Disclaimer: I own none of this, blah de blah blah.

Author's Note: I don't write Toulouse's lisp because… well, you all know what he sounds like… ;)

Also, I'm sorry that this chapter's taken me so long to update. Blame life. Anyhow, I'm not neglecting this story – I've done a lot of work on it because it's my baby. ;D And this chapter's extra long to make up for the long wait. That's if there's anyone still reading this thing….

Chapter Three: The Show Must Go On

The doors of the Moulin Rouge were always closed in the morning. All signs of life were scattered away after the moon faded and the sun rose. Its inhabitants and performers slept, oblivious to the bustle of the day. Occasionally, sometime mid-afternoon, a few souls would emerge and wander through Montmartre, looking for fabric for costumes, food for performers and whatever else was needed. But never in the morning.

Technically however, Zidler was not breaking the unwritten rule that the Moulin Rouge should not be opened in the morning: he had simply left it open all night. Many of the performers, drunk and giggling, had returned at about three in the morning and held a half-hearted party. Most fell asleep on the floor and woke up the next morning wincing and rubbing sore limbs.

By ten o'clock the main dance hall of the Moulin Rouge was alive with people rushing hither and thither. The audience's chairs were finally being installed, and some of the dancers watched mutinously as the polished floorboards were covered. A few held a final dance recital but were continually pushed towards the stage and eventually gave up.

Christian stood in the middle of the chaos on the stage and reflected that walking Satine back to her dressing room the night before had perhaps not been the most brilliant idea he'd ever had. He had genuinely meant to do the honourable thing: escort her back to her room and make sure that she was comfortable and then head off home to get some much needed rest. The first part went all right, he mused to himself, and the second went quite well. It was just the getting back home that didn't quite work… He shook his head ruefully. Ah, well.

He glanced around the auditorium and wasn't very surprised that Satine wasn't there. He supposed she must be backstage practising her lines with the Argentinean. Suddenly, he was thrown out of his thoughts by Chocolat cuffing him across the head with his ankle.

"Sorry!" Chocolat called, dangling somewhat ungainly from a harness a few feet off the ground. He held out a hand to help Christian up but was hoisted up before Christian could grasp it. He stopped again, now hanging just below the curtain line. "Trevor!" he shouted up at the platform above the stage, "Not so hard!"

Christian could just make out a hand waving in the gloom of backstage and a call of "sorry!". Shaking his head, he got up and dusted himself off. He called up to Chocolat that he was quite all right and tried to get down from the stage. A troupe of Diamond Dogs whirled past him, practising a dance routine and thoroughly blocking off his escape route.

"Excuse me!" he called. "Could I just…just..."

He tried to squeeze past their shoulders, but they flicked their hair and winked at him. Perhaps at one time this would have made his knees go weak, but after working with them and knowing all about Nini's dreadful temper, Arabia's penchant for piercings and China Doll's love of face powder, their allure had somehow worn off. That and meeting Satine, of course. He couldn't imagine looking at another woman the way he looked at Satine.

"Look, please, I need to get down…If I could just get through here…"

The girls cackled at him and Araby stuck out her tongue. Losing all composure, Christian stuck his out back at her. This provoked even louder giggles, and Christian finally decided to do the rude thing and pushed them apart, hurrying down the steps, ignoring the amused glances of everyone round him.

"Alright everybody!" The voice of Harold Zidler broke through the solid wall of noise as he marched across the stage. The Diamond Dogs parted for him and looked pointedly at Christian. He rolled his eyes.

"Settle down, settle down…" Zidler motioned with his hands, and everybody stepped closer to the stage. "I'd like to do a quick run-through of the whole show – just to make sure everything's fine!" he added over the protests of many hung-over performers loitering in the wings. Zidler sent one of the stagehands to find Satine and the Argentinean, and after much glowering and muttering, the cast moved into first positions. Christian went to the side of the stage where he usually stood, battered script in hand. He nodded at Zidler, suddenly remembering the man's strange behaviour the night before. Still, there wasn't any time to ponder it, not now anyway.

"She is mine!" screeched Zidler as the Maharajah and Satie's harassed looking musicians shouted "We're not ready yet!". Christian sat down on the stage steps while the orchestra sorted themselves out and smiled at Satine who was walking onto the stage, talking to the Argentinean. She noticed and smiled back. She made a move to come towards him, but Toulouse suddenly appeared at Christian's side.

"Excuse me Christian, but-"

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return."

"Thank you."

Toulouse scurried back to his position, muttering furiously under his breath. Satine watched him go and giggled at Christian.

"Ready!" called Satie from the orchestra and Christian smiled regretfully as Satine turned away and got into her position as the Hindu Courtesan. He nodded and raised his hand in a signal to Zidler to start and then settled back to watch his play unfold.

* * * *

Emily stared up at the Eiffel Tower in awe, her face pressed up against the window of the carriage.

"Emily, dear, please don't do that to your face," said Victoria, leaning over and touching her daughter's arm. "It looks as though you're pulling faces at the passers-by."

"Sorry, mother," said Emily, tearing her gaze away from the view. "I've never seen anything like it!"

"No," agreed her mother. "It is wonderful… Don't you think so, Algernon?"

He grunted his reply, and Victoria and Emily exchanged weary looks. Algernon was an ordered, disciplined man and had always considered the bohemian movement and everything it stood for as a dangerous revolution, upsetting the delicate balance of life. The carriage was nowhere near Montmartre yet and his mood was already sour.

Algernon coughed and his wife and youngest daughter turned back to look at him.

"We'll go to the hotel and have a bite to eat," he said, his voice as clipped as military sergeant, "and then we'll meet Deuteronomy-"

"Oh, I didn't know Thomas was coming," remarked Victoria idly. Algernon glanced out of the window at the river glittering under the bridge they were travelling across.

"Oh yes. He's very much looking forward to seeing this play. Apparently all the…" he hesitated, searching for the polite word. "…People in Montmartre are extremely excited about it."

Emily smiled. "I'm excited as well," she said, pressing her face against the window again. "Ooh! Is that Montmartre?" She pointed towards a snowy white dome on the top of a hill.

"How should we know?" said Algernon gruffly. "We've been to Paris as many times as you have."

"Algernon," admonished Victoria gently and he sighed heavily. Victoria looked from her excited daughter and increasingly ill-tempered husband. Really, she thought, gazing out the window to Montmartre, it'll be wonderful to see Christian again… At least there will be someone else around who's calm...

* * * *

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return!" cried Christian gripping his hair with his hands. "How hard is that to remember, Toulouse?"

Toulouse shrugged, his white-painted face cracking into a grin. "Well, that's the problem with Absinthe. It does tend to make you forgetful…"

"But it's the most simple line in the play! How can you not remember it?"

"Christian, Christian," said Toulouse, as though Christian was missing a very important point. He patted the taller man's hip, unable to reach Christian's arms, which were still gripping his. "I cannot explain my vices… They are a part of who I am."

The Doctor handed Christian a glass of the green liquid and Christian knocked it back, spluttering slightly. The taste of Absinthe was still something he was trying to acquire. He sat down heavily on the stairs behind him, heedless of the performers around him.

He and the other Bohemians were by the main staircase backstage that led from the dressing rooms to the stage area. He dropped the glass and looked at the clock on the stairwell. An hour till the curtain went up.

"This is it," he said glumly, staring at the clock as if it was the key to his doom. "Everything I've worked on for the last few months… and the only person who knows his lines is the only person who keeps falling asleep on stage!" He drew his knees up and rested his head in his arms.

"Now, now," said the Argentinean, sitting next to him. "Satine knows all her lines as well."

"That's true," said Christian, brightening at the thought of Satine.

"Of course it is," said the Argentinean with a dramatic flourish of his hands. "Satine will be able to carry the play if anything happens." Christian nodded and then turned to Toulouse.

"What's your line?" he demanded.

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn," said Toulouse promptly, "is just to love and be loved in…" Toulouse hesitated, suddenly uncertain.

"Return," said Christian sadly, picking his glass up and holding it up to the Doctor for a refill.

