"What is it?"
"'tis a child."
Monsieur Lefevre quickly grabbed the bundle out of the stagehand's hands. He looked at the small child in the blanket. It was so small. It had a small tuft of mousy brown hair. When the child opened its tiny eyes, he almost gasped at the beautiful sapphire blue eye color they had. He decided that he would keep it. It would be able to do something, and he couldn't just throw it out onto the street. It was so small, so young, so defenseless.
Monsieur Lefevre had never had children of his own and loved the child as if it were his own. It turned out to be a girl. He called her Sapphira. She was a rambunctious child, she ran about the opera house quiet as a mouse. She would disappear for hours only to reappear back in Lefevre's office. The only thing Lefevre thought was odd about the child was that she would only speak to him.
When she was old enough Lefevre tried to get her into the chorus, but she would not sing. She could dance beautifully, but because she refused to sing he couldn't get her into the ballet corps. He could not bring her up. She had grown into a very independent young woman. He finally decided to make her into a stagehand. The job fit her better in the long run.
Her wonderful balance and dancer nature made it less dangerous for her to work up in the cat walks. She walked easily up on the beams. She never fell, partly because she had such wonderful balance, partly because she knew the opera building like the back of her hand. She knew all of the building, even some areas no one knew about, well, not no one...
As she grew up, people began to forget that she was so close to the opera manager. She preferred it that way. She cut her mousy brown locks, bound her chest and began to dress like a young man, so that none of the stage hands would treat her like another ballerina whore. She was no fool, she saw what they did with the ballerinas when the opera house got dark. She didn't want to be like them, she wanted to save herself for her love, whoever he may be.
The stage hands didn't understand her. They made fun of her, but she ignored them. Because she was so quiet they called her 'Souris' (Souris means mouse in french.) No one understood her quiet nature, not even Lefevre who had tea with her every weekend. He was the only man she ever talked to.
She never had a problem with the stage hands making fun of her, but when the ballerinas made fun of her she felt a stab of pain. Something about that fact that not even the nicer ballerinas, Christine and Marguerite, would stand up for her hurt. She never knew her parents and was never bothered by that, but when the people she had grown up around stopped treating her like a person, she felt...betrayed.
When Lefevre told her he was retiring, she hid in one of the dark hallways beneath the opera building. She stayed there for three days. She stayed there, didn't eat, drink, sleep for that time. When she found a letter by her feet from the Opera Ghost telling her to leave before she died and joined him in his wanderings of the opera, she felt totally abandoned. No one cared about her. No one ever cared about her except Lefevre, and he was leaving for Australia.
Finally, pulling all her strength together she stumbled back up to her room. Lefevre was waiting for her there.
"Where have you been!" he cried pulling her thin body to his. She didn't reply, only stared at him before passing out in his arms.
ok, whatcha think? I will be continuing Romance Cottage, but I'm having problems with it, so be patient. I love reviews!
Disclaimer: I own nothing except for Souris, and maybe a few other characters who appear later in the story. Ok, that's it...