Authoress's Note:
Thanks, Kiribilus. I'll try and incorporate more singing. The tough part for me is finding the right places for people to break into song. Anyway, I also wanted to point out to you, and everyone else, that Celeste doesn't sing. That will be explained in Chapter Five.

Brief reminder, anything sung is down alone, by itslef, and has "a ", while anyhting thought has 'a '

And as to how Erik will redeem himself… Who knows? On with the show!

Chapter Four: Friends and Foes

That night was quickly forgotten. Everyday Celeste spent the majority of her time practicing for the next show, both at the theatre and the instant she returned to the hotel. The week passed, with the entire cast and hands of the Vittoria waiting earnestly (and Erik in dread) for the arrival of Seniora Gudicelli. In fact, the lady did not even show on the day she was expected. All had stood in the grand reception hall from the morning until nearly midnight, but she never showed. Celeste was hoping, for Erik's sake, that this feindly soprano had changed her mind.

However, it wasn't to be. The woman arrived in the middle of rehearsal. As the orchestra and the leading tenor, Benedetto, were rehearsing 'La donna e mobile', Senior Fetine, the manager, came running in as if the Devil was at his heels.

"She is here!" he screamed, "Hurry! Hurry! She's just come and she's furious!"

Celeste, along with he colleagues, left their instruments and seats and hurried out of the pit and up between the seats and aisles, and out the doors to the reception hall. Then, the dancers, the other singers, and the backstage crew piled in from every door and direction as Senior Fetine led a woman into the theatre. She was of middling height, and had hair so red it was obviously either dyed or a wig. Her outfit was a mass of black colored fur and feathers. Her face showed her age, with crows' feet enhanced, rather than hidden, by her make up. It was possible this woman could have been a little pretty in her youth, but whatever had happened to her as an adult had done a great deal of damage to her looks.

"Madams and Monsiuers, Seniors and Senioras, please welcome out new first Soprano, Seniora Carlotta Gudicelli." Fetine said, letting go of his Carlotta's hand and clapping. Everyone started clapping wildly immediately… except Celeste, but she caught on and clapped hard.

"Thank you, thank you," Carlotta said in an overly thick accent. She shed her enormous coat (though why she needed it in summer was a mystery to Celeste) and curtsied, waving as if she were a lost queen returned to her kingdom. "I am-a honored to be-a welcomed so-a warmly een-a my-a mother country," she said, smiling. Then, in less time than it takes to blink, she burst into tears and wailed. "Oh! If-a only my-a darling Ubaldo were-a here! My heart, she weeps for-a all eternity!" then she produced a larger than life hanky and blew her nose. It was louder than a tuba, but made the same sound as one.

As she cried, she looked at the assembled crew and frowned, then said, "What are-a you looking at! Go away!"

As many stated to leave, a man from the orchestra, breaking from the throng and walking up to Carlotta said, "We all offer our condolences, Seniora." He was shorter than most everyone, but not a dwarf, and had a mustache that was styled to curl up under his nose. On his head sat a toupee that in no way whatsoever could have passed for his own hair. He took Carlotta's hand and kissed it, then said, gazing at her adoringly,

"Bella Flora, great beauty of the age,
O gracious muse,
please do excuse their lack
of concern.
Please dry your tears from your
spellbinding eyes.
Instead let your smile return."

The actress giggled, and asked Fetine, "Who ees this-a charming man? I hope I have-a the pleasure of sharing the stage with-a him."

"Terribly sorry, Seniora," Fetine said, "He is Enri Gaucinii, our accomplished first chair violinist."

"Oh, but I have dabbled in acting, my dear," Enri said. Carlotta giggled again.

'Now I know why Erik hates her,' Celeste thought as she turned to go back to rehearsal. But Fetine saw her black mane as she did, and called out, "Oh Seniora Diamond, come back!" Celeste winced. She turned back around and slowly walked up to Fetine, Enri, Carlotta, and her entourage.

"Seniora Gudicelli," Fetine said, waving his hand behind him to make Celeste hurry, "May I present a rising star in our humble theatre: Seniora Diamond Hitoshima."

