A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :D They are an inspiration and a comfort!
Soul cleansed, Nadya left the Opera House in the early hours of the morning, managing to evade the notice of the guards. With little to no sleep, she nonetheless dragged herself to practice. Blessedly, Giry was extremely strict that day, letting no one come within an inch of Nadya as she drilled them mercilessly.
By the end of the session, she was just about ready to collapse when Giry approached her.
"You did well today," she said gruffly with her usual flagrant accent. "But you look exhausted. How is the injury?"
As if to underscore that fact, Nadya let out a yawn, unable to stop herself. Shaking her head awake, she made it her sole purpose to keep eye contact.
"It's fine," she replied wearily, her voice scratched.
Brow raised in confusion, Giry leaned in and studied her more closely. Too tired to be self-conscious, she stared doggedly back.
"Tell me," the severe instructor pondered. "What did you do last night? How can you be so tired after an entire day of rest?"
If she hadn't been on the verge of disintegrating, the warning in her head would have made her bite her tongue, but there was also something trustworthy about the older dancer. She seemed to have seen it all. What was one little trespass?
"Oh, I just went to the Opera House," she began, and Giry narrowed her eyes.
"Go on," she commanded cleverly, knowing that wasn't the whole story.
Nadya gulped, but nonetheless obeyed. With a sigh, she said:
"Well, I might have stayed there over night," at this she gave an innocent smile. "But no one saw me! I was just wandering around and I found an old dressing room..."
"Wait!" Giry cut off, now extremely alarmed. "A dressing room you say? Where?"
Surprised by her intensity, Nadya wondered if the instructor had seen it too, but she dared not ask her.
"I-it was in this abandoned part of the opera house," she stuttered. "I don't know exactly where, but it was down a few spooky corridors."
A deep anger began to boil in Giry's eyes as she explained, replaced by a pale fear. It was the strangest thing Nadya had ever seen. What was the big deal? Blinking, wheels turning in her mind, the ballet instructor regained her usual composure after a moment, but her voice was weak.
"Were there two mirrors in this room?"
So she had been there before! Foolishly, this relieved her a bit, maybe Giry had a bad experience there or perhaps the American was mistaking panic for enthusiasm, she wasn't sure.
"Yeah!" she exclaimed. "One big one and one small. How'd you know?"
But the woman wasn't looking at her anymore, her eyes had become glazed over, lost in thought. Nadya wasn't sure what to do, so she patiently waited for some kind of dismissal and looked down at her feet. It was after enough awkward seconds that the brooding teacher finally acknowledged her presence, a thousand questions burning in her eyes.
"Is there anything else?" Nadya asked, perplexed.
Not seeming like she even heard her, Giry remained intently focused.
"One more thing," she replied in a faint whisper.
Leaning in to hear her, the girl nodded for her to continue.
"Do not go back there."
Taken aback by this instruction, Nadya knew instantly could not make that promise, but it seemed Giry was intent on it having it. She skewered her with a glare that made her knees shake. But on this, she would not budge. She did not know this woman, why could she order her to keep away from something that had finally made her grief retreat? It wasn't fair.
"I'm sorry, but no, Madame Giry," she said resolutely. "Not without a better reason."
It felt like an easy request, but it apparently did not come off that way.
"Foolish girl!"
The instructor whisked away, practically stomping into her office. It was an odd sight, the woman was usually as stoic as a statue. The other girls noticed it too and immediately looked at Nadya, a mix of revulsion and wonder in their eyes.
Thoroughly frustrated, her cheeks blushed as she ran out the glass door, trying to ignore the stares drilling into her back.
In her haste, she ran smack dab into Rurik.
"Oh, sorry!" she apologized as she cringed backward.
As always, he was too much of a gentleman, and shook off her fluster with a smile that could melt a gargoyle's heart.
"It is nothing," he assured, placing his steadying hands on her shoulders as he looked sweetly down.
His touch calmed her instantly, and her brain became molasses. She almost forgot what she had been so angry about. Sighing away her troubles, he took one of her hands and held it in front of him, as if clutching a talisman.
