A/N... Oh, dear. Allow me to apologize to all of you in advance for this. The mighty Goblin King (to whom we all must pay homage) decided it was his royal duty to hijack a fanfiction I started for Phantom of the Opera, and proceeded to declare himself the Opera Populaire's new Lord, Ruler, Master, and Sex God. The madness that shall ensue is too horrific for me to describe. You'll simply have to read it for yourselves. Beyond that, I offer a mild warning - the first scene of this fic deals with child abuse, though it does not go into graphic detail on the beating itself.
Please enjoy the tale as it unfolds. Right now, Jareth will not let me cease writing about him, so updates should be fairly frequent. (You try focusing on anything else when there's a half-naked Goblin King lounging on your furniture talking to you in a distinctly sultry voice.)
Mature'd in advance for future steamy sex scenes and for the first part of this one, as it might be difficult for some.
Many thanks to Dulcetvoice for the beta! You rock.
Disclaimer: I do not own the wonder that is Labyrinth, nor do I own the Goblin King. I'd love to, but I don't. I do, in fact, have at least ten black chickens. One of them follows me around like a puppy. It's a strange situation.
A small child sat huddled in a corner, her arms wrapped tight around her knees. Terror showed on her delicate little face, and her eyes were wide with the fear coursing through her veins. Then he moved closer, a sick grin on his face. He would have been handsome, had he not had such a twisted look of pleasure distorting his features. His muddy brown eyes leered at her from under scarlet bushy brows, and a strand of his pale, red hair fell across his forehead.
"What's wrong, brat?" he growled with a vicious laugh, his hands seeming to be long, sharp claws in her childish mind as he reached towards her. "Are you scared of me?" Roughly, he grabbed her by the shoulders and jerked her into the air. He'd never been gentle, even when he wasn't in this state. Never had his hand softly caressed her cheek in comfort, or his finger brushed a tear away. Never.
The little girl cringed back, squeezing her turquoise eyes shut. Oh, how she wanted to just pretend this never happened, to push it all away! If only she could escape, somehow! But she couldn't. She knew that. A soft whimper slipped past her tight throat as she felt his hot breath on her face.
"Answer me, brat!" the man commanded, shaking her. "What, do you have no respect?" A harsh laugh wrenched its way out of his throat, sounding like the grating of stone against stone, at the way she scrunched her little body up when he shook her tiny shoulders.
She slowly opened her eyes and looked past the ragged strands of dark brown hair falling across her face to see him leering at her. The little girl bit back a shudder, then whispered in a tear-filled voice, "N-no, Daddy." Her tiny voice was barely audible, and came out a squeak on the last. "I-I'm not s-s-scared of you," she whispered, the lie barely managing to make it past her constricted throat, her vocal cords feeling like they were taut as bowstrings.
His eyes narrowed and flashed. "Don't you EVER lie to me!" he roared, slamming her tiny frame into the wall. "You're scared, I know you are. Now don't lie, sweetie," he murmured, his tone changing. "You know Daddy likes it when you're scared. It makes things more...fun."
Terror and panic tore through her. The change of tone was NOT a good thing...no, it was very, very bad. She'd rather he'd been furious and yelled at her again and again than this. No, not this. His voice...it held something she'd learned to fear, to be terrified of. Her whole body quaked, and she closed her eyes again, curling up into a protective ball. "Daddy, please," she whimpered, not understanding what she'd done to deserve this. "Please just let me go. I'll be good, I promise!" she pleaded weakly, desperately.
"Oh, it's too late for that, sweetie," her father growled softly. "It's too late to change what you've done. You've been a very, very bad girl, and you must be punished." With that, he dropped the child, but held on to her arm and began to drag her to the metal framework.
She sobbed openly as he dragged her along, repeating the same phrase over and over, "Daddy, please, don't...please, don't..."
