Madame Bethique Chausir was the ballet instructor; she and Monsieur Lefay choreographed every opera and play. Madame was not a woman known for her mercy or playfulness, but she did have a soft side, and Grace faintly admired her. She did not put up with any kind of nonsense  and was unafraid of being severe or persistent when she was not viewing a dancer's full potential. The dancers were not very fond of her.

   No one, however, seemed to be very fond of Guy either. He had a way with women that no one in the opera house  - excuse me, that no one with morals in the opera house  - shared. Guy was the kind of man who pushed his affections, cared not for propriety, and irritated many people on a daily basis. While Madame Chausir was merely austere, Guy could only be described by the following six adjectives: contemptuous, fatuous, masculine, pedantic, pretentious, and prurient. In simple words, he was a rakish fop.

    Grace was very pleased to be able to go back to the hotel at the end of the day with Nora and George. True, tomorrow she would have to move into dancer's quarters, but tonight, she would have some space between herself and the occupants of the theatre she now worked at. She needed to gather herself so that she would not appear a fool tomorrow.

    As to why she had unconsciously chosen to sing - no, consciously, it had been her choice, to go with instinct, that persuasive power - she was not quite sure. But thank goodness she did sing. If she had not been admitted to the opera house, she would have felt she could only walk through the rest of her life blindly, with her limbs weighed down and her vision obscured, all her senses dulled by the what if. It was this or nothing. (But of course there were two options of nothings, one of which, in her mind, seemed even more nonexistent than the other. The other was more of a hell of nonexistence.) This, was deciding to marry and become a wife. And Grace would have done this... except she didn't want to. In some ways, to her, marriage and children were still actions; the true meaning of nothing is exactly nothing. What she would have wanted to do was become an old maid who stayed at home - and she couldn't picture herself doing this - all day and night, sitting in an old wooden rocking chair. And she'd only wear black. A long black dress ending in lace cuffs at the ends of her sleeves, that were almost tight, and a high lace collar, the crepe making a design against her snowy skin, that too would nearly choke her. Her mousy brown hair would turn gray, even as the dress remained eternally black. Even if she died in that rocking chair and her body collected dust, the dress underneath would still be black.

   Grace ran her fingers through her flimsily limp, curly hair as she looked at her reflection in the vanity mirror, allowing her mind to wander down a path she'd never take. A path that as of this afternoon, she'd never follow, receiving a strange, morbid sense of comfort from the exactness and certainty - control? - of a future that will not happen.

   It was the hour when most would be asleep, a few would be waking up, and others would be working. Several would be with their lovers. The moon cast silvery shadows on the dark world. A couple would be young girls, considering themselves in this moonlight, contemplating life, thinking or wishing and wandering or wondering. Grace was a part of this last group. In her nightgown, twiddling with her hair, watching the dim glow of candles reduce to nubs, dancing with her heart.

   But what had she left to think of? Oddly and horribly, for she thought the following was wrong and unfair to George and Nora, for she should  be thinking of the coming day, she found nothing of importance to worry over. And she had time to think and worry as she wasn't tired.

   Shaking her head, she rose, and crossing her hotel room, blew out the three lit candles illuminating her dark night.

   She climbed into bed and hovered between consciousness and sleeping. She walked on Nothing Land.

                             🌹

    A violent shudder passed through her very core. What was this sweet madness that made her feel weak yet no longer mortal, brave and bold but terrified and uncertain? Elation wrapped around her senses, stealing her breath and all the control she had ever exerted over herself. This was true beauty, that beautiful happiness that brings man to rapture and love. The truest truth. The feeling of height and power and invincibility that makes alcoholics drink, and drug addicts take drugs. This was the passion of lovers and of the people who loved their work, their creations, whether they be writers, singers, or painters. This was the feeling of one who drank the stars as milk and bit the moon as a cookie.

   Grace's hand grasped the stair rail as the symphony descended upon her very being. She ached to dance and sing. To draw, though she was a terrible artist. Feeling as if the side affects of her accident were coming down upon her, yet sure at the same time that they never would again, she steeled herself. It was just music. Even if nothing was ever just music. She has no reason to be irrational.

