Margaret rested her elbows on the barre as she watched the girls in the center of the studio perform the combination. Madame Thornton's harsh voice barked out corrections to the dancers, the sharp rapping of her cane on the floor in time with the music echoing throughout the room. Today most of Madame's criticisms were directed toward the unfortunate Emily.

Or… perhaps not so unfortunate. Aside from one icy glare when she first walked into class this morning, Madame Thornton had completely ignored Margaret. She did not speak to her, did not acknowledge her presence… Her gaze passed right over Margaret as though she did not exist. Strangely, Margaret found herself almost missing Madame's biting comments.

Even worse was the way all the other girls were avoiding Margaret as well. Curious eyes immediately averted when she met their gaze. Conversations stopped abruptly when she drew near.

Margaret had noticed her friends watching her throughout class, although they, too, kept their distance. Charlotte's questioning glances appeared rather hurt, while Emily looked sadly confused. Bessy, however, eyed Margaret with a look that seemed… fearful? Margaret wasn't sure what to make of it. She wanted to approach them, to apologize… but apologize for what?… And at any rate, it did not appear that they had any desire to speak to her.

At the end of class the dancers made their customary révérence to Madame Thornton. The girls began to wander off, many still stealing side glances at Margaret. She sighed and moved away to gather her things.

Margaret was surprised to see Bessy approach her. The girl's eyes were downcast. "Margaret, why don't we go out for a walk, get away from the opera house for a while." She met Margaret's gaze and gave her a slight, tentative smile.

"Yes, that sounds lovely. Thank you." Margaret's throat tightened, feeling immense gratitude to her friend. Bessy's expression warmed just a little. Margaret ignored the hostile looks from the rest of the girls as they made their way out of the ballet studio.

After quickly changing their clothes, Margaret and Bessy emerged from the confines of the opera house into the chilly, smoke filled air of Milton. They walked silently for a while, an uneasy tension hanging between them. Margaret searched her mind for something to say. It seemed wrong to pretend last night had never happened. And yet the idea of speaking of it… Her mind revolted. She wished so much that they could somehow return to the easy friendship they had enjoyed yesterday…

Margaret was so absorbed in her thoughts that they had been walking for several minutes before it occurred to her that the other girls had not accompanied them. "Did Charlotte and Emily not wish to come?"

"No… I asked them to stay behind. I wanted it to be just the two of us today." Her tone was light, but her meaning was clear. Bessy wanted to speak with Margaret alone. Margaret felt a surge of apprehension. Did Bessy blame her for what happened last night? What… did happen last night? Margaret wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Bessy led them to a bench that sat along the bank of the river. They sat without speaking for several minutes, listening to the sounds of the city and the trickle of the water below. On any other day Margaret would have found it soothing, but today her restless mind would not be calmed.

Suddenly she couldn't stay silent any longer. "Bessy, about last night…" Margaret turned to her friend, speaking in a rush. "I'm so sorry… I had no idea… I never meant for Mr. Bell to… That man… I mean, I didn't want you to…"

"Margaret." Bessy's voice was quiet but firm. She sat perfectly still for a moment, her eyes closed and head down. Then she took a deep breath, looking up at Margaret with a shuttered expression.

"Margaret… I've been at the opera house a long time. It's how things are." She turned to gaze out at the river. "That was not my first time to meet the opera house patrons."

Margaret felt her throat tighten. She looked down at Bessy's hands, gripped tightly in her lap.

"That's how it is for the dancers. We've all learned to deal with it." Bessy gave a slight shrug. "The money allows Charlotte to provide more for her family. And Emily is saving to run off with whichever beau she decides she's going to marry." Bessy gave Margaret a thoughtful look. I thought perhaps in Paris you must have… But no, I could see last night you had not."

Margaret could think of nothing to say. She had no words of comfort for Bessy that would not fall flat in their inadequacy. Bessy had gone back to studying the steady flow of the river below.

Bessy let out a sigh, and then her probing gaze met Margaret's once again. "As I said, I've been at the opera a long time. I know how it works. But… I was surprised by something last night."

Margaret bit her lip and looked down. "Bessy… I…"

"You met him, didn't you? The Phantom."

"I… yes." There was no hiding it now.

"And… I would say, more than met him?"

"I… well, yes, but… I mean, no, it's not what you think…" Taken aback by Bessy's insinuation, Margaret flushed, suddenly aware of what the situation must seem. "I could hear him playing his music from my room… and then I met him… but it's all quite innocent. He's been teaching me, you see… training me, training my voice."

