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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 23/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3185
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Meg Giry, Erik the Phantom, Madame Giry, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: These things do happen.
I HEARD A RUMOUR
“Meg, may I speak to you?”
Surprised, Meg glanced up to see Marius DuPre, a faintly ridiculous figure in sixteenth century doublet and hose, standing at her shoulder. He did not have the height to carry off such antiquated fashions; his feathered cap sat at a rather sad angle on his sandy hair and the sword clanking at his side hung rather forlornly, as though it knew that he would have no idea how to use it. The silver hip flask which had already made several appearances that morning was in his hand, and he took another swig from it.
“This is an honour,” Meg said archly. “I didn’t think you lowered yourself to associate with mere ballerinas any more.”
Marius looked uncomfortable. “This is a little awkward...” He peered over his shoulder at the group gathered around the piano; Erik was giving Alphonse and Frederick some final instruction and some of the chorus had joined them to listen. “Could we talk in private?”
“This had better not be an excuse to try and snatch a grope, Marius...” she warned him, folding her arms, but he shook his head, expression pained. She sighed. “Oh, all right. What’s the matter?”
He didn’t speak until they were out in the passageway, beyond the wings and away from anyone who might be listening. Marius looked left and right, and then, curiously, above as well, as though someone might be clinging onto the ceiling. “You know more about the Phantom than anyone else,” he said at last.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Meg replied cautiously.
The tenor glared at her. “Don’t be cagey, Meg; you were always the first one to shout whenever he was around, and your mother delivered his letters!”
“I suggest you ask her, then.”
From his expression it was obvious that he baulked at confronting Madame Giry; even when Erik as OG was in full cry she refused to speak about him and now anyone asking was likely to get very short shrift indeed. “Just answer me one question: do you think the Phantom is still here, in the Opera?”
Meg stared at him for a moment, and then she burst out laughing. “You’re not serious, surely?”
“It’s not funny, Little Giry!” Marius exclaimed, grabbing her by the shoulders. Instinctively she stamped on his foot; she couldn’t do much damage in pointe shoes but the action was enough to make him let her go. “Do you or do you not think he may still be lurking around?”
“I think you’ve had a little too much of whatever is in that flask,” Meg told him, smoothing down the sleeves of her costume where he had wrinkled the satin. “Everyone knows that the Phantom left before Don Juan Triumphant; he wasn’t stupid enough to let the vicomte catch him. What’s brought this on?”
Marius looked wary. “There haven’t been any more notes, then? No communication with the managers? You must know; you’re always listening.”
Meg shrugged. “If there has, no one has mentioned it. We’ve had no disasters since rehearsals began; no one has been kidnapped and you’re the only person to walk out.”
“That has nothing to do with it,” he snapped, but he flushed and she didn’t think it was because of the alcohol he’d consumed. It was quite obvious that Erik had embarked upon his plan to teach Marius a lesson; she wondered what on earth he had been up to. Feigning concern, she asked,
“What’s happened, Marius? Have you...” she paused deliberately, glancing back towards the wings “... have you seen... something?”
His face pale now as though the flush had drained away like water down a plug hole, the tenor leaned towards her and whispered, “Not seen. Heard.”
“Heard what? Ghostly singing? A piano playing by itself?”
He shook his head. “Nothing like that. He spoke to me. I saw no one, but I heard a voice.”
Meg blinked. She hadn’t expected that. “You must be favoured,” she said. “He never spoke to my mother. What makes you so sure it was the Phantom?”
Frustrated, Marius clenched his fists. He paced up and down the corridor for a moment before he replied, “He told me so; warned me that I could suffer the same fate as Carlotta if I didn’t toe the line and accept Claudin’s direction.”
“He threatened to drop a chandelier on your head?”
“Do you have to be so flippant?” he demanded angrily. “I am in fear of my life!”
