Milton, 1881

Stepping down from the hackney carriage, Margaret clutched her worn travel bag and glanced warily around at the unfamiliar surroundings. The thick, smoky air enveloped her like a cloak. Hazy tendrils of soot caressed her face and form, sensually, unrelentingly. She took a deep breath and gasped as the fog mercilessly penetrated into her lungs.

Margaret let out a dry, raspy cough, her body protesting the brutal invasion. So this is Milton. It was a marvel that the singers of the famed Milton Opera managed to preserve their voices in this heavy, stinging fog. They must have devised some methods for the opera to boast such an unequaled international reputation. Perhaps the singers never left the confines of the opera house itself.

Margaret gazed up at the tall, imposing building before her. Its classical columns and elaborate Baroque stylings stood out conspicuously amongst the other drab brick structures on the street. The massive marble and granite facade was darkened by layers of soot, giving a grim tone to its ornate glory. Carved statues stared down at her ominously, as if warning her to turn around now, before it was too late. Margaret steeled her shoulders resolutely, despite a chill of foreboding. I have nowhere else to go, she reminded herself. She had no other choice.

Adjusting her bag, she warily climbed the stone steps to the grand entrance. The large door swung open at her approach. A doorman gave her shabby mourning dress a haughty glance before stepping aside to allow her to enter.

Even the magnificence of the exterior of the opera house had not prepared her for the opulence inside. Tall marble columns supported high arched ceilings. Elaborate gilded carvings surrounded brightly painted frescos above her head, illuminated by glowing chandeliers. While certainly no stranger to grand performance halls after her years at the new Palais Garnier in Paris, Margaret was astonished to find such grandeur in a place like Milton.

"May I help you, madam?" A uniformed attendant crossed the lobby to where she stood. His gaze swept over her coldly, clearly questioning her presence in such splendor.

"Yes, please, I am here to see Mr. Bell. He is expecting me. My name is Margaret Hale."

The man's eyebrows raised and the nod he gave her was a tad more respectful. "Very well, madam. If you would follow me."

He led her through the lobby and into a side door that opened into a long hallway. Margaret struggled to keep up with the man's quick strides; he seemed to make little allowance for her smaller stature.

When they came to the end of the hallway the attendant knocked twice on a door. At the answer from within, he opened the door and announced, "Miss Hale, sir."

"Yes, very good, send her in." At this response the attendant turned and walked away without another glance at Margaret. She stepped into the room cautiously, glancing around the luxurious office until her gaze came to rest on the man behind the large desk.

"Ah, Miss Hale. You made it." Mr. Bell stood and walked around his desk to greet her. "A pleasure to meet you. Adam Bell." He took a step closer, regarding her interestedly. "So. Richard Hale's daughter." He peered into her face. "Not much of Hale in you. You must resemble your mother."

"I've been told so, yes." Margaret swallowed, unnerved both by the reference to her parents and his coldly appraising manner. "You knew Papa from Oxford?"

"Yes, we were in the same year. A good chap. Had some grand times back then…" His eyes grew distant for a moment. "I was sorry to hear of his passing, of course," he threw out offhandedly. He crossed back to his desk. "I had not realized he had left the Paris Opera. Seems a strange thing to do, a musician voluntarily giving up such a prestigious position as that." He gave Margaret a questioning stare.

"We wished to return to England. He began teaching music to students in our village… We were very happy there. We loved living in Helstone." Which was all true. Their lives in the tiny village had been nearly idyllic, after so much turmoil. But how could she express to this man the real reason they had left, what her dear Papa had protected her from, sacrificed his career for…

"I couldn't believe it when I heard it. The internationally renowned violinist Richard Hale, living in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere, teaching country children for a living. Hardly any better than a country fiddler." Mr. Bell shook his head. "But then Hale always was a strange one. I remember he was forever going on about Plato and Greek philosophers… always had his head in the clouds. Never could understand him." His eyes returned to Margaret. "And now leaves behind a daughter with nothing to her name."

Margaret's back stiffened. As important as this meeting was, and as much as she needed to impress this man, she would not listen to any criticism of her beloved father. "I would not say nothing. Papa was a good man. He did everything he could for me."

"Yes, yes…" Mr. Bell cut her off dismissively. "Fortunately for you I believe I can find you a place here. When I heard you were Paris trained, I knew Madame Thornton would be willing to take you." His eyes swept over her form. "And they'll like the look of you." There was no warmth in his tone. Margaret felt a chill sweep through her.

"Well, let's not waste any time. I will take you to her." Mr. Bell strode to the door and into the hallway without waiting for a response. Margaret hurried to follow him, clutching her bag under her arm.

He led her through a bewildering maze of corridors. Margaret desperately hoped she would not be expected to find her way back on her own.

"Had you no family on your mother's side to take you in?"

