05

in which the past is never forgotten.

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The rest of the day was comfortably quiet for them, spent in a silence that Meg didn't find frustrating. Maman has left, having met someone who was well-versed in America's doings, and was anxious to know more of where they would possibly be spending the rest of their lives. Erik sat on the couch, scribbling in a notebook that her mother must have brought him, and Meg danced and read, enjoying the sun and eventually finding a way to pop the window open so she could feel its warmth.

She was nearly done with her book as she lay in the sun's rays, her eyes beginning to feel heavy, though she fights to stay awake until her mother returns. Once it became too dark to make out words, Meg sets the book aside, and looks behind her to glance at Erik, who was still scribbling and sketching, as though the sun hadn't set and the sun wasn't gone. Her gaze finds his fingers, wrapping around his pen, and a ring gleams brightly, black and glittering.

"That's a beautiful ring," Meg observes, and his eyes find hers from her spot on the floor. "What kind of jewel is it?"

"A black onyx," he says, his finger brushing over the surface of it, and he looked, Meg thought, almost . . . heartbroken. She could barely see him, but his figure was illuminated with miniscule moonlight, and with a touch of horror, Meg found he really did appear as a phantom, even without the theatrical costumes.

"Where did you get it from?" She asks, coming to stand and making her way towards him, nearly asking permission before carefully sitting beside him. He snatches the notebook away from her view, as if a reflex, but brings it back to sit in front of him.

"It was a gift, many years ago," he replies simply, and the panicked look relaxes from before.

"How many?" She begins, and then a glaring, obvious question escapes her throat. "How old are you, Erik?"

He sets his pen down, and gives her a careful look, and Meg thinks she sees an air of questioning in his gaze, though she certainly doesn't understand why. What matters of someone's age?

"I am eighteen years old," she says, sliding her fingers together in a nervous tick. Perhaps offering her age, she thinks, will encourage him to share his own. "Though if for some reason you don't want to tell me, that's alright, too. I don't want to force you to share anything you aren't —"

"I am nearly 10 years your senior," he says, sitting back on the couch now, his fingers folding into his lap, his fountain pen resting neatly on the closed, leather notebook. "However, I am certainly surprised to hear of how many years you are. I was under the impression you were older than," a moment passes as he pauses, and then, "you know, her." He emphasized the pronoun, and that same uncomfortable feeling from earlier clouded Meg's chest, remembering just what this man was capable of. She took note of how even saying Christine's name brought him pain.

"Why is it surprising?" She questions, twisting herself to face him. "She looks older than me, and has certainly been called childish less times than I."

"When . . . When she spoke of you, it was as if you were her older sister. From what I could tell, you cared for her and comforted her more than perhaps Madame has," he explains. "I naturally assumed you were older, as you seemed to take care of her."

"I do love her as a sister," Meg says fiercely. "And I still do, and I will forever. You should know as well as I that she came with a heart full of grief, but filled to the brim with more natural talent than the opera had seen in some time. At least, that's what Maman said." She smiled to herself, remembering her dear friend. "She was so compassionate and kind, and I nearly hated Raoul for coming and whisking her away. She didn't spend as much time with me, and her evenings were always spent with you, or so she said." Meg's gaze found the window, and a chill began to fill the room. "She spoke of you a lot, now that I'm able to piece the story together."

"She did?" He said quietly, almost so quietly she could barely catch it.

"Always about her Angel of Music, though I thought it was dreams she'd had to keep her father alive. I suppose I should have realized that her vocal technique was learned and taught, and not completely natural. I wished I would have paid more attention to her at the beginning, when she spoke of her Angel."

"Why?" He says, his voice low, and Meg realized she should have shut her mouth long ago. "So she wouldn't have wasted those years on me?"

She turned back to him now, panic brewing in her chest. "I'm sorry - I shouldn't have spoken so plainly." She saw, now, that moisture had collected on the cheek she could see, and her eyes blew wide. He wasn't doing anything to conceal them, but she rather thought mentioning them would only end in another explosion.

"But you meant every word, and I know you wish that you could have spared her all of the pain that I've caused," he says, and his words were born from heartbreak and rage. "I did hurt her. But I don't regret any of it - and I will win her back."