He ignored her soft plea, and turned her so her back was to him. A sadistic grin splitting his face, the man latched her tiny wrists into the cuffs on the ends of the chains hooked to the device. He then chained her little ankles in too, making sure everything was tight enough that she couldn't move. His eyes were filled with a twisted look of pleasure as he pulled her shirt off, exposing her bare back. Lancing across the expanse of flesh were numerous scars, all relatively fresh. As a result of the stress, a few had reopened and begun to bleed again freely, making dark crimson streams slip down her back.
The child closed her eyes against the pain she knew would come, unable to understand what she'd done wrong, but vowing never to do it again. A mere moment later, the whip came crashing down on her back, and the tears fell anew.
At least an hour had passed before he unchained her, as he had left her there for a time, weeping, and returned. Once he was gone again, the little child pulled her shirt back on as best she could, then huddled up in the corner again. He'd retrieve her in the morning, or Mother would, to resume her supposedly perfect life. Mother never beat her, but Mother never stopped Daddy, either. Mother was terrified of him, too, and knew if she helped her little girl, her own torture would be far worse. The girl was fully alone in the world, and in her small mind, she knew it. Closing her eyes against the pain, the little girl hummed softly to herself, a faint, distant smile lifting the very corners of her lips. It was so hard to escape, but sometimes, just every so-often, she could. Music normally did it. The only time when she was free was the first part of the night, the blackest part. She liked the night, even though she was always punished at night. During the nighttime, she didn't have to pretend things were perfect. She didn't have to pretend at all, so long as she was alone. It was comforting, somehow...the blackness, wrapping around her, protecting her. Daddy always made sure there was light when he came in. He took away her blackness, thus, she never associated night with the pain. The child tucked her knees beneath her chin, the faint, distant smile still curving her little lips up. She no longer hummed, but the music played on in her head, faintly, dulling the pain...
Carriage wheels rumbled on the cobblestones, their echoes remaining unheard over the bustle of traffic in the Parisian streets. People shouted at the corners and to the sides of the busy street, harking their wares. The driver of the carriage yelled good-naturedly at another teamster, then laughed in response to something the other had said. A child chased a dog almost into the street, swerving just in time. The driver scratched his capped head, mystified that the child could be so foolish. He merely shook his graying head and lightly flicked the reins over the backs of his team of horses, quickening the pace.
The woman inside the carriage knew little of this. The curtains were drawn, and little light seeped through them. She was not the only passenger, which was the only factor preventing her from sweeping aside the curtains and watching the teeming street with fascination. She eyed the young girl seated across from her and suppressed a sigh. The poor thing was so nervous, and goodness knew why! Havens, if conversation had been what the girl needed, the woman would have happily obliged. As it was, she was bored out of her mind, and on top of that, her tailbone hurt dreadfully from all the bouncing. She'd tried to speak with the lithe little girl, but the shy creature had only nodded or shook her head, too nervous or timid to even speak.
The woman was forced to suppress another sigh. To show her boredom would be most unladylike, and there wasn't anything she needed to avoid more than that impression. Just being a woman was disadvantage enough. Needing something to occupy herself, the woman reached into the small purse beside her and pulled out a simple bound leather book. Her turquoise eyes scanned the cover, and a faint smile curved her lush lips. A single lock of dark brown hair freed itself from its tie at a particularly large bounce and fell before her eyes, curling delicately at the end. Well, perhaps curl wasn't the best word- her hair was a peculiar- and unruly- cross between curly and wavy that was impossible to brush out by oneself. The perfidious locks had a nature more akin to the ripples on the surface of a lake recently disturbed than anything so tame as normal hair. Absentmindedly, she nudged it back as she flipped open the worn book, trying to ignore the ache of her rump.
A shout echoed outside, followed by the carriage slowing to a halt. The woman and the girl both jerked their heads up and riveted their attentions on the door, identical thoughts crossing their minds: Can we really be there? Finally?
Their thoughts were answered a moment later when the driver opened the door, letting in a sudden flow of sunlight that made the woman blink rapidly and shield her eyes. Light. A thousand curses on it for being so bright! she thought, mildly irritated, though her rational mind recognized the common fact that light couldn't help its brightness. She still liked to vent on it, though.
"Mam'selle," the good-natured driver bowed and held the door open, offering the woman a hand.
