Grace was tired. She hadn't been sleeping well, Erik had needed her to play him for an hour so he could go have a rendezvous with Christina, and Rodger kept insisting they get down to business before their schedules became cramped.

   She could ask Erik for time off, but if she was going to take a break from anything, it was not going to be dancing.

      Grace was on her way out when she passed by the stage and heard Christina warming up with Mozart's The Magic Flute: The Queen of the Night's Aria. She saw Erik coming the other way, with Madame Chausir at his heels, complaining about something, and was ready to turn around but she heard Christina neglect a note.

   Erik noted it too and planned on politely pointing it out in their next vocal lesson. However Grace could not bear for such a beautiful song to go uncorrected, especially when the singer had a voice like Christina Nilsson's.

    "Christina," Grace called, climbing up onto the stage and coming around to the prima donna.

   "Yes, Mademoiselle Treacle?"

    "I'm sorry for interrupting, but you're leaving out two notes at the end of the cadenza. And the word is Sarastro, not Sarastre, though with our French tongues, it's a marvel we can pronounce German to begin with."

    Christina was puzzled. "Where are the two notes? Could you demonstrate?"

     Grace did so.

    "Oh! Thank you, you are right!"

     A moment later, Grace was shuffling passed a pleasantly surprised Erik, and a still whining Madame Chausir. Christina was now singing the aria perfectly.

    Yet Grace was to be detained again, for the moment she opened the door to the lobby, she ran into a man who had been fumbling with something in his coat.

   He was extremely young, dressed in a brown suit, with dark hair and joyful, pleasant dark eyes. He was slender, but not very tall. A rouge blush highlighted his pale cheeks as he bumblingly apologized to Grace.

   "I am sorry, Mademoiselle Nilsson, please forgive me."

    "It's alright - Mademoiselle Nilsson? I'm n-"

   "And may I add it was quite a pleasure hearing you sing a moment ago? The Queen of the Night's aria is a lovely aria, and you touched the cadenzas perfectly. That other person singing should be put out of their misery. But you know, it's funny. You looked blonde in the photos the papers print. Ah well, the press, we wouldn't make a living if we weren't liars. The public loves hyperbole after all." He chuckled as if he had just made the funniest joke in the world, which further reddened his youthful face.

   "I am not Christ-"

   "Is the owner of this establishment here? I have a few questions for him regarding - ah! Mr. Destler! Here is your lover now, Mademoiselle." Grace turned to find Erik approaching looking furious.

    "I told you to stay out of my business, Leroux!"

    "Here's my card Mademoiselle Nilsson, I should love to interview you!"

   "I'm not Christina Nilsson!" Grace shouted.

  "Go away Grace, I don't need any witnesses to his death," Erik muttered through clenched teeth.

  "Ah, are you a duchess too? Forgive me, your Grace -" Grace slammed the lobby door and ran outside before she could be pursued any further. That man was just like Christina! Good-natured and friendly to the point of where you couldn't hate him. All his words had been so jovial, amiable, and honest, yet he was a terribly annoying creature. Didn't stop talking... wait.

   Grace began to go over what he'd said as she walked to Grande Street. Erik Destler. She wasn't sure if she'd heard that name before... Destler. Erin Destler?

   She looked at the card the funny man had handed her.

    Gaston Leroux, journalist.

    Office located at 114, Sud-est L'eau Blanc avenue.

     She would ask Rodger later. He had practically walked through the entire city of Paris already, hardly a week into his arrival. He would know where this place was and what kind of establishment it was. Rodger loved doing her dirty work for her - after all, he had been the one to test her idea of buying prostitutes.

    Speaking of, she was nearing Grande Street, and the looks she was receiving from people who watched her were mixed between confusion, disgust, and other things that could not be said in front of the faint of heart.

    She reached her building and went through the front door this time, vaguely hoping Erik wouldn't frighten little Leroux too much.

     The living room was exactly as she remembered - all except for the vase she had thrown at the men, that had been replaced. There was a man seated between two ladies whom she did not know. They must be the two new ones, Grace concluded, as both were very young. One seemed only seventeen, the other nineteen. What were their names... Mariette and Anya, that's what Felicette had said.

   She saw Victorique sitting on the piano bench, alone. Avril and Maria, it would appear from the noise, were upstairs.

      "Comment vous-aidiez, mons -" There he was, stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of a lady in his whorehouse.

  Grace stood up straighter and took in the sight of her tormentor.

