Author's Note:
OMG, I am late again in updates… I should be more prompt now, with school out and Finals over!

PLEASE R&R!

Thanks once again to my Super Beta, Random Battlecry!

That evening, Sorelli headed into the kitchen after her hard day of dancing. The cook was gone, of course, having said her goodbyes at dinner. The dishes had been already done, as punishment, by the members of the cast or crew who disobeyed the rules. Sorelli was glad of this, because she hated washing dishes, and there was always a wealth of ballet tarts doing dishes after missing curfew.

When she poked her head in the door, Sorelli found the rest of the kitchen staff lounging around, smoking and laughing. "Don't we have any work to do?" she asked.

One of the kitchen boys gave a chuckle. "No, we don't! The new chef has sent no instructions, so we have nothing to do! Boy, they'll be sorry tomorrow morning when there are hundreds of Opera workers asking for breakfast!" He motioned to a bottle of red wine on the counter. "Care to join us for a drink, sweetie?"

"No thanks!" she declined with grace. "If anyone comes here looking for me, tell them I retired early."

"Sure thing, sweetheart!" a burly busboy called from the back. "There was a boy here looking for you earlier today… tall young lad…"

"I heard. If he comes here looking, tell him the same thing I told you. I am very tired, and I need my sleep before that breakfast rush from hell tomorrow."

Sorelli knew she was taking a big risk, but she had to try it. She wandered the halls of the backstage opera, past the practice rooms, past the dressing rooms, until she reached an inconspicuous, plain door in the hall outside Mme Giry's room. Still dressed in her practice clothes, she slipped a bobby pin out of her bun and let her long, black hair fall down her back. Slipping the pin into the lock, she jiggled it around until she heard a small click. The door to the storage closet slid open, and Sorelli crept inside and closed the door until just a shaft of light was visible in the dark room. Only Mme Giry had a key to this room, and to be found here would certainly bring about a punishment as strong as the fires of hell.

Sorelli groped around the closet until she found what she was looking for: a phonograph and a small folder of records. Using the little bit of light she had, Sorelli found the record for Handel's Messiah, the music the ballet school danced to at Christmas for the special recital. Because of the performance's frequency, it would be simple for Sorelli to dance the correct choreography while paying attention to the room around her, instead of her steps.

Closing the closet door behind her, Sorelli made her way to the same practice room she had used that morning. Unlocking the door, she made her way into the room, hauling her heavy load. This time, she locked the door behind her, leaving time to hide the evidence before anyone had time to unlock the door.

Setting up the phonograph in the corner, she put the record on the spindle and cranked it up. As Sorelli stood up, having set the needle in place, she assumed the starting position. As the music flowed from the phonograph's large speaker horn, Sorelli's feet and arms moved in their practiced movements.

Relevé, Demi-Pointe, Changement de Pieds, Rond de Jambe, Relevé, Pointe, Pirouette, Fouetté, Jeté, Arabesque…

As the song dissipated into a last, straining note of farewell, Sorelli did the practiced bow of the Prima Ballerina, with one foot pointed forward and the other en arrière and en dehors behind her. She was disappointed that her ghost watcher had made no sign of his presence. Sorelli had hoped that her display would tempt him out of the shadows once more, but no luck.

Concealing the phonograph behind the curtains around the window, Sorelli cast one more look around the room before unlocking the door to let herself out. She had an inkling that the watcher in the morning wasn't a ghost… she had felt heat at her back, not that coldness that goes with the dead. So that ruled out a few suspects that all ballet rats are taught to believe in, like the ghost of the woman who bounded from the balcony to her death and the man who jumped off the roof unto the Parisian streets below.

Sorelli heard the resounding latch of the lock as she closed the door behind her. It was getting late, and most of the population of the Opera was asleep. Creeping down the hall, she was at the door of her room, when two hands grabbed her from behind, muffling her scream and spinning her around…

There was Ragoczy.

Sorelli pulled his hand off of her mouth. "What the hell do you think you're doing, grabbing me like this in the middle of the night?"

