As she followed her mother down the hall, past the current prima’s rooms, Meg suppressed a shudder—she wasn’t sure whose progress was more labored, hers or her mother’s. Relics of a time past, like the ghost who’ll soon be sealed in his lakeside tomb, the young lady hobbled along, grimly assisted by a stout stagehand that looked like he’d rather be elsewhere.
The journey was short, even with their snails’ pace. Dismissing the stagehand with a grateful smile and heartfelt thanks, Meg sank to a small settee and allowed her mother to fret over her. Assuring her at last that she was fine, Meg demonstrated her capabilities by moving to loosen her ties. With a curt, no-nonsense nod, Mme. Giry agreed to fetch a carriage, leaving Meg to her arduous task. Luckily, the last act of the opera required a plethora of raggedy factory workers, instead of a bevy of young ladies, making her costume one she could remove with no help and little trouble.
Smiling at the tidy heap her clothes made on a nearby table, Meg again was reminded how painfully slow their progress down the hallway must have been if someone had found the time to be so thoughtful as to fetch her clothing in anticipation of her needs. “I should thank M. Firmin again later for his kindness,” Meg remarked then emitted a started “Oh!” as she nearly knocked over a diminutive glass bottle that had lain nestled amongst her garments.
A small note fluttered to the floor and she froze, very much aware of where she’d seen such a shade of stationary before, such a small brown bottle.
Heart pounding, her mind’s eye on the glittering visage she’d seen in the instant before she’d taken her ungainly tumble, Meg fumbled through dressing. Numb fingers working furiously on an uncharacteristically stubborn set of buttons, Meg found herself straining to hear the sounds of the hallway. Perhaps her mother had found luck in securing a carriage in the post-opera throng, perhaps she was approaching the door now, perhaps . . . Meg’s eyes darted to the abandoned note. She’d delivered countless letters to and from Box Five over the past several months, why should this be any different?
“Mademoiselle Giry, why do you reject my gift? It is perfectly safe, I assure you. It only dulls the pain, lessens the swelling.” The voice spoke in masculine tones, smooth, deep, commanding.
Glancing wildly to the still-shut door, Meg found her tongue, “Who’s there?” The question was unnecessary, she knew full well who it was. Where he was, was another question entirely.
A low chuckle sounded behind her, and she felt the hair on the nape of her neck prickle. “Come, you are far too in command of your faculties, and we know each other too well, to prompt such a fearful reaction, Mlle. Meg. May I call you Meg?” honey-sweet and flecked with notes of danger, the voice soothed and seduced.
“Yes,” Meg breathed her answer—an answer that came too quickly, really. She turned around, eyes darting to the dark corners of the room. Half of her wished, prayed, for someone to come, half-dreaded someone might. “And I’m to call you . . .?” she led, suddenly reluctant to address him as the Opera Ghost, when he sounded so like a man.
“Erik. Call me Erik,” the ghost’s reply was equally quick and contained an element of relief.
“Erik,” Meg repeated, savoring the privilege. With a start, she recalled the events preceding her accident, I must warn him. “Do not return to the lake beneath the opera house,” she blurted the warning, giving the words a touch more womanly fear than intended.
Her words were met with silence. A silence punctuated by one small noise—it could have been a moan, a snort, or over a suppressed cough. Meg waited.
“Your . . . concern is noted,” the disembodied voice spoke at last. “But neither can I stay here, among men.”
“Is it because of your—” Meg stopped herself short, blushing. “I mean, I’ve heard that there are reasons you might wish to remain apart from—”
“I’d ask you to step to the mirror, but in light of present circumstances . . .” Erik suddenly sounded much less ghostly, much more corporeal and near.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him appear. Not from the door but from a rather well-lit corner of the room. She did not know why it surprised her that he be dressed for the opera—white gloves, cape, and all—for she had seen him in his box scarcely half-an-hour prior. Perhaps, the bone-white masque that covered two thirds of his face served as a marked contrast to his very conventional formal dress. Meg tried to look away politely but found she could not.