Meg recoils, fingers curling into fists. "I won't let you, Erik, and I did mean every word. What you did was wrong, and I can't believe you don't realize that!" She saw his lip twitch, and she seethed, "or perhaps you do, and you simply do not care!"

"How can you say I don't care!" He yells, now looming close to her. "Every decision I ever made led me to her." Tears now coursed down his cheeks, and aside from terror and pity, she was shocked he was capable of such an
emotional outburst. Maybe he felt more deeply than Meg gave him credit for.

"Erik," she begins, but he cuts her off.

"I love her more than life itself," he admits, and something twists in Meg's chest at his admission. "I would die for her. I would kill for her." His head lowers now, and his fingers twist the ring around his finger. "And more than all, I miss her." His tone was soft and quiet, and Meg was stunned and silenced.

"I know you do," she said, her voice colored in a way as if she were speaking to a child. "I miss her too." Meg reaches out to touch his shoulder in comfort, but he jerks away, briskly making his way to stand before the window.

"I don't want your pity, child," he growls, his hands buried deep in his pockets. His ridiculously tall build blocked most of the window, but she could still make out the ghostly outline of him.

"Don't call me that," she responds, bringing her knees up, to rest against her chest.

She had half a mind to encourage him to open up again, so she could understand his choices, why he does things, just him, really. She can't forgive him - could never, ever for what he's done - but sadness and anger swirled in her stomach for whatever was done to him in the past, for whomever made this man believe he had to go to extreme lengths to be loved (if that was his reason).

Instead, she gave him what little advice she didn't think he wanted. "If you love her, Erik, you have to let her go. That's all you can do for her, now."

He nearly splutters, though he doesn't turn back, and Meg watches him wipe a palm against his cheek, and then under his mask. "In case you haven't been present for the past couple of days, Meg, I certainly did let her go. I let her and that fool of a vicomte go." He'd let her go, he remembers that very clearly! He loved her, and he let her leave with her precious Vicomte, he'd let her go . . .

"No, Erik, you haven't. You still carry her around, and until you let her go, she won't ever be free, and neither will you."

He was quiet for a moment, and Meg feared the worst. It was rather insensitive, she knew, to tell him something so bold and so heartbreaking, but the words were out, and she didn't think it would be wise to wish them back.

It was a charged silence, and Meg could feel his emotions crackling like electricity around them, but she urged the panic to ebb away, and it did. He had tried to intimidate her earlier, but he didn't touch her. She hoped her mother was accurate in her promise that Erik would never hurt her, because now was certainly the time in which he could.

"Leave me alone," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "And do not argue with me, Miss Giry. You have crossed a line."

She did, she knew, no matter how right she was. She'd never have been so bold, if it were not Christine they were speaking of.

She obeyed, saying nothing back, and scurrying to the smaller bedroom, closing the door quickly. Her breaths her labored now, and she pushed her hands into her knees, willing her breath and her heart to slow.

She wasn't angry at him, but she felt frustrated and confused. Would this be the only way they could ever talk? Through fighting? Meg wished she didn't care, but her mother wanted her to make an effort. And deep down, the blonde ached for his pain, and wanted to help him in any she could. It was confusing to the point of wanting to rip her hair out from the roots, and find just where the answer was.

After minutes of focusing her breathing and planning her words, Meg knew it was important to apologize, and would hopefully diverge into a lighter conversation, perhaps whatever he had planning in the notebook. She hoped it was something lighter, but he could be writing a memoir for all she knew. Though, it would certainly expand her understanding of him.

As she was standing to seek his attention out once more, Meg heard Maman come through the doors, and she nearly melted in relief. There was a sharp intake in breath, however, and out of curiosity, Meg stayed, rooted where she was.

"Erik," her Maman greeted, though it was in a solemn way, like when she had told Meg that Papa was leaving for Italy.

Meg couldn't hear much else, but she did hear a frustrated, masculine growl and the crumpled of parchment, balled and thrown at the wall.

"We'll figure it out," she hears Maman promise, and then a low, shuddering sigh from Erik.

It was quiet, after that, but she thought she heard sniffling and mumbling, and Meg rather thought the whole scene felt very familiar, like an old memory she couldn't grasp.

"You have to let her go, Erik," she hears her Maman say, finally being able to make out words being passed between them.

"You Girys," he murmurs in what she assumed was humor, but it came out broken and bruised. Another shuddering sigh.

