1870, March 11.
My dear, darling, delectable sister,
I hardly know where to begin.
I should begin at the very beginning, a very good place to start.
But if I begin at the beginning, should I not start when we truly did share the womb, bound together in Nature's First Dance of Life? Back further perhaps, to when Father met Mother and offered her the privileged existence as the wife of a traveling musician, sleeping on palates of straw and pig dropping? Certainly it was Father's wonderful spirit and soft, warm mouth that made it all worthwhile. I know that during the coldest of Sweden's winters, we two found great comfort between dear Papa's hot thighs…
Oh, it shall not do to indulge in happy fantasy!
Where I once found pleasure, I only find dread; my singing, my Cecil, strung up in my bed…
And he'll always be there, asking about "head." He'll always be there, blathering on about…"head"…
That night was to be my grand Paris debut, my first turn as the beautiful ingénue singing to win over her first hideous and later handsome beau. I knew that my golden gown for the powerful aria in the second act would solidify me as the reigning diva in all of Eurasia! I began to hum a few bars of "Think of Me," the perfect song to match my truly perfect voice.
"Darling!"
I shrugged on my robe dreamily (Angelina, you know how dreamily I can be! Why, I'll daydream myself into a drooling stupor!) and opened the door slightly to reveal my dashing Patrick. "May I come in?"
"Dear friend, I am hardly decent."
"Just as I hoped—please, I simply wish to offer you my… support."
I permitted him entry, and he flopped onto my settee with a curious air of ownership.
"Nervous, pet?"
"No no."
"Not at all?"
"Not really."
"Nothing a good rub-down can cure?"
"Oh Patrick, it really is generous of you to care so…" I forgot my thought as he stood and walked to my dressing table. He picked up a piece of notepaper and read aloud, "Alphabet Soup… what is this dearest? A menu? Shall I fetch you some bread? Some Camembert? A little wine?"
I stepped quickly to the door and gestured for him to leave. "Monsieur, please don't concern yourself with my silly well-being! I'll meet you on stage shortly to warm ourselves." Patrick leered at me as I gave him a sharp push on the back into the hallway.
Angelina, I have never had a more difficult time getting ready for a performance. Never, I tell you! Hearing my private dresser moan and gasp outside my room only served to remind me that once I too had been loved by such a noble, if scarred, soul. I touched an embroidered hanky to my eye and delicately sniffed as I recalled Cecil's gallant gestures so early in our romance. The roses, the bread, the milk of magnesia to "move everything along intestinally"—how he once loved me so well! Now my wretched maid Pansy was the object of physical devotion that should have been mine. She was shaking hands with a pocket demon right now, I would have wagered. No doubt the pocket demon in Pansy's palsied hand was shriveled and crooked, particularly in remembrance of Cecil's noble soldier.
I was powdering my décolleté when Pansy entered.
"It's about time, you shameful harlot," I muttered. "I have to be in costume and at the warm up on stage in less than half an hour."
"Mmmmmhf," said Pansy.
"Mmmmmhf indeed. Now fetch me that rose-hued corset… the one that stops just below the…"
"Downy pillows?" squeaked Pansy.
"Certainly! But we needn't name them! They are dirty bags… unless they are small enough to fit in Papa's hand. Help me please, Pansy, I'd rather be whipped than touch these things myself."
"You want me to handle your teats?" queried Pansy, her voice cracking.
"Of course, silly! If you can give me a full body massage before every performance, you can certainly handle my devil's dumplings!" I cast my robe aside and turned to face her, hands on hips, my leather boots squeaking slightly at quite the inopportune time. "Really Pansy, isn't it a bit less than de rigueur these days to wear black-hooded cloaks?"
Pansy shook her head violently and fetched my corset. "Arms up!" she cried. I obeyed, and Pansy took her time hooking me up. She even had me face her, so that she was forced to wrap her long, rather muscular arms around my torso, her tongue tracing circles around the tender flesh just behind my ear. "Lavender perfume… my absolute favorite," she whispered.
