"The who of the what now?" Fleur asks, arching an eyebrow.

"The Phantom of the Opera, Madame. I created him, and I am him," he replies, and Meg feels her mother reach under the table and grasp her hand tightly.

Fleur was silent for a moment. "You were the masked man the opening night of Don Juan Triumphant. You killed the lead. You dropped the chandelier on the audience. You kidnapped that young girl!" Her face was red once again. "Was it you? Has he kidnapped you and dragged you here?" Her gaze bore into Meg's, and her head shot up, shaking her head wildly back and forth.

"Of course not! I wasn't the girl, and he hasn't kidnapped me! If I was, do you truly believe I would still be here? I would have gone to the police!" Meg exclaims, leaning forward.

"Did your mother drag you into this, then? How could you do this to your own daughter?"

Madame Giry doesn't reply, her face incredibly screwed and guilty. "Fleur, please, I would have been there alone. There was no other choice," Meg defends.

Fleur is silent for a moment before her eyes widen again, eyes finding Meg's ring. "Oh, don't tell me you're truly married! That man is a monster. I have seen many things in my life, my dear, and nothing was quite as horrifying as that night, and I suspect his sins aren't restricted to just that night."

"Marguerite," her mother warns, but Meg ignores her, continuing on.

"I'm not disagreeing with you, but please, please try to understand," Meg begs. "I think it would be better if my mother explained this."

"I know nothing is going to change your mind. All I beg is that you leave Meg out of this, and you hear out Erik. Let me tell you the rest of the story - there's so much more. So much more to him," she explains passionately, putting a hand on Erik's forearm. He glanced away from the brunette, and Meg recognized the brief flash of emotion in his eyes.

"Alright," she agrees, crossing her arms. Robin began to cry and Meg jumped up, but Fleur pointed an angry finger at her.

"Don't ever touch my grandson again," she warns, leaving the room, heading toward the teary infant.

Meg recoiled from the harsh words, and her mother gently rubs her back, trying to ease her pain.

"I-I'm sorry," Meg gasps out, and Erik's fists clench, though not in anger. Regret and pain wells in his chest for the guilt she must be feeling. It bothered him, this swelling of sympathy in his heart.

"Not your fault," she reminds the blonde quietly. "Everything is going to be alright, ma choupette."

"Now, Robin, hush," the grandmother lovingly chastises, holding the child against her bosom. Her skin was still flushed but gradually became paler again. The small bundle in her arms seemed to bring her a considerable amount of calmness, and Meg was grateful for it.

"From the beginning, Erik, if that's truly your name. You will omit no details of what you've done."

"It would be better if I explain, Fleur," Madame Giry points out, and after quick glances between them, she settles back into her chair, seemingly satisfied.

"Alright. How do I know if I can trust you?"

"You don't. But I have no reason to lie, and what I am about to tell you is far uglier than any well-groomed lie," the brunette explains. "And if you decide to still place the blame, I ask that you place it entirely upon me."

"Antoinette -" Erik begins softly, but she cuts him off, patting the back of his hand.

"No 'buts', Erik. It will all be alright," she reassures him before continuing on with her grim tale. She begins with little more than an explanation of his beginning few years with her, and entirely skipped over when he had ran away, and his time in Russia, Persia, and Italy. Meg saw the nervous glances he cast toward her mother after she seemed to evade something. Later, she determined, she would ask. But now was certainly not the time.

At the end of her mother's dark story, Meg felt heavy, dread hanging in her stomach after learning of Erik's past, albeit much seemed to be held back. Never once has a priest, his family or whatever happened in Italy been mentioned. There was more left untold, she knew, much more than being toyed with and possessed at the circus, much more than being held captive in Persia.

"You've had a long and troubling past, monsieur, I shall give you that," Fleur says at long last. "But I am still inclined to remove you from anywhere near my family. I'm still unsure of what you are capable of, and that frightens me." She turns the newspaper, pointing toward the headlines. "Is this you, then? Are you this horrid killer?"

