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Mardi Gras hadn’t always been this exciting at the opera Garnier. Meg could remember distinctly as a child how boring she had found them, no one her age in attendance yet, everyone still stiff with French formality and manners. She remembers only enjoying the spectacle, the costumes and her father twirling her across the floors of gold and ancient gossip. Her father would whirl her in time of the lilting melodies, passing beastly and often monstrous faces, a stark contrast to the angels and Greek tragedies inked with matching gold, wall to ceiling.

She saw that same shade of gold reflected in the pair of eyes that flicked downwards to meet her gaze, and a certain familiarity overcame her, heart pounding, and skin prickling, her body and soul sensing him before her mind could place his identity.

He seemed like the opera itself, gilded eyes almost inhuman in vibrancy as they curiously sought her wary glances, though she shrugged off the odd heaviness and nostalgia that snuck up her throat now.

Meg tilted her head, examining his costume as he continued to hold her forearms, having been spun away from her previous partner into the arms of this man cloaked in all red and feathers, who didn’t seem to know the dance. His body was lithe with grace, his reflexes quick and instant with how little thought it took to catch her before they collided.

“Don’t I know you, Monsieur?” She questioned, finally breaking the tense silence. Her eyes wandered over his crimson mask, only covering half his expression from forehead to just above his jaw, and she shivered. Didn’t he know no one was allowed to dress in the likeness of . . . Him?

He blinked, and all curiosity vanished, completely closing off with little of his thought she could discern. Only his eyes now held feeling, and it tugged at the same parts of her heart as her own buried old ones did. She felt a connection, a knowing of him, somehow. Perhaps she had met him before in the dance foyer after a show?

“You couldn’t possibly,” was his only confident response.

She gasped at his voice. Meg wondered if he was a singer, his voice impossibly deep and thick with a strange sweetness even Eve’s fruit couldn’t have offered. His voice was low, tender in tone, but careful, as if each word was carefully measured before lifting off his velvet tongue, like music notes, floating from their bass cleft home and winding together to grace her now awakened senses.

That was how his words felt to her — as if she must deeply consider each one. What power that voice held over her in that moment! It was not a normal voice — it was as if he spoke, and a choir of angels lived inside his mouth.

“I am almost certain of it!” Boldness filled her throat: “I recognize . . . Something about you, Monsieur. You seem so very familiar.”

The bare side of his face remained frozen and stony, but his eyes grew sad. How odd that two parts of his face could be at such odds with each other. “You must be mistaken. I am merely… visiting an old friend here in Paris. My home is Vienna, and I am not from here.”

She inhaled us every word, as if his breath was oxygen. How very strange she felt. It was almost as if he were casting a spell, and it was growing stronger with each passing phrase.

“Ah, that would make sense, then. Not how I know you, but why you have worn the wrong mask, and how you can possibly be in Paris and not notice this dance!” she teases, lightning, the heaviness in the air between them.

He does not smile, but his shoulders do relax and his jaw unconscious. “Is it that obvious I do not know how to dance?”

She giggles, grabbing his arm, and pulling him away from the dancing couples. She pretends not to notice how harshly he flinches at her touch, though he had just caught her before she collided with him mid spin. “But not to worry! I happen to be a ballerina here, so you found the perfect teacher.” Perhaps he was as entranced with her and she found herself with him?

“Have I?” he quirks an eyebrow. “After nearly sending both of us to the ground a few moments ago? Forgive me if I am unbelieving of your possession of a dancer’s grace.” And now he was smirking at her, teasing her back, and she felt both felt all breath, leave her while also inflating her chest with glee and mischief. Something about him made her want to stay in this place with him.

“Then perhaps you should ask me to dance, and test whether your hypothesis is correct or not,” she shot back, awaiting him to draw his hand between them both, and lead her back into the dance.

There was something hesitant in his golden eyes, and she was suddenly reminded of the scorching heat yet gentle burn of a candle’s flame. Then there was a hardening, a sudden clarity, a remembrance of a reminder flickering across his eyes, unbeknownst to her.

“I must be going,” he murmurs, wilting like a flower, like the wax of a candle folding over, and she felt the flame’s burning bite against her knuckles, scorching lips spreading fire to her hand and catching her whole being a flame. “It was wonderful to meet you.”

Though he did not ask for her name, she offered it anyways. “Marguerite Giry. My friends call me Meg.”

It was becoming increasingly more difficult to read him, but she thought she saw a mix of affirmation, curiosity, and anxiety reflected there. How odd.

“Adieu, Madamoiselle Giry.”

“Meg,” she corrects quickly, and he nods.

“Meg.”

She didn’t know why she corrected him. Perhaps she wanted to hear her name, peace together by his voice, and her name sounded like an opera now.

“What is your name?” she asks, and he pulls his hand away from her, seem to argue with himself in his mind, before giving in, although not as she’d like.

“Monsieur Red Death.” His voice held little feeling — perhaps teasing, but more so evasive.

“Ah, Edgar Allan Poe. I wondered! I thought perhaps the legend of the Firebird,” she grinned, and then gestured toward her face. “But it was your school mask. I could not work into my interpretation of the Firebird.”

He cocks his head to the side, a grin playing subtly at his lips again. Perhaps she succeeded in changing his mind about leaving. “You know Russian folklore?”

She not, clasping her hands together, her face a lighting with passion and elation. “ Russian history is so fascinating, but what I truly find myself infatuated with is their culture. Their music, their literature, they’re fairytales. Though France does have a rather… nuanced relationship with Russia.” Her smile drooped from the heaviness of grief, only the littlest bit, but enough for the man to notice. “My father used to read me fairytales before bedtime. His favorite was the legend of the Firebird.”

Perhaps he would stay. But only for a few more minutes. Five more minutes could not disrupt the plans he had tonight? He was sure of it. For as much as he wished to be away from humanity, to be left alone, his longing for normalcy would always overpower the urge to remain outcast. Especially when this delightful blond creature seemed to be in pursuit of a conversation with him.

He looked at her now like one might look at a puzzle, with only a few missing gaps of pieces remaining. “Perhaps one last dance,” he murmurs, and with a trembling hand, he reaches it towards her, and she takes it, and doesn’t mention it if she notices the shaking limb. He leads her out, and quickly he eases into a waltz with her, remarkably not stepping on her toes once.

