Shadows fell from every direction. She was thoroughly encompassed within the arms of the night. The five men below her didn't feel her eyes upon them, nor did they feel her presence, as elusive and fleeting as a sixth sense.

   She surveyed them from her high perch, writing down every word they said. Unfortunately, she did not catch their names, so she had to settle for descriptions. Her little notebook appeared as thus:

   Monsieur Lefay: Bienvenue, Messieurs.

    Fat blonde man with blue eyes: Merci, Lefay. How are you and our hidden manager?

   Fat blonde man who rolls his r's and has green eyes: Is he coming tonight? I've been a patron for three weeks and I still haven't made his acquaintance yet.

   Skinny, tall, brunette fellow: Oh he never shows. I've been a patron for three years, since the place opened. Very evasive that one.

   Pampered Italian Prince who needs a haircut: Please slow down, I can't pick out a word you Frenchman are saying.

   She didn't take a particular liking to any of the men, but she observed them and wrote everything they said or did down.

                                                      🌹

    Her hair was silken, as was her rich, pale skin. Everything about her was so perfect, so beautiful, from the dainty curve of her lush, pink, perfectly shaped lips, to her adorable, pert nose, to her large, dark eyes sparkling brightly with innocence and life, shyness and glory. He could stare at her for hours and not desire to touch her, or speak, feeling content just to witness her incredible beauty. He could get lost in her eyes for days. He remembered her kiss. Sweet, kind, soft. He could kiss her for days as well. Oh, his lovely little Angel, his Christina. She was a natural anomaly because of her unmatched beauty. Her perfect face, gorgeous soul, untainted. Ravishing but never to be ravished, only to be handled with extreme care.

   "Erik," she said his name, the soft sound of it on her lips brought him back to earth, out of his dreams.

   "Yes?" He quickly thought back to what she had been saying lest she ask if he'd been listening. How could he not listen to such a heavenly creature -

   "I know that look." She stopped walking, crossing her arms over her chest. Erik's hands stayed behind his back, eyes growing concerned. How well he remembered that tone... the last time she'd taken that tone of voice with him, it had been the prologue to a story that broke him and still gave him nightmares.

   "What look?" He asked, pleased that his voice never faltered or cracked, that it came strong and steady now.

   "Your hazy, fond eyes and loving little smile. I've seen it before, enough times to memorize it and fear it. Thought about it enough..." she turned a marvelous shade of pink. "Please know... I - Angel, I can never be yours. I am not yours. I suggested tonight as a friendly truce, and so that I may better myself. This is a friendly meeting. I belong to Pierre."

   You are not an object for someone to own! He wanted to scold her for thinking as many women do. Though, being his wasn't an unpleasant thought.

   "I don't know what -"

   "Yes you do. I shall not be accused of leading you to a path I will not follow you down. Your music and creativity intoxicates me, but it intoxicates me no more than it would the next woman. You've already destroyed so much trying to make me love you in the way you want, when I only love you as a friend. I don't obsess over you as you do me."

   "It's not an obsession." Now he was offended.

   "Infatuation then. I am very happy with Pierre dear . I want you to continue to teach me, but only if you are going to respect my wish of regarding you as a friend and nothing more. I know it hurts, but remember that you hurt me and a lot of other people too. That chandelier -"

  "Yes, my lo- dear. I understand Christina."

   But I will still do everything in my power to safely gain your affections. You will love me, Christina.

                   ------------------

An hour later...

    What was Grace doing with that sandbag?

                    -------------------

      Grace internally groaned. How long could men talk? And everyone insisted that women were gossips! It was nearly eleven! And where was Erik? He needed to relieve her - she had practice tomorrow.

   She eyed the five men below her with distaste and irritation. They had spent most of the night drinking and talking about budgeting. They didn't even mention her, the rising star of the ballet. It was outrageous!

   During her internal tirade, Grace failed to notice that the fat blonde man with blue eyes had changed his demeanor until he started talking over the others. His smile was gone and there was a devious, greedy look in his eyes. Grace was interested, and her pencil stilled for the first time that night.

  "Erik is not really here, is he?"

  "Oh yes. He is," Monsieur Lefay insisted. His eyes drifted overhead. "Waiting in the wings or rafters. The man knows everything."

  "Yet is as elusive and unreal as a ghost." The fat, blonde, green eyed man who rolled his r's  chuckled.

    "Perhaps he is a made up character, straight from Lefay's imagination? Why else won't he meet his patrons?"

   "Bad experiences from the past," said Lefay, barely calm.

    "Hmmpf. Come with me." The fat, blonde, blue eyed man stood and the others followed suit. They were about to walk on to the stage.

   Grace was situated in the corner of the room and the only way she could follow them would be to make the long climb down the boxes, rafters, and ropes hanging around the area. She would be separated from them for a moment and might miss something. She quickly looked around though. Five feet away, was a catwalk. If she had a rope, she could swing across. Swinging on a rope, forty feet up in the air, hoping to not be seen... well thank goodness she was fearless. That often took her far.