"Return! See? I'm almost there…"

Christian shook his head. "If it goes well tonight," he muttered, getting up a little woozily, "it'll be a miracle…"

* * * *

Algernon looked around the small street disdainfully. They had arranged to meet Deuteronomy outside the theatre at seven thirty, and it was now quarter to and there was no sign of him. The streets outside La Théatre du Moulin Rouge were humming with excited people, who were thankfully well dressed and reasonably courteous. Algernon had been quite worried that he would be forced to rub shoulders with Bohemians, but everyone looked neat and orderly. Some of the ladies' dresses were a little… risqué, perhaps, but nothing more. It might even have been the fashion – didn't they always say that Paris was the cutting edge of fashion?

"Where is that man?" asked Algernon impatiently, looking at his pocket watch for the umpteenth time and then placing it back in his breast pocket. Emily was gazing around with an extremely interested look on her thin face, her fingers drumming the satin of her purse. "Don't do that," he snapped at her and she obediently stopped but continued to look around.

"Calm down, darling," said Victoria gently, patting her husbands arm soothingly. "Deuteronomy will be along any-"

"Vicky!" boomed a rather familiar voice across the crowd. Oh no, thought Algernon as they turned towards the source of the voice. Not him. Anybody but him…

A skinny man emerged from the crowd behind them, his frame completely unsuitable for the gruff, ear-splitting voice that emerged. He had rather thick lips that made him look like an ill fish, thought Algernon uncharitably. His skin was tanned and craggy as only that of well-travelled people could. Algernon had always had trouble believing that this rough, boisterous and quite frankly, strange man was the brother of demure Victoria. Although she certainly had her moments, he thought reflectively…

"Lolol," said Victoria, looking very surprised and a little embarrassed at the curious glances from the theatregoers. "What are you doing here? I thought that you were in Venice…"

"Venice? Good lord, no. All those flies and water? I turned back when I got four miles of the place… Emily!" Lolol swooped down on his niece, and she laughed as he kissed her on the cheek.

"How wonderful it is to see you, Uncle Lolol!" she said, smiling brightly at him.

"It's been far too long, far too long, my dear… But where is your older sister?"

"Joan could not, unfortunately, make it," began Algernon. "Percy had some important business come up and-"

"It is a wife's duty to be with her husband," recited Lolol, rolling his eyes alarmingly.

Algernon frowned. "And what, may I ask, are you doing here, Lolol?"

"Visiting friends of course!"

Algernon sighed. If the man had as many friends as he claimed to have, there was probably not a single person on the entire planet that had no connection to Lolol Warburton. The man in question laughed and nudged Algernon in the ribs jovially.

"Yes, I was visiting friends on the other side of town and one of them had a ticket for this. Anyway, at the last moment, he had to deal with some family business and he gave the ticket to me. I came along, completely unaware of what it was about when I found this!" He brandished a red and gold programme in front of them. "You can imagine my surprise when I saw this." He jabbed a finger at the gold lettering at the bottom of the front cover. "Written and directed by Christian Evans," Lolol cried, translating the French into English, "The Voice of the Children of the Revolution!" He beamed at them. "I didn't even know the boy was in Paris! I haven't seen him in years-"

"He's the voice of the what?" asked Algernon, having a sudden intuition that he wouldn't like this.

"The Children of the Revolution! The Bohemian Revolution, Algernon! He is their voice, Victoria, isn't that wonderful?"

"It's marvellous," said Victoria smiling indulgently at him and taking the programme.

"You must be very proud of your boy, Al," smiled Lolol and Algernon winced at the shortening of his name. "He's done so well out here…"

"I perhaps would have been prouder if he had left with our permission," Algernon replied dryly.

"Oh dear," said Lolol, replacing his broad smile with a look of intense concern. Algernon had the distinct impression that Lolol was mocking him, which only served to increase Algernon's bad mood.

"It was like that, was it?" Lolol grunted disapprovingly and shook his head. "Well, we were all young once."

"Christian is a man now, Lolol. He is 24 years old! He should have settled down by now… If you hadn't taken him off to Europe all those years ago, perhaps he would be married and living a comfortable-"

"Oh, pish! Christian wanted to come… It was good for a boy his age to get some experience of the world!"

"Not the type of world you showed him. The boy is a complete idealist-"

"Oh, let him have his fun… He doesn't want to turn out to be a stuffy old shirt like you!"

Algernon purpled and opened his mouth to reply.

"Lolol," said Victoria hurriedly, recognising the signs of her husband's anger. "Perhaps you, Emily and I should go in and get the seats while Algernon waits for Thomas Deuteronomy –"

"Great Scott, is that old bugger still alive? I thought he died years ago-"

Victoria hurriedly interrupted him. "-It's getting dreadfully busy and we want good seats…"

"Yes, come along, Uncle Lolol," said Emily, taking his elbow and turning him towards the entrance. "We do want good seats…" She led the man away and Algernon let out a low growl, before turning to Victoria.

"Really, the impudence of that man-"

"I know dear, I know," replied Victoria, adjusting his coat collar.

"Who does he think he is-"

"He's harmless, darling…" Algernon glared down at his wife.

"He's completely…" He searched for the word that would best describe his brother in-law and failed to find it. "We should never," he said finally, "have allowed him to take Christian when he did. The boy was an impressionable 19-year-old, for goodness' sake-"

"I know, dear…"

"Gave him all those god-forsaken ideas about love." Victoria frowned at this and started to protest but Algernon cut her off, lost in his reverie about her brother. "Two years they were gone! He was perfectly sensible when he left and look what your brother did to him!" Algernon brandished a hand to indicate the area they were standing in.

Victoria took a deep breath and forced herself to smile lightly at her husband.

"Don't worry, you don't have to talk to Lolol again tonight… You know what he's like. He'll see someone else he knows in there and go to see them…"

"I certainly hope so," huffed Algernon.

Victoria sighed and kissed him on the cheek. "Tickets, darling?" Algernon reached into his inside pocket and handed her three tickets. "I'll see you inside." She turned and hurried towards her daughter and brother, meandering their way to the entrance.

Algernon sighed. He looked down at the tickets he had left and thought of his son, the Voice of the Children of the Revolution.

"Well," he muttered to himself, "there's no doubt as to which side of the family he gets from…"

* * * *

The Bohemians were all still gathered around Christian, trying to persuade him that the play was marvellous ten minutes before it was due to start. They were getting rather tired of repeating the same things over and over again, and yet Christian appeared to be hearing none of it and became more fretful with every passing minute

"But what if they all hate it?" asked Christian anxiously, pacing back and forth. "What if they all leave half-way through?"

"Christian, the audience will love it…"

"But what if they don't? Oh, what were you thinking, letting me write this thing? I've only ever written poetry before…"

"We're the Children of the Revolution!" announced the Argentinean dramatically.

"Well, yes, I know that-" began Christian exasperatedly.

"-We can't be fooled!"

"You truly have talent, Christian," said Satie quietly, looking very odd indeed without his hat and scarf. "You made up the entire plot on the spot in front of the Duke-"

"Under a great deal of pressure," interrupted Toulouse.

"-Yes, and the Duke loved it. Doesn't that tell you anything?" Satie patted Christian's shoulder reassuringly.

"No," Christian replied dejectedly, "he said that 'generally, he liked it'. And what on earth does that mean? 'Generally, I like it…' " Christian trailed off, muttering abstractly to himself. His friends looked at each other, wanting to restore the writer's confidence.

"Look," said Toulouse finally, "why don't you… why don't you…" He cast around for something to comfort his friend.

"Go see Satine?" prompted The Doctor.

"Yes!" shouted the other bohemians.

"Satine?" asked Christian bewilderedly, as the four men grabbed him.

"Yes!" cried Toulouse, "go wish her luck."

"Get her to tell you how wonderful the play is-"

"-and what a wonderful writer you are."

"But what about-" began Christian.

"The Duke's out the front! Go on, Christian. Find your love!" cried the Argentinean loudly, causing the other performers on the stairs to glance at them and snigger loudly. The Bohemians pushed Christian towards the door that lead below the stage, where Satine would most likely be getting ready for her big entrance. Satie wrenched the door open and The Doctor and the Argentinean practically pushed Christian down the stairs. They shut the door with a slam and looked at each other.