He was intensely aware of every place they touched, having been so rarely touched — and respectfully touched, like now — in his life. His hands barely touched her waist, fingers brushing nervously over the poofs of pink tulles, her blond strands tossed down her back and nearly reaching his fingers. Her hands gingerly touched his shoulders, as if sensing his hesitancy, but she did not seem bothered, nor insulted.

He would need to be careful about what all they spoke of tonight. Above all else, their dialogue must include an avoidance of his identity from the little Giry, much too clever and curious for her own good— well, perhaps for his own good, really.

He could tell she seemed correctly suspicious of him, though he doubted she would be able to place his true identity. At least, he highly anticipated she wouldn’t be able to. But he knew this girl, knew her affinity for dark tales, Gothic suffering, and rotting corpses, and especially, the great fallen angel of the Palais Garnier, the Phantom of the Opera. Though she’s been wild, unhinged narratives of his murderous feet, his doomed romances, his tortured music, he rather appreciated how she instilled fear of himself to those willing to listen and believe. It made it slightly easier to bully the managers into giving him excessive hoards of money monthly, without much fuss, especially under the vague threat of imminent death for disobedience.

Which all this still astounds him, as he never dreamed of any of this, he found he had a rather nasty habit of becoming annoyed, and bored, and when left to his own devices, had a habit of breaking French law routinely. But what should one expect from a man who gathered his morals from operas and ballets?

He realized he had become lost in thought and hadn’t noticed she had been speaking, and so he refocused on her face and found her emotions were still very much the same, and he regained focus when her hand suddenly went to clutch his. A grin pulled at her mouth as his eyes widened and face contorted from the shock of her touch, and his eyes lowered to examine the way pink lips stretched wide to reveal a porcelain grin, rosy tongue, softly bitten between her teeth, earning her a positively cunning look.

The piece they waltzed to was now coming to a close, and he did not want to stop touching her, and he enjoyed feeling brief connection, and also speaking with Little Giry, whom the eldest Giry had sworn him to protect when she first agreed to deliver his messages. Although, she was not so little anymore — nearly twenty-three, he counted, though he could have been off by a few years. He couldn’t recall her birth year from the top of his head.

“Might I entertain you with a quick story before you depart? Have you heard of the Phantom that haunts this place?”

Of course he had. “I distantly remember hearing of it. A bunch of nonsense, really.”

“It’s all true. All completely true. He haunts this place both as ghostly monster and haunted man. You’ll find his story is built into the very infrastructure and culture of this place he dwells, for at least some sort of eternity. Since you know who I am now, you know my validity in proximity to the opera ghost. And you are visiting this beautiful place, especially during Mardi Gras, you must hear the story Monsieur!” She was nearly gasping with excitement, and he smiled at the sight. He appreciated an avid and passionate storyteller, even those that painted him as a psychotic serial killer back from the dead to reign vengeance upon a disobedient opera house. But then his smile dropped when his eyes rose, spotting the sight of a black, daunting specter stalking towards him, saw the girl’s mother beginning to walk toward them, having suddenly spotted her, and knew she would instantly place him the moment she heard his voice.

Madame Giry was the only force in this entire opera house he considered to be more dangerous than he. And he became nervous at the prospect of her witnessing his hands on her daughter’s waist.

He ripped his hands away. He really didn’t have time for this. He had entertained her enough during this dialogue, and he was on the fringe of accomplishing his entire goal for appearing in the above world this evening. He had been entertained plenty as well, and had his fill of interaction. This was nothing but foolish behavior.

“I know he is real, Monsieur, because I have seen where he lives,” she whispers, biting her bottom, lip and excitement, looking up at him through her eyelashes, and he instantly snapped to attention, stiffening and jaw clenching. So much fear and anger pulse through him at once, and it twisted with so many other emotions that he couldn’t discern one from the other.

Her eyes went curiously at his reaction, which she noted, but he was so odd character. She wasn’t sure what it meant.

He pulled her away from the dance floor, barely touching her shoulder and leading her away from the crowds. He feigned gentle intrigue, pushing the anger down. Had she shown anyone else his hiding place? “I have never heard the full story. You must tell me what all you know and have seen.”

She grinned, having succeeded in her attempt to keep him near. She had hardly ever spoken with boys much, her focus primarily on dance and her studies, and he seemed so very different from the ballet boys and the men that wandered into the dance foyer. She had hoped to have longer to speak with him! And to examine his peculiar eyes and voice closely.

“We must go somewhere quieter,” she said, gesturing with her hand for him to follow her. She wasn’t sure in the wisdom of leading a man to a quieter, isolated place, but it seemed all rational thought had left her this evening.

He seemed reluctant but curious, so he followed her towards the auditorium, where she closed the doors behind them, and began her tale.

It was chilly in the auditorium — Meg noted, shivering slightly as a ghostly breeze swept across the back of her neck and down her bare arms. Being in this grandiose room, as tall as it is wide, held an unearthly, eerie feeling, quiet and dark. It was so dark she could hardly see the slanted stage, and the crimson curtains, appearing to bleed velvet stains onto the stage, were swept haphazardly off to the sides and tied with gilded ribbons and rope.

He followed her towards the front of the stage where she beckoned for him to sit on the edge, which he did so, though with a modest amount of space between them. She smirked. He seemed to be a gentleman after all.

“Deep below us, far deeper than any of us have ever ventured, exists the embodiment of the creature may whisper about around this place — the Opera Ghost,” Meg begins, her eyes alighting with excitement at the premise of telling her favorite story, spinning towards her now so she fully faced him, and he, an avid and passionate storyteller himself, found himself entranced with her hands and facial expressions and vivid descriptions, though he was more curious about some of her more impossible admissions.

“The stagehands swear they hear footsteps in empty corridors, screaming in empty passageways, and the voice of a man singing in this very room late at night. The chorus here speaks of shadows moving behind curtains, especially during rehearsals where La Carlotta graces the stage — he hates her deeply, but more on that later — and makes a ruckus out of his operas. We are sitting on the very stage those shadows have been seen, where his mysterious singing echoes, where superstitions meet reality. And can you blame the Phantom for making this place his home? I would certainly live here forever if I could!”

The man — she wasn’t quite sure of his age, he didn’t seem young, but he hardly seemed significantly older, either — laughed softly beside her, and his voice pierced the heavy silence of this place more than even her story had.

“You would choose this place?” he asked, “To live forever, if you could? Being a ghost sounds incredibly lonely.”

