A/N: For some reason chapitre six wasn't formatted. I'm praying that it
doesn't happen here. I apologize for the inconvenience of chapitre six, and
want you all to know that I tried REALLY hard to format it, but ff.net can
be a real cantankerous pigeon when it wants to.
br Her cheek was pushed far deep into the rich pile carpet of box five when she awoke. Her head cleared slowly, peeling back the blank white-ness from her brain, much like the fog rolled off the water in Copenhagen, slowly, but surely, until the sun could shine through. She missed the peaceful whiteness of moments before and longed to slide back into that deep rest. However, she heard someone yelling something, and footsteps, bounding up the stairs.
br"Charlotte! Charlotte! Charlotte!"
br Two conflicting thoughts simultaneously entered her mind. The first, a persistent, confused, aching "Who is Charlotte?" and a second, more calming and reassuring "I am Charlotte" a sign she was back in the Paris she knew. The Paris she had to fight so hard against. Strangely, she found that so ultimately refreshing and calming.
br "Charlotte!" The voice was closer now. She was sprawled in such a position she could not see who was calling her name, but a few more moments of fog-clearing gave her the answer.
br"Marc?" She asked weakly, her voice only just above a whisper.
br"Charlotte! My-my-" Marc then uttered a long string of English words. Charlotte had not the slightest idea what they meant, but, judging by their sound and his tone of voice, they were not polite.
brShe felt his arms lifting her up. 'Oy Vey!' she thought to herself, 'How many times am I going to lifted up and shlepped around like a sack of potatoes today?'
brBeing carried around had lost its novelty. Instead of feeling like a princess in a fairy tale as Charlotte had always imagined being rescued would be like, she instead felt like a helpless child.
brA carriage came quickly, and Marc placed Charlotte inside. The driver of the carriage looked frantically at Marc and asked, "Is she alright?"
brCharlotte was about to open her mouth and say she would be quite fine, thank you, but Marc answered before her, his words loud, harsh, and alien.
br"I don't know! Just hurry up, would you?"
brHis hands rushed over her face, fanning her, touching her forehead. Charlotte was screaming inside that she was fine, she would be alright, but she felt so exhausted she couldn't even move her mouth enough to form the words. Her jaw fell slack and she breathed slowly through her open mouth, like an old woman who had given up on life.
brMarc carried her, amazingly enough, up five flights of stairs to her apartment, which she shared with two other girls, both dancers. Marc, she now realised, was terribly strong.
brJammes, one of her roommates, rushed over. "Charlotte! Marc, what's wrong with her?"
br"I don't know! I just found her like this...in box five. She was just sprawled on the ground! There was a chair that had been tipped over. I think she had been placed in it, but it had fallen."
br"Here, place her on the bed."
brFlashes of memory jarred Charlotte. She remembered being dazed as she half-woke on the way to box five. It was dark. She saw the wings of the stage swim past her. Then a flash of white. Then she was sitting in a chair. She saw someone rush past her, and felt a breeze, then she and the chair were falling...falling....white
brShe opened her eyes. She was on her bed, in her room. She smelled something familiar. She would have recognized that smell anywhere. Chicken soup! The scent brought back a pang of homesickness so gut-wrenching she curled up for a few moments, as if it were a stomach cramp. She remembered her mother cooking it every Sabbath since she had been small. But then another thought struck her. Someone was actually COOKING something! Right next to their apartment was a café, so while there was food in their apartment (there was a market across the street), it was rarely cooked. Charlotte sat up in bed, and looked out the open door to see Marc standing over a pot on the stove.
br"You're awake! Good thing too, it's almost done!" Marc gave the pot one final stir, then grabbed a bowl from a shelf and ladled some into it. He picked up a spoon and walked into Charlotte's room. "Here." He thrust the warm bowl into her hands. He was about to pick up the spoon and feed her himself, but Charlotte decided she wasn't that helpless. She blew on her spoonful of soup before she tasted it. It was really quite good.
brThe warmth of the soup spread down through her and warmed her from the inside out. She felt herself wake up, and she managed to speak.
br"Thank you Marc."
br"You're welcome. But, Charlotte-"
br"Yes?"
br"Did he..er...DO anything to you?"
brCharlotte's eyes widened with surprise. "What?!"
br"Charlotte, you were nearly unconscious when I found you, Meg Giry said she you almost passed out, you were gone for hours, your collar is torn and your clothing, for reasons beyond what I could ever imagine, is wet."
brCharlotte thought for a moment. "I was nearly unconscious because of the..um..medicine I was given to keep me from being sick on the boat. My passing out with Meg Giry was because of the managers, my collar is torn..." She paused, struggling to think of something that would keep her secret safe. "Because I ripped it when I was having a nightmare because of what the managers gave me, and my clothing is wet because I fell in the water."
brShe didn't know why she lied about her clothing being wet. For some reason, she didn't want to tell Marc the truth. It wasn't because she would have been embarrassed, she just didn't want Marc to know about Erik, and how he had cleaned them for her. She wanted to keep him, safe in her memory. Pure.
brMarc looked at her for a long time before finally standing up to go. His face was grave, and Charlotte knew he didn't believe her. "I don't know, Charlotte. Paris isn't always the safest city. Men will do strange things when beautiful women, like you, are asleep." But the way he spat out the words "beautiful women" Charlotte knew it wasn't a compliment.
