­Disclaimer: Nothing's mine, nor will it ever be.

Notes: More femmeslashy overtones; act accordingly.

For Rosemarie, who nitpicked chapter one with incredible diligence.

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When I went into the dressing room, everyone was talking about our fresh meat.

"Harold's fucking in love with her," snorted Majesty, stabbing a hairpin through Babydoll's curls. "Did you see how he was looking at her?"

"What d'you expect?" Babydoll countered. "She could bring in more than the rest of us combined, I'll bet. He gets her to stay and he's set for the next few years."

"Did you see her?" Summer hissed as I shouldered my way to the mirrors. "My God."

Creola snickered, picking up a pot of rouge. "Oh, Nini saw her all right."

I shot her a dirty look. "Yeah, she'd be great for business."

Arabia grimaced. "Don't get Liberty started. She's been doing calculations for the last ten minutes. Income and things, I guess."

"Too bad no one knows what they mean," muttered Summer.

"Idiot, they sound impressive enough; that's all that matters," Hyacinth broke in before Arabia could reply. She glanced at Bernard, who was scowling by the doors. "We've got to get out there," she said. "We'll talk tomorrow. Meet at my room."

I went straight to Hyacinth's once I was done for the night. Her room was closer than mine and I was dead tired. When I woke up later that afternoon, the others had already arrived. Liberty, Creola, Majesty, Babydoll, La Chinoise, Arabia, and the twins, Winter and Summer had crowded into the tiny apartment. Babydoll and Majesty were perched on the solitary chair; the others were seated on the floor.

"Finally up," Hyacinth said pointedly. She turned to the rest of the room. "We can sit on the bed now that Her Royal Highness is awake."

"Hell with you," I muttered, leaning against the headboard as the others relocated. Secretly, I was grateful they'd left me be. Sleep could be a rarity, so we let each other indulge ourselves whenever possible. "There was a god-awful old bastard last night and he—"

"Spare us, darling," Winter interrupted. "Here." She tossed me a chunk of bread. "Y'missed the first course."

"Damn." I caught it, sending a shower of crumbs onto the faded quilt. "And the entrée…?"

Liberty sagely lifted an eyebrow. "More bread."

"Fresh, even," Arabia added, exchanging a glance with La Chinoise. "We had some luck with the baker."

I stared at her, but didn't comment. "Have I missed anything else?"

"Not much. We've been wondering about Marcille. Liberty doesn't think she's a whore."

"That's because she isn't," Liberty answered instantly. "Not yet, anyway. You saw her the other day, all sweet and trusting. No common prostitute would have acted like that. She might have been kept once, but she's not some bacchanalian trollop."

"Jesus Christ," Majesty groaned. "No one's gonna know what you're talking about if we can't understand a damn thing you say. Quit the high talk b'fore you make yourself sick, not that it wouldn't serve you right."

Liberty tossed her head with mock haughtiness. "I'd rather be literate and ill than simply illiterate."

"Shut up, both of you," Hyacinth interrupted. "She can't be all that well-bred or she'd be too high and mighty to even think about finding work at the Moulin Rouge."

"I don't know," Babydoll cautioned. "Polka Dot thinks she's from a good family come on hard times."

Hyacinth uttered a grating giggle that ended in a cough. "She'd know, wouldn't she?"

"She could've come from one of the opium dens," Summer suggested naively.

"Doubt it," I said with my mouth full. "She was too alert. Looked too healthy."

"Nini knows all about that sort of thing," Majesty declared, as if she had the room to talk. I started to say so, but Creola interrupted me.

"Why don't you tell us what you think of her, Legs-in-the-Air?" she said slyly.

I don't give a damn where she came from; what matters is that she's here now.

Not about to make public what was on my mind, I shrugged and plucked a lie out of the air. "I think she's some factory worker who got sacked and came by looking for more interesting work." Never mind that her hands had been smooth and white, her face unmarred by poverty or fatigue.

A few of the others began debating that, drowning out any other comments Creola might have made, which was fine by me. We soon moved on to discuss other things--just as well--but Marcille was still on my mind when we all went back to the dancehall at dusk.

