AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry for the delay. I wanted to update yesterday, but was kept from it – blame my sister and Zorro, who was her helper in this…
PhantomKiss: The first writer to influence me was J.R.R. Tolkien (and this story here truly has a heavy fantasy streak, blame him…), but the second was Terry Pratchett… so yes, those little jokes keep popping up. Sometimes I wonder whether they might be a bit out of place, but since my sister likes them I leave them where they are. No, the ferret is not supposed to have any significance, it's just part of Maurice, so to say. Feel free to tease my Erik, he deserves it. Oh, and don't say "Down, Erik!" or you get him started on Colm Wilkinson. Trust me, you don't want that. (Erik: Shut up, kid… Anyway, you can look down my cleavage all you like as I don't put stuff down it anyway. And cookies would be appreciated, and a snuggle even more so…)
Pertie: You certainly have a point there. As for the purpose of going to a nightclub… well, Maurice has a good reason, as Raoul explains, and the rest is "in for the ride", mainly – apart from Erik, who seems to develop a habit of sniffling around on his own, but there will be more of that later on. (Erik: Sniffling?)
Mlle O.G.: I hope you don't mind my abbreviation. Hmm yes, I've grown to amuse myself over writing chaotic love triangles (or worse than that)… There'll soon be more to suit you, since the next Book will be devoted to people's current love life… (Erik: I wish you would shut up about my love life for once, kid… Ah well, you're the author…)
jtbwriter: That Meg is a bit naughty at times we knew already, but Christine can't be well-behaved all the time, now can she? (Erik: Of course I have a bad influence on Raoul. It's a hobby of mine.)
Beregond's Girl: Yes, Raoul can play the violin, that's one of the Leroux influences here. And Erik is getting used to having people around him, but the rest of humanity… well, I'd rather not comment on it. (Erik: Of course I blame the Author Man. Oh, and he talks me into answering reviews, not the other way round. I'm not that much of a review-answerer normally, I'm just not used to it. I'm getting used to it, though. It can be pretty entertaining…)
aragornnme: Ah, the Panarophile. Well, actually it's nothing to worry about that you didn't recognize it, since there's no recording yet. "You're already there" is not intended, since I don't know that one (my sister has it, though). The show is called "Lestat", the song in question is "Sail me away", the lines in question are The cruel storm that tears at your tortured soul is strong enough to call me, and on it we were borne to find you, soon after that Some scars run deeper than you think, and a bit later on How this tortured soul survives is my concern, and mine alone. Check out panarophiles dot net, look for a girl who calls herself Celebwen and tell her that her brother sent you, and she'll educate you about that song, ok? She likes doing that… (Erik: She calls it Sweet Hughification… and she won't shut up about it…)
Bea: Oh, Valencienne already got a Squee! Well, here you can Squee some more. Wow, someone who thought me capable of including a literary reference! But no, while I do know Dante's Divina Commedia, this one is unintended (I did stick a sign saying Laciate ogni speranza, voi chi entrate qui to the toilet door, though…). (Erik: Want me to show off my chest for you, eh?)
Morleigh: Yes, a little spoiling certainly won't hurt… (Erik: No it wouldn't…)

-.-.-

VII. Defenceless and silent

He had kissed her.

Leaning back against the wall of her changing room, for once ignoring the peeling paint which usually annoyed her so much when she had to brush it off her dress, Valencienne took a deep breath to steady herself. What an impetuous devil! She had had such visitors before, men who seemed interested in her and were not so subtle about this fact, but never anyone like this one. Heavens protect her, never a man like this.

Of course, such incidents came with her profession, or rather, with the place she was currently forced to work at, and she had gotten used to it more or less, though she still did not like it at all. If she were free to choose, she would turn her back on the Maxim rather sooner than later. It was no place for a decent girl.

