Chapter Three: Cold Shoulder

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Mme. Giry

The whole affair was a bit of a mystery.

And being mystified was not a sensation I often experienced. Or enjoyed.

As the Castillo coach rumbled away from my home, I tried to piece together the unusual circumstances of the morning, hoping to find an over looked clue. My mental reel was temporarily halted as I deftly picked my way through the stables.

The pleasant scent of hay was overpowered by the musty aroma of dung and dust. Even though it was early afternoon, I had to look carefully to see where I was walking. The cramped space had few windows, leaving the corners draped in shadow. The uncertain proportions of the hot breathed animals looming over me did little to aid my thought process. I was always uncomfortable there, in the midst of so many horses.

None of the staff at the Garnier knew the true reason I avoided the stables. Most thought me too weak of stomach to bear the odor. They had no idea. I had held my hand over mortal wounds of dying men to stem the flow of blood. I had seen horrors in those hospital wards that they could not dream of.

'A delicate stomach'. A faint smile ghosted over my lips at the thought.

Few employees had been on the staff long enough to have known that I served a short stint in the hospitals during the war. Most of those who knew no longer remembered. I had allowed the suggestion of my frail constitution to fester over the years, growing into fact. Although I disliked the idea of being thought of as inadequate in any way, this was preferable to the alternative. I did not want anyone to know that I was not avoiding the stable's fragrance, but the horses themselves.

Hardly anyone knew of my extreme aversion to the beasts. As a young woman, I had had a less than friendly encounter with a mean spirited stallion. The incident had changed my life, and left a bad taste in my mouth for the wicked creatures.

Acknowledging one of the stable boys with a slight nod and a tight lipped smile, I retreated from the whickering in the stalls. Striding down the quiet hall with purpose, the only sound to be heard was the dull snap of my boot heels on the cool marble. A gentle tickle of cold air sent an irritating shiver down my spine.

I had never been fond of the cold. My thoughts drifted back to a warm black shawl I had seen only yesterday. Perhaps I could justify the vain purchase, just this once. After all, I would be spending a greater portion of my time in the maze of the backstage corridors, supervising all the dance practices on stage.

A dull echo of sorrow reminded me of how just how much of missed Celine. And how alone I felt without her hand to help me along. Mme. Lensan's warm personality had always seemed a bit out of place in here during the chilly winter rehearsals. This was my first winter truly wearing the title of Maitre de Corps, having shared the role with my mentor for seven years.

It had been five months since I had had a partner to lean on, to share the responsibilities of overseeing the corps. A small part of me was still doubtful of my ability to fill the hole she had left in at the Opera Garnier.

Many of the girls continued to show me less respect than they had my predecessor. I wished to honor her memory and make her proud, but I silently feared that I would never live up to her high standards. She had been a cheerful soul, always wearing a welcoming smile and offering an inviting shoulder. I, on the other hand, had always taught with a stern manner, demanding the best that my girls could give. It had taken me quite some time to understand how the girls felt about me, but now I was trying to be the mother they had lost in Celine.

Though only a few had warmed up to my approach to teaching, they all had proven themselves very gifted time and again. When I watched them from the wings on opening nights, I began to understand why my friend had had such a motherly attitude. I welled up with pride and a bond of understanding. I was eager to give them everything I could.

My newest pupil, however, had only managed to inspire irritation and despair during her preliminary visit to my school.

Despair at ever possessing the ability to teach such a lackluster child, and frustration at my own lack of understanding. The girl had obviously been well trained, but even the greatest master could only do so much. She knew the steps and the forms, but lacked the natural grace and ease of movement that characterized the rest of my girls.

I let out a sigh of frustration at my mental lapse. The child did not belong in my little troupe. I had been so determined to assert my authority to the management, and at the first sign of failure I had already mentally included her in the corps.

My frustration also stemmed from my failure to grasp her situation. I understood why M Debbine had admitted the nit. It was obvious to anyone who was willing to look past their own nose. He had thrown his heart at an unresponsive woman's feet yet again, admitting her undeserving daughter into a dance school normally reserved for the talented few. His bleeding soul had shown me exactly how much power I really had in the opera house. I abhorred the sensation of being helpless.

Helpless was one adjective not easily applied to my new student. That one knew what she wanted, I would say that for her. She had the dream of a prima, and the spirit to match it. She was a regular spitfire! The tiny girl had come dangerously close to lecturing my amiable employer. I would have laughed, had the situation been anything other than what it was. One glare from her mother's direction had more than served to silence the child. I couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for Mademoiselle Castillo, despite resenting her intrusion into my world.