Mr. Bell's voice startled her, as they had been walking silently for some time. "No, I believe my aunt died a few years ago." Not that she would have turned to Aunt Shaw anyway. After Margaret's mother had died, her aunt had tried to remove Margaret from her father's care, despising the lowly musician Maria Hale had defied her family to marry. Papa had taken Margaret to the continent and cut all contact with her aunt.

"And didn't leave you anything? I seem to remember Hale married into a wealthy family."

Margaret flushed at his intrusive questions. "No, I'm sure it went to other relations."

Mr. Bell sighed. 'I see. Yes, young ladies with means do not often find themselves here. A shame… Hale always had such talent…"

He appeared as though he would say more, but then seemed to think better of it. "And here we are."

He opened the door into a large ballet studio. A wooden barre ran along three of the walls while tall mirrors took up the fourth. Sunlight filtered through large glass windows on one side of the room. Margaret recognized a piece by Chopin being played on a beat-up looking piano in the corner.

A number of young ladies danced in the center of the room, dressed in the familiar white ballet skirts that scandalously fell only to their knees. They were in the middle of a variation, their bodies moving in unison, arms and legs held at pleasing angles, struggling to make their exertion look effortless.

The scene was both novel and very familiar to Margaret. After so long out of a studio, she was suddenly struck anew by the longing she had felt as a young girl, watching the ballet dancers on stage at the Paris Opera. The desire to dance like them, to be that graceful, that beautiful… She had yearned to surrender her body to the music, feel it flowing through her, becoming one with the glorious sound…

For so long her father had argued against it, unwilling to let Margaret become one of the petits rats de l'opéra, the "little rats," as they were derisively called. But eventually he had given in; he could deny his beloved daughter nothing.

And how dearly it had cost them.

A sharp voice startled her from her reverie, the pronounced French accent clearly projected over the sound of the piano keys. "Together, ladies. Sophie! Lower your hip. Rounder arms, Charlotte. Jane, point your foot. Sloppy. Emily! Stop hopping like a rabbit! Pull yourself up, hold your balance."

As the variation came to a close the music stopped and Mr. Bell used the opportunity to interrupt. "Madame."

The woman at the front of the room turned to them, frowning at the intrusion. She wore an elegant but unadorned black dress, her greying dark hair slicked back into a tight bun. Despite her years she stood with stiff, ramrod straight posture, her bearing unmistakably that of a ballerina.

"Madame Thornton, this is Miss Margaret Hale. She will be joining the ballet corps. She trained at the Paris Opera."

Madame Thornton stared at her, regarding Margaret shrewdly. She did not speak for several moments, icy blue eyes never wavering. Margaret rather felt as if the woman was reading her soul.

"And how long did you train in Paris?" The ballet mistress offered no greeting.

"We were at the Paris Opera for five years, I trained for four. From the age of twelve."

"And how old are you now, Miss Hale?"

"I am nineteen. We left Paris three years ago."

"Three years…" Madame's eyebrow raised. "The body forgets much after three years."

"I have practiced since…" Margaret rushed to reassure her. "I have worked nearly every day. My father even built me a barre for me to train in our home in Helstone." Dear Papa, what hadn't he done for her. Except make provisions for her after his death. Hence her presence here now, the need for this position. "I will work very hard, I promise you."

"All my girls work very hard." Madame eyed her with an unimpressed stare. "But will it be enough? We shall see."

Madame's eyes moved to Mr. Bell, giving him the same haughty glare. "She may join class tomorrow. If I deem her acceptable I will take her on."

Mr. Bell gave her a half smile and whispered "Good luck, my dear," into Margaret's ear before ducking out of the room. Madame turned back to the room full of girls, who were watching their conversation curiously.

"Bessy, take Margaret to Wardrobe and find her a rehearsal dress. Then show her to the dormitory rooms. She may stay in the corner room tonight."

Margaret saw shocked looks pass over the faces of many of the dancers, and heard several gasps. "The corner room, Madame? You mean Sarah's…"

"Yes, Sarah's old room, Emily. She is not using it, is she?" Madame Thornton's tone was sharp. "Now, ladies, since we were so rudely interrupted, I expect much better performance tomorrow. This was a disgrace! Such pitiful dancing will never grace the stage in this opera house." Madame rapped her cane on the floor and the pianist began to play the final révérence. In unison the girls danced the steps, sinking into low curtsies before the ballet mistress.

After the last notes died away Madame Thornton strode out the door without a backward glance. The dancers began chattering, many glancing at Margaret in curiosity. Three girls approached her.

"You really trained at the Paris Opera?" The girl with light auburn hair sounded impressed. Margaret noticed that she spoke with a pronounced Milton accent.

"Yes, I was there with my father. He was a violinist."

"We've never met anyone who trained in Paris, besides Madame, of course. And how strange, you're not French!" The lovely blonde let out a little giggle. "Madame says we're rubbish compared to the Paris dancers. You must be very good!"

