I'M SOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRY! Life is such a hectic stinker... I can't guarentee the next update will be soon... we'll have to see how things go...

I would like to say, while I can, that I love all my reviewers/readers. You make me so happy. Particular the ones for Wander in Winter (meaning you all). Care to know the reason? Well, I'll tell you: you guys spell things correctly when you review! I have other stories on and though I adore my reader on them, I have trouble understanding their comments! I'm so uncool. I know none of the cool cyber-spellings... If I said I was "hip", anyone who knew me would go "Pssh... a hip that should be replaced!" sigh

Well, I'm gonna' pop-n-lock outta' here! Represent!

Pax (The Hippity-hop Cool-Cat)

Memoirs of M. Jean Garnier

Friday, the Twenty-third of December

Evening last's Noël Ball was a notable success. I have had much correspondence this morning in its particular regards and expect more, for the afternoon post has yet to arrive. It would seem that my speculation on the taste of current public was accurate.

There has also been much talk pertaining to the corps de ballet. Indeed I must, in the most humble of manners, admit that the group has been performing famously this season; I have yet to discern the reason behind this success, although I feel it in some part is due to the supervision of the ballet mistress, Mme. Giry. Although a widow and of a rather unsociable disposition, the woman has done a great deal for the ballet.

While upon the said topic of dancers, there has been much to-do in recent times about the young Mlle. de Voisins. Following Le Lac de Cygne (which was, I might reiterate, hugely popular) she became something of a celebrity among the audience, particularly with the ladies. 'Twas this recognition that led me to personally provide her with an invitation to the ball. Quite outrageous, really; all this fuss over a ballet girl.

I must admit the arbre de Noël was all of Amaud's design; the man has quite the talent for such things. It was the high spot of the affair. The Vicomte de Levesque personally expressed to me his delight; Mlle. de Voisins, then on his arm (having just finished a waltz) reviewed the mighty tree as her partner and I had spoken, her eyes (very large, I then noticed) all but truly sparkling; I then understood her bewitching nature that had ensnared so many a gentleman that night. Her beauty was bona fide, and her innocence genuine. The mademoiselle was an actual Europa, an Isolde, a Helen.

But what a man the Vicomte is! A scoundrel and nothing more! 'Tis certainly most regrettable that a girl as genteel as Mlle. de Voisins should be hounded by such a cad. His previous associations are, of course, common knowledge; chiefly exploitation of chorus girls. I daresay he is quite famous for it. I cannot but rather wish he would not come into society, for he only makes others uncomfortable. However, I am resigned to ignore his rakish nature, for both the Comte and Comtess are valuable patrons to L'Opera

I must also make note that Albert Bonnay came to me this morning and spoke in regards to the disappearance of one of the new additions to the stables. Although it 'tis pity (costing nearly one thousand francs, which is not a great amount, but remains a loss) the other horses were not touched, and I believe the season will continue properly without the absent creature. The beast was, according to Bonnay, but a little Pottok pony, not a noteworthy bargain; it had come in a bundle purchase with a fine palomino. I suppose it will not be missed.

Thus I must conclude today's records.

M. Jean Garnier

It occurred to me that my dealings with young Mam'selle de Voisins had not been carried out with a great deal of proficiency. I'd managed to keep my composure for all of twenty minutes; the moment she stepped out of the boat I'd let down my guard. Not in regards to my secret (as I'd come to call my hideousness of late) for the mask had not been touched, excluding the brief moment following the writing of my newest piece. Instead I'd failed in my role of Angel.

When I had first revealed myself to Christine (it seems very long ago, now…), I had been terrified. Never in my life had there been a creature--- well, I suppose that is not entirely true, for upon my lap sits a lovely, cream and brown colored cat, purring as I stroke her head. It would be twaddle to suggest that she dislikes her master--- never a human, then, who had accepted me. And so I maintained an air of menace, even as I groveled at her feet. I had not so with little Marie. There was a difference between the pair, subtle yet unquestionable. The Mlle. Daaé (or perhaps Mme. de Chagny would now be more appropriate…) was one who lived among the aristocracy ; though she was the daughter of a poor, dead musician, she was accustomed to fine life. She had a benefactor, one Mme. Valerius I understand, and a comfortable home to return to on Sundays and over holidays.