"Training your voice?" Bessy stared at her for several long moments, her expression incredulous. Margaret sat mutely, flustered, unsure what else to say. If Bessy didn't believe her… Her heart ached at the thought of losing the first friends she had made in so long…

"So you've been meeting with him? At night? To sing?"

"Well, yes…"

"Does he come to your room?"

"No… I go to him."

"Where?"

"We meet in a music chamber…"

"Which chamber?"

"I… I do not think he would want me to say…" Certainly Margaret owed it to John not to reveal to anyone the location of his private rooms.

Bessy watched her silently again, her eyes wide, staring at Margaret as though she had never seen her before this moment.

"Has he told you his name? Not the Phantom. Not the Maestro of Milton. His real name." Bessy regarded her keenly. Margaret glanced away, feeling caught. She could not lie to Bessy, but neither would she reveal John's identity, kept carefully hidden all these years.

"Yes… he did. But I cannot tell you…"

"He's John Thornton, isn't he?"

Shocked, Margaret's eyes shot up to Bessy's sharp gaze. "I… How…You knew?"

Bessy's lips twisted in a thoughtful expression. "As I said, I've been at the opera house a long time. And I've heard rumors… I've overheard Madame Thornton and Mr. Bell talking sometimes… Saying strange things that didn't seem to make sense… And once I glimpsed a man, for just a moment, with half his face covered in a mask…"

Margaret blinked. "Do the other girls know?"

"No… no, I've never shared my suspicions with them." A corner of her mouth twisted up. "And heaven knows Emily could never keep a secret if her life depended on it." Her expression sobered. "But, Margaret… You don't understand… John Thornton… He's dangerous…"

"Oh, Bessy… I don't believe that. You don't know him. He simply couldn't have done anything to those girls. I know it. He's not like that at all. He's kind, and considerate… gentle… He would never do anything to hurt me. Or any woman."

Bessy's expression became pained. The look she gave Margaret now was almost pitying. "You care for him."

Margaret flushed and looked down. "I… I think well of him. I do not think him capable of such evil deeds."

Bessy's lips thinned. She closed her eyes and sighed, shaking her head. "Margaret… I didn't tell you everything… There are things you don't know…"

Bessy looked back up at her. Margaret was startled to see a look of stark fear in Bessy's eyes.

"I don't understand… What don't I know?"

Bessy looked away, watching the river flow past them. "You know about George Thornton. John's father. About how he died."

"Yes, you said he was killed in a fire. And everyone thought John was killed as well, but he wasn't."

Bessy nodded. "Only, what I didn't tell you…" She eyed Margaret warily. "It wasn't an accident. George Thornton was killed by his son."

Distantly Margaret registered the sound of gulls crying overhead. She sat staring at her friend, her mind too stunned to process Bessy's words. Surely she had heard wrong. "What?" Her voice rasped out in a whisper.

Bessy bowed her head grimly. "It wasn't intentional. At least… I don't think so. But it was John's fault. It's why Madame Thornton hates him." Her eyes trailed away, lost in her thoughts. "Before the fire, John Thornton… well, he had many… dalliances… with chorus girls, singers, dancers… anyone who caught his eye." Her expression tightened. "And whenever he was finished with them, those girls just seemed to… disappear…" A glint of pain flashed in her eyes for a moment.

"Then he began an affair with a leading soprano. Sophia Stephens. She was talented, beautiful – the belle of Milton. But she had a secret." Bessy's eyes followed the path of one of the gulls circling above them. "You see, Sophia had a host of wealthy, high class admirers. And she pretended to be a society lady herself. But she had come up from the streets. And… she was married. To a mill worker. She kept him hidden, no one knew."

Bessy looked down at the water again. "But her husband found out. About John Thornton. Stephens confronted the two of them, at Mr. Thornton's house. He found them in bed together. They fought. He shot Sophia. He would have shot John too, but John's father came in during the struggle. George Thornton was shot instead. Protecting his son."

Bessy turned her face into a gust of wind. "Stephens set fire to the bed before turning the gun on himself." She paused for a moment. "The papers said John Thornton was too injured to get out before the fire spread. Obviously that wasn't true."

Her green eyes met Margaret's again. The pain and fear there was unmistakable. "But, Margaret… He's not a man to be trusted. He uses women… They mean nothing to him. All those girls, they all thought they were special… but you're all the same to him. And when he grows tired of you…" Bessy closed her mouth, the unspoken words hanging in the air.

