Chapter 2

Meg tried as much as possible to forget about the waves lifting the boat up and down. She hoped that that way, maybe the sea sickness would disappear. However, it was no use. She resembled any sort of self-control she had to be able not to throw up, wondering for a moment how she could be able of doing so since she hadn't eaten much in the last few days. It wasn't that she hadn't been given very little food – on the contrary. Meg just wasn't hungry, and she couldn't understand why she was so well fed since she was just as much a prisoner as her mother, who, on the other hand, barely got anything.

It was only today (or tonight? There was no notion of time, in this part of the boat, since there were no windows) that Meg had found herself alone with her mother. She only knew to this point how the men called her mother – Anouar. Meg was led to the painful admittance that Anouar and Antoinette were two names that happened to be rather similar to each other, and that it was probably the reason why her mother chose the latter when she had to create herself a new identity. Of course, the men kept on speaking to her mother: but it was in a foreign language Meg couldn't understand a word of, much to her frustration, which became even worse as she realized her mother understood everything, even though she never replied.

They would slap her, from time to time. It was as if Madame Giry always saw it coming, and the first times, she would stare pleadingly at her daughter, in her own silent way to beg her to turn away. Meg obeyed. For some reason, she found that the look in her mother's eyes, at that moment, looked a lot like Caesar's, who had been one of the horses' that were used at the Opera for some grand productions. Meg was barely thirteen when he was declared to be of no good use anymore. Last time, he hadn't broken any of the sets: La Carlotta had almost got kicked by him in the head and had therefore ordered that Caesar was to be either sold or taken down. The latter happened, of course: and even though Meg knew that La Carlotta had almost died (well, not that she actually liked the diva, but it wasn't as if she wished her harm), the event had marked her to a point she had been unable, for the first time of her life, to attend her daily practice. Her mother hadn't grounded her. She had pointed her towards her bed, summoning her to stay there, while Meg could finally cry out all the tears in her body. Just before practice, Madame Giry had given her without a word that copy of Le Prométhée moderne Meg had read again and again before having to give it back to Monsieur Reyer, since it was his book. When Giry had come back, she had made Meg's favorite soup. It was all at the same a cherished memory as much as a painful one: it reminded Meg that her mother loved her more than anything else in the world.

In the end, Meg was forced to watch her mother being mistreated. It hadn't been long before they saw she turned her head away.

They had been on that boat for a while. The Girys hadn't seen the men anymore, except when they came to give them their meals.

Between the two of them, there had been an awkward silence, that Meg couldn't stand anymore.

There were now so many things she knew and so many things which opened questions left unanswered. At first, Meg had respected that almost religious silence her mother had imposed. She was almost afraid that if she spoke, perhaps her mother would break down. The mere thought of it was terrifying for Meg. That quivering lip, and that look she had seen once on a condemned horse's face, and the quiet acceptance her mother had had throughout all her mistreatment had been already too much.

"Maman?"

No answer.

"M'man…"

"M'man?"

The last "M'man" to come out of Meg's mouth sounded so plaintive, like a hungry kitten looking for its mother. It was only then that Meg saw her mother's silhouette moving in the shadows.

"Yes, Meg?"

Meg swallowed and took a deep breath before finally speaking. "Maman… what is the meaning of… everything? Why do you… where…"

It was hard not to plainly ask: who are you?

She heard her mother sigh deeply in the dark. Meg feared for a while her reaction, already telling herself that this was all a very bad idea, and that she should have stayed quiet, as she always should…

"I think it would be better if I told you everything instead of having someone else telling you, and not telling you the truth at the same time."

Madame Giry suddenly stopped, as she realized what she had said. Did Meg trust her entirely, to this point? Was she furious because of how her mother had lied to her all her life? Well, lying was probably too harsh as a term, here. Mme Giry never talked about the past to Meg. She remembered all those times where her daughter would tug at her skirts, when she was that little girl asking questions about absolutely everything and nothing to everyone she met, and she would ask her about her father. It was easy for Mme Giry to shoo Meg away then, with a "Not now Meg" or "I'm busy Meg". Now, her daughter was almost an adult – well, she was nineteen, and therefore considered an adult by many, but to Mme Giry, she was still a child on so many levels. And now…

But when she finally dared to look at Meg, she only saw curiosity and a somewhat encouraging smile. There was no trace of resentment. Mme Giry mentally sighed of relief. Meg's scorn was something she never wanted to face. Well, now that she thought about it, it was probably that one thing that would destroy her entirely. Who would believe such a frail little young lady could be the end of her? Perhaps those were the strange wonders of being a mother.

Madame Giry didn't even know where to start. Those moments from her youth, which she had tried to forget about and bury throughout the years for her own safety, were now coming back at an alarming rate, in such a way she was somewhat unable to organize them chronologically. At that moment, all she could do was to ask: "What do you want to know, Meg?"

"Well, everything!" she blurted out. She cleared her throat while attempting to start curling a strand of her hair around her finger, as she usually did when she was nervous, before remembering she was handcuffed.

"Well… tell me about Papa. How did you meet him?"

