Madame Giry burned as she hurried along the damp boulevards. What she had seen had set her heart pounding, the blood warming her and buzzing in her ears. Memory clashed with potential, and she could hardly think coherently. Her only thought was to find him.
She slipped into the back entrance of the Opera Populaire, her clear eyes quickly taking in everyone that milled about in the crowded corridors. But even the sight of three of her dances indulging in a bottle with two of the stagehands was not enough to distract her from the urgency of her errand.
Quietly, like a lithe, graceful shadow, Madame Giry made her way to the less frequented lower levels of the Opera. And, without a sound, she slid open the wall panel she knew lead to a world where she was not welcome. Silently, she sighed.
Even she, of all people, was forbidden in his realm, such were his lingering wounds. However, she proceeded with a modicum of confidence, knowing that her usefulness to him would probably prevent him from depriving her precious Meg of a mother. Probably.
The ballet instructor descended the grim spiraling staircase until she reached the edge of the lake. The silence was broken only by the lapping of the water against the stone.
Suddenly, Madame Giry felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise, and a chill ran through her, though her training prevented her from making any movement.
"I have come here only because I am in desperate need of your help," she said, knowing that unless she spoke first, he would have been content to glare at the back of her neck in endless silence until she went away.
"This is…rather sudden," was the whispered reply, heavily colored with cynicism and doubt. After all, if Madame Giry was in trouble, he would have known it. He knew everything about everyone in this opera house.
"Yes," Madame Giry replied crisply, keeping her voice low but reasonable and business-like. "But sudden or not, it is urgent, and you are the only one who can help me."
There was a pause. Madame Giry scowled lightly to the emptiness of the vast lake at getting no reply.
"It is time to repay the favor I did you all those years ago," she continued evenly.
"What do you want of me, Madame?" was the icy response, a voice as sharp as frost on glass.
"I intend to deprive the gypsies of another prize," Madame Giry said, her own breath catching as she thought of what she had seen. "I will take her from them and bring to the Opera Populaire such a talent as has never yet been seen on this stage!"
There was a quick, sharp rustling behind her, but Madame Giry knew that he was still there.
"There is already a great talent ready to take center stage," the voice growled, the menace echoing off the cold stones.
"A singer, yes," Madame Giry replied. "Yes, I know your pupil can sing with the angels. But I…I have found someone who can dance like one!"
The silence behind her seemed to register surprise, then doubt.
"I need her talent here!" Madame Giry pressed quietly. "She is wasted by those evil men. Her dancing could summon tears from stone if properly trained."
The doubting silence behind her lengthened.
"She suffers," Madame Giry added, her voice barely a whisper as her throat closed with the painful memory of years and years ago. "You know what those men are like. You know what they do."
She felt the air behind her grow painfully tense, and she almost thought she heard the cracking of leather gloves as hands balled into fists.
"They are performing in the street behind the Comedie Francaise," Madame Giry said firmly. "The girl is perhaps 17. She has brown hair and grey eyes. There is a scar that encircles her left ankle."
The ballet teacher swallowed hard, anticipation rushing through her veins.
"The stables. Midnight."
Madame Giry let out the breath she had been holding as the slight swirling disturbance in the air behind her let her know he was gone.
She smiled to herself. He was not the only one who could make and mould a star.
He cursed roundly but silently as he noiselessly made his way through the dark streets. The clattering of carriages on the cobblestones and scurrying of rats in the alleys seemed to echo the tension he felt.
He, who prided himself on living beyond the pale of humanity's weak morality, found himself morally bound to honor Madame Giry's incredible, ludicrous request. He snarled inwardly and bitterly thanked the stars in the Parisian night that there were no other human beings to whom he owed favors.
No, there was only one perfect human being that could ask anything of him without having to trade in past kindnesses. And she was more angel than human. His little nightingale, his beloved, perfect Christine.
His heart fluttered as it always did when he recalled her sweet oval face, the way her full lips parted slightly when she was delighted, the way her chest rose and fell with breathlessness from singing or dancing.
Dancing.
And now Madame Giry wanted this dancer. Did she not have a chorus full of chits to pick from? No, he moaned to himself. No, she had to go and find her little protégé in some foul gypsy caravan.
He ground his teeth in a wave of unreasonable anger as he skirted the darkened colonnade in front of the Comedie Francaise. Damn all dancers. Except Christine.
The gypsy encampment in the narrow street behind the Comedie seemed quiet. He stepped noiselessly through the maze of wagons, narrowed eyes peeking inside cracks and wrinkling his nose in disgust at the foul smells he remembered so painfully well.
Finally, he found her. Filthy little thing – a pile of rags curled up on dirty straw, her grubby little hands tucked under her chin. The strange scar that encircled her left ankle confirmed that she was indeed the dancer that Madame Giry wanted.
With a silent sigh, he withdrew a thin, delicate tool that he inserted into the lock of the cage. A moment later, there was a telltale "click," but he took no pride in that, for it was a cheap, clumsy lock. He removed the lock from the door and swung it open.
The girl stirred in her sleep, but did not awaken, which was fine by him.
He drew back into the shadows again. He picked up a small piece of chipped cobblestone, and with perfect aim, tossed it into the cage so that it landed and struck the girl on the head.
With a gasp, she sat up, then immediately winced and grabbed her ribs. As the momentary pain receded, she became aware that the door was open.
He watched carefully, noting with grudging approval that she looked around her first before cautiously and silently crawling toward the door.
"Follow me," he whispered suddenly, swirling his cape in the darkness to catch her attention, then running deeper into the shadows.
He heard the girl's barefoot steps pound the pavement behind him as he lead her a merry chase through the inky black streets. He skirted the small pools of light thrown off by the gaslights and kept to the shadows. He ducked, swerved, jumped and crouched, taking a circuitous route back to the Opera Populaire.
Again, he was forced to grudgingly approve of the girl's nimbleness. She missed not a single beat as he made her dance her way to freedom. It wasn't his responsibility to test Madame Giry's little acquisition, but he had to admit his curiosity. The ballet teacher was grudging with praise and miserly with her assessment of talent. Therefore, he was curious to see what kind of dancer could win such passionate vehemence from Madame Giry.
He kept to the shadows all the way back to the stables, and then, like a magician, seemed to disappear into thin air as Madame Giry stepped into view.
The girl stopped, her breaths heavy as she tried to catch them. She looked about for a moment, confused, searching for the shadowy figure, the dark piper who had lead her to freedom. But all she saw was a woman.
"Do not be afraid," Madame Giry said kindly, approaching the girl. "You are at the Opera Populaire. No one will harm you here."
The girl glanced about her nervously, as if trying to see into the inky darkness.
"What is your name?" Madame Giry prompted gently.
"Rose," the girl replied softly.
How appropriate, he thought ironically before slipping away to meet his angel for her lesson.