“I’m not sure he Phantom would want to be pitied — though he wants to be left alone, he can leave the rest of the opera house alone. Up there,” she points towards Box Five, the curtains only parted slightly down the middle, enough for someone to see out, but not in, “is where he watches the performances. My mother is in his employ — she leaves a playbill and red wine for him for every performance, and he is very generous in tips.”

He follows the line of her finger up to the dark box, a shadowed balcony far above the stage, dark wood meeting extravagant architecture, moody yet charming in its build. Meg shivered as she saw the curtains tremble, as if they sensed the Phantom were near.

“You mean to tell me everyone goes along with this arrangement?” He murmurs, and the only inky eyebrow visible on his face arches, and she noticed his face was rather handsome, exceptionally sharp and pretty, especially in this near darkness. The only thing that lit the room were candles the stagehands must have forgotten to blow out sitting in glass vases, and she swore his eyes were bright enough to cast light from them.

“Not everyone. The managers are certainly not pleased with him, though my mother delivers letters from the Opera Ghost to them routinely, and they obey his orders. Mostly because he threatens violence against them, and also his suggestions for improvement tend to result in more patrons and higher ratings.” She grins then, leaning closer to him, and he finds himself leaning backwards. “And this is where La Carlotta comes back in — she threatens to quit at least every week, if not more! But always stays because this is her home, too.”

Meg glances back up at the Box, and he couldn’t tell if she was trembling with fear, excitement, or both. “It’s custom now that everyone crosses themselves before coming onstage. But I have never feared him harming me.”

He looks at her curiously, inhaling a noisy breath, loud enough to echo. “You speak as if you know him, madamoiselle. How can you possibly know he won’t harm you?”

She shrugs, her smile dropping only slightly, though he noticed her shoulders droop. “I don’t know him. But I do know that no one tells his story more than I, and he has not killed me yet. Perhaps he likes my tales.” She glances up towards the box, and then quickly turning her head towards both sides of the stage, and she scooches closer to him.

“But I can tell you a secret I have never told another person — not even my mother.”

Something strange crosses his expression then. “You have seen him?”

“Not just,” she responds, a smile curling her lips. “I have sat beside him.”

He doesn’t seem amused, but he doesn’t seem disbelieving, either. There was something uncomfortable about his posture, almost a rigidity to how he sat, and it reminded her distinctly of how her mother carries herself. Perhaps that was why she felt drawn to him — he was her father’s fairytale, and her mother’s elegance.

“Truly?” He murmurs, and she nods, clasping her hands together, but then jumping up, extending her hand towards him. He ignores it, but does step closer to her.

“I will show you where,” she whispers conspiratorially, sticking her tongue out and walking only slightly in front of him, and he gulped as vanilla and cherries wafted from her blond tresses, swirling up his nostrils and tickling his heart.

Anxiety was a sharp knife directly into his chest when he began to recognize the hallway. His long, dark shadow was casted across the door as they came closer, a candle in both of her hands, and he prays she doesn’t study his shadow too closely.

“The Prima’s dressing room,” she mentions, trying the doorknob, and to her delight, finding it unlocked. “La Carlotta often leaves it unlocked — she’s had the terrible habit since I was a child. She has been here as long as I. Now come and see this,” Meg leads him inside the room, and once again, the blond felt a sense of looming danger within, but it was too much of a thrill to end the chapter now.

“Long ago, when I was fourteen, I had snuck in here to steal some of La Carlotta’s candy mints for myself and the other ballet girls. It was late at night, nearly midnight, when I heard a sound from within the walls.” She walked further into the room, setting the candle down, and motioning to where she had heard the voice. “It was here, where the story became real for me, and I heard him.”

The candle flickered rapidly as she stepped inside the dark room, and the lush velvet drapery and floral furniture reminded her of the man behind her and his silken voice.

“I swear his voice came from behind this mirror,” she murmurs, stepping in front of it, his looking presence behind her, visible in the mirror, easily two hands taller than she. He matched the room’s interior well — all red velvet and black silk, porcelain and clean and stunning. All in perfect order. But something unknown and unearthly was promised behind these walls, and beneath his skin.

The room dropped several degrees as she came closer to the mirror, her breath fogging her reflection, and she noticed dust around the frame, and she swiped at the gargoyle-like face of one of the creatures surrounding the mirror, small and pretty and golden, revealing frozen horror and beautiful poetry, all in one tiny being.

“Can you feel it?” She murmurs, and the concentration of the scent of rose and powder grew heavier, almost suffocating in the room. “That this mirror holds a soul?”

She glances at him again in the mirror, and he had remained in the doorway, not entering the dressing room, but also not fully in the corridor — he was passing between two worlds, and this mirror seemed to be the entrance Dante had spoken of to the underworld.

“You are an insightful creature, Meg Giry,” he whispers, unmoving and stony, and she was reminded of the statue in Don Giovanni, how unassuming he was before he returned to take his revenge.

“You’re not coming in?” She turns now, and he places his hand behind his back, winding the long, tanned fingers together.

“This is a woman’s dressing room, is it not? Is it not standard that a man should enter a woman’s space?” He questions, and his eyes dart to the mirror behind her, something hidden in his eyes. “And you are a woman yourself. I can’t be in a room alone with you.”

“Well, that is standard, but you are the first man to enter here that has respected that custom,” she replies. “And besides, I invited you in, did I not? Unless you have foul intentions with me, Monsieur Red Death?”

He chuckles, which surprises her, and finally cracks a grin. “Your boldness is refreshing, madamoiselle, and I have no such intentions to harm you in any way.” He pauses, and then, “And as for entering in, this place is not suited for me. It is . . . Much too beautiful for me to step within.”

Meg frowned slightly, glancing about the room now to try and understand his meaning. She rather thought the extravagance, the oppressive quiet, and shadows and secrets within this room posed an interesting background for him.

“We should not linger here for long,” he warns, glancing down the hallway, though she highly doubted anyone would come barreling inside. “Now tell me the rest of the story — don’t keep me on the edge of my seat for any longer.” She could tell he was feigning something, but she could not tell what.

“After I stole the candy,” she begins, “I heard footsteps and a voice from the walls. I was certain someone was about to walk in and discover me, so I hid in this wardrobe,” she motions over to the rustic mahogany piece pushed into the corner, facing the middle of the room.

She fully faced the man now. “I saw him come out from the mirror. He was dressed in evening formal wear — all black and white, with a cape as dark as midnight. He wore a watch on his left wrist, golden and ancient. And what was strange,” she stepped closer to him, “is he checked his watch, and I noticed it did not work. It was frozen, but I could not read it in time.”

