I am the most evil author. I am truly, truly sorry for the long gap between the last post and this. My only possible excuse is that I have been home only one day out of the entire month of July (literally). Anyway, here is the next chapter. I hope you like it.

S.R.

---

Cecily lived her life in a resigned silence, carrying out her duties without emotion. Christine truly had Erik's heart. Two musical geniuses deserved each other. Only at night, when she was sure she was truly alone, did she allow a tear to mar her cheek.

Cecily was in the ballet dressing room as curtain time approached. Girls in slave costumes moved chaotically through the room, occasionally stopping for Cecily to smooth material and sooth nerves. Meg hovered near the door, a strange look of rapture on her face.

"What is it, Meg?"

The girl broke out of her reverie to see Cecily standing next to her. "Oh, nothing. I was just thinking. About Christine," she added.

"What about her?" Cecily's stomach was suddenly sour, and she swallowed thickly to settle it.

"Will she do well, do you think?"

"I think Christine will do very well." She cast her gaze to the floor and fought for the right words. "But you will shine as well."

"Thank you. Oh dear! It must be only an hour before curtains and here I am keeping you from getting ready!"

"Think nothing of it. I don't think I'll be going tonight."

"Why ever not?" Meg was absolutely incredulous.

"I'm not feeling very well…"

"Oh, well then, you certainly should rest!" Meg's mind had cast back to Cecily's illness.

"Yes," Cecily agreed wearily. "Bonsoir, my dear."

Slipping out into the more general chaos of the backstage, she was surprised to hear her name being called. "Mlle Pencombe! There you are! I have been looking everywhere for you!"

"M. Andre, what is the matter? Has something happened?"

Ignoring her question, Andre continued his rant. "Are you not ready for the performance?"

"I'm not sure I will attend tonight, monsieur."

The man grew even more frantic. "But you must! There is a Russian nobleman, a very rich nobleman, and you must speak to him!"

"You want me to entertain him?" she asked dryly.

"Them. He and his man. Simply make them feel welcome. Now go and get ready, then meet me at the top of the grand staircase."

Before Cecily could say anything, the man had hurried off to another corner of the opera house. "Poor man. He has more nerves before opening night than a novice ballerina. So much for my bit of rest tonight."

She quickly made her way to her room and moved behind the dressing curtain. She was almost changed within moments, but she could not seem to hook the last few buttons on the back of her dress. "Stupid bloody gowns! Fanciful and useless fashions with all these blasted clasps! It's a grand pile of rubbish it is. I don't understand why women wear these things!" she fumed.

"Because going naked would be too chilly and cause too much of a stir, even for those ladies who pride themselves on trendsetting. Did you need help then, mademoiselle?"

The voice froze her, and she clutched a nearby robe around herself. "Erik! What are you doing in here? Now!" She blushed furiously at the thought of him present while she changed.

"I only just arrived," he chuckled. "Just in time to hear that little tirade of yours."

"I, well, these buttons just…" she stammered.

"I repeat, did you need help with them?"

"Well, yes, but I'm not entirely sure that you should…"

"If it offends mademoiselle's honor, I won't even look."

She wasn't sure which frightened her more, the thought of him seeing her back or the idea of him groping blindly to finish the task. There was no telling where sightless hands might roam. "If you would be so kind, just finish the buttons, please."

"As you wish, little cat."

Cecily hung the robe back on its hook and moved hesitantly out from behind the curtain. He stood in the corner of the room, looking at a small painting hung there. It had been given to her for her last birthday by Fabrizio and Linnea. The two were now engaged to be married. Time moved so quickly.

She walked over to him and touched him on the shoulder. He turned his head. She was terrifyingly beautiful. He didn't know where she had gotten the dress, but she could put any of the finely dressed peacocks in the entry to shame. Her long brown hair was pinned up, leaving a single curl hanging down the side of her face. Hazel eyes shone out from under her eyelashes, almost hidden by her downcast gaze. Unable to control it, his gloved hand ran over her cheek. "You are stunning."

"Thank you," she whispered.

Spinning her around, Erik lithely closed the final half-dozen buttons or so, and had to force his hands to part from her. What was this? He could not do this! Not now that he was so close to having Christine! He had planned for weeks for this night, and he would not allow his weakness to ruin his well-planned evening. "Now if I am not mistaken, you have an appointment at the grand staircase. You had best be off."

She smiled at him weakly, and he wondered what she was thinking. "Thank you, Erik. And good luck to Christine."

She hurried out of the door, and he slipped through the passage, hoping to catch a glimpse of his angel before her debut. She would shine tonight. He knew it.

