Chapter 1. Of Gift Horses and Ballet Teachers
Madame Giry burned as she hurried along the damp boulevards. What she had seen had set her heart pounding, the blood warming her and buzzing in her ears. Memory clashed with potential, and she could hardly think coherently. Her only thought was to find him.
She slipped into the back entrance of the Opera Populaire, her clear eyes quickly taking in everyone that milled about in the crowded corridors. But even the sight of three of her dances indulging in a bottle with two of the stagehands was not enough to distract her from the urgency of her errand.
Quietly, like a lithe, graceful shadow, Madame Giry made her way to the less frequented lower levels of the Opera. And, without a sound, she slid open the wall panel she knew lead to a world where she was not welcome. Silently, she sighed.
Even she, of all people, was forbidden in his realm, such were his lingering wounds. However, she proceeded with a modicum of confidence, knowing that her usefulness to him would probably prevent him from depriving her precious Meg of a mother. Probably.
The ballet instructor descended the grim spiraling staircase until she reached the edge of the lake. The silence was broken only by the lapping of the water against the stone.
Suddenly, Madame Giry felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise, and a chill ran through her, though her training prevented her from making any movement.
“I have come here only because I am in desperate need of your help,” she said, knowing that unless she spoke first, he would have been content to glare at the back of her neck in endless silence until she went away.
“This is…rather sudden,” was the whispered reply, heavily colored with cynicism and doubt. After all, if Madame Giry was in trouble, he would have known it. He knew everything about everyone in this opera house.
“Yes,” Madame Giry replied crisply, keeping her voice low but reasonable and business-like. “But sudden or not, it is urgent, and you are the only one who can help me.”
There was a pause. Madame Giry scowled lightly to the emptiness of the vast lake at getting no reply.
“It is time to repay the favor I did you all those years ago,” she continued evenly.
“What do you want of me, Madame?” was the icy response, a voice as sharp as frost on glass.
“I intend to deprive the gypsies of another prize,” Madame Giry said, her own breath catching as she thought of what she had seen. “I will take her from them and bring to the Opera Populaire such a talent as has never yet been seen on this stage!”
There was a quick, sharp rustling behind her, but Madame Giry knew that he was still there.
“There is already a great talent ready to take center stage,” the voice growled, the menace echoing off the cold stones.
“A singer, yes,” Madame Giry replied. “Yes, I know your pupil can sing with the angels. But I…I have found someone who can dance like one!”
The silence behind her seemed to register surprise, then doubt.
“I need her talent here!” Madame Giry pressed quietly. “She is wasted by those evil men. Her dancing could summon tears from stone if properly trained.”
The doubting silence behind her lengthened.
“She suffers,” Madame Giry added, her voice barely a whisper as her throat closed with the painful memory of years and years ago. “You know what those men are like. You know what they do.”
