How many times had Erik retreated to the opera's rooftop as he did this night, so full inside that not even in his lair could he contain his feelings? After all, like all living creatures, Erik craved fresh air…desperately as he tried to convince Christine that the dark closeness of the lair was all they needed….
Christine.
As he perched atop Apollo's Lyre in the moonlight, Erik realized with a dull thud in his heart that with each passing day, he was beginning to forget what she looked like.
He was too weary and heart-sick even to feel shame.
What instead buzzed and buzzed against his temples was Meg: Meg's hair, Meg's eyes, Meg's face. Meg's breathy little voice. Meg's heart.
He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply.
Since his conversation with her that day by the lake, he'd felt as though the inner turmoil in him had suddenly stilled. It was not the still of relief or sanity, but more like the unsettling quiet in the eye of a storm.
Her grave eyes haunted him more than ever.
He tried to focus his mind on the cool night air, the looming moon, the dazzling view of the city drenched in darkness, but he could not escape her: before so vibrant and girlish, now so conflicted and lost.
Nausea simmered in his stomach as the image of the foolish king floated before him, as Stephen Marcus taunted his imagination. As he contemplated what the demands of the police, her career, and her foolhardy suitors might do to her.
Meg Giry had nerves of steel, Erik knew by now. Despite her delicate appearance, she was no helpless damsel.
Why did her strength and resolution only make him more protective of her?
A movement down below caught his attention.
A small dark figure emerged from the opera house.
Erik frowned. It was close to three o'clock in the morning. Who would be entering or leaving the opera house at this time?
Gracefully he leapt to the largest gargoyle a level down to get a better look.
The figure was hurrying down the sidewalk now, head down, holding something bulky, like a package. A pageboy cap hid any features.
It looked like a young boy, but that gait...he'd know that gait anywhere...and he'd seen that outfit before, as well…
A shock of recognition, then fury.
Erik slunk quickly down to the pavement below, and began his pursuit.
The figure in the cap flipped up the jacket's collar, obscuring her face just in case a chance passerby –
But no, she was being foolish. The streets were empty at this hour.
Then why were her teeth chattering so violently as she rounded a dark corner down a fog-laden street?
It is the cold, nothing more. Monsieur Verron told me there was nothing to fear, so I can't be afraid.
Meg repeated this to herself even as her head pounded and her heart raced.
3:30 on the dot, he said. 3:30 on the dot.
The outfit she had worn that first day down to the lair was still where she'd left it on her return: behind that slat in her old bedroom closet.
She was becoming quite the master lock-pick now: first the lock to the opera's backdoor, now the one to her old flat (converted for the time being into another storage room. Still, the costume remained unmolested in its little nook).
So far, everything was going according to plan. She'd not woken up her mother leaving the house, and the opera had been empty. She'd wondered if Erik had been hovering nearby unseen as she went about her work, but she'd felt no presence.
Now she heard the clock strike three in the town square. She picked up her pace, though she was right on schedule.
Nothing to fear. Nothing to fear.
Really, when you truly looked at the thing, compared to other tasks Verron might have given her this was quite simple: climb the wall outside the Cherroux Mansion where the political prisoners were being kept under house arrest. No police would be in back, so there would be ample time to hurl a rock through a window, run back across the courtyard, and climb back over the wall before the police could identify her as anything more than a young male rabble-rouser.
As they pursued her, Verron and his men would extract the prisoners. Meg reassuringly squeezed the rolled up cloak tucked under her arm. Once she reached an alleyway, she'd take off her cap and wrap herself in the cloak, a young woman again. No one would associate her with the rock-throwing boy.
Truly, truly simple.
Wasn't it?
There was no looking back now, either way. She'd confessed and asked for the chance to redeem herself, and Verron had shown her the way. She forced herself to forget how uneasy and resigned he looked when giving her this assignment, as if this were a last resort he'd rather keep her from.
She could forget that, and assure herself that all would be well soon. Somehow.
And so there was no hesitation, no split second halt as the wall she must scale first came into view. For if she allowed herself that split second of doubt, she would be lost.
She carefully placed her bundled cloak under a tree nearby, then jumped up to the nearest branch.
Erik followed several feet behind, but with her disguised figure always in his sights. He was as quiet and swift as the night breeze.
The foolish girl, the foolish girl! What is she up to now? He was perplexed, annoyed, and above all apprehensive of her safety. Alone, at this time of night…and incognito….
He remembered her distress over Verron, her strange listlessness. He quickened his pace.
Panic tightened his throat as he saw her hop from a tree branch to a neighboring wall. Uncaring about the commotion he might make, he raced toward her, but cursed aloud as she disappeared on the other side.
He panted, taking in the surroundings.
They were outside the old Cherroux Mansion, a not-so-secret government holding for upper-class prisoners.
He suspected now a little of what the damned mouse was up to.
He examined the tall and sturdy gate, testing the lock.
Very well, mademoiselle. You will soon learn you are not the only one who can pick locks.
