The Wombat is back, with another chapter. And lots of notes.

O Most Sacred Reviewers:

I'm terribly sorry for making you wait for 3 months. You see, vacation ends, and homework descends upon all, especially Wombats with super-complicated schedules. (Yup, that's my excuse. Homework. Care to hear my I-forgot-my-homework excuse? It involves hungry dogs.)

Anybody who hasn't read the prologue very recently will be hopelessly confused here. Go read it, or, if you don't want to bother, here: I changed Rose's name to Lianne, because I get a pang every time I type such an incredibly cliché name. It probably isn't too in-keeping with the time period, but let's all pretend it is, and everyone's happy. The same goes for lots of this, maybe even my whole plotline. If anybody spots a historically inaccurate plot device, please, please, PLEASE tell me, either by review, PM, or email (erina mail2athena. com). I just don't know too much about Paris history.

This is cliché. Please, humor me and ignore all my plot devices, as it gets considerably less cliché later on…at least I think so.

I have something to confess: Unlike everybody else here, I own everything I write, and am making buckets of money off every word.

I wish.

I don't know the copyright laws, but I'm pretty sure this belongs to whoever owns PotO—Gaston Leroux, ALW, Michael Crawford, whoever. And I'm not making any money.

That was a lot of notes for 2 reviewers. Ah well. 'Twill keep you entertained.

Let the games begin…or whatever they are…sappy musings works.

WW

(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-

A girl of medium height, thin to the point of emaciation, stood on the steps of a sweeping staircase. Straggly blonde hair fell to her waist; she combed it nervously with her fingers as she took first one step, then another, up the stairs. All around her the hustle and bustle of Paris at daybreak swept on, impervious to her awe. Carefully the girl made her way to the entrance to the Opera Garnier, her large green eyes flitting this way and that.

A large woman, armed with a mop and bucket, shoved past the girl and into the building. Quickly the girl slipped in behind her, dodging the long wooden handle. Timidly, she climbed yet another staircase, walked down several halls, turned around twice, and found a likely-looking door. She stepped forward and knocked several times.

Seconds later, the door banged open. The girl jumped backwards, eyes wide with fright.

"What?" An impressively tall woman with sharp features, and an equally sharp voice, stuck her head out.

"Please miss, would you let me be a ballerina? Go on stage, and such?"

The woman snorted rather alarmingly. "No."

"But you've taken girls before. Girls like me."

"Rarely. And when we do, we do it when they're so high." She held her hand in the region of her waist. "When they're too small to look after themselves. You could have a job anywhere—most families could do with an extra maid somewhere."

"Not me."

"Why's that?"

"He likes to…borrow…things. Little things, like a comb, or some shoes. Most people don't know about him, but they know wherever my sister is things go missing, and I've always been with her. Nobody wants a thieving maid."

"Why aren't you with your family?"

"They're gone."

"Gone?"

"Dead gone."

The woman looked at the girl for a moment, trying to decide if she was truthful. Satisfied that nobody with such a pitiable appearance would feel the need for deceit, she inquired, "What's your name?"

"Lianne."

"How old are you? Thirteen?"

"Fourteen, miss."

"Too old to be a ballerina. Do you sew?"

Lianne's face brightened for an instant. "I used to fix m'sister's mistress' dresses, but nobody ever gave me much thread and such, just enough to cover a stain or stitch a rip."

"Come here." The woman turned sharply, leading Lianne through a rat's nest of narrow hallways. Some minutes later, they were in a large, brightly colored room. Nearly every flat surface was covered with vivid cloth, wiry wigs, and half-finished dresses. The woman swept over to a table covered with scraps, selected two samples of slick fabric, some thread, and a needle and handed them to Lianne. "Sew these together."

Lianne took the supplies and began to sew, her head bent over the project. Several tedious minutes later, she bit the thread off, returned the needle to its fellows, and held up the scraps. The woman took them, tried to pull them apart, failed, and dropped them. "You stay here. I'm going to go tell our dressmakers they've got a new helper. But before you get convinced of my charitable nature and all, bear in mind you're in for a rough time in here. The shrews that work here haven't any use for a weakling, and they'll push you to the limit. Everyone here works from dawn to midnight, if not longer, trying to turn glittery sacks into wearable costumes. If you can't take that, say so now, and save yourself a lot of heartache. I'm doing you no favor."

"I'll try it, miss. Anything's better than what I'll get if I can't find work somewhere."

"You can't say I didn't warn you." The woman swept away, leaving Lianne surrounded by heaps of cloth, with absolutely no idea where she was to go from there.

(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-(-)-

. . . and at this point you're supposed to leave me piles of reviews…that's how it works, isn't it?

If you are overly fond of my writing, you could go read Angel of Music (profile), and leave me lots of reviews to digest over there too. I warn you it's sappy.

Chapter Two ought to be up in a week or so.

WW