Prologue
"Marjane? Are you here?" Gabriel asked, his eyes darting back and forth, seeing nothing.
"Yes." She took his hand.
"The entailment is over. We are free. Now you can go, go to the opera, become a dancer."
"I'm not going without you Gabriel. I will not leave you here alone." Marjane's teeth were gritted.
"You will get nowhere with a blind brother in tow, no, I will stay." His voice echoed the authoritative tones of their father, long dead of consumption.
The silence permeated the room, and Marjane stared at the single candle, its shadows flickering on the wall.
"Marjane, it is my last wish, please become all you wanted to be." He squeezed her hand.
The tears pricked the back of her eyes. His breath was shuddering now.
"And Marjane? Write me, alright?"
"Yes Gabriel." She replied, but his eyes no longer moved, and she knew he didn't hear her.
Chapter 1
Marjane pulled the wool cloak tighter around her skinny figure; the sun was rising in the east, but the biting cold reminded all who strolled the Place de l'Opera that winter was fast approaching. She looked up, Opera Populaire, flashed in the sun. She followed the steady stream of horses to the back, where stables and doors more readily open to poor girls sat waiting. Dodging carts and unruly workers, Marjane arrived at the stage door, and took a deep breath, but her rumbling stomach interrupted and she pushed on in.
Inside, Marjane found, it was louder than the outside, a romp in madness. Men with overly powdered faces, and women in the skimpiest of outfits that would make even a prostitute blush. She let herself be swept into the crowd, landing herself outside an office marked Monsieur Lefevre. She quietly let herself in, ignoring the clutter, bundled posters from previous shows, some large animal trophy heads, and many cups of coffee, randomly scattered in places around the office, from neatly placed on the desk (still hot, she imagined) to on top of an armoire. After about ten minutes of politely waiting by the door, Marjane began to explore. Monsieur Lefevre had many knick-knacks, pictures of him with esteemed patrons, past stars of the opera, and notes, from someone named OG. Teeming with curiosity she picked one up and began to read:
Most Esteemed Lefevre,
Congratulations on your most recent production of Les Contes d'Hoffman, it was a great success. However, I still urge you to make these remaining changes, please find a bassoonist with richer sound, and the dance sequence in Act 1 was lacking its normal energy, please request a rehearsal. I shall watch tonight's performance of Hannibal from my normal seat in Box 5.
Your obedient friend-----
Just then, a man stormed into the office, lanky and gray-haired, and in a terrible rage, followed by two other men, one squat and sweaty, the other, tall and statuesque,
"Can we get through one goddamned rehearsal without set pieces falling, sopranos quitting, or ridiculous superstitions. I'm very sorry Monsieurs, what a terrible way to begin your—" He noticed me, "and who are you?"
Marjane curtsied, "My name in Marjane Deveraux, I would like to acquire a position here, doing anything really, I…I need work." He gave her a withering glare; "We need no help at this time—"
"But Monsieur!" She cut in,
"Do you need an escort out?" Lefevre's tone was one of serious anger, and Marjane pressed no further, slinking out in embarrassment, she closed her eyes, I'm sorry Gabriel, she apologized to her brother. She shut the door, Lefevre's shouts still audible. Then the tears came, the Opera Populaire had been her last chance. She could hear the faint strains of an overture, another rehearsal, she guessed, ducking backstage in a tiny nook, where she could see them, but they couldn't see her. Someone touched her shoulder and she jumped, turning to beg and apologize she stopped dead in her tracks. The man before her was intimidating, tall and lean, his hair slicked back, and his most imposing feature, a white mask covering the left side of his face. But when he spoke, his gloved hand resting lovingly on her shoulder, it was with a warm, friendly voice,
"My child, please take this note to Monsieur Lefevre, I trust you to deliver its contents."
"But Monsieur I do not work her—"
"Just deliver the message." He took her hands pressing the sealed envelope into them. And then, disappeared.
Marjane ran back to the Lefevre's office, praying he had not left yet. He hadn't.
"Monsieur, I have—"
"I thought I told you to leave." He cut her off.
"But Monsieur, I have a note from one of your…employees." She held out the envelope sealed in wax. Lefevre's eyes flashed with fear and he snatched the letter away reading it quickly, his eyes becoming wider and wider.
"Girl." He cleared his throat and Marjane looked up, "It appears we have a position for you after all, you will begin laundry duty tomorrow. The maid's dormitory is third floor, seventh door on the right. Your wages will be paid every Wednesday, if you have any questions, ask Adele."
She stood wide-eyed, unnerved by her sudden good fortune.
"Thank you Monsieur, you won't be disappointed!" she curtsied and ran out, silently thanking the masked stranger who had saved her dreams.