Two aging sailors, friends for thirty years, made their way down the Port of Calais laughing and cussing as dawn broke. Despite the early hour, both Maurice and Robert could tell it would be a bright day.
They walked past the east end of the pier toward the west, the two lugging paint cans for a new sailboat Maurice had bought with some of his savings.
Far in a dark corner near the dock's steps stood three passengers awaiting their ship: one man, two women.
The man was tall and lean, his face waxy and pale from what the two stooped mariners could see over the man's upturned collar. They couldn't make out the features of the slender stately woman who stood to his left, as her face was covered in a thick veil. Robert thought he spied mild streaks of gray in her raven hair beneath its hat, however.
The young lady who stood between them was very pretty, although a little short for Maurice's tastes – Maurice who still dreamed of the tall sleepy-eyed saloon singer he'd seen only once twenty-five years ago.
This girl on the dock had black hair like her companion, the mane heavy and silken. The color provided a striking contrast to her pale face and large green-gray eyes.
The look in those eyes was both wild and reserved, alive and dead.
Maurice whispered something to Robert that made his companion laugh drily. Both men shook their heads as they passed the group. Soon they were nearing the west side of the port, and the trio of strangers were soon forgotten.
Meg let out a breath as the men disappeared down the pier. They hadn't been recognized.
She resisted the urge to scratch her scalp her scalp from where the wig fit too tightly.
Erik watched her with well-concealed wonder. It was a shock, of course, to see her with such strikingly different hair, but really it only heightened what truly caught his attention now.
A growing steeliness in her eyes.
They hadn't spoken of…
He shuddered and looked away.
Of all the emotions that kiss provoked, guilt was the one engulfing him.
He'd forced his malformed lips on hers. Christine, brave Christine had needed to muster up all her courage to kiss him, but it had been her own action under her own power – and here he'd thrust his affections on Meg, without even her consent.
His self-contempt was choking him.
He ignored the memory of her soft lips slowly returning his pressure, of the dreamy sounds she'd made. He adamantly insisted to himself he imagined such acquiescence. Anything else was implausible to him. Implausible.
He believed himself still in shock. How else could he have been so detached through the subsequent planning, the fleeing? He floated above it all as though in a far-off dream: waiting outside the Giry home for Meg to collect her mother, staring into the benumbed black eyes of Madame Giry as she stoically joined them, the meeting with Verron and the others, the preparations, the disguises. All passed by in a surreal blur.
Now that the whirl of activity was for the moment stilled, and they stood waiting in the crisp morning air for the cargo ship that was to steal them away, he felt life slowly return to him. With it, a renewed ache.
The sun glinted off the long expanse of sea dazzlingly. Erik could not remember how long it had been since last he'd stood so long in the waking sunlight. He felt almost young again, could feel himself slowly adjust to the morning air.
He glanced again at Meg. The black hair was so jarring…
What was she thinking, what was she feeling?
In truth, there was far too much pressing on Meg for her to categorize her feelings clearly. The pang of anticipated homesickness, fear about her mother's unemotional acceptance of the inevitable, the danger that at any moment the police might track them down, made her so full to the brim that she could only stand staring across the waves. Waiting.
She did spare Erik a quick glance, at just the moment his probing eyes turned from hers.
And she felt her cheeks heat and her heart pound.
The kiss….
Yes, the kiss.
What…what to make of that?
In all Meg's fantasies growing up, of taking the stage by storm, traveling, and starring in her own adventures, romance seldom entered the picture. More often than not, she envisioned herself the fashionable spinster. On the rare occasion when she did consider a romantic future, any figure she could conjure was vague and hazy, just some shadow of a worthy match her mother would approve of.
The Phantom of the Opera was once a vague shadow hovering over her childhood, but Erik, the man? He was the opposite: real, vital, and thrillingly alive.
And he had kissed her.
On the one hand, the girlish and giddy part of her triumphed that such a mighty and unusual force should in a fit of passion kiss her, her, little Meg; on the other, she was quite overwhelmed by all the implications.
Not solely because of what it said about Erik's feelings, but also what it revealed about hers.
She'd have been a fool not to recognize how drawn she was to him, how strangely connected she felt to his presence. Yet some sturdy wall of denial prevented her from fully recognizing him as someone she could…feel that way about.
Had she indeed felt that way all this time? Growing up, she often dwelled on the Phantom, and now that she examined her thoughts, she realized he always cut a dashing figure in her childish imaginings.
But once she finally met the man behind the mask? Once she cared for him, helped him, and received his help in return? What did he become to her then?