"Naturally, Pansy. Last night you insisted that I anoint my lady business with rose water and dip my nippies in powdered sugar after I dabbed the lavender oil behind my ears and knees. Really, my dear maid, you are… Pansy, what are you doing?"
Pansy ceased tasting my nippy. "Just, er, making sure you were telling the truth!"
I huffed. "As if I could be duplicitous. In fact, I truly wish I could be. Oh, whatever shall I do…"
"Do? About what?"
"Nothing, nothing… fetch my garter and stockings now, please. You really must be careful and get the stocking as high on my thigh, as close to my soft, warm core as possible. I'll brook no argument on this, Pansy."
Pansy set about her task with enthusiasm, adding sensuous touches along the way. I sighed as I imagined her erstwhile lover catching her unawares, stealing sweet kisses and invasive touches.
"Oh Cecil," I whispered.
"Yes?"
"No, Pansy. Cecil."
"What about it?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"It's nothing."
"It's never nothing. Nothing gets you a slap and a night in the coffin, don't you know that?"
I leapt away and cried out, "You fiend! How dare you read my Hello Kitty diary? How could you betray me, Pansy?"
The black cloak swirled off the figure before me, moving as if in a tight figure 8, then around the waist in a flicking motion, then between the legs as if to wash the groin, and finally flipped up like a parachute and left to flutter silently to the ground.
"CECIL!"
He displayed his pelvis to me with a flourish.
"At your service," he purred, the malice barely concealed. I wrapped my arms around my bare chest. "How dare you," I seethed. "Where is Pansy? Shall I yell for the gendarmes?"
"My dear, the gendarmes want nothing to do with me after that little 'stunt' of mine last time. And Pansy…well, Pansy's rather tied up at the moment."
I pointed my toe and lifted my chin. "What do you want of me, you monster?"
"Didn't you get any of my notes?"
"Certainly. I burned the filthy lot of them."
"Come, come now."
"Indeed! You have not even aroused my interest."
Cecil stepped forward, catching my chin with the tip of his leather-clad finger. "That, my dear, is absolutely untrue. And besides, didn't you find my idea about the chocolate sauce and the horsehair whip even mildly tempting?"
I shook my head. "Never," I hissed. "I shall never be tempted by you again."
"Then those sugary nip—"
"Cecil, for goodness' sake!"
"What about the note with the haiku?"
"I suppose it does require a talent to write a couplet featuring Arabia and labia."
Cecil beamed. "You have no idea the labor involved when using 'vans deferens.'"
"In any case, erotic poetry cannot change the events of that night. That horrible night…"
"Horrible because of my face, eh?"
I shook my head and tightened my folded arms. "Horrible because of your SOUL, Cecil. Your SOUL. And your RHYTHM. That was horrible too. And your maudlin BLUES. I hated your BLUES. All in all, you revealed yourself to be a rake and cad. And… and… a villain!"
"How so? I fed you, clothed you, caused you to scream out a plea to some deity to painlessly dislocate your hips so that you could, in your own words, 'grind it like a pepper mill?'"
"Ah!" I was incensed, Angelina. Here he was, the object of my adoration and my abomination, reminding me of my own weakness even as he callously forgot his own.
"Do you not recall screaming at me to leave?"
"Well, yes, but—"
"And that bottle of claret that you hurled at my back as I scurried out?"
"I was just trying to recycle that…"
"What about the trap door you activated as I exited the Lair?"
"Darling, that's an anti-theft measure I've had in place for years—"
"So that trained baboon with the sharp teeth and the engorged scarlet genitals keeps away pickpockets?"
"Absolutely!"
"…"
"What?"
"Cecil, you meant to kill me. You certainly cannot tell me that the spring-loaded ax aimed at my head as I ascended to the second cellar was a fluke."