"What happened?" he pondered, eyes going wide.
How could anyone resist that face?
Feeling the warmth of his palm on her fingers, she took strength from him. Peering backward, making sure no unfriendly ears were listening, she told him of her exchange with Giry.
"So that is why you did not come out yesterday," he said, and she felt a twinge of guilt for not calling.
"Oh man," she groaned. "I feel terrible! I hope you didn't wait too long! I just got so caught up in exploring and—"
"Little Nady," he cut in, and she smirked at her new nickname. "You must stop apologizing. I am happy that you saw another part of the city! That is why you're here, no?"
It was moments like these when she couldn't imagine not having him around. Their friendship was growing fast, and she hoped that it would eventually bloom into something more. He was everything she had ever wanted in a man: Understanding, respectful, and who understood what it was like looking in from the outside. As a critic, he was to be segregated from performers, who either wanted his presence or his head. So he had to have understood the divide, the isolation that she also felt.
Not even noticing the masses, they stared deeply into one another's eyes. Then, in unison they turned, still holding hands and strolled casually down the sidewalks under the guise of the magical city.
As they walked, she pondered why she hadn't tried anything, hadn't embarrassed herself flirting yet.
Although he seemed to be a potential other half, she couldn't help but hold back just enough to keep her from the plunge. She wasn't sure if there was something she did not know about him, or something she did not know about herself. There was an odd but subtle force that was beginning to make itself known as the weeks passed. It was this presence that had drawn her down the dark passageways of the Opera House, the same one which Giry feared, she was sure.
As only Paris could conjure, there was a mystification that eluded Nadya here, holding its cards tightly.
Perhaps this was why she refused make a promise to Giry or give Rurik a call.
Perhaps this was why she opened that dressing room door.
Perhaps this was why she was going back…tonight.
The day was fading. She had said farewell to Rurik, the candle-like heat of his company still flickering on her skin. Knowing she had to move fast, she waited the proper amount of time for him to call a cab and sprinted out the door.
Running over the opening and closing hours in her head, she was sure she would be able to squeak in just before they stopped accepting visitors. Getting there in record time, she barely noticed the massive structure as it loomed over her, casting a deep shadow. Pictures did not do it justice. It seemed as if the sky could not hold it.
The velvet ropes were coming out, and she was the last wave to be admitted. Each guard looked dead on his feet, the day beginning to wear them.
This made it extremely easy to bypass their tired security. Just as before, she waited for one inevitable crisis to appear. There was a promising group of rowdy teenagers that was lurking around, unable to keep their hands from touching the art.
A boy with ragged blonde hair and an unsettling grin finally went too far. The staircase was off-limits, only official tour groups could enter, but he paid no heed and darted up them, taunting his friends as he did. Then, the chase was on. The navy-blue guards squeaked their whistles and sprinted after him, yelling rebukes.
When the attention of the entire lobby was focused on the stupid kid, she skulked unnoticed into the dusky hall. A new sense of urgency pushed her to skip over the portraits and go straight to the adjacent passageway, the one with Persephone's story.
Turning a corner quickly, she leaned against the wall, panting. Adrenaline was coursing through her veins, she felt like she had just stolen the Hope Diamond. No footsteps followed her, but she heard a cry echoing faintly. The boy had probably just been tackled.
She took deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling with purpose, trying to slow her hummingbird heart. The ominous sense that accompanied her the first time was now palpable. This time was markedly different. The wonder and awe of the first discovery was thinning into a dark premonition.
She took one more second to steady herself and then paid lip service to Persephone as she continued to trot quickly. Again she came around to the doors and had no problem finding the mirrored dressing room. Looking over her shoulder every few paces, she could feel something watching her. She supposed it to be a guard, or one of the teenagers who might have seen her escape.
Yet there was no sound, no admonition.
Why was she so on edge? Hadn't she come here seeking the opposite?
To calm her, she forced an image of her father smiling to the forefront of her thoughts, ignoring the enveloping murk.