"I see Meg has gotten to you," she hears Maman chuckle. "If we're both saying the same thing, then maybe, it's right."

"I can't let her go, Antoinette," it was a whisper, so low and quiet that Meg had to strain to her it, but guilt racked her suddenly and she leaned away, sliding down the door, cradling her knees to her chest.

Maman trusted this man as his son, which she'd known (because Maman had told her as much), but she hadn't thought of the implications with that. How long had Maman known him? Had she been taking care of him for long? And if so, why hadn't she ever met him?

And then, the most glaring issue of them all, why hadn't Maman intervened when he'd stepped into Christine's life, if she'd known about him all this time?

She felt confusion and frustration heighten, and she buried her face into her palms. But more than anything, she felt awful for the masked man. If not a grievance, she wanted to help him, therefore helping her dear friend. And,maybe, aiding him in seeking peace in return. Perhaps Maman was right - maybe all he needed was a change of lifestyle.

Meg had been called naive and childish all her life for believing in magic and ghosts and stories, but she hoped that she wasn't naive in thinking that he could become a better man. Can a murderer be redeemed? Perhaps this one could, she hoped, cradling her hands together. She felt greatly affected by her mother's acts of kindness toward him, and she began to believe every good thing Madame said about him.

Though she remained at odds with the thought of him, there was a glimmer of hope in her chest. She slept with Frankenstein under her pillow, visions of stars and clocks and a fiery, silken red flooding her vision. She danced with mismatched eyes, and floated amongst the sky.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Meg awakened the next morning to Maman silently opening her door, miniscule light being filtered into her room. The blonde's eyes slowly flickered open and sought out her mother's dark shape. "Bonne matinee, Maman," she greets, her voice hoarse and scratchy from sleep.

"Good morning, ma amour," she replies, sitting next to Meg's cocooned body on the bed. "I've brought breakfast. They were serving your favorite - croissants with strawberries and honey. I've extra honey, of course," Maman grins, and Meg slowly rights herself, now sitting next to her mother.

"They'll still be in America, right, Maman? I don't think I could live without them," the petite blonde jokes, and Madame laughs.

"I'd suppose they are, you silly thing. Now come, let's eat." Before they pull off, however, Meg's hands shoot out to clasp one of her mother's between her own.

"Maman, I . . . I feel very lost, when it comes to Erik," she admits, her gaze sliding away and down to the blankets. "I want to be kind, and I want to understand, but he makes it difficult. And it's difficult to overlook much of who he is . . . I've never met anyone like him, Maman."

Madame gently uncurls a hand from Meg's small and pale fingers and brushes lazy, golden strands from her cheeks. "It's alright, Meggie. You've done nothing wrong - he's the one that must adjust, as you have been trying. I'm praying he'll learn to move on and overcome who he was."

"How did you forgive him, Maman?" Meg questions, longing and something deep and empty swirling in her chest. "I don't think I can. Not even for Christine."

"Nor should you. But you can choose to be kind to him anyway, and though he's done wrong, understand that life has not shown him an ounce of compassion, no matter whether I was there or not. There's light in him, little one, I promise, and a warm heart. Somewhere in him, there is a man, and a scared little boy." Her words sunk into Meg, deep and penetrating and it burned like fire. She wanted to believe all of it - trust her mother, believe her mother, like she always had - but it was hard. He was a difficult man - for however many days she'd known him - and proved to not take well to kindness, anyway. Had it affected him more than Meg had seen?

"Now, to breakfast, Meggie, or I fear your stomach will wake the entire ship," Maman chuckles, and leads Meg out to the main room, Erik already feasting on pastries and honey.

Meg and Maman sit across from the masked man, and though he doesn't look up at her right away, he does share a quick glance, and she gives him a small smile. A look of confusion blemishes his gaze before returning to his task of pouring an unholy amount of honey on his croissants. Meg, pleased with what little reaction she receives, reaches across the table for a croissant, and pours honey across the warm bread. She then picks a few raspberries and blueberries to garnish her meal, and Maman pours Meg a tall cup of coffee.

The meal was silent - as seemed to be common among them - but was not unwelcome, at least, Meg found it that way. She didn't know the first thing to say, as it was easier to talk to Erik when Maman wasn't around, and vice versa.