A/N: Be a dearie and read and review! I'm going on vacation for a week right after this chapter gets up, so I won't be able to respond to your love notes/flames. Sorry!
br Her cheek was pushed far deep into the rich pile carpet of box five when she awoke. Her head cleared slowly, peeling back the blank white-ness from her brain, much like the fog rolled off the water in Copenhagen, slowly, but surely, until the sun could shine through. She missed the peaceful whiteness of moments before and longed to slide back into that deep rest. However, she heard someone yelling something, and footsteps, bounding up the stairs.
br"Charlotte! Charlotte! Charlotte!"
br Two conflicting thoughts simultaneously entered her mind. The first, a persistent, confused, aching "Who is Charlotte?" and a second, more calming and reassuring "I am Charlotte" a sign she was back in the Paris she knew. The Paris she had to fight so hard against. Strangely, she found that so ultimately refreshing and calming.
br "Charlotte!" The voice was closer now. She was sprawled in such a position she could not see who was calling her name, but a few more moments of fog-clearing gave her the answer.
br"Marc?" She asked weakly, her voice only just above a whisper.
br"Charlotte! My-my-" Marc then uttered a long string of English words. Charlotte had not the slightest idea what they meant, but, judging by their sound and his tone of voice, they were not polite.
brShe felt his arms lifting her up. 'Oy Vey!' she thought to herself, 'How many times am I going to lifted up and shlepped around like a sack of potatoes today?'
brBeing carried around had lost its novelty. Instead of feeling like a princess in a fairy tale as Charlotte had always imagined being rescued would be like, she instead felt like a helpless child.
brA carriage came quickly, and Marc placed Charlotte inside. The driver of the carriage looked frantically at Marc and asked, "Is she alright?"
brCharlotte was about to open her mouth and say she would be quite fine, thank you, but Marc answered before her, his words loud, harsh, and alien.
br"I don't know! Just hurry up, would you?"
brHis hands rushed over her face, fanning her, touching her forehead. Charlotte was screaming inside that she was fine, she would be alright, but she felt so exhausted she couldn't even move her mouth enough to form the words. Her jaw fell slack and she breathed slowly through her open mouth, like an old woman who had given up on life.
brMarc carried her, amazingly enough, up five flights of stairs to her apartment, which she shared with two other girls, both dancers. Marc, she now realised, was terribly strong.
brJammes, one of her roommates, rushed over. "Charlotte! Marc, what's wrong with her?"
br"I don't know! I just found her like this...in box five. She was just sprawled on the ground! There was a chair that had been tipped over. I think she had been placed in it, but it had fallen."
br"Here, place her on the bed."
brFlashes of memory jarred Charlotte. She remembered being dazed as she half-woke on the way to box five. It was dark. She saw the wings of the stage swim past her. Then a flash of white. Then she was sitting in a chair. She saw someone rush past her, and felt a breeze, then she and the chair were falling...falling....white
brShe opened her eyes. She was on her bed, in her room. She smelled something familiar. She would have recognized that smell anywhere. Chicken soup! The scent brought back a pang of homesickness so gut-wrenching she curled up for a few moments, as if it were a stomach cramp. She remembered her mother cooking it every Sabbath since she had been small. But then another thought struck her. Someone was actually COOKING something! Right next to their apartment was a café, so while there was food in their apartment (there was a market across the street), it was rarely cooked. Charlotte sat up in bed, and looked out the open door to see Marc standing over a pot on the stove.
br"You're awake! Good thing too, it's almost done!" Marc gave the pot one final stir, then grabbed a bowl from a shelf and ladled some into it. He picked up a spoon and walked into Charlotte's room. "Here." He thrust the warm bowl into her hands. He was about to pick up the spoon and feed her himself, but Charlotte decided she wasn't that helpless. She blew on her spoonful of soup before she tasted it. It was really quite good.
brThe warmth of the soup spread down through her and warmed her from the inside out. She felt herself wake up, and she managed to speak.
br"Thank you Marc."
br"You're welcome. But, Charlotte-"
br"Yes?"
br"Did he..er...DO anything to you?"
brCharlotte's eyes widened with surprise. "What?!"
br"Charlotte, you were nearly unconscious when I found you, Meg Giry said she you almost passed out, you were gone for hours, your collar is torn and your clothing, for reasons beyond what I could ever imagine, is wet."
brCharlotte thought for a moment. "I was nearly unconscious because of the..um..medicine I was given to keep me from being sick on the boat. My passing out with Meg Giry was because of the managers, my collar is torn..." She paused, struggling to think of something that would keep her secret safe. "Because I ripped it when I was having a nightmare because of what the managers gave me, and my clothing is wet because I fell in the water."
brShe didn't know why she lied about her clothing being wet. For some reason, she didn't want to tell Marc the truth. It wasn't because she would have been embarrassed, she just didn't want Marc to know about Erik, and how he had cleaned them for her. She wanted to keep him, safe in her memory. Pure.
brMarc looked at her for a long time before finally standing up to go. His face was grave, and Charlotte knew he didn't believe her. "I don't know, Charlotte. Paris isn't always the safest city. Men will do strange things when beautiful women, like you, are asleep." But the way he spat out the words "beautiful women" Charlotte knew it wasn't a compliment.
A/N: Be a dearie and read and review! I'm going on vacation for a week right after this chapter gets up, so I won't be able to respond to your love notes/flames. Sorry!
