Page 45 of Angel's Flight
Meg would be expected to go along with all of that, but she wasn’t.Whether it was spite or rebellion or idiocy fueling her, she didn’t know and didn’t care.She was making her own choice for once, and it was thrilling.
“You can do this, Meg Giry,” she whispered as she made her way through the dim maze of set pieces and backdrops.Some were old, taken from the previous National Opera House on theRue le Pelletierbefore it burned down, and the collection gave the curious experience of walking from a painted forest to a Turkish seraglio to a crumbling castle in a few steps.If Meg had not been so nervous, she would have been fascinated.
“I know you’re around here somewhere, steps,” Meg muttered.This was the third cellar though and Meg was determined to reach the fifth.
A shadow moved, far down the long corridor of sets, and Meg nearly screamed.Somehow, she kept her feet moving towards where the figure had gone.It had been far too big to be anything but a person...or a ghost.Meg drew up onto her toes, using every muscle in her dancer’s body to be silent as she turned the corner to follow the shadow – only to crash into a very solid male form.
Meg screamed and the man jumped back in as much terror as she.Looking at him stole the sound from her throat and she stared up in awe.It was the Persian.
“What are you doing down here?!”Meg demanded, clenching her fists in what had to be the least intimidating display the man had ever seen.“Are you working with him again?”
“What?”The foreigner looked utterly confused.
“I will call a fireman!”Meg squeaked, though she wasn’t entirely sure how she would do that.“Or the management!”
“I'm here with personal permission from Monsieur Moncharmin,” the Persian sighed.“I assure you, young lady, there is nothing for you to fear from me.”
“So it’s just a coincidence you’re here now that the ghost has returned?”Meg demanded then covered her mouth.She’d said too much.
The man looked at her curiously.Now that Meg was really looking at him, he didn’t match the image of ‘the Persian’ she had in her head.He had copper skin, and a beard, and wore a grey fur cap that came to a peak – all marking him as different from most men at the Opéra.But he was also different in that his eyes were keen and kind, and there was something in his demeanor that made Meg think he respected her, at least as a young woman.
“What are you doing down here, Mademoiselle?”he asked, almost amused.“Not looking for ghosts, I hope.”
“If I am, it’s none of your business,” Meg declared, hoping to sound haughty, but only coming across as guilty.
“Then we have something in common,” the Persian replied with an incongruous smile.
Meg frowned at him.“You’re looking for him too?I thought—”
“I have great knowledge of the Opera Ghost, this is true, and it has been my mission in the past to make sure the Opéra was safe.I have undertaken that mission again,” the Persian said.“Imagine my surprise to see the daughter of the Ghost’s box keeper wandering the cellars looking for something.”
“She’s not his box keeper anymore,” Meg exclaimed and wanted to kick herself.Why did she keep talking?
“Yes, I heard that box five was being sold again.”
“It’s not a very good seat, to be honest, so it’s still empty,” Meg muttered.
“Does she still get notes from him?Is that why you’re here?”
For once, Meg held her tongue.“Why should I tell you?Or believe you’re on a mission for the management?”
“You’re right to be cautious.Let me start again,” the Persian said before giving Meg a small bow.“My name is Shaya Motlagh, former Daroga to the Shah of Persia.That means I was a policeman and detective in the palace.”
“A detective?”Meg echoed, fascinated.
“And you are Meg Giry, whom the ghost had promoted to leader of her row as a favor to your mother for her loyal service,” the Persian – no, Monsieur Motlagh – went on.“I promise, Mademoiselle Giry, that you can trust me.If you know anything about the incidents lately, I need to know.More people may be in danger.”
To Meg’s shock, the man pulled a note from his pocket and showed it to Meg.“My earlier note...”Meg muttered as she read.
“Do you know about this?”Monsieur Motlagh asked, voice cutting through the rush of blood to Meg’s ears.
“My mother,” Meg replied softly.“She received at least one note and I took it.She didn’t want to bring it to Monsieur Moncharmin.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Meg replied, looking at her worn-out shoes but still feeling Motlagh staring.
“But you have a suspicion.”
