Disclaimer: I don't. Own. Any. Of. It. I do, however, own my Christmas and birthday presents, which were really rather good this year. So I'm happy.

I view this as a belated birthday, Christmas and New Year's present. Yes, I know it's late for all of them, but originality is always fun. Anyway, I sometimes used to have my birthday parties in May, since I couldn't have them on the original day. It's really not nice to be born three days after Christmas, you know. Especially taking into account that it also falls on the anniversary of The Massacre of the Innocents.

Is it any wonder I'm so depressed?

This chapter, we are back up to the surface again. You've had…what was it? Four chapters down in the underground? Good grief! I'd forget my own head if it wasn't held on with skin and tendons and things…

Well, anyway, we're back upstairs, and with a view of a not so nice, annoyed Carlotta. Uber cow is going to get a look in - but remember, it's only because she's worried and more than slightly annoyed!And into the strange, wonderful world of Victorian women's underwear…fellas, beware…

Oh, and some more angst, though it's hard to find under all the fluffy lethargy. And potential rib-snapping. Gotta love the potential rib-snapping.

…Well, not if it's your ribs that are being snapped, of course. That is never nice.

Little sparrows with dreams of swans.

Ancient Chinese Proverb

Bathrooms and Bees

Cecile looked at her reflection. She found it hard to believe she was looking at herself.

I see myself. I see myself!

Everything felt like a dream, so perhaps it was best to see it as a dream. So: she dreamt that Mademoiselle Daaé had disappeared, and…and in desperation they had turned to her. She had protested at first, but what could she do? What defences did she have? How could she refuse, let alone resist? So she had given in, and let herself be dragged into the plot and the dream. The rose pink dress and winking mask had seduced her.

What had happened after that? It was strange, confused. She could not remember everything that had happened, it was all a blur. Memories of hot water, a bath filled with thick, scented foam, shimmering in a heat haze. It had been so soothing; it had almost lulled her to sleep, she had wanted to sink into the heat and sleep and never have to wake up. But, but, but, then there had been the pinching fingers of Mademoiselle Gudicelli, who had grown impatient and unfastened her clothes herself, almost like a housewife flaying a fish, and had practically picked her up in her arms and dropped her into the tub.

And, and the water had been hot! That was not a dream, by any means nor had the Mademoiselle's scrubbing fingers, raking through her scalp, enough to make her whimper in pain despite herself. It had been shameful how they had scrubbed and rubbed at her, without even asking her permission, under her arms and down her back and under her breasts; and Mademoiselle Gudicelli had not been above smacking her on the shoulder when she tried to escape the rasping, scraping nails.

"Hold still, will you, por el amore de Dío? If anything you should be doing this for me, not the other way around!"

She had been half joking, but her voice was sharp from her grudge at the hard work; her hair had been falling down around her face and she had been sweating from the heat of the bath. The beads of sweat running down her face had looked like pearls against her honey skin.

Pearls set in gold…

Then, and then when they had hoisted her out of the bath and were patting her dry, they had discovered at the cost of at least two sheets that she was in the middle of their monthlies. Meg smiling as she helped her tie the pads into her undergarments again, but her smile all tired and wrong, saying in that sweet, cracked voice, "We can't have you bleeding all over the gown, can we?" But her eyes had told a different story. That pain had been worse than the dull one inside her; this one was new, and fresh.

Because they were all thinking of who was supposed to be wearing it tonight, instead of her. She still could now, even dwelling as she did in her dreams.

She'd been wrapped in a dressing gown, and put in a chair by the large mirror, while Carlotta disappeared and reappeared, with a rather guilty expression on her face and a fairly large bottle in her hand, the contents of which she had applied to Cecile's still damp hair, and then bundled the treated locks up in another towel. Funny, how easily it had become to call her Carlotta, and Meg…well, Meg.