He had no reaction, and so she continued. “Someone else walked in, and he quickly found a hiding place — he wedged himself behind the wardrobe I was inside, and there was a hole in the back, which I could see out of. It was hot and cramped, and I saw him scratching beneath the mask, and his fingernails drew blood-“

“Who came inside?” He suddenly interrupts, his voice sounding strangled. Perhaps he was finally afraid, or he doesn’t like talk of blood.

“I have no idea,” she shrugs. “Two men, speaking of some of the ballerinas. I don’t like to listen to the things they speak of. And besides, there was a much interesting story happening on the other side of me!”

“Fair enough. Continue,” he murmurs, his replies becoming shorter, his voice steadier. His eyes had seemed panicked, but now was replaced by his normal air of neutrality.

“He took his mask off,” she whispers, and now his eyes did truly widen immensely, and she wished he would share more of his thoughts. He seemed to be holding back much of his opinions, but she only noticed this by the movement of hands and fingers and jaw — everything else remained frozen.

“What did you see?” He whispers, his voice only breath now, and she had never told this part of the story, and hardly knew how to express this part of the narrative.

“The stories always said he was a gifted musician — a remarkable composer, twining melodies and harmonies together to create music so heavenly, so angelic, that every human eye would weep at the sound of it. It was a gift, something like the Greek tales painted on these ceilings, some sort of magic,” she begins. “But as all gothic tales told, these God-given gifts come with an equally horrifying curse delivered by the hand of evil.”

He stepped closer, wincing as she mentioned the last word, now crossing the boundary from the living world outside the door and into the realm of darkness and beauty, and she wasn’t sure why, but she backed away subconsciously until her back pressed against the crystalline portal behind her.

He seemed like an angel as he stepped ever closer to her, his face tortured and beautiful, poetry pooling in his eyes as he looked upon her being. His eyes shone a brilliant golden in the dark room, and fear curled into her stomach at how intimidating and daunting he looked. Perhaps he was Virgil after all.

“His face was hideous,” she admits, and she unconsciously reaches up to touch the right side of her face, where the Phantom’s affliction was. “It was so . . . Discordant compared to the rest of him. Like it was his only flaw — everything else about his exterior was perfection.” She takes a deep breath, and meets his eyes, palms pressed against the mirror, a mere few feet between them. “That’s why he wears a mask, Monsieur, because of the scars and the wounds.”

He seemed to be watching her very closely and very carefully, and she decided not to tell the next part, about how she had felt bad for the opera ghost, when he was wincing from the sweat pouring off his forehead to the wounds his fingernails had carved, and dabbing the ravaged cheek with a handkerchief. He had seemed so vulnerable and alone and miserable in that moment, and so incredibly human.

“Remarkable story,” he deadpans, but then he seems to relax, and an easy smile graced his features, but it seemed as fake as his mask. Were both sides of his face a mask now? “What an intriguing tale, madamoiselle! Perhaps someone shall write a novel someday. I would certainly be among the first to pick it up.”

“Even if I wrote it?” She grins, glad their light conversation had returned, and whatever had come over him was gone. Maybe she should return back to the masquerade, to Maman and her friends and the celebrations, but something about his voice made all rational thought leave her mind.

“Especially if you wrote it,” he smirks. “Now, shall we head back?”

“What, you don’t want to see where he lives?” She teases, sticking the tip of her tongue between her teeth again, and crossing her arms. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your gothic appetite now, hm?”

“We should leave,” he lightly repeats, eyes closing in on her wandering fingers around the mirror, though he wasn’t certain if he had learned enough of what she knew yet.

“Because of the story? Are you frightened?” She giggles, flipping back towards him, leaning her back against the mirror again.

“Because of the hour,” he corrects. “It must be late.”

“Do you have a watch on you? What time is it?” She asks. “If it’s near midnight then perhaps I could be persuaded to end my story early. But then you will never see the Phantom’s kingdom deep down below!”

He did not check his watch, but he seemed to have a good sense of time, so it was not necessary. “I can’t imagine it is too far from midnight, but I am certain we have time to adventure to this mysterious place. How do we get there? You said you've been here before?”

“Oh yes! But you must follow very closely behind me. I have traveled this path many times, so I know where the boobytraps are. Stay very close to me so you don’t end up hurt!” She warns, and doesn’t notice how he purses his lips on “many times”.

He watches with horror and she presses her fingers against the wallpaper around the mirror, and eventually finds the latch that opens to reveal the lever that extends from both sides. She tips it downwards, and the mirror slides seamlessly open without a sound.

“Perhaps it is necessary for you to hold my hand,” she suggests, and he almost laughed at how she attempted to appear nonchalant, though she didn’t have a single bone in her body that matched that description.

Perhaps he did deserve a little adventure and fun tonight. He did find he enjoyed her company, other than a few tense moments, and she seemed interesting enough, having, so far, a few similar common interests. He had never gone on an adventure alone with someone before, not like this, and it made him feel like a little boy again.

It made him feel like he had a friend.

He liked that she was a little odd. In a way, in a much different way, she reminded him of himself, of perhaps the kind of person he could have been if life had dealt him a better card. And not the “evil hand” or whatever nonsense she uttered.

The iciness from earlier melted away, but he still remained cautious and anxious.

He didn’t take her hand, but he did step closer, smirking down at her as he spoke. “You’re a clever thing. How did you ever find this?” He feigned shock and surprise at seeing the mirror slide to the side.

“Would you believe me if I told you I hid in here every evening for a whole week until I saw the Phantom enter back through the mirror, instead of just the one way?”

He curls an eyebrow as she steps into the passageway behind the mirror, though she sidesteps him to grab the candle she had left on the dresser, and he reflexively closes the mirror behind them. “Ah, so you stalked the ghost?”

She gasps, mocking offense. “Can’t a girl be curious and insatiable? For a good story? And besides, he also stalks about this place anyways!”

“I wonder who designed these passageways,” he questions, glancing at her as she begins to walk forwards, and he does obey and follows closely behind, much to her satisfaction.

“That’s why I said his legend is built into this very place! If he is ghost, than surely he inspired Charles Garnier, the architect of this place, to enclose these secret passageways about the opera house to ensure he could walk around and disappear, unnoticed. Or perhaps there’s another theory?” She looks back at him, before her eyes widen, reaching up to push his shoulder down before a wooden beam came out of the wall, before slowly crawling back inside its home.