The trouble was, she really had no choice. It was either the Maxim, until she found something better, or wandering the streets. If she wanted to stand on her own, then she had to stay. Otherwise, there were some distant relatives she knew of who might be of some help, but she had sworn to herself she would turn to them only in a situation of dire need, not out of pride, but because she felt it would shame her to be dependant upon people she scarcely knew who were not much better off perhaps. The Maxim was hardly the place she wanted to work at, but there could be worse. Much worse. She could be forced to become like many of the other girls here, for instance.

The mere idea made her shudder. To her, it did not make the slightest difference if they called themselves courtesans or were street whores. The girls insisted there was, but to her, it was all the same. Allowing herself to be dishonoured like that… She did not shy away from a man's touch, and she certainly would not say no to a private little chat with a charming lad, even if he came to her changing rooms, but there were lines she would not cross. Not if she would become an outcast from society otherwise. Whatever those girls told her about good earnings, she would not do any of that.

But this man… this man had been a wild one, and he had not quite seen the difference, it had seemed to her. He had just sauntered up to her, ever so slowly, and even though she had already been at the door of her changing room, he had managed to be faster somehow, yet without accelerating. Could she have stood frozen? She had wanted to hurriedly get out of his eyeshot, she was certain, away from that look he was throwing her, that greedy, smouldering, burning look… and still he had been faster. Still he had reached her before she had been able to escape. And those eyes had bored into hers, those strange turquoise eyes…

Turquoise? Could anyone have turquoise eyes?

And this was all she had truly consciously seen of him before he had kissed her. Without asking her permission first, of course. And together they had stumbled backwards through her dressing room door, though she had not quite realized where she was going, never breaking contact, until she had felt the wall at her back, but still the world around her had been spinning, and she had clutched his upper arms for support, not even wondering who he was, her mind wiped blank of every conscious thought…

Why had she not reacted in a more appropriate way? Why had she not shaken him off, or better yet, hit him, as she should have done? She had told herself often enough that if a man behaved to her like that, she would hit him as strongly as she could, for once overcoming her dislike to the use of violence. But no, she had not even thought of that when those eyes had met hers.

Had it been real at all? It had been too vague, too dream-like to be true, somehow.

But why, if she had just imagined it, did her lips feel slightly sore, then?

Heavens protect her, indeed!

After an eternity they had broken apart at last, and she recalled the glimpse of his face she had caught then, a smoky image straining to dissolve the harder she tried to regard it. Only those strange turquoise eyes were clear, dominating her recollection. Apart from that, there were very few details she could remember with certainty. He had been dark-haired; a long strand of chestnut hair had hung over his face as he had looked down at her, that moment after the kiss when they had just faced each other. And he had been light-skinned, she was sure, maybe even pale, and his chin had been lightly clefted, she thought to recall. Apart from that, she only knew that he had worn a dark green waistcoat hanging open over a white shirt, but even this was a dim memory, as if from her early childhood.

And there had been something wrong with his face. She could not quite explain, but somehow… somehow there was… a hole… a hole? No, not a hole. But… a patch of white? The eye had been there on the right side, but around it… Somehow she only remembered one eyebrow…

Had she not been embarrassed and scared and angry in one, and still somewhat dizzy at the same time, she might have laughed at that. Only one eyebrow, and some patch of white in his face! Now this was totally crazy. And then, after he had appeared out of nowhere, glided up to her and kissed her passionately, he had regarded her for a moment… and then just disappeared, as if he had dissolved into thin air, and she had found herself alone in her tiny changing room, with the door closed.

Maybe she was ill. One of the dancers working here had once told her that she had had a fever and had spent two days hallucinating. Maybe Valencienne should just go home and have an early night.

She bit her lips to stop that odd tingling sensation. One thing she knew: that she would not mention this to anyone. But she would keep her eyes open for any stranger who came heading in her direction, and the next time she would hit him. Yes, she would! Even if his kisses could steal any woman's breath.

Why, why on earth did she have the strange impression that he had been stunningly handsome?

