... Content warning: This chapter delves into the troubling history of ballet culture in the nineteenth century. As always, I avoid graphic descriptions, but it's impossible to write about this piece of history without mentioning the sexual exploitation of children that was prevalent in this period. This chapter also involves attempted suicide and substance abuse. Please take care while reading. ...

"How much longer?" Ming asked. Her face was projected on the monitor of the time cave. Kevin tried to hide his annoyance at being interrupted mid-lesson yet again. To be fair, Ming looked pretty frustrated too. "JB is insufferable," she said. "Like, I get it, he's going through a tough time, but I swear, my second-grade students aren't even this bad."

"What's he doing now?" said Hadley. Kevin and the others had noticed a change in JB since he'd returned from Sam's apartment. He'd charged through the front door with his jaw set, the intense flame of determination in his eyes. Everyone was happy to see that he'd overcome his sullen, melancholy spell, but this new drive had posed its own problems. Twice, Dad had found him in the kitchen in the middle of the night, just mumbling calculations to himself, Mom's favorite tablecloth twisted and tangled into a big wad in his hands. When Dad asked what he was doing, he'd said, "I just need to consider one more scenario before I go to bed…" Both times, it had been after four in the morning.

Ming sighed and brushed her long bangs out of her eyes. "He will not sit still."

"Could you be more specific?" said Hadley.

"He keeps pacing around with the Skidmores' elucidator, running into things because he won't watch where he's going and has barely slept. It's a miracle Jonah managed to convince him to shower. The man refuses to stop searching for Sam even though I keep telling him that you're close to finding her. You are close, right?"

"Very close," Hadley assured her. "Based on the snippets of information Cira has given me, I have a good hypothesis regarding Sam's original identity. I just need to confirm it."

"Well, how long will that take?" said Emily, who'd slid into view behind Ming. "I just got a text from Antonio saying he and Brendan can't make it because of that important art history conference they're at, but at this rate, should I just tell them to fly down next week?"

"How long has it even been for you?" said Hadley. "Thirty minutes?"

"Feels like four hours," said Ming. "So much for time hollow magic."

"It's not our fault time's too messed up to let us come back right away," Kevin said, "and we've been at this for ages. With the amount of work we've been doing, I'd say it would amount to days—you know, if time existed in here." Kevin knew it was supposed to be impossible to get tired inside a time hollow, but he'd run so many variations of practice scenarios with no real historical consequence, he wanted to pull his hair out. He appreciated that Hadley didn't want him to rewatch anything too brutal a million times, but couldn't he have chosen something more interesting than Queen Victoria's proposal to Prince Albert? We get it, he wanted to say. You two have the hots for each other and you're equally disgusting in Windsor Castle as you are in Buckingham Palace.

Of course, he really couldn't complain. The one and only time JB had been invited to help teach Kevin the ropes, JB had pulled up the sinking of the Titanic and the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. He'd said Kevin needed to be ready to handle high-stakes projections if they had any chance of saving Sam. Of course, whenever Kevin actually tried to do anything, JB would talk over him and explain every little thing Kevin was doing wrong. No wonder Ming and Emily had had enough of him.

"I think I'll have something by tonight," Hadley said confidently, which was news to Kevin.

"What?" Ming and Emily exclaimed at the same time.

Hadley winked. "What do you think I've been doing this whole time while Kevin was practicing?"

Emily sprang forward and leaned in so close, her face took up the entire screen."Well, tell us what you found!" Ming squeezed her way into the frame so the two were now literally cheek-to-cheek, eyes blazing with anticipation.

Hadley laughed, but shook his head. "I don't want to jinx it by talking too soon. Once I know for sure, I promise I will tell everyone."

...

Three days. It had been three whole days and still nothing. What was Hadley doing in there, twiddling his thumbs? Be fair, JB told himself. I'me sure he has a very good reason for taking so long.In a time hollow. With a literal child genius by his side. He dug his fingernails into his palms and tried to be patient. Everyone was going above and beyond to support him.

He inhaled slowly and counted. One, two, three… On the count of ten he released the breath and felt his shoulders drop, his jaw relax. He unclenched his fists and grimaced at his bloodied palms. He'd have to ask Linda for some bandages. Again. If the Skidmores hadn't snatched away the elucidator, he'd at least have something to do with his hands.

He got up from the basement sofa and turned into the bathroom to rinse off the blood. He pumped some soap into his hands and— "Argh!" Not soap. Hand sanitizer. He winced and shoved his palms under the faucet to relieve the stinging. Why twenty-first century people insisted on having both hand sanitizer and liquid soap in their bathrooms, he had no clue. Neither would be necessary in a couple centuries anyway, but in the meantime, couldn't they keep them separate?

He sighed and tried again. Soap on the right, not the left, he reminded himself. As he scrubbed, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror. It wasn't as bad as he expected, probably thanks to Jonah's insistence on him showering and getting more than two hours of sleep the night before. He dried his hands then brushed his fingers against his face. A little scratchy, but not enough to require a shave yet. Razors were another twenty-first century item he absolutely despised.

He was just about to go up to the living room and ask if he could see the elucidator one more time when a voice—it sounded like Katherine's—blasted, "THEY FOUND HER! THEY FOUND SAM!"

