K, I decided that 'The Silent Symphony' will instead remain as two parts, not three. Why, you ask? I AM GOD, PUNNY MORTALS! DO NOT QUESTION MY WISDOM! Whee-hee!

(Methinks that Eric's God complex is beginning to wear off on me…)

Any who, on with the show:

Chapter Thirty Seven: Adversary

Leah

Sweat trickled down my aching neck.

The lawn fabric of my spare blouse clung to each of my exhausted curves like a wet second skin, and my borrowed wool trousers itched incessantly. Beads of perspiration matted my tangled hair in a tight helmet around my scalp. Each drop that bloomed on my straining back tickled as it traced down my spine.

Hours of fencing had done little to drive away my sleeplessness tonight, but I trusted that tomorrow would be better. Ever since my accident, sleep had been a hard won and often fleeting prize. I suffered from frequent and disturbing nightmares of endless falling and pools of blood.

To escape the nightly torment, I had taken to coming up to the now abandoned chapel after the rest of the Garnier was fast asleep. Every few nights were spent in mindless exercise, affording me several evenings of dreamless sleep before the next restless night came around.

If I could not dance, at least I could still sweat until I was senseless.

As I practiced the mechanical forms, my mind always found an opening to wander unmercifully. I could not seem to accept Beth's poetic ideas about my life having meaning. I would much rather have remained ignorant of her promised brighter bliss if it could have meant avoiding this agony.

Even after four months, through the torture of the other girls' mockery and my scandalous hair and the change in my career, the shock of my loss seemed fresh every morning when I woke. I began to attempt to lose myself in my new work.

To be fair, not all of my work was as irritating as writing for M Blune. Mercifully, (Though the man continued to be as disgusting as ever.) I had less contact with him after the close of a wildly successful run of Carmen.

Each new opera tended to require a bit of fine tuning to adapt it to the specific needs of Garnier. And each of these alterations compelled me to interact with that … creature … for short spans of time. Still, the less I saw of him, so much for the better, and I was learning to put up with his irritating insinuations for short periods of time.

I only wished that my other livelihoods were becoming less burdensome.

The mainstay of my time was spent as an errand girl for various departments of the opera house. While I did not particularly enjoy this assignment, I had made a few kind acquaintances in the proprietors of market booths and small shops whilst making purchases.

It was an odd sensation to be outside of the walls of the Garnier again. I had once believed that those walls could hold the entirety of my life, leaving nothing to want. In the fresh air and under the bright sun, however, my heart was indecisive. The two settings could not have been more different, yet they were strangely similar at times.

The opera was filled to the brim with breathtaking music, but the open streets sang in the strains of noisy babble that passed between common people squabbling over the current price of leeks. One was dark and mysterious, while the other was full of life and color. One was full of friends and sad memories of the dreams I couldn't keep, and the other of anonyminity and false but filling laughter. There were two worlds that called to me now.

Which would claim my heart?

Adjusting to my next set of exercises, I loosed my serviceable dagger from its discreet sheath that I constantly wore on my upper thigh. Henry's fencing instructor had taught the use of the dagger as a secondary weapon and my dear brother had dutifully passed on the wisdom. I examined it for a moment, running my fingers over the well worn wooden handle.

Despite its propensity for catching on the delicate fabric of my undergarments, I was a bit surprised that more of the girls didn't wear them, especially in light of our close proximity to a large number of stagehands that were prone to frequent boozing.

Returning to my routine, I threw myself back into the work. As my body quickly glided from stance to stance, my fantasy opponent began to resemble my newest supervisor.

Mme. Bygler.

The woman was quite possibly the most exasperating human being I had ever encountered.

I shouldn't have allowed myself such sinful thoughts, but I indulged for a few moments before attempting to consider her objectively. Thera Bygler was a minuscule speck of a woman with more wrinkles than Mme. Oriela's little dog. Though she headed the costume department, the fierce eyed harpy was nearly blind at any distance further than a few feet.

It had taken some time to grow accustomed to her odd, shuffling gait and her incessant squinting in the stifling surroundings of the costume room. Her voice was sharp and gratingly shrill. Whenever I heard it, I was forcibly reminded of a small, wet rodent that had shrunken in the sun. (In much the same manner that one would see a grape shrink into a raisin.)

Everything about the head seamstress was sharp, disciplined, and demanding, from the outlines of her brittle little bones under her limp skin to her tyrannical overseeing of her department. Though I was only partially in her employ, as I had been relegated to the tedious task of detail work, she showed no compunctions about giving me a thorough tongue lashing upon discovering any minor flaw in my mind numbing products.

I had learned embroidery merely to satisfy my Abuela, and secretly hated the loathsome task. After only three or four hours of intense concentration on my tiny, even stitches, my head would always begin to throb. Mme. Bygler and her colorful commentary did little to ease my silent discomforts.