"Have you ever," said Satie slowly, "known anyone to make such a fuss?"

The Argentinean shook his head. "These writers… they have such complexes!" He waved his hands dramatically in the air and stalked off, followed by the others, scurrying to keep up with his large strides.

* * * *

"Five minutes till show time!"

Satine took a deep breath as the stage manager's voice drifted down towards her. Show time. It was now or never. Her big break. She shivered slightly in the darkness. The pit underneath the stage was dark and slightly damp. Apart from the three stagehands that would work the mechanism to take her up to the stage, she was totally alone. Upstairs, everyone would be rushing about, wishing each other good luck, talking and working themselves up for the energy that 'Spectacular Spectacular' required. And here she was, solitary and silent. She sighed to herself. It was always like this – The Sparkling Diamond was not a role that demanded many friends.

"Are you ready, mademoiselle?" asked one of the stagehands.

"Oh!" said Satine, shaking herself slightly. "Yes, of course…" She allowed the man to help her to climb up onto the elaborate platform, when she heard the sound of someone clattering down the stairs at high speed and another of the stagehands cried out, "Oi! What are you doing down here?"

"I came to wish you all luck," replied a familiar voice. Satine whipped around so quickly that she nearly lost her balance, and the man beside her caught her elbow. Standing in the half-light was Christian. She could barely make out his face but she knew, from the shape of his body to the way he stood that it could only be him. She smiled broadly in the darkness and climbed back down to the ground. Christian hurried to her side and held out his hand to her. She took it, and he pulled her lightly off the platform.

"Oh Lord," muttered one of the stagehands. The others laughed.

"What?" asked Christian, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Go on then," smiled the tallest man, "give her a kiss."

"Wha-what do you mean?" asked Satine in shock.

"Oh come on, lads," said the one who had helped Satine up. "The lovers want their privacy." Shaking their heads, all three turned their backs on the couple and started talking very loudly amongst themselves. Satine opened her mouth to protest but then reflected that there probably wasn't much point. Christian laughed softly.

"We're not very good secret-keepers, are we, darling?" he asked rhetorically, shaking his head.

"No," agreed Satine, putting her arms around his neck. "We're not."

He smiled and kissed her gently, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist. She smiled against his mouth, knowing that she should be worried that they were such terrible secret-keepers. But somehow, with Christian around, nothing seemed half as important as he did… Nothing worried her when he kissed her. They were untouchable in their love.

"Good luck, darling," he whispered, pulling away just enough to see her face. "Not that you need it," he added quickly. "Because you're a great actress. In fact, luck doesn't really come into it, your talent will see you through-"

"Christian, be quiet," said Satine gently.

He nodded. "Yes, that would probably be a good idea…"

She took his hands in her own and then frowned. "You're shaking… are you nervous?"

"Of course I'm nervous," said Christian, his eyes suddenly wide and earnest. "I've never done anything like this before-"

"I seem to remember you saying that to me that first night in the Elephant," interrupted Satine smoothly, "and you had absolutely nothing to worry about then. And you don't tonight either." The stagehands behind them snorted, and Christian opened his mouth and then shut it again very quickly. Satine could have sworn that he was blushing

"Thank you," he said, fighting back a smile, glancing at the shaking shoulders of the stagehands.

"You're very talented, Christian. The play is wonderful and so are you. It'll all be fine."

"You know," said Christian thoughtfully, "that's exactly what Toulouse and the others said that you would say."

"Then it must be true," said Satine solemnly. Christian smiled widely at her and caressed her face with one hand.

"How wonderful life is," he whispered, and Satine smiled, reaching up and touching his hand with her own, "now you're in-"

"Five minutes, everyone!" shouted the stage manager.

The stagehands turned back around.

"Mademoiselle, we should get you ready now…"

"Yes, yes," said Satine, reluctant to tear herself away from Christian. He pressed his lips against hers hurriedly and smiled. "You'll be superb, darling."

"So will you," she replied. He helped her up onto the platform and then kissed her hurriedly on the cheek. One more lingering glance, and then he turned and ran back up the stairs. Satine sighed and unconsciously touched her cheek. The stagehands glanced at each other and shook their heads, simultaneously mocking the lovers and yet longing to feel whatever the writer and courtesan felt for each other

A life without love, if not terrible, was certainly lonely.

* * * *

"Well, it certainly is a full house," remarked Victoria conversationally, glancing round her. By the time she, Lolol and Emily had made it into the theatre, the front rows had already been taken: they'd been forced to take some seats towards the back, just past the halfway stage. Still, they had a clear view of the stage (providing of course, thought Emily with a sigh, that nobody with a large hat sat in front of them) and that was the main thing. Emily couldn't stop smiling. Her earliest memories of Christian were of him sitting by her bedside, reading bedtime stories out loud to her in a solemn voice, acting out the more interesting bits and making her laugh. She'd always known that in one form or the other, this day would come. The day where she would go into a bookshop or library or even a theatre and see his name written on the cover of a book. She ran her fingers over the programme cover and grinned, remembering the first time she'd ever seen him writing anything: she'd come into Christian's room in the middle of the night during a frightening storm. It had been late and he'd been sitting at a desk, furiously scribbling away by the light of the lamp next to him… she supposed that he must have been about thirteen.

"What are you doing?"

Christian jumped and whirled around, clutching the paper he was writing on to him. He caught sight of the little girl in her nightgown and smiled. "What are you doing up at this time of night,?" he asked, smoothing the paper out carefully.

"I was…" she began, as a flash of lightning illuminated the room. With a squeal, Emily dove at Christian and scrambled up onto his lap, hiding her face in his shirt. She felt rather than heard his laugh.

"Oh, scamp, scared of a little storm?" he teased. "I saw you yesterday, brave as anything, trying to climb the Pearsons' tree-"

"Their cat was stuck up it!" interjected Emily earnestly. "I had to rescue it…"

"Of course you did," he smiled. "And it was very brave."

"Daddy didn't think so."

"He was just scared that you'd fall and hurt yourself… He wasn't really cross with you…"

"Yes, he was."

Christian sighed and patted her head. She snuffled a little bit and then turned to look at what he'd been doing. "What's that?" she asked reaching for the piece of paper. Christian snatched it out of her outstretched fingertips hastily and stuffed it away in a drawer.

"It's nothing."

"What were you writing?"

"Nothing," he said a little snappily. Emily blinked, pouting slightly and Christian sighed absently, resting his head on top of hers. "Nothing of consequence anyway…" he murmured, more to himself than his little sister. There was a silence broken only by sound of rain hitting the window, softer than it had been a few minutes ago; the storm was losing its power.

"Hmm," said Emily, attempting the same tone her father used when talking to his children. She'd overheard her mother commenting to a neighbour that Christian had been in "a bit of a funny mood the last week or so". He was certainly a lot quieter, although he was still willing to join in with Emily's little games (although, to her disappointment, he still refused to play "Tea Party" with her dolls. Still, maybe one day he could be persuaded…). He was the same old funny Chrissie he'd always been… If a little more moody and thoughtful than usual.

"Christian?" she asked timidly.

"Emily?"

"Are you sad?"

He looked at her in surprise. "Whatever makes you think that I'm sad?"

"You're… 'in a bit of a funny mood'"

Christian nodded slowly. "I'm not sad, Em. I'm just… considering future career options."

"Future career…?"

"Hmm," he said, looking at the drawer he'd shoved the piece of paper in to. "I don't know if I'm… cut out to be what I want to be." Emily considered this for a moment.

"Why do you want to do something you're not cut out for?" she asked finally. Christian snorted.

"That's a good point, Em… A very good point…" He shook himself slightly and looked at his sister closely. "Are you sad?" he asked and Emily shook her head. "Not even scared of the storm?"

Emily looked scandalised. "I'm not scared of anything," she proclaimed. "I rescue cats. A little old storm can't scare me!"

Christian laughed and hoisted her off his lap and onto the floor. "Well then, I think it's time that all brave little scamps were in bed… Off you go. Don't wake up Joan."

"Or mummy and daddy."

"Or mummy and daddy," agreed Christian. Emily nodded and then flung her arms around his shoulders clumsily. He hugged her back and kissed her noisily on the cheek. "Night night, Em," he whispered.