Margaret couldn't move, couldn't think. Her mind was reeling. She opened her mouth – she had to deny the claims – but no voice emerged. It can't be true. There had to be some mistake. The man in Bessy's story did not sound like the John Thornton she knew.

And yet… on what evidence did Margaret base her judgment? That John was kind to her, that he had always acted the perfect gentleman… Had he behaved that way with the other girls? At first? That he liked her voice… Could it be true, what Bessy said – was he using Margaret… for her voice?

She stared sightlessly out at the river, her mind in tortured chaos. She had denied Bessy's claims about John before, refused to believe them. But this was so much worse… And Bessy had known the Phantom's identity. Could she continue to doubt such damning evidence?

Did she truly even know John Thornton?

Margaret lifted her leg onto the barre and bent forward, easing into the stretch. She closed her eyes, endeavoring to shut out the cacophony of sounds around her. The large rehearsal studio was filled with company members preparing for tonight's performance. Dancers occupied the barre around the edges of the studio, warming up their muscles. Singers gathered near the piano, executing scales and rehearsing their parts.

Margaret tried to calm her turbulent emotions and put all her jumbled thoughts of John Thornton out of her head. Once more, she failed. She had passed through the afternoon in a daze, barely aware of her surroundings. She knew she needed to focus on the evening's performance; she could not dance well in her current state of mind.

She sighed and pushed herself farther into the stretch. She concentrated on the slightly painful sensation, letting that anchor her thoughts and center herself, trying to forget everything else. However, she soon could not help but become aware of the growing buzz of chatter around her. Snippets of conversation began to filter into her consciousness…

"Ann Latimer…"

"Suddenly ill…"

"No one else…"

"What will they do…"

As the meaning of the words sunk in, Margaret opened her eyes and began to listen in earnest to the girls next to her at the barre.

"Mary said Miss Latimer was right as rain when she brought in her tea an hour ago. But now she's sick as a dog, can't even leave her dressing room."

"But who else could go on? They don't have anyone else ready…"

"Lord knows… No one wants to listen to Miss Collingbrook screech out those arias…"

"Mr. Bell must be having a conniption!"

As though summoned, Mr. Bell abruptly appeared in the doorway of the studio. He scanned the crowd quickly, his eyes narrowing when he spotted Margaret.

"Miss Hale." His quiet words seemed to echo throughout the room. "Come with me." It was not a request.

Margaret could feel the stares of the entire company as she crossed the now silent studio. She shot a swift glance at her three friends, all of whom were watching her with alarmed expressions. She kept her eyes down the rest of the way, not venturing to look at anyone else.

Margaret followed Mr. Bell into the hall where he stopped abruptly and turned back to her. "Miss Hale. I have just received this note. I wonder if you would be so good as to shed some light." He held up a letter trimmed in black. The Phantom. Bewildered, Margaret reached out to take it, and gingerly opened the letter. The handwriting was neat and precise.

Mr. Bell,

Miss Latimer is ill and you are in need of a Guinevere. Miss Hale knows the role and will perform it enchantingly. I look forward to watching her this evening from my usual seat in Box Five.

M.M.

Maestro of Milton. Margaret stared at the initials at the bottom, the only part of the note that seemed to make any sense.

"So, Miss Hale, am I to understand that our newest opera dancer is now a leading soprano?" Margaret flinched at the mocking bite in Mr. Bell's tone. The flinty grey eyes that peered down at her were no longer aloof, but glinted with some angry malevolence.

"Mr. Bell…" Margaret shook her head, struggling to comprehend. John wanted her to go onstage tonight as Guinevere? The leading role? "I don't understand…"

"Oh don't you, Miss Hale? It is quite convenient, would you not say, for an ambitious chorus girl, to have the young, healthy prima donna become so ill so suddenly… and unexpectedly…"

Margaret's face flushed in shock at Mr. Bell's implications. "Mr. Bell… You can't mean… Surely you don't believe…"

"What I believe, Miss Hale, is that you have very cleverly acquired yourself a most devoted advocate. You had best hope your vocal prowess has not been exaggerated by your admiring patron." He gave a nod to someone behind Margaret. "Get her prepared. She goes on in forty minutes."

Margaret turned around, only to be confronted with Madame Thornton's livid glare. She grabbed Margaret's arm without speaking, pulling her in the direction of the dressing rooms. Margaret glanced behind her, catching a glimpse of the faces of Bessy, Emily, and Charlotte, watching her in silent amazement.