   She grabbed a nearby rope and swung across. She made it and sprinted across the quivering cat walk, wishing that it did not hang by just four ropes tied to each plank. The constant swaying made it hard to run.

   The blue eyed, fat blonde man was waving around a set piece.

   "All these details! You spent thirty thousand of my francs on details!"

   "But -" Lefay tried to protest.

   "No! Why don't you talk to him or fight his outrageous ideas if he really exists? Don't send all his designs to the manufacturer!"

    "Yes," said the tall, skinny brunette. "I don't agree with his insistence on using real flower decorations accessory wise. Nor do we need a fifty piece orchestra." Grace wrote this down in her book.

   "Do we need that many musicians?"

   Lefay did not do well under pressure. He was sweating and they moved back stage, Grace following.

  "We just want a few meaningless expenses erased."

   Grace wanted to slap the fat blonde man with blue eyes across his red face. Quality, details, care should not be labeled as a cost or expense. Endless practice and quality was what made something good.

   "Will you withhold his madness or not?"

   Monsieur Lefay, trapped, unsure, terrified of Erik's wrath - which might worsen at the loss of a patron since so few cared to deal with his need for perfection and outrageous, demanding eccentricities - uttered the first word that popped into his head.

"Yes!"

   Grace was appalled. Erik would be furious. Oh, she couldn't let this happen. She had to do something. What would Erik do? She had to do something to show her and probably his anger at the agreement.

   She was in a theatre. There were many highly dangerous things she could use to retaliate.

   While the men continued on, ready to end their meeting, Grace made her move.

    She grabbed a rope and slid down behind stage. She bit her lip, drawing blood as she miscalculated her movements in her haste and received a painful rope burn on her hand. Steeling herself she moved on, now on the ground and searching for something sharp. She came up with nothing but a pair of scissors.

    The men were about to get off the stage and her eyes roamed over their heads, falling on a sandbag. Following the trail of it's rope, Grace found a hold and began sawing. She had to release it at the right time, otherwise she might kill someone, or worse, let it go too soon and have it look like an accident.

   She unfortunately sliced her other hand, but accomplished the job nevertheless. She watched with a malicious grin as the sand bag came crashing down directly in front of the blonde man with blue eyes. Grace loved how his eyes popped as it fell, just a hair's breadth from his nose. The men flew from shock to fear and outrage.

   "Is this his idea of fun?" The fat man with blonde hair and blue eyes asked once he had finished screaming like a little girl. "I am withdrawing my patron-ship."

   Grace doubted that was a real word and grinned further when the Italian Prince said, "And I have had so much fun that I shall add this theatre to my will."

    Feeling her job done, Grace turned to leave and crashed into the hard chest of the angriest human being alive.

   A strangled screech came out of her as her hands flew to her neck, feeling a thread thin thing circle her throat, choking her. She clawed at it, smearing blood on her neck from her hand. It tightened, and she felt Erik's cold hand on her shoulder. His gaze was heartless, ruthless as it fell on her. A few more seconds and this thing would collapse her jugular, killing her and permanently damaging her vocal chords. She did the one thing she could think of and flung her notebook at his face. He glanced at it, eyes immediately widening at the words. She felt the quick flutter of his fingers against her throat and then she was on her knees, gasping air back into her lungs. She could barely breathe, coughing and hacking for air as her airways opened up again. Grace crumpled onto her hands and knees, recovering from nearly dying.

   "Lefay agreed to this?" Erik asked, his eyes black with fury.

   Grace squeaked, unable to speak, finally nodding.

   "Damn him." But instead of charging after Lefay, he jerked Grace up by her arm and then picked her limp body up. He carried her down a hall she didn't recognize, a dark, wet, stone tunnel.

   He put her down after a while, insisting walking with assistance would do her good. Grace struggled to keep up, not speaking. After several minutes, she realized he was leading her away from the theatre. She couldn't follow him.

   Grace pulled her arm from his grasp, watching him turn around, livid at her second act of disobedience.

   "I... can't." Her eyes widened as she heard her own voice. It was rough and raspy. Her hand left the wall she'd been supporting herself with and brushed her throat. But it was a move she shouldn't have made. She lost her balance and fell into the wall behind her, her other hand catching her, reopening the wound. She started to wipe the fresh blood on her shirt as she sat on the damp, dirty, ground, then remembered it was his shirt. She settled for putting her hand behind her back, out of her sight. Erik was staring at her in shock, her injuries now apparent to him. But this revelation went unnoticed by Grace. She tried speaking again.

   "I can't go with you... please... let me go home... won't say anything... don't pay... let me go." Her breathing was labored again.

   Erik continued drag-carrying her down the passageway.