Chapter 1
Within moments of arriving at the home of her late patron, Odette realized her lodging and employment were not offered with grace. Gustave's eldest daughter Régine was cruel, believing Odette had taken Régine's place in her father's heart. Gustave's wife, Hélène, didn't believe that her late husband had remained faithful in his years as a patron of the Théâtre de l'Opéra.
Hélène walked briskly through her massive home, ignoring Odette's increasingly labored breathing as she struggled to keep up. Hélène had an endless list of chores Odette was expected to complete in exchange for room and board. Odette did the best she could to keep a straight face, but she could not help the sweat pouring from every crevice as her muscles screamed in protest. After climbing an interminable staircase, Odette was dismayed to learn her room was at the top of yet another staircase, the servant's quarters tucked away in the highest attic. After stowing the few belongings she'd kept, she made her way back to Hélène, who was tapping her foot as she waited. A thin, dirty scullery maid stood behind her, bucket and rag in hand. Régine was peeking out of her room, watching her mother closely. At the snap of Hélène's fingers, the scullery maid put the bucket at her feet and scurried off, heading away through the servant's tunnels. "You should really get to work," Hélène smirked. "It's not clean," she said, kicking the bucket as she turned to go. Odette watched in dismay as the soapy water flowed down the marble stairs. Resigned, she picked up the rag and got to work.
Odette rose before the sun the next morning, dressed, and made her way to l'Opéra. She quietly made her way to Lucien's office and waited for instructions. Dawn to dusk, she would work at l'Opéra, return to Madame Le Haut's to clean for a few hours, sleep for a few hours, then repeat. After a few days, Odette had gotten into a routine that allowed her to avoid most of the dancers; she didn't have the heart to face them every day, to ignore their stares and whispers at how far she had fallen.
There was one member of the coryphée class that she never could avoid, a tiny sprite of eleven named Rosita Mauri. Before the accident, Rosita had looked up to Odette the way one might an older sister. Every day, Rosita would find Odette and jabber away as if nothing had changed. One afternoon Rosita took the broom from Odette and began to sweep, dancing with the broom as if it were her pas de deux partner. "Stop!" Rosita looked up at Odette, surprised tears in her eyes. "Please, Rosita, stop."
"But –"
"No, Rosita. It isn't the same anymore. Watching you… I'm reminded of what I've lost every day, can't you understand that? It is too much."
Rosita handed her the broom after a moment's hesitation. "Odette, you're still a dancer," she put one hand on Odette's thigh. "That doesn't come from here," she moved to touch Odette's heart. "It comes from here. Remember? You told me that once."
This time the tears belonged to Odette. "I remember." She kissed Rosita's forehead. "Thank you."