Chapter 7
"Find Crowley," Alastair mumbled in the direction of his bodyguard, Jackson, after the performance. "The girl's waiting for me."
In Deanna's dressing room, Ellen fastened The Sparkling Diamond's dress, Deanna groaning at the pain of it.
"The twinkle-toes investor has really taken the bait, De," She beamed, fixing up Deanna's hair. "I guess it's true what they say about nobility being stupid—probably because they all marry their cousins." Deanna faked a snort, worried about the night ahead of her. "With a patron like that, you could be the next Sarah Bernhardt."
Deanna turned to face Ellen, her expression soft and vulnerable.
"Do you really think I could be like the great Sarah?"
"Why not?" Ellen smiled warmly at Deanna. "You've got the talent. You hook that aristocratic, pampered investor, and you'll be lighting up the great stages of Europe."
"I'm gonna be a real actress, Ellen." Deanna beamed at the thought. "A great actress. I'm gonna fly away from here."
Her voice cracked and betrayed the emotion and longing behind her words.
Crowley entered.
"Duckling, is everything alright?" He frowned at the tears in Deanna's eyes.
"Oh," Deanna wiped her face, shaking her head. "Yes." She nodded quickly. "Of course, Crowley."
Her laugh was unconvincing, but Crowley didn't seem to care.
"Oh, thank goodness," He said distractedly. "You certainly weaved your magic on the dance floor; I'm fairly sure that a certain someone was left utterly enchanted in spite of their cool exterior, would you have thought it possible."
Deanna faked a smile at the compliment.
"How do I look?" She asked, turning in her red dress. Crowley faked a gasp, deliberately theatrical, and Deanna's laugh in response to this was, at least, genuine. "Smouldering temptress." She reminded.
"Oh, my desert flower," Crowley grinned, gesturing for Deanna to turn again. She did, Ellen watching Crowley with an untrusting eye as he appraised Deanna slowly. "How could anyone possibly resist from gobbling you up?" Deanna laughed again. "Everything's going so well!"
…
Castielle stood, waiting, in the Elephant Red Room. It was right at the top of the enormous, beautiful, absurd elephant that stood in the courtyard of the Moulin Rouge, and in which Deanna slept, ate, and entertained.
Gabrielle stood below the elephant, looking up. Cassie peered nervously over the balcony to catch her eye, trying to communicate to the actress that she was absolutely terrified and had no idea of what it was that she was doing.
"Unbelievable!" Gabrielle shouted up at Cassie. "Straight to the Elephant! She must have loved you!"
Cassie pulled a worried expression down, but was fairly certain that Gabrielle wouldn't be able to make it out.
The sound of the door opening and closing from behind her made Cassie jump, and she turned around quickly to see Deanna, wearing a black peignoir, walking slowly into the room, eyes smouldering. Cassie's pulse quickened. Her breath caught in her throat.
"Now, this is a wonderful place for a poetry reading," Deanna stated, voice low and soft. Cassie bit her lip, terrified, and entered back into the room from the balcony outside. "Don't you think? Hmm?" She asked. Cassie found she could not answer, her throat had dried all but completely in the moments Deanna had been present. "Poetic enough for you?" Deanna asked. Her smile was the most beautiful thing Cassie thought she had ever seen.
"Yes," She managed to gasp out.
Unbeknownst to either Deanna or Castielle, but at that moment, Gabrielle and the other bohemians were climbing up the back of the elephant to gain a greater view—despite Aaron's nervous words of caution—and all but Aaron were giggling as they went.
Deanna walked over to a small, dark, circular table full of food.
"A little, uh, supper?" She asked. "Maybe some champagne?"
Castielle was too terrified about reciting her poetry to be able to eat—it would, most likely, come out of her just as quickly as it went in, and she really didn't like the idea of being sick on a woman quite so beautiful as Deanna.
"I'd rather just, um, get it over and done with." She blushed, petrified of what the Sparkling Diamond would make of her writing.
Deanna set down the champagne with such a force that it crashed into the ice bucket.
"Oh," She said simply—Cassie frowned at her tone, it sounded put-out, or uncomfortable, or disappointed, or perhaps all three. But when the girl turned around it was like a veil had slid over her face, it seemed contented, calm enough—but something flickered below the surface. "Very well, then." She said, eyes smouldering at Castielle. "Why don't you…" She lay down on the bed, "come down here?" She suggested. "Let's 'get it over and done with'." She said—and was that mirth lacing her tone?
"I—I prefer to do it standing," Cassie said, having to look down, because something was stirring deep and low inside of her at the sight of Deanna's smooth, soft thighs underneath the thin midnight lace of her peignoir.
Deanna looked up at her, surprised and confused—but she quickly recovered.
"Oh," She started to get up. "How—"
"You don't have to stand," Castielle amended quickly, shaking her head. "I mean, it's quite long and I'd like you to be comfortable…"
Deanna looked at her, surprised, again.
"It's quite modern what I do," Cassie continued, finding it impossible to make eye contact with the beautiful girl lying across a bed—why was she lying across a bed for a poetry reading?!—"And it may feel a little strange at first, but I think if you're open to it, then you might enjoy it." Castielle smiled nervously at Deanna.
Deanna didn't seem to have recovered from her earlier surprise.
"I'm sure I will," She frowned, then smiled at Castielle. "It's Paris, by the way," She laughed, catching Cassie's nervousness. "And Montmartre at that. I've entertained women here before, and they've entertained me, so you needn't look so worried. Sometimes I quite like it, at least more than I do men."