"I was looking for you! The kitchen staff said you went to bed, but your roommates said you were gone." Sorelli cursed to herself. She hadn't even thought of telling her roommates! She had assumed they'd all be off with their beaus.

"Well, I was practicing again! See, if you would try out for the ballet, you'd know what it meant to practice at something!" Sorelli could see by his expression that she had hurt him. "Ragoczy, please, that's not what I meant…"

"Oh, yes, it was. And you know it." Ragoczy let go of her and turned to walk away.

"Oh, no you don't." Sorelli grabbed him at the wrist and pulled him close, giving him a deep kiss on the lips. "You know I didn't mean it that way."

Ragoczy gave her a lopsided grin. "I know, I was just hoping for a kiss."

"Don't think that you'll get too many of them." Seriousness was strong on her face, but a smile was starting to break through. "Now you'd better go before Madame Giry does a bed check in my dorm."

"Alright. Sleep tight, and don't let those bed bugs bite!" Ragoczy gave a smirk and trotted off towards his room.

As soon as Sorelli knew that Ragoczy was out of earshot, she let out a sigh, and quickly wiped off her mouth. She liked Ragoczy enough, but to kiss him? She felt like she was kissing her brother! But if she ever hoped to leave the Opera with any sort of future, it would have to be as a retiring prima ballerina, a rich man's mistress, or someone's wife. Going to live with family was not an option, as most of them wanted nothing to do with their runaway relative, and to go home to her parents likened to a dog running home with its tail between its legs. Sorelli refused to be ashamed of her decisions, so the Opera seemed to be her only option for now. Maybe in the far future, she could use Ragoczy's affections to spring her from her cage, if the ballerina career didn't go as planed.

Her thoughts broke at the sound of clicking heels coming down the hall, and Sorelli hurriedly ducked in the door of her dormitory. On the left side of the long, narrow room, there were five small beds, each surrounded by decorations made or bought by their respective occupants. To the left, their was as door that led to the girls' wardrobe and powder room, the main dressing rooms for performances being down the hallway.

Sorelli went in through that door, to her vanity, and began to get ready for bed. The dorm was quiet, since her roomies were all out on the town. Sure, they were there to tell Ragoczy where she was, but they weren't there to offer some sort of companionship when the day winded down. Using a wet rag from the communal sink, Sorelli began to wipe off her mascara and eyeliner that were her everyday staples. Upon setting the rag down on the table, she felt a small, piercing pain on her finger. Sorelli yelped, not as much from pain, but surprise. As she nursed her bleeding finger, she looked to find the source of her suffering.

On the vanity top was a single, blood red rose tied with a wide, pink ribbon that looked suspiciously like a ballet slipper lace. Under the rose was a black-lined envelope, sealed with a red wax skull. The seal was still warm to the touch, and the wax looked a bit splattered, indicating the letter was written very recently and in a rush. Casting a cursory glance about the room, finding no hidden intruders, she broke the seal and began to read the note written in a bold, hurried scrawl:

"Mademoiselle D'Aubigne,

I must apologize for this morning's slip up on my part. Your dancing was intoxicating, as that style is meant to be. I did not expect to find someone in this well-respected Opera House dancing to such raunchy music like a whore on the street corner. Perhaps you were not cut out for the life of the ballerina: there are many jobs for women like you in the brothels of Paris. I'm sure they need more dancers at the Moulin Rouge.

Admittedly, you are a fine dancer, and I enjoyed watching you perform the true art of ballet this evening. Your skill is much better than some of those in the ballet troupe, who I fear are only there as objects of the patron's lusts. This includes the horrid prima ballerina, La Strezhena. Just because one has a Russian heritage does not always make a good ballerina….

I am getting off topic. I do not like a young ballet rat trying lure me out of my hiding, simply because you saw me once. Try it again, and I can make your life a living hell. Why not turn your flirtatious affections on someone more responsive, like the Managers or that young set builder who follows you like a lost puppy? I'm sure some of the patrons are lonely as well!

This is my only warning! Use that rose to remind you; I can be cordial, but cross me and I can quickly become an entity of pain.

O.G."