Meg was thankful her natural light-footedness kept her from making any noise as she landed on the grass inside the courtyard.
She shivered and paused now.
All she saw before her were yards and yards of cut green grass. The large house, dark and severe, seemed to her a mile away.
She swallowed.
Nonsense. Your imagination is running away with you. Be calm.
Yet her hands would not stop shaking.
She still somehow found a reserve of strength to carry her nimbly across the vast lawn.
She stopped at a statue of some Greek goddess or another. She peeked out from behind it at the old stately mansion just ten or so feet beyond. None of the windows were lighted, and just as Verron had told her, she saw no one else about.
One more short sprint and she would be in perfect throwing distance.
All at once everything she'd deliberately pushed out rushed in.
She? She would do such a thing? She who cowed under her mother censuring glare, who shrieked at a rat scurrying across the floor, she would…she would….
The moment passed. The spark that inflamed her the night she descended the portcullis returned.
She opened her eyes and they glowed jade-gray in the dark.
But a rock, a rock! Where to find a rock?
Ah, here. A nicely sized one at the base of the statue.
What happened next was like a dream.
She was floating above it all as she raced to a spot a good foot in front of the window.
Closing her eyes she cried out in the most masculine voice she could muster, "Long live the revolution!"
She scarcely remembered throwing the stone, though she acknowledged watching it fly out of her hand and crash resoundingly through the large bay windows.
The startling and brutal sound was enough to jolt her, bring her back to earth.
A tense moment of shocked silence.
She'd done it. She'd…she'd done it.
Mouth open like a surprised child's, she backed away before whirling around. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her. The crisp wet grass crunched beneath her feet, deafening to her in this silent night.
She heard the shrill whistle of the constable penetrate the air. She glanced behind her. Although she could detect his footsteps from the front of the house, he was not yet visible.
Smiling brazenly, she turned back around.
And cried out as a rough hand grabbed her.
"What are you doing, boy?"
She looked into the most terrifying face she'd ever seen: a tall stern policeman whose beat happened to be down this street tonight, and had heard her battle cry and noticed the gate ajar.
The moment he grabbed her, her cap fell away. Her long hair fell down her shoulders.
The man frowned. "A girl?"
The constable caught up, older than his fellow policeman, but other than his gray whiskers and slightly labored breathing showed no evidence of slowing down with age.
He looked Meg over quickly. "A girl, eh? Shameful." He squinted at her. "I know your face, mademoiselle. Been in trouble before?"
Meg could not speak. She opened her mouth once or twice, but no sound came out. Her eyes were as wide as a startled cat's as she looked from the constable to the watchman.
The watchman emitted a sound of recognition. "I know you! Yes! You're that little dancer! Little What's-her-name, Meg" –
He could say no more as a masked dark spectral figure suddenly shot out from behind a nearby tree and knocked him out with another rock.
Before the constable had chance to react, besides uttering a startled "what", Erik did the same to him.
Meg stared numbly at the two unconscious bodies lying prone on the damp grass.
An owl hooting softly in the distance was all the sound now.
She at last stared into Erik's mismatched eyes, glaring and glaring at her in the moonlight.
"I" –
"Come on," he interrupted her roughly. He heard other feet coming from the front of the house, heard someone call out the name of what must be the unconscious constable. His hand was locked like steel around hers as he sped her toward the open gate.
As they beat their hasty retreat down the Parisian streets, zig-zagging through empty alley-ways to evade possible pursuers, Meg gasped out her tale.
"It's not Monsieur Verron's fault, truly it isn't! – He – he couldn't have known some random watchman would be – and at least the prisoners – you see, it was supposed to be rather simple – you have to admit, if it wasn't for that watchman, I could have scaled the wall in enough time – by the time the constable would have reached me I'd have been dressed like a girl again – no harm done – the secret police – they would have merely thought it some radical spy" –
He said nothing to her as he dragged her zooming down narrow alleys, silent as death. She felt like a stupid child, struggling to justify herself to her schoolmaster. Wouldn't he say something?
She did not stop to wonder how he found her. It seemed natural, really. Where else would the dark angel be, if not looking after her?
Although his grip on her throughout had been tight to the point of pain, she only knew for sure the depths of his fury by how ruthlessly he kicked open the opera doors, still unlocked from Meg's earlier criminal activity.
As the opera's prima ballerina, Meg was no stranger to strenuous exercise, but even she was losing stamina as Erik continued his lightning pace down the opera's corridors. He led them through a sliding panel behind one of the walls, and down the familiar steps to his domain.
"Erik – Please" –
But he would not speak to her.
He practically threw her into the boat.
She shivered with some unnamed fear as he doggedly refused to look at her. He rowed with violent strides. She thought she heard him muttering to himself in a vicious animal tone.
She swallowed hard and stared at the black waters.
She, too, now had no words.
The moment the boat docked at the bank, he jumped out of the boat, his cloak just missing the waters. With a hasty wave of his arm the portcullis raised.
He stood still at his lair's entrance, his back to her.
