Dreaming of Beauty - Private OnexOne

[Without Knowledge]

Dreaming of Beauty
-

-
“This repulsive carcass who seems a beast, but secretly dreams of beauty...”

New Year's Day of 1873 reveals a frost-bitten Paris, still barely recovering from the loss of a crippling war. The members of the unfortunate opera house have fared no better than the city itself, and the only one among them who found her happily ever after was Christine Daae. The former star of the stage now lives with her dear Vicomte in the countryside, away from the gloom of Paris, awaiting the birth of their second child after bearing a son - Charles - within a year of marriage.

Though she attempted to bring the ballet mistress and her whimsical daughter into her fairytale life, it was not to last. Not yet three years after the premiere of the doomed Don Juan Triumphant, Antoinette Giry's health started to fail her. Young Meg, now barely an adult, left behind her dear friend and beloved godson to get her mother to a specialist doctor in the city, but there was nothing to be done – she died in route to the city, and Marguerite Giry was left to pay not for a doctor, but a funeral. And there was only one other attendant who came to pay unseen homage, decked in a dark cloak and wide hat that hid his face.

Erik, despite all expectations, survived the horror and heartbreak of that horrible night, and went on with life, though he showed little motivation or interest for it. He continued on the simple instinct to survive, living in the mansion on the outskirts of the Paris, bought and built with the finances of unexpected inheritance. And it was right by this mansion that the Giry carriage pulled over when the Madame's life ended. Having heard of this from a servant, Erik took it as a sign and went to pay his respects to the one person in the opera house he had considered friend.

This should have been the end of it, with Marguerite struggling to get back to the Chagnys and look after their children until she found some way to support herself, and Erik returning to his self-proclaimed prison until his time or patience with life finally ran out. And this is how it would have gone, had her father's lawyer not approached Marguerite with Antoinette's will right at the grave, giving both attendants a shock with her final testimony.

While I wish I could leave what is left in this world to my only living child, my husband's prenuptial agreement stipulates all that I have must go to him. Given this fact, all I can give now is a reminder to someone who will probably never hear it – 'Do as I say without question, and your daughter will become an Empress.' It was by this promise that I served you for so long, despite the suspicion it put upon me - to help the daughter I had done so little for when I should have. I could not expect you to find her a prince, sir, but I must ask you to try, in memory of the service I provided, to look after her and find someone worthy of her that is willing to care for her as I no longer can.

The short, strange letter left the Phantom utterly shocked, called out on an old promise he had forgotten in his sorrow, threatening to wound his pride if he reneged on it now. Thus he took the younger Giry away, despite her protests, to his mansion with a promise to himself that she would be married as soon as he could find a proper spouse for her.

Now Meg lives in the abode of the infamous Phantom - the confused, underfoot ward to her disgruntled, matchmaking guardian. Welcome to an odd twist on the classic Beauty and the Beast, where the Beauty has a father that certainly isn't going to rescue her, and the Beast is already in love with another 'Belle' out of his reach. Is there even a 'Gaston' in this twist? Will Christine play a role of her own in this tale? And what happens if Erik ever does find Marguerite a 'prince' to marry? Would either be happy to see this promise kept?

[Without Knowledge]

• ◊ • Meg
Look there she goes, that girl is so peculiar
I wonder if she's feeling well
With a dreamy, far-off look
And her nose stuck in a book
What a puzzle to the rest of us, that belle
----------- ----------- ---------- ---------- --------- --------- -------- -------- ------- ------- ------ ------ ----- ----- ---- ---- --- --- -- -- - -

“We have entrusted our sister to God's mercy, and we now commit her mortal remains...”

A sudden bout of laughter muffled out what the priest was saying, echoing down from the nearby street into the small cemetery - a sound that would usually be strongly frowned upon by any decent person in this situation, but these were unique circumstances. This was a private, unannounced affair, and despite the solemnness of the occasion within the tall fence, outside the rest of the world was still going on with the gaiety of the season, enjoying the last few hours of the old year. Besides, there was no one even attending to feel anger of the recently departed's behalf – no distant relative interrupted in prayer or old friends to whisper among themselves at the nerve of the party goers. There was only one figure at all standing at the edge of the freshly dug grave, watching as a couple of hired hands attempted to lower the fine oak box into the ground without interrupting the priest's memorial or unsettling their load. And that attendant didn't say a word or bat an eye at the giggling that disturbed her mother's burial.

Marguerite could of course hear them passing by, but she wasn't really processing the sound, anymore than she was the words coming from the old holy man's mouth. The lines meant little to her; they were only being said as per her mother's wishes, and because that was simply what was done at a funeral. Or, at least that's what she thought – she had little to go by. Despite the number of deaths that had happened around her, she had only been to one funeral before, and even that occasion gave her little to go by. She had been only a young girl, unsure how to react. All she had known was her brother Nicolas was gone because he caught a sickness overseas. Now she could only remember holding tight to Maurice's hand, and her mother.

Remembering it now, Marguerite felt a strike of that odd admiration for the woman she had as a girl. In those young days Antoinette Giry was not a large factor in her life, keeping at the side of her father at near all times, and by effect staying far from her younger children. But somehow she remained present to young Meg, acting as a kind, but distant figure to expect calm affection from during the holidays or a rare family dinner. Thus while she should have been mourning the older brother she had lost, or at least listening to the Lord's prayer, Meg could only remember starting at her sad, but still collected mother and admiring her from across the grave. Despite how she'd clutched hard onto her husband's arm and held her jaw still, Antoinette did not shed a tear.

I suppose she would have been proud of me then, not crying either... But then it wasn't the will to control the urge that was holding her back; she just couldn't manage it. Even watching her mother's grave starting to be filled, she didn't feel any of the overwhelming sorrow she would expect. She felt only numb... utterly, horribly numb.

“I beg your pardon, miss...”

The voice finally broke through to her and Marguerite slowly looked up to see the old priest looking at her remorsefully, making her struggle to bring a grateful smile to her lips as she went through the motions of thanking him for his services, but her thanks came out flat and her smile was barely a twitch of the mouth. The man simply nodded and spoke to her in a quiet, sagely tone with words of apparent comfort in relation to the Lord and heaven, but again she just couldn't seem to process any of it, only nodding dumbly along until he finally left her be. And so she continued staring down at the upturned earth for many minutes more, even as the grave was filled and she was left alone in front of it. It made her look like she was just not ready to say goodbye yet, but in truth she was just trying to wrap her head around the one thought that actually manages to get through the veil that had fallen over her mind; what as she supposed to do now?

She was so absorbed with her own thoughts that she didn't even notice the elderly, smartly dressed man standing at the entrance to the cemetery, parchment clutched in one hand as he glowered over at the small, darkly clad woman. It seemed he was trying to give her a respectful amount of time to grieve before approaching her with whatever it was he needed, but his patience was clearly thinning given the way he was tapping the letter on his thigh and intermediately switching his weight from one foot to the other, jaw tightly shut to hold back any rude interruption he wanted to give. But it was only a matter of time before he lost patience and approached her.