She was there again, sitting by to watch the performances. I picked her out immediately and grinned stupidly, not caring who saw. Easy to spot, she was in the same dress as before; her scarlet hair (it couldn't possibly be hennaed; no artificial means could produce that vibrant shade), which had been twisted back at the nape of her neck earlier, was in a loose plait that made me question her age. Before, I would have guessed she was hardly older than I was, if that. Now, she looked about sixteen. Full of contradictions, this one.

I dressed as quickly as I could so I would have a chance to say hello before the acts began. I stole glances outside whenever possible, as if Marcille was in danger of disappearing. When Liberty chided me for it, I didn't even sneer at her. Instead, I steered her over to the door. "Look!" I sounded like a kid on Christmas. "She's here, see?" I checked myself then and switched to a more casual tone. "This place'll be ten times better once Harold gets her in an act, don't y'think?" Maybe even an act with me.

Liberty just smirked and started her bookshop talk again, whipping out words longer than my arm. I did sneer then, and slipped outside before she could pull me back.

We weren't supposed to be seen before we started performing, but I'd never broken that rule before and I figured Harold would let it slide this once. At any rate, Marcille was sitting apart from the crowd, close enough to the dressing room doors that it hardly mattered. "Hey," I said, sauntering over and making certain she saw me in my full glory—the layered skirt I tossed just high enough to show off the fine stockings underneath, the way my thin hair stiffly curled around my face and made me look as close to pretty as I was likely to get.

At the same time, I was nervous, not a state I'm used to falling into. It was painfully clear that, even with her drab dress, plain hairstyle, and bare face, she was more beautiful than most of us dancers. It seemed ridiculous to even think someone as glorious as she was might be impressed by us. I wondered if maybe I should have worn less makeup, let her see me as I was instead of the mask I was capable of creating.

But my doubts disappeared when her face lit up first in surprise, then delight. "Nini!" She half-rose, blushed, and sat back down, fine-boned fingers clasping together in an ivory knot. So she was nervous, too; I fought back the urge to pry her delicate hands apart and take one of them in mine. Her voice was hushed when she spoke again, hardly more than a breath. "You look…amazing."

I leaned my gloved elbows on the table and grinned. "Thanks."

She was regarding me with awe, as if I was the one who looked like I belonged in a palace. "Is everything here like this? What I mean is, will I…?" At a loss for words, she dropped her head and laughed quietly.

"Here, you can be whatever you want," I drawled expansively, sounding like one of Harold's sales pitches.

Tentatively, she reached out and felt the fabric of my skirt; to my credit, I kept my poise. "Is it good here?" she asked in her soft voice. "Monsieur Zidler has been terribly kind and you seem entirely lovely, but the others…" Her ladylike words were tripping over each other, and she knew it. She frowned slightly. "When I was introduced to the rest of the dancers, that is, they looked as if they would rather die then work with me. I was wondering how much of it was an act."

That was it, then. We judged newcomers harshly, partly to guard our own positions, partly because it amused us to make them uncomfortable. I cursed the practice, never mind that I normally applied it with a vengeance. At least Marcille had been able to tell it wasn't completely genuine. She was smart, then, smarter than most. I made myself stop analyzing her and tried to answer. "The others? Hell with 'em; they're not near as rough as they'd have you think." No need to tell her just how vicious we could be, how, just two days ago, cherub-faced Babydoll had thrown her slight weight against one of the backstage doors in order to catch Tigress's arm in it. Something about Tigress not returning a necklace. "That is," I amended, struck by an urge to be as honest as possible, "they can be rough when y'start off, but once you prove yourself there's not much trouble And you'll be such a success so fast that they'll all adore you. God, we're already talking about how good you'll be."

"You think that's true?" She smiled, bright blue eyes shining in the dim light.

"Stay and find out for yourself," I said, giving her a mysterious smile before Liberty caught my eye and urgently jerked her head. I gave Marcille a final glance over my shoulder before darting back into the dressing room.