"Inside," he barked.
She almost jumped at his tone, his words shattering the ice between them.
Well, at least he's speaking to me now, she thought hysterically.
Her stubborn indignation made her lift her head high as with deliberate daintiness she hopped out of the boat and passed him into the lair, refusing to spare him a glance as he did her.
But what now?
Her answer was his hand on her arm, spinning her around to face him.
The fury and pain in his pale half face was unlike any she'd ever seen.
"How could you, you cursed girl? How could you?"
There was rage in his voice, but frantic heartbreak, as well. This combination shot straight through to her heart, forcing to the forefront the guilt she'd been avoiding throughout this whole enterprise.
The sudden lump in her throat paralyzed her, and she could only stare wordlessly at him.
He made himself ignore her beseeching silent gaze and continued berating her. "Stupidity, Meg. Plain, awful stupidity. What, you think you could have it both ways? Play along with the police, help the radicals, all with impunity? Take on the role of the double agent as easily as the White and Black Swan in Tchaikovsky's ballet?"
Fury heated her cheeks. "No, of course not! I hate duplicity! It's just that"—
"Just that what?"
Meg's eyes darted around, searching for some sort of justification. "Oh, I don't know!" She wrenched herself free of Erik's grasp, massaging her temples. "Erik, I don't know. I just couldn't go on as things were. But…but I daren't break ties with the secret police, or else we'll all be carted away!" She stamped her foot, biting her lip. "Oh, it's hopeless!"
"Hopeless is right, Meg," Erik said in a low voice. "I hadn't time to silence those officers for good. They will talk, Meg. One of them recognized you."
Meg's eyes widened as she turned to face him. In the blur of their escape, she'd…she'd forgotten that until now. "Oh, god," she whispered. "What have I done?"
There was such a look of pained misery and bewilderment about her that Erik's anger faded. He tried to hold onto a bit of his stern facade, but it was no use. The girl was close to tears.
And so he reached out a gentle gloved hand to stroke her cheek…her little cheek….
His voice was soft, grave. "Whatever comes, little Meg, you…you will not be alone." He took a swift breath. "I will not desert you."
She gazed at him solemnly. He could not read her.
But he recognized with a sort of awe the slow resolve that entered her expression, the stony set of her jaw, the way her eyes narrowed.
Composure had returned to her. With it, a sense of purpose, a clear-headedness.
"We must leave Paris," she announced. "And Verron will help us."
At that name, Erik was about to protest, but Meg stopped him. "You know it is the only way now."
Erik studied her closely. Then he merely closed his eyes and nodded, once.
Paris. Leaving Paris.
They both let the gravity of the situation sink in. Leaving Paris...
She sighed and looked down at her boots, rubbing her arms. The resolve was still there as she lifted her head again. "Take me home, Erik. We'll fetch Mother and then we'll hurry to where I was going to meet Verron tonight, outside that tavern. We have to hurry."
So saying, she turned on her heel. Like the proud but beaten war general, she started heading out the lair with sure steps.
However, when they reached the boat, she turned around, and he could not breathe at her soft look.
Her hand light on his . "I…I never thanked you, Erik. For saving my life."
Those large eyes encompassing him, she stood on her toes and placed her slender arms around his neck, embracing him. "Merci," she whispered into the crook of his neck.
After a few still warm moments she released him and started turning around to the boat.
But he clutched her wrist and spun her around to him again.
She had only the briefest glance at his face, the briefest chance to recognize the fear he'd felt for her safety, his relief that she was here in front of him unharmed, the joy, the anger, the desire – before he crushed her lips to his.
Deep tremors ran through Meg's body. The pressure of their kiss knocked his mask askew so that the entire weight of his full distorted lips were on her, tasting her, claiming her, melding into her flesh.
She could scarcely think, scarcely breathe. All that existed were his cool lips and hot breath, the intensity of flesh on flesh.
She whimpered sleepily deep in her throat.
Then just as suddenly as the kiss began, he pushed himself away.
There was terror in his wide brown eye, the blue hidden in the shadows.
He exhaled heavily, and she could feel his hot breath on her as it had been just moments before….
"Forget it," he ordered in a strained voice. "Forget it, Meg."
"I" –
"We shall never speak of it again."
He trembled but for a moment, a broken, terrified shell of a man.
He swept past her onto the boat. He was as still as a statue of a gondolier from where he stood at the head of the boat, oar in hand.
He stared into the distance with the shocked expression of one who'd almost stepped off a cliff to his death.
Overwhelmed by him, by the night's events, Meg numbly complied and stepped into the boat.
What could they possibly say to one another?
And so it was another silent journey down the lake, and then on to the Giry house.
"Mother…"
Madame Giry was dreaming Meg was a child again, tugging at her mother's skirt to show off her new rag doll.
"Mother…."
A soft hand on her shoulder.
Giry's eyes flew open.
She squinted into the darkness. "Meg?"
The girl was standing in the shadows just above her. Giry couldn't make out her face.
"Mother, I have something to tell you…."