But nothing could really be done about her, so I resigned myself to my tedious fate. I could at least be thankful that she wasn't Monsieur Blune.

Try as I might to avoid the depressing circle of my thoughts, my efforts were cut in two. I seemed to dwell on my dead dreams with every waking moment. But I was at a loss when endeavoring to let go of them. Anger seemed to be my only outlet for my pain, and I used it as a fuel for my midnight disciplines.

It was as though some abstract cosmic hand had reached out, delved deep into the cavity of my chest, and left a terrible gaping hole in its wake. Try as I might, I could not fill the hole, nor could I lessen the pain. It was not for lack of trying.

I had thought to bury myself in my new occupations, but it was like attempting to fill a granite quarry with a few grains of sand. I had lost my life's purpose and nothing would ever bring it back.

I felt like an empty half of a whole.

Something was missing within me. Something vital.

Even my friends could do little to distract me, at times being the very causes of my hurt. Every time that I passed them tripping down the hall in their practice uniforms, I longed for what was denied to me.

Worse still, my absence had erected an unspoken barrier between us. Oh, they never said a word, but the pity in their eyes spoke to me in endless volumes. They had not excused me from any of my old activities, warmly inviting me to return to our nightly communions, despite the fact that I no longer slept in a student's dormitory. Their welcome and their love had not changed, not one iota.

Still, some ethereal bond of sisterhood had nearly been severed, for I was no longer a dancer. I no longer belonged in that part of this world, for I could not banter with them about what we had seen in rehearsals or who was seeing whom. It was sometimes easier on all of us that I simply forget to attend the bedside chats.

My new bed was a tiny one, obviously meant for a single occupant, in a remote corner of the first level basement.

I missed the sunlight like a dying flower. My cramped quarters did not contain even the faintest traces of a window. I imagined that it could be described as a preview for the grave, where one's body is trapped in a small box under the earth. I was simply a rat in a burrow, a mole in its pitiful little den.

Pushing my body to a higher level of exertion, I forced all the idle thoughts of self pity from my mind. As I grunted with the power behind my movements, I took up my grievances with the only one who was not uncomfortable around me these days.

"So Lord, where are the bright stars tonight?" I grimaced with bitterness and helplessness.

"Was there really a point to this?" I asked as I blocked my imagined adversary.

"Couldn't you have managed some other way of maneuvering things? You know, something a bit less … painful?"

Despite my Job-like tone, I was open the most secret places inside and laying them bare before my God, my friend. Only he had ever heard me confess to fear or hurt so frankly.

With a swift, poorly timed thrust, I nearly fell over. I felt my cheeks on fire, for even if Jesus was the only witness to my breach, I hated to fail.

"Would it be so much to ask to at least send me a fencing partner?" I growled peevishly. "I'll never get any better without something more than thin air and a teenage imagination!"

"Why are you so very determined to keep me alone? Will no one stay near me?"

"Just answer me! I need a little show of good faith."

"…Please?"

A few moments of disgruntled silence on both our parts, my foil struck something solid. A metallic ring hung in the air like a trumpet of judgment.

"Who the hell are you?"

The words poured out of my lips in a state of pure petrifaction and shock, making a strange contrast to the accusatory tone of my voice.

In the deficient light of my flickering hurricane lamp, I could only make out the ominous edges of a massive figure in the darkness.

And it had a rapier of its own.

Author's notes: Well, this was the BIG EXCITING chapter that I had planed to post for the hundredth review, but you know what they say about the best laid plans… Any guesses on what comes next?

On a real life note, I just made the most EXCELENT discovery in my basement. I found two boxes of joy, one full of leather and cloth bound books that date back to 1900 and earlier (and half of them are gothic romance novels and poetry! I love my ancestors!) and another box full of sheet music that is just as old. Perhaps ogling my discoveries has been the reason behind my slight writer's block?

Yep, some women DID carry concealed knives under their clothing. Not everybody obviously, but enough for it to be historically feasible. I think Leroux might even have mentioned it in regards to Sorelli. Does anybody recall that, or am I more looney than usual today?

Fishy: I will edit that, many thanks. You like it, you really like it! (Throws her arms around you, causing any sensible creature to run for its life. You, however, being gifted with gills but not with legs, cannot go anywhere. Buwahaha!)

Kipper: I'm lovely? (She tears up and wants to hug you, but seeing as you DO have legs, she refrains, content to give you the psychotic joy of another chapter.) Oodles of thanks for the info on the curse… (Plots and rubs her hands with maniacal glee) I'd love to know what you predict the name thing to be about. You mentioned 'gory glory'. I just have this need to know if you have gotten it or not. (And hey, if your idea is better than mine, you can have the 'honor' of allowing me to pirate from you. (Winks) If you don't want to give away your guess on the review board, feel free to e-mail me.

My favorite homeless bum (well, you ARE the only homeless bum I know presently, therefore my favorite.): poor burn victims. Get better! Much love for the review.