  Around her bustled ill-tempered  people who glared, snarled, and jostled each other with about as much care for anyone besides themselves as a vicious pack of evil, cackling, soul tormenting hyenas.

   Seamstresses and tailors carried measuring tapes and sewing kits while their assistants followed behind them, young girls and boys struggling to keep up, with dreams and fascinations as wide as their eyes, arms full of costumes; set designers lugged props and set pieces over their shoulders, with paint splattered clothing, strong, gruff men with almost a feminine eye for details and intricacies; actors, singers, and actresses with maids following behind them argued or practiced their lines. It was the close knit group in long, flowing skirts or tight pants that caught Grace's attention. They looked a delicate bunch, but those graceful butterflies and swans excreted haughtiness. And the delicacy was an act - Grace knew, being one of their lot herself, that dainty, little creatures were generally stronger than their openly muscular, large counterparts. For their smallness was merely the tightness of muscle on their bones, lacking in any other type of weight or material. Of course, they too could be as mean as hyenas. Or perhaps ferocious as lions. Lion's hearts in the bodies of mice. Dancers were not to be crossed.

Shyly, carefully, Grace approached the group, hoping to introduce herself in her own way. But it was not to be. A rough hand seized her shoulder and dragged her to the group. Wide eyed, Grace stared in horror as Bethique Chausir thrust her into the middle of the dancer's circle. She tried to arrange her face in nonchalant lines as Madame Chausir began introductions. "C'est Grace Christoux, bienvenue elle."

   Grace seriously doubted they would do as she said and make her feel welcome.

  Around her, some dancers scowled, others glared. A couple smiled. The rest looked jealous.

   "No teasing. She might have talent. Maintenant travaillé ! "

     The dancers began to work through their positions and exercises, and Grace tried to follow along shocked at Madame Chausir's abruptness.

    "Little sprite, the owner took a liking to you!" Someone hissed in her ear. Did everyone here talk in riddles?

    A tall, sleek, black haired girl, who was rather curvy for a ballerina, danced her way over to Grace.

    "Je m'appelle Véronique, et toi ? "
   

"Salut, Véronique. Je m'appelle Grace."

  "Véronique considered Grace for a moment. "You are small for a dancer."

  "And you are tall."

   Véronique smiled. "With that attitude, I think you'll be fine here. Bon chance et bienvenue, Grace."

      Véronique and Guy were the only ones who were pleasant to Grace. Or were as pleasant as they could be. Véronique was a little... loose, but Grace envied the confidence she had in her beauty and abilities. Neither of them liked Guy very much, but nothing could be done about that.

    Grace was excused from afternoon practice to settle into her room. Originally, she was supposed to be in the dancer's quarters... but the 'owner of the establishment' as Monsieur Lefay called him, wanted her to have a room of her own, located above the actress's quarters. No one else inhabited that part of the opera house. She found out from Véronique that the owner's fondness for her - apparently his name was Erik - was the fuel to everyone else's contempt.

   When Grace asked when she would be meeting him, Véronique replied that she didn't know. He rarely came down to see anyone. Sometimes, when he dropped by, it would be for only a moment, in the middle of the night. Other times he'd stay for a week or two. But he always vanished one way or another. He's not a familiar sight. The one time everyone can be certain to see him is on opening night. He takes up one of the boxes. Occasionally he will come and direct rehearsals, overseeing details and what not, making sure his orders are carried out the way he wants. "He is nothing if not a lover of perfection and precision."

    Not content with the answers she was receiving, Grace dropped the subject.

  At the end of the day, Grace invited Véronique to dinner with Nora and George and tried to push the memories of another man who was equally precise and perfect out of her head. These two could never be the same man.

    Nora and George were still delighted, and their impending trip back to America could not dampen their joy. This was just what they wished for, for Grace.

   Leopold was to journey back to the States with them until they came back the next month. Then he'd move back to Grace's hands and Nora and George would migrate to France for several more years or longer. Maybe another decade. The only reason they were not staying now was George's business affairs. He had a few things to tie up before a semi permanent move.