A/N: Still alive! It seems like brief lulls in life are always immediately followed by period of ridiculous busyness. But as I said in very Crood-like fashion, STILL ALIVE!

At this point, I'm mainly trying to make myself write and get things down on paper... or on the screen, as the case may be. I apologize if there are spelling errors, grammatical errors, continuity problems, etc. No beta and I'd rather push myself forward in plot rather than stressing about mistakes that I can go back and change later once I, or you lovely readers, discover them.

For those still with me, THANK YOU! None of my real life friends are following this or even really know that I'm writing it, so I appreciate any encouragement you have you share. Even if it's just a quick "Keep going!", it's appreciated! Comment, critique, suggest, what-have-you, and I'll TRY to be better and updating more frequently than once ever few months.

Chapter 20

It was the season's end, and with that came mountains of costumes that needed to be mended, washed, dried, pressed, folded, hung, and stored. The costume designer was a pompous showhorse of a man that was far too haughty to bother with the theater's housekeeping, so Ang's future was flung aside to the care of his lead assistant, Madame Dubois, who wasted no time in acquainting her newest charge with the duties expected of her. The small, plump woman reminded Ang of a garden gnome in looks alone, from the worn apron worn high across her belly to the grandmotherly bun her hair was twisted into; in personality, however, the matron was far more akin to a drill sergeant. In rapid fire French she detailed the day's needs, thrusting a list into Ang's hand before pivoting smoothly away to hover over this project or that.

Ang's brows furrowed as she stared at the paper, a frown tugging downward at her lips. While she was, indeed, learning to speak and understand their language, reading it was a different issue entirely. Folding the paper into a neat square, she tucked it into the waist band of her dress and hobbled to one of the sewing stations. The seamstress had indicated a long rack of dresses to be mended before they could be thoroughly washed, and while she had no way to know if it was on the list, she started out by going over every inch of the first gown, studying previous mending sites carefully before duplicating the stitch herself where it was needed. It took quite some time for Ang to complete the first garment to her own high standards – or rather, to the standards that Stitch back home had instilled in her – but when it was complete, she was pleased with her work and certain nothing would pull away or pop the next time it was vigorously scrubbed against a washboard.

Despite having less than a child's knowledge of the language, spoken and written, she was determined never to fall behind in her work. Admittedly, it took some time to puzzle out written directions, but her new friend was faithful to check in on the theater's most recent sewing acquisition. For the first week Gus peeked in on her daily, right at the beginning of the morning, ready to translate what the day's list detailed.

Odd that, she realized quite suddenly one afternoon. While they hadn't been more than casual work acquaintances, her dear old theater in the city had had a Gus as well; he worked on Mac's crew, if memory served. A similar height and build as her new Parisian friend, but with a mountain man beard and magnificent tattooed sleeves in full color on both arms.

Gus's unexpected mindfulness of her well being in her new position rather shocked her, being quite accustomed to working by herself more often than not, unless a specific task required more than her single pair of hands. Even as a member of the technical team, her work in lights rarely crossed over with the set team. Ang even asked as much one afternoon when he dropped by at noon to slip her an extra apple he'd snagged that morning on his way in. With a boyish grin, he tossed her the fruit and simply quipped, "You remind me of my little sister. She was helpless, too." His attentions didn't unsettle her after that.

As routine settled in, her nimble fingers worked quicker and quicker over torn fabric, popped seams, and missing fasteners. As long as she was seated and all that she needed was within easy reach, she flew through the piles of washing and mending. But the inevitable complications came whenever she had to move long distances with her arms full. More than once she'd ended up face first in a pile of whatever costumes or dirty laundry she'd been transporting here to there. She had even been responsible for breaking three wicker baskets, with the cost for replacements coming out of her meager wages.

Her new life came with other unexpected quirks, as well.

For one, she now had to carry any earnings on her person in a small, crudely made coin pouch which she pinned to her bloomers beneath her skirts. Her tiny sleeping cupboard was far from secret, as it turned out, and after saving for three long weeks of ten to twelve hour days, she had the misfortune of discovering that all her hard-earned savings had vanished from the broken earthenware jar she kept concealed under her folded bedding. And of course, she could hardly take her complaints to the proper authorities as she knew full well that her living arrangements were surreptitiously made.

