For the first day and a half of the voyage, the three fugitives stayed confined to a somewhat comfortable cabin that had once been the ship's cargo hold but had since been converted into a cabin for sailors taking breaks from the boiler room. Once the danger of the French police overtaking the ship had passed, their bearded guide led the three under nightfall to a plush cabin above deck – having forged their passage tickets with false names.
They spent the rest of the voyage incognito. Overall it was a calm passage, the water only choppy the third and fourth days. The rest of the time the strange team slowly paced the deck, lost in their own thoughts. They watched the Atlantic Ocean roll on all around them.
Erik was largely silent throughout, immersed in observing the Giry women. While both ladies remained subdued, he was puzzled that they spoke to each other as if nothing were amiss – commenting on the fine weather, the children scurrying across the deck, the menu for dinner. Never did they mention their own predicament – possibly wisely, as passersby might have sharp hearing.
Yet Erik only relaxed once he saw life slowly return to Meg's features, her eyes brighten and her cheeks grow pink in the sunlight glinting off the waves. Having never before been on board a ship, Meg's natural curiosity and sense of adventure soon pushed out the darkness weighting down her soul. Erik watched as her eyes jumped over the waves ahead of them, as she glanced up toward the crow's nest, giggled in surprise on the rare occasion the foghorn blew.
During one such episode, as Meg leaned over the railing and laughed in delight as a school of porpoises loped about below, Erik made eye contact with her mother.
They both saw in the other relief. It was as if with each laugh of Meg's the breaths they'd been holding in were let out, little by little.
If anything, the liveliness in Meg only increased once they reached shore. She felt anxious, yes; New York was mayhem, was multiple languages in multiple accents shouting ceaselessly, was large, imposing buildings all thrown together. She felt lost and exhilarated.
She loved the city right away.
Once she was able to think rationally again, after a tense hour waiting through customs, she turned with a brilliant smile to Erik and her mother. She had in her hand the little slip of paper with the address of their hotel. "Are you ready?"
She flung her wig off and Erik lost his breath as her strawberry blonde waves of hair fell down her shoulders as she laughed and laughed.
Now that they had made it to America undetected, where the police could not reach them without exposing their secret offices, the Giry women no longer worried about obscuring their identities. Word soon traveled that seemingly out of nowhere, Paris's famous dancer Meg Giry was now in New York, looking for work.
The newspapers in both countries had their stories ready: shamed by her relationship with the king of B - , Meg fled to save her reputation, possibly incognito aboard ship to evade the press.
Within a week of these stories, Meg received a hastily written note from the king along with a bouquet of a dozen pink roses. He begged her forgiveness for placing her in such a compromising position. Meg merely snorted, appalled he should be so contrite about something so foolish when he turned his back on the suffering in Africa he had caused.
"If only he knew," Meg said bitterly to her mother. She crumpled the note in her hand and threw it away, along with the heap of roses.
Luckily for Meg, such scandalous mystery surrounding her name aroused curiosity in New York citizens, not disgust – quite similar to Paris's welcome of La Carlotta years back. Thus it was no surprise when one evening about a month into their stay, Henry Abbey and Maurice Grau paid a visit to their suite at the St. Nicholas Hotel.
The Metropolitan Opera House was in its fifth year of life. The Academy of Music, the original New York standby patronized by the old set of the aristocracy, made it clear to the growing crowd of tycoons, businessmen, and tradesmen in general that they and their new money were most unwelcome in the Academy's hallowed halls.
And so in retaliation, The Met was born, where all classes of life could mix and meet against the backdrop of Grand Theater, provided they had the money. Within a few years, there were Met theaters all over the Northeastern part of the country, most notably in Philadelphia. Their premiere had been a smashing success, and since then the theater flourished into its own Golden Age.
For once both Abbey and Grau, the theater's managers, were equally excited to meet a new artist. Usually Grau had solely the artistic merits of the individual in mind, while Abbey had the flair and magnetism in mind – in other words, who would attract the larger crowd. Often these two viewpoints clashed, and Grau and Abbey took turns convincing the other. From what they'd heard, however, Miss Giry promised to possess both magnetism and talent.
They were allowed into her apartment by a most unusual butler of sorts: a tall, lean man with a pale face that might have been handsome except the poor fellow looked to have suffered some sort of mild stroke: half of his face was oddly immobile and odd bumps that the two men could only assume were enlarged veins seemed to almost rise through the waxy skin.
What they found most arresting and unsettling were his mismatched eyes: one dark brown and somber in its beautiful depth, the other like some ethereal cat's – pale blue with a black, diamond-shaped slit for the pupil.
"Messrs. Abbey and Grau?" He asked. Grau gasped. That voice! Only the barest hint of a French accent, but the angelic lilt, the smooth tenor tones!
