An - Thank you to all my reviewers who applied for the beta-ship. I was really taken back by the amount of people who wanted to merely edit my story. I would also like to say I found a worthy advisary to my wretched grammar and punctuation skills, thank you Olethros.

Chapter thirty four: Into the Stirring Pot.

Those who hear your voice
liken you to an angel!

"So we both agree, 'no' to the Laurette girl." M. Lamotte said, crossing her name off the list. They had been at it for hours, agreeing and disagreeing upon names of young chorus hopefuls. They were finally almost finished, all that was left was one more name, one last audition to discuss. Lamotte could still see the young woman standing there, her voice ringing out, purer than a cathedral bell. M. Emery sat back against his chair waiting for his partner to read out the next name. He knew what it was before the syllables slid from his friend's lips. He thought of her shy smile and those luscious lips and formed the previous. His hands went behind his head as he relaxed his legs on the chair that his partner had sat in for the majority of the day.

"That leaves us with Belle Lenuit," Lamotte said, looking up with a smirk to Emery. He was leaning against the piano, his neck and back stiff from sitting hunched over in front of the board all day. Emery smiled and shook his head, removing his arms from behind his head, and crossing them in front of him, his forearms bare. Lamotte took off his wire-rimmed glasses and began to wipe them on his shirt.

"She's good." Lamotte said, while wiping way a day's worth of dust that covered the small frames.

"She's very good." Emery replied, still sitting in his very relaxed position. Both looked at each other, grinning from ear to ear. They had worked and served as each other's equal in this business for a long time, so it wasn't the least bit surprising when they both followed the same path of ideas or could read each other's thoughts.

"She was the best singer I've ever heard." Emery told Lamotte with a quiet reverence.

"I know." Lamotte simply replied, finally finishing his glasses and replacing them on his nose. He then scratched out the name on the list. He didn't have to even ask Emery if they were going to hire her, they both knew they couldn't. That was the problem with the chorus; the managers themselves had stated specifically if the chorus department had seen a singer who was amazing, they were not to hire her as chorus.

There were many reasons why this was never to happen. One of them was that, years ago, when Firmin and Andre were still middle-aged men, they had seen a young chorus girl who sang better than their own Prima Donna. This created problems because as much as no one would like to admit it, Opera was an art form that had its own little political hierarchy, and this girl had turned it upside down. The second reason was hiring a chorus girl who sang better than anyone in the chorus created an unbalance. The chorus was suppose to blend and mold with each other and if they couldn't meet the standards of the best singer, then they would sound out of tune. Even still, if the best chorus singer is better than the diva, then the diva will be upset and perhaps force the better singer to quit, or the chorus girl will demand better pay or a better position.

In a time where they could of used a singer like Belle, they let her go, and they knew they'd regret it. If only she had left a return address, or some way to get a hold of her, instead of telling them she'd come three days from now to check the casting list outside the auditioning room, they may have been in a different position. As it was, they were tired old men who some days didn't care about the outcome of the opera company.

"It's a pity, too, she had the perfect name to be a star." Emery said, looking over at his partner.

They both chuckled.

( ' ) '
-

You have come here,
for one purpose,
and one alone . . .

Aimee stood in the street, her slave girl costume still worn, her face painted with make-up, her smile worn carefully. The streets were busy in Montmartre, a place where when she wasn't dancing for the Opera, she was busy making money any way she could. It had been her home for years, and it wasn't more than a few years ago, that it hadn't been such a horrible place to be. For those few years she had found peace, she had found existence to be worth living, and she had been happy.

She watched as the writer walked past her, she didn't even call out to him, she knew he wouldn't respond. Half of them didn't anymore, no one wanted a used dancer, a girl whose false smiles and fake moans could be bought for as little as a few coins. Not here at least. The money she had earned from the wealthy patrons was enough to get her off the streets. Why didn't she spend it now? Because she wanted more, she wanted to be able to never return to this lifestyle again and she knew that she didn't have quite enough yet. She watched as he turned the corner, like he always did, wandering in the night, back to wherever he came from. Her heart shared a kindred bond with his, even if he did not know it. She knew his story through rumor, and she knew that she felt his pain. She knew he must feel the same numbness that she felt everyday.

