09

in which the opera ghost returns to new york city. 

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Erik awoke a few hours later to the clack of a cane against the floor, and he recognizes the walk as Madame Giry's. He slowly detracts himself from Meg, gently pushing her so she leaned more heavily against the wall than himself, and moved to unlock and open the door.

He found the elder Giry outside, holding a lantern with one hand, and the tell-tale cane in the other. He looks frantically at her cane, and she shakes her head.

"Many of the employees are already upstairs, keeping watch around the guest rooms and preparing the ship for departure. We can talk," she assures him, and he nods, kicking the door open with his heel and setting a bucket full of cleaning supplies he'd gathered from one of the shelves to prop the door open.

"Meg stepped on a glass shard last night. I extracted it and cleaned the wound, but it may be best if a medical professional still examine it," he says, and the woman goes to her waking daughter's side, smoothing a hand over her head.

"Morning, Maman," Meg greets, her eyelids fluttering open and slightly stretching, but wincing at her foot. She felt sore all over, and exhaustion was a heavy weight on her mind, but she felt relieved to get off the ship and be rid of the mystery surrounding everything. They wouldn't be able to follow them into New York City, relatively unknown, would they?

Meg tries to stand to join her mother and Erik, but struggles to stand without gasping in pain from her foot. Her mother sends a worried glance down at her and turns toward Erik.

He scoffs. "Well, what do you want me to do? I'm hardly a doctor . . . I wouldn't know the first thing about treating pain!"

The brunette rolls her eyes. "Come here, Meg," she says, and Meg looks at her mother frantically. Though the former prima ballerina had helped her and other girls with injuries many times before, she knew that the cold worked against her mother's already sore and weak joints, and wasn't sure if she'd be able to support both Meg's and her own weight.

"Maman, it's alright - I can walk myself," she says, and attempts to slide back up the wall, only putting weight on one leg, but against the rough texture and the pressure working against her efforts.

She feels Erik, then, kneeling down beside her, and wrapping an arm under her shoulders. She nearly jerks away from him, but once the warm skin of his fingers meet her back and mismatched eyes find hers, she relaxes, and her fingers fist into the cloth at the front of his shoulders. His other hand moves beneath her thigh, and Meg shivers at the contact, and he helps her stand before him.

"Thank you," she replies, not yet letting go, worried of toppling over. She feels her mother come behind her, smoothing back hair that had fallen in front of her face.

"Are you alright? Erik said you stepped on a piece of glass," she questions, and Meg nods, attempting to turn, and nearly tripping, to which Erik's hands find her elbows to hold her steady.

"Perhaps I may need a bit of help walking," she jokes nervously, feeling the tension in the man that held her up.

"Perhaps," he says dryly, and Meg glances up at him apprehensively, his mood already vastly different from when they had spoken earlier. He was a difficult man to read, but she knew it most likely stemmed from discomfort. "Now, if it isn't too much to ask, could we leave this cursed ship and talk about your daughter's apparent clumsiness later?"

The older woman glares at Erik. "Watch your tone with me, young man," she scolds, and he huffs a breath, but doesn't say anything more. Meg attempts to swing her arm around his shoulder but instead reaches around his waist, and he hoists her to the side so most of her weight was against him. She felt supported enough to only reach one foot on the ground, and she gingerly rests her foot by her ankle in coupé. She limps with him as they follow Madame Giry out of the door, and his fingers tighten around her hip when she gasps painfully as her foot accidentally touches the floor.

"We'll need to go up a flight of stairs," the woman announces, turning toward the odd pair. Erik refuses to look at Meg as she glances up at him, and she sighs, turning back toward her mother.

"Help me get to the side of the stairs. I can use the railing to walk up," the blonde announces, beginning to pull away from Erik, and she nearly shrieks when an arm loops beneath her knees, and she's suddenly many feet off the ground.

"Don't look at me that way, Antoinette. You know well as I that we would have been here for hours if Meg had to climb that way," he says, already beginning to move, wanting to set the girl down as quickly as possible.

"A little warning next time?" Meg jokes, though she nearly felt affronted by his swiftness.

"This will never happen again," he says, and once they reach the last step, and though he delicately put her down, she could tell he was relieved to have her out of his careful hold.

"I should sure hope so," Meg replies, testing her balance as her toes slowly hit the ground.

As he moved to support her once more and Madame Giry caught up behind them, Erik remembered a time, many months ago - was it truly almost six months? - when he had carried another woman in his arms, a halo of chocolate curling gently down her shoulders, her arms draped with lovely white lace . . .