- - -- -- --- --- ---- ---- ----- ----- ------ ------ ------- ------- -------- -------- --------- --------- ---------- ---------- ----------- -----------
There's been a change in me, a kind of moving on
Though what I used to be I still depend on
For now I realize that good can come from bad
That may not make me wise, but oh, it makes me glad
Giry • ◊ •

[Arsenic-x-Sleep]

• ♦ • E r i k .
And in my twisted face
There's not the slightest trace
Of anything that even hints of kindness
And from my tortured shape
No comfort , no escape
I see... But deep within is utter blindness
_________________________________________________________________________________

The solemn occasion was numbed by the sound of revelry and joy that seemed to emanate from all around the cemetery, only coming to a stop at the resting places' wrought iron and stone gates, though still standing and laughing at those who held their heads low and their eyes still. A mixture of various, rag-tag church workers made up the palm-bearers, where as most funerals involved close, loving sons, brothers, fathers... But save for a lone priest who was simply obligated to care and a single, mourning daughter, there was no one. No one.

That is but for a solemn figure of a man that had appeared beneath a dying willow tree some time in the midst of the ceremony. No one acknowledged his arrival, nor his presence, and if one didn't know any better, they could liken his presence to a ghost.

The man was tall and covered in layers of clothing that hid his every feature as he towered high over the procession from the small hill. Though it was not particularly unusual to see someone so bundled for the weather, there was a certain air to this Ghost that made his stone-still, gargoyle like stance eerie and foreboding. A long, black duster coat covered a lanky form; Gloves and tall boots encased the lithe extremities beneath a layer of leather. A dark, woven scarf was wrapped around his neck and lower part of his face, while his eyes and forehead were hidden beneath the shadow of a long-brimmed felt hat. Perhaps he was, after all, a ghost. A phantom to see the dead unto the afterlife; across the River Styx and deep into the bowels of the underworld where judgment awaited. The ever-leering Grim Reaper. The entrancing, irresistible, inevitable Angel of Death. The shadow on the wall, the last gasp, the darkness that steals the light from the living's eyes. And he was here for Her. He was here for the late Antoinette Giry, the dearly departed that had apparently been forgotten by a cold, cruel world.. Forgotten by all but one - All but her only Daughter.

Yellow, cat-like eyes glowered from beneath the brim of felt, watching with cold, predator like resignation that spoke of little emotion or remorse. But for those few that knew him - who knew this ghost that was not a ghost, nor an Angel, nor a Reaper, who was really but a man - would know that the icy glare in his eye was in all reality a hesitant gaze of deep, unrelenting sorrow.

She deserved more.

While Antoinette had been nothing to the Phantom, the ghost, the Angel not of death but of Music; at one time she had been very much something to the Man... To Erik. The image of the lonely funeral before him tore at a heart that he had thought had stopped beating some time ago. She deserved so much more. Antoinette was a saint in so many ways; She deserved a beautiful, elaborate requiem. A Dirge that would uplift the coldest of souls, if even for a fleeting moment, to touch the face of Heaven and glance upon the world they would never see again. A world that didn't exist, as far as he was concerned, but could will itself into existence through a cacophony of carefully placed notes and powerfully strummed keys. She deserved everything.

It had been several days since he had obtained news from the Daroga of the loss. When an unfamiliar veil of remorse settled over his senses, he knew he could not allow this particular occasion to go unseen. And as he stood there beneath the shadow of the cold, December sky, he realized just how important it was that he did, indeed come. To die alone is a fate that should be secluded to a few, choice villains. To die forgotten something that should be reserved for things like him - Not a mother, friend, ally like the former ballet mistress. As workers began to slowly cover the deep grave, Erik watched with the flick of an eye as the priest moved to approach the lone daughter, utter a few words of obligated comfort, then left her to her own devices. Strange, curious eyes watched Marguerite for a moment, scrutinizing her expression from afar, wondering silently at her anguish.

When he had learned of his mother's departure... He had felt little but the icy numbness of indifference. Though, even from this distance, her face spoke of a similar numbness, he knew it was more than likely a very different kind nonetheless. What was it like to lose a mother? ... Better yet, what was it like to have a mother to lose?

His musings were interrupted, however, when he took notice of another presence in the cemetery. A clean-cut, anxious businessman with the typical suitcase, tie, suit... He had never liked those sort of men, and more often than not - They were a sign of trouble..

_________________________________________________________________________________
Such mortal feelings
Are never forsaken
And once again, those passions will awaken
My evil has its beauty , when it suits me to possess
The hearts of those my vengeance will embrace,
within my world ...
• ♦ •

[Without Knowledge]

• ◊ • Meg
Look there she goes, that girl is so peculiar
I wonder if she's feeling well
With a dreamy, far-off look
And her nose stuck in a book
What a puzzle to the rest of us, that belle
----------- ----------- ---------- ---------- --------- --------- -------- -------- ------- ------- ------ ------ ----- ----- ---- ---- --- --- -- -- - -

“Miss Giry, might I have a word?”

The sound of her name being spoken in such a curt tone cut through Marguerite's thoughts, as she'd been too distracted to hear the speaker's approach. Once the priest - who to be honest she'd already forgotten the name of - had left her be, the years old memories of her mother had slowly seeped back into her focus, followed by more recent ones. But thinking of Antoinette as she had known her as an young adult, and not a child brought with it a very different kind of pain. After all, the woman she had known as a girl was like a distant idol, to be looked at and admired from afar.

But when Meg had returned to her here in Paris, after not speaking a word to her in person or in letter for over three years, everything had changed between them. They may never have shared the closeness she'd observed between her fellow dancers and their proud, doting parents, the past hanging over them too heavily to allow them to share much beyond the repetition of dance practice. But all the same, it was after she had come to the opera house that Meg first had a chance to truly know her mother, to make her smile in pride, and see it happen. She had realized that, despite everything, her mother loved her.

Remembering that feeling was bittersweet now and went through Marguerite like an shot, threatening to break through her calm for a few moments before she'd viciously pushed it back down, shutting her mind down against the unwanted feeling before it could settle. She'd learned the hard way what happened if she let her mind go down such paths, and it was better to just ignore the source until she could handle thinking about it later, if ever at all. She'd likely be using that tactic for some time to come...

And that was what she had been doing when the impatient lawyer had approached her, keeping her mind focused strictly on things right in front of her, like the smell of the newly turned soil, or the rough texture of her mother's black gown which she wore under her cloak, or even the oddly comforting chill of the cold on her face and hands, though she knew her limbs would probably sting when she finally went indoors again and the feeling came back to them. Her entire 'world' had been her immediate surroundings in those quiet minutes, and the interruption of that world in the form of the glowering man quite rudely reminded her to remember what was really going on, painting a look of vague comprehension over her features.

But the man didn't have anymore time to waste on watching the girl, and despite her lack of full attention he quickly continued on, his words respectful enough but not fully making up for the flippant tone he couldn't quite cover up.

“I assume you remember who I am?”

Marguerite gave a slow nod in reply but gave no response to his less than polite delivery, either still too distracted to note it or simply not caring enough to react. “Of course, Mr. Richmond. I see you got my letter about this... Is something the matter?”

