Sorry for the long wait. I am in my last month of high school.

Graduating + Hormones Insanity.

In other news, Allegratree is my beta! Everyone who reads this should kiss my fish! (Unfortunately, she is in the middle of a move, so any mistakes this chapter are still 100 my fault.)

Chapter Twenty Four: Along Came a Spider

Leah

Orpheus made his case before the minions of hell as I coiled a lock of hair around my finger.

Anxiety writhed inside me, driving me to my old habit of calming myself. Only a few strands of dusky colored down had escaped my severe hair style. Now I fingered them thoughtlessly, twisting them about my unsteady fingers. Hortense would have a fit, I thought absently as I watched the bright colors of the performance from my hushed scrap of floor.

The typically reserved girl had offered to help dress my hair in an unexpected surge affability. She had spent nearly an hour in labor under the hot electric bulbs that illuminated the mirrors of one of the three community dressing rooms.

I still smelled faintly of the cologne and booze that unvaryingly occupied those rooms as surely as girlish gossip. But the twittering of my fellow ballerinas during the last dress rehearsal had been forgotten long ago.

Now the air of the backstage was pervaded by the tang of sweat, nerves, and the unmistakable fragrance of grease paint. It was a thin relief to my pride that the other young women around me seemed to be faring no better.

Even 'La' Sorelli, as she had begun to title herself, was showing signs of weariness. She and several others leaned back against a dusty set piece that the stagehands had failed to remove in time for opening night.

But they were not the only ones to take refuge there.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed a sharp jump from the great one herself. Her abrupt expression was beyond any nominal value I could name as she barely suppressed a squeal of terror.

Until Lisset removed the tiny spider from her flailing form.

"How easily the mighty have fallen." I mused with a smile. "She's not very graceful when she's thrashing around like a dying insect, now is she?"

But scene one of act two was coming quickly to a close, and I had no time to revel in my private comedy. Now only one ballet segment stood between me and the stage.

Unfortunately, that portion was Sorelli's newest triumph, a short duet with Ingvar. That boy was the waking dream of every woman within a three hundred foot radius.

And to think, my tutor had once said that my trigonometry was hopeless.

I sighed, watching his toned, Finnish legs soar about the stage. He carried himself like the stunning apparition that he was, making an excellent match for the picturesque Sorelli.

"She would have been better cast as a harpy." I groused to myself in bleak jealousy.

My bitterness was cut short by the orchestral cue for my entrance.

Thought instantly fled, and my feet took up the slack. All the extra hours of practice during my sleepless nights had ingrained the routine in my recollection. Now I gave every ounce of my concentration over to the character. I fell into practiced step with the rest of the corps, reveling in the way our movements fit together like puzzle pieces. My insignificance in the grand scheme of the opera, while biting, no longer concerned me. In a breeze of tulle and pale lace, I was a spirit of another world. Gone were the nagging concerns of tired legs and an envious heart. I was exultant and free.

I was bliss in toe shoes.

Fluttering off the stage in a state of ecstasy, I supported my tingling body on a shadowy prop while listening to the next selection. Madame Jocelyne Taillon, the resident lyric soprano, filled the auditorium with the ethereal notes of the aria of the blessed spirit.

When the last bows had come and gone and I had changed into a less flimsy frock, I began to steer my numb legs towards the safe harbor of our bed room. My course should have been made in open water, as I did not remain behind with the larger number of the ballerinas to 'greet' the Populaire's younger patrons. Beth had told me which corridors to use to avoid unwanted attention. Besides, no self respecting rogue would bother to pursue a chaste ballet rat who fled from the dressing rooms.

Or so I thought.

Inwardly I cursed myself for not having a better sense of direction. Obviously I had taken a wrong turn somewhere, for an obstruction now hindered my passage through the halls. Actually, several obstructions.

In elegant evening suits.

Privately joking amongst themselves, their faces were contorted by laughter. An air of easy grace hung around them, as if they could do no wrong. And they knew it.

Strangely, I found that their arrogance was almost an attractive quality. I slowed a bit to observe them as they sauntered closer, seeming not to notice my presence.

My girlish heart fluttered anxiously as their faces became clearer in the dimness of the hallway. All three were quite handsome.

Stalking closer, I could feel their eyes on me. The sensation was unnervingly similar to the imaginary presence I had once felt in these halls, yet these gazes held no terror for me.

Until now, I had not understood why so many of the other girls were so eager to flit about with subscribers. But as they looked at me, as he looked at me, I felt a pinprick of understanding. That critical observation caused an upwelling of new emotions. I felt strangely pretty, as though his approval validated my beauty.

I recognized one of them as a regular attendee of my mother's galas. My twittering heart ceased to beat flatly in my chest as I failed to breathe. I had accidentally run into him in the empty hallways of our house one night when the grand hall was full. He had been achingly polite and we had spoken briefly. I had spent several weeks afterwards thinking of him. His lean, lanky form. His rakish coal curls. And only three years my senior at that. My impressions of Rene Bouguereau from last year were still very fresh in my mind.

Would he remember me?

I was equally torn between praying he didn't and wishing he would.

My prayers eventually won out. The boys did indeed take notice of me, but it seemed that Duke Bouguereau was oblivious to ever having made my acquaintance. That little detail didn't prevent the trio from forgoing the formalities

They were so close…

The burly blond on the count's left was the first to speak up.

"Hello beautiful." There was a strange glint in his eyes that automatically sent my defenses back to their heightened state of caution. He deftly slipped my fingertips into his cool, gloved palm and trapped them in a hot breathed kiss before I knew what was happening.

"Do I dare request a name from the lips of the lovely Mademoiselle?" He asked audaciously.

"I'm not sure Monsieur, I suppose you will have to make that choice yourself." I replied cautiously, trying to feel out his intentions.

Well, he was rather handsome… And besides, it couldn't hurt to flirt back just a little. Not every man in the backstage was looking for sex. Just most of them.

He seemed a bit surprised to meet with resistance on my part. And improbably enough, a bit amused.

"If that is the case, I suppose I shall just have to risk my pride and dare indeed." The corners of his eyes were well suited to laugh lines.

Rene and his other companion apparently decided that this was their cue to exit the stage. But not without one pass at me. I felt a spidery clutching at my skirts. I turned to see a smirk on the dear count's face. How dare he… he… grope me!

I never liked him that much anyway.

But my attention was soon refocused on my new acquaintance.

He muttered something less than noble under his breath.

"Please forgive my cousin. He can be a bit of an ass when the occasion presents its self."

I couldn't quell my quiet laugh. Perhaps I might enjoy his company after all. He didn't seem so bad.

"You have a lovely smile Mademoiselle."

My eyes grew round. This was a rapid change. What was he after? I was beginning to get a bit nervous.

That is until I saw an unexpected face coming towards us from the end of the hall.

And he wasn't happy.

Author's notes:

Any guesses on our unhappy friend?

A lyric soprano is a specific type of singing voice. I know what it is, but I can't figure out how to explain it properly. I appeal to any music teachers/professionals.

Jocelyne Taillon actually was a French mezzo around 1920 or so. I thought the name was pretty and suited the minor character.

Woot. I managed to work in some humor! Yey me. I can only hope my dear readers understand my twisted sense of funny.

I wanted to show that Leah is inexperienced with boys, but not very naive. Did it come across?

Responses

JPT: Blonde-ditzy or just blonde:D

I love you for reviewing!

Allegratree: I sympathize with the moving thing. No fun at all. For now, I was overly eager to post this chapter. So when you are back on your feet, let me know. You and your stress levels will be in my prayers.