"Night night, Chrissie," she whispered back and turning she tiptoed out of the room and down the corridor to her own.

After that, it seemed as though every time he'd had a moment to himself, he'd been busy writing. And Emily had known, just as surely as the sun would rise in the morning, that he would some day write something that other people would read or hear. And they would fall in love with the story and, by default, him.

"Tom!" boomed her uncle from next to her, jolting her out of her thoughts. She twisted around and saw a rather large man with a huge black beard engulfing his features walking towards them, smiling broadly. The man's face tugged on a memory; Emily was sure that she'd seen him before, but where from, she couldn't think… She, Victoria and Lolol moved out to the aisle to greet the man.

"Lolol!" he cried, reaching out to shake his hand. "It's been far, far too long… Victoria.." He turned and smiled at Victoria. She smiled graciously in return as he kissed her hand.

"Thomas, how lovely to see you again." Of course, thought Emily. Thomas Deuteronomy. I haven't seen him in years… Deuteronomy turned to Emily and looked at her blankly for a moment, before starting a little.

"Goodness gracious! It positively can't be little Emily! When I last saw you, you were this high," he held his hand up to his waist, "and now look at you… Quite the young lady! I knew that you'd 'come out', but-"

"Oh, be quiet you old fool," said Lolol fondly. "Stop embarrassing yourself in front of the ladies." Deuteronomy started to protest, but Lolol had grabbed a hold of his shoulder and pulled "him"? a little away from the two women. They started talking in loud voices. Emily started to smile but quickly bit it back as she saw her father stalk towards them, looking very ill tempered. He pushed a little rudely past Lolol and Deuteronomy (who didn't seem to notice, too busy with catching up with each other's news) and sat down heavily in a chair, about halfway down the row. Emily and Victoria exchanged a look and a sigh before sitting next to him, Victoria patting his arm and trying to calm him. Emily went back to staring at the programme.

A few minutes later, Deuteronomy and Lolol took their seats and soon after that, Emily heard a distant bell. She'd been to the theatre enough to recognise a three-minute bell when she heard it. She wondered what kind of chaos there must surely be back stage and, even more importantly, what her brother must be doing…

* * * *

Christian was headed for the right hand wing of the stage, knowing that a chair would be positioned there for him, when he heard the bell. He called out "good luck" to the people he passed and briefly saw Toulouse, before the little man was dragged away by the Argentinean, eager to get into position.

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return," shrieked Toulouse as he was pulled away.

"That's it!" shouted back Christian, as he edged onto the stage, crowded with performers dressed in some of the wildest costumes he had ever seen. He peeped around the side of the curtain at the audience. He blinked.

A full house. "Deep breath, Christian," he murmured to himself.

He pulled back and sat down on the chair and without fully realising he was doing it, he wrapped his grandfather's old grey scarf around his fingers and rested his chin on them. He wished that his grandfather were still alive to see this play… The old man had been the first person Christian had ever told about his desire to be a writer.

A stagehand slipped from the darkness behind Christian to the curtain rope. Christian smiled at him and the stagehand smiled back briefly before fixing his gaze on the opposite side of the stage. The stage manager held up his hand. There was a very heavy pause. Christian glanced at the performers frozen in their positions. He thought of Satine, underneath his feet, preparing to make her own entrance. He smiled, thinking of the way she fit so easily into his arms, and how natural it felt to be with her, as though he were never quite himself without her by his side. Just the thought of her relaxed his racing heart: she was an oasis of calm. Christian felt his smile grow larger. His love and his play… The culmination of everything he'd worked on and loved throughout his time in Paris.

He was jolted from his thoughts by the sound of Harold Zidler's voice.

"She is mine!"

The stage manager dropped his hand and the curtain was drawn back by the stagehands. Satie's musicians started playing the heavy beats of the first number, and the performers sprang to life, like a bright, well-oiled machine. Christian heard the delighted gasps and cries from the audience and sighed, relieved.

It's going to be all right… he thought. It will be spectacular…

And it truly seemed to be. The performers knew every line, every step they had rehearsed. The audience laughed and gasped in exactly the right places. They clapped and cheered, booing when the Maharajah tried to split the lovers asunder, sighing when the Penniless Sitar Player wrote their secret song.

Christian would have adored their responses, if only he had known of them.

For as well as everything went on stage, backstage was complete chaos. One of the dancers, one with quite a large part halfway through the play, hurt her ankle in the opening number and a replacement had to be found. Consequentially, Christian spent his time scurrying around, transferring parts, until everybody was so confused that they all went to find the stage manager to complain, crowding around him and pressing him into a corner.

"Who am I supposed to be now?" cried one dancer despairingly.

"This is ridiculous," said Nini, "we were all fine. Just cut that bit out!" There were choruses of agreement and the stage manager tried in vain to calm everyone down. Christian shouted over the tumultuous noise, but nobody seemed to hear him.

"This," he said to nobody in particular, "is silly." He picked up the nearest chair and stood on it, turning to face the crowd.

"Excuse me?" he started. Everyone ignored him. "Excuse me!" Still nobody noticed his cries. Christian took a deep breath.

"Quiet!" he shouted, more loudly than he had meant to. The cast turned to him in astonishment.

"Thank you," he said exasperatedly. "Now, if you're all quiet, we can sort this out. Madeline," he turned to the injured dancer. "Can you walk?" She nodded. "Right, go on and say your lines."

"But I'm supposed to pick her up-" began a male dancer.

"Pick up Nini. China, Araby, you can make do without her, can't you? Good," he said before the dancers could reply, fed up of months of having arguments with them all. He was surprised at the confidence in his voice, but glad that it was there nonetheless. "Dance around Mome Fromage or something…. The rest of you will just have to improvise, I'm afraid. Any other problems?" A chorus of voices clamoured to be heard. "One at a time, one at a time," he cried, waving his hands about. "Um… You," he said pointing at a turbaned man in front of him

"What about the next scene?" the man in question said, "Nini won't have time for her costume change."

"Who's not on in that scene? You?" Christian pointed at a woman with brown hair in front of him. She nodded. "Right. You can have Nini's costume ready and help her on with it. You should be able to do it quickly. You," he pointed to another performer. "What's your problem?"

"Mome Fromage ate my sandwich-"

"What does that have to do with anything?" interrupted Christian bewilderedly.

"I didn't eat it!" shouted Mome Fromage, setting off the others. Chaos may very well have ruled, had Toulouse not started banging the flat edge of a scimitar very loudly against a metal rail.

"Thank you," said Christian. "Look, does the sandwich really matter?"

"I'm hungry-"

"Oh, I'll get you another sandwich!" cried Christian, resisting the sudden urge he had to pull out his hair. "Anyone else? Urgent problems that need addressing right now?" A dancer in the front row lifted her hand timidly.

"I've-I've forgotten my line…"

"Who are you?" asked Christian, biting his lip.

"Third dancer from the right-"

"'They went that way'. Anything else?" he asked looking across the crowd. Some people shook their heads and the rest hurried away. Heaving a sigh of relief, Christian stepped off his chair and moved it back to its original position.

"That was wonderful, Christian!" beamed Toulouse, rushing up to him. "We never knew you had it in you!"

"Neither did I," replied Christian

"The way you just seized authority – you were completely in control – very admirable."

"I wouldn't say that-" began Christian, before stopping short, his hand clapping over his mouth. "Oh no."

"What?"

"I've done the one thing I promised myself I would never ever do," said Christian in a muffled voice, looking quite horrified.

"What?" asked Toulouse, frowning.

Christian looked down at his friend. "I've turned into my father."

* * * * *

As the curtain fell and the house lights rose for the interval, Lolol turned to his youngest niece. "Well," he began smiling broadly. "That was…"

"Spectaular spectacular!" laughed Emily, and Lolol let out a great guffaw.

"What a title…" He turned to Algernon. "What did you think of it, Algernon?"

Algernon hesitated, looking down at the programme in his hands. The wide smile on Lolol's face cracked slightly.

"Surely," he said with a cold bite to his voice, "you feel some glimmer of pride for your son's achievements now." Algernon looked at him darkly.