"You do?" Castielle asked, reassured. Deanna laughed softly and nodded. "I find that men's poetry can be tedious as well—often so introspective and self indulgent—"
Deanna burst out laughing.
"God, yes, that's one way of putting it." She shook her head wistfully. "Men's… poetry," She winked at Cassie as she said this, but Castielle was utterly lost as to why, "does tend to be a little one-party focussed."
Castielle nodded, and smiled, attempted to mask her fear as best as possible.
"So, should I just…?" She trailed off, looking nervously up at Deanna.
"Go ahead," The other girl smoldered. She lifted some of the lace covering her legs, revealing the smooth, soft skin underneath it, and Cassie had to turn away, heat flaring up inside of her.
"Excuse me," She shook her head, petrified. She turned her back to Deanna and began to pace, mind blank—all she could see was Deanna, in her mind's eye, stretched out on that bed, looking up at her through thick, dark lashes with the most gorgeous pair of green eyes Castielle was convinced had ever, and would ever, exist.
Poetry, that's what Cassie had come to recite, poetry, she reminded herself—but none came. What was she doing? What could she say?
"The—" She stammered out. "The sky is, is—"
Nothing. Also completely awful, but mainly just nothing.
Deanna seemed to like it, however—she had lain back on the bed and was moaning, the sound made Cassie wanted to close her eyes, heat pooling low in her stomach. What was this feeling? She'd never—
Oh, God.
"—With bluebirds—" Castielle tried to recover herself, but it was to no avail—she had turned back around to face Deanna, and she closed her eyes, head tipped back on the bed, moaning and breathing deep. Cassie spun on her heel to look away again, unable to contain herself at the sight of Deanna, so beautiful and soft and perfect on the bed. What was she doing? Did she react to all poetry this way?
Come on, Castielle, she said to herself. Come on—this was a poetry reading, and now was not the time to get distracted. Gabrielle, Aaron, Garth, all the bohemians were relying on her. Her friends—the first she had made in Paris. And possibly the last, considering the fact that Cassie was pretty sure she was about to die from embarrassment, and… whatever this new feeling was, when she looked at and listened to Deanna, stretched out across the bed.
She took a deep breath. Deeper than was probably necessary. Turned to face Deanna again. The girl continued moaning on the bed.
"I think—think there might be some shaking… Oh, riki-tiki-tiki-tiki…" Cassie tried, but it was useless. It was awful. It was the worst thing Cassie's brain had ever concocted, and as it stood, she'd committed some serious literature blunders in her time.
Deanna grew impatient. She stopped moaning and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Um," She frowned softly, "is everything alright?"
"I'm… I'm a little nervous," Cassie confessed in a short, self-deprecating breath of laughter. "It's just, sometimes, it takes a little while for—"
"Oh!" Deanna exclaimed. Relief flooded Castielle—perhaps the other girl understood?
"You know," Castielle sighed, "inspiration to come."
Deanna got up, off the bed, and walked towards the writer.
"Oh, yes, yes, yes," She soothed. "I understand completely. Let Mummy help, hmm?"
First, her hand was on Castielle's arm, sending fireworks shooting along her skin; but before she could think, Deanna was trailing her fingers down, down, down the black dress Castielle wore, until they reached—
Castielle gasped. Warmth flooded her abdomen.
"Does that inspire you?" Deanna asked, whispering the words into Cassie's ear as she leant in close. Her voice somehow managed to be both breathy with seduction and gorgeously innocent, and it was intoxicating for Castielle to listen to.
Before she had another moment to recover, Deanna had thrown Castielle onto the bed.
"Let's make love." She said, voice filled with sex and beauty.
Castielle blanched.
"Make love?" She repeated.
"You want to, don't you?" Deanna clambered on top of Castielle, legs either side of the writer's body.
"Well, I came to—"
"No, tell the truth," Deanna shook her head, leaning down low to whisper the words in Cassie's ear. She shivered, heat filling her insides. "Can't you feel the poetry?" Deanna asked. Her fingertips began to play down Cassie's shoulders. Castielle could hardly breathe.
"What?"
The bohemians, outside, were now on top of the Elephant, lowering Gabrielle down so that she could spy on the pair inside.
"Oh, come on," Deanna smiled knowingly, "feel it."
She rubbed her hips down onto Castielle from where she sat, on top of her, teasing Cassie through her dress. Castielle whimpered beneath her, closing her eyes and raising her hips up, off the bed, to meet Deanna's. Wasn't this wrong? Was it? It was Paris, as Deanna had said, and the eve of a new millennium… But Castielle had come to read poetry, not make love—and certainly not make love to a woman—what would her father say? What would her stern, devout, mother say?
"Free the tigress!" Deanna exclaimed from on top of Castielle, grinding down on Cassie.
"Oh!" Castielle exclaimed. She could hardly think, could hardly speak, what was she doing here? What was she about to do?
Deanna pretended to growl as she lifted the skirt of Cassie's dress, then hoisted Cassie into sitting up, tugging at the fastenings on Castielle's back until they fell slack, until the dress slipped down and her chest was left uncovered. Her heart was racing.
"Yes," Deanna beamed, "I need your poetry now!" She exclaimed, raising her voice to a shout.
"Alright!" Castielle exclaimed, struggling to get out from under Deanna, who gasped as Castielle fell off the bed, hoisting her dress back up to cover herself and fumbling with its ties to at least make it secure, once again, if not closely fitting.
She stumbled into standing, Deanna sat back up on the bed, frowning in lost confusion at her. Why did she look hurt? Had Castielle somehow offended her? She thought Deanna had been trying to inspire her? There had been a great many great poems written about sex, after all, and Castielle after that, felt—well, she'd rather not think about it. Heat crept down her neck.