...

The time cave came to life with energy and celebration almost as soon as Hadley delivered the news. Kevin had to admit he was pretty giddy himself, eager to see what Hadley had uncovered. Even Mom and Dad looked excited, though a little nervous. "Is this going to be appropriate for Kevin and your boys?" Mom had asked. "It's a given that something terrible happened to Sam or we wouldn't be here in the first place."

JB expressed his own grievances. "This isn't right," he said. "I don't want all these people Sam's never met just watching her life like it's some spectacle."

"How are we supposed to help if we don't know what happened to her?" said Andrea. "Why do you think we're all here?"

Hadley held up his hands. "Slow down, everybody. I'm not going to screen anything yet. I just wanted to have us all in the same place while we decide how it's going to work."

"Okay, so tell us how it's going to work," said JB a little too sharply. He appeared to catch himself, though, because he cleared his throat and added, "Please."

Hadley gave JB an understanding smile and explained, "I suggest that JB, Kevin, and I watch it first and then determine from there what role each of us needs to play. Then we show as much or as little as needed to everyone else, based on their role."

"That's not fair," Katherine cried immediately. "Jonah and I are the ones who actually went and found JB in 1865, we deserve to see it all."

"And if Kevin is going to watch, I should stay and supervise," Mom insisted.

JB grimaced, as if the thought of Mom sitting in on the screening was simply ridiculous. "With all due respect, Linda, there's no need for you to stay. Kevin needs all the information regardless of whether or not you think it's appropriate. He can't make reliable projections otherwise."

Mom strode forward so she was standing directly in front of JB and shot him a glare. "With all due respect to you, Kevin is my son first and a projectionist second."

"What are you saying?" JB replied just as intensely. "You're willing to let someone die just because their misfortunes aren't child-appropriate enough for you? Do you think Sam had any say in whether or not her life turned out PG-rated? Do you—?"

"Just let her stay!" Kevin interrupted. He didn't like being babied, but the way JB was talking to Mom infuriated him. "I'll watch the whole thing, I swear, but what's the harm in letting her stay if that makes her feel better?"

"I think that's a fair compromise," said Hadley.

JB looked far from satisfied, but eventually crossed his arms and grumbled, "Fine. But no one else."

"But—" Katherine started to protest, but JB silenced her with a single cutting glance.

And it was decided. Kevin, Mom, Hadley, and JB stayed and the rest returned to their current lodgings. Kevin and Mom settled on one of the benches in the back, while Hadley and JB took front row seats. Hadley pressed a button on his elucidator and the cave fell silent as a detailed scene appeared on the wall. In the corner was the caption, October 3, 1855. East London.

Kevin did his best to take everything in. Two women sat across from each other at a small table in a dark room. With a single candle as the only light source, Kevin could barely make out the outlines of their meager surroundings—a flimsy cot in the corner, a washtub on the ground, damp laundry strung across the ceiling, casting ghoulish shadows on the walls. The smallest of the two women was crying, slumped over with her elbows on the table and her face in her hands. The taller woman looked on with sympathy. The two resembled each other and Kevin guessed they were related. Both had brown hair and the same Roman nose. The tallest of the two seemed older and more put-together, and she was the first to speak.

"Look at me, Suzannah," she said. Kevin thought he heard a touch of cockney in her voice, but just barely. The younger one slowly lifted her face, and as her posture straightened, Kevin saw the bulge in her belly. She was pregnant.

"Is that supposed to be Sam's mother?" Kevin asked Hadley.

"I think so," Hadley said. "Remember, this is my first time seeing this too and—"

"Shh!" JB hissed. Kevin turned to shoot him a dirty look, but JB was gripping the bench so hard, his knuckles were white, and his forehead was shiny with sweat. Fine, thought Kevin with a huff. I'll let that one slide. He turned his attention back to the screen.

"Where shall I go?" the pregnant woman whispered with a much thicker accent than her companion. Her eyes were swollen, perhaps from fatigue in addition to crying. Her hands were red and covered in dry cracks. Strands of hair fell haphazardly from her low bun. "I got no work, no husband, no money. Tell me, Marianne, why did you call me here?"

"You're my sister. I won't let you starve on the streets, no matter what the others say about you. There are options, you know."

Suzannah's face hardened. "I won't have the procedure. Daniel tried to persuade me to see his doctor friend, but I won't do it."

"I know," Marianne said gently. "I am not here to suggest any such thing. I've seen the kinds of 'doctors' he speaks of. It is dangerous business, no doubt. Half the women who go in do not come back."

Suzannah gaped at her sister. "How do you know such things?"

Marianne sighed and shook her head. "Oh, Suzannah, you are so innocent. Do you not hear the gossip every day on the streets? It's hardly a secret."

Suzannah scowled. "I only hear the gossip about me. It grows worse by the day."

"That is why I want you to come with me to Paris," said Marianne.

Suzannah's eyes bulged. "Paris! Are you mad? We don't even speak French. And how do you suppose we pay our way out of London? Just because you try and talk posh don't mean you got money."

"My employers are moving to Paris and want me to join them. I believe I can convince them to pay your way as well."