"Of course not! I assure you, I am wholly here and not there!" He replies, and Madame Giry places a hand on his arm, attempting to calm him.

"Fleur," Meg says desperately, standing from her chair and rushing to place herself in front of the woman. "Please don't tell anyone. We've made our way here, against all odds. No harm will come to you and your family - I promise."

"And yet you have some sort of stalker? A group of them? One man cannot hold off an army of hate, my dear, especially when he himself is filled with such."

There was no denying the fact that Erik was consumed with rage and anger and bitterness regularly, and from frustration of the situation, her face heated. She wished her mother would say something, say anything, but the mood was loud and clear - there was nothing to be done.

"Meg, you remind me so much of my daughter, so much of me. Let me help you - I can take you someplace. Back to Paris, or anywhere you desire. Just say the word," Fleur offers gently.

Once upon a time, Meg would have taken the offer. Back on the ship, near the beginning, she would have jumped at this offer. To escape from his plagued eyes, his violent nature, his hard words. But now - and she knew it was foolish of her, perhaps - she wouldn't leave him. Not yet. Not when he'd promised her so much, when she'd found companionship in this strange man, when she'd found a future of performing. And her mother? Never could she leave her!

"Your offer means more to me than you will ever know, but I cannot leave him, Fleur, and I cannot leave my mother. I took this journey with them. Maybe it was not voluntarily at first, but it is now, and my choice is to stay." She lifts the newspaper into her hands, pointing at the headlines and the rough supposed sketch of the person responsible. "I promise you that the man sitting across from you and the monster on this page are not the same. I understand if you would like us to leave, but I beg you, please don't tell the police." Her heart was pounding so rapidly she could barely find the breath to speak. "Please don't breathe a word of this to anyone."

She was silent for a moment, rocking the exhausted child in her arms, before glancing up at Meg. At long last, she finally said, "Meg, won't you pull up a chair? I'd like to show you something."

A breathy exhale, and she glanced up at her mother and Erik. His form was frigid as he looked down, she suspected from anxiety, and her mother's gaze was hooded, but hopeful. That was all the encouragement she needed to do so, though she scooted the chair with shaking hands.

"Sit beside me," she ordered gently, and Meg did so. She began to hand the child to Meg, and her eyes widened in confusion. What happened from before?

"Hold his head like this," she instructed, curling a palm behind the child's head, "and rest him against your chest, near your heart."

"Madame -" Meg began, but Fleur shook her head. "Don't 'Madame' me, Meg. I'd like to tell you something incredibly important."

She carefully takes Robin into her arms, trying to slow her heart and stop the trembles in her limbs. He was small - oh so small - so small and fragile. Affection erupted in the blonde's chest, and she smiled down at the child, a strange sense of peace beginning to wash over her, despite everything. Red curls lay against her chest, and tiny hands grasped at the flaxen strands falling from the front of her shoulders. In all of her excitement from earlier, much of her hair had fallen from the ribbon, and she hadn't thought to fix it.

"You hold life in your hands, Meg. New life. How old are you?"

"Eighteen," she replies, still looking down at the infant as small, pudgy fingers explored her lips and few strands of hair, and she giggled when he sneezed.

"You know the weight of death then. You were there, weren't you? On the stage that night?" She asks. "And you must have lost those close to you, at some point. Do you know what I'm getting at, Meg?''

She was brought back to that night, then, and shivers wracked her spine as she saw the body of Piangi on the stage, behind one of the trapdoors in the sets. How awfully she'd screamed, she remembered. She could still feel the strain, still feel the terror built up in her throat. And when Buquet had fallen above her, no more than rope and a broken neck, she'd screamed then, too. But then a deeper pain filled her at the memory of her grandfather, when he had died, and she'd been no more than thirteen or fourteen. Dull devastation filled her at the memory of him, almost vague, like missing something you haven't known for some time or forgotten. She looked up, then, and saw Erik staring back at her, his eyes soft as they focused, as if reading her pain. He seemed forlorn, then, and that familiar confusion wrestled inside of her.