“I’m sorry.” Meg tried to sober up. “Have you told anyone else about this? Alphonse, or - ”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I would be a laughing stock. They all believe the Phantom was a hoax, that it was some madman playing tricks.”
An idea occurred to her, a way to lead him completely off the scent of the Opera Ghost. “Has it occurred to you that maybe this ‘voice’ you heard was one of them playing a prank on you? You have been a little...” How could she put it gently? “...a little difficult lately. Maybe they thought to have some fun at your expense.”
Marius’s bloodshot eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why would they want to do that?” he asked, evidently completely unaware of what a pain in the backside he had been since rehearsals began.
“Jealousy?” Meg suggested. Her reply was intended to be facetious, but he swallowed it hook, line and sinker.
“Yes. Yes, you could be right,” he muttered, rubbing his chin. “Alphonse wanted my part for himself, after all. It would be just like him to try something so pathetically childish.” After a moment’s thought he whirled around, stalking back towards the stage.
Meg ran after him. “What are you going to do?”
“Confront him, of course! I’ll not be taken for a fool!”
“Do you think that’s a good idea? In front of everyone?” She mentally cursed herself; a fight between his two leading actors would not go down well with Erik, and she did not want to bear the brunt of his wrath when he discovered whose fault it was.
Marius did not even break his stride. “Where better? I want them all to know what an utter jackass the man is!”
This could only end badly, Meg reflected as she followed him, mouthing a helpless “I’m sorry” to Erik and Christine as she passed them. The cast were scattered about the set but stopped whatever they were doing as Marius stomped past; he pushed through a gaggle of ballerinas, ignoring their outraged cries as he crushed tutus and nearly trod on feet, his focus upon one person and one person only. Alphonse Renard was standing with his back to the rest of the company; when Marius laid a hand on his shoulder he turned, but was not ready for the punch which came apparently out of nowhere, connecting with his nose. There was a scream from Giselle as the baritone hit the boards, blood spurting onto his shirt. For a few moments there was only confusion as Monsieur Reyer and Madame Giry came running, raised voices demanding to know what was happening, then Alphonse struggled back to his feet and gave Marius a great shove that sent the smaller man stumbling.
“What the hell was that for?” Alphonse yelled, looming over his fallen colleague. Someone gave him a handkerchief, which he used to dab at his face. “Have you gone completely insane?”
“I know it was you! I know what you’re trying to do!” Marius shouted back. “It won’t work, I tell you; it won’t work!”
The baritone just stared at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, you great idiot!”
“The voices! I know you’re behind them, trying to get me to change my performance just so you can grab all the glory for yourself!”
“Voices? What voices?” Alphonse turned away in disgust. “You really are mad.”
Meg could see her mother giving Erik a pointed look; the Phantom took no notice, concentrating his attention on the quarrelling singers, a frown creasing his forehead. Wiping at his nose, Alphonse began to walk away from the scene, but an enraged Marius surged upright and dived after him, catching him around the middle and dragging them both back to the floor. Fists flew as several members of the crew tried in vain to separate them; more than one fell back clutching his own nose, caught by a punch not intended for them. Someone suggested calling the managers, another the police; Meg watched helplessly, Christine at her side, as the two men pummelled each other.
“We have to make them stop!” the soprano cried, wringing her hands.
“Precisely what do you suggest?” Meg asked. “If Pierre can’t pull them apart, what can we do?”
Erik opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a loud and ominous creak. Everyone looked upwards, into the flies and the set pieces and backgrounds that were stored above the stage. Almost on cue, another noise came from the shadows there, a groaning of wood and rope upon which there was too much pressure. It seemed that all his years of traversing the upper realm of catwalks and pulleys allowed the Phantom to divine what was about to happen before anyone else, even those members of the crew whose job it was to secure such potentially dangerous items; there was a shout from the flies, but Erik was already moving, running across the stage towards Alphonse and Marius, scattering terrified ballet rats in his wake.
