Chapter Text
Paris, Salle Le Peletier, September 1864
“Papa!”
Antoinette Giry watched her eight-year-old daughter’s face break into a dazzling smile. A second later, the wicker basket the girl had been dutifully lugging landed on the floor with a muffled thump along with her woollen cloak and knitted hat, and she sprinted across the room, her braids and bows bouncing in a blur of gold blonde and faded pink. At the end of the run, Meg practically threw herself at her father, and Jules laughed, catching her midair and pulling her onto his lap.
“Missing me already, ma petite?” he asked affectionately, bending to kiss her temple.
Meg’s little flaxen head moved up and down in confirmation as she snuggled into his worn-out brown waistcoat.
“Oui, papa. And I didn’t want you to be alone. The opera is a bit scary when it’s so dark and empty,” she whispered.
The carpenter’s weather-beaten features softened even more, and the tiny wrinkles around his eyes – which had become more visible after his long convalescence and weight loss – curled up in a way that made something inside Antoinette’s ribcage perform a fribblish pirouette. His wide, calloused hand gently stroked their daughter’s back.
“I’m flattered you thought of me, then,” he said. “But I actually relish this quietness. And I was too busy to feel alone. Besides, the Opera Ghost quite often keeps me company.” His tone became joking, but when he raised his head to meet his wife’s gaze, in his hazel irises shone seriousness.
Meg giggled. Antoinette looked away and focused on picking up the abandoned garments and basket; the former, she brushed off dust and scrupulously hung them on a rack; the latter, she placed on the smallest and relatively free work table. Now that he had mentioned it, she couldn’t fail to notice an additional cup, which stood further away among wood carvings, or other hints that might have indicated Erik’s previous presence – like a second set of tools. Or a large amount of the preliminary shaped ornamental elements of scenography that had clearly been carved by much less skilled hands than her husband’s.
A knot formed in her stomach.
She knew that she should be grateful that Jules was somehow able to find a common language with the boy (or, as she should probably say, a common silence most of the time) – something that catastrophically exceeded her own limited skills – and be impressed that Erik had learnt so much in such a short time, especially with his deformity and dimmed sense of touch in his right arm acting to his disadvantage. But all she could feel were cold, dark tendrils of unease coiling around her.
Her last conversation with the young Opera Ghost had been… well, far from amicable, to put it gently.
Antoinette swallowed hard and pressed her thin lips together. Having untied the dark ribbons of her fatigued feather-adorned bonnet, she carefully put it away, along with her patched mantle. Next, she busied herself with meticulously unpacking the blankets and the victuals she and Meg had brought.
It had been a year since she had helped Erik escape from the circus and hidden him in the opera house, but so far all her decisions seemed to lead to another disaster. During the questioning, she had concealed the scale of her involvement, hoping to protect the boy, but as a result, his disappearance had been taken as proof of his guilt. And because of the disgusting lies of the circus owner he had injured, Erik had been convicted of a criminal offence without even being present at court. Even though it was against procedure!
The woman huffed with irritation.
Back then, she had planned that, with Jules, they could earn extra money and ask a lawyer for help, but even that tiny shard of hope had been shattered. Along with Jules’s legs during the awful accident at the construction site in February…
Her fingers closed on the larger basket’s handle so hard that her knuckles turned white.
Jules’s wounds hadn’t been healing well, so she had been forced to temporarily resign from her job to take care of him, which had quickly engulfed almost all their savings. Smuggling a juvenile absconder – especially one whose uncanny appearance was hard to camouflage – to their small flat had been too risky, so she had had to leave Erik in the opera. She had managed to sneak into the theatre a few times to bring him new supplies of viands and the most necessary items, but it hadn’t been enough, had it?
In July, thanks to the manager’s kindness, she had returned to the opera as a ballerina. Yet, some things had changed irrevocably. The young Opera Ghost had morphed from a scarred yet generally obedient and controllable child into an aloof teenager whose volatile temper had begun to terrify her. And Jules still walked with difficulty, which excluded him from a lot of the heavier orders.
Perhaps he will never be able to run again…
A suffocating weight of guilt burrowed in her chest.
The burden of the consequences of her choices and the stress that came with hiding a convict had overwhelmed her more and more. And recently, she had let that get the better of her.
Her thoughts wandered back to that hapless evening from the preceding week.
She knew very well that they had no means for it, but she had once again brought up the topic of an appeal, suggesting that perhaps they could borrow the necessary money. Erik, obviously, hadn’t taken it well. He had refused stormily and once again declared that he did not need their help. And that had only inflamed her frustration even more.
