May 4th.

Elena stared up at the red windmill of the Parisian cabaret, The Moulin Rouge. She needed work—the francs given to her by Isobel would only last so long. After speaking with a gentleman on a train regarding respectable employment, he suggested that she go to "Le Premier Palais des Femmes" in the Pigalle neighborhood. It wasn't until she walked into the establishment, did she realize the reason for the man's lecherous laugh as she had thanked him.

She stood half hypnotized and half horrified as women cavorted on stage in dazzlingly scandalous outfits that glittered in the candlelight. The colors of the ladies' dresses were garish, shimmering with multicolored beading. She watched as they tantalized the audience by removing gloves and slowly raising their dresses. Elena began to move backward and bumped into the chest of a large man.

"I'm sorry," She began to say.

She watched as his money scattered to the floor. He was kind yet occupied with the show behind Elena. She watched him gather his francs and walking deep into the belly of the cabaret. Her eyes followed him, watching the money in his sweaty palm. Her eyes flickered back up towards the dancers on stage. It was then that a ridiculous notion flittered into Elena's head. She gave a half laugh at the absurdity before giving way to a deep pause. Her hand slid into her pocket, her fingers gliding over her opium rock. She took a deep breath and stopped a girl to ask to speak to the owner of the establishment, Joseph Oller.

May 5th.

Isobel stood in the doorway of Chateau Talaud, her hip pressed into the frame.

She listened calmly as glasses were broken, beds were overturned and drawers were pulled off its hinges. She looked at her nails, bored. Her eyes drifted back up to the stoic face of Detective Logan Fell of the Sûreté as he wrote in his notepad.

"Double M," She interrupted, looking from his notes to his face. "Countess Isobel de la Flemming—Flemming has two Ms. You'll find my name, as well as the correct spelling, in the deed."

The detective grumbled in response and scratched out and rewrote her name.

Just then, Isobel turned around, turning her face towards the living room.

"You there," She called out suddenly to a detective coming down the stairs. "Please take my belongings out of your coat pocket."

Logan began to protest but stopped short when Isobel raised her hand to shush him. What he did not see was her eyes dilate and concentrate on the other detective as she commanded him.

"I'm sorry," the man said robotically as he reached into his breast pocket.

He placed a diamond necklace and a pair of ear bobs on table that was near to the bottom of the stairs.

Logan swore loudly before Isobel turned her face, pleasant, back to him.

"Anything else, monsieur?" Isobel batted her lashes.

Logan wagged his notepad at her.

"We'll be keeping an eye on you," He warned, walking back to his carriage.

Isobel stood quietly in the doorway, watching the carriage disappear into the horizon. When they were a speck of sand in her sight, she felt a presence behind her. She turned her face to the side and looked at Jeremy before looking ahead of her again.

"Are you still vexed with me?"

"Yes," Jeremy said plainly as he stared at the back of her head.

Isobel turned, her gaze was soft.

"Don't be…please?" She asked.

"One of these days, Is, you're going to push him too far…or push me too far."

Her arms went around his neck and she rested her cheek against his shoulder. Jeremy was as still as a stone, his arms lifeless at his sides.

"I don't mean to…I can't help it…" She said quietly.

"Yes you can," Jeremy said, slightly annoyed.

"Well, he's gone—isn't he? I told him where she was going. Doesn't that mean anything?"

"It means you're falling back while you devise another moronic plan."

Isobel looked up at Jeremy's face until he turned his gaze downward to her.

"No more plans. No. It means I'm tired, Jeremy. I deserve to be happy too, don't I?"

"Yes," He said dryly.

"Will you just kiss me?"

Jeremy's arm anchored around Isobel's tiny waist and pressed her further into him. He pulled her back into the mansion and kicked the door shut behind them. His gaze was intensely passionate.

"No," He said matter of factly. "You need to kiss me, Isobel. I'm through chasing you."

