Come What May
A.N. Ok, I know it's been awhile. Writing two stories at once is a little overwhelming. I'll try to be more speedy from now on. Thanks for the reviews.
Disclaimer: I don't own Moulin Rouge
Three weeks after the invitation argument, Cassandra awoke to a loud crash in the kitchen, followed by her mother exclaiming "Stupid turkey!"
It was Thanksgiving.
Cassandra never understood why, on a holiday where people were supposed to be grateful, people complained more on Thanksgiving than any other day of the year. As she groggily began to get dressed, she remembered something. This was no ordinary Thanksgiving. Today, she would get to meet Harold, and possibly find out some more information on her mother's past. She would have to be sneaky, though. That was the one problem with Thanksgiving. It involved everyone sitting together in one room, so it wouldn't be easy to catch Harold at a moment when her parents weren't around.
On Thanksgiving Cassandra had the same job many other children have: stay out of the way. So she decided to wait in her room until the guests arrived. While she waited, she continued reading the script. She still had no idea what a courtesan, a maharajah, or a sitar player was. But she was able to understand the story with a few minor word substitutions. Wherever she saw courtesan, she substituted princess. Maharajah was replaced by evil king, and sitar player was replaced by prince. With those changes, the story resembled a fairy tale like the ones she had read when she was younger. Cassandra found herself enthralled with the story, until she heard the doorbell ring downstairs. This was it. It was showtime.
Cassandra slowly walked down the stairs, hiding her excitement under her "Innocent, shy child" routine. She stood at the base of the stairs while her mother opened the door, and was immediately embraced by several of the strangest looking people she had ever seen in her life. A tiny man, about two inches shorter than herself, was first. He latched himself onto Satine's legs and then onto Christian's. He seemed very happy, but Cassandra wondered if this was a natural state or if he had been enhancing his mood with a chemical of some kind. He spoke with a lisp, much like some of the children she had played with when she was small.
After the small man had made his way inside, a larger man came in. This one seemed rather boisterous. He called Satine "Sparrow" and was just as affectionate as the smaller man had been. No one had seemed to notice her yet, which Cassandra was glad for. She wanted to get a good look at these people before she joined in.
As more and more people entered, Cassandra sat down on the bottom step, as if she was watching a parade. Three more men entered, followed by an older woman. Her joy at not being noticed quickly faded. She cleared her throat loudly, causing her father to turn around.
"Oh, Cassandra. Come here, I have some people for you to meet. These are some of our friends from when we lived in Paris. This is Harold Zidler, Marie, Satie, the Doctor, and the unconscious Argentinean. And this is…"
"Please, allow me to introduce myself. I'm Henri Marie Raymond Toulouse Lautrec Monfa. You have gwown some since we wast saw you." The smaller man had maneuvered his way to the front of the group.
All of them seemed nice enough, but Cassandra was most excited at the introduction of the first guest. So this was Harold Zidler. Her suspicions of his involvement in the mystery play were confirmed when he said the Christian "So, it looks like our sitar player isn't so penniless anymore, now is he?"
Cassandra knew that she couldn't just come out and ask all of her questions. She had to do this very subtly. So she sat in the living room with her parents, and listened to stories about dancers and elephants and green fairies. She had no idea what her parents were talking about, but she smiled sweetly and nodded along as if she did.
Dinner itself went smoothly. Cassandra was assigned the job of explaining to the guests why Thanksgiving was celebrated. She wondered when telling the stories of the first Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Fourth of July, or any holiday for that matter, would cease produce "Awwws" from everyone in the room. It didn't matter, though. She was on a mission, and if she had to play the cute little girl for a little while longer to succeed, she was willing to do it.
She learned one thing about Harold without even asking anything. Harold could eat a lot. Her mother had been right in saying that Harold loved any holiday with a huge meal. Through dinner, the topic of conversation shifted to the last ten or eleven years, and Cassandra was treated to every embarrassing story about her childhood that had ever existed, and even a few that didn't. "That's it. I have to break the cycle" she said to herself.
"So, Mr. Zidler, how did you meet my parents?"