Notes: My apologies; this chapter took longer to get posted than I'd hoped. Summer stock work has been monopolizing my time. This one is rather long, again. I indulged myself a bit; Schoolgirl is one of my favorites, so I let her have as much of her say as she wanted. Apologies also if this seems too coincidental and cliché.

A dancehall was probably the last place on earth she thought she would ever find herself working in. She was small and nimble, it was true, but more interested in running through the streets than dancing the same steps night after night. The whores by the river sometimes put makeup on her when she visited them, but it only made her look like a raccoon, or at best a fox. In all honesty, she was hardly a human at all, she resembled so many animals—a crow, a weasel, a stray cat, and so on. There wasn't much room left for humanity.

It was what came of growing up on a steady diet of Parisian crime. From the start, it was all she had known, and she liked to boast that she had been thrown down to earth for picking the pearls off heaven's gates. She was all pasty skin and scabby knees, the epitome of a street rat, with a pointed face and rust-red hair she either messily braided or crammed under a cap. She called herself Lynette, because she liked the sound of it. By the time she was eight, the police knew her as la pie--the magpie--for her prowess at acquiring small, precious items.

Given that, the idea of her dancing for a living was highly improbable. There were plenty of young ne'er-do-wells who performed, singing on street corners for a few coins, but Lynette had found a more exciting niche for herself in the toughest, scruffiest groups of urchins. Both males and females called themselves errand boys and they formed the top tier of the juvenile underground. There were dozens of street gangs made up of other urchins, but it was the errand boys who oversaw them. They themselves answered to no one but the gangs they served-and those, as they were fond of bragging, were real gangs.

Lynette had started off independently, picking pockets and locks, and happened to be more decent at it than those twice her age. She was caught repeatedly, but managed to either escape or talk her way out of trouble every time. It was around then that the police gave her a nickname. It was what made her famous-not many errand boys ever received any names other than those they created for themselves, and being a noted criminal by age eight was nothing to disdain. Within days she was being requested to help out with other jobs—getting into small places, delivering messages, providing diversions. For the most part, she could go about freely without looking suspicious; more so than the majority of the errand boys, who were older than she was.

It was a successful bargain. Lynette was skilled but not particularly strong, and with her new connections no one would dare touch her. As she grew, her unsystematic jobs expanded to become a steady stream of jailbreaks, robberies, and transfers. Unlike most of her compatriots, she saw the benefits of negotiating with the street performers. If she promised to protect them from other errand boys, they would do anything to help her. So much the better for heightening her success rate.

It was raining hard, a fact Lynette had been cursing since dawn. Rain meant it would be more difficult than usual make deliveries, especially the unwieldy packages that were troublesome enough to move when the weather was fair. It also meant that nearly all of her usual helpers had packed up early and disappeared into the city for the night. Even her closest associate, a boy who played a battered flute a few blocks over and was always in the same spot without fail, was nowhere to be found. Lynette had spent the last hour dashing through maze after maze of muddy alleyways, only to meet with identical discouragements. She had resolved to try one more area before resigning herself to fetching another errand boy instead, even though it would mean parting with a higher percentage of the venture's yields.

The final stop, near the opium dens, did not disappoint her. Lynette exhaled loudly when she noticed a slight form dancing for an oblivious audience consisting of passerby who rushed through the rain without even glancing at her. It was easy to recognize it as Angeline, whose mouth was fouler than most errand boys' and who, for a small share of the profits, would distract customers so Lynette could slip things in and out of the dens. Squinting through the raindrops, Lynette could tell she was in the midst of the acrobatics that marked the end of her dance.

"Hey!"

The other girl tucked a lock of sodden black hair back into the ribbons that lent to her deceptively sweet appearance. "Hey."

Lynette darted across the street. "Lucky today at all?"

"Awful." The dark girl's face dropped into its usual expression of displeasure. "No one gives a damn about anything but staying dry. I stayed there all fucking day looking as innocent as God's own mother an' I still didn't even make as much as that sack-of-shit-slut on the other corner."

"Good." Lynette jerked her head at the den. "I've got some things stuffed under the floorboards in the back room. I've gotta get 'em to the river by tonight, but it's too much for me to carry myself, so I need you t'come with me."

Sneaking into the den was an effortless task, but the trip to the waterside, even with two pairs of scrawny arms dragging the goods instead of one, was slow going. Lynette vented her frustrations by constantly nagging Angeline to be faster or quieter, which annoyed Angeline into snapping, "Magpie, either fuck off or do it yourself."

Somehow, they managed to make it to the river, where Lynette was given her pay. She turned to give a few coins to Angeline, but the other girl was peering through the sheets of rain towards the street. "There's people there watching," she muttered.

The redhead sighed impatiently. "God's sake, Lini, quit joking. Here."

The moon emerged from behind a cloud long enough to illuminate the indignation in Angeline's eyes and the pistols winking in too many sets of hands that seemed to sprout directly out of the night. For a split second, there was dead silence. Then Angeline vehemently began, "I'm not—!" and the moon disappeared, leaving everything pitch black once again save the eerie glimmering of the water.

