A/N-We've been lamenting the lack of phics for these characters lately on Tumblr. This one's not E/C, but you'll know the characters. Please let me know if you'd like to see any more of them?

Hopefully there will be a new chapter for DSaF next week.

If you read, please review, no matter how many other comments are there or even if you only have one thing to say. It really does brighten an author's day and make the hours, research, and edits worthwhile!

R

Arabesque

Riene, 2017

Autumn, 1880

She hastened down the hallway as rapidly as her slippered feet allowed. There were only mere minutes to collect a shawl before the management expected her to appear in the Dancer's Lounge or the Rotunde to mingle with the patrons.

It was not a job she enjoyed. Far too many men assumed that any girl with skirts above her ankles had morals as flimsy as that sheer material. The imperious Madame Giry tried to keep an eye on the younger members of the corps de ballet, but far too many of the girls were encouraged to find a "sponsor" or "protector" while they could, before their feet gave out or an injury occurred.

She wrapped the lightweight shawl about her thin shoulders and risked a look in the pier-glass. The garish stage makeup suited her tonight, adding brilliance to her eyes. Though she yearned to take out the pins which pulled her hair severely back, it would also mean removing the egret plumes which curled so enticingly over one ear, and added a touch of the exotic to her plain features.

The layers of gauzy tulle and satin fluttered about her legs as the young woman hastily returned to the Foyer. The greens and reds were made to look like the feathers of some foreign bird. She would have preferred choosing something somewhat warmer, but the patrons of the opera house enjoyed seeing the costumes up close, admiring the embroidery, beadwork, and feathers of the bodices, or perhaps, she reflected cynically, just the pale rise of bare flesh, décolletage and shoulders and arms revealed in the gaslights.

Her pulse leapt with a sudden thought, bringing a secretive smile to her full lips. Perhaps she would see him tonight, the man who had watched her with an impassive face and cool eyes last weekend, before turning away with disinterest. That disinterest had been feigned, she was certain. And had not the monsieur with the moist and puffy hands claimed her attention, she might have followed that aristocratic stranger.

Noise spilled into the corridor as people pressed in from all sides in the Rotunde, and the ballerina quailed before the thought of having to face Madame Babin with a damaged costume tomorrow. The woman's voice was as sharp as her scissors, and wielded just as viciously. No, far better to head to the Dancer's Lounge.

And there he was. Tall, impeccably dressed, still wearing his top hat and carrying an ebony stick, sipping champagne and with a bored expression, listening to another, heavyset man speak. She studied him covertly, noting the heavy gold watch chain, the dark hair brushed smoothly to the side, the small trim moustache. The line of the mouth was thin, flat, but the full lips betrayed a hidden sensuality. Those cool eyes flickered once over her slight form before turning away.

He was interested, all right. Now to set the snare.

She carefully placed herself within his line of sight, always out of reach and out of hearing range, never directly looking at him. A trill of laughter made his head snap up, and she noted how his eyes followed her graceful form as she arched her neck and turned her willowy body to display her costume. She felt rather than saw his dark eyes linger on her tiny waist and swell of breasts, and bestowed a dazzling smile on the little man opposite of her, causing him to sputter and choke on his drink.

Completely ignoring her target, knowing well that no man likes to think he is unworthy of notice, slowly she made her way to the arched opening and slipped out, fanning herself.

Behind her the man watched the lissome dancer depart the Lounge. The principal ballerina at the Opera, rumored to be without a patron, fiercely independent, and as passionate as she was talented. She'd caught his eye during the previous performance with her fiery spirit and unusual technique. Tonight she had moved through the room like a small and exotic bird, her scarlet plumage striking against the duller colors of the men's formal black and pastels of the corps de ballet. He was intensely aware of everything about her, from the sweep of her dark lashes to the exquisite curve of her long white throat, those petite graceful hands, and the arch of her neck, holding that small head proudly. Lifting another glass of champagne from a passing tray, he followed.

She sat on a bench in an alcove, one of those impossibly long legs gracefully pointed before her as she leaned over, tucking the trailing edges of a satin ribbon into a neat knot. Silently Philippe stood beside her—two could play this game—and offered her the flute of champagne. The dancer tilted her head to look up at him under her lashes, then reached up, accepting the fragile glass. He allowed his cool fingers to brush against hers.

"I thank you for the champagne, Monsieur…?" she said demurely, and looked questioningly up at him. Her eyes were almost green, an unusual shade of deep aquamarine, long-lashed and stunning. "May I know your name?"

He brought his heels together and bowed gracefully over the hand he had not yet released. "I am Philippe Georges Marie, Comte de Chagny," he said smoothly. "I have no need to ask your name, for all of Paris knows of Gia Sorelli."

And his lips brushed her hand.