"You must understand, I'm doing this because I love you." She told him on a moment of impulse, she really had no idea why she was doing this, other than her feelings for him. If he stayed, her secret would come out and he would end up hating her.

"I don't understand Aimee… You were the one who started this, now you want to end it? Why can't you tell me why?" he asked.

"I can't… just believe me… I can't. Please, just please go… you must go quickly." She told him, throwing his shirt into his arms, and pushing him out the door.


She shrugged the memory away like it was a piece of her skimpy costume, just as a new potential customer emerged from the darkness. Wearing her smile like a mask, she approached the man.

"Isn't it a little late for a stroll monsieur?" she asked him sultrily. He stopped in the shadows, hiding away from the light and from her. Smirking, she tip-toed over to the man and pressed herself against him, still unable to see his face underneath the heavy cloak.

"At least, for a stroll alone?" she asked him. He brushed the hair out of her face tenderly as she went to push the hood of his cloak back. As she reached for the top of his head, he grabbed her hand and spun her around, holding the frail arm behind her back. Panicking, her heart caught in her throat, her voice shook.

"If you prefer to play rough, monsieur," she said hoping to persuade the brutal man to be gentler, "I prefer to see your face."

"And I prefer to not commit an act of incest." Said a familiar voice in her ear, before chuckling and releasing her in a distasteful way.

"Damien!" Aimee cried, racing back to his arms in a less sexual way. Her voice had returned to normal and she didn't care if she let the tears fall. She hadn't seen her dear brother in months, and realized he had made her realize that if it had not been him, it was possible she could have died.

"That was a cruel trick to play!" She said releasing him from her embrace and pushing herself away from him. He only chuckled and grabbed for her hands, holding them in his own.

"You would know something about tricks, wouldn't you, Aimee?" He asked her mockingly. Her jaw dropped at his audacity and she lunged forward angrily. He laughed at her abysmal attack and held her flailing arms away from him. When she calmed down and when he sobered from his cruel words, he let her go and took off his cloak.

"Here, wear this, it's freezing out." He told her placing the thick velvet across her shoulders.

"I'm use to it," she said shivering into the warmth. She realized she must look so small to him, inside the warmth of the cloak a foot shorter than her older brother.

"Why are you even out tonight? I told you to use the money in the crock pot while I was gone, I told you, you were not to continue like this until I return so I could protect you." He told her, clasping the cloak into place.

"That money is to be saved, we are to retire on it… I will not be using it for selfish needs while you're about securing more wealth for us." She told him with a pout. He was always making fun of her, belittling her and angry that she earned her half the way she did. It didn't stop him from letting her do it though, merely because the more they made, the sooner she would stop doing the horrific deed. All they wanted was two be able to purchase two apartments beside each other, secure enough money that she could marry one day if she choose too, and make sure they had enough to live on with menial jobs, without ever having to worry again. That was the goal after all, but after so many years of scamming and whoring, both Damien and Aimee had no idea when they were going to stop.

"Where did you get the cloak?" she asked, as he placed his arm around her, and they walked back to the small dingy apartment they had lived in since their grandfather had taken them in.

"You'd never guess." He told her, lazily holding her to his side, making sure that everyone on the street knew that he was back. He was Aimee's guardian and protector, and he would never let anyone harm her. One night, one of her customers had decided to get rough without her permission and had left her with a lovely bruise above her eye. The next day, the customer was not seen, nor the day after that. In fact, Aimee hadn't seen him at all around recently. When she did see him, two months after the incident, he saw her, grimaced, and turned and walked rapidly in the opposite direction.

"Then why don't you just tell me?" she asked him testily.

"The costume department." He told her rubbing her shoulder as she shivered again, her breath visible in front of her pale lips.

"You got your job back at the opera house?" she asked him curiously.

"Well Bouchard was not pleased to see me back, but when I handed him a slip written in the handwriting of one Monsieur Richard Firmin…"

"Oh Damien, you didn't." Aimee said, knowing that her brother was up to his old tricks again. He had been fortunate enough to be a message handler between the management and the director one day. Instead of giving the note right away to its rightful receiver, he had opened it and copied it out until he had mastered the handwriting. He had given the forged copy to the director and no one had ever noticed the difference. Damien had found this a very handy tool to use when things were not going his way.