Though both his eyes and voice suggested kindness, she didn't accept the proffered hand. With a polite smile, the turquoise-eyed beauty helped herself out of the carriage. She avoided physical contact with men whenever possible, but tried not to be rude about it. It wasn't their fault they'd been born with the wrong set of reproductive organs and were cold, cruel, and heartless by nature…her thoughts were running away with her again. She didn't need to let that happen.
The lady gracefully stepped out, careful not to stumble. She was clad in a long traveling gown of a deep, royal purple at the bodice, fading to black at the skirts, and elbow-length gloves that matched perfectly. Her boots too matched...well, the black at least. The woman looked stunning, a fact of which she was painfully unaware. Her turquoise eyes took in everything...well, at the moment, they were rather firmly focused on the ground. When they lifted, she was forced to stifle a small gasp at the beauty before her- the Opera Populaire, otherwise known as the Paris Opera House. She looked like a small child as she took a hesitant step forwards, skirt billowing around her ankles, and took in the amazing view before her. The building was amazing, far more so than she ever could have imagined. And if this was what the outside looked like, heaven only knew the wonders that awaited her within.
The woman's attention was diverted by the small squeak her fellow passenger made. When she looked behind her, the girl was frozen half-in and half-out of the carriage doorway, her eyes focused on the magnificent building before her. The poor thing's eyes were so wide and her face so pale it was evident she had never seen such splendor in all her life. Now in the sunlight, the young girl was seen to be wearing slightly tattered clothing, but still functional. She carried but a small satchel with her, likely holding all her worldly goods, meager though they may have been.
Graciously, the coachman attempted to help the stunned child out of his carriage, no doubt eager to be on his way. The little woman, however, wasn't expecting his gesture, and jumped when his hand 'appeared' before her. This little jump upset her delicate balance, and the poor thing proceeded to tumble head-over-heels out of the carriage...well, at least she would have if the coachman hadn't caught her. The young maiden proceeded to blush furiously and utter the first words the brown haired woman heard her speak. "Oh, I'm so very sorry, Monsieur!" she stammered, her chestnut eyes widening and her wild blonde hair flying all about. "I-I-I didn't know you were trying to h-help me! Excusez-moi!" the little maiden cried.
With a chuckle, the coachman helped the girl back onto her feet and set her aright. "C'est pas grave. It's all right," he replied, dusting her off good-naturedly. "No harm done, Mam'selle." Once the young girl was relatively secure on her feet, he turned back to the woman. "Your bags, Mam'selle?" The man stood up on the balls of his feet and lifted several traveling bags down from the top of the carriage and carried them to the brown-haired woman.
"Ah, thank you...mercí, I believe, is the word?" she responded, also speaking for the first time. Her voice held an odd accent, one similar to but not the same as a French one. The woman reached up to her neckline and pulled a small purse out, then paid the man. A glance at the frightened little girl brought on a pursing of her lips. Could the child pay for her own fare? Such a fee would likely be all the girl could afford. The woman dipped into the purse again and gave the coachman several extra coins, covering the child's fee. "For the little one," she murmured as she replaced the purse within her gown. The fellow merely nodded, accepted the money, and hopped back into his coach. The child didn't even seem to notice - she was too busy gaping at her surroundings in amazement.
As the coachman rattled away in his carriage, the brown-haired woman took a few moments to gather her dignity about her like a cloak before facing that opera house again. It was in those moments that she saw it - a surprisingly well-groomed black chicken calmly walked by before her, clucking softly and picking up its feet delicately to avoid tripping on the cobblestones.
She stared, the sheer absurdity of seeing a chicken, of all creatures, outside the prestigious Opera Populaire, had her speechless with shock. The chicken herself ignored the woman's stare and continued on her way, pecking absently at something vaguely akin to an insect.
After a moment or two, the woman succeeded in regaining her composure, though a slight air of incredulity marked her brow and was highly unlikely to go away any time in the near future. For the most part, though, her expression was carefully schooled into a proper one - showing shock over the presence of a chicken was also unladylike, and now that she was approaching her destination itself, she truly needed no more disadvantages.
