With his hands still gripping her shoulders, Gus's head twisted on his neck to peer over his shoulder to where her gaze had skipped. "What? What do you see?" His eyes scanned the avenue, the shop doorways and windows; nothing appeared to be out of place as far as he could tell. But as he'd said before, she was terrified of something, regardless of his ability to see it or not.

He felt her body shift and his focus swung back, returning to her as her body pitched forward into him. "Ang!" His knees bent and body moved in pure reaction, scooping her up into his arms and cradling her against his chest. A glance around yielded no one nearby that could bring any sort of assistance, and after a few helpless moments of searching this way and that, he carried her to the water's edge and gently laid her upon the grass.

Her pallor alarmed him; he'd never seen a living person that sickly shade of gray before! His hands cupped her face, thumbs brushing over her cheeks in concern. Her skin was cold and clammy with no trace of a fever, and yet whatever ailed her hand taken her so suddenly, and he was no doctor!

Quickly divesting himself of his coat, he wadded it into a ball and slipped it gently beneath her head. His own handkerchief was snapped from his pocket to be rinsed and squeezed several times over to rid it of dirt and sweat before he folded it neatly, dunked and squeezed it one last time, and laid it lightly over her forehead. His hands, wet from the river, whispered over her cheeks, her jaw, her neck, then her hands and forearms. Fingertips fell to her wrist over her pulse, and he breathed a bit easier at the steady thrumming he felt there. He settled onto his knees, one hand braced in the grass while the other continued to lightly bathe her face with the dowsed square of fabric, dipping it again in the river as needed.

Seconds stretched into minutes before her lids finally fluttered. Gus gasped and cradled her head in one hand, his other brushing against her cheek gently. "Angelique, you terrified me! Are you all right?"

She always felt disoriented coming out of a faint. The overpowering buzzing in her ears gradually faded to allow Gus's voice to penetrate the fog, and his concerned face hovered above her came slowly into focus. She felt warm and tingly-another sign that she'd passed out—and her limbs felt a bit too heavy.

"Y-yes. I'm fine."

"That is not what fine looks like," he cooed gently with a soft smile. "Do you want to sit up?"

Ang nodded slightly.

"I will go slowly. Let me support you," he replied as he slipped a muscular arm beneath her shoulders. Adjusting his posture, he guided her slowly to a seated position, ready to lower her back to the grass at the first sign of another swoon. He kept one large hand cupped around her shoulder while the other reached for the basket and snagged the bottle of cider he's purchased earlier for their picnic supper. He tendered the bottle into Ang's hands while still supporting her with an arm across her back. "Take a few small drinks. It will help refresh you."

She doubted that but drank obediently, anyway. With her dry throat momentarily wetted, she cleared her throat, peered sheepishly up at her friend, and leaned forward in silent indication that she could sit under her own power. "I told you, I'm all right. This isn't that uncommon for me."

"You never struck me as having a weak constitution; you're too stubborn."

Ang glared at him but softened her face when she saw how his eyes twinkled in jest. "Really. I promise. I'm much better."

"Good. Then perhaps you can tell me what caused it."

Her gaze dropped to the bottle in her hands. "I would rather not."

Gus sighed in frustration and pushed a hand through his hair. "How am I expected to help you if you refuse to tell me what frightens you? Am I supposed to fight against a ghost?"

Ang snorted. "If you only knew," she muttered under her breath. When Gus looked at her, she cleared her throat again. "No, you aren't supposed to fight against anything, or anyone. I can take care-"

"No, you cannot. This proves it."

"Gus, I'm fine! Leave it be!"

"You just swooned in the middle of the park, in the middle of a sentence! Why will you not trust me?"

Blanche's crushed hand came chillingly to her memory. "Because I don't want you to get hurt!"

He blinked. "Hurt? By what? By whom?"

"By... him."

He shook his head. "You speak in riddles, Ang."

"I can't tell you about him. But he's... he's dangerous! And the less you know about it, the safer you'll be! You don't know what he's capable of!"

"I would if you would tell me!"

"I can't! I won't!"

Gus squared his jaw in exasperation, setting it firmly with clenched teeth. "Very well. I will leave you to fight your invisible demons on your own." He snatched his flat cap from the grass and clutched it in a fist as he climbed to his feet and stalked off, ignoring Ang's pleas to wait.