"Of course I'm proud of him," he snapped. "What I'm not proud of is the life he has chosen to live …" Lolol opened his mouth to reply, but Victoria hastily cut him off, leaning forward to speak to Deuteronomy.

"How are you enjoying it, Thomas?"

"Pardon? Oh, erm," said Deuteronomy, looking nervously from Algernon to Lolol. "Yes, it's very…good." There was a very pregnant pause.

"Shall we get some drinks?" asked Emily a little desperately.

"Excellent idea," cried Lolol, leaping to his feet. "Tom and I will get them…" He yanked up Deuteronomy by his lapels and dragged him off before he could protest. Algernon let out a heavy breath.

"Please, dear," said Victoria gently. "Don't argue with Lolol-"

"The man is completely impossible!" he blurted out, folding his arms crossly. Victoria sighed.

"This is Christian's big night," she said quietly. "Don't spoil it…" Algernon's expression softened slightly and he looked up towards the stage. "Try not to let Lolol get to you…. Not tonight." Algernon nodded brusquely. "Just try to enjoy yourself. Don't spoil this…" She paused, suddenly hesitant, unsure if she had gone too far. Algernon nodded again, looking from the stage to the programme in his hands.

"Very well…" He smiled at his wife and daughter, as they breathed sighs of relief. "I'll try to get on with that brother of yours-"

"Thank you, dear."

"- for Christian," continued Algernon and his chest seemed to swell slightly. He sat, looking almost proudly at the stage, even when Lolol and Deuteronomy slunk back into their seats and the curtain rose for the Second Act. "The writer of the family," he whispered: he rather liked the sound of that.

* * * *

Christian was looking for Satine. Had he been a more cynical person, then he possibly would have noticed that that was all he ever seemed to do: look for Satine. No matter where he was, or what he was doing, his eyes and ears would inevitably be pricked for a sight of her red hair or the lilt of her voice. He was a man obsessed and had he really considered this, it might well have worried him. Luckily, he was not a cynical person and didn't even consider why he was constantly looking for her. He just was.

And he'd managed to get it down to such an art that the rest of the world was dim and dark, his entire being concentrated on Satine. The stresses of the First Act (and indeed, the entire play) seemed superficial and unimportant. Besides, everything was going much more smoothly now: his help was no longer needed. He could afford to go on a Satine Hunt backstage. Perhaps, he thought with a faint smile, there might even be enough time between scenes for a stolen kiss or two…

It was perhaps because of this thought that he didn't realise that the Argentinean had fainted on the stairs whilst heading for his entrance for the final stage, until the man in question fell on him. All he knew was that suddenly something very large and heavy was on top of him. He shoved it off and rolled away. Toulouse came rushing down the stairs, looking very concerned.

"Christian!" he called. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," began Christian, turning to look at the Unconscious Argentinean. "What hap-" He broke off, eyes widening as his brain suddenly recognised the crumpled figure in front of him. "Toulouse," he croaked, "the final scene starts soon-"

"What's happened?" asked The Doctor, hurrying towards them, a sitar slung casually across his shoulders. He stopped at the sight of the Argentinean. "Oh dear."

"- And," continued Christian, standing up slowly, "our male lead is unconscious. I thought you said that he'd taken something?" he asked, looking hopefully at Toulouse, as though the little man could wave a magic wand and all would be well.

"He did," said Toulouse. There was a short silence. "It appears not to have worked."

"I can see that!" cried Christian. "Oh my god…" He knelt down and started tapping the Argentinean's cheeks hopefully.

"That won't work," said The Doctor helpfully. "This looks like one of his deep sleeps… He won't be up and about for a few hours at least."

"At least?" screeched Christian. "Oh my god, what are we going to do? We can't have a final scene without the Penniless Sitar Player! I knew I should have cast an understudy, but no, I listened to all of you," he made a wild gesture with his hands, apparently taking into account the entire theatre, " saying that he'd be alright, he won't fall asleep. Oh god, oh god. What am I-"

"It's simple," said Toulouse briskly, rushing past Christian and starting to pull on the Argentinean's white jacket. "You'll have to take his place."

"We'll have to cancel the rest of the play- I'll have to what?" Christian asked, breaking off mid-rant, staring at Toulouse in disbelief.

"Take his place," said The Doctor, helping Toulouse to pull off the white jacket.

"It's obvious," continued Toulouse, taking hold of Christian's wrists and thrusting them through the jacket sleeves. "You're the only one who knows all the Sitar Player's lines. And you're about the same build as him-" Toulouse was interrupted by a groups of dancers rushing past to take their own places on stage.

"But-but I can't act," stuttered Christian, as The Doctor pulled the Sitar Player's jacket over Christian's shoulders.

"Who said anything about acting?" he asked crisply, straightening the jacket collar. "I thought that this play was autobiographical. There's no acting involved, not for you or Satine!"

"But-" began Christian, before the two men herded him off. He thought furiously for another excuse.

"The audience will wonder what's going on!"

"They'll figure it out: Zidler will think of something, don't you worry."

"The cast will be confused!"

"They can improvise."

"I-uh, I can't – I'll be-um" Christian struggled helplessly for a reasonable excuse. "I get stage fright!" he shouted finally.

"Everyone does at first," said Toulouse soothingly. "But they soon get over their nerves."

"I won't!" cried Christian desperately, but his friends ignored him and carried him off, towards the stage.

* * *

Satine gasped and coughed, dimly hearing Marie's voice in the background: "Open your mouth, dearie, just a little bit more…" Something bitter and wonderfully cool eased down her throat and Satine gave one more cough, before resting her head in her hands. The coughing fit had come out of nowhere, as they always seemed to nowadays. She had no idea where Marie had found the medicine, or indeed what was in it, but as long as it worked, Satine didn't care. She shivered, feeling a tiny chill up her spine.

"Are you alright?" asked Marie, placing a gentle hand on Satine's shoulder. She looked extremely worried, but then again, why wouldn't she? The last thing this production needed was for the lead actress to be sick. It would be the last thing Christian needed… She allowed herself a small smile.

"Satine?"

"I'm fine, Marie," said Satine, looking up at the older woman and patting her hand. "I just need a moment…"

"Of course." Marie smiled, but it looked a little forced. It almost looked like she was smiling through tears… Satine frowned and was about to ask what was wrong, when Marie turned her back briskly.

"I'll just go get your head dress."

Satine watched thoughtfully as Marie bustled out of the room, and with a tiny shrug she turned back to the dresser and started to screw in her pearl earrings. I wonder if Christian will think I look pretty, she thought absently and then laughed at herself for thinking such a girlish thing. But it seemed that Christian had that effect on her. She'd often seen other girls giggle and almost walk on air because a man they liked smiled in their direction. She'd never thought that would happen to her: it could not happen to her… and then Christian had smiled at her and the next thing she knew, she was dancing with the stars.

Satine gazed critically at her reflection for a moment: she looked flushed and beads of sweat were still dotted about on her forehead. She carefully wiped away the sweat and picked up her make up brush and began to apply her make up again. He looked so worried about the play, she thought. It has to go well for him. It will go-. She gasped as a strange tightness clutched hold of her chest. She dropped the brush and put her hand on her chest, concentrating carefully on her breathing, which had suddenly become erratic. It was as if her lungs just stopped or forgot what they were supposed to do.

Don't panic, just don't panic… Breathe. In. Out. In. Out….

After a few moments, the sensation passed and Satine allowed her head to droop. She shut her eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted… It had been like this all night. One moment she felt fine, the next she was coughing and choking and tasting something at the back of her throat that she could not quite put her finger on… She'd already decided to go to the doctor, as soon as she found some time. This cough was getting a little ridiculous now. For the longest time, all she'd wanted was to be an actress, and now, just the thought of going on the stage made her feel a little queasy. The hot lights and loud noise… And she had to concentrate so hard on what she was doing…

Maybe this is a sign that you shouldn't be on the stage, said a nasty little voice at the back of her brain. She quickly squashed that thought. She was going to be an actress, and she was going to go on that stage again. Christian needed her to… She imagined the crushed look on his face if the play was failed. She knew how hard he'd worked on it; sometimes, she'd lain in his bed for almost two hours while he sat at the typewriter. Sometimes it was because he had some new piece of inspiration and he was eager to write it down before he forgot it, his fingers flying over the keys with such a speed that it seemed he was possessed. Other times, he would sit, head in one hand, one finger taping at the keys morosely as he struggled to finish what he needed for the next day. On those occasions (and it had only happened once or twice), she'd had to drag him to bed.