Marie was also an orphan, or so I had heard; a skinny, lonesome, naïve little urchin. And at the same time a charming, lovely, clever front row ballerina, a favorite of the audience and the ballet mistress herself. I smiled; she was a true paradox. Yet she was not refined as Christine was. Though her manners were near perfect, I noticed small infractions, nothing of huge importance (or even of any real significance) but they would have been met in public with frowns; she did not use the side of a spoon, which protocol demanded; when she finished her café au lit in the morning, she did not place her spoon in the saucer, which would have indicated she wanted more. When we moved to the parlor, she was relatively quiet, thought society claimed young ladies must be cheerful and establish conversation. I also noticed when she became nervous or unsure her slim fingers went to her hair, tugging and twisting. It was all utter and complete lunacy, of course, for such things to be considered poor etiquette. Although I noticed, I hardly cared. In my own opinion she was the dearest of perfections.

My love for her had become overwhelming as of this morning, when I tested her vocal range.

I sat at the piano, fingers resting on the keys.

"It would do best for you to stand, my dear," I said gravely, "unless it is too wearisome."

She shook her head, straightening her back and rising her chin. I withheld a smile.

"I shall play a chord, and you will repeat it back, if you can. Do you understand?"

Again she bobbed her head, quietly clearing her throat. Sliding my hand down to the far left end of the keys, I struck a firm A3; Marie sang it back, a bit shaky. Was it too low? I moved higher, a C4. That one seemed easier, though still unstable. I should have to work on her lower range. It was the same with the shriller notes; she hit them (the majority of the time) but her voice was most clearly untrained. I decided she currently had a mezzo span, but with practice and frequent exercise of the vocal chords, my little elf could be a exceptional soprano soloist

I sat back; she shifted, appearing anxious. Did she think I would be angry?

"You do very well," some of the tension disappeared from her slender form, "but there is much you have yet to learn."

"Thank you. I want to learn. I love music." She said softly, bowing her head.

I watched her for a moment, my heart pounding strangely. My fingers contracted slightly on the smoothness of the keys, then relaxed as I calmed myself. A distraction. I needed a distraction.

"What songs do you know?" I asked, attempted an air of professionalism.

Her fingers went to a curl; my hands twitched.

"I know Au Clair de la Lune, and Noël Nouvelet, Noël Chantons Ici , and…and…" she paused, coiling the tendril, "Oh," her head lifted slightly, "I know La Chanson de Bijou."

My gaze flickered.

"La Chanson de Bijou?" I asked quietly, eyebrow moving upward. The sweet creature looked pleased that I knew the title. She could have no idea that Faust was perhaps the only oeuvre that I never tired of. It was my favorite.

"Yes." Marie seemed proud of her knowledge. Knowing such a lavish aria was no doubt something that would bring any chorus girl pride. I smiled, meeting her eyes.

"Would you honor me with a recitation?"

It was late in the evening now. The lesson had continued for a long period; her rendition of the famous Faust aria was delightful; I could tell that it had been taught to her when she was a child, for much of the notation had been altered to lower and simpler octaves. I rather liked this new version, although my original preference was unchanged. When I heard the first rasping note escape Marie's pretty lips, however, I had ended the sitting immediately. I would not allow her to strain her voice.

Following the completion of the musical session, I laid out some lunch for her. There was a brief protest on her behalf when I declared I never dined in the afternoon, but I soon persuaded her to eat without my doing so as well.

I sat at the piano for many hours composing, occasionally playing a small selection for Marie (Mozart, Beethoven, pieces of that nature…) who sat quietly on the settee before the fire. At some point or another, Ayesha entered the room; I noticed only when she rubbed against my legs, as I was much absorbed in my work. Marie started.

"Oh! A cat!"

She moved to the floor and extended a hand to the Persian. Ayesha took two elegant steps forwards, then sat, maintaining her distance, and watched Marie with her luminous, skeptical blue eyes, tail flicking back and forth.

"I should warn you, my dear," I said lightly, glancing across the room, "she is not a very polite hostess; she is not familiar with strangers."

Marie nodded, face loosing some of its gladness. For a moment I wished I had a more hospitable pet, but then remembered that I would not sacrifice my darling lady for anything.

"She has a lovely collar."

I smiled, returning to the keyboard.

"It is from the Shah of Persia's own treasury." A smirk curled my lips at the memory of how it had come into my possession.

"The Shaw?"

"The king of Persia, my dear."