“Out of the way! Now!” he bellowed, his voice seeming to echo around the auditorium. Grabbing Marius by the scruff of the neck he dragged him with almost superhuman strength off of Alphonse, flinging him aside. Another creak, this one even louder, sounded from above them. “Move! Quickly!”
“How dare you!” Marius exclaimed, pushing past Erik and hurling himself back towards his foe, who was climbing unsteadily to his feet. “This has nothing to do with you, you damned interfering bastard!”
“Look out below!” Christophe yelled from the catwalk. “She’s coming down!”
Alphonse looked up and blanched as the loudest groan of all heralded the sudden and rapid descent of one of the backgrounds, an Italian piazza from the last production of Romeo and Juliet, towards the stage. The baritone threw himself clear, not caring if he landed on his broken nose, but Marius seemed oblivious to the danger, his ire turned now towards Erik. Christine started forwards, white with fear for the men who stood directly in the path of the falling scenery, but Meg caught her arm, holding her back.
“Get out of the way, you fool!” Erik shouted, trying to push Marius backwards; the tenor was hanging onto his collar, refusing to be moved. He fought the Phantom as, with mere seconds to spare, Erik hurled them both across the stage as the backcloth crashed into the boards, sending splinters flying into the air.
For a long time no one spoke; the entire company barely even seemed to breathe. Marius gingerly sat up, staring in horror and astonishment at the twisted pile of wood and canvas which lay where he had been standing moments before. Stage right, almost in the wings he had thrown himself so far, Alphonse was getting shakily to his feet; Augustine and Marie Durant, the mezzo, hurried over to him and began fussing, much to his evident irritation. The spell broken, there was soon a cacophony of noise as everyone began talking at once; Monsieur Reyer shouted up to the fly men, demanding to know what had gone wrong and threatening to report them for negligence, while Meg’s mother herded her corps together, checking that they were all unharmed. Christine ran to where Erik, who had recovered quicker than anyone else, stood smoothing down his hair and brushing dust from his coat; he looked annoyed to find a rent in the sleeve where it had evidently caught on a loose nail.
“What on earth happened?” Meg wondered as Christine worriedly checked that the Phantom was unscathed. He submitted to her attentions but removed her concerned hands as soon as he could; assuring her that he was all right.
“A rope must have come loose,” he said, glancing up into the fly loft. “Either come loose or snapped.”
“Are you certain of that, Monsieur?” asked Madame Giry, coming silently up behind them.
Erik’s eyebrow arched in annoyance. “You show remarkably little faith in me, Madame.”
“I sometimes have good reason,” she retorted.
Someone coughed, and they all turned to see a slightly unsteady and rather dusty Alphonse standing there. His nose had apparently stopped bleeding but the rusty stains that had dried around it gave him a rather macabre aspect. He held out a hand to Erik.
“I just wanted to say thank you, Monsieur. That could have been very nasty; I’m not desperate to shuffle off this mortal coil quite yet!” he said with a grin, and then winced as it pulled on his battered face.
Erik looked at the hand as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. When he did accept it, he withdrew his own as quickly as possible without giving offence. “You are welcome, Monsieur Renard,” he replied awkwardly, unable to look the man in the eye.
“We must get you to a doctor,” Madame Giry put in when she realised that Erik wasn’t going to raise the subject. “Your nose - ”
“It’s all right, Madame, I don’t think it’s broken,” the baritone told her cheerfully. “I’ll see a quack later and send the bill to Marius.”
“Will you be able to sing?” Erik asked anxiously, showing precisely where his concern lay. Meg’s mother rolled her eyes.
“We’ll see in the morning. If nothing else, it’ll add some authenticity to my character!” Alphonse declared. He glanced around. “I could do with a drink, though.”
“I think we all could after that,” Meg agreed.
“A break is in order, I believe,” said Erik, clapping his hands together, the sound like a gunshot in the now quiet theatre. “Where is Fortier? We must get this mess cleared up.”