"Oh no," Margaret blushed. "No, not really. Most of the other girls were much better than me. And it's been three years since I was in class… I hope I will not embarrass myself. I need to impress Madame enough to gain a spot here."

"Oh, don't let her manner fool you. You could fall on your face and she'd keep you, just to be able to say she has a Paris trained dancer in our corps." The auburn haired girl smiled at Margaret. "I'm Bessy, by the way. And this is Emily and Charlotte." She gestured to the cheerful blonde and a slender brunette at her side. Margaret returned their nods of greeting.

"Are you really going to stay in the corner room? You know that room is…" Emily's voice cut off with a yelp as Bessy's elbow made contact with her ribs. Charlotte scowled at the girl and made a shushing sound.

"I'll show you to Wardrobe, Margaret. We'll meet up with you girls at dinner." Bessy stepped forward and took her arm. With a nod and small smile at the two other girls, Margaret followed her out the door and into the hall.

"So how did a Paris opera dancer end up here in Milton?" Bessy turned friendly eyes and a curious smile to her companion.

"Oh," Margaret flushed at the question. "Well, we left Paris three years ago. My father played as an itinerant musician around Europe for a while, and then we came home to England. He taught violin in a small village in the south. It was… lovely." Margaret's throat tightened to recall her idyllic life in Helstone, just her and Papa. He had made little money, but they had lived contentedly, needing only each other. In their peaceful little town, surrounded by the beauties of nature, they had finally managed to find a sense of peace. Until Papa had gotten sick. "When he died…" Her throat tightened. "I had nowhere else to go… I received a letter from Mr. Bell letting me know he might have a position for me. So here I am."

Bessy nodded solemnly. "Aye, I'm an orphan as well. Many of us are. I came here when my father died, too. I was only eight, but Madame saw I had some talent and agreed to take me on. Charlotte's parents are still living. At least her mama is, her papa ran off and disappeared. She sends money home each week to help her brothers and sisters. Emily's mama is still living as well. She kicked Emily out when she was twelve. Her mama was having too much trouble making a living with her around. Emily's so pretty, the men were becoming more interested in the daughter than the mother." Margaret flushed as she comprehended Bessy's meaning.

"And this is Wardrobe." Bessy led her through a door into a large room full of costumes, fabrics, and sewing materials. Margaret followed the girl as she weaved through the various tables and racks, passing by several women busily working on garments. They made their way to a corner on the far wall, where a number of white ballet rehearsal dresses hung. "Here," Bessy sorted through several dresses, pulling one down. "This one looks like your size." She held it up to Margaret to compare. "Yes, that should work. And you'll need shoes, and ribbons…" She turned back to a cabinet and opened a drawer. "Try these to find a pair that fits." She pulled out several pairs of ballet slippers and handed them to Margaret. The second pair she tried on seemed to fit well. "Good, you're all set! Now wait here and I'll fetch the key for your room." Bessy had disappeared out the door before Margaret had a chance to respond.

Margaret sighed, taking another look around the room. The colorful costumes filled every inch of available space. The setting felt quite familiar to her; for years she had longingly eyed such garments at the Paris Opera, dreaming of the day she would dance on stage in such beautiful attire. And when that day had finally come… Margaret winced, the memory still sharp after so much time. And now she was here, at another opera house, preparing to return to that life. And this time, with no Papa…

Bessy came rushing back towards Margaret. "Here's the key, I'll show you to your room." Margaret shifted the weight of her travel bag in her arms, along with her new acquisitions, and followed the girl out the door.

"I hope you won't mind not having a roommate. The corner room is too small, and it's oddly shaped, you can only fit one bed in there. I share with Emily and Charlotte, our room is just down the hall."

"No, I will not mind. I should like to have my own room." Indeed, Margaret felt some relief that she would be afforded that privacy. Papa had always made sure even in their tiny flats in Europe she had her own chamber.

"Well, that's good. Of course you're always welcome to come chat in our room. Charlotte is excellent at finding out all the latest gossip. And Emily's always a laugh, even if we're just laughing at her." Bessy gave Margaret a mischievous wink.

Margaret smiled back, feeling herself warm to the girl. "That sounds lovely." She blinked, surprised to feel the sting of tears. "It has been a long time since I had… friends."

Bessy grinned. "Well, now you do. We dancers have to stick together, after all." She turned and led Margaret into a small, narrow hallway. "These are the dormitory rooms. That's Mary and Anna's room… Clara and Jane, Jane's a cow, stay away from them…" She pointed to various doors as they made their way down the hall. "That one is our room… and this one is yours." They came to the very last door. Bessy inserted the key into the lock and opened the door.