Her steps carrying her back to the opera house were slow, as if her crutches were filled with lead. Between being awake all night scrambling to re-create Carlotta's dress and putting in a full day of work today with an irate Blanche breathing down her neck, and the unexpected fight with Gus, exhaustion and weariness weighed every fiber of her being. Gus had somehow managed to secret her a key to one of the little used side doors, and she smiled as she turned it over in her hand before letting herself into the theater.

The key was stuffed back into her pocket and she hobbled by memory through the aphotic hallways until she came to her tiny closet. Stepping within, she set the crutches down, slid a small matchbox from that same pocket, struck the match head against the side and lit the oil soaked wick within the lamp that she kept tucked in a corner. Turning it up illuminated the small space warmly, and she shifted on her small pallet bed. And gasped.

There, on her pillow, was a wood leg, expertly crafted with cushioned sheep's wool lining a lace up leather sleeve, a delicate but strong hinge for the knee, a carved lower leg with a feminine sloping calf, a rocking joint at the ankle, and a small foot that curved up at the toes to allow for a more natural step but wouldn't be noticed within a shoe or boot. Her hand clasped over her mouth as tears leapt freshly to her eyes, this time in awe and appreciative wonder. With trembling fingers, she reached for it and picked it up, surprised to find that it wasn't as heavy or cumbersome as she expected. She sniffed as her fingertips ran over the sanded, polished wood, not a single rough patch or splinter to be felt.

Her heart felt like it was soaring!

Hurried, she hiked up her skirts and slipped the nub of her thigh into the sleeve, adjusting the fit and the laces several times until she felt that it was just right. It moved with her like her old prosthesis did, twisting when she pivoted her leg at the hip. Ang used her crutches to get to her feet—both of them!—and took a small, experimental step on the wooden leg, fairly bursting with excitement when it held her weight. It didn't pinch her skin and it kept the base of her leg elevated well above the false joint. Taking up the lamp, she practically threw the door open and walked, then went briskly, and finally jogged toward the stage. By the time she stepped beyond the proscenium arch, she was beaming with a smile so big it could split her face in half and she wouldn't have cared!

Her delighted laughter echoed in the empty house, bouncing off the walls and vacant seats. Ang set the lamp down on the edge of the stage, spread her arms wide, and spun like a child in the middle of a field, not a care in the world. She felt so free!

"I could have danced all night! I could have danced all night, and still have begged for more!"

After months of being confined to those awful, painful crutches, she could walk and run and move about like she used to, like she was meant to! No more getting stuck in narrow doorways or struggling to carry laundry with just one arm. Lifting her in-tact leg, she hooked it back and spun on the wooden foot, pleased to feel how easily she could pivot on it.

"I could have spread my wings and done a thousand things I've never done before!"

And now she was waltzing—or rather what her very untrained self felt like might be a waltz—all around the stage, skipping and twirling like an absolute fool!

"I'll never know what made it so exciting, why all at once my heart took flight. I only know when he began to dance with me, I could have danced, danced, danced all night!"

Spinning like a top, her arms flung out, she collapsed in a heap of jubilant giggles, reveling in the sheer joy that left her feeling light as a feather.

His angel danced worse than a drunk, but she could sing! When she was unaware of other ears listening, her voice was sweeter than any opera principal he'd ever heard, and he had heard dozens. Her rapture in the moment was nearly tangible, and everything in him wanted to rush to the stage and take her in his arms in hopes of absorbing some of her gaiety. But such pleasure wasn't for him. He was condemned to the shadows, and gloved fingers bit into his palms as his hands fisted at his sides, sheer willpower keeping him hidden in the elevated box to the left of the stage.

She fairly glowed, such was her joy! His heart clenched painfully and he slapped a palm over his chest to soothe the unbearable ache. It was his own damned fault. She had asked so little of him, yet asked the world: to trust her. Such a miniscule task should have been effortless, yet he denied her. And his denial had driven her away and into the arms of another. Gods, how he wanted to kill him! She was his! And yet, could he state such a claim as that when he, himself, refused her?

He receded further into the darkness when he saw her rise to her feet to caper about the stage again, yet another unfamiliar, nonsensical English song on her lips. He couldn't bear it; barred from partaking in her happiness was too torturous. With a low growl, he spun on a heel to take himself back to his hellish existence below.