"It's a little bit funny," She started, breathless.
"What?" Deanna asked, still utterly bewildered.
"This—feeling in, inside." Castielle decided. She could still hardly think, but an odd kind of clarity had entered her mind, like she'd found a muse. Her muse. "I'm not one of those who can—who can easily hide." She turned back to Deanna nervously. "Is this… Is this okay? Is this what you want?"
Deanna considered Castielle for a moment, before a light seemed to flicker on inside her brain.
"Oh," She said, standing. "Poetry. Yes, yes. Yes, this is what I want. Naughty words." She giggled, and so did Castielle, settling somewhat, but still a little lost. "Oh!" Deanna exclaimed, falling back onto the bed. "Naughty words!" She began to roll on it, and Cassie stared at her, shocked. What was she doing now?!
"I—I don't have much money," Cassie tried, voice trembling with something new. "But, oh, if I did—"
"Oh, yes!" Deanna exclaimed, trailing her fingers up her legs.
"I—I'd buy a big house, where we both could live." Uncertainty fluttered through her, as did horror at whatever it was Deanna was doing. Were all dancers at the Moulin Rouge this strange, she wondered?
"Oh, I love them, naughty words!" Deanna moaned. "Oh, it's so good!"
Well, at least she seemed to be enjoying the poetry, at any rate.
"If I were a sculptor—" Castielle tried, but that didn't sound right, no matter how much Deanna pretended to like it.
"Wonderful, wonderful!" She exclaimed. Perhaps she was only trying to calm Cassie down, the writer wondered to herself? If she was, it was certainly working in some ways, but definitely not in others.
"—But then again, no." Castielle shook her head. "Or a girl who makes potions at a travelling show—" She decided, glancing over to Deanna, who had started rolling on the bed again, crying out,
"Oh, don't! Don't!"
Castielle stopped abruptly, standing still, terrified again.
"No, no, no," Deanna stopped rolling, lying on her front and looking up at Castielle. "Don't stop."
"I know it's not much," Castielle resumed, distractedly.
"Give me more!" Deanna shouted. "Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh!"
"But it's the best I can do," Cassie took a deep, hesitant breath.
"Oh, naughty!" Deanna cried out. "Don't stop! Never! Yes, yes, oh!"
Castielle was finally lost for words. Deanna was still rolling—was it an attempt to be erotic? If so, it really wasn't working—at least not anymore. How could a courtesan fail to be erotic? And why was this one trying to be erotic at a poetry reading?!
Cassie was bewildered. So she put her words to music.
Maybe it would stop Deanna's shouting. It was awfully difficult to concentrate with it, after all.
"My gift is my song," She turned to face Deanna, breathing deep. The dancer's face had gone still, she stared up at Cassie, now, seeming as lost as Castielle had felt moments earlier. "And, this one's for you."
Deanna's mouth hung open. If Castielle didn't know any better, she'd say the actress looked amazed. As it was, she was probably still just frustrated that it had taken so long for Castielle to be able to recite anything good.
"And you can tell everybody that this is your song," Castielle continued. Despite her strangeness, something about the Sparkling Diamond stirred something deep and tender in Cassie's soul. Looking at her, the next lines of her poem—or rather, song, as it was becoming—came so easily it hardly seemed real. "It may be quite simple, but, now that it's done—I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind, that I put down in words…" She stepped back towards the bed, towards Deanna, who was sitting up again, gazing intently at Castielle, mouth still open. "How wonderful life is, now you're in the world."
Silence.
Deanna gaped at her. Something like sunlight and a hurricane was stirring inside Cassie's chest.
So she did what all writers would do. She put it into words.
"Sat on the roof, and I kicked off the moss…" She laughed softly, turning her back to Deanna again. "Well, some of these verses," She heard Deanna stand behind her, "they got me quite cross…" She turned to face Deanna again. "But the sun's been kind while I wrote this song, it's for people like you, that keep it turned on."
Deanna burst out giggling, and it was like music to Castielle. She could have cried.
Deanna stepped close. This time, Cassie didn't turn away.
"So excuse me forgetting, but these things I do," She breathed deep, "You see, I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue—anyway the thing is, what I really mean—yours are the sweetest eyes that I've ever seen." Deanna burst out into giggles again, looking down, blushing furiously—the courtesan was blushing?! It was the most beautiful sight Castielle had ever witnessed, she could only let out a hoarse laugh in response, thinking of how innocent and happy and pure and girlish Deanna's voice sounded, now. She took the other girl's hands and guided her into dancing softly, and then, somehow, their bodies ended up even closer together, the lights of Paris outside the window setting the world on fire.
It was magic. All of it was magic.
"And you can tell everybody that this is your song—it may be quite simple, but, now that it's done—" Deanna blushed and beamed in Castielle's arms. "I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind, that I put down in words," Their dancing slowed for a moment, "...How wonderful life is, now you're… in the world."
She beamed back at the look Deanna gave her, twirling the courtesan around, before the two ended up chest to chest, feet touching, foreheads touching, staring into each other's eyes. It seemed to last forever. It was perfect. Cassie wished she could have drunk that moment, consumed it, so that it lived, forever, within her.
"Oh," Deanna sighed, fingertips trailing softly through the hair at the back of Cassie's neck, "I can't believe it. I'm in love—with a young, beautiful, talented," Cassie couldn't help but beam at the girl's words, "Lady."
"Lady?"
"Is it Lady? Baroness?" Deanna raised her eyebrows, surprised again. "Duchess?" She asked, stunned. "Not that the title's important, of course." She laughed, eyes crinkling at their corners.
