It had been a week.

Rose lay on her narrow bed, listening to the soft breathing of the little girls around her. There were no private rooms to spare, so Madame Giry had put her in the little girls' dormitory.

In the grey light before dawn, Rose lay still on her bed and cast her mind back over the week she had just lived. She had awakened on a grey morning like this a mere seven days ago. But she had seen the light of morning through the bars of a cage. She had felt the empty pit of her stomach, the cold of the damp air through thin rags, and the aching of her bruised ribs.

Seven days later, she was warm and well-fed. She had a dress – and had been delighted to learn it was one of dear Meg's old ones that she had outgrown. But it was clean and whole and even had a little bit of lace on it. She had shoes for her feet, stockings for her legs and pins for her hair.

And for the first time in five years, she had hope. She had a future, a path, a plan. She had someone who cared what happened to her.

Her natural feistiness and buoyancy had kept her from sinking into the icy blackness of despair's midnight ocean, even with the foul tentacles of suffering and sin reaching up to pull her under. She sensed the hurt and the anguish that still roiled beneath the surface of her heart. But those were emotions for people with the luxury of time and money. She had a future to build.

Casting her mind back over the week, Rose felt that it was almost a dream. It was as if she had been living in a nightmare, numbly stumbling through existence, kept in a perpetual state of shock and limply hoping to wake up. The nightmare had receded, changed into a lovely dream, and now, Rose felt like she was on the verge of waking up. And she knew that she would awaken to this reality, this new life she had.

There were definitely challenges in this new life. Her training as a dancer was rigorous, and her body ached from practice. And there was that odious man, Joseph Buquet. He smelled of cheap wine and old sweat – even the memory of how close he had come to her made Rose feel vaguely nauseous. His smile was worse than his smell, though. His smile had suggested all sorts of things. Things that made Rose think of the gypsies.

With a sharp intake of breath, she banished Joseph Buquet from her thoughts, recalling pleasant images of Meg and Christine to soothe her. The girls had befriended her with a sweetness and ease that made Rose almost believe they were guardian angels in disguise.

Suddenly, Rose sat bolt upright in bed, her small mouth hanging open in shock.

How was it that a week had passed and she had not even thought to ask Madame Giry about the man who had actually rescued her from the gypsies.

Rose realized she hadn't seen the man's face or heard his name. And she hadn't thanked him. How horrible! How ungrateful she must seem!

Well, she would make amends.

But her opportunity to ask Madame Giry never arrived that day. Monsieur Lefevre had announced his retirement, two new managers had been introduced, half the chorus had fainted at the sight of the handsome new patron, La Carlotta had stormed off, and her dearest friend Christine had been given the chance of a lifetime. Oh, and Joseph Buquet had been raked across the coals for letting the backdrop fall on La Carlotta. Rose had felt an immense, if childish, pleasure in that.


He felt a delicious tension in the air, the sweetness of the utter precision with which he pulled all the strings in this pitiful puppet show. He had played the moment with perfect pitch, with Madame Giry acting right on cue. And, he had gotten Joseph Buquet in trouble. He had felt an immense, if childish, pleasure in that.

And his Christine – oh how beautiful she was! How perfect in her pristine innocence, how sublime in her singing. His heart was utterly full, and tears would have welled up in his eyes if he hadn't shed them all so many years ago. She had fulfilled every expectation of his, rising to the occasion and soaring above the feeble limits of La Carlotta and Piangi.

He smiled softly to himself. Tonight, he would reward her…he would reward them both. He felt his body would burst into flames and blow away like ash on the wind if he was apart from her any longer. Tonight, she would see her angel, touch him, feel the glory of the music he could give her. He would wrap her in his heart, singing strings of love to bind her to him. And together…together…the future would be glorious.

With a satisfied air, he slipped back down from the flies and into the shadows of the garret above the chandelier. He could not resist though, stepping out through the door just one more time onto the painted balcony that ran around the inside of the domed ceiling. Her voice was purest up here, bouncing off the walls and almost striking him forcefully as it echoed the final notes of the aria. Then, with a subtle swirl of his cape, he had disappeared back into the labyrinth of corridors and secret passages.


Well, it would seem she wouldn't have to ask Madame Giry after all.

Rose easily slipped away in the chaos that reigned during Christine's shatteringly beautiful performance. Her nimble athleticism enabled her to fairly fly through the trapeze of flies and catwalks to where she had last seen the cloaked man. Her speed was rewarded by the sight of a dark cape slipping behind a door.

She leaped across the room and caught the door before it shut, hurtling through it in unheeding haste to reach her rescuer. Once on the other side of the door, however, she stopped in her tracks.

He was nowhere to be seen. Rose strained her eyes in the darkness but could see nothing.

"Hello?" she called out softly, forgetting to use her French and speaking in low, lilting English. "Please, I only wanted to…"

Her words were cut off by a pair of hands clamped around her shoulders that spun her around and pinned her to the wall. An eerie half-face loomed in her vision, so close that they were almost nose-to-nose. In the shadows that were sliced by shafts of light from the chinks in the wall boards, all Rose could see were a pair of enraged green eyes locked on hers.

But even if she couldn't see her assailant, she could smell the exotic spice that clung to his fine velvet lapels; she could feel the heat of his breath on her skin; and, she could sense his dizzying, towering, menacing presence.

"What did you want?" he hissed, his voice no more than an indistinct growl from between his clenched teeth.

"I…I…" Rose stammered, her heart pounding like a trip hammer in her chest. She was frightened, but in a way far different than she had been frightened while slaving away for the gypsies.

In her peripheral vision, she saw the man's lips twist in a sneer, and her temper suddenly flared at the unreasonableness he was displaying.

"Now, you quit that!" Rose snapped, grabbing hold of his wrists and thrusting her body at him with all her force. The man was forced to step back to keep from falling, which allowed Rose to spin and twist out of his grip.

Instantly, he drew back into the shadows, but her hand shot out again and grabbed his wrist.

"You're being a silly git – and rude, to boot!" Rose spat out in rolling, lilting English, her anger making her forget all the rudimentary French she had command of. "Here I am, racin' up here like a daft billy goat to say thank you, and you act like a perfect arse to me! Now stand still and let me say thank you!"

The man in the shadows didn't move, but Rose could feel the tension in his body. His anger seemed to seep into the very pores of her fingers that were still inexorably wrapped around his own strong wrists.

"Now then," Rose said, taking a deep breath and trying to speak French again. "All I wanted to say is thank you for saving me from…from them."

She released his wrist and stepped back herself.

"That's all I wanted," she whispered.

And before her heart could beat thrice more, he was gone.