A hush fell over the audience as the curtain began to rise. Margaret's heart raced as she stood alone in the center of the stage, the eyes of the entire theatre focused on her.

Could this be real? Was this a dream… or a nightmare… Margaret felt as if she were floating in a fog. How could she, Margaret Hale, be here on the Milton Opera stage, about to sing a leading role? She didn't belong here. She should be backstage with her friends, watching Miss Latimer from the wings…

A fresh wave of panic swept over her as the orchestra began to play the opening strains of her first aria. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her chest tightened; she couldn't breathe. She couldn't do this. Why had John ever thought she could… Why had he placed her in this position…

The impulse to run off the stage overwhelmed her. She couldn't sing in front of all these people… Her voice would falter… They would laugh and jeer… No. She could not do it.

Gasping for breath, she opened her eyes, ready to flee… and a flash of white caught her eye. She looked up into the boxes at the side of the theatre… Box Five… and saw it again. A brief glimpse… a white mask… and she knew that John was there, watching her… supporting her… believing in her. He would not let her fall.

All at once the audience faded away, and a sense of tranquility settled over her. Margaret's fears vanished. She kept her eyes locked on Box Five as she took a deep breath… and began to sing.

The performance passed by in a haze. From the moment she began to sing John's enchanting music, she ceased to be Margaret Hale, but instead became Lady Guinevere, the betrothed of King Arthur. She could feel Guinevere's hope as a young bride, full of optimism for her bright future. As she sang lyrics of devotion to Arthur, she felt the love that Guinevere held for her husband, letting that adoration pour forth through her voice, through the divine music. And as she sang with Mr. Hamper as Arthur, the image of another man's face formed in her mind…

Margaret was glad that in John's version of the Arthurian tale, the royal couple devoted themselves fully to their marriage and each other, the stories about Lancelot and Guinevere merely specious rumors devised by their enemies. As Guinevere, Margaret remained steadfastly loyal to her husband, up until her final aria, a mournful requiem for the fallen king.

As she sang the closing notes of the opera, Margaret gazed out over the audience, sending out her final tribute to Arthur with all the love in Guinevere's heart. Her eyes rested on the shadowed figure in Box Five as the song ended and the curtain fell.

The sound of thunderous applause seemed to awaken Margaret from a spell. She was startled to realize the performance was over. The curtain raised once more, and she was overwhelmed by the sight of the entire audience leaping to their feet. Resounding cheers filled the air as she bowed her head and sank into a deep curtsy.

Mr. Hamper joined her on stage and led the rest of the company in their bows. A cascade of colorful flowers began to descend onto the stage from the boxes above as the ovation continued. Mr. Hamper bent down to scoop up an armful of the blooms and handed them to Margaret. She smiled and thanked him, gazing down in humble gratitude at the red roses. She pulled a single flower from the center of the bouquet - a yellow rose. She brought the rose up to her lips as her eyes drifted upwards, catching another fleeting glimpse of a white mask.

Margaret let out a weary breath, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders as she sank onto her dressing room chair. The entire evening had been a whirlwind. She still had trouble believing it was all real. It seemed that everyone in the opera house, from the stagehands to the most illustrious patrons, had wanted to personally congratulate her and praise her performance. However, there was only one man's opinion that she truly cared about…

She looked around at the dozens of flower arrangements that filled the room. Her eyes caught upon one particularly large bouquet… made up entirely of yellow roses. The corners of her mouth lifted as she stood, stepping closer to reach out and brush the pale petals…

She tensed as an unfamiliar voice interrupted her reverie. "Margaret Hale."

She whipped around, alarmed that a strange man had invaded her private dressing room. "Sir?"

The man standing just inside the door had a pleasant face, if not overly handsome. Dark, wavy hair framed an open, friendly countenance. His stylish clothing was elegantly tailored on his tall frame and broad shoulders.

Margaret blinked, realizing she had seen this man before. He had been speaking with Ann Latimer when Margaret had accidentally run into her.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you should not be here."

"But, my lady…" One eyebrow quirked in amusement. "Where is your scarf?"

The man's mouth curved up into a sunny smile, a confident smile, a smile that had never known shadows. The smile of a boy who would gallantly run into the sea to rescue a young girl's scarf.

Suddenly a wave of distant memories flooded her mind.

"Henry."