"Of course I did," he said as they rounded the corner towards the apartment. From there on it was silence till the reached the front door and climbed two flights of stairs wearily to their little home. Damien pulled out his key and turned it within the lock, opening a dark and dreary room, and turned up the gas lamp. Aimee walked in behind him and removed the fancy cloak that he had stolen from the costume department, placing it on a chair by the table. She would return it in the morning, before rehearsal. She suddenly felt very silly wearing the slave girl costume in front of her brother as he went to the cupboard and pulled out a decanter from the depths. As he searched, he pulled two glasses out as well and placed them on the countertop. Aimee wrapped her arms around herself, ashamed that her brother had seen her at her worst. She knew it was silly, but in some ways, she liked the awful treatment that came with the job. It wasn't the sex, it wasn't the money, it was the ambiguity. She didn't care about the men and they didn't care about her, which is what she wanted. There was a void in her since she pushed her love away, a large empty hole that could never be filled.

Damien poured the red liquid into the two glasses and then drank from his. Aimee looked hesitantly at her own glass, then looked at her brother. He stared at her expectantly and she shook her head no. She had no use of spirits; they were useless when she felt she had none. Damien only shrugged and drank from her glass as well, before placing the drink back into the cupboard and the glasses into a basin.

"Are you going to ask how my business venture went?" He asked her quietly, sliding back into the quiet brooding brother, she knew all too well.

"Do I want to know?" she asked him, walking over to the table and sitting in a chair beside it, crossing her legs and waiting for him to come to the table and sit with her. The velvet underneath her felt smooth against her skin, and she began to grow hesitant to take the cloak back. Her brother's small smile never wavered at her words, instead, he just sat in front of her.

"Comte de Chagny is looking for his wife's killer, and he will pay someone a handsome reward for whoever finds him. He is even willing to fund someone to investigate outside of the Sûreté." He told her, leaning back into his chair and continuing to smile that small smile.

"So? What do you propose? You already have me after Adrienne to secure his fortune. What do you plan to do to Raoul de Chagny?" She asked him curiously.

"How far have you gotten with Adrienne?" Damien asked his sister, his arms crossing over his chest.

"No where, he…. Still resists my advances." She told him quietly.

"Then, I propose that I try a different angle. If I can 'help' the Comte, I could extort some money out of him that way. Who knows, maybe I will blame some random man who has wronged us and the Comte will reward me. Either way, you still work on Adrienne." Damien told her, pulling a smoke out of his pocket, and handing one to his sister, she shook her head no and handed him some matches.

"I don't like this idea, Damien, it's wrong for us to extort this man over the memory of his wife and child." She told him, lighting the match for her brother and holding it out for him to use. He gave her a surprised look and shook his head.

"Nonsense, he gets to put his mind at ease, and we get paid… Everyone wins." He told her, as she waved out the match and he took a long inhale of his cigarette.

"It's a good thing we never told anyone that we are kin, Adrienne would be able to tell something was amiss." She told him, watching him as he placed his elbows on the table and studied the cigarette between his fingers.

Snorting he looked at Aimee and took another drag of the smoke. "Adrienne wouldn't be able to tell something was amiss if he woke up the next morning and his blonde hair was as black as mine. Really Aimee, the boy is harmless, I'm surprised you haven't caught him yet."

Aimee just shook her head. "You underestimate him, Damien, and one day you'll pay for it."

( ' ) '
-

You were once
my one companion . . .
you were all
that mattered . . .

Erik watched his daughter from behind his novel as they both sat near the hearth. She was immersed in her worn copy of Wurthering Heights. He himself had been reading Candide once again, when his attention strayed and he found himself studying his beautiful daughter by the glow of the fire. Her legs were pulled up into her lap, her elbow resting on the arm of the chair; her delicate chin perched on her hand. Those intense hazel eyes were completely focused on the words before her, her curls loose about her face. He smiled at the sight, clearing his throat to get her attention. She began to move her face towards the noise, but let her eyes linger longer on the words before meeting his. She studied his face a moment before giving him a brief smile.

"Yes Papa?" she asked him, letting her hand that held the book fall into her lap. He smiled at her, her sweet voice filling the silence with rapture.

"You've read the book more than I can count, my dear. Kathy is not going to come back to him." He told her.