“Sorry!” She apologizes, flustered now. “I forgot about that one. I’ll pay closer attention for the rest of the journey.”

He chuckled, running his fingers through his raven curls, unbelieving at his own memory too. “Noted,” he murmurs, ducking beneath what little of the beam still remained and continuing on with her. “I would prefer not to be beheaded this evening.”

She smiles widely, glancing back at him. He liked being smiled at — that did not happen often. “See, I told you! You needed me!”

“I was not aware I required supervision,” he responds, and she giggles, shrugging.

“And yet here you are!” She says lightly, continuing on without hesitation, exuding a confidence walking down these hallways that told him she had ventured down here many, many times.

And never been noticed.

They walk in comfortable silence, Meg too focused on remembering the boobytraps, and the man lost in thought. The dim candlelight throws strange, monstrous shapes onto the cavern walls as they grow ever deeper into this pit, his hell, his home.

Stone began to give way to grimy brick, dusty and cracked with age and debris, oxygen becoming more and more scarce as they descended. They could still breathe, but the air was dry and cold down here, and not at all like the ease of the world above.

“You memorized this route,” he observes, and she nods, looking back at him with a smile, though they continue in. “Do you know other routes?”

She thinks for a moment. “Not really. Once I did try to go another route, but I ran into strange . . . Really strange things. I am not certain why he had them, but they led me to believe he is a collector of sorts.”

“What kinds of strange things?” He questions softly, voice cracking on the word “strange”, though his face immediately hardened at the sound of weakness in his voice, the stony exterior back.

“They looked like people, but they were not,” she attempted to describe. “They were made out of small clocks, but some of them seemed broken and frozen, so they did not work. Only one of them worked — it appeared to be a girl wearing a wedding dress, and she danced around the room to the sound of a music box that I believe was playing inside of her. The way she danced was not like ballet though, she jerked around, like a puppet, being tugged one way and then the other.”

“Ah, an automaton,” he answers, and she whirls on him, her eyes wide.

“You know what it is? How does it work? Perhaps we can find the room and —“

“I would rather not get lost down here,” he diverts. “But you are right — it is a machine, and made similarly to a clock. Very astute of you.”

She glows under his praise. “I still remember the melody. It has haunted me since — I have heard nothing like it before.” She began to hum it, and he was surprised her singing voice was alright — certainly not a prodigy, but she could hold a tune, and it sounded pretty.

And then it twisted to a rather dark creation, and he recognized the switch to whole tone, and he cleared his throat, cutting her off. No one was ever supposed to hear that music.

“Is my singing that terrible?” She teases, and he tries to recover.

“Not at all. But wouldn’t singing lure the Phantom to us? If he is even down here,” he jokes, though he hopes she will stop singing that forsaken, condemned song. No one was supposed to ever hear it. That song was his soul.

“So you do believe, after all?” She exclaims, excitedly, before the passage bends downward again, before she announces, “We are nearly there!”

He gulps.

The echo of water trickling from pipes comes closer, which is indicative of nearing the underground lake. Rats scurry beneath their feet and Meg shrieks, kicking one down the hall out of reflex, though he was surprised to see the guilt on her face after realizing what she had done.

“There,” she says, suddenly stopping and pointing. “That is his kingdom.”

The corridor opens to an archway, low and closer to the ground than the ceiling, reinforced with black, iron bars, rust beginning to sag and wrinkle the color. They were like ribs, guarding the heart of the Phantom’s domain.

The candle flame leans forward, as if drawn in by this scene, or perhaps being summoned by its master.

The air went suddenly frigid as she unlocked the bars, grunting as she pushed them upwards, and after a few moments of staring dumbfounded, he reached downwards with one hand to yank it upwards and open.

“Thanks,” she grins, panting, and she would have been sweating if not for the cold air. He hands the candle to her, which she had placed on the ground in her attempt to open the lock.

“I believe, up above in the opera house,” she begins, “there are many access points to get to this place, down here. But this is the one from the mirror. I know of this route because I followed him down.”

He jaw dropped. “You followed him down? And he did not notice you?” He did not yell, but his voice did rise in pitch and in volume, completely shocked.

“Well yes, of course, how else would I have found this place?” She winks, before turning and walking along the side of the lake, pressing up against the wall so she didn’t fall in, and he did the same.

“You have such bravery that it almost becomes foolishness,” he replies honestly.

“Perhaps the same is for you as well, for following me down here,” she shot back cheerfully, looking back to examine her steps and carefully make her way across.

“Like looking in a mirror,” he grinned, a little sardonic.

Their fingers bumped at one point, and he jumped, putting more distance between them. It was nice, but human touch was so overwhelming to him. He didn’t even like touching his own face at times.

The lake stretched to before like a sheet of thick blackness, ripples from dripping water of the cave the only movement and sound in this place, other than the two of them. She had foregone the boat, never having the patience to take it anyway, and preferred the challenge and thrill of scaling the side instead, back pressed against the wall and sliding across carefully.

She struggled holding the candle and moving, though she had done it many times before, it still was a challenge to keep her hand just barely out so the rock and brick of the wall didn’t scratch or smear the warm candle wax.

It trembled against the inky ripples, and he took the candle from her without asking, not wanting to lose their light source, and also not wanting her to stumble.

She acknowledged how practiced he seemed at this, but he also held a lethal sort of grace, almost like how she would imagine an assassin in one of her mystery novels. Though he did not know how to dance, he moved like she did. Perhaps even more gracefully than she did.

Her chest tightened, but she ignored it.

“You seem to know your way around pretty well, being from Vienna,” she speaks softly, not wanting to disrupt the haunted ambience here just yet. She hoped the mystery of this cave held the desired effect she wished to imprint on the newest visitor. “Although I suppose you have an excellent guide.”

He only paused for a fraction of a second, as if thinking of something to say, before answering truthfully: “ My father was a sailor. I have a wonderful sense of direction I must have inherited.”

“Or perhaps you are the elusive Phantom himself.”

His face snapped to her, heart dropping, but she was smiling wildly, and she seemed to be only joking.

He didn’t want her to know yet. He liked being treated like a normal man, two souls happening to run into each other on a Masquerade, exploring somewhere abandoned and dangerous, just as he had seen so many couples and friends dare to try and hunt him down on nights like these. He liked this excitement in normalcy. Would she run away screaming if she found out? And would she show everyone how to come down here, to hurt him, to mock him, to put him in a cage again on display in a jail cell? Would his reign finally come to an end? Perhaps this was all a mistake-

“I’m only joking!” She swatted his shoulder with her hand, closing her eyes with glee and the apparent panic there must have been on his face. “You looked so scared!”

