Her muscles ached, deliciously. Dance class was over, but she decided to stay after, taking advantage of the rarely empty rehearsal space, working on perfecting some moves. She saw the aches as encouraging steps towards her future success. They meant she was pushing herself harder and harder. They were also reminders of just how close she had come to blowing it.

Rachel knew her greatest weakness was her insecurity. Whenever someone pushed those buttons, she was almost guaranteed to make a rash decision. Her outburst at her dance professor almost resulted in her career ending before it even began, and her talk with Cassandra afterward convinced her this was something she had to focus on eliminating. She saw a sign in a small shop that said, "Do Not Confuse Effort With Results". It went up above her mirror, and became her personal mantra. Insults and rude comments from instructors became insignificant. All that mattered was that she took every criticism seriously and applied it until her work met her professors' expectations. In a way it was a relief; she didn't feel she had to learn everything on her own, as she had to do in Lima. Rachel could actually place her trust in the faculty of NYADA to help get her where she wanted to go. After all, they were getting paid to prepare her.

Cassandra was the first to notice a change. Rachel no longer bristled at her nickname, but instead began to embrace it. One class she showed up wearing a leotard with the actor David Schwimmer's face on it, causing Cassandra to burst out laughing and, much to the rest of the class's chagrin, give her the best tango partner to work with that day.

His name was Patrick. He was taller than Brody, with a different build, more like a ballet dancer, lithe and sinewy. He was even better-looking, too, with a mass of dark, curly hair and classic, fair, Irish skin. And, much to Rachel's relief, Patrick was coolly professional when they danced together. This was critical, she realized. In show business she could expect to be paired professionally with very good looking men, and it was essential that she be able to keep it that way. Brody couldn't do that with her. She liked him very much, he was funny and kind, but couldn't prevent his deeper feelings for her from showing when they danced.

Outside of class, Patrick was also kind, but, much to Rachel's dismay, proceeded to ruin everything by confessing to her he might be having feelings for her as well.

"What the hell, Kurt," she complained, mystified, one Friday pizza night in their apartment. "There are much better-looking girls in the class. Why me?"

"Rachel, dear," Kurt tried to explain to her, "You are single now, talented and beautiful, not jaded, and, surprisingly, not as self absorbed as you might think. In other words, you are a catch."

"You know I'm not looking to hook up with anybody," she said, then very gently, "Just like you aren't, either."

Later on that night, Kurt joined her in her bed and cuddled.

"What is it about our men?" he whispered.

"They're special, we both know that," she whispered back, "And they're both part of something bigger involving you and me. We have to be strong for them."

"You've told Patrick and Brody this, right? "

"Yes, but I know neither of them think it will ever work out between Finn and me. And they don't think I will be able to wait. And Kurt?" She felt cold at that moment, and clung to him desperately. "There are days when I don't think I can, either."

"I know," Kurt said soothingly, "Ditto for me."

In the dark, she sighed. "I'm so glad you're here with me."

Rachel paused to appraise herself in the rehearsal room mirror. Her eyes began to see what the men in her life already saw and appreciated: toned body; flawless, glowing skin; lustrous hair; dark eyes. She thought of Finn's body, and how it felt against her, and, without thinking, began letting that feeling inform the moves she had been practicing. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, her movement acquired a different kind of fluidity, a grace that was almost feral in its intensity. Her breathing came faster, this time not just due to the exertion. Pain was forgotten, her sweat delicious now, each upcoming move a natural part of the flow that didn't have to be mentally planned beforehand, because Rachel had finally let her instincts take the lead. She moved faster, each attempt more sure and sinuous than the last.

Eventually, she stopped, gasping, energy spent, and noticed Cassandra standing in the doorway, watching intently. Embarrassed, Rachel said nothing, and just walked over to her bag for a towel.

"Hey Schwimmer," Cassandra called out. Rachel looked at her. "Maybe you can start thinking about adding Evita to your repertoire now."

"You think so?" she asked, wiping her face.

"You finally looked comfortable with your body," Cassandra noted. "Who were you thinking about? Weston?" She said his name like a dirty word.

Rachel didn't answer. It was none of her goddamned business.

Cassandra laughed. "It doesn't matter," she said, waving a hand, "It could be Justin Beiber for all I care. Just keep it up." With that she turned and left.

Alone again, Rachel relished the feelings she just had while dancing. Her body missed his body, yes, but she was encouraged it was thoughts of him, and no one else, that were helping her make it through.

The good feeling didn't last, however. She snorted bitterly. Make it through what? Waiting for Finn to find himself? What if he found himself and still didn't want to be with her? What if he found somebody else? Would she ever be able to find anybody else?

Rachel prepared to go home, convinced that the inner dialogue she just had was the reason so many operas had mad scenes.

XXXxxxx

She liked the bumblebees best. There was this glade in the hills overlooking the harbor, an open spot in the trees, covered in grass and wildflowers. It was the perfect spot from which to sit and look out to sea, in hopes of catching a glimpse of any ships rounding the headland. On warm days, hundreds of butterflies and droning bumblebees attended the flowers, a delight not only to her but also to the wood nymphs in the forest. The bees buzzed lazily among the blossoms, and, as she watched them humbly going about their work and drank in the air, fragrant and warm, swore she could hear the faint laughter of the nymphs, amused at her ritual of watching and waiting.

She understood the nymph's amusement. Did she not have suitors in the village, men with whom she could drink and make merry, instead of holding this lonely vigil, awaiting the return of a man whom everyone knew to be lost at sea?

"I wonder myself," she said aloud to the trees, and smiled at the lighthearted whisperings and laughter in return. She took heart knowing that she truly wasn't as lonely as the situation warranted, that there was this almost delicious sense of anticipation of something about to happen, something important, that would erase the pain of separation forever.

Best of all, no sacrifice to the oracle was required in order for her to feel it. That had to mean something.