Mechanized Masterpieces: A Steampunk Anthology (23 page)

You must warn him
. This last thought flashed through Meg’s mind as the final notes of the overture struck and the curtain opened.

There were no words to describe the agony, the abject and total mortification poor Mam’selle Giry felt, especially as she alone suspected why she had turned her ankle during the final piece of the evening. In front of a sold-out audience. While
he
, of all people, was watching.

It all had happened so fast. Chassé-ing and leaping, the corps twisting and weaving a complicated pattern amongst the gleaming clockwork coryphée, Meg had lifted her eyes for one instant. Intended as a stagy gaze into The Beyond for a final transcendent moment of beauty, Meg had instead found her eyes directed to Box Five where two glittering eyes in a death’s head stared back at her. It was in that moment that shooting pain informed Meg of her error, and she landed in an indecorous heap upon the brilliantly lit stage.

She still wasn’t sure if she’d simply landed wrong or if she’d caught her toe upon an imperfection in the boards. And what’s worse, her rapidly swelling ankle had necessitated a quick rescue by one of the burlier extras, his rough chastisement as he dumped her in the wings doing little to dim the reddening of her cheeks, nor stop the flood of tears now brimming in pain-filled eyes.

The company really did function at times like an extended family. Full of all the bumps, fits, and starts of a real family, they weren’t perfect, and none save the props master came to see to her needs until the final curtain fell. But that was understandable; the performance did not stutter just because an errant dancer twisted an ankle.

Oh, you silly, silly goose!
Meg cursed herself through gritted teeth, more than slightly aware that, from her perch, she was mere inches away from craning her neck to espy one more time Box Five’s ghostly inhabitant. But no, she resisted bravely—after all, her error was sure to have displeased the spectral spectator. It occurred to Meg that her one glance at the man was likely to be the last she’d ever have. They’d sack her for sure after this, and that’d be the end of it. No more ballet. No more Palais Garnier. No more Opera Ghost.

A new thought entered her head as the first of the curtain calls began and more of the crew now found themselves free to tend to Meg’s needs. If Meg was removed from the corps—and therefore relieved of her duties as the phantom’s interlocutor—how would her mother continue to receive her treatments?

Despair at this new dilemma only served to heighten her pain, and she smiled wanly at the few ballerinas who now hovered around her. She could see the hunger in their eyes—already the politics of vying for the coveted first row position were stirring.

The growing crowd parted and Meg blushed anew to see M. Richard approaching, the look of concern somehow better filling the lines on his face than that of cheer.

“Mademoiselle Giry. The doctor tells me it is a sprain, yes?”

Meg nodded confirmation of the fact. Already the doctor had seen, assessed, and dismissed her injury with the bleak prognosis of a couple weeks rest. The damage to her pride seemed likely to be more permanent than that of her ankle, though both hurt equally at present.

“Yes, well, good,” the manager looked troubled and he appeared to struggle to find the words. “Am glad to hear it is nothing worse. Would never have forgiven myself, you know?”

Meg heard herself saying some nonsense about the inherent dangers of live theatre.

“Well said, my dear. Well said. I, ahem, must be off—” He jerked his head towards the front of house, nervously tugging at his gloves.

“Thank you for your concern,” Meg smiled through gritted teeth, touched that he’d came backstage just to check on her well-being when he was so clearly needed elsewhere.

Firmin’s tone grew businesslike, “Gentlemen, see to it that Mlle. Giry is given the utmost care. I’ve been—I’ve been informed that Lady Christine’s old room is quite comfortable—” His voice broke on this last sentence, and he hurried away without a backward glance, one black dinner jacket amongst many now milling about the dressing rooms. A sea of gentlemen admitted backstage to call upon their paramours.

Madame Giry arrived in time to see Firmin’s hurried exit. “Come, child, let’s get that foot up and out of harm’s way.” She shot a mistrustful gaze at the back of the retreating manager.

Meg was grateful that she’d not have to sit, miserable, immobilized, and exposed amongst the graceful and lively corps of ballerinas as they flirted and teased the male suitors, men more interested in girls than opera. However, she was chagrined at the idea of being exiled to the long-disused dressing room of her former friend. Somehow, the isolation, while she changed, a blessing to her throbbing ankle, seemed redolent of her fears that her on-stage tumble meant expulsion from the company.

As she followed her mother down the hall, past the current prima’s rooms, Meg suppressed a shudder—she wasn’t sure whose progress was more labored, hers or her mother’s.
Relics of a time past, like the ghost who’ll soon be sealed in his lakeside tomb
, the young lady hobbled along, grimly assisted by a stout stagehand that looked like he’d rather be elsewhere.

The journey was short, even with their snails’ pace. Dismissing the stagehand with a grateful smile and heartfelt thanks, Meg sank to a small settee and allowed her mother to fret over her. Assuring her at last that she was fine, Meg demonstrated her capabilities by moving to loosen her ties. With a curt, no-nonsense nod, Mme. Giry agreed to fetch a carriage, leaving Meg to her arduous task. Luckily, the last act of the opera required a plethora of raggedy factory workers, instead of a bevy of young ladies, making her costume one she could remove with no help and little trouble.

Smiling at the tidy heap her clothes made on a nearby table, Meg again was reminded how painfully slow their progress down the hallway must have been if someone had found the time to be so thoughtful as to fetch her clothing in anticipation of her needs. “I should thank M. Firmin again later for his kindness,” Meg remarked then emitted a started “Oh!” as she nearly knocked over a diminutive glass bottle that had lain nestled amongst her garments.