“Yes, I don’t much blend in with ‘regular men.’ ” He spat the term. “Although I’ve made great strides,” he added, as if to himself. “Little Meg Giry . . .” The eyes beneath the mask glittered as they had in Box Five, as she’d always imagined them, as if a deep fire burned within. “You wish to save me then. May I inquire as to the nature of the danger?”
Meg swallowed, glad she was sitting, else she’d have sunk to the floor long ago. Even so, she felt near swooning, “They want to s-seal you in. Keep you from ever leaving. I heard them say they’d a man reporting when you returned to your . . .” She searched for a proper word, for “home” didn’t evoke the right image in her mind.
“I was aware they’d been poking about—exclaiming boorishly over this and that trapdoor.” Erik turned to face the dressing mirror, the resulting multiple reflections magnifying his presence in the room. “But, no. They don’t seriously believe they’ve identified all passages that lead into the theatre. No.” This last seemed to be a reassurance to himself, the rich voice sinking to a near whisper.
“And the medicine . . .”
“Somewhat different from what your mother has been receiving, dear Meg. Both come from the finest physician I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. A man, who, through his studies, is an infinitely better study of the human condition than I. He has taught me all I know.”
“A teacher?”
“A father . . .”
Intrigued, Meg turned to the ghost, the man, Erik. There’d been a different sort of catch in his voice when he’d spoken just now, and she’d found that her heart had responded with an equally different sort of thrill than what she’d felt of late. The Opera Ghost, no longer an idea, but a man of flesh and blood. A man with motives and fears like her own. Meg hungered to know more.
“I’m just fetching my daughter and then I’m off,” Mme. Giry’s voice sounded clear and sharp outside the door. “Poor thing’s ankle’s swollen to the size of a cabbage.” There was a grunting male reply, and Meg turned wide eyes to the phantom only to find she was again alone in the room.
“And thank you, once more, for your kind concern, little Meg,” the ghost’s voice sounded in her ear and then faded.
The door opened, Meg’s mother clomping in. “Are you in much pain, dear? You look flushed.”
“‘The Wasp and the Butterfly,’” M. Armand read the title with relish. “Based on the Aesop’s fable of the same name, the story follows the conversation of two reincarnated souls—a, ahem, butterfly and a wasp, obviously. Through their narration we discover who they were, how they were connected, how they died—”
He paused, giving his small audience a dramatic raise of eyebrows. “Stylized as a Chinese fairy tale, it follows the first lives of the main characters—that of an Empress and her forbidden lover. We’re working on the necessary changes in instrumentation.
“To that end, the Empress and her lover . . .Their parts are somewhat demanding; however, I’ve been assured that the parts were written especially with our own Mme. Allemand and M. Voland in mind.”
He paused and cleared his throat, clearly bracing himself for the next words. “The parts of the wasp and butterfly have similarly been reserved for our principle dancers, but I’ve been instructed there should be a change—a change in prima ballerina for the duration of this next production. Mlle. Giry?” All eyes turned to the girl, many tainted with ill-concealed animosity.
“I cannot yet dance, M. Armand,” Meg stuttered, not quite sure she understood, a rumble of discontent from the cast backing her claim.
“Y
es, well,” Firmin piped in. “That, too, has been a matter of much discussion between the prop master, acting manager Mercier, and myself. It appears the role requires some . . . interesting . . . stage effects that remove the seemingly insurmountable barrier of requiring an injured dancer to, well, dance.”
A multitude of people now spoke at once, each outshouting the other in an effort to dissect Firmin’s interesting, yet puzzling, response. A prima ballerina role that does not require the dancer to dance? They would not stand for it! Could they not, for this once, ignore the Opera Ghost’s eccentric demands?
“Here, here. People, calm yourselves,” Armand thundered through the protests. “Yes, this is an Opera Ghost piece, and yes, these instructions have come directly from him. But rest assured, when I tell you that Firmin and I have looked over this production and agree of our own volition that these demands are by no means excessive and are, in fact, some of the best ideas we’ve ever seen put to paper. Please, trust us.”
