I sat down wearily in the parlor, mechanically undoing the coronet of my hair and allowing the braid to fall over my shoulder. The dying firelight gleamed like fresh blood in my dark tresses and bronzed the streaks of silver. Had there been this much gray in my hair a year ago?
Soft steps padded across the parlor floor, and I looked up to see Meg standing beside me. She was dressed for bed, with her hair hanging in two plaits down the back of her nightgown, but from the look of it she hadn’t so much as closed her eyes all evening. "Where is Christine?" I inquired.
She nodded to the door of her room in response. "I gave her some laudanum…she’d have never gotten to sleep otherwise." Her eyes turned back to me, sad and resolute. "Mama, you must tell me what’s happening."
I shook my head, rising from the chair as I did. "I can’t, Meg…don’t you understand I can’t?"
"You mean you won’t," she challenged hotly, gripping my arm and forcing me to face her. "I might not have the resources you do, but even I can see that something terrible is happening and you and Christine are right in the middle of it. You looked like the condemned going to the gallows when you left this evening, do you know that? It frightened Christine…and it frightened me too. I can’t bear it any longer, I have to know—"
"You don’t need to know anything," I snapped, pulling away from her. "Leave me be, child. This is not your burden."
"Why not? Because you think I’m too foolish to comprehend what you’re going through?"
"Because you are too precious to me, and I will not have you carrying the same cross that I must," I wept, choking back a sob. "You don’t understand what it is that you ask, but if you did you would not importune me so adamantly. The information you crave is nothing less than a sentence of death. Too many lives already are at stake—Christine’s, the Vicomte’s, my own—I will not have yours added to the sum."
She did not flinch. "I would rather face death together with you than watch you suffer alone."
Her posture was as determined as a martyr, and I could not hold back my tears any longer. "My dear, beautiful child…How I wish your father had even half of your courage and character. He might have then lived long enough to see the brave woman you have become." I returned to the chair, bending over to build up the fire. "I will tell you what you wish to hear. But do not blame me if the truth is worse than ignorance."
"If it is, then it will be my own fault, and not yours," she declared, drawing near to me. "Tell me."
So I told her everything, as I am telling it to you now, without disguise and without delicacy. The words came haltingly at first, then with greater ease and frankness as the night wore on. Meg listened without interruption, her face communicating her sentiments: flushed anger, pale sorrow, bright embarrassment, and finally the restoration of her normal rosy color as she pondered what I revealed. It was well past midnight when my narrative died out, and after its completion she sat at my feet quietly, studying the dying fire.
One thing alone I had chosen to conceal from her, but the act proved fruitless the moment she spoke. "You love him, don’t you?"
I made some sound of protest, but she shook her head. "Don’t deny it, Mama. It is in your every word and every expression when you speak of him. Everything about you cries the fact."
I think I smiled sadly. "I’ve never loved another man more…not even your father."
I expected the words to anger her, but she didn’t say anything—perhaps she understood what her father had been, or perhaps she was simply too preoccupied with the rest of the matter to deal with the fact. "What happens now?" she asked in a small voice, resting her head on my knee like a little child.
I stroked her hair consolingly, an old habit born from motherly love. "Tomorrow night, we perform Don Juan Triumphant. And one way or another, we will make an end of this."
"I don’t understand…why is he doing this? I always thought he loved the Opera."
"He does, that’s the point." She looked up at me, not comprehending. "That opera is the sum of everything Erik is…his sorrows, his anger, his desires and his hope. It is, in brief, his very soul…and he is giving his soul to Christine. The only way he can think of to reach her is through his music, and so he hopes to use his work to help her understand him, accept him…love him." I sighed. "I hope he succeeds."
"You would see him in Christine’s arms, though you desire him yourself?" Meg queried in surprise.
"I would see him happy, regardless of what I desire," I said. "But there is more to it than that. Once before, Erik was driven past all reason by grief and hopelessness. The chandelier fell that night. If it should happen again now, when he has risked all that he holds dear on the outcome…then Heaven help us all."
Go on to Chapter 26
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