---

"M. Andre, you called for me?" She joined a small group of men at the top of the staircase, a well-practiced smile firmly in place.

"Mlle Pencombe! I'm glad you could join us. This is Lord Karkevnin."

"Mademoiselle, it is a pleasure to meet you," the nobleman intoned in heavily-accented French.

"No, sir, it is my honor and pleasure," Cecily replied, her Russian only hinting that it was not her first tongue. Erik had done well in coaching her accent.

The man smiled broadly. "Ah, what a sweet surprise it is to find a little Russian rose all the way in Paris! I am impressed, mademoiselle. But where did you learn your French? It is flawless!"

Cecily smiled demurely, enjoying the looks of admiration she was receiving from the four men. "My lord, it was not French I learned. I was raised in France."

"Truly? Then where did you acquire such fluent Russian so far from the motherland?"

"A well-traveled friend taught me."

"I should like to meet this friend of yours."

"Alas, sir, he is here no longer," she said. It would not do well to have them attempt to seek out Erik. "Travelers never rest for long it seems."

"No, they do not. But my manners! This," he indicated a younger man with blonde hair and sharp brown eyes, "is Nicholai Tchikevsky. He has been my loyal companion and business manager for so long he has become a friend."

The younger man gave Cecily a courtly bow. "You are a truly remarkable lady, Mlle Pencombe. I am quite pleased to have the opportunity to meet you."

The managers by now were rather frustrated with not being able to understand a word, and Cecily could see it. "Messieurs, may I have the honor of showing these gentlemen to their seats?"

"Of course, of course. That is, if it is all right with you, Lord Karkevnin."

"I would have asked you for the same privilege!" he laughed. "Come, my dear, tell us of this place. It will be good to hear some well-spoken Russian amidst this French bustle."

Cecily showed the two gentlemen to their seats in Box 3. Light court banter, as taught to her by Erik, danced between their mouths. Cecily felt the younger man's eyes on her as they climbed the stairs, and for once, such attention did not unnerve her. He held himself well, and though he said little, what he did say was intelligent and well-thought. She met so few in the opera house ho were educated enough to discuss and, god forbid, debate. She had the brief thought that it would be interesting to speak to Nicholai Tchikevsky at some time.

"Well here you are gentlemen, Box 3. It has some of the best seats in the house. If you should desire anything at any time, simply call one of the box attendants. They will be happy to help." She turned to leave, but M. Tchikevsky lightly caught her elbow.

"We would be most honored if you would join us for the performance, mademoiselle."

Shocked, Cecily raced for words. "My lord, Mr. Tchikevsky, that is a very kind offer, but I'm afraid…"

"You simply must stay!" bellowed Lord Karkevnin, never one to remain quiet.

Knowing she had little option, Cecily accepted. She would have quite the view of the show, and perhaps she could even slip off to visit the next box over. Surely Erik would not miss this show.

She settled herself into one of the chairs while the two men discussed business in the corner of the box. When the lights dimmed, Lord Karkevnin sat on one side, Mr. Tchikevsky on her other, a conspicuous gap left between the two. She thought it was rather sweet of him, sitting a space away to prevent her discomfort.

She heard the first cello player draw his bow slowly across the strings, and Hannibal was underway. Piangi sang well enough, and his chorus of soldiers didn't trip over one another. A good enough start. She could feel the older gentleman beside her begin to be restless, but then Christine stepped on stage. Decked out in a diva's garb, Christine had drawn the eye of every man in the house. The song she sang was happy, but every note made Cecily's heart hurt even more.

By the time the last song in the first act came around, Cecily couldn't take it any longer. A song about lost love, freed from attachment by one who still loves him, was like a knife to her heart. Christine's crystal notes rose to the ceiling, awing all those who heard her.

"Think of all the things we've shared and seen.

Don't think about the things that might have been . . .
Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned.
Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind.
Recall those days, look back on all those times, think of the things we'll never do -
there will never be a day, when I won't think of you . ."

When the audience stood to applaud, Cecily excused herself, ignoring the concerned looks of the two gentlemen in her box. She practically ran down the steps to the entry. She stepped behind a pillar to catch her breath when she heard another voice.

"Can it be? Can it truly be Christine? What a change! She's really not a bit the gawkish girl that she was! She may not remember me, but I remember her. She must remember me! I will speak to her."

Raoul hurried down the stairs, right past where Cecily was busy trying to block out all thoughts of the young new diva. During intermission, she changed back into her normal work gown and went to sit backstage. Meg danced beautifully, moving as gracefully as bird in flight. Her expression while bound in chains was far too recognizable to Cecily. It was pain. Not acted pain; real, authentic, heart-wrenching pain.