The rumblings began again, this time carrying a current of excitement, for they had seen the twinkle of enthusiasm in their managers’ eyes and now were more intrigued than irked.
Meg felt certain the topic wasn’t entirely closed, however. She self-consciously lifted her eyes to the vacant Box Five. Thank you, Erik, she silently spoke to the ghost, Why you put your trust in me, I’ll never understand . . .
Never before had the ghost light seemed so aptly named as Meg stepped into its aura, heart pounding in her chest. The theatre was not the most welcoming place to be alone at night, and, in spite of the illicit thrill, she felt apprehensive.
Movement in the shadows caught her eye, soft and non-menacing in spite of the oppressive darkness. Erik smiled at her from beneath his ever-present mask, clearly pleased with himself for not having startled her. He commented, “Your grace, dear Meg, is as beautiful as a song.”
In the dim solitary ghost light, Meg wondered if the phantom could see her blush. She deflected the compliment. “Only some of the time . . . Erik.”
Her reward was the approach of the opera ghost, clad in dark, well-tailored clothing, most appropriate for dusty backstage work. It suited him, though Meg still had a difficult time tearing her gaze from his mask.
Meg again felt her heart beat fast. She’d seen the schematics for the phantom’s plan and knew full well that he intended his butterfly should take to the air, but . . . she fought the urge to confess her fear of heights. Behind the mask, Erik’s smoldering eyes shone at her and she knew, oddly, that she was safe.
Feeling suddenly self-conscious, she accepted the ghost’s gentle assistance as she stepped gingerly into the waiting harness, carefully avoiding stressing her still-tender ankle. Light, but strong, the straps and buckles of the contraption would easily be concealed beneath her costume, her butterfly wings.
Meg averted her face to hide her renewed blush in shadow, as the phantom’s sensitive, but no-nonsense fingers, worked at adjusting the harness to her lithe dancer’s form. Silly goose, you wouldn’t blush if it were a stagehand, she scolded herself. She released the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding.
Erik stepped back, admiring his work for a moment, before positioning himself in the wings. She saw that he waited for her nod, some sign that she was ready to take flight. She hesitated.
“Would it be permissible to light a few of the house lights first?”
“Embrace the darkness, Meg. Let it lift you so that you soar over the world, not just the empty seats of a dim and lonely theatre. As prima, remember it is you who’ll light the stage.” Erik’s answering chuckle sounded through the blackness.
Meg nodded, gasping as she felt the ground fall away beneath her. Soaring out in a gentle arc over the vacant house, Meg could sense the grandeur of the space as she’d never had before. She marveled at the sensation, the sweet night air breathing gently upon her face.
Released from her fears and worries, Meg allowed herself to fall fully under the spell of the mad genius of a man who pulled the strings in the shadows, a man who bent the very laws of nature to his whim.
“Another note, Meg. The ghost has left another note,” Brigitte squealed. She scampered past the tiny room where Meg tended to her mother. Giry had, once more, taken a turn for the worse.
“Go see what he says, child.” The pale and skeleton-thin concierge waved her daughter off with a weak smile. “Mayhap he’s left more of my medicine . . .” This last was delivered with a small note of hope, and while Meg pasted a kind smile onto her face for her mother’s benefit, the ballerina turned to the doorway with eyes radiating hurt.
The doctor had explained to her the previous day her mother’s dire situation. Her lungs were dying, slowly, inexorably. He’d said the hard words kindly, had expressed frank surprise that frail Mme. Giry had hung on as long as she had.
But three days ago she’d turned poorly; three days ago, she’d run out of the phantom’s cure.
Legs carrying her fast as they could down the myriad of backstage hallways, Meg muttered black thoughts against the Ghost. How dare he disappear, sending nothing save useless notes of encouragement and improvement for the new opera, neglecting my mother’s care! Meg glowered. How could he have forgotten? She calmed herself. She’d look in Box Five. Maybe this time he had left something.
