Meg pinched her cheeks in front of her vanity mirror, still clinging to the popular school-girl fancy that doing so gives one's cheeks the rosy kick that sometimes not even rouge can accomplish. She was dressed in a pink gown with cherry red trimming, with rubies in the same shape adorning her ears.
She looked over herself dispassionately. Pretty, she thought. But she needed to swallow the vaguely annoyed look on her face.
Here she was again, in the same faux-seductive position as before. When she joined the secret police, she envisioned herself scaling rooftops, hiding in train compartments, picking locks to safes. In other words, activities that had nothing at all do with her being a pretty young dancer in the Opera Populaire.
Yet here she was.
"His name is Hermes Verron," Darius had told the Girys and Erik in the office. "He's a socialist so liberal that even his fellow members of the French Workers' Party condemn him as too much of a radical."
Meg glanced at the photo Cedric placed on the table. She saw a fat fellow with a bushy beard and an amiable glint in his eye – a bit like pictures she'd seen of the aging Victor Hugo.
Marcus laughed. "Just our luck that the most radical socialist in Paris has one bourgeois failing: his love of the opera."
"Yes, that's where I've seen him!" Meg squinted her eyes, looking closely. "I believe I've seen him at gala parties and the like before."
"What's he done?" Madame Giry asked in a hollow voice from where she lingered close behind Meg. Erik, as usual, stood aloof and stony wrapped in his cloak in back.
"In a word: radicalism," Marcus shrugged.
As a matter of course, David stepped in to elaborate on Stephen Marcus's flippancy. "More specifically, Madame, he's been organizing talks and rallies amongst the working classes. Speaking against the virtues of the Third Republic and the like. He's a very persuasive man. Naturally, our government is displeased. Verron is currently calling for the release of certain radical political prisoners, and parliament fears a city-wide revolt."
Madame Giry snickered nastily. "What, and you see my daughter seducing his political fervor right out of him?" Her eyes blazed.
For once, Marcus offered no sarcastic rejoinder. Erik noted the drawn down corner of his mouth, the clear consternation in his brow.
For a moment their eyes met, and each recognized the flash of possessive worry in the other's face.
Darius shrugged in a rare moment of uncertainty. "It is difficult to say, Anahid. At present, we at least desire Miss Giry to make his friendship. Monsieur Verron is a loquacious man under any circumstance, and has not been bashful in praising Miss Giry's performances."
Meg fiddled awkwardly with her gloves. It seemed wrong, really, to toy with and deceive an admirer – but then again, that's just what she did with the Count, so it couldn't be too wrong.
She cleared her throat. "I'll do what I can," she said uneasily.
"Good," Darius replied in a clipped but not unkind voice. "First, initiate contact at the charity ball next week."
"The charity ball?" Meg asked surprised. "But…foreign royals will be there! The king and queen of S -! The king of B -! A couple princes, a princess. Some Russian nobles, too, I think." Andre and Firmin were in an ecstasy of triumph ever since the Opera was accepted as venue for the event. So many royals in their opera house...this was more than the former scrap dealers ever dreamed of, particularly after what the opera house endured in the past few years. Hardly anyone within the opera's walls spoke of anything else in the weeks leading up to the event.
"What would a radical be doing there?"
"Being radical," Marcus said, and this time there was no flippancy to check. "Our sources tell us he's forged an invitation to gain admittance. He will undoubtedly hand out fliers and study the debauched royalist ways to better describe them to his followers." He gave Meg one of his cocky smiles. "Should be loads of fun for you to observe as well."
And so yes, here she was.
Meg smoothed her skirt in her dressing room one last time and then left for the ballroom.
It was a dazzling affair. Although it was not yet springtime, cherry blossoms and roses lined the staircase. Meg adored the spring, and would have loved nothing more than to run to each bunch of flowers and learn precisely their name and origin, but for the task at hand.
She started and squeaked when trumpets sounded, announcing this prince's entrance or that countess's. Meg stared starry-eyed at each royal that swept into the opera house – her home.
What a spectacle!
High above her she caught a flash of cape disappearing behind the ballroom's chandelier.
Her heart pounded warmly in relief.
Erik was nearby.
With that knowledge came that strange small ache she felt since that day in the lair when he showed her his new mask. They had not talked privately since. Still, at odd times during rehearsal or performances she could feel his presence unmistakably in the air around her. She'd glance hopefully at Box Five, but never saw anyone within.
She didn't know what to do or say. She was unused to feeling this way: as if she was guilty of some dreadful faux-paux. However, she was also unwilling to budge on her honest reaction.
She was sick of him hiding, of reinventing himself, she realized. She would not condone it.
Not even for him.
Steeling her strength, she glanced around the crowded ballroom, striving to look nonchalant as she scanned the room.
She caught sight of a familiar pair of blue-green eyes over another false mustache.
