From Shadows to Starlight

Impossible

Chapter Twenty-three

Impossible

“I watched you suffer a dull, aching pain…and now you’ve decided to show me the same. No sweeping exits or offstage lines could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind. Wild horses couldn’t drag me away…” --The Rolling Stones

“Now, you just lay down and rest, my lord, and everything will be all right--Meg my dear, would you please take his shoes off? He can’t sleep in those.” Earlier, Madame Giry, Meg, and another one of the maids hadn’t been able to find the Comte de Bellamy, until at last they’d discovered him in his library, passed out facedown on his desk. From his hand, a glass had fallen and lay in pieces on the desk in a pool of Chartreuse.

“No…no it won’t be,” Damien slurred, so drunk he was barely conscious. “He’s gone…Av--Avery’s gone.”

“He’s in a better place, my lord,” Madame Giry tried to reassure him, patting his shoulder gently.

“He’s gone…and, and he killed him!” He shouted, lifting a finger and pointing to the row of wanted posters on the wall opposite his bed. The posters, bearing a likeness all too familiar to Antoinette, were slashed with knives or punctured with darts. If only he knew that the Phantom was living under his own roof. Damien tried to get up but she and the others held him down, with a chorus of “It’s all right, my lord”’s.

“He killed him,” Damien muttered, “and she doesn’t love me.”

What? That was not something Antoinette had ever heard her master say during on of his occasional alcohol-induced rants.

“She d-doesn’t love me…and she won’t…‘cause of him.” He practically spat the word, his face a sickly complexion.

“Please, Master Damien. Please try to rest. Everything will be better in the morning,” Meg said, her brown eyes full of concern.

“It’ll…it’ll be better…when he’s dead…”

Meg shot her mother a fearful glance, but Antoinette’s emotions were carefully hidden. She had learned to keep her feelings under control many years ago; it had been necessary to protect Erik.

“Shh,” Madame Giry hushed. “Sleep, my lord.”

They watched as exhaustion overcame the Comte, and he closed his eyes and fell into a drunken slumber. The three of them tiptoed quietly out of the room, Antoinette and Meg parting ways with the other maid, who had a few more duties to attend to. They walked quickly through the halls and down the flights of stairs to the servants’ quarters, making sure that no one saw them until they were safe behind the doors of their apartment.

“Poor Master Damien,” Meg said sadly as she shut the door behind them. “He’s such a kind man…I hate to see him like that.”

“So do I,” Antoinette agreed.

“Who are you talking about?” Erik was sitting at the table writing something, as usual, and had looked up as they came in.

“Our master,” Madame Giry said. “He isn’t at all well tonight.”

Erik scowled. “You shouldn’t call him that. You two are not servants, you’re dancers, and you shouldn’t even have to work for him.”

“He’s a good man, Erik. For the most part he’s pleasant to work for, except in moments like these.”

“Oh? What’s wrong with the man?”

“Drunk.” Was Meg’s blunt reply. “He tends to get…upset.” Antoinette noticed that her daughter still had trouble meeting Erik’s gaze, and wondered if Meg would ever feel comfortable around him.