"I'm not—" Castielle shook her head. "I'm not a member of any peerage," She frowned.
"Not a noble?"
"No," Cassie frowned. "Where did you get that idea?"
"But Crowley—" Deanna stammered, fingers falling out of Cassie's hair. "Not a noble?"
"No," Castielle shook her head. "Why did you—I—I'm a writer."
"A writer?" Deanna repeated.
"Yes, a writer," Castielle confirmed, now slightly indignant.
"No!" Deanna exclaimed, taking a step back.
"Gabrielle said—"
"Gabrielle?!" Deanna repeated, clearly distressed. She raised her hands to cover her mouth in shock. "Oh, no. Oh, fuck—you're not another of Gabe's oh-so-talented, charmingly bohemian, tragically impoverished proteges?!"
Castielle couldn't help but be at least somewhat flattered by the suggestion.
"You might say that, yes," She admitted, smiling smugly. Deanna seemed less pleased. She stared out the window in obvious horror.
"Oh no! I'm going to kill her—I'm going to kill her!"
"There might be a small hitch," Gabrielle admitted from where she was peering down, spying on the couple inside the Elephant.
"Gabe—" Aaron grumbled in a warning tone.
"What about the investor?" Deanna asked, panicked.
"The investor?" Cassie repeated.
"Yes, the investor," Deanna hissed. "Who I mistook you for—or who you pretended to be or whatever the fuck it was that got us into this mess—"
"So you thought I was an investor of noble blood?!"
"It's no more ridiculous than you thinking that I'd want to take you up to the Red Room in the shitting Elephant of the Moulin Rouge just to listen to you read me some fucking poetry!"
"I'm new to Paris!" Cassie exclaimed. "I thought you were just—I don't know!" She grew panicked and frustrated. "I thought it was just cultural differences, or something!"
"Cultural differences?!" Deanna repeated, raising her voice. "What the fuck kind of an excuse is that?! And I'm not French, anyway!—"
"Really?" Cassie asked, genuinely surprised. "Then where—"
"Kansas! America!" Deanna shouted, then ran a hand through her hair, moaning. "Not that it matters, anyway—more importantly, where and who is the investor?"
Castielle ignored her question, still shocked and utterly lost.
"But why did you think I was the investor?"
Deanna huffed out an exhausted breath, apparently exasperated at the fact that Castielle was failing to help her through this dilemma.
"Listen," She groaned through gritted teeth. "It wouldn't be the first time that Crowley asked me to sleep with some woman—"
"—Yes, you mentioned, actually—" Something bitter curled around Cassie's heart.
"It's just that normally," Deanna continued, quite forcefully, glaring at Castielle for her interruption, "those women actually have the money to pay for the service I provide them."
"It's not my fault—"
"I'll give you this, though," Deanna seemed to be riling herself up, now, "I really quite liked you, when I thought you were some rich Dame who wanted to fuck me. I thought you were kind of nice, you know? And while you weren't the first woman I'd been forced to sleep with—"
"We didn't sleep—" Cassie attempted to remind, but Deanna continued regardless, hardly seeming to notice.
"You definitely were the youngest, and the prettiest—so it actually really sucks that it turns out you lied about being rich, I guess—"
"I didn't lie!" Cassie hissed, growing angry.
"But all of it begs the question," Deanna continued, "which is one that you have been of absolutely no help in answering, by the way—" She gestured dismissively to Castielle, who bristled slightly and glared at the other girl, "where is the investor?! And who—"
Castielle sighed. Her heart hurt, though she didn't know with what.
"Listen," She sat helplessly down on Deanna's bed, the courtesan's gaze flickering over to her with annoyance, "I'm the writer for Gabrielle's new show, Spectacular, Spectacular. She organised for me to come here tonight and persuade you to allow me on as the new writer—Becky's—well, I don't quite know where Becky's gone, actually. She's just, gone. But I'm… I'm sorry about the mix up. Gabrielle said something about there being a Duke in the booth next to ours, tonight, if that helps you—" Realisation dawned across Deanna's features, softening them, though Castielle could not think why, "—some rich, pampered, dick—" Deanna snorted reluctantly at Cassie's words. "—He's probably your investor," Cassie sighed, feeling despondent. "Your best bet, I suppose, is to go ask Crowley where he's got to…"
Deanna nodded distractedly and began to make her way to the door.
"...It can't be very far, if he was promised to be… entertained by you, tonight…"
"A Duke?" She asked. Castielle sighed and nodded.
There was silence for a moment, then, from outside the room, Castielle and Deanna both heard Crowley's voice through the walls, and both of them felt their blood freeze.
"My dear Duke!" Exclaimed Crowley, voice muffled only slightly.
"The Duke!" Deanna gasped.
"The Duke?" Cassie repeated, horrified.
"Hide!" Deanna hissed. "Out the back!"
She grabbed Cassie and hauled her to her feet, but Castielle, unused to wearing a dress, stumbled and tripped on her way, at the moment that Crowley opened the door to Deanna's room. Deanna, apparently just as quick-thinking as she was beautiful, raised the robe of her peignoir, hiding Castielle, who ducked behind Deanna's legs.
"My dear, are you decent for the Duke?" Crowley asked. Castielle couldn't see anything but lace and Deanna's beautiful, soft calves. "Where were you?" Crowley asked, and now, his voice masked annoyance at his most popular courtesan.