"That's a stage-a name if ever I-a heard eet," Carlotta said, looking at Celeste as if she were dog droppings she'd racked off her shoes.

Fetine coughed, and stammered, "W- well, even so, she is a marvel. Not even twenty-one years old and she already has a talent that equals Senior Gaucinii."

"That's a tad overstating things, isn't it?" Enri said, huffing. "I do, after all, have far more experience and have worked harder than she ever has!"

"Pardon me, Senior, I didn't mean-"

"Then you shouldn't have spoken!" Carlotta spat, "This man has obviously more talent-a than this… Foreign girl." she turned to Enri, gave him a charming ( not really) smile and gushed, "Enri, would you honor me and-a show me to-a my dressing room?"

"Of course, oh magnificent Diva," he said, offering his arm and guiding into the building.

"Well…" Fetine said, twiddling his thumbs, "That went well." The sad thing was he sounded like he really believed it.

Break

Erik rapped his baton on the table yet again.

"No, no, NO!" he shouted, frustrated. He pinched the bridge of his nose, the he looked at Celeste and asked, "Why are you missing every note?"

"I'm sorry!" Celeste shouted, gesturing in the air with her bow. "I'm still mad at that… that… That ostrich and that penguin!" she had told him about the meeting. This did not bode well.

"Block them from your thoughts," he said, trying to sound patient. "If you desire to make beautiful music, you must push everything else form your mind- forget the world exists! Focus on the music- become the notes; be the score." he raised the baton again and she raised her bow, he took a deep breath, getting ready to sing 'Se ben rammentomi', again.

Celeste dropped her arm and declared, "It just makes me want to scream!"

Erik fell forward, put his elbows on the table, his head in his hands, and sigh with exasperation.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry," Celeste said, positioning her violin and bow again, "Here, I'm ready to play now."

"Forget it," Erik said, standing up and pacing,

"You're of no mind to play tonight.
If you let these morons get away with
distracting you then
you should burn that thing,
and leave now,
for they will have won."

"I'm not quitting because a peacock and a pig think I'm a talking turd," Celeste said.

"Language, Madam," Erik said. He hated that she still spoke that way, even if it was only in private. "Or have those lessons been for nothing, as well?"

"To Hell with your lessons!" Celeste shouted. She leaped up and stomped to her bed and threw herself on it.

Erik sighed again and walked to his own rooms. He went to a table and poured himself a glass of cognac and downed it in a gulp. He set that down, hung his head a moment. What was he going to do with this girl? Christine was never this way. When La Carlotta had insulted Christine, the girl would often cry, but never speak like a drunk in a pub. He shook his head. He would not think of Christine. She wasn't his student, now, Celeste was. And like it or not, Celeste's tongue was harsh and sometimes vulgar because of her life on the streets. He could live with it.

He straightened his shirt and returned quietly to give his pupil one more chance, but as he opened the door, he saw her turned to the window, but she wasn't looking at it. She was looking at something in her hand. As Erik took another step, the floor creaked, and Celeste, looking like a child caught sneaking a taste of cake, hurried and put whatever she had been looking at back in the drawer of her bedside table.

"What do you want," she asked, raking a hand through her long tresses.

"I had thought to give practice one more try," he replied, walking to the edge of her bed.

"I can't concentrate," she said, shaking her head.

Erik's eyes looked from her to the drawer, then he asked, "Perhaps we can talk, then. A light conversation?"

She looked up at him, her eyes saying, 'You must be joking,' but she didn't say that. Instead she said, "I'm tired. I'd prefer to go to bed."

"Then good night," Erik said, walking out. However, he did not go to bed just then. Instead he waited until Celeste was asleep. Then, without stepping in the creaking spot, he snuck into her room. He crept to her bedside, and slowly opened the drawer. Years of subterranean life had helped to make his eyes see better in the dark than anyone else. He reached in and took out the one object in the drawer. A tiny picture, framed in a simple wood oval. It was no photograph, but a painting. In it was a young Japanese girl, with her face painted white, though her very dainty hands were golden, and her black hair bound up behind her head. She was wearing a white kimono decorated with the occasional pink or blue blossom. Her eyes were dark brown. Erik had to squint, because though the face couldn't' have been older than fourteen when she posed for this, it was identical to Celeste's. The only difference was that this child looked so innocent and happy, with her life ahead of her. Celeste had been treated far too cruelly, and would never be this innocent again.