Richmond merely glowered at her again, but this time it seemed less focused on her than what he had to say. “Yes, since your mother was only for my client for a short time, and I'm afraid I was uninformed about certain things until this week, it wasn't brought to my attention until now that the madame had a living husband that has rights over all of her property.” He couldn't help but feel further annoyed as he saw no surprise cross the younger Giry's face, but he tried to placate himself that she might already be aware of what he had to say, and not grow too angry as most clients in this position did. “Unfortunately, I learned this because your father's lawyer here in Paris also heard of her death as well, and said that all of your mother's money and belongings are to be held for him... even from you.”

Marguerite returned Richard's annoyed, but hesitant stare with a shocked one of her own, although once the initial surprise passed she didn't give any of the upset reactions he was used to see – just a sardonic little smile hinted at whatever she thought of this news. She had in fact not been aware that what little she had 'inherited' to care for herself was going to be taken away, but in retrospect... it really didn't surprise her. “I see... Well, I'm afraid most of her things were left behind in our rush to get her to a doctor; I don't have very much to turn over to you.”

This calm reaction only further disturbed the man, seeing the utter lack of anger from the girl at being held out by her own father. Privately, he mused if perhaps there was some obvious reason for this he was missing... Perhaps this girl wasn't related to Giry's lawful husband, or there had been some fallout between father and child? Clearing his throat, he pushed his theories aside and unwrinkled the short parchment clutched in his hand. “I'm afraid there's another matter I must tell you of. It's not nearly as important, I imagine, but... The madame left one final note, which she had sent before leaving for the city herself – this is where I first heard of your father.” Looking up, he saw he'd caught the girl's attention with the paper, as she was leaning towards him slightly to read what was on the page. For a moment he considered just turning it over to her, but he wanted some answers as to what was written on it, so as an excuse to hold onto it he instead spread it out in his grip and read aloud in a distinct, important tone.

'Mr. Richmond,
While I wish I could leave what is left in this world to my only living child, my husband's prenuptial agreement stipulates all that I have must go to him. Given this fact, all I can give now is a reminder to someone who will probably never hear it – 'Do as I say without question, and your daughter will become an Empress.' It was by this promise that I served you for so long, despite the suspicion it put upon me - to help the daughter I had done so little for when I should have. I could not expect you to find her a prince, sir, but I must ask you to try, in memory of the service I provided, to look after her and find someone worthy of her who is willing to care for her as I no longer can.

Signed,
Antoinette Giry'

Folding the letter in two, he looked back at the mentioned 'living child' for her reaction, seeing that she wasn't even looking at him now but staring off to the side with a slow comprehension visibly appearing on her face. “Now, who exactly could she be referring-” Richmond shut his mouth with an audible 'click' as a soft, but clear giggle came from the girl, making him stare at her like she had two heads until she raised one small, now pink hand to cover her lips, covering up an affectionate but oddly sad smile that pulled at her cracked lips crinkled at her eyes as she mumbled softly to herself.

“Is that why she... She never told me that...” Glancing up, she saw that her out of place amusement was actually scaring the uptight man, who looked ready to call a doctor and have her committed for her behavior. Quickly she worked to smooth out her expression and speak calmly to the man, although the odd, amused tone didn't quite leave her voice. “I don't think you need to worry about that, sir... Even if that promise was a factor now, which it isn't, it's nothing to trouble yourself about.”

“I, see...” Richmond's expression showed he was anything but convinced, but quite frankly he didn't want to deal with this woman any longer; she was acting awfully peculiar. Clearing his throat again, partly because of the cold and partly just to distract himself, he moved to quickly press the letter into Marguerite's hand before stepping back. “Well then, I'm sorry to have disturbed you, miss...” The man trailed off as he didn't know what to say. Usually at a client's death he would tell the relatives in a comforting, if self-serving manner to contact him if they themselves needed any help, but he found he'd rather not have this one's business, particularly since he knew she had no money with which to pay him.

But she was blessedly not even paying attention to him, having already turned back to her mother's grave, glancing at it for a few seconds before he heard the crackle telling him that she was having a look at the letter for herself. Seeing this as his chance, he quietly turned away and slipped through the front gate, trying to make a quick pace back to his carriage so as to avoid the jovial pedestrians that were about. With any luck he could get back to his own family, get a nice glass of bourbon, go to bed, and not have to think of this girl again.

- - -- -- --- --- ---- ---- ----- ----- ------ ------ ------- ------- -------- -------- --------- --------- ---------- ---------- ----------- -----------
There's been a change in me, a kind of moving on
Though what I used to be I still depend on
For now I realize that good can come from bad
That may not make me wise, but oh, it makes me glad
Giry • ◊ •

[Arsenic-x-Sleep]

• ♦ • E r i k .
And in my twisted face
There's not the slightest trace
Of anything that even hints of kindness
And from my tortured shape
No comfort , no escape
I see... But deep within is utter blindness
_________________________________________________________________________________

The world seemed to silence itself around them. The birds ceased to sing, the revelry outside the cemetery gates grew mute. The wind that had howled moments before, slowed to a quiet, nearly inaudible murmur through the thin, crackling limbs of trees. Erik was a master of many things; Including shutting out the world around him so that he could focus on one, inconspicuous thing.. Even as minute as the general banter of some low-life lawyer here to bestow upon Marguerite some rather belligerent news. Boots spread through the dead grass of the hill beneath his feet, a quiet crunching of frost reverberating off the leather only to go silent once again as the thin skeleton of a man watched and listened intently on the exchange between grieving Daughter and leeching business man.

It seemed, simply put, that there was still a father to the Giry name, and what Antoinette left on this Earth was now his and no one else's. He had never heard of a husband, and had only ever assumed Antoinette a widow of one manner or another... But nonetheless, he was unsurprised to learn menial facts about the woman he had, in all actuality, known very little about. He of course only knew her first name through observation, not because she actually informed him of this herself.. It had only been out of courtesy that, when he had begun to address her as "Antoinette", he in turn informed her of a name.. A name with which she could hold that same leverage of proverbial power over the infamous "O.G." she had come to know in due course with the rest of the terrorized Opera House. It was that familiarity that had eventually culminated to a sort of silent but ever-present comradely between the two. A sort of companionship that, in some ways, could be referred to as a strange form of friendship.. After all, she had trouble hiding the vague amusement caused by a few of his more harmless antics...

And so the blood-sucking pest that he was, the Lawyer continued to inform Marguerite of this rather debilitating news with little sympathy in his demeanor. Surprisingly, she seemed hardly effected by it, and for a brief moment Erik found himself intrigued by her calm, sincere collection no matter the situation. Nevertheless, this very intrigue was turned over to surprise when the Lawyer had yet more to say. Or rather, read.

'Mr. Richmond,
While I wish I could leave what is left in this world to my only living child, my husband's prenuptial agreement stipulates all that I have must go to him. Given this fact, all I can give now is a reminder to someone who will probably never hear it – 'Do as I say without question, and your daughter will become an Empress.' It was by this promise that I served you for so long, despite the suspicion it put upon me - to help the daughter I had done so little for when I should have. I could not expect you to find her a prince, sir, but I must ask you to try, in memory of the service I provided, to look after her and find someone worthy of her that is willing to care for her as I no longer can.

