She stayed, of course. Zidler--oh dear, she meant Harold--seemed perfectly sweet about it, and she was sure she would be able to learn the dances quickly. If the others ever unsettled her again, she never let it show.

It was a hell of a distraction. I appointed myself her teacher before anyone could beat me to it and I think I learned the dances even better myself on account. By the time we were though, I could make my way through all of them perfectly without once taking my eyes off her. Seeing her dance was like watching music. She wore one of Athena's old skirts to start and was striking even in that. Tall and thin without being bony--willowy, Marie called her--she probably could have worn a bedspread and still looked graceful.

But she was never lofty about it. We'd had other girls come in, putting on airs and thinking they'd get by on their looks alone. Sonata and Siren had done away with the last one by putting something in her face powder that left her bright red for over a week. She hadn't stayed long after that. Marcille didn't put on airs. She was sweet in a quiet sort of way. Some thought her uppity at first and resented it, then figured it was just how she was and let her alone--Majesty was the last to break the habit of calling Marcille a high-minded brat; she stopped once I offered to save her on kohl for a while by blacking her eyes. Marcille never said so, of course, but I think she appreciated the intervention.

Afterward, she got along well enough with the others, but I liked to think she had a special affinity for me. It was easy enough to believe--even once she knew the dances and no longer needed me to teach her, she would seek me out. She was forever asking questions about the Moulin Rouge, which was one of the few subjects I was an authority on. I told her about the other performances and the bohemians and the fire tango that had made me well-known the year before, which she seemed to find fascinating. Carefully, I stretched out my stories as long as possible, and she told me her own stories in return.

She'd been kept before, as Liberty suspected, but other than that I never found out much as to her origins. Not that it mattered; present and future were what we lived for, the past was irrelevant. I asked once how old she was and she just lifted one shoulder and said she didn't know. That didn't sit well with me, but I had no other choice but to believe it. It seemed strange, though, even in a place like the Rouge--I knew my date of birth, and my parents hadn't exactly been fussy about recording that sort of thing. Almost all of us knew about when we'd been born, whether we'd heard the information from distant relatives, orphanage owners, or someplace else altogether. Not knowing at all didn't seem right, especially for someone as refined as Marcille appeared to be. But in a way, it added to the mystery of her, making it seem even more like she hadn't been born into this world at all, but that she had somehow slipped into it by mistake.

It was a ridiculous way of viewing her, but it might as well have been true. There was no possible way to figure out where she had really come from; we never managed to close in on any of the possibilities we'd pondered that time in Hyacinth's room. She took to life at the Moulin Rouge so easily I sometimes thought she must have worked in other halls, but she could be so innocent at times that the idea seemed impossible. It was hard to tell, sometimes, how much of that innocence was genuine and how much was pure manipulation. And she could be sly when she put her mind to it. We played tricks like schoolkids sometimes--stupid things like deliberately mistaking Winter for Summer, or replacing Scarlet's knives with breadsticks--and she managed to look so chaste every time I ended up catching all the blame.

Then there were times when we would visit the artists, who loved sketching her, and gulp wine until we were laughing like idiots for no reason. I woke up once with a blinding headache and her arms pinning one of my legs to the floor. We both caught it for being late that night, because I hadn't wanted to wake her.

For the most part, we made it in on time. Occasionally she had a late start, but it hardly mattered, as she took half the preparation time the rest of us did. She didn't need much makeup, unlike most of us who had scars, blemishes, and other marks of our glamorous lives to cover up. And there was still that innocence about her at the strangest times, sometimes to the point that she seemed even pure. She seldom went about in her undergarments backstage like the rest of us; instead, she dressed separately or modestly wore a robe, which was almost funny considering what and where we were. Except with me. I was the one who would help with her laces, examine her back for bruises, dab cream or oil where the corset chafed. I had to fight Marie for the job sometimes; she'd been taken with Marcille from the start and was forever straightening her dresses or twisting her crimson hair into elegant styles.

We got to talking about the future one night before work, and what kind of act she would have if she ever got her own. I'd stolen her away from Marie's withered claws and we were hiding behind the stairs, sharing a cigarette--I noticed she held it awkwardly, which made me wonder if she had smoked regularly before coming here. "I can't walk on my hands like you," she was admitting, "but I think I'm gifted enough in other areas."

"That so?" I said. "What've you got on me?"

"I'm good at knowing what people want and I can control them though it. All I need is a few seconds with someone to tell what they're like--after that, I can become any sort of person they want me to be." She giggled and dramatically lowered her voice to a mysterious purr. "I'm capable of things that would set your face aflame."

­"I haven't blushed since I was ten," I scoffed. "Try me."

"I've got to get dressed now, so there's not much time." She rose, and I was so intent on watching the way her gown swirled around her ankles that I was taken completely by surprise when she kissed my cheek in that way of hers that seemed so blameless. "I can elaborate later, if you're still curious." And she left before I could say anything. Under my makeup, I was blushing like the schoolchild I'd never been.

When I wandered into the hallway a few moments later, I did my best not to seem as stunned as I was feeling. The others guessed something was amiss, though, after watching me struggle for about fifteen minutes to comb my hair with a fingernail file. "Holy God," Gypsy said, laughing and plucking it out of my hand, "what'd Marcille do to you over there?"

"You're a mess," Creola agreed, tossing a brush at me, which I missed.

I muttered something idiotic about hay fever that just made the two of them look at each other with raised eyebrows. I was about to begin casting about for a better excuse, but I was saved when Arabia came running in with La Chinoise, crowing that they'd gotten to eat for free at a good restaurant because of a favor they'd done for one of the waiters. I swung around and fixed her with gaze forceful enough to shift everyone's attention away from the matter at hand.

"It's about time someone filled you both in on a few things," I snapped, staring at them until La Chinoise blinked. They were the two newest dancers, both younger than I was. Harold had brought them in together one afternoon and they had taken to the new life well. Arabia was a talker, but La Chinoise was a strange one. More exotic than even Creola, she was sultry and silent, with golden skin and a white streak in her hair that was too perfect to be the work of bleach. No one knew for sure if she even spoke French. Only Arabia seemed to know anything about her at all; I'd seen them sitting close together more than once, slim brown hands tangled together. ­

Arabia cocked an eyebrow. "And what might those be?"

"We're courtesans, dear," I said bluntly, "not two-penny whores. Maybe you haven't been here long enough to know this, but that means we don't fuck for food." For one satisfying second the looks on their faces were priceless.

"Oh, piss off," snapped La Chinoise, recovering. "How were we to know?" I was so taken aback at hearing her speak that I almost didn't reply.

"'Cos we're better than that. Here, you don't just give yourself over like a piece of meat; you make the men pay for it." I smirked. "Keep that in mind, won't you, else you'll end up getting a bad name."

La Chinoise was still grumbling--for a foreigner, she cursed excellently--and Arabia was glaring at me, but I was too distracted to care. As soon as Gypsy and Creola turned away, I went to find Marcille and find out just what she had meant by "elaborate."

When I caught her near the curtain, I kept my voice mocking but good-natured. "So. You know what kind of person I am, is that what you meant to say before? And now you think you have control over me 'cos you can act a certain way when you're with me?"

She seemed at a loss for both words and actions, a dozen different expressions flickering across her face as she searched for the right one. I barely heard her whisper, as the curtain rose and the crowd's bellowing filled my ears, "That wasn't acting."

I danced better than ever that night.