07

in which the shadows attack, enter death. 

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Meg's breath caught in her throat as her mother spoke in hushed tones to Erik, warning him of the quickly spreading rumors and news. She could tell Maman was holding back, perhaps to quench Erik's wrath at what they had been saying about him. To be fair, Meg thought, most of what everyone had been saying was probably true, though she'd seen uncharacteristic softness and gentleness in him that was incredibly alluring. It made Meg's chest warm, when he was calm and gentle. Maybe this was the Angel of Music persona Christine had spoken of, though Meg hoped this was just Erik, and not anything he created.

"Did anyone say anything of the shape of his mask, Maman?" Meg questions, coming sit by the eldest Giry. "It's more likely to be believed that he died in the fire. If anyone accuses him, they have no proof to stand behind. I think it will be okay."

"A very sound proposition, Meg, but I still worry," she says, turning to face the man again. "I'm still not sure of the immigration process, but it sounds as if our names will be written down. I rather regret going through the trouble of making these documents, as it's all verbal."

"I wouldn't rush to get rid of them, Antoinette," Erik says, leaning back against his seat, seemingly unfazed that a crazed amount of individuals on the ship were telling ghost stories of him. "I have a feeling we'll have difficulty with myself. And I can't imagine that this . . . paperless period will last much longer. Though it certainly makes our situation easier."

Maman nods, and asks Meg to fetch her cane, and Meg brings it over to her, sitting by her once more. "We'll keep up the ruse of you both being married until we are in the States." She turns back to Erik, and palms the top of her cane in her hand, preparing to stand. "We'll find you a new name, a pseudonym, and keep you as hidden as possible. I've heard of a new cosmetic process in which you may be able to lessen the bad side of your face, Erik."

His eyes now carefully dragged back to the older woman, and his fingers raised to the masked side of his face. "You mean . . . "

"Yes, my boy, I do," she says, with a small smile on her face. "Though it's ultimately your choice."

Meg glances at him then, her eyes surveying the half landscape of his face that was publicly viewable, and imagined how he'd look, his face whole, and she blushes as his eyes meet hers. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him analyze her, confusion painting his features, before looking away. She fights the blush away and addresses her mother again, who was now standing and walking toward the door.

"Are you sure you're ready to return, Maman?" She asks, coming to stand beside her and help the Madame back into her velvet-lined coat.

"I'll be alright, Meg. Just be careful, as always," she warns, and Meg nods, opening the door. She watches her Maman make her way down the hallway before closing the door and turning back around, finding Erik now sprawled across the bed, his ridiculous height forcing his legs to hang off the end and the side.

"I see you've made yourself at home," Meg says, gathering their dishes into a neat pile on the serving plate.

"She can't come back," he says, and the blonde glances at him, a worried expression lining her forehead.

"What do you mean? Maman?" She asks, and he shakes his head.

"Your little friend from yesterday. What was her name? Felicity," he says, and Meg breathes deeply, trying to keep herself stoic and calm.

"And why not? She doesn't know my fake husband is the former Phantom of the Opera," she argues back, moving to set the dishes outside of the door. "I will do as I please."

He sits up now, his eyebrows raised. "And what will you say this time? Perhaps you will lead her to believe I'm exhausted from nighttime activities, again?" He chuckles as she blushes again, and settles himself back against the mattress. "Especially with your mother in the same room. Can you imagine what she must think of you?"

Meg rolls her eyes. "I am not talking about this with you, you disgusting, foul-minded man." Meg turns away, walking back to her corner of the room, and tried the windows again, disappointment curling threw her as she found the weather to be dark and dreary once more, the sunlight refusing to poke out.

Erik's eyebrows raise in humor, his eyes following her as she makes her way towards the curtains, and watches her face fall at the gray and blue landscape outside. She closes the curtains and digs around in her mother's things before pulling out a box of matches, and lighting the candle near the sink. She then curls up on the couch, a blanket thrown about her, and held a book in her hand, which Erik recognized as 'The Count of Monte Cristo'. Before he could comment, however, there was a scream down the hallway, and then a yell, which belonged to her mother.