Signed,
Antoinette Giry'

... A promise long forgotten to tides of rage and anguish, and the ashes of a condemned house of Music.

Stunned was all that could describe the grim figure on the hilltop. She had remembered where he had not... And through all of that time, she had continued to do what she did not for him, nor herself, but for her daughter.. The young, bright-eyed, creative, mischievous ballerina. Marguerite.

Admittedly, by one point, Erik had allowed himself to become convinced that there was, indeed, some amount of kinship between himself and the Ballet Mistress. That, perhaps, he had found a true ally beneath the roof of his Home and Kingdom... But he was a fool to think that any of it was for him. But he felt no ill tides, instead, he only found admiration for a woman that had kept her word, despite the potential consequences, all for the sake of her one and only child. Antoinette's words rang true. She had never backed down to his word, never questioned his methods, and obeyed without even the slightest blink of an eye.. All for her. And still, Marguerite had left the Opera as nothing more than a chorus dancer while he had focused mindlessly in launching Christine's career to the forefront.

The stern Dancer needn't be alive for Erik to realize his mistake.

Gold eyes cast once more to the lonely figure of the young dancer, left by her own to scrutinize the letter for herself. As obliged as he felt to fulfill Antoinette's final request... He wasn't entirely sure what he could do. The chilling cynicism of life clawed at his thoughts, and he felt an annoyed scowl scroll itself across his face as he glanced upon her. If there was a home, if there was money, it was now her father's - Who was a scum-sucking b*****d of a man, no doubt. She would have no where to go. It was not sadness, nor sympathy, that filled him. It was the sense of duty.

"...look after her and find someone worthy of her that is willing to care for her..."

He hardly felt like playing matchmaker... But it was as She wished.

_________________________________________________________________________________
Such mortal feelings
Are never forsaken
And once again, those passions will awaken
My evil has its beauty , when it suits me to possess
The hearts of those my vengeance will embrace,
within my world ...
• ♦ •

[Without Knowledge]

• ◊ • Meg
Look there she goes, that girl is so peculiar
I wonder if she's feeling well
With a dreamy, far-off look
And her nose stuck in a book
What a puzzle to the rest of us, that belle
----------- ----------- ---------- ---------- --------- --------- -------- -------- ------- ------- ------ ------ ----- ----- ---- ---- --- --- -- -- - -

Completely unaware of the one man audience she had at the moment, Marguerite continued to look over the letter in her hands, tilting it slightly to catch the far light of the lanterns by the front gate so she could make it out as the now absent lawyer had. But she wasn't actually reading the words; rather, she was inspecting the familiar handwriting on the page with an affectionate twitch of her lips, having to hold back a chuckle at the atrocious script. It had been something she had only recently discovered, having never shared letters with the woman herself, and looking at it reminded her that was probably, at least partly, because of her writing skills.

Antoinette Giry, though having possessed elegant manners, fine features, and grace worthy of a prima ballerina had never managed to make her handwriting better than that of a clumsy child's. It was only from practice that Meg, and probably her lawyer, were able to make out anything she wrote. But this flaw had always been an affectionate fact to her daughter, as it had made the mother seem more reachable since she wasn't as perfect as she sometimes appeared, and this little reminder brought a fond smile to Marguerite's lips.

The resulting tugging at her lips sent a light sting with it, making her flinch and reach up to wipe away a small spot of blood that had formed from the left side of her split bottom lip, having dried and cracked from her long period out in the cold, preparing and witnessing her mother's burial. It was uncomfortable, but the stinging and bleeding had done the job of reminding her that, despite whatever emotional roller coaster she was quietly going through, she would have to see to her more natural needs soon and find some place to warm herself.

The only issue was where. She obviously planned to make it back to her boarder of a friend, if only to tell her what had become of her mother after they'd left her home so suddenly. But it would take her time to travel there without money for a carriage, and she wouldn't have made it back tonight even if she had one available.

Folding the letter and sticking it delicately into her cloak's pocket, Marguerite turned to stare out at the street beyond the gate as she thought of a solution to her problem, the light of the lantern that had aided her earlier highlighting the pink tint the cold had brought to her cheeks, although her face was partly shadowed by the hair that constantly fell in her eyes, blocking any good at her, or any good look she had of the street. But she didn't push the locks of her field of vision just yet, her focus on mentally ticking off her options, ranging from finding some warm bar or restaurant open late for the holiday to wait out the cold, to finding a hotel and trying to convince the boarder that she had a friend that could cover her tab later on.

Both of these ideas were promptly thrown tossed, for obvious reasons, and quickly it became apparent that there was only one building that she would feel both safe and free to spend the night in. The opera house might be a questionable bet for a haven tonight, being probably boarded up well and a good hour's walk from here, but figured she didn't really have much choice but to try; if nothing else she could try one of her other, less attractive ideas if it didn't work out.

The only problem now was, despite the long, cold trek ahead of her, Marguerite couldn't seem to stop staring at the grave or tear herself away from it. The more she tried to convince her feet to start moving, the more the odd sensation that she was abandoning her mother welled up inside. It was ludicrous, completely irrational, and still had the power to keep her standing there, fighting herself on the matter.

Quit being foolish! You aren't leaving her behind, because she's not down there; she's already gone! The cold, rational thought came from her own head, but if she had not been caught up in the sad truth of the statement she might have realized it wasn't her own voice she associated with the thought. But in any case, the thought did convince her to move away from the grave site and start a slow pace out of the cemetery, any remains of her earlier humor and sentimentality dashed along with her silly attachment to the spot.

- - -- -- --- --- ---- ---- ----- ----- ------ ------ ------- ------- -------- -------- --------- --------- ---------- ---------- ----------- -----------
There's been a change in me, a kind of moving on
Though what I used to be I still depend on
For now I realize that good can come from bad
That may not make me wise, but oh, it makes me glad
Giry • ◊ •

[Arsenic-x-Sleep]

• ♦ • E r i k .
And in my twisted face
There's not the slightest trace
Of anything that even hints of kindness
And from my tortured shape
No comfort , no escape
I see... But deep within is utter blindness
_________________________________________________________________________________

The city was far from quiet as Marguerite began to make her departure from the cemetery. Lights burned bright in near taverns, restaurants, homes... Somewhere, a clock struck eleven, it's bells ringing faintly in the distance like quiet whispers on the gentle breeze. Dark clouds hung in the sky, blocking out the stars and warning of a coming snow. The cold air that encased passing pedestrians and those few that remained on the streets had become even more rigid than before, and puffs of white air escaped lips one after another, in a teeming reminder that, despite the cold, they were still indeed alive.