"Mm, I uh," Deanna moved carefully over to the refreshments table, allowing Castielle to shuffle behind it and hide better—she sighed in relief, but Deanna kicked her in a way that somehow said Don't speak so soon, it's hardly over yet, and shut the hell up. "I was waiting." The courtesan finished, voice dripping sex the way it had when she'd been attempting to seduce Castielle. Something sad and bitter stirred inside the writer at the courtesan's using this voice to speak to someone other than her.
"Dearest Duke," Crowley leered, voice somehow both rough and greasy, "allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Deanna—The Sparkling Diamond of the Moulin Rouge."
Deanna moved her hands softly across her legs, the motion intoxicating for Castielle, even from behind. She could only imagine how the Duke must have responded to it.
"Oh, Monsieur, how wonderful of you to take the time out of your busy schedule to visit…" She positively smoldered. Cassie could make out the disgusting smile that crept across Alastair's face as Deanna spoke. It made her shudder from where she crouched.
"The pleasure, I fear," The Duke, Alastair's voice was slick and nasal, and it made Castielle want to vomit, "will be entirely mine, my dear." Alastair leered.
"I'll leave you two squirrels to get better acquainted," Crowley grinned smugly. "Ta-ra."
The Duke leant down to kiss Deanna's hand just as Crowley closed the door.
"A kiss on the hand may be quite continental—"
"—But diamonds are a girl's best friend." Deanna finished, laughing, the sound rich and subtle and soft.
"Well, after tonight's pretty exertions on the stage, you must surely be in need of refreshment, my dear."
Alastair walked closer to the table behind which Castielle hid to get some champagne—panic flared through Castielle, but Deanna was quick.
"Don't!" She exclaimed. And then, at Alastair's stopping short and frowning at her, "You… just, love the view, hmm?" She gestured outside to the balcony, to the lights of Paris that lit up the world in reds and oranges and yellows and pinks.
"Charming," Alastair deadpanned, clearly unconvinced. He reached out for the champagne. Deanna squealed, then began to twirl herself around.
"Oh! Oh, I feel like dancing!" She took Alastair by the wrists and guided him away from the refreshments table, trilling. The Duke frowned, but seemed at least quite entertained.
"You see, I should like a glass of champagne," The Duke pulled himself free of Deanna's grip, Cassie ducking behind the table again.
"No!" Deanna exclaimed. The Duke turned to peer at Deanna, oddly. "It's—" Deanna tried. Apparently even she was stumped as to how she should continue at this point. "It's, a little bit funny…"
Alastair stared at Deanna, picking up the champagne from behind him.
"What is?" He asked.
"This…" Deanna glanced down at Castielle, panicked. Castielle knew what she had to do.
"Feeling," She mouthed silently at Deanna.
"Feeling…" Deanna said slowly, glancing back, worried, to Cassie.
"Inside." Cassie mouthed and pointed to her chest.
"Inside." Deanna looked up at the Duke, beaming fakely.
"I'm not one of those…" Castielle continued to mouth over to Deanna, who squinted to make out her words.
"I'm not one of those," She repeated, "who can easily… who can easily…" Castielle hid behind her hands, came out, mouthed the word hide, and repeated the gesture. "Hide!" Deanna exclaimed, looking back up to Alastair. Pride for Deanna flared through Castielle, and it was her downfall—in what felt like a victory called too early, she knocked over something behind her in a moment of thoughtless clumsiness, causing it to crash, and ducked lower behind the table as the Duke began to turn around.
"No!" Deanna exclaimed, darting over to Alastair, dragging his attention back to her. She knelt down and hugged his legs. "I don't have much money!—But oh, if I did… I'd—I'd buy a big house—where we both could live."
She peered round the Duke's legs a moment and pointed to the door, glaring at Castielle, indicating that she could leave through it. She looked back up to the Duke and exhaled deeply.
"I hope you don't mind," She began to sing, rising slowly. As she stood, Castielle did also, hidden behind the Duke's turned back. "I hope you don't mind," Deanna continued, voice softer than it had been when she was singing for her enormous, doting audience earlier in the night. "That I put down in words…" Her fingers traced the Duke's shoulders delicately, and she looked up at him for a moment—"How wonderful life is,"—but then her gaze flickered over to Castielle, stood petrified behind the Duke, attempting to make her way out, and a soft smile graced the courtesan's lips as her green eyes softened, became more honest, "now you're in the world." She finished, staring at the writer, not the Duke. Cassie forgot how to breathe. Deanna's gaze returned up to Alastair.
"That's very beautiful…" The Duke said quietly. Cassie walked silently over to the door, getting ready to open it.
"It's from Spectacular, Spectacular," Deanna explained matter-of-factly. "Suddenly, with you here, I finally understood the true meaning." She put her arms around the Duke's neck and pointed Castielle to the door, apparently growing frustrated again. "Of those words—'How wonderful life is now you're in the world'." She finished, beaming prettily up at the Duke, who smirked sickeningly down at her.
Cassie opened the door to leave, but behind it saw Jackson, Alastair's manservant and bodyguard, back turned to Castielle, facing out to the corridor.
"What meaning is that, my dear?" Alastair asked.
Cassie closed the door, and cringed at the noise it made. Deanna, trying to distract the Duke from it, threw herself down upon her bed and cried out, slamming her fists onto it as she did so.
"No, no!" She exclaimed. "Duke!" She pointed accusingly at Alastair, who seemed taken aback once again, "don't you toy with me—You, you must know the effect you have on women."
If Castielle didn't know any better, she'd have said that Deanna was quite enjoying this.
Deanna grabbed the Duke and began to pull him onto the bed.
"Let's make love!" She exclaimed. Cassie hid behind a curtain. "You want to make love, don't you?"