She had witnessed shootings before, plenty of times, but never been caught in them. Absurdly, the first thought that crossed her mind was that now she had a new story to tell her friends. Then all thoughts dissolved, melted into oblivion by the shouts and shots that truncated the other girl's sentence and seemed louder than anything Lynette had ever heard in her life. Tearing through the air, filling it with riotous racket so completely the cacophony was almost tangible, or at least tangible enough to keep her rooted to the spot instead of sprinting away like one of the many animals she was. For a few moments, it was a hart that seized control; standing still and uncomprehending in the chaos, eyes large and shining like bullets in the nothingness of the night. When a real bullet tore past her, perilously close, she jumped back into herself, rabbitlike, and bolted. She had scarcely begun when someone slammed into her and knocked her to the ground, gashing her forehead and sending another inconsequential thought flashing through her head.

God, I hope that didn't chip a tooth.

There was blood and rainwater running into her eyes, not that there was anything to see, and a gritty-metallic flavor in her mouth that marked where her jaw had clamped down on her lip. In regaining her feet, she heard a sound like the yowl of a dying cat and didn't realize until she felt the pain in her arm that it was coming from her.

She was never sure if the bullet came from the police or from her own gang; it was too dark to tell. Of course it was dark, something in the back of her mind reminded her; she'd seen to the streetlights herself. Somewhere close by, a child was sobbing and calling for its mother. Angeline, Lynette concluded hazily, would never do such a thing, so this must be her as well. A surprisingly grounded composed vestige of thought sensibly reminded Lynette that she had no mother, and the girl dissolved into sobs alone. Behind her, amongst the rumbling roars and screeches, she could hear Angeline cursing as fluently as the smugglers themselves, the oaths growing louder and louder as the dark-haired girl somehow located her and practically dragged her out of the fray and under a bridge.

She lost track of Angeline shortly after that night; and the battle scar she had gained from it made her more famous than ever.

Nothing so hazardous happened again until years later. She was too old by then to be considered an errand boy and had instead become mistress to one of the gang leaders. For a time, work was prosperous and they lived in a state approaching decency. But the brutality of street life never truly leaves a person, and it caught up to both of them when one of the underlings, having received what he saw as less than his just desserts of a recent venture, went to the police.

Lynette was sleeping when her lover threw open the door and released a half- enraged half-desperate string of curses and requests, all the while fumbling through their belongings and hurling handfuls of them into a hastily opened suitcase.

"Here!" He flung something at her and tore open a drawer so violently it fell from the bureau. "Put this on, quick."

It was a shredded school uniform. Barely awake enough to register what was happening, she wrinkled her nose and laughed. "I think I'm a little old t'pull this off."

"It don't matter, just so long's you don't look like yourself. At this point, we've got nothin' t'lose. C'mon!" Grasping the suitcase in one hand and her wrist in the other, he hurried them out the door the instant she had pulled it over her head.

The inevitable confrontation occurred almost immediately. The slighted smuggler had evidently managed to garner a handful of associates who shared his opinions, and the lot of them enthusiastically set to work at detaining their rivals. The suitcase was abandoned in favor of a pistol, but it was two against many. One, really; in the confusion of their brisk escape, Lynette had left unarmed. It was no bullet that marked her this time—that honor was reserved for her paramour—but a blade, spearing through the flimsy material of her uniform and into the prominent ribs beneath.

Ever a fighter, she doubled over in silent white-hot agony for only a second before taking flight. Pounding through the streets in her unlaced boots (they tripped her and she kicked them off at the mouth of another alley, hoping to mislead her pursuers), with one hand clasped against her abdomen, she ran until lack of blood and breath left her dazed and dizzy. In trying to run while looking over her shoulder, she practically fell, but it was worth it when the glance revealed the street behind her was empty. With her free hand, Lynette clawed at the first doorknob she came to and stumbled inside.

It was a back door to one of the bordellos, a fact made clear by the silk- and-silver-bedecked women who shrieked and leaped backwards upon her sudden entrance. A safe enough place, Lynette mentally decided, not that she would be able to go far if it wasn't. "They're gonna kill me," she muttered, and collapsed.

When she came to days later, it was in an unfamiliar bed and a murky figure, also unfamiliar, was sitting beside her. Lynette, groggy and bewildered, promptly swung her fist at it. The blow fell short as pain ripped through her ribs; she dropped back against her pillow with a yelp.

"Careful," a male voice warned. "You'll heal slower if you open it again." Then it muttered, apparently to itself, "Better go and tell Harold the schoolgirl's awake."

"I'm not one," Lynette said petulantly.

He chuckled and she bristled. "You looked like one when you came in here."

"Well, I'm not. And who're you?" she demanded, as imperiously as she was able. "Who's Harold? Where's this place at and how long've I been here?"

"You've been four days at the Moulin Rouge," the voice intoned, amused. "Harold Zidler owns it, but I'm the one who's been keeping watch over you since you fell through the door."

"That was decent of you," she admitted, only half mocking. "And you're...?"