Erik stood still as always on the hill top, yellow eyes peering out from beneath the felt brim, watching intently as the young Marguerite began her assent through the cemetery and toward its exit. While the rest of the world waited on the coming of a shiny New Year, this particular girl only waited on a world that had passed her by some hour before, and she hadn't even seen it. Normally, this sort of situation would have earned little of his attention. He would have waved it off and left the unfortunate to fend for themselves in the streets... Just as he had to his entire life. But this time it was different... Erik may have been an indifferent, cold, even cruel fellow... But if he was nothing else, he was a man of his word, and this word had been nearly forgotten.

Frozen on his feet, he felt the breeze tug forlornly at his coat hem and scarf, while strands of black hair brushed gently against the nape of his neck as a reminder that it was time to move. His eyes lingered briefly on Marguerite for a moment more, staring through her and reading the pages of the open book that he found most people to be, assuring himself that this was what he must do. Without a second more, he tore himself away from his station, glancing briefly to the freshly covered grave under which laid his former ally. When he assumed the daughter was a safe distance, he approached the stone with slow but certain strides, pulling something from beneath his cloak - A simple, red rose. The very kind he had Antoinette deliver to him on regular basis years before. Muttering a simple but respectful goodbye, he placed it gently on the edge of her monument before promptly slipping once more into the darkness from whence he found his usual comfort. But this time, he did not head straight for the safety of his secluded home as he usually did when visiting town for whatever miscellaneous reason - Instead, he intended on pursuing Marguerite, in an effort to spot the opportune moment to... Well, to do *what* he wasn't entirely sure yet. But he hoped it would be something that would aid in his effort to fulfill her mother's final wish..

_________________________________________________________________________________
Such mortal feelings
Are never forsaken
And once again, those passions will awaken
My evil has its beauty , when it suits me to possess
The hearts of those my vengeance will embrace,
within my world ...
• ♦ •

[Without Knowledge]

• ◊ • Meg
Look there she goes, that girl is so peculiar
I wonder if she's feeling well
With a dreamy, far-off look
And her nose stuck in a book
What a puzzle to the rest of us, that belle
----------- ----------- ---------- ---------- --------- --------- -------- -------- ------- ------- ------ ------ ----- ----- ---- ---- --- --- -- -- - -

Having come to the edge of the small space of hallowed ground, Meg felt a wave of exhaustion already threatening her as she looked out at the long, dimly lit roads, the long trek ahead of her seeming particularly unpleasant given the still dropping temperature. For a moment she even glanced back, thinking longingly of just sitting the night out right here, despite the irrationality of the urge. But as she did something caught her eye; a dark, tall figure moving near where her mother now laid, silhouetted by a streetlight on the other side of the graveyard. She couldn't make out any details at all from here, but then she didn't actually attempt to – the sight of a stranger showing up out of seemingly no where had convinced Marguerite to turn and finally leave the cemetery.

It was only once she was actually out on the street, taking the short but hurried steps through the sparse nighttime crowd, that the shock of what she had seen fell away and she instead wondered who the devil that could have been. She'd been in that cemetery for hours and her mother's grave wasn't too far from the entrance, and yet she didn't remember anyone but Richmond approaching her. Logic would dictate that she must have just not noticed him pass her, or he'd come in through another gate, but those were just boring assumptions. It was much more interesting imagining that whoever it had been had not gotten past her at all, but been in the graveyard the whole time. Perhaps he, as she assumed only a he could manage the inconceivable height she'd noticed, was waiting out a chance to visit some grave of some passed on love, and had to avoid being spotted because it had been an unethical affair in some manner, and did not want her family to catch wind of him there.

Of course, she knew this was not likely true in the least; that wasn't the point. It was the same as her old stories of the Phantom that lurked behind the scenes at the opera house, manipulating the managers as he pleased and making mysterious dealings and errands for her own mother to do. On calmer, quieter days she could easily admit her extravagant stories were simply the products of her own musings, supported by little to no fact. She had always turned to such fancies out of a love for the could be, as when she got herself started, be it with her old friends in a line of gossip or her own private thoughts, she had the ability to weave such tales in such a way that even she came to believe them, if even for only a moment. It had always been a comfort of a skill for her, helping her distract herself from boring practices or unpleasant thoughts.

It was for the second reason that she was turning to this now, as the more she dwelled on the mysterious figure, the more she could ignore her own sorrow, the decorated tale managing to pull her slowly back to a good mood, despite her situation. Unfortunately, the lack of focus outward also cost her much awareness of her surroundings, as she allowed herself only enough to avoid stepping on a patch of ice or running into anyone. Thus she didn't even notice when a trio of laughing, staggering men paused just a few steps after passing her to turn and stare after her, one of them mumbling something to his friends that brought a slow smirk from one and an amused laugh from the other. Nor did she realize that small group was starting to follow her, keeping a fair enough distance away so as not to alert the oblivious girl.

By the time she finally reached the slightly charred, abandoned building, Meg found that she was clutching her cloak tightly over her arms, her jaw was clenched against clattering teeth, and though her little 'tale' had spun into a completely different story of the dark figure being the dead love, waiting for some sign from a lover that had abandoned him, even her imagination couldn't block out the cold to her anymore. She thus tucked the fancy away to instead focus on how she was going to get inside. The front doors, high above her up the stone stairs, would obviously be locked and boarded tight, and so she turned and walked around to the side of the building, looking instead to one of the side doors that was down an alley.

“Miss, Miss! You don't happen to have the time, do you?”

The quiet, sneering question echoed behind her in the tight space and stopped her only a few feet into the narrow space. Glancing over her shoulder, as she saw an unkempt, sandy-haired man leaning casually against the side of the building, smirking at her in a 'friendly' manner as his two companions stood back a bit, cutting off access and most light from the road. The sight of them made Marguerite grow still, slowly turning to them with a stiff stance, her shadowed, near black eyes moving quickly from the men to her surroundings, though she didn't move again otherwise, not reacting as they spoke amongst themselves as she instead focused on how to get out.

“Heh, looks like she's not going to answer us.”

“Now, that's just rude. Doesn't she know any manners?”

The sandy-haired one in front slurred some response back to them as he stood up 'straight' again and moved toward her, but Marguerite didn't listen as her focus was fixed on the slick ground between them. The man gave a slow, amused smirk as he took this sign of passivity as a lack of fight. But the moment he moved in close and tried to touch her Meg suddenly moved forward and pushed hard on his left side, the man's current lack of coordination and the ice under their feet aiding her as she watched the man yell out in angry shot, falling on his face to the cold ground. His two friends yelled out in indignation with him, but she wasn't waiting for them to come at her, already turning and trying to make a run for it for the open street. Unfortunately the ice that had helped her a second before hindered her now, making her trip twice in her rush before she covered any distance, the other two already all but bearing down on her.