He forced an uncomfortable laugh, attempting to recover, continuing to pretend and be a normal man. “Would it frighten you if I were?” He teases.

“Certainly not. I’ve all sorts of questions for him! Like if he can bully the managers into paying me twenty-thousand francs a month too-“ she grins, and it was then that she slipped on a slick spot beneath her, and shrieked.

He spun, facing the wall now, and grabbed her by the waist, wrenching her up his left arm, pulling her toward him and pinning her against the wall, watching as the candle slipped from his grasp and falling into the lake, a more appropriate sacrifice than a rosy ballerina. With that went their only light source, and she breathed heavily against him, her stomach heaving large breaths against his forearm as she grasped his elbow and collar.

“Are you alright?” He low voice rumbled, almost directly by her ear, and she nodded her head fiercely, embarrassed by her near fall, but also by how his closeness made her blush deeply, and feel warm all over.

“Yes. Thank you for saving me, Monsieur,” she stutters out, before gulping all her fear and nervousness down, calming.

“This is now the second time I believe I’ve caught you this evening, Meg Giry,” he murmurs, and his voice seemed closer to her ear, which made her shiver. “Aren’t you a ballerina? With such little grace?”

She giggles nervously, shyly. “My deepest shame.”

It was pitch black now, and she announced that since she knew the route best, she could lead them to shore, but he refused, saying he’d rather not have to fish her out of the lake tonight.

It was awkward, but she slid beneath him and he atop her, their clothes rubbing against one another, her blush deepening when her mask brushed against the bottom of his chest, forgetting just how much taller he was. She grabbed his hand and held it tightly, and she thought she heard him gasp, but his fingers curled around hers as he led them safely to shore.

She was aware of every place their palms and fingers touched, his warm and strong, and much larger than her own, eclipsing it completely. He pulled her gently, and she felt the press of her against the back of her hand. It felt like his pinky.

He didn’t seem to have an issue with seeing down here, either that or he knew this place by heart. Once they made it and she was on solid ground once more, he let go of her hand, and felt around for the doorknob, finding it very quickly.

“Give me one of your hair pins,” he asks, and she obeys, handing him a silver rose, and she thought she heard an additional jingling sound, but couldn’t be sure as the door opened, and light flooded their vision.

“Well this is lucky!” She exclaims, candles surrounding the Phantom’s apartment, stacked on top of tables and stacks of books and music notes, noticeably more messy than last time she was here.

“Perhaps he was expecting guests,” he drawls, and she grins, appreciating how he often makes remarks dryly. Her father did that often, and it reminded her of him at that moment.

“I told you he was a musician — the greatest composer of all time!” She remarks, bouncing over to the pipe organ, and sitting on the bench, beckoning him over.

“The . . . Greatest?” He repeats, a proud smile on his face, entirely smug and almost with a hint of appreciation.

“According to the legends. And me. But I’ve only heard him play the organ. Sometimes, I can hear him playing from the chapel — somehow the music works its way up to the room. Perhaps it is directly above us,” she explains. “Monsieur, his music is the most beautiful music I have ever heard!”

“Tell me,” he smiles, still seeming incredibly smug, ignoring her beckon to sit beside her, and instead came to the side of the organ, leaning against it on his side and crossing his arms, looking down at her.

She began to overflow with passion, and he had no clue the little Giry was so knowledgeable and affectionate about music. “He builds worlds with his music, Monsieur. It’s like the moment he touches an instrument, it unravels in his hands — it surely must! And he pieces it back together with grief and aching, in the way only music can piece a heart back together. His music is too large for this place, too large for Paris, for that matter! His hands, the beautiful ones that create such rich music, could hold the entirety of this world, but he has to content himself to this . . . Dungeon.”

She looks into his eyes deeply, and he notices for the first time how richly blue her eyes are. Not quite like sapphires, but like oceans, and he was reminded of his father, sailing across seas those same shades of blue. He wondered what other uncharted waters lie within her eyes.

“But isn’t this his home? Why would he consider it a dungeon?” He asks. “It seems comfortable here to be, perhaps a bit chilly and dry, though.”

“It is away from everyone else,” she murmurs, her gaze becoming sad. “I know he is a man, because I saw his eyes. I have never seen so much grief, so much anxiety, so much longing than in anyone I’ve seen before. But his gift is so unearthly, it is hard not to think of him as supernatural in some way. And the way he haunts this place . . . If anything, he is closer to an angel than to a monster.” She chuckles. “It reminds me of a favorite childhood story. Six impossible things-“

“Before breakfast,” he finishes, and he smiles softly at her. “Do you like Alice in Wonderland?”

He spoke gently to her now, and it melted her bones. “I love it,” she gushes. “It was a favorite growing up. My father would read it to me every night. I have always had an affinity for the impossible, the unexplainable, and perhaps that is why I am so drawn to the Phantom. He is a remarkable story, so tragic and human, but also he makes the impossible and magical seem possible. If he can convince an entire opera house he is a ghost, who is to say I can’t do the impossible too?”

“And what is the impossible for you?” He murmurs, leaning closed. “What are your dreams?”

“I want to write novels,” she confesses, eyes as bright as the candles around her. “And I don’t just want to dance, I want to choreograph the greatest operas and ballets. I cannot compose, and I cannot sing all that well, but I can dance. I want to see my work on every stage in the world.”

“Dreams are only as impossible as you dream them to be,” he replies, soft but with seriousness. “What is stopping you?”

“Lack of opportunity,” she begins, and he shakes his head, waving her off.

“You work in an opera house — there is opportunity all around you. Have you ever voiced these dreams to someone but me? Perhaps there is someone who could direct you towards the right path for achievement,” he suggests, and she shakes her head, looking down at her hands sadly.

“I cannot,” she whispers, but he simply could not accept that answer.

“You are young,” he tallies off his fingers, “you are talented, you are beautiful, you are brave, and you are kind and charming . . . I can quite imagine you would attract plenty of investors and visionaries for your projects. Really I don’t see the problem here, Meg.”

She bit her lip after he called her beautiful, and she was glad the mask at least hit some of her flushing cheeks, her face burning.

“Thank you, truly, for your confidence in me. It is . . . Encouraging. But I am a woman, with little money, no prospects, little status, little-“

“That’s enough,” he waves her off again. “I will personally invest in your projects.” He said it before he even thought through the wisdom of such a promise, but her words from earlier had touched him so deeply, and he wanted to repay that unexpected kindness.