In her dreams, it was as if the roles truly had been reversed. They had waited on her hand and foot. They'd tried to tempt her with sweets, but to punish them for doing all this to her without even asking, she would not, could not, eat. Carlotta had set a plate of petit fours before her, which she had seen the cook making only the day before, but now she didn't even touch one. But then, in frustration, Meg had brought a pot of honey from somewhere unknown, and had drizzled it on her lips. And, and, and she couldn't help licking her lips, just once, and then again, and in the end she'd eaten most of the pot, as far as she knew. If she belched, she was certain her breath would smell sticky and sweet. The honey seemed to stick and clot in her limbs and brain, and, and she'd just sat and let them pull her up and back to the bathroom, and pour jug after jug of boiling water over her head while she stood over the bath, only the pain from the water seemed to be very far away. Then, then they'd pulled her back to the mirror, and her hair had changed colour! They'd dyed it! They'd dyed her hair! And they hadn't even asked!

She'd wondered, as the day wore on, and other things happened that she couldn't remember, because the honey seemed to have turned her sleepy, why she hadn't been made to do her other duties. She should be doing this for them, but instead Meg and Carlotta were attending to each other, and not asking her to do anything. She was just left curled up in a chair, full and warm, like a cat, or being sat up and told to remember something, or be shown something – Carlotta walking, Meg dancing around by herself. Even the pain inside her seemed to have dimmed. But they'd keep coming back to her, and doing things to her. They told her things to remember, but she would only nod, because she knew them already. She knew how she should behave, because she'd seen Mademoiselle Daaé do it so often. She knew what cutlery to use, because she'd set it out on tables so many times before. Ladies seemed to have much freer reign of speech than she did.

She knew something about beekeeping, and something kept ringing around in her head. They're turning me into a queen. She's heard about bees feeding other bees royal jelly, to turn them into queens. They're nobodies until they eat the honey. When she traced her tongue over her lips, it was as if she could still taste the honey. They were changing her, these two girls. Their queen had gone, so they were making themselves another, at short notice.

I am going to be a queen.

She looked over her shoulder in the mirror to the lovely dress behind her, laid out across another chair, like a dancer waiting to be picked up and waltzed with. Soon, she would be wearing that beautiful dress, and going down to dance with the handsome Vicomte, and eat with the nobility. She knew she should be scared, but she was too relaxed to be scared.

No more fear now.

The Cecile in the mirror smiled back at her, framed by unfamiliar brown hair, one eyelid slightly lowered, making her look as if she just delivered a rogue wink. Behind her, Meg was holding onto the bed post, and Carlotta had both hands full of corset strings and was pulling, pulling, making Meg's corset tighter, giving her a wasp waist, while Meg gasped for breath.

Meg's a wasp. I'm going to be a queen bee.

Cecile raised a hand to her face, and her twin in the mirror did so as well. Though she looked as if she were half asleep, she could still see it – the potential for beauty.

I was a sparrow. But tonight, I shall be a swan.

The thought made her smile. She'd never seen before how pretty she was when she smiled.

Rather short again, I know! But don't think 'upstairs' is going to be over! You did, didn't you? You thought you were going back underground again! HA HA! SUCKERZ! Ahem. Yep, Raoul next chapter, everybody. Boo and hiss all you like, Raoul haters; it had to come sooner or later.

This is sort of an expression of myself. You see, I don't really like being pampered and all that stuff. If you offered me a day of being treated at a spa or beauty salon, I would say no, thanks. That's the sort of girl that I am. I mean, I even had my hair cut short so that it would be quicker to dry! No thank you to manicures and makeovers! And definitely no to corsets! CORSETS ARE THE DEVIL'S INVENTION! THE DEVIL'S INVENTION, I TELL YOU!

And I'm done.

Oh, yes; for all you people wondering, in Victorian times women didn't have disposable 'towels' for their monthly problem, so they used to tie pads of cloth into their bloomers or whatever they had for undergarments, and then soak them in salt water afterwards to get rid of the blood.

I'm not even going to go into the plumbing system, or the hair dye. Let us just say that I have no idea when taps were first introduced, and Carlotta doesn't like her hair colour.

And also that I'm slightly obsessed with Howl's Moving Castle. Hee hee.

Well, a hopping mad (and in the film only towel wearing) ginger Howl does stick in the mind. Tee hee hee.

Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!