As he strode off in search of the fly chief, Alphonse approached Marius, who still stood, rather dazed, beside the wreckage. The baritone laid a friendly hand on his shoulder, speaking to him quietly; at the sound of his voice Marius appeared to come back to himself, shrugging off his colleague’s touch and snapping some words that Meg couldn’t quite make out. Alphonse’s expression darkened but he remained calm; he gestured towards the wings, where the other men in the chorus were waiting, but Marius shook his head. With a sigh, Alphonse left him to join the others, doubtless intending to head for a bar and a medicinal brandy.
The stage gradually emptied but for the wardrobe assistants gathering up items of discarded clothing and the stage hands with brooms and barrows to remove the shattered backdrop. Madame Giry began to usher Meg and Christine away, too, but Marius remained and as Meg passed him she couldn’t help but stop. He was as white as a sheet and shaking, unable to take his eyes away for long from the dented boards. Had Erik not reacted when he did, Marius’s skull could easily have been crushed beneath the weight of the heavy wooden frame; he had been standing at exactly the right angle for the corner to strike him on the back of the head.
“Marius?” Meg asked softly. “Are you all right?”
“I could have died, Meg,” he whispered, turning wide eyes to her. “Was it the Phantom, do you think?”
Trying not to look at Erik, who was standing by the piano, apparently engrossed in some sheet music, she shook her head. “No. The Phantom has gone. It was nothing more than an accident.”
“Alphonse could have loosened that rope. He - ”
“Marius, Alphonse is your friend,” Meg said, deciding that it was time to put a stop to all the nonsense once and for all. “At least he was before all this stupid peacocking over the lead role started. He would never want to do you harm! How could you even think such a thing?”
He rubbed his eyes, gritting his teeth in frustration. She watched him, concerned, until at last he looked at her once more with a defeated expression. “Am I going mad, Meg?”
“No. No, you’ve just been consumed by the green-eyed monster,” she told him, impulsively taking his hand and squeezing it. Under normal circumstances Marius would have read that as a signal to try a bit of a fumble, but this time to her relief he did nothing but give her a rather watery smile. “You’re an idiot, and you’ve offended a lot of people, but in time we’ll all forgive you. That’s what friends do.”
The tenor glanced towards the orchestra pit, where Erik’s tall figure could clearly be seen. “What about him? If he hadn’t - ”
“I think,” said Meg, “that the best way you can apologise is to actually listen to him. You may not like him, but he does know what he’s talking about.”
Marius sighed, and nodded. “I suppose I’d better get used to the taste of humble pie. Thank you, Meg.” He leaned in and she instinctively backed away, but to her surprise instead of aiming for her lips he pecked her on the cheek. “I think you know what you’re talking about, too.”
Trying not to blush, she watched as he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and approached the piano. Erik had been idly playing one of the airs from Act Three, but he broke off as Marius cleared his throat, turning warily to face him.
“Monsieur Claudin,” the tenor began, “I wonder if I might have a word...?”
“Is that what I think it is?” Christine asked, suddenly there at Meg’s shoulder.
“Marius instigating a truce? I think it might be,” Meg replied. The two men had moved to the edge of the stage where they wouldn’t be overheard, but it was obvious even from a distance that they were having their first civilised conversation. Marius looked extremely embarrassed but Erik was listening calmly, his stern expression softening just a little. “It’s about time. And all it took was for him to nearly be killed by a market square from fair Verona.”
“Do you really believe Erik had nothing to do with that falling scenery?”
Meg shrugged. “I know Maman thinks it was him, but how is that possible? He was down here with us the whole time! He could never have loosened that rope so that the backdrop would fall at precisely the right moment - could he?” Erik must have felt their eyes upon him as he looked their way; for a moment she thought she saw a little smile of victory turning up the corner of his mouth, but when she blinked it was gone and his attention was on Marius once more. “I suppose with the Opera Ghost, one never knows...”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3185
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Meg Giry, Erik the Phantom, Madame Giry, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: These things do happen.
