Margaret heard the whirr of the curtain rising – that was their cue. She began to move, following behind Bessy in the line of dancers, running onto the stage for their curtain call. Applause filled the air as they stepped forward and sank into deep curtsies. They rose in unison and withdrew to the back of the stage while the other performers made their bows.

The audience had responded most enthusiastically that evening to the Maestro of Milton's latest opera, as well as to Milton's new star soprano. Raucous cheers rang out as Ann Latimer took the final bow, smiling graciously at her crowd of admirers. When Mr. Bell walked out on stage to present her with a large bouquet of flowers, she made a show of blushing and acting humbly surprised. The audience ate it up, the applause growing even louder.

Margaret's eyes wandered to the elegant boxes at the side of the theatre. Most were full of cheering people, but one box appeared empty. Box Five. John had told her that box was always reserved for him. Although he was well hidden, she knew he was there, watching her now. She flashed a quick smile in that direction before returning her attention to the stage.

After several more solo bows by Miss Latimer, the curtain finally fell. The performers broke into excited chatter and hugs as everyone began to depart.

"We did it!" Margaret grasped both of Bessy's hands in relief. "Oh, that went so well! I was so nervous I would fall on my face." She laughed, the exhilaration of the moment making her feel a little giddy.

"Aye, that was a good performance. You see, I knew you could do it." Bessy squeezed Margaret's hands, giving her a wink.

"Oooh, did you hear them shouting? They loved us!" Emily's arms were suddenly pulling both girls into a warm hug. We were all brilliant!" She giggled, bouncing on her toes.

"Yes, I believe even Madame will be pleased. Although she'd certainly never admit it." Charlotte wrapped an arm around Emily.

"Speak of the devil…" Bessy muttered as Madame Thornton walked toward them.

A light tap of her cane on the stage floor captured the attention of all the dancers. She nodded. "Tonight was not the worst performance you have given. But still much to improve, ladies. We will rehearse tomorrow. But for now…" She inclined her head, giving them a significant look.

Madame Thornton turned and began walking offstage into the wings. The dancers all began to follow. Margaret trailed along with the group, glancing around at the other girls. The exuberance of a few moments ago had vanished. Many of the girls now bore grim expressions, while others wore strangely false smiles. Were they that upset by Madame's criticisms?

Madame led the ladies out of the stage area. Instead of heading for the dressing rooms, she turned the other direction, down an unfamiliar hallway. Margaret could hear the buzz of chatter and boisterous laughter coming from somewhere up ahead. Bessy reached out and gripped her hand.

Madame opened a door and led them into a large room. The noise immediately grew louder. And suddenly… It all came back… Margaret was back there…

Le foyer de la danse.

Paris.

Margaret could barely contain her excitement. So many years of training, so much hard work… And tonight, it had all finally paid off. She, Margaret Hale, had danced on the Paris Opera stage! Her very first performance. The delight of dancing to the beautiful music, being part of something that brought people so much joy, the approving shouts and applause from an adoring audience… It had all been just as wonderful as she'd dreamed.

And now she had accompanied the other ballet dancers to a studio behind the stage, the foyer de la danse… But strangely, the room was far too full of people for a dance rehearsal. And they were all men, well dressed and obviously wealthy… They turned with interest at the entrance of the dancers.

Several of the girls broke off from the group to greet particular gentlemen. By the familiar way the men soon had arms draped around the ladies, they seemed to be well acquainted. Other dancers huddled near the doorway, clustering together as though reluctant to move farther into the room.

A portly, grey haired man approached Margaret. He gave her a greasy smile, his eyes traveling up and down her form. "Bonjour, mademoiselle." He ran icy fingers over her bare shoulder. "Tu es nouvelle, n'est-ce pas?" His hand began to trail down her arm. She jerked back, but found his other arm was now holding her firmly around her waist. "Oui, tu es une jolie petite chose." He pulled her closer. The odor of cognac wafted warmly across her face.

"Monsieur, lâchez-moi s'il vous plait…" She struggled to pull away, but his grip only tightened. Frantically, Margaret glanced around for help. The nearby men eyed her unconcernedly, appearing amused by her protestations. Some had their arms around other dancers, taking similar liberties. She saw a few men leading girls away to another room…

And then the man's lips were slobbering on her neck, his large paunch pushing against her rib cage. Desperately she pushed at his arms, his grip surprisingly strong. "Monsieur –"

All at once Margaret was free. The man reeled backwards, staggering under the grip of another man's hands on his throat…

"Papa!" She nearly didn't recognize her gentle father, a look of rage like she'd never seen on his face. She ran forward to grasp his arm. "Papa, no!"

She shook his arm, finally managing to pull her father away. The other man was now gasping and gesturing at Mr. Hale indignantly. She could feel the shocked stares of the entire room. "Margaret, are you all right?" Her father tenderly placed a hand on her cheek. At her tearful nod, he wrapped his arm around her. "Come, child. We are leaving this place."

They left the Paris Opera that night, never to return.