"Make love?" Alastair repeated.
"Mm," Deanna moaned, kissing him, eyes open, glaring at Cassie, gesturing for her to escape out the back of the room. Castielle darted to the balcony. "I knew you felt the same way!" Deanna theatrically cried out, moaning again, Alastair on top of her. "Oh! Oh, Duke!"
Cassie stopped short of the open balcony doors, her heart breaking, staring pleadingly at Deanna.
"Get out of here or he'll kill you!" Deanna mouthed furiously at Castielle, as Alastair began to plant kisses down her neck. Castielle flushed, eyes stinging. Deanna seemed to soften. She pulled Alastair back. "Yes, yes—you're quite right," She shook her head. The Duke frowned, confused. "We should wait 'til opening night."
She pulled a face at Castielle, one that seemed to say, are you happy now? And waved the young writer off. Cassie nodded at her, pleased, and stepped out onto the balcony and the cold Parisian night air, to hide.
"Wait?" Alastair repeated, frowning.
"Yes," Deanna nodded, pushing him back and sitting up. "There's a power in you that scares me," She breathed deeply. "You should go."
"I just got here." Alastair glared.
"Yes, but we'll see each other every day during rehearsal." Deanna stood, pushing at the Duke again. "We—we must wait. Yes, we must wait until opening night. Get out."
She pushed the Duke out the room and shut the door, slumping against it.
Her breathing turned shallow, and Castielle crept back into the room, out of hiding.
"Do you—" She gasped, "Do you have any—any idea what would have happened if you were found—"
She gasped again, staggering over to her bed, but didn't quite manage to reach it. Castielle made her way over just in time; Deanna fainted and fell, and Cassie was only just able to catch her.
"Oh!" Castielle exclaimed. "Oh, my G—Deanna!" She began to shake the other girl, trying to wake her. Cassie's eyes darted around the room for a place to put Deanna. "Right, the bed," She shook her head, infuriated by her own slowness. "I'll put her on the bed." She looked down at Deanna. "I'll put you on the bed."
The writer dragged the courtesan to the bed and fell on top of her as she dropped her on it, exhausted. As bad luck would have it, this was the moment that Alastair chose to re-enter, just as Deanna stirred, coming to.
"I forgot my hat," Alastair explained distractedly, then upon seeing Cassie lying on top of Deanna, his face fell. "Foul play?" He frowned. Danger filled the room. Murder filled his voice.
"She—" Cassie stammered, trying to get up—almost impossible in her long, black dress.
"Oh, Duke," Deanna started, voice faint.
"It's a little bit funny," Alastair's voice was oddly dangerous as he stepped further into the room, "this feeling inside?"
"Beautifully spoken, Duke," Deanna replied airily, helping Cassie off her, then sitting up, herself. "Yes, let me introduce you. The writer." She gestured to Castielle.
Alastair was unconvinced.
"The writer?" He repeated, snarling his words out.
"Yes," Deanna confirmed. "We were rehearsing."
Alastair let out a horribly sarcastic, nasal laugh, eyes alight with death.
"You expect me to believe that scantily clad, in the arms of another man, in the middle of the night, inside an elephant in the Moulin Rouge, you were rehearsing?!"
In the first genuine stroke of luck of the night, the bohemians, who had been watching the whole scene from their hiding spot, entered the room just in time.
"How's the rehearsal going?" Gabrielle asked, waltzing in, in her usual confident, humorous air. "Shall we take it from the top, eh, my queen?" She asked, winking at Deanna, who hardly concealed her amused smirk and rolled her eyes.
"I hope the piano's in tune…" Aaron said nervously, sitting at the piano in Deanna's room, decorated with red silks and laces.
"Sorry," The Argentinean explained to the Duke, "we got held up."
"Can I offer you a drink?" Garth asked, holding up a greenish bottle.
"When I spoke those words to you before," Deanna started, walking slowly towards the Duke, "you—you filled me with such inspiration. Yes, I realised how much work we had to do, so called everyone for an emergency rehearsal."
"If you're rehearsing," Alastair snarled, walking uncomfortably close to Deanna, so that his chest was pressed threateningly to hers, "then where's Crowley?"
"Oh—" Deanna started, eyes flickering over to Castielle in panic. But Cassie had nothing to offer her by way of help, she was just as lost as the young courtesan. "Well—we didn't want to bother—"
Crowley peered into the room, having heard the commotion from inside and thought the worst.
"What the—" He frowned, then recovered himself. "—My dear Duke," He entered the room, "I'm most terribly sorry—"
Deanna nearly jumped out of her skin, rushing over to Crowley and away from the threatening figure of Alastair. "Crowley, you made it," She beamed, and Cassie knew it was with relief. "It's alright, the Duke knows all about the emergency rehearsal."
She gave Crowley a hard, meaningful look.
"Emergency rehearsal?" Crowley repeated, nonplussed.
"Mhmm," Deanna nodded, "to incorporate the Duke's artistic ideas. Hmm?"
She raised her eyebrows pointedly at Crowley.
"I'm sure Becky will be only too delighted—"
"Becky's left." Gabriel grinned.
"Becky's what?!"
"Crowley, the cat's out of the bag," Deanna flung her arms up into the air. "Yes, the Duke's already a big fan of our new writer's work. That's why he's so keen to invest." She gave him another meaningful look.
"Invest?" Crowley repeated. Money seemed to glint behind his eyes, and he grinned. "Invest!" He exclaimed. "Oh, well, yes, invest! You can hardly blame me for trying to hide, uh—" He frowned over to Castielle. She mouthed her name at him, whispering it hoarsely. "Young Castielle away." He smiled fakely over to Alastair again.
