There was a theatre. Filled to the brim with the clientele that often frequented the Red Windmill. Harold Zidler was dressed outrageously, in a red jacket and top hat. His beard was curly, and he was singing.

Singing? Harold never participated in the acts.

There was a weasely looking man in the front row. She recognized him, if only from pictures. The Count? The Duke? Some upper class title or other. She had read about him in the tabloids, but he hadn't been seen around here in, what, three years?

There was a man. Handsome. Not in an overbearing way, either. He didn't seem cocky or arrogant or in control, not like Tony did. Instead he seemed shy and quiet, as though he wouldn't believe you if you told him how charming he appeared. It was obvious he was in love. He couldn't take his eyes off of…

Her.

Cecily's eyes flew open. Why was she dreaming about Satine?

"Christian? Christian!"

The writer sleepily blinked open his eyes. It took him a matter of moments to sit up, and a few minutes after that to figure out where he was. Definitely not his flat in London. This was… the apartment in France. Three years ago he had gotten drunk with Toulouse, writing a wonderful and tragic story… His voice echoed in his head. "The hills are alive with the sound of music."

Three years ago he had spent countless hours with the love of his life here. And she was gone.

"Christian!"

The persistent pounding on his door pulled him from his rather depressing memories. He stumbled out of bed, not even aware that he was clad only in the blanket, pulled from his dingy bed.

"'ello?" He murmured, opening his door. He was still too bleary to make much of anything he saw, and so he frowned at the short, enigmatic man bouncing around just outside his room.

"Christian!" The short, enigmatic man launched himself at the writer, wrapping his small arms around Christian's chest. "You're back!"

That… voice. "Toulouse?"

"Of course! Who else would it be?" He pulled back, grinning up at Christian, who, despite his exhaustion, managed to smile back.

Half an hour later Christian had showered and was more awake and more aware. He sat on the opposite end of the couch, facing the small Frenchman who had come to pay him a visit. Both of them were warily drinking brown water, for lack of anything else to ingest. Toulouse had since gotten over his contagious excitement, and was more curious as to the return of his friend than anything else.

"Zidler wrote me," the young man explained. "He wants to do another production of Spectacular. He needs me to rewrite the script and then direct."

Toulouse frowned. What was Christian thinking? The first – and last – time that the show had played at the Moulin, it had ended in death, ultimately closing down the Moulin. For a whole year the lights that had brightened the wondrous windmill had been dull, unused. When Zidler decided enough time had passed – and had amassed enough money to reopen it – the Moulin Rouge had been back in business. Many of the patrons had missed it, and so returned in droves, again making the ginger Ring Master a wealthy man. Toulouse knew that Zidler was rolling in dough, so what had prompted his desire to recreate Spectacular Spectacular? Money was certainly not prompting this.

Christian suddenly leaned forward, head in his hands. His eyes were stinging, but they were dry. He had long since used up all of his tears for Satine.

Toulouse was aware, concerned, at once and stood up slid over to Christian's side of the couch. He tentatively patted the Englishman's back, unsure of how to heal this kind of grief.

"He's already picked a courtesan," Christian said slowly.

For a moment, Toulouse was confused. Then it dawned on him – from the play, of course. The courtesan in Spectacular had been… Satine. He frowned, and removed his hand from Christian's back. How was this possible? It hadn't even been widely publicized that Spectacular was being performed again. The first he had heard of it was right now, from Christian. He could name a dozen whores who would kill for a role like that, but none had been given the time to con Zidler into hiring them. How had he found the right girl?

"He's got… this girl…" Satine.

Toulouse was only more confused. "He's already got the girl?" He asked, trying to clarify.

Christian looked up at the Frenchman, his eyes red although he obviously hadn't been crying. "I don't know… how, or why… but she looks exactly like S-satine." He tripped over the name of his lover, having not uttered it aloud in months. He had tried to preserve her to memory, and every time she came up in conversation he felt like he was losing memories of their short time together.

Ah, that made sense. Zidler wasn't doing this because he needed money. It was a combo deal. A, he got to mess with Christian, who he still blamed for losing the Duke's trust (although, unbeknownst to anyone else, Zidler had been rooting for Christian and Satine the whole time). And B, he already had the perfect girl for the job.

Toulouse wanted to ask more questions: What was the name of the girl? Was she related to Satine? Would he, Toulouse, be the sitar-who-could-speak-naught-but-the-truth? Would Christian be cast in this performance? How did this girl come the Moulin? How come he had never heard of this? Did this girl know of her resemblance to Satine? These and more questions – none of which really made any sense – cluttered his mind, and for a second, he was speechless.