He rose, and there was just enough light for her to make out a grizzled, bespectacled face that looked like an amiable trout. "I'm the Doctor."

"I figured that much," she began, but he had already walked out the door.

When he returned, it was with a jovial ringmaster of a man whom she supposed was Harold. A few of the dancers curiously trailed behind them. In spite of her abrasive manner, Harold seemed taken with her, going so far as to suggest she stay and work for him.

Shaking her head, Lynette declined as politely as she knew how. "Listen, thanks for keeping me and all, but this is a dancehall and I don't dance. There might be nothing for me anywhere else, but there's nothing here either and I've got a better chance of pulling myself up out there than I do if I stay."

"The hell you do." The words came from a sharp-faced dancer with black hair and pale blue eyes.

Lynette bared her teeth, red hair falling foxlike around her face. "What the fuck d'you know? I've been out there all my life. I'm the magpie; ever hear of me?"

"Oh, are you? Got the battle scar from the river and everything? While I'm at it, d'you have my apron?"

The redhead froze.

The dancer's red mouth parted in a grin. "C'mon, I was there the night you got it. Or d'you errand boys not remember the waysides like me?"

Lynette blinked, recalled the night, years ago. Bleeding from one arm, biting her own fingers to keep from screaming as a girl with an intent face tied her apron around the wound; the same girl spitting on her forehead and dabbing at the blood, raking Lynette's hair back with a makeshift comb consisting of one spidery hand, carefully redoing the loosened braid. "Lini?

"Not quite, but close enough." The dark girl left, laughing, and Lynette wildly wondered if she was dreaming.

She stayed after all, agreeing to learn their dances once she was well enough and. They had another uniform made for her, as a joke, and she laughed and wore it as Angeline...Lini...Nini taught them to her. It was strange being reunited with her, stranger still (and slightly embarrassing) to be working under her—no longer ragged ribbons and opium smoke, the former street performer had risen farther than either of them had thought possible. Lynette learned quickly, to the satisfaction of both herself and Zidler, who laughed and said knowingly that he had known she had spunk.

But through it all, a question nagged at her, had been nagging at her ever since her recovery. She finally asked it after one of their lessons. "Why'd you want me to stay?"

Nini gave her a sharp smile. "Misery loves company."

All told, however, it was less miserable than she expected. There was, as always, a wildness about her, but she was more graceful than anyone, herself included, had anticipated. But even then it remained apparent that no amount of cosmetics could make her pretty. The too-wide smile, the snapping gray eyes that saw everything, the long red braids pinned into loops; she was a matchstick mannequin held together with makeup and gall, none too pretty, but open and entertaining enough to gain popularity. The name they gave her was also surprisingly appropriate, considering she had never set foot in a school. Cackling like a crow, she would narrow her eyes conspiringly and gossip like a girl, scrawny arms tracing the air, legs thrashing under the short pleated skirt. It fit her perfectly.

They sent someone after her only once, when they uncovered her whereabouts. He entered through the same door she had staggered through not so long ago and came towards her as she was getting ready for a show. "Not a word," he hissed, and Lynette sniffed back a snicker and kicked him in the face.

He tried again after she had camouflaged herself on the kaleidoscopic dance floor. She was sitting off to the side during Babydoll's act when she caught sight of him. In a moment of foolishness, Lynette sprang up, executed a graceful little twirl, and spat on him before ducking back behind the curtains. She got a pummeling for that and Babydoll's performance was abruptly cut short. Chocolat, who had the uncanny ability to be everywhere at once without anyone noticing, was the one who put a stop to the beating.

"I don't owe you a damn thing," she sneered as the perpetrator was taken away. "I'm not some brat who has to steal for a living anymore the way you do. Deal with it. I'm part of the Rouge now and if you want my time you'll have to pay for it."

They never came for her again, though the single episode left her with a bruised face and a twisted wrist. She slept in the dancehall that night, too weary to go home, and several of the other dancers stayed with her. Harold, before leaving, patted her on the clean side of her face and had more blankets brought over. They spent the night stripped to their shifts and nesting like birds into the extra quilts, passing the time by swapping stories and hairstyles.

Odd that a roomful of courtesans (not whores, they were quick to inform her) should feel so comfortable. Petite Princesse was telling some Bavarian folktale and Spanish, transfixed out of her usual aloofness, had dropped an awkward blotch of henna on Historic's brassy head. Mome Fromage had fallen asleep and Nini was stealing chocolates from the box beside her. Babydoll had curled up like her namesake on Garden Girl's lap as the latter twisted and tied the blonde's hair with rags. Juno muttered that she felt like she was back at boarding school, where girls would sneak into each other's rooms to read romances and eat sweets. Travesty made some horrible pun about schoolgirls and Nini chucked a chocolate at her.

Odd that a dancehall should seem like heaven after so many years on the streets. No running, no stealing, no living each day on a few coins and the promise of another night-swathed client who could just as well be hiding a knife as a purse. Lynette reconsidered the last thought, decided courtesans and thieves were quite similar on that point, decided she didn't particularly care. At least a courtesan was a person. Beneath her bruises, the magpie giggled to herself and fell asleep.