor creaked.
He hadn't realized it was morning by now.
He stood with his heart in his throat, bewildered and ecstatic she came back. Would she apologize? Would she confess that she was happy with the mask?
Would that truly please him, or would he feel a stab that in the end, she did not prefer his true face…?
He held his breath as her lantern became visible.
His shoulders slumped when Anahid and Anahid alone entered.
Her eyes flickered momentarily taking in his unmasked state, but soon her own stoic mask was back on again.
However, he identified tense fire burning her blood in the tight way she held herself in.
She arched an eyebrow. "It appears our services are needed again," was all she said. The bitterness in her tone left him no doubt as to her meaning.
And his own heart sank even lower.
A/N: Editing to add that I'm taking dancer Cleo de Merode as part of my inspiration for Meg's life and career at this point. She was in fact voted Miss Europe by a Berlin magazine.