Next chappie will be up very soon... I already have it half done...

BTW, out of these topics, which would you lot prefer me write a fic for: Reign of Fire (Creedy/OC; In my world, he DOESN"T die! XP), King Arthur (Tristan/OC), or Dracula (Dracula/OC; Mina can HAVE her stinkin' cupcake-man...)? I've been thinking up some ideas (the maths class...) but I want to know what people want before I throw something out there.

Pax

L'Opera was abuzz with excitement. Tonight, for the first evening in many a year, there was to be a production. Every nook had been scoured, every statue polished. Outside, a crowd, garnished with glittering jewels and ostrich plumes, had begun to assemble.

The principal characters stood backstage, busy with scales and final touches to their grease paint. The ballet brats all stood in the left wing; the seasoned dancers chattered nonchalantly amongst one another.

"I hope no one trips, don't you?"

In reply, with a mischievous glance at the trembling newcomers, "Oh yes! Do you remember what happened to that girl who fell five years ago?"

"It was horrible! I doubt she ever recovered!"

Such idle banter was brought to an abrupt end with a harsh word from the ballet mistress, who stood severely outside the dimness of the attached corridor. The stern lady's daughter lingered beside a large set piece, her fine golden hair detained with a wreath of violet, faux blossoms. Beside the handsome row leader, quivering in her small pointe shoes with both exhilaration and anxiety stood Marie de Voisins. Her dark locks were similarly held with flowers, these being bright yellow.

The small face, already flushed, became rosier still as the sounds of an audience began to drift through the thick curtains. Several months, in which she had become something of a proficient in the corps, had gone by since little Marie had come to L'Opera as a skinny orphan. As time past she had flourished, both physically and in her skill, becoming strong from dancing and healthy from daily meals.

With only moments only the start of the performance, a sudden fear gripped the soul of our young heroine. Her brow furrowed with rapidly coming distress.

"Meg." She whispered, addressing her taller friend, "Meg, what if I should misstep?"

Giry turned to her companion, raising her eyebrows.

"Marie, you aren't getting stage butterflies?"

"I don't know…" replied the first, wringing her fingers. Meg touched the tense shoulder fondly.

"You shan't misstep." Shrugging at the worried glance countered, she added, "You're far good to make such a mistake."

At this Marie paused. Meg Giry, daughter of the revered Mme. Giry, thought her a dancer worthy of her compliments. The reality of the long hours spent working at her competence, hours in which she had practiced until her young body succumbed to exhaustion, escaped her mind for the present.

Meg smiled gently. She had become undeniably clever in the years since MM. Richard and Moncharmin, a worthy and useful feature inherited from her mother. She cherished her friendship with Marie above most things, caring for her small companion and teaching her the ways of the trade, but there were times, such as this, when the novice's innocence and inexperience proved valuable.

But Meg found herself often worrying, as of late, for Marie. And she knew she was not the only one. The look on Mme. Giry's face as she gazed upon that letter had been all the evidence she needed to know that the ballet mistress feared her friend as well.

Things could not have been expected to go smoothly, not with the poor thing living in that accursed dressing room. An overwhelming sense of remorse had begun to settle upon the mind of Giry. She ought to have said something before Marie had set foot over the threshold. She ought to have implored of the management for her to reside in the dormitories. She ought to have warned the girl of what may still lurk in the shadows of L'Opera. She ought to have done something. Yet she have done nothing. And now… and now…

A shudder moved over Meg's body. Upon noticing, her little friend asked, with some concern, if she were cold. Giry shook her head and looking across the sea of dancers picked out Mme. Giry. Their eyes met for a short moment, then the elder turned to bark at a group of errant performers.

Meg sighed. She had found her mother very early that morning on the stage. Looking up at the flies, she had remembered how the dreaded object had drifted to Marie's toes. The latter still remained unaware to the meaning behind the anonymous note. In all probability, it would be better that way.

Mme. Giry turned when her daughter had approached. She looked distraught.

"Good morning, Maman."

With a sigh, the first replied, "Good morning. What brings you here at such an hour?"

Meg sat on an old set piece.

"I couldn't sleep."

Mme. Giry had stood, unmoving, forehead lined. The younger waited, then continued.

"Maman," the voice lowered to a whisper, "I'm worried for Marie."

Meg watched as her mother closed her eyes, and moved to rest on the same portion of scenery. Mme. Giry, to some (including Meg), was considered ageless. A symbol of authority and command; there was nothing that could best her, be it a headstrong manager or a malignant spirit armed with twenty sabers. But now, as she sat bent and weary, she seemed to age, to become a woman fatigued from years of demanding labor and meager income. She became the woman that, in reality, she was.

The young dancer placed her arms about her mother, resting her fair head upon the firm shoulder. Mme. Giry smiled wistfully, stroking the curls.

"I am worried for her as well."

Meg had sat back, searching her companion's worn face.

"I thought he was dead," she said in a hushed tone, "I thought he died… that night..?"

Mme. Giry shook her head bitterly.

"No indeed, mon cher," she frowned, "I had hoped as much as well; when no sign of him appeared after so long, I made myself believe he was no more." Reaching into a pocket in her bodice, she had extracted the black-lined letter, "But this is evidence of all I'd feared."

"But how did he escape?" Meg hissed, "Surely there's no way he could have gotten past all those police?"

Mme. Giry gave her daughter a wry look.

"I'm sure it was nothing for him. That man is a genius." She had looked down at the letter, "Wicked and deranged, but a genius."

There was a moment of silence in which Meg shivered and snuggled closer to her only parent.

"And…" she had choked slightly on her words, terrified of hearing the response, "And what does he want with Marie?"

A look of true concern, one that Meg could count how many times she had seen cross Mme. Giry's face on a single hand, took hold of the ballet mistress's features. The pair looked at each other, both dreading the answer.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps had echoed over the theater. Meg sat up, and Mme. Giry stood. There, by the entrance, was the topic of their conversation.

I'm going to do some shout outs in the next A/N, so if you write me something lovely I'll attempt to flatter you shamelessly!