A glance back at the young girl with the flyaway blonde hair proved her theory that the other had remained oblivious to the chicken's presence. This was a very...interesting occurrence. However, she deemed it wise to put the entire ordeal behind herself, and continue on her way.
"All right," the turquoise-eyed woman murmured to herself, lifting her gaze to the imposing building before her as she picked up her bags, "time to face the future."
Attitude and expression securely in hand, the green-eyed woman approached the opera house and her destiny with chin held high and luggage in hand.
Deep breath in...and let it out, she thought. With a confidence she didn't entirely feel, she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and opened the doors to her destiny.
Meanwhile, in the dormitories of the Opera Populaire...
"Ack! Get that damnable clucking fiend out of here now!" the normally quite formidable Mistress of the Ballet shrieked, brandishing a broom at a rather harassed chicken. The creature had likely wanted naught else but something to eat and a nice place to lay a few eggs, but was instead dodging attacks and squawking her misery to the world. (She simply knew that broom was actually one of her old, abandoned nests attached to a stick attempting to maim her for failing to get up in the night and relieve herself...elsewhere.)
"Oui, Madame!" one girl called back, trying to herd the black bird out of the room.
The chicken viewed this new body coming towards her as a direct attack on her feathery person, and puffed herself up as much as she possibly could in an attempt at frightening the girl away. A few angry flaps of her wings accompanied the gesture, and sent the girl squealing backwards; ballet dancers were not the bravest of creatures, after all. The hen saw this action as a retreat, and pressed her advance with several fearsome clucks.
At last, the wild swinging of the Ballet Mistress made some sort of progress (though perhaps in the wrong direction) - her broom connected in a swooping motion with the chicken's rump. This did not, however, pin the black demon down. Instead, the angle of her swing propelled the startled chicken into the air.
With a squawk of shock and indignation, the chicken flapped her wings and regained her balance, flying across the room in search of an exit - or at least somewhere to land away from nests bent on revenge and the thinnest pigs she'd ever seen in her life.
Screams rang all across the dormitory as the girls took cover. Feathers flew, dislodged from the frantic bird's wings, and added more chaos to the already panicked environment.
"Get out of the waaaaay! I don't want to be eaten by a chicken!"
"Ah! DEMON BIRD!"
"Keep it awa-a-ay!!"
Amidst the commotion over the chicken, a small, unnoticed orb rolled out of the room. Nothing pushed it, nothing touched it - as a matter of fact, the clear crystal sphere rolled around feet, legs, belongings, and fallen girls to slip under a dresser and disappear from sight.
About half an hour later, the hapless hen was caught and thrown out of a window, squawking her fury at such an act. The Ballet Mistress had to be fanned excessively and soothed by her pupils before she could even raise her voice to normal speaking volume, let alone her strident yell.
The doors to her destiny creaked rather loudly, and perhaps...ominously.
She stepped inside, squinting slightly to adjust to the dark interior of the building, and glanced about. The surroundings were lush, beautiful, elegant...everything she'd dreamt of and more. Awed by it, she took a few more hesitant steps, then stood in silence and absorbed the atmosphere. It's like stepping into another world, she thought, eyes back at their normal degree of open due to the eye-widening effect of awe. A firm sense of belonging settled over the woman and imbued her with a new level of confidence and determination. I will do whatever it takes to stay here. I am meant to be here.
"Oh, mon Dieu, I did not think this place would be so beautiful..."
The woman cast a glance behind her to find the flaxen-haired girl with her wide chestnut eyes staring all about. Hesitantly, the girl took a few steps forward, then stopped and clutched her small satchel tightly to her bosom. She looked scared out of her wits. Poor thing. I wonder what she's here for? After a mere moment's thought, the answer came to her. She either has no other choice, or she dreams of being a performer. She shuddered inwardly. Horrid field.
With no warning, a man's voice boomed from somewhere nearby. "Can I help you ladies?"