“Meg, may I speak to you?”
Surprised, Meg glanced up to see Marius DuPre, a faintly ridiculous figure in sixteenth century doublet and hose, standing at her shoulder. He did not have the height to carry off such antiquated fashions; his feathered cap sat at a rather sad angle on his sandy hair and the sword clanking at his side hung rather forlornly, as though it knew that he would have no idea how to use it. The silver hip flask which had already made several appearances that morning was in his hand, and he took another swig from it.
“This is an honour,” Meg said archly. “I didn’t think you lowered yourself to associate with mere ballerinas any more.”
Marius looked uncomfortable. “This is a little awkward...” He peered over his shoulder at the group gathered around the piano; Erik was giving Alphonse and Frederick some final instruction and some of the chorus had joined them to listen. “Could we talk in private?”
“This had better not be an excuse to try and snatch a grope, Marius...” she warned him, folding her arms, but he shook his head, expression pained. She sighed. “Oh, all right. What’s the matter?”
He didn’t speak until they were out in the passageway, beyond the wings and away from anyone who might be listening. Marius looked left and right, and then, curiously, above as well, as though someone might be clinging onto the ceiling. “You know more about the Phantom than anyone else,” he said at last.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Meg replied cautiously.
The tenor glared at her. “Don’t be cagey, Meg; you were always the first one to shout whenever he was around, and your mother delivered his letters!”
“I suggest you ask her, then.”
From his expression it was obvious that he baulked at confronting Madame Giry; even when Erik as OG was in full cry she refused to speak about him and now anyone asking was likely to get very short shrift indeed. “Just answer me one question: do you think the Phantom is still here, in the Opera?”
Meg stared at him for a moment, and then she burst out laughing. “You’re not serious, surely?”
“It’s not funny, Little Giry!” Marius exclaimed, grabbing her by the shoulders. Instinctively she stamped on his foot; she couldn’t do much damage in pointe shoes but the action was enough to make him let her go. “Do you or do you not think he may still be lurking around?”
“I think you’ve had a little too much of whatever is in that flask,” Meg told him, smoothing down the sleeves of her costume where he had wrinkled the satin. “Everyone knows that the Phantom left before Don Juan Triumphant; he wasn’t stupid enough to let the vicomte catch him. What’s brought this on?”
Marius looked wary. “There haven’t been any more notes, then? No communication with the managers? You must know; you’re always listening.”
Meg shrugged. “If there has, no one has mentioned it. We’ve had no disasters since rehearsals began; no one has been kidnapped and you’re the only person to walk out.”
“That has nothing to do with it,” he snapped, but he flushed and she didn’t think it was because of the alcohol he’d consumed. It was quite obvious that Erik had embarked upon his plan to teach Marius a lesson; she wondered what on earth he had been up to. Feigning concern, she asked,
“What’s happened, Marius? Have you...” she paused deliberately, glancing back towards the wings “... have you seen... something?”
His face pale now as though the flush had drained away like water down a plug hole, the tenor leaned towards her and whispered, “Not seen. Heard.”
“Heard what? Ghostly singing? A piano playing by itself?”
He shook his head. “Nothing like that. He spoke to me. I saw no one, but I heard a voice.”
Meg blinked. She hadn’t expected that. “You must be favoured,” she said. “He never spoke to my mother. What makes you so sure it was the Phantom?”
Frustrated, Marius clenched his fists. He paced up and down the corridor for a moment before he replied, “He told me so; warned me that I could suffer the same fate as Carlotta if I didn’t toe the line and accept Claudin’s direction.”
“He threatened to drop a chandelier on your head?”
“Do you have to be so flippant?” he demanded angrily. “I am in fear of my life!”