Stepping inside the tiny chamber, Margaret could see that there was indeed only space for one bed. The walls were slanted at an angle, with the few furnishings crowded into the limited area. Besides the narrow bed, the room contained a compact wardrobe, small dressing table, and a tall, full length mirror.

"You are fortunate to have such a large mirror. We only have a small one, for the three of us." Bessy crossed to the mirror and began to examine herself, turning her head and straightening some wisps of hair that had escaped her bun.

Margaret set her things down on the bed and looked around. The room was indeed tiny, and the designers had obviously not wasted efforts on decorating dormitories for chorus girls. The furniture was rather worn, and she noticed peeling paint on the walls. It did not bother Margaret, who was no stranger to making do. She had spent months hopping from one shabby flat to another with her father, before finally settling in their humble cottage in Helstone. But throughout it all they had been content… because they had been together. Margaret's eyes began to sting. How much she missed him…

"Well let's not hang around here, I'm famished. Let's get to dinner." Bessy grabbed her new friend's hand and pulled her out the door.

"Was Paris just as beautiful as they say?" Emily's large blue eyes gazed at Margaret earnestly. "Did you take romantic walks along the Seine with a handsome beau?"

Margaret smiled and shook her head, blushing. "I walked along the Seine sometimes, but only with Papa. I had no beau."

"Oh, I would have two or three beaus. Handsome French gentlemen…" Emily sighed dreamily.

"Emily, you'd have a beau for each day of the week." Across the table, Charlotte pointed her fork at her friend. "And two for Sundays."

Emily giggled. "Well, why not? Especially when they speak to you with those lovely French accents… Bonjour ma chérie…"

Emily's ridiculous approximation of a French accent earned her a roll of the eyes from Charlotte and a loud laugh from Bessy. Margaret tried to hide a smile but was not entirely successful.

"You really are fortunate to be arriving now, Margaret. With several weeks to go before the next season starts, it will give you time to train before we have to perform." Charlotte seemed to be the most serious girl in the group, her no-nonsense manner strangely comforting. "Once we begin performances we'll have much less time."

"Oh yes, and she's fortunate that we're short one girl, after Sarah…" Emily's voice trailed off, frozen, her expression suddenly stricken. "Ow!" The moment was broken when Charlotte gave her a sharp kick under the table. "That hurt!"

Charlotte glared at her and Bessy hung her head. It was clear to Margaret that they were trying to keep something from her. "This Sarah, she is the girl who had my room?" The others stared at her, silent. Bessy subtly nodded. "What happened to her, may I ask?"

The girls glanced warily at each other. Bessy finally replied. "She… she died."

Margaret was too stunned to speak for a moment. What could have killed someone her own age, a dancer, young and healthy? "Was she ill?"

This time the girls avoided each other's gaze. "Not exactly," responded Charlotte.

"It's rather recent… I'm sorry, it's just too painful to speak of right now." Bessy's voice was shaky. Margaret noticed Emily's eyes filling with tears.

"Oh, forgive me. I should not have asked." Margaret regretted bringing up the subject. She knew how painful it was to have to speak of her beloved father when so little time had passed since his death.

"You could not have known." Bessy cleared her throat. "Anyway, it's getting late, and if Emily has stopped eating enough for a horse, we should get back to our room."

Emily good naturedly stuck out her tongue at Bessy before winking at Margaret. "She's just jealous of my curves. Watch out, she'll soon be teasing you, too." Margaret blushed as they made their way out of the dining hall.

Alone in her room, Margaret began undressing and preparing for bed. The girls had invited her to visit for a while in their room, but she had declined, feeling the exhaustion of a long and stressful day. And tomorrow would bring fresh challenges as she endeavored to live up to Madame Thornton's expectations.

Donning her plain white nightgown, she stopped to remove the chain from around her neck. She rarely took it off, but she knew jewelry would not be allowed in ballet class. She would have to reaccustom herself to not always feeling its comforting presence on her breastbone. She laid the necklace on her dressing table and fondly stroked the tiny pendant, a yellow ceramic rose. It was the only thing she still owned that had been her mother's. Dim memories surfaced of her mother. She had died when Margaret was still a child. Those days were vague and hazy in Margaret's mind, only small moments and images remaining. Her thoughts turned to her more recent harmonious life with Papa in Helstone. If only that time could have lasted…

Sighing, Margaret put out the lamp, turned down the bed and crawled under the covers. She expected to have trouble sleeping, so filled as she was with anxiety about the days ahead. But overcome by fatigue, she slipped quickly and easily into a deep slumber.

She was dancing to music more beautiful than any she'd ever heard. The dancing was effortless; her body was propelled by the music, requiring no effort of her own. Hypnotic tones flowed through her, her worries and troubles melting away. She knew she was dancing for someone… someone she could not see, beyond the stage lights, watching her… She danced without tiring, lulled into a serene tranquility, soothed by the mellifluous tones of a deep, velvet voice…