Both women were startled, though the older one's hand merely fluttered to her heart as she turned. The little blonde jumped, squeaked, and nearly fell over in her fright. "Mon Dieu!" she squealed, stumbling over her own two feet in her haste to turn around.
The speaker chuckled as he stepped out of the shadows. He was a portly fellow, with a fairly good-natured look about him and small brown eyes. His sparse black hair was neatly combed to the side, and his cravat was tied perfectly. If he wasn't someone in authority, he was certainly upper-class.
"Oui," the brown-haired woman murmured, smiling graciously and taking a step forward. "Monsieur, I am Mademoiselle Roslyn Dominguez. I am...looking for the Madame in charge of...costumes?" A bit of difficulty with the still slightly strange language slowed her speech a hair...but that could easily be construed as awe for the grand surroundings.
"Ah, yes," he replied, giving a nod. "You are Madame Pomeroy's new assistant." The gentleman turned his attention to the little blonde, gave her a polite smile, and raised an eyebrow, clasping his large hands behind his back.
She blinked twice with a puzzled expression before realizing that she was expected to give her own reason for being in the Opera. "Oh!" the child squeaked, clasping both hands over her mouth. "I'm so sorry, Monsieur! I am here to...train in the ballet?" The last came out a question, and she wrung her hands before her slender frame in trepidation. By the looks of it, she was not expected, and was uncertain of her acceptance into the "position."
His eyes narrowed slightly. The portly fellow assessed her, studying the young one closely and looking her up and down. "Hm..." He paced once around her, making the child fidget anxiously under his scrutiny. "You'll have to speak with the Ballet Mistress, Madame Rousseau. I'm not entirely certain she wants more ballerinas, so I cannot say yea or nay."
The chestnut eyes were worried, and their owner swallowed hard. "Y-yes sir," she squeaked. Her chances didn't look good.
"I will not stand any more of this...this...insanity!"
The caterwauling screech came from a side hallway and echoed loudly through the opera's antechamber. Roslyn yelped and ducked, covering her ears. She fully expected something to come flying into the room and knock her for a loop. The young ballerina squealed and dropped to the floor, covering her head and curling up into a ball in an attempt to be as small as possible. The older man sighed, massaging his forehead with one hand, and flinched slightly at the yowling sound. "Here we go again," he muttered darkly, shaking his head.
Half a moment later, a tall, thin woman strode out of the side hallway, brilliant blue eyes sparking with anger. She was gaudily garbed in multiple layers and petticoats in reds, oranges, and yellows. Truth be told, her attire made her look rather like a slightly shriveled peach. As she stalked along, she jammed a rather rumpled red hat with yellow feathers sprouting from it onto her head, completing the odd image. She was followed by a very harried-looking man who was wringing his hands in dismay.
"Madame Pomeroy, please..." he begged, reaching out as though to halt her flight, "reconsider! These things do happen..."
Madame Pomeroy? Isn't she...
The peach-woman turned a glare on him fit to melt stone. "Yes, they do!" she shrieked, upper lip curling in distaste. "But I will not be around for them to happen to any longer, Monsieur!" Her eyes narrowed and she jabbed a long, twig-like finger at him. "If you wish to see me in this establishment ever again, I suggest you get rid of the perpetrator of these atrocities. Otherwise, I am not setting foot in this sham of an opera house ever. Again."
"But Madame..." the too-thin man pleaded, swiping his straggly brown hair out of his eyes, "please..."
That woman's blue eyes sparked and widened impossibly. With an enraged hmph and a stamp of one heel, the infuriated woman spat in the fellow's face, turned on her heel, and exited as quickly as she could. The doors to the opera house slammed loudly shut behind her, but did nothing to muffle the enraged shrieks and curses she hurled back at the Opera Populaire with a vengeance dark Hades would have difficulty matching.
Hell hath no fury... Roslyn thought, wincing in sympathy for the put-upon man.
The thin fellow positively drooped, his hand limply falling back to his side. He closed his eyes and slowly pulled out a handkerchief, then wiped off his face as best he could. That done, he rested his forehead on one hand and sighed heavily, looking utterly defeated.