"The Robinsons? Ha! You're joking, surely?" There was no humor in Suzannah's words, only bitterness. "They already have you as their maid, why should they need another one? Not to mention my…situation."

Marianne shook her head. "I'm not suggesting they will take you in once we arrive, but they are compassionate. I'm certain they will pay for your passage if I simply explain that you are in need of a fresh start. I have also been in touch with a distant cousin of ours—Do you remember Clarisse Mariner who moved to Paris when we were children?"

"I don't."

"Well, she still lives in Paris. I wrote to her about you and she says she's happy to aid a relative. She and her husband own a small inn in the city and she says you can stay in a spare room until you have the baby."

"They won't be ashamed to have the likes of me in their inn?"

Marianne's eyes twinkled mischievously. "No one in Paris will know us. Who is to say you're not simply a pregnant widow? You can choose a new French name for yourself and wear Mother's old mourning clothes. No one will bat an eye."

Suzannah pursed her lips, as if considering the idea. "And then what? How will I make a living when the baby's born?"

"If it's a boy, you will need to approach a charity for widowed mothers. My employers have connections and can even help you find work as a laundress. You have the experience, so it should not be too difficult."

Suzannah's expression told Kevin that she didn't especially like the idea of becoming a laundress again. She said as much to her sister. "I was beginning to think a new city would bring new opportunities."

"Oh, but it could!" said Marianne, looking giddy now. "If you have a girl, that is."

Suzannah snorted. "In what world does a girl bring more fortune than a boy?"

Marianne leaned over the table so she was just inches from Suzannah and whispered, "The world of ballet."

"Ballet! Marianne, you really are mad."

Marianne giggled. "Just listen to me. Do you know how Cousin Clarisse could afford to buy an inn?"

Suzannah shrugged. "Her husband had money, no doubt."

Marianne grinned and shook her head. "She sent her daughter to dance school, and that daughter is now a premier dancer. She makes enough money to support herself and her mother now."

"You're serious?"

"Yes! I say, pray for a girl, Suzannah, because that will be our way to higher pastures."

"Stop!" someone yelled, and at first Kevin thought it was coming from the screen. Only when Hadley pressed a button and the scene froze did he realize it was JB who'd yelled.

"What's wrong?" Mom asked.

JB stared at the screen, shaking his head. "Don't make her a ballerina…" he pleaded to no one in particular.

"What's so terrible about ballerinas?" asked Kevin.

"The petits rats of the Paris ballet," said Hadley, looking troubled as well, "were girls as young as seven or eight, mostly from poor backgrounds and usually overworked and malnourished. All because their parents hoped they might one day become stars and raise their families out of poverty. I don't think Marianne and Suzannah realize it, but the chances of success were slim."

"You left out the worst part," said JB. "The abonnés." The word was laden with disgust.

"And that's French for…?" Mom prompted.

"Subscribers," said Hadley. "People who had the money to reserve their own box seats in Paris's theaters and opera houses. They were…how to put this lightly…" He scratched his beard nervously.

"Are you familiar with the artist Edgar Degas?" JB said.

Mom's face lit up. "Oh, yes! I have one of his ballerina pastels in my bedroom, actually. I think it's called Dancers, Pink and Green."

"Excellent example," said JB, though he didn't look happy in the slightest. "Tell me, Linda, what do you see when you look at that artwork?"

"Lots of color," said Mom, "and a dreamlike atmosphere. Though I get the feeling you're about to tell me something that will make me want to take it down when I get home."

Hadley cracked a quick smile at Mom's remark, but JB just continued with, "Have you ever wondered about the shadowy outline standing in the wings?"

"What shadowy outline?"

"That's what I thought."

Mom crossed her arms. "Okay, well why don't you enlighten me? You know, since you're obviously the smartest person in this room."

JB squeezed the bench so tightly, Kevin thought he might break it. Mom was really getting under his skin, it seemed. "I would, but it's far from child appropriate. Pretty ironic since the ballerinas were children. Of course, their mothers were basically complicit in what happened to them."

"Complicit in what?" Kevin demanded. "Just tell us!"

Hadley stood up and planted himself between JB and Mom. "Why don't you let me explain?" he said to JB. "If that's okay with you, Linda?"

"Yes, thank you, Hadley," Mom said, still glaring at JB. It was almost funny, seeing two fully grown adults bicker like children. Then again, Kevin shouldn't have been surprised. Just like Katherine, Mom never let anyone talk down to her.

"Okay, so," Hadley said quickly, "there was an unspoken agreement between theaters and their subscribers—"

"Unspoken?" JB interrupted. "Hardly."

"JB, may I continue?"

"Yes, sorry," said JB, and he did look apologetic.

Hadley resumed. "JB's right, though. It wasn't really a secret. Basically these box seat subscribers were given free rein backstage and access to rehearsals. They got to sit and watch the ballerinas practice. Keep in mind, the people who subscribed to the theater were wealthy men, aristocrats with money to spare. You…you see where I'm going with this?" Hadley tugged at his shirt collar, evidently uncomfortable.

Mom's hand shot to her lips. "How…how old did you say the ballerinas were?"

"Seven or eight," JB murmured, staring at the floor.

"And their parents just let this happen?"