Her jaw clenched tight.
“Allow me to remind you that it is not for you to decide,” she ground out haughtily, then, with a swirl of her skirts, she pivoted on her heel to leave. Unfortunately, she gravely miscalculated Erik’s reaction.
“No!” His frenzied shout tore the air, so distorted and different from his usual melodious intonation that it almost sounded inhuman. Black and white flashed before her eyes, and before she realised what was happening, she was spun and yanked backwards. Her breath got knocked out of her lungs as her back collided painfully with a stone wall, and a heartbeat later, she found herself pinned, her left wrist trapped in Erik’s crushing, vice-like grip.
The Phantom was still just a lanky teenager, but within a year he had outgrown her by a few centimetres, and wiry muscles entwined his slender arms. In his steel gaze burned such derangement that, for the first time in his presence, dread filled her to the core.
In that short moment, she couldn’t help but wonder if there was a kernel of truth, of right, in the keeping in a cage and the name “Devil’s Child”. If, perchance, the unnaturalness of the Phantom’s appearance didn’t reach deeper, distorting his soul as much as his body…
Her fear must have been clearly visible on her face, for just a second later, Erik had flinched and stumbled backwards, eyes wide, fingers twitching in a nervous rhythm.
Deep down, she knew she should have handled that situation differently. As an adult rebuking but also supporting a lost teenager. But she had been scared and angry too, so she had instinctively turned to her usual defensive mechanism: she had raised her chin and attacked in her own way.
“Don’t you ever dare threaten me or my family, boy. And don’t act like a monster if you don’t want to be perceived as one.”
Antoinette clenched her eyes shut. She had seen how much her words had hurt Erik, but she had no idea how to take them back. She had asked Jules to talk with the boy, but that hadn’t been enough to fully patch the created rift.
Another misfortune she had brought on her little family and had no idea how to fix. Just like Jules’s legs.
The ballerina gritted her teeth, trying to chase away the tightness in her throat along with the nightmarish memories of her husband’s injuries. Heavy footsteps sounded just behind her, startling her from her reverie.
Pretending to adjust a hairpin in her braided coronet, Antoinette made use of one puffed sleeve above a fitted cuff to hurriedly wipe away a single stray tear. She hardly ever cried, and she certainly did not intend to give in to such pitiable and useless hysterics!
Ordering her shoulders to straighten, she resumed her usual refined and unshaken pose.
Her husband didn’t let the facade beguile him, though. His strong hand gently closed around her palm as he leaned to her.
“You don’t have to hide your worries from me, Toniette,” he whispered with a note of a reprimand. “We are in this together, remember? And I daresay we make quite an invincible team.” A soft smile lit up his face. “I hope this will be a good reminder.” He handed her a tiny, somewhat crumpled bouquet of violet heather.
Judging by its appearance, she suspected that he must have put it in his frock coat pocket to have free hands to help someone on his way there, but it didn’t change the fact that the gesture warmed something inside her like a stray sunbeam.
The small lilac buds were the first flowers he had carved and then also bought for her many years ago, and since then, he gifted her with some every autumn.
The flowers that can thrive even in harsh conditions…
The thought summoned more bright memories and, though nothing else had changed, her burden no longer seemed so overwhelmingly heavy or dark.
Jules obligingly passed her a jar of water he had evidently been using as a substitute vase.
“We can talk more when Meg’s asleep,” he continued in a hushed voice, “but I spent a really nice time with our favourite young ghost today. So for now, I suggest we simply enjoy our family evening and all its little wonders.” His smile widened, and he tilted his head to place a chaste kiss on her cheek, his moustache prickling her skin slightly. The simple caress sent pleasant shivers down her spine.
Antoinette swallowed hard.
“We brought extra blankets and more than enough food for supper for everyone,” she informed him matter-of-factly, letting her dominant, practical side take control. “By some miracle, Meg also persuaded me to use a jar of cherry preserves and bake some clafoutis.” She narrowed her eyes, sending her daughter an askew glance.
The girl grinned and giggled, presenting the gap after her recently lost baby lateral incisor in full glory.
“Yes! A cake! A cake!” Jumping excitedly, Meg did a very chaotic improvised dance around them. Her pirouettes and arabesques were almost impeccable, though, which brought a peculiar flash of pride to the ballerina’s chest.
Jules chuckled.
“Well, then, I’m even more impressed,” he announced. “You managed to bake a dessert and lug it all here? Goodness gracious, your extraordinary talents will never cease to amaze and enchant me, Madame Giry!” He bowed with a flourish (and only a tiny, fleeting grimace of pain), bringing her hand to his mouth.