No, he amended, he wouldn't think of her now. Meg's grip loosened slightly when she began to find a rhythm with him, and they both heard the familiar clacking of the ballet mistress beside them. The blonde felt uncomfortable and exposed in her nightgown, and she was certain her bare feet were dirtied and bloodied. Once they had reached the darkened lobby, Erik helped Meg down onto a dark brown couch, where she propped her foot up and leaned back.

"I'll be back in a moment with our things," she promises, settling herself next to Meg on the couch for a moment. Before she could move, however, Erik had lunged up, and already made his way down the hallway.

"Erik," Madame Giry began, but he held a hand up to her.

"Let me," he says, and then was quickly on his way off, already exiting the lobby and turning toward the set of stairs he knew to be on the other side.

Meg leans against her mother's shoulder, seeking comfort in affection, and a warm arm comes around her. "Are you doing alright, ma choupette?" She asks, and Meg nods, closing her eyes tiredly.

"Other than the past week, I suppose," she replies, giving her mother a small smile. She doesn't respond other than an arm wrapping tighter around her, and a kiss to the crown of her head.

"I pray that if any of us come out unscathed, it be you," the woman says. "Don't be frightened of what's coming. Nothing will happen to you, alright?"

The blonde's eyes flicker closed, and she brings her uninjured foot underneath herself. "I hope so, Maman."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Meg nearly fell asleep before she heard Erik return, though it was quiet and stealthy. She only became aware when she heard two bags drop, and the soft sound of approaching footsteps.

Her eyes flickered open to land on Erik, and he stood before her, rather awkwardly. "Everything was untouched when I arrived," he said, "The room, however, was in disarray. I found this under the bed," he said, and held out Meg's precious copy of Frankenstein, the covers torn off, pages ripped and crumpled, and she suspected some were missing.

With trembling hands, she gently took the destroyed novel from him, her fingers brushing over the note left on the first page. 'To my Little Meg, may you never change.' She held the novel close to her heart, and shut her eyes tightly, warding off stubborn tears.

"We'll get you another copy, when we can," her mother reassures, rubbing her back, but Meg shakes her head.

"Papa gave this to me," Meg whispers, her voice choked and distressed. "We're never seeing him again, are we?" She takes a shuddering breath, attempting to calm herself. Now was not the time to cry, she told herself. "And . . . and he won't even know where we are, and we surely can't tell him . . . " Tears began to cloud her vision with a thick sadness, and she began to feel the heavy weight of despair on her heart.

"Meg, it's alright, dear," her mother shushes, brushing tears away from her daughter's cheeks. "If it's meant to be, we'll find each other again."

She nods, and Meg wipes away the remaining tears as her mother firmly grips her cane, standing. Her gaze follows Erik as he slowly reaches out a hand to her. She cradles the damaged novel tightly to her chest with one hand as he presses her to his side, her other arm latching itself around his waist. He grabs her bag with his other hand, and she blindly limps with him, attempting to shove her emotions somewhere far, far away, far from all of this.

She was still barefoot, bloodied, and her face was puffy and red from crying, but no one seemed to question it - or Erik's mask, much to their relief - as they exited the boat. It was chilly, and the ground was freezing as she limped out, and Meg nearly leaned farther against Erik for warmth.

"It's a processing center," her mother was telling her as Meg sat on a wooden fence, pulling a sock and boot over her uninjured foot.

"Will there be any French speakers?" Meg questions, wincing as she tried to pull the cotton over her wrapped foot. If Erik - who presumably knew English - were left to do the talking for them, she worried that they'd never be allowed entrance. A small smirk graced her mouth at the thought.

"I would suppose so. It would be valuable for you to learn English, though, Meg, even more so than me. Perhaps Erik can teach you," she says, glancing over at the masked man, who was leaning against a tree growing behind the bark of the bench. His arms were crossed, and his eyebrow rose at her comment.

"You assume too much, Madame. Perhaps I now charge a hefty fee."

"Perhaps you should choose a new occupation, then," Meg adds, wincing as she knots the laces gently. She gingerly steps onto the ground, testing out the new support, but pain still shoots through her foot as the contact.

He chuckles, and Meg's mind reels at the darkness of his tone. She hears him approach her, but her hand darts out to stop him. "I think I'm alright." She tests the boot out again and stands, though, after a few moments of adjusting, she was no longer in agony.

"All for the better, then. My shoulder was beginning to cramp," he says, and a small grin paints her lips as she begins to move, standing beside Erik.

"Meg," her mother says, and they both stop, turning to look toward the older woman. "Put this on. It's important we continue to sell the ruse, or else we'll be separated."