"Many didn't think they had a choice," said Hadley. "If they thought their kid had a chance at making it big one day, they figured it was better than starving. See, the thing that's so insidious is that if a subscriber took a liking to a particular ballerina, he'd take on the role of 'protector'—predator is a more accurate word, but this was just what they called it."

"And these 'protectors' would, what, pretend to take care of the girls?" Mom asked. Her hand had slipped down to her chest now.

"They'd pay for the ballet classes," said Hadley, "buy the costumes, provide for the ballerina and her family. The whole system was designed so that the ballerinas couldn't afford to keep up their training without that kind of money. Of course, in exchange the ballerina was expected to become the subscriber's 'mistress.' Again, not a word I would use to describe a seven year-old with no say in the matter."

Kevin's palms started to sweat. Even with just the four of them there, the time hollow felt stuffy and crowded. How could any of this be real? What kind of parents would do that to their kids? Desperate ones, he thought. But what would possibly make a parent so desperate that they'd be willing to subject their own daughter to such a life?

"You're right," said Mom finally. "I don't think this is appropriate for Kevin. But," she added when both Kevin and JB stood up to argue, "I also know that those little girls didn't have mothers that could protect them the way I can protect my kids. So I'll let you decide, Kevin. If you think you can handle this, I won't force you to look away if it means we can save even just one of those girls."

"I can handle it, Mom," Kevin said. He didn't like it, but he knew it was the right thing to do.

Mom nodded and JB heaved a sigh of relief. Hadley pressed a button on the elucidator and the scene dissolved into an outdoor setting; it looked like a big park in early spring or late winter. Two women—Marianne and someone Kevin didn't recognize sat on a bench beside a large pond with a fountain in the center. Big white statues lorded over the grass amidst splashes of budding magnolias. Marianne looked just like she had in the previous scene: tidy but plain in her navy frock and brown cape. The round-faced redhead beside her, though, was clad in rich green satin with a frilly bonnet trimmed in black lace on her head. The caption in the corner now indicated that several months had passed. It said, March 16, 1856.Jardins des Tuleries, Paris.

"…It is indeed a girl, born yesterday morning," Marianne was saying. "Suzannah—I mean Suzette—has decided to name her Rosalie. Rosalie Dubois."

The fancy redhead nodded approvingly. "Good. Rosalie sounds French enough, and the surname will leave no doubt in anyone's mind. Now, if Suzette can perfect her own French in a few years, the girl can grow up with no knowledge of her origins."

"It's a shame she'll never know her grandparents, but it will ensure her past does not taint her chances of success in the ballet," said Marianne. "Your daughter took on a French persona when she started, did she not?"

"Of course. Clarisse is French, so I had no need to change my name, but I couldn't very well name my daughter Eliza after my mother. And so Élise it was. We make such sacrifices for our children's futures."

Mom let out an indignant "Hmph!" at the same time that JB seethed, "Some future." The two glanced at each other and then nodded with mutual respect before turning their attention back to the screen.

Clarisse babbled on about how great her life became after Élise rose to stardom, promising that Marianne's niece would also have an easy time as long as Suzette chose a good "protector." Kevin didn't think Marianne fully understood what that meant because she didn't seem the least bit alarmed by it. She only asked, "And what must one look for in a protector?"

Clarisse chuckled. "Money, first and foremost. You can't take just any offer. Believe me, they may be rich, but that doesn't stop them from offering very low sums to newcomers who don't know any better. Be sure Suzette knows not to take any offer too quickly."

Marianne's forehead creased a little. "These men, they play tricks?"

"Not the good ones," Clarisse assured her. "Find one who's honest, to be sure."

Marianne still looked hesitant, but said, "All right. And what else?"

Clarisse took a quick scan of the area with her eyes, then leaned closer to Marianne and whispered, "Make sure he is gentle with the girl when the time comes to…exchange favors."

Marianne's eyes went round. "Whatever do you mean?"

Clarisse cocked her head and blinked. Something seemed to occur to her suddenly. "You don't…you don't know?"

Marianne shook her head and laughed nervously. "Do not frighten me, Clarisse. You certainly don't mean…?" Clarisse's face remained unchanged, and suddenly it seemed to dawn on Marianne that her cousin was being entirely serious. She clutched her throat and abruptly stood up. "And here I thought Suzette was innocent about the world!" She pressed her hands to her cheeks and ogled at the ground. "What have I done? Suzette will never agree to this. And to think I'm the one who persuaded her to come here…"

"I'm so very sorry, I thought you understood," said Clarisse. "Believe me, I was hesitant at first, but I had six remaining children to feed. My husband was already working long hours at the docks for not nearly enough pay. We had to make a choice."

"To throw your daughter into a den of wolves?"

Clarisse stood up too and threw her hands in the air. "What else could we do? Let her and the rest of my children wither away? It had already happened to my first two girls. It is a slow, agonizing death, Marianne. Believe me, Suzette does not want to watch her daughter starve."

This scene vanished too, and then another appeared. And another. And another. Kevin saw Rosalie as a toddler, wide-eyed with a full head of hair and very talkative. Most of the words were nonsense, but she always seemed to have something to say.

Then she was four, five, six. Suzannah-now-Suzette watched her grow with a loving gleam in her eyes. But it was a cautious, distant love—a love Suzette seemed to keep at arm's length because she knew what lay ahead for her daughter.