Stephen Marcus was the waiter once again, serving drinks to the various unthinking nobles lined against the wall. He nudged his head in the direction of the doorway.
Her eyes met Hermes Verron's. He stood unassuming yet watchful, and his face lit up happily when he recognized her eyes were on him.
She saw him shift in preparation to approach her. Meg swallowed her smile, pleased he was doing most of her work for her so far.
Then an obsequious cough to her right and a hand on her arm broke the moment.
Jolted, she turned around to face a tall, blade-thin man dressed as some sort of dignitary with medals all up and down his suit. He bowed in a tired bored manner. "Mlle. Giry, I am Secretary Mando, personal attendant to my most gracious King of B – . As you know, he is present tonight and would very much like the chance to make your acquaintance."
Meg was dumbstruck. "Um" –
But it was too late.
A hush ran through the crowd as they parted in bemusement. There marching toward the now furiously blushing Meg were two more similarly adorned attendants and in the middle a tall, bald older man with a gray wiry beard tangled down his chest. He was dressed immaculately in a bright red tunic also covered in medals, his plumed helmet tucked into his arm.
Here was the unofficially deposed King of B -.
When he reached her, he clicked his heels together formally and inclined his head. Meg automatically curtseyed.
She was meeting a king. Meg Giry, the ballet rat, was meeting a king.
When he lifted his head, she saw not the dignified countenance one associates with royalty, but the pink cheeks and glazed excited eyes of a child indulging in too much candy.
He shook her hand so violently she feared it would fall off. "Mam'selle, mam'selle! Such a pleasure, such a pleasure. I am an ardent fan of yours, truly." Another click of his heels, another incline of his head.
Meg was lost for words. Of all the emotions that might have claimed her at meeting someone at the very pinnacle of the social order, annoyance was the most prominent.
The King of B – was well known for his lecherous peccadillos. He'd shamed his queen and his people so dreadfully by his latest mistress, a fifteen-year-old prostitute from Germany, that parliament had essentially run him out of his own country. He tearfully left behind his little Bertha in her fashionable little mansion and decided to move on with the pretty girls Paris had to offer.
The moment he saw Meg onstage he audibly gasped.
He at last released her hand. The words tumbled out of his pink wet mouth with toddler-like frankness. "You are the prettiest girl I've met in Paris! I'm already dying of love for you! Tell me, little dear, how you'd like to live in a castle one day, eh? I could arrange it. You'd never need have another care in the world. You can have a pony, too! Little girls like you love ponies, yes? Oh, I'd make you so happy and your happiness would make me happy!" He absently dabbed away some of his own spit from his wild beard with a handkerchief. He smile only widened and she saw his grotesquely small teeth gleam like tiny pearls. "What do you say, eh? Sweetheart? Why not join me after all this on a little carriage ride? I have a box of chocolates waiting for me that I'm sure you'd enjoy."
After dispensing his romantic monologue he leaned back happily, satisfied. The preliminaries were done with. All that waited now was her inevitable compliance.
Meg could not remember the last time she was so taken aback. There was something mortifyingly candid and guileless about the old pink king. The insinuating subtlety of the Count's innuendoes were completely missing here; this tall gray-pink mountain of a monarch had never any need of it. Until his exile, he'd never been said no to, never been seriously censured. Every one of his whims was indulged from babyhood up until his country could take no more of him. Therefore, he'd never outgrown the spoiled contented state of his childhood.
And now here he was waiting for Meg's answer. For the young dancer who'd never met a royal before, this was all far too much at once. She could sense the eyes of the crowd on her, noble and commoner alike, taking in the lewd king and the girl he was so obviously propositioning.
She saw Stephen watch on helplessly.
The pressing awkwardness of the situation turned to rage inside her. A hot retort bubbled to her lips when a voice rich with friendliness burst in on her.
"Ah! Miss Giry!" Hermes Verron was suddenly there between her and the king. He pumped her hand in his just as enthusiastically as the king had, but with more gentle regard. There was sympathy and understanding in his twinkling eyes. "There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you! Your mother demands your attention at once. There seems to be an emergency in the ballet chorus and she requires your input."
With crisp officiousness, he turned and bowed casually to the befuddled king. "Apologies, Your Majesty. Apologies."
The king opened his mouth once or twice like a drowning fish as his attendants glared and surprised murmurs arose from the crowd. However, it made no difference to Monsieur Verron. He quickly and expertly steered Meg away, and eventually the hobnobbing re-commenced as the king huffed helplessly behind them.
Once out of sight of the king and his men, Monsieur Verron dropped her hand and said with respectful gentleness, "I hope I was not too imprudent? From what I could gather, you needed a getaway." He winked kindly.
Meg's face broke into a true smile. "No, monsieur, you were very, very prudent. Thank you so much." She giggled. "Lord, did you see his face? I hope that doesn't spell ill for you, monsieur."