He became…familiar, exasperating. Antagonizing, helpful. Aloof, kind. Human.
Shouldn't such familiarity shatter the illusion, and any lingering schoolgirl fancy?
Quite plainly she saw that if anything, while the illusions had indeed vanished, in their place was now overwhelming affection, warmth. Trust.
Emotions far stronger than before.
She watched him now, watched him scan the horizon, his brown eye catching the light. And she felt something inside her heart bloom.
Perhaps…perhaps abroad…we might….
She jumped as her mother's gloved hand suddenly seized her wrist. "Marcus," Madame Giry whispered tensely.
Meg couldn't see her mother's eyes through the thick veil she wore, but she saw her face turned over her shoulder.
Heart dropping, Meg turned and saw Stephen Marcus descend the pier, grave and pale.
Caught. We are caught.
Her knees shook and she willed herself not to collapse.
Some instinct made her shoot her hand out, blocking Erik from advancing. She felt in his coiled stance the beginnings of violence. "What are you doing?" Erik growled.
She simply shook her head. It would be wrong to hurt Marcus for her mistakes.
As Marcus advanced, Meg grew confused. Why was he alone? Why did he carry no weapon? Why did he wear that wry half-smile, his eyes so sad?
He was standing in front of her now. His magnetic blue-green eyes seemed to soak her in, memorize her.
He bowed his head. "Mademoiselle," he murmured, just the barest hint of humor in his voice.
Erik began hissing some threat, reaching inside his cloak, but Meg interrupted him. "How did you find us," she asked in a reedy voice.
Marcus chuckled. "That café you met Verron in front of the night before last. The one he hid you in until disguises could be found. Did you truly think I had no sources inside, listening? I know. I know."
There was no humor, no contempt in his expression now.
Neither she, Erik, nor her mother spoke. There was something about the officer that hushed them.
At last he reached one hand out, his finger just touching her cheek in a light caress. Meg's heart pounded again. She did not notice Erik stiffen and clench his fist beside her.
With a sad amused sound, Stephen lifted a few strands of her black wig. He inwardly rejoiced at the sight of the faint golden-red locks beneath.
He knew it was likely the last time he'd ever see them.
He finally dropped his hand and spoke. "I will have to tell the police what I know, or I will lose my job."
A hope Meg hadn't realized she'd foolishly been nurturing plummeted and shattered. She closed her eyes.
Then he spoke again. "I shall tell them I learned you've fled to Italy."
Her eyes flew open, wildly scanning his face. Did he really think…?
He laughed gently at her look. "Believe it or not, this will not be the first lie I've told." Taking her small hands in his – covering them, pressing them – he continued, "But it will be the first lie I've told for a truly good reason."
Meg could say nothing in reply. The tender, genuine look those of eyes of hers gave him was more thanks than he ever could ask for, however.
She would never fall in love with him. She would never marry him. Their time together was over.
Quite quickly he kissed her softly on the lips, not daring to linger. "Goodbye, mademoiselle. Meg."
"Goodbye, monsieur," she choked out through tears suddenly filling her throat. "Stephen."
As he pulled away from her, she called out, "Wait!"
He turned around, cocking an eyebrow.
She flew into his arms, hugging him tightly around his neck. "Bless you. Bless you."
The ever composed Stephen Marcus was at a loss. No woman – not even his mother – had ever touched him this way: as a friend...as a friend who wanted nothing more than to show how much she cared.
He trembled.
Finally a great affectionate burst in his heart made him hold her to him tightly, wishing desperately it was her own bright curls he buried his nose in.
When she finally pulled back, his shirt front was drenched from her tears.
She quickly wiped them away from her cheeks and then tentatively placed an envelope in his hand. "I know it's wretched to ask another favor of you, but since I don't know when I'll next have the chance to mail this, if you could please go to the opera house and deliver it to one of my friends…Cecile Segal, Justine Laurent, someone…."
The sincere shine in her eyes pierced him. He was incapable of denying her anything.
"Of course," he whispered.
They held each other's hand for several silent moments, never once looking away from the other's eyes.
At last he pressed her hand once more, then released her. He retraced his steps back up the pier.
He never looked back once.
But Meg stood staring after him, not realizing how she tortured the man beside her.
Yet neither Erik nor Meg had time to dwell, for Madame Giry announced, "Look!"
They turned around and watched the cargo ship approach.
As they waited for the large vessel to dock, Meg slipped her hand into her mother's.
When she told Madame Giry everything that night, Meg despaired that with each word the light in her mother's face died a little bit more. She'd not scolded Meg, not raised her voice once. With infinite weariness she instead mechanically dressed and gave directions to pack sparsely, her eyes dry and empty.