Her face was entirely blank when she accompanied Rosalie to her first ballet class. The other young girls were hard at work, stretching their tiny limbs as far as they would go, or holding complex poses until their slim bodies shook from the tension. There were a few boy dancers here and there, but the vast majority were female. In the corner, two dance masters—a man and a woman—watched the rehearsal while a violinist played in the corner. Kevin tried to ignore the room's other occupants—men in black suits that lurked from the sidelines—but he couldn't help but notice how their heads all turned toward the door the moment Rosalie entered the room.

Rosalie made a dash for the group of stretching girls and waved hello, but the grin on her face fell as soon as Suzette shook her head disapprovingly. The female dance master, a gray-haired woman with a sharp nose and round eyeglasses, approached Suzette. The women curtseyed to each other, then led Rosalie into a makeshift dressing area behind some wood panels in the back. When Rosalie emerged, she donned a fluffy, knee-length tutu. She beamed at herself in the mirror and performed a series of twirls that landed her in a dizzy heap on the floor. The other girls snickered, while Suzette and the instructors sighed. A few of the subscribers cackled loudly, which made Kevin shudder. The female dance instructor finally pulled Rosalie up from the floor and pointed sternly at the other dancers. Rosalie stiffened and gave a timid nod before shuffling into position behind her new companions and tried to mimic their movements. It was obvious from the start, though, that she did not possess a natural talent for ballet.

Weeks passed, and then months, with little improvement. Suzette urged Rosalie to walk on the balls of her feet at all hours, even outside of rehearsal. But while the toe-walking habit stuck, she remained far from graceful in the dance studio. As the year progressed, the dance masters grew visibly impatient, as did the other students. Their giggles faded to frustrated sighs each time Rosalie's clumsiness forced them to repeat their routine. Even the onlooking subscribers seemed to have lost interest.

By summertime, Suzette had begun drinking regularly and Rosalie's self-confidence had all but dissolved. Kevin was sure Suzette would call it quits and pull Rosalie out of ballet before August, but then a new man started showing up to rehearsals. From his walking stick and top hat, it was clear that he was a new subscriber. He looked young, maybe thirty or forty at most, with a dark mustache and athletic build. He shook hands with the other subscribers, then fetched a pipe from his waistcoat pocket and puffed on it as he observed the girls. When Rosalie took one of her regular tumbles, the man fixed his eyes on her and raised an eyebrow at his buddies. They shook their heads at him, but the man continued to watch Rosalie with a curious look in his gray eyes. When the rehearsal ended and a bleary-eyed Suzette stumbled in to fetch her daughter, the man strode in their direction.

Suzette had evidently had a couple of drinks before she got there, but she seemed to understand what was happening. Her expression was a blend of both dread and relief, but mostly fatigue. The man introduced himself as Gérôme Donais, and while Rosalie was busy changing back into her street clothes, he said, "The clumsy one is your daughter?"

"Rosalie," Suzette slurred, "is still learning."

Gérôme smirked. "Of course. And how does she pay for lessons?"

Suzette shrugged.

"I see. So she does not yet have a provider."

Suzette looked at the ground and shook her head. "No, Monsieur."

"I thought not." Gérôme went on to explain that he was a respected member of society who lived off his large inheritance, and that he had plenty of money to spare if Rosalie needed support. "I will pay for her rehearsals, meals, wardrobe, and all else she will need on her journey to stardom."

Suzette made a high-pitched noise at the word "stardom" and murmured, "First she must make it to mediocrity." Then she slapped a hand over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. "Apologies, Monsieur. I do believe in my daughter, I just…" A sound from the dressing area interrupted her. It was Rosalie, singing to herself from behind the panels.

"I know she is falling behind," said Gérôme, "but I admire her spirit. She is so…eager to please." His lips curled upward and Suzette shrank at his tone. Gérôme seemed to catch her hesitation because he went on. "I am a father and husband myself. I assure you, Rosalie will be treated with great care." Suzette just bit her bottom lip, so Gérôme continued. "I understand your hesitation, but please hear me out: My daughter Léa will be five in July. She is in need of a playmate and I presume your girl is the same age, no?"

"Eight in March," said Suzette. "She appears young for her age."

"All the same, if I were to make an additional offer," said Gérôme, "would you consider it?"

"What offer?"

Gérôme smiled wider. "In addition to the costs of Rosalie's dance training, I will bring her in as a companion for my daughter. She will receive a proper education alongside Léa. Léa, you see, has a rebellious spirit. I hope an eager soul like your Rosalie might inspire her to learn all that a young lady must learn before she goes out into society. Reading, writing, music, arithmetic, and the like. These will all be at Rosalie's disposal if you accept my offer."

Suzette gaped at him. "You're not serious."

"I am, Madame. Of course," he added, "I do still expect to earn my share of favors in return, but, as a parent I understand that you have concerns. If I were to swear to you that I will not touch her until she has reached age thirteen, would you be agreeable?"

"Thirteen?" Mom shouted at the wall. "Oh, I could strangle him!"

Kevin glanced at Hadley, who was back to combing his fingers through his beard uncomfortably. JB mostly stared at the scene in white-faced silence, though Kevin might have heard a hushed whimper or two.