The room spun around her. The well dressed men... the laughter… the smell of cigars… the leering looks…

Why had she not anticipated this? Why would she expect the Milton Opera to be different… Oh, but she had not wanted to consider it, had she? She had not let herself think about what might happen… And here she was again… At the mercy of these men, the patrons… And this time there was no Papa to rescue her…

Mr. Bell stood nearby, in close conference with another gentleman. They inspected the group of dancers with detached scrutiny, eyeing them like pieces of ware in a shop. Margaret tugged up the neckline of her costume, feeling suddenly exposed.

The man with Mr. Bell now had his eye on Margaret. He fingered his thick mustache as he murmured something to Mr. Bell, who nodded and replied. The two men started walking in her direction. Margaret stepped closer to Bessy, and her friend squeezed her hand.

"Mr. Horsfall, I'd like you to meet Margaret. She's new to Milton, just joined us a few weeks ago. She used to dance for the Paris Opera." His gaze raked over her coldly. "Quite a lovely dancer, is she not?"

"Mm, yes. Beautiful girl. Paris, you say?" Mr. Horsfall gave her a nauseating smile. "You're French, mademoiselle? I'm sure you could help me improve my vocabulary." He winked, taking a step closer to her.

"No, sir, I am English. I cannot help you." Margaret began inching backwards, her hand still clutched in Bessy's.

"Ah, never fear, chérie. I also love an English rose. Especially one that blooms as charmingly as you." He moved closer still, his mustache twitching as his eyes focused on her decolletage. One arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her towards him. Margaret was forced to drop Bessy's hand as she reached her arm up to try to put some distance between her and the man.

She glanced around, desperate for help from someone. Most of the girls had now dispersed around the room, into the company of various gentlemen. Emily was positioned in the midst of several men, one with his hand on her back. She giggled shrilly at a joke one man told, her laughter sounding rather artificial. A few feet away, Charlotte forced a smile through gritted teeth at an elderly gentleman who was stroking her shoulder.

Margaret shot a pleading look at Mr. Bell, praying for some help from her father's old friend. He continued to regard her dispassionately, however, unmoved by her growing distress.

Mr. Bell's attention was diverted by a page who appeared at his side, handing him a note. As before, the missive's stationery was strikingly bordered in black. As Mr. Bell read the message, his expression changed abruptly from one of boredom to acute interest. Raising his eyes to Margaret, his piercing gaze seemed to shoot straight into her soul.

"Mr. Horsfall, I'm afraid that Margaret is… unavailable. It appears she has already captured the attention of a very influential patron." His steely eyes bore into Margaret's for a moment before sweeping past her. "Perhaps you might enjoy the company of Bessy here. Another of our most charming dancers. Miss Hale, you may retire for the evening." His tone was cold, the dismissal clear.

Bewildered, Margaret pulled herself away from Mr. Horsfall, who begrudgingly released her, looking displeased with the altered arrangement.

Margaret turned to Bessy. Her friend was regarding her with an expression of shock, resignation, and something else she could not read. Margaret did not want to leave her here. How could she? "Bessy, I…"

"Go on, Margaret. Get out of here."

"But Bessy, I can't leave you…"

Bessy shook her head. "Go, Margaret. Go. Now." Her whisper was quiet but firm.

Margaret stared at her friend for a moment, then slowly turned and walked towards the door. She could feel the questioning stares of the other girls as she crossed the crowded space.

As she stepped out of the room, she cast a quick, furtive glance back. Mr. Bell's icy gaze was still focused on her, his expression contemplative. Mr. Horsfall had his arm around Bessy's shoulders and was leaning into her, almost nuzzling her neck. Bessy turned her head away and met Margaret's gaze for a moment. Margaret felt a stab of pain at the blankness in her friend's eyes.

Mindlessly Margaret ran, desperate to get away, away… Away from that room… Dimly she recognized that she should return her costume to the dressing rooms, but instinct moved her in the opposite direction, toward the safety of her own bedroom… and the man who awaited her just beyond it…

Hastily turning a corner, she stumbled into a couple who stood there. She heard a loud squeal of annoyance, and as Margaret stepped back she realized the woman was Ann Latimer.

"Ouch! Watch where you're going, you clumsy thing. You'll give me a bruise." The singer clutched her upper arm and glared back at her.

"You're all right, Ann. It was just an accident." The well dressed man next to Miss Latimer placed a placating hand on her shoulder. He turned to Margaret with a courteous nod. "Don't worry, Miss…" His friendly smile faded and his eyes took on a puzzled look as he regarded her.

Margaret did not wait to be scolded any further, but hurried past the couple, continuing her flight down the hallway, pressing on away… away…

Margaret walked slowly along the dim passageway, her thoughts in turmoil. She had been anxious to remove her costume once she arrived at her room, relieved to shed that physical reminder of the evening's events. How quickly the thrill of tonight's successful performance had vanished. Instead, she was unable to rid her mind of the sickening feeling of Mr. Horsfall's hand on her waist… Mr. Bell's glacial stare… and Bessy's face… Margaret squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to relive the memory. Once again she had somehow escaped… the black bordered note… but her friends had not been so fortunate…

She stepped inside the music chamber to the sight of John pacing frantically back and forth. At her entrance he rushed to her side. "Margaret, are you all right?" He grasped her hands, searching her face, his eyes full of concern.

