Sorry for the late update... I just started first year uni last week and I've been horrendously busy buying books, going to classes, meeting (too many) new people and getting horribly lost (and missing classes). I'm absolutely exhausted!
Here's a slightly longer chapter to make up for my neglect!

Please review!
Thanks!

Chapter Eighteen

'Miss…Miss…Are you alright?'

Feather blinked to clear her blurry vision and bring into focus the two anxious faces before her. Who the devil were they? Where the devil was she? And why did her head hurt so?

'W-where? Why?'

'You fell and hit your head outside our gate. The master saw you and brought you in; it was a good thing too! By the time we got to you, there was quite a large puddle of blood around you… But the master said not to worry as head wounds bled a lot and even though it looked like a murder scene you wouldn't be too hurt. Unless of course you had a c-con-cushion!'

'Not a con-cushion, silly!' snapped a woman who looked so similar to the voluble young man that she must be at least a relative. 'It's concussion! And stop chattering away at our patient; she needs to rest! You've been unconscious for hours. It's nearly dinner time, you know! The master was getting quite worried and it was only when he saw that you were awaking that he could bear to leave your side!'

The chastened young man perked up at that and announced quite cheerfully that he had never seen his employer so concerned about anyone before!

Probing her bandaged head wearily at this barrage of information, Feather winced and closed her aching eyes in pain.

'Here, the master said that you to have a sip of his special tonic when you awakened and to try to eat a little broth then you may have a little rest again' instructed the woman authoritatively and looked at her expectantly to open her mouth for the waiting spoon. Feather wrinkled her nose in disgust at the noxious taste and the boy grinned at her in sympathy. Feeling embarrassed and absolutely quelled at the stern look that her two nurses levelled at her when she reached out weakly to try to feed herself, she allowed herself to be fed.

Feeling absolutely exhausted by the time she satisfied them by finishing half the meal, she fell feebly back against the pillows and started to drowse off.

'Très bien, chère! You are perfection! Rest awhile for the pas de deux… I need to instruct your less gifted colleagues again! Jésus! Arabelle! Not like that! You should…'

Feather wiped her dripping face and sipped at some water before moving again to the barre to stretch her tired muscles; she could not allow herself to cool down as she had not really a very long time to rest before her very demanding ballet master would return. Her body slid easily into the oft performed movement as her mind wandered gently away into daydreams of Opening Night. First Position, Second Position, Third, Fourth… Fingertips resting gently on the gleaming wood of the barre she raised her supple leg slowly upwards until it was nearly parallel with her upright head. Ah… Six o'clock! Satisfied that her body could not be twisted further in imitation of the hands of a clock at that particular time of day, she held her position and raised herself gracefully en pointe.

'Anglais! Monsieur said to start practicing our pas de deux now!' called a dark-haired young man.

'Oui, oui! I'm coming!' Shaking her long slender muscles looser, she moved easily to her partner.

'I heard that you are going to be announced as the new prima ballerina for the company… Monsieur Jardin thinks very highly of you… I don't believe I have ever seen him so enamoured with a dancer before!'

'I am just happy that the Monsieur thinks I am good enough.'

'Good enough… Hah! He thinks you are the embodiment of the Graces and Muses combined! He has planned the next several productions around solos for you!'

'Enough, enough!' laughed Feather 'I take your point… We had better begin before we both lose monsieur's fine regard! Oops! Too late…'

'What are you two doing?' shouted their temperamental genius of a master. 'You are not here to talk but to dance!'

'Oui, monsieur… But we had just thought that it would be better if we could go the stage to practice as there are really too many people here…'

'Oh la! Fine! Go, go! I shall be there shortly…'

'Nice save!' muttered Feather under her breath as they walked companionably to the empty hall.

Climbing nimbly onto the high stage, she walked into one of the wings as Claude began his routine and waited for her cue. Ah… It was her turn now!

She took a few paces back and lightly ran before executing a dramatic Grande Jeté. All eyes were guaranteed to be on her when she entered thus on opening night… She had never dreamed that she would be able to attain her dream of being a soloist in such a prestigious company so fast! Flowing effortlessly into the dance, she twirled away and prepared for a jump. Claude nodded his head nearly imperceptibly and she took a deep breath before launching herself fluidly towards him. His strong fingers caught her rather painfully but Feather did not allow herself to wince. She had been well- trained to ignore all pain whilst dancing; her feet could be bloody and in ribbons but not a hint of it would be revealed on her smooth dancer's face.

Claude's vice-like fingers tightened even more as he held her rather precariously against him and she glanced at him quickly from underneath her lashes. She had never seen such an expression before on his face; her normally cheerful dance partner had a dark and rather terrifying look of determination in his eyes.