A small note fluttered to the floor and she froze, very much aware of where she’d seen such a shade of stationary before, such a small brown bottle.

Heart pounding, her mind’s eye on the glittering visage she’d seen in the instant before she’d taken her ungainly tumble, Meg fumbled through dressing. Numb fingers working furiously on an uncharacteristically stubborn set of buttons, Meg found herself straining to hear the sounds of the hallway. Perhaps her mother had found luck in securing a carriage in the post-opera throng, perhaps she was approaching the door now, perhaps . . . Meg’s eyes darted to the abandoned note. She’d delivered countless letters to and from Box Five over the past several months, why should this be any different?

“Mademoiselle Giry, why do you reject my gift? It is perfectly safe, I assure you. It only dulls the pain, lessens the swelling.” The voice spoke in masculine tones, smooth, deep, commanding.

Glancing wildly to the still-shut door, Meg found her tongue, “Who’s there?” The question was unnecessary, she knew full well who it was.
Where
he was, was another question entirely.

A low chuckle sounded behind her, and she felt the hair on the nape of her neck prickle. “Come, you are far too in command of your faculties, and we know each other too well, to prompt such a fearful reaction, Mlle. Meg. May I call you Meg?” honey-sweet and flecked with notes of danger, the voice soothed and seduced.

“Yes,” Meg breathed her answer—an answer that came too quickly, really. She turned around, eyes darting to the dark corners of the room. Half of her wished, prayed, for someone to come, half-dreaded someone might. “And I’m to call you . . .?” she led, suddenly reluctant to address him as the Opera Ghost, when he sounded so like a man.

“Erik. Call me Erik,” the ghost’s reply was equally quick and contained an element of relief.

“Erik,” Meg repeated, savoring the privilege. With a start, she recalled the events preceding her accident,
I must warn him.
“Do not return to the lake beneath the opera house,” she blurted the warning, giving the words a touch more womanly fear than intended.

Her words were met with silence. A silence punctuated by one small noise—it could have been a moan, a snort, or over a suppressed cough. Meg waited.

“Your . . . concern is noted,” the disembodied voice spoke at last. “But neither can I stay here, among men.”

“Is it because of your—” Meg stopped herself short, blushing. “I mean, I’ve heard that there are reasons you might wish to remain apart from—”

“I’d ask you to step to the mirror, but in light of present circumstances . . .” Erik suddenly sounded much less ghostly, much more corporeal and near.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him appear. Not from the door but from a rather well-lit corner of the room. She did not know why it surprised her that he be dressed for the opera—white gloves, cape, and all—for she had seen him in his box scarcely half-an-hour prior. Perhaps, the bone-white masque that covered two thirds of his face served as a marked contrast to his very conventional formal dress. Meg tried to look away politely but found she could not.

“Yes, I don’t much blend in with ‘regular men.’ ” He spat the term. “Although I’ve made great strides,” he added, as if to himself. “Little Meg Giry . . .” The eyes beneath the mask glittered as they had in Box Five, as she’d always imagined them, as if a deep fire burned within. “You wish to save me then. May I inquire as to the nature of the danger?”

Meg swallowed, glad she was sitting, else she’d have sunk to the floor long ago. Even so, she felt near swooning, “They want to s-seal you in. Keep you from ever leaving. I heard them say they’d a man reporting when you returned to your . . .” She searched for a proper word, for “home” didn’t evoke the right image in her mind.

“I was aware they’d been poking about—exclaiming boorishly over this and that trapdoor.” Erik turned to face the dressing mirror, the resulting multiple reflections magnifying his presence in the room. “But, no. They don’t seriously believe they’ve identified all passages that lead into the theatre. No.” This last seemed to be a reassurance to himself, the rich voice sinking to a near whisper.

“And the medicine . . .”

“Somewhat different from what your mother has been receiving, dear Meg. Both come from the finest physician I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. A man, who, through his studies, is an infinitely better study of the human condition than I. He has taught me all I know.”

“A teacher?”

“A father . . .”

Intrigued, Meg turned to the ghost, the man, Erik. There’d been a different sort of catch in his voice when he’d spoken just now, and she’d found that her heart had responded with an equally different sort of thrill than what she’d felt of late. The Opera Ghost, no longer an idea, but a man of flesh and blood. A man with motives and fears like her own. Meg hungered to know more.

“I’m just fetching my daughter and then I’m off,” Mme. Giry’s voice sounded clear and sharp outside the door. “Poor thing’s ankle’s swollen to the size of a cabbage.” There was a grunting male reply, and Meg turned wide eyes to the phantom only to find she was again alone in the room.

“And thank you, once more, for your kind concern, little Meg,” the ghost’s voice sounded in her ear and then faded.

The door opened, Meg’s mother clomping in. “Are you in much pain, dear? You look flushed.”

“‘The Wasp and the Butterfly,’” M. Armand read the title with relish. “Based on the Aesop’s fable of the same name, the story follows the conversation of two reincarnated souls—a, ahem, butterfly and a wasp, obviously. Through their narration we discover who they were, how they were connected, how they died—”

He paused, giving his small audience a dramatic raise of eyebrows. “Stylized as a Chinese fairy tale, it follows the first lives of the main characters—that of an Empress and her forbidden lover. We’re working on the necessary changes in instrumentation.