Meg was able to see Mme Giry smiling fondly in the dark. For a moment, she even thought, for the first time of her life, that her mother was beautiful, when her traits were soft. To be honest, she had never seen her mother that way. Maman was Maman, with her furrowed brows, her tight mouth, but the way her hand would pat her head from time to time were those reminders that she was Maman, and that she could always run to her whenever something was wrong, and that somehow, Maman always found the right words to reassure her no matter what. Right now, when she looked at her mother, Meg found that she looked like that sculpture of the Greek goddess Athena she had seen in a museum she couldn't remember the name of. She was only eight years old when Madame Giry had decided that as a sort of special treat, they were going to visit one. All Meg could remember was that statue of the goddess, and how impressed she was of her bold femininity as she stood, high and intimidating with her helmet and her spear.

"I met your father when I was still in Persia…"

To start with Jules Giry, or rather Julien de Veuster, was a good way to get to everything. Or at least what was important.

He was part of an embassy sent from Belgium to Persia. He came from a family of diplomats and had been of course destined to become an ambassador himself. Anouar had been a spy for quite a few years, now.

She had wanted to help her brother in his work, finding it far more interesting that what other girls of her age were supposed to be interested in. Nadir, as boring or rather reasonable as usual, had refused. She had found her own way of getting away with it. She had been caught poking her nose in something that was absolutely none of her business, and she had two choices: dying, or serving the Persian empire as a spy, while her dancing would be her cover. She had of course chosen the latter.

Her younger self was no saint. But she was still innocent, in a way. She had never believed that she could one day be an accomplice in murdering political enemies. When she had come to realize fully what she had done and what she was doing, when she had turned to her brother, teary-eyed for the first time in years, he had simply shrugged and told her that now, she had to pay the consequences of her naivety.

And so Anouar hardened herself, but her conscience was somehow stronger than anything, reminding her of what was right and what was wrong, showing more fortitude than most. And it clashed with her duties, but toughening her rather than destroying her.

Julien was just as curious as she had been, once. Her dancing had entranced him like it had entranced so many other men, but he had been foolish enough to follow her an evening just to get to speak to her. He had caught her in the middle of a mission, and it had taken all of Anouar's quickest reflexes and instincts so both of them could get out of that situation unhurt.

He had been such a fool Anouar soon found herself quite interested in him.

And so they met each other again, always in secret.

Today, Anouar could only recall herself of snippets of their secret meetings. Insignificant, silly details, like how he would grab and toy with a strand of her hair while speaking of something important she was quite ashamed to admit she couldn't remember anymore, or like how he had that little dimple on his right cheek which only appeared when he had succeeded in making her laugh. She even had trouble remembering his face, even though she usually had a knack in remembering all the others'.

The Belgian embassy was to leave soon.

And Anouar was forced to come to the realization that she loved Julien. And to his contact, she also knew that she couldn't live that life anymore.

They had planned to run away together. They would have to hide, since Anouar knew too much to go out of Persia without the government knowing about her whereabouts. She didn't even tell Nadir, knowing that she had caused him already enough trouble, not to say even pain.

She couldn't quite remember how running away was like. It only came in blurs of tenderness mixed to the constant fear of being caught, and in the meantime, they had made it to Europe. Julien de Veuster had changed his name for Jules Giry, borrowing his maternal grandmother's family name, while Anouar became Antoinette. They had finally installed themselves in Paris, Jules managing to find work as a librarian, since he had always loved books, and Antoinette also helping by finding a job as a ballet mistress in a dance school for young girls, preparing them to join the infamous Paris ballet company.

Meg knew the rest. Madame Antoinette Giry had become renowned enough to make her way to the Paris Opera. Jules Giry had died like he had lived, while pushing an old lady from a runaway cart. To this day, Anouar didn't know if she should cry or cynically laugh about how it had happened.

She had, of course, said nothing about Erik.

Anouar even preferred not even thinking about him.

Even if she had to admit that during all those years, in her mind, he hadn't stopped haunting her.

When Mme Giry finally finished her story, she lifted up her eyes, which had kept on staring at her hands during all of it. In an even tone, as she tried to hide the emotion that was coming up as much as she could, she asked:

"Anything else, Meg?"

Silence ensued. But finally, a tiny voice made itself heard.

"No, maman." Meg paused and took a deep breath. "Thank you."

Quietness installed itself again, though not as heavy as it was before. Meg stared for a while at her meal, which she of course hadn't touched. She frowned, lost in her thoughts, trying to imagine how her father looked like. For sure, he was probably blonde, since she was blonde herself and…

The door opened loudly, while a man came in with the Girys' next meal. He saw Meg's untouched bowl, yelled something at her which she thankfully didn't understand, while going away with dinner and leaving her supper.

There was nothing for her mother.

For a minute, Meg stared blankly at her meal. Then, she slowly turned her head towards her mother.

"Maman… why am I so well fed?"

Meg could see her mother's chin tremble.

"I don't know."

Meg knew her mother was lying.

And this certainly meant no good.

A/N: I didn't get much feedback, put aside from PeekabooFang – once again, thank you so, so much for your encouragement! But people on Tumblr seem to like it, so it encourages me. But please, I'm a bit ashamed of saying this, but do leave a little review. Even just a "Very good" or "I can't wait for next chapter" is fine and makes my day.

Also… I know I've been pretty quick on the Girys' past and all, but you know, if enough people are interested, no guarantee, but maybe one day I'll write a spinoff about it if I get enough inspiration? Who knows?

And… of course, I think you're all waiting for that, but we'll get to see Erik in the next chapter!