Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, the speculation is. Also, I'm aware that it was absolutely shameless of me to name this girl what I did, to say nothing of turning her into an emotional wreck. Thanks also to Petal, as I unknowingly stole the stage manager's name from her. He seems like such a Bernard, no?

"Look out well for the boys."

Columbine was pretty, with sleek taffy-colored hair and smooth skin the English or the bourgeoisie would have likened to cream. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that she would be able to "look out well for the boys" excellently if she utilized her assets properly.

No one was sure when or where they had picked it up. The neighborhood was in a frenzy for a short time, everyone wondering who the sickness would claim next. It was fortunate, in a macabre way, that it had taken only two victims before moving on. The malady had come and gone quickly, that was a blessing, anyway. Her parents hadn't been long in suffering; so much the better both for them and her brothers. The less they had to bear witness to, the better. Their mother had died without a sound during the night; Columbine had had the neighbors over as early as possible to arrange the burial. They had all been present when her father had opened his mouth for the last time and given Columbine his last wish. As everyone knew, last wishes, having been built up by legend and literature, were not to be ignored.

It wasn't as though she had planned on abandoning her brothers, but the option was obvious to all. Plenty of girls in her position had, in the past, simply run off on their own and left their younger siblings to live however they could. Theirs was a small town, provincial and plain, and too many suddenly emancipated youths had seized the opportunity to set out for themselves into the cities.

Columbine was aware that, depending on which neighbors were gossiping, she was seen as being either rational or suicidal. It was no secret that she planned to leave town as well--with her brothers.

She had spoken with them before about how there was better work in the cities, better chances for education. They were nine and twelve, old enough to understand. "You'd like to see Paris, wouldn't you?" she had asked them, sounding so much like their mother she had been torn between crying and grimacing. "You'll be able to be so much more there than you would here. It'll be plenty interesting."

But they had both agreed in the end. Or rather, Auguste had given his sullen shrug of approval, while Frédéric, the younger, had silently nodded. It was still enough.

Most neighbors warned against it. "The city will turn them wild," they claimed. "Better to stay here, let them grow up decent. And don't think you're safe either."

They left anyway, passing into Paris, where there was no need to worry about everyone knowing everything about everyone else. But it was also a disadvantage--and when Columbine reached into her pocket and found it empty, there was no one to turn to.

Whether she knew it or not, she was lucky. After hours of knocking on doors, she found a household that took her in more out of pity than anything. Luckier still, maid work also meant room and board, although making arrangements for her brothers proved more of a challenge. She swore the two boys would be in school and out of the way, and for a time it did work well.

But then Auguste complained it was ridiculous; he could already read and write, and there was nothing the school's lessons could teach that he hadn't already learned at home. Frédéric mutely stood by, finally speaking up to claim that 'Guste was right, and that Mama would never have made them go to school for no reason.

In irritation, Columbine had snapped back the obvious answer: "Well, Mama's not here anymore." Then, catching herself, she lamely amended, "Just go, Mama'd have wanted you to learn more."

In the argument that followed, Auguste had claimed he could work just as well as anyone and that none of them would ever get anywhere on Columbine's wages alone. Frédéric, after agreeing once more, had gone after his brother. When Columbine gave chase, the former had smashed a vase before running out the front door and the latter, in attempting to dive under a table, had upset the entire thing.

Her employer mercifully waited until the next day, when the brothers were in school, to inform Columbine of her fate. When the girl protested, she was pointedly reminded just how fortunate she was not to be charged for the table and vase as well. Columbine left crying, staggering outside until the house was out of sight, and then unthinkingly ducking through the first door she came to.

It turned out to be the door of a stout silver-headed man who had been eating breakfast before the interruption. He blinked at her with a mixture of indignation and perplexity. "Good morning."

She lifted her chin, scrubbed a callused hand across her face. "I need a job," she blurted absurdly. "Please, where do you work?"

Just as absurdly, he answered, eyebrows raised. "I help manage a nightclub a little ways off. Though I don't see why I should assist some hysterical young lady who barges into my house."

"I'll waitress," she said desperately, "or I'll sing, anything."