- - -- -- --- --- ---- ---- ----- ----- ------ ------ ------- ------- -------- -------- --------- --------- ---------- ---------- ----------- -----------
There's been a change in me, a kind of moving on
Though what I used to be I still depend on
For now I realize that good can come from bad
That may not make me wise, but oh, it makes me glad
Giry • ◊ •

[Arsenic-x-Sleep]

• ♦ • E r i k .
And in my twisted face
There's not the slightest trace
Of anything that even hints of kindness
And from my tortured shape
No comfort , no escape
I see... But deep within is utter blindness
_________________________________________________________________________________

The men drew near on Meg's heels, but just as one reached to snatch out at her dark-clad form upon the icy ground, something, or rather someone was suddenly between him and the insolent woman. The black figure seemed to have literally leaped from the sky, and before a gasp or even a simple "What?!" could escape the foreman's lips, a sickening Crack! echoed between the stone walls of the alleyway. "s**t!!" The man hissed a cry into the night air, a free hand clawing desperately at his right arm, which was twisted in a hideous shape - Its wrist still held tight in the vice-like grip of the skeletal palm of the mysterious figure.

"W-Who the fuc-" The low-life growled - But before he could finish, leather wrinkled and the grip tightened, sending him to his knees. "Agh!"

The man's companion had skid to an abrupt halt on the icy ground, staring wide-eyed at the thing that had intervened in their pursuit. Shoulders shook violently, and the green-eyed brute cracked his neck to one side as he attempted to wipe himself clean of all shock and come to his friend's aid. "Oh, you'll regret that.." He threatened, lunging forward to plant a solid fist to the enigmatic figure's face. But just as he did so, the figure moved swiftly to the side, only the brim of his hat baring the impact. Before the felt even touched the cobblestone street however, he proceeded to hurl the first man before him and bring a foot up, connecting it flat to the poor fool's gut and knocking him straight into his would-be savior. Sent to the ground, the two were left to attempt to, quickly, regain their composure, the one with the clearly broken arm cried and wailed into the night, cursing the man who dared attack them.

The ominous man turned slowly then, to face the original perpetrator who had been the barer of Marguerite's initial problem.. The one who was still partially kneeling on the ground, staring up at the spectacle before him with a thick layer of confusion laid tightly over his facade. His breaths were quick, emitting tiny clouds of white vapors into the air, temporarily warming the tip of his nose and narrowed eyes. Slowly, he moved to stand and meet the assailant, but it was then that the street lights behind him caught a glint in the other man's eyes. Yellow, cat-like orbs glared hellfire unto the drunk, their daggers tearing straight through his mind. Wild black hair, laced with white - Deathly pale, scarred skin, and a white, pearlescent mask hid a side of the man's face he certainly didn't want to see. Another glint, silver, came from his hip, the sound of metal on metal - A sword.

Stifled curses were uttered beneath the man's breath, and as he stood his eyes were wide and full of fright before promptly turning on his heel and limping away quickly. His movement seemed to be a cue to the others, as the two other men were quickly scrambling to their feet and making a break for it - Disappearing into the black, Paris night.

It seemed the stories about the old Paris Opera were true.

_________________________________________________________________________________
Such mortal feelings
Are never forsaken
And once again, those passions will awaken
My evil has its beauty , when it suits me to possess
The hearts of those my vengeance will embrace,
within my world ...
• ♦ •

[Without Knowledge]

• ◊ • Meg
Look there she goes, that girl is so peculiar
I wonder if she's feeling well
With a dreamy, far-off look
And her nose stuck in a book
What a puzzle to the rest of us, that belle
----------- ----------- ---------- ---------- --------- --------- -------- -------- ------- ------- ------ ------ ----- ----- ---- ---- --- --- -- -- - -

The impact Marguerite made on the ground when she fell was hard enough to send an echo of a sharp thump through the small space, caused by the velocity of her own run adding to the natural force of gravity to make her arm all but scream from hitting the ground first and her vision to blur from hitting her brow. But the sound was of course all but muffled by the crack of someone else's bone behind her, followed by a wailed curse that made her blink the stars out of her eyes to gingerly turn over and look behind her.

The sight that greeted her was just what seemed like yards of black from her low perspective, looking like a dark veil from how it blocked her view of anything else, including her attackers. A second's blinking to clear her vision and push through the pained dizziness in her head showed her it was just a cloak, covering the back of a man standing before her. Given the situation, her focus was still set on where her assailants were, but as she looked past the stranger before her she saw that the two that had been just behind her no more than a few seconds ago were both cowering on the ground injured, staring up at the man like they'd run right into a living nightmare.

Curiosity taking hold, Meg tilted her head up to see what could be so frightening for herself. What, or rather who she saw didn't exact the same fear from her, but instead a freezing, jolting shock as she found herself staring up at a foreboding, pale facade that was half-hidden behind porcelain, golden eyes narrowed away on the men before him. The slight woman just couldn't process what she was seeing; she might as well have seen her own mother standing there for all the logic this was making to her. But the more she stared at his turned away face, the more the fear-induced adrenaline in her system calmed and she started to connect his figure with the very one she'd seen in the graveyard – a much more realistic fancy than she was usually prone to.

By the time the trio of wounded men, injured both physically and in pride, cowered back and were limping around the corner, Marguerite was hastily attempting to stand up, shock quickly being replaced by confused wonder. But because she wasn't watching her movements in her rush to stand and address him she forgot to be prepared for the ice still underneath her, her foot barely having time to apply weight to the slippery ground before it was slipping out from under her again. She only had time to put a hand out and try to lean on the opera house's stone wall to stop her teetering, but that only served to dictate the direction she fell; a very bad move, given she fell towards the building itself.

For a second time she felled the impact of stone on her head numbly for a split second before the pain set in, this time coming from the side of her head. She only had time to process an instinctive fear of falling paired with exasperation and frustration with herself. But then she couldn't even process that, as her vision went mercifully black as she hit the ground again, before she'd even had a chance to speak to the seeming spectral of a man before her.

- - -- -- --- --- ---- ---- ----- ----- ------ ------ ------- ------- -------- -------- --------- --------- ---------- ---------- ----------- -----------
There's been a change in me, a kind of moving on
Though what I used to be I still depend on
For now I realize that good can come from bad
That may not make me wise, but oh, it makes me glad
Giry • ◊ •

[Arsenic-x-Sleep]

• ♦ • E r i k .
And in my twisted face
There's not the slightest trace
Of anything that even hints of kindness
And from my tortured shape
No comfort , no escape
I see... But deep within is utter blindness
_________________________________________________________________________________

Silence pervaded the alley as the thugs disappeared from view, until, that is, a second thunk rang out from behind him. Drawing his attention quickly around, Erik glanced upon Meg just in time to see her laying on the ground, still and silent once again. After a brief moment of staring, his mind blank, he realized quickly that she was unconscious on the ice.