As Firmin’s strong, warm voice read proudly the opera ghost’s review of the previous day’s performance, the penultimate of their current production, one rather wondered if the manager mightn’t pop buttons off his waistcoat, puffed with pride as he was. He and Armand both. And as the words of laud for their rehearsals of “The Wasp and The Butterfly” were exceptionally strong, Meg, too, had felt herself carried along on the tide of good humor and high spirits.
Tomorrow evening, she would fly. In spite of her anger at the non-delivery of her mother’s medicine, her remembrances of Erik, the private rehearsal in a dark theatre, warmed her thoughts.
Heart pounding as she fervently searched Box Five, Meg prayed that the phantom had seen fit to remember her mother in the midst of putting his rapturous praise to paper.
She found nothing.
“So that’s it then? You’re just going to let her die?” she muttered, temper as black as the empty box she searched. “You could save her and yet you do nothing. Erik, you really are a murderer. Just like they all said.”
“Meg! Meg Giry . . .” a voice in the hallway startled her to standing.
It was M. Mercier.
“Meg?” He entered Box Five, eyes darting about curiously. “Goodness, girl, what on earth are you doing in here?”
“I—” Words failed her, but it didn’t matter. M. Mercier spoke over her.
“Never mind,” he waved away explanation, and motioned for her to follow. He was clearly in a hurry, his eyes radiating kindness. Too much kindness. Heart in her throat, Meg followed with alacrity, not even giving the abandoned Box Five a backward glance.
The old woman lay groaning upon the divan. Perhaps rasping might be the better word, for Mme. Giry’s lungs appeared to be expiring at long last. Meg knelt by her mother’s side, listened as the guttural whimper changed tone, became words: “Take me to the lake. Take me to him.” Meg could barely understand the utterance and leaned in close.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” She held her mother’s shaking hand.
“Erik. Erik will know what to do. I need Erik.”
“She’s asking for the damned ghost.” One of the stagehands lingering in the doorway spat on the floor. M. Mercier shot him a look so that Meg didn't have to.
“Mother, mother, you’re delirious. Please, let me get the doctor,” Meg pleaded. “Someone fetch the doctor,” she turned to the small crowd gathering in the doorway. Seeing the tears in the young woman’s eyes, shamed at having gawked over another’s misfortune, the crowd scattered, Mercier promising he’d fetch the doctor himself. Nearly crumbling with relief, Meg turned her gaze back to her mother and was startled to note that the woman, weak as
she was, was attempting to rise.
“Must . . . see . . . Erik,” she gasped.
“Mother, you don’t know what you’re saying. Please, lie back down,” Meg cooed, crossing the room to fetch a damp towel.
“I know plenty,” Mme. Giry’s voice regained some of its customary sharpness, “I must—I must go . . . to Daae, to Daae’s rooms. Take me there, Meg.”
Meg turned sharply, memories of her conversation with the phantom coming back full-force. They don’t seriously believe they’ve identified all passages that lead into the theatre . . .She understood at last. “There’s a passageway in there . . . to his underground lake.”
“Daae . . . Daae’s room . . . ” Mme. Giry gasped, lying back down against the cushions. “Go to him. Tell him—”
“Yes. Sh-sh-sh . . . Yes,” Meg kissed her mother’s forehead and hastened from the room.
Hefting a lamp, knowing she had to work quickly, lest her actions inspire suspicion, Meg peered about Christine’s former dressing room. If they didn’t insist on such ostentation, this would be easier, she lamented, pushing aside a large wall hanging for the third time, exposing the same blank wall. If there was a trapdoor in the room, it was well hidden.
A flicker out of the corner of her eye caught Meg’s attention and she turned to find herself facing the room’s full-length dressing mirror. The wavering reflection of the lamp in her hand tore at her eyes, and Meg assessed the thin and none-too-happy-looking young person that stared back at her.
“Oh, Erik, how did you sneak up on me that night?” She addressed the dim copy of herself, pausing as if it might give answer.
Mechanized Masterpieces: A Steampunk Anthology Page 16