The strange mix of passion, hatred, regret and cold deliberation on his face was the last sight she saw before she was flung into the orchestra pit and her world rushed past her face and exploded into pain. She was trained only too well as when she opened her mouth to scream, her throat seized and the sound was silent.

'Feather, Feather! Chere… Wake up!'

Someone was patting her gently but insistently on her face. What was going on? Feather moaned and her long lashes fluttered up to blink at the blurry sea of faces gazing down worriedly at her. What's happening?

'Claude has gone for the docteur! Be still!'

'What happened? Am I ill?'

'You fell into the orchestra pit during your practice, clumsy girl' explained the monsieur gently. 'Claude said that you slipped after the Grande Jeté…'

'What? Non… That's impossible…' Feather rubbed a tired hand across her aching eyes. 'I remember now! Claude…'

Abandoning her precious training entirely, Feather shrieked as a wave of agonising pain crashed into her. The blessed numbness that comes with a shock was beginning to wear off.

'My leg! Oh my leg!'

The little company doctor rushed onto the stage followed by a very pale Claude at a much slower pace. He brushed the milling dancers aside impatiently and immediately started issuing orders at a pace that rivalled the monsieur; cloths, water both hot and cold and various other items were sent for (more to give the near-hysterical performers something to do than anything else).

'Where does it hurt, petite?'

'My leg… The left one.'

Lines of pain bracketed Feather's ashen face and when the doctor began gently probing at her leg, drops of cold sweat sprang from her forehead as she swallowed a scream of pure agony. Seeking to distract herself from the sight of her grotesquely twisted and swollen leg, she turned her head away and met the triumphant eyes of her rival, Arabelle.

Arabelle had been the most promising young ballerina in the company before her arrival, but Feather had quickly outshone her in performances and practice. Her sunny nature had quickly won her the staunch support and liking of the other dancers who preferred her to the scornful and temperamental woman. Arabelle hated Feather on sight.

Hypnotised, Feather watched even more pale-faced as a little smirk curved Arabelle's lips and she reached out a hand and drew the silent Claude to her side and laid her head on his shoulder.

And Feather just knew.

'Hold onto her!' ordered the doctor.

Gripping her leg tightly, he looked at her master grimly and said 'Her leg is broken. I need to straighten it.'

Henri and Olivier quickly grasped her arms and the diminutive doctor yanked on her damaged appendage with surprising strength and once again Feather's world exploded into white-hot pain before she descended into blackness.

'She will never dance again.'

'She finished half the bowl and took the medicine. She's sleeping now; I think she's still very weak. The poor thing is too thin!' reported Julian Winterbourne, his very able housekeeper and cook.

'Yes! She fell asleep almost immediately and she is still most dreadfully pale…' chimed in her brother Sacha who acted as his footman, butler and sometimes valet. 'Perhaps you should take another look at her, sir.'

'Yes. You may leave me now', the directive was delivered from the shadow draped armchair and the siblings nodded and began to take their leave. Almost as an afterthought, Erik halted their progress by thanking them and shook his head with a slightly bemused air when they aimed ridiculously pleased grins in his general direction. His thoughts returned to his unexpected guest and he gazed thoughtfully at basket he had retrieved at her side and the blossoms he found inside. Was she his mysterious and wonderfully impudent correspondent?

An anguished scream of terror broke through his musings and sent him sprinting towards the guestroom. Rushing to the shadowed bed, he was taken aback when the patient launched out of the bed and into his arms tearfully.

'I keep on falling…'

He patted her back awkwardly, unsure on how to respond to her distress. The young woman was trembling violently in fear and he drew her sheets carefully around her to protect her from catching a chill.

'It was just a dream', he tried to soothe. 'It's over now…'

'It will never be over…' she sobbed against his chest and Erik felt even more helpless and stroked her hair and back with a discomfited gentleness. What the perdition was he to do? He had never comforted anyone before…

Finally, she stopped crying and started hiccupping and sniffing rather inelegantly, still keeping her face buried in his shirt and Erik sat there quietly comforting her with his presence until her breaths steadied and slowed, and her head lolled gently against him. She was asleep.

Laying her head carefully upon the pillow, he tucked blankets around her again and stood gazing down at her tearstained, blotchy face with his heart clenching painfully. Turning slowly and almost unwillingly away, he shook his head with a sigh tinged with bitterness and strode to the door suddenly eager to leave. If she could see my face she would never have sought comfort from me with such child-like trust. His hand was halted on the doorknob when a sleepy mumble grabbed his attention.

'Thank you… You're nice…'