"I know, Papa." She said stretching and smiling towards him. "Nothing's going to change about Candide either, Papa. He'll remain ever optimistic till the end." She told him, stretching like a cat and yawning.

"You've read the book a thousand times Danielle, wouldn't you prefer… something more refreshing?" he asked.

She shook her head and laughed slightly, "but Papa, you know how I cannot resist melodrama." She said, standing from her chair, and walking over to her father who still rested within his.

"Goodnight, Papa, I must get some sleep." She told him, kissing his forehead. He smiled up at her, looking at her behind strong amber eyes. She let her hand linger awhile on his shoulder, before turning around and walking towards her bedroom.

"Where were you today?" he asked her quietly.

Danielle stopped in her tracks, her heart pounding in her mouth. She had known it possible he would bring up her lengthy absence. She had been prepared for it upon her return. However, after returning with no mention of it over tea, dinner, lessons and reading time, she had let it slip from her mind.

She slowly turned around to face her father. Her smile never faltered as she looked into his cautious eyes.

"I found myself growing bored so I used the Rue Scribe entrance so I could go window shopping. There is lovely new green silk in Belle's boutique. Perhaps, we could go shopping on the morrow?" she found herself asking.

You didn't even need to think upon that before letting it fall from your mouth. Maybe this secret wont be so hard to keep, she thought.

Erik's eyes narrowed as he searched her face, somehow she could tell he didn't quite believe all of what she said, but before she fell apart under her father's scrutinizing gaze, his eyes sobered and he smiled at her.

"I see no fault in granting you with whatever your heart desires." He said warmly, and then his eyes returned to his book. She stared back at her father, sitting there, with his long lanky legs crossed. His face was unmasked and relaxed, something that, she realized, was very hard to be both. His wig was immaculate against his stark white skin, but she knew better than to ask for more. She granted him the wig not because she cared for it, but because it pleased him to wear. There he sat, content and peaceful.

"Let me know if something changes drastically in Candide, Papa." She told him, her hands on the small of her back.

"I shall, darling." He told her, turning the page with his long graceful fingers.

Danielle just smiled and headed to her room.

( ' ) '
-

Angel or madman . . .?

Damien sat in front of the table, drinking one last glass of wine before heading off to bed. Aimee had retreated to hers long before him, and he was happy for the time alone. He stared down at the piece of paper in front of him that Lamotte and Emery had written up, and the original rough copy of the list they had thrown out. He looked at the original list, and compared it to the new one. There was her name, scratched out in charcoal. What fools, to have not give this Belle Lenuit a place in the chorus, what had they been thinking? He sat there and closed his eyes in thought of her.

"Good luck…" He had called out to her. Why? He didn't know, but there was something about her subtle graceful movements, her hazel eyes. Some innocence in every word and nuance of her being that made him think of Aimee, and how a proper lady should be. He hadn't seen one in so long, that he was completely taken back with how she held herself, and went about her business. Guardedly, she smiled back at him, and oh! What a smile it was. He could feel his heart beat beneath his ribcage at her gentle and enticing lips.

"Thank you… I appreciate your kindness." She told him, before entering the room. The auditioner sneered at him before closing the door to the auditioning room.

Maybe they let her go because she wouldn't give into their sexual desires, maybe she was just too amazing that she could cause problems, or maybe she was a horrific singer compared to her beauty, whatever the reasoning, he wasn't going to allow those two to ruin his chances. He had to see her again, even if it was just to witness that small curious smile once more.

Taking a piece of charcoal that lay on the table he carefully wrote in her name at the bottom of the list.

He then got out a fresh piece of paper and wrote:

Dear Messieurs:

It has come to my attention that you have written up the new members of the Opera Populaire's chorus, and we thank you for your diligence. However, my partner and I dually noted that you left a particular name off your list.

Belle Lenuit.

Both Andre and I were extremely unsatisfied with this error in judgment. Hopefully you will reconsider this young singer before posting your list outside the auditioning room a few days from now. We realize that our request may seem strange, but she is dear to our hearts and we promised her a position within the Opera. We also request that you do not bring this up in her presence or ours. We would like to think she received the job on her own merits

Sincerely

Richard Firmin.

With that, Damien retreated to his bedroom.