Her flight response was fully activated, and she ran almost blindly down the alley toward the friendly glow of the lamp lights that lined the main avenue.
A shadow crossed in front of her vision and she collided with a solid mass and a pair of arms quickly caught her. Ang bit back a scream, the sound bubbling out like a yelp instead, and she instantly thrashed against the arms that held her.
"I do apologize!" a quiet baritone exclaimed as the detaining hands released her immediately.
The voice registered, and she collapsed back against the stone of the theater, bowed at the waist, one hand against her chest as her breath sawed in and out of her lungs. Sweet relief washed over her. It's not him. It's not him.
"Easy there, miss. Are you quite well? I didn't mean to alarm you. You were running as if hell, itself, were chasing you." There was a pause, as if an answer was expected. "Miss?"
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't… I wasn't… There was a… and I…" Her thoughts jumbled and her words fell over each other in a scramble to string together some semblance of an explanation.
"It's quite all right; no harm done. But… are you all right? Please, come sit." He took her by the arm and she reluctantly allowed him to guide her to sit on a bench near the stairs of the theater's main entrance, and the moment she was settled, he withdrew his hand. His walking stick was tucked out of the way, his tophat and scarf placed upon the bench beside her before he hunkered down before her, perching on the balls of his feet. "My word! What happened?" he questioned, reaching for her face.
"It's nothing," she answered, flinching away from his touch. Her gaze finally came up to try and assure the Good Samaritan of her well being. The man wasn't a stagehand like she'd expected, although she should have deduced that right away from his manner of speech. He was dressed in the evening attire meant for a formal occasion: crisp white shirt, white satin waistcoat with matching tie, immaculate black jacket and trousers. His blonde hair was slicked back, though a few errant locks fell across his forehead with the removal of his hat. "You should be inside for the gala, sir," she urged.
Blue eyes scowled at her. "And you are changing the subject, Miss. Please, let me see. I won't hurt you." He reached for her face again, and this time she let him take her chin gingerly in his fingertips, tipping her head toward the glow of the street lamp behind and above him until he was able to get a clear look at the red bruising that told of a large hand connecting with her fair flesh. She saw his jaw clench. "Who did that to you?"
"It's nothing," she repeated, glancing away.
"That is not 'nothing', Miss, no matter how many times you insist so." He removed his hand and stood upright, then offered his hand down to her. "The least I can offer you is a ride safely home."
"I'm already-" Ang stopped herself and glanced around, her teeth catching her lower lip uneasily. "I mean, thank you, but that isn't necessary. I work here, so I'll find my way home with… the others."
The man seemed to be in no hurry to rejoin his friends, so rather than accepting her explanation and going on his way, he took up his hat and scarf and took their place on the bench beside her. "What part in the production did you play, if I may ask?"
"No part, sir. I'm just a seamstress; I work on the costumes."
"Well, the costumes were top notch. Probably better than much of the singing, but don't tell them I said so."
She chuckled a little then. "I won't say a word."
"Shall we return to the party, then?" he asked after a moment.
"You should, absolutely," she agreed, standing to her feet, and he rose, as well.
"And why not you?"
She quirked a brow at him. "The party isn't for us. It's for-"
"There you are, little brother!" Another well-dressed gentleman headed their way with a beautiful, and familiar, woman on his arm, dressed as elegantly as a princess. "We wondered where you were hiding."
"Just catching a breath of fresh air, Phillippe. I beg your pardon, this is- -" The first gentleman turned expectantly to Ang, and her gaze skipped uneasily between the three.
"No one," Ang deferred. "I was just on my way back inside."
The woman extended a delicately gloved hand, detaining Ang's retreat with a light touch. "You look familiar."
Could this night get worse? "Yes, Miss Sorelli. I am one of the seamstresses here."
"That's right. You're the clever one who added all those gorgeous touches to Carlotta's frock. I would love you to do the same to my second act gown, but in blue."
"Of course. It would be my pleasure. If you'll excuse me," and with a small curtsy to the well-dressed trio, Ang fled into the alley and back into the building. She assumed her intoxicated admirer had picked himself up and dragged himself off to nurse his wounds with a fresh bottle by now, and finding the hallway empty as she had hoped and anticipated, she flew to her tiny room, closing the door with a soft snick and placing a heavy board across it to prevent anyone from entering it.
The next morning, as per usual, Ang was up, dressed, and in the costume shop before any others arrived. Whether the request from the ballerina Sorelli the night before had been done out of compliment or seriousness, she decided she had better fulfill it, all the same. The gown was spread across her work table and lap and she set fine little embroidery stitches along the neckline as well as the hem. The request had been for blue thread, and she did so, but she twined it with the thinnest bit of silver to catch the lamplight and have it sparkle back into the eyes of the audience during her pas de deux.
