12/24/12 THANK YOU to judybear236 for proofreading and sending me the list of mistakes. I cannot thank you enough!

Unexpectedly Prologue

It was a powerful pull for Marguerite Giry, the stage that is. She adored it more than anything else in the world. She loved the feel of powdered rosin coming through the fabric of her point shoes into her stockings. She loved the noise her shoes made on the floors, the feel of silky costumes, instead of the coarser fabric of her ballet uniform. She adored a new pair of stockings, the way they were unblemished and did not yet speak of the pain she went through for her passion. But she respected those older stockings, they served their purpose as well as the new ones, stained with sweat and blood, they revealed only a little of the grief each dancer went through. It is difficult to explain exactly why she loved all of it, the way she felt when she strapped on her pointes, how she felt after the applause. It could be most closely referred to as euphoria, a giddy feeling that started from her toes and went up to her scalp. Ballet was her life, and she gave everything for it. Eyes black as sloes, hair blacker still, her skin was pale as paper; she seemed nothing but bones. But oh how she danced! She seemed to come alive, her cheeks glowed, her hair bounced, her eyes snapped and shone. It seemed that only when she danced that Marguerite Giry was truly beautiful. She lived to dance and she did nothing but. There was something unexplainable to her that drew her to it, the feel of poised fingers, the feeling of weightlessness, then the sudden clumsiness when she landed from a graceful leap, hearing the 'thump' of her weight hit the floor. Hearing herself catching her breath as she turned a pirouette, the feel of sweat on her back. Of knowing her imperfections and sometimes moving beyond them. A dancer is meticulous, and Marguerite paid heed to everything she did. If she was not asleep in the dormitories she could be found in the practice rooms. She considered herself too poorly in looks to join the other petit rats in their journeys outside the opera house. She only went to church on Sundays with her mother.

Once in a very great while, Erik took her down below. Usually he came to her, to watch her dance. To Erik, she was a fée, a precious, flightless, cunning and coy little fairy all his own. Mostly elfish in looks but it all hardly mattered. When she danced for him, she was perfect. The most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. Her eyes would shine and her cheeks would turn a modest shade of pink from her exertions. He truly believed she died when she stopped, in a little while, her skin would return to its usual pale-as-paper shade, her eyes were black and curious again. Perhaps it was good that she was enthralled in her ballet. One evening, as he watched her dance, he found himself with a sickening feeling, that as she pushed herself for better, that dance could very well be her end. He shook the strange feeling off, rebuking himself for thinking such nonsense. Marguerite would be famous, and she would dance until she was old and gray, and then she would train the petit rats until she was dead. He already planned her life for her, and he knew she could not disagree. It was what she wanted.

Chapter One

Accident Winter 1871

The evening had gone on as many nights at the opera did. Marguerite was in her dressing room, waiting for the call to wait in the wings. Tonight's performance of Sylvia would be her crowning achievement. Her first solo as one of the Étoile's of the Paris Opéra house, excitement for Marguerite was an understatement. Her mother even let her curl her inky black hair, just for the occasion. Pinning it at the crown of her head, she let only a few short curls come from the high bun, seeing that they would not be in her line of vision or distract from her performance. Tying the ribbon about her hair and securing it, she gave it one final tug, and then set a few pins to it just to be certain. The tutu was a new style, with two hoops in it, making it wide, and impossible to see her feet. It took weeks to get used to this, but she'd managed. Her costume was a crème color, with gold embroidery on the edges of the tutu and lining her bodice. Finally, she sat down again at the vanity and tied her slippers, peach-pink silk, brand new, just recently broken in. She felt giddy as she inspected her appearance once more before taking a towel and a shawl with her.

Into the wings she went, waiting for her cue. Surrounded by her fellow dancers, the corps de ballet prettily dressed in the same style tutu she wore. The smell of rosin was heavy, gas lamps were placed everywhere, she made sure to flatten her tutu to her person as she passed each lamp, to be sure she would not start a fire. Sanding her shoes, she took one of the little wooden chairs behind the curtain in the wings and set her things on it, stretching one last time before she would go on. At last, her cue came, and off she went to dazzle the masses. She felt elated, moving with ease across the stage. Her footwork impeccable, all of it drilled into her head over the past two months. And for a brief shining moment in her life, a feeling that she could not describe came over her. So powerful she wanted to weep, to laugh and clap her hands and go on dancing until the stage split in two and swallowed her up. However, as happy as she was, in a moment her life would become just as horrible.