Before he could even breathe, Meg leaps up and quickly crosses the room, but Erik catches her by the arm and pulls her back to him, a wild and fearful look in her eyes. "Meg, you need to stay here," he says calmly to her, his tone gentle, trying to coax the fierce and scared look from her eyes. She, however, doesn't hear a single word, and now began to shout at him to let her go.

Erik looked toward the door as there was more commotion outside, and dark, quick shadows flew past, marking their path beneath the door. He panicked, Meg now only fighting harder and steadily raising her voice, screeching, "Maman!" and pushing against his hand before his arm snaked around her waist and his hand found her mouth, effectively silencing her.

"Meg!" He exclaims roughly, and at the cringe of the woman in his arms, he now regards her with a soothing tone, sugar dripping from his voice. "Meg, you need to calm down. It wasn't your mother who screamed, and we need to stay in here."

She stopped fighting and melted, and he removed his arm and hand from her, and Meg wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold. "Are you sure it wasn't here? She yelled . . . I know it was her who yelled."

Before he could respond, the sky suddenly became very dark, and the room blacked and decayed. Meg squeezed her eyes shut, beyond frightened and terrified, but knew she had to stay in the room, regardless of what happened outside. There was more commotion and yelling, but Meg couldn't make any words out, except that everyone seemed terrified of what lay beyond in the hallway. She subconsciously moved closer to Erik, desperate for comfort, though she knew he wouldn't offer any.

"Erik," she began, but he cut her off, shaking his head and holding a finger to his lips to signal her to be quiet before glancing back at the door. The shadow stopped before it, and Meg listened earnestly for the sound of her mother, but found none.

The doorknob then began to rattle, and many shadows bleed beneath the door, and Erik pulled Meg away, sweeping her towards the small room, quickly closing and locking the door. She fell against him, fear and nausea beginning to overwhelm her, but Erik flinches as she does so. His fingers come about her shoulders and leads her toward the bed, instructing her to lay down and be quiet. She does so, her eyes cast toward the door as she hears the larger one swing open, and she listens as carefully as she can, desperate to hear her mother's voice.

Tears gather in her eyes before she hears her Maman say, "I only had a fright . . . I've recently been exposed to something similar. It merely brought me back, though the sight of anything to that nature should warrant such a response," she exclaims to an unknown person, and Meg covers her mouth, a sob hiccuping through her mouth in relief. She spots Erik sag against the wall, seemingly experiencing a similar emotion to hers.

The voices outside faded away, and Meg glanced toward the masked man, feeling relieved that he was here. She evaluated then, how much her feelings toward him had shifted in the past week, though that was hardly her fault. They quite literally hadn't been apart for that amount of time, and Meg supposed it made sense that they would grow closer, though she still felt somewhat wary of his unpredictable behavior. She was slowly learning what triggers those emotions, though she couldn't walk on eggshells forever. She was doing her part, now it was time for him to do his.

His eyes met hers, and after a moment of hesitation, she slid over to the left side of the bed so she was no longer straddling the middle and patted her hand beside, offering the seat next to hers. He shook his head no, giving her a wild look, but she did so once more, mouthing that she wanted to talk, so he rolled his eyes and cautiously joined her, nearly on the edge to keep space between them.

"And what, Meg Giry, did you want to speak of?" He questions, his whisper just as powerful as his normal voice, and she shivered.

"What happened?" She replies quietly, her voice still wobbly from her fright earlier. "Can you hear?"

He nods, twining his fingers in front of him and placing them on his lap, legs sprawling out across the bed in front of him. He leaned back against the headboard, and Meg was shocked at how still he could become. He seemed stiff, maybe uncomfortable. "I need you to promise me that you'll stay calm, Meg," he says, his voice low and comforting, and Meg feels that magnetic pull again, and sinks into herself, as if sleepy. She felt strangely calm.

"I promise," she replies, curling on her side to face him, hands beneath her chin.

"Someone has died," he said, and an alarmed look passes through Meg's face, and his hand immediately shoots out to wrap around her upper arm, and she relaxes, though he quickly pulls away.