Blanche swept in, her permanent sour expression in place and clear in her displeasure. "What are you doing? I don't recall giving you any orders for alterations on La Sorelli's piece," she spat, arms akimbo.
"The request came from Sorelli, herself. We- I- She asked if she could have embroidery to make her gown for act two stand out more. If she was serious about it, I didn't want to risk her going to the directors in complaint. But if you think I'm not good enough to work on her gown, I'd be happy to turn it over to you." She'd long since learned that Blanche suffered from terminal self-doubt, and any chance she had to defer to her 'superiority', Ang was only too happy to do so. Since coming to work with a broken wrist and hand the day after she'd slapped Ang, Blanche had not come within five feet of the girl, thinking her some sort of bad luck charm in the theater. They were all a superstitious lot, Ang had learned. Better to let her think so, though.
"Well, that's all well and good, but I need more wool brought up from the stores down below," she waved off. "Sorelli's gown can wait half an hour while you go and bring those bolts up."
The color drained from Ang's face, and she rose in protest. "But Miss Blanche, down below? Isn't that-"
"No, it isn't haunted, you stupid girl. How silly that you buy into those rumors." But of course, Ang knew full well that Blanche refused to run the errand because she, herself, believed in the ghost stories that circulated the theater. Only Ang was certain of their validity, first hand.
"But-"
"No buts! Go! And make quick about it if you intend to have Sorelli's gown finished by curtain." With that, Blanche swept out the door and flounced away, leaving Ang to face her miserable task alone.
She looked longingly at the gown before she hung it up carefully in its place and plodded down the hall and through the door that led to the warehouse located beneath the stage and backstage area. She was still several stories above his domain, but it didn't set her at ease. If she had anywhere else to go, she would do so. He watched her every moment available; she could feel his gaze upon her as she worked, as she stood by in the wings during performances, as she cleaned up the properties and costumes after the actors had taken their leave. But she had avoided at all costs descending beyond stage level.
Her heart was pounding like a trip hammer in her chest as she set her hands to the sturdy door and heaved it open. The lights were all extinguished down here, and she took hold of the lighted candlestick standing on a small shelf by the door before she entered. She pulled in a deep breath and slowly expelled it. Bolts. She needed to find the bolts of fabric requested, and she prayed they would be few enough that she could carry them in a single trip, thereby avoiding having to return.
Looking around, she found it was more than just where fabric and old costumes were stored: the area was used for props, set pieces, and previously used scenery. It reminded her of the large antique-store type area she'd first stumbled upon all those months before, where she'd donned the gown that he accused her of stealing. Goosebumps prickled along her skin and she shuddered as she passed through a sudden cold spot.
There was a soft creaking sound, and she paused to listen. It wasn't like the squeal of rusty hinges; it was lighter than that. It brought to mind the sound of lines straining when a boat was tethered to the dock. She held the candle higher and peered through the darkness, carefully setting one foot in front of the other as she searched for the origin of the odd sound as well as the location of the fabric needed to complete her errand.
Something was swaying some distance from her, closer to where the scenery backdrops hung. She crept forward and squinted through the gloom, her eyes struggling to identify the moving shape. Whatever it was, it was hanging from the beams of the ceiling. Probably just a sandbag, she reasoned, although the twisting in her gut told her otherwise.
The pool of light from the candle gradually encompassed the slowly twisting bulk. Legs, hands, torso were revealed and her blood ran cold even as her brain tried to reason with her that it was nothing but a dummy strung up as a cruel prank. But as the figure finally spun to face her, a scream ripped from her throat and shattered the silence around her, for there, hanging by his neck with his face contorted in the horror of his final moments, was the man who had drunkenly assaulted her the night before.
The candlestick slipped from her grasp, the modest flame extinguishing on its way down before the clatter of metal sounded on the ground as the candlestick hit the floorboards. Ang spun away and dashed in the direction of the door, blindly stumbling through the pitch blackness of the storage room.
"Help! Help me! Please!"
"Be still, my angel." The voice she knew so well, the voice that still visited her dreams each night, purred and swirled around her, as if it were everywhere all at once.
"No!" She came in contact with the wall and her hands groped in the darkness for the door that would lead to her freedom. Finally, her fingers closed around the precious knob, and giving it a hard twist and a yank, she spilled from the room.
"ANGEL!"
A/N: Hey, look at that! Another chapter up and it didn't take me six months! LOL I'm getting better :D