Then, Erik had a thought. Could this girl have been Celeste's mother? And if so, why would she keep a picture of a mother she didn't know?

Before he could ponder this more, Celeste rolled over in her sleep. Erik placed the oval back in the drawer, and glanced at her, then moved like a shadow out of the room. Before he went to sleep that night, he took back his earlier thought. Celeste could look that innocent. When she slept.

Break

The days after that, though civil at home, were a nightmare in the theatre for Celeste. As Carlotta moved her things into the main dressing room and pushed and bullied Senior Fetine around, she endured Gaucinii's insults.

"Tells us, little China girl, don't you ever tune that rotting wooden box you call a violin?" he asked her that afternoon during a quick break.

"I don't know, do you shine that ball you carry on your shoulders? Oh, forgive me, that's your head."

The string section suppressed giggles as Gaucinii's face and neck folds turned red.

"Excuse me, I need to stretch my legs," Celeste said. As she went out the door, she couldn't help but feel like she was being followed. She looked over her shoulder, but didn't se anyone. She hurried on up the small staircase out into the backstage area. Suddenly, she heard a crash, and spun around. Sprawled and struggling to get up was a young boy, couldn't be more than sixteen years old. He had run into a pile of props.

Celeste, and three stagehands went to untangle him from the jumble. "What happened?" one of the men asked.

"I- I was just leaving to get some fresh air," said the boy. Celeste helped him to his feet.

"You look familiar," she said.

"Oh, I'm nobody," he said nervously, as the stage hands left them. "I'm just another member of the band, you might say."

"Everyone's someone," Celeste said.

"You certainly are, Miss Diamond." he said, smoothing his short, red hair.

"Well you know my name, what's yours?" she asked him, holding his arm.

"My name's Pierre," he answered, "I am not that well known, At least not like you,"

"What do you play?" Celeste asked him.

"I play in percussion,
Actually, that's not all.
I'm supposed to play the tympani,
But I dream of writing symphonies
," and he blushed as he added, "I also like to write stories."

"That's wonderful," Celeste said, delighted and surprised that a writer was hiding in their midst. "What kind of things do you write?"

"Well," Pierre said, "I know people are very keen on Gothic novels, or operas set in Italy or France or England, but… I like to write about other places."

"Like where?"

"Like America," he said with enthusiasm, "Or Russia. And Japan! Oh how I would love a tale from Japan. And… Unless I am mistaken, your name is Japanese, yes?"

She laughed, "Yes, it is."

"Then, are you? Truly?" he asked with hope in his eyes.

"Sort of," she answered. "I'm actually half French, too."

"Oh how romantic!" he exclaimed, looking at her, "I can picture it: An enchanting French maiden, taken in by a Samurai Lord, and-"

"Stop, stop, stop," she said, waving her hands in front of him, "Get your head out of the clouds. My father was French."

"But, I thought-"

"It's a long story," she said.

"Oh," Pierre said, looking at her with big puppy dog eyes. "I would love to hear it."

"Out of my way!" Carlotta bellowed as she stomped through the backdrops, coming on them like a terrible pink gale. "Someone send-a the Rice Girl and this-a snively child out of here." the red head commanded a pale looking man in spectacles.

"Madam, you speak disrespectfully to the greatest musician you will ever have the privilege to meet," Pierre said, looking at Carlotta like he was about to punch her nose.

"Oh, I have-a never insulted Senior Gaucinii," she said, not to Pierre, but to Celeste. Then she burst out laughing and pushed both youth and girl out of her way, her cronies following on her expensive heels.

"Why that excuse for a powder puff," Celeste seethed.

"Diamond, Diamond,
pay no mind to her
," Pierre told her.
"She's not worth the time it takes
for an insult
."

Celeste sighed. "You're right. But since the Prima Donna is heading for the stage, we need to hurry back to our places," she picked up her skirt, and they dashed back the way they had come, not even stopping when Pierre kicked an overturned bucket, and staggered to catch up.