She nods, taking her mother's ring and sliding the diamond onto her left ring finger. It was elegant and antique, and it was smooth on her sensitive skin as it slid on, near the crevice where her finger met the top of her palm. The thin circle of gold sat right above her first knuckle, and she shivered while glancing down at it. She wondered if this was what Christine felt, both times a man had offered her a ring.

But no matter, she thought, bringing her hand back down to the side. Meg realized that she may never marry, and though perhaps she may not have, if she would have became Prima Ballerina, she knew it was what her mother wished for her. And during moments where Meg helped her friends sneak out into the night to meet their lovers behind the opera house, she craved the same kind of belonging.

They began walking toward the entrance now, Meg's pace slow. Fog was a heavy blanket around them, and she was thankful when her mother handed her a long coat to hide her nightgown. The sun had barely begun to rise, which made the business of the place even more shocking. It was as if this city never slept, never turned off its lights, never rested. She looked up at the large building, and could already see the immense number of people being shuffled through the windows. It was grand and functional, though nothing like the beauty of the opera house back in Paris. She wondered if this was what New York looked like, so bare and bland, and her heart sank at the thought. She knew they were offshore, somewhere called Ellis Island, and Meg racked her brain for what she'd read on this place in the past, but her exhausted and sleep-deprived mind found nothing of importance. The architecture was different, she noted, and though not as exciting as everything else she'd seen, she wondered what lay ahead of them.

"I'll go first," her mother said as they entered the building, stepping in line behind one of the rows of people near the middle. Meg went next, and then the former phantom was last. Her mother glanced carefully at her, and then Erik and the message her gaze carried was the same as the last: don't speak unless spoken to.

It was loud and hot as they stepped through, and then Meg's foot began to throb as it was exposed to heat and sweat. She brought her bag closer to her, burying her copy of Frankenstein near the bottom, and dug around until she found her small bag of rope and ribbons she'd used to tie her hair back. She brought out a thin strip of yellow linen and bracketed her bag between her ankles. She tied it around her hair, feeling relieved as the air hit the back of her neck.

As she was wrapping the ribbon around her hair, Erik smelled a hint of her perfume, though he assumed it was soap she'd used to clean her hair. It was similar to Christine's, he noted, and all the ugly emotions and heartbreak rose in his chest again. He waited for her hands to lower, and with that, the sweet and fruity scent fled his senses, and he unsqueezed his hands.

Sweat gathered on his hairline and under his mask, making the warped skin itchy and uncomfortably sticky. Warmth also sunk beneath his stiff and expensive clothes. If he ever returned to anywhere remotely like under the opera house, he vowed he'd never think rudely of the biting cold of underground ever again.

Similarly, Meg wanted to remove the long coat her mother had given her, but didn't think it wise to remove it with only her nightgown beneath. She prayed they'd make it out soon, wishing for the chilly air to find her again. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she'd saw the flaming red crown of Fleck, but once she looked, she couldn't make out whether it was her or not. She desperately had wanted to seek her out on the boat more often, wanting to form new relationships to make up for those she'd left behind, but knew it was unlikely they'd ever meet each other again.

The blonde surmised it had been at least two hours of being herded through this heated place, wiping away sweat from her brow. Her left foot was nearly numb from leaning heavily on it for so long. She felt horrible for her mother, who was so much older than her, and knew that the heat must be cruelly unbearable for her if Meg could hardly handle it.

She hissed as someone from the row next to them stepped on her foot, and she leaned to the side, Erik catching her before she toppled over, and moving her back in line in front of him. "Watch your step," he drawls.

She sputters, frustration building in her. "Someone stepped on my foot! It's hardly my fault."

"And yet I don't see how that's my problem. Though perhaps if he does it again, you should give him a few nasty words." She hears the grin in his voice, and a chuckle escapes her.

She moves to face him, but before she could turn around, her sweeping gaze finds that of a man, perhaps near middle-age, staring at them. Once her gaze meets his, he quickly looks away.

"Did you see that man?" She asks, and he nods. "Who do you think it was?"

"Nothing to worry about, I think," he replies, though Meg watches as his eyes harden.

"Do you think that's . . ." She trails off. She shivers, remembering the notes. "But they can't follow us, right?"

"Don't worry about it," he repeats again, and she fixes him with a hard stare.

"Don't worry about the men who threatened me? Don't worry about whoever is behind this that knows my mother's name? My last name? Knows you wear a mask? May know what my face looks like now? Yeah, fat chance of that," she huffs, turning back around. She picks her bag back up, and slings it around her elbow.

"What do you want me to do? Go over there and demand he tell us who he is?" He asks, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "You can't truly be so naive as to not realize that he may have just been staring because of your youth, Meg."