She smiled so earnestly and so wonderfully at him, and he didn’t think anyone had ever been this happy in his presence because of something to do with him.

“You have just met me.” Her voice held so much awe, so much gratitude. “Why do you believe in me so much?”

“I see something in you I saw in myself, when I was your age,” he murmurs. “You are hungry, and ambitious, and wanting. But because of your circumstances, it is just out of reach. Let me help you.”

“You would invest in my work? In my writing and in my choreography?” She whispers, still unbelieving that this was happening.

And he responds back too quickly: “I would invest in you.” Fast words escaping before he could stop them, but there they were.

“You are a storyteller,” he recovers, “with creative instincts and a keen observation for atmosphere. And you possess an . . . Empathetic quality for gothic tragedies I have never seen before in another soul. I want your stories to be told around the world, only if you promise to write down the Phantom’s legend.”

She nods quickly. “You are serious, Monsieur? You haven’t even seen my work.”

“I have heard this tale, and that is all I needed to know to decide you were worth every franc in support. That is how touched I am by your story, Meg,” he answers truthfully.

She was still staring at him, unbelieving, and he cleared his throat, gesturing around the place. “This Phantom seems like an eclectic character. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to his decor.”

Her focus breaks, and she glances around the room. “Oh, yes, not even a semblance of any. But he is a man, and they are terrible at those things, you know,” she grins, and he chuckles in response. “But I rather like his carpets and furniture, if only he cleaned every once and a while.”

She glances around, having had wanted to show him more of the Phantom’s apartment, but the evening had not gone as she had planned. “Before you leave Paris, you must see the rooftop.”

He looks toward the lake, almost wearily, and then back at her: “Must we cross the lake again? That was quite grueling, going against the side like that.”

“There is an easier way to the rooftop from here! But we must be respectful — it’s from his bedroom.”

How many times could she shock him tonight? “Why would I need to be respectful? Didn’t you imply earlier that he murders people?”

“Only allegedly!” She said, and then thinks better of it, and tilts her head. “Okay, yes probably. But anyways, I try not to touch anything in his room to respect his space.”

“By breaking into his apartment, and sneaking strange men you have just met into his home?” He responds, and she sticks her tongue out before dashing off, him following close behind.

They climbed directly upwards from within his wardrobe, built into the wall, and he wasn’t sure how on earth she had found this secret passage. But they soon hit a set of stairs, and he passed the candle towards her once they weren’t climbing, and were instead walking upwards. He averted his gaze to the side while she was above him, as to not look up her dress.

“What do you think of that place?” He asks. “I thought it was rather sad, but I can understand why such a hideous creature would choose to bury himself beneath the world, so that no one might bother him.”

“I think the same, but also, I find it glorious,” she responds. “The artwork, the novels, the music, the Persian rugs and crimson candles, they all point towards a better understanding of the character of the Phantom. But I can also see the man beneath. The music is very, very distinctly him, and there are hints of him everywhere. I wonder who he is, beneath all the bravado and stories.”

He should not have asked that question, because now he felt his eyes stinging and heart clenching, so painfully and so raw. What she said tore at something so hurt and broken inside of him, something rotten deep inside his being. Something that had been hurt a very, very long time ago.

Someone wanted to see him. Someone wanted to understand him.

“I think the only way to know would be to watch him when no one else is watching. When he is alone,” she murmurs, and they emerged now onto the rooftop, the air frigid but refreshing, especially compared to the air down below. “But that would be impossible. He probably doesn’t even know I exist, and that I even know these things of him. Surely he would toss me into the lake if he ever had found out of my sneaking around in his home!” A giggle erupted from her.

He didn’t say anything back, only merely stared at the back of her head, watching the shift from candlelight to moonlight weave through her blond tresses, and for a brief horrifying moment, he imagined telling her everything.

He so desperately wanted to be known and accepted, but every time, it was what became his downfall.

He did know her. Perhaps he hadn’t paid much attention to her before this, but he did know her. He knew her full name, knew her favorite colors, knew she didn’t like bugs but could never kill one, knew she spoke with the exact same cadence as her mother, and had seen how often she had looked to her mother to praise her, and had hoped for it. He knew she smiled and laughed easy, but she was tired.

How on earth did they end up meeting?

He swallowed it down immediately. This was madness. All of this was completely madness. He was getting carried away.

“The reason I don’t like to stay in his bedroom for very long,” she began, “is firstly, that would be an odd thing for me to do. But secondly, that is where I first encountered him fully as a man.”

“You found him sleeping in there?” He replies, questioning firmly, and she shakes her head as they come to sit beneath Apollo’s Lyre, gazing upwards at the stars and at the streets of Paris below.

“No!” She gasps. “Goodness no! I meant that I see him plainly in there.”

He shifts uncomfortably, unsure of what she means. “What do you see?”

“Loneliness,” she begins, and his breath catches. “The music he keeps in there is so lonely. His violin was resting on the bed, if you caught that, and I believe that to be his closest companion. Even his violin sleeps today. He is so lonely.” She frowns, emotion welling inside of her for the masked recluse, and it made him simultaneously devastated and relieved that someone finally, finally seemed to care

“What else?” His voice cracks, and she smiles sadly, looking up at him now.

“That he is tired. Tired of being alone, tired of life, tired of everything.”

Below them, they faintly heard the muffled sounds of Mardi Gras, carrying through the opera house and up towards the night sky, dancing with the twinkling stars. Much livelier and joyful than the stone and water from below.

“How?” His voice breaks, and to his horror, tears gather in his eyes. “How do you know?”

“Because I can hear it, Monsieur, so very clearly in the way he plays. His music feels like weeping. I can feel him suffering, and it makes me suffer. I can feel his pain, and it hurts me. I can feel his longing, and it makes me ache,” she murmurs.

“What does he long for?” Tears fled down his face now.

She looks at him strangely, as if the answer were obvious. Her forehead crinkled with concern, especially at the rawness exuding from him now. He had been very composed tonight, teasing and polite, but he was different now.

“He longs,” she begins carefully, “for what every lonely person longs for.”

The breeze began to pick up around them, his midnight curls swirling to bounce and twirl, and her hair flew upwards with it, tangling with his. She brushed it back down, combing it behind her ears.

The dreamlike music continued to lilt far below them, now too far in the heavens to look down. “And what is that?”