"I'm way ahead of you, Crowley," Alastair rolled his eyes. "Enough is—"
"My dear Duke, why don't you and I go to my office to peruse the paperwork?" Crowley suggested.
"What's the story?" Alastair asked coolly.
"The story?" Crowley repeated, mind drawing an obvious blank.
"Well, if I'm to invest, I'll need to know the story." The Duke deadpanned.
"Ah, yes." Crowley fumbled. "Well, the story's about—Gabrielle?" He looked desperately over to the little actress, who laughed nervously.
"Well, the story—the story's about—well, it's all about—"
"It's about love." Castielle said quickly. Alastair turned to face the writer, loathing scrawled across his features.
"Love?" He repeated, unamused.
"It's about love overcoming all obstacles." Castielle said, voice braver than she felt.
She looked over to Deanna, who looked back at her. Now, he knees felt weak for a whole new reason.
"And it's set in Switzerland!" Gabrielle exclaimed excitedly. Castielle cringed.
"Switzerland?" Alastair repeated, apparently unimpressed.
"Exotic Switzerland!" Crowley grinned, the look unconvincing. Alastair didn't seem to buy it. He rolled his eyes again.
Cassie caught sight of an elephant statue in the room, and got a sudden idea.
"India." She said. The group turned to look at her. "India!" She exclaimed. "It's set in India!" She looked over to Deanna. "And there's a courtesan. The most beautiful courtesan in all the world." Then she looked at the Duke, walking towards him as she spoke, all her fear quite forgotten. "But her kingdom's invaded by an evil maharajah!" Gabrielle gasped theatrically behind her. Deanna giggled. "Now, in order to save her kingdom," Castielle continued, ignoring her friends, "she has to seduce the evil maharajah. But on the night of the seduction, she mistakes a penniless—a penniless—" She spotted a sitar sat next to the piano, "—a penniless sitar player for the evil maharajah, and she falls in love with her." Cassie swallowed. "Him." She corrected. "Falls in love with him." She gave Deanna a meaningful look. Deanna's gaze had turned soft.
"The sitar player… wasn't trying to trick the courtesan, or anything," She gave Deanna an apologetic look before she turned and looked at the others, "...But he was dressed as a maharajah because he was appearing in a play."
The Argentinian picked up the sitar resting beside the piano.
"I will play the penniless, dancing sitar player." He declared. "He will sing like an angel, but dance like the devil."
Alastair still seemed unconvinced.
"And what happens next?" He asked.
"Well," Cassie took a steadying breath, "The penniless sitar player and the courtesan, they have to hide their love from the evil maharajah."
Aaron's nerves seemed to have calmed.
"The penniless sitar player's sitar is magical," He explained. "It can only speak the truth."
"And I—I will play the magical sitar." Gabrielle grinned, snatching the sitar off the Argentinian She plucked the strings of the sitar. "You are beautiful," She beamed at Deanna, playing the instrument. "You are ugly," She frowned at Crowley, before turning to the Duke, glaring, "And you are—"
Crowley slapped his hand over Gabrielle's mouth.
"And she gives the game away, I suppose?" Alastair asked, looking up at the rest of the group.
"Yes!" Everyone exclaimed.
"Tell him about the cancan." Crowley frowned at Cassie, who groaned internally. Of course Crowley wanted to make the play an opportunity to promote the sexuality of the Moulin Rouge.
"The—" She struggled for her words. "The tantric cancan—"
"It's an erotic spectacular scene that captures the thrusting, vibrant, violent, wild bohemian spirit that this whole production embodies, Duke." Crowley grinned at Alastair.
"What do you mean by that?" Alastair frowned.
"I mean that the show will be a magnificent, opulent, tremendous, stupendous, gargantuan, bedazzlement, a sensual ravishment. It will be…" Aaron played some notes on the piano as Crowley spoke. "Spectacular, Spectacular." He grinned.
Alastair sat on a chaise longue embroidered with gold and covered in silk.
"And why should I even consider investing?" He raised his eyebrows.
Crowley seemed to falter. Deanna caught him.
"It'll be the play to end all plays," She beamed. "Written by the most talented writer in all of Paris—no," She corrected herself, "in all of Europe," She beamed, gesturing to Castielle. Cassie flushed and looked down. "Anyone even associated with it will be considered a god, if not in the literary world, at least in the bohemian one—and it's growing, dear Duke, the world is caught up in the bohemian revolution and everyone who's anyone wants to be involved. We're offering you that opportunity—how could you turn it down?" As Deanna spoke, Alastair fixed her with a hungry look that made Castielle's skin crawl, and not just with jealousy. "Returns are fixed at—" She glanced at Crowley for his involvement.
"Eight—" Alastair looked unimpressed as Crowley spoke, "—no, ten percent." He corrected himself, smiling charmingly.
"You must agree that's excellent," Deanna nodded enthusiastically.
"And on top of all of that," Crowley said slowly, obviously noticing that the Duke was not yet won over, "on top of fame and recognition as a gentlemen invested in art and culture, on top of your fee, you—" He seemed a little lost again.
"You can be involved artistically!" Castielle exclaimed. Alastair looked up at her. She didn't know what it was she saw in those cold, still, grey eyes.
"The audience will stomp and cheer!" Gabrielle beamed. "How exciting!"
"It'll run for fifty years," Garth nodded sagely.
"It'll be a delight," Deanna seemed to be growing excited, she bounced on the balls of her feet and grinned with some kind of invulnerable happiness.
"Fifty years!" Gabrielle exclaimed. "Imagine, Duke!"