The elder Castillo was the true root of my lack of understanding. Why would a woman of noble birth allow her daughter to lower herself in such a manner? The opera's dance academy was about as far from an elite drawing room as one could get. The girl's reputation would be irreparably tarnished. I could only imagine what an embarrassment it would be to her family.

I knew a little about the Casa de Castillo, if only from the gleanings of upper crust gossip that were ever present in the theater. The house was headed by the young girl's grandparents, who seemed to be the very pictures of propriety. Their mansion was an extravagant building on the exclusive Rue Plummet. Though they were political exiles from Spain, the Don and Donna had found a place at the very pinnacle of Parisian society.

Their daughter, however, had only recently come to live under their roof, and little was know about her or her two children. I was struck harshly by her constantly aloof nature. It seemed as though she thought the opera house was not worthy to catch the dirt off of her heels.

Another chill reminded me of how cold my family's rooms would be, and I made a mental note to petition M Debbine for more blankets in the dormitories. Humming to myself softly, I decided I would indeed purchase the black shawl tomorrow.

But despite my matronly contemplations, I couldn't help but wonder about the conversation that must have been taking place in that stately carriage.

Leah

The ride home was silent, as always.

The animated hustle of the large city streets gradually gave way to the rhythm of horse hooves and the dull whisper of a February afternoon. The sun shone with a brilliant white glare off of the pristine snowfall that remained from the early morning, vainly endeavoring to keep its head above the horizon. The soft dusk faithfully took the upper hand, sending predictable tendrils of shadow out to paint the sky.

Poignantly chilled air began to slink into the carriage. Despite their normal strength and stamina, my legs quickly began to appreciate the temperature change and the grueling gauntlet they had so recently run. As each imposing residence grew small behind us, I grew more eager to be home.

Night time in my grandparents' estate played host to what seemed a nearly constant stream of galas, balls, and feasts. As I was not yet sixteen, I would spend another of many nights creeping down through the servants' stairway to see the grand spectacles there.

I drank up the sights and sounds as though I were dying of thirst. The dashing young men, the twirling gowns, and the music. The drugging palette of scents and tastes, perfumes and bouquets and mouthwatering delicacies. During the liveliest dances, it was easy to imagine that the hall was filled with Abuela's delicate hothouse flowers instead of nervous youths and tipsy couples. I could have spent my entire childhood crouched on those rough wooden steps, fading into the explosion of my senses. It was only there that I could catch real glimpses of my mother. Dancing, laughing, and even singing, Mama became another woman when she crossed the threshold of our grand hall.

I suppose the intense quiet in the coach would have been uncomfortable if it had been shared by any one else. My mother, however, had never truly been the talkative sort. At least in my presence.

I had grown used to it, even learned to tolerate it with out complaint, but my young heart yearned for the approval that she carelessly threw out to every one else in her life. I simply could not comprehend why she constantly kept me at arms reach.

Don't misunderstand. Mama never hurt me. She kissed and held me, if less often than I would have liked. She grew frustrated occasionally, as I assume all mothers do, but seldom angry. When I was young, she would even read to me before I fell asleep, sometimes for hours. I learned to love books, adoring they way that they extracted me from my quiet little life and transported me to a world all their own. To this day, I can't remember any memory of her that I hold dearer.

But hen I learned to read for myself, her bed time visits suddenly stopped. Confused, I threw myself into reading with a passion, childishly believing that mastering the art would gain her approval.

But she had never returned.

So I had turned to other pursuits to fill my lonely heart. Fencing with my brother had been a way to be nearer to him. Fencing was his favorite pastime. It consumed a great deal of his time, whether in the privacy of my Abuelo's home or in the competitive atmosphere of a gentleman's fencing hall. Despite the fact that it was very unbecoming for a young lady, I had insisted that he teach me, if only to spend more time in his company. He had even allowed me to occasionally accompany him to one of the halls, provided that I keep my fencing mask on at all times. He wasn't about to be seen sneaking in his little half-sister!

With Abuelo, it had been conversation. He was an extremely intelligent man, and would often entertain his friends for hours in his study. The group of grey-haired intellectuals would discus politics, science, philosophy, religion, and current affairs. They had heated arguments, good natured laughter, and smoky pipes tucked firmly between their wrinkled lips.

Eager to participate, I had wormed my way through his library and listened to their conversations. I picked up every word they said from outside the door until I was confident enough to quietly interject one day. Looking back, I had been terribly rude, interrupting as I did. But Grandfather and his kindly old cronies had found it amusing that a little girl should like to listen to them and their 'toothless rambling'. They had welcomed me in to their afternoon get-togethers and I had soaked up their wisdom like a sponge, learning the art of debate and eventually matching them contention for contention.

To win my Abuela's affection, I had learned to embroider. Though I disliked the repetitive, mind-numbing exercise, she spent many quiet hours at her own needle work. Despite my aversion to the art itself, the time I spent with her in the sunny calm of the bright parlor was comforting and pleasant.