“I’m sorry.” Meg tried to sober up. “Have you told anyone else about this? Alphonse, or - ”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I would be a laughing stock. They all believe the Phantom was a hoax, that it was some madman playing tricks.”
An idea occurred to her, a way to lead him completely off the scent of the Opera Ghost. “Has it occurred to you that maybe this ‘voice’ you heard was one of them playing a prank on you? You have been a little...” How could she put it gently? “...a little difficult lately. Maybe they thought to have some fun at your expense.”
Marius’s bloodshot eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why would they want to do that?” he asked, evidently completely unaware of what a pain in the backside he had been since rehearsals began.
“Jealousy?” Meg suggested. Her reply was intended to be facetious, but he swallowed it hook, line and sinker.
“Yes. Yes, you could be right,” he muttered, rubbing his chin. “Alphonse wanted my part for himself, after all. It would be just like him to try something so pathetically childish.” After a moment’s thought he whirled around, stalking back towards the stage.
Meg ran after him. “What are you going to do?”
“Confront him, of course! I’ll not be taken for a fool!”
“Do you think that’s a good idea? In front of everyone?” She mentally cursed herself; a fight between his two leading actors would not go down well with Erik, and she did not want to bear the brunt of his wrath when he discovered whose fault it was.
Marius did not even break his stride. “Where better? I want them all to know what an utter jackass the man is!”
This could only end badly, Meg reflected as she followed him, mouthing a helpless “I’m sorry” to Erik and Christine as she passed them. The cast were scattered about the set but stopped whatever they were doing as Marius stomped past; he pushed through a gaggle of ballerinas, ignoring their outraged cries as he crushed tutus and nearly trod on feet, his focus upon one person and one person only. Alphonse Renard was standing with his back to the rest of the company; when Marius laid a hand on his shoulder he turned, but was not ready for the punch which came apparently out of nowhere, connecting with his nose. There was a scream from Giselle as the baritone hit the boards, blood spurting onto his shirt. For a few moments there was only confusion as Monsieur Reyer and Madame Giry came running, raised voices demanding to know what was happening, then Alphonse struggled back to his feet and gave Marius a great shove that sent the smaller man stumbling.
“What the hell was that for?” Alphonse yelled, looming over his fallen colleague. Someone gave him a handkerchief, which he used to dab at his face. “Have you gone completely insane?”
“I know it was you! I know what you’re trying to do!” Marius shouted back. “It won’t work, I tell you; it won’t work!”
The baritone just stared at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, you great idiot!”
“The voices! I know you’re behind them, trying to get me to change my performance just so you can grab all the glory for yourself!”
“Voices? What voices?” Alphonse turned away in disgust. “You really are mad.”
Meg could see her mother giving Erik a pointed look; the Phantom took no notice, concentrating his attention on the quarrelling singers, a frown creasing his forehead. Wiping at his nose, Alphonse began to walk away from the scene, but an enraged Marius surged upright and dived after him, catching him around the middle and dragging them both back to the floor. Fists flew as several members of the crew tried in vain to separate them; more than one fell back clutching his own nose, caught by a punch not intended for them. Someone suggested calling the managers, another the police; Meg watched helplessly, Christine at her side, as the two men pummelled each other.
“We have to make them stop!” the soprano cried, wringing her hands.
“Precisely what do you suggest?” Meg asked. “If Pierre can’t pull them apart, what can we do?”
Erik opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a loud and ominous creak. Everyone looked upwards, into the flies and the set pieces and backgrounds that were stored above the stage. Almost on cue, another noise came from the shadows there, a groaning of wood and rope upon which there was too much pressure. It seemed that all his years of traversing the upper realm of catwalks and pulleys allowed the Phantom to divine what was about to happen before anyone else, even those members of the crew whose job it was to secure such potentially dangerous items; there was a shout from the flies, but Erik was already moving, running across the stage towards Alphonse and Marius, scattering terrified ballet rats in his wake.