Swatting away the shadows of her mind, she repressed the sinister feelings and twisted the handle open. Remembering its squeaky hinges, she managed to open it without that gut-wrenching sound and tip-toed quickly in.
No monster awaited her, no Hades. It was just the same with the mirrors that squared off as if in a perpetual duel.
Like last time, she unfurled her lighter and set the waxy candles ablaze, bringing life to the ancient room. It begin to feel like hallowed ground, like she only had to exclaim "Sanctuary!" to gain access to its protection. Except in her case, it was not a word but a song.
Curious once more, she went over to the looming mirror, and looked deeply into it, trying to see past it. For it did not feel like a reflection but a portal, one that might whisk her back to the past, before her world became a never-ending night.
But it only stood vacantly, only her furrowed expression greeted her search. Shaking her head, she sat in front of it like a child, folding her flexible legs into a crossed-legged position. The shimmer of the dim candlelight encouraged her to recollect, to find a purpose to sing.
She let her mind wander until it hit a nerve: The memory of her father's funeral. Saddened by it greatly, it nonetheless had to be the inspiration. Prayers and pleas could not satisfy her soul today, it must be a eulogy.
Thus, a new melody was needed.
Throat becoming thick, she had a distinct reminiscence of one of the last songs her father taught her. It had been sophomore year in high school, and something had happened at school that caused her to cry. Always there to care for her, he took her into the car and drove to their special grove early that day. When they arrived, she began to feel better as he recited the verses to her.
She recalled being surprised, because it was not a joyful tune, but a tragic one. After she had stopped weeping, she asked her father why he chose it, and he replied:
"Because, angel, putting a happy face on pain means that we never accept our sadness," he explained with his usual crinkly expression. "If we do not recognize it, we cannot move on."
She knew his words were true, but they would be put to the ultimate test with his death, and she would end up ignoring them.
But, perhaps now she was strong enough to listen.
Lowering her head, she let the tidal waves of pent-up grief storm over her. Afraid she would not be able to expel it, she wondered if her voice would come back. Channeling her sorrow, her body and heart obeyed, opening up the dam.
"You were once my one companion, you were all that mattered...
Wishing you were somehow here again, wishing you were somewhere near...
Too many years, fighting back tears. Why can't the past just die?
Help me say goodbye.
Help me say goodbye."
It was far more agonizing than her last, but it was also far more exceptional. Each tinkling vibrato, each piercing tenor and fading note rebounded all around until she encompassed in her own voice, completely cocooned. Believing it would only add to the mourning, it actually lessened it. Her father had been right, as he always had been.
When it dimmed into a profound silence, she let his memory go peacefully this time. Although the sting remained, the wound was stitching. The tatters were repairing.
Again, an enthralling resonance drew him from his den.
It boiled his blood and muddied his brain. It was irresistible, the swan song of redemption taunting him. He couldn't control himself, couldn't think, compose, play, it was impossible! Resistance was like drowning, her voice was like air.
He lurked and studied as she came back like a restless ghost. Something drew her here, and he had to figure out why. A perfect enigma, a challenge for his time, he felt as if he had been lured and caught. Her first performance sealed his fate, it was all he could think about.
Who was she? Where did she come from? Why on earth did she come to this room? Of all places? Even worse, she was everything he could never be: Beautiful and innocent. He couldn't decide whether to be furious or overjoyed. His own guardian angel finally showed her head and it exacerbated his long deadened hopes of salvation.
The second time was pure torture, she had improved, if that were possible. His entire body quaked with anticipation. He must make himself known, must reach for the unattainable. She sat, head bowed as if in a prayer, shoulders slumped, her long hair, free from its usual restraint, curtained down, hiding her face from him as he looked in from behind the mirror.
Without her realizing, he shifted silently as he made up his mind. This may be his only chance, when would she ever come back? Staying quiet was decaying him from the inside, and leaving would only leave him to his self-loathing.
She waited, unaware.
He took a noiseless breath.
Here goes nothing...he thought morbidly.
"Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance."