Letter from K. Pryde, 117 Rue de la, Paris, France to Professor Charles Xavier, Xavier House, London, England.
Dear Professor Xavier;
I am sorry to hear that you are being taken to court over fishing rights to the lake. It sounds as though there will be a drawn out and tedious law-suit over this. I can hardly imagine that Lord Stephens is going to win, but why would he want to fish there anyway? I don't recall ever seeing anything larger than a minnow in it. I think it's all because Logan is away. He intimidated Lord Stephens just by breathing.
I am writing to you from the desk in my room here in Frau Levy's boarding house for young ladies—specifically, young Jewish ladies. Or, as Frau Levy hints, all her boarders are ladies except for me. I am a dancing girl, and she does not approve of me.
Ultimately, I chose her over a theatrical-profession landlady because I can eat at her table and keep my food down afterward. It does me no good to rationalize that rabbit, pork and shellfish are perfectly wholesome, and that many people eat them every day. Or that cream sauces do not contaminate meat, because while I might be able to convince my brain of that, I can't convince my stomach. Fortunately I was not brought up so very strictly as Hephzibah Goldberg, another girl who rooms here—she's fainted from hunger in public because she couldn't bring herself to eat away from a kosher table. On the other hand, she eats little enough at Frau Levy's table, but that could be a different kind of problem.
My room itself is fresh and white—very white, scrubbed and painted. To help relieve the coldness of all that white, I've put up the ukiyo-e prints I got in Japan, when Logan and I were there two years ago, hung my second-best sword on the wall for a decoration, and bought a geranium for my window sill. Not the candy-apple sort of geranium, but the ruffle-flowered kind, with purple and magenta blooms. I have a bed, a wardrobe, a washstand, a desk/vanity table, a chair, and a bathroom—which I share with six other girls.
For this and two meals a day, breakfast and supper, I pay 40 francs a week, which is five more than the girls in more respectable professions pay, and laundry is extra. Laundry, in this case, means not only my clothes, but the bed-linens and towels. This brings the charge up closer to fifty francs.
All-in-all, life here is both more expensive and more restricted than I had thought it would be. Frau Levy has a lot rules I must abide by, or face eviction. I cannot have any food or drink in my room, not so much as a cookie or a cup of tea. I cannot entertain guests in my room, not even female ones—not even another girl who rooms here. I can only have visitors in the sitting room, and no men unless they are elderly relatives—and even then, I couldn't be alone with him.
I don't get a key to the front door. If I must come in late, and once I start performing, I will have to, I must ring and wake half the house. Should I ever stay out all night, I will be thrown out—unless I'm in the hospital, or presumably, unless I'm dead, when it will no longer matter. This is quite a contrast to life at Xavier House, where you trusted us to sleep in the summer house if we felt like it, or to camp out under the stars.
I've been kept very busy at the Opera Populaire, with practice, drills, and rehearsals. It is very different from taking lessons three or four times a week! At the moment, I'm finding it exhausting, which is good. It is doing exactly what everyone was hoping—I fall asleep at night dreaming of pirouettes rather than Peter.
During the day, I am being put through the wringer by Madame Giry, who says that it will be weeks, if not months, before I am fit to set so much as one toe in front of an audience. The most difficult thing, I am finding, is learning how to perform with a large ensemble and call no attention to myself as an individual—to be part of a seamless whole. The second most difficult thing is wrapping my toes so that when my blisters break and bleed, I don't stain my shoes—or my bed sheets.
With all of this, you may be wondering about the Opera Ghost, who is very much a living Evolved. I haven't learned that much more since I wrote to Kurt, but what I predicted has already come true. He is taking an interest in me.
Yesterday afternoon, after rehearsal, Madame Giry stopped me before I left the building. She had one of the Ghost's notes in her hand. "Mademoiselle Pryde—do you sing?" she asked.
"I sing—along, Madame."
"Sing along? What do you mean?"
"I've never had any vocal training. Xavier House was too small a school to have a music teacher. I took ballet lessons in town. When I said that I sing along, I mean I joined in when others sang, just for fun." I replied.
"Nevertheless, follow me." We collected Mademoiselle de Azay, the ballet corps' pianist, and went off to a poky little practice room tucked in underneath a flight of stairs. The Opera House is full of nooks like that—spaces that were never intended for use as rooms, pressed into service as needed. It's no wonder that the Ghost can live here undetected.
Mamselle de Azay took me up and down some scales, and then she gave me a piece of music. I can't read music, and I told her so. So she sang the song to me and played the tune, and I followed it as best I could. "Caro mio ben..." was how it started.
Neither one applauded when I finished, nor were they gaping silently in wonder at the unsuspected beauty of my voice. They weren't covering their ears or wincing in pain either, so I couldn't have been that bad.
When pressed for an opinion, Mamselle de Azay said, "Her upper register is undeveloped, and her lower register is lacking as well. She has no idea how to breathe, her phrasing is abysmal, she gasps loudly when she takes a breath, and she has no idea of projection whatsoever. She also scoops. Badly. On the other hand, she stayed on key, and she had good tone and resonance."