On the wall, Suzette eyed Gérôme suspiciously. "And how is she to make time for rehearsals when she is learning so much else? The instructors dismiss girls even for tardiness."

Gérôme waved away her concern. "I will handle the dance masters. They listen to folks like myself. Besides, it is my hope that in learning other skills, we may uncover some new great talents your girl might have to offer." He tilted his head toward the dressing area, from which Rosalie's sweet voice continued to rise. Suzette hesitated a second longer, then nodded at Gérôme; the scene changed again.

Rosalie was nine now, standing next to a piano in an elegantly furnished drawing room. She was singing Christmas carols with another girl while the piano player shouted instructions like, "Deeper breaths!" and "More support on that note, please!" and "Crescendo in five, four, three…" Rosalie was certainly the strongest singer, but the other girl seemed to be enjoying herself just as much.

Several months sped by. Then a year. Kevin watched Rosalie's vocal talents grow as she practiced. Gérôme's wife served little treats to Léa and Rosalie during their lessons. She was either completely oblivious to Gérôme's agreement with Suzette's mother or decided to turn a blind eye. And Léa certainly knew nothing about it.

Rosalie failed her dance exam and left ballet for good, though she never seemed to shake her habit of walking on her toes. Other odd habits emerged as well. At first it was little things, like one time Léa thought one of her ribbons had been stolen, and Rosalie started checking her pockets, even though she'd been with Léa the entire time. On a different day, Rosalie burst into tears in the middle of a choir rehearsal when she learned that another singer had broken her ankle. Gérôme had pulled Rosalie aside to ask what was wrong and she inexplicably whispered, "I always thought that girl was a pest. Is this my fault?" The odd moments of irrational guilt grew more frequent and it wasn't long before Rosalie was sharing her concerns with Gérôme at least once a day. Gérôme had obviously begun to realize that she had started to depend on him to relieve her guilt, and he seemed to relish that sense of power.

"He's weaponizing her OCD," JB raged. "As if grooming her wasn't enough."

Rosalie continued her vocal training and attended a few auditions for small opera houses. At thirteen, she got her first ensemble role in The Marriage of Figaro at the Salle Le Peletier. A few of her former ballerina classmates came on stage to perform during the entr'acte and eyed Rosalie with confusion as she stood with the chorus.

It was her closing night when Gérôme finally came to collect his due. He greeted her in the wings after curtain call with a bouquet of lilies and tried to kiss her. She recoiled. He grabbed her by the wrist and said, "We discussed this." Rosalie bowed her head, but accepted the lilies and followed Gérôme further backstage.

The screen went black. Kevin turned to see Hadley holding a button down on his elucidator. "I…I don't think we need to see this part…"

The screen remained black for ten minutes or so, and no one said a word. Mom seethed silently beside Kevin and Hadley put an arm around JB, whose face Kevin couldn't see. His shoulders were quivering, though.

When the wall lit back up, Rosalie sat alone on a dressing room sofa, glassy-eyed and still as a doll. Pieces of her braid hung loose around her face and one sleeve of her chemise fell askew over her tiny shoulder. At her feet, lilies lay strewn about amidst shards of broken glass.

This was the first of many such instances. Kevin stopped counting how many times Hadley had to blacken the screen throughout Rosalie's teen years. Most of her days cycled through a pattern—She would spend the morning with Léa at lessons or social gatherings, attend auditions or rehearsals in the afternoons, and begin most evenings in a private space of Gérôme's choosing. She would return home to her small apartment after midnight, where she would find Suzette passed out at the kitchen table with an empty glass in her hand.

The cycle would repeat day after day until one afternoon, Léa showed up unexpectedly to a dress rehearsal. Rosalie was nineteen now, and cast as the understudy for Béatrice in Béatrice et Bénédict. It was a special occasion for many reasons—this was Rosalie's biggest accomplishment thus far, and it was at the newly finished Palais Garnier opera house. Kevin recognized the spectacular venue as the setting for The Phantom of the Opera. It was one of Mom's favorite movies, so he wasn't surprised when she gasped at the structure's majestic columns and arches. The façade looked like a wedding cake, iced at the top with a green copper dome and gilt trim. In the center, a dominating statue of Apollo raised a golden lyre to the sky, flanked by sculpted gold angels and winged horses. The interior was even more spectacular. The glittering chandeliers in the Grand Foyer rivaled Versailles' Hall of Mirrors, and the auditorium blazed in red velvet and carved gold.

Rosalie was in the wings, mirroring the principal singer's movements with intense focus when Léa emerged from the shadows. Rosalie screamed and the cast glared at her from the stage. Léa's expression was even deadlier. Her icy blue eyes flashed at Rosalie with sheer hatred. Clearly shocked, Rosalie backed further into the wings and whispered to her friend, "What vexes you, Léa?"

Léa hurled her own question at Rosalie. "How could you? And with my father?"

The confusion on Rosalie's face melted into dread. "Léa, what did you hear?"

"You must think I'm such a fool," Léa cried. "Well, better a fool than a slut!"

"Léa!"