He waved the issue away. "Bah! I am used to making myself a nuisance to men such as him. Besides, he has no idea who I am really; in the morning, your managers will be told to dismiss that corpulent fellow who obviously is some sort of secretary to you. They will agree to profusely and apologize to the king. Then privately they will look befuddled to the other, wondering who on earth the king was referring to. Either way, your comfort is more important right now, mademoiselle."
She studied him sharply, trying to root out any falsehood. All she could see was forthright sympathy and good humor.
He was just as fat as his picture promised, and twice as jolly. His suit was rather ill-fitting. This would have reminded her sadly of Piangi, were it not for the fact that unlike the late tenor, there was nothing of the glamorized dandy to the plain outfit.
He finished off a strawberry scone and addressed her again. "Part of why I took it upon myself to extract you was that it seemed to me before the esteemed king foisted his attentions on you that you were coming my way. Is that so?"
"My, but you are astute, Monsieur Verron!"
"Ah! So I was correct! You do know me! I am honored mademoiselle. I of course know you, as you are an absolute delight to watch onstage."
She thanked him genuinely. She knew deep down she should stay objective, but there was something so congenially frank and sincere about this unconventional figure. She wasn't really used to people like this in her theatrical upbringing.
"Are you interested in politics," He asked without condescension. His look was so politely and earnestly inquiring that it brought back her awkward feelings of guilt.
Shifting a bit, then schooling her features into their most actorly form, she replied, "I'm trying to be. I'm rather an uneducated ninny. I want to learn more."
She beat herself fiercely with her fan, wondering why her cheeks burned after saying so.
His eyes lit up once more and he was reaching inside his bulky coat pocket. He pulled out a long green pamphlet.
He pushed it into her hands. "Here. A list of fine bullet points about the plight of the poor and disenfranchised and what you can do to help them. I am sure your schedule keeps you busy most nights, mademoiselle, but this Tuesday evening at nine o'clock I am holding a rally down at the docks. Well, rally is a bit of an exaggeration. More like a lecture with guest speakers, and we'll be fielding questions about laborer rights and the like. Do you think you could come?"
His light brown eyes were eager not with lust, not with flattery, but with fervor for the plain green pamphlet in her hands and for her reaction.
She swallowed drily. She did not dance Tuesday.
She stared at the pamphlet in her hand and wondered why she felt so curious holding it.
"Yes," she replied.
When finally all the dancing and smiling and curtseying was done, Meg was bone tired. Usually parties served to invigorate her; unlike Christine, who needed time to withdraw into herself after gatherings, Meg only felt more alive after. Many were the times after a big show or fete when Meg would enthusiastically babble on to Christine late into the night as her friend fell asleep on the Giry floor.
Tonight was different.
As she pulled off her shawl in her bedroom, she realized she didn't feel tired in a strictly physical sense. She looked back down at the pamphlet she still had clutched in her hand. She saw Hermes Verron's kind and enthusiastic face, honestly pleased at her interest.
Meg realized shocked that she was tired of herself, of the lies she was forced to tell.
She glanced at herself in the mirror. Beneath the light powder she wore she saw faint blue circles under her eyes.
She thought being a spy would feel…different. Like she was the heroine, like she was righting wrongs. Not…deceitful. Well, a little deceitful, but not in a bad way. Like when she deceived the Count.
Verron was no Count.
She flipped the pages of the pamphlet absently between her fingers.
Nonsense, she scolded herself. He might be sweet, and he might mean well, but he's a threat to the government. He's stirring unrest, she dutifully repeated to herself what Cedric and Darius had said.
She straightened and stared herself evenly in the eyes. This is the right thing to do.
Isn't it?
She removed her earrings and changed into her dressing gown. If only she could be sure.
Her mother was too angry that their involvement with the police was not yet over for Meg to ask her advice. She knew she would not receive an unbiased answer.
If only, if only she could be sure.
Erik.
He was worldly and brilliant. A bit of a pain and temperamental, but…he was Erik. The smartest man she knew – and who had her best interests at heart, she was sure.
She glanced at the vase of yellow roses by her window. He'd given them to her after her return from Sweden. They were mostly wilted now.
If only she could get a sign from him.
There was a knock on her door.
Anna their part-time maid, a stocky red-faced woman in her fifties, stood there with a note. "This was left for you, ma'am."
There was no sender's name. Tied to the envelope was a single white rose.
Meg accepted the letter greedily.
In her heart she saw his eyes, his long tapered fingers, and heard that sweet heartbreaking tenor –
She opened the note.
Dearest dearest one, I'm so sorry we were interrupted! I love you I love you. I will come by the theater tomorrow with that box of chocolates I promised you! They're chocolate covered cherries which someone sweet like you will like very much I'm sure! Love and kisses!
King L – II of B –
P.S. Do you like champagne? I can get you the finest bottle from anywhere! Love love love and sleep well. I will be thinking of you every moment.
Meg groaned and collapsed face first onto her bed.