No other words were spoken. Isobel's cool hands slid alongside his face and her lips pressed upward and against Jeremy's mouth. She craved for his touch, for the dark beauty that his passionate embrace bore. He gave that to her quite generously.

Joseph Oller was a large, older gentleman. Whatever hair he lacked on his head, appeared to have gone into his beard which was wiry and full of grey. Her interview was quite brief. His appraisal was concise, asking her to twirl and pirouette—and strangely asked to see her calves. Elena had no difficulties as she was professionally trained in various kinds of dance—from the classical to the scandalous. Though, the Bulgarian court's idea of scandalous dancing looked like child's play in comparison to Moulin Rouge. Though he didn't express it, Monsieur Oller had reservations about the dark haired beauty. He couldn't imagine her cavorting on stage while removing clothing—but there was something about her that captivated him. And so he agreed to take her under his employment. And so for her first performance, he decided to put her in with a group of women on the stage in the back of Moulin Rouge where she would partake in ballets.

The back of Moulin Rouge was a more subdued affair than what went on between the walls. The back had a large open amphitheatre for entertainment—the yard was filled with tables and chairs. Quite often, this area was occupied by deliberately ignorant women and children. To the left of the stage was a gigantic plaster elephant. This elephant was notorious with the male occupants of the MR. After paying a fee, a gentleman would walk up a spiral staircase located in the front leg of the massive elephant. Once the person reached the belly, he would find a lovely seductress there to entertain him. Of course, no women, other than the dancer, were allowed inside of Un elephant. Instead the women watched ballets outside while the men watched a more scandalous kind of dance inside.

The idea of dancing inside the MR was unnerving to Elena. Though she had become comfortable with her nudity with Damon, she couldn't imagine being comfortable in such a state with drunken men. Though, if she was asked to do it, she imagined that she would. She had no choice. She needed the money. Bulgaria seemed so far away, like another life. Even farther, was her family in Italy. Her entire trip to Paris was fraught with nausea. Her anxiety was at a fever pitch and she felt weak and sick as a result. She knew she could tuck tail back to Bulgaria but for some reason, she couldn't bring herself to do it. When she thought of Matthew, she felt shame. Her marriage was a complete and utter failure. While she loved her children, she had bore them into a family where there was no love between mother and father. Her children were the fruit of obligation. Beyond that, the last night she had seen Matthew, she had been quite wanton. Just thinking of it brought an unwelcome scarlet hue to her face.

As Elena titled her head, studying her body in the mirror, a woman came behind her.

Her name was Jules and she was beautiful. She was blonde, blue eyed and towered over Elena at 5 feet and 9 inches. She was the lead performer of the Moulin Rouge. Her eyes slid up and down Elena's body—the appraisal of a dancer. Elena suddenly felt very insecure and managed a nervous smile. Jules face remained passive as she straightened Elena's tutu and disappeared into her private dressing room.

It was late afternoon when Elena took the outdoor stage. The chatter from the crowd was heavy and the attention was sparse. She found that the wives of the attendants to the inner rooms of Moulin Rouge didn't care for her pirouettes and her pliés. In fact, most of them looked bored if annoyed. In all honesty, she couldn't blame them. She knew what it was like to play dumb to a husband's indiscretions. And if what she had seen in the last day was any indication, there were many indiscretions being had behind the velvet curtains.

Elena stared at the sky as she danced, her mind floating towards the clouds. She thought of Damon, of Chateau Talaud. She thought of his eyes as she stared at the wide blue blanket that filled the sky. She missed the coolness of his hands, his kiss. She missed how her skin would warm his. Elena spun again and again, her heart hammering in her chest. She thought of her opium now, hidden inside wrapped cloth. She thought of the blackness as she spun, waving off her dizziness as she closed her eyes. She imagined the smoke—curling, dancing, and flitting in a Batterie like a dangerous ballerina. She sighed, almost moaned as she finished her dance, ending in attitude en pointe. Her eyes were shut tightly as she listened to her breathing. As she opened her eyes, she came to realize that there was no music playing. The dancers stood off to the side of the stage, whispering to one another as they watched her. How she had missed the end cue, Elena didn't know. But she was filled with embarrassment as she quickly left the stage. The applause was the loudest that anyone had ever heard in the ampitheatre and it didn't go unnnoticed. Elena caught the hard eyes of Jules when she made way back into the dressing room. Though she tried to avoid her gaze, Jules made her way to Elena as she stood at her vanity table. She was tall, intimidating.