No, she would not let him down. The show must go on, no matter how terrible you felt. Satine sat up straight and then jumped as Marie opened the door with a loud click. Marie regarded her for a moment.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes, Marie," said Satine, forcing a smile. "Help me, I've got to be on stage soon…" The headdress was very beautiful but it was a heavy weight on her head. She had to carry herself very carefully when wearing it, lest it weigh down her movements. Satine hated it with a passion and she'd only worn it once before. She watched silently as Marie attached it carefully to her head. Satine blinked as Marie let out an audible sniff.

"Marie?" she asked, turning to look her in the eye, instead of through the mirror. "What's wrong?" Before Maria could reply, there was a loud scuffling noise from outside the door. The two women glanced at each other as a low murmur of voices resounded, and someone cried out loudly, "I won't!". Raising her eyebrow at Marie, Satine rushed to the door and went outside, closely followed by the older woman.

* * *

It seemed to Christian that the route they were taking to the stage was the longest possible, and yet they were still moving altogether too quickly for his liking. He'd been struggling so hard now, he was beginning to get a little stitch in his side.

"Come on, Christian!" wheedled Toulouse, now panting slightly. "You've got to do this!"

"You can't make me," said Christian stubbornly, and then more loudly, "I won't!" He'd barely noticed that they were now just outside Satine's dressing room. Before any more could be said, the door was flung open and the woman Christian had been searching for stepped outside, followed closely by Marie.

"What on earth is going on?" asked Satine, her eyebrow raised. She blinked when she saw the scene in front of her: The Doctor clutching Christian's shoulders, forcing him forward, Toulouse holding Christian's right hand and pulling at him. Christian himself was looking a little flushed and panicky. His expression softened when he saw Satine.

"The Argentinean fainted," Toulouse informed Satine. "Christian's going to have to take his place-"

"I'd really rather not," interjected Christian.

"Why ever not?" asked Marie, furrowing her eyebrows. "You know all the lines don't you?"

"Well, most of them-"

"That's more than anybody else does," Satine pointed out. She took his arm with her own and started to lead him off. "And it is an emergency… We don't want all our hard work to go to waste for the sake of a final scene, do we?"

"Um," said Christian, feeling a little dizzy as he was swept along by what seemed to be an ever-growing crowd. He couldn't go on the stage, he just couldn't. He was a writer, not an actor, and writers did not appear on the stage, they stayed in the wings, or even in the audience, watching their creation take wings and fly. He started to explain this to Satine, but she just leaned over and whispered in his ear.

"You're acting every single day, darling, as am I. There's no difference." She smiled brightly at him and Christian felt the knot in his stomach dissipate into the more familiar feeling he always got whenever Satine was near. He smiled back at her a little awkwardly. They had reached the little alcove behind the stage where the Courtesan and the Sitar Player made their entrance. "Of course," added Satine, "this is in front of an awful lot of people-"

"That's it, I can't do it," said Christian, trying to break away from Satine's now iron-like grip. "I can't, Satine, I can't-"

"Shh, Christian, shh!" she cried, catching hold of his waving hands and squeezing them. "You'll be wonderful, I know it-"

"That's easy for you to say!" he blurted back, wanting nothing more than to be out of that tiny little alcove (why was it so small? It was almost as if the walls were closing in on him…), and scurrying back to his safe little garret. "Satine," he whimpered, "I can't act. My mother tried to make me when I was ten and it was a complete disaster, I was awful-"

"But you won't be this time," she insisted. "You'll be fine, I'm right beside you, come what may!"

The flutter in Christian's heart was calmed slightly by those words, but before he had a chance to reply he heard Harold Zidler's voice resound throughout the theatre.

"Open the doors!"

Several things happened all at once: the doors were flung open, and he found himself staring straight into an extremely bright light. Someone behind him and Satine gave them a shove onto the stage, and he stumbled out of the alcove. The temporary blindness the light had awarded him faded to a few spots in his vision, and he found himself staring at an open-mouthed audience.

Oh dear, he thought numbly. The audience began to mutter to each other, looking curiously at Christian. He swallowed and looked at Zidler, who was staring at him and Satine, his eyes so wide they seemed to consume his entire face. Zidler turned back to the audience. Christian could feel his entire body shaking and was dimly aware that Satine was squeezing his hands reassuringly.

"Ha-ha-ha!" Zidler cried after an awkward silence. The audience stared at him. "I am not fooled!" he continued, edging towards them, conspiratorially. "Though he has shaved off his beard and adopts a clever disguise, my eyes do not lie! For it is he, the same Penniless Sitar Player-"

The audience let out a collective murmur of understanding and their befuddled gazes relaxed, their attention turning back to the lovers centre stage.

"-driven mad by jealousy," concluded Zidler, a little pointlessly. He turned back to Christian and Satine expectantly. Christian opened his mouth and then shut it again. He had no idea what was supposed to happen next. He couldn't even remember what happened in this scene; let alone what he was supposed to say. He licked his lips. Satine glanced nervously at him and, taking matters into her own hands, she flung herself down the few steps onto the main stage. She looked desperately up at Christian, her expression one of sadness and grief so potent he could almost taste it. Christian's breath caught in his throat: he'd never seen Satine look so anguished, not even the night before, when they'd had their first argument. For an instance, Christian felt completely bewildered: what on earth was she doing? Why was she looking so hurt, like he had injured her? And strangely enough, he felt a deep and stinging sense of pain in his own heart, and everything was confused. Was he really a Penniless Poet or Penniless Sitar Player? Had his Courtesan betrayed him to save him? He was frozen, trapped by a fear that he could not place: he only knew that he never wanted to see that look of pain on Satine ever again, but something was stopping him from comforting her.

Then, so quickly that he wasn't sure whether he'd imagined it or not, Satine raised her eyebrow and in that single movement, Christian felt a thousand words and actions flow through him like water and his fear was shoved to the back of his mind. As if of their own accord, Christian's right hand slipped into the jacket pocket and drew out the handful of notes that he had known would be there. Woodenly, he watched his own hand fling the notes at Satine's face. He heard a faint gasp from the audience, and the look on Satine's face was replaced by a small smile, before she ducked her head, apparently gazing uncomprehendingly at the money.

Christian took a deep breath. In his mind's eye, he saw the white pages of the script loom up, the black ink scrawling the words forever in his memory. "This woman is yours now," he said loudly, as clearly as if the script was in front of him. He looked at Zidler who, ever the professional, seemed to have barely been ruffled by this sudden change of casting. "I've paid my whore."

Another audible gasp rippled through the theatre. Christian looked back at Satine, trying to ignore the clamouring in his head (I'm doing it! I'm doing it!), which threatened to upset the delicate script he was reading. The fear he had felt moments before swam before him once again and he stumbled over his lines, rushing them out of his mouth in haste. "Th-thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love!"

Satine gave him another beseeching look, and he marvelled anew at what a great actress she was. He turned quickly, unsure and a little afraid of the panicky rhythm his heart seemed to be set on; he wasn't entirely certain whether it was nerves or the horrible fear, which thundered through his veins. However, he did know that he needed to get off that stage before his legs gave out (which seemed increasingly likely with every passing second).

As he descended the steps he was careful to avoid the curious gaze of the Duke, concentrating only on the play and what should happen next.

Harold's lines… "This Sitar Player doesn't love you… See, he flees the Kingdom!" (at this point an almost irresistible desire to whirl around and run back to Satine, shouting "I'll never leave you!" seized hold of Christian, but he fought it off). "And now my dear, it is time to raise your voice and make your wedding vows!" The creak of the doors. The audience let out appreciative noises at Chocolat's Hindu God. And then Toulouse falls through the ceiling, shouting the most important line in the play…

But instead there was an uncomfortable pause.