I had no idea what any of that meant and she must have seen that, so she explained, "You don't have a bad voice, but you are completely untrained. The world is full of not-bad voices. Take some lessons, and see if you improve."
I have asked what scooping means. It seems to be the vocal equivalent of shuffling your feet instead of picking them up and taking proper steps.
I'm guessing that the Ghost was secreted away somewhere listening. That must have been the point of going to that particular practice room. I hope his curiosity was satisfied, because I don't think I'm going to take any voice lessons. I came here to be a dancer, not a singer. I might spend a lot of time and money on singing lessons only to find out that 'not bad' is all my voice will ever be. There are a lot of other things I could do with the money.
On another note, you'll never guess what familiar face came through the Opera house the other day—Alice Blaire! It was good to see someone from home. We went out to lunch, and she asked to be remembered to you, and that I should send you her best regards, which I do.
Something that she said at lunch made me realize that you have given me the greatest evidence that you trust me—you allowed me to go to Paris on my own, and to join the Ballet corps here. I will try to deserve it.
I'll write again soon, but it's late.
Love,
Kitty
PS: Has anyone heard anything from Peter yet? Could something have happened to him?
Editor's Note: In case any readers may be wondering why Kitty seems to write a lot of letters and doesn't seem to get any, or why she writes so much to some people and not to others, the answer is that A: many of the letters she gets have little or nothing to do with her adventures in the Opera Populaire, so they aren't reproduced here—for example, the letter from Prof. X about his lawsuit over those fishing rights. Nobody would want to read about that in detail. If there's anything important in a letter she got, it'll be here. And B: many letters she writes tell the same news, only to different people. Also, some of the letters have been lost or destroyed. For example, several letters she sent to Logan in Japan were reluctantly used to start a fire in an emergency, when Logan was stuck in a freak snowstorm outside of Okinawa.
Letter from Katherine Pryde, Paris, France, to Auroré Munro, Xavier House.
Dear Auroré:
This is a letter which has in it some things that are a little too delicate to ask the professor about, so before you get into it, perhaps you ought to get out of his mental shouting range. Alice Blaire stopped by the Opera Populaire two days ago, and when she took me out to lunch, it turned out that she had some advice to give me, from a more experienced entertainer to a newcomer. I decided after thinking it over, that I should write to you and tell you what she said, because I really need to find out if her information is accurate.
This is how it happened: I was warming up at the barré in the public practice hall, when I heard a voice say, "Kitty—Kitty Pryde? Is that you?" It was Alice.
She was wearing a blue dress trimmed with ivory frills that made me want to cry out of envy, because it was so beautiful and matched her eyes so perfectly. It would have looked wonderful on you, too. It was cut in the new princess line, with a low square neck. I didn't care at all for her hat, though—the ivory bow and the silk cornflowers were all right, but then she had a dead bird on it—a taxidermied swallow, wings, tail, head, beak and all, stuck on the front of it. I was revolted.
She saw me looking at it, and misinterpreted my look. "Mme Brochet's on the Rue de la Paix," she said. "But what are you doing here?"
"In Paris, in the Opera Populaire, or in the Ballet Corps?" I replied.
"All three!" she said decisively.
"You know how when people go to the country to escape from bill-collectors, scandals, or broken hearts, it's called rusticating? I'm urbanizing, instead. I can't talk now, Alice. My Ballet mistress is about to thump a cane at us."
"Good God," she said, glancing at Madame Giry. "An Imperial Dragoness in human form. Do you get a lunch break?"
"Yes, at 11:30. And don't call her that, even in fun. She's very nice, underneath. Plus, she accepted me into the Corps."
"Then I take it back. I'll come back and take you out to—one of those tea places on the Rue de Rivoli. My treat. Will that be all right?" she inquired.
"Yes—if I'm back by one."
"Then it's settled."
She was as good as her word. As we left our cab to enter the tea shop, she was explaining, "I'm finishing up a run at the Opera Comiqué. I just stopped in to see what the Populaire's new managers were like. I'm off to Prague in less than a week."
Then we were in the salon de Thé. She asked for a secluded table, and the waiter led us half way down a hall to a table by a window that looked out over a tiny pocket garden that was all autumny gold and red.
"Good. This way, we can't be seen and so we won't disturb the peace of any unescorted men. Nor can we be overheard, which is good for my peace of mind."
"Unescorted men? I've heard of unescorted women, but—?" I asked.
"Any man on the loose without a woman to make him behave will be all over our table if we sit in the open. That's always happening to me, and if it hasn't happened to you yet, it will. I don't know what's changed you since I last saw you, but your eyes are just enormous, and you look very vulnerable, very fragile—which will draw the wolves."
"Like lambs to the slaughter," I remarked bitterly. "Any man who tries to make up to me right now is risking a slapped face, a bruised shin, and if I'm really annoyed, I'll do that trick with the knee and get him there."
"Ouch!" said Alice. "What's provoked this attitude?"
So I told her, which took us from tiny cups of steaming bouillon through the sandwiches and the potted salad. I cried—again—but it hurt less to tell it this time. It only felt like having a tooth pulled, not like having a limb amputated.