"I am not doubting your wisdom nor your experience, my dear, but I'd like to explain to you how important life is. It's a strange concept - something you'd think one would understand after experiencing death. But after holding my daughter for the first time, and then my grandson, you understand the fragility of it all. In my experience, I'd never felt love so passionately as when I held them for the first time." Her voice cracks, and Meg's eyes jump up to hers only to see them fill with tears. Meg feels hers do the same from the show of emotion.

"Forgive me. It pains me to speak of her so," she says, wiping at her eyes. "Can you imagine the pain I felt when someone decided to rid the world of her? Can you imagine the magnificent pain of it? Murder is unforgiveable, and it hurts me beyond reason that I was tricked into thinking he was no one of any consequence, and now a wanted man is living under the same roof as I. And you are tied to him, through something more sacred than anything on this earth." She gestures toward the ring on Meg's finger. That inspired guilt in Meg, as it was one more lie to add to the growing pile. "I pray, Meg, that you ponder this, though I'm sure you already have."

And she did. She thought about the little bundle in her hands, so full of life. Bright eyes stared back at hers, and a tear fell down her cheek at the thought of anyone planning evil against Robin. How she loved the little thing, without even having known him for long.

"I will keep this a secret, if you promise to not make my husband aware of anything. He will not be as gracious as I. And if I hear of any new wrongdoings of yours, I will not hesitate. Understood?" She threatens, pointing a finger at Erik.

Meg doesn't hear his or her mother's response, only watches Robin as his eyes slip closed. How much trust he had, to fall asleep on her. Or perhaps he was just tired and she was the nearest pillow.

"Oh, it must be his naptime. Meg, dear, could you put him in the carrier in the bedroom? I'd rather like to go find my husband," she says, standing and approaching the door. "Antoinette? Would you accompany me? I'd rather like to speak with you privately."

Meg stands, crossing the room toward the bedroom, but her mother stops her, gentle hands on her face. "I love you, more than anything, Meg," she says, brushing the tear away that had fallen down the blonde's face. "You make me so proud, everyday." She delivered a kiss to her forehead before walking toward Erik, who was still looking at his hands on the table. A gentle, motherly hand on his bare cheek, and then she was following Fleur out the door.

She thought about her mother, then, about how she'd held Meg like that, as her own baby in her arms. She'd been a mother to many - to Christine, to Erik, and though she was strict, she loved all of the ballet girls dearly. Family, Meg was beginning to realize, wasn't just flesh and blood. It was like with Christine. Though they held no relation to each other, they were close as sisters, and Meg didn't think that even distance and time could separate their connection.

Once she had placed Robin in his little resting place, she knelt beside him, arranging the blankets securely around him and pulling the curtain down so the sun wouldn't blind him when he woke.

She more felt than heard a presence behind her, and she turned to see Erik, standing in the doorway. She glanced back down at Robin, praying for the answers, praying for a sign that this was the right thing, that she was doing the right thing.

"Meg," he whispered, and she glanced up at him, a hand extended toward her, and she grasped it without a second thought, and he helped her stand. "Thank you."

She grasps his hand tightly in both of hers, and tries to make him understand, try to make him feel and understand the way she did. "It's what friends are for, Erik."

His fingers shake in hers, and he looks away, a wayward curl falling over his forehead, and tears fill his eyes. In a second, she wrapped her arms around him, impossibly tight, her temple against his chest.

His arms shook as they closed around her. A hand drifted up to cup the back of her head, holding her there. She felt his fingers clutch at her, coil into her hair and her dress, as if he were frightened she'd disappear.

She didn't have the answers, and she didn't think she'd have them tomorrow. But either way, she'd be there for him. Her mother and she both would.