"When . . . " she begins, her voice shaking again. "When you say someone has died . . . do you mean -"

"Killed, Madame Giry, killed! We will be ruined!" A shout comes from outside, and Meg freezes up, her knees curling up to her chest and covers her face with her hands. She tried to calm her breathing and moved a hand to cover her heart and the other to her stomach, and tried to steady her breathing, though her brain whirred with fright. Never had more happened in her eighteen years of life than what all had occurred in the past week. What more was to come?

And, the more pressing question, who died?

She heard weeping outside, feminine and high, and Meg's heart dropped, knowing that maybe whoever had died had had a daughter, now left behind. Meg couldn't imagine losing her maman, and her chest tightens at the thought. She'd surely follow her mother in death if the older Giry passed.

There was a rattling of the door, and both Meg and Erik's attention snapped toward the noise. "What do we do?" She mouthed toward him, and he pushed her back down onto the bed, the masked side of his face smothered by pillows. She nearly yelped as his arm came back down around her waist and pulled her body towards him, her back against his chest. She stiffens, feeling warm and strange and wanting to push him away.

"We're asleep, Meg," he whispers, and she slowly relaxes her body and curves into him. It was comforting, the affection, which is what she always sought from her mother and Christine and her other friends. It also felt intoxicating, the warmth he gave her, and she felt her heart begin to calm, though nervous energy raced through her limbs.

"Monsieur, my daughter and her husband are resting. Leave them be. My daughter recently was prey to tragic events, and hasn't been sleeping well. If you wake her, I will be quite short with you," her mother warns, though the door still comes open, a key jiggling in the lock.

"I apologize, Madame, but every crevice of the room must be checked," the man says, and Meg wonders if he is the owner of the ship, or perhaps one of the higher-ups. The door then swings open and Meg stills herself, attempting not to flinch. His arm tightens around her waist, as if in warning, and then voices begin to overlap once more.

"Leave them be," said the weeping woman. "That woman . . . she was kind to me. I believe that she had nothing to do with this, nor her husband."

Meg recognized the voice easily: it was Fleck, and she was shocked that her stomach could plummet anymore than what it already had. Erik must have felt the emotion swelling within her, as his hand slowly crept up slowly and inconspicuously to cover her heart, and he breathed deeply, in and out. Meg followed him, his fingers a cold and firm pressure against her collarbone, and though she felt her head start to clear, she still felt warm and overwhelmed.

"Do none of you care for privacy? They've been asleep this whole time. They haven't killed anyone, nor is there anyone hiding in the room. Are you quite satisfied?" Madame Giry exclaims, hissing quietly, and Meg hears grumbling before the door swiftly closes, the click soft and gentle. Erik immediately releases her, and the cold of the room is freezing and unwelcome, and Meg curls under the blankets, shaking from the frigid air. She knew it was early in the evening, which she welcomed for their disguise. If it had been any earlier, suspicion most certainly would have followed them.

After the footsteps seemed to leave and the door closed one last time, Erik leapt off the bed and crossed to the other side of the room. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable," she hears him say with little emotion.

She doesn't respond for a moment, her eyes gazing out of the glass-covered window. "What else would we have done? Hide under the bed?" She replies, curling into herself more. "It's alright, Erik. I don't find you at any fault."

He doesn't reply back, though she hears him slide down the wall, sitting in a corner. Meg turns away from the window, the light from outside now too thick for her tired eyes. She felt exhausted, all the stress and nerves and never-ending fright of many minutes settling onto her already abused consciousness.

"Go to sleep, Meg. I'll leave when Madame Giry returns and allows me out," he says to her, her eyes already drooping, even though moments ago she had felt wide-awake.

She drifts off to sleep quickly, somewhere far away and sunny, somewhere with Maman and Papa, and maybe Christine and Raoul were there. When they all gathered together, though, however, there was a strange addition to the group, a man donning a mask and clad in black.

Erik watched Meg as she slept soundly, curiosity flooding him of the way her perspective is shaped and how she views situations. How similar her and Christine are, yet different in nearly all ways. At remembering her, a certain guilt suddenly racked him at the way he had held Meg, though he had never Christine - or anyone - in such a way before, nor did he truly think he ever would. He wanted her back at his side - so fiercely that he could barely breathe - and though he wished, he knew that he was likely never to see her again. His mind began turning, introducing and creating new ways for her to return to him, but he waved them away, thinking of the temper of the elder Giry and, strangely enough, not wanting to bring more pain to the blonde lying on the bed before him.