Abbey, less attentive as he tried seeing over the tall man's broad shoulder, merely replied, "Ah, yes, my good man. Here to see La Divine Giry." His teeth appeared in a straight smile through his dark drooping mustache.
Silently and slowly, the strange figure bowed. "I am Eric Dequenne, combination manservant and business consultant to Madame and Mademoiselle Giry. If you will follow me to the parlor."
Maurice scratched his beard as he and Abbey followed. "Odd creature," Grau whispered to Abbey. "Manservant and business consultant? What a job description!"
Abbey chuckled softly. "Play our cards right, and we'll be all that and more for Miss Giry!"
The girl and her mother were sitting on the soft white couch in the suite's parlor, their backs to the large window that nicely displayed New York's most attractive structures. The man Eric seemed to sink into the background, standing at attention at Meg's left.
Meg was busy chatting with her mother and stirring honey into her tea when her bright eyes lifted to theirs.
"Ah, hello!" She chirped in an accent that contrasted sharply to Monsieur Dequenne in its strong, blatant Parisian tones. She hopped up, extending one delicate but energetic hand for each man to shake. "Most wonderful you to come are, yes, most wonderful!" Her smile was brilliant, un-self-conscious in her broken English.
"Do seat down, messieurs, and have the tea, please."
Both Abbey and Grau found her charming and breathlessly pretty, but her straightforward frankness made them wary. Where was the morose lady of mystery exiled from her country by royal scandal? Where were the plumes of cigarette smoke from a mouth lined in deep red? Where were the sleepy, knowing eyes, framed by deep kohl?
The mother looked like she must have been the type once, but that time was long gone. She sat erect and silent, her long grave face inscrutable. Her ebony hair sat atop her head in strict braided coils with no evidence of gray. Her black eyes were aloof but direct.
As Meg chattered on in her imperfect English about how nice New York was, how nice their suite was, how nice it was for the good messieurs to come visit, her mother at last spoke. "You are here, no doubt, to secure a contract for my daughter?"
Ah, if only she were twenty years younger! Abbey thought regretfully. Perfect English but in that smoky French accent! Her haughtiness is perfect! The public would eat her up with a spoon!
As it was, he merely leaned back and pulled out a cigar, in his element where business was concerned. "All right, Madame. Let's get down to it."
Madame Giry concealed her half smile. The Americans were direct. They wasted but little time on preliminary flatteries. She approved.
"I am my daughter's teacher, and now that we have left the Paris Populaire, her manager, as well. I and my assistant Monsieur Dequenne will go over the details together, but I must tell you, the final decision rests with my daughter." She inclined her head to the cheerful girl.
Here Grau cleared his throat. "That's all very good, Madame, but…well…we have heard, of course, of Mam'selle Giry's talent and popularity in your native Paris. But uh…." He waved his hand around, apparently trying to summon the words he wanted from secret hand signals. "But styles differ in different countries. What might delight audiences in Paris might puzzle citizens here. I mean, we might be used to seeing ballet in one way, while in Paris"—
"—In other words, you want her to dance wantonly, as if she'd been in the Folies Bergère," Madame Giry sneered, making the infamous cabaret sound like a den of abased depravity. Her eyes blazed with contempt.
Throughout, Meg had been intently studying each face as they spoke, her head bobbing this way and that like a pigeon on the look-out for the sloppiest eater at the park. In truth, her middling English instilled in her by her mother and Erik kept her a bit behind in the conversation, but hearing the name of the cabaret and seeing the icy look on her mother's face and the uncomfortable expressions of the men, she guessed what turn the conversation had taken.
"Oh, you want to see first me dance! No? Yes? See if you like my performance actually?" Her eyebrows raised, she turned with a friendly, encouraging smile to each man.
Grau and Abbey both thought how absolutely different mother and daughter were, in both looks and personality.
Grau demurred politely, and Abbey started following suit, until his grumbled "no, no, mam'selle," turned into, "…well, if you don't mind, mademoiselle…"
At once Meg was on her feet. "Ha! I expect did as much." She shed the lacy lilac wrap she'd been wearing to reveal a white leotard and skirt. For the first time the managers noticed the pointe shoes she wore.
She stood with arms akimbo before them, a bright flame between the somber pillars that were her mother and Erik.
"Shall I begin?"
Meg's premiere at the Met was sensational. She revived the leading role in Coppelia and her mix of saucy humor and wide-eyed innocence endeared her to audiences and critics alike. They thought her the best of America and France. Although unmistakably French in her accent and dancing style, her cheerful independence struck New York as just the qualities the idealized American Woman should possess – a Daisy Miller with heart and a tutu.
Three years passed in this way.
The shrewd accounting and business by her mother, Erik, and herself, along with the positive publicity campaign from Abbey and Grau (who reminded her a great deal of Firmin and Andre in Paris) catapulted her to security, both in her stardom and financially.