Well... At least she was safe... More or less.

~~~~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mam'selle Giry...?"

A woman's voice would penetrate the blackness of Marguerite's unconsciousness. A friendly voice, but one with an edge, a humor, nonetheless. It was faint, as if far away in the distance somewhere.There was a gentle press on the ballerina's shoulder, like a warm hand attempting to nudge her to reality.

"Mademoiselle Giry? Wake up!"

Her voice was stronger this time, louder and more clear as the mists of sleep would begin to dissipate. There was the faint aroma of black tea wafting through the air, accompanied by the inviting scent of freshly baked pastries, sugar, yeast... Was that strawberry? Or perhaps Cherry?

As sight would recover to Marguerite's eyes, her senses would be filled with light. The gentle rays of morning peering through thin curtains on one large, ornate window to her left. She would be laying in a bed - large and plush, with silk sheets and an expensive velvet comforter. Tall bed posts reached toward a delicately carved, paneled ceiling, eventually ending in an elaborate canopy with red drapery that was pushed to the side for the time being. The room was large, almost too large, with eccentric trappings and warm hues of dark redwood, crimson, and gold. It was not a place she would recognize.

Then, peering down on her, was a woman - Presmably the source of the earlier voice. Her eyes were large and dark, rimmed with long, raven lashes and accented by a dark, exotic skin, obviously kissed by the sun over her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Wild tendrils of curled black hair framed her petite but artfully carved face, a violet bandanna holding the back layers away from her gaze. Dressed in a simple white and black dress-corset adornment, she appeared to be a maid of sorts, attending to Marguerite from the side of the bed. Intently waiting for her to wake.

_________________________________________________________________________________
Life is so unnerving
For a servant who's not serving
He's not whole without a soul to wait upon
Ah, those good old days when we were useful...
Suddenly those good old days are gone ...
I s s a b e l l a • ♦ •

[Without Knowledge]

• ◊ • Meg
Look there she goes, that girl is so peculiar
I wonder if she's feeling well
With a dreamy, far-off look
And her nose stuck in a book
What a puzzle to the rest of us, that belle
----------- ----------- ---------- ---------- --------- --------- -------- -------- ------- ------- ------ ------ ----- ----- ---- ---- --- --- -- -- - -

A voice calling her name quietly, or at least part of it, was struggling to reach her, fluttering through Marguerite's ear and mind fleetingly, not truly registering any words or meaning, but all the same catching her attention in a manner. Unfortunately, once Meg's mind was pulled at all towards consciousness, the slightest disturbance tended to violently startle her. Thus when her name was spoken again, louder and accompanied with a command, her entire form gave a sharp flinch while still curled on her side from sleep, her eyes flying open to reveal glassy, silver orbs staring straight ahead but not registering what was actually before them.

For a few, short seconds, she remained in that stiff state, the time passing quite noticeably as a clock somewhere close by ticked six times before she moved, becoming a focus for her hazy, fleeting thoughts before she finally turned her attention to what she could actually see. Quickly registering that there was a woman standing at her side, she blinked back up at the friendly looking hoverer. As usual Marguerite's emotions showed quite clearly on her round, ivory face, bafflement, intrigue, confusion, and thoughtfulness all flowing through her as clear as day through the furrow of her brow and slight movements of her pale lips.

Meg was, quite frankly, at a loss, not only about her situation but about what to question first: who was the woman in front of her, where was she, how did she end up here, had she really seen him save her as her fuzzy memory told her? A slight, dull echo of a headache at her temple served as evidence for that last question, but all the rest remained unanswered, jumbling together in her head and tripping over one another to get out and be heard, none of them quite making past her lips.

Finally though one of them won out, and as she rolled back and slowly sat up, vertigo threatening to flatten her again for a moment before passing, allowing her to voice her question. “I, beg your pardon... But where am I?” Her perplexed expression hinted at the anxiety her polite words manage to cover, but all the same as she questioned her whereabouts her eyes moved off the woman before her to glance off at the room around her, immediately feeling a sense of awe at the beautiful, dramatic interior and the sheer size of the space. While most would probably find the large room intimidating, it just made Meg's legs itch with the urge to walk about and inspect every corner of it she could. But she pushed the longing down, mentally reminding herself there were more important things to think about; like that the devil was going on, for example.

- - -- -- --- --- ---- ---- ----- ----- ------ ------ ------- ------- -------- -------- --------- --------- ---------- ---------- ----------- -----------
There's been a change in me, a kind of moving on
Though what I used to be I still depend on
For now I realize that good can come from bad
That may not make me wise, but oh, it makes me glad
Giry • ◊ •

[Arsenic-x-Sleep]

• ♦ • I s a b e l l a .
Be our guest! Be our guest!
Put our service to the test
Tie your napkin 'round your neck, cherie
And we'll provide the rest
_________________________________________________________________________________

"Ah!" The woman suddenly exclaimed as Marguerite started to life. "You're awake! It's about time..." A grin scrolled its way across her face - she was rather amused with the woman's obvious confusion.

"I see you're surprised. Really, I can't blame you. I mean, waking up in some place you don't know to some woman you've never seen, well - I think we've never seen each other. If we ever have, I sure don't remember.." The strange woman rambled on, waving her hand this way and that, tapping a forefinger to her chin, running her hand through her hair, all in a manner of seconds as she her thought process obviously derailed itself. Like a train wreck - It was a bit hard to look away. It was then that something obviously hit her as a quiet but sharp inhaled gasp parted her lips and her black eyes lit up like light bulbs. "Oh! I brought you breakfast!" The statement was reminiscent of an excited child who had brought their mother a special meal in bed - Apparently, Meg's question had all but flown right by the maid's head.

Within moments, she was on her feet, leaving the small chair she had been sitting in to practically dance over to the ornate, redwood nightstand where a silver platter sat. Sweeping the tray into her hands, she twirled around in a whirl of black and white skirts to plant it gently on Meg's lap as soon as she was sitting up. "You were lucky y'know. Who knows what those thugs would'a done to you if it weren't for the Master showing up when he did. He's a bit of a grouch, but there's a good man under all that grumpiness. He saved you, didn't he?" Snatching up a small tea kettle, she poured a portion of the steaming black tea into Marguerite's cup. By the way she spoke; She didn't intend on stopping any time soon. After she replaced the kettle once more on its stand near the bed, she turned once more to peer intently at Meg before reaching out to gently tap her forehead - Where a layer of linen could be found. "Yep, you'll be fine. Quite the bang, though. When the Master showed up on the doorstep last night with you all banged up like you were, I wasn't too sure. But it looks like he took care of you real well. That man, I swear... Never ceases to amaze, y'know?"

Standing straight, the woman beamed a widespread, cheery grin as she quickly planted a hand in the curve of her hip and cocked her head to one side - Motioning with her free hand to the tray before her 'patient.' A small plate was adorned with a fresh crescent with strawberry jam and a side of fresh fruit. "I wasn't sure -how- hungry you'd be... Let me know if you want more, it certainly wouldn't be a problem, I mean I make enough for the house everyday and since some people never eat theirs, there's always leftovers -"

Finally; The woman hesitated, taking a moment to stare at Marguerite as the smile faded from her lips. Something was processing.

"Oh! Look at me, talking your ear off..." She laughed, practically blushing in embarrassment before settling once more into the chair beside the bed. Smoothing down her skirts and situating her hair, she peered toward Meg apologetically. "You were saying...? Oh! Right. You're in the de Mansart home. The Monsieur found you last night near the old Opera House and frightened off those thugs. Unfortunately, you apparently bumped your head something awful..."