Only Mama shut me away from her company.

To be frank, she rarely showed much emotion around me at all, persistently cool. It was as if I were merely a stranger who walked in on the intimate conversations of her private life. I never knew what she wanted from me. I spent many long hours in prayer to a god I only half believed to exist, explaining my frustration. Hoping beyond hope that there was some way to make her love me back. After all, I reasoned, love must be expressed by spending time with the ones you care for.

While I had not yet come across the expression, I truly would have 'sold my soul' for her brilliant smile to grace our interactions.

A quick glance in her direction confirmed the inevitable. She was not smiling. Not really. Her lips wore the faint vestiges of a content expression, though its cause remained an enigma to me. In secret, I half dared to hope that I had been the cause, my earlier audition performance having incited a brief moment of motherly pride in her bosom. It was, however, more likely inspired by the affection and praises bestowed by an old flame, none other than the aforementioned M Debbine.

Oddly enough, the fellow seemed to believe himself capable of re-wooing his one time ladylove. Being accustomed to my mother's conventions regarding men, her coyly polite yet subtly dismissing tone was a routine I gave no second thought. Though I possessed a view on the subject that was far too advanced for my years, I still secretly felt badly for the man.

He had no chance at all. He was too old by ten years. He was of a lesser class. Most importantly, he was just one name in a long list for Mama. Her love life closely resembled that of one of my older and more hormonally driven cousins, Mercedes. They were both reckless, self satisfying and callous when an appreciative pair of masculine eyes caught their fancy.

As a rule, I found it easiest to simply keep a healthy distance from my mother's suitors. Sensitive by nature, I often longed for a father. A strong, tall figure who would cause Mama's face light up when she took her place beside him at our cherry wood table for breakfast. Who would let me sit on his lap and tell me stories of far off lands, enchanted maidens, and daring sword fights. Who would teach me the waltz, (One of the few dances I didn't know). Someone to show me affection the way that any other parent would.

After fifteen years of frustration, of hoping that each new man would stay, I resigned myself to a life with out a father's love. My fragile, flighty tendencies of thought eventually became too difficult to continue. In the short span of my life, I had stumbled upon a blatant fact that many of the wisest people rarely seem to discover:

Some dreams are simply impossible.

That's not to say I didn't believe in my goals, my hopes. If I had gone so far as to give up on everything, my glowing triumph of the afternoon would not have shone so brightly in my heart. I simply had learned to make peace with the fact that my dreams of an idyllic family scene were as unlikely as my Abuela developing a sudden interest in playing the bagpipes.

Attempting to cope with something so difficult, I found the least painful route to walk in the maze of my mother's casual approach to relationships. With all the will I had inside my juvenile heart, I severed my emotions from anyone new.

Oh, I made a few friends (though most of my peers were loath to seek me out). But I always kept a scrap of the tense, stinging pain of loss and need nearby in my head, as an admonishment and a warning. I taught myself not to care as deeply as I once had, excluding only a vital few. Agonizingly, I hacked and split and dismembered nearly all the veins of affection that constrained my heart to contact the world around me. Turning my frustration and loneliness into a protective barrier, I deadened and silenced a desperate appetite for my idealized comforter and guardian. My father would ever remain a blurry, half imagined thought in the landscapes of my mind.

That having been considered, the odd and unprovoked sentiments of the day had truly surprised me. A tad greasy, and a touch rough around the edges, Galen Debbine was not exactly the sort of gentleman I could have imagined tying a new string around my heart, even one as simple as a few moments of sympathy. Predictably, my brilliant scheme of isolationism had failed me, thwarted by the comfortable and slightly presuming oaf who unknowingly exploited one of the few sensitive regions of my heart.

I was quick to pin the blame for the situation on Henry, as he was the most obvious target for a little misplaced mental frustration. My grudge was only momentary, as I quickly saw the absurdity of my finger pointing. I had to admit that I really couldn't blame my big brother for being sired by the amiable man, though I would have liked to. The fact that M Debbine was the father of my favorite person on earth badly hindered my attempts to ignore and shun him. At the very least, it didn't help matters a great deal.

Avoiding the tomb-like stillness of my company, my thoughts began to wind and wend down whatever random paths struck their fancy, eventually drifting in the direction of the exciting events of the morning. Even hours later, the emotionally charged scenes continued to replay in my mind…

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Homeless- Thanks, from me and my guitar.

Priestess of Anubis- That's an interesting screen name. I'm rather enamored with Egyptian history myself. Thanks for reviewing, and please continue. (If you keep reviewing, I'll give you cheesecake!) It's very exciting to get a new reader.

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