Another came in the form of light, or more specifically, the lack of. Back home, any necessary or desired illumination was acquired with the simple flip of a switch or a push of a button. Not so any longer, and Ang quickly recognized the expense of staying up late as was her custom. Her days of being a night owl came to an abrupt halt when it became painfully apparent that she simply couldn't afford to burn a light, whether candle or kerosene, until beyond the witching hour.

Not only that, she was keenly aware that a certain corporeal phantom was known to roam over what he considered to be his domain, which could very well include anything above ground. The first several days, weeks even, were spent in utter terror at the prospect of being discovered and bodily dragged back to the catacombs below.

I've been there, to his world of unending night, to a world where the daylight dissolves into darkness.

"Ang? Ang? La Petit? Where has your mind gone?"

Gus's warm timbre broke through the haze of her reverie.

Two months had passed since Gus adopted her and took her under his wing. She was still inhabiting the closet. Since every once in a while a member of the backstage crew drunkenly stumbled into it, creating a comfortable, or at least personal, haven for herself was quite impossible; her room consisted of nothing more than a pile of blankets which she folded each morning, a tin cup which held twigs and chalk for cleaning her teeth, and a kerosene lamp with a cracked hurricane.

Today was Sunday. Every other week, the theater gave its workers Sunday afternoon off, and Gus had convinced his surrogate little sister to come with him to sit along the Seine, going so far as to bring a large blanket and picnic supper. Knowing the sensitive nature of the small seamstress, he wouldn't reveal how he'd noticed the smudges of purple beneath her eyes grew darker while her skin was ghostly pale, almost translucent. Instead, he merely insisted that she spent far too many hours in shut up in theater and deserved a bit of relaxation in the beauty of the outdoors.

He was right. Trees had dropped their blooms, the petals carpeting the sidewalks and streets with splashes of color. The grass along the riverbank was lush and brilliant as emeralds, and the sun bathed the world in rich golden light, gilding everything it touched. Diamonds glittered across the surface of the water. A gentle wind blew from the south, carrying with it the sweet scent of sugared pastries from around the corner.

But as Gus surmised, Ang's mind was far away. Far underground.

He sat with his back braced against a tree trunk, legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed casually, while she lay with her head pillowed atop his thigh. One of his hands rhythmically combed through her hair, the pale strawberry ribbons gliding lazily between his fingers with each pass. Any other lingering form of physical contact that she didn't initiate herself made his ginger-haired friend quite skittish, but playing with her hair, it seems, brought a calm over her.

His voice brought her back to the present and everything sharpened with abrupt clarity. Black lashes fluttered and her eyes glanced up to focus on the face above her, meeting his concerned chocolate gaze.

"You're a world away. What has you so distracted?"

She forced a smile to her lips. "Nothing in particular. I was just... day dreaming."

Gus quirked an unconvinced brow at her. "Liar. But I won't bother you about it... This time." With a wink, he tapped her nose and graciously changed the subject.

Three months.

Three months of living the lie that had become her reality, because her old reality felt so distant she wondered if perhaps it had all been a dream, or a concussion, and that this was who she really was, after all.

Her French was fluent at last, thank God!, and she could read and write it decently well now, thanks to Gus. There were still colloquialisms and token phrases she didn't understand, but her occasional moments of bewilderment were far preferable to endless barrage of confusion she was in at the beginning.

Her pattern of speech had changed, too, mimicking the tone of her surroundings. She was surprised to hear half a dozen different accents in the theater, alone. Granted, the city had been like a melting pot, as well, but in her ignorance, she assumed only English had regional dialects. And she was pleased to discover that she was more of an actress than she'd ever guessed. Now that she had a handle on the language, she found she could slip from one dialect to another, from the lilting cadence of a high society cream puff like those she overheard in the nicer parts of town to the harsh, full mouthed speech of her fellow stitchers. When that would come in handy, she couldn't guess, but it was rather exciting to have discovered a new talent.