Christian's steps faltered. He suddenly remembered the trouble Toulouse had had with his lines. Oh my god, he thought, his feet still carrying him towards the theatre exit. He's forgotten. Or passed out drunk back stage. Or not in the right place yet. Oh god, oh hell, oh bloody fu- His eyes had been roaming aimlessly over the audience, not looking for anyone in particular, when he saw them. Five people whom he knew very well indeed… Two bright-eyed women smiling cheerfully at him, two men looking proud and rather happy, and one man smiling with… pride.

Christian stared uncomprehendingly at his family, open-mouthed.

* * * *

Emily couldn't remember the last time she'd had as much fun going to the theatre. She'd laughed at the antics of the Sitar Player's friends and at the Maharajah's ignorance of the grand affair that was going on right underneath his nose. She'd almost cried when the lovers first sang their song to each other and now, as the Courtesan had to betray the man she loved, she had a huge lump in her throat. She'd clapped so hard that her hands hurt and, although she was rooted to her seat and desperate to see the ending, part of her wanted to leap up from her seat, so she could find her brother and embrace him for writing such a wonderful play.

She was therefore surprised, but happy, when Christian had appeared on stage, dressed in the Sitar Player's jacket. Her entire family had uttered loud gasps and Deuteronomy muttered, "But I thought he hated actually being on the stage?".

He does, thought Emily. In fact, he looks petrified… She held her breath, wondering what on earth this was all about. Somehow, the Maharajah's proclamation that the Sitar Player was disguised and driven mad with jealousy just didn't seem right to her… But she'd get the full story later out of Christian.

She grinned and gave a small wave to her brother who was now standing in the aisle, his face moving through such a cornucopia of expressions that she had to bit back a laugh: first he looked shocked, then bewildered, pleased, and then a touch suspicious. Before she had a real chance to ponder why Christian was looking suspicious, there was a huge crash from the stage. She whipped her head back towards the stage and just caught something black and white swoop in from a high point of the stage: she recognised the little man as the Magical Sitar. He landed in an untidy heap, but quickly scrambled to his feet, shouting,

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return!"

The silence in the theatre was as thick as fog. Emily watched, almost breathless, to see what would happen. Slowly, a sweet voice filtered from the stage, where the Maharajah and the Courtesan were standing.

Never knew I could feel like this

Emily sighed softly as the Courtesan turned around slowly. She just loved romance…

Like I've never seen the sky before

It was strange, though. Emily had always thought that the Courtesan was beautiful but now, with tears shining in her eyes, a tiny smile gracing her face, she was… glowing.

Want to vanish inside your kiss Everyday I'm loving you more and more

The Courtesan was walking away from the Maharajah, who was watching helplessly. She came towards the end of the stage, looking almost ethereal in her white gown and diamonds. When I get married, decided Emily, I'm going to have a dress just like that one.

Listen to my heart Can you hear it sing? Come back to me, and forgive everything!

Emily realised that she was leaning forward, her hands wringing each other in her lap. The Courtesan took a gasping breath: the audience gasped with her, willing her to continue, completely enveloped in this magic. She looked up, towards the back of the theatre: Emily, who had completely forgotten about her brother, watched the actress on the stage as she allowed herself a small grin before whispering,

I love you

The audience sighed.

Until the end of time.

Emily started as a ringing tenor voice came from the aisle. She leaned forward and smiled delightedly as she saw Christian standing half turned towards the stage. His face was lit up with the same glow as the Courtesan's.

Come what may

He sang it so softly it was like a caress, and for the first time Emily saw the simple beauty in those words, the gentle promise. It seemed a far more incredible thing to promise someone than just to love them. It promised for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part.

Come what may

The Courtesan on stage smiled, titled her head to one side, her eyes flashing with the unshed tears. Christian should have played the Sitar Player from the start, thought Emily a little dazed with all this emotion. He's really acting the part extraordinarily well… Christian was now walking up towards the stage and (more importantly in Emily's opinion) the Courtesan, repeating his declaration over and over. He sang it so loudly that Emily saw a few of the ladies in the audience who he passed wince slightly. She wasn't at all surprised: she knew how loudly Christian could belt out a song if he wanted to. But this was different somehow… it seemed as though every part of his being, body and soul, was forcing those words out of him. Emily couldn't help but wonder if he would have a sore throat in the morning.

Christian was now up on the stage, slipping his arms easily around the Courtesan's waist. Emily heard her father shift and cough quietly at this display of open emotion, but Emily couldn't see the problem: they were only acting after all.

The two lovers were singing together, repeating over and over that they would love each other come what may, until their dying day, until the end of time (presumably, thought Emily, whichever came first). Emily tried to swallow past the lump in her throat, and then laughed at her own silliness; after all, it was only a play, and here she was, sobbing over it.

But it's not just any play, she thought, rising with the rest of the audience to applaud the end of the song. It's Christian's. It's his opus. She clapped as hard as she could, repressing the urge to shout and cheer as her uncle and Deuteronomy were doing. The noise was tumultuous, but neither Christian nor the Courtesan seemed to notice, their faces close together, both grinning madly. Emily could see Christian say something to the Courtesan, who laughed and said something back: Emily wished that she could hear what had been sad, and immediately stopped clapping, wanting the play to continue.

The rest of the audience did not seem to share her anxiety and for the next few moments Emily was completely uncertain as to what was happening on stage: both the Maharajah and the little Sitar shouted something and then there was an explosion, causing the audience to shriek, but they settled back down quickly. Emily leant over to Lolol and asked him in a loud whisper what was going on.

"I think," he whispered back, "that the Maharajah's trying to stop the Sitar Player and the Courtesan – yes, see, his guards are surrounding them…"

Emily whispered her thanks and sat back in her chair, smiling delightedly at the chaos on stage: it seemed that the entire cast was trying to sing a different piece. It should have sounded awful, but somehow the choruses and words mixed beautifully. Emily could just make out the Courtesan and Christian's voices, soaring above the others. They had been standing facing the audience, arms around each other's waists; but now they were facing each other, raised up on the cast's shoulders. Emily couldn't say how she knew, but she was certain that, once again, the stage, the audience, the entire hullabaloo of noise; they were oblivious to it. They only had eyes for each other.

Before the curtain had even fallen, Emily was on her feet, all sense of decorum forgotten as she clapped, stamped her feet and hollered as loudly as she could (she carefully ignored the disapproving look from her father and the amusement on her mother's face). Lolol leant over to speak to her father.

"What do you say we go back stage to speak to the boy?"

"Oh, can we do that?" squealed Emily in excitement.

"Don't see why not – we are family after all," replied Lolol, his eyes twinkling at her. "As long as it's all right with you of course," he added respectfully, glancing at Algernon.

Emily watched her father anxiously and smiled broadly as he nodded. She knew that Algernon would normally disapprove of such a show of enthusiasm, but she could tell by the way his hands were shaking slightly that he was as eager as any of them to see Christian again.

They edged their way out of the row of seats into the aisle, clapping as they went. Emily was practically running to get to the stage door and kept glancing over her shoulder, in case the curtain call happened. But it didn't. This struck Emily as a little odd – curtain calls didn't usually take this long, did they? – but she didn't ponder it for too long, because they were at the stage door. Algernon opened it, a trifle loudly, as if he was daring anyone to say that they shouldn't be sneaking back stage.

It was like stepping into a completely different world: not because of the ropes and hangings and abandoned sets and costumes that littered the flight of stairs in front of them. It was because of the silence.

The door banged shut behind Deuteronomy as he entered, and it was if the screaming audience out front no longer existed. There was only this thick oppressive air and the muffled sounds coming from above them. The smile faded from Emily's face: surely the atmosphere back stage should have been buoyant, even triumphant at the success of the play? Casting a worried look back at his family, Algernon started climbing the steps.

The stillness was shattered by a desperate, cracking voice. Emily prided herself on her knowledge of the French language, but she could not decipher the words that had been cried: she only knew, with a sudden lurch to her stomach that something dreadful had happened.

Another voice came, hushed but equally desperate. This time Emily understood.

"Hold the curtain! Fetch the doctor!"

"I'm a doctor," said Algernon, who had reached the top of the stairs. Emily saw several people turn around and look at him in surprise. Algernon appeared to be almost as surprised as they looked that he had spoken.