Marie said a soft 'oh', and continued to watch Ayesha, who followed suit and gazed back with wary eyes. The girl put out a hand again in invitation, bidding the cat to sniff. The silky ears went back, fur raising upon her neck, but she did nothing more. I returned to my work, keeping a partial vigil on the situation behind me, for I wished neither party to become grieved; I should hate to see those pretty white arms scratched. Marie sighed when Ayesha made no move to except her offer, and rested back upon the settee.

Whence I next looked at the timepiece, it was after seven thirty in the evening. Rubbing tiredness from my face, I swiveled in my seat; Ayesha had not moved from her spot, and although she now lay on the carpet, her eyes still rested upon Marie. As for the latter, she had moved no more than the cat. She was asleep, head cushioned by her arm. I sat, as engrossed as my pet.

Something about the scene produced a spark within me; Marie de Voisins slept on my settee, in my home, in my opera house, wearing the gown I had given her that very morning (a fine empire style, made of cerulean satin as I'd planned that day in the wardrobe hall…). Everything around her…everything about her current state all declared my possession over her. Everything about her declared that she was mine. I shuddered.

Ayesha purred softly when I rose; pausing I reached to stroke her head, then moved on. I have said before that Marie looks exquisite when she sleeps; it had never been more true than at that moment. I gently touched her cheek. It was warm and soft. Her eyelashes fluttered at my touch; she stirred, waking.

"Should you care for some supper?"

I asked quietly. Marie blinked drowsily--- my mind flashed back to the first morning as I'd watched her awaken--- then sat up.

"What time is it?" she asked in a fuzzy voice, seeking a clock.

"Nearly eight in the evening. Are you hungry?"

She shook her head; perhaps she had better go back to sleep. Then we could begin early.

"Come along. If you shan't eat, then it is to bed with you."

She did not take much persuading, trailing behind as I escorted her down the main hall. I could not help but wonder why she was so tired, but decided it was of little matter. After seeing her safely into the Louis-Philippe room, I returned to the piano. There would be no organ playing, not when Marie tried to sleep but one room over. But I could not continue to work. The afore mentioned spark was slowly but incontestably becoming a flame; I was catching light.

I fought for a time, gazing sightlessly forward at my current score. The page was stark white--- her skin was white as snow--- the bar lines harsh in their unforgiving, straight ranks--- her lashes were black as an onyx cameo--- each notation was jotted in red ink--- her sweet mouth was red as blood--- I could not escape from her. Marie filled my soul, intoxicated my mind. I groaned, clutching a hand to my face.

Turning, I searched for Ayesha, but the cat had left, no doubt off to do important, cattish things. There was nothing, then, to distract me. I had to go to her. I had to watch her, to smell her. I stood, even as I moved to her bedroom--- when had it become hers?--- realizing that my love was becoming obsession. I was drowning, and more than willing to do so; for when I stopped struggling, she was there.

The hall was dark; I had removed the lights so Marie could sleep untroubled. This did not thwart my vision, for much accustomed to the dark was I. The door was well oiled; I could enter soundlessly. The trouble of turning the knob was never an issue, for it was opened a crack to start--- I must have neglected to shut it firmly, my subconscious perhaps guessing my later return.

Her form was visible beneath the blankets; small, slim, appealing. Mine. After taking two more steps towards her, I betook another shape upon the bed, this one much more petite. I thought my eyes must be deceiving me. Surely I must be wrong…Yet, there it was; there she was. My unreceptive, distrusting, visitor-loathing cat lay there, beside one delicate, pale hand, sleeping as soundly as her human counterpart.

I stared for a long time at the scene. A small part of my mind felt invidious; never before had Ayesha warmed to any other creature. Not Nadir. Not Christine. Not Jules. Only me. Now she went to another in lieu of myself. Was the act not traitorous? The rest of my psyche was much more agreeable engaged. For what better a sign could I have been sent? It was true that Ayesha had remained frosty to my occasional guests, but now she, after the careful analysis performed in the parlor, came to become partial to Marie. My most darling Marie. My love. My life. My always…

Falling silently to my knees before the bed, I fixed my eyes on her sweet face. I trusted Ayesha's judgment unequivocally. Marie belonged here. She belonged with me.

Since the last time I did this in closing it was so well received, here we go again! It's time for Pax's Poem of the Day (it's a haiku this time!)

I enjoy singing.

Except the really high notes.

They make my brain ouch.

Utter brillance, 'tis it not? By the way, I know "ouch" is generally not used in this context, but for the sake of my art... forgive me...