“To be loved,” she whispers, so quietly, almost like a whisper as the wind carries the secret far, far away.

He looked shattered, as if he had been the one just now to confess it, and not her admission.

The ache in his voice felt like hers, every time her dreams had been crushed. She thought of when her best friend had left her, gotten married and moved away. She thought of when her father died, and so much of her died with him.

“Not as stories are loved,” she continued. “Not as music is loved, or books are loved, or even instruments are loved — but as a person is loved, with a whole heart.” She takes a breath. “To be understood. Not as the character he portrays is understood, but why he hides himself away.”

“Stop,” he moans, his face twisting violently then, grief flashing across half of his features so distinctly and painfully that she wanted to reach for him. “You speak as if such a cruel monster can be loved. It is impossible.”

She opens her mouth, but he cuts her off. “Do not quote my own words back at me . . . Do not use my own wisdom against me . . . I acknowledge the barriers in your life, but they are not the same.”

She thought he may openly cry in front of her, especially when he covered what was visible of his face with his hand, but when it came back down, his face was a calm visage, as it had been all evening.

“Don’t do that,” she whispers. “Don’t put the mask back on.”

He looked as if she had slapped him.

“You don’t know what you are saying,” he mutters sharply. “You are a fool. You are young enough to believe monsters can still be kind.”

She gently touches his bicep, but he shakes her off, still not looking at her. “And you are too old and weary to remember that they can be.”

He was silent now.

She watched him closely now, examined how the moonlight bounced off his porcelain mask, wove through his curls and illuminated his face, and she thought he looked beautiful. His chest rose and fell alongside silk and velvet, and she thought the red feathers on him looked like they were wilting alongside him. He reminded her of the dying swan, bleeding and melting to the floor with heartbreak.

“You speak of the Phantom like you pity him,” he says bitterly at last.

“Perhaps pity is an emotion I feel towards him, but that is the least of it. What I feel powerfully is sympathy.” Her words came slow and measured. “Do you pity him?”

“Yes,” he whimpers. “Because there is nothing more pitiful than being born unable to love and be loved.”

“That is untrue about you. You were not born that way. I am so sorry you were told that lie,” she whispers.

Tears now streamed freely down his face again, but he did not turn away from her. “You did not see his face!”

“Yes I did,” she reminds him gently. “I saw him without the mask, when he was behind the wardrobe.”

“But you only saw it briefly,” he grits out, emotion cracking through what little restraint was left in my voice. “You were a child. And then you pitied him and romanticized him, and made him into a gothic, tragic tale.”

Tears filled her own eyes now. “Monsieur, I feel so deeply because he was so hurt. And he looked frightened. He had little boy eyes in a man’s body.”

Something ancient and guarded collapsed inside of him, and he ripped the mask off angrily, flinging it over the edge of the roof, before he buried his face in his hands.

“I am so tired,” he cries. “Meg, I am so tired. I don’t want to live this way.”

“I know,” she comforts gently, coming to sit closer to him. “I know how you feel. I understand. I can see how tired you are.”

“Do not waste your time on me,” he gasps, and that was when she laid her hand on his shoulder, and he did not shake her off.

“You are not a waste of time,” she reassures patiently. “Not to me.”

“No,” he moans again, tugging at his hair. “This ghost does not deserve it. He does not deserve your kindness, your compassion, your touch. He deserves nothing.”

“That isn’t true,” she murmurs, rubbing his shoulder gently, both of them on their knees now, and she so desperately wanted to take his pain away, even if it meant baring it herself. “Maman told me that you swore to protect me, a long time ago, when she first began as your Boxkeeper. That you would make me an Empress. That is why I never feared you. Thank you for all of those times you protected me, and I wasn’t aware.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” His voice was so ravaged, it hurt her throat. Each of his words brought more tears stinging her eyes. “You don’t know what he has done . . . He has killed people, he has done terrible things . . .”

“You are not a monster,” she whispers. “Monsters do not feel grief. Monsters do not ache to be understood. They do not feel as you do.”

She was dangerous. Every word she uttered unwound him thread by thread until he was completely bare before her.

For most of his life, fear had protected him. It kept him hidden, kept people far away, helped him achieve power over people, especially those who would hurt him when given the chance. But fear also meant never being fully known.

He looked up at the blond woman now. This girl, this absurd, bright-eyed creature with candle wax on her dress and everything he had ever wanted to hear for his entire miserable existence spilling from her lips, had reached into what everyone had feared, and pulled him out of the darkness, as wounded and fallen as he was.

She did pity him, and he didn’t like that, but she understood him. Understood him so deeply it had cracked him into pieces.

“You see his soul,” he acknowledges, wiping tears from his cheeks. “You do know him after all.”

She bent her head slightly, angling herself so she could look upon his entire face and not tremble. “I know what it feels like to want impossible things.”

“Then I know you, too,” he whispers to her.

The bells of Notre Dam began to toll for midnight as shouts erupted from upstairs, and she spotted his watch, frozen, pointing towards what had been a couple hours before, when she had first crashed into him at the ball.

He sat straighter up, and reached forward to remove her pearly, ornate mask, untying the crimson ribbons behind her golden head before pulling it back, nothing between their faces now.

She gently touched the edge of his deformity, and he gasped, softly grabbing her hand and kissing her knuckles, eyes closing. “Oh, Marguerite. You are everything I have ever longed for.”

They fell into each other’s arms, and he clutched her tightly, crying softly against her hair, and she could not help the tears that fell against his neck, her heart shattering to pieces for him.

“How long did you know?” He murmurs.

“Since the dressing room,” she replies. “I remembered your eyes from before.” He holds her ever tighter, so much so he was starting to become concerned she wouldn’t be able to breathe.

“And you did not run from me,” he says, astonished.

“I am not afraid of you,” she responds simply.

She found home inside of his arms and against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart, feeling his fingers pet the back of her head soothingly, the other one clutching her back.

She backed away slightly to press a salty kiss against the deformed side, on his jaw, and he held her there.

Fireworks burst around them, and the stars continued to twinkle so high and lovely above them, the constellations holding the two so gently and lovingly, and he could not believe he had found this moment.

“Happy Mardi Gras,” Meg whispered, smiling, pressing a kiss to the edge of his mouth now, and he smiled.

His carefully guarded heart began to beat against his chest, demanding release from the prison he had placed it inside, hidden away now from the world for far too long. To his horror, his heart wondrously, disastrously, began to love.

To be loved is to be known.