"Who are you?" asked one man, looking highly suspicious. Algernon looked coldly at him and drew himself up almost unconsciously. "I," he said imperiously, "am the writer's father."

All suspicion vanished from the man's face: indeed he seemed a little shocked at this announcement, but he did not have time to comment, for the Maharajah had appeared beside him, hissing, "Please! Be quick!". He turned and ran across the stage, Algernon at his heels. The rest of the family scrambled up on the stage and gaped at the scene before them.

The cast were standing at the back, apparently in their curtain call positions. Centre stage, Emily could just make out two solitary figures: a man and a woman. The man was cradling the woman in his arms, rocking her. It was he who had made the first strangled cry, that much was clear: his sobs could be heard clearly. It took a moment for Emily to recognise the woman's dress and the man's coat, and when she did, she suppressed a cry. It was Christian, clutching hold of the Courtesan as though he was drowning and she was the rock that was his saviour. In a daze, Emily ran forward, dimly hearing her mother and uncle close behind.

Algernon started when he saw Christian and stared down at his son in surprise: Christian appeared not to notice. Emily could hear his whispers now: "You'll be alright, you'll be alright."

"I'm cold," gasped the Courtesan, her hands trying to grasp at his shirt. Emily saw the stains of blood on his shoulder and the blood around the woman's lips at almost the same time. "I'm so cold….." Her voice was so different to the one Emily had just heard on the stage that she could scarcely believe it: the vision of a siren in white disappeared and revealed a shivering young woman, her pale face darkened by the cherry red around her mouth.

"Christian," said Algernon, finally recovering himself. Christian blinked up at his father incomprehensibly for a moment. "Christian, let me…"

Two men, one of whom Emily recognised as the original Sitar Player, ran forward and gently pulled Christian away from the woman: he allowed them to, but kept a fierce grip on her hands. A stagehand arrived at her father's elbow, handing him a bag, which Emily presumed was a medical bag. Algernon pulled out a stethoscope. "Take that thing off her," he ordered, pointing at the beautiful necklace shimmering on her chest. One of the men beside Christian quickly obeyed, and Algernon pressed the stethoscope to the woman's chest. He listened for a moment and then glanced sharply up at the Maharajah. "This sounds like-"

"Consumption," supplied the Maharajah (Emily had a vague recollection that he was in fact the owner of the Moulin Rouge: Someone Zidler), wearily. "She has consumption."

Christian's head snapped up to look at Zidler. "What?" he said quietly.

"How long have you known?" asked Algernon, rummaging in the bag and giving Christian a warning look.

Zidler avoided Christian's wide-eyed stare. "… Almost a month now."

"What?" hissed Christian again. The two men beside him immediately patted him on the shoulder and tried to calm him; but to no avail. "You knew for a month? And you did nothing?!"

"That's enough, Christian!" said Algernon sharply.

Christian ignored him. "Her blood," he said evenly, his angry gaze never wavering from Zidler's miserable form, "is on your hands, Harold."

Harold Zidler shut his eyes and turned away. Christian looked as though he would continue these accusations, but the woman stirred and whimpered out his name. He immediately turned back to her, dismissing the rest of the world.

"I'm here, darling, I'm here…I'll never leave you, Satine. Come what may" He repeated this over and over and the words seemed to soothe her, for she stopped whimpering.

Emily stared at her brother and slowly began to realise what was going on here. She barely had time to think about it when another ripple of voices began to stir around the stage door.

"The Duke is coming!"

It was if someone had uttered a magic word, for it seemed that the entire cast leapt into action: people scurried of the stage, a few beckoning Emily, Victoria, Lolol and Deuteronomy to do likewise, whilst others flocked towards the stage door; the two men who had tried to comfort Christian now tried to drag him off. He refused to budge, but, undeterred, they seized him under the arms and physically lifted him away from Satine. Christian let out a strangled noise and fought tooth and nails to get back to her. Emily saw the shadow of someone walking up the same steps she had ascended. She looked at Lolol and blinked at the look on his face. He was staring at Christian, his lips pursed tightly together. He seemed to be working something out in his own head. Emily followed his gaze to Christian, who was still struggling. Finally, the original Sitar Player seemed to lose his patience, and he slapped Christian lightly across the face.

Across the other side of the stage, there was murmur of angry voices: the performers were trying to prevent the Duke from entering the stage. Emily glanced at them and then back at her brother. The original Sitar Player was saying something to Christian, clutching the latter's chin in his right hand.

"Stop this," he whispered urgently. "You must hide it from him, Christian…You must! For her…He will destroy you both!"

A look of understanding flashed across Lolol's face, and he nodded slightly.

"Uncle," began Emily in a hushed whisper, "what does he-"

"Mademoiselle!" A man that Emily presumed to be the Duke broke free of the people trying to constrain him, rushed across the stage and stood before Algernon and Satine. "What is wrong with her?" he demanded in a shrill voice, which immediately set Emily's teeth on edge. She had never met a Duke before, but had always imagined them to be suave and sophisticated creatures: this Duke however, looked like a cross between a weasel and a pig. "Zidler?" Harold Zidler did not respond, his head still bowed and eyes still shut.

"Mademoiselle is ill," said Algernon, barely giving the Duke a glance. "Call a carriage," he added over the shoulder to the anxious cast. As a stagehand scurried off to procure the carriage, the Duke took a step closer, flushing horridly.

"Mademoiselle Satine is ill? What is wrong with her?"

"She has consumption. Stretcher please!"

"Consumption?" repeated the Duke, his piggy little eyes wide. He looked accusingly at the other people around him, who avoided his eyes. Christian let out a tiny moan, and the Duke's head whipped around towards him.

"Of course," he murmured after a moment, his eyes narrow and suspicious. "Our little writer… Been looking a bit peaky recently…" He said the last part loudly and Christian flinched slightly, although Emily was certain that he couldn't have the disease… Could he?

The Duke was prevented from making any more allegations by the stagehand returning, announcing that a carriage was ready and waiting. A stretcher had been brought, and Satine was placed upon it: she appeared to have finally passed out. The Duke hovered over her, but, Emily noticed, at what he considered to be a safe distance. As she was carried out Christian made another attempt to break free, but the two men holding him back had been joined by two others (one of whom was the tiny little man who played the Sitar), and they clung on to him tightly.

Finally, as the stretcher and its occupant passed out of the outer door to the carriage, a terrific burst of strength seemed to take hold of Christian, and he ripped himself free from their hands. He raced towards the exit, but Lolol intercepted him, grasping Christian's wrist tightly.

"Lolol, let me go," he said desperately. "I've got to-"

"You've got to stay away from her, Christian," said Lolol in a firm voice, his eyes full of pity.

"You. Don't. Understand," hissed Christian through gritted teeth, struggling to pull himself free from his uncle's iron-like grip. "I have to go to her-"

"You will endanger her life, Christian! You must let her be!"

"No–"

"You're thinking with your heart!" cried Lolol. "You need to think with your head now!"

"And who told me to follow my heart?" exclaimed Christian. He pulled himself free of Lolol's grasp and stared at him, quivering with anger. "You did! You always taught me that!"

"Christian." Christian stiffened and turned at the sound of his mother's voice. She was pale and even looked a little shaky; her eyes, however, looked resolutely and almost strictly at her son. "What is going on here?" Christian blinked and took a step backwards, as though he could somehow distance himself from what was happening around him and his own clamouring emotions.

"I don't know anymore," he said in a hoarse whisper, suddenly looking like a lost little boy. He put his head in his hands and whispered it again: "I just don't know…"

Lolol made a sympathetic cluck at the back of his throat and, stepping forward, he embraced his nephew. Christian did not remove his hands from his face. Emily and Victoria looked at each other in despair and wonder, still unsure as to what was happening. One moment they had been happy and everything seemed so full of joy and excitement at the prospect of seeing their prodigal son again. And now, instead of finding welcoming arms, there was only a man crying out in the darkness, holding a dying woman.

Nearby, Deuteronomy took off his hat and watched Lolol lead Christian and the other Evans out to another carriage. He did not know what he was showing respect for, nor what Christian appeared to be mourning for. But it seemed the only appropriate thing to do.

* * * * * *