She maintained her borrowed residence in the little closet found for her after she'd been given a position. Even though Gus offered several times to help get her set up in one of the nearby boarding houses, she determined it was easier to stay where she was. The truth was that the theater was her only link to her past, to her real life. She clung to it like a lifeline, and feared that if she ever left, or even distanced herself too much, that whatever connection left would be severed and she'd be stuck here forever.

There was a benefit to not having to pay rent: her paltry reserves multiplied quicker than she expected, and she was finally able to squirrel away a lamp and oil so she could have her nights back. It allowed her a bit more time in the light, which she dearly missed, and it returned her a sense of self in a way. Her favorite place to be was flat on her back in the middle of the stage, watching the flicker of light play across the gilded ceiling as her mind wandered and her voice ricocheted about the empty space.

"Look at me and tell me who I am. Why I am, what I am. Will I survive? Who will give a damn if no one knows who I am? Nobody knows, not even you. No one knows who I am."

The acoustics were incredible. Even to her own ears she didn't think she sounded half bad. And at least no one was here to insult her and tell her to be quiet.

In two weeks, the company would open Faust. She'd never heard the score until rehearsals began, but was vaguely familiar with the basic storyline. The costumes were stunning, as Monsieur Legrand bragged to anyone who would listen, but as each one had been hand-made for each performer, there was nothing for Ang to mend or wash. Fortunately, she had picked up her new trade well enough to earn her place... for now. She could hand sew almost as well as any girl there, was careful with the irons and never scorched a single piece, and Madame Dubois was delighted that Ang was always early to work and the last to leave at night.

The real test would be once the show went up. If Ang could keep pace with the other backstage seamstresses, she'd likely keep her job and be brought on a permanent member of the behind-the-scenes company. But she wouldn't entertain any other outcome. Ang had to keep her position; she had no where else to go. Even the thought of leaving sent a wave of panic through her

"Get your head out of the clouds and back on that hem where it belongs! Everyone else has already gone home for the day!" the head seamstress, Blanche, snapped.

Whereas Legrand's assistant was stout with a startling likeness to Mrs. Claus, minus the smile, Ang's direct superior, Blanche, was the opposite in stature. Tall and willowy with an almost gaunt face and hair the color and texture of straw, the woman couldn't have been much older than herself, though she carried herself with the air of great self-importance. True enough, she had been with the company from the time of young childhood and would likely take Madame Dubois' place one day, and never passed up an opportunity to remind her fellow stitchers of the fact.

Ang never had the desire to rock the boat or rarely asserted herself in professional circumstances unless it was absolutely necessary for the benefit of the production. Here, however, her job was to follow orders and that was all. So she did.

Usually.

But it was summer! In Paris! Even though Ang's heart ached for the home that was hundreds of miles and-impossibly–a dozen decades away, she couldn't remember experiencing a more beautiful place or time. She'd never ventured more than a hundred miles beyond the state line back home. Only in her wildest fantasy could she have imaged ever being in Europe, and here she was in Paris, of all places! It was the romantic capital of the nonsense that most little girls dreamed of, along with flowing gowns, towering castles, and handsome princes. Ang stole a quick glance at herself in the backstage looking glass. Alright, so she was more Cinderella than anything.

Quickly tying off the knot so the stitch would stay, she pierced the pincushion with her needle, draped the completed chemise over her arm, and hauled herself to her feet. Moving with the aid of a single crutch was the worst, for her shuffling hops showcased her disability and reminded everyone that her post in the company was temporary and precarious. Try as she might, nothing she did hastened her steps when one arm was occupied carrying something. Today was no different, and Blanche was already in a sour mood for some reason or other. As she rounded the corner of the doorway that led from the costume room to the dressing wings, the bottom of her crutch landed on a piece of scrapped silk and and shot sideways across the slick wood floor. With a startled cry, she pitched forward. The costume landed beneath Ang's outstretched hands and knee as she sought to brace her fall, and the delicate fabric tore beneath her.

P.S. A cookie goes to whomever knows what show her song is from!