Léa raised a hand as if ready to slap Rosalie, but instead she slammed it over her own eyes and erupted into sobs. Rosalie laid a hand on her shoulder, but Léa jerked away.

"Please forgive me," Rosalie begged. "It was arranged long before—"

"Long before we met?" Léa finished. Rosalie nodded, but Léa was unconsoled. "I see. Well, in that case, why should I be offended? If you were my father's side piece long before you were my friend, that changes everything!"

"I wasn't!" Rosalie protested. "I mean I'm not. It's not like that, I—"

"You what? You just do it for the money, for the prestige?" Léa waved her arm at the stage. "And to think I defended you when Father warned me that all women of the stage were whores."

Rosalie's jaw dropped. "He told you that?"

"I see now that he knows from experience."

Rosalie was speechless, she stared at Léa in shocked silence as tears welled in her eyes.

Evidently seeing that Rosalie had no more to say, Léa spun around and marched out of the wings and through one of the backstage doors. Rosalie chased after her. She followed Léa into the green room where a man with a pipe leaned against the wall. Rosalie skidded to a complete stop at the sight of Gérôme waiting there for his daughter. He gave Rosalie a nod of mock apology, then offered Léa his arm. Léa scowled at him and stormed out of the theatre, mumbling something about the burdens of needing an escort everywhere she went. Gérôme rushed after her, leaving Rosalie alone to process it all.

That evening Rosalie tried to refuse Gérôme's advances. She asked him why he would tell his own daughter of his infidelity.

"She's getting older," he claimed. "It was only a matter of time before she learned the truth. It's no secret that I subscribe to the opera. Everyone knows what that means. My wife even knows."

"Léa didn't know!" Rosalie hissed.

"Léa is naive, but even she would have learned soon enough. Besides, you're getting successful now. One day you'll be recognized for your talents and I can't have you parading about high society with my daughter and wife when everyone knows who you are."

"What about my lessons?"

Gérôme chuckled. "What use are lessons when you're well on your way to stardom?"

"I'm hardly a star!" she shot back. "I'm an understudy, a spare for dire situations. I'm not even invited to most rehearsals these days."

Gérôme pinned her to the wall and stroked the base of her chin with one long finger. "You must have more confidence in yourself, Lily." Rosalie shuddered at the nickname and turned her face to the side. Gérôme clamped his hand under her jaw and yanked her face forward. Hadley darkened the screen again.

The next few months looked dismal for Rosalie. When at home, she helped her mother with household chores and made futile attempts to hide the alcohol until Suzette succumbed to her addiction one night and died of a seizure. Rosalie took as much time as possible to grieve between rehearsals and her evenings with Gérôme. She practiced diligently in the days leading up to opening night, fully embodying her role when on the stage, but deflating the minute she escaped into the wings. Gérôme watched her every move and became more demanding every night. Rosalie's OCD worsened. She started keeping a list of all the day's perceived wrongs and kept it in her pocket at all times. When Gérôme grew tired of hearing her confessions, she started scraping the sides of her thumbs with her index fingers until they bled and she had to replace her gloves. When the opera finished its closing performance, Rosalie had stepped in as Béatrice for a total of only two scenes in the show's entire run. After that, she was back to auditioning for her next opportunity.

On a particularly windy autumn day, she stood in a line with hundreds of other teenage girls, waiting her turn to audition for the role of Marguerite in Faust. She was about halfway through the line when a bespeckled man approached her and asked her name. She gave it and he then proceeded to tell her how impressed he was with her short-lived performance as Béatrice. Rosalie's eyes brightened for the first time in months as the man introduced himself as Mr. Edwards, a talent scout from London, seeking an unknown French singer for the role of Béatrice in a West End production. She agreed to give him an answer by the end of the week, and he left her to finish her audition.

Gérôme seemed to notice a change in her the following day, but did not pose too many questions. Obedient as ever, Rosalie gave him what he wanted and returned to her empty home just as she always had. Only now, after she bid Gérôme goodbye and watched his coach disappear down the street, she dug out a trunk from under her bed and began to pile all her belongings inside.

One week later, she was on a ship, sailing alongside Mr. Edwards toward a new home and, hopefully, a new life. The journey was long, but well worth it once she stepped onto English soil and followed Mr. Edwards into the city. With the money she'd made selling several of the fine gowns she'd once worn to society events with Léa, she rented a small apartment near the West End and settled into her new life.

The London rehearsals looked rigorous, but she seemed to thrive with every practice. Though she still kept her list of confessions, she wrote in it less frequently and the sores on her thumbs did not bleed as often. Best of all, she did not owe anyone anything.

It was one month before opening night when Rosalie walked into rehearsal as usual, but this evening something had changed. Mr. Edwards stopped her immediately in the green room to talk. Once they were alone, he said, "I am very sorry, Miss Dubois, but I'm afraid we must ask you to step down from your role in this production."

Visibly stunned, Rosalie stared at him.

"I must also ask that you stay away from this venue for the entirety of the show's run."

"Why?" Rosalie sounded close to tears.

Mr. Edwards looked at his hands, then answered sheepishly, "I'm afraid your presence here is a threat to our production now. You see, a gentleman came to us yesterday and informed us of your history."

"What history? And what gentleman?"

