Wow! Thank you to everyone who is submitting reviews. It really means a lot to me, and it definitely inspires me to keep going, and going, and going...

-Kate


"Who is she, maman?"

Meg's pert, pretty little voice squeaked in Madame Giry's ear, as the pair watched the strange Irish girl struggle into her toe shoes.

"She is a new dancer that I have brought to train at the Opera Populaire, ma fille," Madame Giry replied. "And I expect you to help her with both her dancing…and her French."

Meg giggled and traipsed over to the girl. It was barely after breakfast and rumor had already flown through the backstage kingdom about the new acquisition by Madame Giry. The men had exchanged knowing, salacious glances, and the girls had eyed a possible rival.

Only he had remained uninterested. But then again, since he had been in on the thing, so to say, from the ground up, there was really nothing anyone could add to what he already knew.

"That is not how you tie them," Meg commented, approaching Rose.

Startled, Rose stood upright and tugged the strap of her ballet shift up. It was the best Madame Giry had been able to procure as a temporary measure, but it was slightly too big for the petite young woman.

"Have you never laced up slippers before?" Meg asked, slowing her French in case Rose did not understand.

"A few times," Rose replied softly with a shy, hesitant smile. "But I had to figure it out myself, as I had the slippers, but no one to show me."

Meg nodded, her movements for a moment hinting of the years to come when she would become more like her mother.

"We learned it by an old rhyme," Meg said with a laugh. "'Over-under, under-over, round and round we go; tight, tight, tighter yet, and tie it with a bow.'"

As she rattled off the rhyme, Meg knelt down and matter-of-factly rewrapped the ribbons of Rose's slippers. She stood up, and for a moment the two girls' eyes met – one set curious, one set fearful, and then in another moment, both cautiously understanding.

"Come!" Meg said gaily. "I'll introduce you to everyone – or at least as many as I can before we have to start rehearsing."

Meg grabbed Rose by the wrist and dragged her over to another group of tulle-clad fairies. Rose was immediately struck by the porcelain beauty of one of them. Dark chestnut curls were loosely pulled back, and wide brown eyes barely seemed to register the world around them. Instead, the girl seemed to be listening, to be looking for something.

"Dreamy Daae! Christine to everyone else," Meg teased, tapping her friend on the shoulder. "Wake up! This is Rose. She…arrived last night."

"Rose," the young woman said the girl's name slowly, wonderingly, tilting her head to the side.

"Mademoiselle," Rose replied, bobbing a slight curtsey.

"Don't curtsey, silly goose," Meg corrected sharply.

"Why-why not?" Rose stammered.

"Because you're one of us now," Meg said with the confidence of innocence.


He watched from far above, a dark angel of the flies. His lip curled in a spasm of pleasurable cynicism born of his innately perfect sense of music and theater.

It didn't matter how many new dancers Madame Giry brought in. The only thing that could save Hannibal from being a complete and utter travesty was his Christine. She alone could bring the purity and power to the vocalizations demanded by the role.

And she was almost ready. He could taste the anticipation in the air. He would have to be even more alert than usual, be more prepared than ever. His darling's perfect opportunity might happen any day now. It was coming, as surely as old Lefevre's retirement. He would have rubbed his hands together in satisfaction, except the gloves would have made noise. Instead, he contented himself with narrowing his eyes and watching his sweet nightingale's lithe form as she began to stretch and warm-up with the other ballet rats.

He watched her movements critically for a moment, regarding her as a teacher regards his pupil. Decidedly, she was not made to be a dancer. She was passable – Madame Giry had made sure of that. But it was not her true talent.

Her slender limbs bent and stretched, the line of her neck elongating like a swan as she moved. Suddenly, he was no longer the teacher, but only a man. No. Not even a man. A monster, for only a monster could acknowledge his terrible deformity and in the same breath whisper his black desire.

The air high up on the flies was suddenly close and stifling. His gloved hand clenched at the rope. Ripping his eyes away from his Christine, he forced himself to watch the other dancers while he calmed himself.

Madame Giry hovered around that new dancer, making small adjustments – the tilt of her head, the crook of her fingers, even the slight curvature of her waist. He quirked an eyebrow at nobody in amusement at Madame Giry's obvious fire, burning in the discipline she drilled into the new girl.

Once again, he found himself grudgingly giving the new dancer credit. The first lesson with Madame Giry reduced girls to tears. It was almost a rite of passage. This one didn't cry. Her eyes grew harder, and her jaw tighter. But she didn't cry. He snorted softly. She had probably learned the same lesson he had – tears accomplish nothing, but determination…discipline…self-reliance…ah, now there was power.

He was jerked out of his reverie by the sight of Madame Giry moving over to Monsieur Reyer. The two share a few whispers, and it was evident from the surprise, consternation and confusion on the concert-master's face that Madame Giry was asking something most unorthodox. It was equally evident that Madame Giry meant to have her way.

Silently, he leaned forward to gain a better view of the full stage.

"Mademoiselle Rose," Madame Giry called out. "Come forward, please."

Meg gave the frozen girl a none-so-gentle push, setting her in motion. Cautiously, she approached Madame Giry, who stood at the front of the stage.

"Monsieur Reyer, our concertmaster, has agreed to have the orchestra play the gypsy dance from San Giovanni's operetta," the ballet teacher explained to the girl. "You will recognize the song, as it is what you danced to yesterday."

Suddenly, Rose seemed to shrink as panic rose at the thought of having to dance before all these people. Meg watched anxiously, and he could barely keep from laughing out loud.

"You can do this," Madame Giry said lightly, smiling thinly at the girl. "And you will do this. Now then, take your place, stage right. Monsieur Reyer? When you are ready."

Rose stumbled into position, her face a frozen mask of terror. He watched and began to compose in his head the teasing "I told you so" note he would later leave for Madame Giry. He settled in – as much as he ever settled himself at ease above the catacombs – to watch the disaster unfold.