"Another one lost, eh?" the portly fellow half-asked, half-stated. "No terrible loss, old chap. She was a cantankerous, demanding old thing, anyway. I say we're better off with her gone."
His attempt to cheer the taller, thinner man did little good. "But how many more expert designers can there be we haven't hired and subsequently lost?" moaned the stick of a man. "We're running out of options, and nothing we attempt to rid ourselves of that...that...menace works. What more can we do? We'll be ruined," he groaned, burying his face in his hands.
"A-hem." The plump gentleman cleared his throat loudly, jerking his head towards the pair of ladies standing nearby. "Monsieur Bellamont, we have...visitors..." he murmured as quietly as he could in the hopes that the other man would hear him and not the two women.
Bellamont jerked to attention, lifting his head and pasting on a smile. "O-of course. Madames..." He bowed low, inclining his head and doing his best to appear perfectly composed and at ease. He straightened, still with that false smile, and slipped the hand with the handkerchief in it behind his back. "What brings you both to our lovely opera house?" he asked pleasantly.
Roslyn opened her mouth to answer but was interrupted by their initial welcomer's voice. "Ah, here we have Mademoiselle Roslyn Dominguez. She is here to help with costumes." The other gentleman's eyebrows lifted, and his expression became extremely attentive. "Yes...she was to be Madame Pomeroy's new assistant."
"Oh, she was?" Bellamont's eyes lit up. He seemed positively delighted. "My, how...opportune her arrival is! Correct, Monsieur Molyneux?"
The woman being discussed was getting a bit nervous. The way the two were talking about her was almost...conspiratorial. The sense of incredible belonging that she'd felt initially upon entering the opera house wrapped tightly around her at the slightest hint of hesitation, and she squared her shoulders. Whatever they have in store for me, I can take. I can do this. I belong here, and there's nothing anyone can say or do to convince me otherwise.
Monsieur Molyneux turned to the young woman and smiled. "Mademoiselle Dominguez, I have fantastic news for you!" He clapped his meaty hands together and widened the smile. She had a mental image of some predatory beast opening its maw to devour her whole and had to resist the urge to back away slowly. "Monsieur Bellamont is the owner of the Opera Populaire, and as such, he has a great deal of control. So... You've been promoted to Costume Mistress!" he declared, spreading his arms wide and grinning even wider.
The man's part crocodile! she thought, eyeing him warily. Then his words set in. "...Costume Mistress?" she whispered, eyes widening. "I...I can't...I'm so honored..." She shook herself out of the stammering she'd begun to smile demurely and dip her head. Must...be...ladylike... "Thank you. I'll do my best."
The two gentleman congratulated her profusely on her new position, rattling off the benefits - higher pay, better living quarters, more freedom with the designs, and so much more. Monsieur Molyneux then attempted to pat her on the back in a gesture of camaraderie.
Roslyn immediately dodged the gesture in an instinctive reaction. At his slightly puzzled look, she gave a tiny smile. "I...I'm afraid my back is horribly sore from the carriage ride here," she lied, donning an appropriately sheepish expression. "I'd prefer avoiding more pain. My apologies."
He chuckled cheerfully and shook his head. "No need to apologize, Mademoiselle. Carriage rides can be horribly painful. They really should think of smoothing the streets."
The other gentleman, Monsieur Bellamont, offered his hand to her with a relieved and delighted smile. "We're sure you'll settle in just fine, Mademoiselle Dominguez," chortled he.
She steeled herself carefully. No emotion. This is just a courtesy gesture. We're all right. With her expression and reactions carefully schooled, she placed her hand atop his, as was appropriate. He bent his head - she cringed inwardly - and pressed his dry lips to the top of her hand. Roslyn had to suppress a shiver of revulsion and the instinct to flee the touch instantly. Her continued composure was by sheer force of will, though she nearly jerked her slender hand free from Bellamont's spindly appendage. "Naturally. Mightn't I see my quarters and meet the others in the costume shop?" she requested, quite desirous of getting settled in (and avoiding more physical contact with these well-meaning but misguided men).