After another croissant layered with honey and berries for Meg - and another three for Erik - the dishes were placed outside of the room, and their daily activities fell in schedule, resuming as if nothing had happened between the two of them. The daily click-clacking of Maman's shoes fled down the hall, and Meg centered her courage again, now feeding her curiosity.

"What's in the notebook?" She questions, her gaze cast away from him and instead toward the streaking, rising sun, bright and golden and warm. Meg inhaled deeply, the salty sea air weaving through her lungs. Why exhale, when the whole world is in your blood?

She heard the scratch of his pen stutter, and then a familiar, dark presence coming behind her. She glanced to her left, and there he was, towering and lethal and gentle. "I always wonder why you stare out of the window, as if you must memorize each line and shape and commit it all to memory."

Meg openly gaped, now turning to him. "Am I that transparent?"

"Very much, my dear," he replies, and he hands the notebook to her, a thumb between the bookmarked pages. "Your mother spoke of the culture in America - how very different it is from Parisian lifestyle. Everything down to the music is flipped, and I rather thought of being irony's fool, for the rest of my life."

"What do you mean, Erik?" She questions, now drawing cautiously close to him, and taking the leather-bound pages from his hands. Their fingers brushed, but neither of them mentioned it.

"Does it matter?" He snips, but Meg ignores it, unabashed in her curiosity and knowing of his projection mechanisms. She delicately opens the pages he had marked, and finds small sketches performers - a lead in the middle, she noted - wearing strange and flamboyant costumes. Meg thought that if they had been more than just black ink, they would be bright and flashy, as seemed to be New York. There was a large half mask across the top of the stage the dancers were drawn upon, small balls of light decorating the front of the stage, and a large banner, intricate and detailed, and had "Phantasma: City of Wonder" written across it. On the outsides, there were strange contraptions, twisting and turning and, well, wonderful.

"What is all of this?" She asks, her eyebrows scrunched as she brings it closer to her, fingertips running across the page. "It's almost like . . . it's almost like a - "

"Circus, yes, though without torture," he replies, and before he lets her continue, a look on her face of obvious questioning, he says, "and a place where we can be alone . . . where I can be alone, and finish my work."

"Your work? But what else . . . " a glare her way, and she decides to drop the subject. "So who will be performing? Will it be like the opera house, with the corps de ballet and the prima donna?"

"Similar, Meg, but I rather wonder who my rivals will be, though I can't imagine who could possibly compose music better than I," he states, and Meg giggles.

"Humble, I see," she comments, and his fingers seem to itch in a reach, and Meg hands the journal back to him.

"One of my defining traits, I'm afraid. Now, aren't you going to ask me what your role in all of this will be?" He asks, and Meg clasps her hands in front of her, and turns away, back toward the sunrise. Her mind reels back to Il Muto and Don Juan Triumphant, in which both she had held esteemed roles. That led her to assume an air of questioning, and she turned back to him, now closer to his side.

"What do you intend to do with me? I am certainly no singer, nor fine actress."

"Despite my earlier comments, your acting is fine. And as for your voice, though I have not heard the fully heard what you are currently capable of, you can hold a tune. I'd like to hear it, though, quickly," he says.

"You'll have to wait until we find a piano then in New York, Erik," Meg says. "There's certainly no piano in this room - I would have ran into it by now."

"That's not what I meant," he begins. "Never once have I seen a ship without a piano in the main room. We shall do it there."

She finds herself slack-jawed with him again. "There's . . . we . . . Erik, have you lost your mind? There's - "

"People, yes," he finishes for her. "Exactly why we should go at night. No one will detect a thing, and we'll be quiet as mice. I firmly doubt anyone will hear our music either."

Oh, did Meg Giry want to say yes. She was nervous to sing before a musical genius, but excited, as she'd always dreamed of becoming the prima donna. Or . . . whatever it would be in America. But she knew it wasn't a good idea. She trusted her Maman, and knew she was wiser than them both.

"Erik, Maman said - "

"Meg, I've created a career based around staying hidden, being physically quiet, escaping trouble, and generally being the upper hand in forcing many things to go my way. I promise, no one will know we were there," he says seriously, and Meg feels her resolve wavering, as well as guilt curling in her stomach for considering this, though she knew she would most likely say yes, much to her distaste.

