Christine settled into the corner of forest green settee, pushing herself as deeply into the rough pile as she could. Still unsure of her place in the household that now consisted of her father, the formidable, yet kind, Adele Giry and her daughter, Meg.
Meg of golden tresses and sky blue eyes – always dancing and moving. Meg of outspoken speech and opinion – never failing to comment on whatever was going on in the troupe or her desire to be prima ballerina – taking over Sorelli's role, who was becoming too old.
Meg the official daughter.
Pappa was so grateful when Madame offered them a place to stay when they arrived in Paris. Having been offered a permanent job at a café gave them a level of security they had not experienced since leaving Sweden – how long ago was it? Twelve, fourteen years. She lost count – the days, years and countries losing definition – in some ways so much alike, in others so different.
It was not long before the sleeping situations changed. Pappa moved into Madame's room, while Meg returned to the room that was once hers alone, but would now be shared with Christine. Despite an initial awkwardness over their respective parent's new relationship, neither begrudged them their happiness. It was their own situation that was the challenge.
Had anyone bothered to ask her – Christine would said she much preferred the gypsy life she shared with her father. Pappa was certain in his belief that Christine would fare better in this normal setting, he failed to see her withdrawal into herself. Housing was costly and the arrangement was manna from heaven in his eyes. Comfortable home and ready-made friends for both of them.
"I do not want to wear braids," Meg said, stamping her small foot on the floor, as Adele attempted to contain the golden locks, enabling her to form a crown on the girl's head, appropriate to the dance she would be performing that night for the managers.
Christine recalled how her own mother loved to spend what she recalled as hours, brushing her unruly chestnut curls until Pappa said it shone like satin. Once she had his blessing, Mamma would then pick through her sewing basket to find the prettiest ribbon to tie her hair back, finishing with a big bow at the top of her head.
Just as she did not begrudge her father the warmth of Madame's bed, neither did she begrudge Meg the affection of her mother. Meg, for all her bratty behavior, was actually becoming a good friend – always able to make Christine laugh – doubting she could even be so bold as to speak to anyone in the way Meg spoke to Madame.
Yet, this was not her family – this was not her home. Too many years unconnected – without her mother. Too many years being her own mother. The urge to escape this domesticity grew stonger in her daily.
She longed for the day she could escape.