Antoinette blushed and swatted him away.
“Jean Belamy gave us a free ride in his carriage, if you want to know. And Meg did her fair share of lugging and keeping everyone away from the cake.” Technically, their neighbour, who also happened to be her husband’s best friend, got a second tin of the treat as a thank-you for his help, but she deemed it unimportant. “Returning to the topic” – she cleared her throat slightly, smoothing out non-existent creases on the voluminous skirt of her plum-coloured gown – “we decided it would be easier for us to stay for the night with you here. This way, we can help with your work and later eat supper together.” And make sure you don’t tire yourself to the point of utter exhaustion.
“We got food and blankets, so it’s going to be like a picnic!” Meg chirped cheerfully, grabbing her father’s hand and spinning around with him. “Only under a roof and with sleeping. And work.” Her little, perked nose scrunched in deep thought. “So maybe not exactly like a picnic… But I brought my new book, so you could read it to me!” Her countenance brightened again.
Jules smiled and patted her on her head.
“Well then, we’d better hurry up with our duties so that we will have more time for merriment.”
Despite her worries, Antoinette couldn’t stop a shadow of a smile from playing on her own lips as well.
A few hours later, most of the work for that day was done, the supper was eaten, and Meg put to a temporary bed. Warmly tucked in her blanket, the girl attentively listened to a fairy tale Jules, sitting next to her, read, while Antoinette finished tidying up the workshop.
Her husband’s extraordinary talent and ethics had earned him respect in his field, but the limping significantly hindered his work, so the fact Jules was still asked to carve for the theatre (and also allowed to stay after regular hours to finish) was another sign of the management’s good will. And she definitely didn’t want to give them any reasons to regret their decision.
The woman moved aside a scenographic construction her husband had built and started to sort the smaller carved decorative elements, separating the ones that were yet to be finished. With the consent of an amused Jules, Meg had engraved a few crooked hearts on their backs (“Nobody will see them anyway, Toinette.”).
“And they lived happily ever after. The end,” the carpenter finished, closing the book.
Meg sighed dreamily on her pallet. “I want to live happily ever after too,” she declared. “But I would prefer to meet my future husband at the ball. We would dance through the whole dancefloor and everybody would admire how great we were.”
Jules smiled softly. “Personally, I think the most important thing is to find a person who will respect you, care for you and support you, and for whom you would do the same.” His tender hazel eyes fleetingly skipped to Antoinette, somehow making her heartbeat quicken again. “Someone to catch you if you fall. The rest are rather secondary traits. Nevertheless, I hope that one day you will find your prince, my little fairy princess. For now, you should focus instead on falling asleep,” he added, leaning down to brush away a few strands from their daughter’s chubby face and place a kiss on her forehead.
Meg pouted. “But I’m not sleepy at all!” A long yawn escaped her mouth, contradicting that assertion. “Can I have one more tale, please?” she asked pleadingly, rolling onto her stomach. Her starry gaze bored at her father.
The man scratched his head, tousling his wavy gold hair – almost identical to their daughter’s strands – and glanced at Antoinette questioningly.
The woman sighed. “Only one,” she said rigorously, raising her finger to emphasise her words.
Meg let out an excited squeal. “Merci, Maman!” Then she turned back to her papa. “I want the one about yours and Maman’s first meeting!”
Jules’s bushy eyebrows wandered up.
“But you’ve already heard it a few times. And it’s not a fairy tale.”
“Oh, but it’s my favourite!” Meg plopped on her back, spreading her arms wide. “And you saw Maman as one of the Wilis in Giselle, didn’t you? So it almost is like a magic fairy tale!”
A merry laugh escaped from Jules’s throat. “Well, if you portray it like that, ma petite, then I can only agree,” he conceded, ruffling Meg’s hair. “And your maman certainly is like a fairy. Ethereal, mysterious and thoroughly enchanting.” His warm, mirthful gaze skipped back to his spouse. “And, I daresay, sometimes also terrifying in a way that indubiously exceeds any human abilities,” he added in a stage whisper, bringing his hand to his mouth.
Meg giggled.
In response, Antoinette threw a spare blanket at both of them, only intensifying the gaiety. Her daughter and husband’s laughter filled the room, somehow making everything seem brighter. As if it were a sunny spring morning on a free day, not a cool, busy autumn night.
Against common sense, the corner of her mouth twitched and curled up as well.
With this expression and a strangely lighter spirit, the ballerina deftly finished packing food and a few other items for Erik. As she slipped outside, Jules’s deep voice gently wrapped around her, taking her back in time.