"And mother?" She asks, folding her arms. "She is wound up tighter than a violin string near snapping, and sleeps lighter than when Papa told me ghost stories. We will never get past her."

"You think so?" He says, and Meg huffs, turning on him. "Yes, I think so -"

She stops, now finding him across the room, sprawled on the couch, and reading her copy of Frankenstein.

"You . . . " her mind scrambles, attempting to piece together the puzzle laid before her. "How? Did you throw your voice?"

"Yes, and, not to mention, did you hear my steps?" No response from her, which gave him an invitation to continue. "Therefore, we will not wake her up."

"And the door? It clicks when it closes," she says, now coming to sit beside him on the couch.

"Very slowly," he explains, "and very quietly. Meg, honestly, I can just as well find someone else, if you aren't up for it."

"Now, wait," she begins, leaning back against the couch, sinking into the cushions there. "Let me reconsider." After a few seconds, she laughs, closing her arms. "Do you honestly expect me to deny your request?"

"I'm not sure what to expect from you, my dear," he says, reopening the journal and seeking out his pen.

"Then it's a date," she says, though blushes after, sinking a little further. If he notices, he says nothing.

"There was a dancer in the middle. Is she the Prima Donna?" Meg questions.

"No," he replies. "She's an Empress."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The rest of the day was spent normally, in a serene silence, as Meg read and stretched and danced and slept, and Erik stayed focused on his plans for the rest of the day. Meg began to have the suspicion that it wasn't just plans he was working on, but didn't want to invade his privacy, so she didn't ask again.

After dinner that night, and she left to ready herself for bed, she closed her eyes as mother checked on her to wish her goodnight before turning over to her shoulder, the small cabin window barely allowing moonlight into the tiny room, and Meg became lost in her thoughts, much of Paris and Christine and the masked man she was friendly with, the Phantom of the Opera . . .

Without much time, she had accidentally slipped into sleep. She was once again beneath the opera house in Paris, but with a red cord wrapped about her neck, and horrid words snarled into her ear. She was woken up soon after that, shaking as she looked into the man looming above her, and she nearly screamed from the fright of her dream, if not for the hand being wrapped around her lips.

"Meg Giry, I know my face isn't the most beautiful thing to awake to, but consider it a blessing that at least my mask is on. Now, be quiet. Your mother is finally asleep," he whispers, and she shoves his hand away, the ring once again burning a cool brand against her cheek. The dancer slides her slippers on, and follows him quietly out the door, long, cold fingers gently coiled round her elbow. She looked over to her mother, who was rolled over in the bed, an arm thrown over her forehead and blankets scrunched around her. She looked decently asleep - the poor woman must be exhausted - and rather serene, which Meg couldn't help but grin at. There was then a tug on her elbow, and Meg flew forward, landing into his side, and sending a glare up his way. He ignores her, leading her out of the door, and slowly shutting it behind him.

A sort of giddiness filled Meg, along with guilt, that came along with sneaking out - and with a man, no doubt! He sent a curious look down to her in the dark, and murmured, "You've truly never snuck out?"

"I've snuck out and gotten snacks and stayed awake with my friends until after curfew, but nothing to this extent," she whispers back, a wide grin on her face.

No response from him, but as they went down the dark hallway, Meg found that she could no longer see as the moonlight faded, and her arm reached out, grasping his wrist. Though he seemed to freeze and stiffen, he allowed her, if nothing but for her to make her way through the dark.

"I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised that you can see in the dark," Meg murmurs, and he does nothing more than shush her, and she rolls her eyes in return.

They slowly crept down the stairs, much to Meg's fear, and her hand slid down to his, and clasped tightly.

"Meg, what on earth are you doing?" He says, attempting to draw his hand back, but Meg holds tight, her grip boldening on his.

"Erik, I can't see, and we're going down the stairs! Unless you expect me to fall, help me!" She whispers harshly at him, and he grumbles, curling his hand back around her and pulling Meg closer to his side. In the pitch black, Meg couldn't see more than the porcelain on his face, the gleam of his ring, and the sound of both of their breaths, now hyper-aware of every movement and noise.

"I believe, it's just right over there, oh! What luck!" He exclaims, leading Meg toward somewhere to her right, and she recognized a door being pushed open, to which they both went through, and then the bright night sky and the chilly air meeting her bare arms. The door closed behind them, and all was quiet and lonely, except for them.