The opera's owner chuckled and waved a hand toward a doorway on Roslyn's left. "Of course, my dear! It's right this way - I'll gladly escort you myself." He paused, noticing the nervous little creature who'd come in with the older lady, and glanced questioningly at Molyneux. "She is...?"
"Oh, Monsieur, I am Sylvie Petit. I'm...looking to train in the ballet...?" Her reply came out a question rather than a statement, and the child shifted foot-to-foot nervously. She looked worried, like she feared they'd send her away.
He nodded, then glanced at the plumper fellow. "Escort her to Madame Rousseau, please." The other man nodded, then made a beckoning motion and strode away. The child followed him like a little lost puppy, still looking frightened and ill-at-ease.
Roslyn felt a pang for the little girl. The poor thing looked as though she was headed off to an execution, a lamb to slaughter! Roslyn's turquoise eyes were a little sad. She wished she could do something, ensure that the girl was able to stay, and see that she was taken care of. That was not in her power, though, and she knew it.
As she followed Bellamont into a corridor, Roslyn saw something out of the corner of her eye. It looked like...another chicken. But...a chicken outside was one thing. One inside was simply unthinkable!
A glance to her left proved her wrong. Another black chicken was calmly walking alongside the two down the corridor.
She blinked deliberately a few times, trying to clear her vision, and stared at the feathered beast. She flicked her gaze towards her companion for a moment. He didn't seem at all perturbed at being accompanied by a chicken, or he hadn't noticed it.
She glanced back at the bird. Still there, strutting along like she owned the place.
Another glance towards Bellamont. Still oblivious.
Roslyn turned her gaze forwards once more, perplexed. Am I hallucinating? she wondered. Asking about the chicken was most unladylike, especially if it happened to be a hallucination. Then they'd think her mad, and off would fly her chances of employment. This is downright bizarre.
The black chicken walked alongside the pair all the way down the hall to its conclusion, stopping occasionally to peck at something or other, but always catching up. When Bellamont stopped before a door at the end of the corridor, the chicken stopped as well, turned left, and walked through another door. She clucked softly as she went, disappearing within the opening.
A bewildered Roslyn watched the bird go, then turned back to her escort, who'd pulled out a ring of keys. He fumbled with them for a moment, muttering something under his breath in French, then tried one. "Aha!" With a triumphant grin on his face, the spindly man turned the key in the lock and placed a hand on the doorknob. He whirled about to face the new Costume Mistress and smiled almost gleefully. "At last, we are here. Mademoiselle, beyond this door lies your future," he told her, attempting solemnity and failing miserably. "Within are the costume shop, a small designer's room for you to work in, and your chambers. All of which, I will give you the keys to..." He pulled the mentioned keys out of his pocket with a flourish and placed them into her hand. "And now, Mademoiselle, shall we enter your new domain?"
His excitement would've been contagious if she'd been depressed and irritated about being at the Opera Populaire. As thing stood, she was ecstatic about all of this on her own. The wiry man's delight and grin added to her own sense of anticipation, and Roslyn couldn't help laughing softly at his words. She inclined her head with a smile of barely-suppressed joy, watching as he turned the knob and gave the door a shove inward.
Roslyn lifted her gaze in anticipation. Bellamont had stepped politely aside, and was now watching her, awaiting her reaction. She kept her bright eyes fixed on the door, watching its swing, then turned her gaze towards the room no longer obstructed from view by any blockage.
And she gasped.
A/N 2...
No, Jareth hasn't appeared yet. I promise he, in all of his leather and glitter, shall appear in the next chapter. Any guesses on what made Roslyn gasp? And...
Review! I've become addicted to reviews, so please, grant them to me. I'll love you forever and ever and...
Jareth: -files his nails coolly- Liar, liar...
Fiona: Oh, fine. Bastard. My love belongs to Jareth, and you can't have it. -glares at the Goblin King- Happy, you womanizing pervert?
Jareth: -smirks- Quite. Failure to review is, however, punishable by certain death in the Goblin Court. Choose your course wisely...