"Yes, thank you, I am well, John." She smiled a little shakily, trying not to let him see her distress. Her brow furrowed as she peered up at him, his manner confirming her suspicions. "It was you, wasn't it? The note to Mr. Bell?"

"Yes." His expression darkened. "I informed him in no uncertain terms that you will not be soliciting a patron."

He turned away from her and began pacing again, muttering to himself in dark tones, a deep rage radiating from him that was nearly tangible. "I had no idea… He assured me… I should have known…" He turned back to her with a fierce expression that chilled her to the bone, his burning gaze full of a furious wrath. For the first time she felt she was seeing the legendary Phantom. This… this is the Phantom of the opera… that haunts the nightmares of chorus girls…

"Bell will soon know of my extreme displeasure. It seems that threats are the only message to which he will listen."

Threats? What did he mean? Margaret's uneasiness must have shown on her face because abruptly the Phantom was gone, and it was just John standing before her.

"Forgive me, Margaret. I should not add to your worry, after all you've been through…"

And then it seemed to hit at once, the thought of what might have happened tonight… Her knees began to weaken. "You saved me. If you had not…" Tears gathered in her eyes. Her chest began to convulse with sobs, the turbulent emotions of the evening welling up inside her.

John was immediately at her side, holding her in an embrace. Gently he led her to a chair and knelt beside her as she cried onto his shoulder. "It's all right, love." He spoke in a soothing whisper, his hand stroking her hair tenderly. And Margaret knew that she was safe. Nothing could touch her here. She felt her tears gradually subsiding, replaced by a gentle serenity. Somehow, she belonged here… here in John's arms, sheltered… protected… loved…

"Do not worry, Margaret. That will not happen again." He pulled back to look into her face. "I will never let anyone harm you." She could hear the steel in his voice, see the unyielding resolve in his eyes.

Unable to speak, Margaret reached for the hand that held her so protectively, pulling it into her own. She cradled it in her lap, gazing at it, her fingers tracing the pattern of burn scars that covered the skin. John stiffened and began to pull away, but she tightened her grip. She lifted his hand and held it to her lips, seeking to tell him all she could not put into words.

She looked up to see him regarding her raptly, eyes glistening with unshed tears. With his other hand he softly brushed a tendril of hair from her forehead. His palm hovered at her cheek for a moment and he leaned in slightly…

Abruptly his eyes closed, his expression shuttering. John slowly pulled back, standing to turn away from her. He cleared his throat. "I had a surprise for you this evening… I wanted to celebrate your opening night." He turned back to her. "You danced beautifully, Margaret."

She blinked, feeling bereft from the loss of his comforting nearness. "Thank you." She smiled tremulously. "What was your surprise?"

"I finished your opera. Hades and Persephone. It is ready." He placed a hand on a stack of bound music on the table. "I believe… I know… it is the finest music I have ever written." She could hear the satisfaction in his voice. He looked at her again. "And that is thanks to you."

"Me?" Margaret frowned, shaking her head. "I have done nothing."

"You have done everything, Margaret." He stepped closer to her, his voice growing hoarse. "You are everything."

He held her gaze for one spellbinding moment. Her breath caught in her chest. Then he blinked, turning back toward the piano. "I would very much like to know what you think… May I play you a bit of the score?"

"Of course, I would love to hear it…" Margaret smiled and tried not to sound as affected as she was. It moved her more than she could express that he could be so inspired by her…

John sat at the piano, placing his hands on the keys. He paused for a moment, then began to play. The first discordant notes shook Margaret from her reverie. The sound was… jarring, irregular, nothing like his usual music. Or any music she had ever heard. Margaret wondered for a moment if he could possibly be playing it wrong. Where was the Maestro's exquisite sound?

As she listened, however, the harsh, dissonant chords began to make a sort of sense to her ears. They evoked a mood that was bleak and disturbing. The music spoke of desolation, an anguished cry of despair and loneliness. The raw pain was so visceral, Margaret could feel the sting of tears as her throat tightened.

But then, a ray of light pierced through the ominous darkness. The sound began to change, a new melody filtering through the discordant noise. A thread of hope emerged as the gentle refrain infiltrated the cacophony, infusing the music with its soothing, healing tones.

This music is Hades, Margaret realized. The sounds, so broken and hopeless… she could hear the terrible isolation of a life totally cut off from the world, isolated from all warmth or companionship. The lord of his own gloomy underworld, longing for a brief glimpse of the sun…

And then his world is transformed by someone… a woman… bringing new illumination into his darkness… a flowing spring in a barren desert… divine grace for a cursed soul.

Yes, this is Hades. And perhaps it is John, too.

Margaret curled her legs up underneath herself and laid her head back on the chair. Her eyelids gradually fell closed as she listened, letting the music wash over her, feeling as though she had been granted a window into John Thornton's soul.

Historical note: The foyer de la dance was believed to bring in a large portion of the income for the Paris Opera in the 19th century, as men would pay for access to the dancers. The young girls were highly encouraged to secure the patronage of gentlemen in exchange for sexual favors. How consensual these arrangements were is, of course, less certain.