"Oh Rose, thou art sick" - William Blake

     Part II: Thirteen Years Later

       Grace had many reasons to be nervous. She had not seen her country in thirteen years, and she had to obtain a role in the ballet. She felt guilty that the latter fear was not as pressing upon her mind as the former. George and Nora had spent a lot of time and money on her training, and while they insisted there was not any pressure on her if she didn't get the position, she felt she would still disappoint them. She knew how much they wanted her to achieve this dream, for her sake. And yet here she was, more concerned with whether or not the France she was returning to was the same as the France of her memories. And there were many bad memories she had tried to block out, so she did not have very much to go on. Only that the smell of baking bread and fresh flowers, the sound of laughter, people and animals walking and crowding into a market place was as enchanting as hearing her native tongue spoken by the natives. Nora told her she was being silly - that a daughter of France would always be welcomed back to her homeland, and one's country never left one's blood. But in the back of her mind, she possessed  an unpleasant, empty, missing feeling that she had lost something, and was approaching it, though whatever it was was still out of reach. Something would always pull her back to France, but the object pulling her, guiding her, was constantly  out of reach.

    Shame came over her, flooding her senses as sharply as the wind whipping her hair from it's pins. She should be worrying about the ballet. One of Paris's most renowned opera houses was allowing her to audition for them. Some ballerinas would fight each other for this opportunity, and here she stood, on the prow of a ship, taking her back to a land she'd left, taking her to an audition, and she wasn't even having any sort of a fit of nerves.

    Grace sighed, her fingers tightening on the rails of the boat. She needed to relax and blankly walk through the next fifteen minutes of life. The boat was docking soon, and she and her parents would disembark.

   Grace squinted, trying to make out the France beyond the docks. Smoke gushed forth from chimneys, clouding the air. She could neither hear nor see, nor taste, nor touch anything else. Her senses were not dulled, but she thought they might as well be.

   She went back to her cabin to fix her hair and make herself presentable. She wasn't very happy with her appearance, but at the same time didn't care very much about it, she was lucky to have what she had... that was in view, of course. Thin, small lips, pale skin, fine cheekbones, mousy hair, and hazel eyes too big for her face. Grace was small and plain, at five foot three. But she found nothing about her appearance to dislike.

   Pulling on her hat, she sprinted out of her cabin and up to the deck, where she was to meet Nora and George. Nora was barely able to contain her excitement, and George was smiling his signature contented smile. Their countenances only warmed at Grace's approach.

   Nora was a mild mannered woman of fifty, who had once been a young, auburn haired beauty. Her positivity and kindness was still as genuinely bright as her hair.

George was fifty-three and was in possession of expressions that constantly displayed his contented, gentle, nature.

   Nora looped her arm through Grace's and George patted her shoulder. The gestures had once seemed familiar to Grace, but now, though George and Nora still saw them as affectionate, Grace only felt distance.

   "Thank goodness we have you, Sweetpea. You can translate this time! I remember the first time we came to France, twenty years ago! And what a mess we were in with the hotel staff! Y'all French people don't understand Southern accents," Nora giggled.

   "Yes, Grace, Nora is right, the only reason we adopted you was so you could translate for us," George teased, laughing.

   Grace laughed and replied with something funny, but she felt that she was only watching herself laugh. Her mind was wandering.

There were only three other people on the boat. A Cambridge professor on holiday with his wife and a librarian. No one was waiting at the docks for anyone on this ship. (And no one else came out on deck or socialized with the Treacle family after learning Grace's profession.)

   Grace half expected the air to be clearer, her blood to flow warmer, or her heart to beat faster. Instead a small pit of dread opened again in her stomach.

     The morning was spent arranging their stay at the hotel. Grace was pleased to find she could still speak French as if she'd never left France.

   The rooms they rented were comfortable and clean, though the staff was hostile, and Nora's dog, Clairy - the Yorkshire terrier she received as a present from an English breeder, decided that using the floor of the lobby as a chamber pot, and later the manager's shoes, was a good idea. Grace could hardly contain her laughter; she knew she liked that dog for a reason. Her own dog was a large wolfhound, who looked upon Clairy with distaste. Grace's Leopold was very high-strung.

  At noon, Nora and George took their tea while Grace ran through a few of her select warm ups before changing into her dancing dress. Around one, the trio left for the Théâtre de l'Art, where Grace's audition was being held.

   Grace couldn't look out the windows of the carriage on the way there - after her accident it was hard enough for her just to be in a carriage  - so she just stared at her hand locked in Nora's. Nora's hand was plump and round, with short fingers, the complete opposite of Grace's, which was pale, bony, and long.

      Oh, but what to do about the audition? Merde. Mon Dieu.