His back began to ache from the position, and he stood, stretching and wincing at his tight muscles from sitting so long. Night had fallen, the light beginning to fade to black, and he glanced toward the door, frustrated that the Madame had not returned yet. His eyes were then cast toward the bed with the sleeping dancer, wrapped in blankets and curled away from the window, facing him.

Erik closes his eyes and slowly climbs onto the bed, maintaining just as much distance as before, nearly hanging off of the bed. He sat up again, near the headboard, with no intention of falling unconscious. Though after a while of battling his thoughts of Christine and time continued to pass, his eyes began to flutter close and breathing deepen. His last conscious thought was of Antoinette's sure wrath at the way he had held her daughter.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"We truly have nothing!" The man shouted, slamming his hand on the desk, and all but Madame Giry flinched. She sent a stern gaze toward him, and calmly explained that reacting violently leads them nowhere closer to an answer. She was anxious to return back to Meg and reassure her, knowing she must have had a fright, and her only comfort was a man who had experienced so little of any he surely didn't know how to return it. And though it was a clever thought, she could certainly ring Erik's neck for handling Meg that way.

"Then what do you suggest, Madame?" The man said, his accent thick and English. "Nearly everyone on board will know what has occurred in, well, surely, the next handful of minutes. We have no way to protect the passengers, no way to reassure Miss Felicity, and no justice to be brought about if we can't find the killer!"

"Couldn't she have . . . simply offed herself?" A young man in the back asked, and the older woman laughed, gripping her cane tighter.

"You simply weren't there, Monsieur. It was a horrid sight indeed - no single being could have mutilated herself to that extent." She turns back to the inspector and curls her fingers to now cradle the cane in both hands. "We haven't searched your rooms nor your desk yet. Perhaps that should be next in our investigation."

"That's absurd!" The man says, now standing from his seated position. "We searched in the beginning, what makes you think there's anything now?"

Madame Giry moves him aside, and he begins to shake from anger. Before he can say anything, however, the brunette finds a crumpled parchment in the top drawer, and pulls it out for their inspection. "A letter, I see."

His eyes blow wide and he burns in shame from the curious glances cast in his direction. "I . . . Madame, surely you know I have no part in this plot!"

She nods, carefully unfolding the paper with leathery-gloved hands. "Of course, Monsieur. I had a feeling evidence would be planted with you."

"With me?" He stutters, crossing the room toward her. "How?"

"Intuition," she replies, but as she reads the letter, fear begins to coil through her, and her head became abuzz with confusion and fright and sudden understanding.

"I must return to my family to alert them of the news," she says quickly, shoving the letter into his hands, and he quickly reads the letter, the words burning into his mind and he glances back up at her, confusion riddling his vision.

"Now, Madame, we must figure out what connects you to this case - " He argues, but she cuts him off with a raised hand.

"Monsieur, it's not right for me to keep my daughter in the dark. She should be prepared for anything. If they are after me, they may come near her too, which I simply won't allow. I will see you soon," she says, and crosses quickly out of the room, cold and lowered eyes following her and she races down the hallway.

"You idiot! You fool!" A man shouts under his breath, though it was too quiet for the aged mother to hear. He disappears back into the shadows, returning back to wherever he came from.

Right when she opens the door to their room, she hears silence, and her heart drops, worry flooding her that something had happened to Erik and Meg. The door was still unlocked from when it had been opened from earlier, and she carefully cracks it open, and some strange mix of shock and something else layer inside of her at the sight before her.

Erik was asleep, his hands folded and twined before him, his head leaning back and his mask slightly ajar. Meg, however, was curled on her side toward him, her blonde strands brushing against his clothed thigh, and her fingers reaching toward his.

She didn't want to wake either one, and instead kept the door open and sat upon her own bed in the bigger room, her cane in her shaking hands. Meg was smart and reasonable, she knew this, but the Madame began to feel more regret than before for bringing Meg along.