“Out of the way! Now!” he bellowed, his voice seeming to echo around the auditorium. Grabbing Marius by the scruff of the neck he dragged him with almost superhuman strength off of Alphonse, flinging him aside. Another creak, this one even louder, sounded from above them. “Move! Quickly!”
“How dare you!” Marius exclaimed, pushing past Erik and hurling himself back towards his foe, who was climbing unsteadily to his feet. “This has nothing to do with you, you damned interfering bastard!”
“Look out below!” Christophe yelled from the catwalk. “She’s coming down!”
Alphonse looked up and blanched as the loudest groan of all heralded the sudden and rapid descent of one of the backgrounds, an Italian piazza from the last production of Romeo and Juliet, towards the stage. The baritone threw himself clear, not caring if he landed on his broken nose, but Marius seemed oblivious to the danger, his ire turned now towards Erik. Christine started forwards, white with fear for the men who stood directly in the path of the falling scenery, but Meg caught her arm, holding her back.
“Get out of the way, you fool!” Erik shouted, trying to push Marius backwards; the tenor was hanging onto his collar, refusing to be moved. He fought the Phantom as, with mere seconds to spare, Erik hurled them both across the stage as the backcloth crashed into the boards, sending splinters flying into the air.
For a long time no one spoke; the entire company barely even seemed to breathe. Marius gingerly sat up, staring in horror and astonishment at the twisted pile of wood and canvas which lay where he had been standing moments before. Stage right, almost in the wings he had thrown himself so far, Alphonse was getting shakily to his feet; Augustine and Marie Durant, the mezzo, hurried over to him and began fussing, much to his evident irritation. The spell broken, there was soon a cacophony of noise as everyone began talking at once; Monsieur Reyer shouted up to the fly men, demanding to know what had gone wrong and threatening to report them for negligence, while Meg’s mother herded her corps together, checking that they were all unharmed. Christine ran to where Erik, who had recovered quicker than anyone else, stood smoothing down his hair and brushing dust from his coat; he looked annoyed to find a rent in the sleeve where it had evidently caught on a loose nail.
“What on earth happened?” Meg wondered as Christine worriedly checked that the Phantom was unscathed. He submitted to her attentions but removed her concerned hands as soon as he could; assuring her that he was all right.
“A rope must have come loose,” he said, glancing up into the fly loft. “Either come loose or snapped.”
“Are you certain of that, Monsieur?” asked Madame Giry, coming silently up behind them.
Erik’s eyebrow arched in annoyance. “You show remarkably little faith in me, Madame.”
“I sometimes have good reason,” she retorted.
Someone coughed, and they all turned to see a slightly unsteady and rather dusty Alphonse standing there. His nose had apparently stopped bleeding but the rusty stains that had dried around it gave him a rather macabre aspect. He held out a hand to Erik.
“I just wanted to say thank you, Monsieur. That could have been very nasty; I’m not desperate to shuffle off this mortal coil quite yet!” he said with a grin, and then winced as it pulled on his battered face.
Erik looked at the hand as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. When he did accept it, he withdrew his own as quickly as possible without giving offence. “You are welcome, Monsieur Renard,” he replied awkwardly, unable to look the man in the eye.
“We must get you to a doctor,” Madame Giry put in when she realised that Erik wasn’t going to raise the subject. “Your nose - ”
“It’s all right, Madame, I don’t think it’s broken,” the baritone told her cheerfully. “I’ll see a quack later and send the bill to Marius.”
“Will you be able to sing?” Erik asked anxiously, showing precisely where his concern lay. Meg’s mother rolled her eyes.
“We’ll see in the morning. If nothing else, it’ll add some authenticity to my character!” Alphonse declared. He glanced around. “I could do with a drink, though.”
“I think we all could after that,” Meg agreed.
“A break is in order, I believe,” said Erik, clapping his hands together, the sound like a gunshot in the now quiet theatre. “Where is Fortier? We must get this mess cleared up.”