"A French fellow with a black mustache and a pipe. I believe he called himself Donais."

Rosalie's face fell. "Gérôme Donais?"

"Oh dear," said Mr. Edwards, shaking his head. "You do know this man, then? I suppose there's no doubt at all now."

"No doubt of what?"

Mr. Edwards fished a stack of papers from his coat pocket and handed them to Rosalie. They were all in her handwriting. "These lists are…Well, we cannot allow anyone with such a history to perform here, lest word gets out. We are a respectable institution, and these…confessions would sully our good name."

Rosalie stared at the lists and stammered, "But these aren't—at least I don't think…I only write them down just in case I am responsible and somehow forgot…" she trailed off, seemingly aware of how crazy she sounded. She scratched her thumbs and said, "This is not who I am."

Mr. Edwards cocked his head. "You can tell me with certainty that you are guilty of none of the misdeeds on these lists?"

Rosalie opened her mouth, shut it, then pressed her face in her hands. "I…" She shook her head.

"No, Sam…" JB moaned. "You know you didn't do any of those things."

"Why doesn't she just tell him the truth?" Kevin asked.

"She can't," said JB. "It's part of the OCD, making her think she can't trust her own memory." He rubbed his temples and kept watching.

Rosalie left the theater, eyes glued to the ground, the pile of lists in her hand. She walked all the way to her apartment without bothering to check for traffic. Twice, she was almost run over by a horse and carriage, but she didn't bat an eye. At home, she tossed the lists into the fireplace, lit a match, and dropped it in. The papers curled and shriveled in the flames. Rosalie collapsed onto a chair and watched them disintegrate into ash as she unpinned her hair and let it fall to her shoulders in loose waves. Then something moved in the back of the room, like a shadow peeling itself off the wall.

"Hello, Lily," the shadow said.

Rosalie shrieked.

Gérôme laughed and stepped into the orange light of the hearth. "Did you think you could just slither away? After all I've done for you?"

"Leave me alone," Rosalie murmured.

"Where would you be without me?" Gérôme said. "Who would have paid for all those lessons?"

"I'm done with you," she said, but her voice was so timid. "Please leave."

He didn't leave. Instead, he grabbed her from behind and knocked her off the chair. She landed with a scream. Gérôme yanked her by the hair and forced her back to her feet. She cried out in pain. "Stop! Please, let go of me!"

Gérôme only tightened his grip. "You. Are. Nothing," he snarled, then pushed her back onto the ground. "I will remain in London for another month. If you don't want to starve, you can find me at the pub across the street on any given afternoon. I will wait for you to come to your senses, then I will take you back to Paris with me and it will be like none of this ever happened."

Rosalie didn't look up; she merely lay on the floor and wept quietly. Gérôme shot one last look of disdain at her, then strode outside and slammed the door behind him.

Rosalie remained on the floor for another twenty minutes. Her chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. Finally, she crawled to her feet and stumbled to the door. With a heavy sigh, she turned the knob and stepped out into the night.

Hair swatted her face in the January wind as she walked further and further from her apartment.

"Where's she going?" Mom whispered. "Not to find that Gérôme guy, I hope."

JB didn't answer, only made a gulping noise and shook his head.

Rosalie walked for what seemed like hours through the dark London streets until she reached a small bridge. She peered down and sighed at the rushing black water below. Then she swung one leg over, and another, until she was sitting on the edge.

"Stop!' JB hollered. "Stop it here, Hadley. This is where we need to go. We'll find her here and take her home before she jumps!" He was already standing up, hand outstretched for Hadley's elucidator.

"Wait," said Hadley. "I have it programmed to stop exactly where there's an opening for us to go get her. It's not there yet."

JB turned, as if to make an appeal to Mom or Kevin, but instead he raked his hands through his hair and sat back down, biting his knuckle.

Rosalie sucked in a breath and slid off the edge. She hit the water with a small splash.

"NO! No no no no…" JB fell to his knees. "Hadley, why—"

"Just give it a minute," Hadley instructed. "Here." He pressed a button and suddenly the camera was underwater. Rosalie flung her arms and legs about helplessly against the current. Evidently, she'd regretted her decision immediately. She kicked and writhed to no avail. A glassy human figure appeared beside her and tugged on her arm before they both vanished, leaving a translucent, glowing version of Rosalie still struggling in the water.

"Okay, so that's when IR took her…" Hadley surmised.

Then suddenly Rosalie was back and the tracer disappeared—or did it? Something was still glowing in the darkness, but it wasn't Rosalie, because Rosalie was right there…kicking her way to the surface? So then why was the tracer still drowning?

Then it clicked. "Is that Sam pulling away from her tracer?"

"This must be right where Cira sent her back," said Hadley.

The translucent, glowing version of Rosalie continued to struggle, while the real one kept kicking.

"Rosalie can't swim," said JB, "but Sam can!" He made a noise that almost sounded like a laugh. "Look, she made it! She's breathing!"

"I bet Cira didn't see this coming," said Hadley with a grin.

As Sam paddled to shore and climbed up onto the banks, Kevin watched Tracer Rosalie fall limp, then fade away entirely.

"So what now?" said Mom.

Hadley shrugged. "We keep watching. Let's see how Sam fares in Rosalie's place."