This lifelessness frightened Meg more than anything else that hectic night.
Meg watched the veiled form of her mother anxiously now. She ignored the clatter of ladders and sailors rushing to and fro.
And she felt like crying anew, this time with relief and joy, as one of Madame Giry's fingers brushed soothingly across her daughter's hand.
It was with renewed hope in her bright eyes that Meg turned to the tall bearded mariner with the dark blue cap approaching them. Verron's description of their contact was quite accurate. The man tipped said cap and smiled through said beard. "Mademoiselle Giry and friends, I presume?" He asked in a low voice. Upon receiving Meg's nod and curtsey, his toothy smile widened. "Well, my friends? Are you ready to sail for America?"
Justine whistled softly to herself as she lazily made her way down the corridor. It was very late in the evening, but the soprano had trouble sleeping lately. Her burgeoning fame coupled with her increased workload made her vaguely anxious, and so she made it a habit to calm herself after each performance with a slow saunter down the darkened hallways of the opera house.
It was nice to shut out the tumult, the crowds. Just for a little while.
And so she was a bit nonplussed to come across a well-dressed man with the face of a storybook pirate ambling toward her, darting quick peeks into each open door he passed.
His arresting eyes fell on her and his eyebrows raised in recognition. He advanced toward her purposefully.
"Mademoiselle Laurent, is it?" His voice was clipped, but she detected a note of melancholy underneath.
"Yes?" She replied uneasily.
He held out an envelope. "From Miss Giry." The melancholy was deep and rich in his voice now, all officious crispness gone.
Puzzled by the softness in his morose gaze, she wordlessly accepted the missive.
Marcus knew he should move away and give the girl time to read in private. However, knowing that slip of paper held perhaps the last words he'd ever hear from Meg – god, but just her name shot an arrow straight to his heart – he couldn't find it in him to turn away. He must know –
"What does she say?" He couldn't help asking once he saw from her face that Justine had finished.
She was mystified. Normally protective of her privacy and the privacy of her loved ones, particularly in front of strangers, she was so taken aback that without thinking she read aloud. "'To all my treasured friends at the opera house: do not think I have abandoned you willingly. Circumstances beyond my control – well, not quite beyond my control, but it's a long story – have forced me to leave. Please take heart and hope we will all see each other again. If any officers ask, feel free to show them this so you won't get in any trouble. I'll be thinking of you always, every one of you. Love forever, Meg'…."
The letter fell to Justine's side. Her penetrating eyes met Marcus's. "What does it mean?"
Stephen knew she was well-renown for her voice, but he was still vaguely unsettled by the unusual depth of feeling this Justine Laurent was able to convey with just one question. The way the dim light played off her dark silver eyes reminded him of a black cat staring you down in the dead of night.
Still, he could not risk confiding in her, even knowing how close she'd been to Meg. "I'm afraid I cannot illuminate. I'm simply a casual acquaintance of hers who happened to call on her on her way to the docks, and so she entrusted me with this letter."
"I see," Justine murmured, reading the note again. "Hm."
Stephen was touched by her casual front, belied by the subtle look of heartbreak on her face.
He recognized the small sound of sad mirth she made, as he found himself making that sound quite a lot now that Meg was in exile.
"You know, it's odd," Justine said, still glancing at the letter. She spoke as if to herself. "I never knew how much I treasured that funny girl until finding out so suddenly I might never see her again." She gave a shuddering sigh that had the beginning of tears in it.
Her penetrating cat gaze was back on Marcus. "Do you know what I mean?"
Marcus could not speak for a long moment. Clearing his throat, he at last croaked out, "yes."
The look in her eyes deepened, and Stephen felt as if his soul was being stripped bare. "Oh," her voice was very soft. "You love her?"
There was nothing insinuating or teasing in her question. She was straightforward, kind.
And so Stephen Marcus, a man since childhood who'd learned to conceal his emotions from everyone he knew, said simply, "Yes."
She stayed silent, apparently turning his words over in her mind, her expression opaque.
Then she smiled. Her small grin turned her strange sweet face into something quite charming. "Life can be a real ass sometimes, can't it?"
Something about the profanity in that melodious voice tickled the depressed agent so much that he chuckled so hard and so deeply it verged on hysteria.
What helped was her laughter, joining his.
They made their introductions. They smiled at each other, laughed again.
They each expressed the hope they'd see the other again.
She at last bid him good night, and Marcus watched Justine Laurent move slowly away.
And as he watched her disappear down the hall, he realized dimly that for the moment he did not think of Meg.