Alastair seemed to be swayed.
"Not only a sound investment," Crowley said slowly, "but a romantic one. Think of how people will view the English Duke who funded the Parisian show that changed the world—who funded the show that the world fell in love with…"
"Ten percent?" Alastair repeated.
"Ten percent." Crowley nodded.
"How do I know it'll be any good?"
Castielle stared at the Duke. That he had sat down to listen to their proposal said enough, anyway—he was interested in the play, even if he said he wasn't—but she sensed that this was a game she must play carefully—she wasn't in the world of writing about freedom, beauty, truth and love, anymore. This was business. This was the cold, unfeeling, beating heart of everything she hated, everything she had run away from in London, the life she had abandoned in favour of this earnest, raw one in Montmartre. She remembered everything her father had said and done when making business deals. She knew she had to impress the Duke.
Luckily, Gabrielle seemed to have the same idea.
"It'll feature elephants," She beamed, "Arabians, Indians—"
"And courtesans." Deanna positively glowed at the idea of a courtesan being the protagonist of a story.
"It'll embody everything the expanding world loves!" Gabrielle exclaimed. "It'll show the world in all its colours and beauty!"
"What else?" Alastair was stubborn. "What else would it feature?"
"Acrobats?" Aaron suggested. "Juggling bears? Beautiful girls?"
"Fire eaters!" The Argentinian grew excited. "Muscle men! Contortionists!"
"It sounds like a day at the circus." Alastair rolled his eyes.
"Intrigue," Castielle said quickly, "and danger!"
"And romance!" Both Deanna and Castielle said, together. Their gaze met a moment. Castielle's heart stopped beating. A smile flickered at Deanna's features.
"Electric lights," Gabrielle seemed to be getting carried away. "Machinery—and all that electricity—so exciting!" She said again.
"But fifty years?" Alastair raised his eyebrows. "You seemed to be overselling it. No offense."
Castielle sensed that he meant this very much offensively.
"You've heard Castielle's writing," Deanna said firmly, replying just as quickly as Castielle thought it possible to. "You must know that it's true."
Alastair seemed a little more persuaded.
"Think of the cheers," Gabrielle said softly. Her voice sounded almost wicked. "Think of the return on ten percent on a play that runs for fifty years."
"Yes, I suppose," Alastair conceded, "but what happens at the end?"
Everyone seemed at a loss. The bubbling enthusiasm that had entered the group during their pitch left as quickly as it had entered. All eyes turned to Castielle.
She looked at each of them, meeting Deanna's green, warm gaze, last. The girl seemed to be pleading with her to think of something. How could Castielle deny her?
"Um—" She started, uncertain. Her voice tore a little in her throat.
"The courtesan and sitar—man," She caught herself just in time, "are pulled apart… by an evil plan." Deanna beamed at Cassie as she spoke. Warmth flooded through the writer's system, as did courage—real, steady, immovable courage like Castielle had never known before. "But in the end, she hears his song…"
Deanna continued to gaze at Castielle. If the writer didn't know any better, she'd have said that the courtesan looked enchanted by her—but that couldn't be it, could it?
"And?" Alastair asked, clearly growing impatient. Castielle was more than slightly put off by the fact that he seemed determined to find a flaw in the group's so far immaculate lie, and call them out on it.
"And… And their love is just too strong," Castielle decided. Deanna looked at Cassie. Everything was quiet for a minute.
Alastair stared at Deanna.
"It's a little bit funny," He sang softly. The sound paired with the look he gave the courtesan made Cassie want to vomit. "This feeling inside…"
Gabrielle recovered the horrified silence that followed.
"Fifty years!" She exclaimed. "Just think!"
"The sitar player's secret song," Cassie continued taking a deep breath, "helps them flee from the evil one, and though the tyrant rants and rails—"
Alastair's eyes flicked over to her again. Her skin prickled. How could Deanna have even stood the thought of sleeping with the man? Hatred and sadism lay in his eyes, Castielle could see it—there was no love there, nothing. No kindness, no softness. Not the warm, endeared amusement that lay behind Gabrielle's sarcastic and mischievous exterior that Castielle could see in the actress's interactions with those around her, not the empathy and understanding that was so clear in Garth's eyes, not the patience or honesty with which Aaron seemed to interact with the world, not the passion and courage and love Castielle saw when she looked at Deanna. None of it.
"It's all to no avail." She finished, steadying herself.
"Rants and rails?" Deanna repeated, turning to Crowley. "Oh, Crowley," She grinned, "no one could play him like you could!"
"No one's going to." Crowley said matter-of-factly, an extremely subtle smile twitching at his lips. Gabrielle snorted out a laugh.
"What do you say, Alastair?" Deanna turned to the Duke, beaming a winning smile at him. He stared back at Deanna for what felt like an age, saying nothing. The he sat back, his eyes sweeping across the group.
Finally, he spoke.
"In the end, should someone die?"
Silence.
"So is that a yes?" Deanna asked, cautiously.
He was quiet again for a moment.
"Fifty years, you say?" He turned to Gabrielle, as though she was the authority on the matter. Naturally, the actress grinned at this, loving the idea.
"Fifty years." She repeated. "Come on, Duke."
Alastair smiled. It didn't put Castielle any more at ease.
"Generally," He said, after another pause, "I like it."
Gabrielle, Aaron and Garth began to cheer. Crowley seemed tempted to hug Alastair, but refrained enough to extend his arm and offer him a simple handshake. Deanna and Castielle glanced at eachother again. Deanna beamed.
"Thank you," She mouthed. Castielle's heart soared.