Cecil frowned and his shoulders slumped. "Can't we just admit that you were wrong and move smashingly to the make-up rutting?"
"Get out!"
"Have a care, Catherine! I simply want things to go back to the way they were. Before you saw me."
"If only. But really, Cecil, I must prepare for the performance tonight. Please, do not seek retribution tonight. Let me go out there and shine as your pupil, your star, your former lover, your previous pocket demon handler, and your Angel."
"Angel, eh?"
I tried to affect a very ethereal smile, complete with watery eyes. Cecil sneered and strode towards the mirror. Activating the lever, he stepped into the dark, damp hall.
"Please Cecil… please."
"Oh, I'll have you begging alright. Break a leg, dear Angel. Be careful not to break your neck."
Bound and trussed into my peasant garb, I picked indelicately at my skirt. Cecil had certainly flustered me, and now M. Reyer wanted nothing more than to frighten me about not entering on the correct measure. Madame Giry gave me a few notes regarding my graphic "awakening" pas de deux with Gaston, while M. Firmin offered to be a stand in for me to practice my hip thrusts. I finally waved them all away as I heard the orchestra begin to sound.
It was real.
I was about to take the stage as the elegant, charming Belle, to sing and dance and rub with my gallant gentlemen. I felt a great flutter in my heart and my bowels—Papa's dream for me was coming true!
"Catherine, you dropped your book."
I looked up into the warm, friendly eyes of Lissy. "Oh thank you!" I cried, and threw my arms about her. "You have been such a dear friend to me. I'm sure it has been quite a joy for you to be permitted into my sphere of influence."
Lissy nodded. "Yes. Indeed. Must take my place." Off she scampered onto the stage, sitting primly on a bale of hay. As the curtains pulled back, the hot stage lights flooded the space, and the audience cheered with fervor. My heart threatened to beat right out of my chest!
The chorus sounded fair, and did a passable job of holding the audience's interest. I crossed myself and counted "5,6,7!" as I stepped onto the stage.
"Quiet town," I sang loudly and clearly, swaying confidently, knowing that my blue dress matched my blue eyes perfectly! I earned thunderous applause, as well as a standing ovation from my managers, both of whom seemed to be offering me a salute thanks to their pocket demons. How flattered was I!
Of course, I couldn't rest of my triumph for long. It was time for Gaston's entrance. I hadn't seen Patrick backstage before curtain, but I knew that was because he wanted to make our onstage meeting fresh and vaguely indecent. As he strutted into the beaming golden light, I did my best to look concerned and in character. Patrick's voice captured an even richer tone than I'd heard him manage. I smiled a little to myself—he was obviously inspired to be singing with me. Truly, he was a fortunate artist!
As I made my way around the stage to meet my cues, I chanced a look out into the audience. I noticed how the men's gaze followed me, and how the women looked at their men with a bit of anger and jealousy. I realized in that moment that I must guard myself from the violence of such pitiful harpies who lose their husband's attentions in my commanding wake.
It was then that I saw him. In the shadowed entrance way.
Marcus.
ABC.
Oh what could they possibly be planning?
Standing there, dumbstruck, I was unaware of time and space. I forgot my lines, my choreography, my very self. I felt "Gaston" stand behind me and wrap his arms around me, giving a little squeeze.
I may have not known what to sing next, but I knew that wasn't into Giry's plan.
"You knew that I wanted you in my arms, Catherine," spoke the threateningly sensual voice. "And now, my Angel, you are going to sing like you've never, ever even thought about singing before!"
A/N: As phantomy-cookies wisely noted… I seemed to abandon this story right after they knocked boots, in classic bad!phic form. My immense thanks to everyone who read this back when I was a marginally faithful updater, and to anyone who doesn't hold it against me that I gave Buds the Year-Long Shaft. Bless Cookies' heart for her beta-ing. This strange story actually does have an ending, and I mean to make it happen.