As he strode off in search of the fly chief, Alphonse approached Marius, who still stood, rather dazed, beside the wreckage. The baritone laid a friendly hand on his shoulder, speaking to him quietly; at the sound of his voice Marius appeared to come back to himself, shrugging off his colleague’s touch and snapping some words that Meg couldn’t quite make out. Alphonse’s expression darkened but he remained calm; he gestured towards the wings, where the other men in the chorus were waiting, but Marius shook his head. With a sigh, Alphonse left him to join the others, doubtless intending to head for a bar and a medicinal brandy.
The stage gradually emptied but for the wardrobe assistants gathering up items of discarded clothing and the stage hands with brooms and barrows to remove the shattered backdrop. Madame Giry began to usher Meg and Christine away, too, but Marius remained and as Meg passed him she couldn’t help but stop. He was as white as a sheet and shaking, unable to take his eyes away for long from the dented boards. Had Erik not reacted when he did, Marius’s skull could easily have been crushed beneath the weight of the heavy wooden frame; he had been standing at exactly the right angle for the corner to strike him on the back of the head.
“Marius?” Meg asked softly. “Are you all right?”
“I could have died, Meg,” he whispered, turning wide eyes to her. “Was it the Phantom, do you think?”
Trying not to look at Erik, who was standing by the piano, apparently engrossed in some sheet music, she shook her head. “No. The Phantom has gone. It was nothing more than an accident.”
“Alphonse could have loosened that rope. He - ”
“Marius, Alphonse is your friend,” Meg said, deciding that it was time to put a stop to all the nonsense once and for all. “At least he was before all this stupid peacocking over the lead role started. He would never want to do you harm! How could you even think such a thing?”
He rubbed his eyes, gritting his teeth in frustration. She watched him, concerned, until at last he looked at her once more with a defeated expression. “Am I going mad, Meg?”
“No. No, you’ve just been consumed by the green-eyed monster,” she told him, impulsively taking his hand and squeezing it. Under normal circumstances Marius would have read that as a signal to try a bit of a fumble, but this time to her relief he did nothing but give her a rather watery smile. “You’re an idiot, and you’ve offended a lot of people, but in time we’ll all forgive you. That’s what friends do.”
The tenor glanced towards the orchestra pit, where Erik’s tall figure could clearly be seen. “What about him? If he hadn’t - ”
“I think,” said Meg, “that the best way you can apologise is to actually listen to him. You may not like him, but he does know what he’s talking about.”
Marius sighed, and nodded. “I suppose I’d better get used to the taste of humble pie. Thank you, Meg.” He leaned in and she instinctively backed away, but to her surprise instead of aiming for her lips he pecked her on the cheek. “I think you know what you’re talking about, too.”
Trying not to blush, she watched as he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and approached the piano. Erik had been idly playing one of the airs from Act Three, but he broke off as Marius cleared his throat, turning warily to face him.
“Monsieur Claudin,” the tenor began, “I wonder if I might have a word...?”
“Is that what I think it is?” Christine asked, suddenly there at Meg’s shoulder.
“Marius instigating a truce? I think it might be,” Meg replied. The two men had moved to the edge of the stage where they wouldn’t be overheard, but it was obvious even from a distance that they were having their first civilised conversation. Marius looked extremely embarrassed but Erik was listening calmly, his stern expression softening just a little. “It’s about time. And all it took was for him to nearly be killed by a market square from fair Verona.”
“Do you really believe Erik had nothing to do with that falling scenery?”
Meg shrugged. “I know Maman thinks it was him, but how is that possible? He was down here with us the whole time! He could never have loosened that rope so that the backdrop would fall at precisely the right moment - could he?” Erik must have felt their eyes upon him as he looked their way; for a moment she thought she saw a little smile of victory turning up the corner of his mouth, but when she blinked it was gone and his attention was on Marius once more. “I suppose with the Opera Ghost, one never knows...”