   His features were sharp as ever, disgustingly and averagely handsome. His eyes were small and narrowed, as she remembered, his mouth was open though, in shock, not sneering in hatred. His skin was not as pale, but the thick bands of muscle on his body had not changed, nor had his threatening stature, despite the weight he had clearly gained. What sickened her most was his expensive clothes, fancier than ever, the pricey pocket watch in his waist coat. He had spent money on himself while his women had to wear colorfully dyed dresses that exposed everything and were torn, leaving them cold, ragged.

   "Tha' there  's a lady,"  slurred the man between the two young women.

   "Madame, how may I help you?" He smiled slimily.

    "I have come to discuss a matter of business between your establishment and my morals."

    "Madame, if your husband comes here that's his choice," he laughed.

    "Oh but I'm not married," she held up her reticule, stuffed full with money. "I have an offer you won't be able to refuse. Shall we go into the kitchen?"

   "Certainly," he gestured for her to go before him.

   Her nerves were shot, and she was shaking, but she refused to act afraid. He was the one who would come to fear her. She was the one, this time around, who had what he wanted.

     Felicette was stirring something at the stove, and she jumped as Grace and the Monsieur entered. A little girl, just ten years old leapt from the table and ran behind her mother. She was the mirror image of Felicette. Strawberry ringlets framed her face, natural golden strands mixing with the red. She was small, thin, as if she did not eat enough, and as terrified of the Monsieur as Grace had been.

   "Brat," he scoffed at the child. Her name was Mai, Grace remembered, like the month, in French. "And Felicette, you keep quiet. What did you want Mademoiselle?"

   They sat down at the table.

   "First I want you to know who I am. Perhaps you remember Elisabeth Christoux?"

   "Yes. Up and died from pneumonia and a miscarriage after one of the men hit her in the wrong place."

   "She's my mother. Now perhaps you'll remember me."

  He stared at her, thinking, and then a slow, leering smile slipped across his lips, and his large frame leaned closer. Grace did not flinch. She merely quirked a perfectly shaped eyebrow. He couldn't try anything if he wanted to. In ten minutes Rodger would be across the street, in an additional five, he would enter - inconspicuously, being a man - and check for her safety.

   "Little Celine. The bitch that broke my favorite vase and sent my women in to a strike. Couldn't resist coming back to apologize?"

    Grace smiled. "Oh no. For what happened to me afterwards, it is you who should apologize. But your pride will prevent that, therefore we come to the reason of my visit. I'd like to buy all of the women from you."

  "That would cost you a fortune, Celi, and while you look well off, you couldn't afford it no matter what occupation you took up."

   "How much?" She asked.

   "I make thousands off of them a week. Not selling."

   "Twenty-five hundred each?"

   He snorted. "No. I can make that in one night."

     "How much then?"

      "Thirty thousand for all."

     "Are you mad?" She'd never be able to make that. Rodger had been able to buy one for one thousand in the states.

   Celi couldn't help but notice how Felicette's face fell, and the tears swimming in Mai's eyes.

   "I'll do anything. Please."

    He coldly grinned. "There is one thing I could think of. Fifteen thousand. But you work for me as well."

   "No!"

  "Not like that - I doubt there's a man alive who would want to deal with your temper and unwomanly personality. You're not exactly full of assets either." Grace was once again thankful for her practically flat curves as his eyes drifted down to her chest. "No, when I mean work, I mean I want you to do the laundry, weed the grass and garden, mind the kid, clean, and cook. I want Felicette back on the floor for a while longer. You'll take her place as caretaker. For six weeks. Got it?"

   If Erik needed her two more times, and if she received her paycheck early, she could do it.

    Do not over work yourself, Grace, there will be painful consequences. The echo of her doctor's words suddenly came back to her though. But damn him. It's not like she'd let herself die before fulfilling her vows to herself. Couldn't be that painful anyway. Besides, the accident was when she was sixteen. Years ago. She'd fit it into her busy schedule, she'd work before and after the operas and rehearsals if she had to.

    "Alright then. But I will not take any male visitors."

   "D'accord."

                                   🌹

    Guy was riding down Grande Street when he saw Grace emerge with that Rodger fellow. She had come from the local brothel. He was surprised, but then many dancers did that sort of thing in their free time... funny she would risk it too, given the fact Erik fired the last girl who'd done something like that. Unless... Grace didn't know.

   Guy smiled, an idea for revenge forming. Just try, anyone, to throw rocks at him. Grace would be sorry.