Author's Note: Thanks to all my reviewers! In reply to notesinred's review, you have a very valid point. I really wanted to use La Sorelli, but I disagreed with making her almost villain like in the story (in my plot plans, sleeping around made her seem really horrible), so this story is in the years leading up to the basic plot of all the stories, so you can see how she became the way she is. And there are going to be a few ALW crossovers, but not a word-for-word crossover. I had Mme Giry be the ballet master instead of the keeper of Box Five because I knew her character to seem very cold and harsh, so I could use it to my advantage! La Sorelli hasn't really opened her mouth yet, but I don't remember her really being like a Neanderthal. So, I might let her be smarter in her mind than she lets on! ;)
A question to my reviewers: am I not being descriptive enough? I figured that's why my chapters are so short!
Sorelli woke up early the next morning with a dark bruise on the back of her legs. Looking out the small round window by her bed, she still saw the twinkling of the stars and the lamplights of Paris. It couldn't have been more than six o'clock in the morning.
Oh great, she reprimanded herself, the morning I don't have to get up early to finish my work in the kitchen, I wake up on time! In her rash of embarrassment the night before, Sorelli had finished preparing her part of today's meals.
Rolling over, she cast a glance at the other girls sleeping soundly in their beds. They would all be awake in an hour or so. Knowing she wasn't going to get anymore sleep, Sorelli got out of bed, pulled on her robe and padded her way to the dressing room across the hall. Since she was the first one up, she got the privilege of washing up with the precious hot water pumped into the room. Usually Sorelli was so late, the warmer water ran out and she was forced to immerse her face in water so cold it numbed her nose.
Feeling refreshed, she dressed in her practice skirted leotard for the day and laced her old pointe shoes. With a practiced grace and poise, she used her pointe shoes to walk on her toes, slipping out of the door without waking a soul.
Sorelli crept down the hall to an old ballet rehearsal room. A couple of years ago a few of the rehearsal rooms were remodeled to imitate the slanted floor of the stage. This one, on the outer edges of the ballet conservatory, was left behind in the wave of modifications, and was closed up. Well, except to those who had the keys to the Opera Populaire, thanks to their late night and early morning errands around the building.
Sorelli hadn't had time to practice in the morning lately, thanks to the chores that gave her the keys. When she unlocked the oversize door and closed it behind her, Sorelli ran around the room, pulling the dust covers off of the giant mirrors on the walls, marveling at the intricate carvings on the bar running waist length on the mirrors, to help the dancers stretch and the younger girls practice their balancing techniques. Lastly, she pulled the colossal drapes on one side of the room, opening one of the windows to the cool morning breeze. Below on the Rue Scribe, gypsy musicians were playing the music of the coast, her home, in anticipation of a small festival scheduled for today in the streets.
Like the night before, the music took hold and her hips began to sway. She stopped herself, saying,
"I came here to practice ballet, a totally respectable art form, not dance like the heathen my mother is."
The minute those words passed her lips, she regretted them. Her mother had always taken care of her without a legitimate man in her life, which was hard in a mostly Catholic country. That is why Sorelli had left home at such a young age, she had wanted away, and so did her mother, so save both women's reputations.
Glancing around the room, Sorelli went to the door and made sure it was locked and opened the rest of the windows to allow more of the music flow into the room. She went on her toes, and then gave in to her compulsions. If there was no one to watch her, why not? She kept herself on pointe, moving her feet in her practiced motions, but from there on up it was pure liquid movement. Her hips moved in figure eights, her arms swaying wherever the feeling took them. After a while, she began not to hear the music, she was so wrapped up in herself and what she was doing. Gradually she got off pointe, beginning to dance as she remembered her mother so many years ago.
Sorelli was so wrapped up in herself; it took her a long time to realize there was the heat of another body behind her, following her. That acknowledgement was enough to pull her out of her reverie, making her stop dead in her tracks.
When she stopped, she surprised the person behind her, causing them to brush a hand along her back, and then the heat quickly withdrew. By the time Sorelli removed her embarrassed, teary gaze from the floor, snapping her eyes to the mirrors, all she could see was a cloaked figure disappearing behind a door concealed by one of the mirrors on an interior wall. She turned and ran to the latching escape, banging her fists on the glass until they were a cherry red. By now, Sorelli was weeping.
"Whoever you are, I don't care. Please don't tell, please…It would ruin me….."
Sorelli's sobs echoed around the large, cavernous room. She had done so much to prevent this from ever happening!
On the other end of the room, Sorelli could hear the deadbolt of the door slide from its place in the doorframe.
"Mademoiselle D'Aubigne, what in the world is going on in here!"