"Of course, where have my manners gone today? I am the head maid of the house - Isabella Terézia. Just call me Isabella. Some call me Isa. Whichever you prefer." And so, after what seemed like hours, the maid who referred to herself as Isabella Terezia (Or Isabella, or Isa) fell silent with a warm smile on her face as she allowed a moment of silence - Or otherwise allowed a moment for Meg to get a word in edge wise.

_________________________________________________________________________________
Life is so unnerving
For a servant who's not serving
He's not whole without a soul to wait upon
Ah, those good old days when we were useful...
Suddenly those good old days are gone ...
T e r é z i a . • ♦ •

[Without Knowledge]

• ◊ • Meg
Look there she goes, that girl is so peculiar
I wonder if she's feeling well
With a dreamy, far-off look
And her nose stuck in a book
What a puzzle to the rest of us, that belle
----------- ----------- ---------- ---------- --------- --------- -------- -------- ------- ------- ------ ------ ----- ----- ---- ---- --- --- -- -- - -

Marguerite's attention on the room was very quickly drawn back to the far more interesting maid of a woman beside her, watching her ramble on basically repeating her question back to her with complete sympathy and understanding... and not actually answering it at first. Instead she found a tray giving off delectable smells propped up on her lap, and looking up the she saw a look of eager delight go across the exotic-looking maid's face, as if there was nothing finer than serving people and watching them eat it. And with a look like that on her face, how could she disappoint her?

Moving to use the offered fork to very delicately spear some of the food, as though fearing she might break the fine utensil if it were used to roughly, and slowly chewing the food, barely noting the delicious taste of strawberries on her tongue as she was far more interested in her server, partly because of the sheer volume of her words, and partly for the information she shared, bit by bit. For instance, she almost choked on her croissant when she spoke of the 'Master,' and how he'd been the one to save her. Her mind was already tripping over itself as she realized that could mean this was his house, though the idea of it was a mind blower of its own and only let loose a dam of more mysteries that she didn't know how to handle.

On another note, it was only when Isabella tapped her on the head that she realized she had a bit of gauze taped to her head, making her look down and access anything else she might have missed. The only things of note really were a light scrape on her arm, already apparently cleaned, and that she was no longer in her mother's gown, but a nightdress someone had apparently managed to get her into. It was white and simple in style, but the texture of the fabric told her it was anything but cheap. Strangely, the idea that people she barely if at all knew had handled her in such ways didn't make her uncomfortable... it made her feel cared for, that they'd go to all the trouble.

But as Marguerite had dwelled gratefully on the thought Isabella had continued on, and then finally answered her question as to where she was. de Mansart... Turning the name over in her mind, she simply couldn't remember anyway she'd ever heard it before, although it wasn't that surprising she didn't. She was just trying to figure out if this man was indeed who she thought she'd seen the night before. It could simply be that the knock on the head she'd taken had made her see things, and yet... But really, whoever this de Mansart was, she'd have to thank him greatly for what he'd done – she could wait to figure out his identity when she actually saw him and could see for herself. Of course, the fact that the maid knew her name was a less than ignorable clue to who had carried her back home last night.

As for the cheery head maid, she seemed to have (finally) come to a stop after providing her name, and multiple versions of it for possible use. Taking a moment to swallow the bit of jam and bread that had been sitting on her tongue, as she'd been nibbling on it distractedly throughout the one-way chat, she took her chance to speak up again.

“Well, it's a pleasure, Miss Te... Isabella.” Marguerite corrected herself with a ghost of a sheepish grin, setting down her barely touched food as she spoke. “My name is Marguerite Giry, as I assume you know. But I usually go by Meg – sometimes Marguerite. 'Whichever you prefer.'” A real, humor filled smile showed up this time as she repeated Isabella's earlier comment in a good-natured tease before turning her attention back to her surroundings, looking over the room as she spoke.

“This room is just... Is it really just a regular guest room? It looks like it could be a master suite, by the size of it... Do you usually pull out all the stops just for a girl that gets rescued off the street?” Though the question came out as another joke, it was obvious she really was wondering at the treatment under the humor. Her own words also served to bring Meg's head back to how she had been save and by whom, prompting her to gently set aside the meal on her lap and crawl out of the soft covers to try and stand up. She saw no use in staying in bed right now, even with a hot meal on her lap, when she had questions she needed answering, and she wasn't going to get them eating in bed. The interests of the head had always outweighed those of the stomach with this girl, after all.

- - -- -- --- --- ---- ---- ----- ----- ------ ------ ------- ------- -------- -------- --------- --------- ---------- ---------- ----------- -----------
There's been a change in me, a kind of moving on
Though what I used to be I still depend on
For now I realize that good can come from bad
That may not make me wise, but oh, it makes me glad
Giry • ◊ •

[Arsenic-x-Sleep]

• ♦ • I s a b e l l a .
Be our guest! Be our guest!
Put our service to the test
Tie your napkin 'round your neck, cherie
And we'll provide the rest
_________________________________________________________________________________

Isabella's eyes lit up as Meg proceeded to introduce herself, a quiet delight showing through when she tossed the gentle tease her way, but at the same time offering a more informal nickname by which she could be called. Isa had never liked the formalities of "madame" or "monsieur", but then she came from a far less formal background than most Parisians.

The black eyes of the maid watched Meg intently as she continued to speak, only to rise a few moments later as she was taken over by the urge to walk and explore. Isabella opened her mouth and raised a hand, as if to protest to the woman walking, but she ultimately brushed off the idea of doing so and instead stood to follow Meg in case she were to grow weary from her injury. She wasn't entirely sure how badly of a wound it was, after all, and she assumed it better to be sure than sorry and then have to go find Monsieur de Mansart and inform him of the accident...

"Oh.." Isabella chuckled quietly, looking around the room for herself. "The whole house is like this.. Well, not exactly like this. But it's big. It needs to be with all of the things Monsieur de Mansart likes to collect." A warm smile fell onto Meg then as Isabella returned her dark gaze to her injured companion once more. "Besides, we wanted to be sure you would be comfortable. Who knows how long you'll be staying, after all." A cryptic statement.

A moment of silence fell between the two then, and it was only in that moment that one might take notice of the eerie quiet that pervaded the house. Somewhere, a clock ticked away the seconds - But its musings were reverberated onto silent walls, creating a strange and unusual air about the place. Most large manors such as this were always a buzz in the mornings - What with the sound of cooking and cleaning, servants socializing, workers chipping away at whatever menial tasks the Lord or Lady of the house had them doing that particular day. Often it was this time of day that the masters of the house may be having company for brunch or entertaining in some other sort of manner. After all, it was the morning of the New Year was it not? ...The point was that it was quiet here. Eerily so.

That very silence was broken then as Isabella whirled on her heel and began to walk, assertively, to a large wardrobe nearby, opening it's drawers and rummaging through cheerily. "We actually have quite the selection of clothes for you. You look small, so I hope I got the right measurements... Either way, they should do. Oh! And if there's anything else you might like, just let me know! Or anyone else, really, but I do like to think I get the job done the quickest... Anyway; Anything you want, that's what Monsieur de Mansart told me."

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Life is so unnerving
For a servant who's not serving
He's not whole without a soul to wait upon
Ah, those good old days when we were useful...
Suddenly those good old days are gone ...
T e r é z i a . • ♦ •