Once my apricot tart and her strawberry napoleon arrived, she lowered her voice and said, "I know Professor Xavier doesn't believe ignorance is any protection for a young woman, so I know you know the technical details. About—women and men. Mrs. McTaggert told you, right?"
"Yes. During the first week I was at the school. She cleared up a lot of confusion—the girls in my old school talked a lot about that, but they got most of it wrong."
"Well, Mrs. McTaggert won't have filled your head with nonsense about how most women aren't troubled with those sorts of feelings or about its being wrong or sinful. But she would have told you to wait until you have a ring or two on the proper finger of your left hand, am I right?" Alice looked at me with questioning eyes.
"Definitely."
"All right. Perhaps that's how life should work out, but it often doesn't. Umm—did you and Peter—anticipate your vows?"
"No, unless kissing counts." My face started going red.
"No." She took a deep breath. "Did anyone ever tell you how to put off becoming a mother? Beyond not doing that at all?"
"Never," I muttered. I was beet red. I could feel it.
She took a swallow of tea. "This isn't easy to talk about."
"I don't plan on needing to know—not any time soon."
"Any time can come sooner than you expect. Very well. To begin with—have you ever seen those advertisements for medicines to cleanse the womb? They're not made to help you through your monthlies. They're meant to bring on a miscarriage. Never buy them. Never take them. Most of them are sugar-water and trash like that, and don't work. The ones that do are poisons, and the dosage that works is perilously close to the dosage that will kill you. I have never taken one myself—I've never had to. But I've worked in the theater for some time now, and I've known several girls who did."
She continued, "Don't go to anyone, doctor, midwife, or any one else, who says they can make it go away with an operation, unless you want to bleed to death, or die of a putrid infection, or end up barren. There isn't any safe way to end it—not now, any way. The best thing to do is stop it before it begins."
Editor's note: Several paragraphs have been excised here, because these methods are not something you should try at home. Be glad you live in the 21st century. Be very, very, glad. If you really want to know, ask in a signed review and I'll email you what Alice said.
Alice finished by saying, "Also, never believe what a man says then. They're not in their right minds at the time. And if, even after all my advice, you should find yourself in trouble, go to the Professor. He would never throw you out. He would never abandon you. He'd find some way of dealing with your problem. It wouldn't be the end of your life, you know."
"Thank you—I think." I responded. "Did you come up with this as a way of scaring me off the idea? Because it worked, if you did."
"Not intentionally. I thought you ought to know. Look. You're away from home and without a chaperone for the first time. You're working in a theater and you're going to meet a lot of men. Many of them will find you attractive. The Ballet Corps is a recruiting ground for potential mistresses. Look at Agnes Sorelli. She's the mistress of the Comte de Chagny. And I guarantee you that some of your fellow petite rats have men friends who help them with the rent money."
I must have looked stunned, because she added, quickly, "It doesn't make them bad girls! It's more like—she's fond of him, and they're in love and they see each other, and he helps her out, here and there."
Auroré, the reason I'm confiding all of this to you is that I need to know—leaving aside whether her advice is good or bad—is it accurate? Can you find out the truth about the lemons and vinegar part of it?
Think of this as how much the Professor and Sir Erich trust me, because they must know this—and they let me come here, anyway!
Love to you forever,
Kitty
PS: Thank you for the news about Peter and his time in Vienna. Please keep me up to date on what he's doing. I cannot help wondering.
Excerpt from a letter:
Katherine Pryde to Sir Erich Lensherr.
I left something out when I wrote to the Professor about singing at the request of the Opera Ghost. The pianist, Mademoiselle de Azay, asked me if I'd never sung in a choir or in church.
I said, unwisely, I now know, "Where I worship, women aren't allowed to sit downstairs, let alone sing."
"Oh—and where is that?" she asked.
I realized my mistake, as I mumbled, "In Synagogue."—and this awful look came over her face.
"Then you're a—Jew." She made it sound filthy.
"Yes." I said. "I am."
It took hardly any time to get all over the Opera house.
I hadn't meant to keep it a secret—but I hadn't meant to advertise it, either. I wore my Star of David under my clothes. I never realized what a sheltered life I had in Xavier House, until I left it. Sheltered from financial need and from other unpleasant realities.
I would appreciate any advice you can give on how to be here, how to stay here, when a girl I joked with in the morning whispers, "Christ-killer!", under her breath at me in the afternoon, once she has learned what I am.
Sincerely yours,
Katherine Pryde
A/N to my reviewers:
Lackaz & Celticstorms: Thanks so much!
Ellen: Thanks! Kitty does make a very brief appearance in the first movie and Prof X. speaks to her by name before she phases through a door. I hope she gets a larger part in X3, if there will be one. As far as the name Rasputin goes, I think the writers wanted a very identifiably Russian name, but as far as this AU goes—what a good idea for a future story!
SperryDee: Thank you! I try to get details right. I hope you enjoy this chapter.
To all my readers (bless you!) There's not much Erik in this chapter, but the next will have a lot more, the fifth chapter will be almost entirely Erik, and if my ADD meds hold out, either chapter 6 or chapter 7 will be about Sir Erich meeting Erik….