"This is my show," Jules' tone was firm, her finger suddenly pressing into Elena's collarbone.

"I don't doubt that," Elena said tiredly as she gathered her things.

"Well then you'd do well to remember it." Jules warned.

Elena said nothing as she gathered her belongings and left the cabaret. She didn't have time for ballet drama. She was there for money, not fame. She hoped Jules wouldnt become a problem.

From the corner of the room had stood Monsieur Oller. Thought he hadn't seen Elena dance, word of her grace came to him almost as soon as her performance was over. His interest had increased tenfold as soon as he found the reason for the significant applause from outside his office. She was a diamond in the rough, that was for certain.

That night, as she laid in bed at a seedy hotel room in Pigalle, Elena twirled the opium rock in her hands. She hadn't attempted to smoke it yet. Instead she held it close and occasionally smelled its earthy scent. It was her security. When she left the hotel, away from her rock, she felt anxious and uneasy. She wondered thoughtfully if Paris had opium dens. The thought was exciting and frightening to her. She missed it. She missed the burn that would coat her throat. She missed the blinding emptiness. And yet, it terrified her. She had gone nearly a month without opium. While she had gone without opium for longer during dry months, this last separation was most difficult. There was no Sir John waiting in the wings to save her. She mocked herself for still seeing him as a savior. Damon had blackened her memory of John with his revelation. Perhaps Damon was right, perhaps John had raped her. But she knew, didn't she? She didn't stop him, did she? The line of verbal consent and nonverbal consent blurred to Elena and she wasn't quite sure what to feel. On one hand, she missed John—she missed the abandon that he represented. On the other hand, she didn't miss his touch or the discovery of marks on her skin when sober. He never had even attempted to approach her in an uncomely way when she wasn't under the influence. In fact, he was a perfect gentleman. Instead, he waited until she was a zombie. The idea was disgusting to her. She never asked…never wanted him. The idea was revolting and it literally turned her stomach. And yet she had let it go on, she had blocked it from her mind. She was so hungry for opium, it was all that mattered.

She missed Damon. She missed him far more than she thought possible. The idea filled her with a heavy sense of melancholy. She still hadn't analyzed the exact emotion that she felt for him. At this point, she didn't think she could handle it. The separation was all the agony she could handle. It felt like a mistake but she knew she had done the right thing.

Elena sighed, pulling the rock to her chest and watched as a cockroach walked across the wall. She closed her eyes and cried.

May 6th

It was well after midnight when Damon entered Paris.

He loathed Paris. He couldn't stand the crowds, the desperation that emitted from them. He had, on several occasions, been the victim of attempted pick pocketing when in the city. The would-be thief, although, soon found that he had chosen the wrong person to thieve. At the most, it made for a quick meal in a dark alley.

After settling his few belongings in the new and not-yet-open-to-the-public Hotel Ritz, Damon took to the streets. There was an excitement to the air. He could sense it. And after listening to various conversations that drifted from windows and courtyards, he came to discover that today would be the opening of Le Tour Eiffel. He looked west and above the hotels and lovely shops so that he could see the monstrosity that was created by Gustave Eiffel. He had been in Paris when the first beams had been put in place. Personally, he saw it as an eyesore and a desperate tourism gimmick. A cool breeze swept past Damon and for a brief moment, he froze. His senses nearly grasped ahold of something but it left just as quickly as it came. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and continued on.

There.

Damon stopped again. Her scent was in the air—it was minute but it was there. A renewed sense of energy suddenly invigorated Damon.

She was in Paris.

He was going to find her!