She and her mother – managing Meg's career while hired as chief ballet mistress at the Met - joined forces to open a dancing school for poor children, the first to include students of color. Meg had noticed the wistful look on her mother's face at the dock their first day, as she took in the sight of Muslim passengers relegated to the back of the line, the children looking dazed and hungry. Meg remembered the pain in her mother's face and devoted herself to charity, to wellness visits to the Muslim district. She learned much about their culture and religion there, and for the first time truly felt connected to her Persian roots.
On one such visit, she brought a meal to an old woman who was playing with her wildly laughing young grandson. Meg looked into the grandmother's kind, humorous eyes and saw her mother. Tears welled in Meg's own eyes.
My blood.
Although until her last days she would possess an innate grace, Meg's were not the slow, languid movements and misty gaze of the typical lady of mystery, of intrigue. No, hers was the straightforward, brisk trot that, had she lived in the era, would have made her the perfect vivacious, independent movie heroine, played usually by Carole Lombard or Katharine Hepburn. She always had time for her fans and admirers, yet never took a suitor. Though chatty and social in personality, at the end of the night, she always returned to her neat little home by New York's harbor, to her mother and that mysterious tall manservant, never too far from the dancer's side.
Meg was satisfied with her life in New York, but perfect happiness eluded her.
On one fair evening when she had no rehearsal or performance, she slowly paced the length of the beach, from where she could just see Coney Island across the waves. She closed her eyes and hugged her arms, breathing in the salt spray from the ocean and the muted cry of the seagulls above her. Just faintly she could hear carnival music.
It was always in these few quiet, lonely moments that one thought continually circled her mind and heart.
Erik.
She opened her eyes, inhaling sharply.
Yes, Erik. He, her good genius. Who'd tutored her until her English vastly improved, who in his quiet, subtle way maneuvered himself into not only handling her business accounts, but those of the Met, as well. He'd become a sort of unofficial artistic consultant, whom Abbey, Grau, and their variety of directors would consult with before making important casting and artistic decisions.
He'd become a Phantom in broad daylight.
But how was he, really?
He'd kept his word. He'd never mentioned the kiss again. And his air of determined solitude put up a barrier she didn't dare breach, and so she never mentioned that moment, either.
Yet there was still a warm connection there between them. It was only he she could really talk to about her beginning insecurities in a strange city with a strange language, her delight in her successes, and her raging homesickness that came upon her like a thunderstorm some days.
He was always there, always listening.
She still hated that realistic mask of his. She longed to see him again, him.
And suddenly on the beach came the thought articulated, loud and clear as the waves rushing to shore:
Am I in love with him?
She halted, and felt a cool breeze brush through her hair.
She blinked back the sudden tears.
What did it matter if she was? Would he even care? Even with her conflicting emotions, Meg felt no bitterness or jealousy of Christine. If Erik were determined to dwell on Christine and the past, then there was nothing Meg could to about that.
Yet still, it hurt.
Yet still, she walked on, into the sunset.
And still Erik watched her, from where he perched unseen on the rocks behind her.
He watched until her bright mane of hair disappeared around a corner, then the former Opera Ghost sighed and leaned his head back, staring into the starry purple sky.
In his hand was a letter.
Forwarded from Stephen Marcus.
Addressed in Erik's true name, that he'd not heard or thought of in years. He felt only a mild curiosity about how Marcus found him out.
As he tried to focus on the rather momentous news the letter carried, Erik instead saw – as he always did – the figure of Meg Giry, walking steadily in front of him, sure of her path.
And he? What was he sure of?
Christine was a tragic, painful spark tingling in his heart. Meg? He cared for her, watched over her, even as his own role in society skyrocketed.
Christine was a spark, but Meg was everywhere.
Everything.
He wrapped himself in his cloak and watched the horizon until the sun disappeared completely, until the only evidence of an island out there were the faint lights and calliope music.
Meg arrived home with ruddy cheeks and dreamy eyes. She kissed her mother on the cheek from where Madame Giry read by the fireplace. "Good night, mother."
"Good night, my Meg. Oh, I almost forgot: here's a letter from Christine."
Despite the somewhat moody aspect under which she'd just thought of Christine, Meg's heart leapt and her smile was true as she eagerly opened the envelope.
Madame Giry looked up from her book with a cocked eyebrow as her Meg gasped happily.
Giry loved how much her 23-year-old daughter could still look so much like a child at moments such as this.
Eyes shining, Meg beamed at her mother and announced, "She, Raoul, and the children are coming for a visit!"
Madame Giry was not blind: she had seen over the years the way Meg and Erik interacted, how much they had become to one another.
Yet it was just like her open-hearted daughter to practically forget this now in her sincere excitement. She would see her best friend again.
Anahid chuckled and turned her attention back to her book as Meg rapidly listed all the things they needed to get ready.