As she went into the Piqué tour en dedans, something went terribly, horribly wrong. On her fifth turn a sharp burning sensation shot up through her ankle, there was an audible snap though Marguerite did not hear it Monsieur Reyer did. With a small shriek Marguerite fell. The orchestra petered to a halt, Reyer had simply stopped conducting, too shocked to continue. Slightly dumbfounded with herself, she carefully got up, trying to ignore the whispers and gasps from the audience. She could hear herself breathing, the pounding in her chest was like a drum; it was a wonder that the entire audience couldn't hear it! The pain in her ankle was sharp, throbbing and shooting up and down her leg. Almost stumbling again as she tried to steady herself. She was slightly dazed by the pain and shock of her fall. Shaking off everything, Marguerite straightened, nodding slightly to Reyer, she took fifth position and the orchestra started. Ignoring the pain in her ankle she attempted again, the first turn took her breath away, the second turn made her cry out, but she forced herself on. The third nearly killed her and she felt something wet and sticky underneath her stockings. The bone broke the skin and she collapsed to the stage, clutching her knee to keep the leg from hitting the stage. Seeing the blood, she screamed covering it with her hands, she was somewhat aware of the shrieks from the audience, the loud gasps and talking. James, her partner, rushed out and knelt by her.

"Oh Little Giry!" he gasped, seeing her ankle. Stagehands above them peered through the ropes, staring at the blood seeping onto the stage, staining her tutu. James lifted her in his arms, several petit rats had hurried from the wings, one carrying Marguerite's shawl, another with the towel, wrapping Marguerite's ankle as she was rushed backstage. Her own screams frightened her. There was something frighteningly animalistic about them and she wished she could stop.

"She'll be ruined," voices hissed at her as James carried her out into the freezing street where a cab sat. Through blurry eyes, Marguerite caught glimpses of familiar faces, someone with warm hands was putting her dressing robe about her, someone else was wrapping her ankle and situating her on the seat. In a moment she lost consciousness, leaving her friends to worry.

"What is to become of her?" Messieurs Andre and Firmen, managers of the Opera house had been called to the hospital to hear the news of their youngest étoile. Already Monsieur Reyer and the Ballet Master had been sent for.

"I am afraid Monsieur's that we must remove the limb." The doctor said. The Ballet Master was livid; he stormed from the room, slamming the door. In a moment he returned, finding the room had been thrown into confusion, cries mixed:

"What?!"

"Impossible! No not the entire leg!"

"Surely it is only a broken bone!" Monsieur Reyer said. With a broken ankle, Marguerite wouldn't be able to dance immediately, but she would be able to eventually go back to the stage.

"No, not the entire leg but just as far as the infection has spread, a little above the ankle. Rosin from the stage entered where the bone broke the skin. We did not realize this until too late. It must be removed, before the infection spreads to the bloodstream." The doctor spoke quietly.

"And if it does?"

"Then we may only make her comfortable, give her morphine and pray God takes her quickly." There was a gruff clearing of throats. Andre shuffled his foot a little. He loved Little Giry dearly; he'd watched her from afar, finding he held her close in his heart; only Richard Firmen knew this. "I am sorry Messieurs." The doctor took up several papers and paused a moment "I did not allow Madame Giry in the treatment room; I feel her knowing everything would likely be too much for her. If the news could be given in a way that is easier for her..." they all looked at each other, then at Monsieur Reyer.

"No! No, no it cannot be done! I refuse it! I won't let them!" Madame Giry flew into hysterics; Andre was inclined to hold her back from bolting through the door into the procedure room.

"Madame contain yourself! If it is not removed, Marguerite Giry will die!" only then did she stop writhing.

"Die?" she asked softly

"Yes Madame, there is nothing to be done, there is no alternative." Antoinette clung to his arm, bowing her head over it as she began to weep.

"I'll see to her," Reyer said softly and began to lead her away.

"Who is to wait in the room? Mademoiselle Giry must have a recognizable face for now before the operation. She is frightened." the doctor asked, he looked to Madame Giry, she shook her head, eyes wide she broke down again

"I-I can't, no, no I mustn't, I won't be able," Reyer hushed her and Andre stepped forward.

"I will."