Oh, nonsense! She pushed herself away from the wall decidedly and picked up her costume for her next appearance on stage, brushing a few specks of dust off harder than it was necessary. No man was so stunningly handsome that a woman keeled over straight as a plank! And no man was so stunningly handsome that he could kiss her just like that!

Well, if he asked, though… if he asked nicely, she might let him. There was nothing wrong with a bit of kissing, as long as it was done discreetly. She had kissed a young man once, a few years ago, though in no way as wildly as that stranger just had done it with her, if he had not been simply a figment of her imagination.

This place is bad for me, she thought while she changed into the new costume, a ridiculously glittering green gown. The woman in charge of the singers and dancers said it showed off her good figure and brought her eyes out nicely. Valencienne thought it made her look like some kind of exotic fish with hair, and her figure was not that exciting anyway. Besides, she was a singer, not something to stare at. Though the men did, of course, which made her inwardly roll her eyes. Men! As if they had never seen a woman before!

But that stranger from just a moment ago topped everything.

"Bastard," she muttered, savouring the sound of the offensive word. It was rude, yes, but it was a good method to vent her anger when she was required to smile once she was back on stage. "Nasty, vile, lousy, disgusting bastard." Here she paused. "Well, maybe not disgusting," she murmured. "But foul, yes. Foul and sneaky. Rude, impertinent, lusty, lecherous." Lecherous, what a good word. She almost laughed at it, because it reminded her of those ridiculous fat old patrons who sometimes sat at the tables at the very front and always were in danger of having their eyeballs rolling out of their heads. Valencienne regularly enjoyed picturing how they would crawl around on all fours trying to retrieve them from under the piano. Go and find those turquoise eyes of yours, bastard! Catching her own eye in the cracked little mirror on the wall, she smiled. If he was handsome enough, she might not hit him, but tell him something along those lines perhaps, like I don't want to go looking for your eyeballs in my cleavage, so find someone else to stare at. As she pulled the needles out of her hair to rearrange it, her smile broadened.

But she could hit him all the same. It would serve him right.

Forcing the smile to remain on her lips, she tried to chase away the thought of how those eyes had rendered her defenceless at one look. She could not even have cried for help.

But she would not hide away and tremble now, oh no indeed! She was a little shy, yes, but that did not mean that she would climb into her wardrobe and spend the rest of her life in there! And just because of a probably drunk patron with no manners to speak of.

"Bastard! Bastard, bastard, bastard!" At least insulting him made her feel a little better. "Son of a lunatic billy-goat!" Though she had never been an aggressive person, she had always been good at making up insults.

When she got back on stage, she decided, together with those two colleagues who were due to turn up any moment now and crowd this tiny room even more than it was already with only her in it, then she would discreetly scan the patrons for a man matching that description. If she found him, then she would do her best to stay away from him. If not… well, then it had just been her imagination running wild.

It was high time she found a better place to work at, she decided. High time indeed. Maybe she should really try to audition at one of the opera houses; they might have room for another chorus girl. Too bad the Grande Opéra was not finished yet, and even worse that it was currently used as a storehouse. Well, this was war, and there was nothing she could do about it. The Opéra Comique, then, perhaps? Or the Opéra Populaire? They said it had a ghost or something like that, but who wouldn't if they had somehow managed to have the strangest accidents continually? Better to stick with the Opéra Comique, then… though those ghost stories did make her a little curious, she had to admit. Picturing a bedsheet running amok backstage, she found her merry spirits again, more or less.

Her landlady would be grateful, she thought with a little sigh. That woman was too prudish to be allowed. It had taken Valencienne a full hour to convince her that she was a bar singer, not a prostitute. A prostitute! The nerve of it! But a chorus girl… now that would be something.

But for now, she was here, at the Maxim. And for now she had to make the best of it.

And hopefully there would be no more visitors who ensnared her with the power of their eyes to have her at their disposal…

Oh, the bastard!