"That doesn't make me feel any better," she replies. "And I'm not naive - I grew up in an opera house, where Parisian scandals usually began."

"Then why - " He begins, but Madame Giry cuts him off.

"Must you both argue incessantly? We're almost to the front of the line. Behave." She turns to Meg then, eyes softening. "And Erik is right, dear. Don't worry about that man - I doubt anything will follow us."

"And if it does?" Meg questions, fingers tangling nervously together by her stomach.

She pauses. "I'm not sure. But if it does, we'll figure it out when the time comes. Alright?"

Meg nods, and she picks up her mother's bag in an effort to move forward. They were now fast approaching the front of the line, and as the sun drew higher in the sky, more people stared at the mask on Erik's face. He ignored it casually, though she could see the anger and discomfort in his eyes.

She heard her mother request a French speaker, and an older woman came to greet them. "Bonjour," Meg greeted, a sweet smile on her face, glad to meet a new-faced French after all this time. She smiles back.

"I'll take you each one at a time, then," she says, and glances at Madame Giry. Meg's ears were buzzing, and she wondered if Paris was even her home anymore. They were legally entering the country, though they had fake documents that weren't yet needed. She satisfied herself with knowing that she would always be French, and Paris would always be a part of her. Perhaps if she married or Christine found her, she could return. Or perhaps Papa would find her and whisk her away on his adventures on the sea? Last she'd heard, he traveled to London. Her eyes widened, searching the building, the beige walls on either side of them. Perhaps he was here, right now?

"Why," Erik says in her ear, and she startles away, turning to glance at him.

"What?"

"Just use 'Y', as in the letter, as our last name. I can't imagine anyone else would have that name," he explains, and Meg nods.

"Alright," she agrees, turning back around, fighting down a blush she hopes he doesn't notice. She felt embarrassed, maybe even a little ashamed of her fake marriage, especially since it was something she'd thought of since she was a little girl. Never did she think - well, never did she think any of this would happen, she corrected herself. Though really, as she grew older, she didn't want to marry, especially since it would yank her from her dancing career. And that was something she never wanted to give up.

"Okay, Mrs. ?" The woman asks her, her mother being led toward a line in a grander room, a chandelier hung high on the ceiling, and long windows lining the sides of the room. There was expensive tile beneath them, and though she couldn't see very far to the front, she saw that numerous people were stopping and signing documents before exiting.

"Y. Marguerite Y," she offers, and the woman nods, and Meg nearly cringes. Should she have used a fake first name? Perhaps this would for the best, she realized since she'd never have to worry about responding to a fake name.

"Great. I'm going to ask you a few questions, and you must answer completely and honestly," she says, and Meg can almost hear her heart as it pounds rapidly. "Have you any money, relatives or job in the United States?" Meg shakes her head. "Are you a polygamist? An anarchist?"

"No, of course not!" She says. "No to either of those things."

The questions continued to come, and Meg became weary from them, though was thankful they were all "yes" and "no" questions, and none of them required much expansion on her part. She could feel Erik close behind her, listening in on the questions, and perhaps preparing responses. A doctor then came and poked and prodded her, checking for disease, and as she figured, found none.

"Etienne Y," she heard him say behind her, and before she was ushered off the medical table, the doctor found her attention.

"If you don't mind me asking, why does your husband wear a mask? Is it a medical condition?" He asks, and Meg quickly developed a lie.

"My husband fought in the Crimean War. He sustained . . . many cosmetic injuries," she lies. "Please don't ask him of it, if you can. He's terribly insecure of his blemishes, and as I'm sure you know, many veterans don't enjoy speaking of war."

"Of course, Madame. So long as we find no need to check for disease," he says, and with a lump in her throat, she nods. She glances back at Erik, hoping he'd heard enough, and he discreetly nods. She's then led back to her mother, and Erik soon joins them.

This wait was much shorter, and they found their way to the front of the line in mere minutes. They were instructed to write their names, and then were escorted toward the front of the building, out a pair of double-doors.

The sun was shining and hit a tall copper statue she'd only read of, and Erik explaining that it was called the Statue of Liberty, and was a gift from the French for their friendship. As they loaded onto another boat, shoulder to shoulder with people and headed midland, her gaze was fixed on the statue before turning toward the city, rising to her toes to see over the taller heads in the crowd, and she grinned and the buildings came nearer. Excitement rushed through her veins and stole the breath from her lungs.

"You've truly never been out of Paris," Erik asks her, and she shakes her head no. But in that moment, it didn't matter. As the sun came out and warmed their shoulders and cheeks in the chilly air, Meg smiled.