In the operating room, Andre walked over to where Marguerite lay, barely awake because of laudanum. He saw her foot and ankle, black and green and yellow, a corner of the bone sticking out. The smell alone was horrible, of rancid, rotting meat. Groggy as she was, Marguerite recognized her employer.

"Monsieur Andre?" she asked her voice soft as a whisper. "What are you doing here?" Andre found tears in his eyes.

"Hush now little one," he said, she winced as the nurses moved her bad foot. "Your mother was detained, and I was sent." In too much pain, and far too groggy from the laudanum to protest her wishes for her mother, she remained silent for a bit.

"It hurts," she whimpered at last, "oh it hurts make it stop, svp..."

"They'll see you to rights," he said,

"What will become of me?" she asked softly, her cheeks streaked with tears. He clasped her hand; her little fingers wound themselves tightly round his hand.

"Don't ask anymore." He said finally, "Go to sleep now Marguerite, and when you wake, there will be no more pain." Almost obediently, Marguerite shut her eyes, in a moment she was breathing deeply; laudanum had put her to sleep at last. She looked almost dead "Is she?"

"Oh no Monsieur, she's just asleep, the laudanum will do her good."

"How long before the procedure?"

"Only a few moments, the doctor's just washing up now, you'll have to leave the room during mind you."

"Yes I know." The nurse looked at the sleeping girl

"A dancer is she?" Andre was looking at her,

"Yes." He said softly "Yes one of the best." He sighed, "It isn't right. None of this is right,"

"No one said it was Monsieur, God-willing she'll come out of it missing only a foot, and not her life." Andre looked at her

"The ballet is her life." He said quietly, the nurse eyed him a moment

"Then we'll pray she'll find another reason to live." Andre saw the doctor enter the room; he turned back to Marguerite suddenly realizing that if the surgery was not successful, she could die. Bending forward, he gently placed a kiss on her forehead, before the nurse led him out to wait in the hall.

Marguerite awoke to the sound of rustling skirts, her eyes opened, she smelled laudanum, in fact she reeked of it. Her ankle and foot hurt immensely, she tried to move it a little.

"Where am I?" she asked softly, a nurse with a black dress and a white apron smiled kindly at her

"Hospital, Doctor will be in for you in a moment." And she swished out. Attempting to sit up proved exhausting, her limbs refused to cooperate. It took her a moment to realize she'd been strapped down. Was she in a madhouse?! How long had she been here? In a moment, a gentleman with a moustache entered, he wore a white coat. He smiled kindly at her,

"Why have I been strapped down?" she asked, fear in her voice "Is this an asylum?"

"No mademoiselle, forgive me, the nurse has yet to remove them, we've just moved you to this room these five minutes ago, we did not want you to thrash about when we exchanged gurneys." he signaled for the woman at the door to come forward and the belts were removed. Memories finally came surging back to her

"The ballet!" she cried "I fell and hurt myself; am I going to be well again? Will I dance?" panic rose into her voice and the nurse hurried forward, shushing her gently.

"You mustn't excite yourself; it's been a long week."

"Week?!"

"Yes Mademoiselle, you've been in the hospital for a week now," the doctor said.

"You haven't answered my question," she said quietly, worry in her mind. Why hadn't he answered her?

"Ah..." he looked down at the floor "Mademoiselle, your mother asked to tell you herself."

"Tell me what?" she asked

"Oh ma petit," her mother had been sent for. She wore her black wool dress, the plum colored ribbon on her bonnet tied under her left ear. She clutched a kerchief in her hands. Andre stood in the doorway, hanging back, and Marguerite wondered for a moment what he was there for. "Ma petit," Antoinette went to her daughter's side, stroking her soft pale cheek. "You must be very brave, promise me you will be brave..."

"Brave- what?" Unable to stand it, Marguerite took hold of the blankets and tore them away.

"No Marguerite, not like this-" Andre stopped himself from dashing in. With a blood-curdling scream, Marguerite fell against her mother, aching sobs ripped from her, she looked away not wanting to see the bloody bandages that encased the end of her leg. Andre turned away finding it hard to swallow.

"Best let them be." The doctor said gruffly and Andre nodded, casting one last glance back to the hospital room.

Antoinette rocked her daughter back and forth, shushing her gently, her daughter clawing at her back, twisting and turning so she wouldn't look at her leg.
"I know my love, I know, I know...cry all you wish ma petit..."