"Come, Meg, let's warm you up," he gestures, beckoning her toward the piano where he pulls the bench out and sits, and Meg runs her hands up and down her arms, standing before him. She sincerely hoped he meant her skin, though she knew he was referring to her voice.

"Come, now, you surely can't expect me to believe you sing with that posture," he criticizes, and she shrugs, shivering. "Why didn't you grab a robe or a coverling?"

"I didn't expect to be whisked away somewhere outside, Erik! And I was a little preoccupied with sneaking out of our room to be worried about such a thing," she replies, and he grumbles, Meg catching a few curses under his breath and he sheds his cloak, standing to swaddle her shoulders, wrapping her in it. Her shaking fingers come up to the clasp of the top, and Meg wonders what her friends would all think, seeing her wear the Phantom's cloak. A stab of betrayal hits her, for her dear friend Christine, only imagining the look on her face.

"Now, we begin. A simple scale on the vowel 'Ah'"." His thin fingers begin to crawl over the keys as he draws her voice lower, and then higher and higher and higher, climbing until she cracks on a D, above Top C.

"Very good, Meg. Just as I thought before, you have a beautiful soprano, with a gorgeous color. Though, your breathing needs work, and despite your potential, you'll need technical practice over natural talent, which you are lacking in," he responds, gazing up at her, and Meg once again blushes, turning toward the ocean.

"I'm not sure whether to take it as a compliment or not, Erik," she replies honestly, fighting the blush away.

"It's critique, my dear, which I will be honest and brutal with."

Something ignites in her, and she grins a wide, toothy smile toward him. "Will you teach me? To sing?"

"Only if you promise to aid me in finding a chorus, whom I will need your opinion on their dancing technique. I, unfortunately, have no knowledge of ballet, or whatever sort of dance they have in America, and will need your opinion. And your mother's, of course."

"Yes!" She replies excitedly, though she credits much of her joy to the fact she's receiving free opera lessons. "Do I need to sing anything else?"

He shakes his head. "I think not. It's rather chilly, which isn't good for the voice, and I'd rather we begin our lessons in a setting that will become familiar to you, possibly with a mirror."

"Alright," she agrees, stepping out toward the railing, sitting on the floor and gazing up at the stars. She eventually closes her eyes, curling into the cloak, which smelled of mint and soap and something sharp, and is lulled into a state of numbness when his fingers begin to delicately press against the keys. They stay like that, in silence, and for the first time during this entire endeavor, Meg feels completely safe with him. Though, the thought does occur to her that her mother may notice their new shift in dynamic, but it doesn't matter. Wasn't it good that they were slowly becoming friendlier? Perhaps even friends, she wondered.

She hadn't even noticed he'd stopped playing until her name was on his lips. "Hmm?" She replies, though she doesn't open her eyes, wishing to remain in this safe, calm place.

"I'm sorry for the argument we had yesterday. I assumed something out of your words, and threw your feelings out of the context. I . . . I recognize that this is not where you wish to be, and I thank you that you continue to treat me with kindness, though I am undeserving and do not return the favor." His voice was soft and sincere, and Meg felt awareness strike her, and she rolled up onto her elbows slowly.

"But you have, Erik. You've offered to teach me to sing, you've given me a large part in your plans. And I sincerely believe that you are trying to be civil, though I know you must be feeling terribly heartbroken," she replies, and his gaze remains on the piano. Her eyes find his hands, and her head tilts, pondering how those fingers could create such beautiful music, but be capable of bringing destruction and death and evil.

She laid back down after a while, and he continued his music, though it became more mournful and broken, and tears formed in her eyes from the sheer agony of it. He eventually beckoned her to him, and took her hand in his, and led her back up the stairs and toward their room. He carefully opened Meg's door, and she looked back at him, grabbing his arm before he could close the door. "Thank you for taking me outside, tonight. It felt like ages before I got to see them again."

A small, fleeting grin, and then, "Goodnight, Meg," and he slowly closed the door, until she heard the barely noticeable click of it.

She kicked her slippers off and sunk into the bed, feeling warm and tired and maybe a little confused. She fell asleep quickly, and her last conscious thought was of the black cloak she was still swaddled in, and what she was going to tell her mother in the morning.