"Madame Carlotta, meet Mademoiselle Daae," said M. Moncharmin. "Mademoiselle Daae, Madame Carlotta."
"Bonjour," Christine attempted. Many people were taller than her, but the primadonna towered over her. She had an air of confidence and power that Christine knew came from years of building a reputation. The time spent in the Opera before being noticed for her voice was as a backup dancer—she had seen Carlotta's performances, concert and otherwise. The primadonna may have been older than most singers, but with that came an understanding of the business—experience. If Carlotta was terrifying, it was because she knew exactly what she was doing.
"My pleasure," Carlotta jawed tensely. The little dancer peered up at her with huge hazel eyes, silent. She frowned.
"Mademoiselle does not speak French," M. Richard cut in. "Her first language is Swedish."
Carlotta rolled her eyes as a translator, previously hidden from her view, repeated her words to the little Daae.
"Carlotta, you will be coaching Mam'selle Daae to sing the part of Marguerite in this season's production of Faust."
Carlotta spun. "What?"
"Mam'selle Daae has much potential—"
"That part was promised to me!" Carlotta growled. "My contract—"
"She is to be your understudy," M. Moncharmin sighed.
Carlotta paused. "Ah."
The managers seemed worn from the conversation. M. Richard found the door out and opened it to the two sopranos. "Rehearsals will start tomorrow, Madame, and I believe it would be best if you pick up a Swedish dictionary by then."
The translator said as much was needed to the Little Daae, and then she was scurrying after her superior out the door.
When they were alone, Carlotta turned and looked at the girl. She wasn't too young—probably just turned twenty by the looks of it. Her skin was dark, nearly ebony brown that made her short blonde hair stand out even more.
"I know you don't understand me," Carlotta said. "But I'm going to tell you, anyways, and maybe you'll catch my meaning. I don't like you. You being here means that I'm going to be gone soon. So, to me, you are a little worm. You mean nothing to me." Her last words were a hiss. Christine's eyes were wide—just as was expected, she understood tone just fine.
Carlotta recomposed herself and marched away, leaving the Little Daae to pick up her dust.
Christine was about to follow when she saw something move—they were standing in a nearly barren corridor, save for a bust of a Frenchman. It was moving.
"Nej! Dröjde!" Christine cried. "Se ut!"
Carlotta turned around. "You know I don't—"
The bust crashed into the wall beside her. Carlotta gasped.
"You tried to kill me!" she shrieked. "You little monster!"
Christine could see now she was in trouble. She put her hands before her, as if to defend herself somehow. "Nej, nej! I hjälpte var!"
"Well, if you didn't do it," Carlotta snarled, then balked. She looked up and around herself. Her eyes traced lines in the walls. The corridor was silent. "So," she muttered. "He's at it again."
Without glancing back at Christine, Carlotta headed away, carried by a more contemplative cloud.
Christine watched her in confusion, then followed again, glancing at the shattered bust on the floor. It seemed hollow enough to be lifted, but even her dancer's arms would not be able to hoist and launch it at Carlotta. She shook her head. Something was going on here, and Christine wasn't sure she wanted to know.
Carlotta slammed the door behind her when she entered the dressing room. Her eyes were set on the mirror above her vanity, and she sat down and scowled into it.
"If you think for one second that I will permit you to take Faust from me, you are wrong." Carlotta spat at the mirror. "I know the opera like the back of my hand. I have always been Marguerite. I have been for decades—and why? People can rely upon me. I am here because of me." Carlotta bashed the desk with her fist. "She may be talented, but she will never be ready. Not while I live and breathe."