"Anything, eh?" he murmured in a tone of voice Columbine feared was indicative of some imminent lewd request. "Can you dance?" he asked, and she nearly fell over in relief and confusion.

"A bit," she said slowly, "but I'm a fast learner."

He leaned forward over his plate, suddenly businesslike. "Let's see, then."

The foyer was large enough to be turned into a stage. Columbine went to the center of it. Afterward, she couldn't have said what dance it was she'd done for him, or how well. All she remembered was how she finished with a flourish and stood motionless, not daring to even blink.

He scrutinized her for a minute before demanding, "Your age?"

"Twenty."

"Your name?"

"Columbine."

Unexpectedly, he chuckled. "I'd say you seem more Harlequin than Columbine. What happened, you grew tired of playing the ingénue?"

She smiled politely and hissed the next words between her teeth: "I am not an ingénue."

He was still smiling. "Then you'd be right at home here."

It took all of Columbine's reserve not to break into another dance then and there. "I've got little ones," she warned, composing herself.

"Children?"

"Brothers. Both," she added quickly, "old enough to work."

He mulled that over for an agonizingly long time. "I'll see if there's anything for them."

"It's like the circus," she said, smoothing Frédéric's hair with one shaking hand while desperately searching for some sign of assent in Auguste's sulky eyes. "Like the circus, only better. And we'd be paid for it. All right?"

Waiting for an answer, she stared at the walls of the tiny apartment she had rented with the last of her wages. When two quiet affirmations reached her ears, she locked herself in the other room and cried, shoving a fist in her mouth to keep them from hearing her sobs.

She had intended to break the news harshly, saying something along the lines of, "You wanted to work, didn't you? Well, here's your chance."

Prosaically, it was her father's words that had prevented her. If finding her brothers jobs in a nightclub wasn't looking out well for them, the least she could do was go about it decently. So once she had cleaned her face, she just as decently took them to said nightclub for a look at their future.

They were as dazzled as she was, and she could barely ignore a motherly urge to cover their eyes. Somehow, she retrained herself. If this was the workplace, adaptation was essential.

Bernard, the stage manager she had burst in on before, had conceded there might be a few opportunities for the boys. One of them involved assisting a leading performer, whom Columbine pointed out to Auguste.

"Do you see her, the redheaded lady on the trapeze?" she asked, although the answer was obvious. "That's who you would work for. She needs a boy like you to help her with her things--not someone who will steal or sneak looks in her dressing room, understand?"

Auguste tore his eyes away from their topic of conversation long enough to nod.

"She's already got one assistant, a boy like you, but the other was thrown out for selling some of her jewelry. Are you interested?"

Her brother looked more astonished than she had seen him for a long time. "Yes!" he exclaimed. Then, eyeing a pair of heavily rouged men dancing nearby: "As long as I don't have to wear anything on my face."

"Oh, it's just a bit around the eyes. It won't make you look foolish at all, and the other boy wears it as well. And you," she continued, addressing Frédéric before Auguste had a chance to reply, "you like clowns, don't you? How would you like to be one? There are lots of them here and with a little one like you they could do all sorts of tricks--throw you in the air so it feels like you're flying, maybe, and then catch you when you come back down. That would be fun, don't you think?"

It was, she told herself, only temporary. Only until they could afford better. And things would be better, soon. She swore it wouldn't be long, hoping her brothers couldn't tell her true thoughts. The other girls teased her for being uptight, but the way she saw it there was no other way to be.

Unanswered questions gnawed at her brain: what she had done to her brothers, whether they would grow up hating her for what she had led them into, whether they would ever be able to pull themselves any higher. Guilt got the better of her every now and then and she would spend hours crying in the dressing room. At worst, she contemplated swallowing poison. She had already bought some, kept it tucked under the vanity. But what would happen then?

She wondered. Every time she saw Frédéric, looking tiny and forlorn behind a gigantic painted-on smile, or Auguste, with his bizarre black-and-white striped shirt and kohl-smeared eyes, she wondered. More and more often she sat apart, doubting very much this was what her father had intended by "look out well for the boys."