Christian just looked on, as though he expected Toulouse to say something.

Finally, the dark-haired man coughed. "I don't know what to tell you, Christian," he apologized honestly. "But it's been three years. You should-" He cut himself off. He was about to tell Christian that he should have been long over Satine. But the poet/author had always been the sensitive type, and Toulouse imagined that he had spent the last three years either isolated in an apartment writing love letters to the dead girl or drunk and in an alley. He sighed.

Finally, he stood. There wasn't really any more he could say, not when Christian was this desolate. Conversation could come later, when the boy was at least pretending to be over his grief. "I'll see you around, then?" He asked, rubbing the back of his head.

Christian nodded. "Rehearsal starts on Saturday."

"'ow could you do this wifout even consultin' me? I've been 'ere fer years! An' this little strumpet waltzes right in and takes me job? Zidler, I knew you was low, but this…" She wagged her finger threateningly in Zidler's direction. "This is unforgivable."

The man looked unfazed by her outburst, and simply sat back in his plush chair. "I'm sorry, Nini. Cecily's not only younger and in possession of a clearer voice, but she looks identical to her predecessor." None of his words were uttered maliciously. He spoke as though they were facts.

But Nini-Legs-in-the-Air was having none of it. As far as she was concerned, her boss had just called her old as well as accused of her not being capable of singing. She balled her hands into fists but left them at her sides. She was positively seething, but there was little she could do except hunt down the Narcoleptic Argentinean and have some angry sex. Giving Zidler one last death glare (if only looks could kill) she spun around and relatively fled his office. Thank god she didn't see Cecily as she headed for her own dressing room or Nini might have killed the poor girl.

Zidler sighed. On the one hand, this entire production was going to be a huge hassle, what with dealing with Nini and some of the other Dance Line. But he was getting bored in the monotony of wealth and watching the love triangle that was sure to ensue betwixt Christian, Cecily, and Antonio was going to be well worth it.

He stroked the small thin beard that he allowed to grow on his fat chin and pondered. There was no way this could backfire on him, right? The last thing the Moulin Rouge needed now was a scandal. Right now there was enough of that at the Opéra Garnier, and though they were celebrating, the Moulin wouldn't survive another tragedy like Satine's.

He sat forward in his chair, skimming the second first draft of Spectacular Spectacular. He had given pretty much all control to Christian, but kept veto power. The first page listed the name of the play as well as the cast list.

The Courtesan – Cecily Simon

The Penniless Sitar Player – Christian

The Maharajah – Antonio Morales

The Sitar – Toulouse-Lautrec

Harold grinned. He had never really expected Christian to go along with this, though that had been a pleasant surprise. After all, who would have guessed the success of a pretend play? Spectacular Spectacular had only been created so the Duke wouldn't realize that he had caught Satine and Christian in such a compromising situation. Harold laughed to himself. What a silly beginning to such an enigmatic story.

Sure that Nini was off somewhere drowning herself in her troubles and therefore less likely to tear down the list, Harold ripped it from the rest of the sheath of papers and tacked to his door. Most of the cast from the show would be passing by this hallway at least once in the next hour, and he figured they'd like to know their roles. Especially Cecily.

Said woman happened to be the next person to pass his door, accompanied by her Spanish fiancé. The bold red words reading the name of the musical caught Tony's attention, and he pulled at Cess' hand, preventing her from walking further down the hallway.

She frowned. "What?" She followed his furrowed gaze to the cast list. Was that… her name?

Her name was the first one on the list.

Her name had never been first on any list.

She was going to star in Spectacular Spectacular.

A wave of nausea, of dread, filled her throat, and for a moment she couldn't breathe. The Moulin Rouge was reproducing Spectacular and she was cast as the Courtesan. Satine's role. Fuck. She was going to die.

Her world spun, but not because she was about to faint. Antonio had lifted her up and circled her, laughing proudly. "We are starring, baby!" he exclaimed, not understanding that her fate had just been sealed. "You are starring in Spectacular Spectacular!" He set her down and turned back to the list. "I do not know this Christian, but surely he must be talented or Zidler would not hire him." This last part was more an aside to himself than anything. He narrowed his thick black eyebrows. This Christian person… He would have to do some research, especially since this Christian person would be playing the real love interest of Tony's love interest.

He looked down at the redhead. "Why are you not smiling?"

"Huh?" Cecily looked up to see Tony staring at her, an eyebrow cocked accusingly. She quickly smiled, and his face relaxed. Of course, her insides were still tying themselves up in knots but she was an actress and so her smile looked genuine enough. "We're starring," she repeated. I'm starring. And then I'm dead.